This ebook was transcribed by Les Bowler.
CUPID IN AFRICA
BY
P. C. WREN
AUTHOR OF “BEAU GESTE”
* * * * *
“_Ex Africa semper aliquid novi_”
* * * * *
“And the son shall take his father’s spear
And he shall avenge his father” . . .
—_Askari Song_
* * * * *
HEATH CRANTON LIMITED
6 FLEET LANE LONDON E.C.4
_First published 1920_
CONTENTS
PART I
THE MAKING OF BERTRAM
CHAPTER PAGE
I _Major Hugh Walsingham Green_ 7
II _Mr. Charles Stayne-Brooker (or Herr Karl 10
Stein-Brücker)_
III _Mrs. Stayne-Brooker—and Her Ex-Stepson_ 13
PART II
THE BAKING OF BERTRAM BY WAR
I _Bertram Becomes a Man of War_ 16
II _And is Ordered to East Africa_ 28
III _Preparations_ 40
IV _Terra Marique Jactatus_ 45
V _Mrs. Stayne-Brooker_ 59
VI _Mombasa_ 61
VII _The Mombasa Club_ 70
VIII _Military and Naval Manœuvres_ 78
IX _Bertram Invades Africa_ 97
X _M’paga_ 105
XI _Food and Feeders_ 112
XII _Reflections_ 123
XIII _Baking_ 137
XIV _The Convoy_ 146
XV _Butindi_ 154
XVI _The Bristol Bar_ 161
XVII _More Baking_ 171
XVIII _Trial_ 180
XIX _Of a Pudding_ 187
XX _Stein-Brücker Meets Bertram Greene—and 195
Death_
PART III
THE BAKING OF BERTRAM BY LOVE
I _Mrs. Stayne-Brooker Again_ 204
II _Love_ 208
III _Love and War_ 217
IV _Baked_ 226
V _Finis_ 236
PART I
THE MAKING OF BERTRAM
CHAPTER I
_Major Hugh Walsingham Greene_
There never lived a more honourable, upright, scrupulous gentleman than
Major Hugh Walsingham Greene, and there seldom lived a duller, narrower,
more pompous or more irascible one.
Nor, when the Great War broke out, and gave him something fresh to do and
to think about, were there many sadder and unhappier men. His had been a
luckless and unfortunate life, what with his two wives and his one son;
his excellent intentions and deplorable achievements; his kindly heart
and harsh exterior; his narrow escapes of decoration, recognition and
promotion.
At cards he was _not_ lucky—and in love he . . . well—his first wife,
whom he adored, died after a year of him; and his second ran away after
three months of his society. She ran away with Mr. Charles
Stayne-Brooker (elsewhere the Herr Doktor Karl Stein-Brücker), the man of
all men, whom he particularly and peculiarly loathed. And his son, his
only son and heir! The boy was a bitter disappointment to him, turning
out badly—a poet, an artist, a musician, a wretched student and
“intellectual,” a fellow who won prizes and scholarships and suchlike by
the hatful, and never carried off, or even tried for, a “pot,” in his
life. Took after his mother, poor boy, and was the first of the family,
since God-knows-when, to grow up a dam’ civilian. Father fought and bled
in Egypt, South Africa, Burma, China, India; grandfather in the Crimea
and Mutiny, great-grandfather in the Peninsula and at Waterloo, ancestors
with Marlborough, the Stuarts, Drake—scores of them: and this chap, _his_
son, _their_ descendant, a wretched creature of whom you could no more
make a soldier than you could make a service saddle of a sow’s ear!
It was a comfort to the Major that he only saw the nincompoop on the rare
occasions of his visits to England, when he honestly did his best to hide
from the boy (who worshipped him) that he would sooner have seen him win
one cup for boxing, than a hundred prizes for his confounded literature,
art, music, classics, and study generally. To hide from the boy that the
pæans of praise in his school reports were simply revolting—fit only for
a feller who was going to be a wretched curate or wretcheder
schoolmaster; to hide his distaste for the pale, slim beauty, which was
that of a delicate girl rather than of the son of Major Hugh Walsingham
Greene. . . . Too like his poor mother by half—and without one quarter
the pluck, nerve, and “go” of young Miranda Walsingham, his kinswoman and
playmate. . . . Too dam’ virtuous altogether. . . .
Gad! If this same Miranda had only been a boy, his boy, there would have
been another soldier to carry on the family traditions, if you like!
But this poor Bertram of his . . .
His mother, a Girton girl, and daughter of a Cambridge Don, had prayed
that her child might “take after” _her_ father, for whom she entertained
a feeling of absolute veneration. She had had her wish indeed—without
living to rejoice in the fact.
* * * * *
When it was known in the cantonment of Sitagur that Major Walsingham
Greene was engaged to Prudence Pym, folk were astonished, and a not
uncommon comment was “Poor little girl!” in spite of the fact that the
Major was admitted by all to be a most honourable and scrupulous
gentleman. Another remark which was frequently made was “Hm! Opposites
attract. What?”
For Prudence Pym was deeply religious, like her uncle, the Commissioner
of the Sitagur Division; she was something of a blue-stocking as became
her famous father’s daughter; she was a musician of parts, an artist of
more than local note, and was known to be writing a Book. So that if
“oppositeness” be desirable, there was plenty of it—since the Major
considered attendance at church to be part and parcel of
drill-and-parade; religion to be a thing concerning which no gentleman
speaks and few gentlemen think; music to be a noise to be endured in the
drawing-room after dinner for a little while; art to be the harmless
product of long-haired fellers with shockin’ clothes and dirty
finger-nails; and books something to read when you were absolutely
reduced to doing it—as when travelling. . . .
