The TruantsMason, A. E. W. (Alfred Edward Woodley)
General
The Truants
Mason, A. E. W. (Alfred Edward Woodley)
Fiction
trembling voice--
"I can stand it no longer."
Both men were sitting by a tiny fire, which Barbier was feeding with
handfuls of halfa-grass and sticks. He was kneeling up in front of it,
and by the red waving light Stretton saw that his face was quivering
with excitement.
"What can't you stand?" he asked.
"It is Captain Tavernay," replied Barbier. He suddenly laughed in a
pitiful fashion, and cast a glance over his shoulder. "There is a man
put on to watch me. Night and day I am watched by Captain Tavernay's
orders. He wants to fix a crime on me! I know. He wants to trap me.
But let him take care!"
Stretton fetched the doctor, who listened for a while to Barbier's
rambling, minatory talk, and then shrugged his shoulders.
"Hallucinations," said he. "Ideas of persecution. The commonest form,"
and having fixed Barbier into his proper category, he walked away.
There was nothing to be done for Barbier upon this expedition. He had
to be watched; that was all. Thus for seven hundred miles the force
pushed southwards from Ouargla, and thus from within it disintegrated
as it went. Tavernay could not but notice the change, but he said
nothing to any subordinate. The men would fight well if fighting
happened. That he knew, and meanwhile he marched on.
It was just when the seven hundred miles had been completed that
Tavernay realised fighting was likely to happen. He went the round of
the camp as the sun was setting, when the rifles were piled and the
fires crackling. Stretton was at his side, and saw his commander stop
and shade his eyes. Tavernay was looking westwards. Far away against
the glowing ball of the sun, which was just dipping down behind the
plain, the figure of an Arab mounted upon a camel stood motionless and
black. Tavernay swung round and looked behind him. On the crest of a
sandhill to the north a second rider stood distinct against the sky.
Tavernay watched the men for a long time through his glasses.
"Touaregs," said he, gravely. "Masked Touaregs," and that night the
sentinels were doubled; and in the morning the bugle did not sound the
_réveillé_.
Moreover, when the force advanced, it advanced in the formation of a
square, with the baggage camels in the centre, one gun in the front
line, and the other in the rear. They had marched into the country
where the Senoussa sect prevailed. The monasteries of that body sent
out their missionaries eastward to Khordofan, westwards to Tafilet,
preaching the purification of the Mohammedan religion and the
enlargement of Mohammedan countries now subject to the infidels. But
nowhere had the missionaries raised their standard with more success
than in this Touat country of the Sahara. The companies marched that
day alert and cheerful. They were consolidated by the knowledge of
danger. Captain Tavernay led them with pride.
"An insufficient force, ill-found, inadequately officered," he
thought. "But the men are of the Legion." They were _mes enfants_ to
him all that day.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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