_Butindi_
Half a mile beyond a village of the tiniest huts—built for themselves by
the Kavirondo porters, and suggesting beehives rather than human
habitations—Bertram beheld the entrenched and stockaded _boma_, zariba,
or fort, that was to be his home for some months.
At that distance, it looked like a solid square of grass huts and tents,
surrounded by a high wall. He guessed each side to be about two hundred
yards in length. It stood in a clearing which gave a field of fire of
some three hundred yards in every direction.
Halting the advance-guard, he formed it up from single file into fours;
and, taking his kit from Ali, resumed it. Giving the order to march at
“attention,” he approached the _boma_, above the entrance to which an
officer was watching him through field-glasses.
Halting his men at the plank which crossed the trench, he bade them
“stand easy,” and, leaving them in charge of a Havildar, crossed the
little bridge and approached the gateway which faced sideways instead of
outwards, and was so narrow that only one person at a time could pass
through it.
Between the trench and the wall of the _boma_ was a space some ten yards
in width, wherein a number of small men in blue uniform, who resembled
neither Indians nor Africans, were employed upon the off-duty duties of
the soldier—cleaning rifles and accoutrements, chopping wood, rolling
puttees, preparing food, washing clothing, and pursuing trains of thought
or insects.
Against the wall stood the long lean-to shelters, consisting of a roof of
plaited palm-leaf, supported by poles, in which they lived. By the
entrance was a guard-house, which suggested a rabbit-hutch; and a sentry,
who, seeing the approach of an armed party, turned out the guard. The
Sergeant of the Guard was an enormous man with a skin like fine black
satin, a skin than which no satin could be blacker nor more shiny. He
was an obvious negro, Nubian or Soudanese, but the men of the guard were
small and fair, and wore blue turbans, of which the ornamental end hung
tail-wise down their backs. Beneath their blue tunics were unpleated
kilts or skirts, of a kind of blue tartan, reaching to their knees. They
had blue puttees and bare feet.
Saluting the guard, Bertram entered the _boma_ and found himself in the
High Street of a close-packed village of huts and tents, which were the
dwelling-places of the officers, the hospital and sick-lines, the
commissariat store, the Officers’ Mess, the cook-house, orderly-room, and
offices.
In the middle of the High Street stood four poles which supported a roof.
A “table” of posts and packing-case boards, surrounded by native
bedsteads of wood and string—by way of seats—constituted this, the
Officers’ Mess, Club, Common Room and Bar. A bunch of despondent-looking
bananas hanging from the ridge-pole suggested food, and a bath containing
a foot of water and an inch of mud suggested drink and cholera.
About the table sat several British officers in ragged shirts and shorts,
drinking tea and eating native _chupatties_. They looked ill and weary.
The mosaic of scraps of stencilled packing-case wood, the tin plates, the
biscuit-box “sugar-basin,” the condensed milk tin “milk-jug,” the
battered metal teapot and the pile of sodden-looking _chupatties_ made as
uninviting an afternoon tea ménage as could be imagined, particularly in
that setting of muddy clay floor, rough and dirty _angarebs_, and
roof-and-wall thatch of withered leaves and grass. A typical scene of
modern glorious war with its dirt, discomfort and privation, its disease,
misery and weary boredom. . . .
Bertram approached the rickety grass hut and saluted.
A very tall man, with the face and moustache of a Viking, rose and
extended his hand.
“How do, Greene?” said he. “Glad to see you. . . . Hope you brought the
rum ration safe. . . . Take your bonnet off and undo your furs. . . .
Hope that pistol’s not loaded. . . . Nor that sword sharp. . . .
Oughtn’t to go about with nasty, dangerous things like that. . . . Hope
the rum ration’s safe. . . . Have some tea and a bloater. . . .
Berners, go and do Quartermaster, like a good lad. . . . Have some rum
and a bloater, Greene. . . .”
