ortho sat on the bare hillside and watched his horses coming in. they came up the gully below him in a drove, limping from their hobbles—grays, chestnuts, bays, duns and blacks, blacks predominating. it was his ambition to command a squadron of blacks, and he was chopping and changing to that end. they would look well on parade, he thought, a line of glossy black doukkala stallions with scarlet trappings, bestridden by lancers in the uniform white burnoose—black, white and scarlet. such a display should catch the sultan’s eye and he would be made a kaid rahal.
he was a kaid mia already. sheer luck had given him his first step.
when he first joined the makhzen cavalry he found himself stablemates with an elderly prussian named fleischmann, who had served with frederick the great’s dragoons at rossbach, liegnitz and torgau, a surly, drunken old sabreur with no personal ambition beyond the assimilation of loot, but possessed of experience and a tongue to disclose it. in his sober moments he held forth to ortho on the proper employment of horse. he did not share the common admiration for the crack askar lances, but poured derision upon them. they were all bluster and bravado, he said, stage soldiers with no real discipline to control them in a tight corner. he admitted they were successful against rebel hordes, but did they ever meet a resolute force he prophesied red-hot disaster and prayed he might not be there.
his prayer was granted. disaster came and he was not there, having had his head severed from his shoulders a month previously while looting when drunk and meeting with an irritated householder who was sober.
ortho was in the forefront of the disaster. the black janizaries, the bou khari, were having one of their periodic mutinies and had been drummed into the open by the artillery. the cavalry were ordered to charge. instead of stampeding when they saw the horse sweeping on them, the negroes lay down, opened a well-directed fire and emptied saddles right and left.
a hundred yards from the enemy the lancers flinched and turned tail, and the bou khari brought down twice as many more. ortho did not turn. in the first place he did not know the others had gone about until it was too late to follow them, and secondly his horse, a powerful entire, was crazy with excitement and had charge of him. he slammed clean through the bou khari like a thunderbolt with nothing worse than the fright of his life and a slight flesh wound.
he had a confused impression of fire flashing all about him, bullets whirring and droning round his head, black giants springing up among the rocks, yells—and he was through. he galloped on for a bit, made a wide detour round the flank and got back to what was left of his own ranks.
returning, he had time to meditate, and the truth of the late (and unlamented) fleischmann’s words came back to him. that flesh wound had been picked up at the beginning of the charge. the nearer he had got the wilder the fire had become. the negroes he had encountered flung themselves flat; he could have skewered them like pigs. if the whole line had gone on all the blacks would have flung themselves flat and been skewered like pigs. a regiment of horse charges home with the impact of a deep-sea breaker, hundreds of tons.
the late fleischmann had been right in every particular. the scene of the affair was littered with dead horses and white heaps, like piles of crumpled linen—their riders. the bou khari had advanced and were busy among these, stripping the dead, stabbing the wounded, cheering derisively from time to time.
ortho had no sooner rejoined his depleted ranks than a miralai approached and summoned him to the presence of sidi mahomet himself.
the puissant grandson of the mighty muley ismail was on a hillock where he could command the whole field, sitting on a carpet under a white umbrella, surrounded by his generals, who were fingering their beards and looking exceedingly downcast, which was not unnatural, seeing that at least half of them expected to be beheaded.
the sultan’s face was an unpleasant sight. he bit at the stem of his hookah and his fingers twitched, but he was not ungracious to the renegade lancer who did obeisance before him.
“stand up,” he growled. “thou of all my askars hast no need to grovel. how comes it that you alone went through?”
