Cupid in Africa

by Percival Christopher Wren

  CHAPTER XV_Butindi_

  Half a mile beyond a village of the tiniest huts—built for themselves bythe Kavirondo porters, and suggesting beehives rather than humanhabitations—Bertram beheld the entrenched and stockaded _boma_, zariba,or fort, that was to be his home for some months.

  At that distance, it looked like a solid square of grass huts and tents,surrounded by a high wall. He guessed each side to be about two hundredyards in length. It stood in a clearing which gave a field of fire ofsome three hundred yards in every direction.

  Halting the advance-guard, he formed it up from single file into fours;and, taking his kit from Ali, resumed it. Giving the order to march at“attention,” he approached the _boma_, above the entrance to which anofficer was watching him through field-glasses.

  Halting his men at the plank which crossed the trench, he bade them“stand easy,” and, leaving them in charge of a Havildar, crossed thelittle bridge and approached the gateway which faced sideways instead ofoutwards, and was so narrow that only one person at a time could passthrough it.

  Between the trench and the wall of the _boma_ was a space some ten yardsin width, wherein a number of small men in blue uniform, who resembledneither Indians nor Africans, were employed upon the off-duty duties ofthe soldier—cleaning rifles and accoutrements, chopping wood, rollingputtees, preparing food, washing clothing, and pursuing trains of thoughtor insects.

  Against the wall stood the long lean-to shelters, consisting of a roof ofplaited palm-leaf, supported by poles, in which they lived. By theentrance was a guard-house, which suggested a rabbit-hutch; and a sentry,who, seeing the approach of an armed party, turned out the guard. TheSergeant of the Guard was an enormous man with a skin like fine blacksatin, a skin than which no satin could be blacker nor more shiny. Hewas an obvious negro, Nubian or Soudanese, but the men of the guard weresmall and fair, and wore blue turbans, of which the ornamental end hungtail-wise down their backs. Beneath their blue tunics were unpleatedkilts or skirts, of a kind of blue tartan, reaching to their knees. Theyhad blue puttees and bare feet.

  Saluting the guard, Bertram entered the _boma_ and found himself in theHigh Street of a close-packed village of huts and tents, which were thedwelling-places of the officers, the hospital and sick-lines, thecommissariat store, the Officers’ Mess, the cook-house, orderly-room, andoffices.

  In the middle of the High Street stood four poles which supported a roof.A “table” of posts and packing-case boards, surrounded by nativebedsteads of wood and string—by way of seats—constituted this, theOfficers’ Mess, Club, Common Room and Bar. A bunch of despondent-lookingbananas hanging from the ridge-pole suggested food, and a bath containinga foot of water and an inch of mud suggested drink and cholera.

  About the table sat several British officers in ragged shirts and shorts,drinking tea and eating native _chupatties_. They looked ill and weary.The mosaic of scraps of stencilled packing-case wood, the tin plates, thebiscuit-box “sugar-basin,” the condensed milk tin “milk-jug,” thebattered metal teapot and the pile of sodden-looking _chupatties_ made asuninviting an afternoon tea ménage as could be imagined, particularly inthat setting of muddy clay floor, rough and dirty _angarebs_, androof-and-wall thatch of withered leaves and grass. A typical scene ofmodern glorious war with its dirt, discomfort and privation, its disease,misery and weary boredom. . . .

  Bertram approached the rickety grass hut and saluted.

  A very tall man, with the face and moustache of a Viking, rose andextended his hand.

  “How do, Greene?” said he. “Glad to see you. . . . Hope you brought therum ration safe. . . . Take your bonnet off and undo your furs. . . .Hope that pistol’s not loaded. . . . Nor that sword sharp. . . .Oughtn’t to go about with nasty, dangerous things like that. . . . Hopethe rum ration’s safe. . . . Have some tea and a bloater. . . .Berners, go and do Quartermaster, like a good lad. . . . Have some rumand a bloater, Greene. . . .”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Bertram, noting that the big man had a crown onone shoulder of his shirt and a safety-pin spanning a huge hole on theother. His great arms and chest were bare, and a pair of corduroyriding-breeches, quite unfastened at the knee and calf, left an expanseof bare leg between their termination and the beginning of grey, saggingsocks. Hob-nailed boots, fastened with string, completed his attire. Helooked like a tramp, a scarecrow, and a strong leader of men.

