Mademoiselle Julie

STRANGE RIDER

10. MADEMOISELLE JULIE

Chapter 1

STRANGE RIDER

Captain Gaston Lefevre, the middle-aged Frenchman with greying temples and weary eyes, once again pulls the bottle of cognac across the surface of his writing desk, pours a drinking glass half full, and downs it in two swift draughts. Then he slumps forward, rubs his eyes hard, and shakes his head in powerless, desperate tension. As he has for the past four days, he listens subconsciously every moment, waiting for the office door to open, for the orderly perhaps to enter with a new message.

Then he straightens up and, in a surge of fury, slams his fist onto the table. But he doesn’t even feel the hard wood injure his fist, for the drink has rendered him numb to almost everything.

Except for the deep, dull ache of his daughter being lost.

Captain Lefevre again pulls the radio communication message closer, which he must have read over and over several hundred times in the past few days.

Commander Dini Salam to Lefevre Fort Laval. Your daughter Julie missing from Hotel Europa. Comprehensive investigation initiated. Will be kept constantly informed. Le Clerq, Colonel.

Just that. Nothing more. And every day since, they had merely sent a radio message stating that the search for Julie Lefevre was ongoing.

And here he sat, trapped in this hornet’s nest of a Fort Laval, hundreds of kilometres from Dini Salam, with a paltry garrison of some thirty men. He, a captain in the French Foreign Legion.

But that is what the bottle does to a man. When your superiors deem you drink too much, you are dispatched to a pit like this to command thirty men. In this remote corner of the Sahara, this foremost outpost of French authority in this immeasurable, inhospitable, and perilous wasteland of sand.

Gaston Lefevre rises quickly, walks unsteadily to the window, and stares out across the desert. If only he could do something to search for her, he thinks, while the shimmering heatwaves dancing over the sand dunes cause his eyes to narrow. If only he could have done something. But what can he do from this godforsaken corner of the earth? With thirty men, and while he hasn’t even the faintest notion where his Julie is!

He grips the iron bars in the window, and for a moment, it feels as though he could tear them from the stone walls. In a few days, he and his garrison were due to be relieved here and would have returned to Dini Salam. There he would have met his only daughter, who had flown specially from Algiers to see him. After the death of his wife last year, Julie is all he has left.

The greying captain lets his head droop forward, and he feels the tears burn in his eyes again.

“What have I done to deserve this?” he says with a short gasp, tugging helplessly at the iron bars. Then he swings around, staggers back to his writing desk, sinks onto the chair, and pulls the cognac closer again. Cognac – that is all that offers him solace and courage in this consuming crisis in which he now finds himself.

Yesterday, he had requested leave via radio to lead a search party from Fort Laval. He knew full well it was practically futile, as he hadn’t the faintest idea where his daughter might be, but later it felt as though he would go mad from the waiting, hour after hour, day after day. The uncertainty and fear gnaw at him constantly.

The response to his request was a brief and blunt refusal from the commander of the main garrison in Dini Salam, Col. Paul Le Clerq. It included a strict order. He was under no circumstances to leave Fort Laval.

That is why Gaston Lefevre now yanks the cognac bottle closer again and simply puts it to his mouth, without bothering to use a glass.

“Orderly!” he bellows in a most unbecoming manner, and when the startled orderly pokes his head around the door, Lefevre roars. “Go to that wretched Marconi operator and find out if there isn’t any news yet!”

The orderly trots off to the radio room, reminding himself that this must be the hundredth time he has had to walk there so needlessly, because every time a message comes through, the Marconi operator forwards it immediately to the commander.

A few moments later, the orderly stands apprehensively in the doorway of Lefevre’s office and salutes briskly. “No further news, mon Capitaine,” he announces submissively.

Lefevre starts to laugh, and it is an ugly, cynical laugh. A drunkard’s laugh that echoes through the small office, reverberates off the walls, and then drifts away through the heat. He struggles upright, sweeps the cognac bottle off the top of the writing desk, yanks out his revolver, and fires a wild shot through the barred window.

The terrified orderly slams the door shut without ceremony and stands trembling, awaiting the captain’s next outburst.

“Orderly, cognac!” he hears the captain shout from within, and he heads towards the officers’ mess to fetch a new bottle of liquor. When he returns with it, Lefevre is sitting with his head on his arms on the table, his head swaying slowly back and forth, while he ceaselessly murmurs his daughter’s name.

