_More Baking_
Bertram was awakened at dawn by the bustle and stir of Stand-to. He
arose and dressed, by the simple process of putting on his boots and
helmet, which, by reason of rain, wind, mud and publicity, were the only
garments he had removed. Proceeding to that face of the fort which was
to be his special charge, he found that one half of its defenders were
lining its water-logged trench, and the other half, its wall. It was a
depressing hour and place. Depressing even to one who had not slept in
his wet clothes and arisen with throbbing head, horrible mouth, aching
limbs and with the sense of a great sinking void within.
Around the fort was a sea of withering brushwood, felled trees, scrub and
thorn, grey and ugly: inside the fort, a lake of mud. Burly
Subedar-Major Luxman Atmaram seemed cheery and bright, so Bertram
endeavoured to emulate him.
The Major, accompanied by Vereker (who called himself Station Staff
Officer, Aide-de-camp to the O.C. Troops, Assistant Provost Marshal, and
other sonorous names), passed on his tour of inspection. Bertram
saluted.
“Good morning, sir,” said he.
“Think so?” said the Major, and splashed upon his way.
“Good morning, Vereker,” said Bertram, as that gentleman passed.
“Nothing of the sort. Wrong again,” replied Vereker, and splashed upon
_his_ way.
Both were wearing the Stand-to face, and looked coldly upon Bertram, who
was not.
After “Dismiss,” Bertram returned to the Mess _banda_.
“Good morning, Greene,” said the Major, and:
“Good morning, Greene,” echoed Vereker.
Bertram decided that his not being properly dressed in the matter of the
Stand-to face, was overlooked or condoned, in view of his youth and
inexperience. . . . The vast metal teapot and a tray of dog-biscuits
made their appearance.
“I’m going to have my bloater now,” said Berners, plucking a banana from
the weary-looking bunch. “Will someone remind me that I have had it, if
I go to take another?”
“I will,” volunteered Augustus. “Any time you pluck a bloater and I hit
you on the head three times with the tent-peg mallet, that means ‘Nay,
Pauline.’ See?” . . .
“What’s the Programme of Sports for to-day, sir?” asked Berners of the
Major, as he cleansed his fingers of over-ripe banana upon Augustus’s
silky hair.
“Macke takes a strong Officer’s Patrol towards Muru,” replied the Major.
“Halke starts getting the trenches deepened a bit. You can wrestle with
commissariat and ammunition returns, and the others might do a bit of
parade and physical jerks or something this morning. I’m going to sneak
round and catch the pickets on the hop. You’d better come with me,
Greene, and see where they’re posted. Tell the Subedar-Major what you
want your men to do. Wavell’s taking his people for a march. Murie will
be in charge of the fort. . . .”
“Murie has temperature of one hundred and five,” put in Lieutenant
Bupendranath Chatterji. “He has fever probably.”
“Shouldn’t be at all surprised,” observed the Major dryly. “What are you
giving him?”
“Oah, he will be all right,” was the reply.
“I’ve got three fresh limes I pinched from that _shamba_,” {173} said
Augustus. “If he had those with a quart of boiling water and half a tin
of condensed milk, he might be able to do a good sweat and browse a
handful of quinine.”
“No more condensed milk,” said Berners. “Greene had the last tin last
night, and the hog didn’t bring any with him.”
“I shall be delighted to contribute the remainder of it,” said Bertram,
looking into his tin. “There’s quite three-quarters of it left.”
“Good egg,” applauded Augustus. “If you drink your tea from the tin,
you’ll get the flavour of milk for ever so long,” and Ali having been
despatched to the cook-house for a kettle of boiling water, Augustus
fetched his limes and the two concocted the brew with their condensed
milk and lime-juice in an empty rum-jar.
“What about a spot of whisky in it?” suggested Vereker.
“Better without it when fever is violent,” opined the medical attendant,
and Augustus, albeit doubtfully, accepted the _obiter dicta_, as from one
who should know.
“Shall I shove it into him through the oil-funnel if he is woozy?” he
asked, and added: “Better not, p’r’aps. Might waste half of it down his
lungs and things . . .” and he departed, in search of his victim.
As Bertram left the _boma_ in company of the Major, he found it difficult
to realise that, only a few hours earlier he had not set eyes on the
place. He seemed to have been immured within its walls of mud and wattle
for days, rather than hours.
