_Terra Marique Jactatus_
As he arrayed himself in all his war-paint, after his sleepless and
unhappy night, Bertram felt feverish, and afraid. His head throbbed
violently, and he had that distressing sensation of being remorselessly
urged on, fatedly fury-driven and compelled to do all things with
terrible haste and hurry.
Excitement, anxiety, sleeplessness and the conflicting emotions of hope
and fear, were taking their toll of the nervous energy and vitality of
the over-civilised youth.
He felt alarmed at his own alarm, and anxious about his own anxiety—and
feared that, at this rate, he would be worn out before he began, a
physical and mental wreck, fitter for a hospital-ship than a troop-ship,
before ever he started.
“The lad’s over-engined for his beam,” observed Murray to himself, as he
lay on his camp cot, drinking his _choti hazri_ tea, and watching
Bertram, who, with white face and trembling fingers, stood making more
haste than speed, as he fumbled with straps and buckles. “Take it easy,
my son,” he said kindly. “There’s tons of time, and then some. I’ll see
you’re not late. . . .”
“Thanks, Murray,” replied Bertram, “but—”
“Here—take those belts off at once,” interrupted the Adjutant. “Take the
lot off and lie down again—and smoke this cigarette. . . . _At once_,
d’ye hear?” and the tone was such that Bertram complied without comment.
He sank on to the camp-bed, swung up his long legs, with their heavy
boots, shorts, and puttees and puffed luxuriously. He had intended to be
a non-smoker as well as a teetotaller, now that he was “mobilised,” but
it would be as well to obey Murray now and begin his abstinence from
tobacco when he got on board. He lay and smoked obediently, and soon
felt, if not better, at least calmer, cooler and quieter.
“Blooming old tub won’t start till to-night—you see’f she does,” said
Murray. “Sort of thing we always do in the Army. . . . _Always_. . . .
Harry and hurry everybody on parade at seven, to catch a boat that
doesn’t profess to sail till two, and probably won’t actually do it till
midnight.”
“I should die of shame if I were late for my first parade,” said Bertram
anxiously.
“You’d die of the Colonel, if you didn’t of shame,” was the reply. . . .
“I’ll see you’re not late. You take things a bit easier, my son. Your
King and Country want you in East Africa, not in a lunatic asylum—”
“_Pappa_! _What part did you take in the Great War_?” squeaked a
falsetto voice from the door, and looking up, Bertram beheld Lieutenant
Bludyer, always merry and bright, arrayed in crimson, scarlet-frogged
pyjama coat, and pink pyjama trousers. On his feet were vermilion velvet
slippers.
“I’ll take a leading part in your dirty death,” said the Adjutant,
turning to the speaker, or squeaker.
“Thought this might be useful, Greene,” continued Bludyer in his natural
voice, as he handed Bertram a slab of thin khaki linen and a conical cap
of a kind of gilded corduroy. “Make yourself a regimental _puggri_ in
the day of battle. Put the cap on your nut and wind the turban over it.
. . . Bloke with a helmet and a white face hasn’t an earthly, advancing
with a line of Sepoys in _puggris_. The enemy give him their united
attention until he is outed. . . .”
“Oh, thanks, awfully, Bludyer,” began Bertram.
“So go dirty till your face is like Murray’s, grow a hoary, hairy beard,
an’ wear a turban on your fat head,” continued Bludyer. “Your orderly
could do it on for you, so that it wouldn’t all come down when you
waggled. . . .”
“Thanks, most awfully. It’s exceedingly kind of you, Bludyer,”
acknowledged Bertram, and proceeded to stuff the things into his
haversack.
“Wow! Wow!” ejaculated Bludyer. “Nice-mannered lad and well brought up,
ain’t he, Randolph Murray?” and seating himself on that officer’s bed, he
proceeded to use the tea-cosy as a foot-warmer, the morning being chilly.
The Adjutant arose and proceeded to dress.
“Devil admire me!” he suddenly shouted, pointing at Bertram. “Look at
that infernal lazy swine! Did you ever see anything like it, Bludyer?