When Prudence Walsingham Greene knew that she was to have a child, she
strove to steep her soul in Beauty, Sweetness and Light, and to feed it
on the pure ichor of the finest and best in scenery, music, art and
literature. . . .
Entered to her one day—pompous, pleased, and stolid; heavy, dull, and
foolish—the worthy Major as she sat revelling in the (to her) marvellous
beauties of Rosetti’s _Ecce Ancilla Domini_. As she looked up with the
sad mechanical smile of the disappointed and courageous wife, he screwed
his monocle into his eye and started the old weary laceration of her
feelings, the old weary tramplings and defilements of tastes and
thoughts, as he examined the picture wherewith she was nourishing (she
hoped and believed) the æsthetic side of her unborn child’s mind.
“Picture of a Girl with Grouse, what?” grunted the Major.
“With a . . . ? There is no bird? I don’t . . . ?” stammered Prudence
who, like most women of her kind, was devoid of any sense of humour.
“Looks as though she’s got a frightful grouse about somethin’, _I_ should
say. The young party on the bed, I mean,” continued her spouse. “‘Girl
with the Hump’ might be a better title p’r’aps—if you say she hasn’t a
grouse,” he added.
“_Hump_?”
“Yes. Got the hump more frightfully about something or other—p’r’aps
because the other sportsman’s shirt’s caught alight. . . . Been smokin’,
and dropped his cigar. . . .”
“It is an angel shod with fire,” moaned Prudence as she put the picture
into its portfolio, and felt for her handkerchief. . . .
A little incident, a straw upon the waters, but a straw showing their
steady flow toward distaste, disillusionment, dislike, and hopeless
regret. The awful and familiar tragedy of “incompatibility of
temperament,” of which law and priests in their wisdom take no count or
cognizance, though counting trifles (by comparison) of infidelity and
violence as all important.
And when her boy was born, and named Bertram after her father, Dr.
Bertram Pym, F.R.S., she was happy and thankful, and happily and
thankfully died.
* * * * *
In due course the Major recovered from his grief and sent his son home to
his place, Leighcombe Abbey, where dwelt his elderly spinster relative,
Miss Walsingham, and her niece, Miranda Walsingham, daughter of General
Walsingham, his second cousin. Here the influence of prim, gentle, and
learned Miss Walsingham was all that his mother would have desired, and
in the direction of all that his father loathed—the boy growing up
bookish, thoughtful, and more like a nice girl than a human boy. Him
Miranda mothered, petted, and occasionally excoriated, being an Amazonian
young female of his own age, happier on the bare back of a horse than in
the seats of the learned.
CHAPTER II
_Mr. Charles Stayne-Brooker (or Herr Karl Stein-Brücker)_
When it was known in the cantonment of Hazarigurh that Major Hugh
Walsingham Greene was engaged to Dolly Dennison, folk were astonished,
and a not uncommon comment was “Poor old Walsingham Greene,” in spite of
the fact that the young lady was very beautiful, accomplished and
fascinating.
Here also another remark, that was frequently heard, was that opposites
attract, for Dolly was known to be seventeen, and the Major, though not
very much more than twice her age, looked as old as her father, the
Sessions Judge, and _he_ looked more like the girl’s grandfather than her
father.
It was agreed, however, that it was no case of kidnapping, for Dolly knew
her way about, knew precisely how many beans made five, and needed no
teaching from her grandmother as to the sucking of eggs, or anything
else. For Dolly, poor child, had put her hair up and “come out” at the
age of fifteen—in an Indian cantonment!
Little more need be said to excuse almost anything she might do or be.
Motherless, she had run her father’s hospitable house for the last two
years, as well as her weak and amiable father; and when Major Walsingham
Greene came to Hazarigurh he found this pitiable spoilt child (a child
who had never had any childhood) the _burra mem-sahib_ of the place, in
virtue of her position as the head of the household of the Senior
Civilian. With the manners, airs, and graces of a woman of thirty, she
was a blasé and world-weary babe—“fed up” with dances, gymkhanas, garden
parties, race meetings and picnics; and as experienced and cool a hand at
a flirtation as any garrison-hack or station-belle in the country. Dolly
knew the men with whom one flirts but does not marry, and the men one
marries but with whom one does not flirt.
Mr. Charles Stayne-Brooker was the pride of the former; Major Walsingham
Greene _facile princeps_ of the latter. Charles was the loveliest,
daringest, wickedest flirt you _ever_—and Hugh was a man of means and
position, with an old Tudor “place” in Dorset. So Charles for fun—and
Hugh for matrimony, just as soon as he suggested it. She hoped Hugh
would be quick, too, for Charles had a terrible fascination and power
over her. She had been frightened at herself one moonlight picnic,
frightened at Charles’s power and her own feelings—and she feared the
result if Hugh (who was most obviously of a coming-on disposition),
dallied and doubted. If Hugh were not quick, Charles would get her—for
she preferred volcanoes to icebergs, and might very easily forget her
worldly wisdom and be carried off her feet some night, as she lurked in a
_kala jugga_ with the daring, darling wicked Charles—whose little finger
was more attractive and mysterious than the Major’s whole body.
Besides—the Major was a grey-haired widower, with a boy at school in
England and _so_ dull and prosperous. . . .