About the large clearing that lay on that side of the fort, Sepoys,
servants, porters and _askaris_ came and went upon their occasions; the
stretcher-bearers, gun-teams, and a company of Gurkhas were at drill; and
in the trenches, the long, weedy bodies of the Kavirondo rose and fell as
they dug in the mud and clay. Near the gate a doleful company of sick
and sorry porters squatted and watched a dresser of the Indian
Subordinate Medical Department, as he sprinkled iodoform from a pepperbox
on to the hideous sores and wounds of a separate squad requiring such
treatment. The sight of an intensely black back, with a huge wound of a
glowing red, upon which fell a rain of brilliant yellow iodoform, held
Bertram’s spell-bound gaze, while it made him feel exceedingly sick.
Those patients suffering from ghastly sores and horrible festering wounds
seemed gay and lighthearted and utterly indifferent, while the remainder,
suffering from _tumbo_, {174} fever, cold in the head, or
world-weariness, appeared to consider themselves at the last gasp, and
each, like the Dying Gladiator, did lean his head upon his hand while his
manly brow consented to Death, but conquered agony.
“The reason why the African will regard a gaping wound, or great
festering sore, with no more than mild interest, while he will wilt away
and proceed to perish if he has a stomach-ache is an interestin’
exemplification of _omne ignotum pro magnifico_,” remarked the Major.
Bertram stared at his superior officer in amazement. The tone and
language were utterly different from those hitherto connected, in
Bertram’s experience, with that gentleman. Was this a subtle mockery of
Bertram as a civilian Intellectual? Or was it that the Major liked to be
“all things to all men” and considered this the style of conversation
likely to be suitable to the occasion?
“Yes, sir?” said Bertram, a trifle shortly.
“Yes,” continued Major Mallery. “He believes that all internal
complaints are due to Devils. A stomach-ache is, to him, painful and
irrefragible proof that he hath a Devil. One has entered into him and
abideth. It’s no good telling him anything to the contrary—because he
can _feel_ It there, and surely he’s the best judge of what he can feel?
So any internal complaint terrifies him to such an extent that he dies of
fright—whereas he’ll think nothing of a wound that would kill you or me.
. . .”
Here, apparently, the Major’s mocking fancy tired, or else his effort to
talk “high-brow” to an Intellectual could be no further sustained, for he
fell to lower levels with the remark:
“Rum blokes. . . Dam’ funny. . .” and fell silent.
A well-trodden mud path led down to the river, on the far side of which
was the water-picket commanding the approach, not to a ford, but to the
only spot where impenetrable jungle did not prevent access to the river.
. . .
“Blighters nearly copped us badly down here before we built the fort,”
said the Major. “Look in here . . .” and he parted some bushes beside
the path and disappeared. Following him, Bertram found himself in a
long, narrow clearing cut out of the solid jungle and parallel with the
path.
“They had a hundred men at least, in here,” said Major Mallery, “and you
might have come along the path a hundred times without spotting them.
There was a machine-gun up that tree, to deal with the force behind the
point of ambush, and a big staked pit farther down the path to catch
those in front who ran straight on. . . . Lovely trap. . . . They used
to occupy it from dawn to sunset every day, poor fellers. . . .”
“What happened?” asked Bertram.
“Our Intelligence Department learnt all about it from the local
_shenzis_, and we forestalled them one merry morn. They were ambushed in
their own ambush. . . . The _shenzi_ doesn’t love his Uncle Fritz a bit.
No appreciation of _Kultur_-by-_kiboko_. He calls the Germans ‘_the
Twenty-Five Lashes People_,’ because the first thing the German does when
he goes to a village is to give everybody twenty-five of the best, by way
of introducing himself and starting with a proper understanding. Puts
things on a proper footing from the beginning. . . .”
“Their _askaris_ are staunch enough, aren’t they?” asked Bertram.
“Absolutely. They are well paid and well fed, and they are allowed to do
absolutely as they like in the way of loot, rape, arson and murder, once
the fighting is over. . . . They flog them most unmercifully for
disciplinary offences—and the nigger understands that. Also they leave
the defeated foe—his village, crops, property, women, children and
wounded—to their mercy—and the nigger understands _that_ too. . . . Our
_askaris_ are not nearly so contented with our milder punishments,
cumbrous judicial system, and absolute prohibition of loot, rape, arson
and the murder of the wounded. Yes—the German _askari_ will stick to the
German so long as he gets the conqueror’s rights whenever he conquers—as
is the immemorial law and custom of Africa. . . . ‘What’s the good of
fighting a cove if you’re going to cosset and coddle him directly you’ve
won, and give him something out of the poor-box—instead of dismembering
him?’ says he. . . . You might say the _askari_-class is to the Native
what the Junker-class is to the peasant, in Germany.”
