CHAPTER VIII_Military and Naval Manœuvres_
However nonchalant in demeanour, it was an eager and excited crowd ofofficers that stood around the foot of the boat-deck ladder awaiting theresult of the conference held in the Captain’s cabin, to whichmeeting-place its proprietor had taken Commander Finnis before requestingthe presence of Colonel Haldon, the First Officer, and the Ship’sAdjutant, to learn the decision and orders of the powers-that-beconcerning all and sundry, from the ship’s Captain to the Sepoys’ cook.
Who would Colonel Haldon send forthwith to M’paga, where the scrap waseven then in progress (according to Lieutenant Greene, quoting CommanderFinnis)? What orders did the papers in the fateful little dispatch-case,borne by the latter gentleman, contain for the various officers notalready instructed to join their respective corps? Who would be sent tohealthy, cheery Nairobi? Who to the vile desert at Voi? Who tointeresting, far-distant Uganda? Who to the ghastly mangrove-swamps downthe coast by the border of German East? Who to places where there wasreal active service, fighting, wounds, distinction and honourable death?Who to dreary holes where they would “sit down” and sit tight, rottingwith fever and dysentery, eating out their hearts, without seeing asingle German till the end of the war. . . .
Bertram thought of a certain “lucky-dip bran-tub,” that loomed large inmemories of childhood, whence, at a Christmas party, he had seen three orfour predecessors draw most attractive and delectable toys and he haddrawn a mysterious and much-tied parcel which had proved to contain aselection of first-class coke. What was he about to draw from Fate’sbran-tub to-day?
When the Ship’s Adjutant, bearing sheets of foolscap, eventually emergedfrom the Captain’s cabin, ran sidling down the boat-deck ladder andproceeded to the notice-board in the saloon-companion, followed by thenonchalantly eager and excited crowd, as is the frog-capturing duck byall the other ducks of the farm-yard, Bertram, with beating heart, readdown the list until he came to his own name—only to discover that Fatehad hedged.
The die was not yet cast, and Second-Lieutenant B. Greene would disembarkwith detachments, Indian troops, and, at Mombasa, await further orders.
Captain Brandone and Lieutenant Stanner would proceed immediately toM’paga, and with wild cries of “Yoicks! Tally Ho!” and “Gone away!”those two officers fled to their respective cabins to collect their kit.
Dinner that night was a noisy meal, and talk turned largely upon themerits or demerits of the places from Mombasa to Uganda to which thespeakers had been respectively posted.
“Where are you going, Brannigan?” asked Bertram of that cheery Hibernian,as he seated himself beside him.
“Where am Oi goin’, is ut, me bhoy?” was the reply. “Faith, where theloin-eating man—Oi mane the man-eating loins reside, bedad. Ye’ve heardo’ the man-eaters of Tsavo? That’s where Oi’m goin’, me bucko—to theman-eaters of Tsavo.”
Terence had evidently poured a libation of usquebagh before dining, forhe appeared wound up to talk.
“Begorra—if ut’s loin-eaters they are, it’s Terry Brannigan’ll gird up_his_ loins an’ be found there missing entoirely. . . . Oi’d misloike tobe ’aten by a loin, Greene . . .” and he frowned over the idea and grewmomentarily despondent.
“’Tis not phwat I wint for a sojer for, at all, at all,” he complained,and added a lament to the effect that he was not as tough as O’Toole’spig. But the mention of this animal appeared to have a cheering effect,for he burst into song.
“Ye’ve heard of Larry O’Toole, O’ the beautiful town o’ Drumgool? Faith, he had but wan eye To ogle ye by, But, begorra, that wan was a jool. . . .”
After dinner, Bertram sought out Colonel Haldon for further orders,information and advice.
“Everybody clears off to-morrow morning, my boy,” said he, “and intwenty-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 atMombasa. I don’t suppose you’ll be there long, though. You may getorders to bung off with the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth draft of the Hundredand Ninety-Eighth, or you may have to see them off under a Native Officerand go in the opposite direction yourself. . . . Don’t worry, anyway.You’ll be all right. . . .”
That night Bertram again slept but little, and had a bad relapse into theold state of self-distrust, depression and anxiety. This sense ofinadequacy, inexperience and unworth was overwhelming. What did he knowabout Sepoys that he should, for a time, be in sole command and charge ofa mixed force of Regular troops and Imperial Service troops whichcomprised Gurkhas, Sikhs, Pathans, Punjabi Mahommedans, Deccani Marathas,Rajputs, and representatives of almost every other fighting race inIndia? It would be bad enough if he could thoroughly understand thelanguage of any one of them. As it was, he had a few words of cook-houseHindustani, and a man whom he disliked and distrusted as his solerepresentative and medium of intercourse with the men. Suppose thefellow was rather his _mis_-representative? Suppose he fomented trouble,as only a native can? What if there were a sudden row and quarrelbetween some of the naturally inimical races—a sort of inter-tribalshindy between the Sikhs and the Pathans, for example? Who was wretchedlittle “Blameless Bertram,” to think he could impose his authority uponsuch people and quell the riot with a word? What if they defied him andthe Jemadar did not support him? What sort of powers and authority hadhe? . . . He did not know. . . . Suppose there _were_ a row, and therewas real fighting and bloodshed? It would get into the papers, and hisname would be held up to the contempt of the whole British Empire. Itwould get into the American papers too. Then an exaggerated account ofit would be published in the Press of the Central Powers and theirwretched allies, to show the rotten condition of the Indian Army. Theneutral papers would copy it. Soon there would not be a corner of thecivilised world where people had not heard the name of Greene, the nameof the wretched creature who could not maintain order and disciplineamong a few native troops, but allowed some petty quarrel between twosoldiers to develop into an “incident.” Yes—that’s what would happen, a“regrettable incident.” . . . And the weary old round of self-distrust,depreciation and contempt went its sorry cycle once again. . . .
