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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 20:08:14 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/37544-0.txt b/37544-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5c51fd3 --- /dev/null +++ b/37544-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10502 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Cupid in Africa, by P. C. Wren + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Cupid in Africa + + +Author: P. C. Wren + + + +Release Date: September 26, 2011 [eBook #37544] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CUPID IN AFRICA*** + + +This ebook was transcribed by Les Bowler. + + + + + + CUPID IN AFRICA + + + BY + P. C. WREN + + AUTHOR OF “BEAU GESTE” + + * * * * * + + “_Ex Africa semper aliquid novi_” + + * * * * * + + “And the son shall take his father’s spear + And he shall avenge his father” . . . + + —_Askari Song_ + + * * * * * + + HEATH CRANTON LIMITED + 6 FLEET LANE LONDON E.C.4 + + _First published 1920_ + + CONTENTS + PART I + THE MAKING OF BERTRAM +CHAPTER PAGE + I _Major Hugh Walsingham Green_ 7 + II _Mr. Charles Stayne-Brooker (or Herr Karl 10 + Stein-Brücker)_ + III _Mrs. Stayne-Brooker—and Her Ex-Stepson_ 13 + PART II + THE BAKING OF BERTRAM BY WAR + I _Bertram Becomes a Man of War_ 16 + II _And is Ordered to East Africa_ 28 + III _Preparations_ 40 + IV _Terra Marique Jactatus_ 45 + V _Mrs. Stayne-Brooker_ 59 + VI _Mombasa_ 61 + VII _The Mombasa Club_ 70 + VIII _Military and Naval Manœuvres_ 78 + IX _Bertram Invades Africa_ 97 + X _M’paga_ 105 + XI _Food and Feeders_ 112 + XII _Reflections_ 123 + XIII _Baking_ 137 + XIV _The Convoy_ 146 + XV _Butindi_ 154 + XVI _The Bristol Bar_ 161 + XVII _More Baking_ 171 + XVIII _Trial_ 180 + XIX _Of a Pudding_ 187 + XX _Stein-Brücker Meets Bertram Greene—and 195 + Death_ + PART III + THE BAKING OF BERTRAM BY LOVE + I _Mrs. Stayne-Brooker Again_ 204 + II _Love_ 208 + III _Love and War_ 217 + IV _Baked_ 226 + V _Finis_ 236 + +PART I +THE MAKING OF BERTRAM + + +CHAPTER I +_Major Hugh Walsingham Greene_ + + +There never lived a more honourable, upright, scrupulous gentleman than +Major Hugh Walsingham Greene, and there seldom lived a duller, narrower, +more pompous or more irascible one. + +Nor, when the Great War broke out, and gave him something fresh to do and +to think about, were there many sadder and unhappier men. His had been a +luckless and unfortunate life, what with his two wives and his one son; +his excellent intentions and deplorable achievements; his kindly heart +and harsh exterior; his narrow escapes of decoration, recognition and +promotion. + +At cards he was _not_ lucky—and in love he . . . well—his first wife, +whom he adored, died after a year of him; and his second ran away after +three months of his society. She ran away with Mr. Charles +Stayne-Brooker (elsewhere the Herr Doktor Karl Stein-Brücker), the man of +all men, whom he particularly and peculiarly loathed. And his son, his +only son and heir! The boy was a bitter disappointment to him, turning +out badly—a poet, an artist, a musician, a wretched student and +“intellectual,” a fellow who won prizes and scholarships and suchlike by +the hatful, and never carried off, or even tried for, a “pot,” in his +life. Took after his mother, poor boy, and was the first of the family, +since God-knows-when, to grow up a dam’ civilian. Father fought and bled +in Egypt, South Africa, Burma, China, India; grandfather in the Crimea +and Mutiny, great-grandfather in the Peninsula and at Waterloo, ancestors +with Marlborough, the Stuarts, Drake—scores of them: and this chap, _his_ +son, _their_ descendant, a wretched creature of whom you could no more +make a soldier than you could make a service saddle of a sow’s ear! + +It was a comfort to the Major that he only saw the nincompoop on the rare +occasions of his visits to England, when he honestly did his best to hide +from the boy (who worshipped him) that he would sooner have seen him win +one cup for boxing, than a hundred prizes for his confounded literature, +art, music, classics, and study generally. To hide from the boy that the +pæans of praise in his school reports were simply revolting—fit only for +a feller who was going to be a wretched curate or wretcheder +schoolmaster; to hide his distaste for the pale, slim beauty, which was +that of a delicate girl rather than of the son of Major Hugh Walsingham +Greene. . . . Too like his poor mother by half—and without one quarter +the pluck, nerve, and “go” of young Miranda Walsingham, his kinswoman and +playmate. . . . Too dam’ virtuous altogether. . . . + +Gad! If this same Miranda had only been a boy, his boy, there would have +been another soldier to carry on the family traditions, if you like! + +But this poor Bertram of his . . . + +His mother, a Girton girl, and daughter of a Cambridge Don, had prayed +that her child might “take after” _her_ father, for whom she entertained +a feeling of absolute veneration. She had had her wish indeed—without +living to rejoice in the fact. + + * * * * * + +When it was known in the cantonment of Sitagur that Major Walsingham +Greene was engaged to Prudence Pym, folk were astonished, and a not +uncommon comment was “Poor little girl!” in spite of the fact that the +Major was admitted by all to be a most honourable and scrupulous +gentleman. Another remark which was frequently made was “Hm! Opposites +attract. What?” + +For Prudence Pym was deeply religious, like her uncle, the Commissioner +of the Sitagur Division; she was something of a blue-stocking as became +her famous father’s daughter; she was a musician of parts, an artist of +more than local note, and was known to be writing a Book. So that if +“oppositeness” be desirable, there was plenty of it—since the Major +considered attendance at church to be part and parcel of +drill-and-parade; religion to be a thing concerning which no gentleman +speaks and few gentlemen think; music to be a noise to be endured in the +drawing-room after dinner for a little while; art to be the harmless +product of long-haired fellers with shockin’ clothes and dirty +finger-nails; and books something to read when you were absolutely +reduced to doing it—as when travelling. . . . + +When Prudence Walsingham Greene knew that she was to have a child, she +strove to steep her soul in Beauty, Sweetness and Light, and to feed it +on the pure ichor of the finest and best in scenery, music, art and +literature. . . . + +Entered to her one day—pompous, pleased, and stolid; heavy, dull, and +foolish—the worthy Major as she sat revelling in the (to her) marvellous +beauties of Rosetti’s _Ecce Ancilla Domini_. As she looked up with the +sad mechanical smile of the disappointed and courageous wife, he screwed +his monocle into his eye and started the old weary laceration of her +feelings, the old weary tramplings and defilements of tastes and +thoughts, as he examined the picture wherewith she was nourishing (she +hoped and believed) the æsthetic side of her unborn child’s mind. + +“Picture of a Girl with Grouse, what?” grunted the Major. + +“With a . . . ? There is no bird? I don’t . . . ?” stammered Prudence +who, like most women of her kind, was devoid of any sense of humour. + +“Looks as though she’s got a frightful grouse about somethin’, _I_ should +say. The young party on the bed, I mean,” continued her spouse. “‘Girl +with the Hump’ might be a better title p’r’aps—if you say she hasn’t a +grouse,” he added. + +“_Hump_?” + +“Yes. Got the hump more frightfully about something or other—p’r’aps +because the other sportsman’s shirt’s caught alight. . . . Been smokin’, +and dropped his cigar. . . .” + +“It is an angel shod with fire,” moaned Prudence as she put the picture +into its portfolio, and felt for her handkerchief. . . . + +A little incident, a straw upon the waters, but a straw showing their +steady flow toward distaste, disillusionment, dislike, and hopeless +regret. The awful and familiar tragedy of “incompatibility of +temperament,” of which law and priests in their wisdom take no count or +cognizance, though counting trifles (by comparison) of infidelity and +violence as all important. + +And when her boy was born, and named Bertram after her father, Dr. +Bertram Pym, F.R.S., she was happy and thankful, and happily and +thankfully died. + + * * * * * + +In due course the Major recovered from his grief and sent his son home to +his place, Leighcombe Abbey, where dwelt his elderly spinster relative, +Miss Walsingham, and her niece, Miranda Walsingham, daughter of General +Walsingham, his second cousin. Here the influence of prim, gentle, and +learned Miss Walsingham was all that his mother would have desired, and +in the direction of all that his father loathed—the boy growing up +bookish, thoughtful, and more like a nice girl than a human boy. Him +Miranda mothered, petted, and occasionally excoriated, being an Amazonian +young female of his own age, happier on the bare back of a horse than in +the seats of the learned. + + + +CHAPTER II +_Mr. Charles Stayne-Brooker (or Herr Karl Stein-Brücker)_ + + +When it was known in the cantonment of Hazarigurh that Major Hugh +Walsingham Greene was engaged to Dolly Dennison, folk were astonished, +and a not uncommon comment was “Poor old Walsingham Greene,” in spite of +the fact that the young lady was very beautiful, accomplished and +fascinating. + +Here also another remark, that was frequently heard, was that opposites +attract, for Dolly was known to be seventeen, and the Major, though not +very much more than twice her age, looked as old as her father, the +Sessions Judge, and _he_ looked more like the girl’s grandfather than her +father. + +It was agreed, however, that it was no case of kidnapping, for Dolly knew +her way about, knew precisely how many beans made five, and needed no +teaching from her grandmother as to the sucking of eggs, or anything +else. For Dolly, poor child, had put her hair up and “come out” at the +age of fifteen—in an Indian cantonment! + +Little more need be said to excuse almost anything she might do or be. +Motherless, she had run her father’s hospitable house for the last two +years, as well as her weak and amiable father; and when Major Walsingham +Greene came to Hazarigurh he found this pitiable spoilt child (a child +who had never had any childhood) the _burra mem-sahib_ of the place, in +virtue of her position as the head of the household of the Senior +Civilian. With the manners, airs, and graces of a woman of thirty, she +was a blasé and world-weary babe—“fed up” with dances, gymkhanas, garden +parties, race meetings and picnics; and as experienced and cool a hand at +a flirtation as any garrison-hack or station-belle in the country. Dolly +knew the men with whom one flirts but does not marry, and the men one +marries but with whom one does not flirt. + +Mr. Charles Stayne-Brooker was the pride of the former; Major Walsingham +Greene _facile princeps_ of the latter. Charles was the loveliest, +daringest, wickedest flirt you _ever_—and Hugh was a man of means and +position, with an old Tudor “place” in Dorset. So Charles for fun—and +Hugh for matrimony, just as soon as he suggested it. She hoped Hugh +would be quick, too, for Charles had a terrible fascination and power +over her. She had been frightened at herself one moonlight picnic, +frightened at Charles’s power and her own feelings—and she feared the +result if Hugh (who was most obviously of a coming-on disposition), +dallied and doubted. If Hugh were not quick, Charles would get her—for +she preferred volcanoes to icebergs, and might very easily forget her +worldly wisdom and be carried off her feet some night, as she lurked in a +_kala jugga_ with the daring, darling wicked Charles—whose little finger +was more attractive and mysterious than the Major’s whole body. +Besides—the Major was a grey-haired widower, with a boy at school in +England and _so_ dull and prosperous. . . . + +But, ere too late, the Major proposed and was accepted. Charles was, or +affected to be, ruined and broken-hearted, and the wedding took place. +The Major was like a boy again—for a little while. And Dolly felt like a +girl taken from an hotel in Mentone and immured in a convent in Siberia. + +For Major Hugh Walsingham Greene would have none of the “goings-on” that +had made Dolly’s father’s bungalow the centre of life and gaiety for the +subalterns and civilian youth of Hazarigurh; whilst Mr. Charles +Stayne-Brooker, whom he detested as a flamboyant bounder, he cut dead. +He also bade Dolly remove the gentleman’s name finally and completely +from her visiting-list, and on no account be “at home” when he called. +All of which Dolly quite flatly and finally refused to do. + + * * * * * + +Mr. Charles Stayne-Brooker (or the Herr Doktor Karl Stein-Brücker, as he +was at other times and in other places) was a very popular person +wherever he went—and he went to an astonishing number of places. It was +wonderful how intimate he became with people, and he became intimate with +an astonishing number and variety of people. He could sing, play, dance, +ride and take a hand at games above the average, and _talk_—never was +such a chatter-box—on any subject under the sun, especially on himself +and his affairs. And yet, here again, it was astonishing how little he +said, with all his talk and ingenious chatter. Everybody knew all about +dear old Charlie—and yet, did they know anything at all when it came to +the point? In most of the places in which he turned up, he seemed to be +a sort of visiting manager of a business house—generally a famous house +with some such old-fashioned British name as Schneider and Schmidt; Max +Englebaum and Son; Plügge and Schnadhorst; Hans Wincklestein and +Gartenmacher; or Grosskopf and Dümmelmann. In out-of-the-way places he +seemed to be just a jolly globe-trotter with notions of writing a book on +his jolly trip to India. Evidently he wanted to know something of the +native of India, too, for when not in large commercial centres like +Calcutta, Madras, Bombay or Colombo, he was to be found in cantonments +where there were Native Troops. He loved the Native Officer and +cultivated him assiduously. He also seemed to love the Bengali amateur +politician, more than some people do. . . . Often a thoughtful and +observant official was pleased to see an Englishman taking such a +friendly interest in the natives, and trying to get to know them well at +first hand—a thing far too rare. . . . + +There were people, however—such as Major Walsingham Greene—who affected +to detect something of a “foreign” flavour about him, and wrote him down +as a flashy and bounderish outsider. + +Certainly he was a great contrast to the Major, whose clipped moustache, +bleak blue eye, hard bronzed face and close-cut hair were as different as +possible from Mr. Stayne-Brooker’s waxed and curled moustache over the +ripe red mouth; huge hypnotic and strange black eyes; pink and white +puffy face, and long dark locks. And then again, as has been said, Mr. +Stayne-Brooker was only happy when talking, and the Major only happy (if +then) when silent. + +On sight, on principle, and on all grounds, the latter gentleman detested +the jabbering, affected, over-familiar, foreign-like fellow, and took +great pleasure in ordering his bride, on their return from the +ten-days-leave honeymoon, to cut him dead and cut him out—of her life. + +And, alas, his bride seemed to take an even greater pleasure in defying +her husband on this, and certain other, points; in making it clear to him +that she fully and firmly intended “to live her own life” and go her own +way; and in giving copious and convincing proof of the fact that she had +never known “discipline” yet, and did not intend to make its acquaintance +now. + +Whereupon poor Major Walsingham Greene, while remaining the honourable, +upright and scrupulous gentleman that he was, exhibited himself the +irascible, pompous fool that he also was, and by his stupid and +overbearing conduct, his “_That’s enough_! _Those are my orders_,” and +his hopeless mishandling of the situation, drove her literally into the +arms of Mr. Charles Stayne-Brooker, with whom the poor little fool +disappeared like a beautiful dream. + + * * * * * + +When his kind heart got the better of his savage wrath and scourged +pride, the Major divorced her, and the Herr Doktor (who particularly +needed an English wife in his profession of Secret Agent especially +commissioned for work in the British Empire) married her, broke her +heart, dragged her down into the moral slime in which he wallowed, and, +on the rare occasions of her revolt and threat to leave him, pointed out +that ladies who were divorced once for leaving their husbands _might_ +conceivably have some excuse, but that the world had a very hard name for +those who made a habit of it. . . . And then there was her daughter to +consider, too. _His_ daughter, alas! but also hers. + + + +CHAPTER III +_Mrs. Stayne-Brooker—and Her Ex-Stepson_ + + +From Hazarigurh Mr. Charles Stayne-Brooker went straight to Berlin, +became the Herr Doktor Stein-Brücker once more, and saw much of another +and more famous Herr Doktor of the name of Solf. He then went to South +Africa and thence to England, where his daughter was born. Having placed +her with the family of an English clergyman whose wife “accepted” a few +children of Anglo-Indians, he proceeded to America and Canada, and thence +to Vladivostok, Kïaou-Chiaou, Hong Kong, Shanghai, and Singapore; then to +the Transvaal by way of Lourenzo Marques and to German East Africa. And +every step of the way his wife went with him—and who so English, among +Englishmen, as jolly Charlie Stayne-Brooker, with his beautiful English +wife? . . . What he did, save interviewing stout gentlemen (whose necks +bulged over their collars, whose accents were guttural, and whose +table-manners were unpleasant) and writing long letters, she did not +know. What she did know was that she was a lost and broken woman, tied +for life to a base and loathsome scoundrel, by her yearning for +“respectability,” her love for her daughter, and her utter dependence for +food, clothing and shelter upon the man whom, in her mad folly, she had +trusted. By the time they returned to England _via_ Berlin, the child, +Eva, was old enough to go to an expensive boarding-school at Cheltenham, +and here Mrs. Stayne-Brooker had to leave her when her husband’s “duties” +took him, from the detailed study of the Eastern Counties of England, to +Africa again. Here he seemed likely to settle at last, interesting +himself in coffee and rubber, and spending much of his time in Mombasa +and Nairobi, as well as in Dar-es-Salaam, Tabora, Lindi and Zanzibar. + + * * * * * + +Meanwhile, Major Hugh Walsingham Greene, an embittered and disappointed +man, withdrew more and more into his shell, and, on each successive visit +to Leighcombe Priory, more and more abandoned hope of his son’s “doing +any good” in life. He was the true grandson of that most distinguished +scholar, Dr. Bertram Pym, F.R.S., of Cambridge University, and the true +son of his mother. . . . What a joy the lad would have been to these +two, with his love of books and his unbroken career of academic +successes, and what a grief he was to his soldier father, with his utter +distaste for games and sports and his dislike of all things military. + +Useless it was for sweet and gentle Miss Walsingham to point to his +cleverness and wisdom, or for Amazonian and sporting Miranda Walsingham +hotly to defend him and rail against the Major’s “unfairness” and “stupid +prejudice.” Equally useless for the boy to do his utmost to please the +man who was to him as a god. . . . + +When the Major learned that his son had produced the Newdigate Prize +Poem, won the Craven and the Ireland Scholarships, and taken his Double +First—he groaned. . . . + +Brilliant success at Oxford? What is _Oxford_? He would sooner have +seen him miserably fail at Sandhurst and enlist for his commission. . . . + +Finally the disappointing youth went to India as private secretary and +travelling companion to the great scientist, Sir Ramsey Wister, his +father being stationed at Aden. + + * * * * * + +Then came the Great War. + + + + +PART II +THE BAKING OF BERTRAM BY WAR + + +CHAPTER I +_Bertram Becomes a Man of War_ + + +Mr. Bertram Greene, emerging from the King Edward Terminus of the Great +Indian Railway at Madrutta, squared his shoulders, threw out his chest, +and, so far as he understood the process and could apply it, strode along +with the martial tread and military swagger of all the Best Conquerors. + +From khaki helmet to spurred brown heel, he was in full panoply of war, +and wore a dangerous-looking sword. At least, to the ignorant passer-by, +it appeared that its owner was in constant danger of being tripped up by +it. Bertram, however, could have told him that he was really in no peril +from the beastly thing, since a slight pressure on the hilt from his left +elbow kept the southern end clear of his feet. + +What troubled him more than the sword was the feeling of constriction and +suffocation due to the tightness of the belts and straps that encompassed +him about, and the extreme heat of the morning. Also he felt terribly +nervous and unaccustomed, very anxious as to his ability to support the +weight of his coming responsibility, very self-distrustful, and very +certain that, in the full active-service kit of a British Officer of the +Indian Army, he looked a most frightful ass. + +For Mr. Bertram Greene had never before appeared on this, or any other +stage, in such a part; and the change—from a quiet modest civilian, +“bashful, diffident and shy,” to what his friends at dinner last night +had variously called a thin red hero, a licentious soldiery, a brutal +mercenary, a hired assassin, a saviour of his Motherland, a wisp of +cannon-fodder, a pup of the bull-dog breed, a curly-headed hero, a +bloody-minded butcher, and one who would show his sword to be as mighty +as his pen—was overwhelmingly great and sudden. When any of the hundreds +of hurrying men who passed him looked at him with incurious eyes, he felt +uncomfortable, and blushed. He knew he looked an ass, and, far worse, +that whatever he might look, he actually was—a fraud, and a humbug. +Fancy him, Bertram Greene, familiarly known as “Cupid,” the pale-faced +“intellectual,” the highbrowed hero of the class-room and +examination-hall, the winner of scholarships and the double-first, guilty +of a thin volume of essays and a thinner one of verse—just fancy him, the +studious, bookish sedentary, disguised as a soldier, as a leader of men +in the day of battle, a professional warrior! . . . He who had never +played games was actually proposing to play the greatest Game of all: he +who had never killed an animal in his life was going to learn to kill +men: he who had always been so lacking in self-reliance was going to ask +others to rely on him! + +And, as his spirits sank lower, Bertram held his head higher, threw back +his shoulders further, protruded his chest more, and proceeded with so +firm a tread, and so martial a demeanour, that he burst into profuse and +violent perspiration. + +He wished he could take a taxi, but even had there been one available, he +knew that the Native Infantry Lines almost adjoined the railway terminus, +and that he had to cross a grass _maidan_ {17a} on foot. + +Thank heaven it was not far, or he would arrive looking as though he had +come by sea—swimming. A few more steps would take him out of this crowd +of students, clerks, artisans, and business-men thronging to their +schools, colleges, offices, shops, mills, and works in Madrutta. . . . +What did they talk about, these queer “city men” who went daily from the +suburbs to “the office,” clad in turbans, sandals, _dhoties_, {17b} and +cotton coats? Any one of these bare-legged, collarless, not _very_ +clean-looking worthies might be a millionaire; and any one of them might +be supporting a wife and large family on a couple of pounds a month. The +vast majority of them were doing so, of course. . . . Anyhow, none of +them seemed to smile derisively when looking at him, so perhaps his +general appearance was more convincing than he thought. + +But then, short as had been his sojourn in India, he had been in the +country long enough to know that the native does not look with obvious +derision upon the European, whatever may be the real views and sentiments +of his private mind—so there was no comfort in that. . . . Doubtless the +Colonel and British officers of the regiment he was about to join would +not put themselves to the trouble of concealing their opinions as to his +merits, or lack of them, as soon as those opinions were conceived. . . . +Well, there was one thing Bertram Greene could do, and would do, while +breath was in his body—and that was his very best. No one can do more. +He might be as ignorant of all things military as a babe unborn: he might +be a simple, nervous, inexperienced sort of youth with more culture and +refinement than strength of character and decision of mind: he might be a +bit of an ass, whom other fellows were always ragging and calling +“Cupid”—but, when the end came, none should be able to say that he had +failed for want of doing his utmost, and for lack of striving, with might +and main, to learn _how_ to do his duty, and then to do it to the limit +of his ability. + +A couple of British soldiers, privates of the Royal Engineers, came +towards him on their way to the station. Bertram attempted the +impossible in endeavouring to look still more inflexibly and inexorably +martial, as he eyed them hardily. Would they look at him and smile +amusedly? If so, what should he do? He might be a fool himself, +but—however farcically—he bore the King’s Commission, and it had got to +be respected and saluted by all soldiers. The men simultaneously placed +their swagger-sticks beneath their left arms, and, at three paces’ +distance, saluting smartly and as one man, maintained the salute until +they were three paces beyond him. + +Bertram’s heart beat high with pride and thankfulness. He would have +liked to stop and shake hands with the men, thanking them most sincerely. +As it was, he added a charming and friendly smile to the salute which he +gave in acknowledgment of theirs. + +He passed on, feeling as though he had drunk some most stimulating and +exhilarating draught. He had received his first salute! Moreover, the +men had looked most respectfully, nay, almost reverentially, if with a +certain stereotyped and bovine rigidity of stare, toward the officer they +so promptly and smartly honoured. He would have given a great deal to +know whether they passed any contemptuous or derisive comment upon his +appearance and bearing. . . . In point of fact, Scrounger Evans had +remarked to Fatty Wilkes, upon abandoning the military position of the +salute: “Horgustus appears to ’ave ’ad a good night at bridge, and took a +few ’undreds orf Marmadook an’ Reginald. Wot?” + +Whereunto Fatty had murmured: + +“Jedgin’ by ’is ’appy liddle smile,” as he sought the smelly stump of a +cigarette in its lair behind his spreading shady ear. + +Enheartened, but perspiring, Bertram strode on, and crossed the broad +grass _maidan_, at the far side of which he could see the parallel +streets of the Native Infantry Lines, where lay the One Hundred and +Ninety-Ninth Regiment, to which he had been ordered to report himself +“forthwith.” Yesterday was but crowded, excited yesterday, terminating +in a wild farewell dinner and an all-night journey. _To-day_ was +“forthwith.” . . . What would to-morrow be? Perhaps the date of the +termination of his career in the Indian Army—if the Colonel looked him +over, asked him a few questions, and then said: “Take away this bauble!” +or “Sweep this up!” or words to that effect. He had heard that Colonels +were brief, rude, and arbitrary persons, sometimes very terrible. . . . +Approaching the end of the first long row of the mud buildings of the +Native Infantry Lines, Bertram beheld a sentry standing outside his +sentry-box, in the shade of a great banyan tree. The man was clad in +khaki tunic, shorts and puttees, with a huge khaki turban, from which +protruded a fringed scrap of blue and gold; hob-nailed black boots, and +brown belt and bandolier. His bare knees, his hands and face were very +far from being black; in fact, were not even brown, but of a pale +wheat-colour. + +The thoughts of Private Ilderim Yakub were far away, and his eyes beheld +a little _sungar_-enclosed watch-tower that looked across a barren and +arid valley of solid rock. In the low, small doorway sat a fair-faced +woman with long plaits of black hair, and, at her feet, crawled a tiny +naked boy . . . and then the eyes of Private Ilderim Yakub beheld a +British officer, in full war-paint and wearing his sword, bearing down +upon him. By Allah the Compassionate and the Beard of the Prophet! He +had been practically asleep at his post, and this must certainly be the +Orderly Officer Sahib or the Adjutant Sahib, if not the Colonel Sahib +himself! Possibly even the “Gineraal” Sahib (from the neighbouring +Brigade Headquarters) having a quiet prowl round. It must be _somebody_, +or he wouldn’t be “in drill order with sword,” and marching straight for +the guard-room. + +Private Ilderim Yakub (in the days when he had been a—well—a scoundrelly +border-thief and raider) had very frequently been in situations demanding +great promptitude of thought and action; and now, although at one moment +he had been practically asleep and his wits wool-gathering in the Khost +Valley, the next moment he had sprung from his box, yelled “_Guard turn +out_!” with all the strength of his leathern lungs and brazen throat, and +had then frozen to the immobility of a bronze statue in the attitude of +the salute. + +In response to his shout, certain similarly clad men arose from a bench +that stood outside a large thatched, mud-built hut, another, wearing a +red sash and three white stripes on the sleeve of his tunic, came +hurrying from within it, and the party, with promptitude and dispatch, +“fell in,” the Sergeant (or Havildar) beside them. + +“Guard!” roared that bearded worthy, “_’Shun_! _Present_ arms!” and, +like the sentry, the Sergeant and the Guard stood as bronze statues to +the honour and glory of Second-Lieutenant Bertram Greene—the while that +gentleman longed for nothing more than that the ground might open and +swallow him up. + +What on earth ought he to do? Had he not read in his newly purchased +drill-book that the Guard only turned out for Emperors or Field-Marshals, +or Field Officers or something? Or was it only for the Colonel or the +Officer of the Day? It most certainly was not for stray +Second-Lieutenants of the Indian Army Reserve. Should he try to explain +to the Sergeant that he had made a mistake, and that the Guard was +presenting arms to the humblest of God’s creatures that wore officer’s +uniform? Should he “put on dog” heavily and “inspect” the Guard? Should +he pretend to find fault? No! For one thing he had not enough +Hindustani to make himself intelligible. (But it was a sign that a +change was already coming over Bertram, when he could even conceive such +a notion, and only dismiss it for such a reason.) + +What _should_ he do, in these distressingly painful circumstances? + +Should he absolutely ignore the whole lot of them, and swagger past with +a contemptuous glance at the fool Sergeant who had turned the Guard out? +. . . It wasn’t _his_ fault that the wretched incident had occurred. . . . +_He_ hadn’t made the mistake, so why should he be made to look a fool? +It would be the others who’d look the fools, if he took not the slightest +notice of their silly antics and attitude-striking. . . (Heavens! How +they’d made the perspiration trickle again, by putting him in this absurd +and false position.) . . . Yes—he’d just go straight past the lot of +them as if they didn’t exist. . . . No—that would be horribly rude, to +say the least of it. They were paying him a military compliment, however +mistakenly, and he must return it. Moreover—it wasn’t the +Sergeant-fellow’s fault. The sentry had shouted to the Guard, and the +Sergeant had naturally supposed that one of those Great Ones, for whom +Guards turn out, was upon them. + +Should he march past with a salute, as though he were perfectly +accustomed to such honours, and rather bored with them? Unless he were +near enough for them to see the single “pip” on his shoulder-strap, they +would never know they had made a mistake. (He would hate them to feel as +horribly uncomfortable as he did.) + +And if he did, where should he go? He must find the Officers’ Lines, and +go to the Officers’ Mess and inquire for the Colonel. Besides, this was +_his_ regiment; he was attached to it, and these men would all see him +again and know who and what he was. . . . + +Of course—he would do the correct and natural thing, and behave as though +he were merely slightly amused at the sentry’s not unnatural mistake and +its results. . . . With a smart salute to the Guard, Bertram smiled upon +the puzzled, imperturbable and immobile Havildar, with the remark: + +“_Achcha_, {21a} Sergeant. Guard, dismiss _karo_” {21b}—upon hearing +which barbarous polyglot of English and Hindustani, the Non-Commissioned +Officer abandoned his rigid pose and roared, with extreme ferocity, in +the very ears of the Sepoys: + +“Guard! _Or_der-r _ar-r-rms_. Stannat _eashe_. Dees_mees_!” and with +another salute, again turned to Bertram to await his further pleasure. + +“_Ham Colonel Sahib mangta_. _Kither hai_?” {21c} said that gentleman, +and the intelligent Havildar gathered that this young and strange Sahib +“wanted” the Colonel. He smiled behind his vast and bushy beard at the +idea of sending a message of the “Hi! you—come here! You’re wanted” +description to that Great One, and pictured the meeting that would ensue +if the Colonel Sahib came hastily, expecting to find the +Commander-in-Chief-in-India awaiting him. + +No—since the young Sahib wanted the Colonel, he had better go and find +him. Calling to a young Sepoy who was passing on some fatigue duty, he +bade him haste away, put on his tunic, tuck his long khaki shirt inside +his shorts, and conduct the Sahib to the Adjutant Sahib’s office. (That +would be quite in order; the Adjutant Sahib could decide as to the wisdom +of “wanting” the Colonel Sahib at this—or any other—hour of the day; and +responsibility would be taken from the broad, unwilling shoulders of +Havildar Afzul Khan Ishak.) + +An uncomfortable five minutes followed. Bertram, longing with all his +soul to say something correct, natural, and pleasant, could only stand +dumb and unhappy, while the perspiration trickled; the Havildar stood +stiffly at attention and wondered whether the Sahib were as old as his +son, Private Mahommed Afzul Khan, new recruit of the One Hundred and +Ninety-Ninth; and the Guard, though dismissed, stood motionless in solemn +row beside the bench (on which they would sit as soon as the Sahib turned +his back), and, being Indian Sepoys, emptied their minds of all thought, +fixed their unseeing gaze upon Immensity and the Transcendental +Nothingness-of-Non-existent-Non-entity-in-Oblivion, and tried to look +virtuous. + +Returning and saluting, the young Sepoy wheeled about and plodded heavily +down the road, walking as though each hob-nailed boat weighed a ton. But +pride must suffer pain, and not for worlds would this young man (who had, +until a few months ago, never worn anything heavier than a straw-plaited +sandal as he “skipped like a young ram” about his native hill-tops) have +been without these tokens of wealth and dignity. What he would have +liked, had the Authorities been less touchy about it, would have been to +wear them slung about his neck, plain for all to admire, and causing +their owner no inconvenience. + +Following his guide through the lines of mud huts, saluted every few +yards by passing Sepoys and by groups who sat about doorways and +scrambled to their feet as he passed, Bertram found himself in a broad +sandy road, lined by large stone European bungalows, which ran at +right-angles across the ends of the Sepoys’ lines. Each bungalow stood +in a large compound, had a big lawn and flower-gardens in front of it, +and was embowered in palm-trees. Turning into the garden of the largest +of these, the young Sepoy pointed to the big house, ejaculated: +“Arfeecers’ Mess, Sahib,” saluted, performed a meticulously careful +“about turn,” the while his lips moved as though he were silently giving +himself the necessary orders for each movement, and solemnly marched +away. + +A pair of large old-fashioned cannon and a white flagstaff gave the place +an important and official appearance. Beyond the big porch stretched to +left and right a broad and deep verandah, in the shady recesses of which +Bertram could see a row of chairs wherein lay khaki-clad figures, their +feet, raised upon the long leg-rests, presented unitedly and unanimously +towards him. Indeed, as he advanced with beating heart and sense of shy +discomfort, all that he could see of the half-dozen gentlemen was one +dozen boot-soles backed by a blur of khaki. Up to the time he had +reached the flight of steps, leading up from the drive to the verandah, +no one had moved. Mounting the steps, and coming to the level of the +recumbent figures, ranged along the rear wall of the verandah and on each +side of an open door, the unhappy Bertram, from this new standpoint, saw +that the face of each officer was hidden behind a newspaper or a +magazine. . . . Profound silence reigned as he regarded the twelve +boot-soles, each crossed by a spur-chain, and the six newspapers. + +Another embarrassing and discomfortable situation. What should he do? +Should he cough—as the native does when he wishes to attract your +attention, or to re-affirm his forgotten presence? It seemed a rather +feeble and banal idea. Should he pretend he had not seen the six +stalwart men lying there in front of his nose, and shout: “_Qui hai_!” as +one does to call an invisible servant? And suppose none of them moved, +and a Mess servant came—he had no card to send in. He couldn’t very well +tell the man to announce in stentorian voice and the manner of a herald: +“Behold! Second-Lieutenant Bertram Greene, of the Indian Army Reserve, +standeth on the threshold!” And supposing the man did precisely this and +_still_ nobody moved, _what_ a superlative ass the said Second-Lieutenant +Bertram Greene would feel! . . . But could he feel a bigger ass than he +did already—standing there in awkward silence beneath the stony regard, +or disregard, of the twelve contemptuous boot-soles? . . . + +Should he walk along the row of them, giving each alternate foot a heavy +blow? That would make them look up all right. . . . Or should he seize +a couple of them and operate them in the manner of the young lady in the +Railway Refreshment Rooms or the Village Inn, as she manipulates the +handles of the beer-engine? The owners of the two he grabbed and pulled +would come from behind their papers fast enough. . . . Bertram moved, +and his sword clanked sharply against a pillar. None of the readers had +looked up at the sound of footsteps—they were resting from the labours of +breakfast, and footsteps, as such, are of no interest. But, strange to +say, at the sound of a sword clanking, they moved as one man; six papers +were lowered and six pairs of eyes stared at the unhappy Bertram. After +three seconds of penetrating scrutiny, the six papers rose again as one, +as though at the sound of the ancient and useful military order, “_As you +were_.” + +Major Fordinghame beheld a very good-looking boy, who appeared to be +taking his new sword and revolver for a walk in the nice sunshine and +giving the public a treat. He’d hardly be calling on the Mess dressed up +in lethal weapons. Probably wanted the Adjutant or somebody. He was +quite welcome to ’em. . . . These “planter” cheroots were +extraordinarily good at the price. . . . Lieutenant and Quartermaster +Macteith wondered who the devil _this_ was. Why did he stick there like +a stuck pig and a dying cod-fish? Still—if he wanted to stick, let him +stick, by all means. Free country. . . . Captain Brylle only vaguely +realised that he was staring hard at some bloke or other—he was bringing +all the great resources of his brain to bear upon a joke in the pink +paper he affected. It was so deep, dark and subtle a joke that he had +not yet “got” it. Bloke on the door-mat. What of it? . . . Captain +Tavner had received a good fat cheque that morning; he was going on ten +days’ leave to-morrow; he had done for to-day; and he had had a bottle of +beer for breakfast. _He_ didn’t mind if there were a rhinoceros on the +doorstep. Doubtless someone would take it into the Mess and give it a +drink. . . . Cove had got his sword on—or was it two swords? Didn’t +matter to him, anyway. . . . + +Captain Melhuish idly speculated as to whether the chap would be +“calling” at so early an hour of the morning. It was the Mess +President’s business, anyhow. . . . Why the sword and revolver? And +mentally murmuring: “Enter—one in armour,” Captain Melhuish, the _doyen_ +of the famous Madrutta Amateur Dramatic Society, returned to his perusal +of _The Era_. . . Lieutenant Bludyer didn’t give a damn, anyhow. . . . +And so none of these gentlemen, any one of whom would have arisen, had he +been sitting there alone, and welcomed Bertram hospitably, felt it +incumbent upon him to move, and the situation resumed what Bertram +privately termed its formerness. + +Just as he had decided to go to the nearest reader and flatly request him +to arise and direct him to the Colonel, another officer came rushing from +the room whose open doorway faced the porch. In his mouth was a quill +pen, and in his hands were papers. + +“Lazy perishers!” he remarked as he saw the others, and added: “Come +along, young Macteith,” and was turning to hurry down the verandah when +Bertram stepped forward. + +“Excuse me,” he said, “d’you think I could see the Colonel? I have been +ordered to report to this regiment.” + +“You _could_ see the Colonel,” replied this officer, “but I shouldn’t, if +I were you. I’d see the Adjutant. Much pleasanter sight. I’m the +Adjutant. Come along to my office,” and he led the way down the +verandah, across a big whitewashed room, simply furnished with a table, a +chair, and a punkah, to a smaller room, furnished with two of each of the +above-mentioned articles. + +Dropping the pen and papers upon the table, the Adjutant wheeled round +upon Bertram, and, transfixing him with a cold grey eye, said, in hollow +voice and tragic tones: + +“Do not trifle with me, Unhappy Boy! Say those blessed words again—or at +once declare them false. . . . _Did_ I hear you state that you have been +ordered to join this corps—or did I not?” + +“You did, sir,” smiled Bertram. + +“Shake,” replied the Adjutant. “God bless you, gentle child. For two +damns, I’d fall on your neck. I love you. Tell me your honoured name +and I’ll send for my will. . . .” + +“I’m glad I’m welcome,” said the puzzled and astonished Bertram; “but I’m +afraid I shan’t be very useful. I am absolutely ignorant—you see, I’ve +not been a soldier for twenty-four hours yet. . . . Here’s the telegram +I got yesterday,” and he produced that document. + +“Good youth,” replied Captain Murray. “I don’t give a tinker’s curse if +you’re deaf, dumb, blind and silly. You are my deliverer. I love you +more and more. I’ve been awaiting you with beating heart—lying awake for +you, listening for your footprints. Now you come—_I_ go.” + +“What—to the Front?” said Bertram. + +“You’ve guessed it in once, fair youth. East Africa for little Jock +Murray. We are sending a draft of a hundred men to our link battalion +there—awfully knocked about they’ve been—and I have it, straight from the +stable, that I’m the lad that takes them. . . . They go in a day or two. +. . . I was getting a bit anxious, I can tell you—but my pal in the +Brigade Office said they were certain to send a Reserve man here and +relieve me. . . . Colonel _will_ be pleased—he never _says_ anything but +‘_H’m_!’ but he’ll bite your ear if you don’t dodge.” + +“I suppose he’ll simply hate losing an experienced officer and getting +me,” said Bertram, apprehensively. + +“He’ll make himself perfectly miserable,” was the reply, “but nothing to +what he’ll make you. I’m the Adjutant, you see, and there’ll be a bit of +a muddle until my successor has picked up all the threads, and a bit of +extra bother for the Colonel. . . . Young Macteith’ll have to take it +on, I expect. . . . He’ll bite your other ear for that. . .” and Murray +executed a few simple steps of the _can-can_, in the joy of his heart +that the chance of his life had come. No one but himself knew the +agonies of mind that he had suffered, as he lay awake at night realising +that the war might he a short one, time was rushing on, and hundreds of +thousands of men had gone to fight—while he still sat in an office and +played C.O.’s lightning conductor. A usually undemonstrative Scot, he +was slightly excited and uplifted by this splendid turn of Fortune’s +wheel. Falling into a chair, he read the telegram: + +_To Second-Lieutenant Bertram Greene_, _A.A.A._ + +_You have been appointed to Indian Army Reserve of Officers with rank of +Second-Lieutenant_, _and are ordered to report forthwith to O.C. One +Hundred and Ninety-Ninth Regiment_, _Madrutta_. _A.A.A._ _Military +Secretary_. + +“Any relation to Major Walsingham Greene?” enquired Murray. + +“Son,” replied Bertram, “and nephew of General Walsingham.” + +“Not your fault, of course,” observed Murray. “Best to make a clean +breast of these things, though. . . . Had any sort of military +training?” he added. + +“Absolutely none whatever. Soon after war broke out I felt I was a +disgrace to my family—they are all soldiers—and I thought of going home +and enlisting. . . . Then I thought it was a pity if nearly twenty years +of expensive education had fitted me for nothing more useful than what +any labourer or stable-boy can do—and I realised that I’m hardly strong +enough to be of much good in the trenches during a Belgian winter—I’ve +been there—so I wrote to my father and my uncle and told them I’d like to +get into the Indian Army Reserve of Officers. I thought I might soon +learn enough to be able to set free a better man, and, in time, I might +possibly be of some good—and perhaps go to the Frontier or something. . . .” + +“Goo’ _boy_,” said the merry Murray. “I could strain you to my bosom.” + +“Then I received some papers from the Military Secretary, filled them up, +and returned them with a medical certificate. I bought some kit and +ordered a uniform, and studied the drill-book night and day. . . . I got +that wire yesterday—and here I am.” + +“I love you, Bertram,” repeated the Adjutant. + +“I feel a dreadful fraud, though,” continued the boy, “and I am afraid my +uncle, General Walsingham, thinks I am ‘one of the Greenes’ in every way, +whereas I’m a most degenerate and unworthy member of the clan. Commonly +called ‘Cupid’ and ‘Blameless Bertram,’ laughed at . . . . Really he is +my father’s cousin—but I’ve always called him ‘Uncle,’” he added +ingenuously. + +“Well—sit you there awhile and I’ll be free in a bit. Then I’ll take you +round the Lines and put you up to a few things. . . .” + +“I should be most grateful,” replied Bertram. + +Macteith entered and sat him down at the other desk, and for half an hour +there was a _va et vient_ of orderlies, clerks, Sepoys and messengers, +with much ringing of the telephone bell. + +When he had finished his work, Murray kept his promise, gave Bertram good +advice and useful information, and, before tiffin, introduced him to the +other officers—who treated him with cordial friendliness. The Colonel +did not appear at lunch, but Bertram’s satisfaction at the postponement +of his interview was somewhat marred by a feeling that Lieutenant +Macteith eyed him malevolently and regarded his advent with disapproval. + + + +CHAPTER II +_And is Ordered to East Africa_ + + +That afternoon the Adjutant very good-naturedly devoted to assisting +Bertram to remedy his utter nakedness and ashamedness in the matter of +necessary campaigning kit. Taking him in his dog-cart to the great +Madrutta Emporium, he showed him what to buy, and, still better, what not +to buy, that he might be fully equipped, armed and well prepared, as a +self-supporting and self-dependent unit, provided with all he needed and +nothing he did not need, that he might go with equal mind wheresoever +Fate—or the Military Secretary—might suddenly send him. + +After all, it was not very much—a very collapsible camp-bed of green +canvas, hardwood and steel; a collapsible canvas washstand to match; a +collapsible canvas bath (which was destined to endanger the blamelessness +of Blameless Bertram’s language by providing more collapses than baths); +a canteen of cooking utensils; a green canvas valise which contained +bedding, and professed to be in itself a warm and happy home from home, +even upon the cold hard ground; and a sack of similar material, provided +with a padlock, and suitable as a receptacle for such odds and ends of +clothing and kit as you might choose to throw in it. + +“Got to remember that, if you go on active service, your stuff may have +to be carried by coolies,” said the Adjutant. “About forty pounds to a +man. No good trying to make one big package of your kit. Say, one sack +of spare clothing and things; one bundle of your bed, bath, and washing +kit; and the strapped-up valise and bedding. If you had to abandon one +of the three, you’d let the camp-bed, bath and wash-stand go, and hang on +to the sleeping-valise and sack of underclothes, socks, boots, spare +uniform and sundries,” and much other good advice. + +To festoon about Cupid’s person, in addition to his sword, revolver, +water-bottle and haversack, he selected a suitable compass, map-case, +field-glasses, ammunition-pouch, whistle and lanyards, since his earnest +and anxious protégé desired to be fitted out fully and properly for +manœuvres, and as though for actual active service. + +Assurance being received that his purchases would be forthwith dispatched +to the Adjutant’s bungalow, Bertram drove back to the Mess with that +kindly officer, and gratefully accepted his invitation to dine with him, +that night, at the famous Madrutta Club. + +“What about kit, though?” enquired Bertram. “I’ve only got what I stand +up in. I left all my—” + +“That’s all right,” was the reply. “Everybody’s in khaki, now we’re +mobilised—except the miserable civilians,” he added with a grin, whereat +Bertram, the belted man of blood, blushed and smiled. + +At dinner Bertram sat respectfully silent, collecting the pearls of +wisdom that fell from the lips of his seniors, fellow-guests of the +Adjutant. And his demeanour was of a gravity weighty and serious even +beyond his wont, for was he not now a soldier among soldiers, a +uniformed, commissioned, employed officer of His Majesty the King +Emperor, and attached to a famous fighting regiment? Yes—a King’s +Officer, and one who might conceivably be called upon to fight, and +perhaps to die, for his country and for those simple Principles for which +his country stood. + +He was a little sorry when some of his bemedalled fellow-guests joked on +solemn and sacred subjects, and spoke a little slightingly of persons and +principles venerable to him; but he comforted and consoled himself with +the recollection and reflection that this type of man so loathed any +display, or even mention, of sentiment and feeling, that it went to the +opposite extreme, and spoke lightly of things weighty, talked ribaldly of +dignitaries, and gave a quite wrong impression as to its burning +earnestness and enthusiasm. + +After dinner, when the party broke up for bridge, billiards or the bar, +he sat on, listening with all his ears to the conversation of the +Adjutant and an officer, who seemed exceedingly well informed on the +subject of the battle of Tanga, in German East Africa, concerning which +the general public knew nothing at all. + +Murray noticed his intelligent and attentive silence, and counted it for +righteousness unto the boy, that he could “keep his head shut,” at any +rate. . . . + +And next day The Blow fell! + +For poor Captain and Adjutant Murray, of the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth +Infantry, it dawned like any ordinary day, and devoid of baleful omens. + +There was nothing ominous about the coming of the tea, toast, and oranges +that “Abdul the Damned,” his bearer, brought into the big, bare and +comfortless room (furnished with two camp-beds, one long chair, one +_almirah_ {30} and a litter on the floor) in which he and Bertram slept. + +Early morning parade passed off without unusual or untoward event. + +Breakfast was quite without portent, omen, or foreshadow of disaster. +The Colonel’s silence was no more eloquent than usual, the Major’s +remarks were no ruder, the Junior Subaltern’s no sillier, and those of +the other fellows were no more uninteresting than upon other days; and +all unconscious of his fate the hapless victim strayed into his office, +followed by his faithful and devoted admirer, Second-Lieutenant Bertram +Greene, who desired nothing better than to sit at his feet and learn. . . . + +And then it came! + +It came in the shape of a telegram from the Military Secretary, and, on +the third reading of the fair-writ type, Murray had to realise that the +words undoubtedly and unmistakably were: + +_To O.C. 199th Infantry_, _A.A.A._ + +_Second-Lieutenant Greene_, _I.A.R._, _to proceed to Mombasa forthwith in +charge of your draft of one hundred P.M.’s and one Native Officer_, _by +s.s. Elymas to-morrow and report to O.C._, _One Hundred and Ninety-Eighth +immediately_. _A.A.A._ _Military Secretary_, _Delhi_. + +He read it through once again and then laid it on his table, leant his +head on his hand and felt physically faint and sick for a moment. He had +not felt quite as he did then more than three or four times in the whole +of his life. It was like the feeling he had when he received the news of +his mother’s death; when his proposal of marriage to the one-and-only +girl had been rejected; when he had been bowled first ball in the +Presidency Match, and when he had taken a toss from his horse at the +Birthday Parade, as the beast, scared at the _feu-de-joie_, had suddenly +bucked and bounced like an india-rubber ball. . . . He handed the +telegram to Bertram without comment. + +That young gentleman read it through, and again. He swallowed hard and +read it once more. His hand shook. He looked at the Adjutant, who +noticed that he had turned quite pale. + +“Got it?” enquired Murray. “Here, sit down.” He thought the boy was +going to faint. + +“Ye-e-s. I—er—think so,” was the reply. “_I_ am to take the draft from +the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth to the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth in East +Africa! . . . Oh, Murray, I _am_ sorry—for you. . . . And I am so +utterly inadequate and incompetent. . . . It is cruel hard luck for you. +. . .” + +The Adjutant, a really keen, good soldier, said nothing. There was +nothing to say. He felt that his life lay about him in ruins. At the +end of the war—which might come anywhen now that Russia had “got +going”—he would be one of the few professional soldiers without active +service experience, without a medal or decoration of any sort +whatever. . . . Children who had gone straight from Sandhurst to the Front +would join this very battalion, after the war, with their honours thick upon +them—and when he, the Adjutant, tried to teach them things, they’d smile +and say: “We—ah!—didn’t do it like that at the Marne and Ypres. . . .” +He could go straight away and shoot himself then and there. . . . And +this pink civilian baby! This “Cupid”! No, there was nothing to +say—apart from the fact that he could not trust himself to speak. + +For minutes there was complete silence in the little office. Bertram was +as one in a dream—a dream which was partly sweet and partly a nightmare. +_He_ to go to the Front to-morrow? To go on Active Service? He whom +fellows always ragged, laughed at, and called Cupid and Blameless Bertram +and Innocent Ernest? To go off from here in sole charge of a hundred of +these magnificent fighting-men, and then to be an officer in a regiment +that had been fighting for weeks and had already lost a third of its men +and a half of its officers, in battle? He, who had never fired a gun in +his life; never killed so much as a pheasant, a partridge, a grouse or a +rabbit; never suffered so much as a tooth-extraction—to shoot at his +fellow-men, to risk being horribly mangled and torn! . . . Yes—but what +was that last compared with the infinitely greater horror, the +unspeakable ghastliness of being _inadequate_, of being too incapable and +inexperienced to do his duty to the splendid fellows who would look to +him, the White Man, their Officer, for proper leadership and handling? + +To fail them in their hour of need. . . . He tried to moisten dry lips +with a dry tongue. + +Oh, if only he had the knowledge and experience of the Adjutant—he would +then change places with no man in the world. Why had the England that +had educated him so expensively, allowed him to grow up so hopelessly +ignorant of the real elemental essentials of life in the World-As-It-Is? +He had been brought up as though the World were one vast Examination +Hall, and nothing else. Yes—he had been prepared for examinations all +his life, not prepared for the World at all. Oh, had he but Murray’s +knowledge and experience, or one-tenth part of it—he would find the +ability, courage, enthusiasm and willingness all right. + +But, as it was, who was _he_, Bertram Greene, the soft-handed sedentary, +the denizen of libraries and lecture-rooms, the pale student, to dare to +offer to command, control and guide trained and hardy men of war? What +had he (brought up by a maiden “aunt”!) to do with arms and blood, with +stratagems and ambuscades, with gory struggles in unknown holes and +corners of the Dark Continent? Why, he had never shouted an order in his +life; never done a long march; never administered a harsh reprimand; +never fired a revolver nor made a pass with a sword. (If only he _had_ +had more to do with such “passes” and less with his confounded +examination passes—he might feel less of an utter fraud now.) At school +and at Oxford he had been too delicate for games, and in India, too busy, +and too interested in more intellectual matters, for shikar, sport and +hunting. He had just been “good old Blameless Bertram” and “our valued +and respected Innocent Ernest,” and “our pretty pink Cupid”—more at home +with antiquarians, ethnologists, Orientalists and scientists than with +sportsmen and soldiers. . . . + +The fact was that Civilisation led to far too much specialisation and +division of labour. Why shouldn’t fellows be definitely trained and +taught, physically as well as mentally? Why shouldn’t every man be a bit +of an artisan, an agriculturalist, a doctor, and a soldier, as well as a +mere wretched book-student? Life is not a thing of books. . . . + +Anyhow, in the light of this telegram, it was pretty clear that his +uncle, General Sir Hugh Walsingham, K.C.S.I., had described him more +optimistically than accurately when forwarding his application for +admission to the Indian Army Reserve of Officers, to the Military +Secretary. . . . Another awful thought—suppose he let Uncle Hugh down +badly. . . . And what of his father? . . . + +Well—there was one thing, he would do his absolute utmost, his really +ultimate best; and no one could do more. But, oh, the fathomless +profundity of his ignorance and inexperience! Quite apart from any +question of leading men in battle, how could he hope to avoid incurring +their contempt on the parade-ground? They’d see he was an Ass, and a +very ignorant one to boot, before he had been in front of them for five +minutes. . . . One thing—he’d know that drill-book absolutely by heart +before long. His wretched examination training would stand him in good +stead there, at any rate. . . . + +“Must tell the Colonel,” said Murray suddenly, and he arose and left the +office. + +A few minutes later the Quartermaster, Lieutenant Macteith, entered. +Instead of going to his desk and settling down to work, he took a +powerful pair of field-glasses from their case on Murray’s table and +carefully examined Bertram through them. + +Bertram coloured, and felt quite certain that he did not like Macteith at +all. + +Reversing the glasses, that gentleman then examined him through the +larger end. + +“Oh, my God!” he ejaculated at last, and then feigned unconquerable +nausea. + +He had heard the news, and felt personally injured and insulted that this +miserable half-baked rabbit should be going on Active Service while +Lieutenant and Quartermaster Macteith was not. + +An orderly entered, saluted, and spoke to him in Hindustani. + +“Colonel wants you,” he said, turning to Bertram, as the orderly again +saluted, wheeled about, and departed. “He wants to strain you to his +breast, to clasp your red right hand, to give you his photograph and beg +for yours—or else to wring your neck!” And as Bertram rose to go, he +added: “Here—take this pen with you.” + +“What for?” asked Bertram. + +“To write something in his autograph-album and birthday-book—he’s sure to +ask you to,” was the reply. + +Bertram turned and departed, depressed in spirit. He hated anyone to +hate him, and he had done Macteith no harm. But in spite of his +depression, he was aware of a wild little devil of elation who capered +madly at the back of his brain. This exuberant little devil appeared to +be screaming joyous war-whoops and yelling: “_Active Service_! . . . +_You are going to see service and to fight_! . . . _You will have a +war-medal and clasps_! . . . _You are going to be a real war-hardened +and experienced soldier_! . . . _You are going to be a devil of a +fellow_! . . . _Whoop and dance_, _you Ass_! . . . _Wave your arms +about_, _and caper_! . . . _Let out a loud yell_, _and do a fandango_! +. . .” But in the Presence of the Colonel, Bertram declined to entertain +the little devil’s suggestions, and he neither whooped nor capered. He +wondered, nevertheless, what this cold monument of imperturbability would +do if he suddenly did commence to whoop, to caper and to dance before +him. Probably say “H’m!”—since that was generally reported to be the +only thing he ever said. . . . + +Marching into the room in which the Colonel sat at his desk, Bertram +halted abruptly, stood at attention stiffly, and saluted smartly. Then +he blushed from head to foot as he realised that he had committed the +ghastly _faux pas_, the horrible military crime, of saluting bare-headed. +He could have wept with vexation. To enter so smartly, hearing himself +like a trained soldier—and then to make such a Scarlet Ass of himself! +. . . The Colonel gazed at him as at some very repulsive and +indescribable, but very novel insect. + +“. . . And I’ll make a list of the cooking-pots and other kit that +they’ll have to take for use on board, sir, and give it to Greene with a +letter to Colonel Rock asking him to have them returned here,” the +Adjutant was saying, as he laid papers before the Colonel for signature. + +“H’m!” said the Colonel. + +“I have ordered the draft to parade at seven to-morrow, sir,” he +continued, “and told the Bandmaster they will be played down to the +Docks. . . . Greene can take them over from me at seven and march them +off. I have arranged for the kits to go down in bullock-carts +beforehand. . . .” + +“H’m!” said the Colonel. + +“I’ll put Greene in the way of things as much as possible to-day,” went +on the Adjutant. “I’ll go with him and get hold of the cooking-pots +he’ll take for the draft to use on board—and then I’d better run down and +see the Staff Embarkation Officer with him, about his cabin and the men’s +quarters on the _Elymas_, and. . .” + +“H’m!” said the Colonel, and taking up his cane and helmet, departed +thence without further remark. + +“. . . And—I hope you’ll profit by every word you’ve heard from the +Colonel, my lad,” the Adjutant concluded, turning ferociously upon +Bertram. “Don’t stand there giggling, flippant and indifferent—a perfect +picture of the Idle Apprentice, I say,” and he burst into a peal of +laughter at the solemn, anxious, tragic mask which was Bertram’s face. + +“No,” he added, as they left the room. “Let the Colonel’s wise and +pregnant observations sink into your mind and bring forth fruit. . . . +Such blossoming, blooming flowers of rhetoric _oughter_ bring forth fruit +in due season, anyhow. . . . Come along o’ me.” + +Leaving the big Mess bungalow, the two crossed the _maidan_, wherein +numerous small squads of white-clad recruits were receiving +musketry-instruction beneath the shady spread of gigantic banyans. The +quickly signalled approach of the dread Adjutant-Sahib galvanised the +Havildar and Naik instructors to a fearful activity and zeal, which waned +not until he had passed from sight. In one large patch of shade the +Bandmaster—an ancient Pathan, whose huge iron-rimmed spectacles accorded +but incongruously with his fierce hawk face, ferocious curling white +moustache and beard, and bemedalled uniform—was conducting the band’s +tentative rendering of “My Bonnie is over the Ocean,” to Bertram’s +wide-eyed surprise and interest. Through the Lines the two officers made +a kind of Triumphal Progress, men on all sides stiffening to “attention” +and saluting as they passed, to where, behind a cook-house, lay nine +large smoke-blackened cooking-pots under a strong guard. + +“There they are, my lad,” quoth the hitherto silent Adjutant. “Regard +them closely, and consider them well. Familiarise yourself with them, +and ponder.” + +“Why?” asked Bertram. + +“For in that it is likely that they, or their astral forms, will haunt +your thoughts by day, your dreams by night. Your every path through life +will lead to them,” answered the Adjutant. + +“What have I got to do with them?” enquired Bertram, with uncomfortable +visions of adding the nine big black cauldrons to his kit. + +“Write about them,” was the succinct reply. + +“To whom?” was the next query. + +“Child,” said the Adjutant solemnly, “you are young and ignorant, though +earnest. To you, in your simplicity and innocence— + + ‘A black cooking-pot by a cook-house door + A black cooking-pot is, and nothing more,’ + +as dear William Wordsworth so truly says in his _Ode on the Imitations of +Immorality_, is it—or is it in ‘_Hark how the Shylock at Heaven’s gate +sings_’? I forget. . . . But these are _much_ more. Oh, very much.” + +“How?” asked the puzzled but earnest one. + +“_How_? . . . Why they are the subject-matter, from this moment, of a +Correspondence which will be still going on when your children’s +grandchildren are doddering grey-beards, and you and I are long since +swept into the gulf of well-deserved oblivion. _Babus_ yet unborn will +batten on that Correspondence and provide posts for their relatives +unnumbered as the sands of the seashore, that it may be carried on +unfailing and unflagging. As the pen drops from their senile palsied +hands they will see the Correspondence take new lease of life, and they +will turn their faces to the wall, smile, and die happy.” + +“I am afraid I don’t really understand,” admitted Bertram. + +“_Do_ you think Colonel Rock will return these pots? Believe me, he will +not. He will say, ‘_A pot in the hand is worth two in the +bush-country_,’ or else ‘_What I have I hold_,’ or ‘_Ils suis_, _ils +reste_’—being a bit of a scholar like—or perhaps he’ll just swear he +bought ’em off a man he went to see about a dog, just round the corner, +at the pub. I don’t know about _that_—but return them he will not. . . .” + +“But if I say they belong to Colonel Frost and that he wants them +back—and that I promised to make it clear to him that Colonel Frost +desires their immediate return,” protested Bertram, who visualised +himself between the anvil of Colonel Rock and the hammer of Colonel +Frost. + +“Why then he’ll probably say they now ‘belong to Colonel Rock and that he +_doesn’t_ want them to go back, and that you must promise to make it +clear to Colonel Frost that he desires _his_ immediate return’—to the +devil,” replied the Adjutant. + +“Yes—every time,” he continued. “He will pretend that fighting Germans +is a more urgent and important matter than returning pots. He will lay +aside no plans of battle and schemes of strategy to attend to the pots. +He will detail no force of trusty soldiers to convoy them to the coast. . . . +He will refuse to keep them prominently before his vision. . . . In +short, he will hang on to the damn things. . . . And when the war is +o’er and he returns, he’ll swear he never had a single cooking-pot in +Africa, and in any case they are his own private property, and always +were. . . .” + +“I shall have to keep on reminding him about them,” observed Bertram, +endeavouring to separate the grain of truth from the literal “chaff” of +the Adjutant—who seemed to be talking rapidly and with bitter humour, to +keep himself from thinking of his cruel and crushing disappointment, or +to hide his real feelings. + +“If you go nightly to his tent, and, throwing yourself prostrate at his +feet, clasp him around the knees, and say: ‘_Oh_, _sir_, _think of poor +pot-less Colonel Frost_,’ he will reply: ‘_To hell with Colonel Frost_! +. . .’ Yes—every time. . . . Until, getting impatient of your reproachful +presence, he will say: ‘_You mention pots again and I’ll fill you with +despondency and alarm_. . .’ He’ll do it, too—he’s quite good at it.” + +“Rather an awkward position for me,” ventured Bertram. + +“Oh, quite, quite,” agreed Murray. “Colonel Frost will wire that unless +you return his pots, he’ll break you—and Colonel Rock will state that if +you so much as hint at pots, _he’ll_ break you. . . . But that’s neither +here nor there—the Correspondence is the thing. It will begin when you +are broke by one of the two—and it will be but waxing in volume to its +grand climacteric when the war is forgotten, and the pots are but the +dust of rust. . . . A great thought. . . Yes. . .” + +Bertram stared at the Adjutant. Had he gone mad? Fever? A touch of the +sun? It was none of these things, but a rather terrible blow, a +blighting and a shattering of his almost-realised hopes—and he must +either talk or throw things about, if he were not to sit down and +blaspheme while he drank himself into oblivion. . . . + +For a time they regarded the pots in awed contemplative silence and felt +themselves but ephemeral in their presence, as they thought of the Great +Correspondence, but yet with just a tinge of that comforting and +sustaining _quorum pais magna fui_ feeling, to which Man, the Mighty +Atom, the little devil of restless interference with the Great Forces, is +ever prone. + +In chastened silence they returned to the Adjutant’s office, and Bertram +sat by his desk and watched and wondered, while that official got through +the rest of his morning’s work and dealt faithfully with many—chiefly +sinners. + +He then asked the Native Adjutant, who had been assisting him, to send +for Jemadar Hassan Ali, who was to accompany Bertram and the draft on the +morrow, and on that officer’s arrival he presented him to the young +gentleman. + +As he bowed and shook hands with the tall, handsome Native Officer, +Bertram repressed a tendency to enquire after Mrs. Ali and all the little +Allies, remembering in time that to allude directly to a native +gentleman’s wife is the grossest discourtesy and gravest immorality. All +he could find to say was: “_Salaam_, _Jemadar Sahib_! _Sub achcha hai_?” +{38a} which at any rate appeared to serve, as the Native Officer gave +every demonstration of cordiality and pleasure. What he said in reply, +Bertram did not in the least understand, so he endeavoured to put on a +look combining pleasure, comprehension, friendliness and agreement—which +he found a slight strain—and remarked: “_Béshak_! _Béshak_!” {38b} as he +nodded his head. . . . + +The Jemadar later reported to his colleagues that the new Sahib, albeit +thrust in over the heads of tried and experienced Native Officers, +appeared to _be_ a Sahib, a gentleman of birth, breeding, and good +manners; and evidently possessed of far more than such slight perception +and understanding as was necessary for proper appreciation of the worth +and virtues of Jemadar Hassan Ali. Also that he was but a hairless-faced +babe—but doubtless the Sircar knew what it was about, and was quite right +in considering that a young boy of the Indian Army Reserve was fitter to +be a Second-Lieutenant in the _pultan_, than was a Jemadar of fifteen +years’ approved service and three medals. One of his hearers laughed +sarcastically, and another grunted approval, but the Subedar-Major +remarked that certain opinions, however tenable, were, perhaps, better +left unvoiced by those who had accepted service under the Sircar on +perfectly clear and definite terms and conditions. + +When the Jemadar had saluted and left the office, Murray turned upon +Bertram suddenly, and, with a concentrated glare of cold ferocity, +delivered himself. + +“Young Greene,” quoth he, “yesterday I said you were a Good Egg and a +desirable. I called you Brother, and fell upon your neck, and I welcomed +you to my hearth. I overlooked your being the son of a beknighted +General. I looked upon you and found you fair and good—as a ‘relief.’ +You were a stranger, and I took you in. . . . Now you have taken _me_ +in—and I say you are a cuckoo in the nest, a viper in the back-parlour, a +worm in the bud, a microbe in the milk, and an elephant in the ointment. +. . . You are a—a—”. + +“I’m _awfully_ sorry, Murray,” interrupted the unhappy Bertram. “I’d do +_anything_—” + +“Yes—and any _body_,” continued the Adjutant. “I say you are a pillar of +the pot-houses of Gomorrah, a fly-blown turnip and a great mistake. +Though of apparently most harmless exterior and of engaging manners, you +are an orange filled with ink, an addled egg of old, and an Utter +Improbability. I took you up and you have done me down. I took you out +and you have done me in. I took you in and you have done me out—of my +chance in life. . . . Your name is now as a revolting noise in my ears, +and your face a repulsive sight, a thing to break plates on . . . and +they ‘call you _Cupid_’!” + +“I can’t tell you how distressed I am about it, Murray,” broke in the +suffering youth. “If only there were anything I could do so that you +could go, and not I—” + +“You can do nothing,” was the cold reply. “You can not even, in mere +decency, die this night like a gentleman. . . . And if you did, they’d +only send some other pale Pimple to take the bread out of a fellow’s +mouth. . . . This is a civilians’ war, mark you; they don’t want +professional soldiers for a little job like this. . . .” + +“It wasn’t _my_ fault, Murray,” protested Bertram, reduced almost to +tears by his sense of wicked unworthiness and the injustice to his kind +mentor of yesterday. + +“Perhaps not,” was the answer, “but why were you ever _born_, Cupid +Greene, that’s what I ask? You say it isn’t your fault—but if you’d +never been born . . . Still, though I can never forget, I forgive you, +and would share my last pot of rat-poison with you cheerfully. . . . +Here—get out your note-book,” and he proceeded to give the boy every +“tip” and piece of useful advice and information that he could think of +as likely to be beneficial to him, to the men, to the regiment, and to +the Cause. + + + +CHAPTER III +_Preparations_ + + +That night Bertram could not sleep. The excitement of that wonderful day +had been too much for his nerves, and he lay alternating between the +depths of utter black despair, fear, self-distrust and anxiety on the one +hand, and the heights of exultation, hope, pride, and joy on the other. + +At one moment he saw himself the butt of his colleagues, the contempt of +his men, the _bête noir_ of his Colonel, the shame of his Service, and +the disgrace of his family. + +At another, he saw himself winning the approval of his brother officers +by his modesty and sporting spirit, the affection and admiration of his +men by his kindness and firmness, the good-will of his Colonel by his +obvious desire to learn and his keen enthusiasm in his duty, the respect +of his Service for winning a decoration, and the loving regard of the +whole clan of Greene for his general success as a soldier. + +But these latter moments were, alas, far less realistic and convincing +than the others. In them he merely hoped and imagined—while in the black +ones he felt and _knew_. He could not do otherwise than realise that he +was utterly inexperienced, ignorant, untried and incompetent, for it was +the simple fact. If _he_ could be of much use, then what is the good of +training men for years in colleges, in regiments, and in the field, to +prepare them to take their part in war? + +He knew nothing of either the art or the science of that great and +terrible business. He had neither the officer’s trained brain nor the +private soldier’s trained body; neither the theory of the one nor the +practice of the other. Even if, instead of going to the Front to-morrow +as an officer, he had been going in a British regiment as a private, he +would have been equally useless. He had never been drilled, and he had +never used a weapon of any kind. All he had got was a burning desire to +be of use, a fair amount of intelligence, and, he hoped, the average +endowment of courage. Even as to this last, he could not be really +certain, as he had never yet been tried—but he was very strongly of +opinion that the dread of showing himself a coward would always be far +stronger than the dread of anything that the enemy could do to his vile +body. His real fear was that he should prove incompetent, be unequal to +emergency, and fail those who relied upon him or trusted in him. When he +thought of that, he knew Fear, the cold terror that causes a fluttering +of the heart, a dryness of the mouth, a weakness of the knees, and a +sinking of the stomach. + +That was the real dread, that and the fear of illness which would further +decrease capacity and usefulness. What were mere bullets and bayonets, +wounds and death, beside revealed incompetence and failure in duty? + +Oh, that he might have luck in his job, and also keep in sufficient +health to be capable of his best—such as it was. + +When Hope was in the ascendant, he assured himself that the greatest work +and highest duty of a British officer in a Native regiment was to +encourage and enhearten his men; to set them a splendid example of +courage and coolness; to hearten them up when getting depressed; to win +their confidence, affection and respect, so that they would cheerfully +follow him anywhere and “stick it” as long as he did, no matter what the +hardship, danger, or misery. These things were obviously a thousand +times more important than parade-ground knowledge and such details as +correct alignment, keeping step, polishing buttons, and so +forth—important as these might be in their proper place and season. And +one did not learn those greater things from books, nor on parade, nor at +colleges. A man as ignorant as even he of drill, internal economy, +tactics and strategy, might yet be worth his rations in the trenches, on +the march, yes, or in the wild, fierce bayonet-charge itself, if he had +the attributes that enable him to encourage, uplift, enhearten and give +confidence. + +And then his soaring spirit would swiftly stoop again, as he asked +himself: “And have _I_ those qualities and attributes?” and sadly +replied: “Probably not—but what is, at any rate, certain, is the fact +that I have no knowledge, no experience, no understanding of the very +alphabet of military lore, no slightest grasp of the routine details of +regimental life, discipline, drill, regulations, internal economy, +customs, and so forth—the things that are the elementary essentials of +success to a body of armed men proceeding to fight.” . . . And in black +misery and blank despair he would groan aloud: “_I cannot go_. _I cannot +do it_.” . . . He was very young, very much a product of modern +civilisation, and a highly specialised victim of a system and a +generation that had taken too little account of naked fact and elemental +basic tendency—a system and a generation that pretended to believe that +human nature had changed with human conditions. As he realised, he had, +like a few million others, been educated not for Life and the +World-As-It-Is, but for examinations and the world as it is not, and +never will be. . . . + +He tossed and turned through the long hot night on the little hard +camp-bed, listening to Murray’s regular breathing and the scampering of +the rats as they disported themselves on the other side of the canvas +ceiling cloth and went about their unlawful occasions. . . . + +He reviewed the events of that epoch-making day from the arrival of the +telegram to his getting into bed. . . . A memorable morning, a busy +afternoon and evening, a rotten night—with a beastly climax—or +anti-climax. . . . Would he never get to sleep on this hard, narrow bed? +. . . What would he be fit for on the dreadful morrow if he slept not at +all? . . . What a day it had been! Rather amusing about those +cooking-pots. It wouldn’t be very amusing for _him_ if the situation +developed as Murray had prophesied. . . . Rather a good bit of work that +he had put in between lunch and dinner with the drill-book and a box of +matches. Matches made good sections, companies, and battalions for +practising drill-manœuvres on a desk—but it would he a different thing to +give the orders correctly and audibly to hundreds of men who watched one +with inscrutable eyes. . . . How he wished he had declined the +invitation of Bludyer to accompany him and Macteith to the theatre. . . . +They had proceeded in a car to the Club and there picked up some other +fellows. The play was _The Girl in the Taxi_, and Bertram sat ashamed, +humiliated and angry, as a third-rate company of English actors and +actresses performed their sorry parts in a travesty of European life and +manners, before the avid eyes of hundreds of natives. There they sat, +with faces contemptuous, sensual, blank, eager, gleeful or disgusted, +according to their respective conditions and temperaments—the while they +gathered from the play that English life is a medley of infidelity, +dissipation, intrigue and vulgarity. + +And, after the play, Macteith had said: “Let’s go to the Home-from-Home +for a ‘drink-and-a-little-music—what—what’?” + +Bertram had thought it a somewhat strange proceeding to go to a Home, at +eleven o’clock at night, for music, and he would greatly have preferred +to go to bed. However, he could not very well say that they must take +him back to bed first, nor announce his intention of leaving the party +and walking home. . . . + +. . . Macteith having given instructions to the Eurasian chauffeur, the +taxi sped away and, skirting the sea-shore, turned off into a quiet +avenue of giant palms, in which stood detached bungalows of retiring and +unobtrusive mien. Into the compound of one of these the taxi turned, and +a bell rang loudly, apparently of its own volition. As they got out of +the car, a lady came out to the brilliantly lighted verandah from the +drawing-room which opened on to it. Bertram did not like the look of +this lady at all. Her face reminded him of that of a predatory animal or +bird, with its fierce eyes, thin, hard lips and aquiline nose. Nor, in +his estimation, did the obvious paint and powder, the extreme-fashioned +satin gown, and the profusion of jewellery which she wore, do anything to +mitigate the unfavourable impression received at first sight of her face. +. . . Really the last person one would have expected to find in charge +of a Home. . . . Nor was Macteith’s greeting of “Hullo, Fifi, my dear! +Brought some of the Boys along,” calculated to allay a growing suspicion +that this was not really a Home at all. + +Entering the drawing-room with the rest, Bertram beheld a bevy of ladies +sitting in an almost perfect circle, each with a vacant chair beside her. +Some of them were young, and some of them presumably had been. All were +in evening dress and in the exaggerated extreme of fashion. All seemed +to be painted and powdered, and all looked tired and haggard. Another +attribute common to the whole party was that they all seemed to be +foreigners—judging by their accents as they welcomed Macteith and some of +the others as old acquaintances. + +Bertram liked the look of these ladies as little as he did that of the +person addressed as “Fifi,” and he hoped that the party would not remain +at the house long. He was tired, and he felt thoroughly uncomfortable, +as noisy horse-play and badinage began, and waxed in volume and pungency. +A servant, unbidden, entered with a tray on which stood three bottles of +champagne and a number of glasses. He noticed that the bottles had been +opened, that the corks and gold-foil looked weary and experienced, and +that the wine, when poured out, was singularly devoid of bubbles and +froth. He wished he had not come. . . . He did not want to drink +alleged champagne at midnight. . . . There was no music, and the people +were of more than doubtful breeding, taste and manners. . . . Macteith +had actually got his arm round the waist of one woman, and she was +patting his cheek as she gazed into his eyes. Another pair exchanged a +kiss before his astonished gaze. He decided to walk out of the house, +and was about to do so when the girl nearest to him seized his hand and +said: “You seet daown ’ere an’ spik to me, sare,” as she pulled him +towards the chair that stood vacant beside her. In an agony of +embarrassment born of a great desire to refuse to stay another minute, +and a somewhat unnecessary horror of hurting the young lady’s feelings by +a refusal, he seated himself with the remark: “Merci, mam’selle—mais il +se fait tard. Il est sur les une heure . . .” as she appeared to be a +French woman. + +“Laissez donc!” was the reply. “Il est l’heure du berger,” a remark the +point of which he missed entirely. Finding that he knew French, she +rattled on gaily in that tongue, until Bertram asked her from what part +of France she came. On learning that she was from Alais in Provence, he +talked of Arles, Nismes, Beaucaire, Tarascon, Avignon and the +neighbourhood, thinking to please her, until, to his utter amazement and +horror, she turned upon him with a vile, spitting oath, bade him be +silent, and then burst into tears. Feeling more shocked, unhappy and +miserable than he had ever felt before, he begged the girl to accept his +regrets and apologies—as well as his farewell—and to tell him if he could +in any way compensate her for the unintentional hurt he had somehow +inflicted. + +On her sullen reply of “Argent comptant porte médecine,” Bertram dropped +a fifty rupee note into her lap and literally fled from the house. . . . + +. . . Yes—a rotten night with a beastly anti-climax to the wonderful day +on which he had received . . . _he_, of all people in the world! . . . +had received orders to proceed to the Front. . . . Bertram Greene on +Active Service! How could he have the impudence—and it all began again +and was revolved once more in his weary mind. . . . + +Dawn brought something of hope and a little peace to the perturbed soul +of the over-anxious boy. + + + +CHAPTER IV +_Terra Marique Jactatus_ + + +As he arrayed himself in all his war-paint, after his sleepless and +unhappy night, Bertram felt feverish, and afraid. His head throbbed +violently, and he had that distressing sensation of being remorselessly +urged on, fatedly fury-driven and compelled to do all things with +terrible haste and hurry. + +Excitement, anxiety, sleeplessness and the conflicting emotions of hope +and fear, were taking their toll of the nervous energy and vitality of +the over-civilised youth. + +He felt alarmed at his own alarm, and anxious about his own anxiety—and +feared that, at this rate, he would be worn out before he began, a +physical and mental wreck, fitter for a hospital-ship than a troop-ship, +before ever he started. + +“The lad’s over-engined for his beam,” observed Murray to himself, as he +lay on his camp cot, drinking his _choti hazri_ tea, and watching +Bertram, who, with white face and trembling fingers, stood making more +haste than speed, as he fumbled with straps and buckles. “Take it easy, +my son,” he said kindly. “There’s tons of time, and then some. I’ll see +you’re not late. . . .” + +“Thanks, Murray,” replied Bertram, “but—” + +“Here—take those belts off at once,” interrupted the Adjutant. “Take the +lot off and lie down again—and smoke this cigarette. . . . _At once_, +d’ye hear?” and the tone was such that Bertram complied without comment. +He sank on to the camp-bed, swung up his long legs, with their heavy +boots, shorts, and puttees and puffed luxuriously. He had intended to be +a non-smoker as well as a teetotaller, now that he was “mobilised,” but +it would be as well to obey Murray now and begin his abstinence from +tobacco when he got on board. He lay and smoked obediently, and soon +felt, if not better, at least calmer, cooler and quieter. + +“Blooming old tub won’t start till to-night—you see’f she does,” said +Murray. “Sort of thing we always do in the Army. . . . _Always_. . . . +Harry and hurry everybody on parade at seven, to catch a boat that +doesn’t profess to sail till two, and probably won’t actually do it till +midnight.” + +“I should die of shame if I were late for my first parade,” said Bertram +anxiously. + +“You’d die of the Colonel, if you didn’t of shame,” was the reply. . . . +“I’ll see you’re not late. You take things a bit easier, my son. Your +King and Country want you in East Africa, not in a lunatic asylum—” + +“_Pappa_! _What part did you take in the Great War_?” squeaked a +falsetto voice from the door, and looking up, Bertram beheld Lieutenant +Bludyer, always merry and bright, arrayed in crimson, scarlet-frogged +pyjama coat, and pink pyjama trousers. On his feet were vermilion velvet +slippers. + +“I’ll take a leading part in your dirty death,” said the Adjutant, +turning to the speaker, or squeaker. + +“Thought this might be useful, Greene,” continued Bludyer in his natural +voice, as he handed Bertram a slab of thin khaki linen and a conical cap +of a kind of gilded corduroy. “Make yourself a regimental _puggri_ in +the day of battle. Put the cap on your nut and wind the turban over it. +. . . Bloke with a helmet and a white face hasn’t an earthly, advancing +with a line of Sepoys in _puggris_. The enemy give him their united +attention until he is outed. . . .” + +“Oh, thanks, awfully, Bludyer,” began Bertram. + +“So go dirty till your face is like Murray’s, grow a hoary, hairy beard, +an’ wear a turban on your fat head,” continued Bludyer. “Your orderly +could do it on for you, so that it wouldn’t all come down when you +waggled. . . .” + +“Thanks, most awfully. It’s exceedingly kind of you, Bludyer,” +acknowledged Bertram, and proceeded to stuff the things into his +haversack. + +“Wow! Wow!” ejaculated Bludyer. “Nice-mannered lad and well brought up, +ain’t he, Randolph Murray?” and seating himself on that officer’s bed, he +proceeded to use the tea-cosy as a foot-warmer, the morning being chilly. + +The Adjutant arose and proceeded to dress. + +“Devil admire me!” he suddenly shouted, pointing at Bertram. “Look at +that infernal lazy swine! Did you ever see anything like it, Bludyer? +Lying hogging there, lolling and loafing in bed, as if he had all day to +finish nothing in! . . . Here, get up, you idle hound, and earn your +living. Dress for parade, if you can do nothing else.” + +And Bertram gathered that he might now get on with his preparations. + +“Yes,” added Bludyer, “you really ought to get on with the war, Greene. +_Isn’t_ he a devil-may-care fellow, Murray? He don’t give a damn if it +snows,” and adding that it was his flute-night at the Mission, and he now +must go, the young gentleman remained seated where he was. + +“You aren’t hurrying a bit, Greene,” he remarked, after eyeing Bertram +critically for a few minutes. “He won’t prosper and grow rich like that, +will he, Randolph Murray? That is not how the Virtuous Apprentice got on +so nicely, and married his master’s aunt. . . . No. . . . And Samuel +Smiles was never late for parade—of that I’m quite certain. No. +‘_Self_-help’ was _his_ motto, and the devil take the other fellow. . . . +Let me fasten that for you. This strap goes under not over. . . .” And, +with his experienced assistance, Bertram was soon ready, and feeling like +a trussed fowl and a Christmas-tree combined, by the time he had +festooned about him his sword, revolver, full ammunition-pouches, +field-glasses, water-bottle, belt-haversack, large haversack, map-case, +compass-pouch, whistle-lanyard, revolver-lanyard, rolled cape, and the +various belts, straps and braces connected with these articles. + +By the time the last buckle was fastened, he longed to take the whole lot +off again for a few minutes, and have a really comfortable breathe. (But +he _did_ wish Miranda Walsingham could see him.) + + * * * * * + +In a corner of the parade-ground stood the Hundred, the selected draft +which was to proceed to Africa to fill the gaps that war had torn in the +ranks of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth. On their flank the regimental +band was drawn up in readiness to play them to the docks. The men wore +khaki turbans, tunics, shorts, puttees and hob-nailed boots, and carried +only haversacks, water-bottles, bandoliers, rifles and bayonets. The +rest of their kit, each man’s done up in a neat bundle inside his +waterproof ground-sheet and striped cotton sleeping-_dhurrie_, had gone +on in bullock-carts to await them at the wharf. + +Around the Hundred stood or squatted the remainder of the battalion, in +every kind and degree of dress and undress. Occasionally one of these +would arise and go unto his pal in the ranks, fall upon his neck, embrace +him once again, shake both his hands alternately, and then return to the +eligible site whence, squatting on his heels, he could feast his eyes +upon his _bhai_, his brother, his friend, so soon to be torn from him. . . . +As the officers approached, these spectators fell back. Bertram’s +heart beat so violently that he feared the others would hear it. Was he +going to have “palpitations” and faint, or throw a fit or something? He +was very white, and felt very ill. Was his ignorance and incompetence to +be exposed and manifested now? . . . + +“Look fierce and take over charge, my son,” said the Adjutant, as the +small party of officers came in front of the draft. + +“Company!” shouted Bertram, “Shun!” + +That was all right. He had hit the note nicely, and his voice had fairly +boomed. He had heard that men judge a new officer by his voice, more +than anything. + +The Hundred sprang to attention, and Bertram, accompanied by the Adjutant +and Macteith, walked slowly down the front rank and up the rear, doing +his best to look as though he were critically and carefully noting +certain points, and assuring himself that certain essentials were in +order. He was glad that he had not suddenly to answer such a question as +“_What_ exactly are you peering at and looking for?” He wished he had +sufficient Hindustani to ask a stern but not unkindly question here and +there, or to make an occasional comment in the manner of one from whom no +military thing is hid. He suddenly remembered that he knew the +Hindustani for “How old are you?” so he asked this question of a man +whose orange-coloured beard would obviously have been white but for henna +dye. Not in the least understanding the man’s reply, he remarked “H’m!” +in excellent imitation of the Colonel, and passed on. + +“Not the absolute pick of the regiment, I should think, are they?” he +remarked to Murray, as they returned to the front of the company. + +“They are not,” he said. + +“Pretty old, some of them,” added Bertram, who was privately hoping that +he did not look such a fraudulent Ass as he felt. + +Major Fordinghame strolled up and returned the salutes of the group of +officers. + +“This experienced officer thinks the draft is not the pure cream of the +regiment, Major,” said Murray, indicating Bertram. + +“Fancy that, now,” replied Major Fordinghame, and Bertram blushed hotly. + +“I thought some of them seemed rather old, sir,” he said, “but—er—perhaps +old soldiers are better than young ones?” + +“It’s a matter of taste—as the monkey said when he chewed his father’s +ear,” murmured Bludyer. + +Silence fell upon the little group. + +“And both have their draw-backs—as the monkey said when she pulled her +twins’ tails,” he added pensively. + +Bertram wondered what he had better do next. + +The Native Officer of the draft came hurrying up, and saluted. Another +Hindustani sentence floated into Bertram’s mind. “You are late, Jemadar +Sahib,” said he, severely. + +Jemadar Hassan Ali poured forth a torrent of excuse or explanation which +Bertram could not follow. + +“What do you do if a Havildar or Naik or Sepoy is late for parade?” he +asked, or attempted to ask, in slow and barbarous Hindustani. + +Another torrent of verbiage, scarcely a word of which was intelligible to +him. + +He put on a hard, cold and haughty look, or attempted to do so, and kept, +perforce, an eloquent but chilling silence. Murray and the Major +exchanged glances. + +“Greene Sahib is _very_ particular and _very_ strict, Jemadar Sahib,” +said the Major. “You had better bear it in mind, and tell the men too. +He’ll stand no sort of nonsense from anybody. You’ll find him very kind +so long as he is satisfied, but if he isn’t—well!” and the Major shrugged +his shoulders expressively. + +Bertram looked gratefully at the Major (for he understood “Englishman’s +Hindustani”), and as sternly as he could at the Jemadar, who saluted +again and retired. + +The Colonel rode up, and the officers sprang to attention. + +“Everything ready, sir,” said the Adjutant. “They can march off when you +like.” + +“H’m!” said the Colonel, and stared at Bertram as though he honestly and +unaffectedly did wonder why God made such things. He then wheeled his +horse towards the waiting Hundred. “Men of the Hundred and +Ninety-Ninth,” said he in faultless Hindustani, “you are now going across +the Black Water to fight the enemies of the King Emperor, and of +yourselves. They would like to conquer your country and oppress you. +You go to fight for your own homes and children, as well as for your +Emperor. Bring honour to your regiment and yourselves. Show the +_Germanis_ and their _Hubshis _{50} what Indian Sepoys can do—both in +time of battle and in time of hunger, thirst, and hardship. Before God I +say I would give anything to come with you, but I have to do my duty +here—for the present. We may meet again in Africa. Good-bye. Good +luck. . . . Good-bye. . . .” The Jemadar called for three cheers for +the Colonel, and the Hundred lustily cried: “_’Eep_, _’Eep_, _’Oorayee_.” +The remainder of the regiment joined in, and then cheered the Hundred. +Meanwhile, the Colonel turned to Bertram. + +“Good-by, young Greene. Good luck,” he said, and leaning from his horse, +wrung Bertram’s hand as though it had been that of his only son. + +Similarly did the others, with minor differences. + +“Well—it’s useless to weep these unavailing tears,” sobbed Bludyer. +“There’s an end to everything, as the monkey said when he seized the tip +of his mother’s nose. . . .” + +“Farewell, my blue-nosed, golden-eyed, curly-eared Mother’s Darling,” +said Macteith. + +“Good luck, sonny. Write and let me know how you get on,” said Murray. +“You’ll do. You’ve got the guts all right, and you’ll very soon get the +hang of things. . . .” + +“March ’em off, now,” he added. “Chuck a chest, and don’t give a damn +for anybody,” and Bertram carefully collected his voice, swallowed a kind +of lump in his throat, bade his wildly beating heart be still, gave +thought to the drill-book, and roared: + +“Company! . . . _’Shun_! . . . Slope _Arms_! . . . Form _fours_! . . . +_Right_! . . . Quick _march_!”—the band struck up—and they were off. + +Yes, he, Bertram Greene, pale clerkly person, poet and æsthete, was +marching proudly, in full military attire, at the head of a hundred +fighting-men—marching to the inspiring strains of the regimental band, to +where the trooper waited on the tide! If his father could only see him! +He was happy as he had never been before in his life, and he was proud as +he never had been before. . . . If Miranda could only see him! He, +Bertram Greene, was actually marching to war, with sword on thigh, and +head held high, in sole command of a hundred trained fighting-men! + +His heart beat very fast, but without pain now, and he was, for the +moment, free of his crushing sense of inadequacy, inexperience and +unworthiness. He was only conscious of a great pride, a great hope, and +a great determination to be worthy, so far as in him lay the power, of +his high fate. . . . + +No man forgets his first march at the head of his own force, if he +forgets his first march in uniform. For Bertram this was both. It was +his first march in uniform, and he was in whole and sole control of this +party—like a Centurion of old tramping the Roman Road at the head of his +hundred Legionaries—and Bertram felt he would not forget it if he lived +till his years equalled the number of his men. + +It was not a very long march, and it was certainly not a very picturesque +one—along the cobbled Dock Road, with its almost innumerable cotton-laden +bullock-carts—but Bertram trod on air through a golden dream city and was +exalted, brother to the Knights of Arthur who quested for the Grail and +went about to right the wrong and to succour the oppressed. . . . + +Arrived at the dock-gates, he was met and guided aright, by a brassarded +myrmidon of the Embarkation Staff Officer, to where His Majesty’s +Transport _Elymas_ lay in her basin beside a vast shed-covered wharf. + +Beneath this shed, Bertram halted his men, turned them into line, and +bade them pile arms, fall out, and sit them down in close proximity to +their rifles. + +Leaving the Jemadar in charge, he then went up the gangway of the +_Elymas_ in search of the said Embarkation Staff Officer, who, he had +been told, would allot him and his men their quarters on the ship. As he +gazed around the deserted forward well-deck, he saw an officer, who wore +a lettered red band round his arm, hurrying towards him along the +promenade deck, his hands full of papers, a pencil in his mouth, and a +careworn, worried look upon his face. + +“You Greene, by any chance?” he called, as he ran sideway down the narrow +ladder from the upper deck. + +“Yes, sir,” replied Bertram, saluting as he perceived that the officer +was a captain. “Just arrived with a draft of a hundred men from the +Hundred and Ninety-Ninth,” he added proudly. + +“Good dog,” was the reply, “keep the perishers out of it for a bit till +I’m ready. . . . Better come with me now though, and I’ll show you, +_one_, where they’re to put their rifles; _two_, where they’re to put +themselves; _three_, where they will do their beastly cooking; and +_four_, where you will doss down yourself. . . . Don’t let there be any +mistakes, because there are simply millions more coming,” and he led the +way to a companion hatch in the after well-deck, and clattered down a +ladder into the bowels of the ship, Bertram following him in his twists +and turns with a growing sense of bewilderment. + +He was very glad to hear that he and his merry men were not to have the +ship to themselves, for there were a thousand and one points that he +would be very glad to be able to refer to the decision of Authority, or +the advice of Experience. + +The Embarkation Officer, dripping and soaked and sodden with +perspiration, as was Bertram himself, wound his devious way, along narrow +passages, ladders and tunnels, to a kind of cage-like cloak-room fitted +with racks. + +“Your men’ll come here in single file, by the way we have come,” said he, +“enter this armoury one by one, leave their rifles on these racks, and go +up that ladder to the deck above, and round to the ladder leading out on +the forward well-deck. You’ll have to explain it carefully, and shepherd +’m along too, or there’ll be a jam and loss of life and—worse—loss of +time. . . . In the early days we managed badly on one occasion and got a +crowd of Sikhs pushing against a crowd of Pathans. . . .” He then led +the disintegrating Bertram by devious paths to a dark oven-like and +smelly place (which Bertram mentally labelled “the horizontal section of +the fo’c’sle, three storeys down”) in which the Hundred were to live, or +to die—poor devils! There would hardly be standing room—and thence to +the scene of their culinary labours. Lastly, when the bewildered youth +was again feeling very ill, the Embarkation Officer retraced his steps, +showed him certain water-taps for the use of his men, and led the way up +and out to the blessed light of day, fresh air, and the comparative +coolness of the deck. “Your cabin’s along here,” said he, entering a +long corridor that debouched on to the well-deck. “Let’s see, Number 43, +I think. Yes. A two-berth cabin to yourself—and last trip we had three +generals in a one-berth cabin, four colonels in a bath at once, and five +common officers on top of one another in each chair at table. . . . +Fact—I assure you. . . . Go in and chuck away all that upholstery—you +can run about in your shirt-sleeves now, or naked if you like, so long as +you wear a helmet to show you are in uniform. . . . Bye-bye—be a good +boy,” and he bustled away. + +Bertram thankfully took the Embarkation Officer’s advice, and cast off +all impedimenta until he was clad only in khaki shirt, shorts, puttees +and boots. He thought he could enter into the feelings of a butterfly as +it emerges from the constricting folds of its cocoon. + +He sat down for a minute on the white bed prepared for his occupation. +The other was cumbered with his valise, sack, and strapped bundle, which +had come down on the first of the bullock-carts and been brought on board +at once. He looked round the well-appointed, spotless cabin, with its +white paint and mahogany fittings, electric fans and lights. That one +just beside his pillow would be jolly for reading in bed. Anyhow, he’d +have a comfortable and restful voyage. What a blessing that he had a +cabin to himself, and what a pity that the voyage took only about ten +days. . . . Would life on a troop-ship be a thing of disciplined +strenuousness, or would it be just a perfectly slack time for everybody? +. . . It should be easy for him to hide his ignorance while on +board—there couldn’t be very much in the way of drill. . . . How his +head throbbed, and how seedy and tired he felt! . . . He lay back on his +bed and then sprang up in alarm and horror at what he had done. A pretty +way to commence his Active Service!—and, putting on his heavy and +uncomfortable helmet, he hurried to the wharf. + +Going down the gangway, he again encountered the Embarkation Officer. + +“Better let your men file on board with their rifles first, and then off +again for their kits and bedding, and then back again to the quarters I +showed you. Having pegged out their claims there, and each man hung his +traps on the peg above his sleeping-mat, they can go up on the after +well-deck and absolutely nowhere else. See? And no man to leave the +ship again, on any pretence whatever. Got it?” + +“Yes, sir,” replied Bertram, and privately wondered if he would even find +his way again to that cage-like cloak-room in the hold, and that +“horizontal section of the fo’c’sle three storeys down.” + +But he _must_ do this, his very first job, absolutely correctly, and +without any bungling and footling. He must imagine that he was going in +for an examination again—an examination this time in quite a new subject, +“The art of getting men on board a ship, bedding them down, each with his +own bundle of kit, in one place, and storing their rifles in another, +without confusion or loss of time.” _Quite_ a new subject, and one in +which previous studies, Classics, Literature, Philosophy, Art, were not +going to be of any great value. + +Perhaps it would be as well to take the Jemadar, Havildars and Naiks on a +personally conducted tour to the armoury, quarters, cooking-places and +taps, and explain the _modus operandi_ to them as well as he could. One +can do a good deal to eke out a scanty knowledge of the vernacular by +means of signs and wonders—though sometimes one makes the signs and the +other person wonders. . . . + +Returning to the oven-like shed, resonant with the piercing howls of +_byle-ghari-wallas_, {54} coolies, Lascars and overseers; the racking +rattle and clang and clatter of chains, cranes, derricks and +donkey-engines; the crashing of iron-bound wheels over cobble-stones, and +the general pandemonium of a busy wharf, he beckoned the Jemadar to him +and made him understand that he wanted a couple of Havildars and four +Naiks to accompany him on board. + +Suddenly he had a bright idea. (Good old drill-book and retentive memory +of things read, heard, or seen!) . . . “Why have you set no sentry over +the arms, Jemadar Sahib? It should not be necessary for me to have to +give the order,” he said as well as he could in his halting Hindustani. + +The Jemadar looked annoyed—and distinctly felt as he looked. Half the +men had heard the reproof. He, an old soldier of fifteen years’ service, +to be set right by a child like this! And the annoying part of it was +that the amateur was right! Of course he should have put a sentry over +the arms. It was probably the first time he had omitted to do so, when +necessary, since he had first held authority . . . and he raged inwardly. +There are few things that annoy an Indian more than to be “told off” +before subordinates, particularly when he is obviously in the wrong. Was +this youthful Greene Sahib a person of more knowledge and experience than +had been reported by the Adjutant’s Office _babu_? The _babu_ had +certainly described him as one whom the other officers laughed at for his +ignorance and inexperience. Had not the worthy Chatterji Chuckerbutti +related in detail how Macteith Sahib had called upon his gods and feigned +great sickness after offensively examining Greene Sahib through his +field-glasses? Strange and unfathomable are the ways of Sahibs, and +perhaps the true inwardness of the incident had been quite otherwise? It +might have been an honorific ceremony, in fact, and Macteith Sahib might +have feigned sickness at his own unworthiness, according to etiquette? +. . . After all, the military salute itself is only a motion simulating +the shading of one’s eyes from the effulgent glory of the person one +salutes; and the Oriental bowing and touching the forehead is only a +motion simulating taking up dust and putting it on one’s head. . . . +Yes—the _babu_ may have been wrong, and Macteith Sahib may really have +been acclaiming Greene Sahib his superior, and declaring his own +miserable unworthiness. . . . One never knew with Sahibs. Their minds +are unreadable, and one can never get at what they are thinking, or grasp +their point of view. One could only rest assured that there is always +method in their madness—that they are clever as devils, brave as lions, +and—averse from giving commissions as lieutenants, captains, majors, and +colonels to Indian Native Officers. . . + +“Get a move on, Jemadar Sahib,” said the voice of Greene Sahib curtly, in +English, and the Jemadar bustled off to set the sentry and call the +Havildars and Naiks—rage in his heart. . . . + +More easily than he had expected, Bertram found his way, at the head of +the party, to the required places, and showed the Jemadar and +Non-commissioned Officers how the men should come and depart, in such +manner as to avoid hindering each other and to obviate the possibility of +a jam. + +The Jemadar began to ask questions, and Bertram began to dislike the +Jemadar. He was a talker, and appeared to be what schoolboys call +“tricky.” He knew that Bertram had very little Hindustani, and seemed +anxious to increase the obviousness of the fact. + +Bertram felt unhappy and uncomfortable. He wished to be perfectly +courteous to him as a Native Officer, but it would not do to let the man +mistake politeness for weakness, and inexperience for inefficiency. . . . +Was there a faint gleam of a grin on the fellow’s face as he said: “I do +not understand,” at the end of Bertram’s attempt at explanation? + +“Do _you_ understand?” the latter said, suddenly, turning to the senior +Havildar, the man who had turned out the Guard for him on his first +approach to the Lines on that recent day that seemed so long ago. + +“_Han_, {56a} _Sahib_,” replied the man instantly and readily. +“_Béshak_!” {56b} + +“Then you’d better explain to the Jemadar Sahib, who does not,” said +Bertram with a click of his jaw, as he turned to depart. + +The Jemadar hastened to explain that he _fully_ understood, as Bertram +strode off. Apparently complete apprehension had come as soon as he +realised that his dullness was to be enlightened by the explanation of +the quicker-witted Havildar. He gave that innocent and unfortunate man a +look of bitter hatred, and, as he followed Bertram, he ground his teeth. +Havildar Afzul Khan Ishak should live to learn the extreme unwisdom of +understanding things that Jemadar Hassan Ali professed not to understand. +As for Second-Lieutenant Greene—perhaps he should live to learn the +unwisdom of quarrelling with an experienced Native Officer who was the +sole channel of communication between that stranger and the Draft at +whose head he had been placed by a misguided Sircar. . . . + +Returning to the wharf, and conscious that he had a splitting head, a +sticky mouth, shaking limbs, sore throat and husky voice, Bertram roared +orders to the squatting Sepoys, who sprang up, fell in, unpiled arms, and +marched in file up the gangway and down into the bowels of the ship, +shepherded and directed by the Non-commissioned Officers whom he had +posted at various strategic points. All went well, and, an hour later, +his first job was successfully accomplished. His men were on board and +“shaking down” in their new quarters. He was free to retire to his +cabin, bathe his throbbing head, and lie down for an hour or so. + + * * * * * + +At about midday he arose refreshed, and went on deck, with the delightful +feeling that, his own labours of the moment accomplished, he could look +on at the accomplishment of those of others. Excellent! . . . And for +many days to come he would be free from responsibility and anxiety, he +would have a time of rest, recuperation, and fruitful thought and study. +. . . Throughout the morning detachments of Sepoys of the Indian Army +and Imperial Service Troops continued to arrive at the wharf and to +embark. Bertram was much interested in a double-company of Gurkhas under +a Gurkha Subedar, their yellowish Mongolian faces eloquent of +determination, grit, and hardiness. + +They contrasted strongly with a company of tall, hairy Sikhs, almost +twice their size, man for man, but with evidences of more enthusiasm than +discipline in their bearing. Another interesting unit was a band of +warriors of very mixed nationality, under a huge Jemadar who looked a +picture of fat contentment, his face knowing no other expression than an +all-embracing smile. It was whispered later that this unit saw +breech-loading rifles for the first time, on board the _Elymas_, having +been more familiar, hitherto, with jezails, jingals, match-locks, +flintlocks, and blunderbusses. Probably a gross exaggeration, or an +invention of Lieutenant Stanner, of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth, who +gave them the name of “The Mixed Pickles.” + +All three of these detachments were Imperial Service Troops—that is to +say, were in the service of various Indian Rajahs—but were of very +different value, both the Gurkhas and the Sikhs being as good material as +could be found among native troops anywhere in the world. + +To Bertram, the picture of the little Gurkha Subedar, the tall Sikh +Subedar, and the burly Jemadar of the Mixed Pickles, was a very +interesting one, as the three stood together on the wharf, eyeing each +other like three strange dogs of totally different breeds—say, a fighting +terrier, a wolf-hound and a mastiff. + +With a snap and a slick, and a smart “_One two_,” a company of British +Infantry arrived and embarked. Beside the Mixed Pickles they were as a +Navy motor-launch beside a native bunderboat. At them they smiled +amusedly, at the Sikhs they stared, and at the Gurkhas they grinned +appreciatively. + +The news having spread that the _Elymas_ would not start until the +morrow, various visitors came on board, in search of friends whom they +knew to be sailing by her. Captain Stott, R.A.M.C., came over from the +_Madras_ hospital ship, in search of Colonel Haldon. Murray and Macteith +came down to see Stanner, of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth, and one +Terence Brannigan, of the Baluchis. . . . + +“Who’s the chap on your right, Colonel?” asked Captain Stott, of gentle +and kindly old Colonel Haldon at dinner that evening. “Rather an unusual +face to be ‘in’ khaki—or one would have said so before the war,” and he +indicated Bertram. + +“Dunno,” was the reply. “Stranger to me. Nice-lookin’ boy. . . . Looks +a wee-trifle more like a chaplain than a butcher, as you say,” though +Captain Stott had not said that at all. + +Seeing Bertram talking to Murray and Macteith after dinner, Captain Stott +asked the latter who he was, for physiognomy and character-study were a +hobby of his. + +Macteith told him what he knew, and added: “And they’re sending _that_ +half-baked milksop to British East” (and implied: “While _I_, Lieutenant +and Quartermaster Reginald Macteith, remain to kick my heels at the +depot.”) + +Next day the _Elymas_ began her voyage, a period of delightful _dolce far +niente_ that passed like a dream, until one wonderful evening, the +palm-clad shores of Africa “arose from out of the azure sea,” and, with a +great thrill of excitement, hope, anxiety and fear Bertram gazed upon the +beautiful scene, as the _Elymas_ threaded the lovely Kilindini Creek +which divides the Island of Mombasa from the mainland. + + + +CHAPTER V +_Mrs. Stayne-Brooker_ + + +And on those same palm-clad shores that arose from out the azure sea, an +unhappy woman had been expiating, by long years of bitter suffering, in +tears and shame and humiliation, the madness of a moment. . . . + +Mrs. Stayne-Brooker’s life in German East Africa was, if possible less +happy than her life in the British colony. The men she met in Nairobi, +Mombasa, Zanzibar, Witu or Lamu, though by no means all gentlemen, all +treated her as a gentlewoman; while the men she met in Dar-es-Salaam, +Tanga, Tabora, Lindi or Bukoba, whether “gentlemen” or otherwise, did +not. In British East Africa her husband was treated by planters, +Government officials, sportsmen, and Army men, as the popular and cheery +old Charlie Stayne-Brooker—a good man in the club-bar, card-room and +billiard-room, on the racecourse, at the tent club, and on shooting +trips. With several Assistant District Commissioners and officers of the +King’s African Rifles he was very intimate. In German East Africa he was +treated differently—in a way difficult to define. It was as though he +were a person of importance, but _déclassé_ and contemptible, and this +impression she gained in spite of her knowing no German (a condition of +ignorance upon which her husband insisted). The average German official +and officer, whether of the exiled Junker class, or of plebeian origin, +she loathed—partly because they seemed to consider her “fair game,” and +made love to her, in more or less broken English, without shame or +cessation. Nor did it make life easier for the poor lady that her +husband appeared to take delight in the fact. She wondered whether this +was due to pride in seeing a possession of his coveted by his +“high-well-born,” and other, compatriots, or to a desire to keep ever +before her eyes a realisation of what her fate would be if he cast her +off, or she ran away from him. + +Worst of all was life in the isolated lonely house on his coffee and +rubber plantation, where for months on end she would never see a white +face but his, and for weeks on end, when he was away on his mysterious +affairs, no white face at all. . . . And at the bottom of his compound +were _bandas_, grass huts, in an enclosure, wherein dwelt native women. +. . . + +One night, in the year 1914, she sat alone in the silent lonely house, +thinking of her daughter Eva at Cheltenham, of her happy, if hapless, +girlhood in her father’s house, of her brief married life with an +honourable English gentleman (oh, the contrast!), and wondering how much +longer she could bear her punishment. . . Suddenly and noiselessly +appeared in the verandah her husband’s chief factotum, head house-boy, +and familiar, one Murad, an Arab-Swahili, whom she feared and detested. + +“_Bwana_ coming,” said he shortly, and as noiselessly disappeared. + +Going out on to the verandah, she saw her husband and a few “boys” +(gun-bearers, porters, and servants) coming through the garden. It was +seven weeks since she had seen or heard anything of him. + +“Pack,” was his greeting, “at once. You start on _safari_ to the railway +as soon as possible, or sooner. You are going to Mombasa. I have cabled +to Eva to come out by the next boat. . . . P. and O. to Aden, and thence +to Mombasa. . . . She should be here in three weeks or so . . .” and he +went off to bath and change. At dinner he informed her that she was to +settle at Mombasa with Eva, make as many new friends as possible, +entertain, and generally be the most English of English matrons with the +most English of English daughters—the latter fresh from boarding-school +in England. . . . Dear old Charlie Stayne-Brooker, it was to be known, +had gone to Bukoba, to the wonderful sleeping-sickness hospital, for +diagnosis of an illness. Nothing serious, really, of course—but one +couldn’t be too careful when one had trouble with the glands of the neck, +and certain other symptoms, after spending some time in that beastly +tsetse-fly country. . . . She was to give the impression that he had +made light of it, and quite “taken her in”—wouldn’t dream of allowing his +wife and daughter to go up there. People were to form the opinion that +poor old Charlie might be in a worse way than his wife imagined. + +_And_ if such a thing as war broke out; _if_ such a thing came to pass, +mark you; her house in Mombasa was to be a perfect Home-from-Home for the +officers of the British Expeditionary Force which would undoubtedly be +dispatched from India. It would almost certainly be the Nth Division +from Bombay—so she need not anticipate the pleasure of receiving her late +husband and his friends. . . . Further instructions she would receive in +the event of war, but meanwhile, and all the time, her business was to +demonstrate the utter Englishness of the Stayne-Brooker family, and to +keep her eyes and ears open. What General or Staff-Officer will not +“talk” to a beautiful woman—of the right sort? Eh? Ha-Ha! That was her +business in Mombasa now—_and ten times more so if war broke out_—to be a +beautiful woman—of the right sort, tremendously popular with the people +who know things and do things. Moreover, Eva, her daughter, was to be +trained right sedulously to be a beautiful woman—of the right sort. . . . +Staff-officers in her pocket. Eh? Ha-Ha! . . . And, sick at heart, +loving her daughter, loathing her husband, and loathing the unspeakable +rôle he would force upon her, Mrs. Stayne-Brooker travelled to Mombasa, +met her daughter with mingled joy and terror, happiness and apprehensive +misery, and endeavoured to serve two masters—her conscience and her +husband. + + + +CHAPTER VI +_Mombasa_ + + +“If you’d like to go ashore and have a look at Mombasa after tiffin, Mr. +Greene,” said the fourth officer of the _Elymas_ to Bertram, the next +morning, as he leant against the rail and gazed at the wonderful +palm-forest of the African shore, “some of us are going for a row—to +stretch our muscles. We could drop you at the Kilindini _bunder_.” + +“Many thanks,” replied Bertram. “I shall be very much obliged,” and he +smiled his very attractive and pleasant smile. + +This was a welcome offer, for, privately, he hated being taken ashore +from a ship by natives of the harbour in which the ship lay. One never +knew exactly what to pay the wretches. If one asked what the fare was, +they always named some absurd amount, and if one used one’s common sense +and gave them what seemed a reasonable sum they were inevitably hurt, +shocked, disappointed in one, indignantly broken-hearted, and invariably +waxed clamorous, protestful, demanding more. It had been the same at +Malta, Port Said and Aden on his way out to India. In Bombay harbour he +had once gone for a morning sail in a bunderboat, and on their return, +the captain of the crew of three had demanded fifteen rupees for a +two-hour sail. A pound for two hours in a cranky sailing-boat!—and the +scoundrels had followed him up the steps clamouring vociferously, until a +native policeman had fallen upon them with blows and curses. . . . How +he wished he was of those men who can give such people their due in such +a manner that they receive it in respectful silence, with apparent +contentment, if not gratitude. Something in the eye and the set of the +jaw, evidently—and so was glad of the fourth officer’s kind suggestion. + +He would have been still more glad had he heard the fourth officer +announce, at table, to his colleagues: “I offered to drop that chap, +Lieutenant Greene, at Kilindini this afternoon, when we go for our grind. +He can take the tiller-ropes. . . . I like him the best of the lot—no +blooming swank and side about him.” + +“Yes,” agreed the “wireless” operator, “he doesn’t talk to you as though +he owned the earth, but was really quite pleased to let you stand on it +for a bit. . . . I reckon he’ll do all right, though, when he +gets-down-to-it with the Huns—if he doesn’t get done in. . . .” + +And so it came to pass that Bertram was taken ashore that afternoon by +some half-dozen officers and officials (including the doctor, the purser, +and the Marconi operator) of the _Elymas_—worthy representatives of that +ill-paid, little-considered service, that most glorious and +beyond-praise, magnificent service, the British Mercantile Marine—and, +landing in state upon the soil of the Dark Continent, knew “the pleasure +that touches the souls of men landing on strange shores.” + +Arrived at the top of the stone steps of the Kilindini quay, Bertram +encountered Africa in the appropriately representative person of a vast +negro gentleman, who wore a red fez cap (or tarboosh), a very long white +calico night-dress and an all-embracing smile. + +“_Jambo_!” quoth the huge Ethiopian, and further stretched his lips an +inch nearer to his ears on either side. + +Not being aware that the African “_Jambo_” is equivalent to the Indian +“_Salaam_,” and means “Greeting and Good Health,” or words to that +effect, Bertram did not counter with a return “_Jambo_,” but nodded +pleasantly and said: “Er—good afternoon.” + +Whereupon the ebon one remarked: “Oh, my God, sah, ole chap, thank you,” +to show, in the first place, that he quite realised the situation (to +wit, Bertram’s excusable ignorance of Swahili-Arabic), and that he was +himself, fortunately, a fluent English scholar. Bertram stared in +amazement at the pleasant-faced, friendly-looking giant. + +“_Bwana_ will wanting servant, ole chap,” continued the negro, “don’t it? +I am best servant for _Bwana_. Speaking English like hell, sah, please. +Waiting here for _Bwana_ before long time to come. Good afternoon, thank +you, please, Master, by damn, ole chap. Also bringing letter for +_Bwana_. . . . You read, thanks awfully, your mos’ obedient servant by +damn, oh, God, thank you, sah,” and produced a filthy envelope from some +inner pocket of the aforementioned night-dress, which, innocent of +buttons or trimming, revealed his tremendous bare chest. + +Bertram felt uncomfortable, and, for a moment, again wished that he was +one of those men-with-an-eye-and-a-jaw who could give a glare, a grunt, +and a jerk of the head which would cause the most importunate native to +fade unobtrusively away. + +On the one hand, he knew it would be folly to engage as a servant the +first wandering scoundrel who accosted him and suggested that he should +do so; while, on the other, he distinctly liked this man’s cheery, +smiling face, he realised that servants would probably be at a decided +premium, and he recognised the extreme desirability of having a servant, +if have one he must, who spoke English, however weird, and understood it +when spoken. Should he engage the man then and there? Would he, by so +doing, show himself a man of quick decision and prompt action—one of +those forceful, incisive men he so admired? Or would he merely be acting +foolishly and prematurely, merely exhibiting himself as a rash and +unbalanced young ass? Anyhow, he would read the “chits” which the filthy +envelope presumably contained. If these were satisfactory, he would tell +the man that the matter was under consideration, and that he might look +out for him again and hear his decision. + +As Bertram surmised, the envelope contained the man’s “chits,” or +testimonials. The first stated that Ali Sloper, the bearer, had been on +_safari_ with the writer, and had proved to be a good plain cook, a +reliable and courageous gun-carrier, a good shot, and an honest, willing +worker. The second was written by a woman whose house-boy Ali Suleiman +had been for two years in Mombasa, and who stated that she had had worse +ones. The third and last was written at the Nairobi Club by a +globe-trotting Englishman named Stayne-Brooker, who had employed the man +as personal “boy” and headman of porters, on a protracted lion-shooting +trip across the Athi and Kapiti Plains and found him intelligent, keen, +cheery, and staunch. (_Where had he heard the name Stayne-Brooker +before—or had he dreamed it as a child_?) Certainly this fellow was +well-recommended, and appeared to be just the man to take as one’s +personal servant on active service. But _did_ one take a servant on +active service? One could not stir, or exist, without one in India, and +officers took syces and servants with them on frontier campaigns—but +Africa is not India. . . . However, he could soon settle that point by +asking. + +“I’ll think about it,” he said, returning the chits. “I shall be coming +ashore again to-morrow. . . . How much pay do you want?” + +“Oh, sah! Master not mentioning it!” was the reply of this remarkable +person. “Oh, nothing, nothing, sah! _Bwana_ offering me forty rupees a +mensem, I say ‘No, sah! Too much.’ . . . Master not mention it.” + +“It might not be half a bad idea to mention it, y’know,” said Bertram, +smiling and turning to move on. + +“Oh, God, sah, thank you, please,” replied Ali Sloper, _alias_ Ali +Suleiman. “I do not wanting forty. I am accepting thirty rupees, sah, +and am now your mos’ obedient servant by damn from the beginning for +ever. And when _Bwana_, loving me still more, can pay more, ole chap. +God bless my thank-you soul”—and “fell in” behind Bertram as though +prepared to follow him thence to the end of the world or beyond. + +Bertram gazed around, and found that he was in a vast yard, two sides of +which were occupied by the largest corrugated-iron sheds he had ever seen +in his life. One of these appeared to be the Customs shed, and into +another a railway wandered. Between two of them, great gates let a white +sandy road escape into the Unknown. On the stone quay the heat, shut in +and radiated by towering iron sheds, was the greatest he had ever +experienced, and he gasped for breath and trickled with perspiration. He +devoutly hoped that this was not a fair sample of Africa’s normal +temperature. Doubtless it would be cooler away from the quay, which, +with the iron sheds, seemed to form a Titanic oven for the quick and +thorough baking of human beings. It being Sunday afternoon, there were +but few such, and those few appeared to be thoroughly enjoying the +roasting process, if one might judge from their grinning faces and happy +laughter. They were all Africans, and, for the most part, clad in long, +clean night-dresses and fez caps. Evidently Ali Sloper or Suleiman was +dressed in the height of local fashion. On a bench, by the door of the +Customs shed, lounged some big negroes in dark blue tunics and shorts, +with blue puttees between bare knees and bare feet. Their tall +tarbooshes made them look even taller than they were, and the big brass +plates on their belt-buckles shone like gold. Bertram wondered whether +the Germans had just such brawny giants in their Imperial African Rifles, +and tried to imagine himself defeating one of them in single combat. The +effort was a failure. + +At the gates was a very different type of person, smarter, quicker, more +active and intelligent-looking, a Sikh Sepoy of the local military +police. The man sprang to attention and saluted with a soldierly +promptness and smartness that were a pleasure to behold. + +Outside the dock, the heat was not quite so intense, but the white sandy +road, running between high grass and palms, also ran uphill, and, as the +perspiration ran down his face, Bertram wished he might discover the +vilest, most ramshackle and moth-eaten _tikka-ghari_ that ever disgraced +the streets of Bombay. That the hope was vain he knew, and that in all +the island of Mombasa there is no single beast of burden, thanks to the +tsetse fly, whose sting is death to them. . . . And the Mombasa Club, +the Fort, and European quarter were at the opposite side of the island, +four miles away, according to report. Where were these trolley-trams of +which he had heard? If he had to walk much farther up this hill, his +uniform would look as though he had swum ashore in it. + +“Master buck up like hell, ole chap, thank you,” boomed a voice behind. +“Trolley as nearer as be damned please. Niggers make push by Jove to +Club, thank God,” and turning, Bertram beheld the smiling Ali beaming +down upon him as he strolled immediately behind him. + +“Go away, you ass,” replied the hot and irritated Bertram, only to +receive an even broader smile and the assurance that his faithful old +servant would never desert him—not after having been his devoted slave +since so long a time ago before and for ever more after also. And a +minute or two later the weary warfarer came in sight of a very narrow, +single tram-line, beside the road. Where this abruptly ended stood a +couple of strange vehicles, like small, low railway-trolleys, with wheels +the size of dinner-plates. On each trolley was a seat of sufficient +length to accommodate two people, and above the bench was a canvas roof +or shade, supported by iron rods. From a neighbouring bench sprang four +men, also clad in night-dresses and fez caps, who, with strange howls and +gesticulations, bore down upon the approaching European. + +“_Hapa_, {66} _Bwana_!” they yelled. “_Trolley hapa_,” and, for a +moment, Bertram thought they would actually seize him and struggle for +possession of his body. He determined that if one of the shrieking +fiends laid a hand upon him, he would smite him with what violence he +might. The heat was certainly affecting his temper. He wondered what it +would feel like to strike a man—a thing he had never done in his life. +But, on reaching him, the men merely pointed to their respective trolleys +and skipped back to them, still pointing, and apparently calling Heaven +to witness their subtle excellences and charms. + +As Bertram was about to step on to the foremost trolley, the men in +charge of the other sprang forward with yelps of anguish, only to receive +cause for louder yelps of deeper anguish at the hands of Ali, who, with +blows and buffets, drove them before him. Bertram wondered why the pair +of them, each as big as their assailant, should flee before him thus. +Was it by reason of Ali’s greater moral force, juster cause, superior +social standing as the follower of a white man, or merely the fact that +he took it upon him to be the aggressor. Probably the last. +Anyhow—thank Heaven for the gloriously cool and refreshing breeze, caused +by the rapid rush of the trolley through the heavy air, as the +trolley-“boys” ran it down the decline from the hill-top whence they had +started. + +As soon as the trolley had gained sufficient momentum, they leapt on to +the back of the vehicle, and there clung until it began to slow down +again. Up-hill they slowly pushed with terrific grunts, on the level +they maintained a good speed, and down-hill the thing rattled, bumped and +bounded at a terrific pace, the while Bertram wondered how long it would +keep the rails, and precisely what would happen if it jumped them. Had +he but known it, there was a foot-brake beneath the seat, which he should +have used when going down-hill. ’Twas not for the two specimens of +Afric’s ebon sons, who perched and clung behind him, to draw his +attention to it. Was he not a _Bwana_, a white man, and therefore one +who knew all things? And if he wanted to break his neck had he not a +right so to do? And if they, too, should be involved in the mighty +smash, would not that fact prove quite conclusively that it was their +_kismet_ to be involved in the smash, and therefore inevitable? Who +shall avoid his fate? . . . And so, in blissful ignorance, Bertram +swooped down-hill in joyous, mad career. He wished the pace were slower +at times, for everything was new and strange and most interesting. +Native huts, such as he had seen in pictures (labelled “kaffir-kraals”) +in his early geography book, alternated with official-looking buildings, +patches of jungle; gardens of custard-apple, mango, paw-paw, banana, and +papai trees; neat and clean police-posts, bungalows, cultivated fields, +dense woods and occasional mosques, Arab houses, go-downs, {67} temples, +and native infantry “lines.” + +On the dazzlingly white road (which is made of coral and nothing else) +were few people. An occasional Indian Sepoy, a British soldier, an +_askari_ of the King’s African Rifles, an official _peon_ with a +belt-plate as big as a saucer (and bearing some such legend as _Harbour +Police_ or _Civil Hospital_), a tall Swahili in the inevitable long +night-dress and tarboosh, or a beautifully worked skull cap, a file of +native women clad each in a single garment of figured cotton which +extended from arm-pit to ankle, leaving the arms and shoulders bare. The +hairdressing of these ladies interested Bertram, for each head displayed +not one, but a dozen, partings, running from the forehead to the neck, +and suggesting the seams on a football. At the end of each parting was a +brief pigtail bound with wire. Bertram wondered why these women always +walked one behind the other in single file, and decided that it was an +inherited and unconscious instinct implanted by a few thousand years of +use of narrow jungle-paths from which they dared not stray as the armed +men-folk did. . . . + +After half an hour or so of travelling this thrillingly interesting road, +Bertram perceived that they were drawing near to the busy haunts of men. +From a church, a congregation of Goanese or else African-Portuguese was +pouring. The scene was a very Indian one—the women, with their dusky +faces and long muslin veils worn _sari_-fashion over their European +dresses of cotton or satin; the men, with their rusty black suits or +cotton coats and trousers and European hats or solar _topis_. One very +venerable gentleman, whose ancestors certainly numbered more Africans +than Portuguese, wore a golfing suit (complete, except for the +stockings), huge hob-nailed boots, and an over-small straw-yard with a +gay ribbon. A fine upstanding specimen of the race, obviously the idol +of his young wife, who walked beside him with her adoring gaze fixed upon +his shining face, began well with an authentic silk hat, continued +excellently with a swallow-tailed morning-coat, white waistcoat, high +collar and black satin tie, but fell away from these high achievements +with a pair of tight short flannel tennis-trousers, grey Army socks, and +white canvas shoes. + +“An idol with feet of pipe-clay,” smiled Bertram to himself, as his +chariot drove heavily through the throng, and his charioteers howled +“_Semeele_! _Semeele_!” at the tops of their voices. + +Soon the tram-line branched and bifurcated, and tributary lines joined it +from garden-enclosed bungalows and side turnings. Later he discovered +that every private house has its own private tram-line running from its +front door down its drive out to the main line in the street, and that, +in Mombasa, one keeps one’s own trolley for use on the public line, as +elsewhere one keeps one’s own carriage or motor-car. + +On, past the Grand Hotel, a stucco building of two storeys, went the +rumbling, rattling vehicle, past a fine public garden and blindingly +white stucco houses that lined the blindingly white coral road, across a +public square adorned with flowering shrubs and trees, to where arose a +vast grey pile, the ancient blood-drenched Portuguese fort, and a +narrow-streeted, whitewashed town of tall houses and low shops began. + +Here the trolley-boys halted, and Bertram found himself at the entrance +of the garden of the Mombasa Club, which nestles in the shadow of its +mighty neighbour, the Fort—where once resided the Portuguese Governor and +the garrison that defied the Arab and kept “the Island of Blood” for +Portugal, and where now reside the Prison Governor and the convicts that +include the Arab, and keep the public gardens for the public. + +Boldly entering the Club, Bertram left his card on the Secretary and +Members (otherwise stuck it on a green-baize board devoted to that +purpose), and commenced a tour of inspection of the almost empty +building. Evidently Society did not focus itself until the cool of the +evening, in Africa as in India, and evidently this club very closely +resembled a thousand others across the Indian Ocean from Bombay to Hong +Kong, where the Briton congregates in exile. The only difference between +this and any “station” club in India appeared to be in the facts that the +servants were negroes and the trophies on the walls were different and +finer. Magnificent horns, such as India does not produce, alternated +with heads of lion and other feral beasts. Later Bertram discovered +another difference in that the cheery and hospitable denizens of the +Mombasa Club were, on the whole, a thirstier race than those of the +average Indian club, and prone to expect and desire an equal thirst in +one their guest. He decided that it was merely a matter of climate—a +question of greater humidity. + +Emerging from an airy and spacious upstairs bar-room on to a vast +verandah, his breath was taken away by the beauty of the scene that met +his eye, a scene whose charm lay chiefly in its colouring, in the +wonderful sapphire blue of the strip of sea that lay between the low +cliff, on which the club was built, and the bold headland of the opposite +shore of the mainland, the vivid emerald green of the cocoa-palms that +clothed that same headland, the golden clouds, the snowy white-horses +into which the wind (which is always found in this spot and nowhere else +in Mombasa) whipped the wavelets of the tide-rip, the mauve-grey +distances of the Indian Ocean, with its wine-dark cloud-shadows, the +brown-grey of the hoary fort (built entirely of coral), the rich red of +tiled roofs, the vivid splashes of red, orange, yellow and purple from +flowering vine and tree and shrub—a wonderful colour-scheme enhanced and +intensified by the dazzling brightness of the sun and the crystal +clearness of the limpid, humid air. . . . And in such surroundings Man +had earned the title of “The Island of Blood” for the beautiful +place—and, once again, as in those barbarous far-off days of Arab and +Portuguese, the shedding of blood was the burden of his song and the high +end and aim of his existence. . . . Bertram sank into a long chair, put +his feet up on the mahogany leg-rests, and slaked the colour-thirst of +his æsthetic soul with quiet, joyous thankfulness. . . . Beautiful! . . . + +What would his father say when he knew that his son was at the Front? . . . + +What was Miranda doing? Nursing, probably. . . . What would _she_ say +when she knew that he was at the Front? . . . Dear old Miranda. . . . + +Where had he heard the name, _Stayne-Brooker_, before? _Had_ he dreamed +it in a nightmare as a child—or had he heard it mentioned in hushed +accents of grief and horror by the “grown-ups” at Leighcombe Priory? . . . +Some newspaper case perhaps. . . . He had certainly heard it before. +. . . He closed his eyes. . . . + +A woman strolled by with a selection of magazines in her hand, and took a +chair that commanded a view of his. Presently she noticed him. . . . A +new-comer evidently, or she would have seen him before. . . . What an +exceedingly nice face he had—refined, delicate. . . . Involuntarily she +contrasted it with the face of the evil and sensual satyr to whom she was +married. . . . She would like to talk to him. . . . + +Bertram opened his eyes, and Mrs. Stayne-Brooker became absorbed in the +pages of her magazine. . . . + +What a beautiful face she had, and _how_ sad and weary she looked . . . +drawn and worried and anxious. . . . Had she perhaps a beloved husband +in the fighting-line somewhere? He would like to talk to her—she looked +so kind and so unhappy. . . . A girl, whose face he did not see, came +and called her away. . . + + + +CHAPTER VII +_The Mombasa Club_ + + +As Bertram lay drinking in the beauty of the scene, the Club began to +fill, and more particularly that part of it devoted to the dispensation +and consumption of assorted alcoholic beverages. Almost everybody was in +uniform, the majority in that of the Indian Army (as there was a large +base camp of the Indian Expeditionary Force at Kilindini), and the +remainder in those of British regiments, the Navy, the Royal Indian +Marine, the Royal Engineers, the Royal Army Medical Corps, Artillery, +local Volunteer Corps, and the “Legion of Frontiersmen.” A few ladies +adorned the lawn and verandahs. Two large and weather-beaten but +unascetic-looking men of middle age sat them down in chairs which stood +near to that of Bertram. They were clad in khaki tunics, shorts and +puttees, and bore the legend “C.C.” in letters of brass on each +shoulder-strap. + +“Hullo!” said the taller of them to Bertram, who was wondering what +“C.C.” might mean. “Just come ashore from the _Elymas_? Have a drink?” + +“Yes,” replied he; “just landed. . . . Thanks—may I have a lime-squash?” + +“What the devil’s that?” asked the other, and both men regarded him +seriously and with a kind of shocked interest. “Never heard of it.” + +“Don’t think they keep it here,” put in the shorter of the two men. “How +d’you make it?” + +“Lemon-juice, soda-water, and sugar,” replied Bertram, and felt that he +was blushing in a childish and absurd manner. + +Both men shook their heads, more in sorrow than in anger. They looked at +each other, as might two physicians at the bedside of one whose folly has +brought him to a parlous pass. + +“Quite new to Africa?” enquired the taller. + +“Yes. Quite,” confessed Bertram. + +“Ah! Well, let me give you a word of advice then,” continued the man. +“_Don’t touch dangerous drinks_. Avoid all harmful liquor as you would +poison. It is poison, in this climate. Drink is the curse of Africa. +It makes the place the White Man’s Grave. You can’t be too careful. . . . +Can you, Piggy?” he added, turning to his friend. + +“Quite right, Bill,” replied “Piggy,” as he rang a little bell that stood +on a neighbouring table. “Let’s have a ‘Devil’s Own’ cocktail and then +some beer for a start, shall we? . . . No—can’t be too careful. . . . +Look at me f’r example. Been in the country quarter of a century, an’ +never exceeded once! Never _tasted_ it, in fact.” + +“What—alcohol?” enquired Bertram. + +“No. . . . I was talking about harmful liquor,” replied Piggy patiently. +“Things like—_what_ did you call it? . . . Chalk-squash?” + +“Lime-squash,” admitted Bertram with another glowing blush. + +“Give it up, Sonny, give it up,” put in Bill. “Turn over a new leaf and +start afresh. Make up your mind that, Heaven helping you, you’ll never +touch a drop of the accursed poison again, but forswear slops and live +cleanly; totally abstaining from—what is it?—soda-crunch?—fruit-juice, +ginger-beer, lemonade, toast-water, barley-water, dirty-water, +raspberryade, and all such filthy decoctions and inventions. . . .” + +“Yes—give the country a chance,” interrupted Piggy. “Climate’s all right +if you’ll take reasonable care and live moderately,” and he impatiently +rang the little bell again. “’Course, if you _want_ to be ill and come +to an early and dishonourable grave, drink all the rot-gut you can lay +hands on—and break your mother’s heart. . . .” + +Piggy lay back in his chair and gazed pensively at the ceiling. So did +Bill. Bertram felt uncomfortable. “Dear, dear, dear!” murmured Bill, +between a sigh and a grunt. “Chalk-powder and lemonade! . . . what a +nerve! . . . Patient, unrecognised, unrewarded heroism. . . .” + +“Merciful Heaven,” whispered Piggy, “slaked-lime and ginger-beer! . . +What rash, waste courage and futile bravery. . . .” And suddenly leapt +to his feet, swung the bell like a railway porter announcing the advent +of a train, and roared “_Boy_!” until a white-clad, white-capped Swahili +servant came running. + +“_N’jo_, Boy!” he shouted. “Come here! . . . Lot of lazy, fat +_n’gombe_. {72a} . . . Three ‘Devil’s Own’ cocktails, _late hapa_,” +{72b} and as, with a humble “_Verna_, _Bwana_,” the servant hurried to +the bar, grumbling. + +“And now he’ll sit and have a _shauri_ {72c} with his pals, while we die +of thirst in this accursed land of sin and sorrow. . . . Beastly +_shenzis_. {72d} . . .” + +“You don’t like Africa?” said Bertram, for the sake of something to say. + +“Finest country on God’s earth. . . . The _only_ country,” was the +prompt reply. + +“I suppose the negro doesn’t make a very good servant?” Bertram +continued, as Piggy rumbled on in denunciation. + +“Finest servants in the world,” answered that gentleman. “The _only_ +servants, in fact. . . .” + +“Should I take one with me on active service?” asked Bertram, suddenly +remembering Ali Suleiman, _alias_ Sloper. + +“If you can get one,” was the reply. “You’ll be lucky if you can. . . . +All snapped up by the officers of the Expeditionary Force, long ago.” + +“Yes,” agreed Bill. “Make all the difference to your comfort if you can +get one. Don’t take any but a Swahili, though. . . . You can depend on +’em, in a tight place. The good ones, that is. . . .” + +A big, fat, clean-shaven man, dressed in white drill, strolled up to the +little group. He reminded Bertram of the portraits of Mr. William +Jennings Bryan who had recently visited India, and in three days +unhesitatingly given his verdict on the situation, his solution of all +political difficulties, and his opinion of the effete Britisher—uttering +the final condemnation of that decadent. + +“Hello! Hiram Silas P. Pocahantas of Pah,” remarked Piggy, with delicate +pleasantry, and the big man nodded, smiled, and drew up a chair. + +“The drinks are on me, boys,” quoth he. “Set ’em up,” and bursting into +song, more or less tunefully, announced— + + “I didn’t raise my boy to be a soldier,” + +whereat Bill hazarded the opinion that the day might unexpectedly and +ruddily dawn when he’d blooming well wish he bally well _had_, and that +he could join them in a cocktail if he liked—or he could bung off if he +didn’t. Apparently William disapproved of the American’s attitude, and +that of his Government, toward the War and the Allies’ part therein; for, +on the American’s “allowing he would _con_sume a highball” and the liquor +arriving, he drank a health to those who are not too proud to fight, to +those who do not give themselves airs as the Champions of Freedom, and +then stand idly by when Freedom is trampled in the dust, and to those +whose Almighty God is not the Almighty Dollar! + +Expecting trouble, Bertram was surprised to find that the American was +apparently amused, merely murmured “Shucks,” and, in the midst of a +violent political dissertation from Bill, ably supported by Piggy, went +to sleep with a long thin cigar in the corner of his long thin mouth. He +had heard it all before. + +Bertram found his Devil’s Own cocktail an exceedingly potent and +unpleasant concoction. He decided that his first meeting with this +beverage of the Evil One should be his last, and when Piggy, suddenly +sitting up, remarked: “What’s wrong with the drinks?” and tinkled the +bell, he arose, said a hurried farewell in some confusion, and fled. + +“’Tain’t right to send a half-baked lad like that to fight the Colonial +German,” observed Bill, idly watching his retreating form. + +“Nope,” agreed the American, waking up. “I _was_ going to say it’s +adding insult to injury—but you ain’t injured Fritz any, yet, I guess,” +and went to sleep again before either of the glaring Englishmen could +think of a retort. + +Ere Bertram left the Club, he heard two pieces of “inside” military +information divulged quite openly, and by the Staff itself. As he +reached the porch, a lady of fluffy appearance and kittenish demeanour +was delaying a red-tabbed captain who appeared to be endeavouring to +escape. + +“And, oh, Captain, _do_ tell me what ‘A.S.C.’ and ‘C.C.’ mean,” said the +lady. “I saw a man with ‘A.S.C.’ on his shoulders, and there are two +officers with ‘C.C.,’ in the Club. . . . _Do_ you know what it means? I +am _so_ interested in military matters. Or is it a secret?” + +“Oh, no!” replied the staff-officer, as he turned to flee. “‘A.S.C.’ +stands for Ally Sloper’s Cavalry, of course, and ‘C.C.’ for Coolie +Catchers. . . . They are slave-traders, really, with a Government +contract for the supply of porters. They get twenty rupees for each +slave caught and delivered alive, and ten for a dead one, or one who dies +within a week.” + +“What do they want the _dead_ ones for?” she whispered. + +“_That_ I dare not tell you,” replied the officer darkly, and with a +rapid salute, departed. + +Emerging from the Club garden on to the white road, Bertram gazed around +for his trolley-boys and beheld them not. + +“All right, ole chap,” boomed the voice of Ali, who suddenly appeared +beside him. “I looking after _Bwana_. Master going back along shippy? +I fetch trolley now and see _Bwana_ at Kilindini, thank you, please sah, +good God,” and he disappeared in the direction of the town, returning a +couple of minutes later with the trolley. + +“Master not pay these dam’ thieves too much, ole chap,” he remarked. +“Two journey and one hour wait, they ask five rupees. Master give +two-an’-a-puck.” + +“How much is a ‘puck’?” enquired Bertram, ever anxious to learn. + +“Sah?” returned the puzzled Ali. + +“What’s a puck?” repeated Bertram, and a smile of bright intelligence +engulfed the countenance of the big Swahili. + +“Oh, yessah!” he rumbled. “Give two rupee and what _Bwana_ call +‘puck-in-the-neck.’ All the same, biff-on-the-napper, dig-in-the-ribs, +smack-in-the-eye, kick-up-the—” + +“_Oh_, yes, I see,” interrupted Bertram, smiling—but at the back of his +amusement was the sad realisation that he was not of the class of +_bwanas_ who can gracefully, firmly and finally present two-and-a-puck to +extortionate and importunate trolley-boys. + +He stepped on to the trolley and sat down, as Ali, saluting and salaaming +respectfully, again bade him be of good cheer and high heart, as he would +see him at Kilindini. + +“How will you get there? Would you like to ride?” asked the kind-hearted +and considerate Bertram (far too kind-hearted and considerate for the +successful handling of black or brown subordinates and inferiors). + +“Oh, God, sah, no, please,” replied the smiling Ali. “This Swahili slave +cannot sit with _Bwana_, and cannot run with damn low trolley-boys. Can +running by self though like gentleman, thank you, please,” and as the +trolley started, added: “So long, ole chap. See Master at Kilindini by +running like hell. Ta-ta by damn!” When the trolley had disappeared +round a bend of the road, he generously kilted up his flowing night-dress +and started off at the long loping trot which the African can maintain +over incredible distances. + +Arrived at Kilindini, Bertram paid the trolley-boys and discovered that, +while they absorbed rupees with the greatest avidity, they looked askance +at such fractions thereof as the eight-anna, four-anna, and two-anna +piece, poking them over in their palms and finally tendering them back to +him with many grunts and shakes of the head as he said: + +“Well, you’ll _have_ to take them, you silly asses,” to the +uncomprehending coolies. “_That_ lot makes a rupee—one half-a-rupee and +two quarters, and that lot makes a rupee—four two-anna bits and two +four-annas, doesn’t it?” + +But the men waxed clamorous, and one of them threw his money on the +ground with an impudent and offensive gesture. Bertram coloured hotly, +and his fist clenched. He hesitated; ought he. . . . _Smack_! _Thud_! +and the man rolled in the dust as Ali Sloper, _alias_ Suleiman, sprang +upon him, smote him again, and stood over him, pouring forth a terrific +torrent of violent vituperation. + +As the victim of his swift assault obediently picked up the rejected +coins, he turned to Bertram. + +“These dam’ niggers not knowing _annas_, sah,” he said, “only _cents_. +This not like East Indiaman’s country. Hundred cents making one rupee +here. All shopkeepers saying, ‘No damn good’ if master offering annas, +please God, sah.” + +“Well—I haven’t enough money with me, then—” began Bertram. + +“I pay trolley-boys, sah,” interrupted Ali quickly, “and Master can +paying me to-morrow—or on pay-day at end of mensem.” + +“But, look here,” expostulated Bertram, as this new-found guide, +philosopher and friend sent the apparently satisfied coolies about their +business. “I might not see you to-morrow. You’d better come with me to +the ship and—” + +“Oh, sah, sah!” cried the seemingly hurt and offended Ali, “am I not +_Bwana’s_ faithful ole servant?” and turning from the subject as closed, +said he would produce a boat to convey his cherished employer to his +ship. + +“Master bucking up like hell now, please,” he advised. “No boat allowed +to move in harbour after six pip emma, sah, thank God, please.” + +“Who on earth’s Pip Emma?” enquired the bewildered Bertram, as they +hurried down the hill to the quay. + +“What British soldier-mans and officer-_bwanas_ in Signal Corps call +‘p.m.,’ sah,” was the reply. “Master saying ‘six p.m.,’ but Signal +_Bwana_ always saying ‘six pip emma’—all same meaning but different +language, please God, sah. P’r’aps German talk, sah? I do’n’ know, +sah.” + +And Bertram then remembered being puzzled by a remark of Maxton (to the +effect that he had endeavoured to go down to his cabin at “three ack +emma” and being full of “beer,” had fallen “ack over tock” down the +companion), and saw light on the subject. Truly these brigade signaller +people talked in a weird tongue that might seem a foreign language to an +uninitiated listener. + +At the pier he saw Commander Finnis, of the Royal Indian Marine, and +gratefully accepted an offer of a joy-ride in his launch to the good ship +_Elymas_, to which that officer was proceeding. + +“We’re disembarking you blokes to-morrow morning,” said he to Bertram, as +they seated themselves in the stern of the smart little boat. “Indian +troops going under canvas here, and British entraining for Nairobi. Two +British officers of Indian Army to proceed by tug at once to M’paga, a +few hours down the coast, in German East. Scrap going on there. Poor +devils will travel on deck, packed tight with fifty sheep and a gang of +nigger coolies. . . . _Some_ whiff!” and he chuckled callously. + +“D’you know who are going?” asked Bertram eagerly. Suppose he should be +one of them—and in a “scrap” by this time to-morrow! How would he +comport himself in his first fight? + +“No,” yawned the Commander. “O.C. troops on board will settle that.” + +And Bertram held his peace, visualising himself as collecting his kit, +hurrying on to a dirty little tug to sit in the middle of a flock of +sheep while the boat puffed and panted through the night along the +mysterious African shore, landing on some white coral beach beneath the +palms at dawn, hurrying to join the little force fighting with its back +to the sea and its face to the foe, leaping into a trench, seizing the +rifle of a dying man whose limp fingers unwillingly relaxed their grip, +firing rapidly but accurately into the— + +“Up you go,” quoth Commander Finnis, and Bertram arose and stepped on to +the platform at the bottom of the ladder that hospitably climbed the side +of His Majesty’s Troop-ship _Elymas_. + + + +CHAPTER VIII +_Military and Naval Manœuvres_ + + +However nonchalant in demeanour, it was an eager and excited crowd of +officers that stood around the foot of the boat-deck ladder awaiting the +result of the conference held in the Captain’s cabin, to which +meeting-place its proprietor had taken Commander Finnis before requesting +the presence of Colonel Haldon, the First Officer, and the Ship’s +Adjutant, to learn the decision and orders of the powers-that-be +concerning all and sundry, from the ship’s Captain to the Sepoys’ cook. + +Who would Colonel Haldon send forthwith to M’paga, where the scrap was +even then in progress (according to Lieutenant Greene, quoting Commander +Finnis)? What orders did the papers in the fateful little dispatch-case, +borne by the latter gentleman, contain for the various officers not +already instructed to join their respective corps? Who would be sent to +healthy, cheery Nairobi? Who to the vile desert at Voi? Who to +interesting, far-distant Uganda? Who to the ghastly mangrove-swamps down +the coast by the border of German East? Who to places where there was +real active service, fighting, wounds, distinction and honourable death? +Who to dreary holes where they would “sit down” and sit tight, rotting +with fever and dysentery, eating out their hearts, without seeing a +single German till the end of the war. . . . + +Bertram thought of a certain “lucky-dip bran-tub,” that loomed large in +memories of childhood, whence, at a Christmas party, he had seen three or +four predecessors draw most attractive and delectable toys and he had +drawn a mysterious and much-tied parcel which had proved to contain a +selection of first-class coke. What was he about to draw from Fate’s +bran-tub to-day? + +When the Ship’s Adjutant, bearing sheets of foolscap, eventually emerged +from the Captain’s cabin, ran sidling down the boat-deck ladder and +proceeded to the notice-board in the saloon-companion, followed by the +nonchalantly eager and excited crowd, as is the frog-capturing duck by +all the other ducks of the farm-yard, Bertram, with beating heart, read +down the list until he came to his own name—only to discover that Fate +had hedged. + +The die was not yet cast, and Second-Lieutenant B. Greene would disembark +with detachments, Indian troops, and, at Mombasa, await further orders. + +Captain Brandone and Lieutenant Stanner would proceed immediately to +M’paga, and with wild cries of “Yoicks! Tally Ho!” and “Gone away!” +those two officers fled to their respective cabins to collect their kit. + +Dinner that night was a noisy meal, and talk turned largely upon the +merits or demerits of the places from Mombasa to Uganda to which the +speakers had been respectively posted. + +“Where are you going, Brannigan?” asked Bertram of that cheery Hibernian, +as he seated himself beside him. + +“Where am Oi goin’, is ut, me bhoy?” was the reply. “Faith, where the +loin-eating man—Oi mane the man-eating loins reside, bedad. Ye’ve heard +o’ the man-eaters of Tsavo? That’s where Oi’m goin’, me bucko—to the +man-eaters of Tsavo.” + +Terence had evidently poured a libation of usquebagh before dining, for +he appeared wound up to talk. + +“Begorra—if ut’s loin-eaters they are, it’s Terry Brannigan’ll gird up +_his_ loins an’ be found there missing entoirely. . . . Oi’d misloike to +be ’aten by a loin, Greene . . .” and he frowned over the idea and grew +momentarily despondent. + +“’Tis not phwat I wint for a sojer for, at all, at all,” he complained, +and added a lament to the effect that he was not as tough as O’Toole’s +pig. But the mention of this animal appeared to have a cheering effect, +for he burst into song. + + “Ye’ve heard of Larry O’Toole, + O’ the beautiful town o’ Drumgool? + Faith, he had but wan eye + To ogle ye by, + But, begorra, that wan was a jool. . . .” + +After dinner, Bertram sought out Colonel Haldon for further orders, +information and advice. + +“Everybody clears off to-morrow morning, my boy,” said he, “and in +twenty-four hours we shall be scattered over a country as big as Europe. +You’ll be in command, till further orders, of all native troops landed at +Mombasa. I don’t suppose you’ll be there long, though. You may get +orders to bung off with the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth draft of the Hundred +and Ninety-Eighth, or you may have to see them off under a Native Officer +and go in the opposite direction yourself. . . . Don’t worry, anyway. +You’ll be all right. . . .” + +That night Bertram again slept but little, and had a bad relapse into the +old state of self-distrust, depression and anxiety. This sense of +inadequacy, inexperience and unworth was overwhelming. What did he know +about Sepoys that he should, for a time, be in sole command and charge of +a mixed force of Regular troops and Imperial Service troops which +comprised Gurkhas, Sikhs, Pathans, Punjabi Mahommedans, Deccani Marathas, +Rajputs, and representatives of almost every other fighting race in +India? It would be bad enough if he could thoroughly understand the +language of any one of them. As it was, he had a few words of cook-house +Hindustani, and a man whom he disliked and distrusted as his sole +representative and medium of intercourse with the men. Suppose the +fellow was rather his _mis_-representative? Suppose he fomented trouble, +as only a native can? What if there were a sudden row and quarrel +between some of the naturally inimical races—a sort of inter-tribal +shindy between the Sikhs and the Pathans, for example? Who was wretched +little “Blameless Bertram,” to think he could impose his authority upon +such people and quell the riot with a word? What if they defied him and +the Jemadar did not support him? What sort of powers and authority had +he? . . . He did not know. . . . Suppose there _were_ a row, and there +was real fighting and bloodshed? It would get into the papers, and his +name would be held up to the contempt of the whole British Empire. It +would get into the American papers too. Then an exaggerated account of +it would be published in the Press of the Central Powers and their +wretched allies, to show the rotten condition of the Indian Army. The +neutral papers would copy it. Soon there would not be a corner of the +civilised world where people had not heard the name of Greene, the name +of the wretched creature who could not maintain order and discipline +among a few native troops, but allowed some petty quarrel between two +soldiers to develop into an “incident.” Yes—that’s what would happen, a +“regrettable incident.” . . . And the weary old round of self-distrust, +depreciation and contempt went its sorry cycle once again. . . . + +Going on deck in the morning, Bertram discovered that supplementary +orders had been published, and that all native troops would be +disembarked under his command at twelve noon, and that he would report, +upon landing, to the Military Landing Officer, from whom he would receive +further orders. . . . Troops would carry no ammunition, nor cooked +rations. All kits would go ashore with the men. . . . + +Bertram at once proceeded to the companion leading down to the well-deck, +called a Sepoy of the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth, and “sent his salaams” to +the Jemadar of that regiment, to the Subedar of the Gurkhas, the Subedar +of the Sherepur Sikhs and the Jemadar of the Very Mixed Contingent. + +To these officers he endeavoured to make it clear that every man of their +respective commands, and every article of those men’s kit, bedding, and +accoutrements, and all stores, rations and ammunition, must be ready for +disembarkation at midday. + +The little Gurkha Subedar smiled brightly, saluted, and said he quite +understood—which was rather clever of him, as his Hindustani was almost +as limited as was Bertram’s. However, he had grasped, from Bertram’s +barbarous and laborious “_Sub admi_ . . . _sub saman_ . . . _sub chiz_ +. . . _tyar_ . . . _bara badji_ . . . _ither se jainga_ . . .” that “all +men . . . all baggage . . . all things . . . at twelve o’clock . . . will +go from here”—and that was good enough for him. + +“Any chance of fighting to-morrow, Sahib?” he asked, but Bertram, +unfortunately, did not understand him. + +The tall, bearded Sikh Subedar saluted correctly, said nothing but +“_Bahut achcha_, _Sahib_,” {81} and stood with a cold sneer frozen upon +his hard and haughty countenance. + +The burly Jemadar of the Very Mixed Contingent, or Mixed Pickles, smiled +cheerily, laughed merrily at nothing in particular, and appeared mildly +shocked at Bertram’s enquiry as to whether he understood. Of _course_, +he understood! Was not the Sahib a most fluent speaker of most faultless +Urdu, or Hindi, or Sindhi, or Tamil or something? Anyhow, he had clearly +caught the words “all men ready at twelve o’clock”—and who could require +more than a nice clear _hookum_ like that. + +Jemadar Hassan Ali looked pained and doubtful. So far as his +considerable histrionic powers permitted, he gave his rendering of an +honest and intelligent man befogged by perfectly incomprehensible orders +and contradictory directions which he may not question and on which he +may not beg further enlightenment. His air and look of “_Faithful to the +last I will go forth and strive to obey orders which I cannot +understand_, _and to carry out instructions given so incomprehensibly and +in so strange a tongue that Allah alone knows what is required of me_” +annoyed Bertram exceedingly, and having smiled upon the cheery little +Subedar and the cheery big Jemadar, and looked coldly upon the unpleasant +Sikh and the difficult Hassan Ali, he informed the quartette that it had +his permission to depart. + +As they saluted and turned to go, he caught a gleam of ferocious hatred +upon the face of the Gurkha officer whom the Sikh jostled, with every +appearance of intentional rudeness and the desire to insult. Bertram’s +sympathy was with the Gurkha and he wished that it was with him and his +sturdy little followers that he was to proceed to the front. He felt +that they would follow him to the last inch of the way and the last drop +of their blood, and would fight for sheer love of fighting, as soon as +they were shown an enemy. + +After a somewhat depressing breakfast, at which he found himself almost +alone, Bertram arrayed himself in full war paint, packed his kit, said +farewell to the ship’s officers and then inspected the troops, drawn up +ready for disembarkation on the well-decks. He was struck by the +apparent cheerfulness of the Gurkhas and the clumsy heaviness of their +kit which included a great horse-collar roll of cape, overcoat or +ground-sheet strapped like a colossal cross-belt across one shoulder and +under the other arm; by the apparent depression of the men of the Very +Mixed Contingent and their slovenliness; by what seemed to him the +critical and unfriendly stare of the Sherepur Sikhs as he passed along +their ranks; and by the elderliness of the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth +draft. Had these latter been perceptibly aged by their sea-faring +experiences and were they feeling terribly _terra marique jactati_, or +was it that the impossibility of procuring henna or other dye had caused +the lapse of brown, orange, pink and red beards and moustaches to their +natural greyness? Anyhow, they looked distinctly old, and on the whole, +fitter for the ease and light duty of “employed pensioner” than for +active service under very difficult conditions against a ferocious foe +upon his native heath. His gentle nature and kindly heart led Bertram to +feel very sorry indeed for one bemedalled old gentleman who had evidently +had a very bad crossing, still had a very bad cough, and looked likely to +have another go of fever before very long. + +As he watched the piling-up of square-sided boxes of rations, oblong +boxes of ammunition, sacks, tins, bags and jars, bundles of kit and +bedding, cooking paraphernalia, entrenching tools, mule harness, huge +zinc vessels for the transport of water, leather _chhagals_ and canvas +_pakhals_ or waterbags, and wished that his own tight-strapped +impedimenta were less uncomfortable and heavy, a cloud of choking smoke +from the top of the funnel of some boat just below him, apprised him of +the fact that his transport was ready. Looking over the side he saw a +large barge, long, broad, and very deep, with upper decks at stem and +stern, which a fussy little tug had just brought into position below an +open door in the middle of the port side of the _Elymas_. It was a long +way below it too, and he realised that unless a ladder were provided +every man would have to drop from the threshold of the door to the very +narrow edge of the barge about six feet below, make his way along it to +the stern deck, and down a plank on to the “floor” of the barge itself. +When his turn came he’d make an ass of himself—he’d fall—he knew he +would! + +He tried to make Jemadar Hassan Ali understand that two Havildars were to +stand on the edge of the barge, one each side of the doorway and guide +the errant tentative feet of each man as he lowered himself and clung to +the bottom of the doorway. He also had the sacks thrown where anyone who +missed his footing and fell from the side of the barge to the bottom +would fall upon them and roll, instead of taking the eight feet drop and +hurting himself. When this did happen, the Sepoys roared with laughter +and appeared to be immensely diverted. It occurred several times, for it +is no easy matter to lower oneself some six feet, from one edge to +another, when heavily accoutred and carrying a rifle. When every man and +package was on board, Bertram cast one last look around the _Elymas_, +took a deep breath, crawled painfully out backwards through the port, +clung to the sharp iron edge, felt about wildly with his feet which were +apparently too sacred and superior for the Havildars to grab and guide, +felt his clutching fingers weaken and slip, and then with a pang of +miserable despair fell—and landed on the side of the barge a whole inch +below where his feet had been when he fell. A minute later he had made +his way to the prow, and, with a regal gesture, had signified to the +captain of the tug that he might carry on. + +And then he sat him down upon the little piece of deck and gazed upon the +sea of upturned faces, black, brown, wheat-coloured, and yellow, that +spread out at his feet from end to end and side to side of the great +barge. + +Of what were they thinking, these men from every corner of India and +Nepal, as they stood shoulder to shoulder, or squatted on the boxes and +bales that covered half the floor of the barge? What did they think of +him? Did they really despise and dislike him as he feared, or did they +admire and like and trust him—simply because he was a white man and a +Sahib? He had a suspicion that the Sikhs disliked him, the Mixed +Contingent took him on trust as an Englishman, the Hundred and +Ninety-Ninth kept an open mind, and the Gurkhas liked him—all reflecting +really the attitude of their respective Native Officers. . . . + +In a few minutes the barge was run alongside the Kilindini quay, and +Bertram was, for the second time, climbing its stone stairs, in search of +the Military Landing Officer, the arbiter of his immediate destiny. + +As he reached the top of the steps he was, as it were, engulfed and +embraced in a smile that he already knew—and he realised that it was with +a distinct sense of pleasure and a feeling of lessened loneliness and +unshared friendless responsibility that he beheld the beaming face of his +“since-long-time-to-come” faithful old retainer Ali Suleiman. + +“God bless myself please, thank you, _Bwana_,” quoth that gentleman, +saluting repeatedly. “_Bwana_ will now wanting Military Embarkation +Officer by golly. I got him, sah,” and turning about added, “_Bwana_ +come along me, sah, I got him all right,” as though he had, with much +skill and good luck, tracked down, ensnared, and encaged some wary and +wily animal. . . . + +At the end of the little stone pier was a rough table or desk, by which +stood a burly officer clad in slacks, and a vast spine-pad of quilted +khaki. On the tables were writing-materials and a mass of papers. + +“Mornin’,” remarked this gentleman, turning a crimson and perspiring face +to Bertram. “I’m the M.L.O. You’ll fall your men in here and they’ll +stack their kits with the rations and ammunition over there. Then you +must tell off working-parties to cart the lot up to the camp. I’ve only +got two trucks and your fatigue-parties’ll have to man-handle ’em. +You’ll have to ginger ’em up or you’ll be here all day. I don’t want you +to march off till all your stuff’s up to the camp. . . . Don’t bung off +yourself, y’know. . . . Right O. Carry on. . . .” Bertram saluted. + +Another job which he must accomplish without hitch or error. The more +jobs he _could_ do, the better. What he dreaded was the job for the +successful tackling of which he had not the knowledge, ability or +experience. + +“Very good, sir,” he replied. “Er—where _are_ the trolleys?” for there +was no sign of any vehicle about the quay. + +“Oh, they’ll roll up by and by, I expect,” was the reply. Bertram again +saluted and returned to the barge. Calling to the Native Officers he +told them that the men would fall in on the bunder and await further +orders, each detachment furnishing a fatigue-party for the unloading of +the impedimenta. Before very long, the men were standing at ease in the +shade of a great shed, and their kits, rations and ammunition were piled +in a great mound at the wharf edge. + +And thus, having nothing to do until the promised trucks arrived, Bertram +realised that it was terribly hot; suffocatingly, oppressively, +dangerously hot; and that he felt very giddy, shaky and faint. + +The sun seemed to beat upward from the stone of the quay and sideways +from the iron of the sheds as fiercely and painfully as it did downward +from the sky. And there was absolutely nowhere to sit down. He couldn’t +very well squat down in the dirt. . . . No—but the men could—so he +approached the little knot of Native Officers and told them to allow the +men to pile arms, fall out, and sit against the wall of the shed—no man +to leave the line without permission. + +Jemadar Hassan Ali did not forget to post a sentry over the arms on this +occasion. For an hour Bertram strolled up and down. It was less tiring +to do that than to stand still. His eyes ached most painfully by reason +of the blinding glare, his head ached from the pressure on his brows of +his thin, but hard and heavy, helmet (the regulation pattern, apparently +designed with an eye to the maximum of danger and discomfort) and his +body ached by reason of the weight and tightness of his accoutrements. +It was nearly two o’clock and he had breakfasted early. Suppose he got +sunstroke, or collapsed from heat, hunger, and weariness? What an +exhibition! When would the men get their next meal? Where were those +trolleys? It was two hours since the Military Landing Officer had said +they’d “roll up by and by.” He’d go and remind him. + +The Military Landing Officer was just off to his lunch and well-earned +rest at the Club. He had been on the beastly bunder since six in the +morning—and anybody who wanted him now could come and find him, what? + +“Excuse me, sir,” said Bertram as Captain Angus flung his portfolio of +papers to his orderly, “those trucks haven’t come yet.” + +“_Wha’_ trucks?” snapped the Landing Officer. He had just told himself +he had _done_ for to-day—and he had had nothing since half-past five that +morning. People must be reasonable—he’d been hard at it for eight solid +hours damitall y’know. + +“The trucks for my baggage and ammunition and stuff.” + +“Well, _I_ haven’t got ’em, have I?” replied Captain Angus. “Be +reasonable about it. . . I can’t _make_ trucks. . . Anybody’d think I’d +stolen your trucks. . . . You must be _patient_, y’know, and _do_ be +reasonable. . . . _I_ haven’t got ’em. Search me.” + +The Military Landing Officer had been on his job for months and had +unconsciously evolved two formulæ, which he used for his seniors and +juniors respectively, without variation of a word. Bertram had just +heard the form of prayer to be used with Captains and unfortunates of +lower rank, who showed yearnings for things unavoidable. To Majors and +those senior thereunto the crystallised ritual was: + +“Can’t understand it, sir, at all. I issued the necessary orders all +right—but there’s a terrible shortage. One must make allowances in these +times of stress. It’ll turn up all right. _I_’ll see to it . . .” etc., +and this applied equally well to missing trains, mules, regiments, +horses, trucks, orders, motor-cars or anything else belonging to the +large class of Things That Can Go Astray. + +“You told me to wait, sir,” said Bertram. + +“Then why the devil _don’t you_?” said Captain Angus. + +“I am, sir,” replied Bertram. + +“Then what’s all this infernal row about?” replied Captain Angus. + +Bertram felt that he understood exactly how children feel when, unjustly +treated, they cannot refrain from tears. It was _too_ bad. He had stood +in this smiting sun for over two hours awaiting the promised trucks—and +now he was accused of making an infernal row because he had mentioned +that they had not turned up! If the man had told him where they were, +surely he and his three hundred men could have gone and got them long +ago. + +“By the way,” continued Captain Angus, “I’d better give you your +route—for when you _do_ get away—and you mustn’t sit here all day like +this, y’know. You must ginger ’em up a bit” (more formula this) “or +you’ll all take root. Well, look here, you go up the hill and keep +straight on to where a railway-bridge crosses the road. Turn to the left +before you go under the bridge, and keep along the railway line till you +see some tents on the left again. Strike inland towards these, and +you’ll find your way all right. Take what empty tents you want, but +don’t spread yourself _too_ much—though there’s only some details there +now. You’ll be in command of that camp for the present. . . . Better +not bung off to the Club either—you may be wanted in a hurry. . . . I’ll +see if those trucks are on the way as I go up. Don’t hop off till you’ve +shifted all your stuff. . . So long! . . .” and the Military Landing +Officer bustled off to where at the Dock gates a motor-car awaited him. . . . + +Before long, Bertram found that he must either sit down or fall down, so +terrific was the stifling heat, so heavy had his accoutrements become, +and so faint, empty and giddy did he feel. + +Through the open door of a corrugated-iron shed he could see a huge, +burly, red-faced European, sitting at a little rough table in a big bare +room. In this barn-like place was nothing else but a telephone-box and a +chair. Could he go in and sit on it? That dark and shady interior +looked like a glimpse of heaven from this hell of crashing glare and +gasping heat. . . . Perhaps confidential military communications were +made through that telephone though, and the big man, arrayed in a singlet +and white trousers, was there for the very purpose of receiving them +secretly and of preventing the intrusion of any stranger? Anyhow—it +would be a minute’s blessed escape from the blinding inferno, merely to +go inside and ask the man if he could sit down while he awaited the +trucks. He could place the chair in a position from which he could see +his men. . . . He entered the hut, and the large man raised a +clean-shaven crimson face, ornamented with a pair of piercing blue eyes, +and stared hard at him as he folded a pinkish newspaper and said nothing +at all, rather disconcertingly. + +“May I come in and sit down for a bit, please?” said Bertram. “I think +I’ve got a touch of the sun.” + +“Put your wacant faice in that wacant chair,” was the prompt reply. + +“Thanks—may I put it where I can see my men?” said Bertram. + +“Putt it where you can cock yer feet on this ’ere table an’ lean back +agin that pertition, more sense,” replied the large red man, scratching +his large red head. “_You_ don’ want to see yore men, you don’t,” he +added. “They’re a ’orrid sight. . . . All natives is. . . . You putt +it where you kin get a good voo o’ _me_. . . . Shed a few paounds o’ the +hup’olstery and maike yerself atome. . . . Wisht I got somethink to +orfer yer—but I ain’t. . . . Can’t be ’osspitable on a basin o’ water +wot’s bin washed in—can yer?” + +Bertram admitted the difficulty, and, with a sigh of intense relief, +removed his belt and cross-belts and all that unto them pertained. And, +as he sank into the chair with a grateful heart, entered Ali Suleiman, +whom he had not seen for an hour, bearing in one huge paw a great mug of +steaming tea, and in the other a thick plate of thicker biscuits. + +Bertram could have wrung the hand that fed him. Never before in the +history of tea had a cup of tea been so welcome. + +“Heaven reward you as I never can,” quoth Bertram, as he drank. “Where +on earth did you raise it?” + +“Oh, sah!” beamed Ali. “Master not mentioning it. I am knowing +cook-fellow at R.E. Sergeants’ Mess, and saying my frien’ Sergeant Jones, +R.E., wanting cup of tea and biscuits at bunder P.D.Q.” + +“P.D.Q.?” enquired Bertram. + +“Yessah, all ’e same ‘pretty dam quick’—and bringing it to _Bwana_ by +mistake,” replied Ali, the son of Suleiman. + +“But _isn’t_ there some mistake?” asked the puzzled youth. “I don’t want +to . . .” + +“Lookere,” interrupted the large red man, “_you_ don’ wanter discover no +mistakes, not until you drunk that tea, you don’t. . . . You push that +daown yore neck and then give that nigger a cent an’ tell ’im to be less +careful nex’ time. You don’ wanter _dis_courage a good lad like that, +you don’t. Not ’arf, you do.” + +“But—Sergeant Jones’s tea” began Bertram, looking unhappily at the +half-emptied cup. + +“_Sergeant Jones’s tea_!” mimicked the rude red man, in a high falsetto. +“_If_ ole Shifter Jones drunk a cup o’ tea it’d be in all the paipers +nex’ mornin’, it would. Not arf it wouldn’t. Don’ believe ’e ever +tasted tea, I don’t, an’ if he _did_—” + +But at this moment a white-clad naval officer of exalted rank strode into +the room, and the large red man sprang to his feet with every sign of +respect and regard. Picking up a Navy straw hat from the floor, the +latter gentleman stood at attention with it in his hand. Bertram decided +that he was a naval petty officer on some shore-job or other, perhaps +retired and now a coast-guard or Customs official of some kind. +Evidently he knew the exalted naval officer and held him, or his Office, +in high regard. + +“Get my message, William Hankey?” he snapped. + +“Yessir,” replied William Hankey. + +“Did you telephone for the car at once?” + +“Nossir,” admitted Hankey, with a fluttering glance of piteous appeal. + +The naval officer’s face became a ferocious and menacing mask of wrath +and hate, lit up by a terrible glare. Up to that moment he had been +rather curiously like Hankey. Now he was even more like a very +infuriated lion. He took a step nearer the table, fixed his burning, +baleful eye upon the wilting William, and withered him with the most +extraordinary blast of scorching invective that Bertram had ever heard, +or was ever likely to hear, unless he met Captain Sir Thaddeus Bellingham +ffinch Beffroye again. + +“You blundering bullock,” quoth he; “you whimpering weasel; you bleating +blup; you miserable dog-potter; you horny-eyed, bleary-nosed, bat-eared, +lop-sided, longshore loafer; you perishing shrimp-peddler; you Young +Helper; you Mother’s Little Pet; you dear Ministering Child; you +blistering bug-house body-snatcher; you bloated bumboat-woman; you +hopping hermaphrodite—what d’ye mean by it? Eh? . . . _What d’ye mean +by it_, you anæmic Aggie; you ape-faced anthropoid; you adenoid; you +blood-stained buzzard; you abject abortion; you abstainer; you sickly, +one-lunged, half-baked, under-fed alligator; you scrofulous scorbutic; +you peripatetic pimple; you perambulating pimp-faced poodle; what about +it? Eh? _What about it_?” + +Mr. William Hankey stood silent and motionless, but in his face was the +expression of one who, with critical approval, listens and enjoys. Such +a look may be seen upon the face of a musician the while he listens to +the performance of a greater musician. + +Having taken breath, the Captain continued: “What have you got to say for +yourself, you frig-faced farthing freak, you? Nothing! You purple +poultice-puncher; you hopeless, helpless, herring-gutted hound; you +dropsical drink-water; you drunken, drivelling dope-dodger; you mouldy, +mossy-toothed, mealy-mouthed maggot; you squinny-faced, squittering, +squint-eyed squab, you—what have you got to say for yourself? Eh? . . . +_Answer me_, you mole; you mump; you measle; you knob; you nit; you noun; +you part; you piece; you portion; you bald-headed, slab-sided, +jelly-bellied jumble; you mistake; you accident; you imperial stinker; +you poor, pale pudding; you populous, pork-faced parrot—why don’t you +speak, you doddering, dumb-eared, deaf-mouthed dust-hole; you jabbering, +jawing, jumping Jezebel, why don’t you answer me? Eh? _D’ye hear_ me, +you fighting gold-fish; you whistling water-rat; you Leaning Tower of +Pisa-pudding; you beer-belching ration-robber; you pink-eyed, perishing +pension-cheater; you flat-footed, frog-faced fragment; you trumpeting +tripe-hound? Hold your tongue and listen to me, you barge-bottom +barnacle; you nestling gin-lapper; you barmaid-biting bun-bolter; you +tuberculous tub; you mouldy manure-merchant; you moulting mop-chewer; you +kagging, corybantic cockroach; you lollipop-looting lighterman; you naval +know-all. _Why didn’t you telephone for the car_?” + +“’Cos it were ’ere all the time, sir,” replied Mr. William Hankey, +perceiving that his superior officer had run down and required rest. + +“_That’s_ all right, then,” replied Captain Sir Thaddeus Bellingham +ffinch Beffroye pleasantly, and strode to the door. There he turned, and +again addressed Mr. Hankey. + +“Why couldn’t you say so, instead of chattering and jabbering and +mouthing and mopping and mowing and yapping and yiyiking for an hour, Mr. +Woozy, Woolly-witted, Wandering William Hankey?” he enquired. + +The large red man looked penitent. + +“Hankey,” the officer added, “you are a land-lubber. You are a pier-head +yachtsman. You are a beach pleasure-boat pilot. You are a canal +bargee.” + +Mr. Hankey looked hurt, _touché_, broken. + +“Oh, _sir_!” said he, stricken at last. + +“William Hankey, you are a _volunteer_,” continued his remorseless judge. + +Mr. Hankey fell heavily into his chair, and fetched a deep groan. + +“William Hankey-Pankey—you are a _conscientious objector_,” said the +Captain in a quiet, cold and cruel voice. + +A little gasping cry escaped Mr. Hankey. He closed his eyes, swayed a +moment, and then dropped fainting on the table, the which his large red +head smote with a dull and heavy thud, as the heartless officer strode +away. + +A moment later Mr. Hankey revived, winked at the astonished Bertram, and +remarked: + +“I’d swim in blood fer ’im, I would, any day. I’d swim in beer wi’ me +mouf shut, if ’e ast me, I would. . . . ’E’s the pleasant-manneredest, +kindest, nicest bloke I was ever shipmates wiv, ’e is. . .” + +“His bark is worse than his bite, I suppose?” hazarded Bertram. + +“Bark!” replied Mr. Hankey. “’E wouldn’ bark at a blind beggar’s deaf +dog, ’e wouldn’t. . . . The ship’s a ’Appy Ship wot’s got _’im_ fer Ole +Man. . . . Why—the matlows do’s liddle things jest to git brought up +before ’im to listen to ’is voice. . . . Yes. . . . Their Master’s +Voice. . . . Wouldn’ part brass-rags wiv ’im for a nogs’ead o’ rum. . . .” + +Feeling a different man for the tea and biscuits, Bertram thanked Mr. +Hankey for his hospitality, and stepped out on to the quay, thinking, as +the heat-blast struck him, that one would experience very similar +sensations by putting his head into an oven and then stepping on to the +stove. In the shade of the sheds the Sepoys sprawled, even the cheery +Gurkhas seemed unhappy and uncomfortable in that fiery furnace. + +Bertram’s heart smote him. Had it been the act of a good officer to go +and sit down in that shed, to drink tea and eat biscuits, while his men +. . . ? Yes, surely that was all right. He was far less acclimatised to +heat and glare than they, and it would be no service to them for him to +get heat-stroke and apoplexy or “a touch of the sun.” They had their +water-bottles and their grain-and-sugar ration and their cold +_chupattis_. They were under conditions far more closely approximating +to normal than he was. Of course it is boring to spend hours in the same +place with full equipment on, but, after all, it was much worse for a +European, whose thoughts run on a cool club luncheon-room; a bath and +change; and a long chair, a cold drink and a novel, under a punkah on the +club verandah thereafter. . . . Would those infernal trucks _never_ +come? Suppose they never did? Was he to stay there all night? He had +certainly received definite orders from the “competent military +authority” to stay there until all his baggage had been sent off. Was +that to relieve the competent military authority of responsibility in the +event of any of it being stolen? . . . Probably the competent military +authority was now having his tea, miles away at the Club. What should he +do if no trucks had materialised by nightfall? How about consulting the +Native Officers? . . . Perish the thought! . . . They’d have to stick +it, the same as he would. The orders were quite clear, and all he had +got to do was to sit tight and await trucks—if he grew grey in the +process. + +Some six hours from the time at which he had landed, a couple of small +four-wheeled trucks were pushed on to the wharf by a fatigue-party of +Sepoys from the camp; the Naik in charge of them saluted and fled, lest +he and his men be impounded for further service; and Bertram instructed +the Gurkha Subedar to get a fatigue-party of men to work at loading the +two trucks to their utmost capacity, with baggage, kit, and ration-boxes. +It was evident that the arrival of the trucks did not mean the early +departure of the force, for several journeys would he necessary for the +complete evacuation of the mound of material to be shifted. Having +loaded the trucks, the fatigue-party pushed off, and it was only as the +two unwieldy erections of baggage were being propelled through the gates +by the willing little men, that it occurred to Bertram to enquire whether +they had any idea as to where they were going. + +Not the slightest, and they grinned cheerily. Another problem! Should +he now abandon the force and lead the fatigue-party in the light of the +Military Landing Officer’s description of the route, or should he +endeavour to give the Gurkha Subedar an idea of the way, and send him off +with the trucks? And suppose he lost his way and barged ahead straight +across the Island of Mombasa? That would mean that the rest of them +would have to sit on the wharf all night—if he obeyed the Military +Landing Officer’s orders. . . . Which he _must_ do, of course. . . . +Bertram was of a mild, inoffensive and quite unvindictive nature, but he +found himself wishing that the Military Landing Officer’s dinner might +thoroughly disagree with him. . . . His own did not appear likely to get +the opportunity. . . . He then and there determined that he would never +again be caught, while on Active Service, without food of some kind on +his person, if he could help it—chocolate, biscuits, something in a +tablet or a tin. . . . Should he go and leave the Native Officer in +command, or should he send forth the two precious trucks into the +gathering gloom and hope that, dove-like, they would return? . . . + +And again the voice of Ali fell like balm of Gilead, as it boomed, +welcome, opportune and cheering. + +“Sah, I will show the Chinamans the way to camp and bring them back +P.D.Q.,” quoth he. + +“Oh! Good man!” said Bertram. “Right O! But they’re not Chinamen—they +are Gurkha soldiers. . . . Don’t you hit one, or chivvy them about. . . .” + +“Sah, I am knowing all things,” was the modest reply, and the black giant +strode off, followed by the empiled wobbling waggons. + +More weary waiting, but, as the day waned, the decrease of heat and +sultriness failed to keep pace with the increasing hunger, faintness and +sickness which made at least one of the prisoners of the quay wish that +either he or the Emperor of Germany had never been born. . . . + +Journey after journey having been made, each by a fresh party of Gurkhas +(for Bertram, as is customary, used the willing horse, when he saw that +the little hill-men apparently liked work for its own sake, as much as +the other Sepoys disliked work for any sake), the moment at last arrived +when the ammunition-boxes could be loaded on to the trucks and the whole +force could be marched off as escort thereunto, leaving nothing behind +them upon the accursed stones of that oven, which had been their gaol for +ten weary hours. + +Never was the order, “Fall in!” obeyed with more alacrity, and it was +with a swinging stride that the troops marched out through the gates in +the rear of their British officer, who strode along with high-held head +and soldierly bearing, as he thanked God there was a good moon in the +heavens, and prayed that there might soon be a good meal in his stomach. + +Up the little hill and past the trolley “terminus” the party tramped, and +the hot, heavy night seemed comparatively cool after the terrible day on +the shut-in, stone and iron heat-trap of the quay. . . . As he glanced +at the diamond-studded velvet of the African sky, Bertram thought how +long ago seemed that morning when he had made his first march at the head +of his company. It seemed to have taken place, not only in another +continent, but in another age. Already he seemed an older, wiser, more +resourceful man. . . . + +“_Bwana_ turning feet to left hands here,” said Ali Suleiman from where, +abreast of Bertram, he strode along at the edge of the road. “If _Bwana_ +will following me in front, I am leading him behind”—with which clear and +comprehensible offer, he struck off to the left, his long, clean +night-shirt looming ahead in the darkness as a pillar of cloud by night. +. . . + +Again Bertram blessed him, and thanked the lucky stars that had brought +him across his path. He had seen no railway-bridge nor railway-line; he +could see no tents, and he was exceedingly thankful that it was not his +duty to find, by night, the way which had seemed somewhat vaguely and +insufficiently indicated for one who sought to follow it by day. Half an +hour later he saw a huge black mass which, upon closer experience, proved +to be a great palm grove, in the shadow of which stood a number of tents. + + * * * * * + +In a remarkably short space of time, the Sepoys had occupied four rows of +the empty tents, lighted hurricane lamps, unpacked bedding and kit +bundles, removed turbans, belts and accoutrements, and, set about the +business of cooking, distributing, and devouring their rations. + +The grove of palms that had looked so very inviolable and sacredly remote +as it stood untenanted and silent in the brilliant moonlight, now looked +and smelt (thanks to wood fires and burning ghee) like an Indian bazaar, +as Sikhs, Gurkhas, Rajputs, Punjabis, Marathas, Pathans and +“down-country” Carnatics swarmed in and out of tents, around +cooking-fires, at the taps of the big railway water-tank, or the +kit-and-ration dump—the men of each different race yet keeping themselves +separate from those of other races. . . . + +As the unutterably weary Bertram stood and watched and wondered as to +what military and disciplinary conundrums his motley force would provide +for him on the morrow, his ancient and faithful family retainer came and +asked him for his keys. That worthy had already, in the name of his +_Bwana_, demanded the instant provision of a fatigue-party, and directed +the removal of a tent from the lines to a spot where there would be more +privacy and shade for its occupant, and had then unstrapped the bundles +containing his master’s bed, bedding and washhand-stand, and now desired +further to furnish forth the tent with the suitable contents of the sack. +. . . + +And so Bertram “settled in,” as did his little force, save that he went +to bed supperless and they did not. Far from it—for a goat actually +strayed bleating into the line and met with an accident—getting its silly +neck in the way of a _kukri_ just as its owner was, so he said, fanning +himself with it (with the _kukri_, not the goat). So some fed full, and +others fuller. + +Next day, Bertram ate what Ali, far-foraging, brought him; and rested +beneath the shade of the palms and let his men rest also, to recover from +their sea-voyage and generally to find themselves. . . . For one whole +day he would do nothing and order nothing to be done; receive no reports, +issue no instructions, harry nobody and be harried by none. Then, on the +morrow, he would arise, go on the warpath in the camp, and grapple +bravely with every problem that might arise, from shortage of turmeric to +excess of covert criticism of his knowledge and ability. + +But the morrow never came in that camp, for the Base Commandant sent for +him in urgent haste at eventide, and bade him strain every nerve to get +his men and their baggage, lock, stock and barrel, on board the +_Barjordan_, just as quickly as it could be done (and a dam’ sight +quicker), for reinforcements were urgently needed at M’paga, down the +coast. + +Followed a sleepless nightmare night, throughout which he worked by +moonlight in the camp, on the quay, and on the _Barjordan’s_ deck, +reversing the labours of the previous day, and re-embarking his men, +their kit, ammunition, rations and impedimenta—and in addition, two +barge-loads of commissariat and ordnance requisites for the M’paga +Brigade. + +At dawn the last man, box, and bale was on board and Bertram endeavoured +to speak a word of praise, in halting Hindustani, to the Gurkha Subedar, +who, with his men, had shown an alacrity and gluttony for work, beyond +all praise. All the other Sepoys had worked properly in their different +shifts—but the Gurkhas had revelled in work, and when their second shift +came at midnight, the first shift remained and worked with them! + +Having gratefully accepted coffee from Mr. Wigger, the First Officer, +Bertram, feeling “beat to the world,” went down to his cabin, turned in, +and slept till evening. When he awoke, a gazelle was gazing +affectionately into his face. + +He shut his eyes and shivered. . . . Was this sunstroke, fever, or +madness? He felt horribly frightened, his nerves being in the state +natural to a person of his temperament and constitution when overworked, +underfed, affected by the sun, touched by fever, and overwrought to the +breaking-point by anxiety and worry. + +He opened his eyes again, determined to be cool, wise and brave, in face +of this threatened breakdown, this hallucination of insanity. + +The gazelle was still there—there in a carpeted, comfortable cabin, on +board a ship, in the Indian Ocean. . . . + +He rubbed his eyes. + +Then he put out his hand to pass it through the spectral Thing and +confirm his worst fears. + +The gazelle licked his hand, and he sat up and said: “Oh, damn!” and +laughed weakly. + +The animal left the cabin, and he heard its hoofs pattering on the +linoleum. + +Later he found it to be a pet of the captain of the _Barjordan_, Captain +O’Connor. + +Next morning the ship anchored a mile or so from a mangrove swamp, and +the business of disembarkation began again, this time into the ship’s +boats and some sailing dhows that had met the _Barjordan_ at this spot. + +When all the Sepoys and stores were in the boats and dhows, he put on the +_puggri_ which Bludyer had given him, with the assistance of Ali Suleiman +and the Gurkha Subedar, looked at himself in the glass, and wished he +felt as fine and fierce a fellow as he looked. . . . He then said +“Farewell” to kindly Captain O’Connor and burly, energetic Mr. +Wigger—both of whom he liked exceedingly—received their hearty good +wishes and exhortations to slay and spare not, and went down on the +motor-launch that was to tow the laden boats to the low gloomy shore—if a +mangrove swamp can be called a shore. . . . + +One more “beginning”—or one more stage on the road to War! Here was +_he_, Bertram Greene, armed to the teeth, with a turban on his head, +about to be landed—and left—on the shores of the mainland of this truly +Dark Continent. He was about to invade Africa! . . . + +If only his father and Miranda could see him _now_! + + + +CHAPTER IX +_Bertram Invades Africa_ + + +Bertram waded ashore and looked around. + +Through a rank jungle of high grass, scrub, palms, trees and creepers, a +narrow mud path wound past the charred remnants of a native village to +where stood the shell-scarred ruins of a whitewashed _adobe_ building +which had probably been a Customs-post, treasury, post-office and +Government Offices in general. . . . He was on the mainland of the +African Continent, and he was on enemy territory in the war area! How +far away was the nearest German force? What should he do if he were +attacked while disembarking? How was he to find the main body of his own +brigade? What should he do if there were an enemy force between him and +them? And what was the good of asking himself conundrums, instead of +concentrating every faculty upon a speedy and orderly disembarkation? + +Turning his back upon the unutterably dreary and depressing scene, as +well as upon all doubts and fears and questions, he gave orders that the +Gurkhas should land first. His only object in this was to have what he +considered the best fighting men ashore first, and to form them up as a +covering force, ready for action, in the event of any attack being made +while the main body was still in the confusion, muddle and disadvantage +of the act of disembarkation. And no bad idea either—but the Subedar of +the Sherepur Sikhs saw, or affected to see, in this Gurkha priority of +landing, an intentional and studied insult to himself, his contingent, +and the whole Sikh race. He said as much to his men, and then, standing +up in the bows of the boat, called out: + +“Sahib! Would it not be better to let the Sherepur Sikh Contingent land +first, to ensure the safety of—er—those beloved of the Sahib? There +might be an attack. . . .” + +Not understanding in the least what the man was saying, Bertram ignored +him altogether, though he disliked the sound of the laughter in the Sikh +boat, and gathered from the face of the Gurkha Subedar that something +which he greatly resented had been said. + +“_Khabadar_ . . . _tum_!” {98} the Gurkha hissed, as he stepped ashore, +and, with soldierly skill and promptness, got his men formed up, in and +around the ruined building and native village, in readiness to cover the +disembarkation of the rest. Five minutes after he had landed, Bertram +found it difficult to believe that a hundred Gurkha Sepoys were within a +hundred yards of him, for not one was visible. At the end of a couple of +hours the untowed dhows had arrived, all troops, ammunition, supplies and +baggage were ashore, the boats had all departed, and Bertram again found +himself the only white man and sole authority in this mixed force, and +felt the burden of responsibility heavy upon him. + +The men having been formed up in their respective units, with the +rations, ammunition, and kit dump in their rear, Bertram began to +consider the advisability of leaving a strong guard over the latter, and +moving off in search of the brigade camp. Would this be the right thing +to do? Certainly his force was of no earthly use to the main body so +long as it squatted in the mud where it had landed. Perhaps it was +urgently wanted at that very moment, and the General was praying for its +arrival and swearing at its non-arrival—every minute being precious, and +the fate of the campaign hanging upon its immediate appearance. It might +well be that an attack in their rear by four hundred fresh troops would +put to flight an enemy who, up to that moment, had been winning. He +would not know the strength of this new assailant, nor whether it was to +be measured in hundreds or in thousands. Suppose the General was, at +that very moment, listening for his rifles, as Wellington listened for +the guns of his allies at Waterloo! And here he was, doing +nothing—wasting time. . . . Yes, but suppose this dense bush were full +of scouts and spies, as it well might be, and probably was, and supposing +that the ration and ammunition dump was captured as soon as he had +marched off with his main body? A pretty start for his military +career—to lose the ammunition and food supply for the whole force within +an hour or two of getting it ashore! His name would be better known than +admired by the British Expeditionary Force in East Africa. . . . What +would Murray have done in such a case? . . . Suppose he “split the +difference” and neither left the stores behind him nor stuck in the mud +with them? Suppose he moved forward in the direction of the Base Camp, +taking everything with him? But that would mean that every soldier in +the force would be burdened like a coolie-porter—and, moreover, they’d +have to move in single file along the mud path that ran through the +impenetrable jungle. Suppose they were attacked? . . . + +Bertram came to the conclusion that it may be a very fine thing to have +an independent command of one’s own, but that personally he would give a +great deal to find himself under the command of somebody else—be he never +so arrogant, unsympathetic and harsh. Had Colonel Frost suddenly +appeared he would (metaphorically) have cast himself upon that cold, +stern man’s hard bosom in transports of relief and joy. . . . He was +going to do his very best, of course, and would never shirk nor evade any +duty that lay before him—but—he felt a very lonely, anxious, undecided +lad, and anxiety was fast becoming nervousness and fear—fear of doing the +wrong thing, or of doing the right thing in the wrong way. . . . Should +he leave a strong guard over the stores and advance? Should he remain +where he was, and protect the stores to the last? Or should he advance +with every man and every article the force possessed? . . . + +Could the remainder carry all that stuff if he told off a strong +advance-guard and rear-guard? And, if so, what could a strong +advance-guard or rear-guard do in single file if the column were attacked +in front or rear? How could he avoid an ambush on either flank by +discovering it in time—in country which rendered the use of flank guards +utterly impossible? A man could only make his way through that jungle of +thorn, scrub, trees, creepers and undergrowth by the patient and +strenuous use of a broad axe and a saw. A strong, determined man might +do a mile of it in a day. . . . Probably no human foot had trodden this +soil in a thousand years, save along the little narrow path of black +beaten mud that wound tortuously through it. Should he send on a party +of Gurkhas with a note to the General, asking whether he should leave the +stores or attempt to bring them with him? The Gurkhas were splendid +jungle-fighters and splendidly willing. . . . But that would weaken his +force seriously, in the event of his being attacked. . . . And suppose +the party were ambushed, and he stuck there waiting and waiting, for an +answer that could never come. . . . + +With a heavy sigh, he ran his eye over the scene—the sullen, oily water, +the ugly mangrove swamp of muddy, writhing roots and twisted, slimy +trunks, the dense, brooding jungle, the grey, dull sky—all so unfriendly +and uncomfortable, giving one such a homeless, helpless feeling. The +Gurkhas were invisible. The Sherepur Sikhs sat in a tight-packed group +around their piled arms and listened to the words of their Subedar, the +men of the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth squatted in a double row along the +front of the _adobe_ building, and the Very Mixed Contingent was just a +mob near the ration-dump, beside which Ali Suleiman stood on guard over +his master’s kit. . . . Suppose there were a sudden attack? But there +couldn’t be? An enemy could only approach down that narrow path in +single file. The impenetrable jungle was his friend until he moved. +Directly he marched off it would be his terrible foe, the host and +concealer of a thousand ambushes. + +He felt that he had discovered a military maxim on his own account. +_Impenetrable jungle is the friend of a force in position_, _and the +enemy of a force on the march_. . . . Anyhow, the Gurkhas were out in +front as a line of sentry groups, and nothing could happen to the force +until they had come into action. . . . Should he— + +“_Sahib_! _Ek Sahib ata hai_. . . . _Bahut hubshi log ata hain_,” said +a voice, and he sprang round, to see the Gurkha Subedar saluting. + +_What_ was that? “_A sahib is coming_. . . . _Many African natives are +coming_!” . . . Then they _were_ attacked after all! A German officer +was leading a force of _askaris_ of the Imperial African Rifles against +them—those terrible Yaos and Swahilis whom the Germans had disciplined +into a splendid army, and whom they permitted to loot and to slaughter +after a successful fight. . . . + +His mouth went dry and the backs of his knees felt loose and weak. He +was conscious of a rush of blood to the heart and a painful, sinking +sensation of the stomach. . . . It had come. . . . The hour of his +first battle was upon him. . . . + +He swallowed hard. + +“_Achcha_, {101a} _Subedar Sahib_,” he said with seeming nonchalance, +“_shaitan-log ko maro_. _Achcha kam karo_,”{101b} and turning to the +Sherepur Sikhs, the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth and the Very Mixed +Contingent bawled: “_Fall in_!” in a voice that made those worthies +perform the order as quickly as ever they had done it in their lives. + +“_Dushman nahin hai_, {101c} _Sahib_,” said the Gurkha Subedar—as he +realised that Bertram had ordered him “to kill the devils”—and explained +that the people who approached bore no weapons. + +Hurrying forward with the Subedar to a bend in the path beyond the +burnt-out native village, Bertram saw a white man clad in khaki shirt, +shorts and puttees, with a large, thick “pig-sticker” solar-topi of pith +and quilted khaki on his head, and a revolver and hunting-knife in his +belt. Behind him followed an apparently endless column of unarmed +negroes. Evidently these were friends—but there would be no harm in +taking all precautions in case of a ruse. + +“Be ready,” he said to the Subedar. + +That officer smiled and pointed right and left to where, behind logs, +mounds, bushes, and other cover, both natural and hastily prepared, lay +his men, rifles cuddled lovingly to shoulder, fingers curled +affectionately round triggers, eyes fixed unswervingly upon the +approaching column, and faces grimly expectant. So still and so well +hidden were they, that Bertram had not noticed the fact of their +presence. He wondered whether the Subedar had personally strewn grass, +leaves and brushwood over them after they had taken up their positions. +He thought of the Babes in the Wood, and visualised the fierce little +Gurkha as a novel kind of robin for the work of burying with dead leaves. +. . . + +He stopped in the path and awaited the arrival of the white man. + +“Good morning, Mr. Greene,” said that individual, as he approached. +“Sorry if I’ve kept you waiting, but I had another job to finish first.” + +Bertram stared in amazement at this person who rolled up from the wilds +of the Dark Continent with an unarmed party, addressed him by name, and +apologised for being late! He was a saturnine and pessimistic-looking +individual, wore the South African War ribbons on his breast, and the +letters C.C. on his shoulders, and a lieutenant’s stars. + +“Good morning,” replied Bertram, shaking hands. “I’m awfully glad to see +you. I was wondering whether I ought to push off or stay here. . . .” + +“No attractions much here,” said the new-comer. “I should bung off. +. . . Straight along this path. Can’t miss the way.” + +“Is there much danger of attack?” asked Bertram. + +“Insects,” replied the other. + +“Why not by Germans?” enquired Bertram. + +“River on your left flank,” was the brief answer of the saturnine and +pessimistic one. + +“Can’t they cross it by bridges?” + +“No; owing to the absence of bridges. I’m the only Bridges here,” sighed +Mr. Bridges, of the Coolie Corps. + +“Why not in boats then?” + +“Owing to the absence of boats.” + +“Might not the Germans open fire on us from the opposite bank then?” +pursued the anxious Bertram, determined not to begin his career in Africa +with a “regrettable incident,” due to his own carelessness. + +“No; owing to the absence of Germans,” replied Mr. Bridges. “Where’s +your stuff? I’ve brought a thousand of my blackbirds, so we’ll shift the +lot in one journey. If you like to shove off at once, I’ll see nothing’s +left behind. . . .” And then, suddenly realising that there was not the +least likelihood of attack nor cause for anxiety, and that all he had to +do was to stroll along a path to the camp, where all responsibility for +the safety of men and materials would be taken from him, Bertram relaxed, +and realised that the heat was appalling and that he felt very faint and +ill. His kit had suddenly grown insupportably heavy and unsufferably +tight about his chest; his turban gave no shade to his eyes nor +protection to his temples and neck, and its weight seemed to increase by +pounds per minute. He felt very giddy, blue lights appeared before his +eyes, and there was a surging and booming in his ears. He sat down, to +avoid falling. + +“Hullo! Seedy?” ejaculated Bridges, and turned to a big negro who stood +behind him, and appeared to be a person of quality, inasmuch as he wore +the ruins of a helmet, a khaki shooting-jacket much too small for him, +and a whistle on a string. (“Only that and nothing more.”) + +“Here, MacGinty-my-lad,” said Bridges to this gentleman, “_m’dafu late +hapa_,” and with a few whistling clicks and high-pitched squeals, the +latter sped another negro up a palm tree. Climbing it like a monkey, the +negro tore a huge yellow coco-nut from the bunch that clustered beneath +the spreading palm leaves, and flung it down. This, Mr. MacGinty-my-lad +retrieved and, with one skilful blow of a _panga_, a kind of _machete_ or +butchers’ axe, decapitated. + +“Have a swig at this,” said Bridges, handing the nut to Bertram, who +discovered it to contain about a quart of deliciously cool, sweet “milk,” +as clear as distilled water. + +“Thanks awfully, Bridges,” said he. “I think I had a touch of the sun. +. . .” + +“Had a touch of breakfast?” enquired the other. + +“No,” replied Bertram. + +“Hence the milk in the coco-nut,” said Bridges, and added, “If you want +to live long and die happy in Africa, you _must_ do yourself well. It’s +the secret of success. You treat your tummy well—and often—and it’ll do +the same for you. . . . If you don’t, well, you’ll be no good to +yourself nor anyone else.” + +“Thanks,” said the ever-grateful Bertram, and arose feeling much better. + +“Fall in, Subedar Sahib,” said he to the Gurkha officer, and the latter +quickly assembled his men as a company in line. + +The Subedar of the Sherepur Sikhs approached and saluted. “We want to be +the advance-guard, Sahib,” he said. + +“Certainly,” replied Bertram, and added innocently, “There is no enemy +between here and the camp.” + +The Sikh flashed a glance of swift suspicion at him. . . . Was this an +intentional _riposte_? Was the young Sahib more subtle than he looked? +Had he meant “The Sikhs may form the advance-guard _because_ there is no +fear of attack,” with the implication that the Gurkhas would again have +held the post of honour and danger if there had been any danger? + +“I don’t like the look of that bloke,” observed Bridges, as the Sikh +turned away, and added: “Well—I’ll handle your stuff now, if you’ll bung +off,” and continued his way to the dump, followed by Mr. MacGinty and a +seemingly endless file of very tall, very weedy, Kavirondo negroes, of an +unpleasant, scaly, greyish-black colour and more unpleasant, +indescribable, but fishlike odour. These worthies were variously +dressed, some in a _panga_ or _machete_, some in a tin pot, others in a +gourd, a snuff-box, a tea-cup, a saucepan or a jam-jar. Every man, +however, without exception, possessed a red blanket, and every man, +without exception, wore it, for modesty’s sake, folded small upon his +head—where it also served the purpose of a porter’s pad, intervening +between his head and the load which it was his life’s work to bear +thereupon. . . . When these people conversed, it was in the high, piping +voices of little children, and when Bridges, Mr. MacGinty-my-lad, or any +less _neapara_ (head man), made a threatening movement towards one of +them, the culprit would forthwith put his hands to his ears, draw up one +foot to the other knee, close his eyes, cringe, and emit an incredibly +thin, small squeal, a sound infinitely ridiculous in the mouth of a man +six feet or more in stature. . . . When the last of these quaint +creatures had passed, Bertram strode to where the Sherepur Sikhs had +formed up in line, ready to march off at the head of the force. The +Subedar gave an order, the ranks opened, the front rank turned about, and +the rifles, with bayonet already fixed, came down to the “ready,” and +Bertram found himself between the two rows of flickering points. + +“_Charge magazhinge_,” shouted the Subedar, and Bertram found an odd +dozen of rifles waving in the direction of his stomach, chest, face, neck +and back, as their owners gaily loaded them. . . . Was there going to be +an “accident”? . . . Were there covert smiles on any of the fierce +bearded faces of the big men? . . . Should he make a dash from between +the ranks? . . . No—he would stand his ground and look displeased at +this truly “native” method of charging magazines. It seemed a long time +before the Subedar gave the orders, “Front rank—about turn. . . . Form +fours. . . . Right,” and the company was ready to march off. + +“All is ready, Sahib,” said the Subedar, approaching Bertram. “Shall I +lead on?” + +“Yes, Subedar Sahib,” replied Bertram, “but why do your men face each +other and point their rifles at each other’s stomachs when they load +them?” + +His Hindustani was shockingly faulty, but evidently the Subedar +understood. + +“They are not afraid of being shot, Sahib,” said he, smiling superiorly. + +“Then it is a pity they are not afraid of being called slovenly, clumsy, +jungly recruits,” replied Bertram—and before the scowling officer could +reply, added: “March on—and halt when I whistle,” in sharp voice and +peremptory manner. + +Before long the little force was on its way, the Gurkhas coming last—as +the trusty rear-guard, Bertram explained—and, after half an hour’s +uneventful march through the stinking swamp, reached the Base Camp of the +M’paga Field Force—surely one of the ugliest, dreariest and most +depressing spots in which ever a British force sat down and acquired +assorted diseases. + + + +CHAPTER X +_M’paga_ + + +Halting his column, closing it up, and calling it to attention, Bertram +marched past the guard of King’s African Rifles and entered the Camp. +This consisted of a huge square, enclosed by low earthen walls and +shallow trenches, in which were the “lines” of the Indian and African +infantry, composing the inadequate little force which was invading German +East Africa, rather with the idea of protecting British East than +achieving conquest. The “lines” of the Sepoys and _askaris_ consisted of +rows of tiny low tents, while along the High Street of the Camp stood +hospital tents, officers’ messes, the General’s tent, and that of his +Brigade Major, and various other tents connected with the mysteries of +the field telegraph and telephone, the Army Service Corps’ supply and +transport, and various offices of Brigade and Regimental Headquarters. +As he passed the General’s tent (indicated by a flagstaff and Union +Jack), a tall lean officer, with a white-moustached, keen-eyed face, +emerged and held up his hand. Seeing the crossed swords of a General on +his shoulder-straps, Bertram endeavoured to rise to the occasion, roared: +“_Eyes right_,” “_Eyes front_,” and then “_Halt_,” saluted and stepped +forward. + +The General shook hands with him, and said: “Glad to see you. Hope +you’re ready for plenty of hard work, for there’s plenty for you. . . +Glad to see your men looking so businesslike and marching so smartly. . . . +All right—carry on. . . .” + +Bertram would gladly have died for that General on the spot, and it was +positively with a lump (of gratitude, so to speak) in his throat that he +gave the order “_Quick march_,” and proceeded, watched by hundreds of +native soldiers, who crawled out of their low tents or rose up from where +they lay or squatted to clean accoutrements, gossip, eat, or contemplate +Infinity. + +Arrived at the opposite entrance of the Camp, Bertram felt foolish, but +concealed the fact by pretending that he had chosen this as a suitable +halting place, bawled: “_Halt_,” “_Into line_—_left turn_,” “_Stand at +ease_,” “_Stand easy_,” and determined to wait events. He had carried +out his orders and brought the troops to the Camp as per instructions. +Somebody else could come and take them if they wanted them. . . . + +As he stood, trying to look unconcerned, a small knot of British officers +strolled up, headed by a tall and important-looking person arrayed in +helmet, open shirt, shorts, grey stockings and khaki canvas shoes. + +“Greene?” said he. + +“Yes, sir,” said Bertram, saluting. + +“Brigade Major,” continued the officer, apparently introducing himself. +“March the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth on and report to Colonel Rock. The +Hundred and Ninety-Eighth are outside the perimeter,” and he pointed to +where, a quarter of a mile away, were some grass huts and rows of tiny +tents. “The remainder will be taken over by their units here, and your +responsibility for them ceases.” + +Bertram, very thankful to be rid of them, marched on with the Hundred, +and halted them in front of the low tents, from which, with whoops of +joy, poured forth the warriors of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth in search +of any _bhai_, pal, townee, bucky, or aunt’s cousin’s husband’s sister’s +son—(who, as such, would have a strong claim upon his good offices)—in +the ranks of this thrice-welcome reinforcement. + +Leaving the Hundred in charge of Jemadar Hassan Ali to await orders, +Bertram strode to a large grass _banda_, or hut, consisting of three +walls and a roof, through the open end of which he could see a group of +British officers sitting on boxes and stools, about a long and most +uneven, undulating table of box-sides nailed on sticks and supported by +four upright logs. + +At the head of this table, on which were maps and papers, sat a small +thick-set man, who looked the personification of vigour, force and +restless activity. Seeing that this officer wore a crown and star on his +shoulder-strap, Bertram went up to him, saluted, and said: + +“Second-Lieutenant Greene, I.A.R., sir. I have brought a hundred men +from the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth, and nine cooking-pots—which Colonel +Frost wishes to have returned at once. . . .” + +“The men or the cooking-pots, or both?” enquired Colonel Rock, whose +habit of sarcastic and savage banter made him feared by all who came in +contact with him, and served to conceal a very kindly and sympathetic +nature. + +“The cooking-pots, sir,” replied Bertram, blushing as the other officers +eyed him critically and with half-smiles at the Colonel’s humour. +Bertram felt, a little cynically, that such wit from an officer of their +own rank would not have seemed so pleasingly humorous to some of these +gentlemen, and that, moreover, he had again discovered a Military Maxim +on his own account. _The value and humorousness of any witty remark made +by any person in military uniform is in inverse ratio to the rank and +seniority of the individual to whom it is made_. In other words, a +Colonel must smile at a General’s joke, a Major must grin broadly, a +Captain laugh appreciatively, a Subaltern giggle right heartily, a +Warrant Officer or N.C.O. explode into roars of laughter, and a private +soldier roll helpless upon the ground in spasms and convulsions of +helpless mirth. + +Hearing a distinct snigger from the end of the table, Bertram glanced in +that direction, said to himself, “You’re a second-lieutenant, by your +appreciative giggle,” and encountered the sneering stare of a +vacant-faced youth whom he heartily disliked on sight. + +“Wants the cooking-pots back, but not the men, eh?” observed the Colonel, +and, turning to the officer who sat at his left hand, a tall, handsome +man with a well-bred, pleasant, dark face, who was Adjutant of the +Hundred and Ninety-Ninth, added: + +“Better go and see if there’s good reason for his not wanting them back, +Hall. . . . Colonel Frost’s a good man at selling a horse—perhaps he’s +sold us a pup. . . .” + +More giggles from the vacant faced youth as Captain Hall arose and went +out of the shed of grass and sticks, thatched on a framework of posts, +which was the Officers’ Mess of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth Regiment. + +Feeling shy and nervous, albeit most thankful to be among senior officers +who would henceforth relieve him of the lonely responsibility he had +found so trying and burdensome, Bertram seized the opportunity of the +Adjutant’s departure to escape, and followed that officer to where the +Hundred awaited the order to dismiss. + +“Brought a tent?” asked Captain Hall, as they went along. + +“No,” replied Bertram. “Ought I to have done so?” + +“If you value your comfort on these picnics,” was the answer. “You’ll +find it a bit damp o’ nights when it rains, in one of these grass huts. . . . +You can pig in with me to-night, and we’ll set a party of Kavirondo +to build you a _banda_ to-morrow if you’re staying on here.” + +“Thanks awfully,” acknowledged Bertram. “Am I likely to go on somewhere +else, though?” + +“I did hear something about your taking a provision convoy up to Butindi +the day after to-morrow,” was the reply. “One of our Majors is up there +with a mixed force of Ours and the Arab Company, with some odds and ends +of King’s African Rifles and things. . . . Pity you haven’t a tent.” + +After looking over the Hundred and committing them to the charge of the +Subedar-Major of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth, Captain Hall invited +Bertram “to make himself at home” in his hut, and led the way to where a +row of green tents and grass huts stood near the Officers’ Mess. On a +Roorkee chair, at the door of one of these, sat none other than the +Lieutenant Stanner whom Bertram had last seen on the deck of _Elymas_. +With him was another subaltern, one of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth. + +“Hullo, Greene-bird!” cried Stanner. “Welcome home. Allow me to present +you to my friend Best. . . . He is Very Best to-day, because he has got +a bottle of whisky in his bed. He’ll only be Second Best to-morrow, +because he won’t have any by then. . . . Not if he’s a gentleman, that +is,” he added, eyeing Best anxiously. + +That officer grinned, arose, and entering the hut, produced the whisky, a +box of “sparklets,” a kind of siphon, and a jug of dirty water. + +“You already know Hall?” continued Stanner, the loquacious. “I was at +school with his father. He’s a good lad. Address him as Baronial Hall +when you want something, Music Hall when you’re feeling girlish, Town +Hall when he’s coming the pompous Adjutant over you, and Mission Hall +when you’re tired of him.” + +“Don’t associate with him, Greene. Come away,” said Captain Hall. +“He’ll teach you to play shove-ha’penny, to smoke, and to use bad +language,” but as Best handed him a whisky-and-dirty-water, feebly +aerated by a sparklet, he tipped Stanner from his chair, seated himself +in it, murmured, “When sinners entice thee, consent thou some,” and +drank. + +“Why are you dressed like that? Is it your birthday, or aren’t you very +well?” enquired Stanner suddenly, eyeing Bertram’s lethal weapons and +Sepoy’s turban. Bertram blushed, pleaded that he had nowhere to +“undress,” and had only just arrived. Whereupon the Adjutant, remarking +that he must be weary, arose and took him to his hut. + +“Get out of everything but your shirt and shorts, my son,” said he, “and +chuck that silly _puggri_ away before you get sunstroke. All very well +if you’re going into a scrap, but it’s as safe as Piccadilly round here.” +Bertram, as he sank into the Adjutant’s chair, suddenly realised that he +was more tired than ever he had been in his life before. + +“Where _Bwana_ sleeping to-night, sah, thank you, please?” boomed a +familiar voice, and before the tent stood the faithful Ali, bowing and +saluting—behind him three tall Kavirondo carrying Bertram’s kit. Ali had +commandeered these men from Bridges’ party, and had hurried them off far +in advance of the porters who were bringing in the general kit, rations, +and ammunition. By means best known to himself he had galvanised the +“low niggers” into agility and activity that surprised none more than +themselves. + +“Oh—it’s my servant,” said Bertram to the Adjutant. “May he put my bed +in here, then?” + +“That’s the idea,” replied Captain Hall, and, in a few minutes, Bertram’s +camp-bed was erected and furnished with bedding and mosquito net, his +washhand-stand was set up, and his canvas bucket filled with water. Not +until everything possible had been done for his master’s comfort did Ali +disappear to that mysterious spot whereunto native servants repair beyond +the ken of the master-folk, when in need of food, leisure and relaxation. + +Having washed, eaten and slept, Bertram declared himself “a better and +wiser man,” and asked Hall if he might explore the Camp, its wonders to +admire. “Oh, yes,” said Hall, “but don’t go into the gambling dens, +boozing-kens, dancing-saloons and faro tents, to squander your money, +time and health.” + +“_Are_ there any?” asked Bertram, in wide-eyed astonishment. + +“No,” replied Hall. + +Bertram wished people would not be so fond of exercising their humour at +his expense. He wondered why it was that he was always something of a +butt. It could not be that he was an absolute fool, or he would not have +been a Scholar of Balliol. He sighed. _Could_ one be a Scholar of +Balliol and a fool? . . . + +“You might look in on the General, though,” continued Hall, “and be +chatty. . . . It’s a very lonely life, y’know, a General’s. I’m always +sorry for the poor old beggars. Yes—he’d be awfully glad to see you. . . . +Ask you to call him Willie before you’d been there a couple of hours, +I expect.” + +“D’you mean I ought to call on the General formally?” asked Bertram, who +knew that Hall was “ragging” again, as soon as he introduced the “Willie” +touch. + +“Oh, don’t be too formal,” was the reply. “Be matey and cosy with him. . . . +I don’t suppose he’s had a really heart-to-heart chat with a +subaltern about the things that _really_ matter—the Empire (the Leicester +Square one, I mean); Ciro’s; the girls; George Robey, George Graves, Mr. +Bottomley, Mrs. Pankhurst and the other great comedians—since I +dunno-when. He’d _love_ to buck about what’s doing in town, with _you_, +y’know. . . .” + +Bertram sighed again. It was no good. _Everybody_ pulled his leg and +seemed to sum him up in two minutes as the sort of green ass who’d +believe anything he was told, and do anything that was suggested. + +“I say, Hall,” he said suddenly, “I’m a civilian, y’know, and a bit of a +fool, too, no doubt. I am absolutely ignorant of all military matters, +particularly those of etiquette. I am going to ask you things, since you +are Adjutant of the corps I’m with. If you score off me, I think it’ll +be rather a cheap triumph and an inglorious victory, don’t you? . . . +I’m not a bumptious and conceited ass, mind—only an ignorant one, who +fully admits it, and asks for help. . . .” + +As the poet says, it is a long lane that has no public-house, and a long +worm that has no turning. + +Hall stared. + +“Well said, Greene,” quoth he, and never jested at Bertram’s expense +again. + +“Seriously—should I leave a card on the General?” continued Bertram. + +“You should not,” was the reply. “Avoid Generals as you would your +creditors. They’re dangerous animals in peace-time. On manœuvres +they’re ferocious. On active service they’re rapid. . . .” + +“Any harm in my strolling round the Camp?” pursued Bertram. “I’m awfully +interested, and might get some ideas of the useful kind.” + +“None whatever,” said Hall. “No reason why you shouldn’t prowl around +like the hosts of Midian till dinner-time. There’s nothing doing in the +Hundred and Ninety-Eighth till four a.m. to-morrow, and you’re not in +that, either.” + +“What is it?” asked Bertram. + +“Oh, a double-company of Ours is going out to mop up a little post the +Germans have established across the river. We’re going to learn ’em not +to do such,” said Hall. + +“D’you think I might go?” asked Bertram, wondering, even as he spoke, +whether it was his voice that was suggesting so foolish a thing as that +Bertram Greene should arise at three-thirty in the morning to go, +wantonly and without reason, where bullets were flying, bayonets were +stabbing, and death and disablement were abroad. + +“Dunno,” yawned Hall. “Better ask the Colonel. What’s the matter with +bed at four ack emma? That’s where I’d be if I weren’t in orders for +this silly show.” + +As Bertram left the tent on his tour of exploration he decided that he +would ask the Colonel if he might go with the expedition, and then he +decided that he would do nothing so utterly foolish. . . . No, of course +he wouldn’t. . . . + +Yes, he would. . . . + + + +CHAPTER XI +_Food and Feeders_ + + +Rightly or wrongly, Bertram gathered the impression, as he strolled about +the Camp, that this was not a confident and high-spirited army, drunk +with the heady fumes of a debauch of victory. The demeanour of the +Indian Sepoys led him to the conclusion, just or unjust, that they had +“got their tails down.” They appeared weary, apprehensive, even +despondent, when not merely apathetic, and seemed to him to be distinctly +what they themselves would call _mugra_—pessimistic and depressed. + +The place alone was sufficient to depress anybody, he freely admitted, as +he gazed around at the dreary grey environs of this little British +_pied-à-terre_—grey thorn bush; grey grass; grey baobab trees (like +hideous grey carrots with whiskerish roots, pulled up from the ground and +stood on end); grey shell-strewn mud; grey bushwood; grey mangroves; grey +sky. Yes, an inimical minatory landscape; a brooding, unwholesome, +sinister landscape; the home of fever, dysentery, disease and sudden +death. And over all hung a horrible sickening stench of decay, an evil +smell that seemed to settle at the pit of the stomach as a heavy weight. + +No wonder if Indians from the hills, deserts, plains and towns of the +Deccan, the Punjab, Rajputana, and Nepal, found this terrible place of +most terrific heat, foul odour, bad water and worse mud, enervating and +depressing. . . . Poor beggars—it wasn’t _their_ war either. . . . The +faces of the negroes of the King’s African Rifles were inscrutable, and, +being entirely ignorant of their ways, manners, and customs, he could not +tell whether they were exhibiting signs of discouragement and depression, +or whether their bearing and demeanour were entirely normal. Certainly +they seemed a stolid and reserved folk, with a kind of dignity and +self-respecting aloofness that he had somehow not expected. In their +tall tarbooshes, jerseys, shorts and puttees, they looked most +workman-like and competent soldiers. . . . Certainly they did not tally +with his preconceived idea of them as a merry, care-free, irresponsible +folk who grinned all over their faces for sheer light-heartedness, and +spent their leisure time in twanging the banjo, clacking the bones, +singing rag-time songs and doing the cake-walk. On duty, they stood like +ebon statues and opened not their mouths. Off duty they squatted like +ebon statuettes and shut them. Perhaps they did not know that England +expects every nigger to do his duty as a sort of born music-hall, musical +minstrel—or perhaps they _were_ depressed, like the Sepoys, and had laid +aside their banjoes, bones, coon-songs and double-shuffle-flap-dancing +boots until brighter days? . . . Anyhow, decided Bertram, he would much +rather be with these stalwarts than against them, when they charged with +their triangular bayonets on their Martini rifles; and if the German +_askaris_ were of similar type, he cared not how long his first personal +encounter with them might be postponed. . . . Nor did the Englishmen of +the Army Service Corps, the Royal Engineers, the Signallers and other +details, strike him as light-hearted and bubbling with the _joie de +vivre_. Frankly they looked ill, and they looked anxious. . . . + +Strolling past the brushwood-and-grass hut which was the R.A.M.C. +Officers’ Mess, he heard the remark: + +“They’ve only got to leave us here in peace a little while for us all to +die natural deaths of malaria or dysentery. The wily Hun knows _that_ +all right. . . . No fear—we shan’t be attacked here. No such luck.” + +“Not unless we make ourselves too much of a nuisance to him,” said +another voice. “’Course, if we go barging about and capturing his +trading posts and ‘factories,’ and raiding his _shambas_, he’ll come down +on us all right. . . .” + +“I dunno what we’re doing here at all,” put in a third speaker. “You +can’t invade a blooming _continent_ like German East with a weak brigade +of sick Sepoys. . . . Sort of bloomin’ Jameson’s Raid. . . . Why—they +could come down the railway from Tabora or Kilimanjaro way with enough +European troops alone to eat us alive. What are we here, irritating ’em +at all for, _I_ want to know? . . .” + +“Why, to maintain Britain’s glorious traditions—of sending far too weak a +force in the first place,” put in the first speaker. “They’ll send an +adequate army later on, all right, and do the job in style. We’ve got to +demonstrate the necessity for the adequate army first, though. . . .” + +“Sort of bait, like,” said another, and yawned. “Well, we’ve all fished, +I expect. . . . Know how the worm feels now. . . .” + +“I’ve only fished with flies,” observed a languid and euphuistic voice. + +“_What_ an honour for the ’appy fly!” replied the worm-fisherman, and +there was a guffaw of laughter. + +Bertram realised that he was loitering to the point of eavesdropping, and +strolled on, pondering many things in his heart. . . . + +In one corner of the great square of mud which was the Camp, Bertram came +upon a battery consisting of four tiny guns. Grouped about them stood +their Sepoy gunners, evidently at drill of some kind, for, at a sudden +word from a British officer standing near, they leapt upon them, laboured +frantically for five seconds, stood clear again, and, behold, each gun +lay dismembered and prone upon the ground—the wheels off, the trail +detached, the barrel of the gun itself in two parts, so that the breech +half was separate from the muzzle half. At another word from the officer +the statuesque Sepoys again sprang to life, seized each man a piece of +the dismembered gun, lifted it above his head, raised it up and down, +replaced it on the ground and once more stood at attention. Another +order, and, in five seconds, the guns were reassembled and ready to fire. + +“A mountain-battery of screw guns, so called because they screw and +unscrew in the middle of the barrel,” said Bertram to himself, and +concluded that the drill he had just witnessed was that required for +putting the dissected guns on the backs of mules for mountain transport, +and rebuilding them for use. Certainly they were wonderfully nippy, +these Sepoys, and seemed, perhaps, rather more cheery than the others. +One old gentleman who had a chestful of medal-ribbons raised and lowered +a gun-wheel above his head as though it had been of cardboard, in spite +of his long grey beard and pensioner-like appearance. + +Bertram envied the subaltern in command of this battery. How splendid it +must be to know exactly what to do and to be able to do it; to be +conscious that you are adequate and competent, equal to any demand that +can be made upon you. Probably this youth was enjoying this campaign in +the mud and stench and heat as much as he had ever enjoyed a picnic or +tramping or boating holiday in England. . . . Lucky dog. . . . + +At about seven o’clock that evening, Bertram “dined” in the Officers’ +Mess of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth. The rickety hut, through the +walls of which the fires of the Camp could be seen, and through the roof +of which the great stars were visible, was lighted, or left in darkness, +by a hurricane-lamp which dangled from the ridge-pole. The officers of +the corps sat on boxes, cane-stools, shooting-seats, or patent +“weight-less” contrivances of aluminium and canvas. The vacant-faced +youth, whose name was Grayne, had a bicycle-saddle which could be raised +and lowered on a metal rod. He was very proud of it and fell over +backwards twice during dinner. Bertram would have had nothing whatever +to sit on had not the excellent and foresighted Ali discovered the fact +in time to nail the two sides of a box in the shape of the letter T by +means of a stone and the nails still adhering to the derelict wood. On +this Bertram balanced himself with less danger and discomfort than might +have been expected, the while he viewed with mixed feelings Ali’s +apologies and promise that he would steal a really nice stool or chair by +the morrow. + +On the mosaic of box-sides that formed the undulating, uneven, and +fissured table-top, the Mess servant places tin plates containing a thin +and nasty soup, tasting, Bertram thought, of cooking-pot, dish-cloth, +wood-smoke, tin plate and the thumb of the gentleman who had borne it +from the cook-house, or rather the cook-hole-in-the-ground, to the Mess +hut. The flourish with which Ali placed it before his “beloved ole +marstah” as he ejaculated “Soop, sah, thick an’ clear thank-you please” +went some way to make it interesting, but failed to make it palatable. + +Although sick and faint for want of food, Bertram was not hungry or in a +condition to appreciate disgraceful cooking disgustingly served. + +As he sat awaiting the next course, after rejecting the thick-an’-clear +“soup,” Bertram took stock of the gentlemen whom, in his heart, he +proudly, if shyly, called his brother-officers. + +At the head of the table sat the Colonel, looking gloomy and distrait. +Bertram wondered if he were thinking of the friends and comrades-in-arms +he had left in the vile jungle round Tanga—his second-in-command and half +a dozen more of his officers—and a third of his men. Was he thinking of +his School—and Sandhurst—and life-long friend and trusted colleague, +Major Brett-Boyce, slain by the German _askaris_ as he lay wounded, +propped against a tree by the brave and faithful dresser of the +subordinate medical service, who was murdered with him in the very midst +of his noble work, by those savage and brutal disciples of a more savage +and brutal _kultur_? + +Behind him stood his servant, a tall Mussulman in fairly clean white +garments, and a big white turban round which was fastened a broad ribbon +of the regimental colours adorned with the regimental crest in silver. + +“Tell the cook that he and I will have a quiet chat in the morning, if +he’ll be good enough to come to my tent after breakfast—and then the +provost-marshal shall show him a new game, perhaps,” said the Colonel to +this man as he finished his soup. + +With the ghost of a smile the servant bowed, removed the Colonel’s plate +and departed to gloat over the cook, who, as a Goanese, despised +“natives” heartily and without concealment, albeit himself as black as a +negro. + +Returning, the Colonel’s servant bore a huge metal dish on which reposed +a mound of most repulsive-looking meat in lumps, rags, shreds, strings, +tendrils and fibres, surrounded by a brownish clear water. This was a +seven-pound tin of bully-beef heated and turned out in all its native +ugliness, naked and unadorned, on to the dish. Like everyone else, +Bertram took a portion on his plate, and, like everyone else, left it on +his plate, and, like everyone else, left it after tasting a morsel—or +attempting to taste, for bully-beef under such conditions has no taste +whatever. To chew it is merely as though one dipped a ball of rag and +string into dirty water, warmed it, put it in one’s mouth, and attempted +to masticate it. To swallow it is moreover to attain the same +results—nutrient, metabolic and sensational—as would follow upon the +swallowing of the said ball of rags and string. + +The morsel of bully-beef that Bertram put in his mouth abode with him. +Though of the West it was like the unchanging East, for it changed not. +He chewed and chewed, rested from his labours, and chewed again, in an +honest and earnest endeavour to take nourishment and work out his own +insalivation, but was at last forced to acknowledge himself defeated by +the stout and tough resistance of the indomitable lump. It did not know +when it was beaten and it did not know when it was eaten; nor, had he +been able to swallow it, would the “juices” of his interior have +succeeded where those of his mouth, aided by his excellent teeth, had +failed. In course of time it became a problem—another of those small but +numerous and worrying problems that were fast bringing wrinkles to his +forehead, hollows to his cheeks, a look of care and anxiety to his eyes, +and nightmares to his sleep. He could not reduce it, he could not +swallow it, he could not publicly reject it. What _could_ he do? . . . +A bright idea. . . . Tactics. . . . He dropped his handkerchief—and +when he arose from stooping to retrieve it, he was a free man again. A +few minutes later a lump of bully-beef undiminished, unaffected and +unfrayed, travelled across the mud floor of the hut in the mandibles of +an army of big black ants, to provide them also with a disappointment and +a problem, and, perchance, with a bombproof shelter for their young in a +subterranean dug-out of the ant-hill. . . . + +Bertram again looked around at his fellow-officers. Not one of them +appeared to have reduced the evil-looking mass of fibrous tissue and +gristle that lay upon his plate—nor, indeed, did Bertram, throughout the +campaign, ever see anyone actually eat and swallow the disgusting and +repulsive muck served out to the officers and European units of the +Expeditionary Force—hungry as they often were. + +To his foolish civilian mind it seemed that if the money which this foul +filth cost (for even bully-beef costs money—ask the contractors) had been +spent on a half or a quarter or a tithe of the quantity of _edible_ +meat—such as tinned ox-tongue—sick and weary soldiers labouring and +suffering for their country in a terrible climate, might have had a +sufficiency of food which they could have eaten with pleasure and +digested with benefit, without costing their grateful country a penny +more. . . . Which is an absurd and ridiculous notion expressed in a long +and involved sentence. . . . + +Next, to the Colonel, eyeing his plate of bully-beef through his monocle +and with patent disgust, sat Major Manton, a tall, aristocratic person +who looked extraordinarily smart and dapper. Hair, moustache, +finger-nails and hands showed signs of obvious care, and he wore tunic, +tie and, in fact, complete uniform, in an assembly wherein open shirts, +bare arms, white tennis shoes, slacks, shorts, and even flannel trousers +were not unknown. Evidently the Major put correctness before comfort—or, +perhaps, found his chief comfort in being correct. He spoke to no one, +but replied suavely when addressed. He looked to Bertram like a man who +loathed a rough and rude environment having the honour or pleasure or +satisfaction of knowing that he noticed its existence, much less that he +troubled to loathe it. Bertram imagined that in the rough and tumble of +hand-to-hand fighting, the Major’s weapon would be the revolver, his aim +quick and clean, his demeanour unhurried and unflurried, the expression +of his face cold and unemotional. + +Beside him sat a Captain Tollward in strong contrast, a great burly man +with the physiognomy and bull-neck of a prize-fighter, the hands and arms +of a navvy, and the figure of a brewer’s dray-man. Frankly, he looked +rather a brute, and Bertram pictured him in a fight—using a fixed bayonet +or clubbed rifle with tremendous vigour and effect. He would be purple +of face and wild of eye, would grunt like a bull with every blow, roar to +his men like a charging lion, and swear like a bargee between whiles. . . . +“Thank God for all England’s Captain Tollwards this day,” thought +Bertram as he watched the powerful-looking man, and thought of the +gladiators of ancient Rome. + +Stanner was keeping him in roars of Homeric laughter with his jests and +stories, no word of any one of which brought the shadow of a smile to the +expressionless strong face of Major Manton, who could hear every one of +the jokes that convulsed Tollward and threatened him with apoplexy. Next +to Stanner sat Hall, who gave Bertram, his left-hand neighbour, such +information and advice as he could, anent his taking of the convoy to +Butindi, should such be his fate. + +“You’ll see some fighting up there, if you ever get there,” said he. +“They’re always having little ‘affairs of out-posts’ and patrol scraps. +You may be cut up on the way, of course. . . . If the Germans lay for +you they’re bound to get you, s’ far as I can see. . . . How _can_ you +defend a convoy of a thousand porters going in single file through +impenetrable jungle along a narrow path that it’s practically impossible +to leave? . . . You can have an advance-guard and a rear-guard, of +course, and much good may they do you when your _safari_ covers anything +from a couple of miles to three or four. . . . What are you going to do +if it’s attacked in the middle, a mile or so away from where you are +yourself? . . . What are you going to do if they ambush your +advance-guard and mop the lot up, as they perfectly easily could do, at +any point on the track, if they know you’re coming—as of course they will +do, as soon as we know it ourselves. . . .” + +“You fill me with despondency and alarm,” said Bertram, with a lightness +that he was far from feeling, and a sinking sensation that was not wholly +due to emptiness of stomach. + +Suddenly he was aware that a new stench was contending with the familiar +one of decaying vegetation, rotting shell-fish, and the slime that was +neither land nor water, but seemed a foul grease formed by the +decomposition of leaves, grasses, trees, fish, molluscs and animals in an +inky, oily fluid that the tides but churned up for the freer exhalation +of poisonous miasma, and had not washed away since the rest of the world +arose out of chaos and darkness, that man might breathe and thrive. . . . +The new smell was akin to the old one but more penetrating, more subtly +vile, more _vulgar_, than that ancient essence of decay and death and +dissolution, and—awaking from a brown study in which he saw visions of +himself writhing beneath the bayonets of a dozen gigantic savages, as he +fell at the head of his convoy—he perceived that the new and conquering +odour proceeded from the cheese. On a piece of tin, that had been the +lid of a box, it lay and defied competition, while, with the unfaltering +step of a strong man doing right, because it is his duty, Ali Suleiman +bore it from _bwana_ to _bwana_ with the booming murmur: “Cheese, please +God, sah, thank you.” To the observant and thoughtful Bertram its +reception by each member of the Mess was interesting and instructive, as +indicative of his character, breeding, and personality. + +The Colonel eyed it with a cold smile. + +“Yes. Please God it _is_ only cheese,” he remarked, “but take it +away—quick.” + +Major Manton glanced at it and heaved a very gentle sigh. “No, thank +you, Boy,” he said. + +Captain Tollward sniffed hard, turned to Stanner, and roared with +laughter. + +“What ho, the High Explosive!” he shouted, and “What ho, the Forty Rod +Gorgonzola—so called because it put the battery-mules out of action at +that distance. . . . Who unchained it, I say? Boy, where’s its muzzle?” +and he cut himself a generous slice. + +Stanner buried his nose in his handkerchief and waved Ali away as he +thrust the nutritious if over-prevalent delicacy upon his notice. + +“Take it to Bascombe _Bwana_ and ask him to fire it from his guns,” said +he. “Serve the Germans right for using poison-gas and liquid fire. . . . +Teach ’em a lesson, what, Tollward?” + +“Don’t be dev’lish-minded,” replied that officer when laughter permitted +him to speak. “You’re as bad as the bally Huns yourself to suggest such +an atrocity. . . .” + +“Seems kinder radio-active,” said Hall, eyeing it with curiosity. +“Menacing . . .” and he also drove it from him. + +Bertram, as one who, being at war, faces the horrors of war as they come, +took a piece of the cheese and found that its bite, though it skinned the +roof of his mouth, was not as bad as its bark. Grayne affected to faint +when the cheese reached him, and the others did according to their kind. + +Following in the tracks of Ali came another servant, bearing a wooden +box, which he tendered to each diner, but as one who goeth through an +empty ritual, and without hope that his offering will be accepted. In +the box Bertram saw large thick biscuits exceedingly reminiscent of the +dog-biscuit of commerce, but paler in hue and less attractive of +appearance. He took one, and the well-trained servant only dropped the +box in his surprise. + +“What are you going to do with _that_?” enquired Hall. + +“Why!