And conversing thus, the two officers visited the pickets and the
sentries, who sat on _machans_ in the tops of high trees and, in theory
at any rate, scoured the adjacent country with tireless all-seeing eye.
Returning to the fort, Bertram saw the materials for his own private
freehold residence being carried to the eligible site selected for its
erection by the united wisdom of the Station Staff Officer and the
Quartermaster. It was built and furnished in less than an hour by a
party of Kavirondo, who used no other tools than their _pangas_, and it
consisted of a framework of stout saplings firmly planted in the ground,
wattle, and thatched leaves, twigs and grass. It had a window-frame and
a doorway, and it kept out the sun and the first few drops of a shower of
rain. If a _banda_ does little else, it provides one’s own peculiar
place apart, where one can be private and alone. . . . On the table and
shelf—of sticks bound together with strips of bark—Ali set forth his
master’s impedimenta, and took a pride in the Home. . . .
Finding that the spine-pad of quilted red flannel—which Murray had
advised him to get and to wear buttoned on to the inner side of his
shirt, as a protection against the sun’s actinic rays—was soaked with
perspiration, Bertram gave it to Ali that it might be dried. What he did
not foresee was that his faithful retainer would tie a long strip of bark
from the new _banda_ to the opposite one across the “street,” and pin the
red flannel article to flap in the breeze and the face of the passer-by.
. . .
“Oh, I say, you fellers, look here!” sang out the voice of Gussie
Augustus Gus, as Bertram was finishing his shave, a few minutes later.
“Here’s that careless fellow, Greene, been and left his chest-protector
off! . . . It’s on the line to air, and I _don’t_ know what he’s doing
without it.” The voice broke with anguish and trouble as it continued:
“Perhaps running about with nothing on at all. . . . On his chest, I
mean. . . .”
There was a laugh from neighbouring _bandas_ and tents where Vereker,
Berners, Halke and “Leesey” Lindsay were washing by their cottage doors,
preparatory to breakfast.
Bertram blushed hotly in the privacy of his hut. _Chest-protector_!
Confound the fellow’s impudence—and those giggling’ idiots. He had half
a mind to put his head out and remark; “The laughter of fools is as the
crackling of thorns beneath a pot,” and in the same moment wiser counsels
prevailed.
Thrusting a soapy face out of the window, he said, in a tone expressive
more of sorrow than of anger:
“I am surprised at _you_, Clarence! . . . To laugh at the infirmities of
your elders! . . . Is it _my_ fault I have housemaid’s knee?”
To which Augustus, with tears in his eyes and voice, replied:
“Forgive me, Pappa. I have known trouble too. _I_ had an Aunt with a
corn. . . . _She_ wore one. . . . Pink, like yours. . . . Poignant. . . .
Searching. . . .”
This cheerful and indefatigable young gentleman had, in his rôle of Mess
President, found time, after parade and kit-inspection that morning, to
prepare a breakfast _menu_. Consulting it, Bertram discovered promise of
1. _Good Works_. Taken out of some animal, or animals, unknown.
Perhaps Liver. Perhaps not. Looks rather poignant.
2. _Shepherd’s Bush_ (or is it Plaid or Pie?) or Toed-in-the-Hole.
Same as above, bedded down in manioc. Looks very poignant.
3. There were _Sausages on Toast_, but they are in bad odour,
uppish, and peevish to the eye, and there is no bread.
4. _Curried Bully-beef_. God help us. And Dog-biscuit.
5. _Arm of monkey_. No ’arm in that? _But_—One rupee reward is
offered for a missing Kavirondo baby. Answers to the name of
Horatio, and cries if bitten in the stomach. . . . Searching.
“Great news,” quoth the author of this document, seating himself on the
bed-frame beside Bertram and eyeing a plate of Good Works without
enthusiasm. “There’s to be a General Court-Martial after breakfast. You
and I and Berners. Leesey Lindsay is prosecuting a bloke for spying and
acting as guide to German raiding parties—him bein’ a British subjick an’
all. . . Splendid! . . . Shall we hang him or shoot him? . . .”
“_I_ am Provost-Marshal,” put in Vereker, “and _I_ shall hang him. I
know exactly how to hang, and am a recognised good hanger. Anyhow, no
one has complained. . . . Wish we had some butter. . . .”
“Whaffor?” asked Augustus.
