PART IITHE BAKING OF BERTRAM BY WAR
CHAPTER I_Bertram Becomes a Man of War_
Mr. Bertram Greene, emerging from the King Edward Terminus of the GreatIndian Railway at Madrutta, squared his shoulders, threw out his chest,and, so far as he understood the process and could apply it, strode alongwith the martial tread and military swagger of all the Best Conquerors.
From khaki helmet to spurred brown heel, he was in full panoply of war,and wore a dangerous-looking sword. At least, to the ignorant passer-by,it appeared that its owner was in constant danger of being tripped up byit. Bertram, however, could have told him that he was really in no perilfrom the beastly thing, since a slight pressure on the hilt from his leftelbow kept the southern end clear of his feet.
What troubled him more than the sword was the feeling of constriction andsuffocation due to the tightness of the belts and straps that encompassedhim about, and the extreme heat of the morning. Also he felt terriblynervous and unaccustomed, very anxious as to his ability to support theweight of his coming responsibility, very self-distrustful, and verycertain that, in the full active-service kit of a British Officer of theIndian Army, he looked a most frightful ass.
For Mr. Bertram Greene had never before appeared on this, or any otherstage, in such a part; and the change—from a quiet modest civilian,“bashful, diffident and shy,” to what his friends at dinner last nighthad variously called a thin red hero, a licentious soldiery, a brutalmercenary, a hired assassin, a saviour of his Motherland, a wisp ofcannon-fodder, a pup of the bull-dog breed, a curly-headed hero, abloody-minded butcher, and one who would show his sword to be as mightyas his pen—was overwhelmingly great and sudden. When any of the hundredsof hurrying men who passed him looked at him with incurious eyes, he feltuncomfortable, and blushed. He knew he looked an ass, and, far worse,that whatever he might look, he actually was—a fraud, and a humbug.Fancy him, Bertram Greene, familiarly known as “Cupid,” the pale-faced“intellectual,” the highbrowed hero of the class-room andexamination-hall, the winner of scholarships and the double-first, guiltyof a thin volume of essays and a thinner one of verse—just fancy him, thestudious, bookish sedentary, disguised as a soldier, as a leader of menin the day of battle, a professional warrior! . . . He who had neverplayed games was actually proposing to play the greatest Game of all: hewho had never killed an animal in his life was going to learn to killmen: he who had always been so lacking in self-reliance was going to askothers to rely on him!
And, as his spirits sank lower, Bertram held his head higher, threw backhis shoulders further, protruded his chest more, and proceeded with sofirm a tread, and so martial a demeanour, that he burst into profuse andviolent perspiration.
He wished he could take a taxi, but even had there been one available, heknew that the Native Infantry Lines almost adjoined the railway terminus,and that he had to cross a grass _maidan_ {17a} on foot.
Thank heaven it was not far, or he would arrive looking as though he hadcome by sea—swimming. A few more steps would take him out of this crowdof students, clerks, artisans, and business-men thronging to theirschools, colleges, offices, shops, mills, and works in Madrutta. . . .What did they talk about, these queer “city men” who went daily from thesuburbs to “the office,” clad in turbans, sandals, _dhoties_, {17b} andcotton coats? Any one of these bare-legged, collarless, not _very_clean-looking worthies might be a millionaire; and any one of them mightbe supporting a wife and large family on a couple of pounds a month. Thevast majority of them were doing so, of course. . . . Anyhow, none ofthem seemed to smile derisively when looking at him, so perhaps hisgeneral appearance was more convincing than he thought.
But then, short as had been his sojourn in India, he had been in thecountry long enough to know that the native does not look with obviousderision upon the European, whatever may be the real views and sentimentsof his private mind—so there was no comfort in that. . . . Doubtless theColonel and British officers of the regiment he was about to join wouldnot put themselves to the trouble of concealing their opinions as to hismerits, or lack of them, as soon as those opinions were conceived. . . .Well, there was one thing Bertram Greene could do, and would do, whilebreath 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 mightbe a simple, nervous, inexperienced sort of youth with more culture andrefinement than strength of character and decision of mind: he might be abit 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 hadfailed for want of doing his utmost, and for lack of striving, with mightand main, to learn _how_ to do his duty, and then to do it to the limitof his ability.
