THE BOMBSHELL
In spite of the claims of his own affairs, Shafto did not immediately
resign his post at Gregory’s, for it happened to be an unusually busy
season; there was a heavy paddy crop and, owing to fever, the staff
were short-handed; therefore, for the present he decided to stick to
the ship, especially as Sophy was, so to speak, on board.
Mrs. Gregory and Sophy were returning to England at the end of August;
naturally he booked his passage for the same date, and it was a happy
coincidence that he and his fiancée were once more to be shipmates on
the _Blankshire_. Meanwhile they were enjoying the time of their lives;
the rides or strolls in the grounds or in Dalhousie Park, and dances at
the Club, were delightful, and their world was sympathetic and smiled
upon the engagement.
Mrs. Gregory loved a wedding. Her rooms, appointments and well-drilled
staff readily lent themselves to such festivals, and why, she asked,
should Sophy not be married from the “Barn,” take a trip up the river
for her honeymoon, in order to see something of the real country, and
buy her trousseau after her arrival in London?
Fired with this project, both she and Shafto dispatched long and
plausible letters to Mrs. Leigh; but Mrs. Leigh declined to entertain
the idea and, in equally long and eloquent effusions, set forth the
fact that she had seen nothing of her youngest daughter for nearly two
years and claimed a share of her company ere she was carried away to
another home. She had, however, given a cordial assent to Sophy’s
engagement, and declared that she would gladly accept Douglas Shafto as
a son, but Sophy must be married from home and in the old church at
Chelsea.
As Mrs. Gregory returned this letter, she said:
“Well, Sophy, you must only take a sort of pre-honeymoon tour; we will
go up to Mandalay, and maybe explore a bit of the Shan hills; I shall
coax George to come—he has not had a holiday for ages. Douglas must get
a fortnight off duty, and Martin Kerr, our donnish old cousin, who is
arriving from Calcutta in a day or two, may accompany us; he is a
bachelor, very well off, and has lived all his life like a hermit crab
in his college in Oxford. Lately he had a bad breakdown, and was
ordered an immense rest and change; so now he has ventured out to blink
at the universe beyond Carfax and the High, I expect he will find us
shamelessly trivial and ignorant. How his eyes will open when they look
upon this glaring world and behold some glaring facts! I shall invite
Miss Maitland to join our party; she is of a nice suitable age, and I
shall pair her off with Martin; we will take George’s _durwan_, as
courier, for he has Upper Burma at his finger-ends, and will see that
we are comfortable.”
The projected tour proved entirely successful; Mandalay was reached in
thirty hours. From Mandalay, after a few days’ halt, the explorers
fared to farther and less trodden fields, visited the ruby mines, and
the wonderful remains of Pagan; occasionally they found the
accommodation at _zayats_, or rest houses, a little rough, but this was
handsomely discounted by novel sights and experiences, a full view of
the Burman at home, and the easy joys of village life. First of all,
there was the morning procession of the stately _pongyes_, carrying
their empty begging-bowls, and looking neither to the right nor left;
there were delicious hours in the forests; boating and fishing
expeditions on the rivers, or rides to the ruins of ancient cities,
half buried in jungle.
Shafto and Sophy saw so many novelties that they were almost
bewildered, but not nearly so much bewildered or impressed as was the
Professor, when first introduced to the library of an ancient
monastery, in comparison with whose age his beloved Bodleian was a mere
infant. Here the volumes were written on palm leaves, then rubbed over
with oil to toughen and preserve them; the edges were richly gilt and
fastened together by drilling a hole at one end, through which a cord
was passed, then they were placed in elaborate lacquer boxes. There
were countless numbers of such books, devout and mystic, all inscribed
in Pali; they included the “Three Baskets of the Law,” also the Laws of
Manu, which dated from the fifth century before Christ. Professional
scribes were kept constantly employed in re-copying and restoring these
precious tomes, as the palm leaves only last about a hundred years,
after which they become brittle and difficult to decipher, and the
copyists have an endless task.
The Professor, attended by an interpreter, haunted the library, made
eloquent signs to the _pongyes_ in charge, and was permitted to examine
and make notes of the rarest of their frail treasures, for which favour
he duly made a generous acknowledgment.