Going on deck in the morning, Bertram discovered that supplementaryorders had been published, and that all native troops would bedisembarked under his command at twelve noon, and that he would report,upon landing, to the Military Landing Officer, from whom he would receivefurther orders. . . . Troops would carry no ammunition, nor cookedrations. All kits would go ashore with the men. . . .
Bertram at once proceeded to the companion leading down to the well-deck,called a Sepoy of the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth, and “sent his salaams” tothe Jemadar of that regiment, to the Subedar of the Gurkhas, the Subedarof the Sherepur Sikhs and the Jemadar of the Very Mixed Contingent.
To these officers he endeavoured to make it clear that every man of theirrespective commands, and every article of those men’s kit, bedding, andaccoutrements, and all stores, rations and ammunition, must be ready fordisembarkation at midday.
The little Gurkha Subedar smiled brightly, saluted, and said he quiteunderstood—which was rather clever of him, as his Hindustani was almostas limited as was Bertram’s. However, he had grasped, from Bertram’sbarbarous and laborious “_Sub admi_ . . . _sub saman_ . . . _sub chiz_. . . _tyar_ . . . _bara badji_ . . . _ither se jainga_ . . .” that “allmen . . . all baggage . . . all things . . . at twelve o’clock . . . willgo from here”—and that was good enough for him.
“Any chance of fighting to-morrow, Sahib?” he asked, but Bertram,unfortunately, did not understand him.
The tall, bearded Sikh Subedar saluted correctly, said nothing but“_Bahut achcha_, _Sahib_,” {81} and stood with a cold sneer frozen uponhis hard and haughty countenance.
The burly Jemadar of the Very Mixed Contingent, or Mixed Pickles, smiledcheerily, laughed merrily at nothing in particular, and appeared mildlyshocked at Bertram’s enquiry a
s to whether he understood. Of _course_,he understood! Was not the Sahib a most fluent speaker of most faultlessUrdu, or Hindi, or Sindhi, or Tamil or something? Anyhow, he had clearlycaught the words “all men ready at twelve o’clock”—and who could requiremore than a nice clear _hookum_ like that.
Jemadar Hassan Ali looked pained and doubtful. So far as hisconsiderable histrionic powers permitted, he gave his rendering of anhonest and intelligent man befogged by perfectly incomprehensible ordersand contradictory directions which he may not question and on which hemay not beg further enlightenment. His air and look of “_Faithful to thelast I will go forth and strive to obey orders which I cannotunderstand_, _and to carry out instructions given so incomprehensibly andin so strange a tongue that Allah alone knows what is required of me_”annoyed Bertram exceedingly, and having smiled upon the cheery littleSubedar and the cheery big Jemadar, and looked coldly upon the unpleasantSikh and the difficult Hassan Ali, he informed the quartette that it hadhis permission to depart.
As they saluted and turned to go, he caught a gleam of ferocious hatredupon the face of the Gurkha officer whom the Sikh jostled, with everyappearance of intentional rudeness and the desire to insult. Bertram’ssympathy was with the Gurkha and he wished that it was with him and hissturdy little followers that he was to proceed to the front. He feltthat they would follow him to the last inch of the way and the last dropof their blood, and would fight for sheer love of fighting, as soon asthey were shown an enemy.
After a somewhat depressing breakfast, at which he found himself almostalone, Bertram arrayed himself in full war paint, packed his kit, saidfarewell to the ship’s officers and then inspected the troops, drawn upready for disembarkation on the well-decks. He was struck by theapparent cheerfulness of the Gurkhas and the clumsy heaviness of theirkit which included a great horse-collar roll of cape, overcoat orground-sheet strapped like a colossal cross-belt across one shoulder andunder the other arm; by the apparent depression of the men of the VeryMixed Contingent and their slovenliness; by what seemed to him thecritical and unfriendly stare of the Sherepur Sikhs as he passed alongtheir ranks; and by the elderliness of the Hundred and Ninety-Ninthdraft. Had these latter been perceptibly aged by their sea-faringexperiences and were they feeling terribly _terra marique jactati_, orwas it that the impossibility of procuring henna or other dye had causedthe lapse of brown, orange, pink and red beards and moustaches to theirnatural greyness? Anyhow, they looked distinctly old, and on the whole,fitter for the ease and light duty of “employed pensioner” than foractive service under very difficult conditions against a ferocious foeupon his native heath. His gentle nature and kindly heart led Bertram tofeel very sorry indeed for one bemedalled old gentleman who had evidentlyhad a very bad crossing, still had a very bad cough, and looked likely tohave another go of fever before very long.
