After an interminable half-hour we could see them plainly. The attack was on in all its fury. Very evidently Azad’s men had seen our approach, even as we had detected them, and had thrown themselves on their quarry with the idea of having that part of the job done with before we could come up. But they had reckoned without the intelligence and courage of Lady Wimpole and the brute obstinacy of her husband. Wimpole, it appeared later, the instant he suspected the hostile intentions of Azad’s party, had formed his group into a British square which he considered absolutely unbreakable.
We could see the huddled formation in the center with the encircling cordon of Bassikunus galloping about it. The sight of a merry-go-round invariably brings back that tragic picture. Soon we heard the fierce cries of “Blida! Laghouat blida!” a Bassikunu form of unprintable torture which clearly accounted for the desperate resistance of Effendi and his men. Poor Effendi! I had feared he would give up at the first shot, but I did him an injustice.
Now we were only a half-mile away but O, what dire things can happen in a half-mile. How I cursed the desert for its magnificent distances as I urged my horse forward. An occasional shot, a scream, an imprecation now mingled with the rising dust. At intervals twos and threes of the attacking party broke from the circle, darted forward and plucked some screeching fragment from the human wall. A camel dashed by me, bellowing piteously, the upper third of his hump cut cleanly off by some terrific sabre-swing which gave him the singular look of a table topped mountain. Brick by brick, stone by stone, life by life, the living parapet was being torn away.
Now in the center I could see the little group of defenders, smoking revolvers in hand, Effendi-Bazam crouching low, praying and firing simultaneously, Lord Wimpole, white as paper, Lady Sarah—my Sarah! redder than ever; a flaming beacon of courage, her bottle-green veil flying behind her and her eyes snapping behind her dark-blue glasses. Horrors! The square had crumbled!—the wall was down.
With a loud cry of “Blida!” the desert-scum rose like a tidal-wave overcoming the gallant group in a final heart-rending crash. A cloud of dust, pierced by wails of agony, obscured the ghastly details of the picture.
At times like this one does not think clearly; one acts. It was so in this instance. Without a word being spoken Swank and Whinney ranged themselves on either side of me, my Moplahs forming a dense triangle at our backs. The enemy had instantly whirled about presenting everywhere a front bristling with guns, lances and gleaming simlas—the long, curved desert-swords. With increasing speed we hurled ourselves at the mass. Representing as I did what efficiency experts call the “point of contact” my position was one of extreme danger.
Let me but dispose of the first man! He was a gigantic fellow with a gun approximately twelve feet long pointed directly at me. As he pressed his finger to the trigger my automatic barked and he crumpled up with a blue-edged hole in his forehead. The next instant our crushing wedge split Azad’s warriors into fragments. In that first moment of terrific impact Swank and Whinney stood by me nobly. Only men trained in the rush-hour tactics of civilized subways could have come through alive.
With the first penetration accomplished it was a case of hand to hand fighting. Everywhere were struggling knots of humanity, swaying, plunging, stabbing, slicing ... it was hell let loose. A single thought in mind, I searched frantically for Lady Sarah. She was nowhere to be seen. Weaving my way between sprawling groups I fought toward the edge of the battle. Then I saw the devilish Azad’s scheme, for at a distance of a hundred yards were two horsemen, a muffled figure between them, galloping furiously to the southward. Crafty villain! under cover of the fighting his idea was to escape.
Free of all obstacles I sped after them, rapidly gaining on their encumbered progress. It was two to one but what cared I. Seeing themselves overtaken they reined up while Azad’s bodyguard took deliberate aim through the sights of his long gun. I could almost feel its cold muzzle on my brow. But they had reckoned without the power of the woman they carried. With a convulsive spring she threw herself about the marksman and his bullet whistled over my head; a second later he fell pierced by the last ball from my automatic which I flung into the sand. In a flash I was alongside.
“Azad,” I shrieked—“your hour has come!”