I was motoring homewards across the old line. A ghost-peopled dusk was
crawling over the devastation and desolation that is Vimy, and in the
distance the bare bones of St. Eloy loomed like a spectre skeleton
against the frosty after-glow. We hummed past Thélus cross-roads,
dipped downhill and, _hey presto_! all of a sudden I was in China.
(No, not Neuville-St.-Vaast; China, China, place where they eat
birds'-nests and puppy-dogs' tails.) There were coolies from some
salvage company all over the place, perched on heaps of broken
masonry, squatting along the ditch side, banked ten-deep in the
road--tall villainous-looking devils, very intently watching
something. I pulled up, partly to avoid killing them and partly to see
what it was all about.
It was an open-air theatre. They had built it on the ruins of an
_estaminet_, roofed it over with odds and ends of tin and tarpaulin,
and the play was on. There was the orchestra against the back-cloth,
rendering selections from popular Pekin revues on the drum, cymbal and
one-stringed fiddle. There were the actors apparelled in the gorgeous
costumes of old Cathay strutting mechanically through their parts, the
female impersonators squeaking in shrill falsetto and putting in a lot
of subtle fan-work. And there was the ubiquitous property-man drifting
in and out among the performers, setting his fantastic house in order.
We were actually within a mile of the Vimy Ridge, but we might have
been away on the sunny side of Suez, deep within the mysterious heart
of Canton City.
"Good as a three-ring circus, ain't it?" said an English voice at my
side; "most of their plays run on for nine months or so, but this
particular show only lasts six weeks, the merest curtain-raiser."
I turned towards the speaker and looked full upon the beak nose, cleft
cheek and bristling red moustache of an old friend. "Good Lord, The
Beachcomber!" I breathed. He started, peered at me and growled,
"Captain Dawnay-Devenish, if it's all the same to you, Mister blooming
Lieutenant."
* * * * *
In the year 1907 John Fanshawe Dawnay-Devenish arrived in a certain
Far Eastern port, deck passenger aboard a Dutch tramp out of Batavia.
The Volendam mate accompanied him to the gang-plank, shaking a size
eleven fist: "Now yous, get, see?... an' iv yous gome bag...!" He
ground his horse-teeth and made unpleasant noises in his throat.
"Shouldn't dream of risking it, old dear," replied John Fanshawe
pleasantly, "not on your venerable coffee-grinder anyhow--not until
she gets a navigator." He kissed his nicotined fingers to the
exploding Hollander and strolled off down the wharf, whistling "_Nun
trink ich Schnapps_."
Arrived in the European quarter he smoothed what creases he could out
of his sole suit of drills, whitened his soggy topee and frayed canvas
shoes with a piece of chalk purloined from a billiard saloon, bluffed
a drink out of an inebriated ship's engineer and snatched a free lunch
on the strength of it. Thus fortified he visited the British Consul,
and by means of somewhat soiled letters proved that he really was a
Dawnay-Devenish of the Dorset Dawnay-Devenishes (who should be in no
way confused with the Devenish-Dawnays of Chipping-Banbury or the
Devenishe d'Awnay-Dawnays of Upper Tooting; the Dorset branch alone
possessing the privilege, granted by letters patent of ETHELRED the
Unready, of drinking the King's bathwater every Maunday Tuesday of
Leap Year).
Awed by the name--was there not a Dawnay-Devenish occupying a plump
armchair in the Colonial Office at the time?--the Consul parted
with five hundred dollars (Mex.). Next time the yield was not so
satisfactory, not by two hundred and fifty dollars. At the end of
a month, the Consul having proved a broken reed only good for
five-dollar touches at considerable intervals, it behoved our hero to
seek some fresh source of income. He cast up-river in search of it and
disappeared from civilised ken for seven merciful years.
In June, 1914, he beat back into port in a fancifully decorated junk,
minus one ear and two fingers, but plus a cargo of jingling genuine
money. He hired the bridal suite in the leading hotel, got hold of a
fleet of motor cars and a host of boon companions, lived on a diet
of champagne cocktails and splashed himself about with the carefree
abandon of a dancing dervish.
By the middle of July he was "on the beach" again and once more began
to haunt the Consular office babbling of his influential relations and
his "temporary embarrassment."
When war broke out he had thrown up the sponge altogether and "gone
yellow"; was living from hand to mouth among the Chinese. At the
end of August a ship touched at that Far Eastern port, picking up
volunteers for the Western Front. The port contributed a goodly
number, but there remained one berth vacant. The long-suffering Consul
had a stroke of inspiration. Here was a means of at once swelling
the man-power of his country and ridding himself of a pestilent
ne'er-do-well. His boys, searching far and wide, discovered John
Fanshawe in the back premises of a Malay go-down, oblivious to all
things, and bore him inanimate aboard ship.