—eat it, I suppose,” said Bertram. + +“People don’t eat _those_,” replied Hall. + +“Why not?” asked Bertram. + +“Try it and see,” was the response. + +Bertram did, and desisted not until his teeth ached and he feared to +break them. There was certainly no fear of breaking the biscuit. Was it +a sort of practical joke biscuit—a rather clever imitation of a biscuit +in concrete, hardwood, or pottery-ware of some kind? + +“I understand why people do not eat them,” he admitted. + +“Can’t be done,” said Hall. “Why, even the Kavirondo who eat live slugs, +dead snakes, uncooked rice, raw flesh or rotten flesh and any part of any +animal there is, do not regard those things as food. . . . They make +ornaments of them, tools, weapons, missiles, all sorts of things. . . .” + +“I suppose if one were really starving one could live on them for a +time,” said the honest and serious-minded Bertram, ever a seeker after +truth. + +“Not unless one could get them into one’s stomach, I suppose,” was the +reply; “and I don’t see how one would do it. . . . I was reduced to +trying once, and I tried hard. I put one in a basin and poured boiling +water on it. . . . No result whatever. . . . I left it to soak for an +hour while I chewed and chewed a piece of bully-beef. . . . Result? . . . +It was slightly darker in colour, but I could no more bite into it +than I could into a tile or a book. . . .” + +“Suppose you boiled one,” suggested Bertram. + +“Precisely what I did,” said Hall, “for my blood was up, apart from the +fact that I was starving. It was a case of Hall _versus_ a Biscuit. I +boiled it—or rather watched the cook boil it in a _chattie_. . . . I +gave it an hour. At the end of the hour it was of a slightly still +darker colour—and showed signs of splitting through the middle. But +never a bit could I get off it. . . . ‘Boil the dam’ thing all day and +all night, and give it me hot for breakfast,’ said I to the cook. . . . +As one who patiently humours the headstrong, wilful White Man, he went +away to carry on the foolish struggle. . . .” + +“What was it like in the morning?” enquired Bertram, as Hall paused +reminiscent, and chewed the cud of bitter memory. + +“Have you seen a long-sodden boot-sole that is resolving itself into its +original layers and laminæ?” asked Hall. “Where there should be one +solid sole, you see a dozen, and the thing gapes, as it were, showing +serried rows of teeth in the shape of rusty nails and little +protuberances of leather and thread?” + +“Yes,” smiled Bertram. + +“That was my biscuit,” continued Hall. “At the corners it gasped and +split. Between the layers little lumps and points stood up, where the +original biscuit holes had been made when the dreadful thing was without +form, and void, in the process of evolution from cement-like dough to +brick-like biscuit. . . .” + +“Could you eat it?” asked Bertram. + +“Could _you_ eat a boiled boot-sole?” was the reply. “The thing had +turned from dry concrete to wet leather. . . . It had exchanged the +extreme of brittle durability for that of pliant toughness. . . . _Eat_ +it!” and Hall laughed sardonically. + +“What becomes of them all, then, if no one eats them?” asked Bertram. + +“Oh—they have their uses, y’ know. Boxes of them make a jolly good +breastwork. . . The Army Service Corps are provided with work—taking +them by the ton from place to place and fetching them back again. . . . +I reveted a trench with biscuits once. . . . Looked very neat. . . . +Lonely soldiers, in lonely outposts, do _GOD BLESS OUR HOME_ and other +devices with them—and you can make really attractive little photo-frames +for ‘midgets’ and miniature with them if you have a centre-bit and +carving tools. . . The handy-men of the R.E. make awf’ly nice boxes of +children’s toy-building-bricks with them, besides carved _plaques_ and +all sorts of little models. . . . I heard of a prisoner who made a +complete steam-engine out of biscuits, but I never saw it myself. . . . +Oh, yes, the Army would miss its biscuits—but I certainly never saw +anybody eat one. . . .” + +Nor did Bertram, throughout the campaign. And here again it occurred to +his foolish civilian mind that if the thousands of pounds spent on wholly +and utterly inedible dog-biscuit had been spent on the ordinary biscuits +of civilisation and the grocer’s shop, sick and weary soldiers, working +and suffering for their country in a terrible climate, might have had a +sufficiency of food that they could have eaten with pleasure and digested +with benefit, without costing their grateful country a penny more. + +“Which would be the better,” asked Bertram of himself—“to send an army +ten tons of ‘biscuit’ that it cannot eat, or one ton of real biscuit that +it can eat and enjoy?” + +But, as an ignorant, simple, and silly civilian, he must be excused. . . . + +Dessert followed, in the shape of unripe bananas, and Bertram left the +table with a cupful of thin soup, a small piece of cheese, and half a +crisp, but pithy and acidulous banana beneath his belt. As the Colonel +left the hut he hurried after him. + +“If you please, sir,” said he, “may I go out with the force that is to +attack the German post to-morrow?” + +Having acted on impulse and uttered the fatal words, he regretted the +fact. Why should he be such a silly fool as to seek sorrow like this? +Wasn’t there danger and risk and hardship enough—without going out to +look for it? + +“In what capacity?” asked Colonel Rock, and added: “Hall is in command, +and Stanner is his subaltern.” + +“As a spectator, sir,” said Bertram, “and I might—er—be useful +perhaps—er—if—” + +“Spectator!” mused the Colonel. “Bright idea! We might _all_ go, of +course. . . . Two hundred men go out on the job, and a couple of +thousand go with ’em to whoop ’em on and clap, what? Excellent notion. . . . +Wonder if we could arrange a ‘gate,’ and give the gate-money to the +Red Cross, or start a Goose Club or something. . .” and he turned to go +into his tent. + +Bertram was not certain as to whether this reply was in the nature of a +refusal of his request. He hoped it was. + +“May I go, sir?” he said. + +“You may not,” replied the Colonel, and Bertram felt very disappointed. + + + +CHAPTER XII +_Reflections_ + + +That night Bertram was again unable to sleep. Lying awake on his hard +and narrow bed, faint for want of food, and sick with the horrible stench +of the swamp, his mind revolved continually round the problem of how to +“personally conduct” a convoy of a thousand porters through twenty miles +of enemy country in such a way that it might have a chance if attacked. +After tossing and turning for hours and vainly wooing sleep, he lay +considering the details of a scheme by which the armed escort should, as +it were, circulate round and round from head to tail of the convoy by a +process which left ten of the advance-guard to occupy every tributary +turning that joined the path and to wait at the junction of the two paths +until the whole convoy had passed and the rear-guard had arrived. The +ten would then join the rear-guard and march on with them. By the time +this had been repeated sufficiently often to deplete the advance-guard, +the convoy should halt while the bulk of the rear-guard marched up to the +head of the column again and so _da capo_. It would want a lot of +explaining to whoever was in command of the rear-guard, for it would be +impossible for him, himself, to struggle up and down a line miles long—a +line to which anything might happen, at any point, at any moment. . . . +He could make it clear that at any turning he would detail ten men from +the advance-guard, and then, when fifty had been withdrawn for this +flanking work, he would halt the column so that the officer commanding +the rear-guard could send fifty back. . . . Ten to one the fool would +bungle it, and he might sit and await the return of the fifty until the +crack of doom, or until he went back and fetched them up himself. And as +soon as he had quitted the head of the column there would be an attack on +it! . . . Yes—or perhaps the ass in command of the ten placed to guard +the side-turnings would omit to join the rear-guard as it passed—and he’d +roll up at his destination, with a few score men short. . . . What would +be done to him if he— + +_Bang_! . . . + +Bertram’s heart seemed to leap out of his body and then to stand still. +His bones seemed to turn to water, and his tongue to leather. Had a +shell burst beneath his bed? . . . Was he soaring in the air? . . . Had +a great mine exploded beneath the Camp, and was the M’paga Field Force +annihilated? . . . Captain Hall sat up, yawned, put his hand out from +beneath the mosquito curtain of his camp-bed and flashed his electric +torch at a small alarm-clock that stood on a box within reach. + +“What was that explosion?” said Bertram as soon as he could speak. + +“Three-thirty,” yawned Hall. “Might as well get up, I s’pose. . . . +Wha’? . . . ’Splosion? . . . Some fool popped his rifle off at nothing, +I sh’d say. . . . Blast him! Woke me up. . .” + +“It’s not an attack, then?” said Bertram, mightily relieved. “It sounded +as though it were right close outside the hut. . . .” + +“Well—you don’t attack with _one_ rifle shot—nor beat off an attack with +_none_. I don’t, at least,” replied Hall. . . “Just outside, was it?” +he added as he arose. “Funny! There’s no picket or sentry there. You +must have been dreaming, my lad.” + +“I was wide awake before it happened,” said Bertram. “I’ve been awake +all night. . . . It was so close, I—I thought I was blown to bits. . . .” + +“’Oo wouldn’ sell ’is liddle farm an’ go ter War,” remarked Hall in Tommy +vein. “It’s a wearin’ life, being blowed outer yer bed at ar’ pars free +of a mornin’, ain’t it, guv’nor?” + +A deep and hollow groan, apparently from beneath Bertram’s bed, almost +froze that young gentleman’s blood. + +Pulling on his slippers and turning on his electric torch, Hall dashed +out of the hut. Bertram heard him exclaim, swear, and ask questions in +Hindustani. He was joined by others, and the group moved away. . . . + +“Bright lad nearly blown his hand off,” said Hall, re-entering the hut +and lighting a candle-lamp. “Says he was cleaning his rifle. . . .” + +“Do you clean a rifle while it is loaded, and also put one hand over the +muzzle and the other on the trigger while you do it?” asked Bertram. + +“_I_ don’t, personally,” replied Captain Hall, shortly. He was loath to +admit that this disgrace to the regiment had intentionally incapacitated +himself from active service, though it was fairly obvious. + +“I wish he’d gone somewhere else to clean his rifle,” said Bertram. “I +believe the thing was pointed straight at my ear. I tell you—I felt as +though a shell had burst in the hut.” + +“Bullet probably came through here,” observed Hall nonchalantly as he +laced his boots. (Later Bertram discovered that it had actually cut one +of the four sticks that supported his mosquito curtain, and had torn the +muslin thereof.) + +Sleep being out of the question, Bertram decided that he might as well +arise and watch the setting-forth of the little expedition. + +“Going to get up and see you off the premises,” said he. + +“Stout fella,” replied Hall. “I love enthusiasm—but it’ll wear off. . . . +The day’ll come, and before long, when you wouldn’t get out of bed to +see your father shot at dawn. . . . Not unless you were in orders to +command the firing-party, of course,” he added. . . + +Bertram dressed, feeling weak, ill and unhappy. . . . + +“Am I coming in, sah, thank you?” said a well-known voice at the doorless +doorway of the hut. + +“Hope so,” replied Bertram, “if that’s tea you’ve got.” + +It was. In a large enamel “tumbler” was a pint of glorious hot tea, +strong, sweet and scalding. + +“Useful bird, that,” observed Hall, after declining to share the tea, as +he was having breakfast at four o’clock over in the Mess. “I s’pose you +hadn’t ordered tea at three forty-five, had you?” + +Bertram admitted that he had not, and concealed the horrid doubt that +arose in his mind—born of memories of Sergeant Jones’s tea at +Kilindini—as to whether he was not drinking, under Hall’s very nose, the +tea that should have graced Hall’s breakfast, due to be on the table in +the Mess at that moment. . . . + +If Captain Hall found his tea unduly dilute he did not mention the fact +when Bertram came over to the Mess _banda_, and sat yawning and watching +him—the man who could nonchalantly sit and shovel horrid-looking porridge +into his mouth at four a.m., and talk idly on indifferent subjects, a few +minutes before setting out to make a march in the darkness to an attack +at dawn. . . . + +Ill and miserable as he felt, Bertram forgot everything in the thrilling +interest of watching the assembly and departure of the little force. Out +of the black darkness little detachments appeared, sometimes silhouetted +against the red background of cooking fires, and marched along the main +thoroughfare of the Camp to the place of assembly at the quarter-guard. +Punctual to the minute, the column was ready to march off, as Captain +Hall strolled up, apparently as unconcerned as if he were in some boring +peace manœuvres, or about to ride to a meet, instead of to make a +cross-country night march, by compass, through an African jungle-swamp to +an attack at dawn, with the responsibility of the lives of a couple of +hundred men upon his shoulders, as well as that of making a successful +move on the chess-board of the campaign. . . . + +At the head of the column were a hundred Sepoys of the Hundred and +Ninety-Eighth, under Stanner. In the light of the candle-lantern which +he had brought from the _banda_, Bertram scrutinised their faces. They +were Mussulmans, and looked determined, hardy men and fine soldiers. +Some few looked happily excited, some ferocious, but the prevailing +expression was one of weary depression and patient misery. Very many +looked ill, and here and there he saw a sullen and resentful face. On +the whole, he gathered the impression of a force that would march where +it was led and would fight bravely, venting on the foe its anger and +resentment at his being the cause of their sojourning in a stinking swamp +to rot of malaria and dysentery. + +How was Stanner feeling, Bertram wondered. He was evidently feeling +extremely nervous, and made no secret of it when Bertram approached and +addressed him. He was anything but afraid, but he was highly excited. +His teeth chattered as he spoke, and his hand shook when he lit a +cigarette. + +“Gad! I should hate to get one of their beastly expanding bullets in my +stomach,” said he. “They fire a brute of a big-bore slug with a flat +nose. Bad as an explosive bullet, the swine,” and he shuddered +violently. “Stomach’s the only part I worry about, and I don’t give a +damn for bayonets. . . . But a bullet through your stomach! You live +for weeks. . . .” + +Bertram felt distinctly glad to discover that a trained regular officer, +like Stanner, could entertain these sensations of nervous excitement, and +that he himself had no monopoly of them. He even thought, with a thrill +of hope and confidence, that when his turn came he would be less nervous +than Stanner. He knew that Stanner was not frightened, and that he did +not wish he was snug in bed as his brother-officers were, but he also +knew that Bertram Greene would not be frightened, and hoped and believed +he would not be so palpably excited and nervous. . . . + +Behind the detachment of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth came a machine-gun +team of _askaris_ of the King’s African Rifles, in charge of a gigantic +Sergeant. The dismounted gun and the ammunition-boxes were on the heads +of Swahili porters. + +Bertram liked the look of the Sergeant. He was a picture of quiet +competence, reliability and determination. Although a full-blooded +Swahili, his face was not unhandsome in a fierce, bold, and vigorously +purposeful way, and though he had the flattened, wide-nostrilled nose of +the negro, his mouth was Arab, thin-lipped and clear cut as Bertram’s +own. There was nothing bovine, childish nor wandering in his regard, but +a look of frowning thoughtfulness, intentness and concentration. + +And Sergeant Simba was what he looked, every inch a soldier, and a fine +honourable fighting-man, brave as the lion he was named after; a +subordinate who would obey and follow his white officer to certain death, +without question or wavering; a leader who would carry his men with him +by force of his personality, courage and leadership, while he could move +and they could follow. . . . Beside Sergeant Simba, the average German +soldier is a cur, a barbarian, and a filthy brute, for never in all the +twenty years of his “savage” warfare has Sergeant Simba butchered a +child, tortured a woman, murdered wounded enemies, abused (nor used) the +white flag, fired on the Red Cross, turned captured dwelling-places into +pig-styes and latrines in demonstration of his _kultur_—nor, when caught +and cornered, has he waggled dirty hands about cunning, cowardly head +with squeal of _Kamerad_! _Kamerad_! . . . Could William the Kultured +but have officered his armies with a hundred thousand of Sergeant Simba, +instead of with his high-well-born Junkers, the Great War might have been +a gentleman’s war, a clean war, and the word _German_ might not have +become an epithet for all time, nor the “noble and knightly” sons of +ancient houses have received commissions as Second Nozzle-Holder in the +Poison-Gas Grenadiers, Sub Tap-Turner in a Fire-Squirting Squadron, or +Ober Left-behind to Poison Wells in the Prussic (Acid) Guard. . . . + +As Bertram watched this sturdy-looking Maxim-gun section, with their +imperturbable, inscrutable faces, an officer of the King’s African Rifles +emerged from the circumambient gloom and spoke with Sergeant Simba in +Swahili. As he departed, after giving his orders and a few words of +advice to Sergeant Simba, he raised his lantern to the face of the man in +charge of the porters who carried the gun and ammunition. The man’s face +was instantly wreathed in smiles, and he giggled like a little girl. The +officer dug him affectionately in the ribs, as one smacks a horse on +dismounting after a long run and a clean kill, and the giggle became a +cackle of elfin laughter most incongruous. Evidently the man was the +officer’s pet butt and prize fool. + +“_Cartouchie n’gapi_?” asked the officer. + +“Hundrem millium, _Bwana_,” replied the man, and as the officer turned +away with a laugh, Bertram correctly surmised that on being asked how +many cartridges he had got, the man had replied that he possessed a +hundred million. + +Probably he spoke in round numbers, and used the only English words he +knew. . . . The African does not deal in larger quantities than +ten-at-a-time, and his estimates are vague, and still more vague is his +expression of them. He will tell you that a place is “several nights +distant,” or perhaps that it is “a few rivers away.” It is only just, +however, to state that he will cheerfully accept an equal vagueness in +return, and will go to your tent with the alacrity of clear understanding +and definite purpose, if you say to him: “Run quickly to my tent and +bring me the thing I want. You will easily distinguish it, as it is of +about the colour of a flower, the size of a piece of wood, the shape of +elephant’s breath, and the weight of water. _You_ know—it’s as long as +some string and exactly the height of some stones. You’ll find it about +as heavy as a dead bird or a load on the conscience. That thing that +looks like a smell and feels like a sound. . . .” He may bring your gun, +your tobacco-pouch, your pyjamas, your toothbrush, or one slipper, but he +will bring _something_, and that without hesitation or delay, for he +immediately and clearly grasped that that particular thing, and none +other, was what you wanted. He recognised it from your clear and careful +description. It was not as though you had idly and carelessly said: +“Bring me my hat” (or my knife or the matches or some other article that +he handled daily), and left him to make up his mind, unaided, as to +whether you did not really mean trousers, a book, washhand-stand, or the +pens, ink, and paper of the gardener’s aunt. . . . + +Behind the Swahili was a half-company of Gurkhas of the Kashmir Imperial +Service Troops. As they stood at ease and chatted to each other, they +reminded Bertram of a class of schoolboys waiting to be taken upon some +highly pleasurable outing. There was an air of cheerful excitement and +joyous expectancy. + +“_Salaam_, _Subedar Sahib_,” said Bertram, as the fierce hard face of his +little friend came within the radius of the beams of his lantern. + +“_Salaam_, _Sahib_,” replied the Gurkha officer, “_Sahib ata hai_?” he +asked. + +“_Nahin_,” replied Bertram. “_Hamara Colonel Sahib hamko hookum dea ki_ +‘_Mut jao_,’” and the Subedar gathered that Bertram’s Colonel had +forbidden him to go. He commiserated with the young Sahib, said it was +bad luck, but doubtless the Colonel Sahib in his wisdom had reserved him +for far greater things. + +As he strolled along their flank, Bertram received many a cheery grin of +recognition and many a “Salaam, Sahib,” from the friendly and lovable +little hill-men. + +In their rear, Bertram saw, with a momentary feeling that was something +like the touch of a chill hand upon his heart, a party of Swahili +stretcher-bearers, under an Indian of the Subordinate Medical Department, +who bore, slung by a crossbelt across his body, a large satchel of +dressings and simple surgical appliances. . . . Would these +stretcher-bearers come back laden—sodden and dripping with the life-blood +of men now standing near them in full health and strength and vigour of +lusty life? Perhaps this fine Sergeant, perhaps the Subedar-Major of the +Gurkhas? Stanner? Hall? . . . + +Suddenly the column was in motion and passing through the entrance by +which Bertram had come into the Camp—was it a month ago or only +yesterday? + +Without disobeying the Colonel, he might perhaps go with the column as +far as the river? There was a water-picket there permanently. If he did +not go beyond the picket-line, it could not be held that he had “gone +out” with the force in face of the C.O.’s prohibition. + +Along the narrow lane or tunnel which wound through the impenetrable +jungle of elephant-grass, acacia scrub, live oak, baobab, palm, thorn, +creeper, and undergrowth, the column marched to the torrential little +river, thirty or forty yards wide, that swirled brown, oily, and ugly, +between its reed-beds of sucking mud. Here the column halted while Hall +and Stanner, lantern in hand, felt their slow and stumbling way from log +to log of the rough and unrailed bridge that spanned the stream. On the +far side Hall waited with raised lantern, and in the middle stayed +Stanner and bade the men cross in single file, the while he vainly +endeavoured to illuminate each log and the treacherous gap beside it. +Before long the little force had crossed without loss—(and to fall +through into that deep, swift stream in the darkness with accoutrements +and a hundred rounds of ammunition was to be lost for ever)—and in a +minute had disappeared into the darkness, swallowed up and lost to sight +and hearing, as though it had never passed that way. . . . + +Bertram turned back to Camp and came face to face with Major Manton. + +“Morning, Greene,” said he. “Been to see ’em off? Stout fella.” And +Bertram felt as pleased and proud as if he had won a decoration. . . . + +The day dawned grey, cheerless and threatening over a landscape as grey, +cheerless and threatening as the day. The silent, menacing jungle, the +loathsome stench of the surrounding swamp, the heavy, louring sky, the +moist, suffocating heat; the sense of lurking, threatening danger from +savage man, beast and reptile, insect and microbe; the feeling of utter +homelessness and rough discomfort, combined to oppress, discourage and +disturb. . . . + +Breakfast, eaten in silence in the Mess _banda_, consisted of porridge +that required long and careful mastication by any who valued his +digestion; pieces of meat of dull black surface and bright pink interior, +also requiring long and careful mastication by all who were not too +wearied by the porridge drill; and bread. + +The bread was of interest—equally to the geologist, the zoologist, the +physiologist, the chemist, and the merely curious. To the dispassionate +eye, viewing it without prejudice or partiality, the loaf looked like an +oblate spheroid of sandstone—say the Old Red Sandstone in which the +curious may pick up a mammoth, aurochs, sabre-toothed tiger, or similar +ornament of their little world and fleeting day—and to the passionate +hand hacking _with_ prejudice and partiality (for crumb, perhaps), it +also felt like it. It was Army Bread, and quite probably made since the +outbreak of the war. The geologist, wise in Eras—_Paleolithic_, +_Pliocene_, _Eocene_, _May-have-been_—felt its challenge at once. To the +zoologist there was immediate appeal when, by means of some sharp or +heavy tool, the outer crust had been broken. For that interior was +honey-combed with large, shiny-walled cells, and every cell was filled +with a strange web-like kind of cocoon of finest filaments, now grey, now +green, to which adhered tiny black specks. Were these, asked the +zoologist, the eggs of insects, and, if so, of what insects? Were they +laid before the loaf petrified, or after? If before, had the burning +process in the kiln affected them? If after, how did the insect get +inside? Or were they possibly of vegetable origin—something of a fungoid +nature—or even on that strange borderland ’twixt animal and vegetable +where roam the yeasty microbe and boisterous bacillus? Perhaps, after +all, it was neither animal nor vegetable, but mineral? . . . So ponders +the geologist who incurs Army Bread in the wilds of the earth. + +The physiologist merely wonders once again at the marvels of the human +organism, that man can swallow such things and live; while the chemist +secretes a splinter or two, that he may make a qualitative and +quantitative analysis of this new, compound, if haply he survive to +return to his laboratory. + +To the merely curious it is merely curious—until he essays to eat it—and +then his utterance may not be merely precious. . . . + +After this merry meal, Bertram approached the Colonel, saluted, and said: + +“Colonel Frost, of the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth, ordered me to be sure to +request you to return his nine cooking-pots at your very earliest +convenience, sir, if you please.” + +Colonel Rock smiled brightly upon Bertram. + +“He always was a man who liked his little joke,” said he. . . . “Remind +me to send him—” + +“Yes, sir,” interrupted Bertram, involuntarily, so pleased was he to +think that the Pots of Contention were to be returned after all. + +“. . . A Christmas-card—will you?” finished Colonel Rock. + +Bertram’s face fell. He thought he could hear, afar off, the ominous +sound of the grinding of the mill-stones, between the upper and the +nether of which he would be ground exceeding small. . . . Would Colonel +Frost send him a telegram? What would Colonel Rock say if he took it to +him? Could he pretend that he had never received it. Base thought! If +he received one every day? . . . + +Suppose he were wounded. Could he pretend that his mind and memory were +affected—loss of memory, loss of identity, loss of cooking-pots? . . . + +“By the way,” said the Colonel, as Bertram saluted to depart, “you’ll +leave here to-morrow morning with a thousand porters, taking rations and +ammunition to Butindi. You will take the draft from the Hundred and +Ninety-Ninth as escort, and report to Major Mallery there. Don’t go and +get scuppered, or it’ll be bad for them up at Butindi. . . . Start about +five. Lieutenant Bridges, of the Coolie Corps, will give you a guide. +He’s been up there. . . . Better see Captain Brent about it to-night. +He’ll hand over the thousand porters in good condition in the morning. . . . +The A.S.C. people will make a separate dump of the stuff you are to +take. . . . Make sure about it, so that you don’t pinch the wrong stuff, +and turn up at Butindi with ten tons of Number Nine pills and other +medical comforts. . . .” + +Bertram’s heart sank within him, but he strove to achieve a look that +blent pleasure, firmness, comprehension, and wide experience of +convoy-work into one attractive whole. Wending his way to his _banda_, +Bertram found Ali Suleiman making work for himself and doing it. + +“I am going to Butindi at five to-morrow morning,” he announced. “Have +you ever been that way?” + +“Oh, yes, sah, please God, thank you,” replied Ali. “I was gun-bearer to +a _bwana_, one ’Mericani gentlyman wanting to shoot sable antelope—very +rare inseck—but a lion running up and bite him instead, and shocking +climate cause him great loss of life.” + +“Then you could be guide,” interrupted Bertram, “and show me the way to +Butindi?” + +“Yes, sah,” replied Ali, “can show _Bwana_ everythings. . . . _Bwana_ +taking much quinine and other _n’dawa_ {133a} there though. Shocking +climate causing _Bwana_ bad _homa_, bad fever, and perhaps great loss of +life also. . . .” + +“D’you get fever ever?” asked Bertram. + +“Sometimes, sah, but have never had loss of life,” was the reassuring +answer. . . . + +That morning and afternoon Bertram spent in watching the work of the +Camp, as he had no duties of his own, and towards evening learnt of the +approach of the expedition of the morning. . . . + +The column marched along with a swing, evidently pleased with itself, +particularly the Swahili detachment, who chanted a song consisting of one +verse which contained but one line. “_Macouba Simba na piga mazungo_,” +{133b} they sang with wearying but unwearied regularity and monotony. At +their head marched Sergeant Simba, looking as fresh as when he started, +and more like a blackened European than a negro. + +The Subedar and his Gurkhas had been left to garrison the outpost, but a +few had returned on the stretchers of the medical detachment. + +Bertram, with sinking heart and sick feelings of horror, watched these +blood-stained biers, with their apparently lifeless burdens, file over +the bridge, and held his breath whenever a stretcher-bearer stumbled on +the greasy logs. + +As the last couple safely crossed the bridge and laid their dripping +stretcher down for a moment, the occupant, a Gurkha rifleman, suddenly +sat up and looked round. His face was corpse-like, and his uniform +looked as though it had just been dipped in a bath of blood. Painfully +he rose to his feet, while the Swahili bearers gaped in amazement, and +tottered slowly forward. Reeling like a drunken man, he followed in the +wake of the disappearing procession, until he fell. Picking up the empty +stretcher, the bearers hurried to where he lay—only to be waved away by +the wounded man, who again arose and reeled, staggering, along the path. + +Bertram met him and caught his arm as he collapsed once more. + +“_Subr karo_,” said Bertram, summoning up some Hindustani of a sort. +“_Stretcher men baitho_.” {134a} + +“_Nahin_, _Sahib_,” whispered the Gurkha; “_kuch nahin hai_.” {134b} He +evidently understood and spoke a little of the same kind. No. It was +nothing. Only seven holes from Maxim-gun fire, that had riddled him as +the German N.C.O. sprayed the charging line until a _kukri_ halved his +skull. . . . It was nothing. . . . No—it would take more than a +_Germani_ and his woolly-haired _askaris_ to put Rifleman Thappa Sannu on +a stretcher. . . . + +Bertram’s hand seemed as though it were holding a wet sponge. He felt +sick, and dreaded the moment when he must look at it and see it reeking +red. + +“_Mirhbani_, _Sahib_,” whispered the man again. “_Kuch nahin hai_. +_Hamko mut pukkaro_.” {134c} + +He lurched free, stumbled forward a dozen yards, and fell again. + +There was no difficulty about placing him upon the stretcher this time, +and he made no remonstrance, as he was dead. + +Bertram went to his _banda_, sat on the edge of his bed, and wrestled +manfully with himself. + +By the time Hall had made his report to the Colonel and come to the hut +for a wash and rest, Bertram had conquered his desire to be very sick, +swallowed the lump in his throat, relieved the stinging in his eyes, and +contrived to look and behave as though he had not just had one of the +most poignant and disturbing experiences of his life. . . . + +“Ripping little show,” said Captain Hall, as he prepared for a bath and +change. “The Gurkhas did in their pickets without a sound. Gad! They +can handle those _kukris_ of theirs to some purpose. Sentry on a mound +in the outpost pooped off for some reason. They must just have been +doing their morning Stand-to. . . . All four sides of the post opened +fire, and we were only attacking on one. . . . They’d got a Maxim at +each corner. . . . Too late, though. One hurroosh of a rush before they +knew anything, and we were in the _boma_ with the bayonet. Most of them +bunked over the other side. . . . Got three white men, though. A Gurkha +laid one out—on the Maxim, he was—and the Sergeant of the Swahilis fairly +spitted another with his bayonet. . . . Third one got in the way of my +revolver. . . I don’t s’pose the whole thing lasted five minutes from +the time their sentry fired. . . . The Hundred and Ninety-Eighth were +fine. Lost our best Havildar, though. He’d have been Jemadar if he’d +lived. He was leading a rush of his section in fine style, when he +‘copped a packet.’ Stopped one badly. Clean through the neck. One o’ +those beastly soft-nosed slugs the swine give their _askaris_ for +‘savage’ warfare. . . . As if a German knew of any other kind. . . .” + +“Many casualties?” asked Bertram, trying to speak lightly. + +“No—very few. Only eleven killed and seven wounded. Wasn’t time for +more. Shouldn’t have had that much, only the blighter with the Maxim was +nippy enough to get going with it while we charged over about forty yards +from cover. The Gurkhas jumped the ditch like greyhounds and over the +parapet of the inner trench like birds. . . . You _should_ ha’ been +there. . . . They never had a chance. . . .” + +“Yes,” said Bertram, and tried to visualise that rush at the belching +Maxim. + +“Didn’t think much of their _bundobust_,” continued Hall. “Their pickets +were pretty well asleep and the place hadn’t got a yard of barbed wire +nor even a row of stakes. They hadn’t a field of fire of more than fifty +yards anywhere. . . . Bit provincial, what? . . .” + +While Hall bathed, Bertram went in search of Captain Brent of the Coolie +Corps. + +Dinner that night was a vain repetition of yesterday’s, save that there +was more soup and cold bully-beef gravy available, owing to the rain. + +The roof of the _banda_ consisting of lightly thatched grass, reeds, +twigs, and leaves, was as a sieve beneath the tropical downpour. There +was nothing to do but to bear it, with or without grinning. Heavy drops +in rapid succession pattered on bare heads, resounded on the tin plates, +splashed into food, and, by constant dropping, wore away tempers. By +comparison with the great heat of the weather, the rain seemed cold, and +the little streams that cascaded down from pendent twig or reed were +unwelcome as they invaded the back of the neck of some depressed diner +below. + +A most unpleasant looking snake, dislodged or disturbed by the rain, fell +with sudden thud upon the table from his lodging in the roof. Barely had +it done so when it was skewered to the boards by the fork of Captain +Tollward. “Good man,” said Major Manton, and decapitated the reptile +with his knife. + +“Just as well to put him out of pain,” said he coolly; “it’s a _mamba_. +Beastly poisonous,” and the still-writhing snake was removed with the +knife and fork that had carved him. “Lucky I got him in the neck,” +observed Tollward, and the matter dropped. + +Bertram wondered what he would have done had a small and highly poisonous +serpent suddenly flopped down with a thump in front of his plate. +Squealed like a girl perhaps? + +Before long he was sitting huddled up beneath a perfect shower-bath of +cold drops, with his feet in an oozy bog which soon became a pool and +then a stream, and by the end of “dinner” was a torrent that gurgled in +at one end of the Mess _banda_, and foamed out at the other. In this +filthy water the Mess servants paddled to and fro, becoming more and more +suggestive of drowned birds, while the yellowish khaki-drill of their +masters turned almost black as it grew more sodden. One by one the lamps +used by the cook and servants went out. That in the _banda_ went out +too, and the Colonel, who owned a tent, followed its example. Those +officers who had only huts saw no advantage in retiring to them, and sat +on in stolid misery, endeavouring to keep cigarettes alight by holding +them under the table between hasty puffs. + +Having sat—as usual—eagerly listening to the conversation of his +seniors—until the damp and depressed party broke up, Bertram splashed +across to his _banda_ to find that the excellent Ali had completely +covered his bed with his water-proof ground-sheet, had put his pyjamas +and a change of underclothing into the bed and the rest of his kit under +it. He had also dug a small trench and drain round the hut, so that the +interior was merely a bog instead of a pool. . . . + +Bertram then faced the problem of how to undress while standing in mud +beneath a shower-bath, in such a manner as to be able to get into bed +reasonably dry and with the minimum of mud upon the feet. . . . + +As he lay sick and hungry, cold and miserable, with apparently high +promise of fever and colic, listening to the pattering of heavy drops of +water within the hut, and the beating of rain upon the sea of mud and +water without, and realised that on the morrow he was to undertake his +first really dangerous and responsible military duty, his heart sank. . . . +Who was _he_ to be in sole charge of a convoy upon whose safe arrival +the existence of an outpost depended? What a _fool_ he had been to come! +Why should _he_ be lying there half starving in that bestial swamp, +shivering with fever, and feeling as though he had a very dead cat and a +very live one in his stomach? . . . Raising his head from the pillow, +he said aloud: “I would not be elsewhere for anything in the world. . . .” + + + +CHAPTER XIII +_Baking_ + + +When Bertram was awakened by Ali at four o’clock the next morning, he +feared he would be unable to get up. Had he been at home, he would have +remained in bed and sent for the doctor. His head felt like lead, every +bone in his body ached, and he had that horrible sense of internal +_malaise_, than which few feelings are more discouraging, distressing and +enervating. + +The morning smelt horrible, and, by the light of the candle-lamp, the +floor was seen to have resigned in favour of the flood. Another problem: +Could a fair-sized man dress himself on a tiny camp-bed beneath a small +mosquito curtain? If not, he must get out of bed into the water, and +paddle around in that slimy ooze which it hid from the eye but not from +the nose. Subsidiary problem: Could a man step straight into a pair of +wet boots, so as to avoid putting bare feet into the mud, and then +withdraw alternate feet from them, for the removal of pyjamas and the +putting-on of shorts and socks, while the booted foot remained firmly +planted in the slush for his support? + +Or again: Sitting precariously on the edge of a canvas bed, could an +agile person, with bare feet coyly withdrawn from contact with the +foulness beneath, garb his nether limbs to the extent that permitted the +pulling-on of boots? . . . + +He could try anyhow. . . . After much groping and fumbling, Bertram +pulled on his socks and shorts, and then, still lying on his bed, reached +for his boots. These he had left standing on a dry patch beneath his +bed, and now saw standing, with the rest of his kit, in a couple of +inches of filthy water. Balancing himself on the sagging edge of the +strip of canvas that served as bed-laths, palliasse and mattress, he +struggled into the resisting and reluctant boots, and then boldly entered +the water, pleased with the tactics that had saved him from touching it +before he was shod. . . . It was not until he had retrieved his sodden +puttees and commenced to put them on, that he realised that he was still +wearing the trousers of his pyjamas! + +And then it was that Bertram, for the first time in his life, furiously +swore—long and loud and heartily. Let those who say in defence of War +that it rouses man’s nobler instincts and brings out all that is best in +him, note this deplorable fact. + +Could he keep them on, or must he remove those clinging, squelching boots +and partially undress again? + +Striped blue and green pyjamas, showing for six inches between his shorts +and his puttees, would add a distinctly novel touch to the uniform of a +British officer. . . . No. It could not be done. Ill as he felt, and +deeply as he loathed the idea of wrestling with the knots in the sodden +boot-laces of those awful boots, he must do it—in spite of trembling +hands, swimming head, and an almost unconquerable desire to lie down +again. + +And then—alas! for the moral maxims of the copy-books, the wise saws and +modern instances of the didactic virtuous—sheer bad temper came to his +assistance. With ferocious condemnations of everything, he cut his +boot-laces, flung his boots into the water, splashed about violently in +his socks, as he tore off the offending garments and hurled them after +the boots, and then completed his dressing with as little regard to +water, mud, slime, filth, and clay as though he were standing on the +carpet of his dressing-room in England. + +“_I’m fed up_!” quoth he, and barged out of the _banda_ in a frame of +mind that put the Fear of God and Second-Lieutenant Bertram Greene into +all who crossed his path. . . . (_Cupid_ forsooth!) + +The first was Ali Suleiman, who stood waiting in the rain, until he could +go in and pack his master’s kit. + +“Here—you—pack my kit sharp, and don’t stand there gaping like a fish in +a frying-pan. Stir yourself before I stir _you_,” he shouted. + +The faithful Ali dived into the _banda_ like a rabbit into its hole. +Excellent! This was the sort of _bwana_ he could reverence. Almost had +he been persuaded that this new master was not a real gentleman—he was so +gentle. . . . + +Bertram turned back again, but not to apologise for his harsh words, as +his better nature prompted him to do. + +“Where’s my breakfast, you lazy rascal?” he shouted. + +“On the table in Mess _banda_, please God, thank you, sah,” replied Ali +Suleiman humbly, as one who prays that his grievous trespasses may be +forgotten. + +“Then why couldn’t you say so, you—you—you—” and here memories of the +Naval Officer stole across his subconsciousness, “you blundering burden, +you posthumous porridge-punter, you myopic megalomaniac, you pernicious, +piebald pacifist. . . .” + +Ali Suleiman rolled his eyes and nodded his head with every epithet. + +“Oh, my God, sah,” said he, as Bertram paused for breath, “I am a dam man +mos’ blasted sinful”—and, so ridiculous a thing is temper, that Bertram +neither laughed nor saw cause for laughter. + +Splashing across to the Mess _banda_, he discovered a battered metal +teapot, an enamelled tumbler, an almost empty tin of condensed milk, and +a tin plate of very sad-looking porridge. By the light of a lamp that +appealed more to the olfactory and auditory senses than to the optic, he +removed from the stodgy mess the well-developed leg of some insect +unknown, and then tasted it—(the porridge, not the leg). + +“_Filthy muck_,” he remarked aloud. + +“Sahib calling me, sir?” said a voice that made him jump, and the Cook’s +Understudy, a Goanese youth, stepped into the circle of light—or of +lesser gloom. + +“Very natural you should have thought so,” answered Bertram. “I said +_Filthy Muck_.” + +“Yessir,” replied the acting deputy assistant adjutant cooklet, proudly, +“I am cooking breakfast for the Sahib.” + +“_You_ cooked this?” growled Bertram, and half rose, with so menacing an +expression and wild an eye that the guilty fled, making a note that this +was a Sahib to be properly served in future, and not, as he had foolishly +thought him, a poor polite soul for whom anything was good enough. . . . + +Pushing the burnt and nauseating horror from him, Bertram essayed to pour +out tea, only to find that the fluid was readily procurable from anywhere +but the spout. A teapot that will not “pour out” freely is an annoyance +at the best of times, and to the most placid of souls. (The fact that +tea through the lid is as good as tea through the spout is more than +counter-balanced by the fact that tea in the cup is better than tea on +the table-cloth. And it is a very difficult art, only to be acquired by +patient practice, to pour tea into the cup and the cup alone, from the +top of a spout-bunged teapot. Try it.) + +Bertram’s had temper waxed and deepened. + +“_Curse the thing_!” he swore, and banged the offending pot on the table, +and, forgetting his nice table-manners, blew violently down the spout. +This sent a wave of tea over his head and scalded him, and there the +didactic virtuous, and the copy-book maxims, scored. + +Sorely tempted to call to the cooklet in honeyed tones, decoy him near +with fair-seeming smiles, with friendly gestures, and then to fling the +thing at his head, he essayed to pour again. + +A trickle, a gurgle, a spurt, a round gush of tea—and the pale wan +skeletal remnants of a once lusty cockroach, sodden and soft, leapt into +the cup. Swirling round and round, it seemed giddily to explore its new +unresting-place, triumphant, as though chanting, with the Ancient +Mariner, some such pæan as + + “I was the first that ever burst + Into this silent tea. . . .” + +Heaven alone knew to how many cups of tea that disintegrating corpse had +contributed of its best before the gusts of Bertram’s temper had +contributed to its dislodgment. + +(Temper seems to have scored a point here, it must be reluctantly +confessed.) + +Bertram arose and plunged forth into the darkness, not daring to trust +himself to call the cook. + +Raising his clenched hands in speechless wrath, he drew in his breath +through his clenched teeth—and then slipped with catastrophic suddenness +on a patch of slimy clay and sat down heavily in very cold water. + +He arose a distinctly dangerous person. . . . + +Near the ration-dump squatted a solid square of naked black men, not +precisely savages, raw _shenzis_ of the jungle, but something between +these and the Swahilis who work as personal servants, gun-bearers, and +the better class of _safari_ porters. They were big men and looked +strong. They smelt stronger. It was a perfectly indescribable odour, +like nothing on earth, and to be encountered nowhere else on earth—save +in the vicinity of another mass of negroes. + +In the light of a big fire and several lanterns, Bertram saw that the men +were in rough lines, and that each line appeared to be in charge of a +headman, distinguished by some badge of rank, such as a bowler hat, a +tobacco tin worn as an ear-ring, a pair of pink socks, or a frock coat. +These men walked up and down their respective lines and occasionally +smote one of their squatting followers, hitting the chosen one without +fear or favour, without rhyme or reason, and apparently without doing +much damage. For the smitten one, without change of expression or +position, emitted an incredibly thin piping squeal, as though in +acknowledgment of an attention, rather than as if giving natural vent to +anguish. . . . + +Every porter had a red blanket, and practically every one wore a _panga_. +The verbs are selected. They _had_ blankets and they _wore_ pangas. The +blankets they either sat upon or folded into pads for insertion beneath +the loads they were to carry upon their heads. The _pangas_ were +attached to strings worn over the shoulder. This useful implement serves +the African as toothpick, spade, axe, knife, club, toasting-fork, hammer, +weapon, hoe, cleaver, spoon, skinning-knife, and every other kind of +tool, as well as being correct jungle wear for men for all occasions, and +in all weathers. He builds a house with it; slays, skins and dismembers +a bullock; fells a tree, makes a boat, digs a pit; fashions a club, +spear, bow or arrow; hews his way through jungle, enheartens his wife, +disheartens his enemy, mows his lawn, and makes his bed. . . . + +Not far away, a double company of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth “stood +easy.” The fact that they were soaked to the skin did nothing to give +them an air of devil-may-care gaiety. + +The Jemadar in command approached and saluted Bertram, who recognised the +features of Hassan Ali. + +“It’s _you_, is it!” he grunted, and proceeded to explain that the +Jemadar would command the rear-guard of one hundred men, and that by the +time it was augmented to a hundred and fifty by the process of picking up +flankers left to guard side-turnings, the column would be halted while +fifty men made their way up to the advance-guard again, and so on. + +“D’you understand?” concluded Bertram. + +“_Nahin_, _Sahib_,” replied the Jemadar. + +“_Then fall out_,” snapped Bertram. “I’ll put an intelligent private in +command, and you can watch him until you do,” and then he broke into +English: “I’ve had about enough of you, my lad, and if you give me any of +your damned nonsense, I’ll twist your tail till you howl. Call yourself +an _officer_! . . .” and here the Jemadar, saluting repeatedly, like an +automaton, declared that light had just dawned upon his mind and that he +clearly understood. + +“And so you’d better,” answered Bertram harshly, staring with a hard +scowl into the Jemadar’s eyes until they wavered and sank. “So you’d +_better_, if you want to keep your rank. . . . March one hundred men +down the path past the Officers’ Mess, and halt them a thousand yards +from here. . . . The coolies will follow. You will return and fall in +behind the coolies with the other hundred as rear-guard. See that the +coolies do not straggle. March behind your men—so that you are the very +last man of the whole convoy. D’you understand?” + +Jemadar Hassan Ali did understand, and he also understood that he’d made +a bad mistake about Second-Lieutenant Greene. He was evidently one of +those subtle and clever people who give the impression that they are not +_hushyar_, {142} that they are foolish and incompetent, and then suddenly +destroy you when they see you have thoroughly gained that impression. + +Respect and fear awoke in the breast of the worthy Jemadar, for he +admired cunning, subtlety and cleverness beyond all things. . . . He +marched a half of his little force off into the darkness, halted them +some half-mile down the path (or rivulet) that led into the jungle, put +them in charge of the senior Havildar and returned. + +Meanwhile, Lieutenant Bridges, in a cloak and pyjamas, had arrived, +yawning and shivering, to superintend the loading up of the porters. At +an order, given in Swahili, the first line of squatting Kavirondo arose +and rushed to the dump. + +“Extraordinary zeal!” remarked Bertram to Bridges. + +“Yes—to collar the lightest loads,” was the illuminating reply. + +The zeal faded as rapidly as it had glowed when he coldly pointed with +the _kiboko_, which was his badge of office and constant companion, to +the heavy ammunition-boxes. + +“I should keep that near the advance-guard and under a special guard of +its own,” said he. + +“I’m going to—naturally,” replied Bertram shortly, and added: “Hurry them +along, please. I want to get off to-day.” + +Bridges stared. This was a much more assured and autocratic person than +the mild youth he had met at the water’s edge a day or two ago. + +“Well—if you like to push off with the advance-guard, I’ll see that a +constant stream of porters files off from here, and that your rear-guard +follows them,” said he. + +“Thanks—I’ll not start till I’ve seen the whole convoy ready,” replied +Bertram. + +Yesterday he’d have been glad of advice from anybody. Now he’d take it +from no one. Orders he would obey, of course—but “a poor thing but mine +own” should be his motto with regard to his method of carrying out +whatever he was left to do. They’d told him to take their beastly +convoy; they’d left him to do it; and he’d do it as he thought fit. . . . +Curse the rain, the mud, the stench, the hunger, sickness and the beastly +pain that nearly doubled him up and made him feel faint. . . . + +Grayne strolled over. + +“Time you bunged off, my lad,” quoth he, loftily. + +“If you’ll mind your own business, I shall have the better chance to mind +mine,” replied Bertram, eyeing him coldly—and wondering at himself. + +Grayne stared open-mouthed, and before he could speak Bertram was +hounding on a lingering knot of porters who had not hurried off to the +line as soon as their boxes of biscuit were balanced on their heads, but +stood shrilly wrangling about something or nothing. + +“_Kalele_! _Kalele_!” shouted Bertram, and sprang at them with raised +fist and furious countenance, whereat they emitted shrill squeals and +fled to their places in the long column. + +He had no idea what “_Kalele_!” meant, but had heard Bridges and the +headman say it. Later he learnt that it meant “Silence!” and was a very +useful word. . . . + +Ali Suleiman approached, seized three men, and herded them before him to +fetch Bertram’s kit. Having loaded them with it, he drove them to the +head of the column and stationed them in rear of the advance-guard. + +Returning, he presented Bertram with a good, useful-looking cane. + +“_Bwana_ wanting a _kiboko_,” said he. “_Shenzis_ not knowing anything +without _kiboko_ and not feeling happy in mind. Not thinking _Bwana_ is +a real master.” + +Yesterday Bertram would have chidden Ali gently, and explained that kind +hearts are more than coronets and gentle words than cruel whips. To-day +he took the cane, gave it a vicious swish, and wished that it were indeed +a _kiboko_, one of those terrible instruments of hippopotamus hide, four +feet in length, as thick as a man’s wrist at one end, tapering until it +was of the thinness of his little finger at the other. . . . + +A big Kavirondo seized a rum jar. His bigger neighbour dropped a heavy +box and tried to snatch it from him. He who had the lighter jar clung to +it, bounded away, and put it on his head. The box-wallah, following, +gave him a sudden violent blow in the back, jerking the jar from his +head. + +Raising his cane, Bertram brought it down with all his strength on the +starboard quarter of the box-wallah as he stooped to grab the jar. With +a wild yelp, he leapt for his box and galloped to his place in the +column. + +“Excellent!” said Bridges, “you’ll have no trouble with the _safari_ +people, at any rate.” + +“I’ll have no trouble with anybody,” replied Bertram with a quiet +truculence that surprised himself, “not even with a _Balliol_ negro.” + +Bridges decided that he had formed his estimate of Lieutenant Greene too +hastily and quite wrongly. He was evidently a bit of a tough lad when he +got down to it. Hot stuff. . . . + +At last the dump had disappeared completely, and its original components +now swayed and turned upon the heads of a thousand human beasts of +burden—human in that they walked erect and used fire for cooking food; +beasts in that they were beastly and beast-like in all other ways. Among +them, and distinguished by being feebler of physique, and, if possible, +feebler of mind, was a party of those despised savages, the Kikuyu, +rendered interesting as providing the great question that shook the +Church of England to its foundations, and caused Lord Bishops to forget +the wise councils of good Doctor Watts’ hymn. (It is to be feared that +among the even mightier problems of the Great War, the problem of the +spiritual position and ecclesiastical condition of the Communicating +Kikuyu has been temporarily lost sight of. Those who know the gentleman, +with his blubber-lipped, foreheadless face, his teeth filed to sharp +points, his skin a mass of scar patterns, done with a knife, and his +soulless, brainless animalism and bestiality, would hate to think he was +one short on the Thirty-Nine Articles or anything of that sort.) + +Bertram gave a last injunction to Jemadar Hassan Ali, said farewell to +Bridges, and strode to the head of the column. Thence he sent out a +“point” of a Havildar and three men, and waited to give the word to +advance, and plunge into the jungle, the one white man among some fifteen +hundred people, all of whom looked to him, as to a Superior Being, for +guidance and that competent command which should be their safeguard. + +As the point disappeared he turned and looked along the apparently +endless line, cried “_Quick March_,” and set off at a smart pace, the +first man of the column. + +He was too proud and excited to realise how very ill he felt, or to be +ashamed of the naughty temper that he had so clearly and freely +exhibited. + + + +CHAPTER XIV +_The Convoy_ + + +Bertram never forgot this plunge into the primeval jungle with its +mingled suggestions of a Kew hot-house, a Turkish bath, a shower bath, a +mud bath and a nightmare. + +His mind was too blunted with probing into new things, his brain too +dulled by the incessant battering of new ideas, too drunk with draughts +of strange mingled novelty, too covered with recent new impressions for +him to be sensitive to fresh ones. + +Had an elephant emerged from the dripping jungle, wagged its tail and sat +up and begged, he would have experienced no great shock of surprise. He, +a town-bred, town-dwelling, pillar of the Respectable, the Normal and the +Established, was marching through virgin forest at the head of a thousand +African porters and two hundred Indian soldiers and their camp-followers, +surrounded by enemies—varying from an _ex_-Prussian Guard armed with a +machine-gun to a Wadego savage armed with a poisoned arrow—to the relief +of hungry men in a stockaded outpost! . . . What further room was there +for marvels, wonders, and surprises? As he tramped, splashed, slipped +and stumbled along the path, and the gloom of early morning, black sky, +mist, and heavy rain slowly gave way to dawn and daylight, his fit of +savage temper induced by “liver,” hunger, headache and disgust, slowly +gave way, also, to the mental inertia, calm, and peace, induced by +monotonous exercise. The steady dogged tramp, tramp, tramp, was an +anodyne, a sedative, a narcotic that drugged the mind, rendering it +insensitive to the pains and sickness of the body as well as to its own +worries, anxieties and problems. . . . + +Bertram felt that he could go on for a very long time; go on until he +fell; but he knew that when he fell it would be quite impossible for him +to get up again. Once his legs stopped moving, the spell would be +broken, the automaton would have “run down,” and motion would cease quite +finally. . . . + +As daylight grew, he idly and almost subconsciously observed the details +of his environment. + +This was better than the mangrove-thicket of the swamp, in a clearing of +which the base camp lay. It was the densest of dense jungle through +which the track ran, like a stream through a cañon, but it was a jungle +of infinite variety. Above the green impenetrable mat of elephant grass +and nameless tangle of undergrowth, scrub, shrub, liana, bush, creeper, +and young trees, stood, in solid serried array, great trees by the +million, palm, mango, baobab, acacia, live oak, and a hundred other +kinds, with bamboo and banana where they could, in defiance of +probability, squeeze themselves in. Some of the trees looked like the +handiwork of prentice gods, so crude and formless were they, their fat +trunks tapering rapidly from a huge ground-girth to a fine point, and +putting forth little abortive leafless branches suggestive of straggly +hairs. Some such produced brilliant red blossoms, apparently on the +trunk itself, but dispensed with the banality of leaves and branches. +Some great knotted creepers seemed to have threaded themselves with beads +as big as a man’s head, and the fruit of one arboreal freak was vast +sausages. + +Through the aerial roadways of the forest, fifty feet above the heads of +the _safari_, tribes of monkeys galloped and gambolled as they spied upon +it and shrieked their comment. + +Apparently the varied and numerous birds held views upon the subject of +_safaris_ also, and saw no reason to conceal them. + +One accompanied the advance-guard, piping and fluting: “_Poli-Poli_! +_Poli-Poli_!” which, as Ali Suleiman informed Bertram, is Swahili for +“Slowly! _Slowly_!” + +Another bird appeared to have fitted up his home with a chime of at least +eight bells, for, every now and then, a sweet and sonorous tolling rang +through the jungle. One bird, sitting on a branch a few feet from +Bertram’s head, emitted two notes that for depth of timbre and rich +sonorous sweetness could be excelled by no musical instrument or bell on +earth. He had but the two notes apparently, but those two were +marvellous. They even roused Bertram to the reception of a new +impression and a fresh sensation akin to wonder. + +From many of the overhanging trees depended the beautifully woven +bottle-like nests of the weaver-bird. Brilliant parrots flashed through +the tree-tops, incredible horn-bills carried their beaks about, the +hypocritical widower-bird flaunted his new mourning, the blue starling, +the sun-bird, and the crow-pheasant, with a score of other species, +failed to give the gloomy, menacing jungle an air of brightness and life, +seemed rather to emphasise its note of gloom, its insistence upon itself +as the home of death where Nature, red in tooth and claw, pursued her +cycle of destruction with fierce avidity and wanton masterfulness. . . . + +Suddenly a whistle rang out—sharp, clear, imperative. Its incisive blow +upon the silence of the deadly jungle startled Bertram from his apathy. +His tired wits sprang to life and activity, urged on his weary flagging +muscles. He wheeled round and faced the Sepoys just behind him, even as +the blast of the whistle ceased. + +“_Halt_! _Baitho_!” {148} he shouted—gave the drill-book sign to lie +down—and waited, for a second that seemed like a year, to feel the +withering blast of fire that should tear through them at point-blank +range. . . . Why did it not come? . . . Why did no guttural German +voice shout an order to fire? . . . . He remained standing upright, +while the Sepoys, crouching low, worked the bolts of their rifles to load +the latter from their magazines. He was glad to see that they made ready +thus, without awaiting an order, even as they sank to the ground. Would +it not be better to march in future with a cartridge in the chamber and +the cut-off of the magazine open? . . . Accidents? . . . Not if he made +them march with rifles at the “slope.” . . . Better the risk of an +accident than the risk of being caught napping. . . . Why did not the +accursed German give the order to fire? . . . Was it because Bertram had +got his men crouching down so quickly? . . . Would the crashing volley +thunder out, the moment they arose? . . . They could not stay squatting, +kneeling and lying in the mud for ever. . . . Where was the ambush? . . . +Had they Maxims in trees, commanding this path? . . . Were the enemy +massed in a clearing a foot or two from the road, and separated from it +only by a thin screen of foliage? . . . . What should he do if there +were a sudden bayonet-charge down the path, by huge ferocious _askaris_? +. . . You can’t meet a charge with efficient rifle-fire when you are in +single file and your utmost effort at deployment would get two, or +possibly three crowded and hampered men abreast. . . . On the other +hand, the enemy would not be charging under ideal conditions either. . . . +More likely a machine-gun would suddenly nip out, from concealment +beside the path, and wither the column away with a blast of fire at six +hundred rounds a minute. . . . Perhaps the “point” marching on ahead +would have the sense and the courage and the time to get into the +gun-team with their bayonets before it got the gun going? . . . _Why did +not the enemy fire_? . . . He would go mad if they didn’t do so soon. . . . +Were they playing with him, as a cat plays with a mouse? . . . + +The whistle rang out again, harsh, peremptory, fateful—and then Ali +Suleiman laughed, and pointed at a small bird. As he did so, the bird +whistled again, with precisely the note of a police-whistle blown under +the stress of fear, excitement or anger, a clamant, bodeful, and +insistent signal. + +Bertram would have welcomed warmly an opportunity to wring little +birdie’s neck, in the gust of anger that followed the fright. + +Giving the signal to rise and advance, Bertram strode on, and, still +under the stimulus of alarm, forgot that he was tired. + +He analysed his feelings. . . . Was he frightened and afraid? Not at +all. The whistle had “made him jump,” and given him a “start,” of +course. The waiting for the blast of fire, that he knew would follow the +signal, had been terribly trying—a torture to the nerves. The problem of +what to do, in response to the enemy’s first move, had been an agonising +anxiety—but he would certainly have done something—given clear orders as +to object and distance if there had been anything to fire at; used his +revolver coolly and set a good example if there had been a charge down +the path; headed a fierce rush at the Maxim if one had come out of cover +and prepared to open fire. . . . No—he decidedly was not frightened and +afraid. . . He was glad that he had remained erect, and, with his hand +on his revolver, had, with seeming coolness, scanned the surrounding +trees and jungle for signs of an ambushed enemy. . . . + +The road forked, and he turned to Ali Suleiman, who had marched near him +from the start, in the proud capacity of guide. + +“Which of these paths?” said he. + +“The left hands, sah, please God,” was the reply; “the right is closed +also.” + +“What d’you mean?” asked Bertram, staring down the open track that +branched to the right. + +“See, _Bwana_,” replied Ali, pointing to a small branch that lay in the +middle of the path, with its broken end towards them and its leaves away +from them. “Road closed. I ’spec _askari_ patrol from Butani putting it +there, when they know _Bwana_ coming, thank God, please.” + +Apparently this twig, to the experienced eye, was precisely equivalent to +a notice-board bearing the legend, _No Thoroughfare_. Bertram signalled +a halt and turned to the Havildar at the head of the advance-guard. + +“Take ten men and patrol down that path for a thousand yards,” said he. +“Then march back, wait for the rear-guard, and report to the Jemadar +Sahib.” + +The man saluted, and Bertram saw him and his patrol move off, before he +gave the order for the column to advance again. . . . That should secure +the _safari_ from attack down _that_ path, anyhow. Ten determined men +could hold up any number for any length of time, if they did the right +thing. . . . These beastly bush fighting conditions cut both ways. . . . +Yes—then suppose a small patrol of enemy _askaris_ were on this track in +front of him, and decided to hold the convoy up, what could he do? + +To advance upon them, practically in single file, would be like +approaching a long stick of sealing-wax to the door of a furnace—the +point would melt and melt until the whole stick had disappeared without +reaching the fire. . . . Of course, if there was a possibility of +getting into the jungle, he would send out parties to take them in flank +as he charged down the path. But that was just the point—you _couldn’t_ +get more than a few yards into the jungle in the likeliest places, and, +when you’d done that, you’d be utterly out of touch with your right and +left-hand man in no time—not to mention the fact that you’d have no sense +of direction or distance. . . . + +No. . . . He’d just head a charge straight for them, and if it were a +really determined one and the distance not too great, enough of the +advance-guard might survive to reach them with the bayonet. . . . +Evidently, if there were any rules at all in this jungle warfare, one +would be that the smaller of the two forces should dispose itself to +bring every rifle to bear with magazine fire, and the larger should make +the swiftest charge it possibly could. If it didn’t—a dozen men would be +as good as a thousand—while their ammunition held out. . . . What an +advantage over the Indian Sepoy, with his open order _maidan_ {150} +training, the _askari_, bred and born and trained to this bush-fighting, +would have! The German _ought_ to win this campaign with his very big +army of indigenous soldiers and his “salted” Colonials. What chance had +the Sepoy or the British Regular in these utterly strange and +unthought-of conditions? . . . As well train aviators and then put them +in submarines as train the Indian Army for the frontier and the plains +and then put them in these swamps and jungles where your enemy is +invisible and your sole “formation” is single file. What about the +sacred and Medean Law: _Never fire until you can see something to fire +at_? They’d never fire at all, at that rate, with an enemy who +habitually used machine-guns from tree-tops and fired from dense +cover—and small blame to him. . . . + +A sound of rushing water, and a few minutes later the path became the +edge of a river-bank beneath which the torrent swirled. It looked as +though its swift erosion would soon bring the crumbling and beetling bank +down, and the path would lead straight into the river. He must mention +the fact at Butindi. + +He stared at the jungle of the opposite bank, apparently lifeless and +deserted, though menacing, secretive and uncanny. An ugly place. . . . +Suppose the Germans bridged the river just here. . . . He found that he +had come to a halt and was yearning to sit down. . . . He must not do +that. He must keep moving. But he did not like that gap in the path +where, for some yards, it ran along the edge of the bank. It was a gap +in the wall, an open door in the house, a rent in the veil of protection. +The jungle seemed a friend instead of a blinding and crippling hindrance, +impediment, and obstacle, now that the path lay open and exposed along +that flank. Suppose there were an ambush in the jungle on the other side +of the narrow rushing river, and a heavy fire was opened upon his men as +they passed? He could not get at an enemy so placed, nor return their +fire for long, from an open place, while they were in densest cover. +They could simply prohibit the passing of the _safari_. . . . Anyhow, +he’d leave a force there to blaze like fury into the jungle across the +river if a shot were fired from there. + +“Naik,” said he, to a corporal, “halt here with twenty men and line the +edge of the bank. If you are fired at from across the river, pour in +magazine fire as hard as you can go—and make the porters _run_ like the +devil across this gap.” He then translated, as well as he could, and +marched on. He had done his best, anyhow. + +For another hour he doggedly tramped on. The rain ceased, and the heat +grew suffocating, stifling, terrible to bear. He felt that he was +breathing pure steam, and that he must climb a tree in search of air—do +_something_ to relieve his panting lungs. . . . He tore his tunic open +at the throat. . . . _Help_! he was going to faint and fall. . . . With +a great effort he swung about and raised his hand for the “halt” and +lowered it with palm horizontal downward for the “lie down.” . . . If +the men were down themselves they would not realise that he had fallen. . . . +It would not do to fall while marching at their head, to fall and +lie there for the next man to stumble over him, to set an example of +weakness. . . . The officer should be the last man to succumb to +anything—but wounds—in front. . . . + +He sank to the ground, and feeling that he was going to faint away, put +his head well down between his knees, and, after a while, felt better. + +“_Bwana_ taking off tunic and belts,” said Ali Suleiman, “and I carry +them. _Bwana_ keep only revolver, by damn, please God, sah.” + +A bright idea! Why not? Where was the sense in marching through these +foul swamps and jungles as though it were along the Queen’s Road at +Bombay? And Ali, who would rather die than carry a load upon his head, +like a low _shenzi_ of a porter, would be proud to carry his master’s +sword and personal kit. + +In his shirt-sleeves, with exposed chest, Bertram felt another man, gave +the signal to advance, and proceeded free of all impedimenta save his +revolver. . . . + +Suddenly the narrow, walled-in path debouched into a most beautiful open +glade of trees like live oaks. These were not massed together; there was +no undergrowth of bush; the grass was short and fine; the ground sloping +slightly upward was gravelly and dry—the whole spot one of Africa’s +freakish contrasts. + +Bertram determined to halt the whole _safari_ here, get it “closed up” +into something like fours, and see every man, including the rear-guard, +into the place before starting off again. + +With the help of Ali, who interpreted to the headmen, he achieved his +object, and, when he had satisfied himself that it was a case of “all +present and correct,” he returned to the head of the column and sat him +down upon the trunk of a fallen tree. . . . + +Everybody, save the sentries, whom he had posted about the glade, +squatted or lay upon the ground, each man beside his load. . . . + +Though free now of the horrible sense of suffocation, he felt sick and +faint, and very weary. Although he had not had a proper meal since he +left the _Barjordan_, he was not hungry—or thought he was not. . . . +Would it be his luck to be killed in the first fight that he took part +in? His _good_ luck? When one is ill and half starved, weary beyond +words, and bearing a nightmare burden of responsibility in conditions as +comfortless and rough as they can well be, Death seems less a grisly +terror than a friend, bearing an Order of Release in his bony hand. . . . + +Ali stood before him unbuckling his haversack. + +“Please God, sah, I am buying _Bwana_ this chocolates in Mombasa when +finding master got no grubs for emergency rasher,” said he, producing a +big blue packet of chocolate. + +“Good man!” replied Bertram. “I meant to get a stock of that myself. . . .” + +He ate some chocolate, drank of the cold tea with which the excellent Ali +had filled his water-bottle, and felt better. + +After an hour’s rest he gave the order to fall in, the headmen of the +porters got their respective gangs loaded up again, and the _safari_ +wound snake-like from the glade along the narrow path once more, Bertram +at its head. He felt he was becoming a tactical soldier as he sent a +lance-naik to go the round of the sentries and bid them stand fast until +the rear-guard had disappeared into the jungle, when they were to rejoin +it. + +On tramped the _safari_, hour after hour, with occasional halts where the +track widened, or the jungle, for a brief space, gave way to forest or +_dambo_. Suddenly the head of the column emerged from the denser jungle +into an undulating country of thicket, glade, scrub, and forest. Bertram +saw the smoke of campfires far away to the left; and with one accord the +porters commenced to beat their loads, drum-wise, with their _safari_ +sticks as they burst into some tribal chant or pæan of rejoicing. The +convoy had reached Butindi in safety. + + + +CHAPTER XV +_Butindi_ + + +Half a mile beyond a village of the tiniest huts—built for themselves by +the Kavirondo porters, and suggesting beehives rather than human +habitations—Bertram beheld the entrenched and stockaded _boma_, zariba, +or fort, that was to be his home for some months. + +At that distance, it looked like a solid square of grass huts and tents, +surrounded by a high wall. He guessed each side to be about two hundred +yards in length. It stood in a clearing which gave a field of fire of +some three hundred yards in every direction. + +Halting the advance-guard, he formed it up from single file into fours; +and, taking his kit from Ali, resumed it. Giving the order to march at +“attention,” he approached the _boma_, above the entrance to which an +officer was watching him through field-glasses. + +Halting his men at the plank which crossed the trench, he bade them +“stand easy,” and, leaving them in charge of a Havildar, crossed the +little bridge and approached the gateway which faced sideways instead of +outwards, and was so narrow that only one person at a time could pass +through it. + +Between the trench and the wall of the _boma_ was a space some ten yards +in width, wherein a number of small men in blue uniform, who resembled +neither Indians nor Africans, were employed upon the off-duty duties of +the soldier—cleaning rifles and accoutrements, chopping wood, rolling +puttees, preparing food, washing clothing, and pursuing trains of thought +or insects. + +Against the wall stood the long lean-to shelters, consisting of a roof of +plaited palm-leaf, supported by poles, in which they lived. By the +entrance was a guard-house, which suggested a rabbit-hutch; and a sentry, +who, seeing the approach of an armed party, turned out the guard. The +Sergeant of the Guard was an enormous man with a skin like fine black +satin, a skin than which no satin could be blacker nor more shiny. He +was an obvious negro, Nubian or Soudanese, but the men of the guard were +small and fair, and wore blue turbans, of which the ornamental end hung +tail-wise down their backs. Beneath their blue tunics were unpleated +kilts or skirts, of a kind of blue tartan, reaching to their knees. They +had blue puttees and bare feet. + +Saluting the guard, Bertram entered the _boma_ and found himself in the +High Street of a close-packed village of huts and tents, which were the +dwelling-places of the officers, the hospital and sick-lines, the +commissariat store, the Officers’ Mess, the cook-house, orderly-room, and +offices. + +In the middle of the High Street stood four poles which supported a roof. +A “table” of posts and packing-case boards, surrounded by native +bedsteads of wood and string—by way of seats—constituted this, the +Officers’ Mess, Club, Common Room and Bar. A bunch of despondent-looking +bananas hanging from the ridge-pole suggested food, and a bath containing +a foot of water and an inch of mud suggested drink and cholera. + +About the table sat several British officers in ragged shirts and shorts, +drinking tea and eating native _chupatties_. They looked ill and weary. +The mosaic of scraps of stencilled packing-case wood, the tin plates, the +biscuit-box “sugar-basin,” the condensed milk tin “milk-jug,” the +battered metal teapot and the pile of sodden-looking _chupatties_ made as +uninviting an afternoon tea ménage as could be imagined, particularly in +that setting of muddy clay floor, rough and dirty _angarebs_, and +roof-and-wall thatch of withered leaves and grass. A typical scene of +modern glorious war with its dirt, discomfort and privation, its disease, +misery and weary boredom. . . . + +Bertram approached the rickety grass hut and saluted. + +A very tall man, with the face and moustache of a Viking, rose and +extended his hand. + +“How do, Greene?” said he. “Glad to see you. . . . Hope you brought the +rum ration safe. . . . Take your bonnet off and undo your furs. . . . +Hope that pistol’s not loaded. . . . Nor that sword sharp. . . . +Oughtn’t to go about with nasty, dangerous things like that. . . . Hope +the rum ration’s safe. . . . Have some tea and a bloater. . . . +Berners, go and do Quartermaster, like a good lad. . . . Have some rum +and a bloater, Greene. . . .” + +“Thank you, sir,” said Bertram, noting that the big man had a crown on +one shoulder of his shirt and a safety-pin spanning a huge hole on the +other. His great arms and chest were bare, and a pair of corduroy +riding-breeches, quite unfastened at the knee and calf, left an expanse +of bare leg between their termination and the beginning of grey, sagging +socks. Hob-nailed boots, fastened with string, completed his attire. He +looked like a tramp, a scarecrow, and a strong leader of men. + +“’Fraid you’ll have to drink out of a condensed milk tin, until your kit +turns up. . .” said a pale and very handsome youth. “You get a flavour +of milk, though,” he added with an air of impartiality, “as well as of +tin and solder. . . . They burn your fingers so damnably, though, when +you go to pick ’em up. . . . Or why not drink out of the teapot, if +everyone has finished? . . . Yes—I’ll drop in a spot of condensed milk.” + +“No—damn it all, Vereker,” put in the Major, “let’s do him well and +create an impression. Nothing like beginning as you don’t mean to go +on—or can’t possibly go on. . . . He can have The Glass this evening. +And some fresh tea. And his own tin of condensed. . . . And a bloater. +Hasn’t he brought us rum and hope? . . .” + +The pale and handsome Vereker sighed. + +“You create a _false_ impression, sir,” he said, and, taking a key from +his neck, arose and unlocked a big chop-box that stood in a corner of the +_banda_. Thence he produced a glass tumbler and set it before Bertram. + +“There’s The Glass,” said he. “It’s now in your charge, present and +correct. I’ll receive it from you and return the receipt at ‘Stand-to.’ +. . .” + +Bertram gathered that the tumbler was precious in the Major’s sight, and +that honour was being shown him. He had a faint sense of having reached +Home. He was disappointed when a servant brought fresh tea, a +newly-opened tin of milk, and the lid of a biscuit-box for a plate, to +discover that the banana which reposed upon it was the “bloater” of his +hopes and the Major’s promise. + +“For God’s sake use plenty of condensed milk,” said that gentleman, as +Bertram put some into the glass, preparatory to pouring out his tea. +Bertram thought it very kind and attentive of him—until he added: “And +pour the tea _on_ to it, and not down the side of the glass. . . . +That’s how the other tumbler got done in. . . .” + +As he gratefully sipped the hot tea and doubtfully munched a _chapatti_, +Bertram took stock of the other members of the Mess. Beside Major +Mallery sat a very hard-looking person, a typical fighting-man with the +rather low forehead, rather protruding ears, rather high cheek-bones, +heavy jaw and jutting chin of his kind. He spoke little, and that +somewhat truculently, wore a big heavy knife in his belt, looked like a +refined prize-fighter, and answered to the name of Captain Macke. + +Beside him, and in strong contrast, sat a young man of the Filbert genus. +He wore a monocle, his nails were manicured, he spoke with the euphuism +and euphemism of a certain Oxford type, he had an air of languor, boredom +and acute refinement, was addressed as Cecil Clarence, when not as Gussie +Augustus Gus, and seemed to be one of the very best. + +On the same string bed, and in even stronger contrast, sat a dark-faced +Indian youth. On his shoulder-straps were the letters I.M.S. and two +stars. A lieutenant of the Indian Medical Service, and, as such, a +member of this British Officers’ Mess. Bertram wondered why the fact +that he had been to England and read certain books should have this +result; and whether the society of the Subedar-Major of the regiment +would have been preferred by the British officers. The young man talked +a lot, and appeared anxious to show his freedom from anxiety, and his +knowledge of English idiom and slang. When he addressed anyone by the +nickname which intimate pals bestowed upon him, Bertram felt sorry for +this youth with the hard staccato voice and raucous, mirthless laugh. +Cecil Clarence said of him that “if one gave him an inch he took an ’ell +of a lot for granted.” His name was Bupendranath Chatterji, and his papa +sat cross-legged and bare-footed in the doorway of a little shop in a +Calcutta bazaar, and lent moneys to the poor, needy and oppressed, for a +considerable consideration. + +“’Bout time for Stand-to, isn’t it?” said the Major, consulting his +wrist-watch. “Hop it, young Clarence. . . . You might come round with +me to-night, Greene, if you’ve finished tea. . . . Can’t offer you +another bloater, I’m afraid. . . .” + +The other officers faded away. A few minutes later a long blast was +blown on a whistle, there were near and distant cries of “Stand-to,” and +Cecil Clarence returned to the Mess _banda_. He was wearing tunic and +cross-belt. On his cheerful young face was a look of portentous +solemnity as he approached the Major, halted, saluted, stared at him as +at a perfect stranger, and said: “Stand-to, sir. All present and +correct.” + +Over the Major’s face stole a similar expression. He looked as one who +has received sudden, interesting and important but anxious news. + +“Thank you,” said he. “I’ll—ah—go round. Yes. Come with me, will you? +. . .” Cecil Clarence again saluted, and fell in behind the Major as he +left the _banda_. Bertram followed. The Major went to his tent and put +on his tunic and cross-belt. These did little to improve the +unfastenable riding-breeches, bare calves and grey socks, but were +evidently part of the rite. + +Proceeding thence to the entrance to the _boma_, the Major squeezed +through, was saluted by the guard, and there met by an English officer in +the dress of the small men whom Bertram had noticed on his arrival. His +white face looked incongruous with the blue turban and tartan petticoat. +“All present and correct, sir,” said he. Half his men were down in the +trench, their rifles resting in the loop-holes of the parapet. These +loop-holes were of wicker-work, like bottomless waste-paper baskets, and +were built into the earthwork of the parapet so that a man, looking +through one, had a foot of earth and logs above his head. The other half +of his blue-clad force was inside the _boma_ and lining the wall. This +wall, some eight feet in height, had been built by erecting two walls of +stout wattle and posts, two feet apart, and then filling the space +between these two with earth. Along the bottom of the wall ran a +continuous fire-step, some two feet in height, and a line of wicker-work +loop-holes pierced it near the top. In the angle, where this side of the +_boma_ met the other, was a tower of posts, wattle and earth, some twelve +feet in height, and on it, within an earth-and-wattle wall, and beneath a +thatched roof, was a machine-gun and its team of King’s African Rifles +_askaris_, in charge of an English N.C.O. On the roof squatted a sentry, +who stared at the sky with a look of rapt attention to duty. + +“How are those two men, Black?” asked the Major, as the N.C.O. saluted. + +“Very bad, sir,” was the reply. “They’ll die to-night. I’m quite sure +the Germans had poisoned that honey and left it for our _askari_ patrols +to find. I wondered at the time that they ’adn’t skoffed it themselves. +. . . And it so near their _boma_ and plain to see, an’ all. . . . I +never thought about poison till it was too late. . . .” + +“Foul swine!” said the Major. “I suppose it’s a trick they learnt from +the _shenzis_, this poisoning wild honey? . . .” + +“More like they taught it ’em, sir,” was the reply. “There ain’t no +savage as low as a German, sir. . . . I lived in German East, I did, +afore the war. . . . I _know_ ’em. . . .” + +The next face of the _boma_ was held by the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth. +Captain Macke met the Major and saluted him as a revered stranger. He, +too, wore tunic and cross-belt and a look of portentous solemnity, such +as that on the faces of the Major, Cecil Clarence, and, indeed, everybody +else. Bertram, later, labelled it the Stand-to face and practised to +acquire it. + +“How many sick, Captain Macke?” enquired the Major. + +“Twenty-seven, sir,” was the reply. Bertram wondered whether they were +“present” in the spirit and “correct” in form. + +“All fever or dysentery—or both, I suppose?” said the Major. + +“Yes—except one with a poisoned foot and one who seems to be going +blind,” was the reply. + +As they passed along, the Major glanced at each man, looked into the +canvas water-tanks, scrutinised the residential sheds beneath the +wall—and, in one of them discovered a scrap of paper! As the ground was +covered with leaves, twigs, and bits of grass, as well as being thick +with mud, Bertram did not see that this piece of paper mattered much. +This only shows his ignorance. The Major pointed at it, speechless. +Captain Macke paled—with horror, wrath or grief. Gussie Augustus Gus +stooped and stared at it, screwing his monocle in the tighter, that he +might see the better and not be deceived. Vereker turned it over with +his stick, and only then believed the evidence of three of his senses. +The Jemadar shook his head with incredulous but pained expression. He +called for the Havildar, whose mouth fell open. The two men were very +alike, being relatives, but while the senior wore a look of incredulous +pain, the junior, it seemed to Bertram, rather wore one of pained +incredulity. That is to say, the Jemadar looked stricken but unable to +believe his eyes, whereas the Havildar looked as though he could not +believe his eyes but was stricken nevertheless. + +All stared hard at the piece of paper. . . . It was a poignant moment. . . . +No one moved and no one seemed to breathe. Suddenly the Havildar +touched a Naik who stood behind his men, with his back to the group of +officers, and stared fixedly at Nothing. He turned, beheld the paper at +which the Havildar’s accusing finger pointed, rigid but tremulous. . . . +What next? The Naik pocketed the paper, and the incident was closed. + +Bertram was glad that he had witnessed it. He knew, thenceforth, the +proper procedure for an officer who, wearing the Stand-to face, sees a +piece of paper. + +The third wall of the _boma_ was occupied by a company of Dogras of an +Imperial Service Corps, under a Subedar, a fine-looking Rajput, and a +company of Marathas of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth, under the +Subedar-Major of that regiment. Bertram was strongly attracted to this +latter officer, and thought that never before had he seen an Indian whose +face combined so much of patient strength, gentle firmness, simple +honesty, and noble pride. + +He was introduced to Bertram, and, as they shook hands and saluted, the +fine old face was lit up with a smile of genuine pleasure and friendly +respectfulness. A man of the old school who recognised duties as well as +“rights”—and in whose sight “_false to his salt_” was the last and lowest +epithet of uttermost degradation. + +“You’ll have charge of this face of the fort to-morrow, Greene,” said the +Major, as they passed on. “Subedar-Major Luxman Atmaram is a priceless +old bird. He’ll see you have no trouble. . . . Don’t be in a hurry to +tell him off for anything, because it’s a hundred to one you’ll find he’s +right.” + +Bertram smiled to himself at the thought of his being the sort to “tell +off” anybody without due cause and was secretly pleased to find that +Major Mallery had thought such a thing possible. . . . + +The remaining side of the fort was held by Gurkhas, and Bertram noted the +fact with pleasure. He had taken a great fancy to these cheery, steady +people. Another machine-gun, with its team of _askaris_ of the King’s +African Rifles, occupied the middle of this wall. + +“Don’t cough or sneeze near the gun,” murmured Vereker to Bertram, “or it +may fall to pieces again. The copper-wire is all right, but the +boot-lace was not new to begin with.” + +“What kind of gun is it?” he asked. + +“It was a Hotchkiss once. It’s a Hot-potch now,” was the reply. “Don’t +touch it as you pass,” and the puzzled Bertram observed that it was +actually bound with copper-wire at one point and tied with some kind of +cord or string at another. + +By the hospital—a horrible pit with a tent over it—stood the Indian youth +and a party of Swahili stretcher-bearers. + +Bertram wondered whether it would ever be his fate to be carried on one +of those blood-stained stretchers by a couple of those negroes, laid on +the mud at the bottom of that pit, and operated on by that young native +of India. He shuddered. Fancy one’s life-blood ebbing away into that +mud. Fancy dying, mangled, in that hole with no one but a Bupendranath +Chatterji to soothe one’s last agonies. . . . + +Having completed his tour of inspection, Major Mallery removed the +Stand-to face and resumed his ordinary one, said: “They can dismiss,” to +Captain Macke and the group of officers, and tore off his cross-belt and +tunic. + +All his hearers relaxed their faces likewise, blew their whistles, cried +“Dismiss!” in the direction of their respective Native Officers, and +removed their belts and tunics almost as quickly as they had removed +their Stand-to faces. + +They then proceeded to the Bristol Bar. + + + +CHAPTER XVI +_The Bristol Bar_ + + +“Come along to the Bristol Bar and have a drink, Greene,” said Cecil +Clarence, _alias_ Gussie Augustus Gus, emerging from his _banda_, into +which he had cast his tunic and Sam Browne belt. + +“Thanks,” replied Bertram, wondering if there were a Jungle Hotel within +easy reach of the _boma_, or whether the outpost had its own Place, +“licensed for the sale of beer, wine, spirits, and tobacco, to be +consumed on the premises. . . .” + +In the High Street, next door to the Officers’ Mess, were two green +tents, outside one of which stood a rough camp-table of the “folding” +variety, a native string bed, and a circle of Roorkee chairs, boxes and +stools. On an erection of sticks and withes, resembling an umbrella +stand, stood an orderly array of fresh coco-nuts, the tops of which had +been sliced off to display the white interior with its pint or so of +sweet, limpid milk. + +Emerging from the tent, an Arab “boy” in a blue turban, blue jacket +buttoning up to the chin, blue petticoat and puttees, placed bottles of +various kinds on the table, together with a “sparklet” apparatus and a +pannikin of water. The Bristol Bar was open. . . . From the other tent +emerged an officer in the blue uniform of the little fair men. + +He eyed the muddy ground, the ugly grey _bandas_ of withered grass and +leaves, the muddy, naked Kavirondo—piling their loads on the commissariat +dump, and the general dreary, cheerless scene, with the cold eye of +extreme distaste and disfavour. + +“_Yah_!” said he. He eyed the bottles on the table. + +“_Ah_!” said he, and seated himself behind the Bristol Bar. + +“Start with a Ver-Gin, I think, as I’ve been such a good boy to-day,” he +murmured, and, pouring a measure of Italian vermuth into an enamelled +mug, he added a smaller allowance of gin. + +“Wish some fool’d roll up so that I can get a drink,” he grumbled, +holding the mug in his hand. + +It did not occur to him to “_faire Suisse_,” as the French say—to drink +alone. He must at least say “Chin-chin” or “Here’s how” to somebody else +with a drink in his hand. Had it been cocoa, now, or something of that +sort, one might drink gallons of it without a word to a soul. One could +lie in bed and wallow and soak, lap it up like a cat or take it in +through the pores—but this little drop of alcohol must not be drunk +without a witness and a formula. So Lieutenant Forbes possessed his soul +in impatience. + +A minute later, from every _banda_ and tent, from the Officers’ Mess and +from all directions, came British officers, bearing each man in his hands +something to drink or something from which to drink. + +The Major bore The Glass, and, behind him, the Mess butler carried a +square bottle of ration whisky. He was followed by a Swahili clasping to +his bosom a huge jar of ration rum, newly arrived. “Leesey” Lindsay, of +the Intelligence Department, brought a collapsible silver cup, which, as +he said, only wanted knowing. It leaked and it collapsed at +inappropriate moments, but, on the other hand, it _did_ collapse, and you +could put it in your pocket—where it collected tobacco dust, crumbs, +fluff, and grit. Vereker carried a fresh coco-nut and half a coco-nut +shell. This latter he was going to carve and polish. He said that +coco-nut shells carved beautifully and took a wonderful polish. . . . +His uncle, an admiral, had one which he brought from the South Sea +Islands. It was beautifully carved and had taken a high polish—from +someone or other. A cannibal chief had drunk human blood from it for +years. . . . Vereker was going to drink whisky from his for years, and +keep it all his life—carving and polishing it between whiles. . . . +“Yes. I used that as a drinking-cup all through my first campaign. It +nearly fell on my head in the first battle I ever fought. Cut off the +tree by a bullet. Carved and polished it myself,” he would be able to +say, in years to come. Meanwhile it looked a very ordinary half-shell of +the common coco-nut of commerce as known to those who upon Saints’ Days +and Festivals do roll, bowl, or pitch. . . . + +Captain Macke brought a prepared siphon of “sparklet” water and his +ration whisky. Gussie Augustus Gus walked delicately, bearing a brimming +condensed milk tin, and singing softly— + + “Dear, sweet Mother, + Kind and true; + She’s a boozer, + Through and through . . . . + But roll your tail, + And roll it high, + And you’ll be an angel + By and by. . . .” + +Lieutenant Bupendranath Chatterji brought a harsh laugh and an +uncultivated taste, but a strong liking, for assorted liquors, preferably +sweet. The officer who had been in command of the side of the fort +occupied by the men in blue entered the tent and, having removed his +belt, seated himself beside Lieutenant Forbes, behind the bar. + +“Good evening, Major,” said he; “won’t you come and have a drink? . . . +Do!” + +Regarding The Glass with a look of surprise, and as though wondering how +the devil it came to be there, the Major considered the invitation. + +“Thanks!” said he. “Don’t mind if I _do_ sit down for a moment.” And he +placed The Glass upon the table. Strangely enough, his own Roorkee chair +was already in the centre of the circle facing the said table, as it had +been any evening at this time for the last fifty nights. The Mess butler +put the rum and whisky beneath his chair. “Let me introduce Lieutenant +Greene, attached to Ours. Wavell . . .” said he. . . . “Captain Wavell +of Wavell’s Arabs, Greene,” and Bertram shook hands with a remarkable and +romantic soldier of fortune, explorer and adventurous knight-errant, whom +he came to like, respect, and admire with the greatest warmth. The +others drifted up and dropped in, accidentally and casually, as it were, +until almost all were there, and the Bristol Bar was full; the hour of +the evening star and the evening drink had arrived; _l’heure d’absinthe_, +_l’heure verte_ had struck; the sun was below the yard-arm; now the day +was over, night was drawing nigh, shadows of the evening stole across the +sky; and, war or no war, hunger, mud, disease and misery, or no hunger, +mud, disease and misery, the British officer was going to have his +evening cocktail, his evening cheroot, and his evening “buck” at the club +bar—and to the devil with all Huns who’d interfere with his sacred rights +and their sacred rites. + +“Here’s the best, Major,” said Forbes, and drank his ver-gin with gusto +and appreciation. His very fine long-lashed eyes beneath faultlessly +curving eyebrows—eyes which many a woman had enviously and regretfully +considered to be criminally wasted on a mere man—viewed the grey prospect +with less disgust. The first drink of the day provided the best minute +of the day to this exile from the cream of the joys of Europe; and he +eyed the array of bottles with something approaching optimism as he +considered the question of what should be his drink for the evening. + +“Cheerioh!” responded the Major, and took a pull at the whisky and +slightly-aerated water in The Glass. “Here’s to Good Count Zeppelin—our +finest recruiting agent, and Grandpa Tirpitz—who’ll bring America in on +our side. . . .” + +“What’ll you drink, Greene?” asked Wavell. “Vermuth? Whisky? Rum? +Gin? Try an absinthe? Or can I mix you a Risky—rum and whisky, you +know—or a Whum—whisky and rum, of course?” + +“They’re both helpful and cheering,” added Forbes. + +“Let me make you a cock-eye,” put in Gussie Augustus Gus. “Thing of my +own. Much better than a mere cocktail. Thought of it in bed last night +while I was sayin’ my prayers. This is one,” and he raised his condensed +milk tin. “Cross between milk-punch, cocktail, high-ball, gin-sling, +rum-shrub, and a bitters. . . . Go down to posterity as a ‘Gussie’—along +with the John Collins and Elsie May. . . . Great thought. . . . Let us +pause before it. . . .” + +“What’s in it?” asked Captain Macke. + +“Condensed milk,” replied Augustus, “ration lime-juice, ration rum, +ration whisky, medical-comfort brandy, vermuth, coco-nut milk, angostura, +absinthe, glycerine. . . .” + +“And a damn great flying caterpillar,” added the Major as a hideous +insect, with a fat, soft body, splashed into the pleasing compound. + +“Dirty dog!” grumbled Augustus, fishing for the creature. “Here, don’t +play submarines in the mud, Eustace—be a sport and swim. . . . I can +drink down to him, anyhow,” he added, failing to secure the enterprising +little animal with a finger and thumb that groped short of the bottom +stratum of his concoction. “Got his head stuck in the toffee-milk at the +bottom.” Bertram declined a “Gussie,” feeling unworthy, also unable. + +“Have you tried rum and coco-nut milk?” asked Wavell. “It’s a kind of +local industry since we’ve been here. The Intelligence Department keeps +a Friendly Tribe at work bringing in fresh coco-nuts, and our numerous +different detachments provide fatigue-parties in rotation to open them. . . . +Many a worse drink than half a tumbler of ration rum poured into the +coco-nut. . . .” + +“Point of fact—I’m a teetotaller just at present,” replied Bertram, sadly +but firmly. “May I substitute lime-juice for rum? . . .” + +Vereker screwed in his monocle and regarded him. Not with astonishment +or interest, of course, for nothing astonished or interested him any +more. He was too young and wise for those emotions. But he regarded +him. + +“What a dreadful habit to contract at your age, Greene,” observed +Augustus, slightly shocked. “Y’ought to pull yourself together, y’know. +. . . Give it up. . . . Bad. . . . Bad. . .” and he shook his head. + +“What’s it feel like?” asked Captain Macke. + +“You’ve been getting into bad company, my lad,” said Major Mallery. + +“Oah! Maan, maan! You must not do thatt!” said Mr. Chatterji. + +“I’ve got some ration lime-juice here,” said Wavell, “but I really don’t +advise it as a drink in this country. It’s useful stuff to have about +when you can’t get vegetables of any sort—but I believe it thins your +blood, gives you boils, and upsets your tummy. . . . Drop of rum or +whisky in the evening . . . do you more good.” + +Bertram’s heart warmed to the kindly friendliness of his voice and +manner—the more because he felt that, like himself, this famous traveller +and explorer was of a shy and diffident nature. + +“Thanks. I’ll take your advice then,” he said, and reflected that what +was good enough for Wavell was good enough for him, in view of the +former’s unique experience of African and Asiatic travel. “I’ll try the +rum and coco-nut milk if I may,” he added. + +“Three loud cheers!” remarked Augustus. “Won’t mother be pleased! . . . +I’m going to write a book about it, Greene, if you don’t mind. . . . +‘The Redemption of Lieutenant Greene’ or somethin’. . . . _You_ know—how +on the Eve of Battle, in a blinding flash of self-illuminating +introspection, he saw his soul for the Thing it was, saw just where he +stood—on the brink of an Abyss. . . . And repented in time. . . . +Poignant. . . . Repented and drank rum. . . . Searching.” + +“Probably Greene’s pulling our legs the whole time, my good ass,” put in +Vereker. “Dare say he’s really a frightful drunkard. Riotous reveller +and wallowing wassailer. . . . He’s got rather a wild eye. . . .” + +Bertram laughed with the rest. It was impossible to take offence, for +there was nothing in the slightest degree offensive about these pleasant, +friendly people. + +Berners joined the group and saluted the Major. “Ammunition and ration +indents all present and correct, sir,” said he. + +“Rum ration all right?” asked the Major. “How do you know the jars +aren’t full of water?” + +“P’raps he’d better select one at random as a sample and bring it over +here, Major,” suggested Macke. And it was so. . . . + +Another officer drifted in and was introduced to Bertram as Lieutenant +Halke of the Coolie Corps, in charge of the Kavirondo, Wakamba, and +Monumwezi labourers and porters attached to the Butindi garrison. + +He was an interesting man, a big, burly planter, who had been in the +colony for twenty years. “I want your birds to dig another trench +to-morrow, Halke,” said the Major. “Down by the water-picket.” + +“Very good, sir,” replied Halke. “I’m glad that convoy rolled up safely +to-day. Their _posho_ {167} was running rather low . . .” and the +conversation became technical. + +Bertram felt distinctly better for his rum and milk. His weariness fell +from him like a garment, and life took on brighter hues. He was not a +wretched, weary lad, caught up in the maelstrom of war and flung from +pleasant city streets into deadly primeval jungles, where lurked Death in +the form of bacillus, savage beast, and more savage and more beastly Man. +Not at all. He was one of a band of Britain’s soldiers in an outpost of +Empire on her far-flung battle-line. . . . One of a group of cheery +comrades, laughing and jesting in the face of danger and discomfort. . . . +He had Answered His Country’s Call, and was of the great freemasonry +of arms, sword on thigh, marching, marching. . . . Camp-fire and +bivouac. . . . The Long Trail. . . . Beyond the Ranges. . . . Men who +have Done Things. . . . A sun-burnt, weather-beaten man from the Back of +Beyond. . . . Strong, silent man with a Square Jaw. . . . Romance. . . . +Adventure. . . . Life. He drank some more of his rum and felt very +happy. He nodded, drooped, snored—and nearly fell off his stool. Wavell +smiled as he jerked upright again, and tried to look as though he had +never slept in his life. + +“So Pappa behaved nasty,” Gussie Augustus Gus was saying to a deeply +interested audience. “He’d just been turned down himself by a gay and +wealthy widowette whom he’d marked down for his Number 2. When I said, +‘Pappa, I’m going to be married on Monday, please,’ he spake pompous +platitudes, finishing up with: ‘_A young man married is a young man +marred_.’ . . . ‘Yes, Pappa,’ says I thoughtlessly, ‘_and an old man +jilted is an old man jarred_.’ . . . Caused quite a coolness. So I went +to sea.” Augustus sighed and drank—and then almost choked with violent +spluttering and coughing. + +“That blasted Eustace!” he said, as he suddenly and vehemently expelled +something. + +“Did you marry her?” asked Vereker, showing no sympathy in the matter of +the unexpected recovery of the body of Eustace. + +“No,” said Augustus. “Pappa did.” . . . + +“That’s what I went to see,” he added. + +“Don’t believe you ever had a father,” said Vereker. + +“I didn’t,” said Gussie Augustus Gus. “I was an orphan. . . . Am still. +. . . Poignant. . . . Searching. . . .” + +Lieutenant Bupendranath Chatterji listened to this sort of thing with an +owlish expression on his fat face. When anybody laughed he laughed also, +loudly and raucously. + +It was borne in upon Bertram that it took more than fever, hunger, +boredom, mud, rain and misery to depress the spirits of the officers of +the garrison of Butindi. . . . + +“_Khana tyar hai_, {168a} _Sahib_,” announced the Major’s butler, +salaaming. + +“Come and gnaw ropes and nibble bricks, Greene,” said the officer +addressed, and with adieux to Wavell and Forbes, who ran a mess of their +own, the guests departed from the Bristol Bar and entered the Officers’ +Mess. Here Bertram learnt the twin delights of a native bedstead when +used as a seat. You can either sit on the narrow wooden edge until you +feel as though you have been sitting on a hot wire for a week, or you can +slide back on to the string part and slowly, slowly disappear from sight, +and from dinner. + +“This water drawn from the river and been standing in the bath all day, +boy?” + +“_Han_, {168b} _Sahib_,” replied that worthy. + +“Alum in the water?” + +“_Han_, _Sahib_.” + +“Water then filtered?” + +“_Han_, _Sahib_.” + +“Water then boiled?” + +“_Han_, _Sahib_.” + +“_Pukka_ boiled?” + +“_Han_, _Sahib_, all bubbling.” + +“Filtered again? You saw it all done yourself?” + +“_Han_, _Sahib_.” + +“That’s all right, then,” concluded the Major. + +This catechism was the invariable prelude to the Major’s use of water for +drinking purposes, whether in the form of _aqua pura_, whisky and water, +or tea. For the only foe that Major Mallery feared was the disease-germ. +To bullet and bayonet, shrapnel and shell-splinter, he gave no thought. +To cholera, enteric and dysentery he gave much, and if care with his +drinking water would do it, he intended to avoid those accursed scourges +of the tropics. Holding up the glass to the light of the hurricane lamp +which adorned the clothless table of packing-case boards, he gazed +through it—as one may do when caressing a glass of crusted ruby port—and +mused upon the wisdom that had moved him to make it the sole and special +work of one special man to see that he had a plentiful supply of pure +fair water. + +He gazed. . . . And slowly his idle abstracted gaze became a stare and a +glare. His eyes protruded from his head, and he gave a yell of gasping +horror and raging wrath that drew the swift attention of all— + +While round and round in the alum-ised, filtered, boiled and re-filtered +water, there slowly swam—a little fish. + + * * * * * + +Dinner was painfully similar to that at M’paga, save that the party, +being smaller, was more of a Happy Family. It began with what Vereker +called “Chatty” soup (because it was “made from talkative meat, in a +chattie”), proceeded to inedible bully-beef, and terminated with +dog-biscuit and coco-nut—unless you chose to eat your daily banana then. + +During dinner, another officer, who had been out all day on a +reconnaissance-patrol, joined the party, drank a pint of rum-and-coco-nut +milk and fell asleep on the bedstead whereon he sat. He looked terribly +thin and ill. + +Macke punched him in the ribs, sat him up, and banged the tin plate of +cold soup with his knife till the idea of “dinner” had penetrated the +sleepy brain of the new-corner. “Feed yer face, Murie,” he shouted in +his ear. + +“Thanks awf’ly,” said that gentleman, took up his spoon, and toppled over +backwards on to the bed with a loud snore. + +“Disgustin’ manners,” said Gussie Augustus Gus. + +“I wish we had a siphon of soda-water. I’d wake him all right.” + +“Set him on fire,” suggested Vereker. + +“He’s too beastly wet, the sneak,” complained Gussie. + +“Oah, he iss sleepee,” observed Lieutenant Bupendranath Chatterji. + +Vereker regarded him almost with interest. + +“What makes you think so?” he asked politely. In the laugh that +followed, the sleeper was forgotten and remained where he was until +Stand-to the following morning. He was living on quinine and his +nerves—which form an insufficient diet in tropical Africa. + +“Where _Bwana_ sleeping to-night, sah, please Mister?” whispered Ali, as, +dinner finished, Bertram sat listening with deep interest to the +conversation. + +Pipes alight, and glasses, mugs and condensed milk tins charged, the Mess +was talking of all things most distant and different from jungle swamps +and dirty, weary war. . . . + +“Quite most ’sclusive Society in Oxford, I tell you,” Gussie was saying. +“Called ourselves _The Astronomers_. . . .” + +“What the devil for? Because you were generally out at night?” asked +Macke. + +“No—because we studied the Stars—of the Stage,” was the reply. . . . + +“Rotten,” said Vereker, with a shiver. “You sh’d have called yourselves +_The Botanists_,” he added a minute later. + +“Why?” + +“Because you culled Peroxide Daisies and Lilies of the Ballet.” + +“Ghastly,” observed Gussie, with a shudder. “And _cull_ is a beastly +word. One who culls is a cully. . . . How’d you like to be called +_Cully_, Murie?” he shouted in that officer’s ear. Receiving no reply, +he pounded upon the sleeper’s stomach with one hand while violently +rolling his head from side to side with the other. + +Murie awoke. + +“Whassup?” he jerked out nervously. + +“How’d you like to be called _Cully_?” shouted Gussie again. + +Murie fixed a glassy eye on him. His face was chalky white and his black +hair lay dank across his forehead. + +“Eh?” said he. + +Gussie repeated his enquiry. + +“Call me anything—but don’t call me early,” was the reply, as he realised +who and where he was, and closed his eyes again. + +“_You’re_ an ornament to the Mess. _You_ add to the gaiety of nations. +_You_ ought to be on the halls,” shouted the tormentor. “You’re a +refined Society Entertainer. . . .” + +“Eh?” grunted Murie. + +“Come for a walk in the garden I said,” shouted Augustus. “Oh, you give +me trypanosomiasis to look at you,” he added. + +“You go to Hell,” replied Murie, and snored as he finished speaking. + +Bertram felt a little indignant. + +“Wouldn’t it be kinder to let him sleep?” he said. + +“No, it wouldn’t,” was the reply. “He’ll sleep there for an hour, and +then go over to his hut and be awake all night because he’s had no +dinner.” + +“I beg your pardon,” said Bertram—and asked the Major where he was to +sleep that night. + +“On your right side, with your mouth shut,” was the reply; to which +Augustus added: + +“Toe of the right foot in line with the mouth; thumb in rear of the seam +of the pyjamas; heel of the left foot in the hollow of the back; and +weight of the body on the chin-strap—as laid down in the drill-book.” + +“Haven’t you a tent?” asked the Major, and, in learning that Bertram had +not, said that a _banda_ should be built for him on the morrow, and that +he could sleep on or under the Mess table that night. . . . + +When the Major had returned to his tent with the remark “All lights out +in fifteen minutes,” Ali set up Bertram’s bed in the Mess _banda_, and in +a few minutes the latter was alone. . . . As he sat removing his boots, +Bertram was surprised to see Gussie Augustus Gus return to the Mess, +carrying a native spear and a bundle of white material. Going to where +Murie lay, he raised the spear and drove it with all his force—apparently +into Murie’s body! Springing to his feet, Bertram saw that the spear was +stuck into the clay and that the shaft, protruding through the meshes of +the bed string, stood up beside Murie. Throwing the mosquito-net over +the top of it, Gussie enveloped the sleeper in its folds, as well as he +could, and vanished. + + + +CHAPTER XVII +_More Baking_ + + +Bertram was awakened at dawn by the bustle and stir of Stand-to. He +arose and dressed, by the simple process of putting on his boots and +helmet, which, by reason of rain, wind, mud and publicity, were the only +garments he had removed. Proceeding to that face of the fort which was +to be his special charge, he found that one half of its defenders were +lining its water-logged trench, and the other half, its wall. It was a +depressing hour and place. Depressing even to one who had not slept in +his wet clothes and arisen with throbbing head, horrible mouth, aching +limbs and with the sense of a great sinking void within. + +Around the fort was a sea of withering brushwood, felled trees, scrub and +thorn, grey and ugly: inside the fort, a lake of mud. Burly +Subedar-Major Luxman Atmaram seemed cheery and bright, so Bertram +endeavoured to emulate him. + +The Major, accompanied by Vereker (who called himself Station Staff +Officer, Aide-de-camp to the O.C. Troops, Assistant Provost Marshal, and +other sonorous names), passed on his tour of inspection. Bertram +saluted. + +“Good morning, sir,” said he. + +“Think so?” said the Major, and splashed upon his way. + +“Good morning, Vereker,” said Bertram, as that gentleman passed. + +“Nothing of the sort. Wrong again,” replied Vereker, and splashed upon +_his_ way. + +Both were wearing the Stand-to face, and looked coldly upon Bertram, who +was not. + +After “Dismiss,” Bertram returned to the Mess _banda_. + +“Good morning, Greene,” said the Major, and: + +“Good morning, Greene,” echoed Vereker. + +Bertram decided that his not being properly dressed in the matter of the +Stand-to face, was overlooked or condoned, in view of his youth and +inexperience. . . . The vast metal teapot and a tray of dog-biscuits +made their appearance. + +“I’m going to have my bloater now,” said Berners, plucking a banana from +the weary-looking bunch. “Will someone remind me that I have had it, if +I go to take another?” + +“I will,” volunteered Augustus. “Any time you pluck a bloater and I hit +you on the head three times with the tent-peg mallet, that means ‘Nay, +Pauline.’ See?” . . . + +“What’s the Programme of Sports for to-day, sir?” asked Berners of the +Major, as he cleansed his fingers of over-ripe banana upon Augustus’s +silky hair. + +“Macke takes a strong Officer’s Patrol towards Muru,” replied the Major. +“Halke starts getting the trenches deepened a bit. You can wrestle with +commissariat and ammunition returns, and the others might do a bit of +parade and physical jerks or something this morning. I’m going to sneak +round and catch the pickets on the hop. You’d better come with me, +Greene, and see where they’re posted. Tell the Subedar-Major what you +want your men to do. Wavell’s taking his people for a march. Murie will +be in charge of the fort. . . .” + +“Murie has temperature of one hundred and five,” put in Lieutenant +Bupendranath Chatterji. “He has fever probably.” + +“Shouldn’t be at all surprised,” observed the Major dryly. “What are you +giving him?” + +“Oah, he will be all right,” was the reply. + +“I’ve got three fresh limes I pinched from that _shamba_,” {173} said +Augustus. “If he had those with a quart of boiling water and half a tin +of condensed milk, he might be able to do a good sweat and browse a +handful of quinine.” + +“No more condensed milk,” said Berners. “Greene had the last tin last +night, and the hog didn’t bring any with him.” + +“I shall be delighted to contribute the remainder of it,” said Bertram, +looking into his tin. “There’s quite three-quarters of it left.” + +“Good egg,” applauded Augustus. “If you drink your tea from the tin, +you’ll get the flavour of milk for ever so long,” and Ali having been +despatched to the cook-house for a kettle of boiling water, Augustus +fetched his limes and the two concocted the brew with their condensed +milk and lime-juice in an empty rum-jar. + +“What about a spot of whisky in it?” suggested Vereker. + +“Better without it when fever is violent,” opined the medical attendant, +and Augustus, albeit doubtfully, accepted the _obiter dicta_, as from one +who should know. + +“Shall I shove it into him through the oil-funnel if he is woozy?” he +asked, and added: “Better not, p’r’aps. Might waste half of it down his +lungs and things . . .” and he departed, in search of his victim. + +As Bertram left the _boma_ in company of the Major, he found it difficult +to realise that, only a few hours earlier he had not set eyes on the +place. He seemed to have been immured within its walls of mud and wattle +for days, rather than hours. + +About the large clearing that lay on that side of the fort, Sepoys, +servants, porters and _askaris_ came and went upon their occasions; the +stretcher-bearers, gun-teams, and a company of Gurkhas were at drill; and +in the trenches, the long, weedy bodies of the Kavirondo rose and fell as +they dug in the mud and clay. Near the gate a doleful company of sick +and sorry porters squatted and watched a dresser of the Indian +Subordinate Medical Department, as he sprinkled iodoform from a pepperbox +on to the hideous sores and wounds of a separate squad requiring such +treatment. The sight of an intensely black back, with a huge wound of a +glowing red, upon which fell a rain of brilliant yellow iodoform, held +Bertram’s spell-bound gaze, while it made him feel exceedingly sick. +Those patients suffering from ghastly sores and horrible festering wounds +seemed gay and lighthearted and utterly indifferent, while the remainder, +suffering from _tumbo_, {174} fever, cold in the head, or +world-weariness, appeared to consider themselves at the last gasp, and +each, like the Dying Gladiator, did lean his head upon his hand while his +manly brow consented to Death, but conquered agony. + +“The reason why the African will regard a gaping wound, or great +festering sore, with no more than mild interest, while he will wilt away +and proceed to perish if he has a stomach-ache is an interestin’ +exemplification of _omne ignotum pro magnifico_,” remarked the Major. + +Bertram stared at his superior officer in amazement. The tone and +language were utterly different from those hitherto connected, in +Bertram’s experience, with that gentleman. Was this a subtle mockery of +Bertram as a civilian Intellectual? Or was it that the Major liked to be +“all things to all men” and considered this the style of conversation +likely to be suitable to the occasion? + +“Yes, sir?” said Bertram, a trifle shortly. + +“Yes,” continued Major Mallery. “He believes that all internal +complaints are due to Devils. A stomach-ache is, to him, painful and +irrefragible proof that he hath a Devil. One has entered into him and +abideth. It’s no good telling him anything to the contrary—because he +can _feel_ It there, and surely he’s the best judge of what he can feel? +So any internal complaint terrifies him to such an extent that he dies of +fright—whereas he’ll think nothing of a wound that would kill you or me. +. . .” + +Here, apparently, the Major’s mocking fancy tired, or else his effort to +talk “high-brow” to an Intellectual could be no further sustained, for he +fell to lower levels with the remark: + +“Rum blokes. . . Dam’ funny. . .” and fell silent. + +A well-trodden mud path led down to the river, on the far side of which +was the water-picket commanding the approach, not to a ford, but to the +only spot where impenetrable jungle did not prevent access to the river. +. . . + +“Blighters nearly copped us badly down here before we built the fort,” +said the Major. “Look in here . . .” and he parted some bushes beside +the path and disappeared. Following him, Bertram found himself in a +long, narrow clearing cut out of the solid jungle and parallel with the +path. + +“They had a hundred men at least, in here,” said Major Mallery, “and you +might have come along the path a hundred times without spotting them. +There was a machine-gun up that tree, to deal with the force behind the +point of ambush, and a big staked pit farther down the path to catch +those in front who ran straight on. . . . Lovely trap. . . . They used +to occupy it from dawn to sunset every day, poor fellers. . . .” + +“What happened?” asked Bertram. + +“Our Intelligence Department learnt all about it from the local +_shenzis_, and we forestalled them one merry morn. They were ambushed in +their own ambush. . . . The _shenzi_ doesn’t love his Uncle Fritz a bit. +No appreciation of _Kultur_-by-_kiboko_. He calls the Germans ‘_the +Twenty-Five Lashes People_,’ because the first thing the German does when +he goes to a village is to give everybody twenty-five of the best, by way +of introducing himself and starting with a proper understanding. Puts +things on a proper footing from the beginning. . . .” + +“Their _askaris_ are staunch enough, aren’t they?” asked Bertram. + +“Absolutely. They are well paid and well fed, and they are allowed to do +absolutely as they like in the way of loot, rape, arson and murder, once +the fighting is over. . . . They flog them most unmercifully for +disciplinary offences—and the nigger understands that. Also they leave +the defeated foe—his village, crops, property, women, children and +wounded—to their mercy—and the nigger understands _that_ too. . . . Our +_askaris_ are not nearly so contented with our milder punishments, +cumbrous judicial system, and absolute prohibition of loot, rape, arson +and the murder of the wounded. Yes—the German _askari_ will stick to the +German so long as he gets the conqueror’s rights whenever he conquers—as +is the immemorial law and custom of Africa. . . . ‘What’s the good of +fighting a cove if you’re going to cosset and coddle him directly you’ve +won, and give him something out of the poor-box—instead of dismembering +him?’ says he. . . . You might say the _askari_-class is to the Native +what the Junker-class is to the peasant, in Germany.” + +And conversing thus, the two officers visited the pickets and the +sentries, who sat on _machans_ in the tops of high trees and, in theory +at any rate, scoured the adjacent country with tireless all-seeing eye. + +Returning to the fort, Bertram saw the materials for his own private +freehold residence being carried to the eligible site selected for its +erection by the united wisdom of the Station Staff Officer and the +Quartermaster. It was built and furnished in less than an hour by a +party of Kavirondo, who used no other tools than their _pangas_, and it +consisted of a framework of stout saplings firmly planted in the ground, +wattle, and thatched leaves, twigs and grass. It had a window-frame and +a doorway, and it kept out the sun and the first few drops of a shower of +rain. If a _banda_ does little else, it provides one’s own peculiar +place apart, where one can be private and alone. . . . On the table and +shelf—of sticks bound together with strips of bark—Ali set forth his +master’s impedimenta, and took a pride in the Home. . . . + +Finding that the spine-pad of quilted red flannel—which Murray had +advised him to get and to wear buttoned on to the inner side of his +shirt, as a protection against the sun’s actinic rays—was soaked with +perspiration, Bertram gave it to Ali that it might be dried. What he did +not foresee was that his faithful retainer would tie a long strip of bark +from the new _banda_ to the opposite one across the “street,” and pin the +red flannel article to flap in the breeze and the face of the passer-by. +. . . + +“Oh, I say, you fellers, look here!” sang out the voice of Gussie +Augustus Gus, as Bertram was finishing his shave, a few minutes later. +“Here’s that careless fellow, Greene, been and left his chest-protector +off! . . . It’s on the line to air, and I _don’t_ know what he’s doing +without it.” The voice broke with anguish and trouble as it continued: +“Perhaps running about with nothing on at all. . . . On his chest, I +mean. . . .” + +There was a laugh from neighbouring _bandas_ and tents where Vereker, +Berners, Halke and “Leesey” Lindsay were washing by their cottage doors, +preparatory to breakfast. + +Bertram blushed hotly in the privacy of his hut. _Chest-protector_! +Confound the fellow’s impudence—and those giggling’ idiots. He had half +a mind to put his head out and remark; “The laughter of fools is as the +crackling of thorns beneath a pot,” and in the same moment wiser counsels +prevailed. + +Thrusting a soapy face out of the window, he said, in a tone expressive +more of sorrow than of anger: + +“I am surprised at _you_, Clarence! . . . To laugh at the infirmities of +your elders! . . . Is it _my_ fault I have housemaid’s knee?” + +To which Augustus, with tears in his eyes and voice, replied: + +“Forgive me, Pappa. I have known trouble too. _I_ had an Aunt with a +corn. . . . _She_ wore one. . . . Pink, like yours. . . . Poignant. . . . +Searching. . . .” + +This cheerful and indefatigable young gentleman had, in his rôle of Mess +President, found time, after parade and kit-inspection that morning, to +prepare a breakfast _menu_. Consulting it, Bertram discovered promise of + + 1. _Good Works_. Taken out of some animal, or animals, unknown. + Perhaps Liver. Perhaps not. Looks rather poignant. + + 2. _Shepherd’s Bush_ (or is it Plaid or Pie?) or Toed-in-the-Hole. + Same as above, bedded down in manioc. Looks very poignant. + + 3. There were _Sausages on Toast_, but they are in bad odour, + uppish, and peevish to the eye, and there is no bread. + + 4. _Curried Bully-beef_. God help us. And Dog-biscuit. + + 5. _Arm of monkey_. No ’arm in that? _But_—One rupee reward is + offered for a missing Kavirondo baby. Answers to the name of + Horatio, and cries if bitten in the stomach. . . . Searching. + +“Great news,” quoth the author of this document, seating himself on the +bed-frame beside Bertram and eyeing a plate of Good Works without +enthusiasm. “There’s to be a General Court-Martial after breakfast. You +and I and Berners. Leesey Lindsay is prosecuting a bloke for spying and +acting as guide to German raiding parties—him bein’ a British subjick an’ +all. . . Splendid! . . . Shall we hang him or shoot him? . . .” + +“_I_ am Provost-Marshal,” put in Vereker, “and _I_ shall hang him. I +know exactly how to hang, and am a recognised good hanger. Anyhow, no +one has complained. . . . Wish we had some butter. . . .” + +“Whaffor?” asked Augustus. + +“Grease the rope,” was the reply. “They like it. Butter is awfully +good.” + +“Put the knot under the left ear, don’t you?” asked Augustus. + +“_I_ do,” answered Vereker. “Some put it under the right. . . . I have +seen it at the back. Looks bad, though. Depressin’. Bloke hangs his +head. Mournful sight. . . .” + +“Got any rope?” enquired Augustus. + +“No! . . . How thoughtless of me! . . . Never mind—make up something +with strips of bark. . . . Might let the bloke make his own—only himself +to blame, then, if it broke and he met with an accident.” + +“I _have_ heard of suicides—and—people hanging themselves with their +braces,” observed Augustus. + +“Wadego _shenzis_ don’t have braces,” replied Vereker. + +“No, but Greene does. I’m perfectly sure he’d be delighted to lend you +his. He’s kindness itself. Or would you rather he were shot, Greene? +We must remember there’s no blood about a hanging, whereas there’s lots +the other way—’specially if it’s done by _askaris_ with Martinis. . . . +On the other hand, hanging lasts longer. I dunno _what_ to advise for +the best. . . .” + +“Suppose we try him first,” suggested Bertram. + +“Of course!” was the somewhat indignant reply. “I’m surprised at _you_, +Greene. You wouldn’t put him to the edge of the sword without a trial, +would you?” + +“No, Greene,” added Vereker. “Not goin’ to waste a good _shenzi_ like +that. We’re goin’ to have a jolly good Court-Martial out of him before +we do him in. . . . And I shall hang him, Clarence—rope or no rope.” + +“May I swing on his feet, Vereker?” begged Augustus. “_Do_ let me! . . . +Be a sport. . . .” + +“Everything will be done properly and nicely,” was the reply, “and in the +best style. There will be no swinging on the prisoner’s legs while _I_’m +M.C. . . . Not unless the prisoner himself suggests it,” he added. + +“How’ll we tell him of his many blessin’s, and so on?” enquired Berners. + +“There’s an Arab blighter of Lindsay’s who professes to know a tongue +spoken by a porter who knows Wadego. The bloke talks to the porter in +Wadego, the porter talks to the Arab in the Tongue, the Arab talks to +Wavell in Arabic, and Wavell talks to us in any language we like—French, +German, Swahili, Hindustani, Latin, Greek, American, Turkish, Portuguese, +Taal or even English. He knows all those. . . .” + +“Let’s ask him to talk them all at once, while we smoke and quaff beakers +of rum,” suggested Augustus. “And I _say_—couldn’t we torture the +prisoner? I know lots of ripping tortures.” + +“Well, I’m not going to have him ripped,” vetoed Vereker. “You gotter +hand him over to the Provost-Marshal in good condition. . . Fair wear +and tear of trial and incarceration allowed for, of course. . . . Bound +to be _some_ depreciation, I know.” + +“What’s ‘to incarcerate’ mean, exactly?” enquired Augustus. + +“Same as ‘incinerate.’” + +“Can we do it to him by law?” asked Augustus. + +“You read the Orders, my lad,” replied Vereker. “On the notice-board in +the Orderly Room. That post’s the Orderly Room. Written and signed by +the Station Staff Officer. And look up Field and General Court-Martials +in the King’s Regulations and you’ll know what your Powers are.” + +“I say, Berners. Let me find you the least contrary of those turned +sausages, and have it nicely fried for you,” begged Augustus. “You’d +hardly taste anything awkward about it if you had some lemon-peel done +with it. Plenty of lemon-peel and some coco-nut. I’ll find the peel I +threw away this morning. . . . _Do_.” + +“This is very kind and thoughtful of you, Gussie. What’s the idea?” +replied Berners. + +“I want to propitiate you, Berners. You’ll be President of the +Court-Martial.” + +“And?” + +“I want you to promise you won’t have the prisoner found Guilty unless +Vereker promises to let me swing on his feet. . . . I’ve _never_ once +had the chance. . . . And now my chance has come. . . . And Vereker +feels thwartful. . . . It’s due to his having a boil—and no cushion with +him. . . . Be a good soul, Berners. . . ” + +“Let’s see the sausages,” said the President-elect. + +“That’s done it,” admitted Augustus, and dropped the subject with a heavy +sigh. + +Bertram noticed that, in spite of his flow of cheery nonsense, Augustus +ate nothing at all and looked very ill indeed. He remembered a sentence +he had read in a book on board the _Elymas_: + +“Comedy lies lightly upon all things, like foam upon the dark waters. +Beneath are tragedy and the tears of time.” + + + +CHAPTER XVIII +_Trial_ + + +After breakfast Bertram attended Court, which was a table under a tree, +and took his seat on the Bench, an inverted pail, as a Ruler and a Judge, +for the first and last time in his life. He felt that it was a strange +and terrible thing that he should thus be suddenly called upon to try a +man for his life. + +Suppose that his two fellow-judges, Berners and Clarence, disagreed as to +the death-sentence, and he had to give his verdict, knowing that a man’s +life depended on it! . . . + +A couple of _askaris_ of the King’s African Rifles, police-orderlies of +“Leesey” Lindsay’s, brought in the prisoner. He was a powerful and +decidedly evil-looking negro, clad in a striped petticoat. He had more +of the appearance of furtive intelligence than is usual with _shenzis_ of +his tribe. Bertram decided that he carried his guilt in his face and had +trickster and traitor written all over it. He then rebuked himself for +pre-judging the case and entertaining prejudice against an untried, and +possibly innocent, man. + +“Guilty,” said Augustus Gus. “Who’s coming for a walk?” + +“I’m President of this Court,” replied Berners. “Who asked you to open +your head? If I’m not sure as to his guilt, I may consult you later. Or +I may not.” + +“Look here, Berners—let’s do the thing properly,” was the reply. +“There’s a Maxim—or is it a Hotchkiss—of English Law which says that a +man is to be considered Guilty until he is proved to be Innocent. +Therefore we start fair. He is Guilty, I say. Now we’ve got to prove +him Innocent. Do be a sport, and give the poor blighter a show.” + +“I b’lieve it’s the other way about,” said Berners. + +“Oh, indeed!” commented Augustus. “You’d say the feller’s innocent and +then start in to prove him guilty, would you? . . . Dirty trick, I call +it. Filthy habit.” + +Wavell appeared at the entrance to his tent, holding a green, +silk-covered book in his hand. The cover was richly embroidered and had +a flap, like that of an envelope, provided with strings for tying it +down. It was a copy of the Koran, and on it all witnesses were sworn, +repeating an oath administered by Wavell in Arabic. . . . + +“Ready?” asked he of the President, and proceeded with great patience, +skill and knowledge of languages and dialects, to interpret the +statements of Wadegos, Swahilis, Arabs, and assorted Africans. +Occasionally it was beyond his power, or that of any human being, to +convey the meaning of some simple question to a savage mind, and to get a +rational answer. + +For the prosecution, Lindsay, who was down with dysentery, had produced +fellow-villagers of the accused, from each of whom Wavell obtained the +same story. + +Prisoner was enamoured of a daughter of the headman of the village, and, +because his suit was dismissed by this gentleman, he had led a German +raiding-party to the place, and, moreover, had shown them where hidden +treasures were _cached_, and where fowls, goats, and cattle had been +penned in the jungle, and where grain was stored. Also, he had “smelt +out” enemies of the _Germanis_ among his former neighbours, wicked men +who, he said, had led English raiding-parties into the country of the +_Germanis_, and had otherwise injured them. These enemies of the +_Germanis_ were all, as it happened, enemies of his own. . . . When this +raiding-party of _askaris_, led by half a dozen _Germanis_, had burnt the +village, killed all the villagers who had not escaped in time, and +carried off all they wanted in the way of livestock, women, grain and +gear, they had rewarded accused with a share of the loot. . . . + +“Do they all tell the same tale in the same way, as though they had +concocted it and learnt it by heart?” asked Bertram. + +“No,” replied Wavell. “I didn’t get that impression.” + +“Let’s question them one by one,” said Berners. + +A very, very old man, a sort of “witch-doctor” or priest, by his +ornaments, entered the witness-box—otherwise arose from the group of +witnesses and stood before the Court—to leeward by request. + +“Hullo, Granpa! How’s things?” said Augustus. + +The ancient ruin mumbled something in Swahili, and peered with horny eyes +beneath rheumy, shrivelled lids at the Court, as he stood trembling, his +palsied head ashake. + +“Don’t waggle your head at _me_, Rudolph,” said Augustus severely, as the +old man fixed him with a wild and glassy eye. “_I_’m not going to uphold +you. . . . Pooh! _What_ an odour of sanctity! You’re a _high_ priest, +y’know,” and murmured as he sought his handkerchief, “Poignant! . . . +Searching. . . .” + +The old man repeated his former mumble. + +“He says he did not mean to steal the tobacco,” interpreted Wavell. + +“Sort of accident that might happen to anybody, what?” observed Augustus. +“Ask him if he knows the prisoner.” + +The question was put to him in his own tongue, and unfalteringly he +replied that he had not meant to steal the tobacco—had not _really_ +stolen it, in fact. + +Patiently Wavell asked, and patiently he was answered. “Do you know the +prisoner?” + +“I never steal.” + +“Do you know this man?” + +“Tobacco I would never steal.” + +“What is this man’s name?” + +“Tobacco.” + +“Have you ever seen that man before?” + +“What man?” + +“This one.” + +“Yes. He is the prisoner.” + +“When have you seen him before?” + +“Last night.” + +“When, before that?” + +“He ate rice with us last night. He is the prisoner.” + +“Do you know him well?” + +“Yes, I know he is the prisoner. _He_ stole the tobacco.” + +“Have you known him long?” + +“No. He is only a young man. He steals tobacco.” + +“Does he come from your village?” + +“Yes.” + +“Have you known him all his life?” + +“No, because he went and spent some time in the _Germanis’_ country. I +think he went to steal tobacco.” + +“Did he come back alone from the _Germanis’_ country?” + +“No. He brought _askaris_ and _muzangos_. {183a} They killed my people +and burnt my village.” + +“You are sure it was this man who brought them?” + +“Is he not a prisoner?” + +Suddenly an ancient hag arose from the group of witnesses and bounded +into Court. At the feet of Wavell she poured forth a torrent of +impassioned speech. + +“Cheer up, Auntie!” quoth Augustus, and as the woman ceased, added: “Ask +her if she’d come to Paris for the week-end.” + +“What does she say?” enquired the President of the Court. + +“In effect—that she will be security for _witness’s_ good behaviour, as +he is her only child and never steals tobacco. He only took the tobacco +because he wanted a smoke. He is ninety years of age, and a good +obedient son to her. It is her fault for not looking after him better. +She hopes he will not be hung, as she is already an orphan, and would +then be a childless orphan. . . . She undertakes to beat him with a +_runga_.” {183b} + +“Does she identify prisoner as the man who led the German raiding-party?” +asked Bertram, after Augustus had called for three loud cheers for the +witness, had been himself called to order by the President, and had +threatened that he would not play if further annoyed by that official. + +Again, in careful Swahili, Wavell endeavoured to find traces of evidence +for or against the accused. + +“Do you know this man?” + +“Yes, _Bwana_.” + +“Who is he?” + +“The prisoner, _Bwana Macouba_ (Great Master).” + +“Why is he a prisoner?” + +“Because he brought the _Germanis_ to Pongwa, oh, _Bwana Macouba Sana_ +(Very Great Master).” + +“How do you know he brought the _Germanis_ to Pongwa?” + +“Because he has been made prisoner for doing so, oh, _Bwana Macouba +Kabeesa Sana_ (Very Greatest Master).” + +“Do you know anything about him?” + +“He is the man who stole the tobacco which my little boy took.” + +All being translated and laid before the Court, it was decided that, so +far, prisoner was scarcely proven guilty. + +“Let’s ask him whether he would like to say anything as to the evidence +of the last two witnesses,” suggested Bertram. + +“He doesn’t understand Swahili,” objected Berners. + +“I feel sure he does,” replied Bertram. “I have been watching his face. +He half grinned when they talked about tobacco, and looked venomous when +they talked about him.” + +“Do you understand Swahili?” asked Wavell, suddenly, of the prisoner. + +“No, not a word,” replied that individual in the same tongue. + +“Can you speak it?” + +“No, not a word,” he reaffirmed in Swahili. + +“Well—did the last two witnesses tell the truth about you?” + +“They did not. I have never seen them before. They have never seen me +before. I do not know where Pongwa is. I think this is a very fine +trial. I like it.” + +Other witnesses swore that the accused had indeed done the treacherous +deed. One swore with such emphasis and certainty that he carried +conviction to the minds of the Court—until it was discovered that witness +was swearing that prisoner had stolen a bundle of leaf-tobacco from the +son of the woman who was an orphan. . . . + +The Court soon found that it could tell when a point was scored against +the defendant, without waiting for translation, inasmuch as he always +seized his stomach with both hands, groaned, rolled his eyes, and cried +that he was suffering horribly from _tumbo_, when evidence was going +unfavourably. + +At length all witnesses had been examined, even unto the last, who swore +he was the prisoner’s brother, and that he saw the prisoner leading the +_Germanis_ and, lo, it wasn’t his brother at all, and concluded with: +“Yes—this is true evidence. I have spoken well. I can prove it, for I +can produce the _sufuria_ {184} which prisoner gave me to say that I am +his brother, and to speak these truths. He is my innocent brother, and +was elsewhere when he led the _Germanis_ to Pongwa.” + +“Let’s give him something out of the poor-box,” suggested Augustus when +this speech was interpreted, and then marred this intimation of kindly +feelings by adding: “and then hang the lot of them.” + +“Has the prisoner anything to say?” asked the President. + +The prisoner had. + +“This is a good trial,” quoth he, in Swahili. “I am now an important +man. All the witnesses are liars. I have never seen any of them before. +I do not associate with such. I have never seen Pongwa, and I have never +seen a _Germani_. I will tell . . .” + +Wavell looked at him suddenly, but made no movement. + +“_Noch nichte_!” said he in German, very quietly. + +The man stopped talking at once. + +“You understand German. You speak German!” said Wavell, in that +language, and pointing at him accusingly. “Answer quickly. You speak +German.” + +“_Ganz klein wenig_—just a very little,” replied the prisoner, adding in +English: “I am a very clever man”—and then, in German: “_Ich hab kein +Englisch_.” + +“Prisoner has never seen a _Germani_—but he understands German!” wrote +Bertram in his notes of the trial. “Also Swahili and English.” + +“Please ask him if he hasn’t had enough trial now, and wouldn’t he like +to be hanged to save further trouble,” said Augustus. + +“_Tiffin tyar hai_, {185} _Sahib_,” said the Mess butler, approaching the +President, and the Court adjourned. + +The afternoon session of the Court proved dull up to the moment when the +lady who was an orphan and the mother of the ninety-year-old, bounded +into Court with a scream of: + +“Ask him where he got his petticoat!” + +Apparently this was very distressful to the defendant, for he was +instantly seized with violent stomachic pains. + +“Poignant! . . . Searching! . . .” murmured Augustus. + +“Where did you get that _’Mericani_?” asked Wavell of the prisoner, +pointing to his only garment. + +“He got it from the _Germanis_. It was part of his share of the loot,” +screamed the old lady. “It is from my own shop. I know it by that +mark,” and she pointed to a trade-mark and number stencilled in white +paint upon the selvedge of the loin-cloth. + +Terrible agonies racked the prisoner as he replied: “She is a liar.” + +“Trade-mark don’t prove much,” remarked the President. “My pants and +vest might have same trade-mark as the Kaiser’s—but that wouldn’t prove +he stole them from me.” + +The sense of this remark was conveyed to the witness. + +“Then see if a mark like _this_ is not in the corner of that piece of +_’Mericani_,” said the old lady, and plucking up her own wardrobe, showed +where a small design was crudely stitched. + +The _askaris_ in charge of the prisoner quickly demonstrated that an +identical “laundry-mark” ornamented his also. Presumably the worthy +woman’s secret price-mark, or else her monogram. + +Terrific agonies seized the prisoner, and with a groan of “_Tumbo_,” he +sank to the ground. + +A kick from each of the _askaris_ revived him, and he arose promptly and +took a bright interest in the subsequent proceedings, which consisted +largely in the swearing by several of the villagers that they had seen +the _Germanis_ loot the old lady’s store and throw some pieces of the +_’Mericani_ to the accused. Two of the witnesses were wearing petticoats +which they had bought from the female witness, and which bore her private +mark. . . . + +“Gentlemen,” said the President at length, “I should like your written +findings by six o’clock this evening, together with the sentence you +would impose if you were sole judge in this case. The Court is deeply +indebted to Captain Wavell for his courteous and most valuable assistance +as interpreter. The witnesses may be discharged, and the prisoner +removed to custody. . . . Clear the blasted Court, in fact, and come to +the Bristol Bar. . . .” + +“Oh, hang it all, Berners,” objected Augustus, “let’s hang him _now_. We +can watch him dangle while we have tea. . . .” But the Court had risen, +and the President was asking where the devil some bally, fat-headed fool +had put his helmet, eh? . . . + +For an hour Bertram sat in his _banda_ with throbbing, aching head, +considering his verdict. He believed the man to be a spy and a +treacherous, murderous scoundrel—but what was really _proven_, save that +he knew German and wore a garment marked similarly to those of three +inhabitants of Pongwa? Were these facts sufficient to warrant the +passing of the death sentence and to justify Bertram Greene, who, till a +few days ago, was the mildest of lay civilians, to take the +responsibility of a hanging judge and imbrue his hands with the blood of +this man? If all that was suspected of him were true, what, after all, +was he but a savage, a barbarous product of barbaric uncivilisation? . . +. What right had anyone to apply the standards of a cultured white man +from London to a savage black man from Pongwa? . . . A savage who had +been degraded and contaminated by contact with Germans moreover. . . . + +After many unsatisfactory efforts, he finally wrote out his judgment on +leaves torn from his military pocket-book, and proposed, as verdict, that +the prisoner be confined for the duration of the war as a spy, and +receive twenty-five strokes of the _kiboko_ for perjury. . . . + +On repairing to Berners’ hut at the appointed time, he found that +Clarence had written a longer and better judgment than his own, and had +proposed as sentence that the accused be detained during the King’s +pleasure at Mombasa Gaol, since it was evident that he had dealings with +Germans and had recently been in German East Africa. He found the charge +of leading a German raiding-party Not Proven. + +The sentence of the President was that prisoner should receive twenty +lashes and two years’ imprisonment, for receiving stolen goods, well +knowing them to be stolen, and for committing perjury. + +“And that ought to dish the lad till the end of the war,” observed he, +“whereafter he’ll have precious small use for his German linguistic +lore—unless he goes to Berlin for the Iron Cross or a Commission in the +Potsdammer Poison-Gas Guards, or somethin’, what?” + + + +CHAPTER XIX +_Of a Pudding_ + + +There was a sound of revelry by night, at the Bristol Bar. A Plum +Pudding had arrived. Into that lonely outpost, where men languished and +yearned for potatoes, cabbage, milk, cake, onions, beer, steaks, +chocolate, eggs, cigarettes, bacon, fruit, coffee, bread, fish, jam, +sausages, honey, sugar, ham, tobacco, pastry, toast, cheese, wine and +other things of which they had almost forgotten the taste, a Plum Pudding +had drifted. When it had begun to seem that food began and ended with +coco-nut, maize, bully-beef and dog-biscuit—a Plum Pudding rose up to +rebuke error. + +At least, it was going to do so. At present it lay, encased in a stout +wooden box and a soldered sarcophagus of tin, at the feet of the habitués +of the Bristol Bar, what time they looked upon the box and found it good +in their sight. . . . + +“You’ll dine with us and sample it, I hope, Wavell?” said the Major, +eyeing the box ecstatically. + +“Thanks,” was the reply. “Delighted. . . . May I bring over some brandy +to burn round it?” + +“Stout fella,” said the Major warmly. + +“Do we eat it as it is—or fry it, or something, or what?” he added. “I +fancy you bake ’em. . . .” + +“I believe puddings are boiled, sir,” remarked Bertram. + +“Yes—I b’lieve you’re right, Greene,” agreed Major Mallery. . . . “I +seem to know the expression, ‘boiled plum-pudding.’ . . . Yes—boiled +plum-pudding. . . .” + +“Better tell the cook to boil the bird at once, hadn’t we?” suggested +Captain Macke. + +“Yes,” agreed Vereker. “I fancy I’ve heard our housekeeper at home talk +about boiling ’em for _hours_. Hours and hours. . . . Sure of it.” + +“But s’pose the beastly thing’s _bin_ boiled already—what then?” asked +Augustus. “Bally thing’d _dissolve_, I tell you. . . . Have to drink +it. . . .” + +“Very nice, too,” declared Halke. + +“I’d sooner eat pudding and drink brandy, than drink pudding and burn +brandy,” stated Augustus firmly. “What would we boil it in, anyhow?” he +added. “It wouldn’t go in a kettle, an’ if you let it loose in a dam’ +great _dekchi_ or something, it’d all go to bits. . . .” + +“Tie it up in a shirt or something,” said Forbes. . . . “What’s your +idea, Greene—as a man of intellect and education?” + +“I’d say boil it,” replied Bertram. “I don’t believe they _can_ be +boiled too much. . . . I fancy it ought to be tied up, though, as +Clarence suggests, or it might disintegrate, I suppose.” + +“Who’s got a clean shirt or vest or pants or something?” asked the Major. +“Or could we ram it into a helmet and tie it down?” + +It appeared that no one had a _very_ clean shirt, and it happened that +nobody spoke up with military promptitude and smart alacrity when +Lieutenant Bupendranath Chatterji offered to lend his pillow-case. + +“I know,” said the Major, in a tone of decision and finality. “I’ll send +for the cook, tell him there’s a plum-pudding, an’ he can dam’ well serve +it hot for dinner as a plum-pudding _ought_ to be served—or God have +mercy on him, for we will have none. . . .” + +And so it was. Although at first the cook protested that the hour being +seven and dinner due at seven-thirty, there was not time for the just and +proper cooking of a big plum-pudding. But, “To hell with that for a +Tale,” said the Major, and waved pudding and cook away, with instructions +to serve the pudding steaming hot, in half an hour, with a blaze of +brandy round it, a sprig of holly stuck in it, and a bunch of mistletoe +hung above it. + +“And write ‘_God Bless Our Home_’ on the _banda_ wall,” he added, as a +happy after-thought. The cook grinned. He was a Goanese, and a good +Christian cheat and liar. + +The Bristol Bar settled down again to talk of Home, hunting, theatres, +clubs, bars, sport, hotels, and everything else—except religion, women +and war. . . . + +“Heard about the new lad, Major?” asked Forbes. “Real fuzzy-wuzzy +dervish Soudanese. Lord knows how he comes to be in these parts. Smelt +war like a camel smells water, I suppose. . . . Got confused ideas about +medals though. . . . Tell the tale, Wavell.” + +“Why—old Isa ibn Yakub, my Sergeant-Major—you know Isa, six-feet-six and +nine medals, face like black satin”—began Wavell, “brought me a stout +lad—with grey hair—who looked like his twin brother. Wanted to join my +Arab Company. He’d come from Berbera to Mombasa in a dhow, and then +strolled down here through the jungle. . . . Conversation ran somewhat +thus: + +“‘You want to enlist in my Arab Company, do you? Why?’ + +“‘I want to fight.’ + +“‘Against the _Germanis_?’ + +“‘Anybody.’ + +“‘You know what the pay is?’ + +“‘Yes. It is enough. But I also want my Omdurman medal—like that worn +by Isa ibn Yakub.’ + +“‘Oh—you have fought before? And at Omdurman.’ + +“‘Yes. And I want my medal.’ + +“‘You are sure you fought at Omdurman?’ + +“‘Yes. Was I not wounded there and left for dead? Look at this hole +through my side, below my arm. I want my medal—like that of Isa ibn +Yakub.’ + +“‘How is it that you have not got it, if you fought there as you say?’ + +“‘They would not give it to me. I want you to get it for me.’ + +“‘I do not believe you fought at Omdurman at all.’ + +“‘I did. Was I not shot there?’ + +“‘Were you in a Soudanese Regiment?’ + +“‘No.’ + +“‘What then?’ + +“‘In the army of Our Lord the Mahdi. And I was shot in front of the line +of British soldiers who wear petticoats! . . .’” + +“Did you take him?” asked the Major, as the laugh subsided. + +“Rather!” was the reply. “A lad who fought against us and expects us to +give him a medal for it, evidently thinks we are sportsmen, and probably +is one himself. I fancy he’s done a lot of mixed fighting at different +times. . . . Says he knew Gordon. . . .” + +The cook, Mess butler, and a deputation of servants approached, salaamed +as one man, and held their peace. + +“What’s up?” asked the Major. “Anyone dead?” + +“The Pudding, sah,” said the cook, and all the congregation said, “The +Pudding.” + +A painful brooding silence settled upon the Bristol Bar. + +“If you’ve let pi-dogs or _shenzis_ or kites eat that pudding, they shall +eat you—alive,” promised the Major—and he had the air of one whose word +is his bond. + +“Nossir,” replied the cook. “Pudding all gone to damn. Sahib come and +see. I am knowing nothing. It is bad.” + +“_What_?” roared the Major, and rose to his feet. + +“Sah, I am a poor man. You are my father and my mother,” said the cook +humbly, and all the congregation said that they were poor men and that +the Major was their father and their mother. + +The Major said that the congregation were liars. + +“_Bad_?” stammered Forbes. “Puddings can’t go _bad_. . . .” + +“Oh, Mother, Mother!” said Augustus, and cried, his head upon his knees. + +“Life in epitome,” murmured Vereker. “_Tout lasse_; _tout passe_; _tout +casse_.” + +“Strike me blind!” said Halke. + +“Feller’s a purple liar. . . . Must be,” opined Berners. + +“Beat the lot of them,” suggested Macke. “Puddings keep for ever if you +handle ’em properly.” + +“Yes—the brutes haven’t treated it kindly,” said Augustus, wiping his +eyes. “Here, Vereker, you’re Provost-Marshal. Serve them so that _they_ +go bad—and see how they like it.” + +“It may just have a superficial coating of mould or mildew that can be +taken off,” said Bertram. + +“Let’s go an’ interview the dam’ thing,” suggested Augustus. “We can +then take measures—or rum.” + +The Bristol Bar was deserted in the twinkling of an eye as, headed by the +Major, the dozen or so of British officers sought out the Pudding, that +they might hold an inquest upon it. . . . + +Near the cooking-fire in the straw shed behind the Officers’ Mess +_banda_, upon some boards beside a tin sarcophagus, lay a large green +ball, suggestive of a moon made of green cheese. + +In silent sorrow the party gazed upon it, stricken and stunned. And the +congregation of servants stood afar off and watched. + +Suddenly the Major snatched up the gleaming _panga_ that had been used +for prising open the case and for cutting open the tin box in which the +green horror had arrived. + +Raising the weapon above his head, the Major smote with all his might. +Right in the centre of the Pudding the heavy, sharp-edged blade struck +and sank. . . . The Pudding fell in halves, revealing an interior even +greener and more horrible than the outside, as a cloud of greenish, +smoke-like dust went up to the offended heavens. . . . + +“Bury the damned Thing,” said the Major, and in his wake the officers of +the Butindi garrison filed out, their hearts too full, their stomachs too +empty for words. + +And the servants buried the Pudding, obeying the words of the Major. + +But in the night the Sweeper arose and exhumed the Pudding and ate of it +right heartily. And through the night of sorrow he groaned. And at dawn +he died. This is the truth. + + * * * * * + +Dinner that night was a silent meal, if meal it could be called. No man +dared speak to his neighbour for fear of what his neighbour might reply. +The only reference to the Pudding was made by Augustus, who remarked, as +a servant brought in a dish of roasted maize-cobs, where the Pudding +should have come—chicken-feed where should have been Food of the Gods—“I +am almost glad poor Murie and Lindsay are so ill that they couldn’t +possibly have eaten any Pudding in any case. . . . Seems some small +compensation to ’em, don’t it, poor devils. . . .” + +“I do not think Murie will get better,” observed Lieutenant Bupendranath +Chatterji. “Fever and dysentery, both violent, and I have not proper +things. . . .” + +The silence seemed to deepen as everybody thought of the two sick men, +lying in their dirty clothes, on dirty camp-beds, in leaky grass huts, +with a choice of bully-beef, dog-biscuit, coco-nut and maize as a +dysentery diet. + +Whose turn next? And what sort of a fight could the force put up if +attacked by Africans when all the Indians and Europeans were ill with +fever and dysentery? Heaven bless the Wise Man who had kept the African +Army of British East Africa so small and had disbanded battalions of the +King’s African Rifles just before the war. What chance would Indians and +white men, who had lived for months in the most pestilential swamp in +Africa, have against salted Africans led by Germans especially brought +down from the upland health-resorts where they lived? . . . + +“Can you give me a little quinine, Chatterji?” asked Augustus. “Got any +calomel? I b’lieve my liver’s as big as my head to-day. I feel a corner +of it right up between my lungs. Stops my breathing sometimes. . . .” + +“Oah, yees. Ha! Ha!” said the medical gentleman. “I have a few tablets. +I will presently send you some also. . . .” + +Next morning Augustus came in last to breakfast. + +“Thanks for the quinine tablets, Chatterji,” said he. “The hospital +orderly brought them in his bare palm. I swallowed all ten, however. +What was it—twenty grains?” + +“Oah! That was calomel!” replied the worthy doctor, and Augustus arose +forthwith and retired, murmuring: “Poignant! _Searching_!” + +He had once taken a quarter of a grain of calomel, and it had tied him in +knots. + +When Bertram visited Murie, Lindsay and Augustus in their respective +huts, Augustus seemed the worst of the three. With white face, set +teeth, and closed eyes, he lay bunched up, and, from time to time, +groaned, “Oh, poignant! _Searching_! . . .” + +It being impossible for him to march, it fell to Bertram to take his duty +that day, and lead an officers’ patrol to reconnoitre a distant village +to which, according to information received by the Intelligence +Department, a German patrol had just paid a visit. For some reason the +place had been sacked and burnt. + +It was Bertram’s business to discover whether there were any signs of a +_boma_ having been established by this patrol; to learn anything he could +about its movements; whence it had come and whither it had gone; whether +the massacre were a punishment for some offence, or just the result of +high animal (German) spirits; whether there were many _shambas_, of no +further use to slaughtered people, in which the raiders had left any +limes, bananas, papai or other fruits, vegetables, or crops; whether any +odd chicken or goat had been overlooked, and was wanting a good home; +and, in short, to find out anything that could be found out, see all that +was to be seen, do anything that might be done. . . . As he marched out +of the Fort at the head of a hundred Gurkhas, with a local guide and +interpreter, he felt proud and happy, quite reckless, and absolutely +indifferent to his fate. He would do his best in any emergency that +might arise, and he could do no more. He’d leave it at that. + +He’d march straight ahead with a “point” in front of him, and if he was +ambushed, he was ambushed. + +When they reached the village, he’d deploy into line and send scouts into +the place. If he was shot dead—a jolly good job. If he were wounded and +left lying for the German _askaris_ to find—or the wild beasts at night . . . +he turned from the thought. + +Anyhow, he’d got good cheery, sturdy Gurkhas with him, and it was a +pleasure and an honour to serve with them. + +One jungle march is precisely like another—and in three or four hours the +little column reached the village, deployed, and skirmished into it, to +find it a deserted, burnt-out ruin. _Kultur_ had passed that way, +leaving its inevitable and unmistakable sign-manual. The houses were +only blackened skeletons; the gardens, wildernesses; the byres, +cinder-heaps; the fruit-trees, withering wreckage. What had been pools +of blood lay here and there, with clumps of feathers, burnt and broken +utensils, remains of slaughtered domestic animals and chickens. + +_Kultur_ had indeed passed that way. To Bertram it seemed, in a manner, +sadder that this poor barbarous little African village should be so +treated than that a walled city of supermen should suffer. . . “Is there +not more cruelty and villainy in violently robbing a crying child of its +twopence than in snatching his gold watch from a portly stockbroker?” +thought he, as he gazed around on the scene of ruin, desolation and +destruction. + +To think of Europeans finding time, energy, and occasion to effect _this_ +in such a spot, so incredibly remote from their marts and ways and busy +haunts! Christians! . . . + +Having posted sentries and chosen a spot for rally and defence, he sent +out tiny patrols along the few jungle paths that led to the village, and +proceeded to see what he could, as there was absolutely no living soul +from whom he could learn anything. There was little that the ablest +scoutmaster could deduce, save that the place had been visited by a large +party of mischievously destructive and brutal ruffians, who wore boots. +There was nothing of use or of value that had not been either destroyed +or taken. Even papai trees that bore no fruit had been hacked down, and +the _panga_ had been laid to the root of tree and shrub and sugar-cane. +Not a plantain, lime, mango, or papai was to be seen. + +Bertram entered one of the least burnt of the well-made huts of thatch +and wattle. There was what had been blood on the earthen floor, +blackened walls, charred stools, bed-frames and domestic utensils. He +felt sick. . . . In a corner was a child’s bed of woven string plaited +over a carved frame. It would make a useful stool or a resting-place for +things which should not lie on the muddy floor of his _banda_. He picked +it up. Underneath it was a tiny black hand with pinkish finger-tips. He +dropped the bed and was violently sick. _Kultur_ had indeed passed that +way. . . . + +Hurrying out into the sunlight, as soon as he was able to do so, he +completed his tour of inspection. There was little of interest and +nothing of importance. + +Apparently the hamlet had boasted an artist, a sculptor, some village +Rodin, before the Germans came to freeze the genial current of his soul. +. . . As Bertram studied the handiwork of the absent one, his admiration +diminished, however, and he withdrew the “Rodin.” The man was an arrant, +shameless plagiarist, a scoundrelly pick-brain imitator, a mere copying +ape, for, seen from the proper end, as it lay on its back, the clay +statue of a woman, without form and void, boneless, wiggly, +semi-deliquescent, was an absolutely faithful and shameless reproduction +of the justly world-famous Eppstein Venus. + +“The man ought to be prosecuted for infringement of copyright,” thought +Bertram, “if there is any copyright in statues. . . .” + +The patrols having returned with nothing to report, Bertram marched back +to Butindi and reported it. + + + +CHAPTER XX +_Stein-Brücker Meets Bertram Greene—and Death_ + + +And so passed the days at Butindi, with a wearisome monotony of Stand-to, +visiting the pickets, going out on patrol, improving the defences of the +_boma_, foraging, gathering information, reconnoitring, trying to waylay +and scupper enemy patrols, communicating with the other British outposts, +surveying and map-making, beating off half-hearted attacks by strong +raiding-patrols—all to the accompaniment of fever, dysentery, and growing +weakness due to malnutrition and the terrible climate. + +To Bertram it all soon became so familiar and normal that it seemed +strange to think that he had ever known any other kind of life. His +chief pleasure was to talk to Wavell, that most uncommon type of soldier, +who was also philosopher, linguist, student, traveller, explorer and +ethnologist. + +From the others, Bertram learnt that Wavell was, among other things, a +second Burton, having penetrated into Mecca and Medina in the disguise of +a _haji_, a religious pilgrim, at the very greatest peril of his life. +He had also fought, as a soldier of fortune, for the Arabs against the +Turks, whom he loathed as only those who have lived under their rule can +loathe them. He could have told our Foreign Office many interesting +things about the Turk. (When, after he had been imprisoned and brutally +treated by them at Sanaa, in the Yemen, he had appealed to our Foreign +Office, it had sided rather with the Turk indeed, confirming the +Unspeakable One’s strong impression that the English were a no-account +race, even as the Germans said.) So Wavell had fought against them, +helping the Arabs, whom he liked. And when the Great War broke out, he +had raised a double company of these fierce, brave, and blood-thirsty +little men in Arabia, and had drilled them into fine soldiers. Probably +no other Englishman—or European of any sort—could have done this; but +then Wavell spoke Arabic like an Arab, knew the Koran almost by heart, +and knew his Arabs quite by heart. + +That he showed a liking for Bertram was, to Bertram, a very great source +of pride and pleasure. When Wavell went out on a reconnoitring-patrol, +he went with him if he could get Major Mallery’s permission, and the two +marched through the African jungle discussing art, poetry, travel, +religion, and the ethnological problems of Arabia—followed by a hundred +or so Arabs—Arabs who were killing Africans and being killed by Africans, +often of their own religion and blood, because a gang of greedy +materialists, a few thousand miles away, was suffering from megalomania. +. . . + +Indeed to Bertram it was food for much thought that in that tiny _boma_ +in a tropical African swamp, Anglo-Indians, Englishmen, Colonials, Arabs, +Yaos, Swahilis, Gurkhas, Rajputs, Sikhs, Marathas, Punjabis, Pathans, +Soudanese, Nubians, Bengalis, Goanese, and a mob of assorted _shenzis_ of +the primeval jungle, should be laying down their lives because, in +distant Berlin, a hare-brained Kaiser could not control a crowd of greedy +and swollen-headed military aristocrats. + + * * * * * + +“Your month’s tobacco ration, Greene,” said Berners one morning, as he +entered Bertram’s hut, “and _don’t_ leave your boots on the floor to +attract jigger-fleas—unless you _want_ blood-poisoning and guinea-worm—or +is it guinea-fowl? Hang them on the wall. . . . And look between your +toes every time you take ’em off. Jigger-fleas are, hell, once they get +under the skin and lay their eggs. . .” and he handed Bertram some cakes +of perfectly black tobacco. + +“But, my dear chap, I couldn’t smoke _that_,” said Bertram, eyeing the +horrible stuff askance. + +“Of course you can’t _smoke_ it,” replied Berners. + +“What can I do with it, then?” he asked. + +“Anything you like. . . . I don’t care. . . . It’s your tobacco ration, +and I’ve issued it to you, and there the matter ends. .. . You can +revet your trench parapet with it if you like—or give it to the Wadegos +to poison their arrows with. . . . Jolly useful stuff, really. . . . +Sole your boots, tile the roof of your _banda_, make a parquet floor +round your bed, put it in Chatterji’s tea, make a chair seat, lay down a +pathway to the Mess, make your mother a teapot-stand, feed the +chickens—oh, lots of things. But you can’t _smoke_ it, of course. . . . +You expect too much, my lad. . . .” + +“Why do they issue it, then?” asked Bertram. + +“Same reason that they issue inedible bully-beef and unbreakable +biscuits, I s’pose—contractors must _live_, mustn’t they? . . . Be +reasonable. . . .” + +And again it seemed to the foolish civilian mind of this young man that, +since tons of this black cake tobacco (which no British officer ever has +smoked or could smoke) cost money, however little—there would be more +sense in spending the money on a small quantity of Turkish and Virginian +cigarettes that _could_ be smoked, by men accustomed to such things, and +suffering cruelly for lack of them. Throughout the campaign he saw a +great deal of this strong, black cake issued (to men accustomed to good +cigarettes, cigars or pipe-mixture), but he never saw any of it smoked. +He presented his portion to Ali, who traded it to people of palate and +stomach less delicate than those the British Government expects the +British officer to possess. . . . + +“You look seedy, Greene,” observed the Major that same evening, as +Bertram dragged himself across the black mud from his _banda_ to the +Bristol Bar—wondering if he would ever get there. + +“Touch of fever, sir. I’m all right,” replied he, wishing that everyone +and everything were not so nebulous and rotatory. + +He did not mention that he had been up all night with dysentery, and had +been unable to swallow solid food for three days. (Nor that his +temperature was one hundred and four—because he was unaware of the fact.) +But he knew that the moment was not far off when all his will-power and +uttermost effort would be unable to get him off his camp-bed. He had +done his best—but the worst climate in the world, a diet of indigestible +and non-nutritious food, taken in hopelessly inadequate quantities; bad +water; constant fever; dysentery; long patrol marches; night alarms; high +nerve-tension (when a sudden bang followed by a fusillade might mean a +desultory attention, a containing action while a more important place was +being seriously attacked, or that final and annihilating assault of a big +force which was daily expected); and the monotonous, dirty, dreary life +in that evil spot, had completely undermined his strength. He was +“living on his nerves,” and they were nearly gone. “You look like an old +hen whose neck has been half-wrung for to-morrow’s dinner before she was +found to be the wrong one, and reprieved,” said Augustus. “You let me +make you a real, rousing cock-eye, and then we’ll have an _n’goma_ +{198}—all the lot of us. . . .” + +But finding Bertram quite unequal to dealing with a cock-eye or +sustaining his part in a tribal dance that should “astonish the natives,” +he helped Bertram over to his _banda_, took off his boots and got him a +hot drink of condensed milk and water laced with ration rum. + +In the morning Bertram took his place at Stand-to and professed himself +equal to performing his duty, which was that of making a +reconnoitring-patrol as far as Paso, where there was another outpost. . . . + +Here he arrived in time for tea, and had some with real fresh cow’s milk +in it; and had a cheery buck with Major Bidwell, Captains Tucker and +Bremner, and Lieutenants Innes (another Filbert), Richardson, Stirling, +Carroll, and Jones—stout fellows all, and very kind to him. He was very +sorry indeed when it was time for him to march back again with his +patrol. + +He started on the homeward journey, feeling fairly well, for him; but he +could never remember how he completed it. . . . + +The darkness gathered so rapidly that he had a suspicion that the +darkness was within him. Then he found that he was continually running +into trees or being brought up short by impenetrable bush that somehow +sprang up before him. . . . Also he was talking aloud, and rather +surprised at his eloquence. . . . Then he was lying on the ground—being +put on his feet again—falling again . . . trying to fight a bothering +swarm of _askaris_ with a quill pen, while he addressed the House of +Commons on the iniquity of allowing Bupendranath Chatterji to be in +medical charge of four hundred men with insufficient material to deal +with a street accident. . . . Marching again, falling again, being put +on his feet again. . . . + + * * * * * + +After two days on his camp-bed he was somewhat better, and on the next +day he found himself in sole command of the Butindi outpost and a man of +responsibility and pride. Urgent messages had taken Major Mallery with +half the force in one direction, and Captain Wavell with half the +remainder in another. + +Suppose there should be an attack while he was in command! He half hoped +there would be. . . . + +Towards evening an alarm from a sentry and the turning out of the guard +brought him running to the main gate, shouting “Stand-to!” as he ran. + +Through his glasses he saw that a European and a small party of natives +were approaching the _boma_. . . . + +The new-comer was an Englishman of the name of Desmont, in the +Intelligence Department, who had just made a long and dangerous tour +through the neighbouring parts of German East in search of information. +Apparently Butindi was the first British outpost that he had struck, as +he asked endless questions about others—apparently with a view to +visiting them _en route_ to the Base Camp. Bertram extended to him such +hospitality as Butindi could afford, and gave him all the help and +information in his power. He had a very strong conviction that the man +was disguised (whether his huge beard was false or not), but he supposed +that it was very natural in the case of an Intelligence Department spy, +scout, or secret agent. Anyhow, he was most obviously English. . . . + +While he sat in the Officers’ Mess and talked with the man—a most +interesting conversation—Ali Suleiman entered with coco-nuts and a +rum-jar. Seeing the stranger, he instantly wheeled about and retired, +sending another servant in with the drinks. . . . + +After a high-tea of coco-nut, biscuit, bully-beef, and roasted +mealie-cobs, Desmont, who looked worn out, asked if he might lie down for +a few hours before he “moved off” again. Bertram at once took him to his +own _banda_ and bade him make himself at home. Five minutes later came +Ali with an air of mystery to where Bertram paced up and down the “High +Street,” and asked if he might speak with him. + +“That man a _Germani_, sah!” quoth he. “Spy-man he is. Debbil-man. His +own name _not_ Desmont _Bwana_, and he is big man in Dar-es-Salaam and +Tabora, and knowing all the big _Germani bwanas_. I was his gun-boy and +I go with him to _Germani_ East. . . . _Bwana_ go and shoot him for +dead, sah, by damn!” + +Bertram sat down heavily on a chop-box. + +“_What_?” gasped he. + +“Yessah, thank you please. One of those porters not a _shenzi_ at all. +He Desmont _Bwana’s_ head boy Murad. Very bad man, sah. Master look in +this spy-man’s chop-boxes. _Germani_ uniform in one—under rice and +posho. Master see. . . .” + +“You’re a fool, Ali,” said Bertram. + +“Yessah,” said Ali, “and Desmont _Bwana_ a _Germani_ spy-man. Master go +an’ shoot him for dead while asleep—or tie him to tree till Mallery +_Bwana_ coming. . . .” + +_Now_ what was to be done? Here was a case for swift action by the +“strong silent man” type of person who thought like lightning and acted +like some more lightning. + +If he did nothing and let the man go when he had rested, would his +conduct be that of a fool and a weakling who could not act promptly and +efficiently on information received—conduct deserving the strongest +censure? . . . + +And if he arrested and detained one of their own Intelligence Officers, +on the word of a native servant, would he ever hear the last of it? + +“_Bwana_ come and catch this bad man Murad,” suggested Ali. “_Bwana_ +say, ‘_Jambo_, _Murad ibn Mustapha_! _How much rupees Desmont Bwana +paying you for spy-work_?’ and _Bwana_ see him jump! By damn, sah! +_Bwana_ hold revolver ready.” . . . + +“Does the man know English then?” asked the perturbed and undecided +Bertram. + +“Yessah—all the same better as I do,” was the reply. “And he pretending +to be poor _shenzi_ porter. He knowing _Germani_ too. . . .” + +At any rate, he might look into _this_, and if anything suspicious +transpired, he could at least prevent Desmont from leaving before Mallery +returned. + +“Has he seen you?” asked Bertram. + +“No, sah, nor has Desmont _Bwana_,” was the reply—and Bertram bade Ali +show him where the porters were. + +They were outside the _boma_, squatting round a cooking-fire near the +“lines” of the Kavirondo porters. + +Approaching the little group, Bertram drew his revolver and held it +behind him. He did not know why he did this. Possibly subconscious +memory of Ali’s advice, perhaps with the expectation that the men might +attack him or attempt to escape; or perhaps a little pleasant touch of +melodrama. . . . + +“_Jambo_, _Murad ibn Mustapha_!” he said suddenly. “_Desmont Bwana wants +you at once_. _Go quickly_.” + +A man arose immediately and approached him. “Go back and sit down,” said +Bertram, covering the man with his revolver and speaking in German. He +returned and sat down. Evidently he understood English and German and +answered to the name of Murad ibn Mustapha! . . . + +Ali had spoken the truth and it was now up to Bertram Greene to act +wisely, promptly and firmly. This lot should be kept under arrest +anyhow. But might not all this be part of Desmont’s game as a scout, spy +and secret service agent of the British Intelligence Department. Yes, +_or_ of the German Intelligence Department. + +If there was a German uniform in one of the chop-boxes, it might well be +a disguise for him to wear in German East. Or it might be his real +dress. Anyhow—he shouldn’t leave the outpost until Major Mallery +returned. . + +. . And that was a weak shelving of responsibility. He was in command +of the post, and Major Mallery and the other officers with him might be +scuppered. It was quite possible that neither the Major’s party nor +Captain Wavell’s might ever get back to Butindi. He strolled over to his +_banda_ and looked in. + +Desmont was evidently suffering from digestive troubles or a bad +conscience, for his face was contorted, he moved restlessly and ground +his teeth. + +Suddenly he screamed like a woman and cried: + +“_Ach_! _Gott in Himmel_! _Nein_, _Nein_! _Ich_ . . .” + +Bertram drew his revolver. The man was a German. Englishmen don’t talk +German in their sleep. + +The alleged Desmont moaned. + +“_Zu müde_,” he said. “_Zu müde_.” . . . + +Bertram sat down on his camp-stool and watched the man. + + * * * * * + +The Herr Doktor Karl Stein-Brücker had made a name for himself in German +East, as one who knew how to manage the native. This in a country where +they all pride themselves on knowing how to manage the native—how to put +the fear of Frightfulness and _Kultur_ into his heart. He had once given +a great increase to a growing reputation by flogging a woman to death, on +suspicion of unfaithfulness. He had wielded the _kiboko_ with his own +(literally) red right hand until he was aweary, and had then passed the +job on to Murad ibn Mustapha, who was very slow to tire. But even he had +had to be kept to it at last. . . . + +“_Noch nichte_!” had the Herr Doktor said, “_Not yet_!” as Murad wished +to stop, and + +“_Ganz klein wenig_!” as the brawny arm dropped. “_Just a little more_.” +. . . + +It had been a notable and memorable punishment—but the devil of it was +that whenever the Herr Doktor got run down or over-ate himself, he had a +most terrible nightmare, wherein Marayam, streaming with blood, pursued +him, caught him, and flogged him. And when she tired, he was doomed to +urge her on to further efforts. After screaming with agony, he must moan +“_Zu müde_! _Zu müde_!” and then—when she would have stopped—“_Noch +nichte_!” and “_Ganz klein wenig_!” so that she began afresh. Then he +must struggle, break free, leap at her—and find himself sweating, weeping +and trembling beside his bed. + +Presently the moaning sleeper cried “_Noch nichte_!” and a little later +“_Ganz klein wenig_!”—and then with a scream and a struggle, leapt from +the camp cot and sprang at Bertram, whose revolver straightway went off. +With a cough and a gurgle the _soi-disant_ Desmont collapsed with a ·450 +service bullet through his heart. + +When Major Mallery returned at dawn he found a delirious +Second-Lieutenant Greene (and a dead European, and a wonderful tale from +one Ali Suleiman. . . .) + +With a temperature of 105·8 he did not seem likely to live. . . . + +Whether Bertram Greene lived or died, however, he had, albeit ignorantly, +avenged the cruel wrong done to his father. . . . He—the despised and +rejected one—had avenged Major Hugh Walsingham Greene. Fate plays some +queer tricks and Time’s whirligig performs some quaint gyrations! + + + + +PART III +THE BAKING OF BERTRAM BY LOVE + + +CHAPTER I +_Mrs. Stayne-Brooker Again_ + + +Luckily for himself, Second-Lieutenant Bertram Greene was quite +unconscious when he was lifted from his camp-bed into a stretcher by the +myrmidons of Mr. Chatterji and dispatched, carriage paid, to M’paga. +What might happen to him there was no concern of Mr. Chatterji’s—which +was the important point so far as that gentleman was concerned. + +Unconscious he remained as the four Kavirondo porters, the stretcher on +their heads, jogged along the jungle path in the wake of Ali and the +three other porters who bore his baggage. Behind the stretcher-bearers +trotted four more of their brethren who would relieve them of their +burden at regular intervals. + +Ali was in command, and was also in a hurry, for various reasons, +including prowling enemy patrols and his master’s dire need of help. He +accordingly set a good pace and kept the “low niggers” of his party to it +by fabulous promises, hideous threats, and even more by the charm of +song—part song in fact. Lifting up his powerful voice he delivered in +deep diapason a mighty + +“_Ah-Nah-Nee-Nee_! _Ah-Nah-Nee-Nee_!” + +to which all the congregation responded + +“_Umba Jo-eel_! _Umba Jo-eel_” + +as is meet and right to do. + +And when, after a few hundred thousand repetitions of this, in strophe +and antistrophe, there seemed a possibility that restless and volatile +minds desiring change might seek some new thing, Ali sang + +“_Hay-Ah-Mon-Nee_! _Hay-Ah-Mon-Nee_!” + +which is quite different, and the jogging, sweating congregation, with +deep earnestness and conviction, took up the response: + +“_Tunk-Tunk-Tunk-Tunk_!” + +and all fear of the boredom of monotony was gone—especially as, after a +couple of hours of this, you could go back to the former soulful and +heartsome Threnody, and begin again. But if they got no forrader with +the concert they steadily got forrader with the journey, as their loping +jog-trot ate up the miles. + +And, in time to their regular foot-fall and chanting, the insensible head +of the white man rolled from side to side unceasingly. . . . + +Unconscious he still was when the little party entered the Base Camp, and +Private Henry Hall remarked to Private John Jones: + +“That there bloke’s gone West all right but ’e ain’t gone long. . . . +You can see ’e’s dead becos ’is ’ead’s a waggling and you can see ’e +ain’t bin dead _long_ becos ’is ’ead’s a waggling. . . .” + +And Private John Jones, addressing the speaker as Mister Bloomin’-Well +Sherlock ’Olmes, desired that he would cease to chew the fat. + +Steering his little convoy to the tent over which the Red Cross flew, Ali +handed over his master and the cleft stick holding Major Mallery’s +letter, to Captain Merstyn, R.A.M.C., and then stood by for orders. + +It appeared that the _Barjordan_ was off M’paga, that a consignment of +sick and wounded was just going on board, and that Second-Lieutenant +Greene could go with them. . . . + +That night Bertram was conveyed out to sea in a dhow (towed by a +petrol-launch from the _Barjordan_), taken on board that ship, and put +comfortably to bed. The next night he was in hospital at Mombasa and had +met Mrs. Stayne-Brooker. + + * * * * * + +As, thanks to excellent nursing, he very slowly returned to health and +strength, Bertram began to take an increasing interest in the very +charming and very beautiful woman whom he had once seen and admired at +the Club, who daily took his temperature, brought his meals, administered +his medicine, kept his official chart, shook up his pillows, put cooling +hands upon his forehead, found him books to read, talked to him at times, +attended the doctor on his daily visits, and superintended the brief +labours of the Swahili youth who was ward-boy and house-maid on that +floor of the hospital. + +Before long, the events of the day were this lady’s visits, and, on +waking, he would calculate the number of hours until she would enter his +room and brighten it with her presence. He had never seen so sweet, +kind, and gentle a face. It was beautiful too, even apart from its +sweetness, kindness and gentleness. He was very thankful when he found +himself no longer too weak to turn his head and follow her with his eyes, +as she moved about the room. It was indescribably delightful to have a +woman, and such a woman, about one’s sick bed—after negro servants, +Indian orderlies, _shenzi_ stretcher-bearers, and Bengali doctors. How +his heart swelled with gratitude as she laid her cool hand on his +forehead, or raised his head and gave him a cooling drink. . . . But how +sad she looked! . . . He hated to see her putting up the +mosquito-curtains that covered the big frame-work, like the skeleton of a +room, in which his bed stood, and which, at night, formed a +mosquito-proof room-within-a-room, and provided space for his bedside +chair, table and electric-lamp, as well as for the doctor and nurse, if +necessary. + +One morning he sat up and said: + +“_Please_ let me do that, Sister—I hate to see you working for me—though +I love to see _you_ . . .” and then had been gently pushed back on to his +pillow as, with a laugh, Mrs. Stayne-Brooker said: + +“That’s what I’m here for—to work I mean,” and patted his wasted hand. +(He _was_ such a dear boy, and so appreciative of what one could do for +him. It made one’s heart ache to see him such a wasted skeleton.) + +The time came when he could sit in a long chair with leg-rest arms, and +read a book; but he found that most of his time was spent in thinking of +the Sister and in the joys of retrospection and anticipation. He had to +put aside, quite resolutely, all thought of the day when he would be +declared fit for duty and be “returned to store.” Think of a _banda_ at +Butindi and of this white room with its beautiful outlook across the +strait to the palm-feathered shore; think of Ali as one’s cup-bearer and +of this sweet angelic Englishwoman. . . . Better not think of it at all. +. . . + +It was quite a little shock to him, one day, to notice that she wore a +wedding-ring. . . . He had never thought of that. . . . He felt +something quite like a little twinge of jealousy. . . . He was sure the +man must be a splendid fellow though, or she would never have married +him. . . . How old would she be? It was no business of his, and it was +not quite gentlemanly to speculate on such a subject—but somehow he had +not thought of her as “an old married woman.” Not that married women are +necessarily older than unmarried women. . . . A silly expression—“old” +married women. He had imagined her to be about his own generation so to +speak. Possibly a _little_ older than himself—in years—but years don’t +make age really. . . . Fancy her being married! Well, well, well! . . . +But what did that matter—she was just as much the charming and beautiful +woman for whom he would have laid down his life in sheer gratitude. . . . + + * * * * * + +A man gets like this after fever. He is off his balance, weak, +neurasthenic, and devoid of the sense of proportion. He waxes +sentimental, and is to be forgiven. + + * * * * * + +But there is not even this excuse for Mrs. Stayne-Brooker. + + * * * * * + +She began by rather boring her daughter, Eva, about her new patient—his +extreme gratitude, his charming ways and thoughts, his true gentleness of +nature, his delightful views, the _niceness_ of his mind, the +likeableness of him. . . . She wondered aloud as to whether he had a +mother—she must be a very nice woman. She wondered in silence as to +whether he had a wife—she must be a very happy woman. . . . How old was +he? . . . It was so hard to tell with these poor fellows, brought in so +wasted with fever and dysentery; and rank wasn’t much guide to age +nowadays. He _might_ be. . . . Well—he’d be up and gone before long, +and she’d never see him again, so what was the good of wondering. . . . +And she continued to wonder. . . . And then, from rather boring Miss +Stayne-Brooker with talk about Lieutenant Greene she went to the extreme, +and never mentioned him at all. + +For, one day, with an actual gasp of horrified amazement, she found that +she had suddenly realised that possibly the poets and novelists were not +so wrong as she had believed, and that there _might_ be such a thing as +the Love—they hymned and described—and that Peace and Happiness might be +its inseparable companions. . . . She would read her Browning, Herrick, +Swinburne, Rosetti again, her Dante, her Mistral, and some of those plays +and poems of Love that the world called wonderful, beautiful, true, for +she had an idea that she might see glimmerings of wonder, beauty and +truth in them—_now_. . . . + +But then—how absurd!—at _her_ age. Of course she would not read them +again! At _her_ age! . . . + +And proceeded to do so at _her_ Dangerous Age. . . . + +Strange that _his_ name should be Green or Greene—he was the fifth person +of that name whom she had met since she left Major Walsingham Greene, +eighteen years ago. . . . + + + +CHAPTER II +_Love_ + + +All too soon for two people concerned, Doctor Mowbray, the excellent +Civil Surgeon of Mombasa, in whose hospital Bertram was, decided that +that young gentleman might forthwith be let loose on ticket-of-leave +between the hours of ten and ten for a week or two, preparatory to his +discharge from hospital for a short spell of convalescence-leave before +rejoining his regiment. . . . + +“I’ll call for you and take you for a drive after lunch,” said Mrs. +Stayne-Brooker, “and then you shall have tea with me, and we’ll go over +to the Club and sit on the verandah. You mustn’t walk much, your first +day out.” + +“I’m going to run miles,” said Bertram, smiling up into her face and +taking her hand as she stood beside his chair—a thing no other patient +had dared to do or would have been permitted to do. (“He was such a dear +boy—one would never dream of snubbing him or snatching away a hand he +gratefully stroked—it would be like hitting a baby or a nice friendly +dog. . . .”) + +“Then you’ll be ill again at once,” rejoined Mrs. Stayne-Brooker, giving +the hand that had crept into hers a little chiding shake. + +“Exactly . . . and prolong my stay here. . .” said Bertram, and his eyes +were very full of kindness and gratitude as they met eyes that were also +very full. + +(“What a sweet, kind, good woman she was! And what a cruel wrench it +would be to go away and perhaps never see her again. . . .”) + +He went for his drive with Mrs. Stayne-Brooker in a car put at her +disposal, for the purpose, by the Civil Surgeon; and found he was still +very weak and that it was nevertheless good to be alive. + +At tea he met Miss Stayne-Brooker, and, for a moment, his breath was +taken away by her beauty and her extraordinary likeness to her mother. + +He thought of an opened rose and an opening rose-bud (exactly alike save +for the “open” and “opening” difference), on the same stalk. . . . It +was wonderful how alike they were, and how young Mrs. Stayne-Brooker +looked—away from her daughter. . . . The drive-and-tea programme was +repeated almost daily, with variations, such as a stroll round the +golf-course, as the patient grew stronger. . . . And daily Bertram saw +the very beautiful and fascinating Miss Stayne-Brooker and daily grew +more and more grateful to Mrs. Stayne-Brooker. He was grateful to her +for so many things—for her nursing, her hospitality, her generous giving +of her time; her kindness in the matter of lending him books (the books +she liked best, prose works _and_ others); her kind interest in him and +his career, ambitions, tastes, views, hopes and fears; for her being the +woman she was and for brightening his life as she had, not to mention +saving it; and, above all, he was grateful to her for having such a +daughter. . . . He told her that he admired Miss Stayne-Brooker +exceedingly, and she did not tell him that Miss Stayne-Brooker did not +admire him to the same extent. . . . She was a little sorry that her +daughter did not seem as enthusiastic about him as she herself was, for +we love those whom we admire to be admired. But she realised that a chit +of a girl, fresh from a Cheltenham school, was not to be expected to +appreciate a man like this one, a scholar, an artist to his finger-tips, +a poet, a musician, a man who had read everything and could talk +interestingly of anything—a man whose mind was a sweet and pleasant +storehouse—a _kind_ man, a gentleman, a man who, thank God, _needed_ one, +and yet to whom one’s ideas were of as much interest as one’s face and +form. Of course, the average “Cheerioh” subaltern, whose talk was of +dances and racing and sport, would, very naturally, be of more interest +to a callow girl than this man whose mind (to Mrs. Stayne-Brooker) a +kingdom was, and who had devoted to the study of music, art, literature, +science, and the drama, the time that the other man had given to the +pursuit of various hard and soft balls, inoffensive quadrupeds, and less +inoffensive bipeds. + +Thus Mrs. Stayne-Brooker, addressing, in imagination, a foolishly +unappreciative Eva Stayne-Brooker. + + * * * * * + +As she and her daughter sat at dinner on the verandah which looked down +on to Vasco da Gama Street, one evening, a month later, her Swahili +house-boy brought Mrs. Stayne-Brooker a message. . . . A _shenzi_ was +without, and he had a _chit_ which he would give into no hands save those +of Mrs. Stayne-Brooker herself. + +It was the escaped Murad ibn Mustapha, in disguise. + +On hearing his news, she did what she had believed people only did in +books. She fell down in a faint and lay as one dead. + + * * * * * + +Miss Stayne-Brooker tried to feel as strongly as her mother evidently +did, but signally failed, her father having been an almost complete +stranger to her. She was a little surprised that the blow should have +been so great as to strike her mother senseless, for there had certainly +been nothing demonstrative about her attitude to her husband—to say the +least of it. She supposed that married folk got like that . . . loved +each other all right but never showed it at all. . . Nor had what she +had seen of her father honestly impressed her with the feeling that he +was a _very_ lovable person. Neither before dinner nor after it—when he +was quite a different man. . . . + +Still—here was her mother, knocked flat by the news of his death, and now +lying on her bed in a condition which seemed to vary between coma and +hysteria. . . . + +Knocked flat—(and yet, from time to time, she murmured, “Thank God! Oh, +thank God!”). Queer! + + * * * * * + +When Mr. Greene called next day, Miss Eva received him in the +morning-sitting-drawing-room and told him the sad news. Her father had +died. . . . He was genuinely shocked. + +“Oh, your poor, _poor_ mother!” said he. “I am grieved for her”—and sat +silent, his face looking quite sad. Obviously there was no need for +sympathy with Miss Eva as she frankly confessed that she scarcely knew +her father and felt for him only as one does for a most distant relation, +whom one has scarcely ever seen. + +With a request that she would convey his most heart-felt condolence and +deepest sympathy to her mother, he withdrew and returned to the Mombasa +Hotel, where he was now staying, an ex-convalescent awaiting orders. . . +He had hoped for an evening with Eva. That evening the _Elymas_ steamed +into Kilindini harbour and Bertram, strolling down to the pier, met +Captain Murray, late Adjutant of the One Hundred and Ninety-Ninth, and +Lieutenant Reginald Macteith, both of whom had just come ashore from her. + +He wrung Murray’s hand, delighted to see him, and congratulated him on +his escape from regimental duty, and shook hands with Macteith. + +“By Jove, Cupid, you look ten years older than when I saw you last,” said +Murray, laying his hand on Bertram’s shoulder and studying his face. “I +should hardly have known you. . . .” + +“Quite a little man now,” remarked Macteith, and proceeded to enquire as +to where was the nearest and best Home-from-Home in Mombasa, where one +could have A-Drink-and-a-Little-Music-what-what? + +“I am staying at the Mombasa Hotel,” said Bertram coldly, to which +Macteith replied that he hoped it appreciated its privilege. + +Bertram felt that he hated Macteith, but also had a curious sense that +that young gentleman had either lost in stature or that he, Bertram, had +gained. . . . Anyhow he had seen War, and, so far, Macteith had not. He +had no sort of fear of anything Macteith could say or do—and he’d welcome +any opportunity of demonstrating the fact. . . . Dirty little worm! +Chatting gaily with Murray, he took them to the Mombasa Club and there +found a note from Mrs. Stayne-Brooker asking him to come to tea on the +morrow. + + * * * * * + +“I won’t attempt to offer condolence nor express my absolute sympathy, +Mrs. Stayne-Brooker,” said Bertram as he took her hand and led her to her +favourite settee. + +“Don’t,” said she. + +“My heart aches for you, though,” he added. + +“It need not,” replied Mrs. Stayne-Brooker, and, as Bertram looked his +wonder at her enigmatic reply and manner, she continued: + +“I will not pretend to _you_. I will be honest. Your heart need not +ache for me at all—because mine sings with relief and gratitude and joy. +. . .” + +Bertram’s jaw fell in amazement. He felt inexpressibly shocked. + +Or was it that grief had unhinged the poor lady’s mind? + +“I am going to say to you what I have never said to a living soul, and +will never say again. . . . I have never even said it to myself. . . . +_I hated him most utterly and most bitterly_. . . .” + +Bertram was more shocked than he had ever been in his life. . . This was +terrible! . . . He wanted to say, “Oh, hush!” and get up and go away. + +“I could not _tell_ you how I hated him,” continued Mrs. Stayne-Brooker, +“for he spoilt my whole life. . . . I am not going into details nor am I +going to say one word against him beyond that. I repeat that he _made_ +me loathe him—from my very wedding-day . . . and I leave you to judge. . +. .” + +Bertram judged. + +He was very young—much younger than his years—and he judged as the young +do, ignorantly, harshly, cruelly. . . . + +What manner of woman, after all, was this, who spoke of her dead husband? +Of her own husband—scarcely cold in his grave. Of her _husband_ of all +people in the world! . . . He could have wept with the shame and misery +of it, the disillusionment, the shattering blow which she herself had +dealt at the image and idol that he had set up in his heart and +gratefully worshipped. + +He looked up miserably as he heard the sound of a sob in the heavy +silence of the room. She was weeping bitterly, shaken from head to foot +with the violence of her—her—what could it be? not grief for her husband +of course. Did she weep for the life that he had “spoilt” as she +expressed it? Was it because of her wasted opportunities for happiness, +the years that the locust had eaten, the never-to-return days of her +youth, when joy and gaiety should have been hers? + +What could he say to her?—save a banal “Don’t cry”? There was nothing to +say. He did not know when he had felt so miserable and uncomfortable. . . . + +“It is over,” she said suddenly, and dried her tears; but whether she +alluded to the unhappiness of her life with her husband, or to her brief +tempest of tears, he did not know. + +What could he say to her? . . . It was horrible to see a woman cry. And +she had been _so_ good to him. She had revived his interest in life when +through the miasma of fever he had seen it as a thing horrible and +menacing, a thing to flee from. How could he comfort her? She had made +no secret of the fact that she liked him exceedingly, and that to talk to +him of the things that matter in Life, Art, Literature, Music, History, +was a pleasure akin to that of a desert traveller who comes upon an +inexhaustible well of pure water. Perhaps she liked him so well that he +could offer, acceptably, that Silent Sympathy that is said to be so much +finer and more efficacious than words. . . . Could he? . . Could he? . . . + +Conquering his sense of repulsion at her attitude toward her newly dead +husband, and remembering all he owed to her sweet kindness, he crossed to +her settee, knelt on one knee beside her, took her hand, and put it to +his lips without a word. She would understand—and he would go. + +With a little sobbing cry, Mrs. Stayne-Brooker snatched her hand from +him, and, throwing her arms about his neck, pressed her lips to his—her +face was transfigured as with a great light—the light of the knowledge +that the poets had told the great and wondrous truth when they sang of +Love as the Greatest Thing—and sung but half the truth. All that she +longed for, dreamed of, yearned over—and disbelieved—was true and had +come to pass. . . . + +She looked no older than her own daughter—and forgot that she was a woman +of thirty-seven years, and that the man who knelt in homage (the moment +that she was free to receive his homage!) _might_ be but little over +thirty. + +She did not understand—but perhaps, in that moment, received full +compensation for her years of misery, and her marred, thwarted, wasted +womanhood. + +Oh, thank God; thank God, that he loved her . . . she could not have +borne it if . . . + + * * * * * + +Glad that he had succeeded in comforting her, slightly puzzled and +vaguely stirred, he arose and went out, still without a word. + + * * * * * + +Returning to his hotel, he found a telegram ordering him to proceed +“forthwith” to a place called Soko Nassai _via_ Voi and Taveta, and as +“forthwith” means the next train, and the next train to Voi on the Uganda +Railway went in two hours, he yelled for Ali, collected his kit, paid his +Club bill and got him to the railway station without having time or +opportunity to make any visits of farewell. That he had to go without +seeing Miss Eva again troubled him sorely, much more so than he would +have thought possible. + +In fact he thought of her all night as he lay on the long bed-seat of his +carriage in a fog of fine red dust, instead of sleeping or thinking of +what lay before him at Taveta, whence, if all or any of the Club gossip +were true, he would be embarking upon a very hard campaign, and one of +“open” fighting, too. This would be infinitely more interesting than the +sit-in-the-mud trench warfare, but it was not of this that he found +himself thinking so much as of the length and silkiness of Miss Eva’s +eyelashes, the tendrils of hair at her neck, the perfection of her lips, +and similar important matters. He was exceedingly glad that he was going +to be attached to a Kashmiri regiment, because it was composed of Dogras +and Gurkhas, and he liked Gurkhas exceedingly, but he was ten thousand +times more glad that there was a Miss Eva Stayne-Brooker in the world, +that she was in Mombasa, that he could think of her there, and, best of +all, that he could return and see her there when the war was o’er—and he +sang aloud: + + “When the war is o’er, + We’ll part no more.” + +No—damn it all—one couldn’t sing “at Ehren on the Rhine,” after the +German had shown his country to be the home of the most ruffianly, +degraded, treacherous and despicable brute the world has yet produced; +and, turning over with an impatient jerk, he tipped a little mound of +drifted red dust and sand into his mouth and his song turned to dust and +ashes and angry spluttering. _Absit omen_. + +At Taveta, a name on a map and a locality beneath wooded hills, Bertram +found a detachment of his regiment, and was accepted by his +brother-officers as a useful-looking and very welcome addition to their +small Mess. He was delighted to renew acquaintance with Augustus and +with the Gurkha Subedar—whom he had last seen at M’paga. Here he also +found the 29th Punjabis, the 130th Baluchis, and the 2nd Rhodesians. In +the intervals of thinking of Miss Eva, he thought what splendid troops +they looked, and what a grand and fortunate man he was to be one of their +glorious Brigade. + +When he smelt the horrible fever smell of the pestilential Lumi swamp, he +hoped Miss Eva would not get fever in Mombasa. + +When he feasted his delighted eyes on Kilimanjaro, on the rose-flushed +snows and glaciers of Kibo and Mawenzi, their amazing beauty was as the +beauty of her face, and he walked uplifted and entranced. + +When the daily growing Brigade was complete, and marched west through +alternating dense bush and open prairie of moving grass, across dry sandy +nullahs or roughly bridged torrents, he marched with light heart and +untiring body, neither knowing nor caring whether the march were long or +short. + +When Gussie Augustus Gus said it was dam’ hot and very thoughtless +conduct of Jan Smuts to make innocent and harmless folk walk on their +feet at midday, Bertram perceived that it _was_ hot, though he hadn’t +noticed it. His spirit had been in Mombasa, and his body had been unable +to draw its attention to such minor and sordid details as dust, heat, +thirst, weariness and weakness. + +The ice-cold waters of the Himo River, which flows from the Kilimanjaro +snows to the Pangani, reminded him of the coolness of her firm young +hands. + +As the Brigade camped on the ridge of a green and flower-decked hill +looking across the Pangani Valley, to the Pare Hills, a scene of fertile +beauty, English in its wooded rolling richness, he thought of her with +him in England; and as the rancid smell of a frying _ghee_, mingled with +the acrid smell of wood smoke, was wafted from where Gurkha, Punjabi, +Pathan and Baluchi cooked their _chapattis_ of _atta_, he thought of her +in India with him. . . . + +Day after day the Brigade marched on, and whether it marched between +impenetrable walls of living green that formed a tunnel in which the red +dust floated always, thick, blinding and choking, or whether it marched +across great deserts of dried black peat over which the black dust hung +always, thicker, more blinding and more choking—it was the same to +Second-Lieutenant Bertram Greene, as he marched beside the sturdy little +warriors of his regiment. His spirit marched through the realms of +Love’s wonderland rather than through deserts and jungles, and the things +of the spirit are more real, and greater than those of the flesh. + +For preference he marched alone, alone with his men that is, and not with +a brother officer, that he might be spared the necessity of conversation +and the annoyance of distraction of his thoughts. For miles he would +trudge beside the Subedar in companionly silence. He grew very fond of +the staunch little man to whom duty was a god. . . . + +When the Brigade reached Soko Nassai it joined the Division which +(co-operating with Van Deventer’s South African Division, then +threatening Tabora and the Central Railway from Kondoa Irangi) in three +months conquered German East Africa—an almost adequate force having been +dispatched at last. It consisted of the 2nd Kashmir Rifles, 28th +Punjabis, 130th Baluchis, the 2nd Rhodesians, a squadron of the 17th +Cavalry, the 5th and 6th Batteries of the S.A. Field Artillery, a section +of the 27th Mountain Battery, and a company of the 61st Pioneers, forming +the First East African Brigade. There were also the 25th Royal +Fusiliers, the M.I. and machine-guns of the Loyal North Lancashire +Regiment, the East African Mounted Rifles, a Howitzer Battery of Cornwall +Territorials, “Z” Signalling Company, a “wireless” section, and a fleet +of armoured cars. In reserve were the 5th and 6th South Africans. + +Few divisions have ever done more than this one did—under the greatest +hardships in one of the worst districts in the world. + +Its immediate task was to clear the Germans from their strong positions +in the Pare and Usambara Mountains, and to seize the railway to Tanga on +the coast, a task of all but superhuman difficulty, as it could only be +accomplished by the help of a strong force making a flanking march +through unexplored roadless virgin jungle, down the Pangani valley, the +very home of fever, where everything would depend upon efficient +transport—and any transport appeared impossible. How could motor +transport go through densest trackless bush, or horse and bullock +transport where horse-sickness and tsetse fly forbade? + +The First Brigade made the Pangani march and turning movement, performing +the impossible, and with it went Second-Lieutenant Bertram Greene, head +in air and soul among the stars, his heart full of a mortal tenderness +and caught up in a great divine uplifting, + + + +CHAPTER III +_Love and War_ + + +As he marched on, day after day, his thoughts moving to the dogged tramp +of feet, the groan of laden bullock-carts, the creak of mule packs, the +faint rhythmic tap of tin cup on a bayonet hilt, the clank of a swinging +chain end, through mimosa thorn and dwarf scrub, dense forest, mephitic +swamp or smitten desert, ever following the river whose waters gave life +and sudden death, the river to leave which was to die of thirst, and to +stay by which was to die of fever, this march which would have been a +nightmare of suffering, was merely a dream—a dream from which he would +awake to arise and go to Mombasa. . . . + +“I always thought you had guts, Greene,” said Augustus coarsely, one +night, as they laid their weary bones beneath a tarpaulin stretched +between two carts. “I always thought you had ’em beneath your +gentle-seeming surface, so to speak—but dammy, you’re _all_ guts. . . . +You’re a blooming whale, to march. . . . Why the devil don’t you growl +and grumble like a Christian gentleman, eh? . . . I hate you ‘strong +silent men.’ . . . Dammitall—you march along with a smug smile on your +silly face! . . . You’re a perfect tiger, you know. . . . Don’t like +it. . . . Colonel will be saying your ‘conduct under trying +circumstances is an example and inspiration to all ranks.’ . . . Will +when you’re dead anyhow. . . . Horrid habit. . . . You go setting an +example to _me_, and I’ll bite you in the stomach, my lad. . . .” + +Bertram laughed and looked out at the great stars—blue diamonds sprinkled +on black velvet—and was very happy. + +Was he tired? Everybody else was, so he supposed he must be. + +Was he hungry? Yes—for the sight of a face. . . . Oh, the joy of +shutting his eyes and calling it to memory’s eye, and of living over +again every moment spent in her presence! + +He realised, with something like amazement, that Love grows and waxes +without the food and sustenance of the loved one’s real presence. He +loved her more than he had done at Mombasa. Had he really _loved_ her at +Mombasa at all? Certainly not as he did now—when he thought of nothing +else, and performed all his duties and functions mechanically and was +only here present in the mere dull and unfeeling flesh. . . . + +As the column halted where, across an open glade, the menacing sinister +jungle might at any moment burst into crackling life, as machine-gun and +rifle-fire crashed out to mow men down, he felt but mild interest, little +curiosity and no vestige of fear. He would do his duty to the utmost, of +course, but—how sweet to get a wound that would send him back to where +she was! + +As the column crossed the baked mud of former floods, and his eye noted +the foot-prints, preserved in it, of elephant, lion, large and small +antelope, rhinoceros and leopard, these wonders moved him to but faint +interest, for he had something a thousand times more interesting to think +of. Things that would have thrilled him before this great event, this +greatest event, of his life—such as the first complete assembling of the +Brigade in the first sufficient open space it had yet encountered—by the +great spare rock, Njumba-ya-Mawe, the House of Stone, on which General +Jan Smuts himself climbed to see them pass; the sight of his own +Kashmiris cutting a way straight through the bush with their _kukris_; +the glimpses of animals he had hitherto only seen in zoological gardens; +the faint sound of far-distant explosions where the retiring Germans were +blowing up their railway culverts and bridges; the sight of deserted +German positions with their trenches littered with coco-nut shells, +husks, and mealie-cobs, their cunning machine-gun positions, and their +officers’ _bandas_ littered with empty tins and bottles; the infernal +hullabaloo when a lion got within the perimeter one night and stampeded +the mules; the sudden meeting with a little band of ragged emaciated +prisoners, some German patrol captured by the Pathan _sowars_ of the 17th +or the Mounted Infantry of the Lancashires; the passing, high in air, of +a humming yellow aeroplane; the distant rattle of machine-guns, like the +crackling of a forest fire, as the advance-guard came in sight of some +retiring party of Kraut’s force; the hollow far-off boom of some big gun +brought from the _Konigsberg_—dismantled and deserted in the Rufigi +river—as it fired from Sams upon the frontal feint of the 2nd Brigade’s +advance down the railway or at the column of King’s African Rifles from +M’buyini—these things which would have so thrilled him once, now left him +cold—mere trifles that impinged but lightly on his outer consciousness. . . . + +“You’re a blasé old bloke, aren’t you, Greene?” said the puzzled +Augustus. “Hardened old warrior like you can’t be expected to take much +interest in a dull game like war, unless they let you charge guns and +squares with cavalry, what? Sport without danger’s no good to you, what? +You wait till you find a dam’ great Yao _askari_ looking for your liver +with a bayonet, my lad. . . . See you sit up and take notice then, what? +Garn! You patient, grinning Griselda . . .” and so forth. + +But, one evening, as the column approached the South Pare Mountains, near +Mikocheni, Bertram “sat up and took notice,” very considerable notice, as +with a rush and a roar and a terrific explosion, a column of black smoke +and dust shot up to the sky when a shell burst a few score yards away—the +first of a well-placed series of four-point-one high explosive shells. + +The column halted and lay low in the bush. Further progress would be +more wholesome in the dark. + +“Naval guns: over seven miles away: dam’ good shootin’,” quoth Augustus +coolly, and with the air of a connoisseur, adding, “and we’ve got nothing +that could carry half-way to ’em. I’m goin’ ’ome. . . .” + +Bertram, everything driven from his mind but the thought that he was +under fire, was rejoiced to find himself as cool as Augustus, who +suddenly remarked, “I’m not as ’appy as you look, and I don’t b’lieve you +are either”—as the column hurriedly betook itself from the +position-betraying dust of the open to the shelter of the scrub that lay +between it and the river, the river so beautiful in the rose-glow and +gold of evening, and so deadly to all who could not crawl beneath the +sheltering mosquito curtains as the light faded from the sinister-lovely +scene. + + * * * * * + +Next day the column found one of the enemy’s prepared positions in the +dense bush, and it was not, as hitherto, a deserted one. The first +intimation was, as usual in the blind, fumbling fighting of East Africa, +a withering blast of Maxim fire, and terribly heavy casualties for a +couple of minutes. + +At one moment, nothing at all—just a weary, plodding line of hot, weary +and dusty men, crossing a _dambo_, all hypnotised from thought of danger +by fatigue, familiarity and normal immunity; at the next moment, +slaughter, groans, brief confusion, burst upon burst of withering fire, a +line of still or writhing forms. + +It is an inevitable concomitant of such warfare, wherein one feels for +one’s enemy rather than looks for him, and a hundred-mile march is a +hundred-mile ambush. + +This particular nest of machine-guns and large force of _askaris_ was +utterly invisible at a few yards’ range, and, at a few yards’ range, it +blasted the head and flank of the column. + +Instinctively the war-hardened Sepoys who survived dropped to earth and +opened fire at the section of bush whence came the hail of death—a few +scattered rifles against massed machine-guns and a battalion of highly +trained _askaris_, masters of jungle-craft. As, still firing, they +crawled backward to the cover of the scrub on the side of the glade +opposite to the German position, the companies who had been marching +behind them deployed and painfully skirmished toward the concealed enemy, +halting to fire volleys into the dense bush in the probable direction, +striving to keep touch with their flanking companies, to keep something +like a line, to keep direction, to keep moving forward, and to keep a +sharp look-out for the enemy who, having effected their surprise and +caught the leading company in the open, had vanished silently, +machine-guns and all, from the position which had served their purpose. . . . + +A few feet in advance of his men as they skirmished forward, extended to +one pace interval, Bertram, followed by the Subedar, crossed the line of +dead and wounded caught by the first blast of fire. He saw two men he +knew, lieutenants of the 130th Baluchis, who had evidently been made a +special target by the concealed riflemen and machine-gunners. He saw +another with his leg bent in the middle at right-angles—and realised with +horror that it was bent _forward_. Also that the wounded man was Terence +Brannigan. . . . + +He feared he was going to be sick, and shame himself before his Gurkhas +as his eye took in the face of a Baluchi whose lower jaw had been removed +as though by a surgeon’s knife. He noted subconsciously how raven-blue +the long oiled hair of these Pathans and Baluchis shone in the sun, their +_puggris_ having fallen off or been shot away. The machine-guns must +have over-sighted and then lowered, instead of the reverse, as everybody +seemed to be hit in the head, neck or chest except Brannigan, whose knee +was so shattered that his leg bent forward until his boot touched his +belt—with an effect as of that of a sprawled rag doll. Probably he had +been hit by one of the great soft-nosed slugs with which the swine armed +their _askaris_. The hot, heavy air reeked with blood. Some of the +wounded lay groaning; some sat and smiled patiently as they held up +shattered arms or pressed thumbs on bleeding legs; some rose and +staggered and fell, rose and staggered and fell, blindly going nowhere. +One big, grey-eyed Pathan lustily sang his almost national song, “_Zakhmi +Dil_”—“The Wounded Heart,” but whether in bravado, delirium, sheer +_berserk_ joy of battle, or quiet content at getting a wound that would +give him a rest, change and privileges, Bertram did not know. + +“_Stretcher-bearer log ainga bhai_,” {221a} said Bertram, as he passed +him sitting there singing in a pool of blood. + +“_Béshak Huzoor_,” replied the man with a grin, “_ham baitha hai_,” +{221b} and resumed his falsetto nasal dirge. Another, crouching on all +fours with his face to the ground, suddenly raised that grey-green, +dripping face, and crawled towards him. Bertram saw that he was trailing +his entrails as he moved. To avoid halting and being sick at this +shocking sight, he rushed forward to the edge of the scrub whence all +this havoc had been wrought, his left hand pressed over his mouth, all +his will-power concentrated upon conquering the revolt of his stomach. + +Thinking he was charging an enemy, his men dashed forward after him, only +to find the place deserted. Little piles of empty cartridge-cases marked +the places where the machine-guns had stood behind natural and artificial +screens. One tripod had been fixed on an ant-hill screened by bushes, +and must have had a fine field of fire across the glade. How far back +had they gone—and then, in which direction? How long would it be before +the column would again expose a few hundred yards of its flank to the +sudden blast of the machine-guns of this force and the withering +short-range volleys of its rifles? Would they get away now and go on +ahead of the column and wait for it again, or, that being the obvious +thing, would they move down toward the tail of the column, and attack +there? Or was it just a rear-guard holding the Brigade up while Kraut +evacuated Mikocheni? . . . Near and distant rifle and machine-gun fire, +rising to a fierce crescendo and dying away to a desultory popping, +seemed to indicate that this ambush was one of many, or that the Brigade +was fighting a regular battle. . . . Probably a delaying action by a +strong rear-guard. . . . Anyhow, his business was to see that his men +kept direction, kept touch, kept moving forward slowly, and kept a sharp +look-out. . . . Firing came nearer on the right flank. That part of the +line had seen something—or been fired on, evidently—and suddenly he came +to the edge of the patch or belt of jungle and, looking across another +glassy glade, he saw a white man striking, with a whip or stick, at some +_askaris_ who were carrying off a machine-gun. Apparently he was +hurrying their retirement. Quickly Bertram turned to the grim little +Subedar and got a section of his men to fire volleys at the spot, but +there was no sign of life where, a minute earlier, he had certainly seen +a German machine-gun team. . . . + +He felt very cool and very strong, but knew that this great strength +might fail him at any moment and leave him shaking and trembling, weak +and helpless. . . . + +He must line this edge of the jungle and examine every bush and tree of +the opposite edge, across the glade, before adventuring out into its +naked openness. + +Suppose a dozen machine-guns were concealed a few yards within that +sinister sullen wall. He bade the Subedar halt the whole line and open +rapid fire upon it with a couple of sections. If he watched through his +glasses carefully, he might see some movement in those menacing depths +and shadows, movement induced by well-directed fire—possibly he might +provoke concealed machine-gunners or _askaris_ to open fire and betray +their positions. If so, should he lead his men in one wild charge across +the glade, in the hope that enough might survive to reach them? If only +the Gurkhas could get there with their _kukris_, the guns would change +hands pretty speedily. . . . It would be rather a fine thing to be “the +chap who led the charge that got the Maxims.” . . . + +“_Gya_, _Sahib_,” said the Subedar as he stared across the glade. “_Kuch +nahin hai_.” {222} + +Should he move on? And if he led the line out into a deathtrap? . . . +He could see nothing of the companies on the left and right flank, even +though this was thin and penetrable bush. How would he feel if he gave +the order to advance and, as soon as the line was clear of cover, it was +mown down like grass? + +Bidding the Subedar wait, he stepped out and, with beating heart, +advanced across the open. . . . He couldn’t talk to the Gurkhas, but he +could show them that a British officer considered their safety before his +own. He entered the opposite scrub, his heart in his mouth, his revolver +shaking wildly in his trembling hand, but an exhilarating excitement +thrilling him with a kind of wild joy. . . . He rather hoped he would be +fired at. He wished to God they would break the horrible stillness and +open fire. . . . He felt that, if they did not soon do so, he would +scream and blaspheme or run away. . . . + +Nothing there. No trenches. No suspicious broken branches or withering +bushes placed _en camouflage_. He wheeled about, re-entered the glade, +and gave the signal for his men to advance. They crossed the glade. +Again they felt their way, tore, pushed, writhed, forced their way, +through a belt of thin jungle, and again came upon a narrow glade and, as +the line of jungle-bred, jungle-trained Gurkhas halted at its edge, a +horde of _askaris_ in a rough double line dashed out from the opposite +side and, as the Gurkhas instinctively opened independent magazine fire, +charged yelling across, with the greatest _élan_ and ferocity. Evidently +they thought they were swooping down upon the scattered remnants of the +company that had headed the column, or else were in great strength, and +didn’t care what they “bumped into,” knowing that their enemy had no +prepared positions and death-traps for them to be caught in. . . . + +As he stood behind a tree, steadily firing his revolver at the charging, +yelling _askaris_ now some forty yards distant, Bertram was aware of +another line, or extended mob, breaking like a second wave from the +jungle, and saw a couple of machine-gun teams hastily fling down their +boxes and set up their tripods. He knew that a highly trained German +gunner would sit behind each one and fire single shots or solid streams +of bullets, according to his targets and opportunities. Absolute +artists, these German machine-gunners and, ruffianly brutal bullies or +not, very cool, brave men. + +So was he cool and brave, for the moment—but how soon he would collapse, +he did not know. He had emptied his revolver, and he realised that he +had sworn violently with every shot. . . . He reloaded with trembling +fingers, and, looking up, saw that the fight was about to become a +hand-to-hand struggle. Firing rapidly, as the _askaris_ charged, the +Gurkhas had thinned their line, and the glade was dotted with dozens of +their dead and wounded—but the survivors, far outnumbering the Gurkhas, +were upon them—and, with shrill yells, the little men rose and rushed at +their big enemies _kukri_ in hand. + +The Subedar dashed at a huge non-commissioned officer who raised his +fixed bayonet to drive downward in a kind of two-handed spear-thrust at +the little man. Bertram thought the Gurkha was killed but, as he raised +his revolver, he saw the Subedar duck low and slash with incredible +swiftness at the negro’s thigh and again at his stomach. In the very act +of springing sideways he then struck at the _askari’s_ wrist and again at +his neck. The little man was using his national weapon (the _kukri_, the +Gurkha’s terrible carved knife, heavy, broad and razor-edged, wherewith +he can decapitate an ox) when it came to fighting—no sword nor revolver +for him—and the negro fell, with four horrible wounds, within four +seconds of raising his rifle to stab, his head and hand almost severed, +his thigh cut to the bone and his abdomen laid open. + +“Sha-bas!” {224a} yelled Bertram, seeing red, and going mad with battle +lust, and shouting “Maro! Maro!” {224b} at the top of his voice, rushed +into the hacking, hewing, stabbing throng that, with howls, grunts, and +screams, swayed to and fro, but gradually approached the direction whence +the Gurkhas had advanced. . . . + +And the two artists behind the machine-guns, the two merry manipulators +of Death’s brass band, sat cool and calm, playing delicate airs upon +their staccato-voiced instruments—here a single note and there a single +note, now an arpeggio and now a run as they got their opportunity at a +single man or a group, a charging section or a firing-line. Where a +whirling knot of clubbing, thrusting, slashing men was seen to be more +foe than friend they treated it as foe and gave it a whole _rondo_—these +heralds and trumpeters of Death. + +And, as Bertram rushed out into the open, each said “Offizier!” and gave +him their undivided attention. + +“Shah-bas! Subedar Sahib,” he yelled; “Maro! Maro!” and the Gurkhas who +saw and heard him grinned and grunted, slashing and hacking, and +thoroughly enjoying life. . . . (This was worth all the marching and +sweating, starving and working. . . . _This_ was something like! A +_kukri_ in your hand and an enemy to go for!) + +Firing his revolver into the face of an _askari_ who swung up his clubbed +rifle, and again into the chest of one who drove at him with his bayonet, +he shouted and swore, wondering at himself as he did so. + +And then he received a blow on his elbow and his revolver was jerked from +his open, powerless hand. Glancing at his arm he saw it was covered with +blood, and, at the same moment, a gigantic _askari_ aimed a blow at his +skull—a blow that he felt would crush it like an egg . . . and all he +could do was to put his left arm across his face . . . and wait . . . for +a fraction of a second. . . . He saw the man’s knees crumple. . . . Why +had he fallen instead of delivering that awful blow? + +The nearer machine-gunner cursed the fallen man and played a trill of +five notes as he got a clear glimpse of the white man. . . . + +Someone had kicked his legs from under Bertram—or had they thrown a +stone—or what? He was on the ground. He felt as though a swift +cricket-ball had hit his shin, and another his knee, and his right arm +dropped and waggled aimlessly—and when it waggled there was a grating +feeling (which was partly a grating sound) horrible to be heard. . . . +And he couldn’t get up. . . . + +He felt very faint and could see nothing, by reason of a blue light which +burnt dully, but obscured his vision, destroying the sunlight. Darkness, +and a loud booming and rushing sound in his ears. . . . + +Then he felt better and, half raising himself on his left hand, saw +another line emerge from the scrub and charge. . . . Baluchis and +Gurkhas, friends . . . thank God!! And there was Augustus. He’d pass +him as, just now, he had passed Terence Brannigan and the two other +Baluchi subalterns. Would Augustus feel sick at the sight of him, as +_he_ had done? . . . + +With a wild yell, the big Baluchis and little Gurkhas charged, and the +line was borne back toward the machine-gunners, who disappeared with +wonderful dispatch, in search of a desirable and eligible pitch, +preferably on a flank, for their next musical performance. + +“Hullo, Priceless Old Thing, stopped one?” asked Augustus, pausing in his +rush. + +“Bit chipped,” Bertram managed to say. + +“Oh, poignant! Search—” began Augustus . . . and fell across Bertram, +causing him horrible agony, a bullet-hole the size of a marble in his +forehead, the back of his head blown completely out. + +Bertram fainted as his friend’s brains oozed and spread across his chest. + +Having dodged and manœuvred to a flank position, one of the +machine-gunners played a solo to the wounded while waiting a more +favourable moment and target. His fellow sons of _kultur_ wanted no +wounded German _askaris_ on their hands, and of course the wounded Sepoys +and British were better dead. Dead men don’t recover and fight again. . . . +So he did a little neat spraying of twitching, writhing, crawling, +wriggling or staggering individuals and groups. Incidentally he hit the +two British officers again, riddling the body which was on top of the +other, putting one bullet through the left arm of the underneath one. . . . +Then he had to scurry off again, as the fighting-line was getting so +far towards his left that he might be cut off. . . . Anyhow he’d had a +very good morning and felt sure his “good old German God” must be feeling +quite pleased about it. + + + +CHAPTER IV +_Baked_ + + +§1 + + +When he recovered consciousness, Bertram found himself lying on a +stretcher in a little natural clearing in the bush—a tiny square enclosed +by acacia, sisal, and mimosa scrub. On a candelabra tree hung a bunch of +water-bottles, a helmet, some haversacks, a tunic, and strips of white +rag. + +An officer of the Royal Army Medical Corps and a _babu_ of the Indian +Subordinate Medical Service were bending over a medical pannier. +Stretcher-bearers brought in another burden as he turned his head to look +round. It was a Native Officer. On top of his head was an oblong of +bare-shaven skull—some caste-mark apparently. Following them with his +eyes Bertram saw the stretcher-bearers place the unconscious (or dead) +man at the end of a small row of similar still forms. . . . There was +Brannigan. . . . There was a man with whom he had shared a tent for a +night at Taveta. . . . What was his name? . . . There were the two +Baluchi subalterns. . . . Was that the dead row—the mortuary, so to +speak, of this little field ambulance? Was he to join it? + +The place stunk of blood, iodine and horrors. He could move neither hand +nor foot, and the world seemed to be a Mountain of Pain upon the peak of +which he was impaled. . . . + +The continued rattle of firing was coming nearer, surely? It was—much +nearer. The stretcher-bearers brought in another casualty, the stretcher +dripping blood. No “walking wounded” appeared to come to this particular +dressing-station. + +The firing was getting quite close, and the sound of the cracking of +branches was audible. Leaves and twigs, cut from the trees by the +bullets, occasionally fell upon the mangled and broken forms as though to +hide them. . . . + +“Sah—they are coming!” said the _babu_ suddenly. His face was a mask of +fear, but he continued to perform his duties as dresser, as well as his +shaking hands would permit. + +Suddenly a ragged line of Gurkhas broke into the clearing, halting to +fire, retreating and firing again, fighting from tree to tree and bush to +bush. . . . The mixed, swaying and changing battle-line was going to +cross the spot where the wounded lay. . . . Those of them who were +conscious knew what _that_ meant. . . + +So did the medical officer, and he shouted to the stretcher-bearers, +_babu_, mule-drivers, porters, everybody, to carry the wounded farther +into the bush—quick—quick. . . . + +As his stretcher was snatched up, Bertram—so sick with pain, and the +cruel extra agony of the jolts and jars, that he cared not what befell +him—saw a group of _askaris_ burst into the clearing, glare around, and +rush forward with bayonets poised. He shut his eyes as they reached the +other stretchers. . . . + + +§2 + + +On the terrible journey down the Tanga Railway to M’buyuni, between +Taveta and Voi, Bertram kept himself alive with the thought that he would +eventually reach Mombasa. . . . + +He had forgotten Eva only while he was in the fight and on the stretcher, +but when he lay on the floor of the cattle-truck he seemed to wake from a +night of bad dreams—to awake again into the brightness and peace of the +day of Love. + +Of course, the physical agony of being jolted and jerked for a hundred +and fifty miles, throughout which every bump of every wheel over every +railway joint gave a fresh stab of pain to each aching wound and his +throbbing head, was a terrible experience—but he would rather have been +lying on the floor of that cattle-truck bumping towards Mombasa, than +have been marching in health and strength away from it. + +Every bump that racked him afresh meant that he was about forty feet +nearer to M’buyuni which was on the line to Voi which is on the line to +Mombasa. + +What is the pain of a shattered right elbow, a broken left arm, a bullet +hole in the right thigh and another in the left calf, when one is on the +road to where one’s heart is, and one is filled with the divine wonder of +first love? + +He could afford to pity the poor uninjured Bertram Greene of yesterday, +marching farther and farther from where all hope, happiness, joy, peace +and plenty lay, where love lay, and where alone in all the world could he +know content. . . . + +She would not think the less of him that he had temporarily lost the use +of his hands and, for a time, was lame. . . . He had done his duty and +was out of it! Blessed wounds! . . . + + +§3 + + +In the hospital at M’buyuni the clean bullet-holes in the flesh of his +legs healed quickly. Lucky for him that they had been made by nickel +Maxim-bullets and not by the horrible soft-nosed slugs of the _askaris’_ +rifles. The bone-wounds in his arms were more serious, and he could walk +long before he could use his hands. + +His patient placidity was remarkable to those who came in contact with +him—not knowing that he dwelt in a serene world apart and dreamed love’s +young age-old dream therein. + +Every day was a blessed day in that it brought him much nearer to the +moment when he would see her face, hear her voice, touch her hand. What +unthinkably exquisite joy was to be his—and was his _now_ in the mere +contemplation of it! + +His left arm began to do well, but the condition of his right arm was +less satisfactory. + +“Greene, my son,” said the O.C. M’buyuni Stationary Hospital to him one +day, “you’re for the Hospital Ship _Madras_, her next trip. Lucky young +dog. Wish I was. . . . Give my love to Colonel Giffard and Major Symons +when you get on board. . . . You’ll get a trip down to Zanzibar, I +believe, on your way to Bombay. . . . You’ll be having tea on the lawn +at the Yacht Club next month—think of it!” + +Bertram thought of something else and radiated joy. + +“Aha! That bucks you, does it? Wounded hero with his arm in a sling at +the Friday-evening-band-night-tea-on-the-lawn binges, what?” + +Bertram smiled. + +“Could I stay on in Mombasa a bit, sir?” he asked. + +The O.C. M’buyuni Stationary Hospital stared. + +“Eh?” said he, doubting that he could have heard aright. Bertram +repeated the question, and the O.C., M.S.H., felt his pulse. Was this +delirium? + +“No,” he said shortly in the voice of one who is grieved and +disappointed. “You’ll go straight on board the _Madras_—and damned lucky +too. . . . You don’t deserve to. . . . I’d give . . .” + +“What is the procedure when I get to Bombay?” asked Bertram, as the +doctor fell into a brown study. + +“You’ll go before a Medical Board at Colaba Hospital. They may detain +you there, give you a period of sick leave, or invalid you out of the +Service. Depends on how your right arm shapes. . . . You’ll be all +right, I think.” + +“And if my arm goes on satisfactorily I shall be able to come back to +East Africa in a month or two perhaps?” continued Bertram. + +“Yes. Nice cheery place, what?” said the Medical Officer and departed. +He never could suffer fools gladly and he personally had had enough, for +the moment, of heat, dust, stench, monotony, privation, exile, and +overwork. . . . _Hurry_ back to East Africa! . . . Zeal for duty is +zeal for duty—and lunacy’s lunacy. . . . But perhaps the lad was just +showing off and talking through his hat, what? + + +§4 + + +The faithful Ali, devoted follower of his old master’s peregrinations, +saw the muddy, blood-stained greasy bundles, which were that master’s +kit, safe on board the _Madras_ from the launch which had brought the +party of wounded officers from the Kilindini pier. Personally he +conducted the bundles to the cabin reserved for Second-Lieutenant B. +Greene, I.A.R., and then sought their owner where he reclined in a +_chaise longue_ on deck, none the better for his long journey on the +Uganda Railway. + +“I’m coming back, Ali,” said he as his retainer, a monument of restrained +grief, came to him. + +“Please God, _Bwana_,” was the dignified reply. + +“What will you do while I am away?” he asked, for the sake of something +to say. + +“Go and see my missus and childrens, my little damsels and damsons at +Nairobi, sah,” was the sad answer. “When _Bwana_ sailing now?” + +“Not till this evening,” answered Bertram, “and the last thing I want you +to do for me is to take these two _chits_ to Stayne-Brooker Mem-Sahib and +Stayne-Brooker Miss-Sahib as quickly as you can. You’ll catch them at +tiffin if you take a trolley now from Kilindini. They _must_ have them +quickly. . . . If they come to see me before the ship sails at six, +there’ll be an extra present for one Ali Suleiman, what?” + +“Oh, sah! _Bwana_ not mentioning it by golly,” replied Ali and fled. + +Mrs. Stayne-Brooker was crossing from the Hospital to Vasco da Gama +Street for lunch when, having run quicker than any trolley ever did, he +caught sight of her, salaamed and presented the two _chits_, written for +Bertram by a hospital friend and companion of his journey, as soon as +they got on board. She opened the one addressed to herself. + + “_My Dear Mrs. Stayne-Brooker_,” it ran, “_I have just reached the + Madras_, _and sail at six this evening_. _I cannot tell you how much + I should like to see you_, _if you could take your evening drive in + this direction and come on board_. _How I wish I could stay and + convalesce in Mombasa_! _Very much more than __ever words could + possibly express_. _It is just awful to pass through like this_. + + “_I do hope you can come_. + “_Your ever grateful and devoted_ + “BERTRAM GREENE.” + +The worthy Ali, panting and perspiring, thought the lady was going to +fall. + +“_Bertram_!” she whispered, and then her heart beat again, and she +regained control of her trembling limbs. + +“You are Greene _Bwana’s_ boy!” she said, searching Ali’s bedewed but +beaming countenance. “Is he—is he ill—hurt—wounded?” (She did not know +that the man had been in her husband’s service.) + +“Yes, Mem,” was the cheerful reply. “Shot in all arms and legs. Also +quite well, thank you.” + +“Go and tell him I will come,” she said. “Be quick. Here—_baksheesh_. +. . . Now, _hurry_.” + +“Oh, Mem! Mem-Sahib not mentioning it, thank you please,” murmured Ali +as his huge paw engulfed the rupees. Turning, he started forthwith upon +the four-mile return run. + +Putting the note addressed to her daughter on the lunch-table, beside her +plate, she hurried into her room, crying for joy, and, with trembling +hands, made her toilette. She must look her best—look her youngest. + +He was back! He was safe! He was alive! Oh, the long, long night of +silence through the black darkness of which she had miserably groped! +The weary, weary weeks of waiting and wondering, hoping and fearing, +longing and doubting! But her prayers had been answered—and she was +about to _see_ him. . . . And if he were shattered and broken? She +could almost find it in her heart to hope he was—that she might spend her +life in guarding, helping, comforting him. He would _need_ her, and oh, +how she yearned to be needed, she who had never yet been really needed by +man, woman, or child. . . . + +“_Mother_!” said Miss Stayne-Brooker, as she went in to lunch. “_What_ a +bright, gay girlie you look! . . . Here’s a note from that Mr. Greene of +yours. He says: + + ‘_Dear Miss Stayne-Brooker_, + + ‘_I am passing through Mombasa_, _and am now on board the __Madras_. + _I can’t come and see you—do you think you’d let your mother bring + you to see me_’—_he’s crossed that out and put_ ‘_see the Hospital + Ship Madras_’—‘_it might interest you_. _I have written to ask if + she’d care to come_. _Do—could you_? + + ‘_Always your grateful servant_, + ‘BERTRAM GREENE.’ + +But I am playing golf with Reggie and having tea with him at the Club, +you know.” + +“All right, dear. I’ll go and see the poor boy.” + +“That’s right, darling. You won’t mind if I don’t, will you? . . . He’s +_your_ friend, you know.” + +“Yes,” said Mrs. Stayne-Brooker, “he’s _my_ friend,” and Miss +Stayne-Brooker wondered at the tone of her mother’s voice. . . . (Poor +old Mums; she made quite a silly of herself over this Mr. Greene!) + + +§5 + + +Having blessed and rewarded the worthy Ali, returned dove-like to the +_Madras_, Bertram possessed his soul with what patience he could, and +sought distraction from the gnawing tooth of anxiety by watching the +unfamiliar life of a hospital-ship. . . . + +Suppose Eva Stayne-Brooker could not come! Suppose the ship sailed +unexpectedly early! . . . + +He could not sit still in that chair and wait, and wait. . . . + +A pair of very pretty nurses, with the sallow ivory complexion, black +hair and large liquid eyes of the Eurasian, walked up and down. + +Another, plain, fat, and superiorly English, walked apart from them. + +Two very stout Indian gentlemen, in the uniform of Majors of the Indian +Medical Service, promenaded, chattering and gesticulating. The Chief +Engineer (a Scot, of course), leaning against the rail and smoking a +black Burma cheroot, eyed them with a kind of wonder, and smiled +tolerantly upon them. . . . Travel and much time for philosophical +reflection had confairrmed in him the opeenion that it tak’s all sorrts +to mak’ a Univairse. . . . + +From time to time, a sick or wounded man was hoisted on board, lying on a +platform that dangled from four ropes at the end of a chain and was +worked by a crane. From the launch to the deck of the ship he was slung +like so much merchandise or luggage, but without jar or jolt. Or a +walking-wounded or convalescent sick man would slowly climb the companion +that sloped diagonally at an easy angle along the ship’s side from the +promenade-deck to the water. + +On the fore and aft well-decks, crowds of sick or wounded Sepoys crouched +huddled in grey blankets, or moved slowly about with every evidence of +woe and pain. It takes an Indian Sepoy to do real justice to illness of +any kind. He is a born actor and loves acting the dying man better than +any part in life’s drama. This is not to say that he is a malingerer or +a weakling—but that when he is sick he _is_ going to get, at any rate, +the satisfaction of letting everybody know it and of collecting such +sympathy and admiration as he can. + +“No, there is no one so sick as a sick Indian,” smiled Bertram to +himself. + +In contrast was the demeanour of a number of British soldiers sitting and +lying about the deck allotted to them, adjoining but railed off from that +of the officers. + +Laughter and jest were the order of the day. One blew into a mouth-organ +with more industry than skill; another endeavoured to teach one of the +ship’s cats to waltz on its hind legs; some played “brag” with a pack of +incredibly dirty little cards; and others sat and exchanged experiences, +truthfully and otherwise. + +Near to where Bertram stood, a couple sprawled on the deck and leaned +against a hatch. The smaller of the two appeared to be enjoying the +process of annoying the larger, as he tapped his protruding and outlying +tracts with a _kiboko_, listening intently after each blow in the manner +of a doctor taking soundings as to the thoracic or abdominal condition of +a patient. + +An extra sharp tap caused the larger man to punch his assailant violently +in the ribs, whereupon the latter threw his arms round the puncher’s +neck, kissed him, and stated, with utter disregard for facts: + +“’Erb! In our lives we was werry beautiful, an’ in our deafs we wos not +diwided.” (Evidently a reminiscence of the Chaplain’s last sermon.) + +But little mollified by the compliment, Herbert smote again, albeit less +violently, as he remarked with a sneer: + +“Ho, yus! You wouldn’t a bin divided all right if you’d stopped one o’ +them liddle four-point-seven shells at Mikocheni, you would. Not ’arf, +you wouldn’t. . . .” + +But for crutches, splints, slings and bandages, no one would have +supposed this to be a collection of sick and wounded men, wreckage of the +storm of war, flotsam and jetsam stranded here, broken and useless. . . . + +Bertram returned to his chair and tried to control his sick impatience +and anxiety. Would she come? What should he say to her if she did? . . +. Should he “propose”—(beastly word)? He had not thought much about +marriage. . . . To see her and hear her voice was what he really wanted. +Should he tell her he loved her? . . . Surely that would be unnecessary. + +And then his heart stood still, as Mrs. Stayne-Brooker stepped from the +companion-platform on to the deck, and came towards him—her face shining +and radiant, her lips quivering, her eyes suffused. + +He realised that she was alone, and felt that he had turned pale, as his +heart sank like lead. But perhaps _she_ was behind. . . . Perhaps she +was in another boat. . . . Perhaps she was coming later. . . . + +He rose to greet her mother—who gently pushed him back on the long cane +couch-chair and rested herself on the folding stool that stood beside it. + +Still holding his left hand, she sat and tried to find words to ask of +his hurts, and could say nothing at all. . . . She could only point to +the sling, as she fought with a desire to gather him to her, and cry and +cry and cry for joy and sweet sorrow. + +“Yes,” said Bertram, “but that’s the only bad one. . . . Shan’t lose the +use of it, I expect, though. . . . Would she—would a woman—think it +cheek if a maimed man—would she mind his being—if she really . . . ?” + +“Oh, my dear, my dear! Don’t! Oh, don’t!” Mrs. Stayne-Brooker broke +down. “She’d love him ten thousand times more—you poor, foolish . . .” + +“Will she come?” he interrupted. “And dare I tell her I . . .” + +_And Mrs. Stayne-Brooker understood_. + +She was a brave woman, and Life had taught her not to wear her poor heart +upon her sleeve, had taught her to expect little (except misery), and to +wear a defensive mask. + +“_Eva is engaged to marry Mr. Macteith_,” she said in a toneless voice, +and rose to go—to go before she broke down, fainted, became hysterical, +or went mad. . . . + +Had two kind people ever dealt each other two such blows? + +She looked at his face, and knew how her own must look. . . . + +Why _should_ God treat her so? . . . To receive so cruel a wound and to +have to deal one as cruel to the heart she so loved! . . . + +He looked like a corpse—save that his eyes stared through her, burning +her, seeing nothing. She must go, or disgrace herself—and him. . . . +She felt her way, blindly fumbling, to the companion, realising even then +that, when the stunned dullness immediately following this double blow +gave place to the keen agony that awaited her recovery of her senses, +there would be one spot of balm to her pain, there would be one feeble +gleam of light in the Stygian darkness of her life—she would not be +aching and yearning for the passionate love of her own son-in-law! . . . + +And, were this veracious chronicle a piece of war-fiction woven by a +romancer’s brain, Bertram Greene would have been standing on the deck +that evening, looking his last upon the receding shores of the country +wherein he had suffered and done so much. + +On his breast would have been the Victoria Cross, and by his side the +Woman whom he had Also Won. + +She would have murmured “Darling!” . . . He would have turned to her, as +the setting sun, ever obliging, silhouetted the wonderfully lovely palms +of the indescribably beautiful Kilindini Creek, and said to her: + +“_Darling_, _life is but beginning_.” + + * * * * * + +Facts being facts, it is to be stated that Bertram sat instead of +standing, as the _Madras_ moved majestically down the Creek; that on his +breast, instead of the Cross, a sling with a crippled arm; and by his +side, instead of the Woman, a Goanese steward, who murmured: + +“Master having tea out here, sir, please?” and to whom Bertram turned as +the setting sun silhouetted the palms and said: “_Oh_, _go to hell_!” +(and then sincerely apologised.) + + * * * * * + +Captain Stott passed and recognised him, in spite of changes. He noted +the hardened face, the line between the eyes, the hollowed cheeks, the +puckers and wrinkles, the steel-trap mouth, and wondered again at how War +can make a boy into a Man in a few months. . . . + +There was nothing “half-baked” about _that_ face. + + * * * * * + +And so, in ignorance, the despised and rejected boy again avenged his +father, this time upon the woman who had done him such bitter, cruel +wrong. + + + +CHAPTER V +_Finis_ + + +After war, peace; after storm, calm; after pain, ease. . . . + +Almost the first people whom he met in the Bombay Yacht Club after +visiting the Colaba Hospital and being given six months’ leave by the +Medical Board, were his father and Miranda Walsingham. + +Major Walsingham Greene had been severely wounded in Mesopotamia—but he +had at last won decoration, promotion, recognition. He was acting +Brigadier-General when he fell—and it was considered certain that he +would get the Victoria Cross for which he had been recommended. + +When he beheld his son, in khaki, war-worn and wounded (like himself, +like his father and grandfather, like a true Greene of that ilk), his cup +was full and he was a happy man—at last. + +And Miranda! She could scarcely contain herself. She almost threw her +arms round her old playmate’s neck, then and there, in the middle of the +Yacht Club lawn. . . . How splendid he looked! Who said her Bertram +might make a scholar and a gentleman—but would never make a _man_? + +Oh, joy! She had come out to bring home her “Uncle” Hugh and generally +look after him—and now there were _two_ patients to look after. + + * * * * * + +It was a happy voyage Home, and a very happy six months at Leighcombe +Priory thereafter. . . . + +And when acting Brigadier-General Walsingham Greene and his son returned +to India, Miranda Walsingham went with them as Mrs. Bertram Greene. + +But Bertram was no longer “Cupid”—he seemed to have left “Cupid” in +Africa. + + + + +NOTES. + + +{17a} Plain. + +{17b} Loin-cloth. + +{21a} Good. + +{21b} Make. + +{21c} “I want the Colonel. Where is he?” + +{30} Cupboard. + +{38a} “Is all well?” + +{38b} “Without doubt.” + +{50} Woolly ones. Negroes. + +{54} Bullock-cart men. + +{56a} Yes. + +{56b} Without doubt. + +{66} Here. + +{67} Store-sheds. + +{72a} Oxen. + +{72b} Bring here. + +{72c} Talk, palaver. + +{72d} Savages. + +{81} “Very good, sir.” + +{98} “Be careful—_you_!” + +{101a} “Good!” + +{101b} “Kill the devils. Do well.” + +{101c} “It is not the enemy.” + +{133a} Medicine. + +{133b} “Great Simba has killed a white man.” + +{134a} “Wait. Lie on the stretcher.” + +{134b} “It is nothing.” + +{134c} “Thanks. It is nothing. Do not hold me.” + +{142} Clever and competent. + +{148} Sit down. + +{150} Open plain. + +{167} Food. + +{168a} “Dinner is ready.” + +{168b} Yes. + +{173} Cultivation, garden. + +{174} Over-eating. + +{183a} White men. + +{183b} Club. + +{184} Cooking-pot. + +{185} “Lunch is ready.” + +{198} Tribal dance. + +{221a} “The stretcher-bearers will come, brother.” + +{221b} “No doubt, sir. I am waiting.” + +{222} “Gone, sir. There is nothing.” + +{224a} “Bravo.” + +{224b} “Kill! Kill!” + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CUPID IN AFRICA*** + + +******* This file should be named 37544-0.txt or 37544-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/7/5/4/37544 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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C. Wren</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} + div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Cupid in Africa, by P. C. Wren + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Cupid in Africa + + +Author: P. C. Wren + + + +Release Date: September 26, 2011 [eBook #37544] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CUPID IN AFRICA*** +</pre> +<p>This ebook was transcribed by Les Bowler.</p> +<h1>CUPID IN AFRICA</h1> +<p style="text-align: center">BY<br /> +P. C. WREN</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">AUTHOR OF +“BEAU GESTE”</span></p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">“<i>Ex Africa semper aliquid +novi</i>”</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<blockquote><p>“And the son shall take his father’s +spear<br /> +And he shall avenge his father” . . .</p> +<p style="text-align: right">—<i>Askari Song</i></p> +</blockquote> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">HEATH CRANTON LIMITED<br /> +6 FLEET LANE LONDON E.C.4</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page6"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 6</span><i>First published 1920</i></p> +<table> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: center">CONTENTS</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: center">PART I<br /> +THE MAKING OF BERTRAM</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>CHAPTER</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">I</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>Major Hugh Walsingham Green</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page7">7</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">II</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>Mr. Charles Stayne-Brooker (or Herr Karl +Stein-Brücker)</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page10">10</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">III</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>Mrs. Stayne-Brooker—and Her Ex-Stepson</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page13">13</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: center">PART II<br /> +THE BAKING OF BERTRAM BY WAR</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">I</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>Bertram Becomes a Man of War</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page16">16</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">II</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>And is Ordered to East Africa</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page28">28</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">III</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>Preparations</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page40">40</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">IV</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>Terra Marique Jactatus</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page45">45</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">V</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>Mrs. Stayne-Brooker</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page59">59</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">VI</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>Mombasa</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page61">61</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">VII</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>The Mombasa Club</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page70">70</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">VIII</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>Military and Naval Manœuvres</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page78">78</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">IX</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>Bertram Invades Africa</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page97">97</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">X</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>M’paga</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page105">105</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XI</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>Food and Feeders</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page112">112</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XII</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>Reflections</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page123">123</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XIII</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>Baking</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page137">137</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XIV</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>The Convoy</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page146">146</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XV</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>Butindi</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page154">154</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XVI</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>The Bristol Bar</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page161">161</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XVII</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>More Baking</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page171">171</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XVIII</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>Trial</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page180">180</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XIX</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>Of a Pudding</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page187">187</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">XX</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>Stein-Brücker Meets Bertram Greene—and +Death</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page195">195</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: center">PART III<br /> +THE BAKING OF BERTRAM BY LOVE</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">I</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>Mrs. Stayne-Brooker Again</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: center"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page204">204</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">II</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>Love</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: center"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page208">208</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">III</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>Love and War</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: center"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page217">217</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">IV</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>Baked</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: center"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page226">226</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right">V</p> +</td> +<td><p><i>Finis</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: center"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page236">236</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 7</span>PART +I<br /> +THE MAKING OF BERTRAM</h2> +<h3>CHAPTER I<br /> +<i>Major Hugh Walsingham Greene</i></h3> +<p>There never lived a more honourable, upright, scrupulous +gentleman than Major Hugh Walsingham Greene, and there seldom +lived a duller, narrower, more pompous or more irascible one.</p> +<p>Nor, when the Great War broke out, and gave him something +fresh to do and to think about, were there many sadder and +unhappier men. His had been a luckless and unfortunate +life, what with his two wives and his one son; his excellent +intentions and deplorable achievements; his kindly heart and +harsh exterior; his narrow escapes of decoration, recognition and +promotion.</p> +<p>At cards he was <i>not</i> lucky—and in love he . . . +well—his first wife, whom he adored, died after a year of +him; and his second ran away after three months of his +society. She ran away with Mr. Charles Stayne-Brooker +(elsewhere the Herr Doktor Karl Stein-Brücker), the man of +all men, whom he particularly and peculiarly loathed. And +his son, his only son and heir! The boy was a bitter +disappointment to him, turning out badly—a poet, an artist, +a musician, a wretched student and “intellectual,” a +fellow who won prizes and scholarships and suchlike by the +hatful, and never carried off, or even tried for, a +“pot,” in his life. Took after his mother, poor +boy, and was the first of the family, since God-knows-when, to +grow up a dam’ civilian. Father fought and bled in +Egypt, South Africa, Burma, China, India; grandfather in the +Crimea and Mutiny, great-grandfather in the Peninsula and at +Waterloo, ancestors with Marlborough, the Stuarts, +Drake—scores of them: and this chap, <i>his</i> son, +<i>their</i> descendant, a wretched creature of whom you could no +more make a soldier than you could make a service saddle of a +sow’s ear!</p> +<p>It was a comfort to the Major that he only saw the nincompoop +on the rare occasions of his visits to England, when he honestly +did his best to hide from the boy (who worshipped him) that he <a +name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 8</span>would sooner +have seen him win one cup for boxing, than a hundred prizes for +his confounded literature, art, music, classics, and study +generally. To hide from the boy that the pæans of +praise in his school reports were simply revolting—fit only +for a feller who was going to be a wretched curate or wretcheder +schoolmaster; to hide his distaste for the pale, slim beauty, +which was that of a delicate girl rather than of the son of Major +Hugh Walsingham Greene. . . . Too like his poor mother by +half—and without one quarter the pluck, nerve, and +“go” of young Miranda Walsingham, his kinswoman and +playmate. . . . Too dam’ virtuous altogether. . . +.</p> +<p>Gad! If this same Miranda had only been a boy, his boy, +there would have been another soldier to carry on the family +traditions, if you like!</p> +<p>But this poor Bertram of his . . .</p> +<p>His mother, a Girton girl, and daughter of a Cambridge Don, +had prayed that her child might “take after” +<i>her</i> father, for whom she entertained a feeling of absolute +veneration. She had had her wish indeed—without +living to rejoice in the fact.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>When it was known in the cantonment of Sitagur that Major +Walsingham Greene was engaged to Prudence Pym, folk were +astonished, and a not uncommon comment was “Poor little +girl!” in spite of the fact that the Major was admitted by +all to be a most honourable and scrupulous gentleman. +Another remark which was frequently made was “Hm! Opposites +attract. What?”</p> +<p>For Prudence Pym was deeply religious, like her uncle, the +Commissioner of the Sitagur Division; she was something of a +blue-stocking as became her famous father’s daughter; she +was a musician of parts, an artist of more than local note, and +was known to be writing a Book. So that if +“oppositeness” be desirable, there was plenty of +it—since the Major considered attendance at church to be +part and parcel of drill-and-parade; religion to be a thing +concerning which no gentleman speaks and few gentlemen think; +music to be a noise to be endured in the drawing-room after +dinner for a little while; art to be the harmless product of +long-haired fellers with shockin’ clothes and dirty +finger-nails; and books something to read when you were +absolutely reduced to doing it—as when travelling. . . +.</p> +<p><a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span>When +Prudence Walsingham Greene knew that she was to have a child, she +strove to steep her soul in Beauty, Sweetness and Light, and to +feed it on the pure ichor of the finest and best in scenery, +music, art and literature. . . .</p> +<p>Entered to her one day—pompous, pleased, and stolid; +heavy, dull, and foolish—the worthy Major as she sat +revelling in the (to her) marvellous beauties of Rosetti’s +<i>Ecce Ancilla Domini</i>. As she looked up with the sad +mechanical smile of the disappointed and courageous wife, he +screwed his monocle into his eye and started the old weary +laceration of her feelings, the old weary tramplings and +defilements of tastes and thoughts, as he examined the picture +wherewith she was nourishing (she hoped and believed) the +æsthetic side of her unborn child’s mind.</p> +<p>“Picture of a Girl with Grouse, what?” grunted the +Major.</p> +<p>“With a . . . ? There is no bird? I +don’t . . . ?” stammered Prudence who, like most +women of her kind, was devoid of any sense of humour.</p> +<p>“Looks as though she’s got a frightful grouse +about somethin’, <i>I</i> should say. The young party +on the bed, I mean,” continued her spouse. +“‘Girl with the Hump’ might be a better title +p’r’aps—if you say she hasn’t a +grouse,” he added.</p> +<p>“<i>Hump</i>?”</p> +<p>“Yes. Got the hump more frightfully about +something or other—p’r’aps because the other +sportsman’s shirt’s caught alight. . . . Been +smokin’, and dropped his cigar. . . .”</p> +<p>“It is an angel shod with fire,” moaned Prudence +as she put the picture into its portfolio, and felt for her +handkerchief. . . .</p> +<p>A little incident, a straw upon the waters, but a straw +showing their steady flow toward distaste, disillusionment, +dislike, and hopeless regret. The awful and familiar +tragedy of “incompatibility of temperament,” of which +law and priests in their wisdom take no count or cognizance, +though counting trifles (by comparison) of infidelity and +violence as all important.</p> +<p>And when her boy was born, and named Bertram after her father, +Dr. Bertram Pym, F.R.S., she was happy and thankful, and happily +and thankfully died.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>In due course the Major recovered from his grief and sent his +son home to his place, Leighcombe Abbey, where dwelt his elderly +spinster relative, Miss Walsingham, and her niece, <a +name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span>Miranda +Walsingham, daughter of General Walsingham, his second +cousin. Here the influence of prim, gentle, and learned +Miss Walsingham was all that his mother would have desired, and +in the direction of all that his father loathed—the boy +growing up bookish, thoughtful, and more like a nice girl than a +human boy. Him Miranda mothered, petted, and occasionally +excoriated, being an Amazonian young female of his own age, +happier on the bare back of a horse than in the seats of the +learned.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER II<br /> +<i>Mr. Charles Stayne-Brooker (or Herr Karl +Stein-Brücker)</i></h3> +<p>When it was known in the cantonment of Hazarigurh that Major +Hugh Walsingham Greene was engaged to Dolly Dennison, folk were +astonished, and a not uncommon comment was “Poor old +Walsingham Greene,” in spite of the fact that the young +lady was very beautiful, accomplished and fascinating.</p> +<p>Here also another remark, that was frequently heard, was that +opposites attract, for Dolly was known to be seventeen, and the +Major, though not very much more than twice her age, looked as +old as her father, the Sessions Judge, and <i>he</i> looked more +like the girl’s grandfather than her father.</p> +<p>It was agreed, however, that it was no case of kidnapping, for +Dolly knew her way about, knew precisely how many beans made +five, and needed no teaching from her grandmother as to the +sucking of eggs, or anything else. For Dolly, poor child, +had put her hair up and “come out” at the age of +fifteen—in an Indian cantonment!</p> +<p>Little more need be said to excuse almost anything she might +do or be. Motherless, she had run her father’s +hospitable house for the last two years, as well as her weak and +amiable father; and when Major Walsingham Greene came to +Hazarigurh he found this pitiable spoilt child (a child who had +never had any childhood) the <i>burra mem-sahib</i> of the place, +in virtue of her position as the head of the household of the +Senior Civilian. With the manners, airs, and graces of a +woman of thirty, she was a blasé and world-weary +babe—“fed up” with dances, gymkhanas, <a +name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 11</span>garden +parties, race meetings and picnics; and as experienced and cool a +hand at a flirtation as any garrison-hack or station-belle in the +country. Dolly knew the men with whom one flirts but does +not marry, and the men one marries but with whom one does not +flirt.</p> +<p>Mr. Charles Stayne-Brooker was the pride of the former; Major +Walsingham Greene <i>facile princeps</i> of the latter. +Charles was the loveliest, daringest, wickedest flirt you +<i>ever</i>—and Hugh was a man of means and position, with +an old Tudor “place” in Dorset. So Charles for +fun—and Hugh for matrimony, just as soon as he suggested +it. She hoped Hugh would be quick, too, for Charles had a +terrible fascination and power over her. She had been +frightened at herself one moonlight picnic, frightened at +Charles’s power and her own feelings—and she feared +the result if Hugh (who was most obviously of a coming-on +disposition), dallied and doubted. If Hugh were not quick, +Charles would get her—for she preferred volcanoes to +icebergs, and might very easily forget her worldly wisdom and be +carried off her feet some night, as she lurked in a <i>kala +jugga</i> with the daring, darling wicked Charles—whose +little finger was more attractive and mysterious than the +Major’s whole body. Besides—the Major was a +grey-haired widower, with a boy at school in England and +<i>so</i> dull and prosperous. . . .</p> +<p>But, ere too late, the Major proposed and was accepted. +Charles was, or affected to be, ruined and broken-hearted, and +the wedding took place. The Major was like a boy +again—for a little while. And Dolly felt like a girl +taken from an hotel in Mentone and immured in a convent in +Siberia.</p> +<p>For Major Hugh Walsingham Greene would have none of the +“goings-on” that had made Dolly’s +father’s bungalow the centre of life and gaiety for the +subalterns and civilian youth of Hazarigurh; whilst Mr. Charles +Stayne-Brooker, whom he detested as a flamboyant bounder, he cut +dead. He also bade Dolly remove the gentleman’s name +finally and completely from her visiting-list, and on no account +be “at home” when he called. All of which Dolly +quite flatly and finally refused to do.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>Mr. Charles Stayne-Brooker (or the Herr Doktor Karl +Stein-Brücker, as he was at other times and in other places) +was a very popular person wherever he went—and he went to +an astonishing <a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +12</span>number of places. It was wonderful how intimate he +became with people, and he became intimate with an astonishing +number and variety of people. He could sing, play, dance, +ride and take a hand at games above the average, and +<i>talk</i>—never was such a chatter-box—on any +subject under the sun, especially on himself and his +affairs. And yet, here again, it was astonishing how little +he said, with all his talk and ingenious chatter. Everybody +knew all about dear old Charlie—and yet, did they know +anything at all when it came to the point? In most of the +places in which he turned up, he seemed to be a sort of visiting +manager of a business house—generally a famous house with +some such old-fashioned British name as Schneider and Schmidt; +Max Englebaum and Son; Plügge and Schnadhorst; Hans +Wincklestein and Gartenmacher; or Grosskopf and +Dümmelmann. In out-of-the-way places he seemed to be +just a jolly globe-trotter with notions of writing a book on his +jolly trip to India. Evidently he wanted to know something +of the native of India, too, for when not in large commercial +centres like Calcutta, Madras, Bombay or Colombo, he was to be +found in cantonments where there were Native Troops. He +loved the Native Officer and cultivated him assiduously. He +also seemed to love the Bengali amateur politician, more than +some people do. . . . Often a thoughtful and observant +official was pleased to see an Englishman taking such a friendly +interest in the natives, and trying to get to know them well at +first hand—a thing far too rare. . . .</p> +<p>There were people, however—such as Major Walsingham +Greene—who affected to detect something of a +“foreign” flavour about him, and wrote him down as a +flashy and bounderish outsider.</p> +<p>Certainly he was a great contrast to the Major, whose clipped +moustache, bleak blue eye, hard bronzed face and close-cut hair +were as different as possible from Mr. Stayne-Brooker’s +waxed and curled moustache over the ripe red mouth; huge hypnotic +and strange black eyes; pink and white puffy face, and long dark +locks. And then again, as has been said, Mr. Stayne-Brooker +was only happy when talking, and the Major only happy (if then) +when silent.</p> +<p>On sight, on principle, and on all grounds, the latter +gentleman detested the jabbering, affected, over-familiar, +foreign-like fellow, and took great pleasure in ordering his +bride, on their return from <a name="page13"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 13</span>the ten-days-leave honeymoon, to cut +him dead and cut him out—of her life.</p> +<p>And, alas, his bride seemed to take an even greater pleasure +in defying her husband on this, and certain other, points; in +making it clear to him that she fully and firmly intended +“to live her own life” and go her own way; and in +giving copious and convincing proof of the fact that she had +never known “discipline” yet, and did not intend to +make its acquaintance now.</p> +<p>Whereupon poor Major Walsingham Greene, while remaining the +honourable, upright and scrupulous gentleman that he was, +exhibited himself the irascible, pompous fool that he also was, +and by his stupid and overbearing conduct, his +“<i>That’s enough</i>! <i>Those are my +orders</i>,” and his hopeless mishandling of the situation, +drove her literally into the arms of Mr. Charles Stayne-Brooker, +with whom the poor little fool disappeared like a beautiful +dream.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>When his kind heart got the better of his savage wrath and +scourged pride, the Major divorced her, and the Herr Doktor (who +particularly needed an English wife in his profession of Secret +Agent especially commissioned for work in the British Empire) +married her, broke her heart, dragged her down into the moral +slime in which he wallowed, and, on the rare occasions of her +revolt and threat to leave him, pointed out that ladies who were +divorced once for leaving their husbands <i>might</i> conceivably +have some excuse, but that the world had a very hard name for +those who made a habit of it. . . . And then there was her +daughter to consider, too. <i>His</i> daughter, alas! but +also hers.