Lying hogging there, lolling and loafing in bed, as if he had all day to
finish nothing in! . . . Here, get up, you idle hound, and earn your
living. Dress for parade, if you can do nothing else.”
And Bertram gathered that he might now get on with his preparations.
“Yes,” added Bludyer, “you really ought to get on with the war, Greene.
_Isn’t_ he a devil-may-care fellow, Murray? He don’t give a damn if it
snows,” and adding that it was his flute-night at the Mission, and he now
must go, the young gentleman remained seated where he was.
“You aren’t hurrying a bit, Greene,” he remarked, after eyeing Bertram
critically for a few minutes. “He won’t prosper and grow rich like that,
will he, Randolph Murray? That is not how the Virtuous Apprentice got on
so nicely, and married his master’s aunt. . . . No. . . . And Samuel
Smiles was never late for parade—of that I’m quite certain. No.
‘_Self_-help’ was _his_ motto, and the devil take the other fellow. . . .
Let me fasten that for you. This strap goes under not over. . . .” And,
with his experienced assistance, Bertram was soon ready, and feeling like
a trussed fowl and a Christmas-tree combined, by the time he had
festooned about him his sword, revolver, full ammunition-pouches,
field-glasses, water-bottle, belt-haversack, large haversack, map-case,
compass-pouch, whistle-lanyard, revolver-lanyard, rolled cape, and the
various belts, straps and braces connected with these articles.
By the time the last buckle was fastened, he longed to take the whole lot
off again for a few minutes, and have a really comfortable breathe. (But
he _did_ wish Miranda Walsingham could see him.)
* * * * *
In a corner of the parade-ground stood the Hundred, the selected draft
which was to proceed to Africa to fill the gaps that war had torn in the
ranks of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth. On their flank the regimental
band was drawn up in readiness to play them to the docks. The men wore
khaki turbans, tunics, shorts, puttees and hob-nailed boots, and carried
only haversacks, water-bottles, bandoliers, rifles and bayonets. The
rest of their kit, each man’s done up in a neat bundle inside his
waterproof ground-sheet and striped cotton sleeping-_dhurrie_, had gone
on in bullock-carts to await them at the wharf.
Around the Hundred stood or squatted the remainder of the battalion, in
every kind and degree of dress and undress. Occasionally one of these
would arise and go unto his pal in the ranks, fall upon his neck, embrace
him once again, shake both his hands alternately, and then return to the
eligible site whence, squatting on his heels, he could feast his eyes
upon his _bhai_, his brother, his friend, so soon to be torn from him. . . .
As the officers approached, these spectators fell back. Bertram’s
heart beat so violently that he feared the others would hear it. Was he
going to have “palpitations” and faint, or throw a fit or something? He
was very white, and felt very ill. Was his ignorance and incompetence to
be exposed and manifested now? . . .
“Look fierce and take over charge, my son,” said the Adjutant, as the
small party of officers came in front of the draft.
“Company!” shouted Bertram, “Shun!”
That was all right. He had hit the note nicely, and his voice had fairly
boomed. He had heard that men judge a new officer by his voice, more
than anything.
The Hundred sprang to attention, and Bertram, accompanied by the Adjutant
and Macteith, walked slowly down the front rank and up the rear, doing
his best to look as though he were critically and carefully noting
certain points, and assuring himself that certain essentials were in
order. He was glad that he had not suddenly to answer such a question as
“_What_ exactly are you peering at and looking for?” He wished he had
sufficient Hindustani to ask a stern but not unkindly question here and
there, or to make an occasional comment in the manner of one from whom no
military thing is hid. He suddenly remembered that he knew the
Hindustani for “How old are you?” so he asked this question of a man
whose orange-coloured beard would obviously have been white but for henna
dye. Not in the least understanding the man’s reply, he remarked “H’m!”
in excellent imitation of the Colonel, and passed on.
“Not the absolute pick of the regiment, I should think, are they?” he
remarked to Murray, as they returned to the front of the company.
“They are not,” he said.
“Pretty old, some of them,” added Bertram, who was privately hoping that
he did not look such a fraudulent Ass as he felt.
