We had been close to a certain line of fire together, and yet we
had not seen much fighting. That is to say, we were taking part
in a campaign together that was for the time being an affair of
patrols near a certain border an affair that flashed into fire
now and then as between man and man. As between sun and man the
firing was fairly continuous for eight hours of most days. Were
we not within a hundred miles or so of the equator? In that
climatic struggle (so much the more constant of the two for us
Northerners) I on my noncombatant job came off lightly, he, as a
combatant, suffered. He was down with malaria time and time
again. He had it on him that night when he put me up at his place
a night when the old year was almost out. He was then inhabiting
a border outpost a clean little camp tucked away behind a native
village. It was none too airy, I thought, with its heavy curtains
of cactus hedging. He seemed a little better that next morning,
when I said prayers, and afterwards rehearsed a certain Rite. He
stayed to the end of my ministrations. After breakfast I started
again on my journey, a round that took me far from the centre of
our small world. When I touched that centre again I heard his
news, which was not so very reassuring. He had gone down with
blackwater, and been carried into a small hospital. There, having
almost gone out, he had rallied enough to be put on board a ship
crossing the lake. So he came to a greater hospital. It was
thither that I followed him up. He had had another crisis, I
found, but he was better again by the time I got to him. Then he
improved a little, and seemed to be convalescing. Then malaria
chose to interfere with the running of her sister fever's course.
This seemed extraordinarily meddlesome, and made things hazardous
still, though they were as well as one expected, when the time of
my going on leave came.
How glad I was to get off! My Good-byes were hurried when once
the brown envelope had come. I saw him on the hospital stoep
(baraza, did they call it in that alien part of Africa?) just as
I was rushing down to the station. He had lost his blue color,
but still looked rather flickery.
'If you go to Bulawayo, you'll remember, won't you?' he said.
'You've got the plan?'
He had given me an elaborate little drawing of two streets that
converged. His bungalow stood upon an island betwixt their
confluence and the shading that he had marked waste ground. The
pink paper was in my breast pocket, but, knowing my way with
papers, I had already learned those streets' names.
'All right,' I said. 'But I'm not likely to go that way. And the
time's so short. I'll try though.'
His face lit, and his eyes gleamed. 'Do try,' he said.
'Don't build on it,' I entreated him. 'I'll try to write to her
anyway.'
Then he looked downcast indeed; he had fallen from such a
confident height. But he said 'Goodbye' like a real friend.
I forgot him almost completely for the next four days or so.
There were excitements, seeing somebody at headquarters, wiring
business wires, writing friendly letters against time, steering a
forlorn small native and a more forlorn small dog, who were
sharing my fortunes, down to the coast. At last I was there, and
discussing shipping news with new-found keenness. My prospects of
getting off with speed looked black for a bit; then came the
flash of a fresh idea. As there was no ship for the African port
I knew, why not book for the unknown? There were transports
returning to a port beyond, I had heard. True, the cost of
railway traveling thence was hard to forecast, resources were of
a modest sort, and there were three of us to find fares for.
Yet ways and means began to show their forms out of the mist
soon. I chose to sail almost at once by the untried road, and I
wrote to friends', telling them how I had chosen. I wrote to my
friend in hospital, among others. I was going the Bulawayo way
after all, and I might do what he wanted quite unbelievably
easily. Who would have thought it when we parted? I scribbled
down the great news against time. (I had an importunate proof to
correct before sailing; proofs are apt to take hours, I find, and
my sailing hour was near.) He might be expected to have my
scribble handed to him on the hospital stoep about three days
after. So I calculated. I flattered myself that I knew the ins
and outs of our despatches and mail deliveries, also that I had
allowed in my calculation for censorial delay. It was pleasant to
think how pleased he might be expected to be. I well-wished him
with a prayer. Then I started down the glaring white road for the
wharf. I had dismissed him from my mind, I regret to say, for
another three days or more.
