CHAPTER IV_Baked_
§1
When he recovered consciousness, Bertram found himself lying on astretcher in a little natural clearing in the bush—a tiny square enclosedby acacia, sisal, and mimosa scrub. On a candelabra tree hung a bunch ofwater-bottles, a helmet, some haversacks, a tunic, and strips of whiterag.
An officer of the Royal Army Medical Corps and a _babu_ of the IndianSubordinate Medical Service were bending over a medical pannier.Stretcher-bearers brought in another burden as he turned his head to lookround. It was a Native Officer. On top of his head was an oblong ofbare-shaven skull—some caste-mark apparently. Following them with hiseyes Bertram saw the stretcher-bearers place the unconscious (or dead)man at the end of a small row of similar still forms. . . . There wasBrannigan. . . . There was a man with whom he had shared a tent for anight at Taveta. . . . What was his name? . . . There were the twoBaluchi subalterns. . . . Was that the dead row—the mortuary, so tospeak, of this little field ambulance? Was he to join it?
The place stunk of blood, iodine and horrors. He could move neither handnor foot, and the world seemed to be a Mountain of Pain upon the peak ofwhich he was impaled. . . .
The continued rattle of firing was coming nearer, surely? It was—muchnearer. The stretcher-bearers brought in another casualty, the stretcherdripping blood. No “walking wounded” appeared to come to this particulardressing-station.
The firing was getting quite close, and the sound of the cracking ofbranches was audible. Leaves and twigs, cut from the trees by thebullets, occasionally fell upon the mangled and broken forms as though tohide them. . . .
“Sah—they are coming!” said the _babu_ suddenly. His face was a mask offear, but he continued to perform his duties as dresser, as well as hisshaking hands would permit.
Suddenly a ragged line of Gurkhas broke into the clearing, halting tofire, retreating and firing again, fighting from tree to tree and bush tobush. . . . The mixed, swaying and changing battle-line was going tocross the spot where the wounded lay. . . . Those of them who wereconscious knew what _that_ meant. . .
So did the medical officer, and he shouted to the stretcher-bearers,_babu_, mule-drivers, porters, everybody, to carry the wounded fartherinto the bush—quick—quick. . . .
As his stretcher was snatched up, Bertram—so sick with pain, and thecruel extra agony of the jolts and jars, that he cared not what befellhim—saw a group of _askaris_ burst into the clearing, glare around, andrush forward with bayonets poised. He shut his eyes as they reached theother stretchers. . . .
§2
On the terrible journey down the Tanga Railway to M’buyuni, betweenTaveta and Voi, Bertram kept himself alive with the thought that he wouldeventually reach Mombasa. . . .
He had forgotten Eva only while he was in the fight and on the stretcher,but when he lay on the floor of the cattle-truck he seemed to wake from anight of bad dreams—to awake again into the brightness and peace of theday of Love.
Of course, the physical agony of being jolted and jerked for a hundredand fifty miles, throughout which every bump of every wheel over everyrailway joint gave a fresh stab of pain to each aching wound and histhrobbing head, was a terrible experience—but he would rather have beenlying on the floor of that cattle-truck bumping towards Mombasa, thanhave been marching in health and strength away from it.
Every bump that racked him afresh meant that he was about forty feetnearer to M’buyuni which was on the line to Voi which is on the line toMombasa.
What is the pain of a shattered right elbow, a broken left arm, a bullethole in the right thigh and another in the left calf, when one is on theroad to where one’s heart is, and one is filled with the divine wonder offirst love?
He could afford to pity the poor uninjured Bertram Greene of yesterday,marching farther and farther from where all hope, happiness, joy, peaceand plenty lay, where love lay, and where alone in all the world could heknow content. . . .
She would not think the less of him that he had temporarily lost the useof his hands and, for a time, was lame. . . . He had done his duty andwas out of it! Blessed wounds! . . .
§3
In the hospital at M’buyuni the clean bullet-holes in the flesh of hislegs healed quickly. Lucky for him that they had been made by nickelMaxim-bullets and not by the horrible soft-nosed slugs of the _askaris’_rifles. The bone-wounds in his arms were more serious, and he could walklong before he could use his hands.
His patient placidity was remarkable to those who came in contact withhim—not knowing that he dwelt in a serene world apart and dreamed love’syoung age-old dream therein.