  “’Fraid you’ll have to drink out of a condensed milk tin, until your kitturns up. . .” said a pale and very handsome youth. “You get a flavourof milk, though,” he added with an air of impartiality, “as well as oftin and solder. . . . They burn your fingers so damnably, though, whenyou go to pick ’em up. . . . Or why not drink out of the teapot, ifeveryone has finished? . . . Yes—I’ll drop in a spot of condensed milk.”

  “No—damn it all, Vereker,” put in the Major, “let’s do him well andcreate an impression. Nothing like beginning as you don’t mean to goon—or can’t possibly go on. . . . He can have The Glass this evening.And some fresh tea. And his own tin of condensed. . . . And a bloater.Hasn’t he brought us rum and hope? . . .”

  The pale and handsome Vereker sighed.

  “You create a _false_ impression, sir,” he said, and, taking a key fromhis neck, arose and unlocked a big chop-box that stood in a corner of the_banda_. Thence he produced a glass tumbler and set it before Bertram.

  “There’s The Glass,” said he. “It’s now in your charge, present andcorrect. I’ll receive it from you and return the receipt at ‘Stand-to.’. . .”

  Bertram gathered that the tumbler was precious in the Major’s sight, andthat honour was being shown him. He had a faint sense of having reachedHome. He was disappointed when a servant brought fresh tea, anewly-opened tin of milk, and the lid of a biscuit-box for a plate, todiscover that the banana which reposed upon it was the “bloater” of hishopes and the Major’s promise.

  “For God’s sake use plenty of condensed milk,” said that gentleman, asBertram put some into the glass, preparatory to pouring out his tea.Bertram thought it very kind and attentive of him—until he added: “Andpour the tea _on_ to it, and not down the side of the glass. . . .That’s how the other tumbler got done in. . . .”

  As he gratefully sipped the hot tea and doubtfully munched a _chapatti_,Bertram took stock of the other members of the Mess. Beside MajorMallery sat a very hard-looking person, a typical fighting-man with therather low forehead, rather protruding ears, rather high cheek-bones,heavy jaw and jutting chin of his kind. He spoke little, and thatsomewhat truculently, wore a big heavy knife in his belt, looked like arefined prize-fighter, and answered to the name of Captain Macke.

  Beside him, and in strong contrast, sat a young man of the Filbert genus.He wore a monocle, his nails were manicured, he spoke with the euphuismand euphemism of a certain Oxford type, he had an air of languor, boredomand acute refinement, was addressed as Cecil Clarence, when not as GussieAugustus Gus, and seemed to be one of the very best.

  On the same string bed, and in even stronger contrast, sat a dark-facedIndian youth. On his shoulder-straps were the letters I.M.S. and twostars. A lieutenant of the Indian Medical Service, and, as such, amember of this British Officers’ Mess. Bertram wondered why the factthat he had been to England and read certain books should have thisresult; and whether the society of the Subedar-Major of the regimentwould have been preferred by the British officers. The young man talkeda lot, and appeared anxious to show his freedom from anxiety, and hisknowledge of English idiom and slang. When he addressed anyone by thenickname which intimate pals bestowed upon him, Bertram felt sorry forthis youth with the hard staccato voice and raucous, mirthless laugh.Cecil Clarence said of him that “if one gave him an inch he took an ’ellof a lot for granted.” His name was Bupendranath Chatterji, and his papasat cross-legged and bare-footed in the doorway of a little shop in aCalcutta bazaar, and lent moneys to the poor, needy and oppressed, for aconsiderable consideration.