When he looks up and sees the orderly standing before him, he says very softly, “Julie... my Julie... she is all I have left.”

“Oui, mon Capitaine,” is all the orderly can think of, and he cannot comprehend how this can be the same man under whom he once fought his way out of an ambush the Arabs had laid for them. That day, this very Captain Lefevre had set an example of death-defying bravery for them, one that surely none of them would easily forget.

And now he sits here like a child, his eyes red and listless, his hands trembling.

But the orderly understands it well. Therefore, he merely salutes respectfully and exits.

Private Zoelak is a Russian who once, in the Ukraine, caved in the neck of a Communist commissar with a shovel. Afterwards, he decided the Foreign Legion would be the safest place for him.

But at this moment, pacing back and forth in the consuming sun here on the watch platform of Fort Laval, he is not thinking of that distant day beside the wheat fields of the Ukraine. At this moment, he walks and ponders by what twisted miracle the Sahara was created – this wilderness of heat, solitude, flies, and hardship.

He glances askance at the sun. It cannot be much longer before he is relieved. He sighs gratefully, and his heavy boots continue their rhythmic tread across the weathered planks of the platform, here behind the battlements of Fort Laval. He is not even aware that he carries a Lebel rifle over his right shoulder, nor that he is supposed to be standing guard. All he can think about at this moment is the pile of money he owes Private Petacci, the little Italian. This afternoon, when his watch is over, he will go play cards again. A full three months of his pay are already pledged to this cunning little gambler, but this afternoon Zoelak intends to turn the tables and win back some of that money. He’s certainly not going to fatten Petacci on his pay!

Zoelak reaches the southern corner of the battlement, clicks his heels, and turns about. For a moment he stands still and gazes westward, more out of habit than anything else. It is the discipline rising deep from his subconscious. The discipline that teaches you to remain vigilant here in the Sahara, because danger always lies hidden here, like the sand adder you do not easily see, but which strikes your ankle when you are not on your guard.

And as Private Zoelak looks out to the west, he freezes.

His eyes narrow suddenly, and a jolt runs through his heart. Instinctively, he grips his Lebel rifle tighter.

He swings around and runs towards the side of the platform, but then stops short and turns back towards the battlement first. He observes the object before him. What on earth? He has never seen such a thing in his life.

And yet, it is a rider. It must be. The figure just looks so odd. It seems as if that rider sits so stiffly in the saddle, almost like a wooden doll.

Besides, from here it looks like a woman. But a woman in this part of the Sahara? That is utterly impossible.

He walks right up to the battlement and narrows his eyes further. He peers through the shimmering heat haze across the plain, which stretches from here to the distant circle of dunes that surround Fort Laval, cutting it off even further from the rest of the world.

Good heavens! What kind of rider is this? It makes no sense to him.

Zoelak swings around and trots to the edge of the platform. “Attention! Attention! Attention!” he shouts in French towards the guardroom, there on the opposite side of the square within the fort. “Rider due west... rider due west... Looks like a woman.”

The sergeant of the guard bursts out of the guardroom with binoculars in his right hand. He runs towards the stairs leading up to the battlement.

The other guards, who had been just as asleep as Zoelak, now also stand staring at the phenomenon. Just like Zoelak, they cannot make out what is happening here.

Sometimes it seems as if the apparition floats on the heatwaves, yet it is quite clear that it is a horse approaching. And it is perfectly clear that someone is sitting on that horse’s back. And it also seems reasonably clear that it is a woman.

The horse also moves so strangely. It is not approaching the fort purposefully. It wanders this way, then that way, and then stops again. The horse looks around once, then nibbles here and there at the sparse camel thorn bushes that grow here in the desert.

Then it ambles closer again, quite unconcernedly.

Sergeant Zhakof, the big Russian and officer of the guard, comes to stand wide-legged beside his countryman Zoelak. He raises the binoculars to his eyes and observes the phenomenon carefully.

“Mon Dieu!” he says finally. “That is the strangest rider I have ever seen. From here it looks like a female rider, but it is so rigid that I am convinced it is not a living rider.”

“Is it, is it perhaps not the Capitaine’s daughter, mon Sergent?” inquires Zoelak.

