Leaving his dissatisfied subordinate, Hamilton made the round of the camp. The red field, as he called it, was in reality a low-lying meadow, which rose steeply to the bank of the river on the one side and more steeply – since it first sloped downward in that direction – to the Ochori forest, two miles away. He made this discovery with a little feeling of alarm. He knew something of native tactics, and though his scouts had reported that the enemy was effectually routed, and that the nearest body was five miles away, he put a strong advance picquet on the other side of the river, and threw a wide cordon of sentries about the camp. Especially he apportioned Abiboo, his own sergeant, the task of watching the little river which flowed swiftly between its orderly banks past the sunken camp. For two days Abiboo watched and found nothing to report.
Not so the spies who were keeping watch upon the moving remnants of Bizaro’s army.
They came with the news that the main body had mysteriously disappeared. To add to Hamilton’s anxiety he received a message by way of headquarters and the Ochori city from the Administrator.
“Be prepared at the first urgent message from myself to fall back on the Ochori city. German Government claim that whole of country for two miles north of river N’glili is their territory. Most delicate situation. International complications feared. Rely on your discretion, but move swiftly if you receive orders.”
“Leave this to me,” said Bones when Hamilton read the message out. “Did I ever tell you, sir, that I was intended for the diplomatic service–”
The truth about the Ochori border has never been thoroughly exposed. If you get into your mind the fact that the Imperialists of four nations were dreaming dreams of a trans-African railway which was to tap the resources of the interior, and if you remember that each patriotic dreamer conceived a different kind of railway according to his nationality and that they only agreed upon one point, namely, that the line must point contiguous with the Ochori border, you may understand dimly some reason for the frantic claim that that little belt of territory, two miles wide, was part of the domain of each and every one of the contestants.
When the news was flashed to Europe that a party of British Houssas were holding the banks of the N’glili river, and had inflicted a loss upon a force of criminals, the approval which civilisation should rightly have bestowed upon Captain Hamilton and his heroic lieutenant was tempered largely by the question as to whether Captain Hamilton and his Houssas had any right whatever to be upon “the red field.” And in consequence the telegraph lines between Berlin and Paris and Paris and London and London and Brussels were kept fairly busy with passionate statements of claims couched in the stilted terminology of diplomacy.
England could not recede from the position she had taken, This she said in French and in German, and in her own perfidious tongue. She stated this uncompromisingly, but at the same time sent secret orders to withdraw the force that was the bone of contention. This order she soon countermanded. A certain speech delivered by a too voluble Belgian minister was responsible for the stiffening of her back, and His Excellency the Administrator of the territory received official instructions in the middle of the night: “Tell Hamilton to stay where he is and hold border against all corners.”
This message was re-transmitted.
Now there is in existence in the British Colonial Service, and in all branches which affect the agents and the servants of the Colonial Office, an emergency code which is based upon certain characters in Shakespearean plays.
I say “there is”; perhaps it would be better and more to the point if I said “there was,” since the code has been considerably amended.
Thus, be he sub-inspector or commissioner, or chief of local native police who receives the word “Ophelia,” he knows without consulting any book that “Ophelia” means “unrest of natives reported in your district, please report”; or if it be “Polonius” it signifies to him – and this he knows without confirming his knowledge – that he must move steadily forward. Or if it be “Banquo” he reads into it, “Hold your position till further orders.” And “Banquo” was the word that the Administrator telegraphed.
Sergeant Abiboo had sat by the flowing N’glili river without noticing any slackening of its strength or challenging of its depth.
There was reason for this.
Bizaro, who was in the forest ten miles to the westward, and working, moreover, upon a piece of native strategy which natives the world over had found successful, saw that it was unnecessary to dam the river and divert the stream.
Nature had assisted him to a marvellous degree. He had followed the stream through the forest until he reached a place where it was a quarter of a mile wide, so wide and so newly spread that the water reached half-way up the trunks of the sodden and dying trees.