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER III<br /> +<i>Mrs. Stayne-Brooker—and Her Ex-Stepson</i></h3> +<p>From Hazarigurh Mr. Charles Stayne-Brooker went straight to +Berlin, became the Herr Doktor Stein-Brücker once more, and +saw much of another and more famous Herr Doktor of the name of +Solf. He then went to South Africa and thence to England, +where his daughter was born. Having placed her with the +family of an English clergyman whose wife “accepted” +a few children <a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +14</span>of Anglo-Indians, he proceeded to America and Canada, +and thence to Vladivostok, Kïaou-Chiaou, Hong Kong, +Shanghai, and Singapore; then to the Transvaal by way of Lourenzo +Marques and to German East Africa. And every step of the +way his wife went with him—and who so English, among +Englishmen, as jolly Charlie Stayne-Brooker, with his beautiful +English wife? . . . What he did, save interviewing stout +gentlemen (whose necks bulged over their collars, whose accents +were guttural, and whose table-manners were unpleasant) and +writing long letters, she did not know. What she did know +was that she was a lost and broken woman, tied for life to a base +and loathsome scoundrel, by her yearning for +“respectability,” her love for her daughter, and her +utter dependence for food, clothing and shelter upon the man +whom, in her mad folly, she had trusted. By the time they +returned to England <i>via</i> Berlin, the child, Eva, was old +enough to go to an expensive boarding-school at Cheltenham, and +here Mrs. Stayne-Brooker had to leave her when her +husband’s “duties” took him, from the detailed +study of the Eastern Counties of England, to Africa again. +Here he seemed likely to settle at last, interesting himself in +coffee and rubber, and spending much of his time in Mombasa and +Nairobi, as well as in Dar-es-Salaam, Tabora, Lindi and +Zanzibar.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>Meanwhile, Major Hugh Walsingham Greene, an embittered and +disappointed man, withdrew more and more into his shell, and, on +each successive visit to Leighcombe Priory, more and more +abandoned hope of his son’s “doing any good” in +life. He was the true grandson of that most distinguished +scholar, Dr. Bertram Pym, F.R.S., of Cambridge University, and +the true son of his mother. . . . What a joy the lad would +have been to these two, with his love of books and his unbroken +career of academic successes, and what a grief he was to his +soldier father, with his utter distaste for games and sports and +his dislike of all things military.</p> +<p>Useless it was for sweet and gentle Miss Walsingham to point +to his cleverness and wisdom, or for Amazonian and sporting +Miranda Walsingham hotly to defend him and rail against the +Major’s “unfairness” and “stupid +prejudice.” Equally useless for the boy to do his +utmost to please the man who was to him as a god. . . .</p> +<p><a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 15</span>When +the Major learned that his son had produced the Newdigate Prize +Poem, won the Craven and the Ireland Scholarships, and taken his +Double First—he groaned. . . .</p> +<p>Brilliant success at Oxford? What is +<i>Oxford</i>? He would sooner have seen him miserably fail +at Sandhurst and enlist for his commission. . . .</p> +<p>Finally the disappointing youth went to India as private +secretary and travelling companion to the great scientist, Sir +Ramsey Wister, his father being stationed at Aden.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>Then came the Great War.</p> +<h2><a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 16</span>PART +II<br /> +THE BAKING OF BERTRAM BY WAR</h2> +<h3>CHAPTER I<br /> +<i>Bertram Becomes a Man of War</i></h3> +<p>Mr. Bertram Greene, emerging from the King Edward Terminus of +the Great Indian Railway at Madrutta, squared his shoulders, +threw out his chest, and, so far as he understood the process and +could apply it, strode along with the martial tread and military +swagger of all the Best Conquerors.</p> +<p>From khaki helmet to spurred brown heel, he was in full +panoply of war, and wore a dangerous-looking sword. At +least, to the ignorant passer-by, it appeared that its owner was +in constant danger of being tripped up by it. Bertram, +however, could have told him that he was really in no peril from +the beastly thing, since a slight pressure on the hilt from his +left elbow kept the southern end clear of his feet.</p> +<p>What troubled him more than the sword was the feeling of +constriction and suffocation due to the tightness of the belts +and straps that encompassed him about, and the extreme heat of +the morning. Also he felt terribly nervous and +unaccustomed, very anxious as to his ability to support the +weight of his coming responsibility, very self-distrustful, and +very certain that, in the full active-service kit of a British +Officer of the Indian Army, he looked a most frightful ass.</p> +<p>For Mr. Bertram Greene had never before appeared on this, or +any other stage, in such a part; and the change—from a +quiet modest civilian, “bashful, diffident and shy,” +to what his friends at dinner last night had variously called a +thin red hero, a licentious soldiery, a brutal mercenary, a hired +assassin, a saviour of his Motherland, a wisp of cannon-fodder, a +pup of the bull-dog breed, a curly-headed hero, a bloody-minded +butcher, and one who would show his sword to be as mighty as his +pen—was overwhelmingly great and sudden. When any of +the hundreds of hurrying men who passed him looked at him with +incurious eyes, he felt uncomfortable, and blushed. He knew +he looked an <a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +17</span>ass, and, far worse, that whatever he might look, he +actually was—a fraud, and a humbug. Fancy him, +Bertram Greene, familiarly known as “Cupid,” the +pale-faced “intellectual,” the highbrowed hero of the +class-room and examination-hall, the winner of scholarships and +the double-first, guilty of a thin volume of essays and a thinner +one of verse—just fancy him, the studious, bookish +sedentary, disguised as a soldier, as a leader of men in the day +of battle, a professional warrior! . . . He who had never +played games was actually proposing to play the greatest Game of +all: he who had never killed an animal in his life was going to +learn to kill men: he who had always been so lacking in +self-reliance was going to ask others to rely on him!</p> +<p>And, as his spirits sank lower, Bertram held his head higher, +threw back his shoulders further, protruded his chest more, and +proceeded with so firm a tread, and so martial a demeanour, that +he burst into profuse and violent perspiration.</p> +<p>He wished he could take a taxi, but even had there been one +available, he knew that the Native Infantry Lines almost adjoined +the railway terminus, and that he had to cross a grass +<i>maidan</i> <a name="citation17a"></a><a href="#footnote17a" +class="citation">[17a]</a> on foot.</p> +<p>Thank heaven it was not far, or he would arrive looking as +though he had come by sea—swimming. A few more steps +would take him out of this crowd of students, clerks, artisans, +and business-men thronging to their schools, colleges, offices, +shops, mills, and works in Madrutta. . . . What did they +talk about, these queer “city men” who went daily +from the suburbs to “the office,” clad in turbans, +sandals, <i>dhoties</i>, <a name="citation17b"></a><a +href="#footnote17b" class="citation">[17b]</a> and cotton +coats? Any one of these bare-legged, collarless, not +<i>very</i> clean-looking worthies might be a millionaire; and +any one of them might be supporting a wife and large family on a +couple of pounds a month. The vast majority of them were +doing so, of course. . . . Anyhow, none of them seemed to +smile derisively when looking at him, so perhaps his general +appearance was more convincing than he thought.</p> +<p>But then, short as had been his sojourn in India, he had been +in the country long enough to know that the native does not look +with obvious derision upon the European, whatever may be the real +views and sentiments of his private mind—so there was no +comfort in that. . . . Doubtless the Colonel and British +officers <a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +18</span>of the regiment he was about to join would not put +themselves to the trouble of concealing their opinions as to his +merits, or lack of them, as soon as those opinions were +conceived. . . . Well, there was one thing Bertram Greene +could do, and would do, while breath was in his body—and +that was his very best. No one can do more. He might +be as ignorant of all things military as a babe unborn: he might +be a simple, nervous, inexperienced sort of youth with more +culture and refinement than strength of character and decision of +mind: he might be a bit of an ass, whom other fellows were always +ragging and calling “Cupid”—but, when the end +came, none should be able to say that he had failed for want of +doing his utmost, and for lack of striving, with might and main, +to learn <i>how</i> to do his duty, and then to do it to the +limit of his ability.</p> +<p>A couple of British soldiers, privates of the Royal Engineers, +came towards him on their way to the station. Bertram +attempted the impossible in endeavouring to look still more +inflexibly and inexorably martial, as he eyed them hardily. +Would they look at him and smile amusedly? If so, what +should he do? He might be a fool himself, but—however +farcically—he bore the King’s Commission, and it had +got to be respected and saluted by all soldiers. The men +simultaneously placed their swagger-sticks beneath their left +arms, and, at three paces’ distance, saluting smartly and +as one man, maintained the salute until they were three paces +beyond him.</p> +<p>Bertram’s heart beat high with pride and +thankfulness. He would have liked to stop and shake hands +with the men, thanking them most sincerely. As it was, he +added a charming and friendly smile to the salute which he gave +in acknowledgment of theirs.</p> +<p>He passed on, feeling as though he had drunk some most +stimulating and exhilarating draught. He had received his +first salute! Moreover, the men had looked most +respectfully, nay, almost reverentially, if with a certain +stereotyped and bovine rigidity of stare, toward the officer they +so promptly and smartly honoured. He would have given a +great deal to know whether they passed any contemptuous or +derisive comment upon his appearance and bearing. . . . In +point of fact, Scrounger Evans had remarked to Fatty Wilkes, upon +abandoning the military position of the salute: “Horgustus +appears to ’ave ’ad a good <a name="page19"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 19</span>night at bridge, and took a few +’undreds orf Marmadook an’ Reginald. +Wot?”</p> +<p>Whereunto Fatty had murmured:</p> +<p>“Jedgin’ by ’is ’appy liddle +smile,” as he sought the smelly stump of a cigarette in its +lair behind his spreading shady ear.</p> +<p>Enheartened, but perspiring, Bertram strode on, and crossed +the broad grass <i>maidan</i>, at the far side of which he could +see the parallel streets of the Native Infantry Lines, where lay +the One Hundred and Ninety-Ninth Regiment, to which he had been +ordered to report himself “forthwith.” +Yesterday was but crowded, excited yesterday, terminating in a +wild farewell dinner and an all-night journey. +<i>To-day</i> was “forthwith.” . . . What would +to-morrow be? Perhaps the date of the termination of his +career in the Indian Army—if the Colonel looked him over, +asked him a few questions, and then said: “Take away this +bauble!” or “Sweep this up!” or words to that +effect. He had heard that Colonels were brief, rude, and +arbitrary persons, sometimes very terrible. . . . +Approaching the end of the first long row of the mud buildings of +the Native Infantry Lines, Bertram beheld a sentry standing +outside his sentry-box, in the shade of a great banyan +tree. The man was clad in khaki tunic, shorts and puttees, +with a huge khaki turban, from which protruded a fringed scrap of +blue and gold; hob-nailed black boots, and brown belt and +bandolier. His bare knees, his hands and face were very far +from being black; in fact, were not even brown, but of a pale +wheat-colour.</p> +<p>The thoughts of Private Ilderim Yakub were far away, and his +eyes beheld a little <i>sungar</i>-enclosed watch-tower that +looked across a barren and arid valley of solid rock. In +the low, small doorway sat a fair-faced woman with long plaits of +black hair, and, at her feet, crawled a tiny naked boy . . . and +then the eyes of Private Ilderim Yakub beheld a British officer, +in full war-paint and wearing his sword, bearing down upon +him. By Allah the Compassionate and the Beard of the +Prophet! He had been practically asleep at his post, and +this must certainly be the Orderly Officer Sahib or the Adjutant +Sahib, if not the Colonel Sahib himself! Possibly even the +“Gineraal” Sahib (from the neighbouring Brigade +Headquarters) having a quiet prowl round. It must be +<i>somebody</i>, or he wouldn’t be “in drill order +with sword,” and marching straight for the guard-room.</p> +<p><a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 20</span>Private +Ilderim Yakub (in the days when he had been a—well—a +scoundrelly border-thief and raider) had very frequently been in +situations demanding great promptitude of thought and action; and +now, although at one moment he had been practically asleep and +his wits wool-gathering in the Khost Valley, the next moment he +had sprung from his box, yelled “<i>Guard turn +out</i>!” with all the strength of his leathern lungs and +brazen throat, and had then frozen to the immobility of a bronze +statue in the attitude of the salute.</p> +<p>In response to his shout, certain similarly clad men arose +from a bench that stood outside a large thatched, mud-built hut, +another, wearing a red sash and three white stripes on the sleeve +of his tunic, came hurrying from within it, and the party, with +promptitude and dispatch, “fell in,” the Sergeant (or +Havildar) beside them.</p> +<p>“Guard!” roared that bearded worthy, +“<i>’Shun</i>! <i>Present</i> arms!” and, +like the sentry, the Sergeant and the Guard stood as bronze +statues to the honour and glory of Second-Lieutenant Bertram +Greene—the while that gentleman longed for nothing more +than that the ground might open and swallow him up.</p> +<p>What on earth ought he to do? Had he not read in his +newly purchased drill-book that the Guard only turned out for +Emperors or Field-Marshals, or Field Officers or something? +Or was it only for the Colonel or the Officer of the Day? +It most certainly was not for stray Second-Lieutenants of the +Indian Army Reserve. Should he try to explain to the +Sergeant that he had made a mistake, and that the Guard was +presenting arms to the humblest of God’s creatures that +wore officer’s uniform? Should he “put on +dog” heavily and “inspect” the Guard? +Should he pretend to find fault? No! For one thing he +had not enough Hindustani to make himself intelligible. +(But it was a sign that a change was already coming over Bertram, +when he could even conceive such a notion, and only dismiss it +for such a reason.)</p> +<p>What <i>should</i> he do, in these distressingly painful +circumstances?</p> +<p>Should he absolutely ignore the whole lot of them, and swagger +past with a contemptuous glance at the fool Sergeant who had +turned the Guard out? . . . It wasn’t <i>his</i> +fault that the wretched incident had occurred. . . . +<i>He</i> hadn’t made the mistake, so why should he be made +to look a fool? It would be the others who’d <a +name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 21</span>look the +fools, if he took not the slightest notice of their silly antics +and attitude-striking. . . (Heavens! How they’d +made the perspiration trickle again, by putting him in this +absurd and false position.) . . . Yes—he’d just +go straight past the lot of them as if they didn’t exist. . +. . No—that would be horribly rude, to say the least +of it. They were paying him a military compliment, however +mistakenly, and he must return it. Moreover—it +wasn’t the Sergeant-fellow’s fault. The sentry +had shouted to the Guard, and the Sergeant had naturally supposed +that one of those Great Ones, for whom Guards turn out, was upon +them.</p> +<p>Should he march past with a salute, as though he were +perfectly accustomed to such honours, and rather bored with +them? Unless he were near enough for them to see the single +“pip” on his shoulder-strap, they would never know +they had made a mistake. (He would hate them to feel as +horribly uncomfortable as he did.)</p> +<p>And if he did, where should he go? He must find the +Officers’ Lines, and go to the Officers’ Mess and +inquire for the Colonel. Besides, this was <i>his</i> +regiment; he was attached to it, and these men would all see him +again and know who and what he was. . . .</p> +<p>Of course—he would do the correct and natural thing, and +behave as though he were merely slightly amused at the +sentry’s not unnatural mistake and its results. . . . +With a smart salute to the Guard, Bertram smiled upon the +puzzled, imperturbable and immobile Havildar, with the +remark:</p> +<p>“<i>Achcha</i>, <a name="citation21a"></a><a +href="#footnote21a" class="citation">[21a]</a> Sergeant. +Guard, dismiss <i>karo</i>” <a name="citation21b"></a><a +href="#footnote21b" class="citation">[21b]</a>—upon hearing +which barbarous polyglot of English and Hindustani, the +Non-Commissioned Officer abandoned his rigid pose and roared, +with extreme ferocity, in the very ears of the Sepoys:</p> +<p>“Guard! <i>Or</i>der-r <i>ar-r-rms</i>. Stannat +<i>eashe</i>. Dees<i>mees</i>!” and with another +salute, again turned to Bertram to await his further +pleasure.</p> +<p>“<i>Ham Colonel Sahib mangta</i>. <i>Kither +hai</i>?” <a name="citation21c"></a><a href="#footnote21c" +class="citation">[21c]</a> said that gentleman, and the +intelligent Havildar gathered that this young and strange Sahib +“wanted” the Colonel. He smiled behind his vast +and bushy beard at the idea of sending a message of the +“Hi! you—come here! You’re wanted” +description to that Great One, and pictured the meeting that +would ensue if the Colonel Sahib <a name="page22"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 22</span>came hastily, expecting to find the +Commander-in-Chief-in-India awaiting him.</p> +<p>No—since the young Sahib wanted the Colonel, he had +better go and find him. Calling to a young Sepoy who was +passing on some fatigue duty, he bade him haste away, put on his +tunic, tuck his long khaki shirt inside his shorts, and conduct +the Sahib to the Adjutant Sahib’s office. (That would +be quite in order; the Adjutant Sahib could decide as to the +wisdom of “wanting” the Colonel Sahib at +this—or any other—hour of the day; and responsibility +would be taken from the broad, unwilling shoulders of Havildar +Afzul Khan Ishak.)</p> +<p>An uncomfortable five minutes followed. Bertram, longing +with all his soul to say something correct, natural, and +pleasant, could only stand dumb and unhappy, while the +perspiration trickled; the Havildar stood stiffly at attention +and wondered whether the Sahib were as old as his son, Private +Mahommed Afzul Khan, new recruit of the One Hundred and +Ninety-Ninth; and the Guard, though dismissed, stood motionless +in solemn row beside the bench (on which they would sit as soon +as the Sahib turned his back), and, being Indian Sepoys, emptied +their minds of all thought, fixed their unseeing gaze upon +Immensity and the Transcendental +Nothingness-of-Non-existent-Non-entity-in-Oblivion, and tried to +look virtuous.</p> +<p>Returning and saluting, the young Sepoy wheeled about and +plodded heavily down the road, walking as though each hob-nailed +boat weighed a ton. But pride must suffer pain, and not for +worlds would this young man (who had, until a few months ago, +never worn anything heavier than a straw-plaited sandal as he +“skipped like a young ram” about his native +hill-tops) have been without these tokens of wealth and +dignity. What he would have liked, had the Authorities been +less touchy about it, would have been to wear them slung about +his neck, plain for all to admire, and causing their owner no +inconvenience.</p> +<p>Following his guide through the lines of mud huts, saluted +every few yards by passing Sepoys and by groups who sat about +doorways and scrambled to their feet as he passed, Bertram found +himself in a broad sandy road, lined by large stone European +bungalows, which ran at right-angles across the ends of the +Sepoys’ lines. Each bungalow stood in a large +compound, had a big lawn and flower-gardens in front of it, and +was embowered <a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +23</span>in palm-trees. Turning into the garden of the +largest of these, the young Sepoy pointed to the big house, +ejaculated: “Arfeecers’ Mess, Sahib,” saluted, +performed a meticulously careful “about turn,” the +while his lips moved as though he were silently giving himself +the necessary orders for each movement, and solemnly marched +away.</p> +<p>A pair of large old-fashioned cannon and a white flagstaff +gave the place an important and official appearance. Beyond +the big porch stretched to left and right a broad and deep +verandah, in the shady recesses of which Bertram could see a row +of chairs wherein lay khaki-clad figures, their feet, raised upon +the long leg-rests, presented unitedly and unanimously towards +him. Indeed, as he advanced with beating heart and sense of +shy discomfort, all that he could see of the half-dozen gentlemen +was one dozen boot-soles backed by a blur of khaki. Up to +the time he had reached the flight of steps, leading up from the +drive to the verandah, no one had moved. Mounting the +steps, and coming to the level of the recumbent figures, ranged +along the rear wall of the verandah and on each side of an open +door, the unhappy Bertram, from this new standpoint, saw that the +face of each officer was hidden behind a newspaper or a magazine. +. . . Profound silence reigned as he regarded the twelve +boot-soles, each crossed by a spur-chain, and the six +newspapers.</p> +<p>Another embarrassing and discomfortable situation. What +should he do? Should he cough—as the native does when +he wishes to attract your attention, or to re-affirm his +forgotten presence? It seemed a rather feeble and banal +idea. Should he pretend he had not seen the six stalwart +men lying there in front of his nose, and shout: “<i>Qui +hai</i>!” as one does to call an invisible servant? +And suppose none of them moved, and a Mess servant came—he +had no card to send in. He couldn’t very well tell +the man to announce in stentorian voice and the manner of a +herald: “Behold! Second-Lieutenant Bertram Greene, of +the Indian Army Reserve, standeth on the threshold!” +And supposing the man did precisely this and <i>still</i> nobody +moved, <i>what</i> a superlative ass the said Second-Lieutenant +Bertram Greene would feel! . . . But could he feel a bigger +ass than he did already—standing there in awkward silence +beneath the stony regard, or disregard, of the twelve +contemptuous boot-soles? . . .</p> +<p>Should he walk along the row of them, giving each alternate <a +name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 24</span>foot a heavy +blow? That would make them look up all right. . . . +Or should he seize a couple of them and operate them in the +manner of the young lady in the Railway Refreshment Rooms or the +Village Inn, as she manipulates the handles of the +beer-engine? The owners of the two he grabbed and pulled +would come from behind their papers fast enough. . . . +Bertram moved, and his sword clanked sharply against a +pillar. None of the readers had looked up at the sound of +footsteps—they were resting from the labours of breakfast, +and footsteps, as such, are of no interest. But, strange to +say, at the sound of a sword clanking, they moved as one man; six +papers were lowered and six pairs of eyes stared at the unhappy +Bertram. After three seconds of penetrating scrutiny, the +six papers rose again as one, as though at the sound of the +ancient and useful military order, “<i>As you +were</i>.”</p> +<p>Major Fordinghame beheld a very good-looking boy, who appeared +to be taking his new sword and revolver for a walk in the nice +sunshine and giving the public a treat. He’d hardly +be calling on the Mess dressed up in lethal weapons. +Probably wanted the Adjutant or somebody. He was quite +welcome to ’em. . . . These “planter” +cheroots were extraordinarily good at the price. . . . +Lieutenant and Quartermaster Macteith wondered who the devil +<i>this</i> was. Why did he stick there like a stuck pig +and a dying cod-fish? Still—if he wanted to stick, +let him stick, by all means. Free country. . . . +Captain Brylle only vaguely realised that he was staring hard at +some bloke or other—he was bringing all the great resources +of his brain to bear upon a joke in the pink paper he +affected. It was so deep, dark and subtle a joke that he +had not yet “got” it. Bloke on the +door-mat. What of it? . . . Captain Tavner had +received a good fat cheque that morning; he was going on ten +days’ leave to-morrow; he had done for to-day; and he had +had a bottle of beer for breakfast. <i>He</i> didn’t +mind if there were a rhinoceros on the doorstep. Doubtless +someone would take it into the Mess and give it a drink. . . +. Cove had got his sword on—or was it two +swords? Didn’t matter to him, anyway. . . .</p> +<p>Captain Melhuish idly speculated as to whether the chap would +be “calling” at so early an hour of the +morning. It was the Mess President’s business, +anyhow. . . . Why the sword and revolver? And +mentally murmuring: “Enter—one in armour,” <a +name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span>Captain +Melhuish, the <i>doyen</i> of the famous Madrutta Amateur +Dramatic Society, returned to his perusal of <i>The Era</i>. . +. Lieutenant Bludyer didn’t give a damn, anyhow. . . +. And so none of these gentlemen, any one of whom would +have arisen, had he been sitting there alone, and welcomed +Bertram hospitably, felt it incumbent upon him to move, and the +situation resumed what Bertram privately termed its +formerness.</p> +<p>Just as he had decided to go to the nearest reader and flatly +request him to arise and direct him to the Colonel, another +officer came rushing from the room whose open doorway faced the +porch. In his mouth was a quill pen, and in his hands were +papers.</p> +<p>“Lazy perishers!” he remarked as he saw the +others, and added: “Come along, young Macteith,” and +was turning to hurry down the verandah when Bertram stepped +forward.</p> +<p>“Excuse me,” he said, “d’you think I +could see the Colonel? I have been ordered to report to +this regiment.”</p> +<p>“You <i>could</i> see the Colonel,” replied this +officer, “but I shouldn’t, if I were you. +I’d see the Adjutant. Much pleasanter sight. +I’m the Adjutant. Come along to my office,” and +he led the way down the verandah, across a big whitewashed room, +simply furnished with a table, a chair, and a punkah, to a +smaller room, furnished with two of each of the above-mentioned +articles.</p> +<p>Dropping the pen and papers upon the table, the Adjutant +wheeled round upon Bertram, and, transfixing him with a cold grey +eye, said, in hollow voice and tragic tones:</p> +<p>“Do not trifle with me, Unhappy Boy! Say those +blessed words again—or at once declare them false. . . +. <i>Did</i> I hear you state that you have been ordered to +join this corps—or did I not?”</p> +<p>“You did, sir,” smiled Bertram.</p> +<p>“Shake,” replied the Adjutant. “God +bless you, gentle child. For two damns, I’d fall on +your neck. I love you. Tell me your honoured name and +I’ll send for my will. . . .”</p> +<p>“I’m glad I’m welcome,” said the +puzzled and astonished Bertram; “but I’m afraid I +shan’t be very useful. I am absolutely +ignorant—you see, I’ve not been a soldier for +twenty-four hours yet. . . . Here’s the telegram I +got yesterday,” and he produced that document.</p> +<p>“Good youth,” replied Captain Murray. +“I don’t give a <a name="page26"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 26</span>tinker’s curse if you’re +deaf, dumb, blind and silly. You are my deliverer. I +love you more and more. I’ve been awaiting you with +beating heart—lying awake for you, listening for your +footprints. Now you come—<i>I</i> go.”</p> +<p>“What—to the Front?” said Bertram.</p> +<p>“You’ve guessed it in once, fair youth. East +Africa for little Jock Murray. We are sending a draft of a +hundred men to our link battalion there—awfully knocked +about they’ve been—and I have it, straight from the +stable, that I’m the lad that takes them. . . . They +go in a day or two. . . . I was getting a bit anxious, I +can tell you—but my pal in the Brigade Office said they +were certain to send a Reserve man here and relieve me. . . +. Colonel <i>will</i> be pleased—he never <i>says</i> +anything but ‘<i>H’m</i>!’ but he’ll bite +your ear if you don’t dodge.”</p> +<p>“I suppose he’ll simply hate losing an experienced +officer and getting me,” said Bertram, apprehensively.</p> +<p>“He’ll make himself perfectly miserable,” +was the reply, “but nothing to what he’ll make +you. I’m the Adjutant, you see, and there’ll be +a bit of a muddle until my successor has picked up all the +threads, and a bit of extra bother for the Colonel. . . . +Young Macteith’ll have to take it on, I expect. . . . +He’ll bite your other ear for that. . .” and Murray +executed a few simple steps of the <i>can-can</i>, in the joy of +his heart that the chance of his life had come. No one but +himself knew the agonies of mind that he had suffered, as he lay +awake at night realising that the war might he a short one, time +was rushing on, and hundreds of thousands of men had gone to +fight—while he still sat in an office and played +C.O.’s lightning conductor. A usually undemonstrative +Scot, he was slightly excited and uplifted by this splendid turn +of Fortune’s wheel. Falling into a chair, he read the +telegram:</p> +<p><i>To Second-Lieutenant Bertram Greene</i>, <i>A.A.A.</i></p> +<p><i>You have been appointed to Indian Army Reserve of Officers +with rank of Second-Lieutenant</i>, <i>and are ordered to report +forthwith to O.C. One Hundred and Ninety-Ninth Regiment</i>, +<i>Madrutta</i>. <i>A.A.A.</i> <i>Military +Secretary</i>.</p> +<p>“Any relation to Major Walsingham Greene?” +enquired Murray.</p> +<p>“Son,” replied Bertram, “and nephew of +General Walsingham.”</p> +<p><a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +27</span>“Not your fault, of course,” observed +Murray. “Best to make a clean breast of these things, +though. . . . Had any sort of military training?” he +added.</p> +<p>“Absolutely none whatever. Soon after war broke +out I felt I was a disgrace to my family—they are all +soldiers—and I thought of going home and enlisting. . . +. Then I thought it was a pity if nearly twenty years of +expensive education had fitted me for nothing more useful than +what any labourer or stable-boy can do—and I realised that +I’m hardly strong enough to be of much good in the trenches +during a Belgian winter—I’ve been there—so I +wrote to my father and my uncle and told them I’d like to +get into the Indian Army Reserve of Officers. I thought I +might soon learn enough to be able to set free a better man, and, +in time, I might possibly be of some good—and perhaps go to +the Frontier or something. . . .”</p> +<p>“Goo’ <i>boy</i>,” said the merry +Murray. “I could strain you to my bosom.”</p> +<p>“Then I received some papers from the Military +Secretary, filled them up, and returned them with a medical +certificate. I bought some kit and ordered a uniform, and +studied the drill-book night and day. . . . I got that wire +yesterday—and here I am.”</p> +<p>“I love you, Bertram,” repeated the Adjutant.</p> +<p>“I feel a dreadful fraud, though,” continued the +boy, “and I am afraid my uncle, General Walsingham, thinks +I am ‘one of the Greenes’ in every way, whereas +I’m a most degenerate and unworthy member of the +clan. Commonly called ‘Cupid’ and +‘Blameless Bertram,’ laughed at . . . . Really +he is my father’s cousin—but I’ve always called +him ‘Uncle,’” he added ingenuously.</p> +<p>“Well—sit you there awhile and I’ll be free +in a bit. Then I’ll take you round the Lines and put +you up to a few things. . . .”</p> +<p>“I should be most grateful,” replied Bertram.</p> +<p>Macteith entered and sat him down at the other desk, and for +half an hour there was a <i>va et vient</i> of orderlies, clerks, +Sepoys and messengers, with much ringing of the telephone +bell.</p> +<p>When he had finished his work, Murray kept his promise, gave +Bertram good advice and useful information, and, before tiffin, +introduced him to the other officers—who treated him with +cordial friendliness. The Colonel did not appear at lunch, +but <a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +28</span>Bertram’s satisfaction at the postponement of his +interview was somewhat marred by a feeling that Lieutenant +Macteith eyed him malevolently and regarded his advent with +disapproval.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER II<br /> +<i>And is Ordered to East Africa</i></h3> +<p>That afternoon the Adjutant very good-naturedly devoted to +assisting Bertram to remedy his utter nakedness and ashamedness +in the matter of necessary campaigning kit. Taking him in +his dog-cart to the great Madrutta Emporium, he showed him what +to buy, and, still better, what not to buy, that he might be +fully equipped, armed and well prepared, as a self-supporting and +self-dependent unit, provided with all he needed and nothing he +did not need, that he might go with equal mind wheresoever +Fate—or the Military Secretary—might suddenly send +him.</p> +<p>After all, it was not very much—a very collapsible +camp-bed of green canvas, hardwood and steel; a collapsible +canvas washstand to match; a collapsible canvas bath (which was +destined to endanger the blamelessness of Blameless +Bertram’s language by providing more collapses than baths); +a canteen of cooking utensils; a green canvas valise which +contained bedding, and professed to be in itself a warm and happy +home from home, even upon the cold hard ground; and a sack of +similar material, provided with a padlock, and suitable as a +receptacle for such odds and ends of clothing and kit as you +might choose to throw in it.</p> +<p>“Got to remember that, if you go on active service, your +stuff may have to be carried by coolies,” said the +Adjutant. “About forty pounds to a man. No good +trying to make one big package of your kit. Say, one sack +of spare clothing and things; one bundle of your bed, bath, and +washing kit; and the strapped-up valise and bedding. If you +had to abandon one of the three, you’d let the camp-bed, +bath and wash-stand go, and hang on to the sleeping-valise and +sack of underclothes, socks, boots, spare uniform and +sundries,” and much other good advice.</p> +<p>To festoon about Cupid’s person, in addition to his +sword, <a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +29</span>revolver, water-bottle and haversack, he selected a +suitable compass, map-case, field-glasses, ammunition-pouch, +whistle and lanyards, since his earnest and anxious +protégé desired to be fitted out fully and properly +for manœuvres, and as though for actual active service.</p> +<p>Assurance being received that his purchases would be forthwith +dispatched to the Adjutant’s bungalow, Bertram drove back +to the Mess with that kindly officer, and gratefully accepted his +invitation to dine with him, that night, at the famous Madrutta +Club.</p> +<p>“What about kit, though?” enquired Bertram. +“I’ve only got what I stand up in. I left all +my—”</p> +<p>“That’s all right,” was the reply. +“Everybody’s in khaki, now we’re +mobilised—except the miserable civilians,” he added +with a grin, whereat Bertram, the belted man of blood, blushed +and smiled.</p> +<p>At dinner Bertram sat respectfully silent, collecting the +pearls of wisdom that fell from the lips of his seniors, +fellow-guests of the Adjutant. And his demeanour was of a +gravity weighty and serious even beyond his wont, for was he not +now a soldier among soldiers, a uniformed, commissioned, employed +officer of His Majesty the King Emperor, and attached to a famous +fighting regiment? Yes—a King’s Officer, and +one who might conceivably be called upon to fight, and perhaps to +die, for his country and for those simple Principles for which +his country stood.</p> +<p>He was a little sorry when some of his bemedalled +fellow-guests joked on solemn and sacred subjects, and spoke a +little slightingly of persons and principles venerable to him; +but he comforted and consoled himself with the recollection and +reflection that this type of man so loathed any display, or even +mention, of sentiment and feeling, that it went to the opposite +extreme, and spoke lightly of things weighty, talked ribaldly of +dignitaries, and gave a quite wrong impression as to its burning +earnestness and enthusiasm.</p> +<p>After dinner, when the party broke up for bridge, billiards or +the bar, he sat on, listening with all his ears to the +conversation of the Adjutant and an officer, who seemed +exceedingly well informed on the subject of the battle of Tanga, +in German East Africa, concerning which the general public knew +nothing at all.</p> +<p>Murray noticed his intelligent and attentive silence, and <a +name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 30</span>counted it +for righteousness unto the boy, that he could “keep his +head shut,” at any rate. . . .</p> +<p>And next day The Blow fell!</p> +<p>For poor Captain and Adjutant Murray, of the Hundred and +Ninety-Ninth Infantry, it dawned like any ordinary day, and +devoid of baleful omens.</p> +<p>There was nothing ominous about the coming of the tea, toast, +and oranges that “Abdul the Damned,” his bearer, +brought into the big, bare and comfortless room (furnished with +two camp-beds, one long chair, one <i>almirah</i> <a +name="citation30"></a><a href="#footnote30" +class="citation">[30]</a> and a litter on the floor) in which he +and Bertram slept.</p> +<p>Early morning parade passed off without unusual or untoward +event.</p> +<p>Breakfast was quite without portent, omen, or foreshadow of +disaster. The Colonel’s silence was no more eloquent +than usual, the Major’s remarks were no ruder, the Junior +Subaltern’s no sillier, and those of the other fellows were +no more uninteresting than upon other days; and all unconscious +of his fate the hapless victim strayed into his office, followed +by his faithful and devoted admirer, Second-Lieutenant Bertram +Greene, who desired nothing better than to sit at his feet and +learn. . . .</p> +<p>And then it came!</p> +<p>It came in the shape of a telegram from the Military +Secretary, and, on the third reading of the fair-writ type, +Murray had to realise that the words undoubtedly and unmistakably +were:</p> +<p><i>To O.C. 199th Infantry</i>, <i>A.A.A.</i></p> +<p><i>Second-Lieutenant Greene</i>, <i>I.A.R.</i>, <i>to proceed +to Mombasa forthwith in charge of your draft of one hundred +P.M.’s and one Native Officer</i>, <i>by s.s. Elymas +to-morrow and report to O.C.</i>, <i>One Hundred and +Ninety-Eighth immediately</i>. <i>A.A.A.</i> +<i>Military Secretary</i>, <i>Delhi</i>.</p> +<p>He read it through once again and then laid it on his table, +leant his head on his hand and felt physically faint and sick for +a moment. He had not felt quite as he did then more than +three or four times in the whole of his life. It was like +the feeling he had when he received the news of his +mother’s death; when his proposal of marriage to the +one-and-only girl had been rejected; when he had been bowled +first ball in the Presidency Match, and when <a +name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 31</span>he had taken +a toss from his horse at the Birthday Parade, as the beast, +scared at the <i>feu-de-joie</i>, had suddenly bucked and bounced +like an india-rubber ball. . . . He handed the telegram to +Bertram without comment.</p> +<p>That young gentleman read it through, and again. He +swallowed hard and read it once more. His hand shook. +He looked at the Adjutant, who noticed that he had turned quite +pale.</p> +<p>“Got it?” enquired Murray. “Here, sit +down.” He thought the boy was going to faint.</p> +<p>“Ye-e-s. I—er—think so,” was the +reply. “<i>I</i> am to take the draft from the +Hundred and Ninety-Ninth to the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth in East +Africa! . . . Oh, Murray, I <i>am</i> sorry—for you. +. . . And I am so utterly inadequate and incompetent. . . +. It is cruel hard luck for you. . . .”</p> +<p>The Adjutant, a really keen, good soldier, said nothing. +There was nothing to say. He felt that his life lay about +him in ruins. At the end of the war—which might come +anywhen now that Russia had “got going”—he +would be one of the few professional soldiers without active +service experience, without a medal or decoration of any sort +whatever. . . . Children who had gone straight from +Sandhurst to the Front would join this very battalion, after the +war, with their honours thick upon them—and when he, the +Adjutant, tried to teach them things, they’d smile and say: +“We—ah!—didn’t do it like that at the +Marne and Ypres. . . .” He could go straight away and +shoot himself then and there. . . . And this pink civilian +baby! This “Cupid”! No, there was nothing +to say—apart from the fact that he could not trust himself +to speak.</p> +<p>For minutes there was complete silence in the little +office. Bertram was as one in a dream—a dream which +was partly sweet and partly a nightmare. <i>He</i> to go to +the Front to-morrow? To go on Active Service? He whom +fellows always ragged, laughed at, and called Cupid and Blameless +Bertram and Innocent Ernest? To go off from here in sole +charge of a hundred of these magnificent fighting-men, and then +to be an officer in a regiment that had been fighting for weeks +and had already lost a third of its men and a half of its +officers, in battle? He, who had never fired a gun in his +life; never killed so much as a pheasant, a partridge, a grouse +or a rabbit; never suffered so much as a <a +name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +32</span>tooth-extraction—to shoot at his fellow-men, to +risk being horribly mangled and torn! . . . Yes—but +what was that last compared with the infinitely greater horror, +the unspeakable ghastliness of being <i>inadequate</i>, of being +too incapable and inexperienced to do his duty to the splendid +fellows who would look to him, the White Man, their Officer, for +proper leadership and handling?</p> +<p>To fail them in their hour of need. . . . He tried to +moisten dry lips with a dry tongue.</p> +<p>Oh, if only he had the knowledge and experience of the +Adjutant—he would then change places with no man in the +world. Why had the England that had educated him so +expensively, allowed him to grow up so hopelessly ignorant of the +real elemental essentials of life in the World-As-It-Is? He +had been brought up as though the World were one vast Examination +Hall, and nothing else. Yes—he had been prepared for +examinations all his life, not prepared for the World at +all. Oh, had he but Murray’s knowledge and +experience, or one-tenth part of it—he would find the +ability, courage, enthusiasm and willingness all right.</p> +<p>But, as it was, who was <i>he</i>, Bertram Greene, the +soft-handed sedentary, the denizen of libraries and +lecture-rooms, the pale student, to dare to offer to command, +control and guide trained and hardy men of war? What had he +(brought up by a maiden “aunt”!) to do with arms and +blood, with stratagems and ambuscades, with gory struggles in +unknown holes and corners of the Dark Continent? Why, he +had never shouted an order in his life; never done a long march; +never administered a harsh reprimand; never fired a revolver nor +made a pass with a sword. (If only he <i>had</i> had more +to do with such “passes” and less with his confounded +examination passes—he might feel less of an utter fraud +now.) At school and at Oxford he had been too delicate for +games, and in India, too busy, and too interested in more +intellectual matters, for shikar, sport and hunting. He had +just been “good old Blameless Bertram” and “our +valued and respected Innocent Ernest,” and “our +pretty pink Cupid”—more at home with antiquarians, +ethnologists, Orientalists and scientists than with sportsmen and +soldiers. . . .</p> +<p>The fact was that Civilisation led to far too much +specialisation and division of labour. Why shouldn’t +fellows be definitely trained and taught, physically as well as +mentally? Why <a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +33</span>shouldn’t every man be a bit of an artisan, an +agriculturalist, a doctor, and a soldier, as well as a mere +wretched book-student? Life is not a thing of books. . . +.</p> +<p>Anyhow, in the light of this telegram, it was pretty clear +that his uncle, General Sir Hugh Walsingham, K.C.S.I., had +described him more optimistically than accurately when forwarding +his application for admission to the Indian Army Reserve of +Officers, to the Military Secretary. . . . Another awful +thought—suppose he let Uncle Hugh down badly. . . . +And what of his father? . . .</p> +<p>Well—there was one thing, he would do his absolute +utmost, his really ultimate best; and no one could do more. +But, oh, the fathomless profundity of his ignorance and +inexperience! Quite apart from any question of leading men +in battle, how could he hope to avoid incurring their contempt on +the parade-ground? They’d see he was an Ass, and a +very ignorant one to boot, before he had been in front of them +for five minutes. . . . One thing—he’d know +that drill-book absolutely by heart before long. His +wretched examination training would stand him in good stead +there, at any rate. . . .</p> +<p>“Must tell the Colonel,” said Murray suddenly, and +he arose and left the office.</p> +<p>A few minutes later the Quartermaster, Lieutenant Macteith, +entered. Instead of going to his desk and settling down to +work, he took a powerful pair of field-glasses from their case on +Murray’s table and carefully examined Bertram through +them.</p> +<p>Bertram coloured, and felt quite certain that he did not like +Macteith at all.</p> +<p>Reversing the glasses, that gentleman then examined him +through the larger end.</p> +<p>“Oh, my God!” he ejaculated at last, and then +feigned unconquerable nausea.</p> +<p>He had heard the news, and felt personally injured and +insulted that this miserable half-baked rabbit should be going on +Active Service while Lieutenant and Quartermaster Macteith was +not.</p> +<p>An orderly entered, saluted, and spoke to him in +Hindustani.</p> +<p>“Colonel wants you,” he said, turning to Bertram, +as the orderly again saluted, wheeled about, and departed. +“He wants to strain you to his breast, to clasp your red +right hand, to give <a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +34</span>you his photograph and beg for yours—or else to +wring your neck!” And as Bertram rose to go, he +added: “Here—take this pen with you.”</p> +<p>“What for?” asked Bertram.</p> +<p>“To write something in his autograph-album and +birthday-book—he’s sure to ask you to,” was the +reply.</p> +<p>Bertram turned and departed, depressed in spirit. He +hated anyone to hate him, and he had done Macteith no harm. +But in spite of his depression, he was aware of a wild little +devil of elation who capered madly at the back of his +brain. This exuberant little devil appeared to be screaming +joyous war-whoops and yelling: “<i>Active Service</i>! . . +. <i>You are going to see service and to fight</i>! . . +. <i>You will have a war-medal and clasps</i>! . . . +<i>You are going to be a real war-hardened and experienced +soldier</i>! . . . <i>You are going to be a devil of a +fellow</i>! . . . <i>Whoop and dance</i>, <i>you Ass</i>! . +. . <i>Wave your arms about</i>, <i>and caper</i>! . . +. <i>Let out a loud yell</i>, <i>and do a fandango</i>! . . +.” But in the Presence of the Colonel, Bertram +declined to entertain the little devil’s suggestions, and +he neither whooped nor capered. He wondered, nevertheless, +what this cold monument of imperturbability would do if he +suddenly did commence to whoop, to caper and to dance before +him. Probably say “H’m!”—since that +was generally reported to be the only thing he ever said. . . +.</p> +<p>Marching into the room in which the Colonel sat at his desk, +Bertram halted abruptly, stood at attention stiffly, and saluted +smartly. Then he blushed from head to foot as he realised +that he had committed the ghastly <i>faux pas</i>, the horrible +military crime, of saluting bare-headed. He could have wept +with vexation. To enter so smartly, hearing himself like a +trained soldier—and then to make such a Scarlet Ass of +himself! . . . The Colonel gazed at him as at some very +repulsive and indescribable, but very novel insect.</p> +<p>“. . . And I’ll make a list of the +cooking-pots and other kit that they’ll have to take for +use on board, sir, and give it to Greene with a letter to Colonel +Rock asking him to have them returned here,” the Adjutant +was saying, as he laid papers before the Colonel for +signature.</p> +<p>“H’m!” said the Colonel.</p> +<p>“I have ordered the draft to parade at seven to-morrow, +sir,” he continued, “and told the Bandmaster they +will be played <a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +35</span>down to the Docks. . . . Greene can take them over +from me at seven and march them off. I have arranged for +the kits to go down in bullock-carts beforehand. . . .”</p> +<p>“H’m!” said the Colonel.</p> +<p>“I’ll put Greene in the way of things as much as +possible to-day,” went on the Adjutant. +“I’ll go with him and get hold of the cooking-pots +he’ll take for the draft to use on board—and then +I’d better run down and see the Staff Embarkation Officer +with him, about his cabin and the men’s quarters on the +<i>Elymas</i>, and. . .”</p> +<p>“H’m!” said the Colonel, and taking up his +cane and helmet, departed thence without further remark.</p> +<p>“. . . And—I hope you’ll profit by +every word you’ve heard from the Colonel, my lad,” +the Adjutant concluded, turning ferociously upon Bertram. +“Don’t stand there giggling, flippant and +indifferent—a perfect picture of the Idle Apprentice, I +say,” and he burst into a peal of laughter at the solemn, +anxious, tragic mask which was Bertram’s face.</p> +<p>“No,” he added, as they left the room. +“Let the Colonel’s wise and pregnant observations +sink into your mind and bring forth fruit. . . . Such +blossoming, blooming flowers of rhetoric <i>oughter</i> bring +forth fruit in due season, anyhow. . . . Come along +o’ me.”</p> +<p>Leaving the big Mess bungalow, the two crossed the +<i>maidan</i>, wherein numerous small squads of white-clad +recruits were receiving musketry-instruction beneath the shady +spread of gigantic banyans. The quickly signalled approach +of the dread Adjutant-Sahib galvanised the Havildar and Naik +instructors to a fearful activity and zeal, which waned not until +he had passed from sight. In one large patch of shade the +Bandmaster—an ancient Pathan, whose huge iron-rimmed +spectacles accorded but incongruously with his fierce hawk face, +ferocious curling white moustache and beard, and bemedalled +uniform—was conducting the band’s tentative rendering +of “My Bonnie is over the Ocean,” to Bertram’s +wide-eyed surprise and interest. Through the Lines the two +officers made a kind of Triumphal Progress, men on all sides +stiffening to “attention” and saluting as they +passed, to where, behind a cook-house, lay nine large +smoke-blackened cooking-pots under a strong guard.</p> +<p>“There they are, my lad,” quoth the hitherto +silent Adjutant. <a name="page36"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 36</span>“Regard them closely, and +consider them well. Familiarise yourself with them, and +ponder.”</p> +<p>“Why?” asked Bertram.</p> +<p>“For in that it is likely that they, or their astral +forms, will haunt your thoughts by day, your dreams by +night. Your every path through life will lead to +them,” answered the Adjutant.</p> +<p>“What have I got to do with them?” enquired +Bertram, with uncomfortable visions of adding the nine big black +cauldrons to his kit.</p> +<p>“Write about them,” was the succinct reply.</p> +<p>“To whom?” was the next query.</p> +<p>“Child,” said the Adjutant solemnly, “you +are young and ignorant, though earnest. To you, in your +simplicity and innocence—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘A black cooking-pot by a cook-house door<br +/> +A black cooking-pot is, and nothing more,’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>as dear William Wordsworth so truly says in his <i>Ode on the +Imitations of Immorality</i>, is it—or is it in +‘<i>Hark how the Shylock at Heaven’s gate +sings</i>’? I forget. . . . But these are +<i>much</i> more. Oh, very much.”</p> +<p>“How?” asked the puzzled but earnest one.</p> +<p>“<i>How</i>? . . . Why they are the +subject-matter, from this moment, of a Correspondence which will +be still going on when your children’s grandchildren are +doddering grey-beards, and you and I are long since swept into +the gulf of well-deserved oblivion. <i>Babus</i> yet unborn +will batten on that Correspondence and provide posts for their +relatives unnumbered as the sands of the seashore, that it may be +carried on unfailing and unflagging. As the pen drops from +their senile palsied hands they will see the Correspondence take +new lease of life, and they will turn their faces to the wall, +smile, and die happy.”</p> +<p>“I am afraid I don’t really understand,” +admitted Bertram.</p> +<p>“<i>Do</i> you think Colonel Rock will return these +pots? Believe me, he will not. He will say, +‘<i>A pot in the hand is worth two in the +bush-country</i>,’ or else ‘<i>What I have I +hold</i>,’ or ‘<i>Ils suis</i>, <i>ils +reste</i>’—being a bit of a scholar like—or +perhaps he’ll just swear he bought ’em off a man he +went to see about a dog, just round the corner, at the pub. +I don’t know about <i>that</i>—but return them he +will not. . . .”</p> +<p><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +37</span>“But if I say they belong to Colonel Frost and +that he wants them back—and that I promised to make it +clear to him that Colonel Frost desires their immediate +return,” protested Bertram, who visualised himself between +the anvil of Colonel Rock and the hammer of Colonel Frost.</p> +<p>“Why then he’ll probably say they now +‘belong to Colonel Rock and that he <i>doesn’t</i> +want them to go back, and that you must promise to make it clear +to Colonel Frost that he desires <i>his</i> immediate +return’—to the devil,” replied the +Adjutant.</p> +<p>“Yes—every time,” he continued. +“He will pretend that fighting Germans is a more urgent and +important matter than returning pots. He will lay aside no +plans of battle and schemes of strategy to attend to the +pots. He will detail no force of trusty soldiers to convoy +them to the coast. . . . He will refuse to keep them +prominently before his vision. . . . In short, he will hang +on to the damn things. . . . And when the war is o’er +and he returns, he’ll swear he never had a single +cooking-pot in Africa, and in any case they are his own private +property, and always were. . . .”</p> +<p>“I shall have to keep on reminding him about +them,” observed Bertram, endeavouring to separate the grain +of truth from the literal “chaff” of the +Adjutant—who seemed to be talking rapidly and with bitter +humour, to keep himself from thinking of his cruel and crushing +disappointment, or to hide his real feelings.</p> +<p>“If you go nightly to his tent, and, throwing yourself +prostrate at his feet, clasp him around the knees, and say: +‘<i>Oh</i>, <i>sir</i>, <i>think of poor pot-less Colonel +Frost</i>,’ he will reply: ‘<i>To hell with Colonel +Frost</i>! . . .’ Yes—every time. . . . +Until, getting impatient of your reproachful presence, he will +say: ‘<i>You mention pots again and I’ll fill you +with despondency and alarm</i>. . .’ He’ll do +it, too—he’s quite good at it.”</p> +<p>“Rather an awkward position for me,” ventured +Bertram.</p> +<p>“Oh, quite, quite,” agreed Murray. +“Colonel Frost will wire that unless you return his pots, +he’ll break you—and Colonel Rock will state that if +you so much as hint at pots, <i>he’ll</i> break you. . . +. But that’s neither here nor there—the +Correspondence is the thing. It will begin when you are +broke by one of the two—and it will be but waxing in volume +to its grand climacteric when the war is forgotten, and the pots +are but the dust of rust. . . . A great thought. . +. Yes. . .”</p> +<p><a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 38</span>Bertram +stared at the Adjutant. Had he gone mad? Fever? +A touch of the sun? It was none of these things, but a +rather terrible blow, a blighting and a shattering of his +almost-realised hopes—and he must either talk or throw +things about, if he were not to sit down and blaspheme while he +drank himself into oblivion. . . .</p> +<p>For a time they regarded the pots in awed contemplative +silence and felt themselves but ephemeral in their presence, as +they thought of the Great Correspondence, but yet with just a +tinge of that comforting and sustaining <i>quorum pais magna +fui</i> feeling, to which Man, the Mighty Atom, the little devil +of restless interference with the Great Forces, is ever +prone.</p> +<p>In chastened silence they returned to the Adjutant’s +office, and Bertram sat by his desk and watched and wondered, +while that official got through the rest of his morning’s +work and dealt faithfully with many—chiefly sinners.</p> +<p>He then asked the Native Adjutant, who had been assisting him, +to send for Jemadar Hassan Ali, who was to accompany Bertram and +the draft on the morrow, and on that officer’s arrival he +presented him to the young gentleman.</p> +<p>As he bowed and shook hands with the tall, handsome Native +Officer, Bertram repressed a tendency to enquire after Mrs. Ali +and all the little Allies, remembering in time that to allude +directly to a native gentleman’s wife is the grossest +discourtesy and gravest immorality. All he could find to +say was: “<i>Salaam</i>, <i>Jemadar Sahib</i>! <i>Sub +achcha hai</i>?” <a name="citation38a"></a><a +href="#footnote38a" class="citation">[38a]</a> which at any rate +appeared to serve, as the Native Officer gave every demonstration +of cordiality and pleasure. What he said in reply, Bertram +did not in the least understand, so he endeavoured to put on a +look combining pleasure, comprehension, friendliness and +agreement—which he found a slight strain—and +remarked: “<i>Béshak</i>! +<i>Béshak</i>!” <a name="citation38b"></a><a +href="#footnote38b" class="citation">[38b]</a> as he nodded his +head. . . .</p> +<p>The Jemadar later reported to his colleagues that the new +Sahib, albeit thrust in over the heads of tried and experienced +Native Officers, appeared to <i>be</i> a Sahib, a gentleman of +birth, breeding, and good manners; and evidently possessed of far +more than such slight perception and understanding as was +necessary for proper appreciation of the worth and virtues of +Jemadar Hassan Ali. Also that he was but a hairless-faced +babe—but <a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +39</span>doubtless the Sircar knew what it was about, and was +quite right in considering that a young boy of the Indian Army +Reserve was fitter to be a Second-Lieutenant in the +<i>pultan</i>, than was a Jemadar of fifteen years’ +approved service and three medals. One of his hearers +laughed sarcastically, and another grunted approval, but the +Subedar-Major remarked that certain opinions, however tenable, +were, perhaps, better left unvoiced by those who had accepted +service under the Sircar on perfectly clear and definite terms +and conditions.</p> +<p>When the Jemadar had saluted and left the office, Murray +turned upon Bertram suddenly, and, with a concentrated glare of +cold ferocity, delivered himself.</p> +<p>“Young Greene,” quoth he, “yesterday I said +you were a Good Egg and a desirable. I called you Brother, +and fell upon your neck, and I welcomed you to my hearth. I +overlooked your being the son of a beknighted General. I +looked upon you and found you fair and good—as a +‘relief.’ You were a stranger, and I took you +in. . . . Now you have taken <i>me</i> in—and I say +you are a cuckoo in the nest, a viper in the back-parlour, a worm +in the bud, a microbe in the milk, and an elephant in the +ointment. . . . You are a—a—”.</p> +<p>“I’m <i>awfully</i> sorry, Murray,” +interrupted the unhappy Bertram. “I’d do +<i>anything</i>—”</p> +<p>“Yes—and any <i>body</i>,” continued the +Adjutant. “I say you are a pillar of the pot-houses +of Gomorrah, a fly-blown turnip and a great mistake. Though +of apparently most harmless exterior and of engaging manners, you +are an orange filled with ink, an addled egg of old, and an Utter +Improbability. I took you up and you have done me +down. I took you out and you have done me in. I took +you in and you have done me out—of my chance in life. . . +. Your name is now as a revolting noise in my ears, and +your face a repulsive sight, a thing to break plates on . . . and +they ‘call you <i>Cupid</i>’!”</p> +<p>“I can’t tell you how distressed I am about it, +Murray,” broke in the suffering youth. “If only +there were anything I could do so that you could go, and not +I—”</p> +<p>“You can do nothing,” was the cold reply. +“You can not even, in mere decency, die this night like a +gentleman. . . . And if you did, they’d only send +some other pale Pimple to take the bread out of a fellow’s +mouth. . . . This is a civilians’ war, mark <a +name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 40</span>you; they +don’t want professional soldiers for a little job like +this. . . .”</p> +<p>“It wasn’t <i>my</i> fault, Murray,” +protested Bertram, reduced almost to tears by his sense of wicked +unworthiness and the injustice to his kind mentor of +yesterday.</p> +<p>“Perhaps not,” was the answer, “but why were +you ever <i>born</i>, Cupid Greene, that’s what I +ask? You say it isn’t your fault—but if +you’d never been born . . . Still, though I can never +forget, I forgive you, and would share my last pot of rat-poison +with you cheerfully. . . . Here—get out your +note-book,” and he proceeded to give the boy every +“tip” and piece of useful advice and information that +he could think of as likely to be beneficial to him, to the men, +to the regiment, and to the Cause.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER III<br /> +<i>Preparations</i></h3> +<p>That night Bertram could not sleep. The excitement of +that wonderful day had been too much for his nerves, and he lay +alternating between the depths of utter black despair, fear, +self-distrust and anxiety on the one hand, and the heights of +exultation, hope, pride, and joy on the other.</p> +<p>At one moment he saw himself the butt of his colleagues, the +contempt of his men, the <i>bête noir</i> of his Colonel, +the shame of his Service, and the disgrace of his family.</p> +<p>At another, he saw himself winning the approval of his brother +officers by his modesty and sporting spirit, the affection and +admiration of his men by his kindness and firmness, the good-will +of his Colonel by his obvious desire to learn and his keen +enthusiasm in his duty, the respect of his Service for winning a +decoration, and the loving regard of the whole clan of Greene for +his general success as a soldier.</p> +<p>But these latter moments were, alas, far less realistic and +convincing than the others. In them he merely hoped and +imagined—while in the black ones he felt and +<i>knew</i>. He could not do otherwise than realise that he +was utterly inexperienced, ignorant, untried and incompetent, for +it was the simple fact. If <i>he</i> could be of much use, +then what is the good of training men for years <a +name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 41</span>in colleges, +in regiments, and in the field, to prepare them to take their +part in war?</p> +<p>He knew nothing of either the art or the science of that great +and terrible business. He had neither the officer’s +trained brain nor the private soldier’s trained body; +neither the theory of the one nor the practice of the +other. Even if, instead of going to the Front to-morrow as +an officer, he had been going in a British regiment as a private, +he would have been equally useless. He had never been +drilled, and he had never used a weapon of any kind. All he +had got was a burning desire to be of use, a fair amount of +intelligence, and, he hoped, the average endowment of +courage. Even as to this last, he could not be really +certain, as he had never yet been tried—but he was very +strongly of opinion that the dread of showing himself a coward +would always be far stronger than the dread of anything that the +enemy could do to his vile body. His real fear was that he +should prove incompetent, be unequal to emergency, and fail those +who relied upon him or trusted in him. When he thought of +that, he knew Fear, the cold terror that causes a fluttering of +the heart, a dryness of the mouth, a weakness of the knees, and a +sinking of the stomach.</p> +<p>That was the real dread, that and the fear of illness which +would further decrease capacity and usefulness. What were +mere bullets and bayonets, wounds and death, beside revealed +incompetence and failure in duty?</p> +<p>Oh, that he might have luck in his job, and also keep in +sufficient health to be capable of his best—such as it +was.</p> +<p>When Hope was in the ascendant, he assured himself that the +greatest work and highest duty of a British officer in a Native +regiment was to encourage and enhearten his men; to set them a +splendid example of courage and coolness; to hearten them up when +getting depressed; to win their confidence, affection and +respect, so that they would cheerfully follow him anywhere and +“stick it” as long as he did, no matter what the +hardship, danger, or misery. These things were obviously a +thousand times more important than parade-ground knowledge and +such details as correct alignment, keeping step, polishing +buttons, and so forth—important as these might be in their +proper place and season. And one did not learn those +greater things from books, nor on parade, nor at colleges. +A man as ignorant as even he of drill, internal economy, tactics +and strategy, might yet be worth his <a name="page42"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 42</span>rations in the trenches, on the +march, yes, or in the wild, fierce bayonet-charge itself, if he +had the attributes that enable him to encourage, uplift, +enhearten and give confidence.</p> +<p>And then his soaring spirit would swiftly stoop again, as he +asked himself: “And have <i>I</i> those qualities and +attributes?” and sadly replied: “Probably +not—but what is, at any rate, certain, is the fact that I +have no knowledge, no experience, no understanding of the very +alphabet of military lore, no slightest grasp of the routine +details of regimental life, discipline, drill, regulations, +internal economy, customs, and so forth—the things that are +the elementary essentials of success to a body of armed men +proceeding to fight.” . . . And in black misery and +blank despair he would groan aloud: “<i>I cannot +go</i>. <i>I cannot do it</i>.” . . . He was +very young, very much a product of modern civilisation, and a +highly specialised victim of a system and a generation that had +taken too little account of naked fact and elemental basic +tendency—a system and a generation that pretended to +believe that human nature had changed with human +conditions. As he realised, he had, like a few million +others, been educated not for Life and the World-As-It-Is, but +for examinations and the world as it is not, and never will be. . +. .</p> +<p>He tossed and turned through the long hot night on the little +hard camp-bed, listening to Murray’s regular breathing and +the scampering of the rats as they disported themselves on the +other side of the canvas ceiling cloth and went about their +unlawful occasions. . . .</p> +<p>He reviewed the events of that epoch-making day from the +arrival of the telegram to his getting into bed. . . . A +memorable morning, a busy afternoon and evening, a rotten +night—with a beastly climax—or anti-climax. . . +. Would he never get to sleep on this hard, narrow bed? . . +. What would he be fit for on the dreadful morrow if he +slept not at all? . . . What a day it had been! +Rather amusing about those cooking-pots. It wouldn’t +be very amusing for <i>him</i> if the situation developed as +Murray had prophesied. . . . Rather a good bit of work that +he had put in between lunch and dinner with the drill-book and a +box of matches. Matches made good sections, companies, and +battalions for practising drill-manœuvres on a +desk—but it would he a different thing to give the orders +correctly and audibly to hundreds of men who watched one with +inscrutable eyes. . . . <a name="page43"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 43</span>How he wished he had declined the +invitation of Bludyer to accompany him and Macteith to the +theatre. . . . They had proceeded in a car to the Club and +there picked up some other fellows. The play was <i>The +Girl in the Taxi</i>, and Bertram sat ashamed, humiliated and +angry, as a third-rate company of English actors and actresses +performed their sorry parts in a travesty of European life and +manners, before the avid eyes of hundreds of natives. There +they sat, with faces contemptuous, sensual, blank, eager, gleeful +or disgusted, according to their respective conditions and +temperaments—the while they gathered from the play that +English life is a medley of infidelity, dissipation, intrigue and +vulgarity.</p> +<p>And, after the play, Macteith had said: “Let’s go +to the Home-from-Home for a +‘drink-and-a-little-music—what—what’?”</p> +<p>Bertram had thought it a somewhat strange proceeding to go to +a Home, at eleven o’clock at night, for music, and he would +greatly have preferred to go to bed. However, he could not +very well say that they must take him back to bed first, nor +announce his intention of leaving the party and walking home. . . +.</p> +<p>. . . Macteith having given instructions to the Eurasian +chauffeur, the taxi sped away and, skirting the sea-shore, turned +off into a quiet avenue of giant palms, in which stood detached +bungalows of retiring and unobtrusive mien. Into the +compound of one of these the taxi turned, and a bell rang loudly, +apparently of its own volition. As they got out of the car, +a lady came out to the brilliantly lighted verandah from the +drawing-room which opened on to it. Bertram did not like +the look of this lady at all. Her face reminded him of that +of a predatory animal or bird, with its fierce eyes, thin, hard +lips and aquiline nose. Nor, in his estimation, did the +obvious paint and powder, the extreme-fashioned satin gown, and +the profusion of jewellery which she wore, do anything to +mitigate the unfavourable impression received at first sight of +her face. . . . Really the last person one would have +expected to find in charge of a Home. . . . Nor was +Macteith’s greeting of “Hullo, Fifi, my dear! +Brought some of the Boys along,” calculated to allay a +growing suspicion that this was not really a Home at all.</p> +<p>Entering the drawing-room with the rest, Bertram beheld a bevy +of ladies sitting in an almost perfect circle, each with a vacant +chair beside her. Some of them were young, and some of them +<a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 44</span>presumably +had been. All were in evening dress and in the exaggerated +extreme of fashion. All seemed to be painted and powdered, +and all looked tired and haggard. Another attribute common +to the whole party was that they all seemed to be +foreigners—judging by their accents as they welcomed +Macteith and some of the others as old acquaintances.</p> +<p>Bertram liked the look of these ladies as little as he did +that of the person addressed as “Fifi,” and he hoped +that the party would not remain at the house long. He was +tired, and he felt thoroughly uncomfortable, as noisy horse-play +and badinage began, and waxed in volume and pungency. A +servant, unbidden, entered with a tray on which stood three +bottles of champagne and a number of glasses. He noticed +that the bottles had been opened, that the corks and gold-foil +looked weary and experienced, and that the wine, when poured out, +was singularly devoid of bubbles and froth. He wished he +had not come. . . . He did not want to +drink alleged champagne at midnight. . . . There was no +music, and the people were of more than doubtful breeding, taste +and manners. . . . Macteith had actually got his arm round +the waist of one woman, and she was patting his cheek as she +gazed into his eyes. Another pair exchanged a kiss before +his astonished gaze. He decided to walk out of the house, +and was about to do so when the girl nearest to him seized his +hand and said: “You seet daown ’ere an’ spik to +me, sare,” as she pulled him towards the chair that stood +vacant beside her. In an agony of embarrassment born of a +great desire to refuse to stay another minute, and a somewhat +unnecessary horror of hurting the young lady’s feelings by +a refusal, he seated himself with the remark: “Merci, +mam’selle—mais il se fait tard. Il est sur les +une heure . . .” as she appeared to be a French woman.</p> +<p>“Laissez donc!” was the reply. “Il est +l’heure du berger,” a remark the point of which he +missed entirely. Finding that he knew French, she rattled +on gaily in that tongue, until Bertram asked her from what part +of France she came. On learning that she was from Alais in +Provence, he talked of Arles, Nismes, Beaucaire, Tarascon, +Avignon and the neighbourhood, thinking to please her, until, to +his utter amazement and horror, she turned upon him with a vile, +spitting oath, bade him be silent, and then burst into +tears. Feeling more shocked, unhappy and miserable than he +had ever felt before, he begged the girl to accept his <a +name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 45</span>regrets and +apologies—as well as his farewell—and to tell him if +he could in any way compensate her for the unintentional hurt he +had somehow inflicted.</p> +<p>On her sullen reply of “Argent comptant porte +médecine,” Bertram dropped a fifty rupee note into +her lap and literally fled from the house. . . .</p> +<p>. . . Yes—a rotten night with a beastly +anti-climax to the wonderful day on which he had received . . . +<i>he</i>, of all people in the world! . . . had received orders +to proceed to the Front. . . . Bertram Greene on Active +Service! How could he have the impudence—and it all +began again and was revolved once more in his weary mind. . . +.</p> +<p>Dawn brought something of hope and a little peace to the +perturbed soul of the over-anxious boy.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER IV<br /> +<i>Terra Marique Jactatus</i></h3> +<p>As he arrayed himself in all his war-paint, after his +sleepless and unhappy night, Bertram felt feverish, and +afraid. His head throbbed violently, and he had that +distressing sensation of being remorselessly urged on, fatedly +fury-driven and compelled to do all things with terrible haste +and hurry.</p> +<p>Excitement, anxiety, sleeplessness and the conflicting +emotions of hope and fear, were taking their toll of the nervous +energy and vitality of the over-civilised youth.</p> +<p>He felt alarmed at his own alarm, and anxious about his own +anxiety—and feared that, at this rate, he would be worn out +before he began, a physical and mental wreck, fitter for a +hospital-ship than a troop-ship, before ever he started.</p> +<p>“The lad’s over-engined for his beam,” +observed Murray to himself, as he lay on his camp cot, drinking +his <i>choti hazri</i> tea, and watching Bertram, who, with white +face and trembling fingers, stood making more haste than speed, +as he fumbled with straps and buckles. “Take it easy, +my son,” he said kindly. “There’s tons of +time, and then some. I’ll see you’re not late. +. . .”</p> +<p><a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +46</span>“Thanks, Murray,” replied Bertram, +“but—”</p> +<p>“Here—take those belts off at once,” +interrupted the Adjutant. “Take the lot off and lie +down again—and smoke this cigarette. . . . <i>At +once</i>, d’ye hear?” and the tone was such that +Bertram complied without comment. He sank on to the +camp-bed, swung up his long legs, with their heavy boots, shorts, +and puttees and puffed luxuriously. He had intended to be a +non-smoker as well as a teetotaller, now that he was +“mobilised,” but it would be as well to obey Murray +now and begin his abstinence from tobacco when he got on +board. He lay and smoked obediently, and soon felt, if not +better, at least calmer, cooler and quieter.</p> +<p>“Blooming old tub won’t start till +to-night—you see’f she does,” said +Murray. “Sort of thing we always do in the Army. . . +. <i>Always</i>. . . . Harry and hurry everybody on +parade at seven, to catch a boat that doesn’t profess to +sail till two, and probably won’t actually do it till +midnight.”</p> +<p>“I should die of shame if I were late for my first +parade,” said Bertram anxiously.</p> +<p>“You’d die of the Colonel, if you didn’t of +shame,” was the reply. . . . “I’ll see +you’re not late. You take things a bit easier, my +son. Your King and Country want you in East Africa, not in +a lunatic asylum—”</p> +<p>“<i>Pappa</i>! <i>What part did you take in the +Great War</i>?” squeaked a falsetto voice from the door, +and looking up, Bertram beheld Lieutenant Bludyer, always merry +and bright, arrayed in crimson, scarlet-frogged pyjama coat, and +pink pyjama trousers. On his feet were vermilion velvet +slippers.</p> +<p>“I’ll take a leading part in your dirty +death,” said the Adjutant, turning to the speaker, or +squeaker.</p> +<p>“Thought this might be useful, Greene,” continued +Bludyer in his natural voice, as he handed Bertram a slab of thin +khaki linen and a conical cap of a kind of gilded corduroy. +“Make yourself a regimental <i>puggri</i> in the day of +battle. Put the cap on your nut and wind the turban over +it. . . . Bloke with a helmet and a white face hasn’t +an earthly, advancing with a line of Sepoys in +<i>puggris</i>. The enemy give him their united attention +until he is outed. . . .”</p> +<p>“Oh, thanks, awfully, Bludyer,” began Bertram.</p> +<p>“So go dirty till your face is like Murray’s, grow +a hoary, hairy beard, an’ wear a turban on your fat +head,” continued <a name="page47"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 47</span>Bludyer. “Your orderly +could do it on for you, so that it wouldn’t all come down +when you waggled. . . .”</p> +<p>“Thanks, most awfully. It’s exceedingly kind +of you, Bludyer,” acknowledged Bertram, and proceeded to +stuff the things into his haversack.</p> +<p>“Wow! Wow!” ejaculated Bludyer. +“Nice-mannered lad and well brought up, ain’t he, +Randolph Murray?” and seating himself on that +officer’s bed, he proceeded to use the tea-cosy as a +foot-warmer, the morning being chilly.</p> +<p>The Adjutant arose and proceeded to dress.</p> +<p>“Devil admire me!” he suddenly shouted, pointing +at Bertram. “Look at that infernal lazy swine! Did +you ever see anything like it, Bludyer? Lying hogging +there, lolling and loafing in bed, as if he had all day to finish +nothing in! . . . Here, get up, you idle hound, and earn +your living. Dress for parade, if you can do nothing +else.”</p> +<p>And Bertram gathered that he might now get on with his +preparations.</p> +<p>“Yes,” added Bludyer, “you really ought to +get on with the war, Greene. <i>Isn’t</i> he a +devil-may-care fellow, Murray? He don’t give a damn +if it snows,” and adding that it was his flute-night at the +Mission, and he now must go, the young gentleman remained seated +where he was.</p> +<p>“You aren’t hurrying a bit, Greene,” he +remarked, after eyeing Bertram critically for a few +minutes. “He won’t prosper and grow rich like +that, will he, Randolph Murray? That is not how the +Virtuous Apprentice got on so nicely, and married his +master’s aunt. . . . No. . . . And Samuel +Smiles was never late for parade—of that I’m quite +certain. No. ‘<i>Self</i>-help’ was +<i>his</i> motto, and the devil take the other fellow. . . +. Let me fasten that for you. This strap goes under +not over. . . .” And, with his experienced +assistance, Bertram was soon ready, and feeling like a trussed +fowl and a Christmas-tree combined, by the time he had festooned +about him his sword, revolver, full ammunition-pouches, +field-glasses, water-bottle, belt-haversack, large haversack, +map-case, compass-pouch, whistle-lanyard, revolver-lanyard, +rolled cape, and the various belts, straps and braces connected +with these articles.</p> +<p>By the time the last buckle was fastened, he longed to take +the whole lot off again for a few minutes, and have a really <a +name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 48</span>comfortable +breathe. (But he <i>did</i> wish Miranda Walsingham could +see him.)</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>In a corner of the parade-ground stood the Hundred, the +selected draft which was to proceed to Africa to fill the gaps +that war had torn in the ranks of the Hundred and +Ninety-Eighth. On their flank the regimental band was drawn +up in readiness to play them to the docks. The men wore +khaki turbans, tunics, shorts, puttees and hob-nailed boots, and +carried only haversacks, water-bottles, bandoliers, rifles and +bayonets. The rest of their kit, each man’s done up +in a neat bundle inside his waterproof ground-sheet and striped +cotton sleeping-<i>dhurrie</i>, had gone on in bullock-carts to +await them at the wharf.</p> +<p>Around the Hundred stood or squatted the remainder of the +battalion, in every kind and degree of dress and undress. +Occasionally one of these would arise and go unto his pal in the +ranks, fall upon his neck, embrace him once again, shake both his +hands alternately, and then return to the eligible site whence, +squatting on his heels, he could feast his eyes upon his +<i>bhai</i>, his brother, his friend, so soon to be torn from +him. . . . As the officers approached, these spectators +fell back. Bertram’s heart beat so violently that he +feared the others would hear it. Was he going to have +“palpitations” and faint, or throw a fit or +something? He was very white, and felt very ill. Was +his ignorance and incompetence to be exposed and manifested now? +. . .</p> +<p>“Look fierce and take over charge, my son,” said +the Adjutant, as the small party of officers came in front of the +draft.</p> +<p>“Company!” shouted Bertram, +“Shun!”</p> +<p>That was all right. He had hit the note nicely, and his +voice had fairly boomed. He had heard that men judge a new +officer by his voice, more than anything.</p> +<p>The Hundred sprang to attention, and Bertram, accompanied by +the Adjutant and Macteith, walked slowly down the front rank and +up the rear, doing his best to look as though he were critically +and carefully noting certain points, and assuring himself that +certain essentials were in order. He was glad that he had +not suddenly to answer such a question as “<i>What</i> +exactly are you peering at and looking for?” He +wished he had sufficient Hindustani to ask a stern but not +unkindly question here and there, or to make an occasional +comment in the manner of one <a name="page49"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 49</span>from whom no military thing is +hid. He suddenly remembered that he knew the Hindustani for +“How old are you?” so he asked this question of a man +whose orange-coloured beard would obviously have been white but +for henna dye. Not in the least understanding the +man’s reply, he remarked “H’m!” in +excellent imitation of the Colonel, and passed on.</p> +<p>“Not the absolute pick of the regiment, I should think, +are they?” he remarked to Murray, as they returned to the +front of the company.</p> +<p>“They are not,” he said.</p> +<p>“Pretty old, some of them,” added Bertram, who was +privately hoping that he did not look such a fraudulent Ass as he +felt.</p> +<p>Major Fordinghame strolled up and returned the salutes of the +group of officers.</p> +<p>“This experienced officer thinks the draft is not the +pure cream of the regiment, Major,” said Murray, indicating +Bertram.</p> +<p>“Fancy that, now,” replied Major Fordinghame, and +Bertram blushed hotly.</p> +<p>“I thought some of them seemed rather old, sir,” +he said, “but—er—perhaps old soldiers are +better than young ones?”</p> +<p>“It’s a matter of taste—as the monkey said +when he chewed his father’s ear,” murmured +Bludyer.</p> +<p>Silence fell upon the little group.</p> +<p>“And both have their draw-backs—as the monkey said +when she pulled her twins’ tails,” he added +pensively.</p> +<p>Bertram wondered what he had better do next.</p> +<p>The Native Officer of the draft came hurrying up, and +saluted. Another Hindustani sentence floated into +Bertram’s mind. “You are late, Jemadar +Sahib,” said he, severely.</p> +<p>Jemadar Hassan Ali poured forth a torrent of excuse or +explanation which Bertram could not follow.</p> +<p>“What do you do if a Havildar or Naik or Sepoy is late +for parade?” he asked, or attempted to ask, in slow and +barbarous Hindustani.</p> +<p>Another torrent of verbiage, scarcely a word of which was +intelligible to him.</p> +<p>He put on a hard, cold and haughty look, or attempted to do +so, and kept, perforce, an eloquent but chilling silence. +Murray and the Major exchanged glances.</p> +<p>“Greene Sahib is <i>very</i> particular and <i>very</i> +strict, Jemadar <a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +50</span>Sahib,” said the Major. “You had +better bear it in mind, and tell the men too. He’ll +stand no sort of nonsense from anybody. You’ll find +him very kind so long as he is satisfied, but if he +isn’t—well!” and the Major shrugged his +shoulders expressively.</p> +<p>Bertram looked gratefully at the Major (for he understood +“Englishman’s Hindustani”), and as sternly as +he could at the Jemadar, who saluted again and retired.</p> +<p>The Colonel rode up, and the officers sprang to attention.</p> +<p>“Everything ready, sir,” said the Adjutant. +“They can march off when you like.”</p> +<p>“H’m!” said the Colonel, and stared at +Bertram as though he honestly and unaffectedly did wonder why God +made such things. He then wheeled his horse towards the +waiting Hundred. “Men of the Hundred and +Ninety-Ninth,” said he in faultless Hindustani, “you +are now going across the Black Water to fight the enemies of the +King Emperor, and of yourselves. They would like to conquer +your country and oppress you. You go to fight for your own +homes and children, as well as for your Emperor. Bring +honour to your regiment and yourselves. Show the +<i>Germanis</i> and their <i>Hubshis </i><a +name="citation50"></a><a href="#footnote50" +class="citation">[50]</a> what Indian Sepoys can do—both in +time of battle and in time of hunger, thirst, and hardship. +Before God I say I would give anything to come with you, but I +have to do my duty here—for the present. We may meet +again in Africa. Good-bye. Good luck. . . . +Good-bye. . . .” The Jemadar called for three cheers +for the Colonel, and the Hundred lustily cried: +“<i>’Eep</i>, <i>’Eep</i>, +<i>’Oorayee</i>.” The remainder of the regiment +joined in, and then cheered the Hundred. Meanwhile, the +Colonel turned to Bertram.</p> +<p>“Good-by, young Greene. Good luck,” he said, +and leaning from his horse, wrung Bertram’s hand as though +it had been that of his only son.</p> +<p>Similarly did the others, with minor differences.</p> +<p>“Well—it’s useless to weep these unavailing +tears,” sobbed Bludyer. “There’s an end +to everything, as the monkey said when he seized the tip of his +mother’s nose. . . .”</p> +<p>“Farewell, my blue-nosed, golden-eyed, curly-eared +Mother’s Darling,” said Macteith.</p> +<p>“Good luck, sonny. Write and let me know how you +get on,” <a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +51</span>said Murray. “You’ll do. +You’ve got the guts all right, and you’ll very soon +get the hang of things. . . .”</p> +<p>“March ’em off, now,” he added. +“Chuck a chest, and don’t give a damn for +anybody,” and Bertram carefully collected his voice, +swallowed a kind of lump in his throat, bade his wildly beating +heart be still, gave thought to the drill-book, and roared:</p> +<p>“Company! . . . <i>’Shun</i>! . . . +Slope <i>Arms</i>! . . . Form <i>fours</i>! . . . +<i>Right</i>! . . . Quick <i>march</i>!”—the +band struck up—and they were off.</p> +<p>Yes, he, Bertram Greene, pale clerkly person, poet and +æsthete, was marching proudly, in full military attire, at +the head of a hundred fighting-men—marching to the +inspiring strains of the regimental band, to where the trooper +waited on the tide! If his father could only see him! +He was happy as he had never been before in his life, and he was +proud as he never had been before. . . . If Miranda +could only see him! He, Bertram Greene, was actually +marching to war, with sword on thigh, and head held high, in sole +command of a hundred trained fighting-men!</p> +<p>His heart beat very fast, but without pain now, and he was, +for the moment, free of his crushing sense of inadequacy, +inexperience and unworthiness. He was only conscious of a +great pride, a great hope, and a great determination to be +worthy, so far as in him lay the power, of his high fate. . . +.</p> +<p>No man forgets his first march at the head of his own force, +if he forgets his first march in uniform. For Bertram this +was both. It was his first march in uniform, and he was in +whole and sole control of this party—like a Centurion of +old tramping the Roman Road at the head of his hundred +Legionaries—and Bertram felt he would not forget it if he +lived till his years equalled the number of his men.</p> +<p>It was not a very long march, and it was certainly not a very +picturesque one—along the cobbled Dock Road, with its +almost innumerable cotton-laden bullock-carts—but Bertram +trod on air through a golden dream city and was exalted, brother +to the Knights of Arthur who quested for the Grail and went about +to right the wrong and to succour the oppressed. . . .</p> +<p>Arrived at the dock-gates, he was met and guided aright, by a +brassarded myrmidon of the Embarkation Staff Officer, to where <a +name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 52</span>His +Majesty’s Transport <i>Elymas</i> lay in her basin beside a +vast shed-covered wharf.</p> +<p>Beneath this shed, Bertram halted his men, turned them into +line, and bade them pile arms, fall out, and sit them down in +close proximity to their rifles.</p> +<p>Leaving the Jemadar in charge, he then went up the gangway of +the <i>Elymas</i> in search of the said Embarkation Staff +Officer, who, he had been told, would allot him and his men their +quarters on the ship. As he gazed around the deserted +forward well-deck, he saw an officer, who wore a lettered red +band round his arm, hurrying towards him along the promenade +deck, his hands full of papers, a pencil in his mouth, and a +careworn, worried look upon his face.</p> +<p>“You Greene, by any chance?” he called, as he ran +sideway down the narrow ladder from the upper deck.</p> +<p>“Yes, sir,” replied Bertram, saluting as he +perceived that the officer was a captain. “Just +arrived with a draft of a hundred men from the Hundred and +Ninety-Ninth,” he added proudly.</p> +<p>“Good dog,” was the reply, “keep the +perishers out of it for a bit till I’m ready. . . . +Better come with me now though, and I’ll show you, +<i>one</i>, where they’re to put their rifles; <i>two</i>, +where they’re to put themselves; <i>three</i>, where they +will do their beastly cooking; and <i>four</i>, where you will +doss down yourself. . . . Don’t let there be any +mistakes, because there are simply millions more coming,” +and he led the way to a companion hatch in the after well-deck, +and clattered down a ladder into the bowels of the ship, Bertram +following him in his twists and turns with a growing sense of +bewilderment.</p> +<p>He was very glad to hear that he and his merry men were not to +have the ship to themselves, for there were a thousand and one +points that he would be very glad to be able to refer to the +decision of Authority, or the advice of Experience.</p> +<p>The Embarkation Officer, dripping and soaked and sodden with +perspiration, as was Bertram himself, wound his devious way, +along narrow passages, ladders and tunnels, to a kind of +cage-like cloak-room fitted with racks.</p> +<p>“Your men’ll come here in single file, by the way +we have come,” said he, “enter this armoury one by +one, leave their rifles on these racks, and go up that ladder to +the deck above, and round to the ladder leading out on the +forward well-deck. You’ll have <a +name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 53</span>to explain it +carefully, and shepherd ’m along too, or there’ll be +a jam and loss of life and—worse—loss of time. . . +. In the early days we managed badly on one occasion and +got a crowd of Sikhs pushing against a crowd of Pathans. . . +.” He then led the disintegrating Bertram by devious +paths to a dark oven-like and smelly place (which Bertram +mentally labelled “the horizontal section of the +fo’c’sle, three storeys down”) in which the +Hundred were to live, or to die—poor devils! There +would hardly be standing room—and thence to the scene of +their culinary labours. Lastly, when the bewildered youth +was again feeling very ill, the Embarkation Officer retraced his +steps, showed him certain water-taps for the use of his men, and +led the way up and out to the blessed light of day, fresh air, +and the comparative coolness of the deck. “Your +cabin’s along here,” said he, entering a long +corridor that debouched on to the well-deck. +“Let’s see, Number 43, I think. Yes. A +two-berth cabin to yourself—and last trip we had three +generals in a one-berth cabin, four colonels in a bath at once, +and five common officers on top of one another in each chair at +table. . . . Fact—I assure you. . . . Go in and +chuck away all that upholstery—you can run about in your +shirt-sleeves now, or naked if you like, so long as you wear a +helmet to show you are in uniform. . . . Bye-bye—be a +good boy,” and he bustled away.</p> +<p>Bertram thankfully took the Embarkation Officer’s +advice, and cast off all impedimenta until he was clad only in +khaki shirt, shorts, puttees and boots. He thought he could +enter into the feelings of a butterfly as it emerges from the +constricting folds of its cocoon.</p> +<p>He sat down for a minute on the white bed prepared for his +occupation. The other was cumbered with his valise, sack, +and strapped bundle, which had come down on the first of the +bullock-carts and been brought on board at once. He looked +round the well-appointed, spotless cabin, with its white paint +and mahogany fittings, electric fans and lights. That one +just beside his pillow would be jolly for reading in bed. +Anyhow, he’d have a comfortable and restful voyage. +What a blessing that he had a cabin to himself, and what a pity +that the voyage took only about ten days. . . . Would life +on a troop-ship be a thing of disciplined strenuousness, or would +it be just a perfectly slack time for everybody? . . . It +should be easy for him to hide his ignorance while <a +name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 54</span>on +board—there couldn’t be very much in the way of +drill. . . . How his head throbbed, and how seedy and tired +he felt! . . . He lay back on his bed and then sprang up in +alarm and horror at what he had done. A pretty way to +commence his Active Service!—and, putting on his heavy and +uncomfortable helmet, he hurried to the wharf.</p> +<p>Going down the gangway, he again encountered the Embarkation +Officer.</p> +<p>“Better let your men file on board with their rifles +first, and then off again for their kits and bedding, and then +back again to the quarters I showed you. Having pegged out +their claims there, and each man hung his traps on the peg above +his sleeping-mat, they can go up on the after well-deck and +absolutely nowhere else. See? And no man to leave the +ship again, on any pretence whatever. Got it?”</p> +<p>“Yes, sir,” replied Bertram, and privately +wondered if he would even find his way again to that cage-like +cloak-room in the hold, and that “horizontal section of the +fo’c’sle three storeys down.”</p> +<p>But he <i>must</i> do this, his very first job, absolutely +correctly, and without any bungling and footling. He must +imagine that he was going in for an examination again—an +examination this time in quite a new subject, “The art of +getting men on board a ship, bedding them down, each with his own +bundle of kit, in one place, and storing their rifles in another, +without confusion or loss of time.” <i>Quite</i> a +new subject, and one in which previous studies, Classics, +Literature, Philosophy, Art, were not going to be of any great +value.</p> +<p>Perhaps it would be as well to take the Jemadar, Havildars and +Naiks on a personally conducted tour to the armoury, quarters, +cooking-places and taps, and explain the <i>modus operandi</i> to +them as well as he could. One can do a good deal to eke out +a scanty knowledge of the vernacular by means of signs and +wonders—though sometimes one makes the signs and the other +person wonders. . . .</p> +<p>Returning to the oven-like shed, resonant with the piercing +howls of <i>byle-ghari-wallas</i>, <a name="citation54"></a><a +href="#footnote54" class="citation">[54]</a> coolies, Lascars and +overseers; the racking rattle and clang and clatter of chains, +cranes, derricks and donkey-engines; the crashing of iron-bound +wheels over <a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +55</span>cobble-stones, and the general pandemonium of a busy +wharf, he beckoned the Jemadar to him and made him understand +that he wanted a couple of Havildars and four Naiks to accompany +him on board.</p> +<p>Suddenly he had a bright idea. (Good old drill-book and +retentive memory of things read, heard, or seen!) . . . +“Why have you set no sentry over the arms, Jemadar +Sahib? It should not be necessary for me to have to give +the order,” he said as well as he could in his halting +Hindustani.</p> +<p>The Jemadar looked annoyed—and distinctly felt as he +looked. Half the men had heard the reproof. He, an +old soldier of fifteen years’ service, to be set right by a +child like this! And the annoying part of it was that the +amateur was right! Of course he should have put a sentry +over the arms. It was probably the first time he had +omitted to do so, when necessary, since he had first held +authority . . . and he raged inwardly. There are few things +that annoy an Indian more than to be “told off” +before subordinates, particularly when he is obviously in the +wrong. Was this youthful Greene Sahib a person of more +knowledge and experience than had been reported by the +Adjutant’s Office <i>babu</i>? The <i>babu</i> had +certainly described him as one whom the other officers laughed at +for his ignorance and inexperience. Had not the worthy +Chatterji Chuckerbutti related in detail how Macteith Sahib had +called upon his gods and feigned great sickness after offensively +examining Greene Sahib through his field-glasses? Strange +and unfathomable are the ways of Sahibs, and perhaps the true +inwardness of the incident had been quite otherwise? It +might have been an honorific ceremony, in fact, and Macteith +Sahib might have feigned sickness at his own unworthiness, +according to etiquette? . . . After all, the military +salute itself is only a motion simulating the shading of +one’s eyes from the effulgent glory of the person one +salutes; and the Oriental bowing and touching the forehead is +only a motion simulating taking up dust and putting it on +one’s head. . . . Yes—the <i>babu</i> may have +been wrong, and Macteith Sahib may really have been acclaiming +Greene Sahib his superior, and declaring his own miserable +unworthiness. . . . One never knew with Sahibs. Their +minds are unreadable, and one can never get at what they are +thinking, or grasp their point of view. One could only rest +assured that there is always method in their madness—that +they <a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 56</span>are +clever as devils, brave as lions, and—averse from giving +commissions as lieutenants, captains, majors, and colonels to +Indian Native Officers. . .</p> +<p>“Get a move on, Jemadar Sahib,” said the voice of +Greene Sahib curtly, in English, and the Jemadar bustled off to +set the sentry and call the Havildars and Naiks—rage in his +heart. . . .</p> +<p>More easily than he had expected, Bertram found his way, at +the head of the party, to the required places, and showed the +Jemadar and Non-commissioned Officers how the men should come and +depart, in such manner as to avoid hindering each other and to +obviate the possibility of a jam.</p> +<p>The Jemadar began to ask questions, and Bertram began to +dislike the Jemadar. He was a talker, and appeared to be +what schoolboys call “tricky.” He knew that +Bertram had very little Hindustani, and seemed anxious to +increase the obviousness of the fact.</p> +<p>Bertram felt unhappy and uncomfortable. He wished to be +perfectly courteous to him as a Native Officer, but it would not +do to let the man mistake politeness for weakness, and +inexperience for inefficiency. . . . Was there a faint +gleam of a grin on the fellow’s face as he said: “I +do not understand,” at the end of Bertram’s attempt +at explanation?</p> +<p>“Do <i>you</i> understand?” the latter said, +suddenly, turning to the senior Havildar, the man who had turned +out the Guard for him on his first approach to the Lines on that +recent day that seemed so long ago.</p> +<p>“<i>Han</i>, <a name="citation56a"></a><a +href="#footnote56a" class="citation">[56a]</a> +<i>Sahib</i>,” replied the man instantly and readily. +“<i>Béshak</i>!” <a name="citation56b"></a><a +href="#footnote56b" class="citation">[56b]</a></p> +<p>“Then you’d better explain to the Jemadar Sahib, +who does not,” said Bertram with a click of his jaw, as he +turned to depart.</p> +<p>The Jemadar hastened to explain that he <i>fully</i> +understood, as Bertram strode off. Apparently complete +apprehension had come as soon as he realised that his dullness +was to be enlightened by the explanation of the quicker-witted +Havildar. He gave that innocent and unfortunate man a look +of bitter hatred, and, as he followed Bertram, he ground his +teeth. Havildar Afzul Khan Ishak should live to learn the +extreme unwisdom of understanding things that Jemadar Hassan Ali +professed not to understand. As for Second-Lieutenant +Greene—perhaps he should live to <a name="page57"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 57</span>learn the unwisdom of quarrelling +with an experienced Native Officer who was the sole channel of +communication between that stranger and the Draft at whose head +he had been placed by a misguided Sircar. . . .</p> +<p>Returning to the wharf, and conscious that he had a splitting +head, a sticky mouth, shaking limbs, sore throat and husky voice, +Bertram roared orders to the squatting Sepoys, who sprang up, +fell in, unpiled arms, and marched in file up the gangway and +down into the bowels of the ship, shepherded and directed by the +Non-commissioned Officers whom he had posted at various strategic +points. All went well, and, an hour later, his first job +was successfully accomplished. His men were on board and +“shaking down” in their new quarters. He was +free to retire to his cabin, bathe his throbbing head, and lie +down for an hour or so.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>At about midday he arose refreshed, and went on deck, with the +delightful feeling that, his own labours of the moment +accomplished, he could look on at the accomplishment of those of +others. Excellent! . . . And for many days to come he +would be free from responsibility and anxiety, he would have a +time of rest, recuperation, and fruitful thought and study. . . +. Throughout the morning detachments of Sepoys of the +Indian Army and Imperial Service Troops continued to arrive at +the wharf and to embark. Bertram was much interested in a +double-company of Gurkhas under a Gurkha Subedar, their yellowish +Mongolian faces eloquent of determination, grit, and +hardiness.</p> +<p>They contrasted strongly with a company of tall, hairy Sikhs, +almost twice their size, man for man, but with evidences of more +enthusiasm than discipline in their bearing. Another +interesting unit was a band of warriors of very mixed +nationality, under a huge Jemadar who looked a picture of fat +contentment, his face knowing no other expression than an +all-embracing smile. It was whispered later that this unit +saw breech-loading rifles for the first time, on board the +<i>Elymas</i>, having been more familiar, hitherto, with jezails, +jingals, match-locks, flintlocks, and blunderbusses. +Probably a gross exaggeration, or an invention of Lieutenant +Stanner, of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth, who gave them the name +of “The Mixed Pickles.”</p> +<p>All three of these detachments were Imperial Service +Troops—<a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +58</span>that is to say, were in the service of various Indian +Rajahs—but were of very different value, both the Gurkhas +and the Sikhs being as good material as could be found among +native troops anywhere in the world.</p> +<p>To Bertram, the picture of the little Gurkha Subedar, the tall +Sikh Subedar, and the burly Jemadar of the Mixed Pickles, was a +very interesting one, as the three stood together on the wharf, +eyeing each other like three strange dogs of totally different +breeds—say, a fighting terrier, a wolf-hound and a +mastiff.</p> +<p>With a snap and a slick, and a smart “<i>One +two</i>,” a company of British Infantry arrived and +embarked. Beside the Mixed Pickles they were as a Navy +motor-launch beside a native bunderboat. At them they +smiled amusedly, at the Sikhs they stared, and at the Gurkhas +they grinned appreciatively.</p> +<p>The news having spread that the <i>Elymas</i> would not start +until the morrow, various visitors came on board, in search of +friends whom they knew to be sailing by her. Captain Stott, +R.A.M.C., came over from the <i>Madras</i> hospital ship, in +search of Colonel Haldon. Murray and Macteith came down to +see Stanner, of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth, and one Terence +Brannigan, of the Baluchis. . . .</p> +<p>“Who’s the chap on your right, Colonel?” +asked Captain Stott, of gentle and kindly old Colonel Haldon at +dinner that evening. “Rather an unusual face to be +‘in’ khaki—or one would have said so before the +war,” and he indicated Bertram.</p> +<p>“Dunno,” was the reply. “Stranger to +me. Nice-lookin’ boy. . . . Looks a wee-trifle +more like a chaplain than a butcher, as you say,” though +Captain Stott had not said that at all.</p> +<p>Seeing Bertram talking to Murray and Macteith after dinner, +Captain Stott asked the latter who he was, for physiognomy and +character-study were a hobby of his.</p> +<p>Macteith told him what he knew, and added: “And +they’re sending <i>that</i> half-baked milksop to British +East” (and implied: “While <i>I</i>, Lieutenant and +Quartermaster Reginald Macteith, remain to kick my heels at the +depot.”)</p> +<p>Next day the <i>Elymas</i> began her voyage, a period of +delightful <i>dolce far niente</i> that passed like a dream, +until one wonderful evening, the palm-clad shores of Africa +“arose from out of the azure sea,” and, with a great +thrill of excitement, hope, anxiety <a name="page59"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 59</span>and fear Bertram gazed upon the +beautiful scene, as the <i>Elymas</i> threaded the lovely +Kilindini Creek which divides the Island of Mombasa from the +mainland.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER V<br /> +<i>Mrs. Stayne-Brooker</i></h3> +<p>And on those same palm-clad shores that arose from out the +azure sea, an unhappy woman had been expiating, by long years of +bitter suffering, in tears and shame and humiliation, the madness +of a moment. . . .</p> +<p>Mrs. Stayne-Brooker’s life in German East Africa was, if +possible less happy than her life in the British colony. +The men she met in Nairobi, Mombasa, Zanzibar, Witu or Lamu, +though by no means all gentlemen, all treated her as a +gentlewoman; while the men she met in Dar-es-Salaam, Tanga, +Tabora, Lindi or Bukoba, whether “gentlemen” or +otherwise, did not. In British East Africa her husband was +treated by planters, Government officials, sportsmen, and Army +men, as the popular and cheery old Charlie Stayne-Brooker—a +good man in the club-bar, card-room and billiard-room, on the +racecourse, at the tent club, and on shooting trips. With +several Assistant District Commissioners and officers of the +King’s African Rifles he was very intimate. In German +East Africa he was treated differently—in a way difficult +to define. It was as though he were a person of importance, +but <i>déclassé</i> and contemptible, and this +impression she gained in spite of her knowing no German (a +condition of ignorance upon which her husband insisted). +The average German official and officer, whether of the exiled +Junker class, or of plebeian origin, she loathed—partly +because they seemed to consider her “fair game,” and +made love to her, in more or less broken English, without shame +or cessation. Nor did it make life easier for the poor lady +that her husband appeared to take delight in the fact. She +wondered whether this was due to pride in seeing a possession of +his coveted by his “high-well-born,” and other, +compatriots, or to a desire to keep ever before her eyes a +realisation of what her fate would be if he cast her off, or she +ran away from him.</p> +<p>Worst of all was life in the isolated lonely house on his +coffee <a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span>and +rubber plantation, where for months on end she would never see a +white face but his, and for weeks on end, when he was away on his +mysterious affairs, no white face at all. . . . And at the +bottom of his compound were <i>bandas</i>, grass huts, in an +enclosure, wherein dwelt native women. . . .</p> +<p>One night, in the year 1914, she sat alone in the silent +lonely house, thinking of her daughter Eva at Cheltenham, of her +happy, if hapless, girlhood in her father’s house, of her +brief married life with an honourable English gentleman (oh, the +contrast!), and wondering how much longer she could bear her +punishment. . . Suddenly and noiselessly appeared in the +verandah her husband’s chief factotum, head house-boy, and +familiar, one Murad, an Arab-Swahili, whom she feared and +detested.</p> +<p>“<i>Bwana</i> coming,” said he shortly, and as +noiselessly disappeared.</p> +<p>Going out on to the verandah, she saw her husband and a few +“boys” (gun-bearers, porters, and servants) coming +through the garden. It was seven weeks since she had seen +or heard anything of him.</p> +<p>“Pack,” was his greeting, “at once. +You start on <i>safari</i> to the railway as soon as possible, or +sooner. You are going to Mombasa. I have cabled to +Eva to come out by the next boat. . . . P. and O. to Aden, +and thence to Mombasa. . . . She should be here in three +weeks or so . . .” and he went off to bath and +change. At dinner he informed her that she was to settle at +Mombasa with Eva, make as many new friends as possible, +entertain, and generally be the most English of English matrons +with the most English of English daughters—the latter fresh +from boarding-school in England. . . . Dear old Charlie +Stayne-Brooker, it was to be known, had gone to Bukoba, to the +wonderful sleeping-sickness hospital, for diagnosis of an +illness. Nothing serious, really, of course—but one +couldn’t be too careful when one had trouble with the +glands of the neck, and certain other symptoms, after spending +some time in that beastly tsetse-fly country. . . . She was +to give the impression that he had made light of it, and quite +“taken her in”—wouldn’t dream of allowing +his wife and daughter to go up there. People were to form +the opinion that poor old Charlie might be in a worse way than +his wife imagined.</p> +<p><i>And</i> if such a thing as war broke out; <i>if</i> such a +thing came to pass, mark you; her house in Mombasa was to be a +perfect <a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +61</span>Home-from-Home for the officers of the British +Expeditionary Force which would undoubtedly be dispatched from +India. It would almost certainly be the Nth Division from +Bombay—so she need not anticipate the pleasure of receiving +her late husband and his friends. . . . Further +instructions she would receive in the event of war, but +meanwhile, and all the time, her business was to demonstrate the +utter Englishness of the Stayne-Brooker family, and to keep her +eyes and ears open. What General or Staff-Officer will not +“talk” to a beautiful woman—of the right +sort? Eh? Ha-Ha! That was her business in Mombasa +now—<i>and ten times more so if war broke out</i>—to +be a beautiful woman—of the right sort, tremendously +popular with the people who know things and do things. +Moreover, Eva, her daughter, was to be trained right sedulously +to be a beautiful woman—of the right sort. . . . +Staff-officers in her pocket. Eh? Ha-Ha! . . . +And, sick at heart, loving her daughter, loathing her husband, +and loathing the unspeakable rôle he would force upon her, +Mrs. Stayne-Brooker travelled to Mombasa, met her daughter with +mingled joy and terror, happiness and apprehensive misery, and +endeavoured to serve two masters—her conscience and her +husband.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER VI<br /> +<i>Mombasa</i></h3> +<p>“If you’d like to go ashore and have a look at +Mombasa after tiffin, Mr. Greene,” said the fourth officer +of the <i>Elymas</i> to Bertram, the next morning, as he leant +against the rail and gazed at the wonderful palm-forest of the +African shore, “some of us are going for a row—to +stretch our muscles. We could drop you at the Kilindini +<i>bunder</i>.”</p> +<p>“Many thanks,” replied Bertram. “I +shall be very much obliged,” and he smiled his very +attractive and pleasant smile.</p> +<p>This was a welcome offer, for, privately, he hated being taken +ashore from a ship by natives of the harbour in which the ship +lay. One never knew exactly what to pay the wretches. +If one asked what the fare was, they always named some absurd +amount, and if one used one’s common sense and gave them +what seemed a <a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +62</span>reasonable sum they were inevitably hurt, shocked, +disappointed in one, indignantly broken-hearted, and invariably +waxed clamorous, protestful, demanding more. It had been +the same at Malta, Port Said and Aden on his way out to +India. In Bombay harbour he had once gone for a morning +sail in a bunderboat, and on their return, the captain of the +crew of three had demanded fifteen rupees for a two-hour +sail. A pound for two hours in a cranky +sailing-boat!—and the scoundrels had followed him up the +steps clamouring vociferously, until a native policeman had +fallen upon them with blows and curses. . . . How he wished +he was of those men who can give such people their due in such a +manner that they receive it in respectful silence, with apparent +contentment, if not gratitude. Something in the eye and the +set of the jaw, evidently—and so was glad of the fourth +officer’s kind suggestion.</p> +<p>He would have been still more glad had he heard the fourth +officer announce, at table, to his colleagues: “I offered +to drop that chap, Lieutenant Greene, at Kilindini this +afternoon, when we go for our grind. He can take the +tiller-ropes. . . . I like him the best of the lot—no +blooming swank and side about him.”</p> +<p>“Yes,” agreed the “wireless” operator, +“he doesn’t talk to you as though he owned the earth, +but was really quite pleased to let you stand on it for a bit. . +. . I reckon he’ll do all right, though, when he +gets-down-to-it with the Huns—if he doesn’t get done +in. . . .”</p> +<p>And so it came to pass that Bertram was taken ashore that +afternoon by some half-dozen officers and officials (including +the doctor, the purser, and the Marconi operator) of the +<i>Elymas</i>—worthy representatives of that ill-paid, +little-considered service, that most glorious and beyond-praise, +magnificent service, the British Mercantile Marine—and, +landing in state upon the soil of the Dark Continent, knew +“the pleasure that touches the souls of men landing on +strange shores.”</p> +<p>Arrived at the top of the stone steps of the Kilindini quay, +Bertram encountered Africa in the appropriately representative +person of a vast negro gentleman, who wore a red fez cap (or +tarboosh), a very long white calico night-dress and an +all-embracing smile.</p> +<p>“<i>Jambo</i>!” quoth the huge Ethiopian, and +further stretched his lips an inch nearer to his ears on either +side.</p> +<p><a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 63</span>Not +being aware that the African “<i>Jambo</i>” is +equivalent to the Indian “<i>Salaam</i>,” and means +“Greeting and Good Health,” or words to that effect, +Bertram did not counter with a return “<i>Jambo</i>,” +but nodded pleasantly and said: “Er—good +afternoon.”</p> +<p>Whereupon the ebon one remarked: “Oh, my God, sah, ole +chap, thank you,” to show, in the first place, that he +quite realised the situation (to wit, Bertram’s excusable +ignorance of Swahili-Arabic), and that he was himself, +fortunately, a fluent English scholar. Bertram stared in +amazement at the pleasant-faced, friendly-looking giant.</p> +<p>“<i>Bwana</i> will wanting servant, ole chap,” +continued the negro, “don’t it? I am best +servant for <i>Bwana</i>. Speaking English like hell, sah, +please. Waiting here for <i>Bwana</i> before long time to +come. Good afternoon, thank you, please, Master, by damn, +ole chap. Also bringing letter for <i>Bwana</i>. . . +. You read, thanks awfully, your mos’ obedient +servant by damn, oh, God, thank you, sah,” and produced a +filthy envelope from some inner pocket of the aforementioned +night-dress, which, innocent of buttons or trimming, revealed his +tremendous bare chest.</p> +<p>Bertram felt uncomfortable, and, for a moment, again wished +that he was one of those men-with-an-eye-and-a-jaw who could give +a glare, a grunt, and a jerk of the head which would cause the +most importunate native to fade unobtrusively away.</p> +<p>On the one hand, he knew it would be folly to engage as a +servant the first wandering scoundrel who accosted him and +suggested that he should do so; while, on the other, he +distinctly liked this man’s cheery, smiling face, he +realised that servants would probably be at a decided premium, +and he recognised the extreme desirability of having a servant, +if have one he must, who spoke English, however weird, and +understood it when spoken. Should he engage the man then +and there? Would he, by so doing, show himself a man of +quick decision and prompt action—one of those forceful, +incisive men he so admired? Or would he merely be acting +foolishly and prematurely, merely exhibiting himself as a rash +and unbalanced young ass? Anyhow, he would read the +“chits” which the filthy envelope presumably +contained. If these were satisfactory, he would tell the +man that the matter was under consideration, and that he might +look out for him again and hear his decision.</p> +<p><a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 64</span>As +Bertram surmised, the envelope contained the man’s +“chits,” or testimonials. The first stated that +Ali Sloper, the bearer, had been on <i>safari</i> with the +writer, and had proved to be a good plain cook, a reliable and +courageous gun-carrier, a good shot, and an honest, willing +worker. The second was written by a woman whose house-boy +Ali Suleiman had been for two years in Mombasa, and who stated +that she had had worse ones. The third and last was written +at the Nairobi Club by a globe-trotting Englishman named +Stayne-Brooker, who had employed the man as personal +“boy” and headman of porters, on a protracted +lion-shooting trip across the Athi and Kapiti Plains and found +him intelligent, keen, cheery, and staunch. (<i>Where had +he heard the name Stayne-Brooker before—or had he dreamed +it as a child</i>?) Certainly this fellow was +well-recommended, and appeared to be just the man to take as +one’s personal servant on active service. But +<i>did</i> one take a servant on active service? One could +not stir, or exist, without one in India, and officers took syces +and servants with them on frontier campaigns—but Africa is +not India. . . . However, he could soon settle that point +by asking.</p> +<p>“I’ll think about it,” he said, returning +the chits. “I shall be coming ashore again to-morrow. +. . . How much pay do you want?”</p> +<p>“Oh, sah! Master not mentioning it!” was the +reply of this remarkable person. “Oh, nothing, +nothing, sah! <i>Bwana</i> offering me forty rupees a +mensem, I say ‘No, sah! Too much.’ . . . +Master not mention it.”</p> +<p>“It might not be half a bad idea to mention it, +y’know,” said Bertram, smiling and turning to move +on.</p> +<p>“Oh, God, sah, thank you, please,” replied Ali +Sloper, <i>alias</i> Ali Suleiman. “I do not wanting +forty. I am accepting thirty rupees, sah, and am now your +mos’ obedient servant by damn from the beginning for +ever. And when <i>Bwana</i>, loving me still more, can pay +more, ole chap. God bless my thank-you +soul”—and “fell in” behind Bertram as +though prepared to follow him thence to the end of the world or +beyond.</p> +<p>Bertram gazed around, and found that he was in a vast yard, +two sides of which were occupied by the largest corrugated-iron +sheds he had ever seen in his life. One of these appeared +to be the Customs shed, and into another a railway +wandered. Between two of them, great gates let a white +sandy road escape into the <a name="page65"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 65</span>Unknown. On the stone quay the +heat, shut in and radiated by towering iron sheds, was the +greatest he had ever experienced, and he gasped for breath and +trickled with perspiration. He devoutly hoped that this was +not a fair sample of Africa’s normal temperature. +Doubtless it would be cooler away from the quay, which, with the +iron sheds, seemed to form a Titanic oven for the quick and +thorough baking of human beings. It being Sunday afternoon, +there were but few such, and those few appeared to be thoroughly +enjoying the roasting process, if one might judge from their +grinning faces and happy laughter. They were all Africans, +and, for the most part, clad in long, clean night-dresses and fez +caps. Evidently Ali Sloper or Suleiman was dressed in the +height of local fashion. On a bench, by the door of the +Customs shed, lounged some big negroes in dark blue tunics and +shorts, with blue puttees between bare knees and bare feet. +Their tall tarbooshes made them look even taller than they were, +and the big brass plates on their belt-buckles shone like +gold. Bertram wondered whether the Germans had just such +brawny giants in their Imperial African Rifles, and tried to +imagine himself defeating one of them in single combat. The +effort was a failure.</p> +<p>At the gates was a very different type of person, smarter, +quicker, more active and intelligent-looking, a Sikh Sepoy of the +local military police. The man sprang to attention and +saluted with a soldierly promptness and smartness that were a +pleasure to behold.</p> +<p>Outside the dock, the heat was not quite so intense, but the +white sandy road, running between high grass and palms, also ran +uphill, and, as the perspiration ran down his face, Bertram +wished he might discover the vilest, most ramshackle and +moth-eaten <i>tikka-ghari</i> that ever disgraced the streets of +Bombay. That the hope was vain he knew, and that in all the +island of Mombasa there is no single beast of burden, thanks to +the tsetse fly, whose sting is death to them. . . . And the +Mombasa Club, the Fort, and European quarter were at the opposite +side of the island, four miles away, according to report. +Where were these trolley-trams of which he had heard? If he +had to walk much farther up this hill, his uniform would look as +though he had swum ashore in it.</p> +<p>“Master buck up like hell, ole chap, thank you,” +boomed a voice behind. “Trolley as nearer as be +damned please. Niggers make push by Jove to Club, thank +God,” and turning, Bertram <a name="page66"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 66</span>beheld the smiling Ali beaming down +upon him as he strolled immediately behind him.</p> +<p>“Go away, you ass,” replied the hot and irritated +Bertram, only to receive an even broader smile and the assurance +that his faithful old servant would never desert him—not +after having been his devoted slave since so long a time ago +before and for ever more after also. And a minute or two +later the weary warfarer came in sight of a very narrow, single +tram-line, beside the road. Where this abruptly ended stood +a couple of strange vehicles, like small, low railway-trolleys, +with wheels the size of dinner-plates. On each trolley was +a seat of sufficient length to accommodate two people, and above +the bench was a canvas roof or shade, supported by iron +rods. From a neighbouring bench sprang four men, also clad +in night-dresses and fez caps, who, with strange howls and +gesticulations, bore down upon the approaching European.</p> +<p>“<i>Hapa</i>, <a name="citation66"></a><a +href="#footnote66" class="citation">[66]</a> <i>Bwana</i>!” +they yelled. “<i>Trolley hapa</i>,” and, for a +moment, Bertram thought they would actually seize him and +struggle for possession of his body. He determined that if +one of the shrieking fiends laid a hand upon him, he would smite +him with what violence he might. The heat was certainly +affecting his temper. He wondered what it would feel like +to strike a man—a thing he had never done in his +life. But, on reaching him, the men merely pointed to their +respective trolleys and skipped back to them, still pointing, and +apparently calling Heaven to witness their subtle excellences and +charms.</p> +<p>As Bertram was about to step on to the foremost trolley, the +men in charge of the other sprang forward with yelps of anguish, +only to receive cause for louder yelps of deeper anguish at the +hands of Ali, who, with blows and buffets, drove them before +him. Bertram wondered why the pair of them, each as big as +their assailant, should flee before him thus. Was it by +reason of Ali’s greater moral force, juster cause, superior +social standing as the follower of a white man, or merely the +fact that he took it upon him to be the aggressor. Probably +the last. Anyhow—thank Heaven for the gloriously cool +and refreshing breeze, caused by the rapid rush of the trolley +through the heavy air, as the trolley-“boys” ran it +down the decline from the hill-top whence they had started.</p> +<p><a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 67</span>As soon +as the trolley had gained sufficient momentum, they leapt on to +the back of the vehicle, and there clung until it began to slow +down again. Up-hill they slowly pushed with terrific +grunts, on the level they maintained a good speed, and down-hill +the thing rattled, bumped and bounded at a terrific pace, the +while Bertram wondered how long it would keep the rails, and +precisely what would happen if it jumped them. Had he but +known it, there was a foot-brake beneath the seat, which he +should have used when going down-hill. ’Twas not for +the two specimens of Afric’s ebon sons, who perched and +clung behind him, to draw his attention to it. Was he not a +<i>Bwana</i>, a white man, and therefore one who knew all +things? And if he wanted to break his neck had he not a +right so to do? And if they, too, should be involved in the +mighty smash, would not that fact prove quite conclusively that +it was their <i>kismet</i> to be involved in the smash, and +therefore inevitable? Who shall avoid his fate? . . . +And so, in blissful ignorance, Bertram swooped down-hill in +joyous, mad career. He wished the pace were slower at +times, for everything was new and strange and most +interesting. Native huts, such as he had seen in pictures +(labelled “kaffir-kraals”) in his early geography +book, alternated with official-looking buildings, patches of +jungle; gardens of custard-apple, mango, paw-paw, banana, and +papai trees; neat and clean police-posts, bungalows, cultivated +fields, dense woods and occasional mosques, Arab houses, +go-downs, <a name="citation67"></a><a href="#footnote67" +class="citation">[67]</a> temples, and native infantry +“lines.”</p> +<p>On the dazzlingly white road (which is made of coral and +nothing else) were few people. An occasional Indian Sepoy, +a British soldier, an <i>askari</i> of the King’s African +Rifles, an official <i>peon</i> with a belt-plate as big as a +saucer (and bearing some such legend as <i>Harbour Police</i> or +<i>Civil Hospital</i>), a tall Swahili in the inevitable long +night-dress and tarboosh, or a beautifully worked skull cap, a +file of native women clad each in a single garment of figured +cotton which extended from arm-pit to ankle, leaving the arms and +shoulders bare. The hairdressing of these ladies interested +Bertram, for each head displayed not one, but a dozen, partings, +running from the forehead to the neck, and suggesting the seams +on a football. At the end of each parting was a brief +pigtail bound with wire. Bertram wondered why these women +always walked one behind the other in single file, and decided <a +name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 68</span>that it was +an inherited and unconscious instinct implanted by a few thousand +years of use of narrow jungle-paths from which they dared not +stray as the armed men-folk did. . . .</p> +<p>After half an hour or so of travelling this thrillingly +interesting road, Bertram perceived that they were drawing near +to the busy haunts of men. From a church, a congregation of +Goanese or else African-Portuguese was pouring. The scene +was a very Indian one—the women, with their dusky faces and +long muslin veils worn <i>sari</i>-fashion over their European +dresses of cotton or satin; the men, with their rusty black suits +or cotton coats and trousers and European hats or solar +<i>topis</i>. One very venerable gentleman, whose ancestors +certainly numbered more Africans than Portuguese, wore a golfing +suit (complete, except for the stockings), huge hob-nailed boots, +and an over-small straw-yard with a gay ribbon. A fine +upstanding specimen of the race, obviously the idol of his young +wife, who walked beside him with her adoring gaze fixed upon his +shining face, began well with an authentic silk hat, continued +excellently with a swallow-tailed morning-coat, white waistcoat, +high collar and black satin tie, but fell away from these high +achievements with a pair of tight short flannel tennis-trousers, +grey Army socks, and white canvas shoes.</p> +<p>“An idol with feet of pipe-clay,” smiled Bertram +to himself, as his chariot drove heavily through the throng, and +his charioteers howled “<i>Semeele</i>! +<i>Semeele</i>!” at the tops of their voices.</p> +<p>Soon the tram-line branched and bifurcated, and tributary +lines joined it from garden-enclosed bungalows and side +turnings. Later he discovered that every private house has +its own private tram-line running from its front door down its +drive out to the main line in the street, and that, in Mombasa, +one keeps one’s own trolley for use on the public line, as +elsewhere one keeps one’s own carriage or motor-car.</p> +<p>On, past the Grand Hotel, a stucco building of two storeys, +went the rumbling, rattling vehicle, past a fine public garden +and blindingly white stucco houses that lined the blindingly +white coral road, across a public square adorned with flowering +shrubs and trees, to where arose a vast grey pile, the ancient +blood-drenched Portuguese fort, and a narrow-streeted, +whitewashed town of tall houses and low shops began.</p> +<p>Here the trolley-boys halted, and Bertram found himself at the +entrance of the garden of the Mombasa Club, which nestles in the +<a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 69</span>shadow of +its mighty neighbour, the Fort—where once resided the +Portuguese Governor and the garrison that defied the Arab and +kept “the Island of Blood” for Portugal, and where +now reside the Prison Governor and the convicts that include the +Arab, and keep the public gardens for the public.</p> +<p>Boldly entering the Club, Bertram left his card on the +Secretary and Members (otherwise stuck it on a green-baize board +devoted to that purpose), and commenced a tour of inspection of +the almost empty building. Evidently Society did not focus +itself until the cool of the evening, in Africa as in India, and +evidently this club very closely resembled a thousand others +across the Indian Ocean from Bombay to Hong Kong, where the +Briton congregates in exile. The only difference between +this and any “station” club in India appeared to be +in the facts that the servants were negroes and the trophies on +the walls were different and finer. Magnificent horns, such +as India does not produce, alternated with heads of lion and +other feral beasts. Later Bertram discovered another +difference in that the cheery and hospitable denizens of the +Mombasa Club were, on the whole, a thirstier race than those of +the average Indian club, and prone to expect and desire an equal +thirst in one their guest. He decided that it was merely a +matter of climate—a question of greater humidity.</p> +<p>Emerging from an airy and spacious upstairs bar-room on to a +vast verandah, his breath was taken away by the beauty of the +scene that met his eye, a scene whose charm lay chiefly in its +colouring, in the wonderful sapphire blue of the strip of sea +that lay between the low cliff, on which the club was built, and +the bold headland of the opposite shore of the mainland, the +vivid emerald green of the cocoa-palms that clothed that same +headland, the golden clouds, the snowy white-horses into which +the wind (which is always found in this spot and nowhere else in +Mombasa) whipped the wavelets of the tide-rip, the mauve-grey +distances of the Indian Ocean, with its wine-dark cloud-shadows, +the brown-grey of the hoary fort (built entirely of coral), the +rich red of tiled roofs, the vivid splashes of red, orange, +yellow and purple from flowering vine and tree and shrub—a +wonderful colour-scheme enhanced and intensified by the dazzling +brightness of the sun and the crystal clearness of the limpid, +humid air. . . . And in such surroundings Man had earned +the title of “The Island of Blood” for the beautiful +place—and, once again, as in <a name="page70"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 70</span>those barbarous far-off days of Arab +and Portuguese, the shedding of blood was the burden of his song +and the high end and aim of his existence. . . . Bertram +sank into a long chair, put his feet up on the mahogany +leg-rests, and slaked the colour-thirst of his æsthetic +soul with quiet, joyous thankfulness. . . . Beautiful! . . +.