CHAPTER XX_Stein-Brücker Meets Bertram Greene—and Death_
And so passed the days at Butindi, with a wearisome monotony of Stand-to,visiting the pickets, going out on patrol, improving the defences of the_boma_, foraging, gathering information, reconnoitring, trying to waylayand scupper enemy patrols, communicating with the other British outposts,surveying and map-making, beating off half-hearted attacks by strongraiding-patrols—all to the accompaniment of fever, dysentery, and growingweakness due to malnutrition and the terrible climate.
To Bertram it all soon became so familiar and normal that it seemedstrange to think that he had ever known any other kind of life. Hischief pleasure was to talk to Wavell, that most uncommon type of soldier,who was also philosopher, linguist, student, traveller, explorer andethnologist.
From the others, Bertram learnt that Wavell was, among other things, asecond Burton, having penetrated into Mecca and Medina in the disguise ofa _haji_, a religious pilgrim, at the very greatest peril of his life.He had also fought, as a soldier of fortune, for the Arabs against theTurks, whom he loathed as only those who have lived under their rule canloathe them. He could have told our Foreign Office many interestingthings about the Turk. (When, after he had been imprisoned and brutallytreated by them at Sanaa, in the Yemen, he had appealed to our ForeignOffice, it had sided rather with the Turk indeed, confirming theUnspeakable One’s strong impression that the English were a no-accountrace, even as the Germans said.) So Wavell had fought against them,helping the Arabs, whom he liked. And when the Great War broke out, hehad raised a double company of these fierce, brave, and blood-thirstylittle men in Arabia, and had drilled them into fine soldiers. Probablyno other Englishman—or European of any sort—could have done this; butthen Wavell spoke Arabic like an Arab, knew the Koran almost by heart,and knew his Arabs quite by heart.
That he showed a liking for Bertram was, to Bertram, a very great sourceof pride and pleasure. When Wavell went out on a reconnoitring-patrol,he went with him if he could get Major Mallery’s permission, and the twomarched through the African jungle discussing art, poetry, travel,religion, and the ethnological problems of Arabia—followed by a hundredor so Arabs—Arabs who were killing Africans and being killed by Africans,often of their own religion and blood, because a gang of greedymaterialists, a few thousand miles away, was suffering from megalomania.. . .
Indeed to Bertram it was food for much thought that in that tiny _boma_in a tropical African swamp, Anglo-Indians, Englishmen, Colonials, Arabs,Yaos, Swahilis, Gurkhas, Rajputs, Sikhs, Marathas, Punjabis, Pathans,Soudanese, Nubians, Bengalis, Goanese, and a mob of assorted _shenzis_ ofthe primeval jungle, should be laying down their lives because, indistant Berlin, a hare-brained Kaiser could not control a crowd of greedyand swollen-headed military aristocrats.
* * * * *
“Your month’s tobacco ration, Greene,” said Berners one morning, as heentered Bertram’s hut, “and _don’t_ leave your boots on the floor toattract jigger-fleas—unless you _want_ blood-poisoning and guinea-worm—oris it guinea-fowl? Hang them on the wall. . . . And look between yourtoes every time you take ’em off. Jigger-fleas are, hell, once they getunder the skin and lay their eggs. . .” and he handed Bertram some cakesof perfectly black tobacco.
“But, my dear chap, I couldn’t smoke _that_,” said Bertram, eyeing thehorrible stuff askance.
“Of course you can’t _smoke_ it,” replied Berners.
“What can I do with it, then?” he asked.
“Anything you like. . . . I don’t care. . . . It’s your tobacco ration,and I’ve issued it to you, and there the matter ends. .. . You canrevet your trench parapet with it if you like—or give it to the Wadegosto poison their arrows with. . . . Jolly useful stuff, really. . . .Sole your boots, tile the roof of your _banda_, make a parquet floorround your bed, put it in Chatterji’s tea, make a chair seat, lay down apathway to the Mess, make your mother a teapot-stand, feed thechickens—oh, lots of things. But you can’t _smoke_ it, of course. . . .You expect too much, my lad. . . .”
