Cupid in Africa

by Percival Christopher Wren

  CHAPTER XII_Reflections_

  That night Bertram was again unable to sleep. Lying awake on his hardand narrow bed, faint for want of food, and sick with the horrible stenchof the swamp, his mind revolved continually round the problem of how to“personally conduct” a convoy of a thousand porters through twenty milesof 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 layconsidering the details of a scheme by which the armed escort should, asit were, circulate round and round from head to tail of the convoy by aprocess which left ten of the advance-guard to occupy every tributaryturning that joined the path and to wait at the junction of the two pathsuntil the whole convoy had passed and the rear-guard had arrived. Theten would then join the rear-guard and march on with them. By the timethis had been repeated sufficiently often to deplete the advance-guard,the convoy should halt while the bulk of the rear-guard marched up to thehead of the column again and so _da capo_. It would want a lot ofexplaining to whoever was in command of the rear-guard, for it would beimpossible for him, himself, to struggle up and down a line miles long—aline 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could make it clear that at any turning he would detail ten men fromthe advance-guard, and then, when fifty had been withdrawn for thisflanking work, he would halt the column so that the officer commandingthe rear-guard could send fifty back. . . . Ten to one the fool wouldbungle it, and he might sit and await the return of the fifty until thecrack of doom, or until he went back and fetched them up himself. And assoon as he had quitted the head of the column there would be an attack onit! . . . Yes—or perhaps the ass in command of the ten placed to guardthe side-turnings would omit to join the rear-guard as it passed—and he’droll up at his destination, with a few score men short. . . . What wouldbe done to him if he—

  _Bang_! . . .

  Bertram’s heart seemed to leap out of his body and then to stand still.His bones seemed to turn to water, and his tongue to leather. Had ashell burst beneath his bed? . . . Was he soaring in the air? . . . Hada great mine exploded beneath the Camp, and was the M’paga Field Forceannihilated? . . . Captain Hall sat up, yawned, put his hand out frombeneath the mosquito curtain of his camp-bed and flashed his electrictorch at a small alarm-clock that stood on a box within reach.

  “What was that explosion?” said Bertram as soon as he could speak.

  “Three-thirty,” yawned Hall. “Might as well get up, I s’pose. . . .Wha’? . . . ’Splosion? . . . Some fool popped his rifle off at nothing,I sh’d say. . . . Blast him! Woke me up. . .”

  “It’s not an attack, then?” said Bertram, mightily relieved. “It soundedas though it were right close outside the hut. . . .”

  “Well—you don’t attack with _one_ rifle shot—nor beat off an attack with_none_. I don’t, at least,” replied Hall. . . “Just outside, was it?”he added as he arose. “Funny! There’s no picket or sentry there. Youmust have been dreaming, my lad.”

  “I was wide awake before it happened,” said Bertram. “I’ve been awakeall night. . . . It was so close, I—I thought I was blown to bits. . . .”

  “’Oo wouldn’ sell ’is liddle farm an’ go ter War,” remarked Hall in Tommyvein. “It’s a wearin’ life, being blowed outer yer bed at ar’ pars freeof a mornin’, ain’t it, guv’nor?”

  A deep and hollow groan, apparently from beneath Bertram’s bed, almostfroze that young gentleman’s blood.

  Pulling on his slippers and turning on his electric torch, Hall dashedout of the hut. Bertram heard him exclaim, swear, and ask questions inHindustani. He was joined by others, and the group moved away. . . .

  “Bright lad nearly blown his hand off,” said Hall, re-entering the hutand lighting a candle-lamp. “Says he was cleaning his rifle. . . .”

  “Do you clean a rifle while it is loaded, and also put one hand over themuzzle and the other on the trigger while you do it?” asked Bertram.

  “_I_ don’t, personally,” replied Captain Hall, shortly. He was loath toadmit that this disgrace to the regiment had intentionally incapacitatedhimself from active service, though it was fairly obvious.

  “I wish he’d gone somewhere else to clean his rifle,” said Bertram. “Ibelieve the thing was pointed straight at my ear. I tell you—I felt asthough a shell had burst in the hut.”