Major Fordinghame strolled up and returned the salutes of the group of
officers.
“This experienced officer thinks the draft is not the pure cream of the
regiment, Major,” said Murray, indicating Bertram.
“Fancy that, now,” replied Major Fordinghame, and Bertram blushed hotly.
“I thought some of them seemed rather old, sir,” he said, “but—er—perhaps
old soldiers are better than young ones?”
“It’s a matter of taste—as the monkey said when he chewed his father’s
ear,” murmured Bludyer.
Silence fell upon the little group.
“And both have their draw-backs—as the monkey said when she pulled her
twins’ tails,” he added pensively.
Bertram wondered what he had better do next.
The Native Officer of the draft came hurrying up, and saluted. Another
Hindustani sentence floated into Bertram’s mind. “You are late, Jemadar
Sahib,” said he, severely.
Jemadar Hassan Ali poured forth a torrent of excuse or explanation which
Bertram could not follow.
“What do you do if a Havildar or Naik or Sepoy is late for parade?” he
asked, or attempted to ask, in slow and barbarous Hindustani.
Another torrent of verbiage, scarcely a word of which was intelligible to
him.
He put on a hard, cold and haughty look, or attempted to do so, and kept,
perforce, an eloquent but chilling silence. Murray and the Major
exchanged glances.
“Greene Sahib is _very_ particular and _very_ strict, Jemadar Sahib,”
said the Major. “You had better bear it in mind, and tell the men too.
He’ll stand no sort of nonsense from anybody. You’ll find him very kind
so long as he is satisfied, but if he isn’t—well!” and the Major shrugged
his shoulders expressively.
Bertram looked gratefully at the Major (for he understood “Englishman’s
Hindustani”), and as sternly as he could at the Jemadar, who saluted
again and retired.
The Colonel rode up, and the officers sprang to attention.
“Everything ready, sir,” said the Adjutant. “They can march off when you
like.”
“H’m!” said the Colonel, and stared at Bertram as though he honestly and
unaffectedly did wonder why God made such things. He then wheeled his
horse towards the waiting Hundred. “Men of the Hundred and
Ninety-Ninth,” said he in faultless Hindustani, “you are now going across
the Black Water to fight the enemies of the King Emperor, and of
yourselves. They would like to conquer your country and oppress you.
You go to fight for your own homes and children, as well as for your
Emperor. Bring honour to your regiment and yourselves. Show the
_Germanis_ and their _Hubshis _{50} what Indian Sepoys can do—both in
time of battle and in time of hunger, thirst, and hardship. Before God I
say I would give anything to come with you, but I have to do my duty
here—for the present. We may meet again in Africa. Good-bye. Good
luck. . . . Good-bye. . . .” The Jemadar called for three cheers for
the Colonel, and the Hundred lustily cried: “_’Eep_, _’Eep_, _’Oorayee_.”
The remainder of the regiment joined in, and then cheered the Hundred.
Meanwhile, the Colonel turned to Bertram.
“Good-by, young Greene. Good luck,” he said, and leaning from his horse,
wrung Bertram’s hand as though it had been that of his only son.
Similarly did the others, with minor differences.
“Well—it’s useless to weep these unavailing tears,” sobbed Bludyer.
“There’s an end to everything, as the monkey said when he seized the tip
of his mother’s nose. . . .”
“Farewell, my blue-nosed, golden-eyed, curly-eared Mother’s Darling,”
said Macteith.
“Good luck, sonny. Write and let me know how you get on,” said Murray.
“You’ll do. You’ve got the guts all right, and you’ll very soon get the
hang of things. . . .”
“March ’em off, now,” he added. “Chuck a chest, and don’t give a damn
for anybody,” and Bertram carefully collected his voice, swallowed a kind
of lump in his throat, bade his wildly beating heart be still, gave
thought to the drill-book, and roared:
“Company! . . . _’Shun_! . . . Slope _Arms_! . . . Form _fours_! . . .
_Right_! . . . Quick _march_!”—the band struck up—and they were off.
