The Sultan's Daughter by Dennis Wheatley Page B

glanced at the nine veterans of the Italian campaign and said, ‘I am sorry, Citizens, that you should have been brought here for no useful purpose. You may go.’ As they filed out, he pointed to Roger and gave an order to the Sergeant of the Guard.
    â€˜Take this man away and have him shot.’
    Seized once again with terror at the thought of the fate now rushing upon him, Roger broke into violent speech. Hepleaded that other men who had served in Italy should be sought, explained that he had not joined General Bonaparte’s staff until a few months before the General’s return to Paris, and begged for a postponement of sentence until he could communicate with the General. But in vain. Desmarets ignored his outburst, the guards on either side of him seized his arms and hustled him away.
    Back at the guardroom, the Sergeant told his Corporal to turn out the reserve guard and take over. Then he selected six of his men to act as a firing party. Just before they left the guardroom he took a spade from a corner, handed it to Roger and said:
    â€˜Here, take a grip o’ that. An’ don’t you dare drop it in a fit of the funks or you’ll get a kick up the backside.’
    Roger stared aghast at the spade and stammered, ‘What … what is this for?’
    The Sergeant replied with a sneer, ‘Where yer bin all yer life? Don’t expect us ter get ourselves sweaty making an ’ole for an English spy to lie comfortable in, do yer? Before sentence is carried out the likes of you ’as ter dig ’is own grave.’

5
Roger Digs his Grave
    Almost overcome with horror at the idea of digging his own grave, Roger gave a gulp; but he took the spade. The six soldiers closed round him, the Sergeant gave an order and the firing party set off.
    As they marched through the cantonment, men lounging in the doorways of the huts and others cleaning arms or harness stared at Roger with curiosity. Apparently the fact that he was a civilian carrying a spade and obviously under arrest was enough to tell them that he was going to his death. Evidently, too, a rumour had already run round the camp that he was an English spy, for several of them shook their fists at him, with shouts of
‘A la mort, cochon!’
and
‘Sale Anglais’
. He was well aware of the hatred with which the French regarded Britain; so their abuse meant nothing to him, and his whole mind was occupied in an attempt to think of an eleventh-hour ruse by which he might save himself, or at least postpone his execution.
    His hot meal and three hours’ sleep had restored him physically, but the shock of finding that none of the men from the Army of Italy had even heard of him, and the abrupt way in which General Desmarets had dealt with his case, had robbed him temporarily of his wits. It was half past three on a chilly but sunny afternoon, and all he could think of was how pleasant it would be to have a good horse between his knees and be cantering across the downs. At the same time he was terribly conscious, as they marched towards the sea, that with every step he took the moments of his life were running out. Yet, try as he would, he could not bring himself to concentrate.
    After twenty minutes they came to within half a mile ofthe shore at a place where, between a break in the cliffs, there was a wide area of sand-dunes in which steep mounds alternated with depressions and shallow valleys. Some of the mounds had coarse grass growing in patches on them; but there was no other vegetation, except at some distance inland, for as far as the eye could see.
    When they had laboriously made their way for some two hundred yards across this desolate waste they slithered down into a broader dip than any they had so far crossed. The Sergeant called a halt and grunted, ‘This’ll do’.
    The men surrounding Roger fell out and moved a little way away from him. For a moment he was tempted to make a dash for it. But with