Hostage to Death

 

The severed hand lay upon the scarred desk, its fingers lifted and curled, as though raising its palm in mute supplication. Drained of blood, the severed tendons and arteries stood out at the wrist—hollow white tubes. The man who had cut off that hand had done it neatly, as though he had been carving a fowl, instead of human flesh. The wrist joint protruded, white and glistening.

 

For dragging seconds no one in the hut moved. And then Lieutenant Reilly found breath enough to gasp, “Good God!” He stared around him at the tense faces of the Legionnaires. Their eyes were drawn to the thing like steel to a magnet.

 

“Call divisional PC,” said Lieutenant Reilly.

 

Sergeant Morenz, his weathered face stiff, said, “The wires are down, sir, I was just coming in to tell you when the runner brought—brought that.”

 

Lieutenant Reilly looked back at the grisly object. It had been wrapped in cheap paper, and upon the paper, like worms crawling over cloth, was a set of Arabic words.

 

Picking up a rifle cleaning rag, Reilly removed the object and looked at the writing. Arabic was no great mystery to him, but this was blurred. The message read:

 

To Railguard Three:

 

I beg to inform you that I am holding a certain Englishwoman named Kay MacArthur. I send this to you today. Tomorrow I shall send you one of her hands. I do this because I seriously doubt your courage and the fighting quality of your men, who do nothing but cringe beside a railroad, watching the trains. Come and get Kay MacArthur.

 

Blessings from Abd el-Ulad

 

Lieutenant Reilly went to the door and looked southwest, to the uneven blue-white humps which were the High Atlas. In the midsummer heat, the brown plains shimmered and writhed on their way to the foothills.

 

Stepping outside, Reilly stared to the north. The iron and cinders that made up the roadbed were scorching hot under the metallic, brittle sky. The great cauldron of molten copper that was the sun beat the parched earth with searing rays.

 

Sergeant Morenz had finished reading the message when Reilly came back. Sergeant Morenz, his tunic soggy and dark with sweat, shrugged.

 

“It is to be pitied, mon Lieutenant. Unable as we are to reach battalion, we can do nothing. Yes, it is to be pitied.”

 

Reilly’s black eyes went suddenly hot. “Are you trying to tell me what to do? Get the hell out of here and down to your barracks!”

 

They went, those Legionnaires. Hurriedly. One of them grinned a bit when he was outside and whispered to another, “Sacrebleu, little pig, it will not be long.”

 

“No, not long. When he swears, zut! We have action! I am weary of this railhead, me.”

 

Sergeant Morenz lingered near the door, hesitantly. He felt very responsible, did Morenz. It showed in his sunken, colorless eyes.

 

Lieutenant Reilly fidgeted and stared down at his dusty boots, frowning. He pulled out his revolver and whirled its cylinder, then replaced it. He went to his desk, glared at the offending hand and reread Abd el-Ulad’s message.

 

“Morenz!” cried Reilly. “Get in here!”

 

Morenz re-entered and saluted.

 

Reilly did a turn around the walls of the iron-roofed furnace which passed for his quarters and came back to Morenz. “Sergeant, what were our orders when we came to this place?”

 

“Sir,” said Morenz, “our orders were these: Guard the railhead at post three. Under no pretext are you to leave this post. The railhead is all important.”

 

“Go on,” said Reilly.

 

Morenz relaxed a little. “I’m thinking, begging the lieutenant’s pardon, about Captain Francois deGrille. You remember the captain, don’t you, Lieutenant? He left Fort Germaine, down in the Sahara. Went after a woman, he did, sir. Captain deGrille, begging the lieutenant’s pardon again, will be sentenced next week, sir. I need not remind you, mon Lieutenant, that la belle Légion is a very jealous lady.”

 

“Rats!” said Lieutenant Reilly. “DeGrille was a fool. He had his entire post wiped out by Tuaregs in his absence. We aren’t at war with anyone. The Riffs are after the Spaniards, not the French.”

 

“As the general said on parade last month, mon Lieutenant, ‘All Morocco is blazing with revolt.’”

 

“That’s trite,” cried Reilly. “Damned trite! It’s been blazing with revolt ever since they landed us here. And how many engagements have we fought? None!

 

“Morenz, this Abd el-Ulad—he’s a Berber. Just a guerrilla warrior. That other fellow—what’s his name? Abd el-Krim—won’t have anything to do with him. This Ulad wants to wipe out a Legion company and thereby gain favor in the eyes of Krim. He thinks he’s got a setup, this Ulad.

 

“Well, Morenz, this Ulad is going to be fooled. We’re going up and wipe him out!”

 

“Mon Lieutenant!” cried Morenz. “It means deserting your post!”

 

“You, a sergeant, are telling me what to do?”

 

Morenz backed hastily away. This Reilly was a fighter, not to be tampered with. Down in the Sahara, this Reilly had a reputation. When those black eyes grew wild, such lesser things as sergeants did well to get out of the way. Morenz got. He knew the conflict. It wasn’t human to leave a woman in Berber hands without doing something about it. 

 

But then, since when was warfare human?