“Why do they issue it, then?” asked Bertram.
“Same reason that they issue inedible bully-beef and unbreakablebiscuits, I s’pose—contractors must _live_, mustn’t they? . . . Bereasonable. . . .”
And again it seemed to the foolish civilian mind of this young man that,since tons of this black cake tobacco (which no British officer ever hassmoked or could smoke) cost money, however little—there would be moresense in spending the money on a small quantity of Turkish and Virginiancigarettes that _could_ be smoked, by men accustomed to such things, andsuffering cruelly for lack of them. Throughout the campaign he saw agreat deal of this strong, black cake issued (to men accustomed to goodcigarettes, cigars or pipe-mixture), but he never saw any of it smoked.He presented his portion to Ali, who traded it to people of palate andstomach less delicate than those the British Government expects theBritish officer to possess. . . .
“You look seedy, Greene,” observed the Major that same evening, asBertram dragged himself across the black mud from his _banda_ to theBristol Bar—wondering if he would ever get there.
“Touch of fever, sir. I’m all right,” replied he, wishing that everyoneand everything were not so nebulous and rotatory.
He did not mention that he had been up all night with dysentery, and hadbeen unable to swallow solid food for three days. (Nor that histemperature was one hundred and four—because he was unaware of the fact.)But he knew that the moment was not far off when all his will-power anduttermost effort would be unable to get him off his camp-bed. He haddone his best—but the worst climate in the world, a diet of indigestibleand non-nutritious food, taken in hopelessly inadequate quantities; badwater; constant fever; dysentery; long patrol marches; night alarms; highnerve-tension (when a sudden bang followed by a fusillade might mean adesultory attention, a containing action while a more important place wasbeing seriously attacked, or that final and annihilating assault of a bigforce which was daily expected); and the monotonous, dirty, dreary lifein that evil spot, had completely undermined his strength. He was“living on his nerves,” and they were nearly gone. “You look like an oldhen whose neck has been half-wrung for to-morrow’s dinner before she wasfound to be the wrong one, and reprieved,” said Augustus. “You let memake you a real, rousing cock-eye, and then we’ll have an _n’goma_{198}—all the lot of us. . . .”
But finding Bertram quite unequal to dealing with a cock-eye orsustaining his part in a tribal dance that should “astonish the natives,”he helped Bertram over to his _banda_, took off his boots and got him ahot drink of condensed milk and water laced with ration rum.
In the morning Bertram took his place at Stand-to and professed himselfequal to performing his duty, which was that of making areconnoitring-patrol as far as Paso, where there was another outpost. . . .
Here he arrived in time for tea, and had some with real fresh cow’s milkin it; and had a cheery buck with Major Bidwell, Captains Tucker andBremner, and Lieutenants Innes (another Filbert), Richardson, Stirling,Carroll, and Jones—stout fellows all, and very kind to him. He was verysorry indeed when it was time for him to march back again with hispatrol.
He started on the homeward journey, feeling fairly well, for him; but hecould never remember how he completed it. . . .
The darkness gathered so rapidly that he had a suspicion that thedarkness was within him. Then he found that he was continually runninginto trees or being brought up short by impenetrable bush that somehowsprang up before him. . . . Also he was talking aloud, and rathersurprised at his eloquence. . . . Then he was lying on the ground—beingput on his feet again—falling again . . . trying to fight a botheringswarm of _askaris_ with a quill pen, while he addressed the House ofCommons on the iniquity of allowing Bupendranath Chatterji to be inmedical charge of four hundred men with insufficient material to dealwith a street accident. . . . Marching again, falling again, being puton his feet again. . . .
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* * * * *
After two days on his camp-bed he was somewhat better, and on the nextday he found himself in sole command of the Butindi outpost and a man ofresponsibility and pride. Urgent messages had taken Major Mallery withhalf the force in one direction, and Captain Wavell with half theremainder in another.