Moreover, there was a bank through which a hundred men might cut a breach in a day or so, even though they went about their work most leisurely, being constitutionally averse to manual labour.
Bizaro was no engineer, but he had all the forest man’s instincts of water-levels. There was a clear run down to the meadows beyond that, as he said, he “smelt.”
“We will drown these dogs,” he said to his headman, “and afterwards we will walk into the country and take it for our own.”
Hamilton had been alive to the danger of such an attack. He saw by certain indications of the soil that this great shallow valley had been inundated more than once, though probably many years had passed since the last overflow of water. Yet he could not move from where he had planted himself without risking the displeasure of his chief and without also risking very serious consequences in other directions.
Bosambo, frankly bored, was all for retiring his men to the comforts of the Ochori city.
“Lord, why do we sit here?” he asked, “looking at this little stream which has no fish and at this great ugly country, when I have my beautiful city for your lordship’s reception, and dancing folk and great feasts?”
“A doocid sensible idea,” murmured Bones.
“I wait for a book,” answered Hamilton shortly. “If you wish to go, you may take your soldiers and leave me.”
“Lord,” said Bosambo, “you put shame on me,” and he looked his reproach.
“I am really surprised at you, Hamilton,” murmured Bones.
“Keep your infernal comments to yourself,” snapped his superior. “I tell you I must wait for my instructions.”
He was a silent man for the rest of the evening, and had settled himself down in his canvas chair to doze away the night, when a travel-stained messenger came from the Ochori and he brought a telegram of one word.
Hamilton looked at it, he looked too with a frown at the figures that followed it.
“And what you mean,” he muttered, “the Lord knows!”
The word, however, was sufficiently explicit. A bugle call brought the Houssas into line and the tapping of Bosambo’s drums assembled his warriors.
Within half an hour of the receipt of the message Hamilton’s force was on the move.
They crossed the great stretch of meadow in the darkness and were climbing up towards the forest when a noise like thunder broke upon their ears.
Such a roaring, crashing, hissing of sound came nearer and nearer, increasing in volume every second. The sky was clear, and one swift glance told Hamilton that it was not a storm he had to fear. And then it came upon him, and he realised what this commotion meant.
“Run!” he cried, and with one accord naked warriors and uniformed Houssas fled through the darkness to the higher ground. The water came rushing about Hamilton’s ankles, one man slipped back again into the flood and was hauled out again by Bones, exclaiming loudly his own act lest it should have escaped the attention of his superior, and the party reached safety without the loss of a man.
“Just in time,” said Hamilton grimly. “I wonder if the Administrator knew this was going to happen?”
They came to Ochori by easy marches, and Hamilton wrote a long wire to
headquarters sending it on ahead by a swift messenger.
It was a dispatch which cleared away many difficulties, for the disputed territory was for everlasting under water, and where the “red field” had blazed brilliantly was a calm stretch of river two miles wide filled with strange silent brown objects that floated and bobbed to the movement of the tide. These were the men who in their folly had loosened the waters and died of their rashness. Most notable of these was Bizaro.
There was a shock waiting for Hamilton when he reached the Ochori city. The wire from the Administrator was kindly enough and sufficiently approving to satisfy even an exigent Bones. “But,” it ran, “why did you retire in face of stringent orders to remain? I wired you ‘Banquo.’”
Hamilton afterwards learnt that the messenger carrying this important dispatch had passed his party in their retirement through the forest.
“Banquo,” quoted Hamilton in amazement. “I received absolute instructions to retire.”
“Hard cheese,” said Bones, sympathetically. “His dear old Excellency wants a good talking to; but are you sure, dear old chap, that you haven’t made a mistake.”
“Here it is,” he said, “but I must confess that I don’t understand the numbers.”
He handed it to Bones. It read:
“Mercutio 17178.”
Bones looked at it a moment, then gasped. He reached out his hand solemnly and grasped that of the astounded Hamilton.