“sidi,” said ortho, “the sultan’s enemies are mine—and it was not difficult. i know the way.”
mahomet’s delicate eyebrows arched. “thou knowest the way—ha! then thou art wiser than these . . . these”—he waved his beautiful hand towards the generals—“these sorry camel cows who deem themselves warriors. tell these ass-mares thy secret. speak up and fear not.”
ortho spoke out. he said nothing about his horse having bolted with him, that so far from being heroic he was numb with fright. he spoke with the voice of fleischmann, deceased, expounded the prussian’s theory of discipline and tactics as applied to shock cavalry, and, having heard them ad nauseam, missed never a point. all the time the sultan sucked at his great hookah and never took his ardent, glowering eyes from his face, and all the time in the background the artillery thumped and the muskets crackled.
he left the royal presence a kaid mia, commanding a squadron, a bag of one hundred ducats in his hand, and a month later the cavalry swept over the astonished bou khari as a flood sweeps a mud bank, steeled by the knowledge that a regiment of imperial infantry and three guns were in their rear with orders to mow them down did they waver. they thundered through to victory, and the kaid sa?d el ingliz (which was another name for ortho penhale) rode, perforce, in the van—wishing to god he had not spoken—and took a pike thrust in the leg and a musket ball in his ribs and was laid out of harm’s way for months.
but that was past history, and now he was watching his horses come in. they were not looking any too well, he thought, tucked-up, hide-bound, scraggy—been campaigning overlong, traveling hard, feeding anyhow, standing out in all weathers. he was thoroughly glad this tax-collecting tour was at a close and he could get them back into garrison. his men drove them up to their heel-pegs, made them fast for the night, tossed bundles of grass before them and sought the camp fires that twinkled cheerily in the twilight. a couple of stallions squealed, there was the thud of a shoe meeting cannon-bone and another squeal, followed by the curses of the horse-guard. a man by the fires twanged an oud and sang an improvised ditty on a palm-tree in his garden at tafilet:
“a queen among palms,
very tall, very stately,
the sun gilds her verdure
with glittering kisses.
and in the calm night time,
among her green tresses,
the little stars tremble.”
ortho drew the folds of his jellab closer about him—it was getting mighty cold—stopped to speak to a farrier on the subject of the shoe shortage and sought the miserable tent which he shared with his lieutenant, osman baki, a turkish adventurer from rumeli hissar.
osman was just in from headquarters and had news. the engineers reported their mines laid and the sari was going to blow the town walls at moonrise—in an hour’s time. the infantry were already mustering, but there were no orders for the horse. the sari was in a vile temper, had commanded that all male rebels were to be killed on sight, women optional—looting was open. osman picked a mutton bone, chattering and shaking; the mountain cold had brought out his fever. he would not go storming that night, he said, not for the plunder of vienna; slung the mutton bone out of doors, curled up on the ground, using his saddle for pillow, and pulled every available covering over himself.
ortho ate his subordinate’s share of the meager repast, stripped himself to his richly laced kaftan, stuck a knife in his sash, picked up a sword and a torch and went out.
the general was short of cavalry, unwilling to risk his precious bodyguard, and had therefore not ordered them into the attack. ortho was going nevertheless; he was not in love with fighting, but he wanted money—he always wanted money.
he walked along the camp fires, picked ten of the stoutest and most rascally of his rascals, climbed out of the gully and came in view of the beleaguered kasba. it was quite a small place, a square fortress of mud-plastered stone standing in a gorge of the major atlas and filled with obdurate mountaineers who combined brigandage with a refusal to pay tribute. a five-day siege had in no wise weakened their resolve. ortho could hear drums beating inside, while from the towers came defiant yells and splutters of musketry.
“if we can’t get in soon the snow will drive us away—and they know it,” he said to the man beside him, and the man shivered and thought of warm tafilet.
“yes, lord,” said he, “and there’s naught of value in that roua. had there been, the sari would have not thrown the looting open. a sheep, a goat or so—paugh! it is not worth our trouble.”
“they must be taught a lesson, i suppose,” said ortho.
the man shrugged. “they will be dead when they learn it.”
a german sapper slouched by whistling “im grünewald mein lieb, und ich,” stopped and spoke to ortho. they had worked right up to the walls by means of trenches covered with fascines, he said, and were going to blow them in two places simultaneously and rush the breaches. the blacks were going in first. these mountaineers fought like devils, but he did not think there were more than two hundred of them, and the infantry were vicious, half-starved, half-frozen, impatient to be home. snow was coming, he thought; he could smell it—whew!
a pale haze blanched the east; a snow peak gleamed with ghostly light; surrounding stars blinked as though blinded by a brighter glory, blinked and faded out. moon-rise. the german called “besslama!” and hurried to his post. the ghost-light strengthened. ortho could see ragged infantrymen creeping forward from rock to rock; some of them dragged improvised ladders. he heard sly chuckles, the chink of metal on stone and the snarl of an officer commanding silence.
in the village the drums went on—thump, thump; thump, thump—unconscious of impending doom.