  “Bullet probably came through here,” observed Hall nonchalantly as helaced his boots. (Later Bertram discovered that it had actually cut oneof the four sticks that supported his mosquito curtain, and had torn themuslin thereof.)

  Sleep being out of the question, Bertram decided that he might as wellarise and watch the setting-forth of the little expedition.

  “Going to get up and see you off the premises,” said he.

  “Stout fella,” replied Hall. “I love enthusiasm—but it’ll wear off. . . .The day’ll come, and before long, when you wouldn’t get out of bed tosee your father shot at dawn. . . . Not unless you were in orders tocommand the firing-party, of course,” he added. . .

  Bertram dressed, feeling weak, ill and unhappy. . . .

  “Am I coming in, sah, thank you?” said a well-known voice at the doorlessdoorway of the hut.

  “Hope so,” replied Bertram, “if that’s tea you’ve got.”

  It was. In a large enamel “tumbler” was a pint of glorious hot tea,strong, sweet and scalding.

  “Useful bird, that,” observed Hall, after declining to share the tea, ashe was having breakfast at four o’clock over in the Mess. “I s’pose youhadn’t ordered tea at three forty-five, had you?”

  Bertram admitted that he had not, and concealed the horrid doubt thatarose in his mind—born of memories of Sergeant Jones’s tea atKilindini—as to whether he was not drinking, under Hall’s very nose, thetea that should have graced Hall’s breakfast, due to be on the table inthe Mess at that moment. . . .

  If Captain Hall found his tea unduly dilute he did not mention the factwhen Bertram came over to the Mess _banda_, and sat yawning and watchinghim—the man who could nonchalantly sit and shovel horrid-looking porridgeinto his mouth at four a.m., and talk idly on indifferent subjects, a fewminutes before setting out to make a march in the darkness to an attackat dawn. . . .

  Ill and miserable as he felt, Bertram forgot everything in the thrillinginterest of watching the assembly and departure of the little force. Outof the black darkness little detachments appeared, sometimes silhouettedagainst the red background of cooking fires, and marched along the mainthoroughfare of the Camp to the place of assembly at the quarter-guard.Punctual to the minute, the column was ready to march off, as CaptainHall strolled up, apparently as unconcerned as if he were in some boringpeace manœuvres, or about to ride to a meet, instead of to make across-country night march, by compass, through an African jungle-swamp toan attack at dawn, with the responsibility of the lives of a couple ofhundred men upon his shoulders, as well as that of making a successfulmove on the chess-board of the campaign. . . .

  At the head of the column were a hundred Sepoys of the Hundred andNinety-Eighth, under Stanner. In the light of the candle-lantern whichhe had brought from the _banda_, Bertram scrutinised their faces. Theywere Mussulmans, and looked determined, hardy men and fine soldiers.Some few looked happily excited, some ferocious, but the prevailingexpression was one of weary depression and patient misery. Very manylooked ill, and here and there he saw a sullen and resentful face. Onthe whole, he gathered the impression of a force that would march whereit was led and would fight bravely, venting on the foe its anger andresentment at his being the cause of their sojourning in a stinking swampto rot of malaria and dysentery.

  How was Stanner feeling, Bertram wondered. He was evidently feelingextremely nervous, and made no secret of it when Bertram approached andaddressed him. He was anything but afraid, but he was highly excited.His teeth chattered as he spoke, and his hand shook when he lit acigarette.

  “Gad! I should hate to get one of the
ir beastly expanding bullets in mystomach,” said he. “They fire a brute of a big-bore slug with a flatnose. Bad as an explosive bullet, the swine,” and he shudderedviolently. “Stomach’s the only part I worry about, and I don’t give adamn for bayonets. . . . But a bullet through your stomach! You livefor weeks. . . .”

  Bertram felt distinctly glad to discover that a trained regular officer,like Stanner, could entertain these sensations of nervous excitement, andthat he himself had no monopoly of them. He even thought, with a thrillof hope and confidence, that when his turn came he would be less nervousthan Stanner. He knew that Stanner was not frightened, and that he didnot wish he was snug in bed as his brother-officers were, but he alsoknew that Bertram Greene would not be frightened, and hoped and believedhe would not be so palpably excited and nervous. . . .