Yes, he, Bertram Greene, pale clerkly person, poet and æsthete, was
marching proudly, in full military attire, at the head of a hundred
fighting-men—marching to the inspiring strains of the regimental band, to
where the trooper waited on the tide! If his father could only see him!
He was happy as he had never been before in his life, and he was proud as
he never had been before. . . . If Miranda could only see him! He,
Bertram Greene, was actually marching to war, with sword on thigh, and
head held high, in sole command of a hundred trained fighting-men!
His heart beat very fast, but without pain now, and he was, for the
moment, free of his crushing sense of inadequacy, inexperience and
unworthiness. He was only conscious of a great pride, a great hope, and
a great determination to be worthy, so far as in him lay the power, of
his high fate. . . .
No man forgets his first march at the head of his own force, if he
forgets his first march in uniform. For Bertram this was both. It was
his first march in uniform, and he was in whole and sole control of this
party—like a Centurion of old tramping the Roman Road at the head of his
hundred Legionaries—and Bertram felt he would not forget it if he lived
till his years equalled the number of his men.
It was not a very long march, and it was certainly not a very picturesque
one—along the cobbled Dock Road, with its almost innumerable cotton-laden
bullock-carts—but Bertram trod on air through a golden dream city and was
exalted, brother to the Knights of Arthur who quested for the Grail and
went about to right the wrong and to succour the oppressed. . . .
Arrived at the dock-gates, he was met and guided aright, by a brassarded
myrmidon of the Embarkation Staff Officer, to where His Majesty’s
Transport _Elymas_ lay in her basin beside a vast shed-covered wharf.
Beneath this shed, Bertram halted his men, turned them into line, and
bade them pile arms, fall out, and sit them down in close proximity to
their rifles.
Leaving the Jemadar in charge, he then went up the gangway of the
_Elymas_ in search of the said Embarkation Staff Officer, who, he had
been told, would allot him and his men their quarters on the ship. As he
gazed around the deserted forward well-deck, he saw an officer, who wore
a lettered red band round his arm, hurrying towards him along the
promenade deck, his hands full of papers, a pencil in his mouth, and a
careworn, worried look upon his face.
“You Greene, by any chance?” he called, as he ran sideway down the narrow
ladder from the upper deck.
“Yes, sir,” replied Bertram, saluting as he perceived that the officer
was a captain. “Just arrived with a draft of a hundred men from the
Hundred and Ninety-Ninth,” he added proudly.
“Good dog,” was the reply, “keep the perishers out of it for a bit till
I’m ready. . . . Better come with me now though, and I’ll show you,
_one_, where they’re to put their rifles; _two_, where they’re to put
themselves; _three_, where they will do their beastly cooking; and
_four_, where you will doss down yourself. . . . Don’t let there be any
mistakes, because there are simply millions more coming,” and he led the
way to a companion hatch in the after well-deck, and clattered down a
ladder into the bowels of the ship, Bertram following him in his twists
and turns with a growing sense of bewilderment.
He was very glad to hear that he and his merry men were not to have the
ship to themselves, for there were a thousand and one points that he
would be very glad to be able to refer to the decision of Authority, or
the advice of Experience.
The Embarkation Officer, dripping and soaked and sodden with
perspiration, as was Bertram himself, wound his devious way, along narrow
passages, ladders and tunnels, to a kind of cage-like cloak-room fitted
with racks.
“Your men’ll come here in single file, by the way we have come,” said he,
“enter this armoury one by one, leave their rifles on these racks, and go
up that ladder to the deck above, and round to the ladder leading out on
the forward well-deck. You’ll have to explain it carefully, and shepherd
’m along too, or there’ll be a jam and loss of life and—worse—loss of
time. . . . In the early days we managed badly on one occasion and got a
crowd of Sikhs pushing against a crowd of Pathans. . . .” He then led
the disintegrating Bertram by devious paths to a dark oven-like and
smelly place (which Bertram mentally labelled “the horizontal section of
the fo’c’sle, three storeys down”) in which the Hundred were to live, or
to die—poor devils! There would hardly be standing room—and thence to
the scene of their culinary labours. Lastly, when the bewildered youth
was again feeling very ill, the Embarkation Officer retraced his steps,
showed him certain water-taps for the use of his men, and led the way up
and out to the blessed light of day, fresh air, and the comparative
coolness of the deck. “Your cabin’s along here,” said he, entering a
long corridor that debouched on to the well-deck. “Let’s see, Number 43,
I think. Yes. A two-berth cabin to yourself—and last trip we had three
generals in a one-berth cabin, four colonels in a bath at once, and five
common officers on top of one another in each chair at table. . . .
