XXIV
It is seven in the morning, the scene a forlorn spot in the country of Diambour, a grass-covered marsh, surrounding a small sheet of water.
To the north a low hill bounds the horizon. Southwards as far as the eye can see stretch the great levels of Dialakar.
All is still and desolate; the sun mounts tranquilly into an azure sky.
In this African landscape, which would have fitted equally well into some solitary tract of ancient Gaul, horsemen come into view. They sit their horses proudly, handsome fellows all of them, in their red jackets, blue pantaloons, large white hats slouched over their bronzed faces. There are twelve of them, twelve spahis sent out as scouts in charge of an adjutant, and Jean is one of them.
The air holds no presage of death, no foreboding of ill-omen, nothing but the calmness and purity of the heavens. In the marshes the tall grasses, still wet with the dews of night, are sparkling in the sun; dragon flies are hovering on their long, black-flecked wings; waterlilies are opening their large white calyces.
The heat is already oppressive; the horses stretch their necks to drink, their nostrils wide, sniffing the stagnant water. The spahis halt for a moment to take counsel; they dismount in order to moisten their hats and bathe their foreheads.
Suddenly in the distance dull sounds are heard, like the noise of enormous drums all beaten simultaneously.
“It is the big tom-toms,” said Sergeant Muller, who had some experience of negro warfare.
Instinctively all the men who had dismounted made for their horses.
But a black head had just raised itself above the herbage. An old Marabout had made with his skinny arm a grotesque signal, like a magic order addressed to the reeds of the marsh. A hail of lead showered down upon the spahis.
The shots, steadily and carefully aimed from the shelter of the ambuscade, had all told. Five or six horses had dropped. The remainder, startled and maddened, reared and threw their wounded riders. Jean, also, had sunk to the ground with a bullet through his loins. At the same time, thirty sinister faces emerged from the grass; thirty black demons, covered with mud, bounded out, gnashing their white teeth like enraged monkeys.
O heroic combat, such as Homer might have sung, but which will remain unrecorded, unknown to fame, like so many of these far-away African frays. The poor spahis, in their fight to the death, performed prodigies of strength and valour. Fighting had on them the infuriating effect, which it produces on all such as are brave by nature. They sold their lives dearly, these men, all of whom were young, vigorous, and inured to war. In a few years they will be forgotten, even at St Louis. Who will ever mention their names, the names of those who fell in the land of Diambour, on the plains of Dialakar?
Meanwhile the sound of the great war-drums was drawing ever nearer.
Suddenly, while the mêlée was still proceeding, the spahis saw as in a dream, a great company of negroes passing by over the hill; warriors half naked, covered with grigris, were doubling in the direction of Dialdé in disorderly hordes. They had with them enormous war-drums, which four men together could hardly drag along. Their lean desert horses, seemingly full of fire and fury, were decked with tawdry harness, spangled with copper, their long tails and manes stained blood-red. It was a fantastic, demoniac procession, an African nightmare, swifter than the wind.
Boubakar-Ségou was passing.
He was on his way to hurl himself on the French forces.
He passed, paying no attention to the spahis, leaving them to the body of men who had lain in ambush for them, and were completing the work of exterminating them.
The spahis were being driven steadily back, away from the grass and water on to the arid sands, where a more overwhelming heat and an intenser glare would the sooner exhaust them.
No one had had time to reload. They fought with knives, sabres, nails, and teeth; there were many gaping wounds and bleeding bodies.
Two negroes had made a ferocious attack on Jean. He was stronger than they. In his fury he hurled them to earth time after time, but they always came back at him.
In the end his hands, slipping in blood, could no longer obtain a grip on the black, oily naked skins, and all the time his strength was ebbing because of his wounds.
He had a confused perception of these final impressions; his dead comrades, fallen by his side; the main body of the negro army ever hastening onwards, and now almost out of sight; handsome Muller near him, with the death rattle in his throat, and the blood pouring from his mouth; and further over, already at some distance, tall Nyaor cutting his way through towards Saldé, mowing a path with great sweeps of his sabre through a group of negroes.
And then three of them felled Jean to the ground, threw him on his side, holding his arms, while one of them pressed a large iron knife against his chest.
... For one terrifying moment of anguish Jean felt the pressure of this knife against his body. And there was not one human being to help him. All were dead, not a man was left.
The red cloth of his jacket, the coarse fabric of his soldier’s shirt, and his flesh formed a triple layer which offered resistance, and the knife had been badly sharpened.
The negro leaned more heavily. Jean uttered a loud, hoarse cry, and of a sudden his side was pierced. The blade, with a horrible little sound of slicing, plunged into the depths of his chest. The negro turned it in the wound, then tore it out with both hands, and kicked away the body with his foot.
Jean was the last to fall. The black demons raised their shout of victory and ran on without a moment’s delay, speeding like the wind in pursuit of their army.
The spahis were left alone; and the stillness of death descended upon them.