  “
’Bout time for Stand-to, isn’t it?” said the Major, consulting hiswrist-watch. “Hop it, young Clarence. . . . You might come round withme to-night, Greene, if you’ve finished tea. . . . Can’t offer youanother bloater, I’m afraid. . . .”

  The other officers faded away. A few minutes later a long blast wasblown on a whistle, there were near and distant cries of “Stand-to,” andCecil Clarence returned to the Mess _banda_. He was wearing tunic andcross-belt. On his cheerful young face was a look of portentoussolemnity as he approached the Major, halted, saluted, stared at him asat a perfect stranger, and said: “Stand-to, sir. All present andcorrect.”

  Over the Major’s face stole a similar expression. He looked as one whohas received sudden, interesting and important but anxious news.

  “Thank you,” said he. “I’ll—ah—go round. Yes. Come with me, will you?. . .” Cecil Clarence again saluted, and fell in behind the Major as heleft the _banda_. Bertram followed. The Major went to his tent and puton his tunic and cross-belt. These did little to improve theunfastenable riding-breeches, bare calves and grey socks, but wereevidently part of the rite.

  Proceeding thence to the entrance to the _boma_, the Major squeezedthrough, was saluted by the guard, and there met by an English officer inthe dress of the small men whom Bertram had noticed on his arrival. Hiswhite face looked incongruous with the blue turban and tartan petticoat.“All present and correct, sir,” said he. Half his men were down in thetrench, their rifles resting in the loop-holes of the parapet. Theseloop-holes were of wicker-work, like bottomless waste-paper baskets, andwere built into the earthwork of the parapet so that a man, lookingthrough one, had a foot of earth and logs above his head. The other halfof his blue-clad force was inside the _boma_ and lining the wall. Thiswall, some eight feet in height, had been built by erecting two walls ofstout wattle and posts, two feet apart, and then filling the spacebetween these two with earth. Along the bottom of the wall ran acontinuous fire-step, some two feet in height, and a line of wicker-workloop-holes pierced it near the top. In the angle, where this side of the_boma_ met the other, was a tower of posts, wattle and earth, some twelvefeet in height, and on it, within an earth-and-wattle wall, and beneath athatched roof, was a machine-gun and its team of King’s African Rifles_askaris_, in charge of an English N.C.O. On the roof squatted a sentry,who stared at the sky with a look of rapt attention to duty.

  “How are those two men, Black?” asked the Major, as the N.C.O. saluted.

  “Very bad, sir,” was the reply. “They’ll die to-night. I’m quite surethe Germans had poisoned that honey and left it for our _askari_ patrolsto find. I wondered at the time that they ’adn’t skoffed it themselves.. . . And it so near their _boma_ and plain to see, an’ all. . . . Inever thought about poison till it was too late. . . .”

  “Foul swine!” said the Major. “I suppose it’s a trick they learnt fromthe _shenzis_, this poisoning wild honey? . . .”

  “More like they taught it ’em, sir,” was the reply. “There ain’t nosavage as low as a German, sir. . . . I lived in German East, I did,afore the war. . . . I _know_ ’em. . . .”

  The next face of the _boma_ was held by the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth.Captain Macke met the Major and saluted him as a revered stranger. He,too, wore tunic and cross-belt and a look of portentous solemnity, suchas that on the faces of the Major, Cecil Clarence, and, indeed, everybodyelse. Bertram, later, labelled it the Stand-to face and practised toacquire it.

  “How many sick, Captain Macke?” enquired the Major.

  “Twenty-seven, sir,” was the reply. Bertram wondered whether they were“present” in the spirit and “correct” in form.

  “All fever or dysentery—or both, I suppose?” said the Major.

  “Yes—except one with a poisoned foot and one who seems to be goingblind,” was the reply.