Thanks to Mr. Gregory’s courier, the travellers found comfortable
quarters in his own ancestral village, and here they were able to watch
the inhabitants both at work and play. They saw the oxen treading out
grain, men working an oil mill, or caging fish; women weaving gay
material, and children plaiting straw mats; so much for day-time
occupations! At nights there were songs, dancings, gamblings, and
games; these included chess, played somewhat differently from what it
is in Europe, but still the same chess as when it crossed the frontiers
from China. There was a king, but instead of a queen a general, instead
of bishops, elephants; and some of the moves were unusual.
Mr. Gregory, who rather fancied himself as a chess-player, boldly
challenged one of the elders and, with the entire village as solemn
spectators, suffered, alas! a humiliating defeat. Then Shafto took a
hand at dominoes, at which, thanks to May Lee, he was an expert;
fortunately he came off conqueror, and thus restored to some extent the
credit of the party. These games were played by torchlight, the local
band—harp, dulcimer, two drums and clappers—discoursed at intervals;
here the inhabitants, unlike those of Rangoon, were early birds. By ten
o’clock lights were extinguished, the crowd had dispersed, and a serene
silence fell on the soft, purple night.
The College Don had thoroughly enjoyed this excursion into primitive
life in Upper Burma; he also enjoyed the stimulating company of Miss
Maitland; and in this delightful, highly coloured atmosphere,
surrounded by agreeable companions, he fished, joked, flirted, and
appeared to have shed his formal Oxford manner, along with his Oxford
trencher and gown. He remembered Shafto’s father and, on the strength
of this memory, the two became excellent friends, and Shafto gave him
assistance in the way of adjusting his puttees, helping him over
awkward places, advising him what food to avoid and what insects to
destroy.
The trip lasted for three weeks and the party returned to Rangoon
delighted with their tour, and bringing with them quantities of
snapshots, not a few small trophies and mementoes—which included the
great Shan hat, purchased by the Professor—and amusing anecdotes of
their varied adventures.
“I feel as if I’d had a bird’s-eye view of the real country,” said
Sophy to her friend. “Those great calm seas of green rice, bounded by
dark woods, with a white pagoda peeping through here and there; the
fierce strong rivers flowing through overhanging forests, and the deep
red sunsets, turning old ruins into flames, and then the golden days
and silver nights, and all the nice friendly simple people. Douglas and
I feel quite sad at the idea of saying good-bye to Burma.”
“Well, my dear, the matter lies in your own hands,” said Mrs. Gregory
briskly, “and after you are married, you can return to Rangoon; there
is a fine big empty house in Halpin Road; we might go over and inspect
it some morning.”
The assassination of the heir to the Crown of Austria and his Duchess
had caused a profound sensation in Europe; ripples of this far-reaching
tragedy had spread to the East; the Rangoon bazaar, like every other
bazaar, was full of thrilling whispers, and various prudent traders
were figuratively drawing in their horns and preparing for big trouble
across the “Kala Pani.”
It was the first week in August and on Wednesday; there had been a
break-neck and exciting paper-chase, with the finish at Government
House. Here a profusion of refreshments was displayed and all the
world, more or less, was present; the men drinking pegs, the ladies
iced coffee, gossiping, discussing the recent performance and various
local matters. All at once a Government _peon_ ran quickly through the
crowd, a telegraph _peon_, then a motor arrived with two men
(officials) who had not taken part in the paper-chase. Sir Horace
Winter, the Lieutenant-Governor, and his military secretary disappeared
abruptly indoors, and there was a sudden pause in the continuous
chatter.
More than one of the guests experienced a curious thrill, as if there
was something electric in the air; then from nowhere in particular the
word “War” was whispered. “Great Britain has declared war on Germany.”
This seemed incredible; people stared at one another aghast, and boldly
declared that “it was just a bazaar shave and a mistake,” for out in
the Far, Far East there had been no preliminary muttering of the storm
which was about to burst and drown half the world in tears.
Nevertheless, the news was horribly true. “War” had come; war, after so
many years of European peace and prosperity; and newly aroused,
startled countries found themselves face to face with the malignity of
the unknown.
Presently the Lieutenant-Governor reappeared and verified the whisper.
Wires were already active; the 29th Punjaub Infantry had been ordered
from Mandalay; guests pressed round, eagerly snatching at scraps of
information; Germans and British glanced curiously at one another, and
presently the gathering dissolved—to talk, to write, and to cable.
For several days nothing remarkable occurred, save that the outgoing
mail carried a number of British who had booked their passages at the
last moment. Officers on leave were recalled, a few big business houses
were closed and, in the District, many German mills and a large influx
of stalwart young employés, who had been working in them and could not
speak a word of English, suddenly flocked in, prepared to embark for
Europe, to fight for the Fatherland.