A couple of British soldiers, privates of the Royal Engineers, cametowards him on their way to the station. Bertram attempted theimpossible in endeavouring to look still more inflexibly and inexorablymartial, as he eyed them hardily. Would they look at him and smileamusedly? 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 tobe respected and saluted by all soldiers. The men simultaneously placedtheir swagger-sticks beneath their left arms, and, at three paces’distance, saluting smartly and as one man, maintained the salute untilthey were three paces beyond him.
Bertram’s heart beat high with pride and thankfulness. He would haveliked 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 hegave in acknowledgment of theirs.
He passed on, feeling as though he had drunk some most stimulating andexhilarating draught. He had received his first salute! Moreover, themen had looked most respectfully, nay, almost reverentially, if with acertain stereotyped and bovine rigidity of stare, toward the officer theyso promptly and smartly honoured. He would have given a great deal toknow whether they passed any contemptuous or derisive comment upon hisappearance and bearing. . . . In point of fact, Scrounger Evans hadremarked to Fatty Wilkes, upon abandoning the military position of thesalute: “Horgustus appears to ’ave ’ad a good night at bridge, and took afew ’undreds orf Marmadook an’ Reginald. Wot?”
Whereunto Fatty had murmured:
“Jedgin’ by ’is ’appy liddle smile,” as he sought the smelly stump of acigarette in its lair behind his spreading shady ear.
Enheartened, but perspiring, Bertram strode on, and crossed the broadgrass _maidan_, at the far side of which he could see the parallelstreets of the Native Infantry Lines, where lay the One Hundred andNinety-Ninth Regiment, to which he had been ordered to report himself“forthwith.” Yesterday was but crowded, excited yesterday, terminatingin a wild farewell dinner and an all-night journey. _To-day_ was“forthwith.” . . . What would to-morrow be? Perhaps the date of thetermination of his career in the Indian Army—if the Colonel looked himover, 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 Colonelswere brief, rude, and arbitrary persons, sometimes very terrible. . . .Approaching the end of the first long row of the mud buildings of theNative Infantry Lines, Bertram beheld a sentry standing outside hissentry-box, in the shade of a great banyan tree. The man was clad inkhaki tunic, shorts and puttees, with a huge khaki turban, from whichprotruded a fringed scrap of blue and gold; hob-nailed black boots, andbrown belt and bandolier. His bare knees, his hands and face were veryfar from being black; in fact, were not even brown, but of a palewheat-colour.
The thoughts of Private Ilderim Yakub were far away, and his eyes behelda little _sungar_-enclosed watch-tower that looked across a barren andarid valley of solid rock. In the low, small doorway sat a fair-facedwoman with long plaits of black hair, and, at her feet, crawled a tinynaked boy . . . and then the eyes of Private Ilderim Yakub beheld aBritish officer, in full war-paint and wearing his sword, bearing downupon him. By Allah the Compassionate and the Beard of the Prophet! Hehad been practically asleep at hi
s post, and this must certainly be theOrderly Officer Sahib or the Adjutant Sahib, if not the Colonel Sahibhimself! Possibly even the “Gineraal” Sahib (from the neighbouringBrigade Headquarters) having a quiet prowl round. It must be _somebody_,or he wouldn’t be “in drill order with sword,” and marching straight forthe guard-room.
Private Ilderim Yakub (in the days when he had been a—well—a scoundrellyborder-thief and raider) had very frequently been in situations demandinggreat promptitude of thought and action; and now, although at one momenthe had been practically asleep and his wits wool-gathering in the KhostValley, the next moment he had sprung from his box, yelled “_Guard turnout_!” with all the strength of his leathern lungs and brazen throat, andhad then frozen to the immobility of a bronze statue in the attitude ofthe salute.
