Mohammed-Fripouille
“Shall we have our coffee on the roof?” asked the captain.
“Yes, by all means,” I replied.
He rose. It was already dark in the room, lighted only by the inner courtyard, as is the custom in Moorish houses. In front of the high, pointed windows, creepers fell from the wide balcony on which the warm summer evenings were spent. Nothing but fruit remained upon the table, huge African fruits, grapes as large as plums, soft figs with purple flesh, yellow pears, long fat bananas, dates from Tougourt in a basket of esparto grass.
The Moorish servant opened the door, and I ascended the staircase, upon whose sky-blue walls fell from above the gentle light of the dying day.
Soon I uttered a deep sigh of contentment, as I reached the balcony. It dominated Algiers, the harbour, the roadstead, and the distant coastline.
The house which the captain had purchased was an ancient Arab dwelling, situated in the centre of the old town, amid the labyrinthine lanes in which swarms the strange population of the coasts of Africa.
Below, the flat square roofs descended like a giant’s staircase to the sloping roofs of the European quarter. Beyond these could be seen the masts of the ships at anchor, and then the sea, the open sea, blue and calm under the calm blue sky.
We lay down on mats, our heads supported by cushions; while slowly sipping the delicious native coffee, I watched the earliest stars come out in the darkening blue. They were dimly to be glimpsed, so distant, so pale, as yet scarcely lit.
A light, winged warmth caressed our skins. There were occasional hotter, more oppressive gusts, bearing in their bosoms a vague scent, the scent of Africa; they seemed the nearby breath of the desert, come over the peaks of the Atlas Mountains. The captain, lying on his back, observed:
“What a country, my dear fellow! How sweet life is here! how vastly delightful to rest! Nights like these are made for dreaming!”
I was still watching the birth of the stars, with a curiosity at once indolent and lively, with drowsy happiness.
“You really ought to tell me something about your life in the South,” I murmured.
Captain Marret was one of the oldest officers in the African army, a soldier of fortune, formerly a spahi, who had carved his career with the point of his sword.
Thanks to him, and to his relatives and friends, I had been able to make a magnificent trip in the desert; and I had come that night to thank him before returning to France.
“What kind of story would you like?” he said. “I’ve had so many adventures during my twelve years in the sand that I no longer remember any separate one.”
“Tell me about the Arab women,” I replied.
He did not answer, but remained lying on his mat, his arms bent back and his hands beneath his head; now and then I caught the scent of his cigar, the smoke of which rose straight up towards the sky in the windless night.
Suddenly he burst out laughing.
“Yes, I’ll tell you a funny incident that dates from my earliest days in Algeria. In those days we had some queer specimens in the African army; they’re no longer to be seen, they no longer happen. They’d have interested you enough to make you spend your whole life in this country.
“I was a plain spahi, a little fellow of twenty, a fair-haired young devil, supple and active, a real Algerian soldier. I was attached to the military post at Boghar. You know Boghar, the place they call the balcony of the South. From the summit of the fort you’ve seen the beginning of that land of fire, devastated, naked, tortured, stony, and reddened. It’s the real antechamber of the desert, the superb blazing frontier of that immense stretch of tawny empty spaces.
“There were forty of us spahis at Boghar, a company of convict soldiers, and a squadron of African lancers, when the news came that the Ould-Berghi tribe had murdered an English traveller. Lord knows how he got into the country; the English are possessed of the devil.
“Justice had to be done for this crime against a European, but the commanding officer hesitated to send out an expedition, thinking that an Englishman really wasn’t worth so much fuss.
“Well, as he was talking the matter over with the captain and the lieutenant, a spahi cavalry sergeant, who was waiting for the dispatch, suddenly offered to go and punish the tribe if he were given six men only.
“In the South, as you know, things are freer than in a garrison town, and there’s a sort of comradeship between the officer and his men which you don’t find elsewhere. The captain burst out laughing.
“ ‘You, my lad?’
“ ‘Yes, captain, and if you like I’ll bring back the whole tribe prisoners.’
“The C.O. was a whimsical fellow, and took him at his word.
“ ‘You’ll start tomorrow with six men of your own choosing, and if you don’t perform your promise, look out for trouble!’
“The sergeant smiled under his moustache.
“ ‘Have no fears, colonel. My prisoners will be here by noon on Wednesday at the latest.’