Every berth in the _Blankshire_ had been secured, and the night before
she sailed the well-known German Club gave its parting dinner; a wild
affair, with unlimited quantities of champagne, loud patriotic
speeches, songs and shouts of “Deutschland über Alles,” and finally a
smashing of glass, a breaking of furniture, and the customary wrecking
of the premises.
In her frequent journeys from Rangoon, the popular _Blankshire_ had
never been so crowded as on the present occasion; every berth was
taken, chiefly by German passengers, who had also bespoken the chief
seats at table and the best positions for their deck chairs; such was
the crush that there would be no room whatever for casual travellers
from Colombo or Port Said. The British, who were in a comparatively
small minority, realised what a very bad time lay before them, when
they and their country’s enemies must pass weeks and weeks in close
proximity. Many had caught the previous steamer, but the remnant
included Mrs. Gregory, Sophy, Shafto and MacNab—who was actually paying
the passage out of his hoarded funds, and sternly resolved to join the
Cameronians. The party were figuratively swamped by the multitude of
Teutons, who had swarmed on board, already looking truculent, arrogant
and victorious—drinking and toasting one another noisily in vast
libations at the bar. On the wharf an immense gathering of natives
assembled to speed numbers of kind and generous patrons, who (with an
eye to the future) had distributed a considerable amount of largesse
and flattery, as well as silk and satin finery. What with the Germans
and their native friends, egress from and ingress to the steamer were
almost impossible; the gangway was choked, and the shouting and
hurrahing actually drowned the noise of the donkey-engine.
Many friends had come to see the last of Mrs. Gregory and her party;
the military and official element were bound to remain in Rangoon.
Sophy was talking to Miss Maitland and Ella Pomeroy, when a fresh
influx of joyous and exultant Germans came pouring down the gangway
with the force and violence of a human cataract. Sophy and her friends
were thrust rudely apart and, from where she had been pushed against
the bulwarks, she saw Frau Wurm pass by, also Frau Muller, who threw
her a glance that seemed to distil hatred. She was immediately followed
by Bernhard, looking extraordinarily elated and deeply flushed.
Catching sight of Sophy he halted, clicked his heels together, and
said, with a sort of savage courtesy:
“Ach, so here we are again, you and I, Miss Leigh, on the old ship that
brought us out! I am delighted to have your company.”
Sophy looked round for some means of escape, but she was helpless,
being tightly wedged in between two bulwarks—the bulwark of the
_Blankshire_ and Bernhard’s solid form—and separated from Mrs. Gregory
by a seething crowd of jubilant Teutons.
“So ‘Der Tag’ has come at last!” he continued, staring into her face
with arrogant blue eyes; “and we are on the eve of great events. I am
about to join my Brandenburger regiment—every German is a soldier—we
have several hundred reservists on board.”
Sophy at last found her voice and murmured: “No doubt!”
“I caught sight of Shafto just now. Why is _he_ going home?”
“To serve his country.”
“Ah, bah! Better stick to his pen; it takes two years to make a
soldier; in ten days we shall be in Paris, in a month in London. And
why not? You have no army; we are a nation of fighting men, and you are
a nation of shopkeepers!”
“Of course we are not prepared; we would not listen to Lord Roberts;
and, on the other hand, you have been arming and drilling and
shipbuilding for the last forty years!”
“Ah, well, meine liebe fräulein, we must spread our borders! Who could
expect the greatest nation in the world to remain cooped up in the
North Sea? We demand and we will have space, power, and the sun. We
understand patriotism and the love of country.”
“The love of other people’s countries,” interposed Sophy sharply. “You
Germans are everywhere—like the sparrows.”
“To other nations we bring valuable lessons in industry and Kulture,
prudence, thrift, and energy; other countries are only too fortunate to
receive us. We have brains, bold hearts, and discipline—and know how to
use them. Old Blücher, who won Waterloo, may yet find his aspirations
fulfilled.”
“Ah, you mean the sack and plunder of London?”
He nodded an impressive assent, and then said:
“When I am there I shall call on you, and show you my loot!” As he
spoke he lent towards her, his eyes exultant, his breath heavy with
champagne. Sophy instinctively recoiled and said:
“Pray do not trouble.”
Bernhard gave a loud, boisterous laugh.
“It will be ‘Missy can’t see.’ By the way, talking of loot, do you know
that Herr Krauss is dead?”
