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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 20:08:14 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 20:08:14 -0700 |
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diff --git a/37544-h/37544-h.htm b/37544-h/37544-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4d2d553 --- /dev/null +++ b/37544-h/37544-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11258 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Cupid in Africa, by P. 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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