Fact—I assure you. . . . Go in and chuck away all that upholstery—you
can run about in your shirt-sleeves now, or naked if you like, so long as
you wear a helmet to show you are in uniform. . . . Bye-bye—be a good
boy,” and he bustled away.
Bertram thankfully took the Embarkation Officer’s advice, and cast off
all impedimenta until he was clad only in khaki shirt, shorts, puttees
and boots. He thought he could enter into the feelings of a butterfly as
it emerges from the constricting folds of its cocoon.
He sat down for a minute on the white bed prepared for his occupation.
The other was cumbered with his valise, sack, and strapped bundle, which
had come down on the first of the bullock-carts and been brought on board
at once. He looked round the well-appointed, spotless cabin, with its
white paint and mahogany fittings, electric fans and lights. That one
just beside his pillow would be jolly for reading in bed. Anyhow, he’d
have a comfortable and restful voyage. What a blessing that he had a
cabin to himself, and what a pity that the voyage took only about ten
days. . . . Would life on a troop-ship be a thing of disciplined
strenuousness, or would it be just a perfectly slack time for everybody?
. . . It should be easy for him to hide his ignorance while on
board—there couldn’t be very much in the way of drill. . . . How his
head throbbed, and how seedy and tired he felt! . . . He lay back on his
bed and then sprang up in alarm and horror at what he had done. A pretty
way to commence his Active Service!—and, putting on his heavy and
uncomfortable helmet, he hurried to the wharf.
Going down the gangway, he again encountered the Embarkation Officer.
“Better let your men file on board with their rifles first, and then off
again for their kits and bedding, and then back again to the quarters I
showed you. Having pegged out their claims there, and each man hung his
traps on the peg above his sleeping-mat, they can go up on the after
well-deck and absolutely nowhere else. See? And no man to leave the
ship again, on any pretence whatever. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Bertram, and privately wondered if he would even find
his way again to that cage-like cloak-room in the hold, and that
“horizontal section of the fo’c’sle three storeys down.”
But he _must_ do this, his very first job, absolutely correctly, and
without any bungling and footling. He must imagine that he was going in
for an examination again—an examination this time in quite a new subject,
“The art of getting men on board a ship, bedding them down, each with his
own bundle of kit, in one place, and storing their rifles in another,
without confusion or loss of time.” _Quite_ a new subject, and one in
which previous studies, Classics, Literature, Philosophy, Art, were not
going to be of any great value.
Perhaps it would be as well to take the Jemadar, Havildars and Naiks on a
personally conducted tour to the armoury, quarters, cooking-places and
taps, and explain the _modus operandi_ to them as well as he could. One
can do a good deal to eke out a scanty knowledge of the vernacular by
means of signs and wonders—though sometimes one makes the signs and the
other person wonders. . . .
Returning to the oven-like shed, resonant with the piercing howls of
_byle-ghari-wallas_, {54} coolies, Lascars and overseers; the racking
rattle and clang and clatter of chains, cranes, derricks and
donkey-engines; the crashing of iron-bound wheels over cobble-stones, and
the general pandemonium of a busy wharf, he beckoned the Jemadar to him
and made him understand that he wanted a couple of Havildars and four
Naiks to accompany him on board.
Suddenly he had a bright idea. (Good old drill-book and retentive memory
of things read, heard, or seen!) . . . “Why have you set no sentry over
the arms, Jemadar Sahib? It should not be necessary for me to have to
give the order,” he said as well as he could in his halting Hindustani.