Suppose there should be an attack while he was in command! He half hopedthere would be. . . .
Towards evening an alarm from a sentry and the turning out of the guardbrought him running to the main gate, shouting “Stand-to!” as he ran.
Through his glasses he saw that a European and a small party of nativeswere approaching the _boma_. . . .
The new-comer was an Englishman of the name of Desmont, in theIntelligence Department, who had just made a long and dangerous tourthrough the neighbouring parts of German East in search of information.Apparently Butindi was the first British outpost that he had struck, ashe asked endless questions about others—apparently with a view tovisiting them _en route_ to the Base Camp. Bertram extended to him suchhospitality as Butindi could afford, and gave him all the help andinformation in his power. He had a very strong conviction that the manwas disguised (whether his huge beard was false or not), but he supposedthat it was very natural in the case of an Intelligence Department spy,scout, or secret agent. Anyhow, he was most obviously English. . . .
While he sat in the Officers’ Mess and talked with the man—a mostinteresting conversation—Ali Suleiman entered with coco-nuts and arum-jar. Seeing the stranger, he instantly wheeled about and retired,sending another servant in with the drinks. . . .
After a high-tea of coco-nut, biscuit, bully-beef, and roastedmealie-cobs, Desmont, who looked worn out, asked if he might lie down fora few hours before he “moved off” again. Bertram at once took him to hisown _banda_ and bade him make himself at home. Five minutes later cameAli with an air of mystery to where Bertram paced up and down the “HighStreet,” and asked if he might speak with him.
“That man a _Germani_, sah!” quoth he. “Spy-man he is. Debbil-man. Hisown name _not_ Desmont _Bwana_, and he is big man in Dar-es-Salaam andTabora, and knowing all the big _Germani bwanas_. I was his gun-boy andI go with him to _Germani_ East. . . . _Bwana_ go and shoot him fordead, sah, by damn!”
Bertram sat down heavily on a chop-box.
“_What_?” gasped he.
“Yessah, thank you please. One of those porters not a _shenzi_ at all.He Desmont _Bwana’s_ head boy Murad. Very bad man, sah. Master look inthis spy-man’s chop-boxes. _Germani_ uniform in one—under rice andposho. Master see. . . .”
“You’re a fool, Ali,” said Bertram.
“Yessah,” said Ali, “and Desmont _Bwana_ a _Germani_ spy-man. Master goan’ shoot him for dead while asleep—or tie him to tree till Mallery_Bwana_ coming. . . .”
_Now_ what was to be done? Here was a case for swift action by the“strong silent man” type of person who thought like lightning and actedlike some more lightning.
If he did nothing and let the man go when he had rested, would hisconduct be that of a fool and a weakling who could not act promptly andefficiently on information received—conduct deserving the strongestcensure? . . .
And if he arrested and detained one of their own Intelligence Officers,on the word of a native servant, would he ever hear the last of it?
“_Bwana_ come and catch this bad man Murad,” suggested Ali. “_Bwana_say, ‘_Jambo_, _Murad ibn Mustapha_! _How much rupees Desmont Bwanapaying you for spy-work_?’ and _Bwana_ see him jump! By damn, sah!_Bwana_ hold revolver ready.” . . .
“Does the man know English then?” asked the perturbed and undecidedBertram.
“Yessah—all the same better as I do,” was the reply. “And he pretendingto be poor _shenzi_ porter. He knowing _Germani_ too. . . .”
At any rate, he might look into _this_, and if anything suspicioustranspired, he could at least prevent Desmont from leaving before Malleryreturned.
“Has he seen you?” asked Bertram.
“No, sah, nor has Desmont _Bwana_,” was the reply—and Bertram bade Alishow him where the porters were.
They were outside the _boma_, squatting round a cooking-fire near the“lines” of the Kavirondo porters.