“This sergeant, Mohammed-Fripouille, as he was called, was a truly amazing fellow, a Turk, a real Turk, who had entered the service of France after a somewhat obscure and no doubt chequered career. He had travelled in many lands, in Greece, Asia Minor, Egypt, and Palestine, and must have left behind him a pretty thick trail of misdeeds. He was a real Bashi-Bazouk, a bold rapscallion, ferocious, and gay with a placid Oriental gaiety. He was stout, very stout in fact, but as supple as a monkey, and rode superbly. His moustaches were unbelievably long and thick, and always gave me a confused impression of a crescent moon and a scimitar. He had an exacerbated hatred for the Arabs, and treated them with cunning and horrible cruelty, perpetually inventing new tricks, ghastly turns of calculated treachery.
“He was also unbelievably strong and preposterously daring.
“ ‘Choose your men, my lad,’ said the C.O. to him.
“Mohammed took me. The gallant fellow trusted me, and I remained devoted to him, body and soul, as a result of his choice of me, which gave me as much pleasure as the cross of honour that I won later on.
“Well, we started off next morning at dawn, just the seven of us. My comrades were of that bandit pirate class whose members, after leading the life of vagabond marauders in every possible country, end by taking service in some foreign legion. In those days our army in Africa was full of these rascals, splendid soldiers, but utterly unscrupulous.
“Mohammed had given each of us some ten pieces of cord to carry, each about a yard long. I was also loaded, as being the youngest and lightest, with a whole length of rope, a hundred yards long. When he was asked what he proposed to do with all this string, he replied with his sly calm air:
“ ‘It’s for fishing for Arabs.’
“And he winked maliciously, a trick he had learnt from a veteran Parisian chasseur d’Afrique.
“He rode at the head of our troop, his head swathed in the red turban he always wore in the desert, smiling with pleasure under his enormous moustache.
“He was a fine sight, that huge Turk, with his powerful belly, his colossal shoulders, and his placid expression. He was mounted on a white horse, of medium size, but very strong, and the rider seemed ten times too big for his mount.
“We had entered a little ravine, stony, bare, and yellow, which drops down to the valley of the Chélif, and were talking of our expedition. My comrades spoke with every conceivable different accent, for among them were to be found a Spaniard, two Greeks, an American, and three Frenchmen. As for Mohammed-Fripouille, he had an unbelievable lisp.
“The sun, the terrible sun, the sun of the South, quite unknown on the other side of the Mediterranean, fell upon our shoulders; we went forward at a walking pace, as always in those parts.
“All day we advanced without meeting either a tree or an Arab.
“At about one in the afternoon we had halted beside a little spring which flowed between the stones, and eaten the bread and dried mutton which we carried in our haversacks; then, after twenty minutes’ rest, we had started off again.
“At last, at about six in the evening, after a long detour imposed upon us by our leader, we discovered a tribe encamped behind a conical hill. The low brown tents made dark spots upon the yellow ground, and looked like large desert mushrooms growing at the foot of the red hillock calcined by the sun.
“They were our men. A little further on, at the edge of a dark-green field of esparto grass, the tethered horses were feeding.
“ ‘Gallop,’ ordered Mohammed, and we arrived in the centre of the encampment like a hurricane. The frenzied women, clad in white rags which drooped and billowed round them, hastily entered their dens of canvas, crouching and crawling, shrieking like hunted animals. The men, on the contrary, came up from all sides, attempting to defend themselves.
“We rode straight for the loftiest tent, the chief’s.
“We kept our swords sheathed, following the example of Mohammed, who was galloping in a curious manner; he remained absolutely immobile, bolt upright on the little horse, which struggled madly to support his mighty bulk. The tranquillity of the rider, with his long moustaches, contrasted strangely with the liveliness of the animal.
“The native chief came out of his tent as we arrived in front of it. He was a tall thin man, black, with a shining eye, a bulging forehead, and eyebrows shaped like the arc of a circle.
“ ‘What do you want?’ he cried in Arabic.
“Mohammed reined in his horse with a jerk, and answered in the same language:
“ ‘Was it you that killed the English traveller?’
“ ‘You’ve no right to question me,’ said the agha in a loud voice.
“All around me was a sound like the muttering of a storm. The Arabs came up from all sides, hustled us, made a ring round us, shouted wildly. They looked like fierce birds of prey, with their great hooked noses, their thin bony faces, their wide garments shaken by their gestures.