In response to his shout, certain similarly clad men arose from a benchthat stood outside a large thatched, mud-built hut, another, wearing ared sash and three white stripes on the sleeve of his tunic, camehurrying from within it, and the party, with promptitude and dispatch,“fell in,” the Sergeant (or Havildar) beside them.
“Guard!” roared that bearded worthy, “_’Shun_! _Present_ arms!” and,like the sentry, the Sergeant and the Guard stood as bronze statues tothe honour and glory of Second-Lieutenant Bertram Greene—the while thatgentleman longed for nothing more than that the ground might open andswallow him up.
What on earth ought he to do? Had he not read in his newly purchaseddrill-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 theOfficer of the Day? It most certainly was not for straySecond-Lieutenants of the Indian Army Reserve. Should he try to explainto the Sergeant that he had made a mistake, and that the Guard waspresenting arms to the humblest of God’s creatures that wore officer’suniform? Should he “put on dog” heavily and “inspect” the Guard? Shouldhe pretend to find fault? No! For one thing he had not enoughHindustani to make himself intelligible. (But it was a sign that achange was already coming over Bertram, when he could even conceive sucha notion, and only dismiss it for such a reason.)
What _should_ he do, in these distressingly painful circumstances?
Should he absolutely ignore the whole lot of them, and swagger past witha contemptuous glance at the fool Sergeant who had turned the Guard out?. . . It wasn’t _his_ fault that the wretched incident had occurred. . . ._He_ hadn’t made the mistake, so why should he be made to look a fool?It would be the others who’d look the fools, if he took not the slightestnotice of their silly antics and attitude-striking. . . (Heavens! Howthey’d made the perspiration trickle again, by putting him in this absurdand false position.) . . . Yes—he’d just go straight past the lot ofthem as if they didn’t exist. . . . No—that would be horribly rude, tosay the least of it. They were paying him a military compliment, howevermistakenly, and he must return it. Moreover—it wasn’t theSergeant-fellow’s fault. The sentry had shouted to the Guard, and theSergeant had naturally supposed that one of those Great Ones, for whomGuards turn out, was upon them.
Should he march past with a salute, as though he were perfectlyaccustomed to such honours, and rather bored with them? Unless he werenear enough for them to see the single “pip” on his shoulder-strap, theywould never know they had made a mistake. (He would hate them to feel ashorribly uncomfortable as he did.)
And if he did, where should he go? He must find the Officers’ Lines, andgo to the Officers’ Mess and inquire for the Colonel. Besides, this was_his_ regiment; he was attached to it, and these men would all see himagain and know who and what he was. . . .
Of course—he would do the correct and natural thing, and behave as thoughhe were merely slightly amused at the sentry’s not unnatural mistake andits results. . . . With a smart salute to the Guard, Bertram smiled uponthe puzzled, imperturbable and immobile Havildar, with the remark:
“_Achcha_, {21a} Sergeant. Guard, dismiss _karo_” {21b}—upon hearingwhich barbarous polyglot of English and Hindustani, the Non-CommissionedOfficer abandoned his rigid pose and roared, with extreme ferocity, inthe very ears of the Sepoys:
“Guard! _Or_der-r _ar-r-rms_. Stannat _eashe_. Dees_mees_!” and withanother salute, again turned to Bertram to await his further pleasure.
“_Ham Colonel Sahib mangta_. _Kither hai_?” {21c} said that gentleman,and the intelligent Havildar gathered that this young and strange Sahib“wanted” the Colonel. He smiled behind his vast and bushy beard at theidea of sending a message of the “Hi! you—come here! You’re wanted”description to that Great One, and pictured the meeting that would ensueif the Colonel Sahib came hastily, expecting to find theCommander-in-Chief-in-India awaiting him.
No—since the young Sahib wanted the Colonel, he had better go and findhim. Calling to a young Sepoy who was passing on some fatigue duty, hebade him haste away, put on his tunic, tuck his long khaki shirt insidehis shorts, and conduct the Sahib to the Adjutant Sahib’s office. (Thatwould be quite in order; the Adjutant Sahib could decide as to the wisdomof “wanting” the Colonel Sahib at this—or any other—hour of the day; andresponsibility would be taken from the broad, unwilling shoulders ofHavildar Afzul Khan Ishak.)