“dogs of the sultan,” screamed a man on the gate-tower. “little dogs of a big dog, may gehenna receive you, may your mothers be shamed and your fathers eat filth—a-he-yah!” his chance bullet hit the ground in front of ortho, ricocheted and found the man from tafilet. he rolled over, sighed one word, “nkhel”—palm groves—and lay still.
his companions immediately rifled the body—war is war. a shining edge, a rim of silver coin, showed over a saddle of the peaks. “g mare!” said the soldiers. “the moon—ah, now!”
the whispers and laughter ceased; every tattered starveling lay tense, expectant.
in the village the drums went on—thump, thump; thump, thump. the moon climbed up, up, dragged herself clear of the peaks, drenching the snow fields with eerie light, drawing sparkles here, shadows there; a dead goddess rising out of frozen seas.
the watchers held their breath, slowly released it, breathed again.
“wah! the mines have failed,” a man muttered. “the powder was damp. i knew it.”
“it is the ladders now, or nothing,” growled another. “why did the sari not bring cannon?”
“the tobjyah say the camels could not carry them in these hills,” said a third.
“the tobjyah tell great lies,” snapped the first. “i know for certain that . . . hey!”
the north corner of the kasba was suddenly enveloped in a fountain of flame, the ground under ortho gave a kick, and there came such an appalling clap of thunder he thought his ear-drums had been driven in. his men scrambled to their feet cheering.
“hold fast! steady!” he roared. “there is another yet . . . ah!” the second mine went up as the débris of the first came down—mud, splinters, stones and shreds of human flesh.
a lump of plaster smashed across his shoulders and an infantryman within a yard of him got his back broken by a falling beam. when ortho lifted his head again it was to hear the exultant whoops of the negro detachments as they charged for the breaches. in the village the drums had stopped; it was as dumb as a grave. he held his men back. he was not out for glory.
“let the blacks and infantry meet the resistance,” he said. “that man with a broken back had a ladder—eh? bring it along.”
he led his party round to the eastern side, put his ladder up and got over without dispute. the tribesmen had recovered from their shock to a certain extent and were concentrating at the breaches, leaving the walls almost unguarded. a mountaineer came charging along the parapet, shot one of ortho’s men through the stomach as he himself was shot through the head, and both fell writhing into a courtyard below.
the invaders passed from the wall to a flat roof, and there were confronted by two more stalwarts whom they cut down with difficulty. there was a fearful pandemonium of firing, shrieks, curses and war-whoops going on at the breaches, but the streets were more or less deserted. a young and ardent askar kaid trotted by, beating his tag-rag on with his sword-flat. he yelped that he had come over the wall and was going to take the defenders in the rear; he called to ortho for support. ortho promised to follow and turned the other way—plunder, plunder!
the alleys were like dry torrent beds underfoot, not five feet deep and dark as tunnels. ortho lit his torch and looked for doors in the mud walls. in every case they were barred, but he battered them in with axes brought for that purpose—to find nothing worth the trouble.
miserable hovels all, with perhaps a donkey and some sheep in the court and a few leathery women and children squatting in the darkness wailing their death-song. ornaments they wore none—buried of course; there was the plunder of at least two rich tamgrout caravans hidden somewhere in that village. his men tortured a few of the elder women to make them disclose the treasure, but though they screamed and moaned there was nothing to be got out of them. one withered hag did indeed offer to show them where her grandson hid his valuables, led them into a small room, suddenly jerked a koummyah from the folds of her haik and laid about her, foaming at the mouth.
the room was cramped, the men crowded and taken unawares; the old fury whirled and shrieked and chopped like a thing demented. she wounded three of them before they laid her out. one man had his arm nearly taken off at the elbow. ortho bound it up as best he could and ordered him back to camp, but he never got there. he took the wrong turning, fell helpless among some other women and was disemboweled.