Every day was a blessed day in that it brought him much nearer to themoment when he would see her face, hear her voice, touch her hand. Whatunthinkably exquisite joy was to be his—and was his _now_ in the merecontemplation of it!
His left arm began to do well, but the condition of his right arm wasless satisfactory.
“Greene, my son,” said the O.C. M’buyuni Stationary Hospital to him oneday, “you’re for the Hospital Ship _Madras_, her next trip. Lucky youngdog. Wish I was. . . . Give my love to Colonel Giffard and Major Symonswhen you get on board. . . . You’ll get a trip down to Zanzibar, Ibelieve, on your way to Bombay. . . . You’ll be having tea on the lawnat the Yacht Club next month—think of it!”
Bertram thought of something else and radiated joy.
“Aha! That bucks you, does it? Wounded hero with his arm in a sling atthe Friday-evening-band-night-tea-on-the-lawn binges, what?”
Bertram smiled.
“Could I stay on in Mombasa a bit, sir?” he asked.
The O.C. M’buyuni Stationary Hospital stared.
“Eh?” said he, doubting that he could have heard aright. Bertramrepeated the question, and the O.C., M.S.H., felt his pulse. Was thisdelirium?
“No,” he said shortly in the voice of one who is grieved anddisappointed. “You’ll go straight on board the _Madras_—and damned luckytoo. . . . You don’t deserve to. . . . I’d give . . .”
“What is the procedure when I get to Bombay?” asked Bertram, as thedoctor fell into a brown study.
“You’ll go before a Medical Board at Colaba Hospital. They may detainyou there, give you a period of sick leave, or invalid you out of theService. Depends on how your right arm shapes. . . . You’ll be allright, I think.”
“And if my arm goes on satisfactorily I shall be able to come back toEast Africa in a month or two perhaps?” continued Bertram.
“Yes. Nice cheery place, what?” said the Medical Officer and departed.He never could suffer fools gladly and he personally had had enough, forthe moment, of heat, dust, stench, monotony, privation, exile, andoverwork. . . . _Hurry_ back to East Africa! . . . Zeal for duty iszeal for duty—and lunacy’s lunacy. . . . But perhaps the lad was justshowing off and talking through his hat, what?
§4
The faithful Ali, devoted follower of his old master’s peregrinations,saw the muddy, blood-stained greasy bundles, which were that master’skit, safe on board the _Madras_ from the launch which had brought theparty of wounded officers from the Kilindini pier. Personally heconducted the bundles to the cabin reserved for Second-Lieutenant B.Greene, I.A.R., and then sought their owner where he reclined in a_chaise longue_ on deck, none the better for his long journey on theUganda Railway.
“I’m coming back, Ali,” said he as his retainer, a monument of restrainedgrief, came to him.
“Please God, _Bwana_,” was the dignified reply.
“What will you do while I am away?” he asked, for the sake of somethingto say.
“Go and see my missus and childrens, my little damsels and damsons atNairobi, sah,” was the sad answer. “When _Bwana_ sailing now?”
“Not till this evening,” answered Bertram, “and the last thing I want youto do for me is to take these two _chits_ to Stayne-Brooker Mem-Sahib andStayne-Brooker Miss-Sahib as quickly as you can. You’ll catch them attiffin if you take a
trolley now from Kilindini. They _must_ have themquickly. . . . If they come to see me before the ship sails at six,there’ll be an extra present for one Ali Suleiman, what?”
“Oh, sah! _Bwana_ not mentioning it by golly,” replied Ali and fled.
Mrs. Stayne-Brooker was crossing from the Hospital to Vasco da GamaStreet for lunch when, having run quicker than any trolley ever did, hecaught sight of her, salaamed and presented the two _chits_, written forBertram by a hospital friend and companion of his journey, as soon asthey got on board. She opened the one addressed to herself.
“_My Dear Mrs. Stayne-Brooker_,” it ran, “_I have just reached the Madras_, _and sail at six this evening_. _I cannot tell you how much I should like to see you_, _if you could take your evening drive in this direction and come on board_. _How I wish I could stay and convalesce in Mombasa_! _Very much more than __ever words could possibly express_. _It is just awful to pass through like this_.
“_I do hope you can come_. “_Your ever grateful and devoted_ “BERTRAM GREENE.”