As he watched the piling-up of square-sided boxes of rations, oblongboxes of ammunition, sacks, tins, bags and jars, bundles of kit andbedding, cooking paraphernalia, entrenching tools, mule harness, hugezinc vessels for the transport of water, leather _chhagals_ and canvas_pakhals_ or waterbags, and wished that his own tight-strappedimpedimenta were less uncomfortable and heavy, a cloud of choking smokefrom the top of the funnel of some boat just below him, apprised him ofthe fact that his transport was ready. Looking over the side he saw alarge barge, long, broad, and very deep, with upper decks at stem andstern, which a fussy little tug had just brought into position below anopen door in the middle of the port side of the _Elymas_. It was a longway below it too, and he realised that unless a ladder were providedevery man would have to drop from the threshold of the door to the verynarrow edge of the barge about six feet below, make his way along it tothe 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 hewould!
He tried to make Jemadar Hassan Ali understand that two Havildars were tostand on the edge of the barge, one each side of the doorway and guidethe errant tentative feet of each man as he lowered himself and clung tothe bottom of the doorway. He also had the sacks thrown where anyone whomissed his footing and fell from the side of the barge to the bottomwould fall upon them and roll, instead of taking the eight feet drop andhurting himself. When this did happen, the Sepoys roared with laughterand appeared to be immensely diverted. It occurred several times, for itis no easy matter to lower oneself some six feet, from one edge toanother, when heavily accoutred and carrying a rifle. When every man andpackage was on board, Bertram cast one last look around the _Elymas_,took a deep breath, crawled painfully out backwards through the port,clung to the sharp iron edge, felt about wildly with his feet which wereapparently too sacred and superior for the Havildars to grab and guide,felt his clutching fingers weaken and slip, and then with a pang ofmiserable despair fell—and landed on the side of the barge a whole inchbelow where his feet had been when he fell. A minute later he had madehis way to the prow, and, with a regal gesture, had signified to thecaptain of the tug that he might carry on.
And then he sat him down upon the little piece of deck and gazed upon thesea of upturned faces, black, brown, wheat-coloured, and yellow, thatspread out at his feet from end to end and side to side of the greatbarge.
Of what were they thinking, these men from every corner of India andNepal, as they stood shoulder to shoulder, or squatted on the boxes andbales that covered half the floor of the barge? What did they think ofhim? Did they really despise and dislike him as he feared, or did theyadmire and like and trust him—simply because he was a white man and aSahib? He had a suspicion that the Sikhs disliked him, the MixedContingent took him on trust as an Englishman, the Hundred andNinety-Ninth kept an open mind, and the Gurkhas liked him—all reflectingreally the attitude of their respective Native Officers. . . .
In a few minutes the barge was run alongside the Kilindini quay, andBertram was, for the second time, climbing its stone stairs, in search ofthe Military Landing Officer, the arbiter of his immediate destiny.
As he reached the top of the steps he was, as it were, engulfed andembraced in a smile that he already knew—and he realised that it was witha distinct sense of pleasure and a feeling of lessened loneliness andunshared friendless responsibility that he beheld the beaming face of his“since-long-time-to-come” faithful old retainer Ali Suleiman.
“God bless myself please, thank you, _Bwana_,” quoth that gentleman,saluting repeatedly. “_Bwana_ will now wanting Military EmbarkationOfficer by golly. I got him, sah,” and turning about added, “_Bwana_come along me, sah, I got him all right,” as though he had, with muchskill and good luck, tracked down, ensnared, and encaged some wary andwily animal. . . .
At the end of the little stone pier was a rough table or desk, by whichstood a burly officer clad in slacks, and a vast spine-pad of quiltedkhaki. On the tables were writing-materials and a mass of papers.
“Mornin’,” remarked this gentleman, turning a crimson and perspiring faceto Bertram. “I’m the M.L.O. You’ll fall your men in here and they’llstack their kits with the rations and ammunition over there. Then youmust tell off working-parties to cart the lot up to the camp. I’ve onlygot 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 youto march off till all your stuff’s up to the camp. . . . Don’t bung offyourself, y’know. . . . Right O. Carry on. . . .” Bertram saluted.
Another job which he must accomplish without hitch or error. The morejobs he _could_ do, the better. What he dreaded was the job for thesuccessful tackling of which he had not the knowledge, ability orexperience.
“Very good, sir,” he replied. “Er—where _are_ the trolleys?” for therewas no sign of any vehicle about the quay.