  Behind the detachment of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth came a machine-gunteam of _askaris_ of the King’s African Rifles, in charge of a giganticSergeant. The dismounted gun and the ammunition-boxes were on the headsof Swahili porters.

  Bertram liked the look of the Sergeant. He was a picture of quietcompetence, reliability and determination. Although a full-bloodedSwahili, his face was not unhandsome in a fierce, bold, and vigorouslypurposeful way, and though he had the flattened, wide-nostrilled nose ofthe negro, his mouth was Arab, thin-lipped and clear cut as Bertram’sown. There was nothing bovine, childish nor wandering in his regard, buta look of frowning thoughtfulness, intentness and concentration.

  And Sergeant Simba was what he looked, every inch a soldier, and a finehonourable fighting-man, brave as the lion he was named after; asubordinate who would obey and follow his white officer to certain death,without question or wavering; a leader who would carry his men with himby force of his personality, courage and leadership, while he could moveand they could follow. . . . Beside Sergeant Simba, the average Germansoldier is a cur, a barbarian, and a filthy brute, for never in all thetwenty years of his “savage” warfare has Sergeant Simba butchered achild, tortured a woman, murdered wounded enemies, abused (nor used) thewhite flag, fired on the Red Cross, turned captured dwelling-places intopig-styes and latrines in demonstration of his _kultur_—nor, when caughtand cornered, has he waggled dirty hands about cunning, cowardly headwith squeal of _Kamerad_! _Kamerad_! . . . Could William the Kulturedbut have officered his armies with a hundred thousand of Sergeant Simba,instead of with his high-well-born Junkers, the Great War might have beena gentleman’s war, a clean war, and the word _German_ might not havebecome an epithet for all time, nor the “noble and knightly” sons ofancient houses have received commissions as Second Nozzle-Holder in thePoison-Gas Grenadiers, Sub Tap-Turner in a Fire-Squirting Squadron, orOber Left-behind to Poison Wells in the Prussic (Acid) Guard. . . .

  As Bertram watched this sturdy-looking Maxim-gun section, with theirimperturbable, inscrutable faces, an officer of the King’s African Riflesemerged from the circumambient gloom and spoke with Sergeant Simba inSwahili. As he departed, after giving his orders and a few words ofadvice to Sergeant Simba, he raised his lantern to the face of the man incharge of the porters who carried the gun and ammunition. The man’s facewas instantly wreathed in smiles, and he giggled like a little girl. Theofficer dug him affectionately in the ribs, as one smacks a horse ondismounting after a long run and a clean kill, and the giggle became acackle of elfin laughter most incongruous. Evidently the man was theofficer’s pet butt and prize fool.

  “_Cartouchie n’gapi_?” asked the officer.

  “Hundrem millium, _Bwana_,” replied the man, and as the officer turnedaway with a laugh, Bertram correctly surmised that on being asked howmany cartridges he had got, the man had replied that he possessed ahundred million.

  Probably he spoke in round numbers, and used the only English words heknew. . . . The African does not deal in larger quantities thanten-at-a-time, and his estimates are vague, and still more vague is hisexpression of them. He will tell you that a place is “several nightsdistant,” or perhaps that it is “a few rivers away.” It is only just,however, to state that he will cheerfully accept an equal vagueness inreturn, and will go to your tent with the alacrity of clear understandingand definite purpose, if you say to him: “Run quickly to my tent andbring me the thing I want. You will easily distinguish it, as it is ofabout the colour of a flower, the size of a piece of wood, the shape ofelephant’s breath, and the weight of water. _You_ know—it’s as long assome string and exactly the height of some stones. You’ll find it aboutas heavy as a dead bird or a load on the conscience. That thing thatlooks like a smell and feels like a sound. . . .” He may bring your gun,your tobacco-pouch, your pyjamas, your toothbrush, or one slipper, but hewill bring _something_, and that without hesitation or delay, for heimmediately and clearly grasped that that particular thing, and noneother, was what you wanted. He recognised it from your clear and carefuldescription. 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 thathe handled daily), and left him to make up his mind, unaided, as towhether you did not really mean trousers, a book, washhand-stand, or thepens, ink, and paper of the gardener’s aunt. . . .