“Dead!” she repeated. “No; I heard he had gone to Java.”
“He has gone to his grave. Last night I was told that his body was
found floating near the landing-stage at Moulmein; there were no marks
on it, no signs of a violent end; and yet he was the last man in the
world to commit suicide.”
“Yes,” assented Sophy; “he had so many plans and schemes for the
future.”
“They say a little bunch of coarse black hair was found in his clutch;
however, at the inquest they brought in a verdict of ‘Found Drowned.’
It saved trouble. I wonder who will get his money. He was enormously
rich.”
“With ill-gotten gains.”
“Well, he must have some German kin to claim his fortune, and I’ll make
it my business to find out all I can when I return here.”
“So you are coming back?”
“Why, of course—possibly in six months. I leave my house and belongings
all standing. Business is but temporarily closed. Burma, as old Krauss
used to say, is ‘the land of opportunity.’ When next I see the Golden
Pagoda, the whole of this rich and fertile country will belong to
_us_.”
“You are sanguine!”
“Sanguine! I am certain; and why not? Look at our wonderful trade! And
the Burmese themselves like us a million times better than you
English.”
“Simply because you bribe them with money and presents.”
“But look at the crowds,” waving his hand towards the masses, “who have
come to say ‘_Auf Wiedersehen_’; thousands and thousands.” Then he
turned his bold arrogant eyes on Sophy and said: “Your country has no
chance against us, Miss Leigh; we shall crush you like pulp—your money,
treasures and trade will all be ours. Hullo!” he exclaimed, “what are
these police doing? Mounted police, too! Any escaped convicts on
board?”
As he stood and watched, the swaying masses were parted with authority
and a large force ranged up on the quay. Officers and officials came on
board, armed with an order from the Lieutenant-Governor. Among the
first strode FitzGerald in full uniform, not the everyday genial
Patrick, but a smart stern guardian of the law. Approaching the
bragging Bernhard, he said, with frigid severity: “Be good enough to go
ashore, Herr Bernhard.”
“What!” stammered his prisoner, who had become livid. “What the devil
are you talking about! How dare you interfere with me? Or give me an
order?”
“Official order,” rejoined FitzGerald, entirely unmoved. “All men of
German nationality to disembark immediately and be interned.”
Sophy now made a forcible and frantic effort to effect her escape from
this hateful situation, and struggling through the crowd eventually
managed to join her own friends.
Disembark—to be interned! What a thunderbolt! All at once Bernhard’s
flushed countenance became livid, his eyes glared savagely, and there
suddenly spread a choking, suffocating expression on his large handsome
face. The noise and clamour of hoarse angry voices became almost
stupefying, but in the end the Teutons were compelled to accept the
inevitable, and gradually streamed ashore, carrying their hand baggage,
parcels of delicatessen, and other comforts intended for the voyage.
The heavy baggage was hastily landed, for the _Blankshire_ had steam up
and was bound to catch the tide.
A more than half-empty ship, she now slipped from her berth and turned
her bows towards home. As she glided slowly by the wharf, Shafto and
Sophy waved vigorous farewells to their numerous friends, Burmese and
European. There was Roscoe, there were the Salters and Rosetta. Apart
from all, a solitary little figure stood prominent on a heap of rice
bags. It was Ma Chit, waving a pink silk handkerchief. For once she was
not smiling, her piquant face was grave, and the eyes fixed upon Shafto
conveyed an eloquent and heartbroken farewell; presently she cowered
down and hid her face.
“That was a wonderfully smart _coup_!” said a ship’s officer to Mrs.
Gregory and Sophy. “Those German fellows that were trampling all over
the ship as if she was their own property were neatly caught. They will
be shipped off to India out of harm’s way, and within a week or two, I
fancy, will find themselves at Ahmednuggur.”
The interned passengers had left ample space and a grateful sense of
relief and freedom. As the _Blankshire_ throbbed down past “the
Hastings” Shafto and Sophy stood side by side, taking their last look
at the Great Pagoda, which gave an impression of being swathed in a
mantle of dazzling gold, and dominated all its surroundings.
“It seems only the other day we were coming up the river in this very
old boat,” he said; “a year and ten months ago, and how much has
happened in that time! Well, we have had strange experiences, seen many
places, and made many friends. Here is one of them now,” indicating
Mrs. Gregory; “I expect she feels a bit down, after parting with old
George, although he does follow in three months; so do you try to cheer
her, while I go below and hurry up the tea.”