“Thank you, sir,” said Bertram, noting that the big man had a crown on
one shoulder of his shirt and a safety-pin spanning a huge hole on the
other. His great arms and chest were bare, and a pair of corduroy
riding-breeches, quite unfastened at the knee and calf, left an expanse
of bare leg between their termination and the beginning of grey, sagging
socks. Hob-nailed boots, fastened with string, completed his attire. He
looked like a tramp, a scarecrow, and a strong leader of men.
“’Fraid you’ll have to drink out of a condensed milk tin, until your kit
turns up. . .” said a pale and very handsome youth. “You get a flavour
of milk, though,” he added with an air of impartiality, “as well as of
tin and solder. . . . They burn your fingers so damnably, though, when
you go to pick ’em up. . . . Or why not drink out of the teapot, if
everyone has finished? . . . Yes—I’ll drop in a spot of condensed milk.”
“No—damn it all, Vereker,” put in the Major, “let’s do him well and
create an impression. Nothing like beginning as you don’t mean to go
on—or can’t possibly go on. . . . He can have The Glass this evening.
And some fresh tea. And his own tin of condensed. . . . And a bloater.
Hasn’t he brought us rum and hope? . . .”
The pale and handsome Vereker sighed.
“You create a _false_ impression, sir,” he said, and, taking a key from
his neck, arose and unlocked a big chop-box that stood in a corner of the
_banda_. Thence he produced a glass tumbler and set it before Bertram.
“There’s The Glass,” said he. “It’s now in your charge, present and
correct. I’ll receive it from you and return the receipt at ‘Stand-to.’
. . .”
Bertram gathered that the tumbler was precious in the Major’s sight, and
that honour was being shown him. He had a faint sense of having reached
Home. He was disappointed when a servant brought fresh tea, a
newly-opened tin of milk, and the lid of a biscuit-box for a plate, to
discover that the banana which reposed upon it was the “bloater” of his
hopes and the Major’s promise.
“For God’s sake use plenty of condensed milk,” said that gentleman, as
Bertram put some into the glass, preparatory to pouring out his tea.
Bertram thought it very kind and attentive of him—until he added: “And
pour the tea _on_ to it, and not down the side of the glass. . . .
That’s how the other tumbler got done in. . . .”
As he gratefully sipped the hot tea and doubtfully munched a _chapatti_,
Bertram took stock of the other members of the Mess. Beside Major
Mallery sat a very hard-looking person, a typical fighting-man with the
rather low forehead, rather protruding ears, rather high cheek-bones,
heavy jaw and jutting chin of his kind. He spoke little, and that
somewhat truculently, wore a big heavy knife in his belt, looked like a
refined prize-fighter, and answered to the name of Captain Macke.
Beside him, and in strong contrast, sat a young man of the Filbert genus.
He wore a monocle, his nails were manicured, he spoke with the euphuism
and euphemism of a certain Oxford type, he had an air of languor, boredom
and acute refinement, was addressed as Cecil Clarence, when not as Gussie
Augustus Gus, and seemed to be one of the very best.
On the same string bed, and in even stronger contrast, sat a dark-faced
Indian youth. On his shoulder-straps were the letters I.M.S. and two
stars. A lieutenant of the Indian Medical Service, and, as such, a
member of this British Officers’ Mess. Bertram wondered why the fact
that he had been to England and read certain books should have this
result; and whether the society of the Subedar-Major of the regiment
would have been preferred by the British officers. The young man talked
a lot, and appeared anxious to show his freedom from anxiety, and his
knowledge of English idiom and slang. When he addressed anyone by the
nickname which intimate pals bestowed upon him, Bertram felt sorry for
this youth with the hard staccato voice and raucous, mirthless laugh.
Cecil Clarence said of him that “if one gave him an inch he took an ’ell
of a lot for granted.” His name was Bupendranath Chatterji, and his papa
sat cross-legged and bare-footed in the doorway of a little shop in a
Calcutta bazaar, and lent moneys to the poor, needy and oppressed, for a
considerable consideration.