  Behind the Swahili was a half-company of Gurkhas of the Kashmir ImperialService Troops. As they stood at ease and chatted to each other, theyreminded Bertram of a class of schoolboys waiting to be taken upon somehighly pleasurable outing. There was an air of cheerful excitement andjoyous expectancy.

  “_Salaam_, _Subedar Sahib_,” said Bertram, as the fierce hard face of hislittle friend came within the radius of the beams of his lantern.

  “_Salaam_, _Sahib_,” replied the Gurkha officer, “_Sahib ata hai_?” heasked.

  “_Nahin_,” replied Bertram. “_Hamara Colonel Sahib hamko hookum dea ki_‘_Mut jao_,’” and the Subedar gathered that Bertram’s Colonel hadforbidden him to go. He commiserated with the young Sahib, said it wasbad luck, but doubtless the Colonel Sahib in his wisdom had reserved himfor far greater things.

  As he strolled along their flank, Bertram received many a cheery grin ofrecognition and many a “Salaam, Sahib,” from the friendly and lovablelittle hill-men.

  In their rear, Bertram saw, with a momentary feeling that was somethinglike the touch of a chill hand upon his heart, a party of Swahilistretcher-bearers, under an Indian of the Subordinate Medical Department,who bore, slung by a crossbelt across his body, a large satchel ofdressings and simple surgical appliances. . . . Would thesestretcher-bearers come back laden—sodden and dripping with the life-bloodof men now standing near them in full health and strength and vigour oflusty life? Perhaps this fine Sergeant, perhaps the Subedar-Major of theGurkhas? Stanner? Hall? . . .

  Suddenly the column was in motion and passing through the entrance bywhich Bertram had come into the Camp—was it a month ago or onlyyesterday?

  Without disobeying the Colonel, he might perhaps go with the column asfar as the river? There was a water-picket there permanently. If he didnot go beyond the picket-line, it could not be held that he had “goneout” with the force in face of the C.O.’s prohibition.

  Along the narrow lane or tunnel which wound through the impenetrablejungle of elephant-grass, acacia scrub, live oak, baobab, palm, thorn,creeper, and undergrowth, the column marched to the torrential littleriver, thirty or forty yards wide, that swirled brown, oily, and ugly,between its reed-beds of sucking mud. Here the column halted while Halland Stanner, lantern in hand, felt their slow and stumbling way from logto log of the rough and unrailed bridge that spanned the stream. On thefar side Hall waited with raised lantern, and in the middle stayedStanner and bade the men cross in single file, the while he vainlyendeavoured to illuminate each log and the treacherous gap beside it.Before long the little force had crossed without loss—(and to fallthrough into that deep, swift stream in the darkness with accoutrementsand a hundred rounds of ammunition was to be lost for ever)—and in aminute had disappeared into the darkness, swallowed up and lost to sightand hearing,
as though it had never passed that way. . . .

  Bertram turned back to Camp and came face to face with Major Manton.

  “Morning, Greene,” said he. “Been to see ’em off? Stout fella.” AndBertram felt as pleased and proud as if he had won a decoration. . . .

  The day dawned grey, cheerless and threatening over a landscape as grey,cheerless and threatening as the day. The silent, menacing jungle, theloathsome stench of the surrounding swamp, the heavy, louring sky, themoist, suffocating heat; the sense of lurking, threatening danger fromsavage man, beast and reptile, insect and microbe; the feeling of utterhomelessness and rough discomfort, combined to oppress, discourage anddisturb. . . .

  Breakfast, eaten in silence in the Mess _banda_, consisted of porridgethat required long and careful mastication by any who valued hisdigestion; pieces of meat of dull black surface and bright pink interior,also requiring long and careful mastication by all who were not toowearied by the porridge drill; and bread.