The worthy Ali, panting and perspiring, thought the lady was going tofall.
“_Bertram_!” she whispered, and then her heart beat again, and sheregained control of her trembling limbs.
“You are Greene _Bwana’s_ boy!” she said, searching Ali’s bedewed butbeaming countenance. “Is he—is he ill—hurt—wounded?” (She did not knowthat the man had been in her husband’s service.)
“Yes, Mem,” was the cheerful reply. “Shot in all arms and legs. Alsoquite well, thank you.”
“Go and tell him I will come,” she said. “Be quick. Here—_baksheesh_.. . . Now, _hurry_.”
“Oh, Mem! Mem-Sahib not mentioning it, thank you please,” murmured Alias his huge paw engulfed the rupees. Turning, he started forthwith uponthe four-mile return run.
Putting the note addressed to her daughter on the lunch-table, beside herplate, she hurried into her room, crying for joy, and, with tremblinghands, made her toilette. She must look her best—look her youngest.
He was back! He was safe! He was alive! Oh, the long, long night ofsilence through the black darkness of which she had miserably groped!The weary, weary weeks of waiting and wondering, hoping and fearing,longing and doubting! But her prayers had been answered—and she wasabout to _see_ him. . . . And if he were shattered and broken? Shecould almost find it in her heart to hope he was—that she might spend herlife in guarding, helping, comforting him. He would _need_ her, and oh,how she yearned to be needed, she who had never yet been really needed byman, woman, or child. . . .
“_Mother_!” said Miss Stayne-Brooker, as she went in to lunch. “_What_ abright, gay girlie you look! . . . Here’s a note from that Mr. Greene ofyours. He says:
‘_Dear Miss Stayne-Brooker_,
‘_I am passing through Mombasa_, _and am now on board the __Madras_. _I can’t come and see you—do you think you’d let your mother bring you to see me_’—_he’s crossed that out and put_ ‘_see the Hospital Ship Madras_’—‘_it might interest you_. _I have written to ask if she’d care to come_. _Do—could you_?
‘_Always your grateful servant_, ‘BERTRAM GREENE.’
But I am playing golf with Reggie and having tea with him at the Club,you know.”
“All right, dear. I’ll go and see the poor boy.”
“That’s right, darling. You won’t mind if I don’t, will you? . . . He’s_your_ friend, you know.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Stayne-Brooker, “he’s _my_ friend,” and MissStayne-Brooker wondered at the tone of her mother’s voice. . . . (Poorold Mums; she made quite a silly of herself over this Mr. Greene!)
§5
Having blessed and rewarded the worthy Ali, returned dove-like to the_Madras_, Bertram possessed his soul with what patience he could, andsought distraction from the gnawing tooth of anxiety by watching theunfamiliar life of a hospital-ship. . . .
Suppose Eva Stayne-Brooker could not come! Suppose the ship sailedunexpectedly early! . . .
He could not sit still in that chair and wait, and wait. . . .
A pair of very pretty nurses, with the sallow ivory complexion, blackhair and large liquid eyes of the Eurasian, walked up and down.
Another, plain, fat, and superiorly English, walked apart from them.
Two very stout Indian gentlemen, in the uniform of Majors of the IndianMedical Service, promenaded, chattering and gesticulating. The ChiefEngineer (a Scot, of course), leaning against the rail and smoking ablack Burma cheroot, eyed them with a kind of wonder, and smiledtolerantly upon them. . . . Travel and much time for philosophicalreflection had confairrmed in him the opeenion that it tak’s all sorrtsto mak’ a Univairse. . . .
From time to time, a sick or wounded man was hoisted on board, lying on aplatform that dangled from four ropes at the end of a chain and wasworked by a crane. From the launch to the deck of the ship he was slunglike so much merchandise or luggage, but without jar or jolt. Or awalking-wounded or convalescent sick man would slowly climb the companionthat sloped diagonally at an easy angle along the ship’s side from thepromenade-deck to the water.
On the fore and aft well-decks, crowds of sick or wounded Sepoys crouchedhuddled in grey blankets, or moved slowly about with every evidence ofwoe and pain. It takes an Indian Sepoy to do real justice to illness ofany kind. He is a born actor and loves acting the dying man better thanany part in life’s drama. This is not to say that he is a malingerer ora weakling—but that when he is sick he _is_ going to get, at any rate,the satisfaction of letting everybody know it and of collecting suchsympathy and admiration as he can.