“Grease the rope,” was the reply. “They like it. Butter is awfully
good.”
“Put the knot under the left ear, don’t you?” asked Augustus.
“_I_ do,” answered Vereker. “Some put it under the right. . . . I have
seen it at the back. Looks bad, though. Depressin’. Bloke hangs his
head. Mournful sight. . . .”
“Got any rope?” enquired Augustus.
“No! . . . How thoughtless of me! . . . Never mind—make up something
with strips of bark. . . . Might let the bloke make his own—only himself
to blame, then, if it broke and he met with an accident.”
“I _have_ heard of suicides—and—people hanging themselves with their
braces,” observed Augustus.
“Wadego _shenzis_ don’t have braces,” replied Vereker.
“No, but Greene does. I’m perfectly sure he’d be delighted to lend you
his. He’s kindness itself. Or would you rather he were shot, Greene?
We must remember there’s no blood about a hanging, whereas there’s lots
the other way—’specially if it’s done by _askaris_ with Martinis. . . .
On the other hand, hanging lasts longer. I dunno _what_ to advise for
the best. . . .”
“Suppose we try him first,” suggested Bertram.
“Of course!” was the somewhat indignant reply. “I’m surprised at _you_,
Greene. You wouldn’t put him to the edge of the sword without a trial,
would you?”
“No, Greene,” added Vereker. “Not goin’ to waste a good _shenzi_ like
that. We’re goin’ to have a jolly good Court-Martial out of him before
we do him in. . . . And I shall hang him, Clarence—rope or no rope.”
“May I swing on his feet, Vereker?” begged Augustus. “_Do_ let me! . . .
Be a sport. . . .”
“Everything will be done properly and nicely,” was the reply, “and in the
best style. There will be no swinging on the prisoner’s legs while _I_’m
M.C. . . . Not unless the prisoner himself suggests it,” he added.
“How’ll we tell him of his many blessin’s, and so on?” enquired Berners.
“There’s an Arab blighter of Lindsay’s who professes to know a tongue
spoken by a porter who knows Wadego. The bloke talks to the porter in
Wadego, the porter talks to the Arab in the Tongue, the Arab talks to
Wavell in Arabic, and Wavell talks to us in any language we like—French,
German, Swahili, Hindustani, Latin, Greek, American, Turkish, Portuguese,
Taal or even English. He knows all those. . . .”
“Let’s ask him to talk them all at once, while we smoke and quaff beakers
of rum,” suggested Augustus. “And I _say_—couldn’t we torture the
prisoner? I know lots of ripping tortures.”
“Well, I’m not going to have him ripped,” vetoed Vereker. “You gotter
hand him over to the Provost-Marshal in good condition. . . Fair wear
and tear of trial and incarceration allowed for, of course. . . . Bound
to be _some_ depreciation, I know.”
“What’s ‘to incarcerate’ mean, exactly?” enquired Augustus.
“Same as ‘incinerate.’”
“Can we do it to him by law?” asked Augustus.
“You read the Orders, my lad,” replied Vereker. “On the notice-board in
the Orderly Room. That post’s the Orderly Room. Written and signed by
the Station Staff Officer. And look up Field and General Court-Martials
in the King’s Regulations and you’ll know what your Powers are.”
“I say, Berners. Let me find you the least contrary of those turned
sausages, and have it nicely fried for you,” begged Augustus. “You’d
hardly taste anything awkward about it if you had some lemon-peel done
with it. Plenty of lemon-peel and some coco-nut. I’ll find the peel I
threw away this morning. . . . _Do_.”
“This is very kind and thoughtful of you, Gussie. What’s the idea?”
replied Berners.
“I want to propitiate you, Berners. You’ll be President of the
Court-Martial.”
“And?”
“I want you to promise you won’t have the prisoner found Guilty unless
Vereker promises to let me swing on his feet. . . . I’ve _never_ once
had the chance. . . . And now my chance has come. . . . And Vereker
feels thwartful. . . . It’s due to his having a boil—and no cushion with
him. . . . Be a good soul, Berners. . . ”
“Let’s see the sausages,” said the President-elect.
“That’s done it,” admitted Augustus, and dropped the subject with a heavy
sigh.
Bertram noticed that, in spite of his flow of cheery nonsense, Augustus
ate nothing at all and looked very ill indeed. He remembered a sentence
he had read in a book on board the _Elymas_:
“Comedy lies lightly upon all things, like foam upon the dark waters.
Beneath are tragedy and the tears of time.”