But, ere too late, the Major proposed and was accepted. Charles was, or
affected to be, ruined and broken-hearted, and the wedding took place.
The Major was like a boy again—for a little while. And Dolly felt like a
girl taken from an hotel in Mentone and immured in a convent in Siberia.
For Major Hugh Walsingham Greene would have none of the “goings-on” that
had made Dolly’s father’s bungalow the centre of life and gaiety for the
subalterns and civilian youth of Hazarigurh; whilst Mr. Charles
Stayne-Brooker, whom he detested as a flamboyant bounder, he cut dead.
He also bade Dolly remove the gentleman’s name finally and completely
from her visiting-list, and on no account be “at home” when he called.
All of which Dolly quite flatly and finally refused to do.
* * * * *
Mr. Charles Stayne-Brooker (or the Herr Doktor Karl Stein-Brücker, as he
was at other times and in other places) was a very popular person
wherever he went—and he went to an astonishing number of places. It was
wonderful how intimate he became with people, and he became intimate with
an astonishing number and variety of people. He could sing, play, dance,
ride and take a hand at games above the average, and _talk_—never was
such a chatter-box—on any subject under the sun, especially on himself
and his affairs. And yet, here again, it was astonishing how little he
said, with all his talk and ingenious chatter. Everybody knew all about
dear old Charlie—and yet, did they know anything at all when it came to
the point? In most of the places in which he turned up, he seemed to be
a sort of visiting manager of a business house—generally a famous house
with some such old-fashioned British name as Schneider and Schmidt; Max
Englebaum and Son; Plügge and Schnadhorst; Hans Wincklestein and
Gartenmacher; or Grosskopf and Dümmelmann. In out-of-the-way places he
seemed to be just a jolly globe-trotter with notions of writing a book on
his jolly trip to India. Evidently he wanted to know something of the
native of India, too, for when not in large commercial centres like
Calcutta, Madras, Bombay or Colombo, he was to be found in cantonments
where there were Native Troops. He loved the Native Officer and
cultivated him assiduously. He also seemed to love the Bengali amateur
politician, more than some people do. . . . Often a thoughtful and
observant official was pleased to see an Englishman taking such a
friendly interest in the natives, and trying to get to know them well at
first hand—a thing far too rare. . . .
There were people, however—such as Major Walsingham Greene—who affected
to detect something of a “foreign” flavour about him, and wrote him down
as a flashy and bounderish outsider.
Certainly he was a great contrast to the Major, whose clipped moustache,
bleak blue eye, hard bronzed face and close-cut hair were as different as
possible from Mr. Stayne-Brooker’s waxed and curled moustache over the
ripe red mouth; huge hypnotic and strange black eyes; pink and white
puffy face, and long dark locks. And then again, as has been said, Mr.
Stayne-Brooker was only happy when talking, and the Major only happy (if
then) when silent.
On sight, on principle, and on all grounds, the latter gentleman detested
the jabbering, affected, over-familiar, foreign-like fellow, and took
great pleasure in ordering his bride, on their return from the
ten-days-leave honeymoon, to cut him dead and cut him out—of her life.
And, alas, his bride seemed to take an even greater pleasure in defying
her husband on this, and certain other, points; in making it clear to him
that she fully and firmly intended “to live her own life” and go her own
way; and in giving copious and convincing proof of the fact that she had
never known “discipline” yet, and did not intend to make its acquaintance
now.
Whereupon poor Major Walsingham Greene, while remaining the honourable,
upright and scrupulous gentleman that he was, exhibited himself the
irascible, pompous fool that he also was, and by his stupid and
overbearing conduct, his “_That’s enough_! _Those are my orders_,” and
his hopeless mishandling of the situation, drove her literally into the
arms of Mr. Charles Stayne-Brooker, with whom the poor little fool
disappeared like a beautiful dream.
* * * * *
When his kind heart got the better of his savage wrath and scourged
pride, the Major divorced her, and the Herr Doktor (who particularly
needed an English wife in his profession of Secret Agent especially
commissioned for work in the British Empire) married her, broke her
heart, dragged her down into the moral slime in which he wallowed, and,
on the rare occasions of her revolt and threat to leave him, pointed out
that ladies who were divorced once for leaving their husbands _might_
conceivably have some excuse, but that the world had a very hard name for
those who made a habit of it. . . . And then there was her daughter to
consider, too. _His_ daughter, alas! but also hers.
CHAPTER III
_Mrs. Stayne-Brooker—and Her Ex-Stepson_
From Hazarigurh Mr. Charles Stayne-Brooker went straight to Berlin,
became the Herr Doktor Stein-Brücker once more, and saw much of another
and more famous Herr Doktor of the name of Solf. He then went to South
Africa and thence to England, where his daughter was born. Having placed
her with the family of an English clergyman whose wife “accepted” a few
children of Anglo-Indians, he proceeded to America and Canada, and thence
to Vladivostok, Kïaou-Chiaou, Hong Kong, Shanghai, and Singapore; then to
the Transvaal by way of Lourenzo Marques and to German East Africa. And
every step of the way his wife went with him—and who so English, among
Englishmen, as jolly Charlie Stayne-Brooker, with his beautiful English
wife? . . . What he did, save interviewing stout gentlemen (whose necks
bulged over their collars, whose accents were guttural, and whose
table-manners were unpleasant) and writing long letters, she did not
know. What she did know was that she was a lost and broken woman, tied
for life to a base and loathsome scoundrel, by her yearning for
“respectability,” her love for her daughter, and her utter dependence for
food, clothing and shelter upon the man whom, in her mad folly, she had
trusted. By the time they returned to England _via_ Berlin, the child,
Eva, was old enough to go to an expensive boarding-school at Cheltenham,
and here Mrs. Stayne-Brooker had to leave her when her husband’s “duties”
took him, from the detailed study of the Eastern Counties of England, to
Africa again. Here he seemed likely to settle at last, interesting
himself in coffee and rubber, and spending much of his time in Mombasa
and Nairobi, as well as in Dar-es-Salaam, Tabora, Lindi and Zanzibar.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, Major Hugh Walsingham Greene, an embittered and disappointed
man, withdrew more and more into his shell, and, on each successive visit
to Leighcombe Priory, more and more abandoned hope of his son’s “doing
any good” in life. He was the true grandson of that most distinguished
scholar, Dr. Bertram Pym, F.R.S., of Cambridge University, and the true
son of his mother. . . . What a joy the lad would have been to these
two, with his love of books and his unbroken career of academic
successes, and what a grief he was to his soldier father, with his utter
distaste for games and sports and his dislike of all things military.