“No, there is no one so sick as a sick Indian,” smiled Bertram tohimself.
In contrast was the demeanour of a number of British soldiers sitting andlying about the deck allotted to them, adjoining but railed off from thatof the officers.
Laughter and jest were the order of the day. One blew into a mouth-organwith more industry than skill; another endeavoured to teach one of theship’s cats to waltz on its hind legs; some played “brag” with a pack ofincredibly dirty little cards; and others sat and exchanged experiences,truthfully and otherwise.
Near to where Bertram stood, a couple sprawled on the deck and leanedagainst a hatch. The smaller of the two appeared to be enjoying theprocess of annoying the larger, as he tapped his protruding and outlyingtracts with a _kiboko_, listening intently after each blow in the mannerof a doctor taking soundings as to the thoracic or abdominal condition ofa patient.
An extra sharp tap caused the larger man to punch his assailant violentlyin the ribs, whereupon the latter threw his arms round the puncher’sneck, kissed him, and stated, with utter disregard for facts:
“’Erb! In our lives we was werry beautiful, an’ in our deafs we wos notdiwided.” (Evidently a reminiscence of the Chaplain’s last sermon.)
But little mollified by the compliment, Herbert smote again, albeit lessviolently, as he remarked with a sneer:
“Ho, yus! You wouldn’t a bin divided all right if you’d stopped one o’them liddle four-point-seven shells at Mikocheni, you would. Not ’arf,you wouldn’t. . . .”
But for crutches, splints, slings and bandages, no one would havesupposed this to be a collection of sick and wounded men, wreckage of thestorm of war, flotsam and jetsam stranded here, broken and useless. . . .
Bertram returned to his chair and tried to control his sick impatienceand anxiety. Would she come? What should he say to her if she did? . .. Should he “propose”—(beastly word)? He had not thought much aboutmarriage. . . . To see her and hear her voice was what he really wanted.Should he tell her he loved her? . . . Surely that would be unnecessary.
And then his heart stood still, as Mrs. Stayne-Broo
ker stepped from thecompanion-platform on to the deck, and came towards him—her face shiningand radiant, her lips quivering, her eyes suffused.
He realised that she was alone, and felt that he had turned pale, as hisheart sank like lead. But perhaps _she_ was behind. . . . Perhaps shewas in another boat. . . . Perhaps she was coming later. . . .
He rose to greet her mother—who gently pushed him back on the long canecouch-chair and rested herself on the folding stool that stood beside it.
Still holding his left hand, she sat and tried to find words to ask ofhis hurts, and could say nothing at all. . . . She could only point tothe sling, as she fought with a desire to gather him to her, and cry andcry and cry for joy and sweet sorrow.
“Yes,” said Bertram, “but that’s the only bad one. . . . Shan’t lose theuse of it, I expect, though. . . . Would she—would a woman—think itcheek if a maimed man—would she mind his being—if she really . . . ?”
“Oh, my dear, my dear! Don’t! Oh, don’t!” Mrs. Stayne-Brooker brokedown. “She’d love him ten thousand times more—you poor, foolish . . .”
“Will she come?” he interrupted. “And dare I tell her I . . .”
_And Mrs. Stayne-Brooker understood_.
She was a brave woman, and Life had taught her not to wear her poor heartupon her sleeve, had taught her to expect little (except misery), and towear a defensive mask.
“_Eva is engaged to marry Mr. Macteith_,” she said in a toneless voice,and rose to go—to go before she broke down, fainted, became hysterical,or went mad. . . .
Had two kind people ever dealt each other two such blows?
She looked at his face, and knew how her own must look. . . .
Why _should_ God treat her so? . . . To receive so cruel a wound and tohave to deal one as cruel to the heart she so loved! . . .
He looked like a corpse—save that his eyes stared through her, burningher, seeing nothing. She must go, or disgrace herself—and him. . . .She felt her way, blindly fumbling, to the companion, realising even thenthat, when the stunned dullness immediately following this double blowgave place to the keen agony that awaited her recovery of her senses,there would be one spot of balm to her pain, there would be one feeblegleam of light in the Stygian darkness of her life—she would not beaching and yearning for the passionate love of her own son-in-law! . . .