“Dear old fellow,” he said in a broken voice, “congratulate me, I have drawn a runner!”
“A runner?”
“A runner, dear old sport,” chortled Bones, “in the Cambridgeshire! You see, I’ve got a ticket number seventeen, seventeen eight in my pocket, dear old friend! If Mercutio wins,” he repeated solemnly, “I will stand you the finest dinner that can be secured this side of Romano’s.”
THE SOUL OF THE NATIVE WOMAN
Mail day is ever a day of supreme interest for the young and for the matter of that for the middle-aged, too. Sanders hated mail days because the bulk of his correspondence had to do with Government, and Government never sat down with a pen in its hand to wish Sanders many happy returns of the day or to tell him scandalous stories about mutual friends.
Rather the Government (by inference) told him scandalous stories about himself – of work not completed to the satisfaction of Downing Street – a thoroughfare given to expecting miracles.
Hamilton had a sister who wrote wittily and charmingly every week, and there was another girl… Still, two letters and a bright pink paper or two made a modest postbag by the side of Lieutenant Tibbetts’ mail.
There came to Bones every mail day a thick wad of letters and parcels innumerable, and he could sit at the big table for hours on end, whistling a little out of tune, mumbling incoherently. He had a trick of commenting upon his letters aloud, which was very disconcerting for Hamilton. Bones would open a letter and get half-way through it before he began his commenting.
“…poor soul…dear! dear!…what a silly old ass…ah, would you…don’t do it, Billy…”
To Hamilton’s eyes the bulk of correspondence rather increased than diminished.
“You must owe a lot of money,” he said one day.
“Eh!”
“All these…!” Hamilton opened his hand to a floor littered with discarded envelopes. “I suppose they represent demands…”
“Dear lad,” said Bones brightly, “they represent popularity – I’m immensely popular, sir,” he gulped a little as he fished out two dainty envelopes from the pile before him; “you may not have experienced the sensation, but I assure you, sir, it’s pleasing, it’s doocidly pleasing!”
“Complacent ass,” said Hamilton, and returned to his own correspondence.
Systematically Bones went through his letters, now and again consulting a neat little morocco-covered note-book. (It would appear he kept a very careful record of every letter he wrote home, its contents, the date of its despatch, and the reply thereto.) He had reduced letter writing to a passion, spent most of his evenings writing long epistles to his friends – mostly ladies of a tender age – and had incidentally acquired a reputation in the Old Country for his brilliant powers of narrative.
This, Hamilton discovered quite by accident. It would appear that Hamilton’s sister had been on a visit – was in fact on the visit when she wrote one letter which so opened Hamilton’s eyes – and mentioned that she was staying with some great friends of Bones’. She did not, of course, call him “Bones,” but “Mr Tibbetts.”
“I should awfully like to meet him,” she wrote, “he must be a very interesting man. Aggie Vernon had a letter from him yesterday wherein he described his awful experience lion-hunting.
“To be chased by a lion and caught and then carried to the beast’s lair must have been awful!
“Mr Tibbetts is very modest about it in his letter, and beyond telling Aggie that he escaped by sticking his finger in the lion’s eye he says little of his subsequent adventure. By the way, Pat, Aggie tells me that you had a bad bout of fever and that Mr Tibbetts carried you for some miles to the nearest doctor. I wish you wouldn’t keep these things so secret, it worries me dreadfully unless you tell me – even the worst about yourself. I hope your interesting friend returned safely from his dangerous expedition into the interior – he was on the point of leaving when his letter was despatched and was quite gloomy about his prospects…”
Hamilton read this epistle over and over again, then he sent for Bones.
That gentleman came most cheerfully, full of fine animal spirits, and –
“Just had a letter about you, Bones,” said Hamilton carelessly.
“About me, sir!” said Bones, “from the War Office – I’m not being decorated or anything!” he asked anxiously.