Useless it was for sweet and gentle Miss Walsingham to point to his
cleverness and wisdom, or for Amazonian and sporting Miranda Walsingham
hotly to defend him and rail against the Major’s “unfairness” and “stupid
prejudice.” Equally useless for the boy to do his utmost to please the
man who was to him as a god. . . .
When the Major learned that his son had produced the Newdigate Prize
Poem, won the Craven and the Ireland Scholarships, and taken his Double
First—he groaned. . . .
Brilliant success at Oxford? What is _Oxford_? He would sooner have
seen him miserably fail at Sandhurst and enlist for his commission. . . .
Finally the disappointing youth went to India as private secretary and
travelling companion to the great scientist, Sir Ramsey Wister, his
father being stationed at Aden.
* * * * *
Then came the Great War.
PART II
THE BAKING OF BERTRAM BY WAR
CHAPTER I
_Bertram Becomes a Man of War_
Mr. Bertram Greene, emerging from the King Edward Terminus of the Great
Indian Railway at Madrutta, squared his shoulders, threw out his chest,
and, so far as he understood the process and could apply it, strode along
with the martial tread and military swagger of all the Best Conquerors.
From khaki helmet to spurred brown heel, he was in full panoply of war,
and wore a dangerous-looking sword. At least, to the ignorant passer-by,
it appeared that its owner was in constant danger of being tripped up by
it. Bertram, however, could have told him that he was really in no peril
from the beastly thing, since a slight pressure on the hilt from his left
elbow kept the southern end clear of his feet.
What troubled him more than the sword was the feeling of constriction and
suffocation due to the tightness of the belts and straps that encompassed
him about, and the extreme heat of the morning. Also he felt terribly
nervous and unaccustomed, very anxious as to his ability to support the
weight of his coming responsibility, very self-distrustful, and very
certain that, in the full active-service kit of a British Officer of the
Indian Army, he looked a most frightful ass.
For Mr. Bertram Greene had never before appeared on this, or any other
stage, in such a part; and the change—from a quiet modest civilian,
“bashful, diffident and shy,” to what his friends at dinner last night
had variously called a thin red hero, a licentious soldiery, a brutal
mercenary, a hired assassin, a saviour of his Motherland, a wisp of
cannon-fodder, a pup of the bull-dog breed, a curly-headed hero, a
bloody-minded butcher, and one who would show his sword to be as mighty
as his pen—was overwhelmingly great and sudden. When any of the hundreds
of hurrying men who passed him looked at him with incurious eyes, he felt
uncomfortable, and blushed. He knew he looked an ass, and, far worse,
that whatever he might look, he actually was—a fraud, and a humbug.
Fancy him, Bertram Greene, familiarly known as “Cupid,” the pale-faced
“intellectual,” the highbrowed hero of the class-room and
examination-hall, the winner of scholarships and the double-first, guilty
of a thin volume of essays and a thinner one of verse—just fancy him, the
studious, bookish sedentary, disguised as a soldier, as a leader of men
in the day of battle, a professional warrior! . . . He who had never
played games was actually proposing to play the greatest Game of all: he
who had never killed an animal in his life was going to learn to kill
men: he who had always been so lacking in self-reliance was going to ask
others to rely on him!
And, as his spirits sank lower, Bertram held his head higher, threw back
his shoulders further, protruded his chest more, and proceeded with so
firm a tread, and so martial a demeanour, that he burst into profuse and
violent perspiration.
He wished he could take a taxi, but even had there been one available, he
knew that the Native Infantry Lines almost adjoined the railway terminus,
and that he had to cross a grass _maidan_ {17a} on foot.
Thank heaven it was not far, or he would arrive looking as though he had
come by sea—swimming. A few more steps would take him out of this crowd
of students, clerks, artisans, and business-men thronging to their
schools, colleges, offices, shops, mills, and works in Madrutta. . . .
What did they talk about, these queer “city men” who went daily from the
suburbs to “the office,” clad in turbans, sandals, _dhoties_, {17b} and
cotton coats? Any one of these bare-legged, collarless, not _very_
clean-looking worthies might be a millionaire; and any one of them might
be supporting a wife and large family on a couple of pounds a month. The
vast majority of them were doing so, of course. . . . Anyhow, none of
them seemed to smile derisively when looking at him, so perhaps his
general appearance was more convincing than he thought.