And, were this veracious chronicle a piece of war-fiction woven by aromancer’s brain, Bertram Greene would have been standing on the deckthat evening, looking his last upon the receding shores of the countrywherein he had suffered and done so much.
On his breast would have been the Victoria Cross, and by his side theWoman whom he had Also Won.
She would have murmured “Darling!” . . . He would have turned to her, asthe setting sun, ever obliging, silhouetted the wonderfully lovely palmsof the indescribably beautiful Kilindini Creek, and said to her:
“_Darling_, _life is but beginning_.”
* * * * *
Facts being facts, it is to be stated that Bertram sat instead ofstanding, as the _Madras_ moved majestically down the Creek; that on hisbreast, instead of the Cross, a sling with a crippled arm; and by hisside, instead of the Woman, a Goanese steward, who murmured:
“Master having tea out here, sir, please?” and to whom Bertram turned asthe setting sun silhouetted the palms and said: “_Oh_, _go to hell_!”(and then sincerely apologised.)
* * * * *
Captain Stott passed and recognised him, in spite of changes. He notedthe hardened face, the line between the eyes, the hollowed cheeks, thepuckers and wrinkles, the steel-trap mouth, and wondered again at how Warcan make a boy into a Man in a few months. . . .
There was nothing “half-baked” about _that_ face.
* * * * *
And so, in ignorance, the despised and rejected boy again avenged hisfather, this time upon the woman who had done him such bitter, cruelwrong.
CHAPTER V_Finis_
After war, peace; after storm, calm; after pain, ease. . . .
Almost the first people whom he met in the Bombay Yacht Club aftervisiting the Colaba Hospital and being given six months’ leave by theMedical Board, were his father and Miranda Walsingham.
Major Walsingham Greene had been severely wounded in Mesopotamia—but hehad at last won decoration, promotion, recognition. He was actingBrigadier-General when he fell—and it was considered certain that hewould get the Victoria Cross for which he had been recommended.
When he beheld his son, in khaki, war-worn and wounded (like himself,like his father and grandfather, like a true Greene of that ilk), his cupwas full and he was a happy man—at last.
And Miranda! She could scarcely contain herself. She almost threw herarms round her old playmate’s neck, then and there, in the middle of theYacht Club lawn. . . . How splendid he looked! Who said her Bertrammight make a scholar and a gentleman—but would never make a _man_?
Oh, joy! She had come out to bring home her “Uncle” Hugh and generallylook after him—and now there were _two_ patients to look after.
* * * * *
It was a happy voyage Home, and a very happy six months at LeighcombePriory thereafter. . . .
And when acting Brigadier-General Walsingham Greene and his son returnedto India, Miranda Walsingham went with them as Mrs. Bertram Greene.
But Bertram was no longer “Cupid”—he seemed to have left “Cupid” inAfrica.
NOTES.
{17a} Plain.
{17b} Loin-cloth.
{21a} Good.
{21b} Make.
{21c} “I want the Colonel. Where is he?”
{30} Cupboard.
{38a} “Is all well?”
{38b} “Without doubt.”
{50} Woolly ones. Negroes.
{54} Bullock-cart men.
{56a} Yes.
{56b} Without doubt.
{66} Here.
{67} Store-sheds.
{72a} Oxen.
{72b} Bring here.
{72c} Talk, palaver.
{72d} Savages.
{81} “Very good, sir.”
{98} “Be careful—_you_!”
{101a} “Good!”
{101b} “Kill the devils. Do well.”
{101c} “It is not the enemy.”
{133a} Medicine.
{133b} “Great Simba has killed a white man.”
{134a} “Wait. Lie on the stretcher.”
{134b} “It is nothing.”
{134c} “Thanks. It is nothing. Do not hold me.”
{142} Clever and competent.
{148} Sit down.
{150} Open plain.
{167} Food.
{168a} “Dinner is ready.”
{168b} Yes.
{173} Cultivation, garden.
{174} Over-eating.
{183a} White men.
{183b} Club.
{184} Cooking-pot.
{185} “Lunch is ready.”
{198} Tribal dance.
{221a} “The stretcher-bearers will come, brother.”
{221b} “No doubt, sir. I am waiting.”
{222} “Gone, sir. There is nothing.”
{224a} “Bravo.”
{224b} “Kill! Kill!”
Cupid in Africa Page 27