Out of sheer shock, Zhakof jerks the binoculars away from his eyes. Sweat suddenly glistens on his sunburnt face, and he has turned noticeably pale. He stares uncertainly at Zoelak and then looks again at the apparition out in the desert.

“Mon Dieu!” he whispers, “I hope not.”

Zhakof is an impulsive man. He grabs Zoelak by the shoulder. “Go fetch that horse, Zoelak,” he commands. “And you must run!”

Zoelak looks at the sergeant, surprised and uncertain. “Don’t worry, we will protect you,” Zhakof assures him. “You need not be afraid, devil’s spawn and murderer of a commissar.” Zhakof’s eyes blaze, and Zoelak waits no longer. He knows the temper of this giant of a man, who thinks nothing of striking you over the head with a Lebel when he loses his temper.

Zoelak trots down the stairs, runs out of the fort, and quickly makes tracks across the desert, his eyes constantly fixed on the horizon.

But the horizon is empty. Only the heat devils dance and frolic there.

Zoelak catches the horse easily. The animal is clearly thirsty. Probably why it headed for the Fort. The Russian’s heart lurches with astonishment when he sees the strange ‘rider’. He grabs the horse by the bit and leads it back towards the fort at a quick trot, constantly glancing over his shoulders to see if anything might appear on the horizon. When Zoelak enters the fort with the horse, Zhakof is waiting for him. The sergeant runs towards the horse in surprise, also grabs it by the bit, and stares bewildered at the ‘rider’ on the animal’s back.

It is not a living rider. It is a doll cobbled together from cushions and canvas, fastened into the saddle.

The doll is dressed in women’s clothes, the clothes of an adult woman. No, rather the clothes of a young girl. A cold wave of shock and revulsion passes through the hardened Zhakof. He closes his eyes for a moment and then lowers his head.

It is then that Zoelak draws Zhakof’s attention to the note pinned to the front of the doll’s chest.

The Russian quickly snatches it off. On the outside of the note is written in clear script. “The Commander, Fort Laval. Urgent.”

Zhakof trots off, crunching across the sand of the courtyard, towards Captain Gaston Lefevre’s office. He jerks the door open and salutes the limp figure lying face down on the writing desk’s surface.

“A message for you, mon Capitaine,” Zhakof says hoarsely.

Lefevre lifts his grey head unsteadily and stares dazedly at Zhakof. “Attention, Zhakof!” Lefevre calls out. “Where is your discipline?”

Zhakof quickly snaps to attention, salutes once more, and hands over the note. Lefevre fumbles for it once before grasping it. He unfolds it with infinite difficulty and looks at it.

“This is not a radio message,” Lefevre says, almost furiously.

“They brought a horse into the fort, mon Capitaine,” the sergeant explains. “There is a doll tied onto the horse.”

“A doll!” Lefevre exclaims. He starts laughing and flings the note towards Zhakof. “I am not interested in dolls, Zhakof.” His tongue moves slowly and clumsily. “You read the letter the doll brought,” he says contemptuously.

Zhakof draws a deep breath, his large chest thrusting far forward. “The doll is wearing clothes, mon Capitaine, women’s clothes...”

It is as if Lefevre has been struck across the face. His eyes freeze and his head jerks. He rises slowly, pressing down heavily on the table with his hands. “Women’s clothes?” he asks, his tongue heavy.

“Oui, mon Capitaine.”

Lefevre snatches up the note. He does not read it, but swings around the table, stumbles against the doorframe, and lurches outside into the square. His grey head gleams in the sun. He walks and trips over his own feet as he tries to run towards the horse.

Zhakof follows him and sees the captain seize the doll’s clothes in his hands, hold them very tightly, and then press them against his sweaty face.

“Julie,” he whispers through the warm silence. “I think these are my Julie’s clothes. Zhakof!” he screams, his voice echoing off the walls, and he swings around. “Zhakof, they have caught her. The scum have caught her! These are her clothes. I am one hundred percent certain of it. They have murdered her, Zhakof.”

“Perhaps it is not so bad, mon Capitaine,” Zhakof says consolingly. “What does the note say?”

Distraught, Lefevre slowly unfolds the note, and Zhakof observes how the shock penetrates his intoxication as he reads it. He stands for quite a while with it in his hand before finally handing it to the Russian.

Zhakof slowly reads what is written there.

