The Kangaroo Marines Part 16

"Fifty pounds--eh?"

"One hundreds--it worth it--good beesness. Me plenty savvy--me know."

"What?"

"Plentee news 'bout guns, men and--beeg attacks----"

"Oh!" said Tony, startled out of his casual way. The Syrian smiled.

He had divined his quest.

"Tell me then."

"Monees," said the Syrian, holding out his hand. The ways of the East are, at least, direct.

"There you are," said the subaltern, handing him ten crisp Bank of England notes. He had come prepared for this contingency.

"When is the attack, now?"

"Friday mornings early."

"The exact time I want."

"Half past fours."

"How do you know?"

"I orderleys and interpreeters to arteelery's staff."

"Oh! Now, isn't there a battery down there?" said Tony, pointing to a piece of rising ground which he had pa.s.sed over.

"No--one batterees there," said the Syrian, directing his eyes to the exact place where Tony had discovered the first battery.

"Good!" muttered the New Zealander. He knew he was telling the truth.

Pulling out a pocket-book, he made a rough sketch of the ground round about, and then cross-examined the Syrian. Batteries, magazines, stores, trenches, headquarters, beaches, water and food supplies were all duly noted and placed on the map. Tony Brown, at one scoop, had entered the highest realms of the Intelligence Service. It was dusk when he had finished.

"Me go now," said the Syrian, rising.

"No you won't. You'll come with me and guide the way."

"But I geeves you informations, what more?"

"Look here, old c.o.c.k, I believe you, but you're a Syrian."

"Syrian good man," protested the informer.

"Sometimes. Hands up!" said Tony, c.o.c.king his revolver suddenly.

"No' keels me--no' keels me!"

"I won't if you keep quiet. Now, push ahead--that way," said Tony, directing him on the return route. The Syrian cursed and mumbled in his own fiery way as he stumbled down the hill. He was annoyed.

"Here--look at this," said Tony, calling him back. The New Zealander bent down, and, uncovering the body of the dead Turk, showed it to him.

"Uh!" shuddered the man.

"Now, keep quiet," ordered the officer, pus.h.i.+ng him down the hill.

Stealthily they went, avoiding dug-outs, tents, and other hives of the Turkish army. For hours they seemed to walk. Something was wrong.

"Stop!" said Tony suddenly. Instinct suggested danger. He had been led astray. Pulling out a compa.s.s, he fixed it. The direction was wrong. This Syrian was playing his own game. He wanted another hundred pounds for this officer's body. It was worth more than that to the Turkish army. And he knew it. War breeds parasites and rogues.

"You scoundrel!" said Tony, springing at the Syrian's throat. The latter fought, kicked, and bit like a tiger. To have shot him would have been madness, for they were now back in the centre of the Turkish lines. Placing his great hands round the man's throat, Tony slowly choked him into a state of collapse. Another knock on his head with the b.u.t.t of the revolver placed him in such a condition that he would be unable to recollect his thoughts for many days. That was all the subaltern desired. He left him. Taking a compa.s.s bearing again, he struck out towards the beach. Luck favoured him almost till the end.

As he neared the top of the cliff which guarded the beach his foot slipped, and he fell into a dug-out, right on the top of three Turkish soldiers. Curses were mixed with shouts of "Allah!" Then questions were asked. But Tony could answer none. A little flashlamp next shone in his face. He was discovered.

"Inglees! Inglees!" exclaimed a Turk. The other two started and chattered volubly. One lifted a rifle to finish him off, but the man with the lamp stopped him. He knew his job. He wanted to know what this man was doing there. Tony was searched, and the map discovered secreted down the leg of his stocking. His heart quailed. He seemed doomed. He had been so near success; now he seemed so far. He inwardly shuddered at the prospect ahead. It would be death, and death of a cruel and unrefined kind. Oh, the mental horror of that moment.

It was worse than a bayonet in the stomach, and that is bad enough. He longed for death--death, sure and sharp. But it did not come. He was seized and bound, then thrown into a corner to await the dawn, when this coast patrol would take him back to the Turkish lines. His cords cut into his hands and legs; his tongue was parched; his heart beating at the coming of the dawn.

Still, the light of day brought a certain physical and mental relief.

He was given a drink; his cords were cut, and he was pushed out into the open and marched off to the Turkish lines. He stumbled along, in pain and confused. But deliverance was at hand.

True to their trust, his faithful Maoris were on the watch. One lay on top of the cliffs as a guard for the boat hidden away in the cove below; the other was a thousand yards ahead, directly in front of the line of march which two out of the three Turkish soldiers were taking him. This Maori's eyes were alert. A glance made him understand it all. Filling his magazine, he lay low. They were then six hundred yards away. Too far for a sure aim. He waited. Five hundred. Four hundred. Three hundred. Yes; that would do. He settled down and aimed.

Bang! The bullet told. The man on Tony's right dropped dead. The subaltern realised the cause. He let drive with his fist at the other man. The Turk stumbled back, recovered, then fled. But the Maori nipped him like a farmer does a running hare. He, too, fell dead.

This was the one with the map which Tony had made. It was wrenched from his haversack.

"Near shave, boss," said the Maori corporal, running up.

"Yes; but come on." They ran towards the cliff.

Bang! went a rifle. The faithful Maori corporal dropped dead at his officer's feet. Tony looked to his front, and there was the third man of the Turkish patrol coolly aiming at him too. He ducked just as a rifle banged. For a minute he lay flat, and then a strange thing happened. The second Maori, on the top of the cliff, unable to sight his rifle at this a.s.sa.s.sin of his friend, was charging wildly down on the Turk with his bayonet fixed.

"Allah! Allah!" shouted the Turk as he turned about and threw up his arms. A moment later he was bayoneted to death.

Tony jumped up and ran on, for in the distance he saw other patrols running towards the scene. The surviving Maori followed him to the beach. The boat was launched, and they pulled out from the sh.o.r.e.

Danger, however, was not pa.s.sed. Turkish patrols had found them.

Volley after volley rattled through the air. They splashed all round; some hit the boat, one struck Tony in the arm, two more pierced the oars. But out and out pulled the plucky pair till, at last, they were clear of the fire.

"Hot shop, boss," said the Maori.

"Yes, a bit too hot!" muttered Tony as he bandaged his bleeding arm.

That night the Chief of Staff received the information desired. And a few days later Lieut. Tony Brown added the letters "D.S.O." to his name. Everybody said, "Why?" But the Chief of Staff simply smiled and pa.s.sed on.

CHAPTER X

VICTORY