“Oh, they’ll roll up by and by, I expect,” was the reply. Bertram againsaluted and returned to the barge. Calling to the Native Officers hetold them that the men would fall in on the bunder and await furtherorders,
each detachment furnishing a fatigue-party for the unloading ofthe impedimenta. Before very long, the men were standing at ease in theshade of a great shed, and their kits, rations and ammunition were piledin a great mound at the wharf edge.
And thus, having nothing to do until the promised trucks arrived, Bertramrealised that it was terribly hot; suffocatingly, oppressively,dangerously hot; and that he felt very giddy, shaky and faint.
The sun seemed to beat upward from the stone of the quay and sidewaysfrom the iron of the sheds as fiercely and painfully as it did downwardfrom the sky. And there was absolutely nowhere to sit down. He couldn’tvery well squat down in the dirt. . . . No—but the men could—so heapproached the little knot of Native Officers and told them to allow themen to pile arms, fall out, and sit against the wall of the shed—no manto leave the line without permission.
Jemadar Hassan Ali did not forget to post a sentry over the arms on thisoccasion. For an hour Bertram strolled up and down. It was less tiringto do that than to stand still. His eyes ached most painfully by reasonof the blinding glare, his head ached from the pressure on his brows ofhis thin, but hard and heavy, helmet (the regulation pattern, apparentlydesigned with an eye to the maximum of danger and discomfort) and hisbody ached by reason of the weight and tightness of his accoutrements.It was nearly two o’clock and he had breakfasted early. Suppose he gotsunstroke, or collapsed from heat, hunger, and weariness? What anexhibition! When would the men get their next meal? Where were thosetrolleys? It was two hours since the Military Landing Officer had saidthey’d “roll up by and by.” He’d go and remind him.
The Military Landing Officer was just off to his lunch and well-earnedrest at the Club. He had been on the beastly bunder since six in themorning—and anybody who wanted him now could come and find him, what?
“Excuse me, sir,” said Bertram as Captain Angus flung his portfolio ofpapers to his orderly, “those trucks haven’t come yet.”
“_Wha’_ trucks?” snapped the Landing Officer. He had just told himselfhe had _done_ for to-day—and he had had nothing since half-past five thatmorning. People must be reasonable—he’d been hard at it for eight solidhours damitall y’know.
“The trucks for my baggage and ammunition and stuff.”
“Well, _I_ haven’t got ’em, have I?” replied Captain Angus. “Bereasonable about it. . . I can’t _make_ trucks. . . Anybody’d think I’dstolen your trucks. . . . You must be _patient_, y’know, and _do_ bereasonable. . . . _I_ haven’t got ’em. Search me.”
The Military Landing Officer had been on his job for months and hadunconsciously evolved two formulæ, which he used for his seniors andjuniors respectively, without variation of a word. Bertram had justheard the form of prayer to be used with Captains and unfortunates oflower rank, who showed yearnings for things unavoidable. To Majors andthose senior thereunto the crystallised ritual was:
“Can’t understand it, sir, at all. I issued the necessary orders allright—but there’s a terrible shortage. One must make allowances in thesetimes of stress. It’ll turn up all right. _I_’ll see to it . . .” etc.,and this applied equally well to missing trains, mules, regiments,horses, trucks, orders, motor-cars or anything else belonging to thelarge class of Things That Can Go Astray.
“You told me to wait, sir,” said Bertram.
“Then why the devil _don’t you_?” said Captain Angus.
“I am, sir,” replied Bertram.
“Then what’s all this infernal row about?” replied Captain Angus.
Bertram felt that he understood exactly how children feel when, unjustlytreated, they cannot refrain from tears. It was _too_ bad. He had stoodin this smiting sun for over two hours awaiting the promised trucks—andnow he was accused of making an infernal row because he had mentionedthat 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 longago.
“By the way,” continued Captain Angus, “I’d better give you yourroute—for when you _do_ get away—and you mustn’t sit here all day likethis, y’know. You must ginger ’em up a bit” (more formula this) “oryou’ll all take root. Well, look here, you go up the hill and keepstraight on to where a railway-bridge crosses the road. Turn to the leftbefore you go under the bridge, and keep along the railway line till yousee some tents on the left again. Strike inland towards these, andyou’ll find your way all right. Take what empty tents you want, butdon’t spread yourself _too_ much—though there’s only some details therenow. You’ll be in command of that camp for the present. . . . Betternot bung off to the Club either—you may be wanted in a hurry. . . . I’llsee if those trucks are on the way as I go up. Don’t hop off till you’veshifted all your stuff. . . So long! . . .” and the Military LandingOfficer bustled off to where at the Dock gates a motor-car awaited him. . . .
Before long, Bertram found that he must either sit down or fall down, soterrific was the stifling heat, so heavy had his accoutrements become,and so faint, empty and giddy did he feel.