</p> +<p>What would his father say when he knew that his son was at the +Front? . . .</p> +<p>What was Miranda doing? Nursing, probably. . . . +What would <i>she</i> say when she knew that he was at the Front? +. . . Dear old Miranda. . . .</p> +<p>Where had he heard the name, <i>Stayne-Brooker</i>, +before? <i>Had</i> he dreamed it in a nightmare as a +child—or had he heard it mentioned in hushed accents of +grief and horror by the “grown-ups” at Leighcombe +Priory? . . . Some newspaper case perhaps. . . . He +had certainly heard it before. . . . He closed his eyes. . +. .</p> +<p>A woman strolled by with a selection of magazines in her hand, +and took a chair that commanded a view of his. Presently +she noticed him. . . . A new-comer evidently, or she would +have seen him before. . . . What an exceedingly nice face +he had—refined, delicate. . . . Involuntarily she +contrasted it with the face of the evil and sensual satyr to whom +she was married. . . . She would like to talk to him. . . +.</p> +<p>Bertram opened his eyes, and Mrs. Stayne-Brooker became +absorbed in the pages of her magazine. . . .</p> +<p>What a beautiful face she had, and <i>how</i> sad and weary +she looked . . . drawn and worried and anxious. . . . Had +she perhaps a beloved husband in the fighting-line +somewhere? He would like to talk to her—she looked so +kind and so unhappy. . . . A girl, whose face he did not +see, came and called her away. . .</p> +<h3>CHAPTER VII<br /> +<i>The Mombasa Club</i></h3> +<p>As Bertram lay drinking in the beauty of the scene, the Club +began to fill, and more particularly that part of it devoted to +the dispensation and consumption of assorted alcoholic +beverages. <a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +71</span>Almost everybody was in uniform, the majority in that of +the Indian Army (as there was a large base camp of the Indian +Expeditionary Force at Kilindini), and the remainder in those of +British regiments, the Navy, the Royal Indian Marine, the Royal +Engineers, the Royal Army Medical Corps, Artillery, local +Volunteer Corps, and the “Legion of +Frontiersmen.” A few ladies adorned the lawn and +verandahs. Two large and weather-beaten but +unascetic-looking men of middle age sat them down in chairs which +stood near to that of Bertram. They were clad in khaki +tunics, shorts and puttees, and bore the legend +“C.C.” in letters of brass on each +shoulder-strap.</p> +<p>“Hullo!” said the taller of them to Bertram, who +was wondering what “C.C.” might mean. +“Just come ashore from the <i>Elymas</i>? Have a +drink?”</p> +<p>“Yes,” replied he; “just landed. . . . +Thanks—may I have a lime-squash?”</p> +<p>“What the devil’s that?” asked the other, +and both men regarded him seriously and with a kind of shocked +interest. “Never heard of it.”</p> +<p>“Don’t think they keep it here,” put in the +shorter of the two men. “How d’you make +it?”</p> +<p>“Lemon-juice, soda-water, and sugar,” replied +Bertram, and felt that he was blushing in a childish and absurd +manner.</p> +<p>Both men shook their heads, more in sorrow than in +anger. They looked at each other, as might two physicians +at the bedside of one whose folly has brought him to a parlous +pass.</p> +<p>“Quite new to Africa?” enquired the taller.</p> +<p>“Yes. Quite,” confessed Bertram.</p> +<p>“Ah! Well, let me give you a word of advice +then,” continued the man. “<i>Don’t touch +dangerous drinks</i>. Avoid all harmful liquor as you would +poison. It is poison, in this climate. Drink is the +curse of Africa. It makes the place the White Man’s +Grave. You can’t be too careful. . . . Can you, +Piggy?” he added, turning to his friend.</p> +<p>“Quite right, Bill,” replied “Piggy,” +as he rang a little bell that stood on a neighbouring +table. “Let’s have a ‘Devil’s +Own’ cocktail and then some beer for a start, shall we? . . +. No—can’t be too careful. . . . Look at +me f’r example. Been in the country quarter of a +century, an’ never exceeded once! Never <i>tasted</i> +it, in fact.”</p> +<p><a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +72</span>“What—alcohol?” enquired Bertram.</p> +<p>“No. . . . I was talking about harmful +liquor,” replied Piggy patiently. “Things +like—<i>what</i> did you call it? . . . +Chalk-squash?”</p> +<p>“Lime-squash,” admitted Bertram with another +glowing blush.</p> +<p>“Give it up, Sonny, give it up,” put in +Bill. “Turn over a new leaf and start afresh. +Make up your mind that, Heaven helping you, you’ll never +touch a drop of the accursed poison again, but forswear slops and +live cleanly; totally abstaining from—what is +it?—soda-crunch?—fruit-juice, ginger-beer, lemonade, +toast-water, barley-water, dirty-water, raspberryade, and all +such filthy decoctions and inventions. . . .”</p> +<p>“Yes—give the country a chance,” interrupted +Piggy. “Climate’s all right if you’ll +take reasonable care and live moderately,” and he +impatiently rang the little bell again. +“’Course, if you <i>want</i> to be ill and come to an +early and dishonourable grave, drink all the rot-gut you can lay +hands on—and break your mother’s heart. . . +.”</p> +<p>Piggy lay back in his chair and gazed pensively at the +ceiling. So did Bill. Bertram felt +uncomfortable. “Dear, dear, dear!” murmured +Bill, between a sigh and a grunt. “Chalk-powder and +lemonade! . . . what a nerve! . . . Patient, unrecognised, +unrewarded heroism. . . .”</p> +<p>“Merciful Heaven,” whispered Piggy, +“slaked-lime and ginger-beer! . . What rash, waste +courage and futile bravery. . . .” And suddenly leapt +to his feet, swung the bell like a railway porter announcing the +advent of a train, and roared “<i>Boy</i>!” until a +white-clad, white-capped Swahili servant came running.</p> +<p>“<i>N’jo</i>, Boy!” he shouted. +“Come here! . . . Lot of lazy, fat +<i>n’gombe</i>. <a name="citation72a"></a><a +href="#footnote72a" class="citation">[72a]</a> . . . Three +‘Devil’s Own’ cocktails, <i>late +hapa</i>,” <a name="citation72b"></a><a href="#footnote72b" +class="citation">[72b]</a> and as, with a humble +“<i>Verna</i>, <i>Bwana</i>,” the servant hurried to +the bar, grumbling.</p> +<p>“And now he’ll sit and have a <i>shauri</i> <a +name="citation72c"></a><a href="#footnote72c" +class="citation">[72c]</a> with his pals, while we die of thirst +in this accursed land of sin and sorrow. . . . Beastly +<i>shenzis</i>. <a name="citation72d"></a><a href="#footnote72d" +class="citation">[72d]</a> . . .”</p> +<p>“You don’t like Africa?” said Bertram, for +the sake of something to say.</p> +<p><a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +73</span>“Finest country on God’s earth. . . . +The <i>only</i> country,” was the prompt reply.</p> +<p>“I suppose the negro doesn’t make a very good +servant?” Bertram continued, as Piggy rumbled on in +denunciation.</p> +<p>“Finest servants in the world,” answered that +gentleman. “The <i>only</i> servants, in fact. . . +.”</p> +<p>“Should I take one with me on active service?” +asked Bertram, suddenly remembering Ali Suleiman, <i>alias</i> +Sloper.</p> +<p>“If you can get one,” was the reply. +“You’ll be lucky if you can. . . . All snapped +up by the officers of the Expeditionary Force, long +ago.”</p> +<p>“Yes,” agreed Bill. “Make all the +difference to your comfort if you can get one. Don’t +take any but a Swahili, though. . . . You can depend on +’em, in a tight place. The good ones, that is. . . +.”</p> +<p>A big, fat, clean-shaven man, dressed in white drill, strolled +up to the little group. He reminded Bertram of the +portraits of Mr. William Jennings Bryan who had recently visited +India, and in three days unhesitatingly given his verdict on the +situation, his solution of all political difficulties, and his +opinion of the effete Britisher—uttering the final +condemnation of that decadent.</p> +<p>“Hello! Hiram Silas P. Pocahantas of Pah,” +remarked Piggy, with delicate pleasantry, and the big man nodded, +smiled, and drew up a chair.</p> +<p>“The drinks are on me, boys,” quoth he. +“Set ’em up,” and bursting into song, more or +less tunefully, announced—</p> +<blockquote><p>“I didn’t raise my boy to be a +soldier,”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>whereat Bill hazarded the opinion that the day might +unexpectedly and ruddily dawn when he’d blooming well wish +he bally well <i>had</i>, and that he could join them in a +cocktail if he liked—or he could bung off if he +didn’t. Apparently William disapproved of the +American’s attitude, and that of his Government, toward the +War and the Allies’ part therein; for, on the +American’s “allowing he would <i>con</i>sume a +highball” and the liquor arriving, he drank a health to +those who are not too proud to fight, to those who do not give +themselves airs as the Champions of Freedom, and then stand idly +by when Freedom is trampled in the dust, and to those whose +Almighty God is not the Almighty Dollar!</p> +<p><a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +74</span>Expecting trouble, Bertram was surprised to find that +the American was apparently amused, merely murmured +“Shucks,” and, in the midst of a violent political +dissertation from Bill, ably supported by Piggy, went to sleep +with a long thin cigar in the corner of his long thin +mouth. He had heard it all before.</p> +<p>Bertram found his Devil’s Own cocktail an exceedingly +potent and unpleasant concoction. He decided that his first +meeting with this beverage of the Evil One should be his last, +and when Piggy, suddenly sitting up, remarked: +“What’s wrong with the drinks?” and tinkled the +bell, he arose, said a hurried farewell in some confusion, and +fled.</p> +<p>“’Tain’t right to send a half-baked lad like +that to fight the Colonial German,” observed Bill, idly +watching his retreating form.</p> +<p>“Nope,” agreed the American, waking up. +“I <i>was</i> going to say it’s adding insult to +injury—but you ain’t injured Fritz any, yet, I +guess,” and went to sleep again before either of the +glaring Englishmen could think of a retort.</p> +<p>Ere Bertram left the Club, he heard two pieces of +“inside” military information divulged quite openly, +and by the Staff itself. As he reached the porch, a lady of +fluffy appearance and kittenish demeanour was delaying a +red-tabbed captain who appeared to be endeavouring to escape.</p> +<p>“And, oh, Captain, <i>do</i> tell me what +‘A.S.C.’ and ‘C.C.’ mean,” said the +lady. “I saw a man with ‘A.S.C.’ on his +shoulders, and there are two officers with ‘C.C.,’ in +the Club. . . . <i>Do</i> you know what it means? I +am <i>so</i> interested in military matters. Or is it a +secret?”</p> +<p>“Oh, no!” replied the staff-officer, as he turned +to flee. “‘A.S.C.’ stands for Ally +Sloper’s Cavalry, of course, and ‘C.C.’ for +Coolie Catchers. . . . They are slave-traders, really, with +a Government contract for the supply of porters. They get +twenty rupees for each slave caught and delivered alive, and ten +for a dead one, or one who dies within a week.”</p> +<p>“What do they want the <i>dead</i> ones for?” she +whispered.</p> +<p>“<i>That</i> I dare not tell you,” replied the +officer darkly, and with a rapid salute, departed.</p> +<p>Emerging from the Club garden on to the white road, Bertram +gazed around for his trolley-boys and beheld them not.</p> +<p>“All right, ole chap,” boomed the voice of Ali, +who suddenly <a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +75</span>appeared beside him. “I looking after +<i>Bwana</i>. Master going back along shippy? I fetch +trolley now and see <i>Bwana</i> at Kilindini, thank you, please +sah, good God,” and he disappeared in the direction of the +town, returning a couple of minutes later with the trolley.</p> +<p>“Master not pay these dam’ thieves too much, ole +chap,” he remarked. “Two journey and one hour +wait, they ask five rupees. Master give +two-an’-a-puck.”</p> +<p>“How much is a ‘puck’?” enquired +Bertram, ever anxious to learn.</p> +<p>“Sah?” returned the puzzled Ali.</p> +<p>“What’s a puck?” repeated Bertram, and a +smile of bright intelligence engulfed the countenance of the big +Swahili.</p> +<p>“Oh, yessah!” he rumbled. “Give two +rupee and what <i>Bwana</i> call +‘puck-in-the-neck.’ All the same, +biff-on-the-napper, dig-in-the-ribs, smack-in-the-eye, +kick-up-the—”</p> +<p>“<i>Oh</i>, yes, I see,” interrupted Bertram, +smiling—but at the back of his amusement was the sad +realisation that he was not of the class of <i>bwanas</i> who can +gracefully, firmly and finally present two-and-a-puck to +extortionate and importunate trolley-boys.</p> +<p>He stepped on to the trolley and sat down, as Ali, saluting +and salaaming respectfully, again bade him be of good cheer and +high heart, as he would see him at Kilindini.</p> +<p>“How will you get there? Would you like to +ride?” asked the kind-hearted and considerate Bertram (far +too kind-hearted and considerate for the successful handling of +black or brown subordinates and inferiors).</p> +<p>“Oh, God, sah, no, please,” replied the smiling +Ali. “This Swahili slave cannot sit with +<i>Bwana</i>, and cannot run with damn low trolley-boys. +Can running by self though like gentleman, thank you, +please,” and as the trolley started, added: “So long, +ole chap. See Master at Kilindini by running like +hell. Ta-ta by damn!” When the trolley had +disappeared round a bend of the road, he generously kilted up his +flowing night-dress and started off at the long loping trot which +the African can maintain over incredible distances.</p> +<p>Arrived at Kilindini, Bertram paid the trolley-boys and +discovered that, while they absorbed rupees with the greatest +avidity, they looked askance at such fractions thereof as the +eight-anna, four-anna, and two-anna piece, poking them over in +their palms <a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +76</span>and finally tendering them back to him with many grunts +and shakes of the head as he said:</p> +<p>“Well, you’ll <i>have</i> to take them, you silly +asses,” to the uncomprehending coolies. +“<i>That</i> lot makes a rupee—one half-a-rupee and +two quarters, and that lot makes a rupee—four two-anna bits +and two four-annas, doesn’t it?”</p> +<p>But the men waxed clamorous, and one of them threw his money +on the ground with an impudent and offensive gesture. +Bertram coloured hotly, and his fist clenched. He +hesitated; ought he. . . . <i>Smack</i>! <i>Thud</i>! +and the man rolled in the dust as Ali Sloper, <i>alias</i> +Suleiman, sprang upon him, smote him again, and stood over him, +pouring forth a terrific torrent of violent vituperation.</p> +<p>As the victim of his swift assault obediently picked up the +rejected coins, he turned to Bertram.</p> +<p>“These dam’ niggers not knowing <i>annas</i>, +sah,” he said, “only <i>cents</i>. This not +like East Indiaman’s country. Hundred cents making +one rupee here. All shopkeepers saying, ‘No damn +good’ if master offering annas, please God, sah.”</p> +<p>“Well—I haven’t enough money with me, +then—” began Bertram.</p> +<p>“I pay trolley-boys, sah,” interrupted Ali +quickly, “and Master can paying me to-morrow—or on +pay-day at end of mensem.”</p> +<p>“But, look here,” expostulated Bertram, as this +new-found guide, philosopher and friend sent the apparently +satisfied coolies about their business. “I might not +see you to-morrow. You’d better come with me to the +ship and—”</p> +<p>“Oh, sah, sah!” cried the seemingly hurt and +offended Ali, “am I not <i>Bwana’s</i> faithful ole +servant?” and turning from the subject as closed, said he +would produce a boat to convey his cherished employer to his +ship.</p> +<p>“Master bucking up like hell now, please,” he +advised. “No boat allowed to move in harbour after +six pip emma, sah, thank God, please.”</p> +<p>“Who on earth’s Pip Emma?” enquired the +bewildered Bertram, as they hurried down the hill to the +quay.</p> +<p>“What British soldier-mans and officer-<i>bwanas</i> in +Signal Corps call ‘p.m.,’ sah,” was the +reply. “Master saying ‘six p.m.,’ but +Signal <i>Bwana</i> always saying ‘six pip +emma’—all same <a name="page77"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 77</span>meaning but different language, +please God, sah. P’r’aps German talk, +sah? I do’n’ know, sah.”</p> +<p>And Bertram then remembered being puzzled by a remark of +Maxton (to the effect that he had endeavoured to go down to his +cabin at “three ack emma” and being full of +“beer,” had fallen “ack over tock” down +the companion), and saw light on the subject. Truly these +brigade signaller people talked in a weird tongue that might seem +a foreign language to an uninitiated listener.</p> +<p>At the pier he saw Commander Finnis, of the Royal Indian +Marine, and gratefully accepted an offer of a joy-ride in his +launch to the good ship <i>Elymas</i>, to which that officer was +proceeding.</p> +<p>“We’re disembarking you blokes to-morrow +morning,” said he to Bertram, as they seated themselves in +the stern of the smart little boat. “Indian troops +going under canvas here, and British entraining for +Nairobi. Two British officers of Indian Army to proceed by +tug at once to M’paga, a few hours down the coast, in +German East. Scrap going on there. Poor devils will +travel on deck, packed tight with fifty sheep and a gang of +nigger coolies. . . . <i>Some</i> whiff!” and he +chuckled callously.</p> +<p>“D’you know who are going?” asked Bertram +eagerly. Suppose he should be one of them—and in a +“scrap” by this time to-morrow! How would he +comport himself in his first fight?</p> +<p>“No,” yawned the Commander. “O.C. +troops on board will settle that.”</p> +<p>And Bertram held his peace, visualising himself as collecting +his kit, hurrying on to a dirty little tug to sit in the middle +of a flock of sheep while the boat puffed and panted through the +night along the mysterious African shore, landing on some white +coral beach beneath the palms at dawn, hurrying to join the +little force fighting with its back to the sea and its face to +the foe, leaping into a trench, seizing the rifle of a dying man +whose limp fingers unwillingly relaxed their grip, firing rapidly +but accurately into the—</p> +<p>“Up you go,” quoth Commander Finnis, and Bertram +arose and stepped on to the platform at the bottom of the ladder +that hospitably climbed the side of His Majesty’s +Troop-ship <i>Elymas</i>.</p> +<h3><a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +78</span>CHAPTER VIII<br /> +<i>Military and Naval Manœuvres</i></h3> +<p>However nonchalant in demeanour, it was an eager and excited +crowd of officers that stood around the foot of the boat-deck +ladder awaiting the result of the conference held in the +Captain’s cabin, to which meeting-place its proprietor had +taken Commander Finnis before requesting the presence of Colonel +Haldon, the First Officer, and the Ship’s Adjutant, to +learn the decision and orders of the powers-that-be concerning +all and sundry, from the ship’s Captain to the +Sepoys’ cook.</p> +<p>Who would Colonel Haldon send forthwith to M’paga, where +the scrap was even then in progress (according to Lieutenant +Greene, quoting Commander Finnis)? What orders did the +papers in the fateful little dispatch-case, borne by the latter +gentleman, contain for the various officers not already +instructed to join their respective corps? Who would be +sent to healthy, cheery Nairobi? Who to the vile desert at +Voi? Who to interesting, far-distant Uganda? Who to +the ghastly mangrove-swamps down the coast by the border of +German East? Who to places where there was real active +service, fighting, wounds, distinction and honourable +death? Who to dreary holes where they would “sit +down” and sit tight, rotting with fever and dysentery, +eating out their hearts, without seeing a single German till the +end of the war. . . .</p> +<p>Bertram thought of a certain “lucky-dip bran-tub,” +that loomed large in memories of childhood, whence, at a +Christmas party, he had seen three or four predecessors draw most +attractive and delectable toys and he had drawn a mysterious and +much-tied parcel which had proved to contain a selection of +first-class coke. What was he about to draw from +Fate’s bran-tub to-day?</p> +<p>When the Ship’s Adjutant, bearing sheets of foolscap, +eventually emerged from the Captain’s cabin, ran sidling +down the boat-deck ladder and proceeded to the notice-board in +the saloon-companion, followed by the nonchalantly eager and +excited crowd, as is the frog-capturing duck by all the other +ducks of the farm-yard, Bertram, with beating heart, read down +the list until he came to his own name—only to discover +that Fate had hedged.</p> +<p>The die was not yet cast, and Second-Lieutenant B. Greene <a +name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 79</span>would +disembark with detachments, Indian troops, and, at Mombasa, await +further orders.</p> +<p>Captain Brandone and Lieutenant Stanner would proceed +immediately to M’paga, and with wild cries of +“Yoicks! Tally Ho!” and “Gone +away!” those two officers fled to their respective cabins +to collect their kit.</p> +<p>Dinner that night was a noisy meal, and talk turned largely +upon the merits or demerits of the places from Mombasa to Uganda +to which the speakers had been respectively posted.</p> +<p>“Where are you going, Brannigan?” asked Bertram of +that cheery Hibernian, as he seated himself beside him.</p> +<p>“Where am Oi goin’, is ut, me bhoy?” was the +reply. “Faith, where the loin-eating man—Oi +mane the man-eating loins reside, bedad. Ye’ve heard +o’ the man-eaters of Tsavo? That’s where +Oi’m goin’, me bucko—to the man-eaters of +Tsavo.”</p> +<p>Terence had evidently poured a libation of usquebagh before +dining, for he appeared wound up to talk.</p> +<p>“Begorra—if ut’s loin-eaters they are, +it’s Terry Brannigan’ll gird up <i>his</i> loins +an’ be found there missing entoirely. . . . +Oi’d misloike to be ’aten by a loin, Greene . . +.” and he frowned over the idea and grew momentarily +despondent.</p> +<p>“’Tis not phwat I wint for a sojer for, at all, at +all,” he complained, and added a lament to the effect that +he was not as tough as O’Toole’s pig. But the +mention of this animal appeared to have a cheering effect, for he +burst into song.</p> +<blockquote><p>“Ye’ve heard of Larry +O’Toole,<br /> +O’ the beautiful town o’ Drumgool?<br /> + Faith, he had but wan eye<br /> + To ogle ye by,<br /> +But, begorra, that wan was a jool. . . .”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>After dinner, Bertram sought out Colonel Haldon for further +orders, information and advice.</p> +<p>“Everybody clears off to-morrow morning, my boy,” +said he, “and in twenty-four hours we shall be scattered +over a country as big as Europe. You’ll be in +command, till further orders, of all native troops landed at +Mombasa. I don’t suppose you’ll be there long, +though. You may get orders to bung off with the Hundred and +Ninety-Ninth draft of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth, or you may +have to see them off under a Native Officer and go <a +name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 80</span>in the +opposite direction yourself. . . . Don’t worry, +anyway. You’ll be all right. . . .”</p> +<p>That night Bertram again slept but little, and had a bad +relapse into the old state of self-distrust, depression and +anxiety. This sense of inadequacy, inexperience and unworth +was overwhelming. What did he know about Sepoys that he +should, for a time, be in sole command and charge of a mixed +force of Regular troops and Imperial Service troops which +comprised Gurkhas, Sikhs, Pathans, Punjabi Mahommedans, Deccani +Marathas, Rajputs, and representatives of almost every other +fighting race in India? It would be bad enough if he could +thoroughly understand the language of any one of them. As +it was, he had a few words of cook-house Hindustani, and a man +whom he disliked and distrusted as his sole representative and +medium of intercourse with the men. Suppose the fellow was +rather his <i>mis</i>-representative? Suppose he fomented +trouble, as only a native can? What if there were a sudden +row and quarrel between some of the naturally inimical +races—a sort of inter-tribal shindy between the Sikhs and +the Pathans, for example? Who was wretched little +“Blameless Bertram,” to think he could impose his +authority upon such people and quell the riot with a word? +What if they defied him and the Jemadar did not support +him? What sort of powers and authority had he? . . . +He did not know. . . . Suppose there <i>were</i> a row, and +there was real fighting and bloodshed? It would get into +the papers, and his name would be held up to the contempt of the +whole British Empire. It would get into the American papers +too. Then an exaggerated account of it would be published +in the Press of the Central Powers and their wretched allies, to +show the rotten condition of the Indian Army. The neutral +papers would copy it. Soon there would not be a corner of +the civilised world where people had not heard the name of +Greene, the name of the wretched creature who could not maintain +order and discipline among a few native troops, but allowed some +petty quarrel between two soldiers to develop into an +“incident.” Yes—that’s what would +happen, a “regrettable incident.” . . . And the +weary old round of self-distrust, depreciation and contempt went +its sorry cycle once again. . . .</p> +<p>Going on deck in the morning, Bertram discovered that +supplementary orders had been published, and that all native +troops <a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +81</span>would be disembarked under his command at twelve noon, +and that he would report, upon landing, to the Military Landing +Officer, from whom he would receive further orders. . . . +Troops would carry no ammunition, nor cooked rations. All +kits would go ashore with the men. . . .</p> +<p>Bertram at once proceeded to the companion leading down to the +well-deck, called a Sepoy of the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth, and +“sent his salaams” to the Jemadar of that regiment, +to the Subedar of the Gurkhas, the Subedar of the Sherepur Sikhs +and the Jemadar of the Very Mixed Contingent.</p> +<p>To these officers he endeavoured to make it clear that every +man of their respective commands, and every article of those +men’s kit, bedding, and accoutrements, and all stores, +rations and ammunition, must be ready for disembarkation at +midday.</p> +<p>The little Gurkha Subedar smiled brightly, saluted, and said +he quite understood—which was rather clever of him, as his +Hindustani was almost as limited as was Bertram’s. +However, he had grasped, from Bertram’s barbarous and +laborious “<i>Sub admi</i> . . . <i>sub saman</i> . . . +<i>sub chiz</i> . . . <i>tyar</i> . . . <i>bara badji</i> . . . +<i>ither se jainga</i> . . .” that “all men . . . all +baggage . . . all things . . . at twelve o’clock . . . will +go from here”—and that was good enough for him.</p> +<p>“Any chance of fighting to-morrow, Sahib?” he +asked, but Bertram, unfortunately, did not understand him.</p> +<p>The tall, bearded Sikh Subedar saluted correctly, said nothing +but “<i>Bahut achcha</i>, <i>Sahib</i>,” <a +name="citation81"></a><a href="#footnote81" +class="citation">[81]</a> and stood with a cold sneer frozen upon +his hard and haughty countenance.</p> +<p>The burly Jemadar of the Very Mixed Contingent, or Mixed +Pickles, smiled cheerily, laughed merrily at nothing in +particular, and appeared mildly shocked at Bertram’s +enquiry as to whether he understood. Of <i>course</i>, he +understood! Was not the Sahib a most fluent speaker of most +faultless Urdu, or Hindi, or Sindhi, or Tamil or something? +Anyhow, he had clearly caught the words “all men ready at +twelve o’clock”—and who could require more than +a nice clear <i>hookum</i> like that.</p> +<p>Jemadar Hassan Ali looked pained and doubtful. So far as +his considerable histrionic powers permitted, he gave his +rendering of an honest and intelligent man befogged by perfectly +incomprehensible orders and contradictory directions which he <a +name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 82</span>may not +question and on which he may not beg further enlightenment. +His air and look of “<i>Faithful to the last I will go +forth and strive to obey orders which I cannot understand</i>, +<i>and to carry out instructions given so incomprehensibly and in +so strange a tongue that Allah alone knows what is required of +me</i>” annoyed Bertram exceedingly, and having smiled upon +the cheery little Subedar and the cheery big Jemadar, and looked +coldly upon the unpleasant Sikh and the difficult Hassan Ali, he +informed the quartette that it had his permission to depart.</p> +<p>As they saluted and turned to go, he caught a gleam of +ferocious hatred upon the face of the Gurkha officer whom the +Sikh jostled, with every appearance of intentional rudeness and +the desire to insult. Bertram’s sympathy was with the +Gurkha and he wished that it was with him and his sturdy little +followers that he was to proceed to the front. He felt that +they would follow him to the last inch of the way and the last +drop of their blood, and would fight for sheer love of fighting, +as soon as they were shown an enemy.</p> +<p>After a somewhat depressing breakfast, at which he found +himself almost alone, Bertram arrayed himself in full war paint, +packed his kit, said farewell to the ship’s officers and +then inspected the troops, drawn up ready for disembarkation on +the well-decks. He was struck by the apparent cheerfulness +of the Gurkhas and the clumsy heaviness of their kit which +included a great horse-collar roll of cape, overcoat or +ground-sheet strapped like a colossal cross-belt across one +shoulder and under the other arm; by the apparent depression of +the men of the Very Mixed Contingent and their slovenliness; by +what seemed to him the critical and unfriendly stare of the +Sherepur Sikhs as he passed along their ranks; and by the +elderliness of the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth draft. Had +these latter been perceptibly aged by their sea-faring +experiences and were they feeling terribly <i>terra marique +jactati</i>, or was it that the impossibility of procuring henna +or other dye had caused the lapse of brown, orange, pink and red +beards and moustaches to their natural greyness? Anyhow, +they looked distinctly old, and on the whole, fitter for the ease +and light duty of “employed pensioner” than for +active service under very difficult conditions against a +ferocious foe upon his native heath. His gentle nature and +kindly heart led Bertram to feel very sorry indeed for one +bemedalled old <a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +83</span>gentleman who had evidently had a very bad crossing, +still had a very bad cough, and looked likely to have another go +of fever before very long.</p> +<p>As he watched the piling-up of square-sided boxes of rations, +oblong boxes of ammunition, sacks, tins, bags and jars, bundles +of kit and bedding, cooking paraphernalia, entrenching tools, +mule harness, huge zinc vessels for the transport of water, +leather <i>chhagals</i> and canvas <i>pakhals</i> or waterbags, +and wished that his own tight-strapped impedimenta were less +uncomfortable and heavy, a cloud of choking smoke from the top of +the funnel of some boat just below him, apprised him of the fact +that his transport was ready. Looking over the side he saw +a large barge, long, broad, and very deep, with upper decks at +stem and stern, which a fussy little tug had just brought into +position below an open door in the middle of the port side of the +<i>Elymas</i>. It was a long way below it too, and he +realised that unless a ladder were provided every man would have +to drop from the threshold of the door to the very narrow edge of +the barge about six feet below, make his way along it to the +stern deck, and down a plank on to the “floor” of the +barge itself. When his turn came he’d make an ass of +himself—he’d fall—he knew he would!</p> +<p>He tried to make Jemadar Hassan Ali understand that two +Havildars were to stand on the edge of the barge, one each side +of the doorway and guide the errant tentative feet of each man as +he lowered himself and clung to the bottom of the doorway. +He also had the sacks thrown where anyone who missed his footing +and fell from the side of the barge to the bottom would fall upon +them and roll, instead of taking the eight feet drop and hurting +himself. When this did happen, the Sepoys roared with +laughter and appeared to be immensely diverted. It occurred +several times, for it is no easy matter to lower oneself some six +feet, from one edge to another, when heavily accoutred and +carrying a rifle. When every man and package was on board, +Bertram cast one last look around the <i>Elymas</i>, took a deep +breath, crawled painfully out backwards through the port, clung +to the sharp iron edge, felt about wildly with his feet which +were apparently too sacred and superior for the Havildars to grab +and guide, felt his clutching fingers weaken and slip, and then +with a pang of miserable despair fell—and landed on the +side of the barge a whole inch below where his feet had been when +he fell. <a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +84</span>A minute later he had made his way to the prow, and, +with a regal gesture, had signified to the captain of the tug +that he might carry on.</p> +<p>And then he sat him down upon the little piece of deck and +gazed upon the sea of upturned faces, black, brown, +wheat-coloured, and yellow, that spread out at his feet from end +to end and side to side of the great barge.</p> +<p>Of what were they thinking, these men from every corner of +India and Nepal, as they stood shoulder to shoulder, or squatted +on the boxes and bales that covered half the floor of the +barge? What did they think of him? Did they really +despise and dislike him as he feared, or did they admire and like +and trust him—simply because he was a white man and a +Sahib? He had a suspicion that the Sikhs disliked him, the +Mixed Contingent took him on trust as an Englishman, the Hundred +and Ninety-Ninth kept an open mind, and the Gurkhas liked +him—all reflecting really the attitude of their respective +Native Officers. . . .</p> +<p>In a few minutes the barge was run alongside the Kilindini +quay, and Bertram was, for the second time, climbing its stone +stairs, in search of the Military Landing Officer, the arbiter of +his immediate destiny.</p> +<p>As he reached the top of the steps he was, as it were, +engulfed and embraced in a smile that he already knew—and +he realised that it was with a distinct sense of pleasure and a +feeling of lessened loneliness and unshared friendless +responsibility that he beheld the beaming face of his +“since-long-time-to-come” faithful old retainer Ali +Suleiman.</p> +<p>“God bless myself please, thank you, +<i>Bwana</i>,” quoth that gentleman, saluting +repeatedly. “<i>Bwana</i> will now wanting Military +Embarkation Officer by golly. I got him, sah,” and +turning about added, “<i>Bwana</i> come along me, sah, I +got him all right,” as though he had, with much skill and +good luck, tracked down, ensnared, and encaged some wary and wily +animal. . . .</p> +<p>At the end of the little stone pier was a rough table or desk, +by which stood a burly officer clad in slacks, and a vast +spine-pad of quilted khaki. On the tables were +writing-materials and a mass of papers.</p> +<p>“Mornin’,” remarked this gentleman, turning +a crimson and perspiring face to Bertram. “I’m +the M.L.O. You’ll fall your <a +name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>men in here +and they’ll stack their kits with the rations and +ammunition over there. Then you must tell off +working-parties to cart the lot up to the camp. I’ve +only got two trucks and your fatigue-parties’ll have to +man-handle ’em. You’ll have to ginger ’em +up or you’ll be here all day. I don’t want you +to march off till all your stuff’s up to the camp. . . +. Don’t bung off yourself, y’know. . . . +Right O. Carry on. . . .” Bertram saluted.</p> +<p>Another job which he must accomplish without hitch or +error. The more jobs he <i>could</i> do, the better. +What he dreaded was the job for the successful tackling of which +he had not the knowledge, ability or experience.</p> +<p>“Very good, sir,” he replied. +“Er—where <i>are</i> the trolleys?” for there +was no sign of any vehicle about the quay.</p> +<p>“Oh, they’ll roll up by and by, I expect,” +was the reply. Bertram again saluted and returned to the +barge. Calling to the Native Officers he told them that the +men would fall in on the bunder and await further orders, each +detachment furnishing a fatigue-party for the unloading of the +impedimenta. Before very long, the men were standing at +ease in the shade of a great shed, and their kits, rations and +ammunition were piled in a great mound at the wharf edge.</p> +<p>And thus, having nothing to do until the promised trucks +arrived, Bertram realised that it was terribly hot; +suffocatingly, oppressively, dangerously hot; and that he felt +very giddy, shaky and faint.</p> +<p>The sun seemed to beat upward from the stone of the quay and +sideways from the iron of the sheds as fiercely and painfully as +it did downward from the sky. And there was absolutely +nowhere to sit down. He couldn’t very well squat down +in the dirt. . . . No—but the men could—so he +approached the little knot of Native Officers and told them to +allow the men to pile arms, fall out, and sit against the wall of +the shed—no man to leave the line without permission.</p> +<p>Jemadar Hassan Ali did not forget to post a sentry over the +arms on this occasion. For an hour Bertram strolled up and +down. It was less tiring to do that than to stand +still. His eyes ached most painfully by reason of the +blinding glare, his head ached from the pressure on his brows of +his thin, but hard and heavy, helmet (the regulation pattern, +apparently designed with an eye to the maximum of danger and +discomfort) and his body <a name="page86"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 86</span>ached by reason of the weight and +tightness of his accoutrements. It was nearly two +o’clock and he had breakfasted early. Suppose he got +sunstroke, or collapsed from heat, hunger, and weariness? +What an exhibition! When would the men get their next +meal? Where were those trolleys? It was two hours +since the Military Landing Officer had said they’d +“roll up by and by.” He’d go and remind +him.</p> +<p>The Military Landing Officer was just off to his lunch and +well-earned rest at the Club. He had been on the beastly +bunder since six in the morning—and anybody who wanted him +now could come and find him, what?</p> +<p>“Excuse me, sir,” said Bertram as Captain Angus +flung his portfolio of papers to his orderly, “those trucks +haven’t come yet.”</p> +<p>“<i>Wha’</i> trucks?” snapped the Landing +Officer. He had just told himself he had <i>done</i> for +to-day—and he had had nothing since half-past five that +morning. People must be reasonable—he’d been +hard at it for eight solid hours damitall y’know.</p> +<p>“The trucks for my baggage and ammunition and +stuff.”</p> +<p>“Well, <i>I</i> haven’t got ’em, have +I?” replied Captain Angus. “Be reasonable about +it. . . I can’t <i>make</i> trucks. . . +Anybody’d think I’d stolen your trucks. . . . +You must be <i>patient</i>, y’know, and <i>do</i> be +reasonable. . . . <i>I</i> haven’t got +’em. Search me.”</p> +<p>The Military Landing Officer had been on his job for months +and had unconsciously evolved two formulæ, which he used +for his seniors and juniors respectively, without variation of a +word. Bertram had just heard the form of prayer to be used +with Captains and unfortunates of lower rank, who showed +yearnings for things unavoidable. To Majors and those +senior thereunto the crystallised ritual was:</p> +<p>“Can’t understand it, sir, at all. I issued +the necessary orders all right—but there’s a terrible +shortage. One must make allowances in these times of +stress. It’ll turn up all right. +<i>I</i>’ll see to it . . .” etc., and this applied +equally well to missing trains, mules, regiments, horses, trucks, +orders, motor-cars or anything else belonging to the large class +of Things That Can Go Astray.</p> +<p>“You told me to wait, sir,” said Bertram.</p> +<p>“Then why the devil <i>don’t you</i>?” said +Captain Angus.</p> +<p>“I am, sir,” replied Bertram.</p> +<p><a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +87</span>“Then what’s all this infernal row +about?” replied Captain Angus.</p> +<p>Bertram felt that he understood exactly how children feel +when, unjustly treated, they cannot refrain from tears. It +was <i>too</i> bad. He had stood in this smiting sun for +over two hours awaiting the promised trucks—and now he was +accused of making an infernal row because he had mentioned that +they had not turned up! If the man had told him where they +were, surely he and his three hundred men could have gone and got +them long ago.</p> +<p>“By the way,” continued Captain Angus, +“I’d better give you your route—for when you +<i>do</i> get away—and you mustn’t sit here all day +like this, y’know. You must ginger ’em up a +bit” (more formula this) “or you’ll all take +root. Well, look here, you go up the hill and keep straight +on to where a railway-bridge crosses the road. Turn to the +left before you go under the bridge, and keep along the railway +line till you see some tents on the left again. Strike +inland towards these, and you’ll find your way all +right. Take what empty tents you want, but don’t +spread yourself <i>too</i> much—though there’s only +some details there now. You’ll be in command of that +camp for the present. . . . Better not bung off to the Club +either—you may be wanted in a hurry. . . . I’ll +see if those trucks are on the way as I go up. Don’t +hop off till you’ve shifted all your stuff. . . So +long! . . .” and the Military Landing Officer bustled off +to where at the Dock gates a motor-car awaited him. . . .</p> +<p>Before long, Bertram found that he must either sit down or +fall down, so terrific was the stifling heat, so heavy had his +accoutrements become, and so faint, empty and giddy did he +feel.</p> +<p>Through the open door of a corrugated-iron shed he could see a +huge, burly, red-faced European, sitting at a little rough table +in a big bare room. In this barn-like place was nothing +else but a telephone-box and a chair. Could he go in and +sit on it? That dark and shady interior looked like a +glimpse of heaven from this hell of crashing glare and gasping +heat. . . . Perhaps confidential military communications +were made through that telephone though, and the big man, arrayed +in a singlet and white trousers, was there for the very purpose +of receiving them secretly and of preventing the intrusion of any +stranger? Anyhow—it would be a minute’s blessed +escape from the blinding inferno, merely to go inside and ask the +man if he could sit down while he awaited the <a +name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span>trucks. +He could place the chair in a position from which he could see +his men. . . . He entered the hut, and the large man raised +a clean-shaven crimson face, ornamented with a pair of piercing +blue eyes, and stared hard at him as he folded a pinkish +newspaper and said nothing at all, rather disconcertingly.</p> +<p>“May I come in and sit down for a bit, please?” +said Bertram. “I think I’ve got a touch of the +sun.”</p> +<p>“Put your wacant faice in that wacant chair,” was +the prompt reply.</p> +<p>“Thanks—may I put it where I can see my +men?” said Bertram.</p> +<p>“Putt it where you can cock yer feet on this ’ere +table an’ lean back agin that pertition, more sense,” +replied the large red man, scratching his large red head. +“<i>You</i> don’ want to see yore men, you +don’t,” he added. “They’re a +’orrid sight. . . . All natives is. . . . You +putt it where you kin get a good voo o’ <i>me</i>. . . +. Shed a few paounds o’ the hup’olstery and +maike yerself atome. . . . Wisht I got somethink to orfer +yer—but I ain’t. . . . Can’t be +’osspitable on a basin o’ water wot’s bin +washed in—can yer?”</p> +<p>Bertram admitted the difficulty, and, with a sigh of intense +relief, removed his belt and cross-belts and all that unto them +pertained. And, as he sank into the chair with a grateful +heart, entered Ali Suleiman, whom he had not seen for an hour, +bearing in one huge paw a great mug of steaming tea, and in the +other a thick plate of thicker biscuits.</p> +<p>Bertram could have wrung the hand that fed him. Never +before in the history of tea had a cup of tea been so +welcome.</p> +<p>“Heaven reward you as I never can,” quoth Bertram, +as he drank. “Where on earth did you raise +it?”</p> +<p>“Oh, sah!” beamed Ali. “Master not +mentioning it. I am knowing cook-fellow at R.E. +Sergeants’ Mess, and saying my frien’ Sergeant Jones, +R.E., wanting cup of tea and biscuits at bunder P.D.Q.”</p> +<p>“P.D.Q.?” enquired Bertram.</p> +<p>“Yessah, all ’e same ‘pretty dam +quick’—and bringing it to <i>Bwana</i> by +mistake,” replied Ali, the son of Suleiman.</p> +<p>“But <i>isn’t</i> there some mistake?” asked +the puzzled youth. “I don’t want to . +. .”</p> +<p>“Lookere,” interrupted the large red man, +“<i>you</i> don’ wanter discover no mistakes, not +until you drunk that tea, you don’t. <a +name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 89</span>. . . +You push that daown yore neck and then give that nigger a cent +an’ tell ’im to be less careful nex’ +time. You don’ wanter <i>dis</i>courage a good lad +like that, you don’t. Not ’arf, you +do.”</p> +<p>“But—Sergeant Jones’s tea” began +Bertram, looking unhappily at the half-emptied cup.</p> +<p>“<i>Sergeant Jones’s tea</i>!” mimicked the +rude red man, in a high falsetto. “<i>If</i> ole +Shifter Jones drunk a cup o’ tea it’d be in all the +paipers nex’ mornin’, it would. Not arf it +wouldn’t. Don’ believe ’e ever tasted +tea, I don’t, an’ if he <i>did</i>—”</p> +<p>But at this moment a white-clad naval officer of exalted rank +strode into the room, and the large red man sprang to his feet +with every sign of respect and regard. Picking up a Navy +straw hat from the floor, the latter gentleman stood at attention +with it in his hand. Bertram decided that he was a naval +petty officer on some shore-job or other, perhaps retired and now +a coast-guard or Customs official of some kind. Evidently +he knew the exalted naval officer and held him, or his Office, in +high regard.</p> +<p>“Get my message, William Hankey?” he snapped.</p> +<p>“Yessir,” replied William Hankey.</p> +<p>“Did you telephone for the car at once?”</p> +<p>“Nossir,” admitted Hankey, with a fluttering +glance of piteous appeal.</p> +<p>The naval officer’s face became a ferocious and menacing +mask of wrath and hate, lit up by a terrible glare. Up to +that moment he had been rather curiously like Hankey. Now +he was even more like a very infuriated lion. He took a +step nearer the table, fixed his burning, baleful eye upon the +wilting William, and withered him with the most extraordinary +blast of scorching invective that Bertram had ever heard, or was +ever likely to hear, unless he met Captain Sir Thaddeus +Bellingham ffinch Beffroye again.</p> +<p>“You blundering bullock,” quoth he; “you +whimpering weasel; you bleating blup; you miserable dog-potter; +you horny-eyed, bleary-nosed, bat-eared, lop-sided, longshore +loafer; you perishing shrimp-peddler; you Young Helper; you +Mother’s Little Pet; you dear Ministering Child; you +blistering bug-house body-snatcher; you bloated bumboat-woman; +you hopping hermaphrodite—what d’ye mean by it? +Eh? . . . <i>What d’ye mean by it</i>, you +anæmic Aggie; you ape-faced anthropoid; you adenoid; you +blood-stained buzzard; you abject abortion; you <a +name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 90</span>abstainer; +you sickly, one-lunged, half-baked, under-fed alligator; you +scrofulous scorbutic; you peripatetic pimple; you perambulating +pimp-faced poodle; what about it? Eh? <i>What about +it</i>?”</p> +<p>Mr. William Hankey stood silent and motionless, but in his +face was the expression of one who, with critical approval, +listens and enjoys. Such a look may be seen upon the face +of a musician the while he listens to the performance of a +greater musician.</p> +<p>Having taken breath, the Captain continued: “What have +you got to say for yourself, you frig-faced farthing freak, +you? Nothing! You purple poultice-puncher; you +hopeless, helpless, herring-gutted hound; you dropsical +drink-water; you drunken, drivelling dope-dodger; you mouldy, +mossy-toothed, mealy-mouthed maggot; you squinny-faced, +squittering, squint-eyed squab, you—what have you got to +say for yourself? Eh? . . . <i>Answer me</i>, you +mole; you mump; you measle; you knob; you nit; you noun; you +part; you piece; you portion; you bald-headed, slab-sided, +jelly-bellied jumble; you mistake; you accident; you imperial +stinker; you poor, pale pudding; you populous, pork-faced +parrot—why don’t you speak, you doddering, +dumb-eared, deaf-mouthed dust-hole; you jabbering, jawing, +jumping Jezebel, why don’t you answer me? Eh? +<i>D’ye hear</i> me, you fighting gold-fish; you whistling +water-rat; you Leaning Tower of Pisa-pudding; you beer-belching +ration-robber; you pink-eyed, perishing pension-cheater; you +flat-footed, frog-faced fragment; you trumpeting +tripe-hound? Hold your tongue and listen to me, you +barge-bottom barnacle; you nestling gin-lapper; you +barmaid-biting bun-bolter; you tuberculous tub; you mouldy +manure-merchant; you moulting mop-chewer; you kagging, corybantic +cockroach; you lollipop-looting lighterman; you naval +know-all. <i>Why didn’t you telephone for the +car</i>?”</p> +<p>“’Cos it were ’ere all the time, sir,” +replied Mr. William Hankey, perceiving that his superior officer +had run down and required rest.</p> +<p>“<i>That’s</i> all right, then,” replied +Captain Sir Thaddeus Bellingham ffinch Beffroye pleasantly, and +strode to the door. There he turned, and again addressed +Mr. Hankey.</p> +<p>“Why couldn’t you say so, instead of chattering +and jabbering and mouthing and mopping and mowing and yapping and +yiyiking for an hour, Mr. Woozy, Woolly-witted, Wandering William +Hankey?” he enquired.</p> +<p><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 91</span>The +large red man looked penitent.</p> +<p>“Hankey,” the officer added, “you are a +land-lubber. You are a pier-head yachtsman. You are a +beach pleasure-boat pilot. You are a canal +bargee.”</p> +<p>Mr. Hankey looked hurt, <i>touché</i>, broken.</p> +<p>“Oh, <i>sir</i>!” said he, stricken at last.</p> +<p>“William Hankey, you are a <i>volunteer</i>,” +continued his remorseless judge.</p> +<p>Mr. Hankey fell heavily into his chair, and fetched a deep +groan.</p> +<p>“William Hankey-Pankey—you are a <i>conscientious +objector</i>,” said the Captain in a quiet, cold and cruel +voice.</p> +<p>A little gasping cry escaped Mr. Hankey. He closed his +eyes, swayed a moment, and then dropped fainting on the table, +the which his large red head smote with a dull and heavy thud, as +the heartless officer strode away.</p> +<p>A moment later Mr. Hankey revived, winked at the astonished +Bertram, and remarked:</p> +<p>“I’d swim in blood fer ’im, I would, any +day. I’d swim in beer wi’ me mouf shut, if +’e ast me, I would. . . . ’E’s the +pleasant-manneredest, kindest, nicest bloke I was ever shipmates +wiv, ’e is. . .”</p> +<p>“His bark is worse than his bite, I suppose?” +hazarded Bertram.</p> +<p>“Bark!” replied Mr. Hankey. “’E +wouldn’ bark at a blind beggar’s deaf dog, ’e +wouldn’t. . . . The ship’s a ’Appy Ship +wot’s got <i>’im</i> fer Ole Man. . . . +Why—the matlows do’s liddle things jest to git +brought up before ’im to listen to ’is voice. . . +. Yes. . . . Their Master’s Voice. . . . +Wouldn’ part brass-rags wiv ’im for a nogs’ead +o’ rum. . . .”</p> +<p>Feeling a different man for the tea and biscuits, Bertram +thanked Mr. Hankey for his hospitality, and stepped out on to the +quay, thinking, as the heat-blast struck him, that one would +experience very similar sensations by putting his head into an +oven and then stepping on to the stove. In the shade of the +sheds the Sepoys sprawled, even the cheery Gurkhas seemed unhappy +and uncomfortable in that fiery furnace.</p> +<p>Bertram’s heart smote him. Had it been the act of +a good officer to go and sit down in that shed, to drink tea and +eat biscuits, while his men . . . ? Yes, surely that was +all right. He <a name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +92</span>was far less acclimatised to heat and glare than they, +and it would be no service to them for him to get heat-stroke and +apoplexy or “a touch of the sun.” They had +their water-bottles and their grain-and-sugar ration and their +cold <i>chupattis</i>. They were under conditions far more +closely approximating to normal than he was. Of course it +is boring to spend hours in the same place with full equipment +on, but, after all, it was much worse for a European, whose +thoughts run on a cool club luncheon-room; a bath and change; and +a long chair, a cold drink and a novel, under a punkah on the +club verandah thereafter. . . . Would those infernal trucks +<i>never</i> come? Suppose they never did? Was he to +stay there all night? He had certainly received definite +orders from the “competent military authority” to +stay there until all his baggage had been sent off. Was +that to relieve the competent military authority of +responsibility in the event of any of it being stolen? . . +. Probably the competent military authority was now having +his tea, miles away at the Club. What should he do if no +trucks had materialised by nightfall? How about consulting +the Native Officers? . . . Perish the thought! . . . +They’d have to stick it, the same as he would. The +orders were quite clear, and all he had got to do was to sit +tight and await trucks—if he grew grey in the process.</p> +<p>Some six hours from the time at which he had landed, a couple +of small four-wheeled trucks were pushed on to the wharf by a +fatigue-party of Sepoys from the camp; the Naik in charge of them +saluted and fled, lest he and his men be impounded for further +service; and Bertram instructed the Gurkha Subedar to get a +fatigue-party of men to work at loading the two trucks to their +utmost capacity, with baggage, kit, and ration-boxes. It +was evident that the arrival of the trucks did not mean the early +departure of the force, for several journeys would he necessary +for the complete evacuation of the mound of material to be +shifted. Having loaded the trucks, the fatigue-party pushed +off, and it was only as the two unwieldy erections of baggage +were being propelled through the gates by the willing little men, +that it occurred to Bertram to enquire whether they had any idea +as to where they were going.</p> +<p>Not the slightest, and they grinned cheerily. Another +problem! Should he now abandon the force and lead the +fatigue-party in the light of the Military Landing +Officer’s description of <a name="page93"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 93</span>the route, or should he endeavour to +give the Gurkha Subedar an idea of the way, and send him off with +the trucks? And suppose he lost his way and barged ahead +straight across the Island of Mombasa? That would mean that +the rest of them would have to sit on the wharf all +night—if he obeyed the Military Landing Officer’s +orders. . . . Which he <i>must</i> do, of course. . . +. Bertram was of a mild, inoffensive and quite unvindictive +nature, but he found himself wishing that the Military Landing +Officer’s dinner might thoroughly disagree with him. . . +. His own did not appear likely to get the opportunity. . . +. He then and there determined that he would never again be +caught, while on Active Service, without food of some kind on his +person, if he could help it—chocolate, biscuits, something +in a tablet or a tin. . . . Should he go and leave the +Native Officer in command, or should he send forth the two +precious trucks into the gathering gloom and hope that, +dove-like, they would return? . . .</p> +<p>And again the voice of Ali fell like balm of Gilead, as it +boomed, welcome, opportune and cheering.</p> +<p>“Sah, I will show the Chinamans the way to camp and +bring them back P.D.Q.,” quoth he.</p> +<p>“Oh! Good man!” said Bertram. +“Right O! But they’re not Chinamen—they +are Gurkha soldiers. . . . Don’t you hit one, or +chivvy them about. . . .”</p> +<p>“Sah, I am knowing all things,” was the modest +reply, and the black giant strode off, followed by the empiled +wobbling waggons.</p> +<p>More weary waiting, but, as the day waned, the decrease of +heat and sultriness failed to keep pace with the increasing +hunger, faintness and sickness which made at least one of the +prisoners of the quay wish that either he or the Emperor of +Germany had never been born. . . .</p> +<p>Journey after journey having been made, each by a fresh party +of Gurkhas (for Bertram, as is customary, used the willing horse, +when he saw that the little hill-men apparently liked work for +its own sake, as much as the other Sepoys disliked work for any +sake), the moment at last arrived when the ammunition-boxes could +be loaded on to the trucks and the whole force could be marched +off as escort thereunto, leaving nothing behind them upon the +accursed stones of that oven, which had been their gaol for ten +weary hours.</p> +<p><a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 94</span>Never +was the order, “Fall in!” obeyed with more alacrity, +and it was with a swinging stride that the troops marched out +through the gates in the rear of their British officer, who +strode along with high-held head and soldierly bearing, as he +thanked God there was a good moon in the heavens, and prayed that +there might soon be a good meal in his stomach.</p> +<p>Up the little hill and past the trolley “terminus” +the party tramped, and the hot, heavy night seemed comparatively +cool after the terrible day on the shut-in, stone and iron +heat-trap of the quay. . . . As he glanced at the +diamond-studded velvet of the African sky, Bertram thought how +long ago seemed that morning when he had made his first march at +the head of his company. It seemed to have taken place, not +only in another continent, but in another age. Already he +seemed an older, wiser, more resourceful man. . . .</p> +<p>“<i>Bwana</i> turning feet to left hands here,” +said Ali Suleiman from where, abreast of Bertram, he strode along +at the edge of the road. “If <i>Bwana</i> will +following me in front, I am leading him behind”—with +which clear and comprehensible offer, he struck off to the left, +his long, clean night-shirt looming ahead in the darkness as a +pillar of cloud by night. . . .</p> +<p>Again Bertram blessed him, and thanked the lucky stars that +had brought him across his path. He had seen no +railway-bridge nor railway-line; he could see no tents, and he +was exceedingly thankful that it was not his duty to find, by +night, the way which had seemed somewhat vaguely and +insufficiently indicated for one who sought to follow it by +day. Half an hour later he saw a huge black mass which, +upon closer experience, proved to be a great palm grove, in the +shadow of which stood a number of tents.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>In a remarkably short space of time, the Sepoys had occupied +four rows of the empty tents, lighted hurricane lamps, unpacked +bedding and kit bundles, removed turbans, belts and +accoutrements, and, set about the business of cooking, +distributing, and devouring their rations.</p> +<p>The grove of palms that had looked so very inviolable and +sacredly remote as it stood untenanted and silent in the +brilliant moonlight, now looked and smelt (thanks to wood fires +and burning ghee) like an Indian bazaar, as Sikhs, Gurkhas, +Rajputs, <a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +95</span>Punjabis, Marathas, Pathans and +“down-country” Carnatics swarmed in and out of tents, +around cooking-fires, at the taps of the big railway water-tank, +or the kit-and-ration dump—the men of each different race +yet keeping themselves separate from those of other races. . . +.</p> +<p>As the unutterably weary Bertram stood and watched and +wondered as to what military and disciplinary conundrums his +motley force would provide for him on the morrow, his ancient and +faithful family retainer came and asked him for his keys. +That worthy had already, in the name of his <i>Bwana</i>, +demanded the instant provision of a fatigue-party, and directed +the removal of a tent from the lines to a spot where there would +be more privacy and shade for its occupant, and had then +unstrapped the bundles containing his master’s bed, bedding +and washhand-stand, and now desired further to furnish forth the +tent with the suitable contents of the sack. . . .</p> +<p>And so Bertram “settled in,” as did his little +force, save that he went to bed supperless and they did +not. Far from it—for a goat actually strayed bleating +into the line and met with an accident—getting its silly +neck in the way of a <i>kukri</i> just as its owner was, so he +said, fanning himself with it (with the <i>kukri</i>, not the +goat). So some fed full, and others fuller.</p> +<p>Next day, Bertram ate what Ali, far-foraging, brought him; and +rested beneath the shade of the palms and let his men rest also, +to recover from their sea-voyage and generally to find +themselves. . . . For one whole day he would do nothing and +order nothing to be done; receive no reports, issue no +instructions, harry nobody and be harried by none. Then, on +the morrow, he would arise, go on the warpath in the camp, and +grapple bravely with every problem that might arise, from +shortage of turmeric to excess of covert criticism of his +knowledge and ability.</p> +<p>But the morrow never came in that camp, for the Base +Commandant sent for him in urgent haste at eventide, and bade him +strain every nerve to get his men and their baggage, lock, stock +and barrel, on board the <i>Barjordan</i>, just as quickly as it +could be done (and a dam’ sight quicker), for +reinforcements were urgently needed at M’paga, down the +coast.</p> +<p>Followed a sleepless nightmare night, throughout which he +worked by moonlight in the camp, on the quay, and on the +<i>Barjordan’s</i> deck, reversing the labours of the +previous day, and <a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +96</span>re-embarking his men, their kit, ammunition, rations and +impedimenta—and in addition, two barge-loads of +commissariat and ordnance requisites for the M’paga +Brigade.</p> +<p>At dawn the last man, box, and bale was on board and Bertram +endeavoured to speak a word of praise, in halting Hindustani, to +the Gurkha Subedar, who, with his men, had shown an alacrity and +gluttony for work, beyond all praise. All the other Sepoys +had worked properly in their different shifts—but the +Gurkhas had revelled in work, and when their second shift came at +midnight, the first shift remained and worked with them!</p> +<p>Having gratefully accepted coffee from Mr. Wigger, the First +Officer, Bertram, feeling “beat to the world,” went +down to his cabin, turned in, and slept till evening. When +he awoke, a gazelle was gazing affectionately into his face.</p> +<p>He shut his eyes and shivered. . . . Was this sunstroke, +fever, or madness? He felt horribly frightened, his nerves +being in the state natural to a person of his temperament and +constitution when overworked, underfed, affected by the sun, +touched by fever, and overwrought to the breaking-point by +anxiety and worry.</p> +<p>He opened his eyes again, determined to be cool, wise and +brave, in face of this threatened breakdown, this hallucination +of insanity.</p> +<p>The gazelle was still there—there in a carpeted, +comfortable cabin, on board a ship, in the Indian Ocean. . . +.</p> +<p>He rubbed his eyes.</p> +<p>Then he put out his hand to pass it through the spectral Thing +and confirm his worst fears.</p> +<p>The gazelle licked his hand, and he sat up and said: +“Oh, damn!” and laughed weakly.</p> +<p>The animal left the cabin, and he heard its hoofs pattering on +the linoleum.</p> +<p>Later he found it to be a pet of the captain of the +<i>Barjordan</i>, Captain O’Connor.</p> +<p>Next morning the ship anchored a mile or so from a mangrove +swamp, and the business of disembarkation began again, this time +into the ship’s boats and some sailing dhows that had met +the <i>Barjordan</i> at this spot.</p> +<p>When all the Sepoys and stores were in the boats and dhows, he +put on the <i>puggri</i> which Bludyer had given him, with the <a +name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 97</span>assistance of +Ali Suleiman and the Gurkha Subedar, looked at himself in the +glass, and wished he felt as fine and fierce a fellow as he +looked. . . . He then said “Farewell” to kindly +Captain O’Connor and burly, energetic Mr. Wigger—both +of whom he liked exceedingly—received their hearty good +wishes and exhortations to slay and spare not, and went down on +the motor-launch that was to tow the laden boats to the low +gloomy shore—if a mangrove swamp can be called a shore. . . +.</p> +<p>One more “beginning”—or one more stage on +the road to War! Here was <i>he</i>, Bertram Greene, armed +to the teeth, with a turban on his head, about to be +landed—and left—on the shores of the mainland of this +truly Dark Continent. He was about to invade Africa! . . +.</p> +<p>If only his father and Miranda could see him <i>now</i>!</p> +<h3>CHAPTER IX<br /> +<i>Bertram Invades Africa</i></h3> +<p>Bertram waded ashore and looked around.</p> +<p>Through a rank jungle of high grass, scrub, palms, trees and +creepers, a narrow mud path wound past the charred remnants of a +native village to where stood the shell-scarred ruins of a +whitewashed <i>adobe</i> building which had probably been a +Customs-post, treasury, post-office and Government Offices in +general. . . . He was on the mainland of the African +Continent, and he was on enemy territory in the war area! +How far away was the nearest German force? What should he +do if he were attacked while disembarking? How was he to +find the main body of his own brigade? What should he do if +there were an enemy force between him and them? And what +was the good of asking himself conundrums, instead of +concentrating every faculty upon a speedy and orderly +disembarkation?</p> +<p>Turning his back upon the unutterably dreary and depressing +scene, as well as upon all doubts and fears and questions, he +gave orders that the Gurkhas should land first. His only +object in this was to have what he considered the best fighting +men ashore first, and to form them up as a covering force, ready +for action, in the event of any attack being made while the main +body was still in <a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +98</span>the confusion, muddle and disadvantage of the act of +disembarkation. And no bad idea either—but the +Subedar of the Sherepur Sikhs saw, or affected to see, in this +Gurkha priority of landing, an intentional and studied insult to +himself, his contingent, and the whole Sikh race. He said +as much to his men, and then, standing up in the bows of the +boat, called out:</p> +<p>“Sahib! Would it not be better to let the Sherepur +Sikh Contingent land first, to ensure the safety +of—er—those beloved of the Sahib? There might +be an attack. . . .”</p> +<p>Not understanding in the least what the man was saying, +Bertram ignored him altogether, though he disliked the sound of +the laughter in the Sikh boat, and gathered from the face of the +Gurkha Subedar that something which he greatly resented had been +said.</p> +<p>“<i>Khabadar</i> . . . <i>tum</i>!” <a +name="citation98"></a><a href="#footnote98" +class="citation">[98]</a> the Gurkha hissed, as he stepped +ashore, and, with soldierly skill and promptness, got his men +formed up, in and around the ruined building and native village, +in readiness to cover the disembarkation of the rest. Five +minutes after he had landed, Bertram found it difficult to +believe that a hundred Gurkha Sepoys were within a hundred yards +of him, for not one was visible. At the end of a couple of +hours the untowed dhows had arrived, all troops, ammunition, +supplies and baggage were ashore, the boats had all departed, and +Bertram again found himself the only white man and sole authority +in this mixed force, and felt the burden of responsibility heavy +upon him.</p> +<p>The men having been formed up in their respective units, with +the rations, ammunition, and kit dump in their rear, Bertram +began to consider the advisability of leaving a strong guard over +the latter, and moving off in search of the brigade camp. +Would this be the right thing to do? Certainly his force +was of no earthly use to the main body so long as it squatted in +the mud where it had landed. Perhaps it was urgently wanted +at that very moment, and the General was praying for its arrival +and swearing at its non-arrival—every minute being +precious, and the fate of the campaign hanging upon its immediate +appearance. It might well be that an attack in their rear +by four hundred fresh troops would put to flight an enemy who, up +to that moment, had been winning. He would not know the +strength of this new assailant, nor whether it was to be measured +in hundreds or in thousands. <a name="page99"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 99</span>Suppose the General was, at that very +moment, listening for his rifles, as Wellington listened for the +guns of his allies at Waterloo! And here he was, doing +nothing—wasting time. . . . Yes, but suppose this +dense bush were full of scouts and spies, as it well might be, +and probably was, and supposing that the ration and ammunition +dump was captured as soon as he had marched off with his main +body? A pretty start for his military career—to lose +the ammunition and food supply for the whole force within an hour +or two of getting it ashore! His name would be better known +than admired by the British Expeditionary Force in East Africa. . +. . What would Murray have done in such a case? . . . +Suppose he “split the difference” and neither left +the stores behind him nor stuck in the mud with them? +Suppose he moved forward in the direction of the Base Camp, +taking everything with him? But that would mean that every +soldier in the force would be burdened like a +coolie-porter—and, moreover, they’d have to move in +single file along the mud path that ran through the impenetrable +jungle. Suppose they were attacked? . . .</p> +<p>Bertram came to the conclusion that it may be a very fine +thing to have an independent command of one’s own, but that +personally he would give a great deal to find himself under the +command of somebody else—be he never so arrogant, +unsympathetic and harsh. Had Colonel Frost suddenly +appeared he would (metaphorically) have cast himself upon that +cold, stern man’s hard bosom in transports of relief and +joy. . . . He was going to do his very best, of course, and +would never shirk nor evade any duty that lay before +him—but—he felt a very lonely, anxious, undecided +lad, and anxiety was fast becoming nervousness and +fear—fear of doing the wrong thing, or of doing the right +thing in the wrong way. . . . Should he leave a strong +guard over the stores and advance? Should he remain where +he was, and protect the stores to the last? Or should he +advance with every man and every article the force possessed? . . +.</p> +<p>Could the remainder carry all that stuff if he told off a +strong advance-guard and rear-guard? And, if so, what could +a strong advance-guard or rear-guard do in single file if the +column were attacked in front or rear? How could he avoid +an ambush on either flank by discovering it in time—in +country which rendered the use of flank guards utterly +impossible? A man could only make his way through that +jungle of thorn, scrub, trees, creepers <a +name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 100</span>and +undergrowth by the patient and strenuous use of a broad axe and a +saw. A strong, determined man might do a mile of it in a +day. . . . Probably no human foot had trodden this soil in +a thousand years, save along the little narrow path of black +beaten mud that wound tortuously through it. Should he send +on a party of Gurkhas with a note to the General, asking whether +he should leave the stores or attempt to bring them with +him? The Gurkhas were splendid jungle-fighters and +splendidly willing. . . . But that would weaken his force +seriously, in the event of his being attacked. . . . And +suppose the party were ambushed, and he stuck there waiting and +waiting, for an answer that could never come. . . .</p> +<p>With a heavy sigh, he ran his eye over the scene—the +sullen, oily water, the ugly mangrove swamp of muddy, writhing +roots and twisted, slimy trunks, the dense, brooding jungle, the +grey, dull sky—all so unfriendly and uncomfortable, giving +one such a homeless, helpless feeling. The Gurkhas were +invisible. The Sherepur Sikhs sat in a tight-packed group +around their piled arms and listened to the words of their +Subedar, the men of the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth squatted in a +double row along the front of the <i>adobe</i> building, and the +Very Mixed Contingent was just a mob near the ration-dump, beside +which Ali Suleiman stood on guard over his master’s kit. . +. . Suppose there were a sudden attack? But there +couldn’t be? An enemy could only approach down that +narrow path in single file. The impenetrable jungle was his +friend until he moved. Directly he marched off it would be +his terrible foe, the host and concealer of a thousand +ambushes.</p> +<p>He felt that he had discovered a military maxim on his own +account. <i>Impenetrable jungle is the friend of a force in +position</i>, <i>and the enemy of a force on the march</i>. . . +. Anyhow, the Gurkhas were out in front as a line of sentry +groups, and nothing could happen to the force until they had come +into action. . . . Should he—</p> +<p>“<i>Sahib</i>! <i>Ek Sahib ata hai</i>. . . +. <i>Bahut hubshi log ata hain</i>,” said a voice, +and he sprang round, to see the Gurkha Subedar saluting.</p> +<p><i>What</i> was that? “<i>A sahib is coming</i>. . +. . <i>Many African natives are coming</i>!” . . +. Then they <i>were</i> attacked after all! A German +officer was leading a force of <i>askaris</i> of the Imperial <a +name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 101</span>African +Rifles against them—those terrible Yaos and Swahilis whom +the Germans had disciplined into a splendid army, and whom they +permitted to loot and to slaughter after a successful fight. . . +.</p> +<p>His mouth went dry and the backs of his knees felt loose and +weak. He was conscious of a rush of blood to the heart and +a painful, sinking sensation of the stomach. . . . It had +come. . . . The hour of his first battle was upon him. . . +.</p> +<p>He swallowed hard.</p> +<p>“<i>Achcha</i>, <a name="citation101a"></a><a +href="#footnote101a" class="citation">[101a]</a> <i>Subedar +Sahib</i>,” he said with seeming nonchalance, +“<i>shaitan-log ko maro</i>. <i>Achcha kam +karo</i>,”<a name="citation101b"></a><a +href="#footnote101b" class="citation">[101b]</a> and turning to +the Sherepur Sikhs, the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth and the Very +Mixed Contingent bawled: “<i>Fall in</i>!” in a voice +that made those worthies perform the order as quickly as ever +they had done it in their lives.</p> +<p>“<i>Dushman nahin hai</i>, <a name="citation101c"></a><a +href="#footnote101c" class="citation">[101c]</a> +<i>Sahib</i>,” said the Gurkha Subedar—as he realised +that Bertram had ordered him “to kill the +devils”—and explained that the people who approached +bore no weapons.</p> +<p>Hurrying forward with the Subedar to a bend in the path beyond +the burnt-out native village, Bertram saw a white man clad in +khaki shirt, shorts and puttees, with a large, thick +“pig-sticker” solar-topi of pith and quilted khaki on +his head, and a revolver and hunting-knife in his belt. +Behind him followed an apparently endless column of unarmed +negroes. Evidently these were friends—but there would +be no harm in taking all precautions in case of a ruse.</p> +<p>“Be ready,” he said to the Subedar.</p> +<p>That officer smiled and pointed right and left to where, +behind logs, mounds, bushes, and other cover, both natural and +hastily prepared, lay his men, rifles cuddled lovingly to +shoulder, fingers curled affectionately round triggers, eyes +fixed unswervingly upon the approaching column, and faces grimly +expectant. So still and so well hidden were they, that +Bertram had not noticed the fact of their presence. He +wondered whether the Subedar had personally strewn grass, leaves +and brushwood over them after they had taken up their +positions. He thought of the Babes in the Wood, and +visualised the fierce little Gurkha as a novel kind of robin for +the work of burying with dead leaves. . . .</p> +<p><a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 102</span>He +stopped in the path and awaited the arrival of the white man.</p> +<p>“Good morning, Mr. Greene,” said that individual, +as he approached. “Sorry if I’ve kept you +waiting, but I had another job to finish first.”</p> +<p>Bertram stared in amazement at this person who rolled up from +the wilds of the Dark Continent with an unarmed party, addressed +him by name, and apologised for being late! He was a +saturnine and pessimistic-looking individual, wore the South +African War ribbons on his breast, and the letters C.C. on his +shoulders, and a lieutenant’s stars.</p> +<p>“Good morning,” replied Bertram, shaking +hands. “I’m awfully glad to see you. I +was wondering whether I ought to push off or stay here. . . +.”</p> +<p>“No attractions much here,” said the +new-comer. “I should bung off. . . . Straight +along this path. Can’t miss the way.”</p> +<p>“Is there much danger of attack?” asked +Bertram.</p> +<p>“Insects,” replied the other.</p> +<p>“Why not by Germans?” enquired Bertram.</p> +<p>“River on your left flank,” was the brief answer +of the saturnine and pessimistic one.</p> +<p>“Can’t they cross it by bridges?”</p> +<p>“No; owing to the absence of bridges. I’m +the only Bridges here,” sighed Mr. Bridges, of the Coolie +Corps.</p> +<p>“Why not in boats then?”</p> +<p>“Owing to the absence of boats.”</p> +<p>“Might not the Germans open fire on us from the opposite +bank then?” pursued the anxious Bertram, determined not to +begin his career in Africa with a “regrettable +incident,” due to his own carelessness.</p> +<p>“No; owing to the absence of Germans,” replied Mr. +Bridges. “Where’s your stuff? I’ve +brought a thousand of my blackbirds, so we’ll shift the lot +in one journey. If you like to shove off at once, +I’ll see nothing’s left behind. . . .” +And then, suddenly realising that there was not the least +likelihood of attack nor cause for anxiety, and that all he had +to do was to stroll along a path to the camp, where all +responsibility for the safety of men and materials would be taken +from him, Bertram relaxed, and realised that the heat was +appalling and that he felt very faint and ill. His kit had +suddenly grown insupportably heavy and <a +name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +103</span>unsufferably tight about his chest; his turban gave no +shade to his eyes nor protection to his temples and neck, and its +weight seemed to increase by pounds per minute. He felt +very giddy, blue lights appeared before his eyes, and there was a +surging and booming in his ears. He sat down, to avoid +falling.</p> +<p>“Hullo! Seedy?” ejaculated Bridges, and +turned to a big negro who stood behind him, and appeared to be a +person of quality, inasmuch as he wore the ruins of a helmet, a +khaki shooting-jacket much too small for him, and a whistle on a +string. (“Only that and nothing more.”)</p> +<p>“Here, MacGinty-my-lad,” said Bridges to this +gentleman, “<i>m’dafu late hapa</i>,” and with +a few whistling clicks and high-pitched squeals, the latter sped +another negro up a palm tree. Climbing it like a monkey, +the negro tore a huge yellow coco-nut from the bunch that +clustered beneath the spreading palm leaves, and flung it +down. This, Mr. MacGinty-my-lad retrieved and, with one +skilful blow of a <i>panga</i>, a kind of <i>machete</i> or +butchers’ axe, decapitated.</p> +<p>“Have a swig at this,” said Bridges, handing the +nut to Bertram, who discovered it to contain about a quart of +deliciously cool, sweet “milk,” as clear as distilled +water.</p> +<p>“Thanks awfully, Bridges,” said he. “I +think I had a touch of the sun. . . .”</p> +<p>“Had a touch of breakfast?” enquired the +other.</p> +<p>“No,” replied Bertram.</p> +<p>“Hence the milk in the coco-nut,” said Bridges, +and added, “If you want to live long and die happy in +Africa, you <i>must</i> do yourself well. It’s the +secret of success. You treat your tummy well—and +often—and it’ll do the same for you. . . . If +you don’t, well, you’ll be no good to yourself nor +anyone else.”</p> +<p>“Thanks,” said the ever-grateful Bertram, and +arose feeling much better.</p> +<p>“Fall in, Subedar Sahib,” said he to the Gurkha +officer, and the latter quickly assembled his men as a company in +line.</p> +<p>The Subedar of the Sherepur Sikhs approached and +saluted. “We want to be the advance-guard, +Sahib,” he said.</p> +<p>“Certainly,” replied Bertram, and added +innocently, “There is no enemy between here and the +camp.”</p> +<p>The Sikh flashed a glance of swift suspicion at him. . . +. Was this an intentional <i>riposte</i>? Was the +young Sahib more subtle <a name="page104"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 104</span>than he looked? Had he meant +“The Sikhs may form the advance-guard <i>because</i> there +is no fear of attack,” with the implication that the +Gurkhas would again have held the post of honour and danger if +there had been any danger?</p> +<p>“I don’t like the look of that bloke,” +observed Bridges, as the Sikh turned away, and added: +“Well—I’ll handle your stuff now, if +you’ll bung off,” and continued his way to the dump, +followed by Mr. MacGinty and a seemingly endless file of very +tall, very weedy, Kavirondo negroes, of an unpleasant, scaly, +greyish-black colour and more unpleasant, indescribable, but +fishlike odour. These worthies were variously dressed, some +in a <i>panga</i> or <i>machete</i>, some in a tin pot, others in +a gourd, a snuff-box, a tea-cup, a saucepan or a jam-jar. +Every man, however, without exception, possessed a red blanket, +and every man, without exception, wore it, for modesty’s +sake, folded small upon his head—where it also served the +purpose of a porter’s pad, intervening between his head and +the load which it was his life’s work to bear thereupon. . +. . When these people conversed, it was in the high, piping +voices of little children, and when Bridges, Mr. MacGinty-my-lad, +or any less <i>neapara</i> (head man), made a threatening +movement towards one of them, the culprit would forthwith put his +hands to his ears, draw up one foot to the other knee, close his +eyes, cringe, and emit an incredibly thin, small squeal, a sound +infinitely ridiculous in the mouth of a man six feet or more in +stature. . . . When the last of these quaint creatures had +passed, Bertram strode to where the Sherepur Sikhs had formed up +in line, ready to march off at the head of the force. The +Subedar gave an order, the ranks opened, the front rank turned +about, and the rifles, with bayonet already fixed, came down to +the “ready,” and Bertram found himself between the +two rows of flickering points.</p> +<p>“<i>Charge magazhinge</i>,” shouted the Subedar, +and Bertram found an odd dozen of rifles waving in the direction +of his stomach, chest, face, neck and back, as their owners gaily +loaded them. . . . Was there going to be an +“accident”? . . . Were there covert smiles on +any of the fierce bearded faces of the big men? . . . +Should he make a dash from between the ranks? . . . +No—he would stand his ground and look displeased at this +truly “native” method of charging magazines. It +seemed a long time before the Subedar gave the <a +name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 105</span>orders, +“Front rank—about turn. . . . Form fours. . . +. Right,” and the company was ready to march off.</p> +<p>“All is ready, Sahib,” said the Subedar, +approaching Bertram. “Shall I lead on?”</p> +<p>“Yes, Subedar Sahib,” replied Bertram, “but +why do your men face each other and point their rifles at each +other’s stomachs when they load them?”</p> +<p>His Hindustani was shockingly faulty, but evidently the +Subedar understood.</p> +<p>“They are not afraid of being shot, Sahib,” said +he, smiling superiorly.</p> +<p>“Then it is a pity they are not afraid of being called +slovenly, clumsy, jungly recruits,” replied +Bertram—and before the scowling officer could reply, added: +“March on—and halt when I whistle,” in sharp +voice and peremptory manner.</p> +<p>Before long the little force was on its way, the Gurkhas +coming last—as the trusty rear-guard, Bertram +explained—and, after half an hour’s uneventful march +through the stinking swamp, reached the Base Camp of the +M’paga Field Force—surely one of the ugliest, +dreariest and most depressing spots in which ever a British force +sat down and acquired assorted diseases.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER X<br /> +<i>M’paga</i></h3> +<p>Halting his column, closing it up, and calling it to +attention, Bertram marched past the guard of King’s African +Rifles and entered the Camp. This consisted of a huge +square, enclosed by low earthen walls and shallow trenches, in +which were the “lines” of the Indian and African +infantry, composing the inadequate little force which was +invading German East Africa, rather with the idea of protecting +British East than achieving conquest. The +“lines” of the Sepoys and <i>askaris</i> consisted of +rows of tiny low tents, while along the High Street of the Camp +stood hospital tents, officers’ messes, the General’s +tent, and that of his Brigade Major, and various other tents +connected with the mysteries of the field telegraph and +telephone, the Army Service Corps’ supply and transport, +and various offices of Brigade and <a name="page106"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 106</span>Regimental Headquarters. As he +passed the General’s tent (indicated by a flagstaff and +Union Jack), a tall lean officer, with a white-moustached, +keen-eyed face, emerged and held up his hand. Seeing the +crossed swords of a General on his shoulder-straps, Bertram +endeavoured to rise to the occasion, roared: “<i>Eyes +right</i>,” “<i>Eyes front</i>,” and then +“<i>Halt</i>,” saluted and stepped forward.</p> +<p>The General shook hands with him, and said: “Glad to see +you. Hope you’re ready for plenty of hard work, for +there’s plenty for you. . . Glad to see your men +looking so businesslike and marching so smartly. . . . All +right—carry on. . . .”</p> +<p>Bertram would gladly have died for that General on the spot, +and it was positively with a lump (of gratitude, so to speak) in +his throat that he gave the order “<i>Quick +march</i>,” and proceeded, watched by hundreds of native +soldiers, who crawled out of their low tents or rose up from +where they lay or squatted to clean accoutrements, gossip, eat, +or contemplate Infinity.</p> +<p>Arrived at the opposite entrance of the Camp, Bertram felt +foolish, but concealed the fact by pretending that he had chosen +this as a suitable halting place, bawled: +“<i>Halt</i>,” “<i>Into line</i>—<i>left +turn</i>,” “<i>Stand at ease</i>,” +“<i>Stand easy</i>,” and determined to wait +events. He had carried out his orders and brought the +troops to the Camp as per instructions. Somebody else could +come and take them if they wanted them. . . .</p> +<p>As he stood, trying to look unconcerned, a small knot of +British officers strolled up, headed by a tall and +important-looking person arrayed in helmet, open shirt, shorts, +grey stockings and khaki canvas shoes.</p> +<p>“Greene?” said he.</p> +<p>“Yes, sir,” said Bertram, saluting.</p> +<p>“Brigade Major,” continued the officer, apparently +introducing himself. “March the Hundred and +Ninety-Ninth on and report to Colonel Rock. The Hundred and +Ninety-Eighth are outside the perimeter,” and he pointed to +where, a quarter of a mile away, were some grass huts and rows of +tiny tents. “The remainder will be taken over by +their units here, and your responsibility for them +ceases.”</p> +<p>Bertram, very thankful to be rid of them, marched on with the +Hundred, and halted them in front of the low tents, from which, +with whoops of joy, poured forth the warriors of the Hundred <a +name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 107</span>and +Ninety-Eighth in search of any <i>bhai</i>, pal, townee, bucky, +or aunt’s cousin’s husband’s sister’s +son—(who, as such, would have a strong claim upon his good +offices)—in the ranks of this thrice-welcome +reinforcement.</p> +<p>Leaving the Hundred in charge of Jemadar Hassan Ali to await +orders, Bertram strode to a large grass <i>banda</i>, or hut, +consisting of three walls and a roof, through the open end of +which he could see a group of British officers sitting on boxes +and stools, about a long and most uneven, undulating table of +box-sides nailed on sticks and supported by four upright +logs.</p> +<p>At the head of this table, on which were maps and papers, sat +a small thick-set man, who looked the personification of vigour, +force and restless activity. Seeing that this officer wore +a crown and star on his shoulder-strap, Bertram went up to him, +saluted, and said:</p> +<p>“Second-Lieutenant Greene, I.A.R., sir. I have +brought a hundred men from the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth, and nine +cooking-pots—which Colonel Frost wishes to have returned at +once. . . .”</p> +<p>“The men or the cooking-pots, or both?” enquired +Colonel Rock, whose habit of sarcastic and savage banter made him +feared by all who came in contact with him, and served to conceal +a very kindly and sympathetic nature.</p> +<p>“The cooking-pots, sir,” replied Bertram, blushing +as the other officers eyed him critically and with half-smiles at +the Colonel’s humour. Bertram felt, a little +cynically, that such wit from an officer of their own rank would +not have seemed so pleasingly humorous to some of these +gentlemen, and that, moreover, he had again discovered a Military +Maxim on his own account. <i>The value and humorousness of +any witty remark made by any person in military uniform is in +inverse ratio to the rank and seniority of the individual to whom +it is made</i>. In other words, a Colonel must smile at a +General’s joke, a Major must grin broadly, a Captain laugh +appreciatively, a Subaltern giggle right heartily, a Warrant +Officer or N.C.O. explode into roars of laughter, and a private +soldier roll helpless upon the ground in spasms and convulsions +of helpless mirth.</p> +<p>Hearing a distinct snigger from the end of the table, Bertram +glanced in that direction, said to himself, “You’re a +second-lieutenant, by your appreciative giggle,” and +encountered the <a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +108</span>sneering stare of a vacant-faced youth whom he heartily +disliked on sight.</p> +<p>“Wants the cooking-pots back, but not the men, +eh?” observed the Colonel, and, turning to the officer who +sat at his left hand, a tall, handsome man with a well-bred, +pleasant, dark face, who was Adjutant of the Hundred and +Ninety-Ninth, added:</p> +<p>“Better go and see if there’s good reason for his +not wanting them back, Hall. . . . Colonel Frost’s a +good man at selling a horse—perhaps he’s sold us a +pup. . . .”</p> +<p>More giggles from the vacant faced youth as Captain Hall arose +and went out of the shed of grass and sticks, thatched on a +framework of posts, which was the Officers’ Mess of the +Hundred and Ninety-Eighth Regiment.</p> +<p>Feeling shy and nervous, albeit most thankful to be among +senior officers who would henceforth relieve him of the lonely +responsibility he had found so trying and burdensome, Bertram +seized the opportunity of the Adjutant’s departure to +escape, and followed that officer to where the Hundred awaited +the order to dismiss.</p> +<p>“Brought a tent?” asked Captain Hall, as they went +along.</p> +<p>“No,” replied Bertram. “Ought I to +have done so?”</p> +<p>“If you value your comfort on these picnics,” was +the answer. “You’ll find it a bit damp o’ +nights when it rains, in one of these grass huts. . . . You +can pig in with me to-night, and we’ll set a party of +Kavirondo to build you a <i>banda</i> to-morrow if you’re +staying on here.”</p> +<p>“Thanks awfully,” acknowledged Bertram. +“Am I likely to go on somewhere else, though?”</p> +<p>“I did hear something about your taking a provision +convoy up to Butindi the day after to-morrow,” was the +reply. “One of our Majors is up there with a mixed +force of Ours and the Arab Company, with some odds and ends of +King’s African Rifles and things. . . . Pity you +haven’t a tent.”</p> +<p>After looking over the Hundred and committing them to the +charge of the Subedar-Major of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth, +Captain Hall invited Bertram “to make himself at +home” in his hut, and led the way to where a row of green +tents and grass huts stood near the Officers’ Mess. +On a Roorkee chair, at the door of one of these, sat none other +than the Lieutenant Stanner whom Bertram had last seen on the +deck of <i>Elymas</i>. With <a name="page109"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 109</span>him was another subaltern, one of +the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth.</p> +<p>“Hullo, Greene-bird!” cried Stanner. +“Welcome home. Allow me to present you to my friend +Best. . . . He is Very Best to-day, because he has got a +bottle of whisky in his bed. He’ll only be Second +Best to-morrow, because he won’t have any by then. . . +. Not if he’s a gentleman, that is,” he added, +eyeing Best anxiously.</p> +<p>That officer grinned, arose, and entering the hut, produced +the whisky, a box of “sparklets,” a kind of siphon, +and a jug of dirty water.</p> +<p>“You already know Hall?” continued Stanner, the +loquacious. “I was at school with his father. +He’s a good lad. Address him as Baronial Hall when +you want something, Music Hall when you’re feeling girlish, +Town Hall when he’s coming the pompous Adjutant over you, +and Mission Hall when you’re tired of him.”</p> +<p>“Don’t associate with him, Greene. Come +away,” said Captain Hall. “He’ll teach +you to play shove-ha’penny, to smoke, and to use bad +language,” but as Best handed him a whisky-and-dirty-water, +feebly aerated by a sparklet, he tipped Stanner from his chair, +seated himself in it, murmured, “When sinners entice thee, +consent thou some,” and drank.</p> +<p>“Why are you dressed like that? Is it your +birthday, or aren’t you very well?” enquired Stanner +suddenly, eyeing Bertram’s lethal weapons and Sepoy’s +turban. Bertram blushed, pleaded that he had nowhere to +“undress,” and had only just arrived. Whereupon +the Adjutant, remarking that he must be weary, arose and took him +to his hut.</p> +<p>“Get out of everything but your shirt and shorts, my +son,” said he, “and chuck that silly <i>puggri</i> +away before you get sunstroke. All very well if +you’re going into a scrap, but it’s as safe as +Piccadilly round here.” Bertram, as he sank into the +Adjutant’s chair, suddenly realised that he was more tired +than ever he had been in his life before.</p> +<p>“Where <i>Bwana</i> sleeping to-night, sah, thank you, +please?” boomed a familiar voice, and before the tent stood +the faithful Ali, bowing and saluting—behind him three tall +Kavirondo carrying Bertram’s kit. Ali had +commandeered these men from Bridges’ party, and had hurried +them off far in advance of the porters who were bringing in the +general kit, rations, and <a name="page110"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 110</span>ammunition. By means best +known to himself he had galvanised the “low niggers” +into agility and activity that surprised none more than +themselves.</p> +<p>“Oh—it’s my servant,” said Bertram to +the Adjutant. “May he put my bed in here, +then?”</p> +<p>“That’s the idea,” replied Captain Hall, +and, in a few minutes, Bertram’s camp-bed was erected and +furnished with bedding and mosquito net, his washhand-stand was +set up, and his canvas bucket filled with water. Not until +everything possible had been done for his master’s comfort +did Ali disappear to that mysterious spot whereunto native +servants repair beyond the ken of the master-folk, when in need +of food, leisure and relaxation.</p> +<p>Having washed, eaten and slept, Bertram declared himself +“a better and wiser man,” and asked Hall if he might +explore the Camp, its wonders to admire. “Oh, +yes,” said Hall, “but don’t go into the +gambling dens, boozing-kens, dancing-saloons and faro tents, to +squander your money, time and health.”</p> +<p>“<i>Are</i> there any?” asked Bertram, in +wide-eyed astonishment.</p> +<p>“No,” replied Hall.</p> +<p>Bertram wished people would not be so fond of exercising their +humour at his expense. He wondered why it was that he was +always something of a butt. It could not be that he was an +absolute fool, or he would not have been a Scholar of +Balliol. He sighed. <i>Could</i> one be a Scholar of +Balliol and a fool? . . .</p> +<p>“You might look in on the General, though,” +continued Hall, “and be chatty. . . . It’s a +very lonely life, y’know, a General’s. +I’m always sorry for the poor old beggars. +Yes—he’d be awfully glad to see you. . . . Ask +you to call him Willie before you’d been there a couple of +hours, I expect.”</p> +<p>“D’you mean I ought to call on the General +formally?” asked Bertram, who knew that Hall was +“ragging” again, as soon as he introduced the +“Willie” touch.</p> +<p>“Oh, don’t be too formal,” was the +reply. “Be matey and cosy with him. . . . I +don’t suppose he’s had a really heart-to-heart chat +with a subaltern about the things that <i>really</i> +matter—the Empire (the Leicester Square one, I mean); +Ciro’s; the girls; George Robey, George Graves, Mr. +Bottomley, Mrs. Pankhurst and the other great +comedians—since I dunno-when. He’d <i>love</i> +to buck about what’s doing in town, with <i>you</i>, +y’know. . . .”</p> +<p>Bertram sighed again. It was no good. +<i>Everybody</i> pulled his <a name="page111"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 111</span>leg and seemed to sum him up in two +minutes as the sort of green ass who’d believe anything he +was told, and do anything that was suggested.</p> +<p>“I say, Hall,” he said suddenly, “I’m +a civilian, y’know, and a bit of a fool, too, no +doubt. I am absolutely ignorant of all military matters, +particularly those of etiquette. I am going to ask you +things, since you are Adjutant of the corps I’m with. +If you score off me, I think it’ll be rather a cheap +triumph and an inglorious victory, don’t you? . . . +I’m not a bumptious and conceited ass, mind—only an +ignorant one, who fully admits it, and asks for help. . . +.”</p> +<p>As the poet says, it is a long lane that has no public-house, +and a long worm that has no turning.</p> +<p>Hall stared.</p> +<p>“Well said, Greene,” quoth he, and never jested at +Bertram’s expense again.</p> +<p>“Seriously—should I leave a card on the +General?” continued Bertram.</p> +<p>“You should not,” was the reply. +“Avoid Generals as you would your creditors. +They’re dangerous animals in peace-time. On +manœuvres they’re ferocious. On active service +they’re rapid. . . .”</p> +<p>“Any harm in my strolling round the Camp?” pursued +Bertram. “I’m awfully interested, and might get +some ideas of the useful kind.”</p> +<p>“None whatever,” said Hall. “No reason +why you shouldn’t prowl around like the hosts of Midian +till dinner-time. There’s nothing doing in the +Hundred and Ninety-Eighth till four a.m. to-morrow, and +you’re not in that, either.”</p> +<p>“What is it?” asked Bertram.</p> +<p>“Oh, a double-company of Ours is going out to mop up a +little post the Germans have established across the river. +We’re going to learn ’em not to do such,” said +Hall.</p> +<p>“D’you think I might go?” asked Bertram, +wondering, even as he spoke, whether it was his voice that was +suggesting so foolish a thing as that Bertram Greene should arise +at three-thirty in the morning to go, wantonly and without +reason, where bullets were flying, bayonets were stabbing, and +death and disablement were abroad.</p> +<p>“Dunno,” yawned Hall. “Better ask the +Colonel. What’s <a name="page112"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 112</span>the matter with bed at four ack +emma? That’s where I’d be if I weren’t in +orders for this silly show.”</p> +<p>As Bertram left the tent on his tour of exploration he decided +that he would ask the Colonel if he might go with the expedition, +and then he decided that he would do nothing so utterly foolish. +. . . No, of course he wouldn’t. . . .</p> +<p>Yes, he would. . . .</p> +<h3>CHAPTER XI<br /> +<i>Food and Feeders</i></h3> +<p>Rightly or wrongly, Bertram gathered the impression, as he +strolled about the Camp, that this was not a confident and +high-spirited army, drunk with the heady fumes of a debauch of +victory. The demeanour of the Indian Sepoys led him to the +conclusion, just or unjust, that they had “got their tails +down.” They appeared weary, apprehensive, even +despondent, when not merely apathetic, and seemed to him to be +distinctly what they themselves would call +<i>mugra</i>—pessimistic and depressed.</p> +<p>The place alone was sufficient to depress anybody, he freely +admitted, as he gazed around at the dreary grey environs of this +little British <i>pied-à-terre</i>—grey thorn bush; +grey grass; grey baobab trees (like hideous grey carrots with +whiskerish roots, pulled up from the ground and stood on end); +grey shell-strewn mud; grey bushwood; grey mangroves; grey +sky. Yes, an inimical minatory landscape; a brooding, +unwholesome, sinister landscape; the home of fever, dysentery, +disease and sudden death. And over all hung a horrible +sickening stench of decay, an evil smell that seemed to settle at +the pit of the stomach as a heavy weight.</p> +<p>No wonder if Indians from the hills, deserts, plains and towns +of the Deccan, the Punjab, Rajputana, and Nepal, found this +terrible place of most terrific heat, foul odour, bad water and +worse mud, enervating and depressing. . . . Poor +beggars—it wasn’t <i>their</i> war either. . . +. The faces of the negroes of the King’s African +Rifles were inscrutable, and, being entirely ignorant of their +ways, manners, and customs, he could not tell whether they were +exhibiting signs of discouragement and depression, or <a +name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 113</span>whether +their bearing and demeanour were entirely normal. Certainly +they seemed a stolid and reserved folk, with a kind of dignity +and self-respecting aloofness that he had somehow not +expected. In their tall tarbooshes, jerseys, shorts and +puttees, they looked most workman-like and competent soldiers. . +. . Certainly they did not tally with his preconceived idea +of them as a merry, care-free, irresponsible folk who grinned all +over their faces for sheer light-heartedness, and spent their +leisure time in twanging the banjo, clacking the bones, singing +rag-time songs and doing the cake-walk. On duty, they stood +like ebon statues and opened not their mouths. Off duty +they squatted like ebon statuettes and shut them. Perhaps +they did not know that England expects every nigger to do his +duty as a sort of born music-hall, musical minstrel—or +perhaps they <i>were</i> depressed, like the Sepoys, and had laid +aside their banjoes, bones, coon-songs and +double-shuffle-flap-dancing boots until brighter days? . . +. Anyhow, decided Bertram, he would much rather be with +these stalwarts than against them, when they charged with their +triangular bayonets on their Martini rifles; and if the German +<i>askaris</i> were of similar type, he cared not how long his +first personal encounter with them might be postponed. . . +. Nor did the Englishmen of the Army Service Corps, the +Royal Engineers, the Signallers and other details, strike him as +light-hearted and bubbling with the <i>joie de vivre</i>. +Frankly they looked ill, and they looked anxious. . . .</p> +<p>Strolling past the brushwood-and-grass hut which was the +R.A.M.C. Officers’ Mess, he heard the remark:</p> +<p>“They’ve only got to leave us here in peace a +little while for us all to die natural deaths of malaria or +dysentery. The wily Hun knows <i>that</i> all right. . . +. No fear—we shan’t be attacked here. No +such luck.”</p> +<p>“Not unless we make ourselves too much of a nuisance to +him,” said another voice. “’Course, if we +go barging about and capturing his trading posts and +‘factories,’ and raiding his <i>shambas</i>, +he’ll come down on us all right. . . .”</p> +<p>“I dunno what we’re doing here at all,” put +in a third speaker. “You can’t invade a +blooming <i>continent</i> like German East with a weak brigade of +sick Sepoys. . . . Sort of bloomin’ Jameson’s +Raid. . . . Why—they could come down the railway from +Tabora or Kilimanjaro way with enough European troops alone <a +name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 114</span>to eat us +alive. What are we here, irritating ’em at all for, +<i>I</i> want to know? . . .”</p> +<p>“Why, to maintain Britain’s glorious +traditions—of sending far too weak a force in the first +place,” put in the first speaker. +“They’ll send an adequate army later on, all right, +and do the job in style. We’ve got to demonstrate the +necessity for the adequate army first, though. . . .”</p> +<p>“Sort of bait, like,” said another, and +yawned. “Well, we’ve all fished, I expect. . . +. Know how the worm feels now. . . .”</p> +<p>“I’ve only fished with flies,” observed a +languid and euphuistic voice.</p> +<p>“<i>What</i> an honour for the ’appy fly!” +replied the worm-fisherman, and there was a guffaw of +laughter.</p> +<p>Bertram realised that he was loitering to the point of +eavesdropping, and strolled on, pondering many things in his +heart. . . .</p> +<p>In one corner of the great square of mud which was the Camp, +Bertram came upon a battery consisting of four tiny guns. +Grouped about them stood their Sepoy gunners, evidently at drill +of some kind, for, at a sudden word from a British officer +standing near, they leapt upon them, laboured frantically for +five seconds, stood clear again, and, behold, each gun lay +dismembered and prone upon the ground—the wheels off, the +trail detached, the barrel of the gun itself in two parts, so +that the breech half was separate from the muzzle half. At +another word from the officer the statuesque Sepoys again sprang +to life, seized each man a piece of the dismembered gun, lifted +it above his head, raised it up and down, replaced it on the +ground and once more stood at attention. Another order, +and, in five seconds, the guns were reassembled and ready to +fire.</p> +<p>“A mountain-battery of screw guns, so called because +they screw and unscrew in the middle of the barrel,” said +Bertram to himself, and concluded that the drill he had just +witnessed was that required for putting the dissected guns on the +backs of mules for mountain transport, and rebuilding them for +use. Certainly they were wonderfully nippy, these Sepoys, +and seemed, perhaps, rather more cheery than the others. +One old gentleman who had a chestful of medal-ribbons raised and +lowered a gun-wheel above his head as though it had been of +cardboard, in spite of his long grey beard and pensioner-like +appearance.</p> +<p>Bertram envied the subaltern in command of this battery. +How <a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +115</span>splendid it must be to know exactly what to do and to +be able to do it; to be conscious that you are adequate and +competent, equal to any demand that can be made upon you. +Probably this youth was enjoying this campaign in the mud and +stench and heat as much as he had ever enjoyed a picnic or +tramping or boating holiday in England. . . . Lucky dog. . +. .</p> +<p>At about seven o’clock that evening, Bertram +“dined” in the Officers’ Mess of the Hundred +and Ninety-Eighth. The rickety hut, through the walls of +which the fires of the Camp could be seen, and through the roof +of which the great stars were visible, was lighted, or left in +darkness, by a hurricane-lamp which dangled from the +ridge-pole. The officers of the corps sat on boxes, +cane-stools, shooting-seats, or patent “weight-less” +contrivances of aluminium and canvas. The vacant-faced +youth, whose name was Grayne, had a bicycle-saddle which could be +raised and lowered on a metal rod. He was very proud of it +and fell over backwards twice during dinner. Bertram would +have had nothing whatever to sit on had not the excellent and +foresighted Ali discovered the fact in time to nail the two sides +of a box in the shape of the letter T by means of a stone and the +nails still adhering to the derelict wood. On this Bertram +balanced himself with less danger and discomfort than might have +been expected, the while he viewed with mixed feelings +Ali’s apologies and promise that he would steal a really +nice stool or chair by the morrow.</p> +<p>On the mosaic of box-sides that formed the undulating, uneven, +and fissured table-top, the Mess servant places tin plates +containing a thin and nasty soup, tasting, Bertram thought, of +cooking-pot, dish-cloth, wood-smoke, tin plate and the thumb of +the gentleman who had borne it from the cook-house, or rather the +cook-hole-in-the-ground, to the Mess hut. The flourish with +which Ali placed it before his “beloved ole marstah” +as he ejaculated “Soop, sah, thick an’ clear +thank-you please” went some way to make it interesting, but +failed to make it palatable.</p> +<p>Although sick and faint for want of food, Bertram was not +hungry or in a condition to appreciate disgraceful cooking +disgustingly served.</p> +<p>As he sat awaiting the next course, after rejecting the +thick-an’-clear “soup,” Bertram took stock of +the gentlemen whom, in his heart, he proudly, if shyly, called +his brother-officers.</p> +<p><a name="page116"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 116</span>At +the head of the table sat the Colonel, looking gloomy and +distrait. Bertram wondered if he were thinking of the +friends and comrades-in-arms he had left in the vile jungle round +Tanga—his second-in-command and half a dozen more of his +officers—and a third of his men. Was he thinking of +his School—and Sandhurst—and life-long friend and +trusted colleague, Major Brett-Boyce, slain by the German +<i>askaris</i> as he lay wounded, propped against a tree by the +brave and faithful dresser of the subordinate medical service, +who was murdered with him in the very midst of his noble work, by +those savage and brutal disciples of a more savage and brutal +<i>kultur</i>?</p> +<p>Behind him stood his servant, a tall Mussulman in fairly clean +white garments, and a big white turban round which was fastened a +broad ribbon of the regimental colours adorned with the +regimental crest in silver.</p> +<p>“Tell the cook that he and I will have a quiet chat in +the morning, if he’ll be good enough to come to my tent +after breakfast—and then the provost-marshal shall show him +a new game, perhaps,” said the Colonel to this man as he +finished his soup.</p> +<p>With the ghost of a smile the servant bowed, removed the +Colonel’s plate and departed to gloat over the cook, who, +as a Goanese, despised “natives” heartily and without +concealment, albeit himself as black as a negro.</p> +<p>Returning, the Colonel’s servant bore a huge metal dish +on which reposed a mound of most repulsive-looking meat in lumps, +rags, shreds, strings, tendrils and fibres, surrounded by a +brownish clear water. This was a seven-pound tin of +bully-beef heated and turned out in all its native ugliness, +naked and unadorned, on to the dish. Like everyone else, +Bertram took a portion on his plate, and, like everyone else, +left it on his plate, and, like everyone else, left it after +tasting a morsel—or attempting to taste, for bully-beef +under such conditions has no taste whatever. To chew it is +merely as though one dipped a ball of rag and string into dirty +water, warmed it, put it in one’s mouth, and attempted to +masticate it. To swallow it is moreover to attain the same +results—nutrient, metabolic and sensational—as would +follow upon the swallowing of the said ball of rags and +string.</p> +<p>The morsel of bully-beef that Bertram put in his mouth abode +with him. Though of the West it was like the unchanging +East, <a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +117</span>for it changed not. He chewed and chewed, rested +from his labours, and chewed again, in an honest and earnest +endeavour to take nourishment and work out his own insalivation, +but was at last forced to acknowledge himself defeated by the +stout and tough resistance of the indomitable lump. It did +not know when it was beaten and it did not know when it was +eaten; nor, had he been able to swallow it, would the +“juices” of his interior have succeeded where those +of his mouth, aided by his excellent teeth, had failed. In +course of time it became a problem—another of those small +but numerous and worrying problems that were fast bringing +wrinkles to his forehead, hollows to his cheeks, a look of care +and anxiety to his eyes, and nightmares to his sleep. He +could not reduce it, he could not swallow it, he could not +publicly reject it. What <i>could</i> he do? . . . A +bright idea. . . . Tactics. . . . He dropped his +handkerchief—and when he arose from stooping to retrieve +it, he was a free man again. A few minutes later a lump of +bully-beef undiminished, unaffected and unfrayed, travelled +across the mud floor of the hut in the mandibles of an army of +big black ants, to provide them also with a disappointment and a +problem, and, perchance, with a bombproof shelter for their young +in a subterranean dug-out of the ant-hill. . . .</p> +<p>Bertram again looked around at his fellow-officers. Not +one of them appeared to have reduced the evil-looking mass of +fibrous tissue and gristle that lay upon his plate—nor, +indeed, did Bertram, throughout the campaign, ever see anyone +actually eat and swallow the disgusting and repulsive muck served +out to the officers and European units of the Expeditionary +Force—hungry as they often were.</p> +<p>To his foolish civilian mind it seemed that if the money which +this foul filth cost (for even bully-beef costs money—ask +the contractors) had been spent on a half or a quarter or a tithe +of the quantity of <i>edible</i> meat—such as tinned +ox-tongue—sick and weary soldiers labouring and suffering +for their country in a terrible climate, might have had a +sufficiency of food which they could have eaten with pleasure and +digested with benefit, without costing their grateful country a +penny more. . . . Which is an absurd and ridiculous notion +expressed in a long and involved sentence. . . .</p> +<p>Next, to the Colonel, eyeing his plate of bully-beef through +his <a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +118</span>monocle and with patent disgust, sat Major Manton, a +tall, aristocratic person who looked extraordinarily smart and +dapper. Hair, moustache, finger-nails and hands showed +signs of obvious care, and he wore tunic, tie and, in fact, +complete uniform, in an assembly wherein open shirts, bare arms, +white tennis shoes, slacks, shorts, and even flannel trousers +were not unknown. Evidently the Major put correctness +before comfort—or, perhaps, found his chief comfort in +being correct. He spoke to no one, but replied suavely when +addressed. He looked to Bertram like a man who loathed a +rough and rude environment having the honour or pleasure or +satisfaction of knowing that he noticed its existence, much less +that he troubled to loathe it. Bertram imagined that in the +rough and tumble of hand-to-hand fighting, the Major’s +weapon would be the revolver, his aim quick and clean, his +demeanour unhurried and unflurried, the expression of his face +cold and unemotional.</p> +<p>Beside him sat a Captain Tollward in strong contrast, a great +burly man with the physiognomy and bull-neck of a prize-fighter, +the hands and arms of a navvy, and the figure of a brewer’s +dray-man. Frankly, he looked rather a brute, and Bertram +pictured him in a fight—using a fixed bayonet or clubbed +rifle with tremendous vigour and effect. He would be purple +of face and wild of eye, would grunt like a bull with every blow, +roar to his men like a charging lion, and swear like a bargee +between whiles. . . . “Thank God for all +England’s Captain Tollwards this day,” thought +Bertram as he watched the powerful-looking man, and thought of +the gladiators of ancient Rome.</p> +<p>Stanner was keeping him in roars of Homeric laughter with his +jests and stories, no word of any one of which brought the shadow +of a smile to the expressionless strong face of Major Manton, who +could hear every one of the jokes that convulsed Tollward and +threatened him with apoplexy. Next to Stanner sat Hall, who +gave Bertram, his left-hand neighbour, such information and +advice as he could, anent his taking of the convoy to Butindi, +should such be his fate.</p> +<p>“You’ll see some fighting up there, if you ever +get there,” said he. “They’re always +having little ‘affairs of out-posts’ and patrol +scraps. You may be cut up on the way, of course. . . +. If the Germans lay for you they’re bound to get +you, s’ far as I can see. . . . How <i>can</i> you +defend a convoy of a thousand porters <a name="page119"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 119</span>going in single file through +impenetrable jungle along a narrow path that it’s +practically impossible to leave? . . . You can have an +advance-guard and a rear-guard, of course, and much good may they +do you when your <i>safari</i> covers anything from a couple of +miles to three or four. . . . What are you going to do if +it’s attacked in the middle, a mile or so away from where +you are yourself? . . . What are you going to do if they +ambush your advance-guard and mop the lot up, as they perfectly +easily could do, at any point on the track, if they know +you’re coming—as of course they will do, as soon as +we know it ourselves. . . .”</p> +<p>“You fill me with despondency and alarm,” said +Bertram, with a lightness that he was far from feeling, and a +sinking sensation that was not wholly due to emptiness of +stomach.</p> +<p>Suddenly he was aware that a new stench was contending with +the familiar one of decaying vegetation, rotting shell-fish, and +the slime that was neither land nor water, but seemed a foul +grease formed by the decomposition of leaves, grasses, trees, +fish, molluscs and animals in an inky, oily fluid that the tides +but churned up for the freer exhalation of poisonous miasma, and +had not washed away since the rest of the world arose out of +chaos and darkness, that man might breathe and thrive. . . +. The new smell was akin to the old one but more +penetrating, more subtly vile, more <i>vulgar</i>, than that +ancient essence of decay and death and dissolution, +and—awaking from a brown study in which he saw visions of +himself writhing beneath the bayonets of a dozen gigantic +savages, as he fell at the head of his convoy—he perceived +that the new and conquering odour proceeded from the +cheese. On a piece of tin, that had been the lid of a box, +it lay and defied competition, while, with the unfaltering step +of a strong man doing right, because it is his duty, Ali Suleiman +bore it from <i>bwana</i> to <i>bwana</i> with the booming +murmur: “Cheese, please God, sah, thank you.” +To the observant and thoughtful Bertram its reception by each +member of the Mess was interesting and instructive, as indicative +of his character, breeding, and personality.</p> +<p>The Colonel eyed it with a cold smile.</p> +<p>“Yes. Please God it <i>is</i> only cheese,” +he remarked, “but take it away—quick.”</p> +<p>Major Manton glanced at it and heaved a very gentle +sigh. “No, thank you, Boy,” he said.</p> +<p><a name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +120</span>Captain Tollward sniffed hard, turned to Stanner, and +roared with laughter.</p> +<p>“What ho, the High Explosive!” he shouted, and +“What ho, the Forty Rod Gorgonzola—so called because +it put the battery-mules out of action at that distance. . . +. Who unchained it, I say? Boy, where’s its +muzzle?” and he cut himself a generous slice.</p> +<p>Stanner buried his nose in his handkerchief and waved Ali away +as he thrust the nutritious if over-prevalent delicacy upon his +notice.</p> +<p>“Take it to Bascombe <i>Bwana</i> and ask him to fire it +from his guns,” said he. “Serve the Germans +right for using poison-gas and liquid fire. . . . Teach +’em a lesson, what, Tollward?”</p> +<p>“Don’t be dev’lish-minded,” replied +that officer when laughter permitted him to speak. +“You’re as bad as the bally Huns yourself to suggest +such an atrocity. . . .”</p> +<p>“Seems kinder radio-active,” said Hall, eyeing it +with curiosity. “Menacing . . .” and he also +drove it from him.</p> +<p>Bertram, as one who, being at war, faces the horrors of war as +they come, took a piece of the cheese and found that its bite, +though it skinned the roof of his mouth, was not as bad as its +bark. Grayne affected to faint when the cheese reached him, +and the others did according to their kind.</p> +<p>Following in the tracks of Ali came another servant, bearing a +wooden box, which he tendered to each diner, but as one who goeth +through an empty ritual, and without hope that his offering will +be accepted. In the box Bertram saw large thick biscuits +exceedingly reminiscent of the dog-biscuit of commerce, but paler +in hue and less attractive of appearance. He took one, and +the well-trained servant only dropped the box in his +surprise.</p> +<p>“What are you going to do with <i>that</i>?” +enquired Hall.</p> +<p>“Why!—eat it, I suppose,” said Bertram.</p> +<p>“People don’t eat <i>those</i>,” replied +Hall.</p> +<p>“Why not?” asked Bertram.</p> +<p>“Try it and see,” was the response.</p> +<p>Bertram did, and desisted not until his teeth ached and he +feared to break them. There was certainly no fear of +breaking the biscuit. Was it a sort of practical joke +biscuit—a rather clever imitation of a biscuit in concrete, +hardwood, or pottery-ware of some kind?</p> +<p><a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +121</span>“I understand why people do not eat them,” +he admitted.</p> +<p>“Can’t be done,” said Hall. +“Why, even the Kavirondo who eat live slugs, dead snakes, +uncooked rice, raw flesh or rotten flesh and any part of any +animal there is, do not regard those things as food. . . . +They make ornaments of them, tools, weapons, missiles, all sorts +of things. . . .”</p> +<p>“I suppose if one were really starving one could live on +them for a time,” said the honest and serious-minded +Bertram, ever a seeker after truth.</p> +<p>“Not unless one could get them into one’s stomach, +I suppose,” was the reply; “and I don’t see how +one would do it. . . . I was reduced to trying once, and I +tried hard. I put one in a basin and poured boiling water +on it. . . . No result whatever. . . . I left it to +soak for an hour while I chewed and chewed a piece of bully-beef. +. . . Result? . . . It was slightly darker in colour, +but I could no more bite into it than I could into a tile or a +book. . . .”</p> +<p>“Suppose you boiled one,” suggested Bertram.</p> +<p>“Precisely what I did,” said Hall, “for my +blood was up, apart from the fact that I was starving. It +was a case of Hall <i>versus</i> a Biscuit. I boiled +it—or rather watched the cook boil it in a <i>chattie</i>. +. . . I gave it an hour. At the end of the hour it +was of a slightly still darker colour—and showed signs of +splitting through the middle. But never a bit could I get +off it. . . . ‘Boil the dam’ thing all day and all +night, and give it me hot for breakfast,’ said I to the +cook. . . . As one who patiently humours the headstrong, +wilful White Man, he went away to carry on the foolish struggle. +. . .”</p> +<p>“What was it like in the morning?” enquired +Bertram, as Hall paused reminiscent, and chewed the cud of bitter +memory.</p> +<p>“Have you seen a long-sodden boot-sole that is resolving +itself into its original layers and laminæ?” asked +Hall. “Where there should be one solid sole, you see +a dozen, and the thing gapes, as it were, showing serried rows of +teeth in the shape of rusty nails and little protuberances of +leather and thread?”</p> +<p>“Yes,” smiled Bertram.</p> +<p>“That was my biscuit,” continued Hall. +“At the corners it gasped and split. Between the +layers little lumps and points stood up, where the original +biscuit holes had been made when the <a name="page122"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 122</span>dreadful thing was without form, and +void, in the process of evolution from cement-like dough to +brick-like biscuit. . . .”</p> +<p>“Could you eat it?” asked Bertram.</p> +<p>“Could <i>you</i> eat a boiled boot-sole?” was the +reply. “The thing had turned from dry concrete to wet +leather. . . . It had exchanged the extreme of brittle +durability for that of pliant toughness. . . . <i>Eat</i> +it!” and Hall laughed sardonically.</p> +<p>“What becomes of them all, then, if no one eats +them?” asked Bertram.</p> +<p>“Oh—they have their uses, y’ know. +Boxes of them make a jolly good breastwork. . . The Army +Service Corps are provided with work—taking them by the ton +from place to place and fetching them back again. . . . I +reveted a trench with biscuits once. . . . Looked very +neat. . . . Lonely soldiers, in lonely outposts, do <i>GOD +BLESS OUR HOME</i> and other devices with them—and you can +make really attractive little photo-frames for +‘midgets’ and miniature with them if you have a +centre-bit and carving tools. . . The handy-men of the R.E. +make awf’ly nice boxes of children’s +toy-building-bricks with them, besides carved <i>plaques</i> and +all sorts of little models. . . . I heard of a prisoner who +made a complete steam-engine out of biscuits, but I never saw it +myself. . . . Oh, yes, the Army would miss its +biscuits—but I certainly never saw anybody eat one. . . +.”</p> +<p>Nor did Bertram, throughout the campaign. And here again +it occurred to his foolish civilian mind that if the thousands of +pounds spent on wholly and utterly inedible dog-biscuit had been +spent on the ordinary biscuits of civilisation and the +grocer’s shop, sick and weary soldiers, working and +suffering for their country in a terrible climate, might have had +a sufficiency of food that they could have eaten with pleasure +and digested with benefit, without costing their grateful country +a penny more.</p> +<p>“Which would be the better,” asked Bertram of +himself—“to send an army ten tons of +‘biscuit’ that it cannot eat, or one ton of real +biscuit that it can eat and enjoy?”</p> +<p>But, as an ignorant, simple, and silly civilian, he must be +excused. . . .</p> +<p>Dessert followed, in the shape of unripe bananas, and Bertram +left the table with a cupful of thin soup, a small piece of +cheese, and half a crisp, but pithy and acidulous banana beneath +his belt. As the Colonel left the hut he hurried after +him.</p> +<p><a name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +123</span>“If you please, sir,” said he, “may I +go out with the force that is to attack the German post +to-morrow?”</p> +<p>Having acted on impulse and uttered the fatal words, he +regretted the fact. Why should he be such a silly fool as +to seek sorrow like this? Wasn’t there danger and +risk and hardship enough—without going out to look for +it?</p> +<p>“In what capacity?” asked Colonel Rock, and added: +“Hall is in command, and Stanner is his +subaltern.”</p> +<p>“As a spectator, sir,” said Bertram, “and I +might—er—be useful +perhaps—er—if—”</p> +<p>“Spectator!” mused the Colonel. +“Bright idea! We might <i>all</i> go, of course. . . +. Two hundred men go out on the job, and a couple of +thousand go with ’em to whoop ’em on and clap, +what? Excellent notion. . . . Wonder if we could +arrange a ‘gate,’ and give the gate-money to the Red +Cross, or start a Goose Club or something. . .” and he +turned to go into his tent.</p> +<p>Bertram was not certain as to whether this reply was in the +nature of a refusal of his request. He hoped it was.</p> +<p>“May I go, sir?” he said.</p> +<p>“You may not,” replied the Colonel, and Bertram +felt very disappointed.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER XII<br /> +<i>Reflections</i></h3> +<p>That night Bertram was again unable to sleep. Lying +awake on his hard and narrow bed, faint for want of food, and +sick with the horrible stench of the swamp, his mind revolved +continually round the problem of how to “personally +conduct” a convoy of a thousand porters through twenty +miles of enemy country in such a way that it might have a chance +if attacked. After tossing and turning for hours and vainly +wooing sleep, he lay considering the details of a scheme by which +the armed escort should, as it were, circulate round and round +from head to tail of the convoy by a process which left ten of +the advance-guard to occupy every tributary turning that joined +the path and to wait at the junction of the two paths until the +whole convoy had passed and the rear-guard had arrived. The +ten would then join the rear-guard and <a +name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 124</span>march on +with them. By the time this had been repeated sufficiently +often to deplete the advance-guard, the convoy should halt while +the bulk of the rear-guard marched up to the head of the column +again and so <i>da capo</i>. It would want a lot of +explaining to whoever was in command of the rear-guard, for it +would be impossible for him, himself, to struggle up and down a +line miles long—a line to which anything might happen, at +any point, at any moment. . . . He could make it clear that +at any turning he would detail ten men from the advance-guard, +and then, when fifty had been withdrawn for this flanking work, +he would halt the column so that the officer commanding the +rear-guard could send fifty back. . . . Ten to one the fool +would bungle it, and he might sit and await the return of the +fifty until the crack of doom, or until he went back and fetched +them up himself. And as soon as he had quitted the head of +the column there would be an attack on it! . . . +Yes—or perhaps the ass in command of the ten placed to +guard the side-turnings would omit to join the rear-guard as it +passed—and he’d roll up at his destination, with a +few score men short. . . . What would be done to him if +he—</p> +<p><i>Bang</i>! . . .</p> +<p>Bertram’s heart seemed to leap out of his body and then +to stand still. His bones seemed to turn to water, and his +tongue to leather. Had a shell burst beneath his bed? . . +. Was he soaring in the air? . . . Had a great mine +exploded beneath the Camp, and was the M’paga Field Force +annihilated? . . . Captain Hall sat up, yawned, put his +hand out from beneath the mosquito curtain of his camp-bed and +flashed his electric torch at a small alarm-clock that stood on a +box within reach.</p> +<p>“What was that explosion?” said Bertram as soon as +he could speak.</p> +<p>“Three-thirty,” yawned Hall. “Might as +well get up, I s’pose. . . . Wha’? . . . +’Splosion? . . . Some fool popped his rifle off at +nothing, I sh’d say. . . . Blast him! Woke me +up. . .”</p> +<p>“It’s not an attack, then?” said Bertram, +mightily relieved. “It sounded as though it were +right close outside the hut. . . .”</p> +<p>“Well—you don’t attack with <i>one</i> rifle +shot—nor beat off an attack with <i>none</i>. I +don’t, at least,” replied Hall. . . “Just +outside, was it?” he added as he arose. +“Funny! There’s no picket or sentry +there. You must have been dreaming, my lad.”</p> +<p><a name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +125</span>“I was wide awake before it happened,” said +Bertram. “I’ve been awake all night. . . +. It was so close, I—I thought I was blown to bits. . +. .”</p> +<p>“’Oo wouldn’ sell ’is liddle farm +an’ go ter War,” remarked Hall in Tommy vein. +“It’s a wearin’ life, being blowed outer yer +bed at ar’ pars free of a mornin’, ain’t it, +guv’nor?”</p> +<p>A deep and hollow groan, apparently from beneath +Bertram’s bed, almost froze that young gentleman’s +blood.</p> +<p>Pulling on his slippers and turning on his electric torch, +Hall dashed out of the hut. Bertram heard him exclaim, +swear, and ask questions in Hindustani. He was joined by +others, and the group moved away. . . .</p> +<p>“Bright lad nearly blown his hand off,” said Hall, +re-entering the hut and lighting a candle-lamp. “Says +he was cleaning his rifle. . . .”</p> +<p>“Do you clean a rifle while it is loaded, and also put +one hand over the muzzle and the other on the trigger while you +do it?” asked Bertram.</p> +<p>“<i>I</i> don’t, personally,” replied +Captain Hall, shortly. He was loath to admit that this +disgrace to the regiment had intentionally incapacitated himself +from active service, though it was fairly obvious.</p> +<p>“I wish he’d gone somewhere else to clean his +rifle,” said Bertram. “I believe the thing was +pointed straight at my ear. I tell you—I felt as +though a shell had burst in the hut.”</p> +<p>“Bullet probably came through here,” observed Hall +nonchalantly as he laced his boots. (Later Bertram +discovered that it had actually cut one of the four sticks that +supported his mosquito curtain, and had torn the muslin +thereof.)</p> +<p>Sleep being out of the question, Bertram decided that he might +as well arise and watch the setting-forth of the little +expedition.</p> +<p>“Going to get up and see you off the premises,” +said he.