“’Bout time for Stand-to, isn’t it?” said the Major, consulting his
wrist-watch. “Hop it, young Clarence. . . . You might come round with
me to-night, Greene, if you’ve finished tea. . . . Can’t offer you
another bloater, I’m afraid. . . .”
The other officers faded away. A few minutes later a long blast was
blown on a whistle, there were near and distant cries of “Stand-to,” and
Cecil Clarence returned to the Mess _banda_. He was wearing tunic and
cross-belt. On his cheerful young face was a look of portentous
solemnity as he approached the Major, halted, saluted, stared at him as
at a perfect stranger, and said: “Stand-to, sir. All present and
correct.”
Over the Major’s face stole a similar expression. He looked as one who
has received sudden, interesting and important but anxious news.
“Thank you,” said he. “I’ll—ah—go round. Yes. Come with me, will you?
. . .” Cecil Clarence again saluted, and fell in behind the Major as he
left the _banda_. Bertram followed. The Major went to his tent and put
on his tunic and cross-belt. These did little to improve the
unfastenable riding-breeches, bare calves and grey socks, but were
evidently part of the rite.
Proceeding thence to the entrance to the _boma_, the Major squeezed
through, was saluted by the guard, and there met by an English officer in
the dress of the small men whom Bertram had noticed on his arrival. His
white face looked incongruous with the blue turban and tartan petticoat.
“All present and correct, sir,” said he. Half his men were down in the
trench, their rifles resting in the loop-holes of the parapet. These
loop-holes were of wicker-work, like bottomless waste-paper baskets, and
were built into the earthwork of the parapet so that a man, looking
through one, had a foot of earth and logs above his head. The other half
of his blue-clad force was inside the _boma_ and lining the wall. This
wall, some eight feet in height, had been built by erecting two walls of
stout wattle and posts, two feet apart, and then filling the space
between these two with earth. Along the bottom of the wall ran a
continuous fire-step, some two feet in height, and a line of wicker-work
loop-holes pierced it near the top. In the angle, where this side of the
_boma_ met the other, was a tower of posts, wattle and earth, some twelve
feet in height, and on it, within an earth-and-wattle wall, and beneath a
thatched roof, was a machine-gun and its team of King’s African Rifles
_askaris_, in charge of an English N.C.O. On the roof squatted a sentry,
who stared at the sky with a look of rapt attention to duty.
“How are those two men, Black?” asked the Major, as the N.C.O. saluted.
“Very bad, sir,” was the reply. “They’ll die to-night. I’m quite sure
the Germans had poisoned that honey and left it for our _askari_ patrols
to find. I wondered at the time that they ’adn’t skoffed it themselves.
. . . And it so near their _boma_ and plain to see, an’ all. . . . I
never thought about poison till it was too late. . . .”
“Foul swine!” said the Major. “I suppose it’s a trick they learnt from
the _shenzis_, this poisoning wild honey? . . .”
“More like they taught it ’em, sir,” was the reply. “There ain’t no
savage as low as a German, sir. . . . I lived in German East, I did,
afore the war. . . . I _know_ ’em. . . .”
The next face of the _boma_ was held by the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth.
Captain Macke met the Major and saluted him as a revered stranger. He,
too, wore tunic and cross-belt and a look of portentous solemnity, such
as that on the faces of the Major, Cecil Clarence, and, indeed, everybody
else. Bertram, later, labelled it the Stand-to face and practised to
acquire it.
“How many sick, Captain Macke?” enquired the Major.
“Twenty-seven, sir,” was the reply. Bertram wondered whether they were
“present” in the spirit and “correct” in form.
“All fever or dysentery—or both, I suppose?” said the Major.
“Yes—except one with a poisoned foot and one who seems to be going
blind,” was the reply.
As they passed along, the Major glanced at each man, looked into the
canvas water-tanks, scrutinised the residential sheds beneath the
wall—and, in one of them discovered a scrap of paper! As the ground was
covered with leaves, twigs, and bits of grass, as well as being thick
with mud, Bertram did not see that this piece of paper mattered much.
This only shows his ignorance. The Major pointed at it, speechless.