  The bread was of interest—equally to the geologist, the zoologist, thephysiologist, the chemist, and the merely curious. To the dispassionateeye, viewing it without prejudice or partiality, the loaf looked like anoblate spheroid of sandstone—say the Old Red Sandstone in which thecurious may pick up a mammoth, aurochs, sabre-toothed tiger, or similarornament of their little world and fleeting day—and to the passionatehand hacking _with_ prejudice and partiality (for crumb, perhaps), italso felt like it. It was Army Bread, and quite probably made since theoutbreak of the war. The geologist, wise in Eras—_Paleolithic_,_Pliocene_, _Eocene_, _May-have-been_—felt its challenge at once. To thezoologist there was immediate appeal when, by means of some sharp orheavy tool, the outer crust had been broken. For that interior washoney-combed with large, shiny-walled cells, and every cell was filledwith a strange web-like kind of cocoon of finest filaments, now grey, nowgreen, to which adhered tiny black specks. Were these, asked thezoologist, the eggs of insects, and, if so, of what insects? Were theylaid before the loaf petrified, or after? If before, had the burningprocess in the kiln affected them? If after, how did the insect getinside? Or were they possibly of vegetable origin—something of a fungoidnature—or even on that strange borderland ’twixt animal and vegetablewhere roam the yeasty microbe and boisterous bacillus? Perhaps, afterall, it was neither animal nor vegetable, but mineral? . . . So pondersthe geologist who incurs Army Bread in the wilds of the earth.

  The physiologist merely wonders once again at the marvels of the humanorganism, that man can swallow such things and live; while the chemistsecretes a splinter or two, that he may make a qualitative andquantitative analysis of this new, compound, if haply he survive toreturn to his laboratory.

  To the merely curious it is merely curious—until he essays to eat it—andthen his utterance may not be merely precious. . . .

  After this merry meal, Bertram approached the Colonel, saluted, and said:

  “Colonel Frost, of the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth, ordered me to be sure torequest you to return his nine cooking-pots at your very earliestconvenience, sir, if you please.”

  Colonel Rock smiled brightly upon Bertram.

  “He always was a man who liked his little joke,” said he. . . . “Remindme to send him—”

  “Yes, sir,” interrupted Bertram, involuntarily, so pleased was he tothink that the Pots of Contention were to be returned after all.

  “. . . A Christmas-card—will you?” finished Colonel Rock.

  Bertram’s face fell. He thought he could hear, afar off, the ominoussound of the grinding of the mill-stones, between the upper and thenether of which he would be ground exceeding small. . . . Would ColonelFrost send him a telegram? What would Colonel Rock say if he took it tohim? Could he pretend that he had never received it. Base thought! Ifhe received one every day? . . .

  Suppose he were wounded. Could he pretend that his mind and memory wereaffected—loss of memory, loss of identity, loss of cooking-pots? . . .

  “By the way,” said the Colonel, as Bertram saluted to depart, “you’llleave here to-morrow morning with a thousand porters, taking rations andammunition to Butindi. You will take the draft from the Hundred andNinety-Ninth as escort, and report to Major Mallery there. Don’t go andget scuppered, or it’ll be bad for them up at Butindi. . . . Start aboutfive. 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 totake. . . . 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 othermedical comforts. . . .”

  Bertram’s heart sank within him, but he strove to achieve a look thatblent pleasure, firmness, comprehension, and wide experience ofconvoy-work into one attractive whole. Wending his way to his _banda_,Bertram found Ali Suleiman making work for himself and doing it.

  “I am going to Butindi at five to-morrow morning,” he announced. “Haveyou ever been that way?”

  “Oh, yes, sah, please God, thank you,” replied Ali. “I was gun-bearer toa _bwana_, one ’Mericani gentlyman wanting to shoot sable antelope—veryrare inseck—but a lion running up and bite him instead, and shockingclimate cause him great loss of life.”

  “Then you could be guide,” interrupted Bertram, “and show me the way toButindi?”

  “Yes, sah,” replied Ali, “can show _Bwana_ everythings. . . . _Bwana_taking much quinine and other _n’dawa_ {133a} there though. Shockingclimate causing _Bwana_ bad _homa_, bad fever, and perhaps great loss oflife also. . . .”

  “D’you get fever ever?” asked Bertram.

  “Sometimes, sah, but have never had loss of life,” was the reassuringanswer. . . .