But then, short as had been his sojourn in India, he had been in the
country long enough to know that the native does not look with obvious
derision upon the European, whatever may be the real views and sentiments
of his private mind—so there was no comfort in that. . . . Doubtless the
Colonel and British officers of the regiment he was about to join would
not put themselves to the trouble of concealing their opinions as to his
merits, or lack of them, as soon as those opinions were conceived. . . .
Well, there was one thing Bertram Greene could do, and would do, while
breath was in his body—and that was his very best. No one can do more.
He might be as ignorant of all things military as a babe unborn: he might
be a simple, nervous, inexperienced sort of youth with more culture and
refinement than strength of character and decision of mind: he might be a
bit of an ass, whom other fellows were always ragging and calling
“Cupid”—but, when the end came, none should be able to say that he had
failed for want of doing his utmost, and for lack of striving, with might
and main, to learn _how_ to do his duty, and then to do it to the limit
of his ability.
A couple of British soldiers, privates of the Royal Engineers, came
towards him on their way to the station. Bertram attempted the
impossible in endeavouring to look still more inflexibly and inexorably
martial, as he eyed them hardily. Would they look at him and smile
amusedly? If so, what should he do? He might be a fool himself,
but—however farcically—he bore the King’s Commission, and it had got to
be respected and saluted by all soldiers. The men simultaneously placed
their swagger-sticks beneath their left arms, and, at three paces’
distance, saluting smartly and as one man, maintained the salute until
they were three paces beyond him.
Bertram’s heart beat high with pride and thankfulness. He would have
liked to stop and shake hands with the men, thanking them most sincerely.
As it was, he added a charming and friendly smile to the salute which he
gave in acknowledgment of theirs.
He passed on, feeling as though he had drunk some most stimulating and
exhilarating draught. He had received his first salute! Moreover, the
men had looked most respectfully, nay, almost reverentially, if with a
certain stereotyped and bovine rigidity of stare, toward the officer they
so promptly and smartly honoured. He would have given a great deal to
know whether they passed any contemptuous or derisive comment upon his
appearance and bearing. . . . In point of fact, Scrounger Evans had
remarked to Fatty Wilkes, upon abandoning the military position of the
salute: “Horgustus appears to ’ave ’ad a good night at bridge, and took a
few ’undreds orf Marmadook an’ Reginald. Wot?”
Whereunto Fatty had murmured:
“Jedgin’ by ’is ’appy liddle smile,” as he sought the smelly stump of a
cigarette in its lair behind his spreading shady ear.
Enheartened, but perspiring, Bertram strode on, and crossed the broad
grass _maidan_, at the far side of which he could see the parallel
streets of the Native Infantry Lines, where lay the One Hundred and
Ninety-Ninth Regiment, to which he had been ordered to report himself
“forthwith.” Yesterday was but crowded, excited yesterday, terminating
in a wild farewell dinner and an all-night journey. _To-day_ was
“forthwith.” . . . What would to-morrow be? Perhaps the date of the
termination of his career in the Indian Army—if the Colonel looked him
over, asked him a few questions, and then said: “Take away this bauble!”
or “Sweep this up!” or words to that effect. He had heard that Colonels
were brief, rude, and arbitrary persons, sometimes very terrible. . . .
Approaching the end of the first long row of the mud buildings of the
Native Infantry Lines, Bertram beheld a sentry standing outside his
sentry-box, in the shade of a great banyan tree. The man was clad in
khaki tunic, shorts and puttees, with a huge khaki turban, from which
protruded a fringed scrap of blue and gold; hob-nailed black boots, and
brown belt and bandolier. His bare knees, his hands and face were very
far from being black; in fact, were not even brown, but of a pale
wheat-colour.
The thoughts of Private Ilderim Yakub were far away, and his eyes beheld
a little _sungar_-enclosed watch-tower that looked across a barren and
arid valley of solid rock. In the low, small doorway sat a fair-faced
woman with long plaits of black hair, and, at her feet, crawled a tiny
naked boy . . . and then the eyes of Private Ilderim Yakub beheld a
British officer, in full war-paint and wearing his sword, bearing down
upon him. By Allah the Compassionate and the Beard of the Prophet! He
had been practically asleep at his post, and this must certainly be the
Orderly Officer Sahib or the Adjutant Sahib, if not the Colonel Sahib
himself! Possibly even the “Gineraal” Sahib (from the neighbouring
Brigade Headquarters) having a quiet prowl round. It must be _somebody_,
or he wouldn’t be “in drill order with sword,” and marching straight for
the guard-room.
Private Ilderim Yakub (in the days when he had been a—well—a scoundrelly
border-thief and raider) had very frequently been in situations demanding
great promptitude of thought and action; and now, although at one moment
he had been practically asleep and his wits wool-gathering in the Khost
Valley, the next moment he had sprung from his box, yelled “_Guard turn
out_!” with all the strength of his leathern lungs and brazen throat, and
had then frozen to the immobility of a bronze statue in the attitude of
the salute.
In response to his shout, certain similarly clad men arose from a bench
that stood outside a large thatched, mud-built hut, another, wearing a
red sash and three white stripes on the sleeve of his tunic, came
hurrying from within it, and the party, with promptitude and dispatch,
“fell in,” the Sergeant (or Havildar) beside them.
“Guard!” roared that bearded worthy, “_’Shun_! _Present_ arms!” and,
like the sentry, the Sergeant and the Guard stood as bronze statues to
the honour and glory of Second-Lieutenant Bertram Greene—the while that
gentleman longed for nothing more than that the ground might open and
swallow him up.