“y’ allah, the sultan wastes time and lives,” said an askar. “the sons of such dams will never pay taxes.”
ortho agreed. he had lost two men dead and three wounded, and had got nothing for it but a few sheep, goats and donkeys. the racket at the breaches had died down, the soldiery were pouring in at every point. it would be as well to secure what little he had. he drove his bleating captures into a court, mounted his men on guard and went to the door to watch.
an infantryman staggered down the lane bent under a brass-bound coffer. ortho kicked out his foot; man and box went headlong. the man sprang up and flew snarling at ortho, who beat him in the eyes with his torch and followed that up with menaces of his sword. the man fled and ortho examined the box which the fall had burst open. it contained a brass tiara, some odds and ends of tarnished fez silk, a bride’s belt and slippers; that was all. value a few blanquils—faugh!
he left the stuff where it lay in the filth of the kennel, strolled aimlessly up the street, came opposite a splintered door and looked in.
the house was more substantial than those he had visited, of two stories, with a travesty of a fountain bubbling in the court. the infantry had been there before him. three women and an old man were lying dead beside the fountain and in a patch of moonlight an imperturbable baby sat playing with a kitten.
an open stairway led aloft. ortho went up, impelled by a sort of idle curiosity. there was a room at the top of the stair. he peered in. ransacked. the sole furniture the room possessed—a bed—had been stripped of its coverings and overturned. he walked round the walls, prodding with his sword at suspicious spots in the plaster in the hopes of finding treasure. nothing.
at the far end of the gallery was another room. mechanically he strolled towards it, thinking of other things, of his debts in mequinez, of how to feed his starved horses on the morrow—these people must at least have some grain stored, in sealed pits probably. he entered the second room. it was the same as the first, but it had not been ransacked; it was not worth the trouble. a palmetto basket and an old jellab hung on one wall, a bed was pushed against the far wall—and there was a dead man. ortho examined him by the flare of his torch. a low type of chiaus foot soldier, fifty, diseased, and dressed in an incredible assortment of tatters. both his hands were over his heart, clenching fistfuls of bloody rags, and on his face was an expression of extreme surprise. it was as though death were the last person he had expected to meet. ortho thought it comical.
“what else did you expect to find, jackal—at this gay trade?” he sneered, swept his torch round the room—and prickled.
in the shadow between the bed end and the wall he had seen something, somebody, move.
he stepped cautiously towards the bed end, sword point forwards, on guard. “who’s there?”
no answer. he lowered his torch. it was a woman, crouched double, swathed in a soiled haik, nothing but her eyes showing. ortho grunted. another horse-faced mountain drudge, work-scarred, weather-coarsened!
“stand up!” he ordered. she did not move. “do you hear?” he snapped and made a prick at her with his sword.
she sprang up and at the same moment flung her haik back. ortho started, amazed. the girl before him was no more than eighteen, dark-skinned, slender, exquisitely formed. her thick raven hair was bound with an orange scarf; across her forehead was a band of gold coins and from her ears hung coral earrings. she wore two necklaces, one of fretted gold with fish-shaped pieces dangling from it, and a string of black beads such as are made of pounded musk and amber. her wrists and ankles were loaded with heavy silver bangles. intricate henna designs were traced halfway up her slim hands and feet, and from wrist to shoulder patterns had been scored with a razor and left to heal. her face was finely chiseled, the nose narrow and curved, the mouth arrogant, the brows straight and stormy, and under them her great black eyes smoldered with dangerous fires.
ortho sucked in his breath. this burning, lance-straight, scornful beauty came out of no hill village. an arab this, daughter of whirlwind horsemen, darling of some desert sheik, spoil of the tamgrout caravans.
well, she was his spoil now. the night’s work would pay after all. all else aside, there was at least a hundred ducats of jewelry on her. he would strip it now before the others came and demanded a share.