The Jemadar looked annoyed—and distinctly felt as he looked. Half the
men had heard the reproof. He, an old soldier of fifteen years’ service,
to be set right by a child like this! And the annoying part of it was
that the amateur was right! Of course he should have put a sentry over
the arms. It was probably the first time he had omitted to do so, when
necessary, since he had first held authority . . . and he raged inwardly.
There are few things that annoy an Indian more than to be “told off”
before subordinates, particularly when he is obviously in the wrong. Was
this youthful Greene Sahib a person of more knowledge and experience than
had been reported by the Adjutant’s Office _babu_? The _babu_ had
certainly described him as one whom the other officers laughed at for his
ignorance and inexperience. Had not the worthy Chatterji Chuckerbutti
related in detail how Macteith Sahib had called upon his gods and feigned
great sickness after offensively examining Greene Sahib through his
field-glasses? Strange and unfathomable are the ways of Sahibs, and
perhaps the true inwardness of the incident had been quite otherwise? It
might have been an honorific ceremony, in fact, and Macteith Sahib might
have feigned sickness at his own unworthiness, according to etiquette?
. . . After all, the military salute itself is only a motion simulating
the shading of one’s eyes from the effulgent glory of the person one
salutes; and the Oriental bowing and touching the forehead is only a
motion simulating taking up dust and putting it on one’s head. . . .
Yes—the _babu_ may have been wrong, and Macteith Sahib may really have
been acclaiming Greene Sahib his superior, and declaring his own
miserable unworthiness. . . . One never knew with Sahibs. Their minds
are unreadable, and one can never get at what they are thinking, or grasp
their point of view. One could only rest assured that there is always
method in their madness—that they are clever as devils, brave as lions,
and—averse from giving commissions as lieutenants, captains, majors, and
colonels to Indian Native Officers. . .
“Get a move on, Jemadar Sahib,” said the voice of Greene Sahib curtly, in
English, and the Jemadar bustled off to set the sentry and call the
Havildars and Naiks—rage in his heart. . . .
More easily than he had expected, Bertram found his way, at the head of
the party, to the required places, and showed the Jemadar and
Non-commissioned Officers how the men should come and depart, in such
manner as to avoid hindering each other and to obviate the possibility of
a jam.
The Jemadar began to ask questions, and Bertram began to dislike the
Jemadar. He was a talker, and appeared to be what schoolboys call
“tricky.” He knew that Bertram had very little Hindustani, and seemed
anxious to increase the obviousness of the fact.
Bertram felt unhappy and uncomfortable. He wished to be perfectly
courteous to him as a Native Officer, but it would not do to let the man
mistake politeness for weakness, and inexperience for inefficiency. . . .
Was there a faint gleam of a grin on the fellow’s face as he said: “I do
not understand,” at the end of Bertram’s attempt at explanation?
“Do _you_ understand?” the latter said, suddenly, turning to the senior
Havildar, the man who had turned out the Guard for him on his first
approach to the Lines on that recent day that seemed so long ago.
“_Han_, {56a} _Sahib_,” replied the man instantly and readily.
“_Béshak_!” {56b}
“Then you’d better explain to the Jemadar Sahib, who does not,” said
Bertram with a click of his jaw, as he turned to depart.
The Jemadar hastened to explain that he _fully_ understood, as Bertram
strode off. Apparently complete apprehension had come as soon as he
realised that his dullness was to be enlightened by the explanation of
the quicker-witted Havildar. He gave that innocent and unfortunate man a
look of bitter hatred, and, as he followed Bertram, he ground his teeth.
Havildar Afzul Khan Ishak should live to learn the extreme unwisdom of
understanding things that Jemadar Hassan Ali professed not to understand.
As for Second-Lieutenant Greene—perhaps he should live to learn the
unwisdom of quarrelling with an experienced Native Officer who was the
sole channel of communication between that stranger and the Draft at
whose head he had been placed by a misguided Sircar. . . .