What on earth ought he to do? Had he not read in his newly purchased
drill-book that the Guard only turned out for Emperors or Field-Marshals,
or Field Officers or something? Or was it only for the Colonel or the
Officer of the Day? It most certainly was not for stray
Second-Lieutenants of the Indian Army Reserve. Should he try to explain
to the Sergeant that he had made a mistake, and that the Guard was
presenting arms to the humblest of God’s creatures that wore officer’s
uniform? Should he “put on dog” heavily and “inspect” the Guard? Should
he pretend to find fault? No! For one thing he had not enough
Hindustani to make himself intelligible. (But it was a sign that a
change was already coming over Bertram, when he could even conceive such
a notion, and only dismiss it for such a reason.)
What _should_ he do, in these distressingly painful circumstances?
Should he absolutely ignore the whole lot of them, and swagger past with
a contemptuous glance at the fool Sergeant who had turned the Guard out?
. . . It wasn’t _his_ fault that the wretched incident had occurred. . . .
_He_ hadn’t made the mistake, so why should he be made to look a fool?
It would be the others who’d look the fools, if he took not the slightest
notice of their silly antics and attitude-striking. . . (Heavens! How
they’d made the perspiration trickle again, by putting him in this absurd
and false position.) . . . Yes—he’d just go straight past the lot of
them as if they didn’t exist. . . . No—that would be horribly rude, to
say the least of it. They were paying him a military compliment, however
mistakenly, and he must return it. Moreover—it wasn’t the
Sergeant-fellow’s fault. The sentry had shouted to the Guard, and the
Sergeant had naturally supposed that one of those Great Ones, for whom
Guards turn out, was upon them.
Should he march past with a salute, as though he were perfectly
accustomed to such honours, and rather bored with them? Unless he were
near enough for them to see the single “pip” on his shoulder-strap, they
would never know they had made a mistake. (He would hate them to feel as
horribly uncomfortable as he did.)
And if he did, where should he go? He must find the Officers’ Lines, and
go to the Officers’ Mess and inquire for the Colonel. Besides, this was
_his_ regiment; he was attached to it, and these men would all see him
again and know who and what he was. . . .
Of course—he would do the correct and natural thing, and behave as though
he were merely slightly amused at the sentry’s not unnatural mistake and
its results. . . . With a smart salute to the Guard, Bertram smiled upon
the puzzled, imperturbable and immobile Havildar, with the remark:
“_Achcha_, {21a} Sergeant. Guard, dismiss _karo_” {21b}—upon hearing
which barbarous polyglot of English and Hindustani, the Non-Commissioned
Officer abandoned his rigid pose and roared, with extreme ferocity, in
the very ears of the Sepoys:
“Guard! _Or_der-r _ar-r-rms_. Stannat _eashe_. Dees_mees_!” and with
another salute, again turned to Bertram to await his further pleasure.
“_Ham Colonel Sahib mangta_. _Kither hai_?” {21c} said that gentleman,
and the intelligent Havildar gathered that this young and strange Sahib
“wanted” the Colonel. He smiled behind his vast and bushy beard at the
idea of sending a message of the “Hi! you—come here! You’re wanted”
description to that Great One, and pictured the meeting that would ensue
if the Colonel Sahib came hastily, expecting to find the
Commander-in-Chief-in-India awaiting him.
No—since the young Sahib wanted the Colonel, he had better go and find
him. Calling to a young Sepoy who was passing on some fatigue duty, he
bade him haste away, put on his tunic, tuck his long khaki shirt inside
his shorts, and conduct the Sahib to the Adjutant Sahib’s office. (That
would be quite in order; the Adjutant Sahib could decide as to the wisdom
of “wanting” the Colonel Sahib at this—or any other—hour of the day; and
responsibility would be taken from the broad, unwilling shoulders of
Havildar Afzul Khan Ishak.)
An uncomfortable five minutes followed. Bertram, longing with all his
soul to say something correct, natural, and pleasant, could only stand
dumb and unhappy, while the perspiration trickled; the Havildar stood
stiffly at attention and wondered whether the Sahib were as old as his
son, Private Mahommed Afzul Khan, new recruit of the One Hundred and
Ninety-Ninth; and the Guard, though dismissed, stood motionless in solemn
row beside the bench (on which they would sit as soon as the Sahib turned
his back), and, being Indian Sepoys, emptied their minds of all thought,
fixed their unseeing gaze upon Immensity and the Transcendental
Nothingness-of-Non-existent-Non-entity-in-Oblivion, and tried to look
virtuous.
Returning and saluting, the young Sepoy wheeled about and plodded heavily
down the road, walking as though each hob-nailed boat weighed a ton. But
pride must suffer pain, and not for worlds would this young man (who had,
until a few months ago, never worn anything heavier than a straw-plaited
sandal as he “skipped like a young ram” about his native hill-tops) have
been without these tokens of wealth and dignity. What he would have
liked, had the Authorities been less touchy about it, would have been to
wear them slung about his neck, plain for all to admire, and causing
their owner no inconvenience.
Following his guide through the lines of mud huts, saluted every few
yards by passing Sepoys and by groups who sat about doorways and
scrambled to their feet as he passed, Bertram found himself in a broad
sandy road, lined by large stone European bungalows, which ran at
right-angles across the ends of the Sepoys’ lines. Each bungalow stood
in a large compound, had a big lawn and flower-gardens in front of it,
and was embowered in palm-trees. Turning into the garden of the largest
of these, the young Sepoy pointed to the big house, ejaculated:
“Arfeecers’ Mess, Sahib,” saluted, performed a meticulously careful
“about turn,” the while his lips moved as though he were silently giving
himself the necessary orders for each movement, and solemnly marched
away.