</p> +<p>“Stout fella,” replied Hall. “I love +enthusiasm—but it’ll wear off. . . . The +day’ll come, and before long, when you wouldn’t get +out of bed to see your father shot at dawn. . . . Not +unless you were in orders to command the firing-party, of +course,” he added. . .</p> +<p>Bertram dressed, feeling weak, ill and unhappy. . . .</p> +<p>“Am I coming in, sah, thank you?” said a +well-known voice at the doorless doorway of the hut.</p> +<p><a name="page126"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +126</span>“Hope so,” replied Bertram, “if +that’s tea you’ve got.”</p> +<p>It was. In a large enamel “tumbler” was a +pint of glorious hot tea, strong, sweet and scalding.</p> +<p>“Useful bird, that,” observed Hall, after +declining to share the tea, as he was having breakfast at four +o’clock over in the Mess. “I s’pose you +hadn’t ordered tea at three forty-five, had you?”</p> +<p>Bertram admitted that he had not, and concealed the horrid +doubt that arose in his mind—born of memories of Sergeant +Jones’s tea at Kilindini—as to whether he was not +drinking, under Hall’s very nose, the tea that should have +graced Hall’s breakfast, due to be on the table in the Mess +at that moment. . . .</p> +<p>If Captain Hall found his tea unduly dilute he did not mention +the fact when Bertram came over to the Mess <i>banda</i>, and sat +yawning and watching him—the man who could nonchalantly sit +and shovel horrid-looking porridge into his mouth at four a.m., +and talk idly on indifferent subjects, a few minutes before +setting out to make a march in the darkness to an attack at dawn. +. . .</p> +<p>Ill and miserable as he felt, Bertram forgot everything in the +thrilling interest of watching the assembly and departure of the +little force. Out of the black darkness little detachments +appeared, sometimes silhouetted against the red background of +cooking fires, and marched along the main thoroughfare of the +Camp to the place of assembly at the quarter-guard. +Punctual to the minute, the column was ready to march off, as +Captain Hall strolled up, apparently as unconcerned as if he were +in some boring peace manœuvres, or about to ride to a meet, +instead of to make a cross-country night march, by compass, +through an African jungle-swamp to an attack at dawn, with the +responsibility of the lives of a couple of hundred men upon his +shoulders, as well as that of making a successful move on the +chess-board of the campaign. . . .</p> +<p>At the head of the column were a hundred Sepoys of the Hundred +and Ninety-Eighth, under Stanner. In the light of the +candle-lantern which he had brought from the <i>banda</i>, +Bertram scrutinised their faces. They were Mussulmans, and +looked determined, hardy men and fine soldiers. Some few +looked happily excited, some ferocious, but the prevailing +expression was one of weary depression and patient misery. +Very many looked ill, and here and there he saw a sullen and +resentful face. On the whole, he gathered the impression of +a force that would march where it <a name="page127"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 127</span>was led and would fight bravely, +venting on the foe its anger and resentment at his being the +cause of their sojourning in a stinking swamp to rot of malaria +and dysentery.</p> +<p>How was Stanner feeling, Bertram wondered. He was +evidently feeling extremely nervous, and made no secret of it +when Bertram approached and addressed him. He was anything +but afraid, but he was highly excited. His teeth chattered +as he spoke, and his hand shook when he lit a cigarette.</p> +<p>“Gad! I should hate to get one of their beastly +expanding bullets in my stomach,” said he. +“They fire a brute of a big-bore slug with a flat +nose. Bad as an explosive bullet, the swine,” and he +shuddered violently. “Stomach’s the only part I +worry about, and I don’t give a damn for bayonets. . . +. But a bullet through your stomach! You live for +weeks. . . .”</p> +<p>Bertram felt distinctly glad to discover that a trained +regular officer, like Stanner, could entertain these sensations +of nervous excitement, and that he himself had no monopoly of +them. He even thought, with a thrill of hope and +confidence, that when his turn came he would be less nervous than +Stanner. He knew that Stanner was not frightened, and that +he did not wish he was snug in bed as his brother-officers were, +but he also knew that Bertram Greene would not be frightened, and +hoped and believed he would not be so palpably excited and +nervous. . . .</p> +<p>Behind the detachment of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth came a +machine-gun team of <i>askaris</i> of the King’s African +Rifles, in charge of a gigantic Sergeant. The dismounted +gun and the ammunition-boxes were on the heads of Swahili +porters.</p> +<p>Bertram liked the look of the Sergeant. He was a picture +of quiet competence, reliability and determination. +Although a full-blooded Swahili, his face was not unhandsome in a +fierce, bold, and vigorously purposeful way, and though he had +the flattened, wide-nostrilled nose of the negro, his mouth was +Arab, thin-lipped and clear cut as Bertram’s own. +There was nothing bovine, childish nor wandering in his regard, +but a look of frowning thoughtfulness, intentness and +concentration.</p> +<p>And Sergeant Simba was what he looked, every inch a soldier, +and a fine honourable fighting-man, brave as the lion he was +named after; a subordinate who would obey and follow his white +officer to certain death, without question or wavering; a leader +who would carry his men with him by force of his personality, <a +name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 128</span>courage and +leadership, while he could move and they could follow. . . +. Beside Sergeant Simba, the average German soldier is a +cur, a barbarian, and a filthy brute, for never in all the twenty +years of his “savage” warfare has Sergeant Simba +butchered a child, tortured a woman, murdered wounded enemies, +abused (nor used) the white flag, fired on the Red Cross, turned +captured dwelling-places into pig-styes and latrines in +demonstration of his <i>kultur</i>—nor, when caught and +cornered, has he waggled dirty hands about cunning, cowardly head +with squeal of <i>Kamerad</i>! <i>Kamerad</i>! . . . +Could William the Kultured but have officered his armies with a +hundred thousand of Sergeant Simba, instead of with his +high-well-born Junkers, the Great War might have been a +gentleman’s war, a clean war, and the word <i>German</i> +might not have become an epithet for all time, nor the +“noble and knightly” sons of ancient houses have +received commissions as Second Nozzle-Holder in the Poison-Gas +Grenadiers, Sub Tap-Turner in a Fire-Squirting Squadron, or Ober +Left-behind to Poison Wells in the Prussic (Acid) Guard. . . +.</p> +<p>As Bertram watched this sturdy-looking Maxim-gun section, with +their imperturbable, inscrutable faces, an officer of the +King’s African Rifles emerged from the circumambient gloom +and spoke with Sergeant Simba in Swahili. As he departed, +after giving his orders and a few words of advice to Sergeant +Simba, he raised his lantern to the face of the man in charge of +the porters who carried the gun and ammunition. The +man’s face was instantly wreathed in smiles, and he giggled +like a little girl. The officer dug him affectionately in +the ribs, as one smacks a horse on dismounting after a long run +and a clean kill, and the giggle became a cackle of elfin +laughter most incongruous. Evidently the man was the +officer’s pet butt and prize fool.</p> +<p>“<i>Cartouchie n’gapi</i>?” asked the +officer.</p> +<p>“Hundrem millium, <i>Bwana</i>,” replied the man, +and as the officer turned away with a laugh, Bertram correctly +surmised that on being asked how many cartridges he had got, the +man had replied that he possessed a hundred million.</p> +<p>Probably he spoke in round numbers, and used the only English +words he knew. . . . The African does not deal in larger +quantities than ten-at-a-time, and his estimates are vague, and +still more vague is his expression of them. He will tell +you that a place is “several nights distant,” or +perhaps that it is “a few <a name="page129"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 129</span>rivers away.” It is only +just, however, to state that he will cheerfully accept an equal +vagueness in return, and will go to your tent with the alacrity +of clear understanding and definite purpose, if you say to him: +“Run quickly to my tent and bring me the thing I +want. You will easily distinguish it, as it is of about the +colour of a flower, the size of a piece of wood, the shape of +elephant’s breath, and the weight of water. +<i>You</i> know—it’s as long as some string and +exactly the height of some stones. You’ll find it +about as heavy as a dead bird or a load on the conscience. +That thing that looks like a smell and feels like a sound. . . +.” He may bring your gun, your tobacco-pouch, your +pyjamas, your toothbrush, or one slipper, but he will bring +<i>something</i>, and that without hesitation or delay, for he +immediately and clearly grasped that that particular thing, and +none other, was what you wanted. He recognised it from your +clear and careful description. It was not as though you had +idly and carelessly said: “Bring me my hat” (or my +knife or the matches or some other article that he handled +daily), and left him to make up his mind, unaided, as to whether +you did not really mean trousers, a book, washhand-stand, or the +pens, ink, and paper of the gardener’s aunt. . . .</p> +<p>Behind the Swahili was a half-company of Gurkhas of the +Kashmir Imperial Service Troops. As they stood at ease and +chatted to each other, they reminded Bertram of a class of +schoolboys waiting to be taken upon some highly pleasurable +outing. There was an air of cheerful excitement and joyous +expectancy.</p> +<p>“<i>Salaam</i>, <i>Subedar Sahib</i>,” said +Bertram, as the fierce hard face of his little friend came within +the radius of the beams of his lantern.</p> +<p>“<i>Salaam</i>, <i>Sahib</i>,” replied the Gurkha +officer, “<i>Sahib ata hai</i>?” he asked.</p> +<p>“<i>Nahin</i>,” replied Bertram. +“<i>Hamara Colonel Sahib hamko hookum dea ki</i> +‘<i>Mut jao</i>,’” and the Subedar gathered +that Bertram’s Colonel had forbidden him to go. He +commiserated with the young Sahib, said it was bad luck, but +doubtless the Colonel Sahib in his wisdom had reserved him for +far greater things.</p> +<p>As he strolled along their flank, Bertram received many a +cheery grin of recognition and many a “Salaam, +Sahib,” from the friendly and lovable little hill-men.</p> +<p>In their rear, Bertram saw, with a momentary feeling that was +<a name="page130"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +130</span>something like the touch of a chill hand upon his +heart, a party of Swahili stretcher-bearers, under an Indian of +the Subordinate Medical Department, who bore, slung by a +crossbelt across his body, a large satchel of dressings and +simple surgical appliances. . . . Would these +stretcher-bearers come back laden—sodden and dripping with +the life-blood of men now standing near them in full health and +strength and vigour of lusty life? Perhaps this fine +Sergeant, perhaps the Subedar-Major of the Gurkhas? +Stanner? Hall? . . .</p> +<p>Suddenly the column was in motion and passing through the +entrance by which Bertram had come into the Camp—was it a +month ago or only yesterday?</p> +<p>Without disobeying the Colonel, he might perhaps go with the +column as far as the river? There was a water-picket there +permanently. If he did not go beyond the picket-line, it +could not be held that he had “gone out” with the +force in face of the C.O.’s prohibition.</p> +<p>Along the narrow lane or tunnel which wound through the +impenetrable jungle of elephant-grass, acacia scrub, live oak, +baobab, palm, thorn, creeper, and undergrowth, the column marched +to the torrential little river, thirty or forty yards wide, that +swirled brown, oily, and ugly, between its reed-beds of sucking +mud. Here the column halted while Hall and Stanner, lantern +in hand, felt their slow and stumbling way from log to log of the +rough and unrailed bridge that spanned the stream. On the +far side Hall waited with raised lantern, and in the middle +stayed Stanner and bade the men cross in single file, the while +he vainly endeavoured to illuminate each log and the treacherous +gap beside it. Before long the little force had crossed +without loss—(and to fall through into that deep, swift +stream in the darkness with accoutrements and a hundred rounds of +ammunition was to be lost for ever)—and in a minute had +disappeared into the darkness, swallowed up and lost to sight and +hearing, as though it had never passed that way. . . .</p> +<p>Bertram turned back to Camp and came face to face with Major +Manton.</p> +<p>“Morning, Greene,” said he. “Been to +see ’em off? Stout fella.” And Bertram +felt as pleased and proud as if he had won a decoration. . . +.</p> +<p>The day dawned grey, cheerless and threatening over a <a +name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 131</span>landscape +as grey, cheerless and threatening as the day. The silent, +menacing jungle, the loathsome stench of the surrounding swamp, +the heavy, louring sky, the moist, suffocating heat; the sense of +lurking, threatening danger from savage man, beast and reptile, +insect and microbe; the feeling of utter homelessness and rough +discomfort, combined to oppress, discourage and disturb. . . +.</p> +<p>Breakfast, eaten in silence in the Mess <i>banda</i>, +consisted of porridge that required long and careful mastication +by any who valued his digestion; pieces of meat of dull black +surface and bright pink interior, also requiring long and careful +mastication by all who were not too wearied by the porridge +drill; and bread.</p> +<p>The bread was of interest—equally to the geologist, the +zoologist, the physiologist, the chemist, and the merely +curious. To the dispassionate eye, viewing it without +prejudice or partiality, the loaf looked like an oblate spheroid +of sandstone—say the Old Red Sandstone in which the curious +may pick up a mammoth, aurochs, sabre-toothed tiger, or similar +ornament of their little world and fleeting day—and to the +passionate hand hacking <i>with</i> prejudice and partiality (for +crumb, perhaps), it also felt like it. It was Army Bread, +and quite probably made since the outbreak of the war. The +geologist, wise in Eras—<i>Paleolithic</i>, +<i>Pliocene</i>, <i>Eocene</i>, <i>May-have-been</i>—felt +its challenge at once. To the zoologist there was immediate +appeal when, by means of some sharp or heavy tool, the outer +crust had been broken. For that interior was honey-combed +with large, shiny-walled cells, and every cell was filled with a +strange web-like kind of cocoon of finest filaments, now grey, +now green, to which adhered tiny black specks. Were these, +asked the zoologist, the eggs of insects, and, if so, of what +insects? Were they laid before the loaf petrified, or +after? If before, had the burning process in the kiln +affected them? If after, how did the insect get +inside? Or were they possibly of vegetable +origin—something of a fungoid nature—or even on that +strange borderland ’twixt animal and vegetable where roam +the yeasty microbe and boisterous bacillus? Perhaps, after +all, it was neither animal nor vegetable, but mineral? . . +. So ponders the geologist who incurs Army Bread in the +wilds of the earth.</p> +<p>The physiologist merely wonders once again at the marvels of +the human organism, that man can swallow such things and live; +while the chemist secretes a splinter or two, that he may make a +<a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +132</span>qualitative and quantitative analysis of this new, +compound, if haply he survive to return to his laboratory.</p> +<p>To the merely curious it is merely curious—until he +essays to eat it—and then his utterance may not be merely +precious. . . .</p> +<p>After this merry meal, Bertram approached the Colonel, +saluted, and said:</p> +<p>“Colonel Frost, of the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth, ordered +me to be sure to request you to return his nine cooking-pots at +your very earliest convenience, sir, if you please.”</p> +<p>Colonel Rock smiled brightly upon Bertram.</p> +<p>“He always was a man who liked his little joke,” +said he. . . . “Remind me to send +him—”</p> +<p>“Yes, sir,” interrupted Bertram, involuntarily, so +pleased was he to think that the Pots of Contention were to be +returned after all.</p> +<p>“. . . A Christmas-card—will you?” finished +Colonel Rock.</p> +<p>Bertram’s face fell. He thought he could hear, +afar off, the ominous sound of the grinding of the mill-stones, +between the upper and the nether of which he would be ground +exceeding small. . . . Would Colonel Frost send him a +telegram? What would Colonel Rock say if he took it to +him? Could he pretend that he had never received it. +Base thought! If he received one every day? . . .</p> +<p>Suppose he were wounded. Could he pretend that his mind +and memory were affected—loss of memory, loss of identity, +loss of cooking-pots? . . .</p> +<p>“By the way,” said the Colonel, as Bertram saluted +to depart, “you’ll leave here to-morrow morning with +a thousand porters, taking rations and ammunition to +Butindi. You will take the draft from the Hundred and +Ninety-Ninth as escort, and report to Major Mallery there. +Don’t go and get scuppered, or it’ll be bad for them +up at Butindi. . . . Start about five. Lieutenant +Bridges, of the Coolie Corps, will give you a guide. +He’s been up there. . . . Better see Captain Brent +about it to-night. He’ll hand over the thousand +porters in good condition in the morning. . . . The A.S.C. +people will make a separate dump of the stuff you are to take. . +. . Make sure about it, so that you don’t pinch the +wrong stuff, and turn up at Butindi with ten tons of Number Nine +pills and other medical comforts. . . .”</p> +<p>Bertram’s heart sank within him, but he strove to +achieve a <a name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +133</span>look that blent pleasure, firmness, comprehension, and +wide experience of convoy-work into one attractive whole. +Wending his way to his <i>banda</i>, Bertram found Ali Suleiman +making work for himself and doing it.</p> +<p>“I am going to Butindi at five to-morrow morning,” +he announced. “Have you ever been that +way?”</p> +<p>“Oh, yes, sah, please God, thank you,” replied +Ali. “I was gun-bearer to a <i>bwana</i>, one +’Mericani gentlyman wanting to shoot sable +antelope—very rare inseck—but a lion running up and +bite him instead, and shocking climate cause him great loss of +life.”</p> +<p>“Then you could be guide,” interrupted Bertram, +“and show me the way to Butindi?”</p> +<p>“Yes, sah,” replied Ali, “can show +<i>Bwana</i> everythings. . . . <i>Bwana</i> taking much +quinine and other <i>n’dawa</i> <a +name="citation133a"></a><a href="#footnote133a" +class="citation">[133a]</a> there though. Shocking climate +causing <i>Bwana</i> bad <i>homa</i>, bad fever, and perhaps +great loss of life also. . . .”</p> +<p>“D’you get fever ever?” asked Bertram.</p> +<p>“Sometimes, sah, but have never had loss of life,” +was the reassuring answer. . . .</p> +<p>That morning and afternoon Bertram spent in watching the work +of the Camp, as he had no duties of his own, and towards evening +learnt of the approach of the expedition of the morning. . . +.</p> +<p>The column marched along with a swing, evidently pleased with +itself, particularly the Swahili detachment, who chanted a song +consisting of one verse which contained but one line. +“<i>Macouba Simba na piga mazungo</i>,” <a +name="citation133b"></a><a href="#footnote133b" +class="citation">[133b]</a> they sang with wearying but unwearied +regularity and monotony. At their head marched Sergeant +Simba, looking as fresh as when he started, and more like a +blackened European than a negro.</p> +<p>The Subedar and his Gurkhas had been left to garrison the +outpost, but a few had returned on the stretchers of the medical +detachment.</p> +<p>Bertram, with sinking heart and sick feelings of horror, +watched these blood-stained biers, with their apparently lifeless +burdens, file over the bridge, and held his breath whenever a +stretcher-bearer stumbled on the greasy logs.</p> +<p>As the last couple safely crossed the bridge and laid their +dripping stretcher down for a moment, the occupant, a Gurkha +rifleman, suddenly sat up and looked round. His face was <a +name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +134</span>corpse-like, and his uniform looked as though it had +just been dipped in a bath of blood. Painfully he rose to +his feet, while the Swahili bearers gaped in amazement, and +tottered slowly forward. Reeling like a drunken man, he +followed in the wake of the disappearing procession, until he +fell. Picking up the empty stretcher, the bearers hurried +to where he lay—only to be waved away by the wounded man, +who again arose and reeled, staggering, along the path.</p> +<p>Bertram met him and caught his arm as he collapsed once +more.</p> +<p>“<i>Subr karo</i>,” said Bertram, summoning up +some Hindustani of a sort. “<i>Stretcher men +baitho</i>.” <a name="citation134a"></a><a +href="#footnote134a" class="citation">[134a]</a></p> +<p>“<i>Nahin</i>, <i>Sahib</i>,” whispered the +Gurkha; “<i>kuch nahin hai</i>.” <a +name="citation134b"></a><a href="#footnote134b" +class="citation">[134b]</a> He evidently understood and +spoke a little of the same kind. No. It was +nothing. Only seven holes from Maxim-gun fire, that had +riddled him as the German N.C.O. sprayed the charging line until +a <i>kukri</i> halved his skull. . . . It was nothing. . . +. No—it would take more than a <i>Germani</i> and his +woolly-haired <i>askaris</i> to put Rifleman Thappa Sannu on a +stretcher. . . .</p> +<p>Bertram’s hand seemed as though it were holding a wet +sponge. He felt sick, and dreaded the moment when he must +look at it and see it reeking red.</p> +<p>“<i>Mirhbani</i>, <i>Sahib</i>,” whispered the man +again. “<i>Kuch nahin hai</i>. <i>Hamko mut +pukkaro</i>.” <a name="citation134c"></a><a +href="#footnote134c" class="citation">[134c]</a></p> +<p>He lurched free, stumbled forward a dozen yards, and fell +again.</p> +<p>There was no difficulty about placing him upon the stretcher +this time, and he made no remonstrance, as he was dead.</p> +<p>Bertram went to his <i>banda</i>, sat on the edge of his bed, +and wrestled manfully with himself.</p> +<p>By the time Hall had made his report to the Colonel and come +to the hut for a wash and rest, Bertram had conquered his desire +to be very sick, swallowed the lump in his throat, relieved the +stinging in his eyes, and contrived to look and behave as though +he had not just had one of the most poignant and disturbing +experiences of his life. . . .</p> +<p>“Ripping little show,” said Captain Hall, as he +prepared for a <a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +135</span>bath and change. “The Gurkhas did in their +pickets without a sound. Gad! They can handle those +<i>kukris</i> of theirs to some purpose. Sentry on a mound +in the outpost pooped off for some reason. They must just +have been doing their morning Stand-to. . . . All four +sides of the post opened fire, and we were only attacking on one. +. . . They’d got a Maxim at each corner. . . . +Too late, though. One hurroosh of a rush before they knew +anything, and we were in the <i>boma</i> with the bayonet. +Most of them bunked over the other side. . . . Got three +white men, though. A Gurkha laid one out—on the +Maxim, he was—and the Sergeant of the Swahilis fairly +spitted another with his bayonet. . . . Third one got in +the way of my revolver. . . I don’t s’pose the +whole thing lasted five minutes from the time their sentry fired. +. . . The Hundred and Ninety-Eighth were fine. Lost +our best Havildar, though. He’d have been Jemadar if +he’d lived. He was leading a rush of his section in +fine style, when he ‘copped a packet.’ Stopped +one badly. Clean through the neck. One o’ those +beastly soft-nosed slugs the swine give their <i>askaris</i> for +‘savage’ warfare. . . . As if a German knew of +any other kind. . . .”</p> +<p>“Many casualties?” asked Bertram, trying to speak +lightly.</p> +<p>“No—very few. Only eleven killed and seven +wounded. Wasn’t time for more. Shouldn’t +have had that much, only the blighter with the Maxim was nippy +enough to get going with it while we charged over about forty +yards from cover. The Gurkhas jumped the ditch like +greyhounds and over the parapet of the inner trench like birds. . +. . You <i>should</i> ha’ been there. . . . +They never had a chance. . . .”</p> +<p>“Yes,” said Bertram, and tried to visualise that +rush at the belching Maxim.</p> +<p>“Didn’t think much of their +<i>bundobust</i>,” continued Hall. “Their +pickets were pretty well asleep and the place hadn’t got a +yard of barbed wire nor even a row of stakes. They +hadn’t a field of fire of more than fifty yards anywhere. . +. . Bit provincial, what? . . .”</p> +<p>While Hall bathed, Bertram went in search of Captain Brent of +the Coolie Corps.</p> +<p>Dinner that night was a vain repetition of yesterday’s, +save that there was more soup and cold bully-beef gravy +available, owing to the rain.</p> +<p><a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 136</span>The +roof of the <i>banda</i> consisting of lightly thatched grass, +reeds, twigs, and leaves, was as a sieve beneath the tropical +downpour. There was nothing to do but to bear it, with or +without grinning. Heavy drops in rapid succession pattered +on bare heads, resounded on the tin plates, splashed into food, +and, by constant dropping, wore away tempers. By comparison +with the great heat of the weather, the rain seemed cold, and the +little streams that cascaded down from pendent twig or reed were +unwelcome as they invaded the back of the neck of some depressed +diner below.</p> +<p>A most unpleasant looking snake, dislodged or disturbed by the +rain, fell with sudden thud upon the table from his lodging in +the roof. Barely had it done so when it was skewered to the +boards by the fork of Captain Tollward. “Good +man,” said Major Manton, and decapitated the reptile with +his knife.</p> +<p>“Just as well to put him out of pain,” said he +coolly; “it’s a <i>mamba</i>. Beastly +poisonous,” and the still-writhing snake was removed with +the knife and fork that had carved him. “Lucky I got +him in the neck,” observed Tollward, and the matter +dropped.</p> +<p>Bertram wondered what he would have done had a small and +highly poisonous serpent suddenly flopped down with a thump in +front of his plate. Squealed like a girl perhaps?</p> +<p>Before long he was sitting huddled up beneath a perfect +shower-bath of cold drops, with his feet in an oozy bog which +soon became a pool and then a stream, and by the end of +“dinner” was a torrent that gurgled in at one end of +the Mess <i>banda</i>, and foamed out at the other. In this +filthy water the Mess servants paddled to and fro, becoming more +and more suggestive of drowned birds, while the yellowish +khaki-drill of their masters turned almost black as it grew more +sodden. One by one the lamps used by the cook and servants +went out. That in the <i>banda</i> went out too, and the +Colonel, who owned a tent, followed its example. Those +officers who had only huts saw no advantage in retiring to them, +and sat on in stolid misery, endeavouring to keep cigarettes +alight by holding them under the table between hasty puffs.</p> +<p>Having sat—as usual—eagerly listening to the +conversation of his seniors—until the damp and depressed +party broke up, Bertram splashed across to his <i>banda</i> to +find that the excellent Ali <a name="page137"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 137</span>had completely covered his bed with +his water-proof ground-sheet, had put his pyjamas and a change of +underclothing into the bed and the rest of his kit under +it. He had also dug a small trench and drain round the hut, +so that the interior was merely a bog instead of a pool. . . +.</p> +<p>Bertram then faced the problem of how to undress while +standing in mud beneath a shower-bath, in such a manner as to be +able to get into bed reasonably dry and with the minimum of mud +upon the feet. . . .</p> +<p>As he lay sick and hungry, cold and miserable, with apparently +high promise of fever and colic, listening to the pattering of +heavy drops of water within the hut, and the beating of rain upon +the sea of mud and water without, and realised that on the morrow +he was to undertake his first really dangerous and responsible +military duty, his heart sank. . . . Who was <i>he</i> to +be in sole charge of a convoy upon whose safe arrival the +existence of an outpost depended? What a <i>fool</i> he had +been to come! Why should <i>he</i> be lying there half +starving in that bestial swamp, shivering with fever, and feeling +as though he had a very dead cat and a very live one in his +stomach? . . . Raising his head from the +pillow, he said aloud: “I would not be elsewhere for +anything in the world. . . .”</p> +<h3>CHAPTER XIII<br /> +<i>Baking</i></h3> +<p>When Bertram was awakened by Ali at four o’clock the +next morning, he feared he would be unable to get up. Had +he been at home, he would have remained in bed and sent for the +doctor. His head felt like lead, every bone in his body +ached, and he had that horrible sense of internal <i>malaise</i>, +than which few feelings are more discouraging, distressing and +enervating.</p> +<p>The morning smelt horrible, and, by the light of the +candle-lamp, the floor was seen to have resigned in favour of the +flood. Another problem: Could a fair-sized man dress +himself on a tiny camp-bed beneath a small mosquito +curtain? If not, he must get out of bed into the water, and +paddle around in that slimy ooze which it hid from the eye but +not from the nose. Subsidiary <a name="page138"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 138</span>problem: Could a man step straight +into a pair of wet boots, so as to avoid putting bare feet into +the mud, and then withdraw alternate feet from them, for the +removal of pyjamas and the putting-on of shorts and socks, while +the booted foot remained firmly planted in the slush for his +support?</p> +<p>Or again: Sitting precariously on the edge of a canvas bed, +could an agile person, with bare feet coyly withdrawn from +contact with the foulness beneath, garb his nether limbs to the +extent that permitted the pulling-on of boots? . . .</p> +<p>He could try anyhow. . . . After much groping and +fumbling, Bertram pulled on his socks and shorts, and then, still +lying on his bed, reached for his boots. These he had left +standing on a dry patch beneath his bed, and now saw standing, +with the rest of his kit, in a couple of inches of filthy +water. Balancing himself on the sagging edge of the strip +of canvas that served as bed-laths, palliasse and mattress, he +struggled into the resisting and reluctant boots, and then boldly +entered the water, pleased with the tactics that had saved him +from touching it before he was shod. . . . It was not until +he had retrieved his sodden puttees and commenced to put them on, +that he realised that he was still wearing the trousers of his +pyjamas!</p> +<p>And then it was that Bertram, for the first time in his life, +furiously swore—long and loud and heartily. Let those +who say in defence of War that it rouses man’s nobler +instincts and brings out all that is best in him, note this +deplorable fact.</p> +<p>Could he keep them on, or must he remove those clinging, +squelching boots and partially undress again?</p> +<p>Striped blue and green pyjamas, showing for six inches between +his shorts and his puttees, would add a distinctly novel touch to +the uniform of a British officer. . . . No. It could +not be done. Ill as he felt, and deeply as he loathed the +idea of wrestling with the knots in the sodden boot-laces of +those awful boots, he must do it—in spite of trembling +hands, swimming head, and an almost unconquerable desire to lie +down again.</p> +<p>And then—alas! for the moral maxims of the copy-books, +the wise saws and modern instances of the didactic +virtuous—sheer bad temper came to his assistance. +With ferocious condemnations of everything, he cut his +boot-laces, flung his boots into the water, splashed about +violently in his socks, as he tore off the offending garments and +hurled them after the boots, and then <a name="page139"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 139</span>completed his dressing with as +little regard to water, mud, slime, filth, and clay as though he +were standing on the carpet of his dressing-room in England.</p> +<p>“<i>I’m fed up</i>!” quoth he, and barged +out of the <i>banda</i> in a frame of mind that put the Fear of +God and Second-Lieutenant Bertram Greene into all who crossed his +path. . . . (<i>Cupid</i> forsooth!)</p> +<p>The first was Ali Suleiman, who stood waiting in the rain, +until he could go in and pack his master’s kit.</p> +<p>“Here—you—pack my kit sharp, and don’t +stand there gaping like a fish in a frying-pan. Stir +yourself before I stir <i>you</i>,” he shouted.</p> +<p>The faithful Ali dived into the <i>banda</i> like a rabbit +into its hole. Excellent! This was the sort of +<i>bwana</i> he could reverence. Almost had he been +persuaded that this new master was not a real gentleman—he +was so gentle. . . .</p> +<p>Bertram turned back again, but not to apologise for his harsh +words, as his better nature prompted him to do.</p> +<p>“Where’s my breakfast, you lazy rascal?” he +shouted.</p> +<p>“On the table in Mess <i>banda</i>, please God, thank +you, sah,” replied Ali Suleiman humbly, as one who prays +that his grievous trespasses may be forgotten.</p> +<p>“Then why couldn’t you say so, +you—you—you—” and here memories of the +Naval Officer stole across his subconsciousness, “you +blundering burden, you posthumous porridge-punter, you myopic +megalomaniac, you pernicious, piebald pacifist. . . .”</p> +<p>Ali Suleiman rolled his eyes and nodded his head with every +epithet.</p> +<p>“Oh, my God, sah,” said he, as Bertram paused for +breath, “I am a dam man mos’ blasted +sinful”—and, so ridiculous a thing is temper, that +Bertram neither laughed nor saw cause for laughter.</p> +<p>Splashing across to the Mess <i>banda</i>, he discovered a +battered metal teapot, an enamelled tumbler, an almost empty tin +of condensed milk, and a tin plate of very sad-looking +porridge. By the light of a lamp that appealed more to the +olfactory and auditory senses than to the optic, he removed from +the stodgy mess the well-developed leg of some insect unknown, +and then tasted it—(the porridge, not the leg).</p> +<p>“<i>Filthy muck</i>,” he remarked aloud.</p> +<p>“Sahib calling me, sir?” said a voice that made +him jump, and <a name="page140"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +140</span>the Cook’s Understudy, a Goanese youth, stepped +into the circle of light—or of lesser gloom.</p> +<p>“Very natural you should have thought so,” +answered Bertram. “I said <i>Filthy +Muck</i>.”</p> +<p>“Yessir,” replied the acting deputy assistant +adjutant cooklet, proudly, “I am cooking breakfast for the +Sahib.”</p> +<p>“<i>You</i> cooked this?” growled Bertram, and +half rose, with so menacing an expression and wild an eye that +the guilty fled, making a note that this was a Sahib to be +properly served in future, and not, as he had foolishly thought +him, a poor polite soul for whom anything was good enough. . . +.</p> +<p>Pushing the burnt and nauseating horror from him, Bertram +essayed to pour out tea, only to find that the fluid was readily +procurable from anywhere but the spout. A teapot that will +not “pour out” freely is an annoyance at the best of +times, and to the most placid of souls. (The fact that tea +through the lid is as good as tea through the spout is more than +counter-balanced by the fact that tea in the cup is better than +tea on the table-cloth. And it is a very difficult art, +only to be acquired by patient practice, to pour tea into the cup +and the cup alone, from the top of a spout-bunged teapot. +Try it.)</p> +<p>Bertram’s had temper waxed and deepened.</p> +<p>“<i>Curse the thing</i>!” he swore, and banged the +offending pot on the table, and, forgetting his nice +table-manners, blew violently down the spout. This sent a +wave of tea over his head and scalded him, and there the didactic +virtuous, and the copy-book maxims, scored.</p> +<p>Sorely tempted to call to the cooklet in honeyed tones, decoy +him near with fair-seeming smiles, with friendly gestures, and +then to fling the thing at his head, he essayed to pour +again.</p> +<p>A trickle, a gurgle, a spurt, a round gush of tea—and +the pale wan skeletal remnants of a once lusty cockroach, sodden +and soft, leapt into the cup. Swirling round and round, it +seemed giddily to explore its new unresting-place, triumphant, as +though chanting, with the Ancient Mariner, some such pæan +as</p> +<blockquote><p>“I was the first that ever burst<br /> +Into this silent tea. . . .”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Heaven alone knew to how many cups of tea that disintegrating +corpse had contributed of its best before the gusts of +Bertram’s temper had contributed to its dislodgment.</p> +<p><a name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +141</span>(Temper seems to have scored a point here, it must be +reluctantly confessed.)</p> +<p>Bertram arose and plunged forth into the darkness, not daring +to trust himself to call the cook.</p> +<p>Raising his clenched hands in speechless wrath, he drew in his +breath through his clenched teeth—and then slipped with +catastrophic suddenness on a patch of slimy clay and sat down +heavily in very cold water.</p> +<p>He arose a distinctly dangerous person. . . .</p> +<p>Near the ration-dump squatted a solid square of naked black +men, not precisely savages, raw <i>shenzis</i> of the jungle, but +something between these and the Swahilis who work as personal +servants, gun-bearers, and the better class of <i>safari</i> +porters. They were big men and looked strong. They +smelt stronger. It was a perfectly indescribable odour, +like nothing on earth, and to be encountered nowhere else on +earth—save in the vicinity of another mass of negroes.</p> +<p>In the light of a big fire and several lanterns, Bertram saw +that the men were in rough lines, and that each line appeared to +be in charge of a headman, distinguished by some badge of rank, +such as a bowler hat, a tobacco tin worn as an ear-ring, a pair +of pink socks, or a frock coat. These men walked up and +down their respective lines and occasionally smote one of their +squatting followers, hitting the chosen one without fear or +favour, without rhyme or reason, and apparently without doing +much damage. For the smitten one, without change of +expression or position, emitted an incredibly thin piping squeal, +as though in acknowledgment of an attention, rather than as if +giving natural vent to anguish. . . .</p> +<p>Every porter had a red blanket, and practically every one wore +a <i>panga</i>. The verbs are selected. They +<i>had</i> blankets and they <i>wore</i> pangas. The +blankets they either sat upon or folded into pads for insertion +beneath the loads they were to carry upon their heads. The +<i>pangas</i> were attached to strings worn over the +shoulder. This useful implement serves the African as +toothpick, spade, axe, knife, club, toasting-fork, hammer, +weapon, hoe, cleaver, spoon, skinning-knife, and every other kind +of tool, as well as being correct jungle wear for men for all +occasions, and in all weathers. He builds a house with it; +slays, skins and dismembers a bullock; fells a tree, makes a +boat, digs a pit; fashions <a name="page142"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 142</span>a club, spear, bow or arrow; hews +his way through jungle, enheartens his wife, disheartens his +enemy, mows his lawn, and makes his bed. . . .</p> +<p>Not far away, a double company of the Hundred and +Ninety-Eighth “stood easy.” The fact that they +were soaked to the skin did nothing to give them an air of +devil-may-care gaiety.</p> +<p>The Jemadar in command approached and saluted Bertram, who +recognised the features of Hassan Ali.</p> +<p>“It’s <i>you</i>, is it!” he grunted, and +proceeded to explain that the Jemadar would command the +rear-guard of one hundred men, and that by the time it was +augmented to a hundred and fifty by the process of picking up +flankers left to guard side-turnings, the column would be halted +while fifty men made their way up to the advance-guard again, and +so on.</p> +<p>“D’you understand?” concluded Bertram.</p> +<p>“<i>Nahin</i>, <i>Sahib</i>,” replied the +Jemadar.</p> +<p>“<i>Then fall out</i>,” snapped Bertram. +“I’ll put an intelligent private in command, and you +can watch him until you do,” and then he broke into +English: “I’ve had about enough of you, my lad, and +if you give me any of your damned nonsense, I’ll twist your +tail till you howl. Call yourself an <i>officer</i>! . . +.” and here the Jemadar, saluting repeatedly, like an +automaton, declared that light had just dawned upon his mind and +that he clearly understood.</p> +<p>“And so you’d better,” answered Bertram +harshly, staring with a hard scowl into the Jemadar’s eyes +until they wavered and sank. “So you’d +<i>better</i>, if you want to keep your rank. . . . March +one hundred men down the path past the Officers’ Mess, and +halt them a thousand yards from here. . . . The coolies +will follow. You will return and fall in behind the coolies +with the other hundred as rear-guard. See that the coolies +do not straggle. March behind your men—so that you +are the very last man of the whole convoy. D’you +understand?”</p> +<p>Jemadar Hassan Ali did understand, and he also understood that +he’d made a bad mistake about Second-Lieutenant +Greene. He was evidently one of those subtle and clever +people who give the impression that they are not <i>hushyar</i>, +<a name="citation142"></a><a href="#footnote142" +class="citation">[142]</a> that they are foolish and incompetent, +and then suddenly destroy you when they see you have thoroughly +gained that impression.</p> +<p>Respect and fear awoke in the breast of the worthy Jemadar, <a +name="page143"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 143</span>for he +admired cunning, subtlety and cleverness beyond all things. . . +. He marched a half of his little force off into the +darkness, halted them some half-mile down the path (or rivulet) +that led into the jungle, put them in charge of the senior +Havildar and returned.</p> +<p>Meanwhile, Lieutenant Bridges, in a cloak and pyjamas, had +arrived, yawning and shivering, to superintend the loading up of +the porters. At an order, given in Swahili, the first line +of squatting Kavirondo arose and rushed to the dump.</p> +<p>“Extraordinary zeal!” remarked Bertram to +Bridges.</p> +<p>“Yes—to collar the lightest loads,” was the +illuminating reply.</p> +<p>The zeal faded as rapidly as it had glowed when he coldly +pointed with the <i>kiboko</i>, which was his badge of office and +constant companion, to the heavy ammunition-boxes.</p> +<p>“I should keep that near the advance-guard and under a +special guard of its own,” said he.</p> +<p>“I’m going to—naturally,” replied +Bertram shortly, and added: “Hurry them along, +please. I want to get off to-day.”</p> +<p>Bridges stared. This was a much more assured and +autocratic person than the mild youth he had met at the +water’s edge a day or two ago.</p> +<p>“Well—if you like to push off with the +advance-guard, I’ll see that a constant stream of porters +files off from here, and that your rear-guard follows +them,” said he.</p> +<p>“Thanks—I’ll not start till I’ve seen +the whole convoy ready,” replied Bertram.</p> +<p>Yesterday he’d have been glad of advice from +anybody. Now he’d take it from no one. Orders +he would obey, of course—but “a poor thing but mine +own” should be his motto with regard to his method of +carrying out whatever he was left to do. They’d told +him to take their beastly convoy; they’d left him to do it; +and he’d do it as he thought fit. . . . Curse the +rain, the mud, the stench, the hunger, sickness and the beastly +pain that nearly doubled him up and made him feel faint. . . +.</p> +<p>Grayne strolled over.</p> +<p>“Time you bunged off, my lad,” quoth he, +loftily.</p> +<p>“If you’ll mind your own business, I shall have +the better chance to mind mine,” replied Bertram, eyeing +him coldly—and wondering at himself.</p> +<p>Grayne stared open-mouthed, and before he could speak <a +name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 144</span>Bertram was +hounding on a lingering knot of porters who had not hurried off +to the line as soon as their boxes of biscuit were balanced on +their heads, but stood shrilly wrangling about something or +nothing.</p> +<p>“<i>Kalele</i>! <i>Kalele</i>!” shouted +Bertram, and sprang at them with raised fist and furious +countenance, whereat they emitted shrill squeals and fled to +their places in the long column.</p> +<p>He had no idea what “<i>Kalele</i>!” meant, but +had heard Bridges and the headman say it. Later he learnt +that it meant “Silence!” and was a very useful word. +. . .</p> +<p>Ali Suleiman approached, seized three men, and herded them +before him to fetch Bertram’s kit. Having loaded them +with it, he drove them to the head of the column and stationed +them in rear of the advance-guard.</p> +<p>Returning, he presented Bertram with a good, useful-looking +cane.</p> +<p>“<i>Bwana</i> wanting a <i>kiboko</i>,” said +he. “<i>Shenzis</i> not knowing anything without +<i>kiboko</i> and not feeling happy in mind. Not thinking +<i>Bwana</i> is a real master.”</p> +<p>Yesterday Bertram would have chidden Ali gently, and explained +that kind hearts are more than coronets and gentle words than +cruel whips. To-day he took the cane, gave it a vicious +swish, and wished that it were indeed a <i>kiboko</i>, one of +those terrible instruments of hippopotamus hide, four feet in +length, as thick as a man’s wrist at one end, tapering +until it was of the thinness of his little finger at the +other. . . .</p> +<p>A big Kavirondo seized a rum jar. His bigger neighbour +dropped a heavy box and tried to snatch it from him. He who +had the lighter jar clung to it, bounded away, and put it on his +head. The box-wallah, following, gave him a sudden violent +blow in the back, jerking the jar from his head.</p> +<p>Raising his cane, Bertram brought it down with all his +strength on the starboard quarter of the box-wallah as he stooped +to grab the jar. With a wild yelp, he leapt for his box and +galloped to his place in the column.</p> +<p>“Excellent!” said Bridges, “you’ll +have no trouble with the <i>safari</i> people, at any +rate.”</p> +<p>“I’ll have no trouble with anybody,” replied +Bertram with a quiet truculence that surprised himself, +“not even with a <i>Balliol</i> negro.”</p> +<p><a name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +145</span>Bridges decided that he had formed his estimate of +Lieutenant Greene too hastily and quite wrongly. He was +evidently a bit of a tough lad when he got down to it. Hot +stuff. . . .</p> +<p>At last the dump had disappeared completely, and its original +components now swayed and turned upon the heads of a thousand +human beasts of burden—human in that they walked erect and +used fire for cooking food; beasts in that they were beastly and +beast-like in all other ways. Among them, and distinguished +by being feebler of physique, and, if possible, feebler of mind, +was a party of those despised savages, the Kikuyu, rendered +interesting as providing the great question that shook the Church +of England to its foundations, and caused Lord Bishops to forget +the wise councils of good Doctor Watts’ hymn. (It is +to be feared that among the even mightier problems of the Great +War, the problem of the spiritual position and ecclesiastical +condition of the Communicating Kikuyu has been temporarily lost +sight of. Those who know the gentleman, with his +blubber-lipped, foreheadless face, his teeth filed to sharp +points, his skin a mass of scar patterns, done with a knife, and +his soulless, brainless animalism and bestiality, would hate to +think he was one short on the Thirty-Nine Articles or anything of +that sort.)</p> +<p>Bertram gave a last injunction to Jemadar Hassan Ali, said +farewell to Bridges, and strode to the head of the column. +Thence he sent out a “point” of a Havildar and three +men, and waited to give the word to advance, and plunge into the +jungle, the one white man among some fifteen hundred people, all +of whom looked to him, as to a Superior Being, for guidance and +that competent command which should be their safeguard.</p> +<p>As the point disappeared he turned and looked along the +apparently endless line, cried “<i>Quick March</i>,” +and set off at a smart pace, the first man of the column.</p> +<p>He was too proud and excited to realise how very ill he felt, +or to be ashamed of the naughty temper that he had so clearly and +freely exhibited.</p> +<h3><a name="page146"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +146</span>CHAPTER XIV<br /> +<i>The Convoy</i></h3> +<p>Bertram never forgot this plunge into the primeval jungle with +its mingled suggestions of a Kew hot-house, a Turkish bath, a +shower bath, a mud bath and a nightmare.</p> +<p>His mind was too blunted with probing into new things, his +brain too dulled by the incessant battering of new ideas, too +drunk with draughts of strange mingled novelty, too covered with +recent new impressions for him to be sensitive to fresh ones.</p> +<p>Had an elephant emerged from the dripping jungle, wagged its +tail and sat up and begged, he would have experienced no great +shock of surprise. He, a town-bred, town-dwelling, pillar +of the Respectable, the Normal and the Established, was marching +through virgin forest at the head of a thousand African porters +and two hundred Indian soldiers and their camp-followers, +surrounded by enemies—varying from an <i>ex</i>-Prussian +Guard armed with a machine-gun to a Wadego savage armed with a +poisoned arrow—to the relief of hungry men in a stockaded +outpost! . . . What further room was there for marvels, +wonders, and surprises? As he tramped, splashed, slipped +and stumbled along the path, and the gloom of early morning, +black sky, mist, and heavy rain slowly gave way to dawn and +daylight, his fit of savage temper induced by +“liver,” hunger, headache and disgust, slowly gave +way, also, to the mental inertia, calm, and peace, induced by +monotonous exercise. The steady dogged tramp, tramp, tramp, +was an anodyne, a sedative, a narcotic that drugged the mind, +rendering it insensitive to the pains and sickness of the body as +well as to its own worries, anxieties and problems. . . .</p> +<p>Bertram felt that he could go on for a very long time; go on +until he fell; but he knew that when he fell it would be quite +impossible for him to get up again. Once his legs stopped +moving, the spell would be broken, the automaton would have +“run down,” and motion would cease quite finally. . . +.</p> +<p>As daylight grew, he idly and almost subconsciously observed +the details of his environment.</p> +<p>This was better than the mangrove-thicket of the swamp, in a +clearing of which the base camp lay. It was the densest of +dense jungle through which the track ran, like a stream through a +<a name="page147"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +147</span>cañon, but it was a jungle of infinite +variety. Above the green impenetrable mat of elephant grass +and nameless tangle of undergrowth, scrub, shrub, liana, bush, +creeper, and young trees, stood, in solid serried array, great +trees by the million, palm, mango, baobab, acacia, live oak, and +a hundred other kinds, with bamboo and banana where they could, +in defiance of probability, squeeze themselves in. Some of +the trees looked like the handiwork of prentice gods, so crude +and formless were they, their fat trunks tapering rapidly from a +huge ground-girth to a fine point, and putting forth little +abortive leafless branches suggestive of straggly hairs. +Some such produced brilliant red blossoms, apparently on the +trunk itself, but dispensed with the banality of leaves and +branches. Some great knotted creepers seemed to have +threaded themselves with beads as big as a man’s head, and +the fruit of one arboreal freak was vast sausages.</p> +<p>Through the aerial roadways of the forest, fifty feet above +the heads of the <i>safari</i>, tribes of monkeys galloped and +gambolled as they spied upon it and shrieked their comment.</p> +<p>Apparently the varied and numerous birds held views upon the +subject of <i>safaris</i> also, and saw no reason to conceal +them.</p> +<p>One accompanied the advance-guard, piping and fluting: +“<i>Poli-Poli</i>! <i>Poli-Poli</i>!” which, as +Ali Suleiman informed Bertram, is Swahili for +“Slowly! <i>Slowly</i>!”</p> +<p>Another bird appeared to have fitted up his home with a chime +of at least eight bells, for, every now and then, a sweet and +sonorous tolling rang through the jungle. One bird, sitting +on a branch a few feet from Bertram’s head, emitted two +notes that for depth of timbre and rich sonorous sweetness could +be excelled by no musical instrument or bell on earth. He +had but the two notes apparently, but those two were +marvellous. They even roused Bertram to the reception of a +new impression and a fresh sensation akin to wonder.</p> +<p>From many of the overhanging trees depended the beautifully +woven bottle-like nests of the weaver-bird. Brilliant +parrots flashed through the tree-tops, incredible horn-bills +carried their beaks about, the hypocritical widower-bird flaunted +his new mourning, the blue starling, the sun-bird, and the +crow-pheasant, with a score of other species, failed to give the +gloomy, menacing jungle an air of brightness and life, seemed +rather to emphasise its note of gloom, its insistence upon itself +as the home of death <a name="page148"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 148</span>where Nature, red in tooth and claw, +pursued her cycle of destruction with fierce avidity and wanton +masterfulness. . . .</p> +<p>Suddenly a whistle rang out—sharp, clear, +imperative. Its incisive blow upon the silence of the +deadly jungle startled Bertram from his apathy. His tired +wits sprang to life and activity, urged on his weary flagging +muscles. He wheeled round and faced the Sepoys just behind +him, even as the blast of the whistle ceased.</p> +<p>“<i>Halt</i>! <i>Baitho</i>!” <a +name="citation148"></a><a href="#footnote148" +class="citation">[148]</a> he shouted—gave the drill-book +sign to lie down—and waited, for a second that seemed like +a year, to feel the withering blast of fire that should tear +through them at point-blank range. . . . Why did it not +come? . . . Why did no guttural German voice shout an order +to fire? . . . . He remained standing upright, while the +Sepoys, crouching low, worked the bolts of their rifles to load +the latter from their magazines. He was glad to see that +they made ready thus, without awaiting an order, even as they +sank to the ground. Would it not be better to march in +future with a cartridge in the chamber and the cut-off of the +magazine open? . . . Accidents? . . . Not if he made +them march with rifles at the “slope.” . . . +Better the risk of an accident than the risk of being caught +napping. . . . Why did not the accursed German give the +order to fire? . . . Was it because Bertram had got his men +crouching down so quickly? . . . Would the crashing volley +thunder out, the moment they arose? . . . They could not +stay squatting, kneeling and lying in the mud for ever. . . +. Where was the ambush? . . . Had they Maxims in +trees, commanding this path? . . . Were the enemy massed in +a clearing a foot or two from the road, and separated from it +only by a thin screen of foliage? . . . . What should he do +if there were a sudden bayonet-charge down the path, by huge +ferocious <i>askaris</i>? . . . You can’t meet a +charge with efficient rifle-fire when you are in single file and +your utmost effort at deployment would get two, or possibly three +crowded and hampered men abreast. . . . On the other hand, +the enemy would not be charging under ideal conditions either. . +. . More likely a machine-gun would suddenly nip out, from +concealment beside the path, and wither the column away with a +blast of fire at six hundred rounds a minute. . . . Perhaps +the “point” marching on ahead would have the sense +and the courage and the time to get into the gun-team with their +bayonets before it <a name="page149"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +149</span>got the gun going? . . . <i>Why did not the enemy +fire</i>? . . . He would go mad if they didn’t do so +soon. . . . Were they playing with him, as a cat plays with +a mouse? . . .</p> +<p>The whistle rang out again, harsh, peremptory, +fateful—and then Ali Suleiman laughed, and pointed at a +small bird. As he did so, the bird whistled again, with +precisely the note of a police-whistle blown under the stress of +fear, excitement or anger, a clamant, bodeful, and insistent +signal.</p> +<p>Bertram would have welcomed warmly an opportunity to wring +little birdie’s neck, in the gust of anger that followed +the fright.</p> +<p>Giving the signal to rise and advance, Bertram strode on, and, +still under the stimulus of alarm, forgot that he was tired.</p> +<p>He analysed his feelings. . . . Was he frightened and +afraid? Not at all. The whistle had “made him +jump,” and given him a “start,” of +course. The waiting for the blast of fire, that he knew +would follow the signal, had been terribly trying—a torture +to the nerves. The problem of what to do, in response to +the enemy’s first move, had been an agonising +anxiety—but he would certainly have done +something—given clear orders as to object and distance if +there had been anything to fire at; used his revolver coolly and +set a good example if there had been a charge down the path; +headed a fierce rush at the Maxim if one had come out of cover +and prepared to open fire. . . . No—he decidedly was +not frightened and afraid. . . He was glad that he had +remained erect, and, with his hand on his revolver, had, with +seeming coolness, scanned the surrounding trees and jungle for +signs of an ambushed enemy. . . .</p> +<p>The road forked, and he turned to Ali Suleiman, who had +marched near him from the start, in the proud capacity of +guide.</p> +<p>“Which of these paths?” said he.</p> +<p>“The left hands, sah, please God,” was the reply; +“the right is closed also.”</p> +<p>“What d’you mean?” asked Bertram, staring +down the open track that branched to the right.</p> +<p>“See, <i>Bwana</i>,” replied Ali, pointing to a +small branch that lay in the middle of the path, with its broken +end towards them and its leaves away from them. “Road +closed. I ’spec <i>askari</i> patrol from Butani +putting it there, when they know <i>Bwana</i> coming, thank God, +please.”</p> +<p>Apparently this twig, to the experienced eye, was precisely <a +name="page150"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 150</span>equivalent +to a notice-board bearing the legend, <i>No +Thoroughfare</i>. Bertram signalled a halt and turned to +the Havildar at the head of the advance-guard.</p> +<p>“Take ten men and patrol down that path for a thousand +yards,” said he. “Then march back, wait for the +rear-guard, and report to the Jemadar Sahib.”</p> +<p>The man saluted, and Bertram saw him and his patrol move off, +before he gave the order for the column to advance again. . . +. That should secure the <i>safari</i> from attack down +<i>that</i> path, anyhow. Ten determined men could hold up +any number for any length of time, if they did the right thing. . +. . These beastly bush fighting conditions cut both ways. . +. . Yes—then suppose a small patrol of enemy +<i>askaris</i> were on this track in front of him, and decided to +hold the convoy up, what could he do?</p> +<p>To advance upon them, practically in single file, would be +like approaching a long stick of sealing-wax to the door of a +furnace—the point would melt and melt until the whole stick +had disappeared without reaching the fire. . . . Of course, +if there was a possibility of getting into the jungle, he would +send out parties to take them in flank as he charged down the +path. But that was just the point—you +<i>couldn’t</i> get more than a few yards into the jungle +in the likeliest places, and, when you’d done that, +you’d be utterly out of touch with your right and left-hand +man in no time—not to mention the fact that you’d +have no sense of direction or distance. . . .</p> +<p>No. . . . He’d just head a charge straight for +them, and if it were a really determined one and the distance not +too great, enough of the advance-guard might survive to reach +them with the bayonet. . . . Evidently, if there were any +rules at all in this jungle warfare, one would be that the +smaller of the two forces should dispose itself to bring every +rifle to bear with magazine fire, and the larger should make the +swiftest charge it possibly could. If it +didn’t—a dozen men would be as good as a +thousand—while their ammunition held out. . . . What +an advantage over the Indian Sepoy, with his open order +<i>maidan</i> <a name="citation150"></a><a href="#footnote150" +class="citation">[150]</a> training, the <i>askari</i>, bred and +born and trained to this bush-fighting, would have! The +German <i>ought</i> to win this campaign with his very big army +of indigenous soldiers and his “salted” +Colonials. What chance had the Sepoy or the British Regular +in these utterly <a name="page151"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +151</span>strange and unthought-of conditions? . . . As +well train aviators and then put them in submarines as train the +Indian Army for the frontier and the plains and then put them in +these swamps and jungles where your enemy is invisible and your +sole “formation” is single file. What about the +sacred and Medean Law: <i>Never fire until you can see something +to fire at</i>? They’d never fire at all, at that +rate, with an enemy who habitually used machine-guns from +tree-tops and fired from dense cover—and small blame to +him. . . .</p> +<p>A sound of rushing water, and a few minutes later the path +became the edge of a river-bank beneath which the torrent +swirled. It looked as though its swift erosion would soon +bring the crumbling and beetling bank down, and the path would +lead straight into the river. He must mention the fact at +Butindi.</p> +<p>He stared at the jungle of the opposite bank, apparently +lifeless and deserted, though menacing, secretive and +uncanny. An ugly place. . . . Suppose the Germans +bridged the river just here. . . . He found that he had +come to a halt and was yearning to sit down. . . . He must +not do that. He must keep moving. But he did not like +that gap in the path where, for some yards, it ran along the edge +of the bank. It was a gap in the wall, an open door in the +house, a rent in the veil of protection. The jungle seemed +a friend instead of a blinding and crippling hindrance, +impediment, and obstacle, now that the path lay open and exposed +along that flank. Suppose there were an ambush in the +jungle on the other side of the narrow rushing river, and a heavy +fire was opened upon his men as they passed? He could not +get at an enemy so placed, nor return their fire for long, from +an open place, while they were in densest cover. They could +simply prohibit the passing of the <i>safari</i>. . . . +Anyhow, he’d leave a force there to blaze like fury into +the jungle across the river if a shot were fired from there.</p> +<p>“Naik,” said he, to a corporal, “halt here +with twenty men and line the edge of the bank. If you are +fired at from across the river, pour in magazine fire as hard as +you can go—and make the porters <i>run</i> like the devil +across this gap.” He then translated, as well as he +could, and marched on. He had done his best, anyhow.</p> +<p>For another hour he doggedly tramped on. The rain +ceased, and the heat grew suffocating, stifling, terrible to +bear. He felt <a name="page152"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 152</span>that he was breathing pure steam, +and that he must climb a tree in search of air—do +<i>something</i> to relieve his panting lungs. . . . He +tore his tunic open at the throat. . . . <i>Help</i>! he +was going to faint and fall. . . . With a great effort he +swung about and raised his hand for the “halt” and +lowered it with palm horizontal downward for the “lie +down.” . . . If the men were down themselves they +would not realise that he had fallen. . . . It would not do +to fall while marching at their head, to fall and lie there for +the next man to stumble over him, to set an example of weakness. +. . . The officer should be the last man to succumb to +anything—but wounds—in front. . . .</p> +<p>He sank to the ground, and feeling that he was going to faint +away, put his head well down between his knees, and, after a +while, felt better.</p> +<p>“<i>Bwana</i> taking off tunic and belts,” said +Ali Suleiman, “and I carry them. <i>Bwana</i> keep +only revolver, by damn, please God, sah.”</p> +<p>A bright idea! Why not? Where was the sense in +marching through these foul swamps and jungles as though it were +along the Queen’s Road at Bombay? And Ali, who would +rather die than carry a load upon his head, like a low +<i>shenzi</i> of a porter, would be proud to carry his +master’s sword and personal kit.</p> +<p>In his shirt-sleeves, with exposed chest, Bertram felt another +man, gave the signal to advance, and proceeded free of all +impedimenta save his revolver. . . .</p> +<p>Suddenly the narrow, walled-in path debouched into a most +beautiful open glade of trees like live oaks. These were +not massed together; there was no undergrowth of bush; the grass +was short and fine; the ground sloping slightly upward was +gravelly and dry—the whole spot one of Africa’s +freakish contrasts.</p> +<p>Bertram determined to halt the whole <i>safari</i> here, get +it “closed up” into something like fours, and see +every man, including the rear-guard, into the place before +starting off again.</p> +<p>With the help of Ali, who interpreted to the headmen, he +achieved his object, and, when he had satisfied himself that it +was a case of “all present and correct,” he returned +to the head of the column and sat him down upon the trunk of a +fallen tree. . . .</p> +<p>Everybody, save the sentries, whom he had posted about the +glade, squatted or lay upon the ground, each man beside his load. +. . .</p> +<p><a name="page153"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +153</span>Though free now of the horrible sense of suffocation, +he felt sick and faint, and very weary. Although he had not +had a proper meal since he left the <i>Barjordan</i>, he was not +hungry—or thought he was not. . . . Would it be his +luck to be killed in the first fight that he took part in? +His <i>good</i> luck? When one is ill and half starved, +weary beyond words, and bearing a nightmare burden of +responsibility in conditions as comfortless and rough as they can +well be, Death seems less a grisly terror than a friend, bearing +an Order of Release in his bony hand. . . .</p> +<p>Ali stood before him unbuckling his haversack.</p> +<p>“Please God, sah, I am buying <i>Bwana</i> this +chocolates in Mombasa when finding master got no grubs for +emergency rasher,” said he, producing a big blue packet of +chocolate.</p> +<p>“Good man!” replied Bertram. “I meant +to get a stock of that myself. . . .”</p> +<p>He ate some chocolate, drank of the cold tea with which the +excellent Ali had filled his water-bottle, and felt better.</p> +<p>After an hour’s rest he gave the order to fall in, the +headmen of the porters got their respective gangs loaded up +again, and the <i>safari</i> wound snake-like from the glade +along the narrow path once more, Bertram at its head. He +felt he was becoming a tactical soldier as he sent a lance-naik +to go the round of the sentries and bid them stand fast until the +rear-guard had disappeared into the jungle, when they were to +rejoin it.</p> +<p>On tramped the <i>safari</i>, hour after hour, with occasional +halts where the track widened, or the jungle, for a brief space, +gave way to forest or <i>dambo</i>. Suddenly the head of +the column emerged from the denser jungle into an undulating +country of thicket, glade, scrub, and forest. Bertram saw +the smoke of campfires far away to the left; and with one accord +the porters commenced to beat their loads, drum-wise, with their +<i>safari</i> sticks as they burst into some tribal chant or +pæan of rejoicing. The convoy had reached Butindi in +safety.</p> +<h3><a name="page154"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +154</span>CHAPTER XV<br /> +<i>Butindi</i></h3> +<p>Half a mile beyond a village of the tiniest huts—built +for themselves by the Kavirondo porters, and suggesting beehives +rather than human habitations—Bertram beheld the entrenched +and stockaded <i>boma</i>, zariba, or fort, that was to be his +home for some months.</p> +<p>At that distance, it looked like a solid square of grass huts +and tents, surrounded by a high wall. He guessed each side +to be about two hundred yards in length. It stood in a +clearing which gave a field of fire of some three hundred yards +in every direction.</p> +<p>Halting the advance-guard, he formed it up from single file +into fours; and, taking his kit from Ali, resumed it. +Giving the order to march at “attention,” he +approached the <i>boma</i>, above the entrance to which an +officer was watching him through field-glasses.</p> +<p>Halting his men at the plank which crossed the trench, he bade +them “stand easy,” and, leaving them in charge of a +Havildar, crossed the little bridge and approached the gateway +which faced sideways instead of outwards, and was so narrow that +only one person at a time could pass through it.</p> +<p>Between the trench and the wall of the <i>boma</i> was a space +some ten yards in width, wherein a number of small men in blue +uniform, who resembled neither Indians nor Africans, were +employed upon the off-duty duties of the soldier—cleaning +rifles and accoutrements, chopping wood, rolling puttees, +preparing food, washing clothing, and pursuing trains of thought +or insects.</p> +<p>Against the wall stood the long lean-to shelters, consisting +of a roof of plaited palm-leaf, supported by poles, in which they +lived. By the entrance was a guard-house, which suggested a +rabbit-hutch; and a sentry, who, seeing the approach of an armed +party, turned out the guard. The Sergeant of the Guard was +an enormous man with a skin like fine black satin, a skin than +which no satin could be blacker nor more shiny. He was an +obvious negro, Nubian or Soudanese, but the men of the guard were +small and fair, and wore blue turbans, of which the ornamental +end hung tail-wise down their backs. Beneath their blue +tunics were unpleated kilts or skirts, of a kind of blue tartan, +<a name="page155"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 155</span>reaching +to their knees. They had blue puttees and bare feet.</p> +<p>Saluting the guard, Bertram entered the <i>boma</i> and found +himself in the High Street of a close-packed village of huts and +tents, which were the dwelling-places of the officers, the +hospital and sick-lines, the commissariat store, the +Officers’ Mess, the cook-house, orderly-room, and +offices.</p> +<p>In the middle of the High Street stood four poles which +supported a roof. A “table” of posts and +packing-case boards, surrounded by native bedsteads of wood and +string—by way of seats—constituted this, the +Officers’ Mess, Club, Common Room and Bar. A bunch of +despondent-looking bananas hanging from the ridge-pole suggested +food, and a bath containing a foot of water and an inch of mud +suggested drink and cholera.</p> +<p>About the table sat several British officers in ragged shirts +and shorts, drinking tea and eating native +<i>chupatties</i>. They looked ill and weary. The +mosaic of scraps of stencilled packing-case wood, the tin plates, +the biscuit-box “sugar-basin,” the condensed milk tin +“milk-jug,” the battered metal teapot and the pile of +sodden-looking <i>chupatties</i> made as uninviting an afternoon +tea ménage as could be imagined, particularly in that +setting of muddy clay floor, rough and dirty <i>angarebs</i>, and +roof-and-wall thatch of withered leaves and grass. A +typical scene of modern glorious war with its dirt, discomfort +and privation, its disease, misery and weary boredom. . . .</p> +<p>Bertram approached the rickety grass hut and saluted.</p> +<p>A very tall man, with the face and moustache of a Viking, rose +and extended his hand.</p> +<p>“How do, Greene?” said he. “Glad to +see you. . . . Hope you brought the rum ration safe. . . +. Take your bonnet off and undo your furs. . . . Hope +that pistol’s not loaded. . . . Nor that sword sharp. +. . . Oughtn’t to go about with nasty, dangerous +things like that. . . . Hope the rum ration’s safe. . +. . Have some tea and a bloater. . . . Berners, go +and do Quartermaster, like a good lad. . . . Have some rum +and a bloater, Greene. . . .”</p> +<p>“Thank you, sir,” said Bertram, noting that the +big man had a crown on one shoulder of his shirt and a safety-pin +spanning a huge hole on the other. His great arms and chest +were bare, and a pair of corduroy riding-breeches, quite +unfastened at the knee and calf, left an expanse of bare leg +between their termination and the beginning of grey, sagging +socks. Hob-nailed boots, <a name="page156"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 156</span>fastened with string, completed his +attire. He looked like a tramp, a scarecrow, and a strong +leader of men.</p> +<p>“’Fraid you’ll have to drink out of a +condensed milk tin, until your kit turns up. . .” said a +pale and very handsome youth. “You get a flavour of +milk, though,” he added with an air of impartiality, +“as well as of tin and solder. . . . They burn your +fingers so damnably, though, when you go to pick ’em up. . +. . Or why not drink out of the teapot, if everyone has +finished? . . . Yes—I’ll drop in a spot of +condensed milk.”</p> +<p>“No—damn it all, Vereker,” put in the Major, +“let’s do him well and create an impression. +Nothing like beginning as you don’t mean to go on—or +can’t possibly go on. . . . He can have The Glass +this evening. And some fresh tea. And his own tin of +condensed. . . . And a bloater. Hasn’t he +brought us rum and hope? . . .”</p> +<p>The pale and handsome Vereker sighed.</p> +<p>“You create a <i>false</i> impression, sir,” he +said, and, taking a key from his neck, arose and unlocked a big +chop-box that stood in a corner of the <i>banda</i>. Thence +he produced a glass tumbler and set it before Bertram.</p> +<p>“There’s The Glass,” said he. +“It’s now in your charge, present and correct. +I’ll receive it from you and return the receipt at +‘Stand-to.’ . . .”</p> +<p>Bertram gathered that the tumbler was precious in the +Major’s sight, and that honour was being shown him. +He had a faint sense of having reached Home. He was +disappointed when a servant brought fresh tea, a newly-opened tin +of milk, and the lid of a biscuit-box for a plate, to discover +that the banana which reposed upon it was the +“bloater” of his hopes and the Major’s +promise.</p> +<p>“For God’s sake use plenty of condensed +milk,” said that gentleman, as Bertram put some into the +glass, preparatory to pouring out his tea. Bertram thought +it very kind and attentive of him—until he added: +“And pour the tea <i>on</i> to it, and not down the side of +the glass. . . . That’s how the other tumbler got +done in. . . .”</p> +<p>As he gratefully sipped the hot tea and doubtfully munched a +<i>chapatti</i>, Bertram took stock of the other members of the +Mess. Beside Major Mallery sat a very hard-looking person, +a typical fighting-man with the rather low forehead, rather +protruding ears, <a name="page157"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +157</span>rather high cheek-bones, heavy jaw and jutting chin of +his kind. He spoke little, and that somewhat truculently, +wore a big heavy knife in his belt, looked like a refined +prize-fighter, and answered to the name of Captain Macke.</p> +<p>Beside him, and in strong contrast, sat a young man of the +Filbert genus. He wore a monocle, his nails were manicured, +he spoke with the euphuism and euphemism of a certain Oxford +type, he had an air of languor, boredom and acute refinement, was +addressed as Cecil Clarence, when not as Gussie Augustus Gus, and +seemed to be one of the very best.</p> +<p>On the same string bed, and in even stronger contrast, sat a +dark-faced Indian youth. On his shoulder-straps were the +letters I.M.S. and two stars. A lieutenant of the Indian +Medical Service, and, as such, a member of this British +Officers’ Mess. Bertram wondered why the fact that he +had been to England and read certain books should have this +result; and whether the society of the Subedar-Major of the +regiment would have been preferred by the British officers. +The young man talked a lot, and appeared anxious to show his +freedom from anxiety, and his knowledge of English idiom and +slang. When he addressed anyone by the nickname which +intimate pals bestowed upon him, Bertram felt sorry for this +youth with the hard staccato voice and raucous, mirthless +laugh. Cecil Clarence said of him that “if one gave +him an inch he took an ’ell of a lot for +granted.” His name was Bupendranath Chatterji, and +his papa sat cross-legged and bare-footed in the doorway of a +little shop in a Calcutta bazaar, and lent moneys to the poor, +needy and oppressed, for a considerable consideration.</p> +<p>“’Bout time for Stand-to, isn’t it?” +said the Major, consulting his wrist-watch. “Hop it, +young Clarence. . . . You might come round with me +to-night, Greene, if you’ve finished tea. . . . +Can’t offer you another bloater, I’m afraid. . . +.”</p> +<p>The other officers faded away. A few minutes later a +long blast was blown on a whistle, there were near and distant +cries of “Stand-to,” and Cecil Clarence returned to +the Mess <i>banda</i>. He was wearing tunic and +cross-belt. On his cheerful young face was a look of +portentous solemnity as he approached the Major, halted, saluted, +stared at him as at a perfect stranger, and said: +“Stand-to, sir. All present and correct.”</p> +<p>Over the Major’s face stole a similar expression. +He looked as <a name="page158"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +158</span>one who has received sudden, interesting and important +but anxious news.</p> +<p>“Thank you,” said he. +“I’ll—ah—go round. Yes. Come +with me, will you? . . .” Cecil Clarence again +saluted, and fell in behind the Major as he left the +<i>banda</i>. Bertram followed. The Major went to his +tent and put on his tunic and cross-belt. These did little +to improve the unfastenable riding-breeches, bare calves and grey +socks, but were evidently part of the rite.</p> +<p>Proceeding thence to the entrance to the <i>boma</i>, the +Major squeezed through, was saluted by the guard, and there met +by an English officer in the dress of the small men whom Bertram +had noticed on his arrival. His white face looked +incongruous with the blue turban and tartan petticoat. +“All present and correct, sir,” said he. Half +his men were down in the trench, their rifles resting in the +loop-holes of the parapet. These loop-holes were of +wicker-work, like bottomless waste-paper baskets, and were built +into the earthwork of the parapet so that a man, looking through +one, had a foot of earth and logs above his head. The other +half of his blue-clad force was inside the <i>boma</i> and lining +the wall. This wall, some eight feet in height, had been +built by erecting two walls of stout wattle and posts, two feet +apart, and then filling the space between these two with +earth. Along the bottom of the wall ran a continuous +fire-step, some two feet in height, and a line of wicker-work +loop-holes pierced it near the top. In the angle, where +this side of the <i>boma</i> met the other, was a tower of posts, +wattle and earth, some twelve feet in height, and on it, within +an earth-and-wattle wall, and beneath a thatched roof, was a +machine-gun and its team of King’s African Rifles +<i>askaris</i>, in charge of an English N.C.O. On the roof +squatted a sentry, who stared at the sky with a look of rapt +attention to duty.</p> +<p>“How are those two men, Black?” asked the Major, +as the N.C.O. saluted.</p> +<p>“Very bad, sir,” was the reply. +“They’ll die to-night. I’m quite sure the +Germans had poisoned that honey and left it for our <i>askari</i> +patrols to find. I wondered at the time that they +’adn’t skoffed it themselves. . . . And it so +near their <i>boma</i> and plain to see, an’ all. . . +. I never thought about poison till it was too late. . . +.”</p> +<p>“Foul swine!” said the Major. “I +suppose it’s a trick they learnt from the <i>shenzis</i>, +this poisoning wild honey? . . .”</p> +<p><a name="page159"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +159</span>“More like they taught it ’em, sir,” +was the reply. “There ain’t no savage as low as +a German, sir. . . . I lived in German East, I did, afore +the war. . . . I <i>know</i> ’em. . . .”</p> +<p>The next face of the <i>boma</i> was held by the Hundred and +Ninety-Eighth. Captain Macke met the Major and saluted him +as a revered stranger. He, too, wore tunic and cross-belt +and a look of portentous solemnity, such as that on the faces of +the Major, Cecil Clarence, and, indeed, everybody else. +Bertram, later, labelled it the Stand-to face and practised to +acquire it.</p> +<p>“How many sick, Captain Macke?” enquired the +Major.</p> +<p>“Twenty-seven, sir,” was the reply. Bertram +wondered whether they were “present” in the spirit +and “correct” in form.</p> +<p>“All fever or dysentery—or both, I suppose?” +said the Major.</p> +<p>“Yes—except one with a poisoned foot and one who +seems to be going blind,” was the reply.</p> +<p>As they passed along, the Major glanced at each man, looked +into the canvas water-tanks, scrutinised the residential sheds +beneath the wall—and, in one of them discovered a scrap of +paper! As the ground was covered with leaves, twigs, and +bits of grass, as well as being thick with mud, Bertram did not +see that this piece of paper mattered much. This only shows +his ignorance. The Major pointed at it, speechless. +Captain Macke paled—with horror, wrath or grief. +Gussie Augustus Gus stooped and stared at it, screwing his +monocle in the tighter, that he might see the better and not be +deceived. Vereker turned it over with his stick, and only +then believed the evidence of three of his senses. The +Jemadar shook his head with incredulous but pained +expression. He called for the Havildar, whose mouth fell +open. The two men were very alike, being relatives, but +while the senior wore a look of incredulous pain, the junior, it +seemed to Bertram, rather wore one of pained incredulity. +That is to say, the Jemadar looked stricken but unable to believe +his eyes, whereas the Havildar looked as though he could not +believe his eyes but was stricken nevertheless.</p> +<p>All stared hard at the piece of paper. . . . It was a +poignant moment. . . . No one moved and no one seemed to +breathe. Suddenly the Havildar touched a Naik who stood +behind his men, with his back to the group of officers, and +stared fixedly at Nothing. He turned, beheld the paper at +which the Havildar’s <a name="page160"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 160</span>accusing finger pointed, rigid but +tremulous. . . . What next? The Naik pocketed the +paper, and the incident was closed.</p> +<p>Bertram was glad that he had witnessed it. He knew, +thenceforth, the proper procedure for an officer who, wearing the +Stand-to face, sees a piece of paper.</p> +<p>The third wall of the <i>boma</i> was occupied by a company of +Dogras of an Imperial Service Corps, under a Subedar, a +fine-looking Rajput, and a company of Marathas of the Hundred and +Ninety-Eighth, under the Subedar-Major of that regiment. +Bertram was strongly attracted to this latter officer, and +thought that never before had he seen an Indian whose face +combined so much of patient strength, gentle firmness, simple +honesty, and noble pride.</p> +<p>He was introduced to Bertram, and, as they shook hands and +saluted, the fine old face was lit up with a smile of genuine +pleasure and friendly respectfulness. A man of the old +school who recognised duties as well as +“rights”—and in whose sight “<i>false to +his salt</i>” was the last and lowest epithet of uttermost +degradation.</p> +<p>“You’ll have charge of this face of the fort +to-morrow, Greene,” said the Major, as they passed +on. “Subedar-Major Luxman Atmaram is a priceless old +bird. He’ll see you have no trouble. . . . +Don’t be in a hurry to tell him off for anything, because +it’s a hundred to one you’ll find he’s +right.”</p> +<p>Bertram smiled to himself at the thought of his being the sort +to “tell off” anybody without due cause and was +secretly pleased to find that Major Mallery had thought such a +thing possible. . . .</p> +<p>The remaining side of the fort was held by Gurkhas, and +Bertram noted the fact with pleasure. He had taken a great +fancy to these cheery, steady people. Another machine-gun, +with its team of <i>askaris</i> of the King’s African +Rifles, occupied the middle of this wall.</p> +<p>“Don’t cough or sneeze near the gun,” +murmured Vereker to Bertram, “or it may fall to pieces +again. The copper-wire is all right, but the boot-lace was +not new to begin with.”</p> +<p>“What kind of gun is it?” he asked.</p> +<p>“It was a Hotchkiss once. It’s a Hot-potch +now,” was the reply. “Don’t touch it as +you pass,” and the puzzled Bertram observed that it was +actually bound with copper-wire at one point and tied with some +kind of cord or string at another.</p> +<p><a name="page161"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 161</span>By +the hospital—a horrible pit with a tent over it—stood +the Indian youth and a party of Swahili stretcher-bearers.</p> +<p>Bertram wondered whether it would ever be his fate to be +carried on one of those blood-stained stretchers by a couple of +those negroes, laid on the mud at the bottom of that pit, and +operated on by that young native of India. He +shuddered. Fancy one’s life-blood ebbing away into +that mud. Fancy dying, mangled, in that hole with no one +but a Bupendranath Chatterji to soothe one’s last agonies. +. . .</p> +<p>Having completed his tour of inspection, Major Mallery removed +the Stand-to face and resumed his ordinary one, said: “They +can dismiss,” to Captain Macke and the group of officers, +and tore off his cross-belt and tunic.</p> +<p>All his hearers relaxed their faces likewise, blew their +whistles, cried “Dismiss!” in the direction of their +respective Native Officers, and removed their belts and tunics +almost as quickly as they had removed their Stand-to faces.</p> +<p>They then proceeded to the Bristol Bar.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER XVI<br /> +<i>The Bristol Bar</i></h3> +<p>“Come along to the Bristol Bar and have a drink, +Greene,” said Cecil Clarence, <i>alias</i> Gussie Augustus +Gus, emerging from his <i>banda</i>, into which he had cast his +tunic and Sam Browne belt.</p> +<p>“Thanks,” replied Bertram, wondering if there were +a Jungle Hotel within easy reach of the <i>boma</i>, or whether +the outpost had its own Place, “licensed for the sale of +beer, wine, spirits, and tobacco, to be consumed on the premises. +. . .”</p> +<p>In the High Street, next door to the Officers’ Mess, +were two green tents, outside one of which stood a rough +camp-table of the “folding” variety, a native string +bed, and a circle of Roorkee chairs, boxes and stools. On +an erection of sticks and withes, resembling an umbrella stand, +stood an orderly array of fresh coco-nuts, the tops of which had +been sliced off to display the white interior with its pint or so +of sweet, limpid milk.</p> +<p>Emerging from the tent, an Arab “boy” in a blue +turban, blue jacket buttoning up to the chin, blue petticoat and +puttees, <a name="page162"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +162</span>placed bottles of various kinds on the table, together +with a “sparklet” apparatus and a pannikin of +water. The Bristol Bar was open. . . . From the other +tent emerged an officer in the blue uniform of the little fair +men.</p> +<p>He eyed the muddy ground, the ugly grey <i>bandas</i> of +withered grass and leaves, the muddy, naked +Kavirondo—piling their loads on the commissariat dump, and +the general dreary, cheerless scene, with the cold eye of extreme +distaste and disfavour.</p> +<p>“<i>Yah</i>!” said he. He eyed the bottles +on the table.</p> +<p>“<i>Ah</i>!” said he, and seated himself behind +the Bristol Bar.</p> +<p>“Start with a Ver-Gin, I think, as I’ve been such +a good boy to-day,” he murmured, and, pouring a measure of +Italian vermuth into an enamelled mug, he added a smaller +allowance of gin.</p> +<p>“Wish some fool’d roll up so that I can get a +drink,” he grumbled, holding the mug in his hand.</p> +<p>It did not occur to him to “<i>faire Suisse</i>,” +as the French say—to drink alone. He must at least +say “Chin-chin” or “Here’s how” to +somebody else with a drink in his hand. Had it been cocoa, +now, or something of that sort, one might drink gallons of it +without a word to a soul. One could lie in bed and wallow +and soak, lap it up like a cat or take it in through the +pores—but this little drop of alcohol must not be drunk +without a witness and a formula. So Lieutenant Forbes +possessed his soul in impatience.</p> +<p>A minute later, from every <i>banda</i> and tent, from the +Officers’ Mess and from all directions, came British +officers, bearing each man in his hands something to drink or +something from which to drink.</p> +<p>The Major bore The Glass, and, behind him, the Mess butler +carried a square bottle of ration whisky. He was followed +by a Swahili clasping to his bosom a huge jar of ration rum, +newly arrived. “Leesey” Lindsay, of the +Intelligence Department, brought a collapsible silver cup, which, +as he said, only wanted knowing. It leaked and it collapsed +at inappropriate moments, but, on the other hand, it <i>did</i> +collapse, and you could put it in your pocket—where it +collected tobacco dust, crumbs, fluff, and grit. Vereker +carried a fresh coco-nut and half a coco-nut shell. This +latter he was going to carve and polish. He said that +coco-nut shells carved beautifully and took a wonderful polish. . +. . His uncle, an admiral, had one which he brought from +the South <a name="page163"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +163</span>Sea Islands. It was beautifully carved and had +taken a high polish—from someone or other. A cannibal +chief had drunk human blood from it for years. . . . +Vereker was going to drink whisky from his for years, and keep it +all his life—carving and polishing it between whiles. . . +. “Yes. I used that as a drinking-cup all +through my first campaign. It nearly fell on my head in the +first battle I ever fought. Cut off the tree by a +bullet. Carved and polished it myself,” he would be +able to say, in years to come. Meanwhile it looked a very +ordinary half-shell of the common coco-nut of commerce as known +to those who upon Saints’ Days and Festivals do roll, bowl, +or pitch. . . .</p> +<p>Captain Macke brought a prepared siphon of +“sparklet” water and his ration whisky. Gussie +Augustus Gus walked delicately, bearing a brimming condensed milk +tin, and singing softly—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Dear, sweet Mother,<br /> + Kind and true;<br /> +She’s a boozer,<br /> + Through and through . . . .<br /> +But roll your tail,<br /> + And roll it high,<br /> +And you’ll be an angel<br /> + By and by. . . .”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Lieutenant Bupendranath Chatterji brought a harsh laugh and an +uncultivated taste, but a strong liking, for assorted liquors, +preferably sweet. The officer who had been in command of +the side of the fort occupied by the men in blue entered the tent +and, having removed his belt, seated himself beside Lieutenant +Forbes, behind the bar.</p> +<p>“Good evening, Major,” said he; “won’t +you come and have a drink? . . . Do!”</p> +<p>Regarding The Glass with a look of surprise, and as though +wondering how the devil it came to be there, the Major considered +the invitation.</p> +<p>“Thanks!” said he. “Don’t mind +if I <i>do</i> sit down for a moment.” And he placed +The Glass upon the table. Strangely enough, his own Roorkee +chair was already in the centre of the circle facing the said +table, as it had been any evening at this time for the last fifty +nights. The Mess butler put the rum and whisky beneath his +chair. “Let me introduce Lieutenant Greene, attached +to Ours. Wavell . . .” said he. . . . +“Captain Wavell <a name="page164"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 164</span>of Wavell’s Arabs, +Greene,” and Bertram shook hands with a remarkable and +romantic soldier of fortune, explorer and adventurous +knight-errant, whom he came to like, respect, and admire with the +greatest warmth. The others drifted up and dropped in, +accidentally and casually, as it were, until almost all were +there, and the Bristol Bar was full; the hour of the evening star +and the evening drink had arrived; <i>l’heure +d’absinthe</i>, <i>l’heure verte</i> had struck; the +sun was below the yard-arm; now the day was over, night was +drawing nigh, shadows of the evening stole across the sky; and, +war or no war, hunger, mud, disease and misery, or no hunger, +mud, disease and misery, the British officer was going to have +his evening cocktail, his evening cheroot, and his evening +“buck” at the club bar—and to the devil with +all Huns who’d interfere with his sacred rights and their +sacred rites.</p> +<p>“Here’s the best, Major,” said Forbes, and +drank his ver-gin with gusto and appreciation. His very +fine long-lashed eyes beneath faultlessly curving +eyebrows—eyes which many a woman had enviously and +regretfully considered to be criminally wasted on a mere +man—viewed the grey prospect with less disgust. The +first drink of the day provided the best minute of the day to +this exile from the cream of the joys of Europe; and he eyed the +array of bottles with something approaching optimism as he +considered the question of what should be his drink for the +evening.</p> +<p>“Cheerioh!” responded the Major, and took a pull +at the whisky and slightly-aerated water in The Glass. +“Here’s to Good Count Zeppelin—our finest +recruiting agent, and Grandpa Tirpitz—who’ll bring +America in on our side. . . .”</p> +<p>“What’ll you drink, Greene?” asked +Wavell. “Vermuth? Whisky? Rum? +Gin? Try an absinthe? Or can I mix you a +Risky—rum and whisky, you know—or a Whum—whisky +and rum, of course?”</p> +<p>“They’re both helpful and cheering,” added +Forbes.</p> +<p>“Let me make you a cock-eye,” put in Gussie +Augustus Gus. “Thing of my own. Much better +than a mere cocktail. Thought of it in bed last night while +I was sayin’ my prayers. This is one,” and he +raised his condensed milk tin. “Cross between +milk-punch, cocktail, high-ball, gin-sling, rum-shrub, and a +bitters. . . . Go down to posterity as a +‘Gussie’—along with the John Collins and Elsie +May. . . . Great thought. . . . Let us pause before +it. . . .”</p> +<p><a name="page165"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +165</span>“What’s in it?” asked Captain +Macke.</p> +<p>“Condensed milk,” replied Augustus, “ration +lime-juice, ration rum, ration whisky, medical-comfort brandy, +vermuth, coco-nut milk, angostura, absinthe, glycerine. . . +.”</p> +<p>“And a damn great flying caterpillar,” added the +Major as a hideous insect, with a fat, soft body, splashed into +the pleasing compound.</p> +<p>“Dirty dog!” grumbled Augustus, fishing for the +creature. “Here, don’t play submarines in the +mud, Eustace—be a sport and swim. . . . I can drink +down to him, anyhow,” he added, failing to secure the +enterprising little animal with a finger and thumb that groped +short of the bottom stratum of his concoction. “Got +his head stuck in the toffee-milk at the bottom.” +Bertram declined a “Gussie,” feeling unworthy, also +unable.</p> +<p>“Have you tried rum and coco-nut milk?” asked +Wavell. “It’s a kind of local industry since +we’ve been here. The Intelligence Department keeps a +Friendly Tribe at work bringing in fresh coco-nuts, and our +numerous different detachments provide fatigue-parties in +rotation to open them. . . . Many a worse drink than half a +tumbler of ration rum poured into the coco-nut. . . .”</p> +<p>“Point of fact—I’m a teetotaller just at +present,” replied Bertram, sadly but firmly. +“May I substitute lime-juice for rum? . . .”</p> +<p>Vereker screwed in his monocle and regarded him. Not +with astonishment or interest, of course, for nothing astonished +or interested him any more. He was too young and wise for +those emotions. But he regarded him.</p> +<p>“What a dreadful habit to contract at your age, +Greene,” observed Augustus, slightly shocked. +“Y’ought to pull yourself together, y’know. . . +. Give it up. . . . Bad. . . . Bad. . .” +and he shook his head.</p> +<p>“What’s it feel like?” asked Captain +Macke.</p> +<p>“You’ve been getting into bad company, my +lad,” said Major Mallery.</p> +<p>“Oah! Maan, maan! You must not do +thatt!” said Mr. Chatterji.</p> +<p>“I’ve got some ration lime-juice here,” said +Wavell, “but I really don’t advise it as a drink in +this country. It’s useful stuff to have about when +you can’t get vegetables of any sort—but I believe it +thins your blood, gives you boils, and upsets your <a +name="page166"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 166</span>tummy. . . +. Drop of rum or whisky in the evening . . . do you more +good.”</p> +<p>Bertram’s heart warmed to the kindly friendliness of his +voice and manner—the more because he felt that, like +himself, this famous traveller and explorer was of a shy and +diffident nature.</p> +<p>“Thanks. I’ll take your advice then,” +he said, and reflected that what was good enough for Wavell was +good enough for him, in view of the former’s unique +experience of African and Asiatic travel. “I’ll +try the rum and coco-nut milk if I may,” he added.</p> +<p>“Three loud cheers!” remarked Augustus. +“Won’t mother be pleased! . . . I’m going +to write a book about it, Greene, if you don’t mind. . . +. ‘The Redemption of Lieutenant Greene’ or +somethin’. . . . <i>You</i> know—how on the Eve +of Battle, in a blinding flash of self-illuminating +introspection, he saw his soul for the Thing it was, saw just +where he stood—on the brink of an Abyss. . . . And +repented in time. . . . Poignant. . . . Repented and +drank rum. . . . Searching.”</p> +<p>“Probably Greene’s pulling our legs the whole +time, my good ass,” put in Vereker. “Dare say +he’s really a frightful drunkard. Riotous reveller +and wallowing wassailer. . . . He’s got rather a wild +eye. . . .”</p> +<p>Bertram laughed with the rest. It was impossible to take +offence, for there was nothing in the slightest degree offensive +about these pleasant, friendly people.</p> +<p>Berners joined the group and saluted the Major. +“Ammunition and ration indents all present and correct, +sir,” said he.</p> +<p>“Rum ration all right?” asked the Major. +“How do you know the jars aren’t full of +water?”</p> +<p>“P’raps he’d better select one at random as +a sample and bring it over here, Major,” suggested +Macke. And it was so. . . .</p> +<p>Another officer drifted in and was introduced to Bertram as +Lieutenant Halke of the Coolie Corps, in charge of the Kavirondo, +Wakamba, and Monumwezi labourers and porters attached to the +Butindi garrison.</p> +<p>He was an interesting man, a big, burly planter, who had been +in the colony for twenty years. “I want your birds to +dig another trench to-morrow, Halke,” said the Major. +“Down by the water-picket.”</p> +<p><a name="page167"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +167</span>“Very good, sir,” replied Halke. +“I’m glad that convoy rolled up safely to-day. +Their <i>posho</i> <a name="citation167"></a><a +href="#footnote167" class="citation">[167]</a> was running rather +low . . .” and the conversation became technical.</p> +<p>Bertram felt distinctly better for his rum and milk. His +weariness fell from him like a garment, and life took on brighter +hues. He was not a wretched, weary lad, caught up in the +maelstrom of war and flung from pleasant city streets into deadly +primeval jungles, where lurked Death in the form of bacillus, +savage beast, and more savage and more beastly Man. Not at +all. He was one of a band of Britain’s soldiers in an +outpost of Empire on her far-flung battle-line. . . . One +of a group of cheery comrades, laughing and jesting in the face +of danger and discomfort. . . . He had Answered His +Country’s Call, and was of the great freemasonry of arms, +sword on thigh, marching, marching. . . . Camp-fire and +bivouac. . . . The Long Trail. . . . Beyond the +Ranges. . . . Men who have Done Things. . . . A +sun-burnt, weather-beaten man from the Back of Beyond. . . +. Strong, silent man with a Square Jaw. . . . +Romance. . . . Adventure. . . . Life. He drank +some more of his rum and felt very happy. He nodded, +drooped, snored—and nearly fell off his stool. Wavell +smiled as he jerked upright again, and tried to look as though he +had never slept in his life.</p> +<p>“So Pappa behaved nasty,” Gussie Augustus Gus was +saying to a deeply interested audience. “He’d +just been turned down himself by a gay and wealthy widowette whom +he’d marked down for his Number 2. When I said, +‘Pappa, I’m going to be married on Monday, +please,’ he spake pompous platitudes, finishing up with: +‘<i>A young man married is a young man marred</i>.’ . +. . ‘Yes, Pappa,’ says I thoughtlessly, +‘<i>and an old man jilted is an old man jarred</i>.’ +. . . Caused quite a coolness. So I went to +sea.” Augustus sighed and drank—and then almost +choked with violent spluttering and coughing.</p> +<p>“That blasted Eustace!” he said, as he suddenly +and vehemently expelled something.</p> +<p>“Did you marry her?” asked Vereker, showing no +sympathy in the matter of the unexpected recovery of the body of +Eustace.</p> +<p>“No,” said Augustus. “Pappa +did.” . . .</p> +<p>“That’s what I went to see,” he added.</p> +<p><a name="page168"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +168</span>“Don’t believe you ever had a +father,” said Vereker.</p> +<p>“I didn’t,” said Gussie Augustus Gus. +“I was an orphan. . . . Am still. . . . +Poignant. . . . Searching. . . .”</p> +<p>Lieutenant Bupendranath Chatterji listened to this sort of +thing with an owlish expression on his fat face. When +anybody laughed he laughed also, loudly and raucously.</p> +<p>It was borne in upon Bertram that it took more than fever, +hunger, boredom, mud, rain and misery to depress the spirits of +the officers of the garrison of Butindi. . . .</p> +<p>“<i>Khana tyar hai</i>, <a name="citation168a"></a><a +href="#footnote168a" class="citation">[168a]</a> +<i>Sahib</i>,” announced the Major’s butler, +salaaming.</p> +<p>“Come and gnaw ropes and nibble bricks, Greene,” +said the officer addressed, and with adieux to Wavell and Forbes, +who ran a mess of their own, the guests departed from the Bristol +Bar and entered the Officers’ Mess. Here Bertram +learnt the twin delights of a native bedstead when used as a +seat. You can either sit on the narrow wooden edge until +you feel as though you have been sitting on a hot wire for a +week, or you can slide back on to the string part and slowly, +slowly disappear from sight, and from dinner.</p> +<p>“This water drawn from the river and been standing in +the bath all day, boy?”</p> +<p>“<i>Han</i>, <a name="citation168b"></a><a +href="#footnote168b" class="citation">[168b]</a> +<i>Sahib</i>,” replied that worthy.</p> +<p>“Alum in the water?”</p> +<p>“<i>Han</i>, <i>Sahib</i>.”</p> +<p>“Water then filtered?”</p> +<p>“<i>Han</i>, <i>Sahib</i>.”</p> +<p>“Water then boiled?”</p> +<p>“<i>Han</i>, <i>Sahib</i>.”</p> +<p>“<i>Pukka</i> boiled?”</p> +<p>“<i>Han</i>, <i>Sahib</i>, all bubbling.”</p> +<p>“Filtered again? You saw it all done +yourself?”</p> +<p>“<i>Han</i>, <i>Sahib</i>.”</p> +<p>“That’s all right, then,” concluded the +Major.</p> +<p>This catechism was the invariable prelude to the Major’s +use of water for drinking purposes, whether in the form of +<i>aqua pura</i>, whisky and water, or tea. For the only +foe that Major Mallery feared was the disease-germ. To +bullet and bayonet, shrapnel and shell-splinter, he gave no +thought. To cholera, enteric and <a +name="page169"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 169</span>dysentery +he gave much, and if care with his drinking water would do it, he +intended to avoid those accursed scourges of the tropics. +Holding up the glass to the light of the hurricane lamp which +adorned the clothless table of packing-case boards, he gazed +through it—as one may do when caressing a glass of crusted +ruby port—and mused upon the wisdom that had moved him to +make it the sole and special work of one special man to see that +he had a plentiful supply of pure fair water.</p> +<p>He gazed. . . . And slowly his idle abstracted gaze +became a stare and a glare. His eyes protruded from his +head, and he gave a yell of gasping horror and raging wrath that +drew the swift attention of all—</p> +<p>While round and round in the alum-ised, filtered, boiled and +re-filtered water, there slowly swam—a little fish.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>Dinner was painfully similar to that at M’paga, save +that the party, being smaller, was more of a Happy Family. +It began with what Vereker called “Chatty” soup +(because it was “made from talkative meat, in a +chattie”), proceeded to inedible bully-beef, and terminated +with dog-biscuit and coco-nut—unless you chose to eat your +daily banana then.</p> +<p>During dinner, another officer, who had been out all day on a +reconnaissance-patrol, joined the party, drank a pint of +rum-and-coco-nut milk and fell asleep on the bedstead whereon he +sat. He looked terribly thin and ill.</p> +<p>Macke punched him in the ribs, sat him up, and banged the tin +plate of cold soup with his knife till the idea of +“dinner” had penetrated the sleepy brain of the +new-corner. “Feed yer face, Murie,” he shouted +in his ear.</p> +<p>“Thanks awf’ly,” said that gentleman, took +up his spoon, and toppled over backwards on to the bed with a +loud snore.</p> +<p>“Disgustin’ manners,” said Gussie Augustus +Gus.</p> +<p>“I wish we had a siphon of soda-water. I’d +wake him all right.”</p> +<p>“Set him on fire,” suggested Vereker.</p> +<p>“He’s too beastly wet, the sneak,” +complained Gussie.</p> +<p>“Oah, he iss sleepee,” observed Lieutenant +Bupendranath Chatterji.</p> +<p>Vereker regarded him almost with interest.</p> +<p>“What makes you think so?” he asked +politely. In the laugh <a name="page170"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 170</span>that followed, the sleeper was +forgotten and remained where he was until Stand-to the following +morning. He was living on quinine and his +nerves—which form an insufficient diet in tropical +Africa.</p> +<p>“Where <i>Bwana</i> sleeping to-night, sah, please +Mister?” whispered Ali, as, dinner finished, Bertram sat +listening with deep interest to the conversation.</p> +<p>Pipes alight, and glasses, mugs and condensed milk tins +charged, the Mess was talking of all things most distant and +different from jungle swamps and dirty, weary war. . . .</p> +<p>“Quite most ’sclusive Society in Oxford, I tell +you,” Gussie was saying. “Called ourselves +<i>The Astronomers</i>. . . .”</p> +<p>“What the devil for? Because you were generally +out at night?” asked Macke.</p> +<p>“No—because we studied the Stars—of the +Stage,” was the reply. . . .</p> +<p>“Rotten,” said Vereker, with a shiver. +“You sh’d have called yourselves <i>The +Botanists</i>,” he added a minute later.</p> +<p>“Why?”</p> +<p>“Because you culled Peroxide Daisies and Lilies of the +Ballet.”</p> +<p>“Ghastly,” observed Gussie, with a shudder. +“And <i>cull</i> is a beastly word. One who culls is +a cully. . . . How’d you like to be called +<i>Cully</i>, Murie?” he shouted in that officer’s +ear. Receiving no reply, he pounded upon the +sleeper’s stomach with one hand while violently rolling his +head from side to side with the other.</p> +<p>Murie awoke.</p> +<p>“Whassup?” he jerked out nervously.</p> +<p>“How’d you like to be called <i>Cully</i>?” +shouted Gussie again.</p> +<p>Murie fixed a glassy eye on him. His face was chalky +white and his black hair lay dank across his forehead.</p> +<p>“Eh?” said he.</p> +<p>Gussie repeated his enquiry.</p> +<p>“Call me anything—but don’t call me +early,” was the reply, as he realised who and where he was, +and closed his eyes again.</p> +<p>“<i>You’re</i> an ornament to the Mess. +<i>You</i> add to the gaiety of nations. <i>You</i> ought +to be on the halls,” shouted the tormentor. +“You’re a refined Society Entertainer. . . +.”</p> +<p>“Eh?” grunted Murie.</p> +<p>“Come for a walk in the garden I said,” shouted +Augustus. <a name="page171"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +171</span>“Oh, you give me trypanosomiasis to look at +you,” he added.</p> +<p>“You go to Hell,” replied Murie, and snored as he +finished speaking.</p> +<p>Bertram felt a little indignant.</p> +<p>“Wouldn’t it be kinder to let him sleep?” he +said.</p> +<p>“No, it wouldn’t,” was the reply. +“He’ll sleep there for an hour, and then go over to +his hut and be awake all night because he’s had no +dinner.”</p> +<p>“I beg your pardon,” said Bertram—and asked +the Major where he was to sleep that night.</p> +<p>“On your right side, with your mouth shut,” was +the reply; to which Augustus added:</p> +<p>“Toe of the right foot in line with the mouth; thumb in +rear of the seam of the pyjamas; heel of the left foot in the +hollow of the back; and weight of the body on the +chin-strap—as laid down in the drill-book.”</p> +<p>“Haven’t you a tent?” asked the Major, and, +in learning that Bertram had not, said that a <i>banda</i> should +be built for him on the morrow, and that he could sleep on or +under the Mess table that night. . . .</p> +<p>When the Major had returned to his tent with the remark +“All lights out in fifteen minutes,” Ali set up +Bertram’s bed in the Mess <i>banda</i>, and in a few +minutes the latter was alone. . . . As he sat removing his +boots, Bertram was surprised to see Gussie Augustus Gus return to +the Mess, carrying a native spear and a bundle of white +material. Going to where Murie lay, he raised the spear and +drove it with all his force—apparently into Murie’s +body! Springing to his feet, Bertram saw that the spear was +stuck into the clay and that the shaft, protruding through the +meshes of the bed string, stood up beside Murie. Throwing +the mosquito-net over the top of it, Gussie enveloped the sleeper +in its folds, as well as he could, and vanished.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER XVII<br /> +<i>More Baking</i></h3> +<p>Bertram was awakened at dawn by the bustle and stir of +Stand-to. He arose and dressed, by the simple process of +putting on his <a name="page172"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +172</span>boots and helmet, which, by reason of rain, wind, mud +and publicity, were the only garments he had removed. +Proceeding to that face of the fort which was to be his special +charge, he found that one half of its defenders were lining its +water-logged trench, and the other half, its wall. It was a +depressing hour and place. Depressing even to one who had +not slept in his wet clothes and arisen with throbbing head, +horrible mouth, aching limbs and with the sense of a great +sinking void within.</p> +<p>Around the fort was a sea of withering brushwood, felled +trees, scrub and thorn, grey and ugly: inside the fort, a lake of +mud. Burly Subedar-Major Luxman Atmaram seemed cheery and +bright, so Bertram endeavoured to emulate him.</p> +<p>The Major, accompanied by Vereker (who called himself Station +Staff Officer, Aide-de-camp to the O.C. Troops, Assistant Provost +Marshal, and other sonorous names), passed on his tour of +inspection. Bertram saluted.</p> +<p>“Good morning, sir,” said he.</p> +<p>“Think so?” said the Major, and splashed upon his +way.</p> +<p>“Good morning, Vereker,” said Bertram, as that +gentleman passed.</p> +<p>“Nothing of the sort. Wrong again,” replied +Vereker, and splashed upon <i>his</i> way.</p> +<p>Both were wearing the Stand-to face, and looked coldly upon +Bertram, who was not.</p> +<p>After “Dismiss,” Bertram returned to the Mess +<i>banda</i>.</p> +<p>“Good morning, Greene,” said the Major, and:</p> +<p>“Good morning, Greene,” echoed Vereker.</p> +<p>Bertram decided that his not being properly dressed in the +matter of the Stand-to face, was overlooked or condoned, in view +of his youth and inexperience. . . . The vast metal teapot +and a tray of dog-biscuits made their appearance.</p> +<p>“I’m going to have my bloater now,” said +Berners, plucking a banana from the weary-looking bunch. +“Will someone remind me that I have had it, if I go to take +another?”</p> +<p>“I will,” volunteered Augustus. “Any +time you pluck a bloater and I hit you on the head three times +with the tent-peg mallet, that means ‘Nay, +Pauline.’ See?” . . .</p> +<p>“What’s the Programme of Sports for to-day, +sir?” asked Berners of the Major, as he cleansed his +fingers of over-ripe banana upon Augustus’s silky hair.</p> +<p><a name="page173"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +173</span>“Macke takes a strong Officer’s Patrol +towards Muru,” replied the Major. “Halke starts +getting the trenches deepened a bit. You can wrestle with +commissariat and ammunition returns, and the others might do a +bit of parade and physical jerks or something this morning. +I’m going to sneak round and catch the pickets on the +hop. You’d better come with me, Greene, and see where +they’re posted. Tell the Subedar-Major what you want +your men to do. Wavell’s taking his people for a +march. Murie will be in charge of the fort. . . +.”</p> +<p>“Murie has temperature of one hundred and five,” +put in Lieutenant Bupendranath Chatterji. “He has +fever probably.”</p> +<p>“Shouldn’t be at all surprised,” observed +the Major dryly. “What are you giving him?”</p> +<p>“Oah, he will be all right,” was the reply.</p> +<p>“I’ve got three fresh limes I pinched from that +<i>shamba</i>,” <a name="citation173"></a><a +href="#footnote173" class="citation">[173]</a> said +Augustus. “If he had those with a quart of boiling +water and half a tin of condensed milk, he might be able to do a +good sweat and browse a handful of quinine.”</p> +<p>“No more condensed milk,” said Berners. +“Greene had the last tin last night, and the hog +didn’t bring any with him.”</p> +<p>“I shall be delighted to contribute the remainder of +it,” said Bertram, looking into his tin. +“There’s quite three-quarters of it left.”</p> +<p>“Good egg,” applauded Augustus. “If +you drink your tea from the tin, you’ll get the flavour of +milk for ever so long,” and Ali having been despatched to +the cook-house for a kettle of boiling water, Augustus fetched +his limes and the two concocted the brew with their condensed +milk and lime-juice in an empty rum-jar.</p> +<p>“What about a spot of whisky in it?” suggested +Vereker.</p> +<p>“Better without it when fever is violent,” opined +the medical attendant, and Augustus, albeit doubtfully, accepted +the <i>obiter dicta</i>, as from one who should know.</p> +<p>“Shall I shove it into him through the oil-funnel if he +is woozy?” he asked, and added: “Better not, +p’r’aps. Might waste half of it down his lungs +and things . . .” and he departed, in search of his +victim.</p> +<p>As Bertram left the <i>boma</i> in company of the Major, he +found it difficult to realise that, only a few hours earlier he +had not <a name="page174"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +174</span>set eyes on the place. He seemed to have been +immured within its walls of mud and wattle for days, rather than +hours.</p> +<p>About the large clearing that lay on that side of the fort, +Sepoys, servants, porters and <i>askaris</i> came and went upon +their occasions; the stretcher-bearers, gun-teams, and a company +of Gurkhas were at drill; and in the trenches, the long, weedy +bodies of the Kavirondo rose and fell as they dug in the mud and +clay. Near the gate a doleful company of sick and sorry +porters squatted and watched a dresser of the Indian Subordinate +Medical Department, as he sprinkled iodoform from a pepperbox on +to the hideous sores and wounds of a separate squad requiring +such treatment. The sight of an intensely black back, with +a huge wound of a glowing red, upon which fell a rain of +brilliant yellow iodoform, held Bertram’s spell-bound gaze, +while it made him feel exceedingly sick. Those patients +suffering from ghastly sores and horrible festering wounds seemed +gay and lighthearted and utterly indifferent, while the +remainder, suffering from <i>tumbo</i>, <a +name="citation174"></a><a href="#footnote174" +class="citation">[174]</a> fever, cold in the head, or +world-weariness, appeared to consider themselves at the last +gasp, and each, like the Dying Gladiator, did lean his head upon +his hand while his manly brow consented to Death, but conquered +agony.</p> +<p>“The reason why the African will regard a gaping wound, +or great festering sore, with no more than mild interest, while +he will wilt away and proceed to perish if he has a stomach-ache +is an interestin’ exemplification of <i>omne ignotum pro +magnifico</i>,” remarked the Major.</p> +<p>Bertram stared at his superior officer in amazement. The +tone and language were utterly different from those hitherto +connected, in Bertram’s experience, with that +gentleman. Was this a subtle mockery of Bertram as a +civilian Intellectual? Or was it that the Major liked to be +“all things to all men” and considered this the style +of conversation likely to be suitable to the occasion?</p> +<p>“Yes, sir?” said Bertram, a trifle shortly.</p> +<p>“Yes,” continued Major Mallery. “He +believes that all internal complaints are due to Devils. A +stomach-ache is, to him, painful and irrefragible proof that he +hath a Devil. One has entered into him and abideth. +It’s no good telling him anything to the +contrary—because he can <i>feel</i> It there, and surely +he’s the <a name="page175"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +175</span>best judge of what he can feel? So any internal +complaint terrifies him to such an extent that he dies of +fright—whereas he’ll think nothing of a wound that +would kill you or me. . . .”</p> +<p>Here, apparently, the Major’s mocking fancy tired, or +else his effort to talk “high-brow” to an +Intellectual could be no further sustained, for he fell to lower +levels with the remark:</p> +<p>“Rum blokes. . . Dam’ funny. . .” and +fell silent.</p> +<p>A well-trodden mud path led down to the river, on the far side +of which was the water-picket commanding the approach, not to a +ford, but to the only spot where impenetrable jungle did not +prevent access to the river. . . .</p> +<p>“Blighters nearly copped us badly down here before we +built the fort,” said the Major. “Look in here +. . .” and he parted some bushes beside the path and +disappeared. Following him, Bertram found himself in a +long, narrow clearing cut out of the solid jungle and parallel +with the path.</p> +<p>“They had a hundred men at least, in here,” said +Major Mallery, “and you might have come along the path a +hundred times without spotting them. There was a +machine-gun up that tree, to deal with the force behind the point +of ambush, and a big staked pit farther down the path to catch +those in front who ran straight on. . . . Lovely trap. . . +. They used to occupy it from dawn to sunset every day, +poor fellers. . . .”</p> +<p>“What happened?” asked Bertram.</p> +<p>“Our Intelligence Department learnt all about it from +the local <i>shenzis</i>, and we forestalled them one merry +morn. They were ambushed in their own ambush. . . . +The <i>shenzi</i> doesn’t love his Uncle Fritz a bit. +No appreciation of <i>Kultur</i>-by-<i>kiboko</i>. He calls +the Germans ‘<i>the Twenty-Five Lashes People</i>,’ +because the first thing the German does when he goes to a village +is to give everybody twenty-five of the best, by way of +introducing himself and starting with a proper +understanding. Puts things on a proper footing from the +beginning. . . .”</p> +<p>“Their <i>askaris</i> are staunch enough, aren’t +they?” asked Bertram.</p> +<p>“Absolutely. They are well paid and well fed, and +they are allowed to do absolutely as they like in the way of +loot, rape, arson and murder, once the fighting is over. . . +. They flog them most unmercifully for disciplinary +offences—and the nigger <a name="page176"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 176</span>understands that. Also they +leave the defeated foe—his village, crops, property, women, +children and wounded—to their mercy—and the nigger +understands <i>that</i> too. . . . Our <i>askaris</i> are +not nearly so contented with our milder punishments, cumbrous +judicial system, and absolute prohibition of loot, rape, arson +and the murder of the wounded. Yes—the German +<i>askari</i> will stick to the German so long as he gets the +conqueror’s rights whenever he conquers—as is the +immemorial law and custom of Africa. . . . +‘What’s the good of fighting a cove if you’re +going to cosset and coddle him directly you’ve won, and +give him something out of the poor-box—instead of +dismembering him?’ says he. . . . You might say the +<i>askari</i>-class is to the Native what the Junker-class is to +the peasant, in Germany.”</p> +<p>And conversing thus, the two officers visited the pickets and +the sentries, who sat on <i>machans</i> in the tops of high trees +and, in theory at any rate, scoured the adjacent country with +tireless all-seeing eye.</p> +<p>Returning to the fort, Bertram saw the materials for his own +private freehold residence being carried to the eligible site +selected for its erection by the united wisdom of the Station +Staff Officer and the Quartermaster. It was built and +furnished in less than an hour by a party of Kavirondo, who used +no other tools than their <i>pangas</i>, and it consisted of a +framework of stout saplings firmly planted in the ground, wattle, +and thatched leaves, twigs and grass. It had a window-frame +and a doorway, and it kept out the sun and the first few drops of +a shower of rain. If a <i>banda</i> does little else, it +provides one’s own peculiar place apart, where one can be +private and alone. . . . On the table and shelf—of +sticks bound together with strips of bark—Ali set forth his +master’s impedimenta, and took a pride in the Home. . . +.</p> +<p>Finding that the spine-pad of quilted red flannel—which +Murray had advised him to get and to wear buttoned on to the +inner side of his shirt, as a protection against the sun’s +actinic rays—was soaked with perspiration, Bertram gave it +to Ali that it might be dried. What he did not foresee was +that his faithful retainer would tie a long strip of bark from +the new <i>banda</i> to the opposite one across the +“street,” and pin the red flannel article to flap in +the breeze and the face of the passer-by. . . .</p> +<p>“Oh, I say, you fellers, look here!” sang out the +voice of Gussie Augustus Gus, as Bertram was finishing his shave, +a few minutes <a name="page177"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +177</span>later. “Here’s that careless fellow, +Greene, been and left his chest-protector off! . . . +It’s on the line to air, and I <i>don’t</i> know what +he’s doing without it.” The voice broke with +anguish and trouble as it continued: “Perhaps running about +with nothing on at all. . . . On his chest, I mean. . . +.”</p> +<p>There was a laugh from neighbouring <i>bandas</i> and tents +where Vereker, Berners, Halke and “Leesey” Lindsay +were washing by their cottage doors, preparatory to +breakfast.</p> +<p>Bertram blushed hotly in the privacy of his hut. +<i>Chest-protector</i>! Confound the fellow’s +impudence—and those giggling’ idiots. He had +half a mind to put his head out and remark; “The laughter +of fools is as the crackling of thorns beneath a pot,” and +in the same moment wiser counsels prevailed.</p> +<p>Thrusting a soapy face out of the window, he said, in a tone +expressive more of sorrow than of anger:</p> +<p>“I am surprised at <i>you</i>, Clarence! . . . To +laugh at the infirmities of your elders! . . . Is it +<i>my</i> fault I have housemaid’s knee?”</p> +<p>To which Augustus, with tears in his eyes and voice, +replied:</p> +<p>“Forgive me, Pappa. I have known trouble +too. <i>I</i> had an Aunt with a corn. . . . +<i>She</i> wore one. . . . Pink, like yours. . . . +Poignant. . . . Searching. . . .”</p> +<p>This cheerful and indefatigable young gentleman had, in his +rôle of Mess President, found time, after parade and +kit-inspection that morning, to prepare a breakfast +<i>menu</i>. Consulting it, Bertram discovered promise +of</p> +<blockquote><p>1. <i>Good Works</i>. Taken out of +some animal, or animals, unknown. Perhaps Liver. +Perhaps not. Looks rather poignant.</p> +<p>2. <i>Shepherd’s Bush</i> (or is it Plaid or Pie?) +or Toed-in-the-Hole. Same as above, bedded down in +manioc. Looks very poignant.</p> +<p>3. There were <i>Sausages on Toast</i>, but they are in +bad odour, uppish, and peevish to the eye, and there is no +bread.</p> +<p>4. <i>Curried Bully-beef</i>. God help us. +And Dog-biscuit.</p> +<p>5. <i>Arm of monkey</i>. No ’arm in +that? <i>But</i>—One rupee reward is offered for a +missing Kavirondo baby. Answers to the name of Horatio, and +cries if bitten in the stomach. . . . Searching.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>“Great news,” quoth the author of this document, +seating himself on the bed-frame beside Bertram and eyeing a +plate of Good Works without enthusiasm. +“There’s to be a General Court-Martial after +breakfast. You and I and Berners. Leesey Lindsay <a +name="page178"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 178</span>is +prosecuting a bloke for spying and acting as guide to German +raiding parties—him bein’ a British subjick an’ +all. . . Splendid! . . . Shall we hang him or shoot +him? . . .”</p> +<p>“<i>I</i> am Provost-Marshal,” put in Vereker, +“and <i>I</i> shall hang him. I know exactly how to +hang, and am a recognised good hanger. Anyhow, no one has +complained. . . . Wish we had some butter. . . .”</p> +<p>“Whaffor?” asked Augustus.</p> +<p>“Grease the rope,” was the reply. +“They like it. Butter is awfully good.”</p> +<p>“Put the knot under the left ear, don’t +you?” asked Augustus.</p> +<p>“<i>I</i> do,” answered Vereker. “Some +put it under the right. . . . I have seen it at the +back. Looks bad, though. Depressin’. +Bloke hangs his head. Mournful sight. . . .”</p> +<p>“Got any rope?” enquired Augustus.</p> +<p>“No! . . . How thoughtless of me! . . . +Never mind—make up something with strips of bark. . . +. Might let the bloke make his own—only himself to +blame, then, if it broke and he met with an accident.”</p> +<p>“I <i>have</i> heard of suicides—and—people +hanging themselves with their braces,” observed +Augustus.</p> +<p>“Wadego <i>shenzis</i> don’t have braces,” +replied Vereker.</p> +<p>“No, but Greene does. I’m perfectly sure +he’d be delighted to lend you his. He’s +kindness itself. Or would you rather he were shot, +Greene? We must remember there’s no blood about a +hanging, whereas there’s lots the other +way—’specially if it’s done by <i>askaris</i> +with Martinis. . . . On the other hand, hanging lasts +longer. I dunno <i>what</i> to advise for the best. . . +.”</p> +<p>“Suppose we try him first,” suggested Bertram.</p> +<p>“Of course!” was the somewhat indignant +reply. “I’m surprised at <i>you</i>, +Greene. You wouldn’t put him to the edge of the sword +without a trial, would you?”</p> +<p>“No, Greene,” added Vereker. “Not +goin’ to waste a good <i>shenzi</i> like that. +We’re goin’ to have a jolly good Court-Martial out of +him before we do him in. . . . And I shall hang him, +Clarence—rope or no rope.”</p> +<p>“May I swing on his feet, Vereker?” begged +Augustus. “<i>Do</i> let me! . . . Be a sport. +. . .”</p> +<p>“Everything will be done properly and nicely,” was +the reply, “and in the best style. There will be no +swinging on the <a name="page179"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +179</span>prisoner’s legs while <i>I</i>’m M.C. . . +. Not unless the prisoner himself suggests it,” he +added.</p> +<p>“How’ll we tell him of his many blessin’s, +and so on?” enquired Berners.</p> +<p>“There’s an Arab blighter of Lindsay’s who +professes to know a tongue spoken by a porter who knows +Wadego. The bloke talks to the porter in Wadego, the porter +talks to the Arab in the Tongue, the Arab talks to Wavell in +Arabic, and Wavell talks to us in any language we +like—French, German, Swahili, Hindustani, Latin, Greek, +American, Turkish, Portuguese, Taal or even English. He +knows all those. . . .”</p> +<p>“Let’s ask him to talk them all at once, while we +smoke and quaff beakers of rum,” suggested Augustus. +“And I <i>say</i>—couldn’t we torture the +prisoner? I know lots of ripping tortures.”</p> +<p>“Well, I’m not going to have him ripped,” +vetoed Vereker. “You gotter hand him over to the +Provost-Marshal in good condition. . . Fair wear and tear +of trial and incarceration allowed for, of course. . . . +Bound to be <i>some</i> depreciation, I know.”</p> +<p>“What’s ‘to incarcerate’ mean, +exactly?” enquired Augustus.</p> +<p>“Same as ‘incinerate.’”</p> +<p>“Can we do it to him by law?” asked Augustus.</p> +<p>“You read the Orders, my lad,” replied +Vereker. “On the notice-board in the Orderly +Room. That post’s the Orderly Room. Written and +signed by the Station Staff Officer. And look up Field and +General Court-Martials in the King’s Regulations and +you’ll know what your Powers are.”</p> +<p>“I say, Berners. Let me find you the least +contrary of those turned sausages, and have it nicely fried for +you,” begged Augustus. “You’d hardly +taste anything awkward about it if you had some lemon-peel done +with it. Plenty of lemon-peel and some coco-nut. +I’ll find the peel I threw away this morning. . . . +<i>Do</i>.”</p> +<p>“This is very kind and thoughtful of you, Gussie. +What’s the idea?” replied Berners.</p> +<p>“I want to propitiate you, Berners. You’ll +be President of the Court-Martial.”</p> +<p>“And?”</p> +<p>“I want you to promise you won’t have the prisoner +found Guilty unless Vereker promises to let me swing on his feet. +. . . I’ve <i>never</i> once had the chance. . . +. And now my chance has <a name="page180"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 180</span>come. . . . And Vereker feels +thwartful. . . . It’s due to his having a +boil—and no cushion with him. . . . Be a good soul, +Berners. . . ”</p> +<p>“Let’s see the sausages,” said the +President-elect.</p> +<p>“That’s done it,” admitted Augustus, and +dropped the subject with a heavy sigh.</p> +<p>Bertram noticed that, in spite of his flow of cheery nonsense, +Augustus ate nothing at all and looked very ill indeed. He +remembered a sentence he had read in a book on board the +<i>Elymas</i>:</p> +<p>“Comedy lies lightly upon all things, like foam upon the +dark waters. Beneath are tragedy and the tears of +time.”</p> +<h3>CHAPTER XVIII<br /> +<i>Trial</i></h3> +<p>After breakfast Bertram attended Court, which was a table +under a tree, and took his seat on the Bench, an inverted pail, +as a Ruler and a Judge, for the first and last time in his +life. He felt that it was a strange and terrible thing that +he should thus be suddenly called upon to try a man for his +life.</p> +<p>Suppose that his two fellow-judges, Berners and Clarence, +disagreed as to the death-sentence, and he had to give his +verdict, knowing that a man’s life depended on it! . . +.</p> +<p>A couple of <i>askaris</i> of the King’s African Rifles, +police-orderlies of “Leesey” Lindsay’s, brought +in the prisoner. He was a powerful and decidedly +evil-looking negro, clad in a striped petticoat. He had +more of the appearance of furtive intelligence than is usual with +<i>shenzis</i> of his tribe. Bertram decided that he +carried his guilt in his face and had trickster and traitor +written all over it. He then rebuked himself for +pre-judging the case and entertaining prejudice against an +untried, and possibly innocent, man.</p> +<p>“Guilty,” said Augustus Gus. +“Who’s coming for a walk?”</p> +<p>“I’m President of this Court,” replied +Berners. “Who asked you to open your head? If +I’m not sure as to his guilt, I may consult you +later. Or I may not.”</p> +<p>“Look here, Berners—let’s do the thing +properly,” was the reply. “There’s a +Maxim—or is it a Hotchkiss—of English Law <a +name="page181"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 181</span>which says +that a man is to be considered Guilty until he is proved to be +Innocent. Therefore we start fair. He is Guilty, I +say. Now we’ve got to prove him Innocent. Do be +a sport, and give the poor blighter a show.”</p> +<p>“I b’lieve it’s the other way about,” +said Berners.</p> +<p>“Oh, indeed!” commented Augustus. +“You’d say the feller’s innocent and then start +in to prove him guilty, would you? . . . Dirty trick, I +call it. Filthy habit.”</p> +<p>Wavell appeared at the entrance to his tent, holding a green, +silk-covered book in his hand. The cover was richly +embroidered and had a flap, like that of an envelope, provided +with strings for tying it down. It was a copy of the Koran, +and on it all witnesses were sworn, repeating an oath +administered by Wavell in Arabic. . . .</p> +<p>“Ready?” asked he of the President, and proceeded +with great patience, skill and knowledge of languages and +dialects, to interpret the statements of Wadegos, Swahilis, +Arabs, and assorted Africans. Occasionally it was beyond +his power, or that of any human being, to convey the meaning of +some simple question to a savage mind, and to get a rational +answer.</p> +<p>For the prosecution, Lindsay, who was down with dysentery, had +produced fellow-villagers of the accused, from each of whom +Wavell obtained the same story.