  That morning and afternoon Bertram spent in watching the work of theCamp, as he had no duties of his own, and towards evening learnt of theapproach of the expedition of the morning. . . .

  The column marched along with a swing, evidently pleased with itself,particularly the Swahili detachment, who chanted a song consisting of oneverse which contained but one line. “_Macouba Simba na piga mazungo_,”{133b} they sang with wearying but unwearied regularity and monotony. Attheir head marched Sergeant Simba, looking as fresh as when he started,and more like a blackened European than a negro.

  The Subedar and his Gurkhas had been left to garrison the outpost, but afew had returned on the stretchers of the medical detachment.

  Bertram, with sinking heart and sick feelings of horror, watched theseblood-stained biers, with their apparently lifeless burdens, file overthe bridge, and held his breath whenever a stretcher-bearer stumbled onthe greasy logs.

  As the last couple safely crossed the bridge and laid their drippingstretcher down for a moment, the occupant, a Gurkha rifleman, suddenlysat up and looked round. His face was corpse-like, and his uniformlooked as though it had just been dipped in a bath of blood. Painfullyhe rose to his feet, while the Swahili bearers gaped in amazement, andtottered slowly forward. Reeling like a drunken man, he followed in thewake of the disappearing procession, until he fell. Picking up the emptystretcher, the bearers hurried to where he lay—only to be waved away bythe wounded man, who again arose and reeled, staggering, along the path.

  Bertram met him and caught his arm as he collapsed once more.

  “_Subr karo_,” said Bertram, summoning up some Hindustani of a sort.“_Stretcher men baitho_.” {134a}

  “_Nahin_, _Sahib_,” whispered the Gurkha; “_kuch nahin hai_.” {134b} Heevidently understood and spoke a little of the same kind. No. It wasnothing. Only seven holes from Maxim-gun fire, that had riddled him asthe German N.C.O. sprayed the charging line until a _kukri_ halved hisskull. . . . It was nothing. . . . No—it would take more than a_Germani_ and his woolly-haired _askaris_ to put Rifleman Thappa Sannu ona stretcher. . . .

  Bertram’s hand seemed as though it were holding a wet sponge. He fe
ltsick, and dreaded the moment when he must look at it and see it reekingred.

  “_Mirhbani_, _Sahib_,” whispered the man again. “_Kuch nahin hai_._Hamko mut pukkaro_.” {134c}

  He lurched free, stumbled forward a dozen yards, and fell again.

  There was no difficulty about placing him upon the stretcher this time,and he made no remonstrance, as he was dead.

  Bertram went to his _banda_, sat on the edge of his bed, and wrestledmanfully with himself.

  By the time Hall had made his report to the Colonel and come to the hutfor 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, andcontrived to look and behave as though he had not just had one of themost poignant and disturbing experiences of his life. . . .

  “Ripping little show,” said Captain Hall, as he prepared for a bath andchange. “The Gurkhas did in their pickets without a sound. Gad! Theycan handle those _kukris_ of theirs to some purpose. Sentry on a moundin the outpost pooped off for some reason. They must just have beendoing their morning Stand-to. . . . All four sides of the post openedfire, and we were only attacking on one. . . . They’d got a Maxim ateach corner. . . . Too late, though. One hurroosh of a rush before theyknew anything, and we were in the _boma_ with the bayonet. Most of thembunked over the other side. . . . Got three white men, though. A Gurkhalaid one out—on the Maxim, he was—and the Sergeant of the Swahilis fairlyspitted another with his bayonet. . . . Third one got in the way of myrevolver. . . I don’t s’pose the whole thing lasted five minutes fromthe time their sentry fired. . . . The Hundred and Ninety-Eighth werefine. Lost our best Havildar, though. He’d have been Jemadar if he’dlived. He was leading a rush of his section in fine style, when he‘copped a packet.’ Stopped one badly. Clean through the neck. One o’those beastly soft-nosed slugs the swine give their _askaris_ for‘savage’ warfare. . . . As if a German knew of any other kind. . . .”

  “Many casualties?” asked Bertram, trying to speak lightly.