I traveled down from that east coast fighting-base on a transport
that had brought up mules and horses. She had naturally enough,
shipped a goodly crew of flies with them. The mules and horses
had gone their ways, but the flies had by no means all gone with
them. Now with no quadrupeds to be their prime care, those that
remained were apt to obtrude themselves upon us. I deprecated at
heart the ruthless warfare that marine authority waged upon them.
But for all that I found my afternoon slumbers often distracted
by the survivors. On the first and second afternoons of that
voyage I awoke not long after I dropped off. I awoke, and thought
about nothing in particular. On the third afternoon my waking
thoughts took a very definite shape.
I was in a cabin or stateroom that two officers had shared going
up doubtless of the veterinary profession. Now on this return
journey I had the place to myself. I lay in my bunk with my boots
off, and observed the empty couch beside me.
It was my friend that I thought of my friend as I had taken leave
of him, reclining on the hospital stoep, straining with eager
eyes at mine. It was his breathless voice that I remembered. It
was saying over and over, 'You will go and see her, won't you?
I'll be with you in spirit in this your trek for her and home.'
Surely he was on that couch in the cabin now beside me, and
surely he was saying the same thing over and over again, just as
regularly and restlessly as if he were yonder electric fan
curveting with the same sort of panting iteration.
And yet, don't mistake me, I don't pretend to have seen anything
or heard anything extraordinary in the ordinary way of seeing or
hearing. Only I was dead sure that he was there with the same old
entreaty. Afterwards I lighted a pipe, went above, talked to the
skipper's wife, read, investigated my boy's and also my dog's
welfare rather perfunctorily, settled down to saying an evening
Office, made an end more or less of that, just as night came on,
and then again took time to think over things. I remembered that
he would have possibly got my letter, the letter which announced
my sailing in this ship of the Archangel Line, just about the
very time that he had seemed so near me. It was natural enough,
then, that his eager mind should have embarked with me on the
'Saint Raphael.' He knew now that I was going home, contrary to
previous expectation, by the very way he had desired, the way to
see his wife and tell her his news.
That night, when I said my prayers, I took but a corner of that
couch for my elbows. I gave him room, so to speak, with odd
scrupulous courtesy, just as if he were lying there in the body.
For I knew he was there, there by his own subtle means of
transport. That night the wind rose, and for the next three days
about, we were on the downgrade as regards weather. Our captain
opined that there had been a hurricane of sorts to south-east,
out Madagascar way. We were in the troughs of a mighty swell that
grew in might till the third morn of its reign was over. In the
mad tilting of my cabin floor, and the scuffling of my cabin
accessories, that last morning, the unseen and unheard presence
that I was now growing used to, reclined unperturbed. Elsewhere I
would forget it lightly enough, as soon as ever I left the cabin,
at the saloon table, where plate and cup fretted themselves up
and down against the table frames, in the skipper's basket lounge
chair wherein I read contrasted romances, East End and Zulu, on
the deck where I groped from hold-by to hold-by, longing to
change grey sky and green sea-trenches for sunshine and blue
levels of sea and sky. The weather calmed and brightened, but the
presence was unaffected. It remained to my perception eager and
sanguine, no less, no more, than it had seemed at first.
At last the Bluff loomed to south-east. Soon a game of pitch-and-toss
precluded our access to harbor. At last we transshipped, all
three of us, boy and dog and I, to a steam-launch, and were soon
ashore. No, I won't say four of us. The presence did not make
itself felt as taking a share in that scramble of ours. I was
rather surprised at missing its company, when I found time to
think about it. I was standing at ease in the Base Office then.
Soon I was on my way back again to the station where I had left
my convoy. The boy was mounting guard over dog and gear. Yes,
everything seemed all right. I turned towards the ticket office.