An uncomfortable five minutes followed. Bertram, longing with all hissoul to say something correct, natural, and pleasant, could only standdumb and unhappy, while the perspiration trickled; the Havildar stoodstiffly at attention and wondered whether the Sahib were as old as hisson, Private Mahommed Afzul Khan, new recruit of the One Hundred andNinety-Ninth; and the Guard, though dismissed, stood motionless in solemnrow beside the bench (on which they would sit as soon as the Sahib turnedhis back), and, being Indian Sepoys, emptied their minds of all thought,fixed their unseeing gaze upon Immensity and the TranscendentalNothingness-of-Non-existent-Non-entity-in-Oblivion, and tried to lookvirtuous.
Returning and saluting, the young Sepoy wheeled about and plodded heavilydown the road, walking as though each hob-nailed boat weighed a ton. Butpride 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-plaitedsandal as he “skipped like a young ram” about his native hill-tops) havebeen without these tokens of wealth and dignity. What he would haveliked, had the Authorities been less touchy about it, would have been towear them slung about his neck, plain for all to admire, and causingtheir owner no inconvenience.
Following his guide through the lines of mud huts, saluted every fewyards by passing Sepoys and by groups who sat about doorways andscrambled to their feet as he passed, Bertram found himself in a broadsandy road, lined by large stone European bungalows, which ran atright-angles across the ends of the Sepoys’ lines. Each bungalow stoodin a large compound, had a big lawn and flower-gardens in front of it,and was embowered in palm-trees. Turning into the garden of the largestof 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 givinghimself the necessary orders for each movement, and solemnly marchedaway.
A pair of large old-fashioned cannon and a white flagstaff gave the placean important and official appearance. Beyond the big porch stretched toleft and right a broad and deep verandah, in the shady recesses of whichBertram could see a row of chairs wherein lay khaki-clad figures, theirfeet, raised upon the long leg-rests, presented unitedly and unanimouslytowards him. Indeed, as he advanced with beating heart and sense of shydiscomfort, all that he could see of the half-dozen gentlemen was onedozen boot-soles backed by a blur of khaki. Up to the time he hadreached 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 therecumbent figures, ranged along the rear wall of the verandah and on eachside of an open door, the unhappy Bertram, from this new standpoint, sawthat the face of each officer was hidden behind a newspaper or amagazine. . . . Profound silence reigned as he regarded the
twelveboot-soles, each crossed by a spur-chain, and the six newspapers.
Another embarrassing and discomfortable situation. What should he do?Should he cough—as the native does when he wishes to attract yourattention, or to re-affirm his forgotten presence? It seemed a ratherfeeble and banal idea. Should he pretend he had not seen the sixstalwart men lying there in front of his nose, and shout: “_Qui hai_!” asone 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 welltell the man to announce in stentorian voice and the manner of a herald:“Behold! Second-Lieutenant Bertram Greene, of the Indian Army Reserve,standeth on the threshold!” And supposing the man did precisely this and_still_ nobody moved, _what_ a superlative ass the said Second-LieutenantBertram Greene would feel! . . . But could he feel a bigger ass than hedid already—standing there in awkward silence beneath the stony regard,or disregard, of the twelve contemptuous boot-soles? . . .
Should he walk along the row of them, giving each alternate foot a heavyblow? That would make them look up all right. . . . Or should he seizea couple of them and operate them in the manner of the young lady in theRailway Refreshment Rooms or the Village Inn, as she manipulates thehandles of the beer-engine? The owners of the two he grabbed and pulledwould come from behind their papers fast enough. . . . Bertram moved,and his sword clanked sharply against a pillar. None of the readers hadlooked up at the sound of footsteps—they were resting from the labours ofbreakfast, and footsteps, as such, are of no interest. But, strange tosay, at the sound of a sword clanking, they moved as one man; six paperswere lowered and six pairs of eyes stared at the unhappy Bertram. Afterthree seconds of penetrating scrutiny, the six papers rose again as one,as though at the sound of the ancient and useful military order, “_As youwere_.”