The Commander, Fort Laval. Captain Lefevre, we have abducted your daughter Julie in Dini Salam. She is currently approximately eight kilometres from Fort Laval. We will release her if you evacuate Fort Laval. We will allow you unmolested passage to Dini Salam. If you do not surrender the fort, your daughter dies. You will send an envoy before sunset today to fetch her. You will strike the Tricolour and hoist the white flag. No weapons shall be removed from the fort, except those weapons you and your garrison require for personal protection on the journey to Dini Salam. No supplies in the fort shall be destroyed or damaged. We repeat. You surrender Fort Laval, or your daughter dies.

Sheikh Feisan,

Commander of the forces of Her Highness, Madame Brigitte Bonnet.

“Doelaks,” whispers Zhakof. “The hordes of the white witch Bonnet...”

“The hordes of the white witch, Madame Bonnet, white queen of the Doelaks,” Lefevre echoes blankly.

Zhakof looks urgently at the captain. He just stares at the ground before him.

Lefevre looks up at the sergeant, and Zhakof cannot quite decipher the expression in his eyes. “Zhakof,” Lefevre orders, “have the entire garrison fall in, except for the guards.” Lefevre walks away quickly, back towards his office.

With a frown between his eyes, Zhakof walks away and gives the order for the men to fall in.

“Stay alert up there!” he shouts to the guards on the battlements.

The men fall in within a few minutes. They stand ramrod straight in the hot sun, waiting.

Finally, Lefevre emerges. He has his cap on, and the officer’s baton gleams in his right hand.

“Arabs!” one of the guards suddenly shouts aloud.

Zhakof hurries towards the platforms, followed by Lefevre, who ascends the stairs somewhat unsteadily.

When he appears behind the battlements, Zhakof gasps and stands stock-still.

It seems as if the entire horizon is alive with Arabs. There are Doelaks... Doelaks and yet more Doelaks, all sitting silent as statues upon their horses.

He only becomes aware of the reality around him again when he detects Lefevre’s brandy breath beside him.

“About two thousand,” Lefevre assesses.

“If not more, mon Capitaine,” answers Zhakof.

“Be on your guard here on the platforms,” Lefevre orders the guards, and then he quickly turns and walks towards the stairs. There he stops and surveys the horizon thoroughly once more. He shudders slightly and then descends.

Zhakof follows him slowly, his thick neck glistening with sweat, his hands trembling. He passes the officer, a command snaps from his mouth, and the men spring to attention.

Lefevre comes to stand beside Zhakof, looking small and slender next to the big Russian.

“Mes legionnaires,” Gaston Lefevre addresses them. “On the horizon, two thousand or more Doelaks have just appeared. They hold my daughter captive among them. They have demanded the surrender of this fort, otherwise, she dies. They assure safe passage for the garrison to Dini Salam.”

He falls silent for a moment, and then his voice trembles, high-pitched through the silence. “To save my daughter’s life, and to save all our lives, I am going to surrender this fort to the enemy today.”

He sways momentarily on his feet as if the heat and the drink have become too much for him. Zhakof gives a start where he stands.

The men look frowningly and shocked at their commander.

“The odds are so overwhelming that we will all die anyway if we do not surrender,” says Lefevre. He looks at the ground. “I cannot abandon my daughter to them. She is all I have. I cannot let them torture her to death.”

He looks up at the men again, trying to gauge the expressions on their faces. But those faces are now utterly expressionless.

“Now I need one volunteer,” says Lefevre. “He must go and fetch my daughter. I ask for a volunteer because there is a degree of danger associated with this undertaking. The Arabs are never to be trusted. But we simply must do it, and this is our only chance. I ask again for one volunteer...”

A dead silence reigns, and no one moves.

Lefevre slowly scans the men, one by one.

Zhakof also scans the men, but in his eyes, there is a completely different light than in Lefevre’s. It is as if the large, sturdy Russian wants to compel the men to do something with his eyes.

“Is there no one?” Gaston is on the verge of uttering the words, but he does not get that far.

Suddenly, there is movement.

A man has stepped forward. A tall, muscular, blond soldier with bright blue eyes.

Private Teuns Stegmann, the South African in the French Foreign Legion.

“Merci, mon ami,” says Captain Lefevre, unable to keep the tears from his eyes...