Through the open door of a corrugated-iron shed he could see a huge,burly, red-faced European, sitting at a little rough table in a big bareroom. In this barn-like place was nothing else but a telephone-box and achair. Could he go in and sit on it? That dark and shady interiorlooked like a glimpse of heaven from this hell of crashing glare andgasping heat. . . . Perhaps confidential military communications weremade through that telephone though, and the big man, arrayed in a singletand white trousers, was there for the very purpose of receiving themsecretly and of preventing the intrusion of any stranger? Anyhow—itwould be a minute’s blessed escape from the blinding inferno, merely togo inside and ask the man if he could sit down while he awaited thetrucks. He could place the chair in a position from which he could seehis men. . . . He entered the hut, and the large man raised aclean-shaven crimson face, ornamented with a pair of piercing blue eyes,and stared hard at him as he folded a pinkish newspaper and said nothingat all, rather disconcertingly.
“May I come in and sit down for a bit, please?” said Bertram. “I thinkI’ve got a touch of the sun.”
“Put your wacant faice in that wacant chair,” was the prompt reply.
“Thanks—may I put it where I can see my men?” said Bertram.
“Putt it where you can cock yer feet on this ’ere table an’ lean backagin that pertition, more sense,” replied the large red man, scratchinghis large red head. “_You_ don’ want to see yore men, you don’t,” headded. “They’re a ’orrid sight. . . . All natives is. . . . You puttit where you kin get a good voo o’ _me_. . . . Shed a few paounds o’ thehup’olstery and maike yerself atome. . . . Wisht I got somethink toorfer yer—but I ain’t. . . . Can’t be ’osspitable on a basin o’ waterwot’s bin washed in—can yer?”
Bertram admitted the difficulty, and, with a sigh of intense relief,removed his belt and cross-belts and all that unto them pertained. And,as he sank into the chair with a grateful heart, entered Ali Suleiman,whom he had not seen for an hour, bearing in one huge paw a great mug ofsteaming tea, and in the other a thick plate of thicker biscuits.
Bertram could have wrung the hand that fed him. Never before in thehistory of tea had a cup of tea been so welcome.
“Heaven reward you as I never can,” quoth Bertram, as he drank. “Whereon earth did you raise it?”
“Oh, sah!” beamed Ali. “Master not mentioning it. I am knowingcook-fellow at R.E. Sergeants’ Mess, and saying my frien’ Sergeant Jones,R.E., wanting cup of tea and biscuits at bunder P.D.Q.”
“P.D.Q.?” enquired Bertram.
“Yessah, all ’e same ‘pretty dam quick’—and bringing it to _Bwana_ bymistake,” replied Ali, the son of Suleiman.
“But _isn’t_ there some mistake?” asked the puzzled youth. “I don’t wantto . . .”
“Lookere,” interrupted the large red man, “_you_ don’ wanter discover nomistakes, not until you drunk that tea, you don’t. . . . You push thatdaown
yore neck and then give that nigger a cent an’ tell ’im to be lesscareful nex’ time. You don’ wanter _dis_courage a good lad like that,you don’t. Not ’arf, you do.”
“But—Sergeant Jones’s tea” began Bertram, looking unhappily at thehalf-emptied cup.
“_Sergeant Jones’s tea_!” mimicked the rude red man, in a high falsetto.“_If_ ole Shifter Jones drunk a cup o’ tea it’d be in all the paipersnex’ mornin’, it would. Not arf it wouldn’t. Don’ believe ’e evertasted tea, I don’t, an’ if he _did_—”
But at this moment a white-clad naval officer of exalted rank strode intothe room, and the large red man sprang to his feet with every sign ofrespect and regard. Picking up a Navy straw hat from the floor, thelatter gentleman stood at attention with it in his hand. Bertram decidedthat he was a naval petty officer on some shore-job or other, perhapsretired and now a coast-guard or Customs official of some kind.Evidently he knew the exalted naval officer and held him, or his Office,in high regard.
“Get my message, William Hankey?” he snapped.
“Yessir,” replied William Hankey.
“Did you telephone for the car at once?”
“Nossir,” admitted Hankey, with a fluttering glance of piteous appeal.
The naval officer’s face became a ferocious and menacing mask of wrathand hate, lit up by a terrible glare. Up to that moment he had beenrather curiously like Hankey. Now he was even more like a veryinfuriated lion. He took a step nearer the table, fixed his burning,baleful eye upon the wilting William, and withered him with the mostextraordinary blast of scorching invective that Bertram had ever heard,or was ever likely to hear, unless he met Captain Sir Thaddeus Bellinghamffinch Beffroye again.
“You blundering bullock,” quoth he; “you whimpering weasel; you bleatingblup; you miserable dog-potter; you horny-eyed, bleary-nosed, bat-eared,lop-sided, longshore loafer; you perishing shrimp-peddler; you YoungHelper; you Mother’s Little Pet; you dear Ministering Child; youblistering bug-house body-snatcher; you bloated bumboat-woman; youhopping hermaphrodite—what d’ye mean by it? Eh? . . . _What d’ye meanby it_, you anæmic Aggie; you ape-faced anthropoid; you adenoid; youblood-stained buzzard; you abject abortion; you abstainer; you sickly,one-lunged, half-baked, under-fed alligator; you scrofulous scorbutic;you peripatetic pimple; you perambulating pimp-faced poodle; what aboutit? Eh? _What about it_?”