Captain Macke paled—with horror, wrath or grief. Gussie Augustus Gus
stooped and stared at it, screwing his monocle in the tighter, that he
might see the better and not be deceived. Vereker turned it over with
his stick, and only then believed the evidence of three of his senses.
The Jemadar shook his head with incredulous but pained expression. He
called for the Havildar, whose mouth fell open. The two men were very
alike, being relatives, but while the senior wore a look of incredulous
pain, the junior, it seemed to Bertram, rather wore one of pained
incredulity. That is to say, the Jemadar looked stricken but unable to
believe his eyes, whereas the Havildar looked as though he could not
believe his eyes but was stricken nevertheless.
All stared hard at the piece of paper. . . . It was a poignant moment. . . .
No one moved and no one seemed to breathe. Suddenly the Havildar
touched a Naik who stood behind his men, with his back to the group of
officers, and stared fixedly at Nothing. He turned, beheld the paper at
which the Havildar’s accusing finger pointed, rigid but tremulous. . . .
What next? The Naik pocketed the paper, and the incident was closed.
Bertram was glad that he had witnessed it. He knew, thenceforth, the
proper procedure for an officer who, wearing the Stand-to face, sees a
piece of paper.
The third wall of the _boma_ was occupied by a company of Dogras of an
Imperial Service Corps, under a Subedar, a fine-looking Rajput, and a
company of Marathas of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth, under the
Subedar-Major of that regiment. Bertram was strongly attracted to this
latter officer, and thought that never before had he seen an Indian whose
face combined so much of patient strength, gentle firmness, simple
honesty, and noble pride.
He was introduced to Bertram, and, as they shook hands and saluted, the
fine old face was lit up with a smile of genuine pleasure and friendly
respectfulness. A man of the old school who recognised duties as well as
“rights”—and in whose sight “_false to his salt_” was the last and lowest
epithet of uttermost degradation.
“You’ll have charge of this face of the fort to-morrow, Greene,” said the
Major, as they passed on. “Subedar-Major Luxman Atmaram is a priceless
old bird. He’ll see you have no trouble. . . . Don’t be in a hurry to
tell him off for anything, because it’s a hundred to one you’ll find he’s
right.”
Bertram smiled to himself at the thought of his being the sort to “tell
off” anybody without due cause and was secretly pleased to find that
Major Mallery had thought such a thing possible. . . .
The remaining side of the fort was held by Gurkhas, and Bertram noted the
fact with pleasure. He had taken a great fancy to these cheery, steady
people. Another machine-gun, with its team of _askaris_ of the King’s
African Rifles, occupied the middle of this wall.
“Don’t cough or sneeze near the gun,” murmured Vereker to Bertram, “or it
may fall to pieces again. The copper-wire is all right, but the
boot-lace was not new to begin with.”
“What kind of gun is it?” he asked.
“It was a Hotchkiss once. It’s a Hot-potch now,” was the reply. “Don’t
touch it as you pass,” and the puzzled Bertram observed that it was
actually bound with copper-wire at one point and tied with some kind of
cord or string at another.
By the hospital—a horrible pit with a tent over it—stood the Indian youth
and a party of Swahili stretcher-bearers.
Bertram wondered whether it would ever be his fate to be carried on one
of those blood-stained stretchers by a couple of those negroes, laid on
the mud at the bottom of that pit, and operated on by that young native
of India. He shuddered. Fancy one’s life-blood ebbing away into that
mud. Fancy dying, mangled, in that hole with no one but a Bupendranath
Chatterji to soothe one’s last agonies. . . .
Having completed his tour of inspection, Major Mallery removed the
Stand-to face and resumed his ordinary one, said: “They can dismiss,” to
Captain Macke and the group of officers, and tore off his cross-belt and
tunic.
All his hearers relaxed their faces likewise, blew their whistles, cried
“Dismiss!” in the direction of their respective Native Officers, and
removed their belts and tunics almost as quickly as they had removed
their Stand-to faces.
They then proceeded to the Bristol Bar.