Approaching the little group, Bertram drew his revolver and held itbehind him. He did not know why he did this. Possibly subconsciousmemory of Ali’s advice, perhaps with the expectation that the men mightattack him or attempt to escape; or perhaps a little pleasant touch ofmelodrama. . . .
“_Jambo_, _Murad ibn Mustapha_!” he said suddenly. “_Desmont Bwana wantsyou at once_. _Go quickly_.”
A man arose immediately and approached him. “Go back and sit down,” saidBertram, covering the man with his revolver and speaking in German. Hereturned and sat down. Evidently he understood English and German andanswered to the name of Murad ibn Mustapha! . . .
Ali had spoken the truth and it was now up to Bertram Greene to actwisely, promptly and firmly. This lot should be kept under arrestanyhow. But might not all this be part of Desmont’s game as a scout, spyand secret service agent of the British Intelligence Department. Yes,_or_ of the German Intelligence Department.
If there was a German uniform in one of the chop-boxes, it might well bea disguise for him to wear in German East. Or it might be his realdress. Anyhow—he shouldn’t leave the outpost until Major Malleryreturned. .
. . And that was a weak shelving of responsibility. He was in commandof the post, and Major Mallery and the other officers with him might bescuppered. It was quite possible that neither the Major’s party norCaptain Wavell’s might ever get back to Butindi. He strolled over to his_banda_ and looked in.
Desmont was evidently suffering from digestive troubles or a badconscience, for his face was contorted, he moved restlessly and groundhis teeth.
Suddenly he screamed like a woman and cried:
“_Ach_! _Gott in Himmel_! _Nein_, _Nein_! _Ich_ . . .”
Bertram drew his revolver. The man was a German. Englishmen don’t talkGerman in their sleep.
The alleged Desmont moaned.
“_Zu müde_,” he said. “_Zu müde_.” . . .
Bertram sat down on his camp-stool and watched the man.
* * * * *
The Herr Doktor Karl Stein-Brücker had made a name for himself in GermanEast, as one who knew how to manage the native. This in a country wherethey all pride themselves on knowing how to manage the native—how to putthe fear of Frightfulness and _Kultur_ into his heart. He had once givena great increase to a growing reputation by flogging a woman to death, onsuspicion of unfaithfulness. He had wielded the _kiboko_ with his own(literally) red right hand until he was aweary, and had then passed thejob on to Murad ibn Mustapha, who was very slow to tire. But even he hadhad to be kept to it at last. . . .
“_Noch nichte_!” had the Herr Doktor said, “_Not yet_!” as Murad wishedto stop, and
“_Ganz klein wenig_!” as the brawny arm dropped. “_Just a little more_.”. . .
It had been a notable and memorable punishment—but the devil of it wasthat whenever the Herr Doktor got run down or over-ate himself, he had amost terrible nightmare, wherein Marayam, streaming with blood, pursuedhim, caught him, and flogged him. And when she tired, he was doomed tourge her on to further efforts. After screaming with agony, he must moan“_Zu müde_! _Zu müde_!” and then—when she would have stopped—“_Nochnichte_!” and “_Ganz klein wenig_!” so that she began afresh. Then hemust struggle, break free, leap at her—and find himself sweating, weepingand trembling beside his bed.
Presently the moaning sleeper cried “_Noch nichte_!” and a little later“_Ganz klein wenig_!”—and then with a scream and a struggle, leapt fromthe camp cot and sprang at Bertram, whose revolver straightway went off.With a cough and a gurgle the _soi-disant_ Desmont collapsed with a ·450service bullet through his heart.
When Major M
allery returned at dawn he found a deliriousSecond-Lieutenant Greene (and a dead European, and a wonderful tale fromone Ali Suleiman. . . .)
With a temperature of 105·8 he did not seem likely to live. . . .
Whether Bertram Greene lived or died, however, he had, albeit ignorantly,avenged the cruel wrong done to his father. . . . He—the despised andrejected one—had avenged Major Hugh Walsingham Greene. Fate plays somequeer tricks and Time’s whirligig performs some quaint gyrations!
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