Mr. William Hankey stood silent and motionless, but in his face was theexpression of one who, with critical approval, listens and enjoys. Sucha look may be seen upon the face of a musician the while he listens tothe performance of a greater musician.
Having taken breath, the Captain continued: “What have you got to say foryourself, you frig-faced farthing freak, you? Nothing! You purplepoultice-puncher; you hopeless, helpless, herring-gutted hound; youdropsical drink-water; you drunken, drivelling dope-dodger; you mouldy,mossy-toothed, mealy-mouthed maggot; you squinny-faced, squittering,squint-eyed squab, you—what have you got to say for yourself? Eh? . . ._Answer me_, you mole; you mump; you measle; you knob; you nit; you noun;you part; you piece; you portion; you bald-headed, slab-sided,jelly-bellied jumble; you mistake; you accident; you imperial stinker;you poor, pale pudding; you populous, pork-faced parrot—why don’t youspeak, you doddering, dumb-eared, deaf-mouthed dust-hole; you jabbering,jawing, jumping Jezebel, why don’t you answer me? Eh? _D’ye hear_ me,you fighting gold-fish; you whistling water-rat; you Leaning Tower ofPisa-pudding; you beer-belching ration-robber; you pink-eyed, perishingpension-cheater; you flat-footed, frog-faced fragment; you trumpetingtripe-hound? Hold your tongue and listen to me, you barge-bottombarnacle; you nestling gin-lapper; you barmaid-biting bun-bolter; youtuberculous tub; you mouldy manure-merchant; you moulting mop-chewer; youkagging, corybantic cockroach; you lollipop-looting lighterman; you navalknow-all. _Why didn’t you telephone for the car_?”
“’Cos it were ’ere all the time, sir,” replied Mr. William Hankey,perceiving that his superior officer had run down and required rest.
“_That’s_ all right, then,” replied Captain Sir Thaddeus Bellinghamffinch Beffroye pleasantly, and strode to the door. There he turned, andagain addressed Mr. Hankey.
“Why couldn’t you say so, instead of chattering and jabbering andmouthing and mopping and mowing and yapping and yiyiking for an hour, Mr.Woozy, Woolly-witted, Wandering William Hankey?” he enquired.
The large red man looked penitent.
“Hankey,” the officer added, “you are a land-lubber. You are a pier-headyachtsman. You are a beach pleasure-boat pilot. You are a canalbargee.”
Mr. Hankey looked hurt, _touché_, broken.
“Oh, _sir_!” said he, stricken at last.
“William Hankey, you are a _volunteer_,” continued his remorseless judge.
Mr. Hankey fell heavily into his chair, and fetched a deep groan.
“William Hankey-Pankey—you are a _conscientious objector_,” said theCaptain in a quiet, cold and cruel voice.
A little gasping cry escaped Mr. Hankey. He closed his eyes, swayed amoment, and then dropped fainting on the table, the which his large redhead smote with a dull and heavy thud, as the heartless officer strodeaway.
A moment later Mr. Hankey revived, winked at the astonished Bertram, andremarked:
“I’d swim in blood fer ’im, I would, any day. I’d swim in beer wi’ memouf shut, if ’e ast me, I would. . . . ’E’s the pleasant-manneredest,kindest, nicest bloke I was ever shipmates wiv, ’e is. . .”
“His bark is worse than his bite, I suppose?” hazarded Bertram.
“Bark!” replied Mr. Hankey. “’E wouldn’ bark at a blind beggar’s deafdog, ’e wouldn’t. . . . The ship’s a ’Appy Ship wot’s got _’im_ fer OleMan. . . . Why—the matlows do’s liddle things jest to git brought upbefore ’im to listen to ’is voice. . . . Yes. . . . Their Master’sVoice. . . . Wouldn’ part brass-rags wiv ’im for a nogs’ead o’ rum. . . .”
Feeling a different man for the tea and biscuits, Bertram thanked Mr.Hankey for his hospitality, and stepped out on to the quay, thinking, asthe heat-blast struck him, that one would experience very similarsensations by putting his head into an oven and then stepping on to thestove. In the shade of the sheds the Sepoys sprawled, even the cheeryGurkhas seemed unhappy and uncomfortable in that fiery furnace.
Bertram’s heart smote him. Had it been the act of a good officer to goand sit down in that shed, to drink tea and eat biscuits, while his men. . . ? Yes, surely that was all right. He was far less acclimatised toheat and glare than they, and it would be no service to them for him toget heat-stroke and apoplexy or “a touch of the sun.” They had theirwater-bottles and their grain-and-sugar ration and their cold_chupattis_. They were under conditions far more closely approximatingto normal than he was. Of course it is boring to spend hours in the sameplace with full equipment on, but, after all, it was much worse for aEuropean, whose thoughts run on a cool club luncheon-room; a bath andchange; and a long chair, a cold drink and a novel, under a punkah on theclub verandah thereafter. . . . Would those infernal trucks _never_come? Suppose they never did? Was he to stay there all night? He hadcertainly received definite orders from the “competent militaryauthority” to stay there until all his baggage had been sent off. Wasthat to relieve the competent military authority of responsibility in theevent of any of it being stolen? . . . Probably the competent militaryauthority was now having his tea, miles away at the Club. What should hedo if no trucks had materialised by nightfall? How about consulting theNative Officers? . . . Perish the thought! . . . They’d have to stickit, the same as he would. The orders were quite clear, and all he hadgot to do was to sit tight and await trucks—if he grew grey in theprocess.