Major Fordinghame beheld a very good-looking boy, who appeared to betaking his new sword and revolver for a walk in the nice sunshine andgiving the public a treat. He’d hardly be calling on the Mess dressed upin lethal weapons. Probably wanted the Adjutant or somebody. He wasquite welcome to ’em. . . . These “planter” cheroots wereextraordinarily good at the price. . . . Lieutenant and QuartermasterMacteith wondered who the devil _this_ was. Why did he stick there likea stuck pig and a dying cod-fish? Still—if he wanted to stick, let himstick, by all means. Free country. . . . Captain Brylle only vaguelyrealised that he was staring hard at some bloke or other—he was bringingall the great resources of his brain to bear upon a joke in the pinkpaper he affected. It was so deep, dark and subtle a joke that he hadnot yet “got” it. Bloke on the door-mat. What of it? . . . CaptainTavner had received a good fat cheque that morning; he was going on tendays’ leave to-morrow; he had done for to-day; and he had had a bottle ofbeer for breakfast. _He_ didn’t mind if there were a rhinoceros on thedoorstep. Doubtless someone would take it into the Mess and give it adrink. . . . Cove had got his sword on—or was it two swords? Didn’tmatter to him, anyway. . . .
Captain Melhuish idly speculated as to whether the chap would be“calling” at so early an hour of the morning. It was the MessPresident’s business, anyhow. . . . Why the sword and revolver? Andmentally murmuring: “Enter—one in armour,” Captain Melhuish, the _doyen_of the famous Madrutta Amateur Dramatic Society, returned to his perusalof _The Era_. . . Lieutenant Bludyer didn’t give a damn, anyhow. . . .And so none of these gentlemen, any one of whom would have arisen, had hebeen sitting there alone, and welcomed Bertram hospitably, felt itincumbent upon him to move, and the situation resumed what Bertramprivately termed its formerness.
Just as he had decided to go to the nearest reader and flatly request himto arise and direct him to the Colonel, another officer came rushing fromthe room whose open doorway faced the porch. In his mouth was a quillpen, and in his hands were papers.
“Lazy perishers!” he remarked as he saw the others, and added: “Comealong, young Macteith,” and was turning to hurry down the verandah whenBertram stepped forward.
“Excuse me,” he said, “d’you think I could see the Colonel? I have beenordered to report to this regiment.”
“You _could_ see the Colonel,” replied this officer, “but I shouldn’t, ifI were you. I’d see the Adjutant. Much pleasanter sight. I’m theAdjutant. Come along to my office,” and he led the way down theverandah, across a big whitewashed room, simply furnished with a table, achair, and a punkah, to a smaller room, furnished with two of each of theabove-mentioned articles.
Dropping the pen and papers upon the table, the Adjutant wheeled roundupon Bertram, and, transfixing him with a cold grey eye, said, in hollowvoice and tragic tones:
“Do not trifle with me, Unhappy Boy! Say those blessed words again—or atonce declare them false. . . . _Did_ I hear you state that you have beenordered to join this corps—or did I not?”
“You did, sir,” smiled Bertram.
“Shake,” replied the Adjutant. “God bless you, gentle child. For twodamns, I’d fall on your neck. I love you. Tell me your honoured nameand I’ll send for my will. . . .”
“I’m glad I’m welcome,” said the puzzled and astonished Bertram; “but I’mafraid I shan’t be very useful. I am absolutely ignorant—you see, I’venot been a soldier for twenty-four hours yet. . . . Here’s the telegramI got yesterday,” and he produced that document.
“Good youth,” replied Captain Murray. “I don’t give a tinker’s curse ifyou’re deaf, dumb, blind and silly. You are my deliverer. I love youmore and more. I’ve been awaiting you with beating heart—lying awake foryou, listening for your footprints. Now you come—_I_ go.”
“What—to the Front?” said Bertram.