“No – nothing so tragic; it was a letter from my sister, who is staying with the Vernons.”
“Oh!” said Bones going suddenly red.
“What a modest devil you are,” said the admiring Hamilton, “having a lion hunt all to yourself and not saying a word about it to anybody.”
Bones made curious apologetic noises.
“I didn’t know there were any lions in the country,” pursued Hamilton remorselessly. “Liars, yes! But lions, no! I suppose you brought them with you – and I suppose, you know also, Bones, that it is considered in lion-hunting circles awfully rude to stick your finger into a lion’s eye? It is bad sportsmanship to say the least, and frightfully painful for the lion.”
Bones was making distressful grimaces.
“How would you like a lion to stick his finger in your eye?” asked Hamilton severely; “and, by the way, Bones, I have to thank you.”
He rose solemnly, took the hand of his reluctant and embarrassed second and wrung.
“Thank you,” said Hamilton, in a broken voice, “for saving my life.”
“Oh, I say, sir,” began Bones feebly.
“To carry a man eighty miles on your back is no mean accomplishment, Bones – especially when I was unconscious–”
“I didn’t say you were unconscious, sir. In fact, sir–” floundered Lieutenant Tibbetts as red as a peony.
“And yet I was unconscious,” insisted Hamilton firmly. “I am still unconscious, even to this day. I have no recollection of your heroic effort; Bones, I thank you.”
“Well, sir,” said Bones, “to make a clean breast of the whole affair–”
“And this dangerous expedition of yours, Bones, an expedition from which you might never return – that,” said Hamilton in a hushed voice, “is the best story I have heard for years.”
“Sir,” said Bones, speaking under the stress of considerable emotion, “I am clean bowled, sir. The light-hearted fairy stories which I write to cheer, so to speak, the sick-bed of an innocent child, sir, they have recoiled upon my own head. Peccavi, mea culpa, an’ all those jolly old expressions that you’ll find in the back pages of the dictionary.”
“Oh, Bones, Bones!” ch
uckled Hamilton.
“You mustn’t think I’m a perfect liar, sir,” began Bones, earnestly.
“I don’t think you’re a perfect liar,” answered Hamilton, “I think you’re the most inefficient liar I’ve ever met.”
“Not even a liar, I’m a romancist, sir,” Bones stiffened with dignity and saluted, but whether he was saluting Hamilton, or the spirit of Romance, or in sheer admiration was saluting himself, Hamilton did not know.
“The fact is, sir,” said Bones confidentially, “I’m writing a book!”
He stepped back as though to better observe the effect of his words.
“What about?” asked Hamilton, curiously.
“About things I’ve seen and things I know,” said Bones, in his most impressive manner.
“Oh, I see!” said Hamilton. “One of those waistcoat-pocket books.”
Bones swallowed the insult with a gulp.
“I’ve been asked to write a book,” he said, “my adventures an’ all that sort of thing. Of course they needn’t have happened, really–”
“In that case, Bones, I’m with you,” said Hamilton. “If you’re going to write a book about things that haven’t happened to you, there’s no limit to its size.”
“You’re bein’ a jolly cruel old officer, sir,” said Bones, pained by the cold cynicism of his chief. “But I’m very serious, sir. This country is full of material. And everybody says I ought to write a book about it – why, dash it, sir, I’ve been here nearly two months!”
“It seems years,” said Hamilton.
Bones was perfectly serious, as he had said. He did intend preparing a book for publication, had dreams of a great literary career, and an ultimate membership of the Athenaeum Club belike. It had come upon him like a revelation that such a career called him. The week after he had definitely made up his mind to utilise his gifts in this direction, his outgoing mail was heavier than ever. For to three and twenty English and American publishers, whose names he culled from a handy work of reference, he advanced a business-like offer to prepare for the press a volume “of 316 pages printed in type about the same size as enclosed,” and to be entitled:
Bones Page 11