“come here,” he said, dropping his sword.
the girl slouched slowly towards him, pouting, chin tilted, hands clasped behind her, insolently obedient; stopped within two feet of him and stabbed for his heart with all her might.
had she struck less quickly and with more stealth she might have got home. penhale’s major asset was that, with him, thought and action were one. he saw an instantaneous flicker of steel and instantaneously swerved. the knife pierced the sleeve of his kaftan below the left shoulder. he grabbed the girl by the wrist and wrenched it back till she dropped the knife, and as he did this, with her free hand she very nearly had his own knife out of his sash and into him—very nearly. but that the handle caught in a fold he would have been done. he secured both her wrists and held her at arm’s length. she ground her little sharp teeth at him, quivered with rage, blazed murder with her eyes.
“soldier,” said ortho to the dead man behind him, “now i know why you look astonished. neither you nor i expected to meet death in so pretty a guise.”
he spoke to the girl. “be quiet, beauty, or i will shackle you with your own bangles. will you be sensible?”
for answer the girl began to struggle, tugged at his grasp, wrenched this way and that with the frantic abandon of a wild animal in a gin. she was as supple as an eel and, for all her slimness, marvelously strong. despite his superior weight and power, ortho had all he could do to hold her. but her struggles were too wild to last and at length exhaustion calmed her. ortho tied her hands with the orange scarf and began to take her jewelry off and cram it in his pouch. while he was thus engaged she worked the scarf loose with her teeth and made a dive for his eyes with her long finger nails.
he tied her hands behind her this time and stooped to pry the anklets off. she caught him on the point of the jaw with her knee, knocking him momentarily dizzy. he tied her feet with a strip of her haik. she leaned forward and bit his cheek, bit with all her strength, bit with teeth like needles, nor would she let go till he had well-nigh choked her. he cursed her savagely, being in considerable pain. she shook with laughter. he gagged her after that, worked the last ornament off, picked up his sword and prepared to go. his torch had spluttered out, but moonlight poured through the open door and he could see the girl sitting on the floor, gagged and bound, murdering him with her splendid eyes.
“msa l kheir, lalla!” said he, making a mock salaam. she snorted, defiant to the end. ortho strode out and along the gallery. his cheek stung like fire, blood was trickling from the scratches, his jaw was stiff from the jolt it had received. what a she-devil!—but, by god, what spirit! he liked women of spirit, they kept one guessing. she reminded him somewhat of schems-ed-dah back in sallee, the same rapier-tempering and blazing passion, desert women both. when tame they were wonderful, without peer—when tame. he hesitated, stopped and fingered his throbbing cheek.
“what that she-devil would like to do would be to cut me to pieces with a knife—slowly,” he muttered. he turned about, feeling his jaw. “cut me to pieces and throw ’em to the dogs.” he walked back. “she would do it gladly, though they did the same to her afterwards. tame that sort! never in life.” he stepped back into the room and picked the girl up in his arms. “wild-cat, i’m going to attempt the impossible,” said he.
even then she struggled.
the town was afire, darting tongued sheets of flame and jets of sparks at the placid moon. soldiers were everywhere, shouting, smashing, pouring through the alleys over the bodies of the defenders. as ortho descended the stairs a party of sudanese broke into the courtyard; one of them took a wild shot at him.
“makhzeni!” he shouted and they stood back.
a giant negro petty officer with huge loops of silver wire in his ears held a torch aloft. blood from a scalp wound smeared his face with a crimson glaze. at his belt dangled four fowls and a severed head.
“hey—the kaid ingliz,” he said and tapped the head. “the rebel basha; i slew him myself at the breach. the sari should reward me handsomely. el hamdoulillah!” he smiled like a child expectant of sweetmeats. “what have you there, kaid?”
“a village wench merely.”
“fair?”
“so so.”
the negro spat. “bah! they are as ugly as their own goats, but”—he grinned, knowing ortho’s weakness—“she may fetch the price of a black horse—eh, kaid?”
“she may,” said ortho.