A pair of large old-fashioned cannon and a white flagstaff gave the place
an important and official appearance. Beyond the big porch stretched to
left and right a broad and deep verandah, in the shady recesses of which
Bertram could see a row of chairs wherein lay khaki-clad figures, their
feet, raised upon the long leg-rests, presented unitedly and unanimously
towards him. Indeed, as he advanced with beating heart and sense of shy
discomfort, all that he could see of the half-dozen gentlemen was one
dozen boot-soles backed by a blur of khaki. Up to the time he had
reached the flight of steps, leading up from the drive to the verandah,
no one had moved. Mounting the steps, and coming to the level of the
recumbent figures, ranged along the rear wall of the verandah and on each
side of an open door, the unhappy Bertram, from this new standpoint, saw
that the face of each officer was hidden behind a newspaper or a
magazine. . . . Profound silence reigned as he regarded the twelve
boot-soles, each crossed by a spur-chain, and the six newspapers.
Another embarrassing and discomfortable situation. What should he do?
Should he cough—as the native does when he wishes to attract your
attention, or to re-affirm his forgotten presence? It seemed a rather
feeble and banal idea. Should he pretend he had not seen the six
stalwart men lying there in front of his nose, and shout: “_Qui hai_!” as
one does to call an invisible servant? And suppose none of them moved,
and a Mess servant came—he had no card to send in. He couldn’t very well
tell the man to announce in stentorian voice and the manner of a herald:
“Behold! Second-Lieutenant Bertram Greene, of the Indian Army Reserve,
standeth on the threshold!” And supposing the man did precisely this and
_still_ nobody moved, _what_ a superlative ass the said Second-Lieutenant
Bertram Greene would feel! . . . But could he feel a bigger ass than he
did already—standing there in awkward silence beneath the stony regard,
or disregard, of the twelve contemptuous boot-soles? . . .
Should he walk along the row of them, giving each alternate foot a heavy
blow? That would make them look up all right. . . . Or should he seize
a couple of them and operate them in the manner of the young lady in the
Railway Refreshment Rooms or the Village Inn, as she manipulates the
handles of the beer-engine? The owners of the two he grabbed and pulled
would come from behind their papers fast enough. . . . Bertram moved,
and his sword clanked sharply against a pillar. None of the readers had
looked up at the sound of footsteps—they were resting from the labours of
breakfast, and footsteps, as such, are of no interest. But, strange to
say, at the sound of a sword clanking, they moved as one man; six papers
were lowered and six pairs of eyes stared at the unhappy Bertram. After
three seconds of penetrating scrutiny, the six papers rose again as one,
as though at the sound of the ancient and useful military order, “_As you
were_.”
Major Fordinghame beheld a very good-looking boy, who appeared to be
taking his new sword and revolver for a walk in the nice sunshine and
giving the public a treat. He’d hardly be calling on the Mess dressed up
in lethal weapons. Probably wanted the Adjutant or somebody. He was
quite welcome to ’em. . . . These “planter” cheroots were
extraordinarily good at the price. . . . Lieutenant and Quartermaster
Macteith wondered who the devil _this_ was. Why did he stick there like
a stuck pig and a dying cod-fish? Still—if he wanted to stick, let him
stick, by all means. Free country. . . . Captain Brylle only vaguely
realised that he was staring hard at some bloke or other—he was bringing
all the great resources of his brain to bear upon a joke in the pink
paper he affected. It was so deep, dark and subtle a joke that he had
not yet “got” it. Bloke on the door-mat. What of it? . . . Captain
Tavner had received a good fat cheque that morning; he was going on ten
days’ leave to-morrow; he had done for to-day; and he had had a bottle of
beer for breakfast. _He_ didn’t mind if there were a rhinoceros on the
doorstep. Doubtless someone would take it into the Mess and give it a
drink. . . . Cove had got his sword on—or was it two swords? Didn’t
matter to him, anyway. . . .
Captain Melhuish idly speculated as to whether the chap would be
“calling” at so early an hour of the morning. It was the Mess
President’s business, anyhow. . . . Why the sword and revolver? And
mentally murmuring: “Enter—one in armour,” Captain Melhuish, the _doyen_
of the famous Madrutta Amateur Dramatic Society, returned to his perusal
of _The Era_. . . Lieutenant Bludyer didn’t give a damn, anyhow. . . .
And so none of these gentlemen, any one of whom would have arisen, had he
been sitting there alone, and welcomed Bertram hospitably, felt it
incumbent upon him to move, and the situation resumed what Bertram
privately termed its formerness.
Just as he had decided to go to the nearest reader and flatly request him
to arise and direct him to the Colonel, another officer came rushing from
the room whose open doorway faced the porch. In his mouth was a quill
pen, and in his hands were papers.
“Lazy perishers!” he remarked as he saw the others, and added: “Come
along, young Macteith,” and was turning to hurry down the verandah when
Bertram stepped forward.
“Excuse me,” he said, “d’you think I could see the Colonel? I have been
ordered to report to this regiment.”
“You _could_ see the Colonel,” replied this officer, “but I shouldn’t, if
I were you. I’d see the Adjutant. Much pleasanter sight. I’m the
Adjutant. Come along to my office,” and he led the way down the
verandah, across a big whitewashed room, simply furnished with a table, a
chair, and a punkah, to a smaller room, furnished with two of each of the
above-mentioned articles.