As I waited for our tickets I evolved a sort of rationale of my
consciousness of that presence. He who had accompanied me was
very weak, distinctly convalescent. He could but make himself
felt clinically, so to speak. When at length I was aboard the
train I had opportunity to test my surmises. There were six
sleeping berths in the Jo'burg second class compartment (there
was no third class, worse luck, on that train) wherein I found
myself. On one side slept the dark Theosophist who was to lend me
'The Star of the East' next morning. Under him slept the
Norwegian recruit bound for Potchefstroom. Under him again a
fresh-colored, wizened little Colonist. On my side slept an
Africander recruit for Potchefstroom (God love him! I hope he was
better than his looks and conversation). I was bedded over him.
Above me on the sixth sleeping ledge was only a certain amount of
luggage. So we had arranged, and so my eyes assured me. But I
became firmly conscious that the presence was reclining there.
Next night I was able to travel on third class from Johannesburg
without missing my train's connection. I had the carriage to
myself (not without misgivings, for the guard had cleared a
native out, and other compartments seemed likely to be rather
crowded). I lay down somewhat prayerlessly. The last light seemed
to have not long faded on the white mine-banks. I woke in the
chill of the dawn. The train was nearing Mafeking. The presence I
had been too tired to think much about last night, was assuredly
there on the other side of the carriage. Yet there was only my
bag to be seen on the seat, my bag that I had set there to search
for a towel.
The next night we drew near to Bulawayo. I had a Jew for
traveling companion then. He was to get off about midnight at
Francistown. I dropped off to sleep somehow. I don't know exactly
how the trick was done, I was so excited at nearing my own
country. When I awoke the Jew was gone, and the seat opposite me
was empty, empty save for the presence which reclined there. I
gave it a share of my attention amongst other persons and
matters. I was far too full of plans and anticipations now to
sleep. Yet I fought for sleep that next hour or two. Then, as the
cocks had crowed undoubtedly, I lighted a pipe. Afterwards I
stole out in the faint light to shave. When I returned, I was
confronted by an old acquaintance a detective. He wanted
information about me, naturally enough, as it was war-time. He
sat himself down on the seat whereon the presence was. I had
squirmed when he shook hands with me so heartily (I had twisted
my hand, slipping on a warship's deck). I was disposed to squirm
once again. When he sat down rudely on that seat which I knew to
be occupied, I forgot myself at once, and drew him to a seat
beside me. 'Can't you see what's there?' I said hastily. Of
course he could not see, and thought me a little mad. Then, when
I explained that the seat had been kept, he looked suspicious, If
only he had enjoyed the same perceptiveness as myself, what pages
he might have filled in that expensive-looking note book. I
chuckled to myself as I thought of his description his, who had
crossed the Rhodesian border with me at Plumtree on such special
service. What would that note book make of him? The note book's
master looked at me hard. Doubtless I aroused certain unnecessary
alarums and excursions in the imagination of a useful and already
overworked official. But I had given him nothing tangible in the
way of incrimination. He looked at me as one who much desired to
keep me under observation, but he said 'Goodbye!'
The house answered the pink paper's description. It was on
the verge of some waste ground. But I had expected a more
prosperous-looking place.
It had a long row of white palings that lacked repainting. The
house itself looked rather poverty-stricken. I had hurried over
my breakfast at the station, then I had asked my way, and found
it. I knocked once and again. That wife, whom I had never seen
before, came slowly to the door. He had shown me her portrait
more than once, and I remembered it. It certainly had not
flattered her. She was dressed in black. Her face would have been
fresh under her bright hair, but the eyes were drawn, and the
lips quivered that spoke to me, quivered in a pitiful fashion. I
told her how I came from her husband. I embarked on a longish
rigmarole as to the luck that brought me her way after all,
against expectations. She listened without saying a word. Then I
told her about him, and she listened patiently. 'I seem to have
felt him with me on my way,' I said. 'He was so keen that I
should bring you his love,' I said. Then she burst out crying.
'It is all very interesting,' she sobbed. 'But I have got later
news than yours.'