Some six hours from the time at which he had landed, a couple of smallfour-wheeled trucks were pushed on to the wharf by a fatigue-party ofSepoys from the camp; the Naik in charge of them saluted and fled, lesthe and his men be impounded for further service; and Bertram instruc
tedthe Gurkha Subedar to get a fatigue-party of men to work at loading thetwo trucks to their utmost capacity, with baggage, kit, and ration-boxes.It was evident that the arrival of the trucks did not mean the earlydeparture of the force, for several journeys would he necessary for thecomplete evacuation of the mound of material to be shifted. Havingloaded the trucks, the fatigue-party pushed off, and it was only as thetwo unwieldy erections of baggage were being propelled through the gatesby the willing little men, that it occurred to Bertram to enquire whetherthey had any idea as to where they were going.
Not the slightest, and they grinned cheerily. Another problem! Shouldhe now abandon the force and lead the fatigue-party in the light of theMilitary Landing Officer’s description of the route, or should heendeavour to give the Gurkha Subedar an idea of the way, and send him offwith the trucks? And suppose he lost his way and barged ahead straightacross the Island of Mombasa? That would mean that the rest of themwould have to sit on the wharf all night—if he obeyed the MilitaryLanding Officer’s orders. . . . Which he _must_ do, of course. . . .Bertram was of a mild, inoffensive and quite unvindictive nature, but hefound himself wishing that the Military Landing Officer’s dinner mightthoroughly disagree with him. . . . His own did not appear likely to getthe opportunity. . . . He then and there determined that he would neveragain be caught, while on Active Service, without food of some kind onhis person, if he could help it—chocolate, biscuits, something in atablet or a tin. . . . Should he go and leave the Native Officer incommand, or should he send forth the two precious trucks into thegathering gloom and hope that, dove-like, they would return? . . .
And again the voice of Ali fell like balm of Gilead, as it boomed,welcome, opportune and cheering.
“Sah, I will show the Chinamans the way to camp and bring them backP.D.Q.,” quoth he.
“Oh! Good man!” said Bertram. “Right O! But they’re not Chinamen—theyare Gurkha soldiers. . . . Don’t you hit one, or chivvy them about. . . .”
“Sah, I am knowing all things,” was the modest reply, and the black giantstrode off, followed by the empiled wobbling waggons.
More weary waiting, but, as the day waned, the decrease of heat andsultriness failed to keep pace with the increasing hunger, faintness andsickness which made at least one of the prisoners of the quay wish thateither he or the Emperor of Germany had never been born. . . .
Journey after journey having been made, each by a fresh party of Gurkhas(for Bertram, as is customary, used the willing horse, when he saw thatthe little hill-men apparently liked work for its own sake, as much asthe other Sepoys disliked work for any sake), the moment at last arrivedwhen the ammunition-boxes could be loaded on to the trucks and the wholeforce could be marched off as escort thereunto, leaving nothing behindthem upon the accursed stones of that oven, which had been their gaol forten weary hours.
Never was the order, “Fall in!” obeyed with more alacrity, and it waswith a swinging stride that the troops marched out through the gates inthe rear of their British officer, who strode along with high-held headand soldierly bearing, as he thanked God there was a good moon in theheavens, and prayed that there might soon be a good meal in his stomach.
Up the little hill and past the trolley “terminus” the party tramped, andthe hot, heavy night seemed comparatively cool after the terrible day onthe shut-in, stone and iron heat-trap of the quay. . . . As he glancedat the diamond-studded velvet of the African sky, Bertram thought howlong ago seemed that morning when he had made his first march at the headof his company. It seemed to have taken place, not only in anothercontinent, but in another age. Already he seemed an older, wiser, moreresourceful man. . . .
“_Bwana_ turning feet to left hands here,” said Ali Suleiman from where,abreast of Bertram, he strode along at the edge of the road. “If _Bwana_will following me in front, I am leading him behind”—with which clear andcomprehensible offer, he struck off to the left, his long, cleannight-shirt looming ahead in the darkness as a pillar of cloud by night.. . .
Again Bertram blessed him, and thanked the lucky stars that had broughthim across his path. He had seen no railway-bridge nor railway-line; hecould see no tents, and he was exceedingly thankful that it was not hisduty to find, by night, the way which had seemed somewhat vaguely andinsufficiently indicated for one who sought to follow it by day. Half anhour later he saw a huge black mass which, upon closer experience, provedto be a great palm grove, in the shadow of which stood a number of tents.