Returning to the wharf, and conscious that he had a splitting head, a
sticky mouth, shaking limbs, sore throat and husky voice, Bertram roared
orders to the squatting Sepoys, who sprang up, fell in, unpiled arms, and
marched in file up the gangway and down into the bowels of the ship,
shepherded and directed by the Non-commissioned Officers whom he had
posted at various strategic points. All went well, and, an hour later,
his first job was successfully accomplished. His men were on board and
“shaking down” in their new quarters. He was free to retire to his
cabin, bathe his throbbing head, and lie down for an hour or so.
* * * * *
At about midday he arose refreshed, and went on deck, with the delightful
feeling that, his own labours of the moment accomplished, he could look
on at the accomplishment of those of others. Excellent! . . . And for
many days to come he would be free from responsibility and anxiety, he
would have a time of rest, recuperation, and fruitful thought and study.
. . . Throughout the morning detachments of Sepoys of the Indian Army
and Imperial Service Troops continued to arrive at the wharf and to
embark. Bertram was much interested in a double-company of Gurkhas under
a Gurkha Subedar, their yellowish Mongolian faces eloquent of
determination, grit, and hardiness.
They contrasted strongly with a company of tall, hairy Sikhs, almost
twice their size, man for man, but with evidences of more enthusiasm than
discipline in their bearing. Another interesting unit was a band of
warriors of very mixed nationality, under a huge Jemadar who looked a
picture of fat contentment, his face knowing no other expression than an
all-embracing smile. It was whispered later that this unit saw
breech-loading rifles for the first time, on board the _Elymas_, having
been more familiar, hitherto, with jezails, jingals, match-locks,
flintlocks, and blunderbusses. Probably a gross exaggeration, or an
invention of Lieutenant Stanner, of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth, who
gave them the name of “The Mixed Pickles.”
All three of these detachments were Imperial Service Troops—that is to
say, were in the service of various Indian Rajahs—but were of very
different value, both the Gurkhas and the Sikhs being as good material as
could be found among native troops anywhere in the world.
To Bertram, the picture of the little Gurkha Subedar, the tall Sikh
Subedar, and the burly Jemadar of the Mixed Pickles, was a very
interesting one, as the three stood together on the wharf, eyeing each
other like three strange dogs of totally different breeds—say, a fighting
terrier, a wolf-hound and a mastiff.
With a snap and a slick, and a smart “_One two_,” a company of British
Infantry arrived and embarked. Beside the Mixed Pickles they were as a
Navy motor-launch beside a native bunderboat. At them they smiled
amusedly, at the Sikhs they stared, and at the Gurkhas they grinned
appreciatively.
The news having spread that the _Elymas_ would not start until the
morrow, various visitors came on board, in search of friends whom they
knew to be sailing by her. Captain Stott, R.A.M.C., came over from the
_Madras_ hospital ship, in search of Colonel Haldon. Murray and Macteith
came down to see Stanner, of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth, and one
Terence Brannigan, of the Baluchis. . . .
“Who’s the chap on your right, Colonel?” asked Captain Stott, of gentle
and kindly old Colonel Haldon at dinner that evening. “Rather an unusual
face to be ‘in’ khaki—or one would have said so before the war,” and he
indicated Bertram.
“Dunno,” was the reply. “Stranger to me. Nice-lookin’ boy. . . . Looks
a wee-trifle more like a chaplain than a butcher, as you say,” though
Captain Stott had not said that at all.
Seeing Bertram talking to Murray and Macteith after dinner, Captain Stott
asked the latter who he was, for physiognomy and character-study were a
hobby of his.
Macteith told him what he knew, and added: “And they’re sending _that_
half-baked milksop to British East” (and implied: “While _I_, Lieutenant
and Quartermaster Reginald Macteith, remain to kick my heels at the
depot.”)
Next day the _Elymas_ began her voyage, a period of delightful _dolce far
niente_ that passed like a dream, until one wonderful evening, the
palm-clad shores of Africa “arose from out of the azure sea,” and, with a
great thrill of excitement, hope, anxiety and fear Bertram gazed upon the
beautiful scene, as the _Elymas_ threaded the lovely Kilindini Creek
which divides the Island of Mombasa from the mainland.