  As they passed along, the Major glanced at each man, looked into thecanvas water-tanks, scrutinised the residential sheds beneath thewall—and, in one of them discovered a scrap of paper! As the ground wascovered with leaves, twigs, and bits of grass, as well as being thickwith mud, Bertram did not see that this piece of paper mattered much.This only shows his ignorance. The Major pointed at it, speechless.Captain Macke paled—with horror, wrath or grief. Gussie Augustus Gusstooped and stared at it, screwing his monocle in the tighter, that hemight see the better and not be deceived. Vereker turned it over withhis stick, and only then believed the evidence of three of his senses.The Jemadar shook his head with incredulous but pained expression. Hecalled for the Havildar, whose mouth fell open. The two men were veryalike, being relatives, but while the senior wore a look of incredulouspain, the junior, it seemed to Bertram, rather wore one of painedincredulity. That is to say, the Jemadar looked stricken but unable tobelieve his eyes, whereas the Havildar looked as though he could notbelieve his eyes but was stricken nevertheless.

  All stared hard at the piece of paper. . . . It was a poignant moment. . . .No one moved and no one seemed to breathe. Suddenly the Havildartouched a Naik who stood behind his men, with his back to the group ofofficers, and stared fixedly at Nothing. He turned, beheld the paper atwhich the Havildar’s accusing finger pointed, rigid but tremulous. . . .What next? The Naik pocketed the paper, and the incident was closed.

  Bertram was glad that he had witnessed it. He knew, thenceforth, theproper procedure for an officer who, wearing the Stand-to face, sees apiece of paper.

  The third wall of the _boma_ was occupied by a company of Dogras of anImperial Service Corps, under a Subedar, a fine-looking Rajput, and acompany of Marathas of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth, under theSubedar-Major of that regiment. Bertram was strongly attracted to thislatter officer, and thought that never before had he seen an Indian whoseface combined so much of patient strength, gentle firmness, simplehonesty, and noble pride.

  He was introduced to Bertram, and, as they shook hands and saluted, thefine old face was lit up with a smile of genuine pleasure and friendlyrespectfulness. A man of the old school who recognised duties as well as“rights”—and in whose sight “_false to his salt_” was the last and lowestepithet of uttermost degradation.

  “You’ll have charge of this face of the fort to-morrow, Greene,” said theMajor, as they passed on. “Subedar-Major Luxman Atmaram is a pricelessold bird. He’ll see you have no trouble. . . . Don’t be in a hurry totell him off for anything, because it’s a hundred to one you’ll find he’sright.”

  Bertram smiled to himself at the thought of his being the sort to “telloff” anybody without due cause and was secretly pleased to find thatMajor Mallery had thought such a thing possible. . . .

  The remaining side of the fort was held by Gurkhas, and Bertram noted thefact with pleasure. He had taken a great fancy to these cheery, steadypeople. Another machine-gun, with its team of _askaris_ of the King’sAfrican Rifles, occupied the middle of this wall.

  “Don’t cough or sneeze near the gun,” murmured Vereker to Bertram, “or itmay fall to pieces again. The copper-wire is all right, but theboot-lace was not new to begin with.”

  “What kind of gun is it?” he asked.

  “It was a Hotchkiss once. It’s a Hot-potch now,” was the reply. “Don’ttouch it as you pass,” and the puzzled Bertram observed that it wasactually bound with copper-wire at one point and tied with some kind ofcord or string at another.

  By the hospital—a horrible pit with a tent over it—stood the Indian youthand a party of Swahili stretcher-bearers.

  Bertram wondered whether it would ever be his fate to be carried on oneof those blood-stained stretchers by a couple of those negroes, laid onthe mud at the bottom of that pit, and operated on by that young nativeof India. He shuddered. Fancy one’s life-blood ebbing away into thatmud. Fancy dying, mangled, in that hole with no one but a BupendranathChatterji to soothe one’s last agonies. . . .

  Having completed his tour of inspection, Major Mallery removed theStand-to face and resumed his ordinary one,
said: “They can dismiss,” toCaptain Macke and the group of officers, and tore off his cross-belt andtunic.

  All his hearers relaxed their faces likewise, blew their whistles, cried“Dismiss!” in the direction of their respective Native Officers, andremoved their belts and tunics almost as quickly as they had removedtheir Stand-to faces.

  They then proceeded to the Bristol Bar.