“You’ve guessed it in once, fair youth. East Africa for little JockMurray. We are sending a draft of a hundred men to our link battalionthere—awfully knocked about they’ve been—and I have it, straight from thestable, 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 theBrigade Office said they were certain to send a Reserve man here andrelieve me. . . . Colonel _will_ be pleased—he never _says_ anything but‘_H’m_!’ but he’ll bite your ear if you don’t dodge.”
“I suppose he’ll simply hate losing an experienced officer and gettingme,” said Bertram, apprehensively.
“He’ll make himself perfectly miserable,” was the reply, “but nothing towhat he’ll make you. I’m the Adjutant, you see, and there’ll be a bit ofa muddle until my successor has picked up all the threads, and a bit ofextra bother for the Colonel. . . . Young Macteith’ll have to take iton, I expect. . . . He’ll bite your other ear for that. . .” and Murrayexecuted a few simple steps of the _can-can_, in the joy of his heartthat the chance of his life had come. No one but himself knew theagonies of mind that he had suffered, as he lay awake at night realisingthat the war might he a short one, time was rushing on, and hundreds ofthousands of men had gone to fight—while he still sat in an office andplayed C.O.’s lightning conductor. A usually undemonstrative Scot, hewas slightly excited and uplifted by this splendid turn of Fortune’swheel. Falling into a chair, he read the telegram:
_To Second-Lieutenant Bertram Greene_, _A.A.A._
_You have been appointed to Indian Army Reserve of Officers with rank ofSecond-Lieutenant_, _and are ordered to report forthwith to O.C. OneHundred and Ninety-Ninth Regiment_, _Madrutta_. _A.A.A._ _MilitarySecretary_.
“Any relation to Major Walsingham Greene?” enquired Murray.
“Son,” replied Bertram, “and nephew of General Walsingham.”
“Not your fault, of course,” observed Murray. “Best to make a cleanbreast of these things, though. . . . Had any sort of militarytraining?” he added.
“Absolutely none whatever. Soon after war broke out I felt I was adisgrace to my family—they are all soldiers—and I thought of going homeand enlisting. . . . Then I thought it was a pity if nearly twenty yearsof expensive education had fitted me for n
othing more useful than whatany labourer or stable-boy can do—and I realised that I’m hardly strongenough to be of much good in the trenches during a Belgian winter—I’vebeen there—so I wrote to my father and my uncle and told them I’d like toget into the Indian Army Reserve of Officers. I thought I might soonlearn enough to be able to set free a better man, and, in time, I mightpossibly be of some good—and perhaps go to the Frontier or something. . . .”
“Goo’ _boy_,” said the merry Murray. “I could strain you to my bosom.”
“Then I received some papers from the Military Secretary, filled them up,and returned them with a medical certificate. I bought some kit andordered a uniform, and studied the drill-book night and day. . . . I gotthat wire yesterday—and here I am.”
“I love you, Bertram,” repeated the Adjutant.
“I feel a dreadful fraud, though,” continued the boy, “and I am afraid myuncle, General Walsingham, thinks I am ‘one of the Greenes’ in every way,whereas I’m a most degenerate and unworthy member of the clan. Commonlycalled ‘Cupid’ and ‘Blameless Bertram,’ laughed at . . . . Really he ismy father’s cousin—but I’ve always called him ‘Uncle,’” he addedingenuously.
“Well—sit you there awhile and I’ll be free in a bit. Then I’ll take youround the Lines and put you up to a few things. . . .”
“I should be most grateful,” replied Bertram.
Macteith entered and sat him down at the other desk, and for half an hourthere was a _va et vient_ of orderlies, clerks, Sepoys and messengers,with much ringing of the telephone bell.
When he had finished his work, Murray kept his promise, gave Bertram goodadvice and useful information, and, before tiffin, introduced him to theother officers—who treated him with cordial friendliness. The Coloneldid not appear at lunch, but Bertram’s satisfaction at the postponementof his interview was somewhat marred by a feeling that LieutenantMacteith eyed him malevolently and regarded his advent with disapproval.
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