* * * * *
In a remarkably short space of time, the Sepoys had occupied four rows ofthe empty tents, lighted hurricane lamps, unpacked bedding and kitbundles, removed turbans, belts and accoutrements, and, set about thebusiness of cooking, distributing, and devouring their rations.
The grove of palms that had looked so very inviolable and sacredly remoteas it stood untenanted and silent in the brilliant moonlight, now lookedand smelt (thanks to wood fires and burning ghee) like an Indian bazaar,as Sikhs, Gurkhas, Rajputs, Punjabis, Marathas, Pathans and“down-country” Carnatics swarmed in and out of tents, aroundcooking-fires, at the taps of the big railway water-tank, or thekit-and-ration dump—the men of each different race yet keeping themselvesseparate from those of other races. . . .
As the unutterably weary Bertram stood and watched and wondered as towhat military and disciplinary conundrums his motley force would providefor him on the morrow, his ancient and faithful family retainer came andasked him for his keys. That worthy had already, in the name of his_Bwana_, demanded the instant provision of a fatigue-party, and directedthe removal of a tent from the lines to a spot where there would be moreprivacy and shade for its occupant, and had then unstrapped the bundlescontaining his master’s bed, bedding and washhand-stand, and now desiredfurther to furnish forth the tent with the suitable contents of the sack.. . .
And so Bertram “settled in,” as did his little force, save that he wentto bed supperless and they did not. Far from it—for a goat actuallystrayed bleating into the line and met with an accident—getting its sillyneck in the way of a _kukri_ just as its owner was, so he said, fanninghimself with it (with the _kukri_, not the goat). So some fed full, andothers fuller.
Next day, Bertram ate what Ali, far-foraging, brought him; and restedbeneath the shade of the palms and let his men rest also, to recover fromtheir sea-voyage and generally to find themselves. . . . For one wholeday 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 themorrow, he would arise, go on the warpath in the camp, and grapplebravely with every problem that might arise, from shortage of turmeric toexcess of covert criticism of his knowledge and ability.
But the morrow never came in that camp, for the Base Commandant sent forhim in urgent haste at eventide, and bade him strain every nerve to gethis men and their baggage, lock, stock and barrel, on board the_Barjordan_, just as quickly as it could be done (and a dam’ sightquicker), for reinforcements were urgently needed at M’paga, down thecoast.
Followed a sleepless nightmare night, throughout which he worked bymoonlight in the camp, on the quay, and on the _Barjordan’s_ deck,reversing the labours of the previous day, and re-embarking his men,their kit, ammunition, rations and impedimenta—and in addition, twobarge-loads of commissariat and ordnance requisites for the M’pagaBrigade.
At dawn the last man, box, and bale was on board and Bertram endeavouredto speak a word of praise, in halting Hindustani, to the Gurkha Subedar,who, with his men, had shown an alacrity and gluttony for work, beyondall praise. All the other Sepoys had worked properly in their differentshifts—but the Gurkhas had revelled in work, and when their second shiftcame at midnight, the first shift remained and worked with them!
Having gratefully accepted coffee from Mr. Wigger, the First Officer,Bertram, feeling “beat to the world,” went down to his cabin, turned in,and slept till evening. When he awoke, a gazelle was gazingaffectionately into his
face.
He shut his eyes and shivered. . . . Was this sunstroke, fever, ormadness? He felt horribly frightened, his nerves being in the statenatural to a person of his temperament and constitution when overworked,underfed, affected by the sun, touched by fever, and overwrought to thebreaking-point by anxiety and worry.
He opened his eyes again, determined to be cool, wise and brave, in faceof this threatened breakdown, this hallucination of insanity.
The gazelle was still there—there in a carpeted, comfortable cabin, onboard a ship, in the Indian Ocean. . . .
He rubbed his eyes.
Then he put out his hand to pass it through the spectral Thing andconfirm his worst fears.
The gazelle licked his hand, and he sat up and said: “Oh, damn!” andlaughed weakly.
The animal left the cabin, and he heard its hoofs pattering on thelinoleum.
Later he found it to be a pet of the captain of the _Barjordan_, CaptainO’Connor.
Next morning the ship anchored a mile or so from a mangrove swamp, andthe business of disembarkation began again, this time into the ship’sboats and some sailing dhows that had met the _Barjordan_ at this spot.
When all the Sepoys and stores were in the boats and dhows, he put on the_puggri_ which Bludyer had given him, with the assistance of Ali Suleimanand the Gurkha Subedar, looked at himself in the glass, and wished hefelt 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 goodwishes and exhortations to slay and spare not, and went down on themotor-launch that was to tow the laden boats to the low gloomy shore—if amangrove swamp can be called a shore. . . .
One more “beginning”—or one more stage on the road to War! Here was_he_, Bertram Greene, armed to the teeth, with a turban on his head,about to be landed—and left—on the shores of the mainland of this trulyDark Continent. He was about to invade Africa! . . .
If only his father and Miranda could see him _now_!
Cupid in Africa Page 11