</p> +<p>Prisoner was enamoured of a daughter of the headman of the +village, and, because his suit was dismissed by this gentleman, +he had led a German raiding-party to the place, and, moreover, +had shown them where hidden treasures were <i>cached</i>, and +where fowls, goats, and cattle had been penned in the jungle, and +where grain was stored. Also, he had “smelt +out” enemies of the <i>Germanis</i> among his former +neighbours, wicked men who, he said, had led English +raiding-parties into the country of the <i>Germanis</i>, and had +otherwise injured them. These enemies of the +<i>Germanis</i> were all, as it happened, enemies of his own. . . +. When this raiding-party of <i>askaris</i>, led by half a +dozen <i>Germanis</i>, had burnt the village, killed all the +villagers who had not escaped in time, and carried off all they +wanted in the way of livestock, women, grain and gear, they had +rewarded accused with a share of the loot. . . .</p> +<p>“Do they all tell the same tale in the same way, as +though they had concocted it and learnt it by heart?” asked +Bertram.</p> +<p>“No,” replied Wavell. “I didn’t +get that impression.”</p> +<p><a name="page182"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +182</span>“Let’s question them one by one,” +said Berners.</p> +<p>A very, very old man, a sort of “witch-doctor” or +priest, by his ornaments, entered the witness-box—otherwise +arose from the group of witnesses and stood before the +Court—to leeward by request.</p> +<p>“Hullo, Granpa! How’s things?” said +Augustus.</p> +<p>The ancient ruin mumbled something in Swahili, and peered with +horny eyes beneath rheumy, shrivelled lids at the Court, as he +stood trembling, his palsied head ashake.</p> +<p>“Don’t waggle your head at <i>me</i>, +Rudolph,” said Augustus severely, as the old man fixed him +with a wild and glassy eye. “<i>I</i>’m not +going to uphold you. . . . Pooh! <i>What</i> an odour +of sanctity! You’re a <i>high</i> priest, +y’know,” and murmured as he sought his handkerchief, +“Poignant! . . . Searching. . . .”</p> +<p>The old man repeated his former mumble.</p> +<p>“He says he did not mean to steal the tobacco,” +interpreted Wavell.</p> +<p>“Sort of accident that might happen to anybody, +what?” observed Augustus. “Ask him if he knows +the prisoner.”</p> +<p>The question was put to him in his own tongue, and +unfalteringly he replied that he had not meant to steal the +tobacco—had not <i>really</i> stolen it, in fact.</p> +<p>Patiently Wavell asked, and patiently he was answered. +“Do you know the prisoner?”</p> +<p>“I never steal.”</p> +<p>“Do you know this man?”</p> +<p>“Tobacco I would never steal.”</p> +<p>“What is this man’s name?”</p> +<p>“Tobacco.”</p> +<p>“Have you ever seen that man before?”</p> +<p>“What man?”</p> +<p>“This one.”</p> +<p>“Yes. He is the prisoner.”</p> +<p>“When have you seen him before?”</p> +<p>“Last night.”</p> +<p>“When, before that?”</p> +<p>“He ate rice with us last night. He is the +prisoner.”</p> +<p>“Do you know him well?”</p> +<p>“Yes, I know he is the prisoner. <i>He</i> stole +the tobacco.”</p> +<p>“Have you known him long?”</p> +<p><a name="page183"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +183</span>“No. He is only a young man. He +steals tobacco.”</p> +<p>“Does he come from your village?”</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“Have you known him all his life?”</p> +<p>“No, because he went and spent some time in the +<i>Germanis’</i> country. I think he went to steal +tobacco.”</p> +<p>“Did he come back alone from the <i>Germanis’</i> +country?”</p> +<p>“No. He brought <i>askaris</i> and +<i>muzangos</i>. <a name="citation183a"></a><a +href="#footnote183a" class="citation">[183a]</a> They +killed my people and burnt my village.”</p> +<p>“You are sure it was this man who brought +them?”</p> +<p>“Is he not a prisoner?”</p> +<p>Suddenly an ancient hag arose from the group of witnesses and +bounded into Court. At the feet of Wavell she poured forth +a torrent of impassioned speech.</p> +<p>“Cheer up, Auntie!” quoth Augustus, and as the +woman ceased, added: “Ask her if she’d come to Paris +for the week-end.”</p> +<p>“What does she say?” enquired the President of the +Court.</p> +<p>“In effect—that she will be security for +<i>witness’s</i> good behaviour, as he is her only child +and never steals tobacco. He only took the tobacco because +he wanted a smoke. He is ninety years of age, and a good +obedient son to her. It is her fault for not looking after +him better. She hopes he will not be hung, as she is +already an orphan, and would then be a childless orphan. . . +. She undertakes to beat him with a <i>runga</i>.” <a +name="citation183b"></a><a href="#footnote183b" +class="citation">[183b]</a></p> +<p>“Does she identify prisoner as the man who led the +German raiding-party?” asked Bertram, after Augustus had +called for three loud cheers for the witness, had been himself +called to order by the President, and had threatened that he +would not play if further annoyed by that official.</p> +<p>Again, in careful Swahili, Wavell endeavoured to find traces +of evidence for or against the accused.</p> +<p>“Do you know this man?”</p> +<p>“Yes, <i>Bwana</i>.”</p> +<p>“Who is he?”</p> +<p>“The prisoner, <i>Bwana Macouba</i> (Great +Master).”</p> +<p>“Why is he a prisoner?”</p> +<p>“Because he brought the <i>Germanis</i> to Pongwa, oh, +<i>Bwana Macouba Sana</i> (Very Great Master).”</p> +<p>“How do you know he brought the <i>Germanis</i> to +Pongwa?”</p> +<p><a name="page184"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +184</span>“Because he has been made prisoner for doing so, +oh, <i>Bwana Macouba Kabeesa Sana</i> (Very Greatest +Master).”</p> +<p>“Do you know anything about him?”</p> +<p>“He is the man who stole the tobacco which my little boy +took.”</p> +<p>All being translated and laid before the Court, it was decided +that, so far, prisoner was scarcely proven guilty.</p> +<p>“Let’s ask him whether he would like to say +anything as to the evidence of the last two witnesses,” +suggested Bertram.</p> +<p>“He doesn’t understand Swahili,” objected +Berners.</p> +<p>“I feel sure he does,” replied Bertram. +“I have been watching his face. He half grinned when +they talked about tobacco, and looked venomous when they talked +about him.”</p> +<p>“Do you understand Swahili?” asked Wavell, +suddenly, of the prisoner.</p> +<p>“No, not a word,” replied that individual in the +same tongue.</p> +<p>“Can you speak it?”</p> +<p>“No, not a word,” he reaffirmed in Swahili.</p> +<p>“Well—did the last two witnesses tell the truth +about you?”</p> +<p>“They did not. I have never seen them +before. They have never seen me before. I do not know +where Pongwa is. I think this is a very fine trial. I +like it.”</p> +<p>Other witnesses swore that the accused had indeed done the +treacherous deed. One swore with such emphasis and +certainty that he carried conviction to the minds of the +Court—until it was discovered that witness was swearing +that prisoner had stolen a bundle of leaf-tobacco from the son of +the woman who was an orphan. . . .</p> +<p>The Court soon found that it could tell when a point was +scored against the defendant, without waiting for translation, +inasmuch as he always seized his stomach with both hands, +groaned, rolled his eyes, and cried that he was suffering +horribly from <i>tumbo</i>, when evidence was going +unfavourably.</p> +<p>At length all witnesses had been examined, even unto the last, +who swore he was the prisoner’s brother, and that he saw +the prisoner leading the <i>Germanis</i> and, lo, it wasn’t +his brother at all, and concluded with: “Yes—this is +true evidence. I have spoken well. I can prove it, +for I can produce the <i>sufuria</i> <a name="citation184"></a><a +href="#footnote184" class="citation">[184]</a> which prisoner +gave me to say that I am his brother, and to speak these truths. +<a name="page185"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 185</span>He is my +innocent brother, and was elsewhere when he led the +<i>Germanis</i> to Pongwa.”</p> +<p>“Let’s give him something out of the +poor-box,” suggested Augustus when this speech was +interpreted, and then marred this intimation of kindly feelings +by adding: “and then hang the lot of them.”</p> +<p>“Has the prisoner anything to say?” asked the +President.</p> +<p>The prisoner had.</p> +<p>“This is a good trial,” quoth he, in +Swahili. “I am now an important man. All the +witnesses are liars. I have never seen any of them +before. I do not associate with such. I have never +seen Pongwa, and I have never seen a <i>Germani</i>. I will +tell . . .”</p> +<p>Wavell looked at him suddenly, but made no movement.</p> +<p>“<i>Noch nichte</i>!” said he in German, very +quietly.</p> +<p>The man stopped talking at once.</p> +<p>“You understand German. You speak German!” +said Wavell, in that language, and pointing at him +accusingly. “Answer quickly. You speak +German.”</p> +<p>“<i>Ganz klein wenig</i>—just a very +little,” replied the prisoner, adding in English: “I +am a very clever man”—and then, in German: +“<i>Ich hab kein Englisch</i>.”</p> +<p>“Prisoner has never seen a <i>Germani</i>—but he +understands German!” wrote Bertram in his notes of the +trial. “Also Swahili and English.”</p> +<p>“Please ask him if he hasn’t had enough trial now, +and wouldn’t he like to be hanged to save further +trouble,” said Augustus.</p> +<p>“<i>Tiffin tyar hai</i>, <a name="citation185"></a><a +href="#footnote185" class="citation">[185]</a> +<i>Sahib</i>,” said the Mess butler, approaching the +President, and the Court adjourned.</p> +<p>The afternoon session of the Court proved dull up to the +moment when the lady who was an orphan and the mother of the +ninety-year-old, bounded into Court with a scream of:</p> +<p>“Ask him where he got his petticoat!”</p> +<p>Apparently this was very distressful to the defendant, for he +was instantly seized with violent stomachic pains.</p> +<p>“Poignant! . . . Searching! . . .” murmured +Augustus.</p> +<p>“Where did you get that <i>’Mericani</i>?” +asked Wavell of the prisoner, pointing to his only garment.</p> +<p>“He got it from the <i>Germanis</i>. It was part +of his share of the <a name="page186"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 186</span>loot,” screamed the old +lady. “It is from my own shop. I know it by +that mark,” and she pointed to a trade-mark and number +stencilled in white paint upon the selvedge of the +loin-cloth.</p> +<p>Terrible agonies racked the prisoner as he replied: “She +is a liar.”</p> +<p>“Trade-mark don’t prove much,” remarked the +President. “My pants and vest might have same +trade-mark as the Kaiser’s—but that wouldn’t +prove he stole them from me.”</p> +<p>The sense of this remark was conveyed to the witness.</p> +<p>“Then see if a mark like <i>this</i> is not in the +corner of that piece of <i>’Mericani</i>,” said the +old lady, and plucking up her own wardrobe, showed where a small +design was crudely stitched.</p> +<p>The <i>askaris</i> in charge of the prisoner quickly +demonstrated that an identical “laundry-mark” +ornamented his also. Presumably the worthy woman’s +secret price-mark, or else her monogram.</p> +<p>Terrific agonies seized the prisoner, and with a groan of +“<i>Tumbo</i>,” he sank to the ground.</p> +<p>A kick from each of the <i>askaris</i> revived him, and he +arose promptly and took a bright interest in the subsequent +proceedings, which consisted largely in the swearing by several +of the villagers that they had seen the <i>Germanis</i> loot the +old lady’s store and throw some pieces of the +<i>’Mericani</i> to the accused. Two of the witnesses +were wearing petticoats which they had bought from the female +witness, and which bore her private mark. . . .</p> +<p>“Gentlemen,” said the President at length, +“I should like your written findings by six o’clock +this evening, together with the sentence you would impose if you +were sole judge in this case. The Court is deeply indebted +to Captain Wavell for his courteous and most valuable assistance +as interpreter. The witnesses may be discharged, and the +prisoner removed to custody. . . . Clear the blasted Court, +in fact, and come to the Bristol Bar. . . .”</p> +<p>“Oh, hang it all, Berners,” objected Augustus, +“let’s hang him <i>now</i>. We can watch him +dangle while we have tea. . . .” But the Court had +risen, and the President was asking where the devil some bally, +fat-headed fool had put his helmet, eh? . . .</p> +<p>For an hour Bertram sat in his <i>banda</i> with throbbing, +aching head, considering his verdict. He believed the man +to be a spy and a treacherous, murderous scoundrel—but what +was really <i>proven</i>, save that he knew German and wore a +garment marked similarly to those of three inhabitants of +Pongwa? Were these <a name="page187"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 187</span>facts sufficient to warrant the +passing of the death sentence and to justify Bertram Greene, who, +till a few days ago, was the mildest of lay civilians, to take +the responsibility of a hanging judge and imbrue his hands with +the blood of this man? If all that was suspected of him +were true, what, after all, was he but a savage, a barbarous +product of barbaric uncivilisation? . . . What right had +anyone to apply the standards of a cultured white man from London +to a savage black man from Pongwa? . . . A savage who had +been degraded and contaminated by contact with Germans moreover. +. . .</p> +<p>After many unsatisfactory efforts, he finally wrote out his +judgment on leaves torn from his military pocket-book, and +proposed, as verdict, that the prisoner be confined for the +duration of the war as a spy, and receive twenty-five strokes of +the <i>kiboko</i> for perjury. . . .</p> +<p>On repairing to Berners’ hut at the appointed time, he +found that Clarence had written a longer and better judgment than +his own, and had proposed as sentence that the accused be +detained during the King’s pleasure at Mombasa Gaol, since +it was evident that he had dealings with Germans and had recently +been in German East Africa. He found the charge of leading +a German raiding-party Not Proven.</p> +<p>The sentence of the President was that prisoner should receive +twenty lashes and two years’ imprisonment, for receiving +stolen goods, well knowing them to be stolen, and for committing +perjury.</p> +<p>“And that ought to dish the lad till the end of the +war,” observed he, “whereafter he’ll have +precious small use for his German linguistic lore—unless he +goes to Berlin for the Iron Cross or a Commission in the +Potsdammer Poison-Gas Guards, or somethin’, +what?”</p> +<h3>CHAPTER XIX<br /> +<i>Of a Pudding</i></h3> +<p>There was a sound of revelry by night, at the Bristol +Bar. A Plum Pudding had arrived. Into that lonely +outpost, where men languished and yearned for potatoes, cabbage, +milk, cake, onions, <a name="page188"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 188</span>beer, steaks, chocolate, eggs, +cigarettes, bacon, fruit, coffee, bread, fish, jam, sausages, +honey, sugar, ham, tobacco, pastry, toast, cheese, wine and other +things of which they had almost forgotten the taste, a Plum +Pudding had drifted. When it had begun to seem that food +began and ended with coco-nut, maize, bully-beef and +dog-biscuit—a Plum Pudding rose up to rebuke error.</p> +<p>At least, it was going to do so. At present it lay, +encased in a stout wooden box and a soldered sarcophagus of tin, +at the feet of the habitués of the Bristol Bar, what time +they looked upon the box and found it good in their sight. . . +.</p> +<p>“You’ll dine with us and sample it, I hope, +Wavell?” said the Major, eyeing the box ecstatically.</p> +<p>“Thanks,” was the reply. “Delighted. . +. . May I bring over some brandy to burn round +it?”</p> +<p>“Stout fella,” said the Major warmly.</p> +<p>“Do we eat it as it is—or fry it, or something, or +what?” he added. “I fancy you bake ’em. . +. .”</p> +<p>“I believe puddings are boiled, sir,” remarked +Bertram.</p> +<p>“Yes—I b’lieve you’re right, +Greene,” agreed Major Mallery. . . . “I seem to +know the expression, ‘boiled plum-pudding.’ . . +. Yes—boiled plum-pudding. . . .”</p> +<p>“Better tell the cook to boil the bird at once, +hadn’t we?” suggested Captain Macke.</p> +<p>“Yes,” agreed Vereker. “I fancy +I’ve heard our housekeeper at home talk about boiling +’em for <i>hours</i>. Hours and hours. . . . +Sure of it.”</p> +<p>“But s’pose the beastly thing’s <i>bin</i> +boiled already—what then?” asked Augustus. +“Bally thing’d <i>dissolve</i>, I tell you. . . +. Have to drink it. . . .”</p> +<p>“Very nice, too,” declared Halke.</p> +<p>“I’d sooner eat pudding and drink brandy, than +drink pudding and burn brandy,” stated Augustus +firmly. “What would we boil it in, anyhow?” he +added. “It wouldn’t go in a kettle, an’ +if you let it loose in a dam’ great <i>dekchi</i> or +something, it’d all go to bits. . . .”</p> +<p>“Tie it up in a shirt or something,” said Forbes. +. . . “What’s your idea, Greene—as a man +of intellect and education?”</p> +<p>“I’d say boil it,” replied Bertram. +“I don’t believe they <i>can</i> be boiled too much. +. . . I fancy it ought to be tied up, though, as Clarence +suggests, or it might disintegrate, I suppose.”</p> +<p><a name="page189"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +189</span>“Who’s got a clean shirt or vest or pants +or something?” asked the Major. “Or could we +ram it into a helmet and tie it down?”</p> +<p>It appeared that no one had a <i>very</i> clean shirt, and it +happened that nobody spoke up with military promptitude and smart +alacrity when Lieutenant Bupendranath Chatterji offered to lend +his pillow-case.</p> +<p>“I know,” said the Major, in a tone of decision +and finality. “I’ll send for the cook, tell him +there’s a plum-pudding, an’ he can dam’ well +serve it hot for dinner as a plum-pudding <i>ought</i> to be +served—or God have mercy on him, for we will have none. . . +.”</p> +<p>And so it was. Although at first the cook protested that +the hour being seven and dinner due at seven-thirty, there was +not time for the just and proper cooking of a big +plum-pudding. But, “To hell with that for a +Tale,” said the Major, and waved pudding and cook away, +with instructions to serve the pudding steaming hot, in half an +hour, with a blaze of brandy round it, a sprig of holly stuck in +it, and a bunch of mistletoe hung above it.</p> +<p>“And write ‘<i>God Bless Our Home</i>’ on +the <i>banda</i> wall,” he added, as a happy +after-thought. The cook grinned. He was a Goanese, +and a good Christian cheat and liar.</p> +<p>The Bristol Bar settled down again to talk of Home, hunting, +theatres, clubs, bars, sport, hotels, and everything +else—except religion, women and war. . . .</p> +<p>“Heard about the new lad, Major?” asked +Forbes. “Real fuzzy-wuzzy dervish Soudanese. +Lord knows how he comes to be in these parts. Smelt war +like a camel smells water, I suppose. . . . Got confused +ideas about medals though. . . . Tell the tale, +Wavell.”</p> +<p>“Why—old Isa ibn Yakub, my +Sergeant-Major—you know Isa, six-feet-six and nine medals, +face like black satin”—began Wavell, “brought +me a stout lad—with grey hair—who looked like his +twin brother. Wanted to join my Arab Company. +He’d come from Berbera to Mombasa in a dhow, and then +strolled down here through the jungle. . . . Conversation +ran somewhat thus:</p> +<p>“‘You want to enlist in my Arab Company, do +you? Why?’</p> +<p>“‘I want to fight.’</p> +<p>“‘Against the <i>Germanis</i>?’</p> +<p>“‘Anybody.’</p> +<p><a name="page190"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +190</span>“‘You know what the pay is?’</p> +<p>“‘Yes. It is enough. But I also want +my Omdurman medal—like that worn by Isa ibn +Yakub.’</p> +<p>“‘Oh—you have fought before? And at +Omdurman.’</p> +<p>“‘Yes. And I want my medal.’</p> +<p>“‘You are sure you fought at Omdurman?’</p> +<p>“‘Yes. Was I not wounded there and left for +dead? Look at this hole through my side, below my +arm. I want my medal—like that of Isa ibn +Yakub.’</p> +<p>“‘How is it that you have not got it, if you +fought there as you say?’</p> +<p>“‘They would not give it to me. I want you +to get it for me.’</p> +<p>“‘I do not believe you fought at Omdurman at +all.’</p> +<p>“‘I did. Was I not shot there?’</p> +<p>“‘Were you in a Soudanese Regiment?’</p> +<p>“‘No.’</p> +<p>“‘What then?’</p> +<p>“‘In the army of Our Lord the Mahdi. And I +was shot in front of the line of British soldiers who wear +petticoats! . . .’”</p> +<p>“Did you take him?” asked the Major, as the laugh +subsided.</p> +<p>“Rather!” was the reply. “A lad who +fought against us and expects us to give him a medal for it, +evidently thinks we are sportsmen, and probably is one +himself. I fancy he’s done a lot of mixed fighting at +different times. . . . Says he knew Gordon. . . +.”</p> +<p>The cook, Mess butler, and a deputation of servants +approached, salaamed as one man, and held their peace.</p> +<p>“What’s up?” asked the Major. +“Anyone dead?”</p> +<p>“The Pudding, sah,” said the cook, and all the +congregation said, “The Pudding.”</p> +<p>A painful brooding silence settled upon the Bristol Bar.</p> +<p>“If you’ve let pi-dogs or <i>shenzis</i> or kites +eat that pudding, they shall eat you—alive,” promised +the Major—and he had the air of one whose word is his +bond.</p> +<p>“Nossir,” replied the cook. “Pudding +all gone to damn. Sahib come and see. I am knowing +nothing. It is bad.”</p> +<p>“<i>What</i>?” roared the Major, and rose to his +feet.</p> +<p>“Sah, I am a poor man. You are my father and my +mother,” said the cook humbly, and all the congregation +said that they were <a name="page191"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 191</span>poor men and that the Major was +their father and their mother.</p> +<p>The Major said that the congregation were liars.</p> +<p>“<i>Bad</i>?” stammered Forbes. +“Puddings can’t go <i>bad</i>. . . .”</p> +<p>“Oh, Mother, Mother!” said Augustus, and cried, +his head upon his knees.</p> +<p>“Life in epitome,” murmured Vereker. +“<i>Tout lasse</i>; <i>tout passe</i>; <i>tout +casse</i>.”</p> +<p>“Strike me blind!” said Halke.</p> +<p>“Feller’s a purple liar. . . . Must +be,” opined Berners.</p> +<p>“Beat the lot of them,” suggested Macke. +“Puddings keep for ever if you handle ’em +properly.”</p> +<p>“Yes—the brutes haven’t treated it +kindly,” said Augustus, wiping his eyes. “Here, +Vereker, you’re Provost-Marshal. Serve them so that +<i>they</i> go bad—and see how they like it.”</p> +<p>“It may just have a superficial coating of mould or +mildew that can be taken off,” said Bertram.</p> +<p>“Let’s go an’ interview the dam’ +thing,” suggested Augustus. “We can then take +measures—or rum.”</p> +<p>The Bristol Bar was deserted in the twinkling of an eye as, +headed by the Major, the dozen or so of British officers sought +out the Pudding, that they might hold an inquest upon it. . . +.</p> +<p>Near the cooking-fire in the straw shed behind the +Officers’ Mess <i>banda</i>, upon some boards beside a tin +sarcophagus, lay a large green ball, suggestive of a moon made of +green cheese.</p> +<p>In silent sorrow the party gazed upon it, stricken and +stunned. And the congregation of servants stood afar off +and watched.</p> +<p>Suddenly the Major snatched up the gleaming <i>panga</i> that +had been used for prising open the case and for cutting open the +tin box in which the green horror had arrived.</p> +<p>Raising the weapon above his head, the Major smote with all +his might. Right in the centre of the Pudding the heavy, +sharp-edged blade struck and sank. . . . The Pudding fell +in halves, revealing an interior even greener and more horrible +than the outside, as a cloud of greenish, smoke-like dust went up +to the offended heavens. . . .</p> +<p>“Bury the damned Thing,” said the Major, and in +his wake the officers of the Butindi garrison filed out, their +hearts too full, their stomachs too empty for words.</p> +<p>And the servants buried the Pudding, obeying the words of the +Major.</p> +<p><a name="page192"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 192</span>But +in the night the Sweeper arose and exhumed the Pudding and ate of +it right heartily. And through the night of sorrow he +groaned. And at dawn he died. This is the truth.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>Dinner that night was a silent meal, if meal it could be +called. No man dared speak to his neighbour for fear of +what his neighbour might reply. The only reference to the +Pudding was made by Augustus, who remarked, as a servant brought +in a dish of roasted maize-cobs, where the Pudding should have +come—chicken-feed where should have been Food of the +Gods—“I am almost glad poor Murie and Lindsay are so +ill that they couldn’t possibly have eaten any Pudding in +any case. . . . Seems some small compensation to ’em, +don’t it, poor devils. . . .”</p> +<p>“I do not think Murie will get better,” observed +Lieutenant Bupendranath Chatterji. “Fever and +dysentery, both violent, and I have not proper things. . . +.”</p> +<p>The silence seemed to deepen as everybody thought of the two +sick men, lying in their dirty clothes, on dirty camp-beds, in +leaky grass huts, with a choice of bully-beef, dog-biscuit, +coco-nut and maize as a dysentery diet.</p> +<p>Whose turn next? And what sort of a fight could the +force put up if attacked by Africans when all the Indians and +Europeans were ill with fever and dysentery? Heaven bless +the Wise Man who had kept the African Army of British East Africa +so small and had disbanded battalions of the King’s African +Rifles just before the war. What chance would Indians and +white men, who had lived for months in the most pestilential +swamp in Africa, have against salted Africans led by Germans +especially brought down from the upland health-resorts where they +lived? . . .</p> +<p>“Can you give me a little quinine, Chatterji?” +asked Augustus. “Got any calomel? I +b’lieve my liver’s as big as my head to-day. I +feel a corner of it right up between my lungs. Stops my +breathing sometimes. . . .”</p> +<p>“Oah, yees. Ha! Ha!” said the medical +gentleman. “I have a few tablets. I will +presently send you some also. . . .”</p> +<p>Next morning Augustus came in last to breakfast.</p> +<p>“Thanks for the quinine tablets, Chatterji,” said +he. “The hospital orderly brought them in his bare +palm. I swallowed all ten, however. What was +it—twenty grains?”</p> +<p>“Oah! That was calomel!” replied the worthy +doctor, and <a name="page193"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +193</span>Augustus arose forthwith and retired, murmuring: +“Poignant! <i>Searching</i>!”</p> +<p>He had once taken a quarter of a grain of calomel, and it had +tied him in knots.</p> +<p>When Bertram visited Murie, Lindsay and Augustus in their +respective huts, Augustus seemed the worst of the three. +With white face, set teeth, and closed eyes, he lay bunched up, +and, from time to time, groaned, “Oh, poignant! +<i>Searching</i>! . . .”</p> +<p>It being impossible for him to march, it fell to Bertram to +take his duty that day, and lead an officers’ patrol to +reconnoitre a distant village to which, according to information +received by the Intelligence Department, a German patrol had just +paid a visit. For some reason the place had been sacked and +burnt.</p> +<p>It was Bertram’s business to discover whether there were +any signs of a <i>boma</i> having been established by this +patrol; to learn anything he could about its movements; whence it +had come and whither it had gone; whether the massacre were a +punishment for some offence, or just the result of high animal +(German) spirits; whether there were many <i>shambas</i>, of no +further use to slaughtered people, in which the raiders had left +any limes, bananas, papai or other fruits, vegetables, or crops; +whether any odd chicken or goat had been overlooked, and was +wanting a good home; and, in short, to find out anything that +could be found out, see all that was to be seen, do anything that +might be done. . . . As he marched out of the Fort at the +head of a hundred Gurkhas, with a local guide and interpreter, he +felt proud and happy, quite reckless, and absolutely indifferent +to his fate. He would do his best in any emergency that +might arise, and he could do no more. He’d leave it +at that.</p> +<p>He’d march straight ahead with a “point” in +front of him, and if he was ambushed, he was ambushed.</p> +<p>When they reached the village, he’d deploy into line and +send scouts into the place. If he was shot dead—a +jolly good job. If he were wounded and left lying for the +German <i>askaris</i> to find—or the wild beasts at night . +. . he turned from the thought.</p> +<p>Anyhow, he’d got good cheery, sturdy Gurkhas with him, +and it was a pleasure and an honour to serve with them.</p> +<p>One jungle march is precisely like another—and in three +or four hours the little column reached the village, deployed, +and skirmished into it, to find it a deserted, burnt-out +ruin. <i>Kultur</i> <a name="page194"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 194</span>had passed that way, leaving its +inevitable and unmistakable sign-manual. The houses were +only blackened skeletons; the gardens, wildernesses; the byres, +cinder-heaps; the fruit-trees, withering wreckage. What had +been pools of blood lay here and there, with clumps of feathers, +burnt and broken utensils, remains of slaughtered domestic +animals and chickens.</p> +<p><i>Kultur</i> had indeed passed that way. To Bertram it +seemed, in a manner, sadder that this poor barbarous little +African village should be so treated than that a walled city of +supermen should suffer. . . “Is there not more +cruelty and villainy in violently robbing a crying child of its +twopence than in snatching his gold watch from a portly +stockbroker?” thought he, as he gazed around on the scene +of ruin, desolation and destruction.</p> +<p>To think of Europeans finding time, energy, and occasion to +effect <i>this</i> in such a spot, so incredibly remote from +their marts and ways and busy haunts! Christians! . . .</p> +<p>Having posted sentries and chosen a spot for rally and +defence, he sent out tiny patrols along the few jungle paths that +led to the village, and proceeded to see what he could, as there +was absolutely no living soul from whom he could learn +anything. There was little that the ablest scoutmaster +could deduce, save that the place had been visited by a large +party of mischievously destructive and brutal ruffians, who wore +boots. There was nothing of use or of value that had not +been either destroyed or taken. Even papai trees that bore +no fruit had been hacked down, and the <i>panga</i> had been laid +to the root of tree and shrub and sugar-cane. Not a +plantain, lime, mango, or papai was to be seen.</p> +<p>Bertram entered one of the least burnt of the well-made huts +of thatch and wattle. There was what had been blood on the +earthen floor, blackened walls, charred stools, bed-frames and +domestic utensils. He felt sick. . . . In a corner +was a child’s bed of woven string plaited over a carved +frame. It would make a useful stool or a resting-place for +things which should not lie on the muddy floor of his +<i>banda</i>. He picked it up. Underneath it was a +tiny black hand with pinkish finger-tips. He dropped the +bed and was violently sick. <i>Kultur</i> had indeed passed +that way. . . .</p> +<p>Hurrying out into the sunlight, as soon as he was able to do +so, he completed his tour of inspection. There was little +of interest and nothing of importance.</p> +<p><a name="page195"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +195</span>Apparently the hamlet had boasted an artist, a +sculptor, some village Rodin, before the Germans came to freeze +the genial current of his soul. . . . As Bertram studied +the handiwork of the absent one, his admiration diminished, +however, and he withdrew the “Rodin.” The man +was an arrant, shameless plagiarist, a scoundrelly pick-brain +imitator, a mere copying ape, for, seen from the proper end, as +it lay on its back, the clay statue of a woman, without form and +void, boneless, wiggly, semi-deliquescent, was an absolutely +faithful and shameless reproduction of the justly world-famous +Eppstein Venus.</p> +<p>“The man ought to be prosecuted for infringement of +copyright,” thought Bertram, “if there is any +copyright in statues. . . .”</p> +<p>The patrols having returned with nothing to report, Bertram +marched back to Butindi and reported it.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER XX<br /> +<i>Stein-Brücker Meets Bertram Greene—and +Death</i></h3> +<p>And so passed the days at Butindi, with a wearisome monotony +of Stand-to, visiting the pickets, going out on patrol, improving +the defences of the <i>boma</i>, foraging, gathering information, +reconnoitring, trying to waylay and scupper enemy patrols, +communicating with the other British outposts, surveying and +map-making, beating off half-hearted attacks by strong +raiding-patrols—all to the accompaniment of fever, +dysentery, and growing weakness due to malnutrition and the +terrible climate.</p> +<p>To Bertram it all soon became so familiar and normal that it +seemed strange to think that he had ever known any other kind of +life. His chief pleasure was to talk to Wavell, that most +uncommon type of soldier, who was also philosopher, linguist, +student, traveller, explorer and ethnologist.</p> +<p>From the others, Bertram learnt that Wavell was, among other +things, a second Burton, having penetrated into Mecca and Medina +in the disguise of a <i>haji</i>, a religious pilgrim, at the +very greatest peril of his life. He had also fought, as a +soldier of fortune, for the Arabs against the Turks, whom he +loathed as only those who have lived under their rule can loathe +them. He <a name="page196"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +196</span>could have told our Foreign Office many interesting +things about the Turk. (When, after he had been imprisoned +and brutally treated by them at Sanaa, in the Yemen, he had +appealed to our Foreign Office, it had sided rather with the Turk +indeed, confirming the Unspeakable One’s strong impression +that the English were a no-account race, even as the Germans +said.) So Wavell had fought against them, helping the +Arabs, whom he liked. And when the Great War broke out, he +had raised a double company of these fierce, brave, and +blood-thirsty little men in Arabia, and had drilled them into +fine soldiers. Probably no other Englishman—or +European of any sort—could have done this; but then Wavell +spoke Arabic like an Arab, knew the Koran almost by heart, and +knew his Arabs quite by heart.</p> +<p>That he showed a liking for Bertram was, to Bertram, a very +great source of pride and pleasure. When Wavell went out on +a reconnoitring-patrol, he went with him if he could get Major +Mallery’s permission, and the two marched through the +African jungle discussing art, poetry, travel, religion, and the +ethnological problems of Arabia—followed by a hundred or so +Arabs—Arabs who were killing Africans and being killed by +Africans, often of their own religion and blood, because a gang +of greedy materialists, a few thousand miles away, was suffering +from megalomania. . . .</p> +<p>Indeed to Bertram it was food for much thought that in that +tiny <i>boma</i> in a tropical African swamp, Anglo-Indians, +Englishmen, Colonials, Arabs, Yaos, Swahilis, Gurkhas, Rajputs, +Sikhs, Marathas, Punjabis, Pathans, Soudanese, Nubians, Bengalis, +Goanese, and a mob of assorted <i>shenzis</i> of the primeval +jungle, should be laying down their lives because, in distant +Berlin, a hare-brained Kaiser could not control a crowd of greedy +and swollen-headed military aristocrats.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>“Your month’s tobacco ration, Greene,” said +Berners one morning, as he entered Bertram’s hut, +“and <i>don’t</i> leave your boots on the floor to +attract jigger-fleas—unless you <i>want</i> blood-poisoning +and guinea-worm—or is it guinea-fowl? Hang them on +the wall. . . . And look between your toes every time you +take ’em off. Jigger-fleas are, hell, once they get +under the skin and lay their eggs. . .” and he handed +Bertram some cakes of perfectly black tobacco.</p> +<p><a name="page197"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +197</span>“But, my dear chap, I couldn’t smoke +<i>that</i>,” said Bertram, eyeing the horrible stuff +askance.</p> +<p>“Of course you can’t <i>smoke</i> it,” +replied Berners.</p> +<p>“What can I do with it, then?” he asked.</p> +<p>“Anything you like. . . . I don’t care. . . +. It’s your tobacco ration, and I’ve issued it +to you, and there the matter ends. .. . You can +revet your trench parapet with it if you like—or give it to +the Wadegos to poison their arrows with. . . . Jolly useful +stuff, really. . . . Sole your boots, tile the roof of your +<i>banda</i>, make a parquet floor round your bed, put it in +Chatterji’s tea, make a chair seat, lay down a pathway to +the Mess, make your mother a teapot-stand, feed the +chickens—oh, lots of things. But you can’t +<i>smoke</i> it, of course. . . . You expect too much, my +lad. . . .”</p> +<p>“Why do they issue it, then?” asked Bertram.</p> +<p>“Same reason that they issue inedible bully-beef and +unbreakable biscuits, I s’pose—contractors must +<i>live</i>, mustn’t they? . . . Be reasonable. . . +.”</p> +<p>And again it seemed to the foolish civilian mind of this young +man that, since tons of this black cake tobacco (which no British +officer ever has smoked or could smoke) cost money, however +little—there would be more sense in spending the money on a +small quantity of Turkish and Virginian cigarettes that +<i>could</i> be smoked, by men accustomed to such things, and +suffering cruelly for lack of them. Throughout the campaign +he saw a great deal of this strong, black cake issued (to men +accustomed to good cigarettes, cigars or pipe-mixture), but he +never saw any of it smoked. He presented his portion to +Ali, who traded it to people of palate and stomach less delicate +than those the British Government expects the British officer to +possess. . . .</p> +<p>“You look seedy, Greene,” observed the Major that +same evening, as Bertram dragged himself across the black mud +from his <i>banda</i> to the Bristol Bar—wondering if he +would ever get there.</p> +<p>“Touch of fever, sir. I’m all right,” +replied he, wishing that everyone and everything were not so +nebulous and rotatory.</p> +<p>He did not mention that he had been up all night with +dysentery, and had been unable to swallow solid food for three +days. (Nor that his temperature was one hundred and +four—because he was unaware of the fact.) But he knew +that the moment was <a name="page198"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 198</span>not far off when all his will-power +and uttermost effort would be unable to get him off his +camp-bed. He had done his best—but the worst climate +in the world, a diet of indigestible and non-nutritious food, +taken in hopelessly inadequate quantities; bad water; constant +fever; dysentery; long patrol marches; night alarms; high +nerve-tension (when a sudden bang followed by a fusillade might +mean a desultory attention, a containing action while a more +important place was being seriously attacked, or that final and +annihilating assault of a big force which was daily expected); +and the monotonous, dirty, dreary life in that evil spot, had +completely undermined his strength. He was “living on +his nerves,” and they were nearly gone. “You +look like an old hen whose neck has been half-wrung for +to-morrow’s dinner before she was found to be the wrong +one, and reprieved,” said Augustus. “You let me +make you a real, rousing cock-eye, and then we’ll have an +<i>n’goma</i> <a name="citation198"></a><a +href="#footnote198" class="citation">[198]</a>—all the lot +of us. . . .”</p> +<p>But finding Bertram quite unequal to dealing with a cock-eye +or sustaining his part in a tribal dance that should +“astonish the natives,” he helped Bertram over to his +<i>banda</i>, took off his boots and got him a hot drink of +condensed milk and water laced with ration rum.</p> +<p>In the morning Bertram took his place at Stand-to and +professed himself equal to performing his duty, which was that of +making a reconnoitring-patrol as far as Paso, where there was +another outpost. . . .</p> +<p>Here he arrived in time for tea, and had some with real fresh +cow’s milk in it; and had a cheery buck with Major Bidwell, +Captains Tucker and Bremner, and Lieutenants Innes (another +Filbert), Richardson, Stirling, Carroll, and Jones—stout +fellows all, and very kind to him. He was very sorry indeed +when it was time for him to march back again with his patrol.</p> +<p>He started on the homeward journey, feeling fairly well, for +him; but he could never remember how he completed it. . . .</p> +<p>The darkness gathered so rapidly that he had a suspicion that +the darkness was within him. Then he found that he was +continually running into trees or being brought up short by +impenetrable bush that somehow sprang up before him. . . . +Also he was talking aloud, and rather surprised at his eloquence. +. . . Then he was lying on the ground—being put on +his <a name="page199"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 199</span>feet +again—falling again . . . trying to fight a bothering swarm +of <i>askaris</i> with a quill pen, while he addressed the House +of Commons on the iniquity of allowing Bupendranath Chatterji to +be in medical charge of four hundred men with insufficient +material to deal with a street accident. . . . Marching +again, falling again, being put on his feet again. . . .</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>After two days on his camp-bed he was somewhat better, and on +the next day he found himself in sole command of the Butindi +outpost and a man of responsibility and pride. Urgent +messages had taken Major Mallery with half the force in one +direction, and Captain Wavell with half the remainder in +another.</p> +<p>Suppose there should be an attack while he was in +command! He half hoped there would be. . . .</p> +<p>Towards evening an alarm from a sentry and the turning out of +the guard brought him running to the main gate, shouting +“Stand-to!” as he ran.</p> +<p>Through his glasses he saw that a European and a small party +of natives were approaching the <i>boma</i>. . . .</p> +<p>The new-comer was an Englishman of the name of Desmont, in the +Intelligence Department, who had just made a long and dangerous +tour through the neighbouring parts of German East in search of +information. Apparently Butindi was the first British +outpost that he had struck, as he asked endless questions about +others—apparently with a view to visiting them <i>en +route</i> to the Base Camp. Bertram extended to him such +hospitality as Butindi could afford, and gave him all the help +and information in his power. He had a very strong +conviction that the man was disguised (whether his huge beard was +false or not), but he supposed that it was very natural in the +case of an Intelligence Department spy, scout, or secret +agent. Anyhow, he was most obviously English. . . .</p> +<p>While he sat in the Officers’ Mess and talked with the +man—a most interesting conversation—Ali Suleiman +entered with coco-nuts and a rum-jar. Seeing the stranger, +he instantly wheeled about and retired, sending another servant +in with the drinks. . . .</p> +<p>After a high-tea of coco-nut, biscuit, bully-beef, and roasted +mealie-cobs, Desmont, who looked worn out, asked if he might <a +name="page200"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 200</span>lie down +for a few hours before he “moved off” again. +Bertram at once took him to his own <i>banda</i> and bade him +make himself at home. Five minutes later came Ali with an +air of mystery to where Bertram paced up and down the “High +Street,” and asked if he might speak with him.</p> +<p>“That man a <i>Germani</i>, sah!” quoth he. +“Spy-man he is. Debbil-man. His own name +<i>not</i> Desmont <i>Bwana</i>, and he is big man in +Dar-es-Salaam and Tabora, and knowing all the big <i>Germani +bwanas</i>. I was his gun-boy and I go with him to +<i>Germani</i> East. . . . <i>Bwana</i> go and shoot him +for dead, sah, by damn!”</p> +<p>Bertram sat down heavily on a chop-box.</p> +<p>“<i>What</i>?” gasped he.</p> +<p>“Yessah, thank you please. One of those porters +not a <i>shenzi</i> at all. He Desmont <i>Bwana’s</i> +head boy Murad. Very bad man, sah. Master look in +this spy-man’s chop-boxes. <i>Germani</i> uniform in +one—under rice and posho. Master see. . . +.”</p> +<p>“You’re a fool, Ali,” said Bertram.</p> +<p>“Yessah,” said Ali, “and Desmont +<i>Bwana</i> a <i>Germani</i> spy-man. Master go an’ +shoot him for dead while asleep—or tie him to tree till +Mallery <i>Bwana</i> coming. . . .”</p> +<p><i>Now</i> what was to be done? Here was a case for +swift action by the “strong silent man” type of +person who thought like lightning and acted like some more +lightning.</p> +<p>If he did nothing and let the man go when he had rested, would +his conduct be that of a fool and a weakling who could not act +promptly and efficiently on information received—conduct +deserving the strongest censure? . . .</p> +<p>And if he arrested and detained one of their own Intelligence +Officers, on the word of a native servant, would he ever hear the +last of it?</p> +<p>“<i>Bwana</i> come and catch this bad man Murad,” +suggested Ali. “<i>Bwana</i> say, +‘<i>Jambo</i>, <i>Murad ibn Mustapha</i>! <i>How much +rupees Desmont Bwana paying you for spy-work</i>?’ and +<i>Bwana</i> see him jump! By damn, sah! <i>Bwana</i> +hold revolver ready.” . . .</p> +<p>“Does the man know English then?” asked the +perturbed and undecided Bertram.</p> +<p>“Yessah—all the same better as I do,” was +the reply. “And he pretending to be poor +<i>shenzi</i> porter. He knowing <i>Germani</i> too. . . +.”</p> +<p><a name="page201"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 201</span>At +any rate, he might look into <i>this</i>, and if anything +suspicious transpired, he could at least prevent Desmont from +leaving before Mallery returned.</p> +<p>“Has he seen you?” asked Bertram.</p> +<p>“No, sah, nor has Desmont <i>Bwana</i>,” was the +reply—and Bertram bade Ali show him where the porters +were.</p> +<p>They were outside the <i>boma</i>, squatting round a +cooking-fire near the “lines” of the Kavirondo +porters.</p> +<p>Approaching the little group, Bertram drew his revolver and +held it behind him. He did not know why he did this. +Possibly subconscious memory of Ali’s advice, perhaps with +the expectation that the men might attack him or attempt to +escape; or perhaps a little pleasant touch of melodrama. . . +.</p> +<p>“<i>Jambo</i>, <i>Murad ibn Mustapha</i>!” he said +suddenly. “<i>Desmont Bwana wants you at +once</i>. <i>Go quickly</i>.”</p> +<p>A man arose immediately and approached him. “Go +back and sit down,” said Bertram, covering the man with his +revolver and speaking in German. He returned and sat +down. Evidently he understood English and German and +answered to the name of Murad ibn Mustapha! . . .</p> +<p>Ali had spoken the truth and it was now up to Bertram Greene +to act wisely, promptly and firmly. This lot should be kept +under arrest anyhow. But might not all this be part of +Desmont’s game as a scout, spy and secret service agent of +the British Intelligence Department. Yes, <i>or</i> of the +German Intelligence Department.</p> +<p>If there was a German uniform in one of the chop-boxes, it +might well be a disguise for him to wear in German East. Or +it might be his real dress. Anyhow—he shouldn’t +leave the outpost until Major Mallery returned. .</p> +<p>. . And that was a weak shelving of +responsibility. He was in command of the post, and Major +Mallery and the other officers with him might be scuppered. +It was quite possible that neither the Major’s party nor +Captain Wavell’s might ever get back to Butindi. He +strolled over to his <i>banda</i> and looked in.</p> +<p>Desmont was evidently suffering from digestive troubles or a +bad conscience, for his face was contorted, he moved restlessly +and ground his teeth.</p> +<p>Suddenly he screamed like a woman and cried:</p> +<p>“<i>Ach</i>! <i>Gott in Himmel</i>! +<i>Nein</i>, <i>Nein</i>! <i>Ich</i> . . .”</p> +<p><a name="page202"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +202</span>Bertram drew his revolver. The man was a +German. Englishmen don’t talk German in their +sleep.</p> +<p>The alleged Desmont moaned.</p> +<p>“<i>Zu müde</i>,” he said. “<i>Zu +müde</i>.” . . .</p> +<p>Bertram sat down on his camp-stool and watched the man.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>The Herr Doktor Karl Stein-Brücker had made a name for +himself in German East, as one who knew how to manage the +native. This in a country where they all pride themselves +on knowing how to manage the native—how to put the fear of +Frightfulness and <i>Kultur</i> into his heart. He had once +given a great increase to a growing reputation by flogging a +woman to death, on suspicion of unfaithfulness. He had +wielded the <i>kiboko</i> with his own (literally) red right hand +until he was aweary, and had then passed the job on to Murad ibn +Mustapha, who was very slow to tire. But even he had had to +be kept to it at last. . . .</p> +<p>“<i>Noch nichte</i>!” had the Herr Doktor said, +“<i>Not yet</i>!” as Murad wished to stop, and</p> +<p>“<i>Ganz klein wenig</i>!” as the brawny arm +dropped. “<i>Just a little more</i>.” . . .</p> +<p>It had been a notable and memorable punishment—but the +devil of it was that whenever the Herr Doktor got run down or +over-ate himself, he had a most terrible nightmare, wherein +Marayam, streaming with blood, pursued him, caught him, and +flogged him. And when she tired, he was doomed to urge her +on to further efforts. After screaming with agony, he must +moan “<i>Zu müde</i>! <i>Zu +müde</i>!” and then—when she would have +stopped—“<i>Noch nichte</i>!” and +“<i>Ganz klein wenig</i>!” so that she began +afresh. Then he must struggle, break free, leap at +her—and find himself sweating, weeping and trembling beside +his bed.</p> +<p>Presently the moaning sleeper cried “<i>Noch +nichte</i>!” and a little later “<i>Ganz klein +wenig</i>!”—and then with a scream and a struggle, +leapt from the camp cot and sprang at Bertram, whose revolver +straightway went off. With a cough and a gurgle the +<i>soi-disant</i> Desmont collapsed with a ·450 service +bullet through his heart.</p> +<p>When Major Mallery returned at dawn he found a delirious +Second-Lieutenant Greene (and a dead European, and a wonderful +tale from one Ali Suleiman. . . .)</p> +<p><a name="page203"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 203</span>With +a temperature of 105·8 he did not seem likely to live. . . +.</p> +<p>Whether Bertram Greene lived or died, however, he had, albeit +ignorantly, avenged the cruel wrong done to his father. . . +. He—the despised and rejected one—had avenged +Major Hugh Walsingham Greene. Fate plays some queer tricks +and Time’s whirligig performs some quaint gyrations!</p> +<h2><a name="page204"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 204</span>PART +III<br /> +THE BAKING OF BERTRAM BY LOVE</h2> +<h3>CHAPTER I<br /> +<i>Mrs. Stayne-Brooker Again</i></h3> +<p>Luckily for himself, Second-Lieutenant Bertram Greene was +quite unconscious when he was lifted from his camp-bed into a +stretcher by the myrmidons of Mr. Chatterji and dispatched, +carriage paid, to M’paga. What might happen to him +there was no concern of Mr. Chatterji’s—which was the +important point so far as that gentleman was concerned.</p> +<p>Unconscious he remained as the four Kavirondo porters, the +stretcher on their heads, jogged along the jungle path in the +wake of Ali and the three other porters who bore his +baggage. Behind the stretcher-bearers trotted four more of +their brethren who would relieve them of their burden at regular +intervals.</p> +<p>Ali was in command, and was also in a hurry, for various +reasons, including prowling enemy patrols and his master’s +dire need of help. He accordingly set a good pace and kept +the “low niggers” of his party to it by fabulous +promises, hideous threats, and even more by the charm of +song—part song in fact. Lifting up his powerful voice +he delivered in deep diapason a mighty</p> +<p>“<i>Ah-Nah-Nee-Nee</i>! +<i>Ah-Nah-Nee-Nee</i>!”</p> +<p>to which all the congregation responded</p> +<p>“<i>Umba Jo-eel</i>! <i>Umba Jo-eel</i>”</p> +<p>as is meet and right to do.</p> +<p>And when, after a few hundred thousand repetitions of this, in +strophe and antistrophe, there seemed a possibility that restless +and volatile minds desiring change might seek some new thing, Ali +sang</p> +<p>“<i>Hay-Ah-Mon-Nee</i>! +<i>Hay-Ah-Mon-Nee</i>!”</p> +<p>which is quite different, and the jogging, sweating +congregation, with deep earnestness and conviction, took up the +response:</p> +<p>“<i>Tunk-Tunk-Tunk-Tunk</i>!”</p> +<p><a name="page205"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 205</span>and +all fear of the boredom of monotony was gone—especially as, +after a couple of hours of this, you could go back to the former +soulful and heartsome Threnody, and begin again. But if +they got no forrader with the concert they steadily got forrader +with the journey, as their loping jog-trot ate up the miles.</p> +<p>And, in time to their regular foot-fall and chanting, the +insensible head of the white man rolled from side to side +unceasingly. . . .</p> +<p>Unconscious he still was when the little party entered the +Base Camp, and Private Henry Hall remarked to Private John +Jones:</p> +<p>“That there bloke’s gone West all right but +’e ain’t gone long. . . . You can see +’e’s dead becos ’is ’ead’s a +waggling and you can see ’e ain’t bin dead +<i>long</i> becos ’is ’ead’s a waggling. . . +.”</p> +<p>And Private John Jones, addressing the speaker as Mister +Bloomin’-Well Sherlock ’Olmes, desired that he would +cease to chew the fat.</p> +<p>Steering his little convoy to the tent over which the Red +Cross flew, Ali handed over his master and the cleft stick +holding Major Mallery’s letter, to Captain Merstyn, +R.A.M.C., and then stood by for orders.</p> +<p>It appeared that the <i>Barjordan</i> was off M’paga, +that a consignment of sick and wounded was just going on board, +and that Second-Lieutenant Greene could go with them. . . .</p> +<p>That night Bertram was conveyed out to sea in a dhow (towed by +a petrol-launch from the <i>Barjordan</i>), taken on board that +ship, and put comfortably to bed. The next night he was in +hospital at Mombasa and had met Mrs. Stayne-Brooker.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>As, thanks to excellent nursing, he very slowly returned to +health and strength, Bertram began to take an increasing interest +in the very charming and very beautiful woman whom he had once +seen and admired at the Club, who daily took his temperature, +brought his meals, administered his medicine, kept his official +chart, shook up his pillows, put cooling hands upon his forehead, +found him books to read, talked to him at times, attended the +doctor on his daily visits, and superintended the brief labours +of the Swahili youth who was ward-boy and house-maid on that +floor of the hospital.</p> +<p>Before long, the events of the day were this lady’s +visits, and, <a name="page206"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +206</span>on waking, he would calculate the number of hours until +she would enter his room and brighten it with her presence. +He had never seen so sweet, kind, and gentle a face. It was +beautiful too, even apart from its sweetness, kindness and +gentleness. He was very thankful when he found himself no +longer too weak to turn his head and follow her with his eyes, as +she moved about the room. It was indescribably delightful +to have a woman, and such a woman, about one’s sick +bed—after negro servants, Indian orderlies, <i>shenzi</i> +stretcher-bearers, and Bengali doctors. How his heart +swelled with gratitude as she laid her cool hand on his forehead, +or raised his head and gave him a cooling drink. . . . But +how sad she looked! . . . He hated to see her putting up +the mosquito-curtains that covered the big frame-work, like the +skeleton of a room, in which his bed stood, and which, at night, +formed a mosquito-proof room-within-a-room, and provided space +for his bedside chair, table and electric-lamp, as well as for +the doctor and nurse, if necessary.</p> +<p>One morning he sat up and said:</p> +<p>“<i>Please</i> let me do that, Sister—I hate to +see you working for me—though I love to see <i>you</i> . . +.” and then had been gently pushed back on to his pillow +as, with a laugh, Mrs. Stayne-Brooker said:</p> +<p>“That’s what I’m here for—to work I +mean,” and patted his wasted hand. (He <i>was</i> +such a dear boy, and so appreciative of what one could do for +him. It made one’s heart ache to see him such a +wasted skeleton.)</p> +<p>The time came when he could sit in a long chair with leg-rest +arms, and read a book; but he found that most of his time was +spent in thinking of the Sister and in the joys of retrospection +and anticipation. He had to put aside, quite resolutely, +all thought of the day when he would be declared fit for duty and +be “returned to store.” Think of a <i>banda</i> +at Butindi and of this white room with its beautiful outlook +across the strait to the palm-feathered shore; think of Ali as +one’s cup-bearer and of this sweet angelic Englishwoman. . +. . Better not think of it at all. . . .</p> +<p>It was quite a little shock to him, one day, to notice that +she wore a wedding-ring. . . . He had never thought of +that. . . . He felt something quite like a little twinge of +jealousy. . . . He was sure the man must be a splendid +fellow though, or she would never have married him. . . . +How old would she be? It was no <a name="page207"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 207</span>business of his, and it was not +quite gentlemanly to speculate on such a subject—but +somehow he had not thought of her as “an old married +woman.” Not that married women are necessarily older +than unmarried women. . . . A silly +expression—“old” married women. He had +imagined her to be about his own generation so to speak. +Possibly a <i>little</i> older than himself—in +years—but years don’t make age really. . . . +Fancy her being married! Well, well, well! . . . But +what did that matter—she was just as much the charming and +beautiful woman for whom he would have laid down his life in +sheer gratitude. . . .</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>A man gets like this after fever. He is off his balance, weak, +neurasthenic, and devoid of the sense of proportion. He +waxes sentimental, and is to be forgiven.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>But there is not even this excuse for Mrs. Stayne-Brooker.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>She began by rather boring her daughter, Eva, about her new +patient—his extreme gratitude, his charming ways and +thoughts, his true gentleness of nature, his delightful views, +the <i>niceness</i> of his mind, the likeableness of him. . . +. She wondered aloud as to whether he had a +mother—she must be a very nice woman. She wondered in +silence as to whether he had a wife—she must be a very +happy woman. . . . How old was he? . . . It was so +hard to tell with these poor fellows, brought in so wasted with +fever and dysentery; and rank wasn’t much guide to age +nowadays. He <i>might</i> be. . . . +Well—he’d be up and gone before long, and she’d +never see him again, so what was the good of wondering. . . +. And she continued to wonder. . . . And then, from +rather boring Miss Stayne-Brooker with talk about Lieutenant +Greene she went to the extreme, and never mentioned him at +all.</p> +<p>For, one day, with an actual gasp of horrified amazement, she +found that she had suddenly realised that possibly the poets and +novelists were not so wrong as she had believed, and that there +<i>might</i> be such a thing as the Love—they hymned and +described—and that Peace and Happiness might be its +inseparable companions. . . . She would read her Browning, +Herrick, Swinburne, Rosetti again, her Dante, her Mistral, and +some of those plays and poems of Love that the world called +wonderful, <a name="page208"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +208</span>beautiful, true, for she had an idea that she might see +glimmerings of wonder, beauty and truth in them—<i>now</i>. +. . .</p> +<p>But then—how absurd!—at <i>her</i> age. Of +course she would not read them again! At <i>her</i> age! . +. .</p> +<p>And proceeded to do so at <i>her</i> Dangerous Age. . . .</p> +<p>Strange that <i>his</i> name should be Green or +Greene—he was the fifth person of that name whom she had +met since she left Major Walsingham Greene, eighteen years ago. . +. .</p> +<h3>CHAPTER II<br /> +<i>Love</i></h3> +<p>All too soon for two people concerned, Doctor Mowbray, the +excellent Civil Surgeon of Mombasa, in whose hospital Bertram +was, decided that that young gentleman might forthwith be let +loose on ticket-of-leave between the hours of ten and ten for a +week or two, preparatory to his discharge from hospital for a +short spell of convalescence-leave before rejoining his regiment. +. . .</p> +<p>“I’ll call for you and take you for a drive after +lunch,” said Mrs. Stayne-Brooker, “and then you shall +have tea with me, and we’ll go over to the Club and sit on +the verandah. You mustn’t walk much, your first day +out.”</p> +<p>“I’m going to run miles,” said Bertram, +smiling up into her face and taking her hand as she stood beside +his chair—a thing no other patient had dared to do or would +have been permitted to do. (“He was such a dear +boy—one would never dream of snubbing him or snatching away +a hand he gratefully stroked—it would be like hitting a +baby or a nice friendly dog. . . .”)</p> +<p>“Then you’ll be ill again at once,” rejoined +Mrs. Stayne-Brooker, giving the hand that had crept into hers a +little chiding shake.</p> +<p>“Exactly . . . and prolong my stay here. . .” said +Bertram, and his eyes were very full of kindness and gratitude as +they met eyes that were also very full.</p> +<p>(“What a sweet, kind, good woman she was! And what +a cruel wrench it would be to go away and perhaps never see her +again. . . .”)</p> +<p>He went for his drive with Mrs. Stayne-Brooker in a car put at +<a name="page209"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 209</span>her +disposal, for the purpose, by the Civil Surgeon; and found he was +still very weak and that it was nevertheless good to be +alive.</p> +<p>At tea he met Miss Stayne-Brooker, and, for a moment, his +breath was taken away by her beauty and her extraordinary +likeness to her mother.</p> +<p>He thought of an opened rose and an opening rose-bud (exactly +alike save for the “open” and “opening” +difference), on the same stalk. . . . It was wonderful how +alike they were, and how young Mrs. Stayne-Brooker +looked—away from her daughter. . . . The +drive-and-tea programme was repeated almost daily, with +variations, such as a stroll round the golf-course, as the +patient grew stronger. . . . And daily Bertram saw the very +beautiful and fascinating Miss Stayne-Brooker and daily grew more +and more grateful to Mrs. Stayne-Brooker. He was grateful +to her for so many things—for her nursing, her hospitality, +her generous giving of her time; her kindness in the matter of +lending him books (the books she liked best, prose works +<i>and</i> others); her kind interest in him and his career, +ambitions, tastes, views, hopes and fears; for her being the +woman she was and for brightening his life as she had, not to +mention saving it; and, above all, he was grateful to her for +having such a daughter. . . . He told her that he admired +Miss Stayne-Brooker exceedingly, and she did not tell him that +Miss Stayne-Brooker did not admire him to the same extent. . . +. She was a little sorry that her daughter did not seem as +enthusiastic about him as she herself was, for we love those whom +we admire to be admired. But she realised that a chit of a +girl, fresh from a Cheltenham school, was not to be expected to +appreciate a man like this one, a scholar, an artist to his +finger-tips, a poet, a musician, a man who had read everything +and could talk interestingly of anything—a man whose mind +was a sweet and pleasant storehouse—a <i>kind</i> man, a +gentleman, a man who, thank God, <i>needed</i> one, and yet to +whom one’s ideas were of as much interest as one’s +face and form. Of course, the average +“Cheerioh” subaltern, whose talk was of dances and +racing and sport, would, very naturally, be of more interest to a +callow girl than this man whose mind (to Mrs. Stayne-Brooker) a +kingdom was, and who had devoted to the study of music, art, +literature, science, and the drama, the time that the other man +had given to the pursuit of <a name="page210"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 210</span>various hard and soft balls, +inoffensive quadrupeds, and less inoffensive bipeds.</p> +<p>Thus Mrs. Stayne-Brooker, addressing, in imagination, a +foolishly unappreciative Eva Stayne-Brooker.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>As she and her daughter sat at dinner on the verandah which +looked down on to Vasco da Gama Street, one evening, a month +later, her Swahili house-boy brought Mrs. Stayne-Brooker a +message. . . . A <i>shenzi</i> was without, and he had a +<i>chit</i> which he would give into no hands save those of Mrs. +Stayne-Brooker herself.</p> +<p>It was the escaped Murad ibn Mustapha, in disguise.</p> +<p>On hearing his news, she did what she had believed people only +did in books. She fell down in a faint and lay as one +dead.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>Miss Stayne-Brooker tried to feel as strongly as her mother +evidently did, but signally failed, her father having been an +almost complete stranger to her. She was a little surprised +that the blow should have been so great as to strike her mother +senseless, for there had certainly been nothing demonstrative +about her attitude to her husband—to say the least of +it. She supposed that married folk got like that . . . +loved each other all right but never showed it at all. . . +Nor had what she had seen of her father honestly impressed her +with the feeling that he was a <i>very</i> lovable person. +Neither before dinner nor after it—when he was quite a +different man. . . .</p> +<p>Still—here was her mother, knocked flat by the news of +his death, and now lying on her bed in a condition which seemed +to vary between coma and hysteria. . . .</p> +<p>Knocked flat—(and yet, from time to time, she murmured, +“Thank God! Oh, thank God!”). Queer!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>When Mr. Greene called next day, Miss Eva received him in the +morning-sitting-drawing-room and told him the sad news. Her +father had died. . . . He was genuinely shocked.</p> +<p>“Oh, your poor, <i>poor</i> mother!” said +he. “I am grieved for her”—and sat +silent, his face looking quite sad. Obviously there was no +need for sympathy with Miss Eva as she frankly confessed that she +scarcely knew her father and felt for him only as one <a +name="page211"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 211</span>does for a +most distant relation, whom one has scarcely ever seen.</p> +<p>With a request that she would convey his most heart-felt +condolence and deepest sympathy to her mother, he withdrew and +returned to the Mombasa Hotel, where he was now staying, an +ex-convalescent awaiting orders. . . He had hoped for an +evening with Eva. That evening the <i>Elymas</i> steamed +into Kilindini harbour and Bertram, strolling down to the pier, +met Captain Murray, late Adjutant of the One Hundred and +Ninety-Ninth, and Lieutenant Reginald Macteith, both of whom had +just come ashore from her.</p> +<p>He wrung Murray’s hand, delighted to see him, and +congratulated him on his escape from regimental duty, and shook +hands with Macteith.</p> +<p>“By Jove, Cupid, you look ten years older than when I +saw you last,” said Murray, laying his hand on +Bertram’s shoulder and studying his face. “I +should hardly have known you. . . .”</p> +<p>“Quite a little man now,” remarked Macteith, and +proceeded to enquire as to where was the nearest and best +Home-from-Home in Mombasa, where one could have +A-Drink-and-a-Little-Music-what-what?</p> +<p>“I am staying at the Mombasa Hotel,” said Bertram +coldly, to which Macteith replied that he hoped it appreciated +its privilege.</p> +<p>Bertram felt that he hated Macteith, but also had a curious +sense that that young gentleman had either lost in stature or +that he, Bertram, had gained. . . . Anyhow he had seen War, +and, so far, Macteith had not. He had no sort of fear of +anything Macteith could say or do—and he’d welcome +any opportunity of demonstrating the fact. . . . Dirty +little worm! Chatting gaily with Murray, he took them to +the Mombasa Club and there found a note from Mrs. Stayne-Brooker +asking him to come to tea on the morrow.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>“I won’t attempt to offer condolence nor express +my absolute sympathy, Mrs. Stayne-Brooker,” said Bertram as +he took her hand and led her to her favourite settee.</p> +<p>“Don’t,” said she.</p> +<p>“My heart aches for you, though,” he added.</p> +<p>“It need not,” replied Mrs. Stayne-Brooker, and, +as Bertram looked his wonder at her enigmatic reply and manner, +she continued:</p> +<p><a name="page212"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +212</span>“I will not pretend to <i>you</i>. I will +be honest. Your heart need not ache for me at +all—because mine sings with relief and gratitude and joy. . +. .”</p> +<p>Bertram’s jaw fell in amazement. He felt +inexpressibly shocked.</p> +<p>Or was it that grief had unhinged the poor lady’s +mind?</p> +<p>“I am going to say to you what I have never said to a +living soul, and will never say again. . . . I have never +even said it to myself. . . . <i>I hated him most utterly +and most bitterly</i>. . . .”</p> +<p>Bertram was more shocked than he had ever been in his life. . +. This was terrible! . . . He wanted to say, +“Oh, hush!” and get up and go away.</p> +<p>“I could not <i>tell</i> you how I hated him,” +continued Mrs. Stayne-Brooker, “for he spoilt my whole +life. . . . I am not going into details nor am I going to +say one word against him beyond that. I repeat that he +<i>made</i> me loathe him—from my very wedding-day . . . +and I leave you to judge. . . .”</p> +<p>Bertram judged.</p> +<p>He was very young—much younger than his years—and +he judged as the young do, ignorantly, harshly, cruelly. . . +.</p> +<p>What manner of woman, after all, was this, who spoke of her +dead husband? Of her own husband—scarcely cold in his +grave. Of her <i>husband</i> of all people in the world! . +. . He could have wept with the shame and misery of it, the +disillusionment, the shattering blow which she herself had dealt +at the image and idol that he had set up in his heart and +gratefully worshipped.</p> +<p>He looked up miserably as he heard the sound of a sob in the +heavy silence of the room. She was weeping bitterly, shaken +from head to foot with the violence of her—her—what +could it be? not grief for her husband of course. Did she +weep for the life that he had “spoilt” as she +expressed it? Was it because of her wasted opportunities +for happiness, the years that the locust had eaten, the +never-to-return days of her youth, when joy and gaiety should +have been hers?</p> +<p>What could he say to her?—save a banal +“Don’t cry”? There was nothing to +say. He did not know when he had felt so miserable and +uncomfortable. . . .</p> +<p>“It is over,” she said suddenly, and dried her +tears; but whether she alluded to the unhappiness of her life +with her husband, or to her brief tempest of tears, he did not +know.</p> +<p>What could he say to her? . . . It was horrible to see a +woman <a name="page213"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +213</span>cry. And she had been <i>so</i> good to +him. She had revived his interest in life when through the +miasma of fever he had seen it as a thing horrible and menacing, +a thing to flee from. How could he comfort her? She +had made no secret of the fact that she liked him exceedingly, +and that to talk to him of the things that matter in Life, Art, +Literature, Music, History, was a pleasure akin to that of a +desert traveller who comes upon an inexhaustible well of pure +water. Perhaps she liked him so well that he could offer, +acceptably, that Silent Sympathy that is said to be so much finer +and more efficacious than words. . . . Could he? . . +Could he? . . .</p> +<p>Conquering his sense of repulsion at her attitude toward her +newly dead husband, and remembering all he owed to her sweet +kindness, he crossed to her settee, knelt on one knee beside her, +took her hand, and put it to his lips without a word. She +would understand—and he would go.</p> +<p>With a little sobbing cry, Mrs. Stayne-Brooker snatched her +hand from him, and, throwing her arms about his neck, pressed her +lips to his—her face was transfigured as with a great +light—the light of the knowledge that the poets had told +the great and wondrous truth when they sang of Love as the +Greatest Thing—and sung but half the truth. All that +she longed for, dreamed of, yearned over—and +disbelieved—was true and had come to pass. . . .</p> +<p>She looked no older than her own daughter—and forgot +that she was a woman of thirty-seven years, and that the man who +knelt in homage (the moment that she was free to receive his +homage!) <i>might</i> be but little over thirty.</p> +<p>She did not understand—but perhaps, in that moment, +received full compensation for her years of misery, and her +marred, thwarted, wasted womanhood.</p> +<p>Oh, thank God; thank God, that he loved her . . . she could +not have borne it if . . .</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>Glad that he had succeeded in comforting her, slightly puzzled +and vaguely stirred, he arose and went out, still without a +word.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>Returning to his hotel, he found a telegram ordering him to +proceed “forthwith” to a place called Soko Nassai +<i>via</i> Voi and Taveta, and as “forthwith” means +the next train, and the next <a name="page214"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 214</span>train to Voi on the Uganda Railway +went in two hours, he yelled for Ali, collected his kit, paid his +Club bill and got him to the railway station without having time +or opportunity to make any visits of farewell. That he had +to go without seeing Miss Eva again troubled him sorely, much +more so than he would have thought possible.</p> +<p>In fact he thought of her all night as he lay on the long +bed-seat of his carriage in a fog of fine red dust, instead of +sleeping or thinking of what lay before him at Taveta, whence, if +all or any of the Club gossip were true, he would be embarking +upon a very hard campaign, and one of “open” +fighting, too. This would be infinitely more interesting +than the sit-in-the-mud trench warfare, but it was not of this +that he found himself thinking so much as of the length and +silkiness of Miss Eva’s eyelashes, the tendrils of hair at +her neck, the perfection of her lips, and similar important +matters. He was exceedingly glad that he was going to be +attached to a Kashmiri regiment, because it was composed of +Dogras and Gurkhas, and he liked Gurkhas exceedingly, but he was +ten thousand times more glad that there was a Miss Eva +Stayne-Brooker in the world, that she was in Mombasa, that he +could think of her there, and, best of all, that he could return +and see her there when the war was o’er—and he sang +aloud:</p> +<blockquote><p>“When the war is o’er,<br /> +We’ll part no more.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>No—damn it all—one couldn’t sing “at +Ehren on the Rhine,” after the German had shown his country +to be the home of the most ruffianly, degraded, treacherous and +despicable brute the world has yet produced; and, turning over +with an impatient jerk, he tipped a little mound of drifted red +dust and sand into his mouth and his song turned to dust and +ashes and angry spluttering. <i>Absit omen</i>.</p> +<p>At Taveta, a name on a map and a locality beneath wooded +hills, Bertram found a detachment of his regiment, and was +accepted by his brother-officers as a useful-looking and very +welcome addition to their small Mess. He was delighted to +renew acquaintance with Augustus and with the Gurkha +Subedar—whom he had last seen at M’paga. Here +he also found the 29th Punjabis, the 130th Baluchis, and the 2nd +Rhodesians. In the intervals of thinking of Miss Eva, he +thought what splendid <a name="page215"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 215</span>troops they looked, and what a grand +and fortunate man he was to be one of their glorious Brigade.</p> +<p>When he smelt the horrible fever smell of the pestilential +Lumi swamp, he hoped Miss Eva would not get fever in Mombasa.</p> +<p>When he feasted his delighted eyes on Kilimanjaro, on the +rose-flushed snows and glaciers of Kibo and Mawenzi, their +amazing beauty was as the beauty of her face, and he walked +uplifted and entranced.</p> +<p>When the daily growing Brigade was complete, and marched west +through alternating dense bush and open prairie of moving grass, +across dry sandy nullahs or roughly bridged torrents, he marched +with light heart and untiring body, neither knowing nor caring +whether the march were long or short.</p> +<p>When Gussie Augustus Gus said it was dam’ hot and very +thoughtless conduct of Jan Smuts to make innocent and harmless +folk walk on their feet at midday, Bertram perceived that it +<i>was</i> hot, though he hadn’t noticed it. His +spirit had been in Mombasa, and his body had been unable to draw +its attention to such minor and sordid details as dust, heat, +thirst, weariness and weakness.</p> +<p>The ice-cold waters of the Himo River, which flows from the +Kilimanjaro snows to the Pangani, reminded him of the coolness of +her firm young hands.</p> +<p>As the Brigade camped on the ridge of a green and +flower-decked hill looking across the Pangani Valley, to the Pare +Hills, a scene of fertile beauty, English in its wooded rolling +richness, he thought of her with him in England; and as the +rancid smell of a frying <i>ghee</i>, mingled with the acrid +smell of wood smoke, was wafted from where Gurkha, Punjabi, +Pathan and Baluchi cooked their <i>chapattis</i> of <i>atta</i>, +he thought of her in India with him. . . .</p> +<p>Day after day the Brigade marched on, and whether it marched +between impenetrable walls of living green that formed a tunnel +in which the red dust floated always, thick, blinding and +choking, or whether it marched across great deserts of dried +black peat over which the black dust hung always, thicker, more +blinding and more choking—it was the same to +Second-Lieutenant Bertram Greene, as he marched beside the sturdy +little warriors of his regiment. His spirit marched through +the realms of Love’s wonderland rather than through deserts +and jungles, and the things of the spirit are more real, and +greater than those of the flesh.</p> +<p><a name="page216"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 216</span>For +preference he marched alone, alone with his men that is, and not +with a brother officer, that he might be spared the necessity of +conversation and the annoyance of distraction of his +thoughts. For miles he would trudge beside the Subedar in +companionly silence. He grew very fond of the staunch +little man to whom duty was a god. . . .</p> +<p>When the Brigade reached Soko Nassai it joined the Division +which (co-operating with Van Deventer’s South African +Division, then threatening Tabora and the Central Railway from +Kondoa Irangi) in three months conquered German East +Africa—an almost adequate force having been dispatched at +last. It consisted of the 2nd Kashmir Rifles, 28th +Punjabis, 130th Baluchis, the 2nd Rhodesians, a squadron of the +17th Cavalry, the 5th and 6th Batteries of the S.A. Field +Artillery, a section of the 27th Mountain Battery, and a company +of the 61st Pioneers, forming the First East African +Brigade. There were also the 25th Royal Fusiliers, the M.I. +and machine-guns of the Loyal North Lancashire Regiment, the East +African Mounted Rifles, a Howitzer Battery of Cornwall +Territorials, “Z” Signalling Company, a +“wireless” section, and a fleet of armoured +cars. In reserve were the 5th and 6th South Africans.</p> +<p>Few divisions have ever done more than this one +did—under the greatest hardships in one of the worst +districts in the world.</p> +<p>Its immediate task was to clear the Germans from their strong +positions in the Pare and Usambara Mountains, and to seize the +railway to Tanga on the coast, a task of all but superhuman +difficulty, as it could only be accomplished by the help of a +strong force making a flanking march through unexplored roadless +virgin jungle, down the Pangani valley, the very home of fever, +where everything would depend upon efficient transport—and +any transport appeared impossible. How could motor +transport go through densest trackless bush, or horse and bullock +transport where horse-sickness and tsetse fly forbade?</p> +<p>The First Brigade made the Pangani march and turning movement, +performing the impossible, and with it went Second-Lieutenant +Bertram Greene, head in air and soul among the stars, his heart +full of a mortal tenderness and caught up in a great divine +uplifting,</p> +<h3><a name="page217"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +217</span>CHAPTER III<br /> +<i>Love and War</i></h3> +<p>As he marched on, day after day, his thoughts moving to the +dogged tramp of feet, the groan of laden bullock-carts, the creak +of mule packs, the faint rhythmic tap of tin cup on a bayonet +hilt, the clank of a swinging chain end, through mimosa thorn and +dwarf scrub, dense forest, mephitic swamp or smitten desert, ever +following the river whose waters gave life and sudden death, the +river to leave which was to die of thirst, and to stay by which +was to die of fever, this march which would have been a nightmare +of suffering, was merely a dream—a dream from which he +would awake to arise and go to Mombasa. . . .</p> +<p>“I always thought you had guts, Greene,” said +Augustus coarsely, one night, as they laid their weary bones +beneath a tarpaulin stretched between two carts. “I +always thought you had ’em beneath your gentle-seeming +surface, so to speak—but dammy, you’re <i>all</i> +guts. . . . You’re a blooming whale, to march. . . +. Why the devil don’t you growl and grumble like a +Christian gentleman, eh? . . . I hate you ‘strong +silent men.’ . . . Dammitall—you march along +with a smug smile on your silly face! . . . You’re a +perfect tiger, you know. . . . Don’t like it. +. . . Colonel will be saying your +‘conduct under trying circumstances is an example and +inspiration to all ranks.’ . . . Will when +you’re dead anyhow. . . . Horrid habit. . . . +You go setting an example to <i>me</i>, and I’ll bite you +in the stomach, my lad. . . .”</p> +<p>Bertram laughed and looked out at the great stars—blue +diamonds sprinkled on black velvet—and was very happy.</p> +<p>Was he tired? Everybody else was, so he supposed he must +be.</p> +<p>Was he hungry? Yes—for the sight of a face. . . +. Oh, the joy of shutting his eyes and calling it to +memory’s eye, and of living over again every moment spent +in her presence!</p> +<p>He realised, with something like amazement, that Love grows +and waxes without the food and sustenance of the loved +one’s real presence. He loved her more than he had +done at Mombasa. Had he really <i>loved</i> her at Mombasa +at all? Certainly not as he did now—when he thought +of nothing else, and performed all his duties and functions +mechanically and was only here present in the mere dull and +unfeeling flesh. . . .</p> +<p><a name="page218"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 218</span>As +the column halted where, across an open glade, the menacing +sinister jungle might at any moment burst into crackling life, as +machine-gun and rifle-fire crashed out to mow men down, he felt +but mild interest, little curiosity and no vestige of fear. +He would do his duty to the utmost, of course, but—how +sweet to get a wound that would send him back to where she +was!</p> +<p>As the column crossed the baked mud of former floods, and his +eye noted the foot-prints, preserved in it, of elephant, lion, +large and small antelope, rhinoceros and leopard, these wonders +moved him to but faint interest, for he had something a thousand +times more interesting to think of. Things that would have +thrilled him before this great event, this greatest event, of his +life—such as the first complete assembling of the Brigade +in the first sufficient open space it had yet +encountered—by the great spare rock, Njumba-ya-Mawe, the +House of Stone, on which General Jan Smuts himself climbed to see +them pass; the sight of his own Kashmiris cutting a way straight +through the bush with their <i>kukris</i>; the glimpses of +animals he had hitherto only seen in zoological gardens; the +faint sound of far-distant explosions where the retiring Germans +were blowing up their railway culverts and bridges; the sight of +deserted German positions with their trenches littered with +coco-nut shells, husks, and mealie-cobs, their cunning +machine-gun positions, and their officers’ <i>bandas</i> +littered with empty tins and bottles; the infernal hullabaloo +when a lion got within the perimeter one night and stampeded the +mules; the sudden meeting with a little band of ragged emaciated +prisoners, some German patrol captured by the Pathan +<i>sowars</i> of the 17th or the Mounted Infantry of the +Lancashires; the passing, high in air, of a humming yellow +aeroplane; the distant rattle of machine-guns, like the crackling +of a forest fire, as the advance-guard came in sight of some +retiring party of Kraut’s force; the hollow far-off boom of +some big gun brought from the <i>Konigsberg</i>—dismantled +and deserted in the Rufigi river—as it fired from Sams upon +the frontal feint of the 2nd Brigade’s advance down the +railway or at the column of King’s African Rifles from +M’buyini—these things which would have so thrilled +him once, now left him cold—mere trifles that impinged but +lightly on his outer consciousness. . . .</p> +<p>“You’re a blasé old bloke, aren’t +you, Greene?” said the puzzled Augustus. +“Hardened old warrior like you can’t be <a +name="page219"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 219</span>expected to +take much interest in a dull game like war, unless they let you +charge guns and squares with cavalry, what? Sport without +danger’s no good to you, what? You wait till you find +a dam’ great Yao <i>askari</i> looking for your liver with +a bayonet, my lad. . . . See you sit up and take notice +then, what? Garn! You patient, grinning Griselda . . +.” and so forth.</p> +<p>But, one evening, as the column approached the South Pare +Mountains, near Mikocheni, Bertram “sat up and took +notice,” very considerable notice, as with a rush and a +roar and a terrific explosion, a column of black smoke and dust +shot up to the sky when a shell burst a few score yards +away—the first of a well-placed series of four-point-one +high explosive shells.</p> +<p>The column halted and lay low in the bush. Further +progress would be more wholesome in the dark.</p> +<p>“Naval guns: over seven miles away: dam’ good +shootin’,” quoth Augustus coolly, and with the air of +a connoisseur, adding, “and we’ve got nothing that +could carry half-way to ’em. I’m goin’ +’ome. . . .”</p> +<p>Bertram, everything driven from his mind but the thought that +he was under fire, was rejoiced to find himself as cool as +Augustus, who suddenly remarked, “I’m not as +’appy as you look, and I don’t b’lieve you are +either”—as the column hurriedly betook itself from +the position-betraying dust of the open to the shelter of the +scrub that lay between it and the river, the river so beautiful +in the rose-glow and gold of evening, and so deadly to all who +could not crawl beneath the sheltering mosquito curtains as the +light faded from the sinister-lovely scene.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>Next day the column found one of the enemy’s prepared +positions in the dense bush, and it was not, as hitherto, a +deserted one. The first intimation was, as usual in the +blind, fumbling fighting of East Africa, a withering blast of +Maxim fire, and terribly heavy casualties for a couple of +minutes.</p> +<p>At one moment, nothing at all—just a weary, plodding +line of hot, weary and dusty men, crossing a <i>dambo</i>, all +hypnotised from thought of danger by fatigue, familiarity and +normal immunity; at the next moment, slaughter, groans, brief +confusion, burst upon burst of withering fire, a line of still or +writhing forms.</p> +<p><a name="page220"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 220</span>It is +an inevitable concomitant of such warfare, wherein one feels for +one’s enemy rather than looks for him, and a hundred-mile +march is a hundred-mile ambush.</p> +<p>This particular nest of machine-guns and large force of +<i>askaris</i> was utterly invisible at a few yards’ range, +and, at a few yards’ range, it blasted the head and flank +of the column.</p> +<p>Instinctively the war-hardened Sepoys who survived dropped to +earth and opened fire at the section of bush whence came the hail +of death—a few scattered rifles against massed machine-guns +and a battalion of highly trained <i>askaris</i>, masters of +jungle-craft. As, still firing, they crawled backward to +the cover of the scrub on the side of the glade opposite to the +German position, the companies who had been marching behind them +deployed and painfully skirmished toward the concealed enemy, +halting to fire volleys into the dense bush in the probable +direction, striving to keep touch with their flanking companies, +to keep something like a line, to keep direction, to keep moving +forward, and to keep a sharp look-out for the enemy who, having +effected their surprise and caught the leading company in the +open, had vanished silently, machine-guns and all, from the +position which had served their purpose. . . .</p> +<p>A few feet in advance of his men as they skirmished forward, +extended to one pace interval, Bertram, followed by the Subedar, +crossed the line of dead and wounded caught by the first blast of +fire. He saw two men he knew, lieutenants of the 130th +Baluchis, who had evidently been made a special target by the +concealed riflemen and machine-gunners. He saw another with +his leg bent in the middle at right-angles—and realised +with horror that it was bent <i>forward</i>. Also that the +wounded man was Terence Brannigan. . . .</p> +<p>He feared he was going to be sick, and shame himself before +his Gurkhas as his eye took in the face of a Baluchi whose lower +jaw had been removed as though by a surgeon’s knife. +He noted subconsciously how raven-blue the long oiled hair of +these Pathans and Baluchis shone in the sun, their <i>puggris</i> +having fallen off or been shot away. The machine-guns must +have over-sighted and then lowered, instead of the reverse, as +everybody seemed to be hit in the head, neck or chest except +Brannigan, whose knee was so shattered that his leg bent forward +until his boot touched his belt—with an effect as of that +of a sprawled rag doll. Probably <a +name="page221"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 221</span>he had been +hit by one of the great soft-nosed slugs with which the swine +armed their <i>askaris</i>. The hot, heavy air reeked with +blood. Some of the wounded lay groaning; some sat and +smiled patiently as they held up shattered arms or pressed thumbs +on bleeding legs; some rose and staggered and fell, rose and +staggered and fell, blindly going nowhere. One big, +grey-eyed Pathan lustily sang his almost national song, +“<i>Zakhmi Dil</i>”—“The Wounded +Heart,” but whether in bravado, delirium, sheer +<i>berserk</i> joy of battle, or quiet content at getting a wound +that would give him a rest, change and privileges, Bertram did +not know.</p> +<p>“<i>Stretcher-bearer log ainga bhai</i>,” <a +name="citation221a"></a><a href="#footnote221a" +class="citation">[221a]</a> said Bertram, as he passed him +sitting there singing in a pool of blood.</p> +<p>“<i>Béshak Huzoor</i>,” replied the man +with a grin, “<i>ham baitha hai</i>,” <a +name="citation221b"></a><a href="#footnote221b" +class="citation">[221b]</a> and resumed his falsetto nasal +dirge. Another, crouching on all fours with his face to the +ground, suddenly raised that grey-green, dripping face, and +crawled towards him. Bertram saw that he was trailing his +entrails as he moved. To avoid halting and being sick at +this shocking sight, he rushed forward to the edge of the scrub +whence all this havoc had been wrought, his left hand pressed +over his mouth, all his will-power concentrated upon conquering +the revolt of his stomach.</p> +<p>Thinking he was charging an enemy, his men dashed forward +after him, only to find the place deserted. Little piles of +empty cartridge-cases marked the places where the machine-guns +had stood behind natural and artificial screens. One tripod +had been fixed on an ant-hill screened by bushes, and must have +had a fine field of fire across the glade. How far back had +they gone—and then, in which direction? How long +would it be before the column would again expose a few hundred +yards of its flank to the sudden blast of the machine-guns of +this force and the withering short-range volleys of its +rifles? Would they get away now and go on ahead of the +column and wait for it again, or, that being the obvious thing, +would they move down toward the tail of the column, and attack +there? Or was it just a rear-guard holding the Brigade up +while Kraut evacuated Mikocheni? . . . Near and distant +rifle and machine-gun fire, rising to a fierce crescendo and +dying away to a desultory popping, seemed to indicate that <a +name="page222"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 222</span>this ambush +was one of many, or that the Brigade was fighting a regular +battle. . . . Probably a delaying action by a strong +rear-guard. . . . Anyhow, his business was to see that his +men kept direction, kept touch, kept moving forward slowly, and +kept a sharp look-out. . . . Firing came nearer on the +right flank. That part of the line had seen +something—or been fired on, evidently—and suddenly he +came to the edge of the patch or belt of jungle and, looking +across another glassy glade, he saw a white man striking, with a +whip or stick, at some <i>askaris</i> who were carrying off a +machine-gun. Apparently he was hurrying their +retirement. Quickly Bertram turned to the grim little +Subedar and got a section of his men to fire volleys at the spot, +but there was no sign of life where, a minute earlier, he had +certainly seen a German machine-gun team. . . .</p> +<p>He felt very cool and very strong, but knew that this great +strength might fail him at any moment and leave him shaking and +trembling, weak and helpless. . . .</p> +<p>He must line this edge of the jungle and examine every bush +and tree of the opposite edge, across the glade, before +adventuring out into its naked openness.</p> +<p>Suppose a dozen machine-guns were concealed a few yards within +that sinister sullen wall. He bade the Subedar halt the +whole line and open rapid fire upon it with a couple of +sections. If he watched through his glasses carefully, he +might see some movement in those menacing depths and shadows, +movement induced by well-directed fire—possibly he might +provoke concealed machine-gunners or <i>askaris</i> to open fire +and betray their positions. If so, should he lead his men +in one wild charge across the glade, in the hope that enough +might survive to reach them? If only the Gurkhas could get +there with their <i>kukris</i>, the guns would change hands +pretty speedily. . . . It would be rather a fine thing to +be “the chap who led the charge that got the Maxims.” +. . .</p> +<p>“<i>Gya</i>, <i>Sahib</i>,” said the Subedar as he +stared across the glade. “<i>Kuch nahin +hai</i>.” <a name="citation222"></a><a href="#footnote222" +class="citation">[222]</a></p> +<p>Should he move on? And if he led the line out into a +deathtrap? . . . He could see nothing of the companies on +the left and right flank, even though this was thin and +penetrable bush. How would he feel if he gave the order to +advance and, as soon <a name="page223"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 223</span>as the line was clear of cover, it +was mown down like grass?</p> +<p>Bidding the Subedar wait, he stepped out and, with beating +heart, advanced across the open. . . . He couldn’t +talk to the Gurkhas, but he could show them that a British +officer considered their safety before his own. He entered +the opposite scrub, his heart in his mouth, his revolver shaking +wildly in his trembling hand, but an exhilarating excitement +thrilling him with a kind of wild joy. . . . He rather +hoped he would be fired at. He wished to God they would +break the horrible stillness and open fire. . . . He felt +that, if they did not soon do so, he would scream and blaspheme +or run away. . . .</p> +<p>Nothing there. No trenches. No suspicious broken +branches or withering bushes placed <i>en camouflage</i>. +He wheeled about, re-entered the glade, and gave the signal for +his men to advance. They crossed the glade. Again +they felt their way, tore, pushed, writhed, forced their way, +through a belt of thin jungle, and again came upon a narrow glade +and, as the line of jungle-bred, jungle-trained Gurkhas halted at +its edge, a horde of <i>askaris</i> in a rough double line dashed +out from the opposite side and, as the Gurkhas instinctively +opened independent magazine fire, charged yelling across, with +the greatest <i>élan</i> and ferocity. Evidently +they thought they were swooping down upon the scattered remnants +of the company that had headed the column, or else were in great +strength, and didn’t care what they “bumped +into,” knowing that their enemy had no prepared positions +and death-traps for them to be caught in. . . .</p> +<p>As he stood behind a tree, steadily firing his revolver at the +charging, yelling <i>askaris</i> now some forty yards distant, +Bertram was aware of another line, or extended mob, breaking like +a second wave from the jungle, and saw a couple of machine-gun +teams hastily fling down their boxes and set up their +tripods. He knew that a highly trained German gunner would +sit behind each one and fire single shots or solid streams of +bullets, according to his targets and opportunities. +Absolute artists, these German machine-gunners and, ruffianly +brutal bullies or not, very cool, brave men.</p> +<p>So was he cool and brave, for the moment—but how soon he +would collapse, he did not know. He had emptied his +revolver, and he realised that he had sworn violently with every +shot. . . . He reloaded with trembling fingers, and, +looking up, saw that the <a name="page224"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 224</span>fight was about to become a +hand-to-hand struggle. Firing rapidly, as the +<i>askaris</i> charged, the Gurkhas had thinned their line, and +the glade was dotted with dozens of their dead and +wounded—but the survivors, far outnumbering the Gurkhas, +were upon them—and, with shrill yells, the little men rose +and rushed at their big enemies <i>kukri</i> in hand.</p> +<p>The Subedar dashed at a huge non-commissioned officer who +raised his fixed bayonet to drive downward in a kind of +two-handed spear-thrust at the little man. Bertram thought +the Gurkha was killed but, as he raised his revolver, he saw the +Subedar duck low and slash with incredible swiftness at the +negro’s thigh and again at his stomach. In the very +act of springing sideways he then struck at the +<i>askari’s</i> wrist and again at his neck. The +little man was using his national weapon (the <i>kukri</i>, the +Gurkha’s terrible carved knife, heavy, broad and +razor-edged, wherewith he can decapitate an ox) when it came to +fighting—no sword nor revolver for him—and the negro +fell, with four horrible wounds, within four seconds of raising +his rifle to stab, his head and hand almost severed, his thigh +cut to the bone and his abdomen laid open.</p> +<p>“Sha-bas!” <a name="citation224a"></a><a +href="#footnote224a" class="citation">[224a]</a> yelled Bertram, +seeing red, and going mad with battle lust, and shouting +“Maro! Maro!” <a name="citation224b"></a><a +href="#footnote224b" class="citation">[224b]</a> at the top of +his voice, rushed into the hacking, hewing, stabbing throng that, +with howls, grunts, and screams, swayed to and fro, but gradually +approached the direction whence the Gurkhas had advanced. . . +.</p> +<p>And the two artists behind the machine-guns, the two merry +manipulators of Death’s brass band, sat cool and calm, +playing delicate airs upon their staccato-voiced +instruments—here a single note and there a single note, now +an arpeggio and now a run as they got their opportunity at a +single man or a group, a charging section or a firing-line. +Where a whirling knot of clubbing, thrusting, slashing men was +seen to be more foe than friend they treated it as foe and gave +it a whole <i>rondo</i>—these heralds and trumpeters of +Death.</p> +<p>And, as Bertram rushed out into the open, each said +“Offizier!” and gave him their undivided +attention.</p> +<p>“Shah-bas! Subedar Sahib,” he yelled; +“Maro! Maro!” and the Gurkhas who saw and heard +him grinned and grunted, slashing and hacking, and thoroughly +enjoying life. . . . (This was <a name="page225"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 225</span>worth all the marching and sweating, +starving and working. . . . <i>This</i> was something +like! A <i>kukri</i> in your hand and an enemy to go +for!)</p> +<p>Firing his revolver into the face of an <i>askari</i> who +swung up his clubbed rifle, and again into the chest of one who +drove at him with his bayonet, he shouted and swore, wondering at +himself as he did so.</p> +<p>And then he received a blow on his elbow and his revolver was +jerked from his open, powerless hand. Glancing at his arm +he saw it was covered with blood, and, at the same moment, a +gigantic <i>askari</i> aimed a blow at his skull—a blow +that he felt would crush it like an egg . . . and all he could do +was to put his left arm across his face . . . and wait . . . for +a fraction of a second. . . . He saw the man’s knees +crumple. . . . Why had he fallen instead of delivering that +awful blow?</p> +<p>The nearer machine-gunner cursed the fallen man and played a +trill of five notes as he got a clear glimpse of the white man. . +. .</p> +<p>Someone had kicked his legs from under Bertram—or had +they thrown a stone—or what? He was on the +ground. He felt as though a swift cricket-ball had hit his +shin, and another his knee, and his right arm dropped and waggled +aimlessly—and when it waggled there was a grating feeling +(which was partly a grating sound) horrible to be heard. . . +. And he couldn’t get up. . . .</p> +<p>He felt very faint and could see nothing, by reason of a blue +light which burnt dully, but obscured his vision, destroying the +sunlight. Darkness, and a loud booming and rushing sound in +his ears. . . .</p> +<p>Then he felt better and, half raising himself on his left +hand, saw another line emerge from the scrub and charge. . . +. Baluchis and Gurkhas, friends . . . thank God!! And +there was Augustus. He’d pass him as, just now, he +had passed Terence Brannigan and the two other Baluchi +subalterns. Would Augustus feel sick at the sight of him, +as <i>he</i> had done? . . .</p> +<p>With a wild yell, the big Baluchis and little Gurkhas charged, +and the line was borne back toward the machine-gunners, who +disappeared with wonderful dispatch, in search of a desirable and +eligible pitch, preferably on a flank, for their next musical +performance.</p> +<p>“Hullo, Priceless Old Thing, stopped one?” asked +Augustus, pausing in his rush.</p> +<p><a name="page226"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +226</span>“Bit chipped,” Bertram managed to say.</p> +<p>“Oh, poignant! Search—” began Augustus . . . +and fell across Bertram, causing him horrible agony, a +bullet-hole the size of a marble in his forehead, the back of his +head blown completely out.</p> +<p>Bertram fainted as his friend’s brains oozed and spread +across his chest.</p> +<p>Having dodged and manœuvred to a flank position, one of +the machine-gunners played a solo to the wounded while waiting a +more favourable moment and target. His fellow sons of +<i>kultur</i> wanted no wounded German <i>askaris</i> on their +hands, and of course the wounded Sepoys and British were better +dead. Dead men don’t recover and fight again. . . +. So he did a little neat spraying of twitching, writhing, +crawling, wriggling or staggering individuals and groups. +Incidentally he hit the two British officers again, riddling the +body which was on top of the other, putting one bullet through +the left arm of the underneath one. . . . Then he had to +scurry off again, as the fighting-line was getting so far towards +his left that he might be cut off. . . . Anyhow he’d +had a very good morning and felt sure his “good old German +God” must be feeling quite pleased about it.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER IV<br /> +<i>Baked</i></h3> +<h4>§1</h4> +<p>When he recovered consciousness, Bertram found himself lying +on a stretcher in a little natural clearing in the bush—a +tiny square enclosed by acacia, sisal, and mimosa scrub. On +a candelabra tree hung a bunch of water-bottles, a helmet, some +haversacks, a tunic, and strips of white rag.</p> +<p>An officer of the Royal Army Medical Corps and a <i>babu</i> +of the Indian Subordinate Medical Service were bending over a +medical pannier. Stretcher-bearers brought in another +burden as he turned his head to look round. It was a Native +Officer. On top of his head was an oblong of bare-shaven +skull—some caste-mark apparently. Following them with +his eyes Bertram saw the stretcher-bearers place the unconscious +(or dead) man at the end <a name="page227"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 227</span>of a small row of similar still +forms. . . . There was Brannigan. . . . There was a +man with whom he had shared a tent for a night at Taveta. . . +. What was his name? . . . There were the two Baluchi +subalterns. . . . Was that the dead row—the mortuary, +so to speak, of this little field ambulance? Was he to join +it?</p> +<p>The place stunk of blood, iodine and horrors. He could +move neither hand nor foot, and the world seemed to be a Mountain +of Pain upon the peak of which he was impaled. . . .</p> +<p>The continued rattle of firing was coming nearer, +surely? It was—much nearer. The +stretcher-bearers brought in another casualty, the stretcher +dripping blood. No “walking wounded” appeared +to come to this particular dressing-station.</p> +<p>The firing was getting quite close, and the sound of the +cracking of branches was audible. Leaves and twigs, cut +from the trees by the bullets, occasionally fell upon the mangled +and broken forms as though to hide them. . . .</p> +<p>“Sah—they are coming!” said the <i>babu</i> +suddenly. His face was a mask of fear, but he continued to +perform his duties as dresser, as well as his shaking hands would +permit.</p> +<p>Suddenly a ragged line of Gurkhas broke into the clearing, +halting to fire, retreating and firing again, fighting from tree +to tree and bush to bush. . . . The mixed, swaying and +changing battle-line was going to cross the spot where the +wounded lay. . . . Those of them who were conscious knew +what <i>that</i> meant. . .</p> +<p>So did the medical officer, and he shouted to the +stretcher-bearers, <i>babu</i>, mule-drivers, porters, everybody, +to carry the wounded farther into the +bush—quick—quick. . . .</p> +<p>As his stretcher was snatched up, Bertram—so sick with +pain, and the cruel extra agony of the jolts and jars, that he +cared not what befell him—saw a group of <i>askaris</i> +burst into the clearing, glare around, and rush forward with +bayonets poised. He shut his eyes as they reached the other +stretchers. . . .</p> +<h4>§2</h4> +<p>On the terrible journey down the Tanga Railway to +M’buyuni, between Taveta and Voi, Bertram kept himself +alive with the thought that he would eventually reach Mombasa. . +. .</p> +<p>He had forgotten Eva only while he was in the fight and on <a +name="page228"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 228</span>the +stretcher, but when he lay on the floor of the cattle-truck he +seemed to wake from a night of bad dreams—to awake again +into the brightness and peace of the day of Love.</p> +<p>Of course, the physical agony of being jolted and jerked for a +hundred and fifty miles, throughout which every bump of every +wheel over every railway joint gave a fresh stab of pain to each +aching wound and his throbbing head, was a terrible +experience—but he would rather have been lying on the floor +of that cattle-truck bumping towards Mombasa, than have been +marching in health and strength away from it.</p> +<p>Every bump that racked him afresh meant that he was about +forty feet nearer to M’buyuni which was on the line to Voi +which is on the line to Mombasa.</p> +<p>What is the pain of a shattered right elbow, a broken left +arm, a bullet hole in the right thigh and another in the left +calf, when one is on the road to where one’s heart is, and +one is filled with the divine wonder of first love?</p> +<p>He could afford to pity the poor uninjured Bertram Greene of +yesterday, marching farther and farther from where all hope, +happiness, joy, peace and plenty lay, where love lay, and where +alone in all the world could he know content. . . .</p> +<p>She would not think the less of him that he had temporarily +lost the use of his hands and, for a time, was lame. . . . +He had done his duty and was out of it! Blessed wounds! . . +.</p> +<h4>§3</h4> +<p>In the hospital at M’buyuni the clean bullet-holes in +the flesh of his legs healed quickly. Lucky for him that +they had been made by nickel Maxim-bullets and not by the +horrible soft-nosed slugs of the <i>askaris’</i> +rifles. The bone-wounds in his arms were more serious, and +he could walk long before he could use his hands.</p> +<p>His patient placidity was remarkable to those who came in +contact with him—not knowing that he dwelt in a serene +world apart and dreamed love’s young age-old dream +therein.</p> +<p>Every day was a blessed day in that it brought him much nearer +to the moment when he would see her face, hear her voice, touch +her hand. What unthinkably exquisite joy was to be +his—and was his <i>now</i> in the mere contemplation of +it!</p> +<p><a name="page229"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 229</span>His +left arm began to do well, but the condition of his right arm was +less satisfactory.</p> +<p>“Greene, my son,” said the O.C. M’buyuni +Stationary Hospital to him one day, “you’re for the +Hospital Ship <i>Madras</i>, her next trip. Lucky young +dog. Wish I was. . . . Give my love to Colonel +Giffard and Major Symons when you get on board. . . . +You’ll get a trip down to Zanzibar, I believe, on your way +to Bombay. . . . You’ll be having tea on the lawn at +the Yacht Club next month—think of it!”</p> +<p>Bertram thought of something else and radiated joy.</p> +<p>“Aha! That bucks you, does it? Wounded hero +with his arm in a sling at the +Friday-evening-band-night-tea-on-the-lawn binges, +what?”</p> +<p>Bertram smiled.</p> +<p>“Could I stay on in Mombasa a bit, sir?” he +asked.</p> +<p>The O.C. M’buyuni Stationary Hospital stared.</p> +<p>“Eh?” said he, doubting that he could have heard +aright. Bertram repeated the question, and the O.C., +M.S.H., felt his pulse. Was this delirium?</p> +<p>“No,” he said shortly in the voice of one who is +grieved and disappointed. “You’ll go straight +on board the <i>Madras</i>—and damned lucky too. . . +. You don’t deserve to. . . . I’d give . +. .”</p> +<p>“What is the procedure when I get to Bombay?” +asked Bertram, as the doctor fell into a brown study.</p> +<p>“You’ll go before a Medical Board at Colaba +Hospital. They may detain you there, give you a period of +sick leave, or invalid you out of the Service. Depends on +how your right arm shapes. . . . You’ll be all right, +I think.”</p> +<p>“And if my arm goes on satisfactorily I shall be able to +come back to East Africa in a month or two perhaps?” +continued Bertram.</p> +<p>“Yes. Nice cheery place, what?” said the +Medical Officer and departed. He never could suffer fools +gladly and he personally had had enough, for the moment, of heat, +dust, stench, monotony, privation, exile, and overwork. . . +. <i>Hurry</i> back to East Africa! . . . Zeal for +duty is zeal for duty—and lunacy’s lunacy. . . +. But perhaps the lad was just showing off and talking +through his hat, what?</p> +<h4><a name="page230"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +230</span>§4</h4> +<p>The faithful Ali, devoted follower of his old master’s +peregrinations, saw the muddy, blood-stained greasy bundles, +which were that master’s kit, safe on board the +<i>Madras</i> from the launch which had brought the party of +wounded officers from the Kilindini pier. Personally he +conducted the bundles to the cabin reserved for Second-Lieutenant +B. Greene, I.A.R., and then sought their owner where he reclined +in a <i>chaise longue</i> on deck, none the better for his long +journey on the Uganda Railway.</p> +<p>“I’m coming back, Ali,” said he as his +retainer, a monument of restrained grief, came to him.</p> +<p>“Please God, <i>Bwana</i>,” was the dignified +reply.</p> +<p>“What will you do while I am away?” he asked, for +the sake of something to say.</p> +<p>“Go and see my missus and childrens, my little damsels +and damsons at Nairobi, sah,” was the sad answer. +“When <i>Bwana</i> sailing now?”</p> +<p>“Not till this evening,” answered Bertram, +“and the last thing I want you to do for me is to take +these two <i>chits</i> to Stayne-Brooker Mem-Sahib and +Stayne-Brooker Miss-Sahib as quickly as you can. +You’ll catch them at tiffin if you take a trolley now from +Kilindini. They <i>must</i> have them quickly. . . . +If they come to see me before the ship sails at six, +there’ll be an extra present for one Ali Suleiman, +what?”</p> +<p>“Oh, sah! <i>Bwana</i> not mentioning it by +golly,” replied Ali and fled.</p> +<p>Mrs. Stayne-Brooker was crossing from the Hospital to Vasco da +Gama Street for lunch when, having run quicker than any trolley +ever did, he caught sight of her, salaamed and presented the two +<i>chits</i>, written for Bertram by a hospital friend and +companion of his journey, as soon as they got on board. She +opened the one addressed to herself.</p> +<blockquote><p>“<i>My Dear Mrs. Stayne-Brooker</i>,” +it ran, “<i>I have just reached the Madras</i>, <i>and sail +at six this evening</i>. <i>I cannot tell you how much I +should like to see you</i>, <i>if you could take your evening +drive in this direction and come on board</i>. <i>How I +wish I could stay and convalesce in Mombasa</i>! <i>Very +much more than </i><a name="page231"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +231</span><i>ever words could possibly express</i>. <i>It +is just awful to pass through like this</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">“<i>I do hope you can +come</i>.<br /> +“<i>Your ever grateful and devoted</i><br /> +“<span class="smcap">Bertram Greene</span>.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The worthy Ali, panting and perspiring, thought the lady was +going to fall.</p> +<p>“<i>Bertram</i>!” she whispered, and then her +heart beat again, and she regained control of her trembling +limbs.</p> +<p>“You are Greene <i>Bwana’s</i> boy!” she +said, searching Ali’s bedewed but beaming +countenance. “Is he—is he +ill—hurt—wounded?” (She did not know that +the man had been in her husband’s service.)</p> +<p>“Yes, Mem,” was the cheerful reply. +“Shot in all arms and legs. Also quite well, thank +you.”</p> +<p>“Go and tell him I will come,” she said. +“Be quick. Here—<i>baksheesh</i>. . . . +Now, <i>hurry</i>.”</p> +<p>“Oh, Mem! Mem-Sahib not mentioning it, thank you +please,” murmured Ali as his huge paw engulfed the +rupees. Turning, he started forthwith upon the four-mile +return run.</p> +<p>Putting the note addressed to her daughter on the lunch-table, +beside her plate, she hurried into her room, crying for joy, and, +with trembling hands, made her toilette. She must look her +best—look her youngest.</p> +<p>He was back! He was safe! He was alive! Oh, +the long, long night of silence through the black darkness of +which she had miserably groped! The weary, weary weeks of +waiting and wondering, hoping and fearing, longing and +doubting! But her prayers had been answered—and she +was about to <i>see</i> him. . . . And if he were shattered +and broken? She could almost find it in her heart to hope +he was—that she might spend her life in guarding, helping, +comforting him. He would <i>need</i> her, and oh, how she +yearned to be needed, she who had never yet been really needed by +man, woman, or child. . . .</p> +<p>“<i>Mother</i>!” said Miss Stayne-Brooker, as she +went in to lunch. “<i>What</i> a bright, gay girlie +you look! . . . Here’s a note from that Mr. Greene of +yours. He says:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘<i>Dear Miss Stayne-Brooker</i>,</p> +<p>‘<i>I am passing through Mombasa</i>, <i>and am now on +board the </i><a name="page232"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +232</span><i>Madras</i>. <i>I can’t come and see +you—do you think you’d let your mother bring you to +see me</i>’—<i>he’s crossed that out and +put</i> ‘<i>see the Hospital Ship +Madras</i>’—‘<i>it might interest +you</i>. <i>I have written to ask if she’d care to +come</i>. <i>Do—could you</i>?</p> +<p style="text-align: right">‘<i>Always your grateful +servant</i>,<br /> +‘<span class="smcap">Bertram Greene</span>.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But I am playing golf with Reggie and having tea with him at +the Club, you know.”</p> +<p>“All right, dear. I’ll go and see the poor +boy.”</p> +<p>“That’s right, darling. You won’t mind +if I don’t, will you? . . . He’s <i>your</i> +friend, you know.”</p> +<p>“Yes,” said Mrs. Stayne-Brooker, “he’s +<i>my</i> friend,” and Miss Stayne-Brooker wondered at the +tone of her mother’s voice. . . . (Poor old Mums; she +made quite a silly of herself over this Mr. Greene!)</p> +<h4>§5</h4> +<p>Having blessed and rewarded the worthy Ali, returned dove-like +to the <i>Madras</i>, Bertram possessed his soul with what +patience he could, and sought distraction from the gnawing tooth +of anxiety by watching the unfamiliar life of a hospital-ship. . +. .</p> +<p>Suppose Eva Stayne-Brooker could not come! Suppose the +ship sailed unexpectedly early! . . .</p> +<p>He could not sit still in that chair and wait, and wait. . . +.</p> +<p>A pair of very pretty nurses, with the sallow ivory +complexion, black hair and large liquid eyes of the Eurasian, +walked up and down.</p> +<p>Another, plain, fat, and superiorly English, walked apart from +them.</p> +<p>Two very stout Indian gentlemen, in the uniform of Majors of +the Indian Medical Service, promenaded, chattering and +gesticulating. The Chief Engineer (a Scot, of course), +leaning against the rail and smoking a black Burma cheroot, eyed +them with a kind of wonder, and smiled tolerantly upon them. . . +. Travel and much time for philosophical reflection had +confairrmed in him the opeenion that it tak’s all sorrts to +mak’ a Univairse. . . .</p> +<p>From time to time, a sick or wounded man was hoisted on board, +lying on a platform that dangled from four ropes at the <a +name="page233"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 233</span>end of a +chain and was worked by a crane. From the launch to the +deck of the ship he was slung like so much merchandise or +luggage, but without jar or jolt. Or a walking-wounded or +convalescent sick man would slowly climb the companion that +sloped diagonally at an easy angle along the ship’s side +from the promenade-deck to the water.</p> +<p>On the fore and aft well-decks, crowds of sick or wounded +Sepoys crouched huddled in grey blankets, or moved slowly about +with every evidence of woe and pain. It takes an Indian +Sepoy to do real justice to illness of any kind. He is a +born actor and loves acting the dying man better than any part in +life’s drama. This is not to say that he is a +malingerer or a weakling—but that when he is sick he +<i>is</i> going to get, at any rate, the satisfaction of letting +everybody know it and of collecting such sympathy and admiration +as he can.</p> +<p>“No, there is no one so sick as a sick Indian,” +smiled Bertram to himself.</p> +<p>In contrast was the demeanour of a number of British soldiers +sitting and lying about the deck allotted to them, adjoining but +railed off from that of the officers.</p> +<p>Laughter and jest were the order of the day. One blew +into a mouth-organ with more industry than skill; another +endeavoured to teach one of the ship’s cats to waltz on its +hind legs; some played “brag” with a pack of +incredibly dirty little cards; and others sat and exchanged +experiences, truthfully and otherwise.</p> +<p>Near to where Bertram stood, a couple sprawled on the deck and +leaned against a hatch. The smaller of the two appeared to +be enjoying the process of annoying the larger, as he tapped his +protruding and outlying tracts with a <i>kiboko</i>, listening +intently after each blow in the manner of a doctor taking +soundings as to the thoracic or abdominal condition of a +patient.</p> +<p>An extra sharp tap caused the larger man to punch his +assailant violently in the ribs, whereupon the latter threw his +arms round the puncher’s neck, kissed him, and stated, with +utter disregard for facts:</p> +<p>“’Erb! In our lives we was werry beautiful, +an’ in our deafs we wos not diwided.” +(Evidently a reminiscence of the Chaplain’s last +sermon.)</p> +<p>But little mollified by the compliment, Herbert smote again, +albeit less violently, as he remarked with a sneer:</p> +<p><a name="page234"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +234</span>“Ho, yus! You wouldn’t a bin divided +all right if you’d stopped one o’ them liddle +four-point-seven shells at Mikocheni, you would. Not +’arf, you wouldn’t. . . .”</p> +<p>But for crutches, splints, slings and bandages, no one would +have supposed this to be a collection of sick and wounded men, +wreckage of the storm of war, flotsam and jetsam stranded here, +broken and useless. . . .</p> +<p>Bertram returned to his chair and tried to control his sick +impatience and anxiety. Would she come? What should +he say to her if she did? . . . Should he +“propose”—(beastly word)? He had not +thought much about marriage. . . . To see her and hear her +voice was what he really wanted. Should he tell her he +loved her? . . . Surely that would be unnecessary.</p> +<p>And then his heart stood still, as Mrs. Stayne-Brooker stepped +from the companion-platform on to the deck, and came towards +him—her face shining and radiant, her lips quivering, her +eyes suffused.</p> +<p>He realised that she was alone, and felt that he had turned +pale, as his heart sank like lead. But perhaps <i>she</i> +was behind. . . . Perhaps she was in another boat. . . +. Perhaps she was coming later. . . .</p> +<p>He rose to greet her mother—who gently pushed him back +on the long cane couch-chair and rested herself on the folding +stool that stood beside it.</p> +<p>Still holding his left hand, she sat and tried to find words +to ask of his hurts, and could say nothing at all. . . . +She could only point to the sling, as she fought with a desire to +gather him to her, and cry and cry and cry for joy and sweet +sorrow.</p> +<p>“Yes,” said Bertram, “but that’s the +only bad one. . . . Shan’t lose the use of it, I +expect, though. . . . Would she—would a +woman—think it cheek if a maimed man—would she mind +his being—if she really . . . ?”</p> +<p>“Oh, my dear, my dear! Don’t! Oh, +don’t!” Mrs. Stayne-Brooker broke down. +“She’d love him ten thousand times more—you +poor, foolish . . .”</p> +<p>“Will she come?” he interrupted. “And +dare I tell her I . . .”</p> +<p><i>And Mrs. Stayne-Brooker understood</i>.</p> +<p>She was a brave woman, and Life had taught her not to wear <a +name="page235"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 235</span>her poor +heart upon her sleeve, had taught her to expect little (except +misery), and to wear a defensive mask.</p> +<p>“<i>Eva is engaged to marry Mr. Macteith</i>,” she +said in a toneless voice, and rose to go—to go before she +broke down, fainted, became hysterical, or went mad. . . .</p> +<p>Had two kind people ever dealt each other two such blows?</p> +<p>She looked at his face, and knew how her own must look. . . +.</p> +<p>Why <i>should</i> God treat her so? . . . To receive so +cruel a wound and to have to deal one as cruel to the heart she +so loved! . . .</p> +<p>He looked like a corpse—save that his eyes stared +through her, burning her, seeing nothing. She must go, or +disgrace herself—and him. . . . She felt her way, +blindly fumbling, to the companion, realising even then that, +when the stunned dullness immediately following this double blow +gave place to the keen agony that awaited her recovery of her +senses, there would be one spot of balm to her pain, there would +be one feeble gleam of light in the Stygian darkness of her +life—she would not be aching and yearning for the +passionate love of her own son-in-law! . . .</p> +<p>And, were this veracious chronicle a piece of war-fiction +woven by a romancer’s brain, Bertram Greene would have been +standing on the deck that evening, looking his last upon the +receding shores of the country wherein he had suffered and done +so much.</p> +<p>On his breast would have been the Victoria Cross, and by his +side the Woman whom he had Also Won.</p> +<p>She would have murmured “Darling!” . . . He +would have turned to her, as the setting sun, ever obliging, +silhouetted the wonderfully lovely palms of the indescribably +beautiful Kilindini Creek, and said to her:</p> +<p>“<i>Darling</i>, <i>life is but +beginning</i>.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>Facts being facts, it is to be stated that Bertram sat instead +of standing, as the <i>Madras</i> moved majestically down the +Creek; that on his breast, instead of the Cross, a sling with a +crippled arm; and by his side, instead of the Woman, a Goanese +steward, who murmured:</p> +<p>“Master having tea out here, sir, please?” and to +whom Bertram turned as the setting sun silhouetted the palms and +said: “<i>Oh</i>, <i>go to hell</i>!” (and then +sincerely apologised.)</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p><a name="page236"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +236</span>Captain Stott passed and recognised him, in spite of +changes. He noted the hardened face, the line between the +eyes, the hollowed cheeks, the puckers and wrinkles, the +steel-trap mouth, and wondered again at how War can make a boy +into a Man in a few months. . . .</p> +<p>There was nothing “half-baked” about <i>that</i> +face.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>And so, in ignorance, the despised and rejected boy again +avenged his father, this time upon the woman who had done him +such bitter, cruel wrong.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER V<br /> +<i>Finis</i></h3> +<p>After war, peace; after storm, calm; after pain, ease. . . +.</p> +<p>Almost the first people whom he met in the Bombay Yacht Club +after visiting the Colaba Hospital and being given six +months’ leave by the Medical Board, were his father and +Miranda Walsingham.</p> +<p>Major Walsingham Greene had been severely wounded in +Mesopotamia—but he had at last won decoration, promotion, +recognition. He was acting Brigadier-General when he +fell—and it was considered certain that he would get the +Victoria Cross for which he had been recommended.</p> +<p>When he beheld his son, in khaki, war-worn and wounded (like +himself, like his father and grandfather, like a true Greene of +that ilk), his cup was full and he was a happy man—at +last.</p> +<p>And Miranda! She could scarcely contain herself. +She almost threw her arms round her old playmate’s neck, +then and there, in the middle of the Yacht Club lawn. . . . +How splendid he looked! Who said her Bertram might make a +scholar and a gentleman—but would never make a +<i>man</i>?</p> +<p>Oh, joy! She had come out to bring home her +“Uncle” Hugh and generally look after him—and +now there were <i>two</i> patients to look after.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p>It was a happy voyage Home, and a very happy six months at +Leighcombe Priory thereafter. . . .</p> +<p><a name="page237"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 237</span>And +when acting Brigadier-General Walsingham Greene and his son +returned to India, Miranda Walsingham went with them as Mrs. +Bertram Greene.</p> +<p>But Bertram was no longer “Cupid”—he seemed +to have left “Cupid” in Africa.</p> +<h2>NOTES.</h2> +<p><a name="footnote17a"></a><a href="#citation17a" +class="footnote">[17a]</a> Plain.</p> +<p><a name="footnote17b"></a><a href="#citation17b" +class="footnote">[17b]</a> Loin-cloth.</p> +<p><a name="footnote21a"></a><a href="#citation21a" +class="footnote">[21a]</a> Good.</p> +<p><a name="footnote21b"></a><a href="#citation21b" +class="footnote">[21b]</a> Make.</p> +<p><a name="footnote21c"></a><a href="#citation21c" +class="footnote">[21c]</a> “I want the Colonel. +Where is he?”</p> +<p><a name="footnote30"></a><a href="#citation30" +class="footnote">[30]</a> Cupboard.</p> +<p><a name="footnote38a"></a><a href="#citation38a" +class="footnote">[38a]</a> “Is all well?”</p> +<p><a name="footnote38b"></a><a href="#citation38b" +class="footnote">[38b]</a> “Without doubt.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote50"></a><a href="#citation50" +class="footnote">[50]</a> Woolly ones. Negroes.</p> +<p><a name="footnote54"></a><a href="#citation54" +class="footnote">[54]</a> Bullock-cart men.</p> +<p><a name="footnote56a"></a><a href="#citation56a" +class="footnote">[56a]</a> Yes.</p> +<p><a name="footnote56b"></a><a href="#citation56b" +class="footnote">[56b]</a> Without doubt.</p> +<p><a name="footnote66"></a><a href="#citation66" +class="footnote">[66]</a> Here.</p> +<p><a name="footnote67"></a><a href="#citation67" +class="footnote">[67]</a> Store-sheds.</p> +<p><a name="footnote72a"></a><a href="#citation72a" +class="footnote">[72a]</a> Oxen.</p> +<p><a name="footnote72b"></a><a href="#citation72b" +class="footnote">[72b]</a> Bring here.</p> +<p><a name="footnote72c"></a><a href="#citation72c" +class="footnote">[72c]</a> Talk, palaver.</p> +<p><a name="footnote72d"></a><a href="#citation72d" +class="footnote">[72d]</a> Savages.</p> +<p><a name="footnote81"></a><a href="#citation81" +class="footnote">[81]</a> “Very good, sir.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote98"></a><a href="#citation98" +class="footnote">[98]</a> “Be +careful—<i>you</i>!”</p> +<p><a name="footnote101a"></a><a href="#citation101a" +class="footnote">[101a]</a> “Good!”</p> +<p><a name="footnote101b"></a><a href="#citation101b" +class="footnote">[101b]</a> “Kill the devils. +Do well.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote101c"></a><a href="#citation101c" +class="footnote">[101c]</a> “It is not the +enemy.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote133a"></a><a href="#citation133a" +class="footnote">[133a]</a> Medicine.</p> +<p><a name="footnote133b"></a><a href="#citation133b" +class="footnote">[133b]</a> “Great Simba has killed a +white man.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote134a"></a><a href="#citation134a" +class="footnote">[134a]</a> “Wait. Lie on the +stretcher.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote134b"></a><a href="#citation134b" +class="footnote">[134b]</a> “It is +nothing.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote134c"></a><a href="#citation134c" +class="footnote">[134c]</a> “Thanks. It is +nothing. Do not hold me.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote142"></a><a href="#citation142" +class="footnote">[142]</a> Clever and competent.</p> +<p><a name="footnote148"></a><a href="#citation148" +class="footnote">[148]</a> Sit down.</p> +<p><a name="footnote150"></a><a href="#citation150" +class="footnote">[150]</a> Open plain.</p> +<p><a name="footnote167"></a><a href="#citation167" +class="footnote">[167]</a> Food.</p> +<p><a name="footnote168a"></a><a href="#citation168a" +class="footnote">[168a]</a> “Dinner is ready.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote168b"></a><a href="#citation168b" +class="footnote">[168b]</a> Yes.</p> +<p><a name="footnote173"></a><a href="#citation173" +class="footnote">[173]</a> Cultivation, garden.</p> +<p><a name="footnote174"></a><a href="#citation174" +class="footnote">[174]</a> Over-eating.</p> +<p><a name="footnote183a"></a><a href="#citation183a" +class="footnote">[183a]</a> White men.</p> +<p><a name="footnote183b"></a><a href="#citation183b" +class="footnote">[183b]</a> Club.</p> +<p><a name="footnote184"></a><a href="#citation184" +class="footnote">[184]</a> Cooking-pot.</p> +<p><a name="footnote185"></a><a href="#citation185" +class="footnote">[185]</a> “Lunch is +ready.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote198"></a><a href="#citation198" +class="footnote">[198]</a> Tribal dance.</p> +<p><a name="footnote221a"></a><a href="#citation221a" +class="footnote">[221a]</a> “The stretcher-bearers +will come, brother.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote221b"></a><a href="#citation221b" +class="footnote">[221b]</a> “No doubt, sir. I +am waiting.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote222"></a><a href="#citation222" +class="footnote">[222]</a> “Gone, sir. There is +nothing.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote224a"></a><a href="#citation224a" +class="footnote">[224a]</a> “Bravo.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote224b"></a><a href="#citation224b" +class="footnote">[224b]</a> “Kill! +Kill!”</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CUPID IN AFRICA***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 37544-h.htm or 37544-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/7/5/4/37544 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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