In this manner did our hero answer The Call.
In due course he appeared in our reserve squadron and was detailed
to my troop. It did not take me many days to realise that I was up
against the most practised malingerer in the British (or any
other) army. Did a fatigue prove too irksome; did the jumps in the
riding-school loom too large; did the serjeant speak a harsh word unto
him, "The Beachcomber" promptly went sick. Malaria was his long suit.
By aid of black arts learned during those seven years sojourning with
the heathen Chinee he could switch malaria (or a plausible imitation
of it) on or off at will and fool the M.O.'s every time. I used to
interview them about it, but got scant sympathy. The Healers' Union
brooks no interference from outsiders.
"Look here, that brute's bluffing you," I would protest.
To which they would make reply, "Can you give us any scientific
explanation of how a man can fake his pulse and increase his
temperature to 102° by taking thought? You can't? No, we didn't
suppose you could. Good day."
One person, however, I did succeed in convincing, and that was the
C.O., who knew his East. "Very good," said he. "If the skunk won't
be trained he shall go untrained. He sails for France with the next
draft."
Nevertheless our friend did not sail with the next draft. Ten minutes
after being warned for it, the old complaint caught him again, and
when the band played our lads out of barracks he was snugly tucked
away in sick-bay with sweet girl V.A.D.'s coaxing him to nibble a
little calves-foot jelly and keep his strength up. Nor did he figure
among either of the two subsequent drafts; his malaria wouldn't hear
of it.
I went back to the land of fireworks at the head of one of these
drafts myself, freely admitting that John Fanshawe had the best of
the joke. He waved me farewell out of the hospital window by way of
emphasising this.
The Babe followed me out shortly after, bringing about fifty men with
him. He strolled into Mess one evening and mentioned quite casually
that The Beachcomber was in camp.
"How did you manage it?" we chorused in wonder.
"Heard the story of his leaving China and repeated the dose," the Babe
replied. "Just before the draft was warned, my batman led him down
to Mooney's shebeen and treated him to the run of his throat--at my
expense. He came all the way as baggage."
Thus did John Fanshawe complete the second stage of his journey to the
War. He did not remain with us long, however; a fortnight at the most.
We were doing some digging at the time, night-work, up forward, in
clay so glutinous it would not leave the shovels and had mainly to be
clawed out by hand--filthy, back-breaking, heart-rending labour. On
calling the roll one dawn I found that The Beachcomber was missing.
"Anybody seen anything of him?" I asked.
"Yessir, I did," a man replied, and spat disgustedly.
"Well," I inquired, "was he hit or anything?"
The man grunted, "No, Sir; I don't think 'e was 'it; I think 'e was
fed up. 'Call this war, do they?' says 'e to me. 'I call it blawsted
WORK!' I told 'im to get on wiv it an' do 'is whack.
"'E chucks a couple of spoonfuls of muck and then sits down. 'I can
feel me damned ol' malaria creepin' over me again, Jim,' says 'e.
'Noticed a Red Cross outfit in the valley; think I'll be totterin'
along there,' says 'e. 'So long.' And that was the last the regiment
saw of its Beachcomber."
* * * * *
"Have it as you like, Captain Dawnay-Devenish," I said, "but before I
go tell me, how did you wangle this job?"
"Any affair of yours?" he sneered.
"No," I admitted; "still I'm interested."
He laughed unpleasantly. "Yes, you would be. Always infernally keen on
minding my business for me, weren't you? Well, if you must know, I was
convalescing when these same Chows started a pogrom in the next camp.
I stopped it, and the powers--who were scared stiff--tacked a stripe
on me and told me to carry on."
"That accounts for the stripe," said I; "but what of the stars?"
"Oh, them! We were behind the line down south last year laying a toy
railway when the Hun broke clean through in a fog. Remember? I pulled
the Chinks together and we stopped 'em. That's all."
"Good Lord, that wasn't you, was it?" I cried. "Set about 'em with
picks and shovels, shrieking Chinese war-cries and chopped 'em to
bits. Oh, splendid! But how on earth did you rouse these tame coolies
to it?"
The Beachcomber tugged his red moustache and laughed deprecatingly.
"It wasn't very difficult really. You see, these birds of mine are
only temporary coolies. In civilian life they're mostly river pirates,
Tong-fighters and suchlike professional cut-throats. Killing comes
natural to 'em. They only wanted somebody who could organize and lead
'em."
"And you could?"
The Beachcomber drew himself up proudly.
"I should hope so. Wasn't I their Pirate King for seven long years?"