Dropping the pen and papers upon the table, the Adjutant wheeled round
upon Bertram, and, transfixing him with a cold grey eye, said, in hollow
voice and tragic tones:
“Do not trifle with me, Unhappy Boy! Say those blessed words again—or at
once declare them false. . . . _Did_ I hear you state that you have been
ordered to join this corps—or did I not?”
“You did, sir,” smiled Bertram.
“Shake,” replied the Adjutant. “God bless you, gentle child. For two
damns, I’d fall on your neck. I love you. Tell me your honoured name
and I’ll send for my will. . . .”
“I’m glad I’m welcome,” said the puzzled and astonished Bertram; “but I’m
afraid I shan’t be very useful. I am absolutely ignorant—you see, I’ve
not been a soldier for twenty-four hours yet. . . . Here’s the telegram
I got yesterday,” and he produced that document.
“Good youth,” replied Captain Murray. “I don’t give a tinker’s curse if
you’re deaf, dumb, blind and silly. You are my deliverer. I love you
more and more. I’ve been awaiting you with beating heart—lying awake for
you, listening for your footprints. Now you come—_I_ go.”
“What—to the Front?” said Bertram.
“You’ve guessed it in once, fair youth. East Africa for little Jock
Murray. We are sending a draft of a hundred men to our link battalion
there—awfully knocked about they’ve been—and I have it, straight from the
stable, that I’m the lad that takes them. . . . They go in a day or two.
. . . I was getting a bit anxious, I can tell you—but my pal in the
Brigade Office said they were certain to send a Reserve man here and
relieve me. . . . Colonel _will_ be pleased—he never _says_ anything but
‘_H’m_!’ but he’ll bite your ear if you don’t dodge.”
“I suppose he’ll simply hate losing an experienced officer and getting
me,” said Bertram, apprehensively.
“He’ll make himself perfectly miserable,” was the reply, “but nothing to
what he’ll make you. I’m the Adjutant, you see, and there’ll be a bit of
a muddle until my successor has picked up all the threads, and a bit of
extra bother for the Colonel. . . . Young Macteith’ll have to take it
on, I expect. . . . He’ll bite your other ear for that. . .” and Murray
executed a few simple steps of the _can-can_, in the joy of his heart
that the chance of his life had come. No one but himself knew the
agonies of mind that he had suffered, as he lay awake at night realising
that the war might he a short one, time was rushing on, and hundreds of
thousands of men had gone to fight—while he still sat in an office and
played C.O.’s lightning conductor. A usually undemonstrative Scot, he
was slightly excited and uplifted by this splendid turn of Fortune’s
wheel. Falling into a chair, he read the telegram:
_To Second-Lieutenant Bertram Greene_, _A.A.A._
_You have been appointed to Indian Army Reserve of Officers with rank of
Second-Lieutenant_, _and are ordered to report forthwith to O.C. One
Hundred and Ninety-Ninth Regiment_, _Madrutta_. _A.A.A._ _Military
Secretary_.
“Any relation to Major Walsingham Greene?” enquired Murray.
“Son,” replied Bertram, “and nephew of General Walsingham.”
“Not your fault, of course,” observed Murray. “Best to make a clean
breast of these things, though. . . . Had any sort of military
training?” he added.
“Absolutely none whatever. Soon after war broke out I felt I was a
disgrace to my family—they are all soldiers—and I thought of going home
and enlisting. . . . Then I thought it was a pity if nearly twenty years
of expensive education had fitted me for nothing more useful than what
any labourer or stable-boy can do—and I realised that I’m hardly strong
enough to be of much good in the trenches during a Belgian winter—I’ve
been there—so I wrote to my father and my uncle and told them I’d like to
get into the Indian Army Reserve of Officers. I thought I might soon
learn enough to be able to set free a better man, and, in time, I might
possibly be of some good—and perhaps go to the Frontier or something. . . .”
“Goo’ _boy_,” said the merry Murray. “I could strain you to my bosom.”
“Then I received some papers from the Military Secretary, filled them up,
and returned them with a medical certificate. I bought some kit and
ordered a uniform, and studied the drill-book night and day. . . . I got
that wire yesterday—and here I am.”
“I love you, Bertram,” repeated the Adjutant.
“I feel a dreadful fraud, though,” continued the boy, “and I am afraid my
uncle, General Walsingham, thinks I am ‘one of the Greenes’ in every way,
whereas I’m a most degenerate and unworthy member of the clan. Commonly
called ‘Cupid’ and ‘Blameless Bertram,’ laughed at . . . . Really he is
my father’s cousin—but I’ve always called him ‘Uncle,’” he added
ingenuously.
“Well—sit you there awhile and I’ll be free in a bit. Then I’ll take you
round the Lines and put you up to a few things. . . .”
“I should be most grateful,” replied Bertram.
Macteith entered and sat him down at the other desk, and for half an hour
there was a _va et vient_ of orderlies, clerks, Sepoys and messengers,
with much ringing of the telephone bell.
When he had finished his work, Murray kept his promise, gave Bertram good
advice and useful information, and, before tiffin, introduced him to the
other officers—who treated him with cordial friendliness. The Colonel
did not appear at lunch, but Bertram’s satisfaction at the postponement
of his interview was somewhat marred by a feeling that Lieutenant
Macteith eyed him malevolently and regarded his advent with disapproval.