  “No—very few. Only eleven killed and seven wounded. Wasn’t time formore. Shouldn’t have had that much, only the blighter with the Maxim wasnippy enough to get going with it while we charged over about forty yardsfrom cover. The Gurkhas jumped the ditch like greyhounds and over theparapet of the inner trench like birds. . . . You _should_ ha’ beenthere. . . . They never had a chance. . . .”

  “Yes,” said Bertram, and tried to visualise that rush at the belchingMaxim.

  “Didn’t think much of their _bundobust_,” continued Hall. “Their picketswere pretty well asleep and the place hadn’t got a yard of barbed wirenor even a row of stakes. They hadn’t a field of fire of more than fiftyyards anywhere. . . . Bit provincial, what? . . .”

  While Hall bathed, Bertram went in search of Captain Brent of the CoolieCorps.

  Dinner that night was a vain repetition of yesterday’s, save that therewas more soup and cold bully-beef gravy available, owing to the rain.

  The roof of the _banda_ consisting of lightly thatched grass, reeds,twigs, and leaves, was as a sieve beneath the tropical downpour. Therewas nothing to do but to bear it, with or without grinning. Heavy dropsin rapid succession pattered on bare heads, resounded on the tin plates,splashed into food, and, by constant dropping, wore away tempers. Bycomparison with the great heat of the weather, the rain seemed cold, andthe little streams that cascaded down from pendent twig or reed wereunwelcome as they invaded the back of the neck of some depressed dinerbelow.

  A most unpleasant looking snake, dislodged or disturbed by the rain, fellwith sudden thud upon the table from his lodging in the roof. Barely hadit done so when it was skewered to the boards by the fork of CaptainTollward. “Good man,” said Major Manton, and decapitated the reptilewith his knife.

  “Just as well to put him out of pain,” said he coolly; “it’s a _mamba_.Beastly poisonous,” and the still-writhing snake was removed with theknife and fork that had carved him. “Lucky I got him in the neck,”observed Tollward, and the matter dropped.

  Bertram wondered what he would have done had a small and highly poisonousserpent suddenly flopped down with a thump in front of his plate.Squealed like a girl perhaps?

  Before long he was sitting huddled up beneath a perfect shower-bath ofcold drops, with his feet in an oozy bog which soon became a pool andthen a stream, and by the end of “dinner” was a torrent that gurgled inat one end of the Mess _banda_, and foamed out at the other. In thisfilthy water the Mess servants paddled to and fro, becoming more and moresuggestive of drowned birds, while the yellowish khaki-drill of theirmasters turned almost black as it grew more sodden. One by one the lampsused by the cook and servants went out. That in the _banda_ went outtoo, and the Colonel, who owned a tent, followed its example. Thoseofficers who had only huts saw no advantage in retiring to them, and saton in stolid misery, endeavouring to keep cigarettes alight by holdingthem under the table between hasty puffs.

  Having sat—as usual—eagerly listening to the conversation of hisseniors—until the damp and depressed party broke up, Bertram splashedacross to his _banda_ to find that the excellent Ali had completelycovered his bed with his water-proof ground-sheet, had put his pyjamasand a change of underclothing into the bed and the rest of his kit underit. He had also dug a small trench and drain round the hut, so that theinterior was merely a bog instead of a pool. . . .

  Bertram then faced the problem of how to undress while standing in mudbeneath a shower-bath, in such a manner as to be able to get into bedreasonably dry and with the minimum of mud upon the feet. . . .

  As he lay sick and hungry, cold and miserable, with apparently highpromise of fever and colic, listening to the pattering of heavy drops ofwater within the hut, and the beating of rain upon the sea of mud andwater without, and realised that on the morrow he was to undertake hisfirst really dangerous and responsible military duty, his heart sank. . . .Who was _he_ to be in sole charge of a convoy upon whose safe arrivalthe existence of an outpost depended? What a _fool_ he had been to come!Why should _he_ be lying there half starving in that bestial swamp,shivering with fever, and feeling as though he had a very dead cat and avery live one in his stomach? . . . Raising his head from the pillow,he said aloud: “I would not be elsewhere for anything in the world. . . .”