“Mohammed was smiling, his turban on one side, excitement showing in his eye; I saw little quivers of pleasure run through his sagging fleshy wrinkled cheeks.
“In a voice of thunder which dominated the clamour, he replied:
“ ‘Death to him who has given death.’
“He thrust his revolver into the agha’s brown face. I saw a little smoke rise from the barrel; then a pink froth of brains and blood gushed from the chief’s forehead. As though struck by lightning he collapsed upon his back, throwing his arms apart, which raised the trailing skirts of his burnous-like wings.
“I thought my last hour had come, the tumult around us was so frightful.
“Mohammed had drawn his sabre; we followed his example. With windmill strokes he held off those who pressed him most closely, shouting:
“ ‘I’ll spare the lives of those who surrender; death to the rest.’
“And seizing the nearest in his herculean fists, he laid him across the saddle and bound his hands, shouting to us:
“ ‘Do as I do, and sabre those who resist.’
“In five minutes we had captured some twenty Arabs, whose wrists we fastened securely. Then we pursued the fugitives, for at sight of our naked swords there had been a general flight. We collected about thirty more captives.
“The plain was filled with white, scurrying figures. The women dragged their children along, uttering shrill screams. The yellow dogs, like jackals, leapt round us, barking and showing their white fangs.
“Mohammed, who seemed out of his wits with joy, dismounted at one bound, and seizing the rope I had brought, said:
“ ‘Careful, now, boys; two of you dismount.’
“Then he made a ludicrous and ghastly thing; a necklace of prisoners, or rather a necklace of hanged men. He had firmly bound the two wrists of the first captive, then he made a noose round his neck with the same cord, with which he next secured the second captive’s arms, and then knotted it round that man’s neck. Our fifty prisoners soon found themselves bound in such a manner that the slightest attempt to escape on the part of one of them would have strangled both him and his two neighbours, and they were forced to march at an exactly even pace, without altering the gap between each of them by the slightest hair’s-breadth, or else be promptly caught like hares in a snare.
“When this curious task was accomplished, Mohammed began to laugh, the silent laugh which shook his belly without a sound coming from his mouth.
“ ‘That’s the Arab chain,’ he said.
“We too began to roar with laughter at the prisoners’ scared piteous faces.
“ ‘Now, boys,’ cried our leader, ‘fasten a stake at each end.’
“We attached a stake to each end of this ribbon of ghostlike captives, who remained as motionless as though turned to stone.
“ ‘And now for dinner,’ announced the Turk.
“A fire was lit and a sheep roasted, which we divided with our bare hands. Then we ate some dates found in the tents, drank some milk procured in the same way, and picked up some silver jewellery left behind by the fugitives.
“We were peacefully finishing our meal when I perceived, on the hill facing us, a singular assemblage. It was the women who had recently fled, only the women. And they were running towards us. I pointed them out to Mohammed-Fripouille.
“He smiled.
“ ‘It’s our dessert,’ he cried.
“ ‘Quite so, the dessert!’
“They came up, galloping madly, and soon we were bombarded with stones, which they flung at us without pausing in their onrush. We saw that they were armed with knives, tent-pegs, and broken pottery.
“ ‘Get on your horses,’ yelled Mohammed.
“It was high time. The attack was terrible. They were come to free the prisoners, and strove to cut the rope. The Turk, realising the danger, flew into a mad rage and shouted: ‘Sabre them!—sabre them!—sabre them!’ And as we remained inactive, uneasy at this new sort of attack, hesitating to kill women, he rushed upon the invaders.
“Alone he charged that battalion of ragged females; the brute proceeded to put them to the sword, working like a galley-slave, in such a frenzy of rage that a white form dropped every time his arm swept down.
“His onslaught was so terrible that the frightened women fled as quickly as they had come, leaving behind them a dozen dead or wounded wretches, whose crimson blood stained their white garments.
“Mohammed returned towards us with a distorted face, repeating:
“ ‘Off with you, boys, off we go; they’re coming back.’
“And we fought a rearguard action, slowly leading our prisoners, who were paralysed with the fear of being strangled.
“It was striking twelve next day when we arrived at Boghar with our chain of throttled captives. Only six had died on the way. But we had frequently to undo the knots from one end of the convoy to another, for every shock promptly strangled ten or more captives.”
The captain paused. I did not answer. I thought of the strange country wherein such things were to be seen, and gazed at the black sky and its innumerable company of shining stars.