Cupid in Africa Part 14

"Why not by Germans?" enquired Bertram.

"River on your left flank," was the brief answer of the saturnine and pessimistic one.

"Can't they cross it by bridges?"

"No; owing to the absence of bridges. I'm the only Bridges here," sighed Mr. Bridges, of the Coolie Corps.

"Why not in boats then?"

"Owing to the absence of boats."

"Might not the Germans open fire on us from the opposite bank then?"

pursued the anxious Bertram, determined not to begin his career in Africa with a "regrettable incident," due to his own carelessness.

"No; owing to the absence of Germans," replied Mr. Bridges. "Where's your stuff? I've brought a thousand of my blackbirds, so we'll shift the lot in one journey. If you like to shove off at once, I'll see nothing's left behind. . . ." And then, suddenly realising that there was not the least likelihood of attack nor cause for anxiety, and that all he had to do was to stroll along a path to the camp, where all responsibility for the safety of men and materials would be taken from him, Bertram relaxed, and realised that the heat was appalling and that he felt very faint and ill. His kit had suddenly grown insupportably heavy and unsufferably tight about his chest; his turban gave no shade to his eyes nor protection to his temples and neck, and its weight seemed to increase by pounds per minute. He felt very giddy, blue lights appeared before his eyes, and there was a surging and booming in his ears. He sat down, to avoid falling.

"Hullo! Seedy?" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Bridges, and turned to a big negro who stood behind him, and appeared to be a person of quality, inasmuch as he wore the ruins of a helmet, a khaki shooting-jacket much too small for him, and a whistle on a string. ("Only that and nothing more.")

"Here, MacGinty-my-lad," said Bridges to this gentleman, "_m'dafu late hapa_," and with a few whistling clicks and high-pitched squeals, the latter sped another negro up a palm tree. Climbing it like a monkey, the negro tore a huge yellow coco-nut from the bunch that cl.u.s.tered beneath the spreading palm leaves, and flung it down. This, Mr. MacGinty-my-lad retrieved and, with one skilful blow of a _panga_, a kind of _machete_ or butchers' axe, decapitated.

"Have a swig at this," said Bridges, handing the nut to Bertram, who discovered it to contain about a quart of deliciously cool, sweet "milk,"

as clear as distilled water.

"Thanks awfully, Bridges," said he. "I think I had a touch of the sun.

"Had a touch of breakfast?" enquired the other.

"No," replied Bertram.

"Hence the milk in the coco-nut," said Bridges, and added, "If you want to live long and die happy in Africa, you _must_ do yourself well. It's the secret of success. You treat your tummy well-and often-and it'll do the same for you. . . . If you don't, well, you'll be no good to yourself nor anyone else."

"Thanks," said the ever-grateful Bertram, and arose feeling much better.

"Fall in, Subedar Sahib," said he to the Gurkha officer, and the latter quickly a.s.sembled his men as a company in line.

The Subedar of the Sherepur Sikhs approached and saluted. "We want to be the advance-guard, Sahib," he said.

"Certainly," replied Bertram, and added innocently, "There is no enemy between here and the camp."

The Sikh flashed a glance of swift suspicion at him. . . . Was this an intentional _riposte_? Was the young Sahib more subtle than he looked?

Had he meant "The Sikhs may form the advance-guard _because_ there is no fear of attack," with the implication that the Gurkhas would again have held the post of honour and danger if there had been any danger?

"I don't like the look of that bloke," observed Bridges, as the Sikh turned away, and added: "Well-I'll handle your stuff now, if you'll bung off," and continued his way to the dump, followed by Mr. MacGinty and a seemingly endless file of very tall, very weedy, Kavirondo negroes, of an unpleasant, scaly, greyish-black colour and more unpleasant, indescribable, but fishlike odour. These worthies were variously dressed, some in a _panga_ or _machete_, some in a tin pot, others in a gourd, a snuff-box, a tea-cup, a saucepan or a jam-jar. Every man, however, without exception, possessed a red blanket, and every man, without exception, wore it, for modesty's sake, folded small upon his head-where it also served the purpose of a porter's pad, intervening between his head and the load which it was his life's work to bear thereupon. . . . When these people conversed, it was in the high, piping voices of little children, and when Bridges, Mr. MacGinty-my-lad, or any less _neapara_ (head man), made a threatening movement towards one of them, the culprit would forthwith put his hands to his ears, draw up one foot to the other knee, close his eyes, cringe, and emit an incredibly thin, small squeal, a sound infinitely ridiculous in the mouth of a man six feet or more in stature. . . . When the last of these quaint creatures had pa.s.sed, Bertram strode to where the Sherepur Sikhs had formed up in line, ready to march off at the head of the force. The Subedar gave an order, the ranks opened, the front rank turned about, and the rifles, with bayonet already fixed, came down to the "ready," and Bertram found himself between the two rows of flickering points.

"_Charge magazhinge_," shouted the Subedar, and Bertram found an odd dozen of rifles waving in the direction of his stomach, chest, face, neck and back, as their owners gaily loaded them. . . . Was there going to be an "accident"? . . . Were there covert smiles on any of the fierce bearded faces of the big men? . . . Should he make a dash from between the ranks? . . . No-he would stand his ground and look displeased at this truly "native" method of charging magazines. It seemed a long time before the Subedar gave the orders, "Front rank-about turn. . . . Form fours. . . . Right," and the company was ready to march off.

"All is ready, Sahib," said the Subedar, approaching Bertram. "Shall I lead on?"

"Yes, Subedar Sahib," replied Bertram, "but why do your men face each other and point their rifles at each other's stomachs when they load them?"

His Hindustani was shockingly faulty, but evidently the Subedar understood.

"They are not afraid of being shot, Sahib," said he, smiling superiorly.

"Then it is a pity they are not afraid of being called slovenly, clumsy, jungly recruits," replied Bertram-and before the scowling officer could reply, added: "March on-and halt when I whistle," in sharp voice and peremptory manner.

Before long the little force was on its way, the Gurkhas coming last-as the trusty rear-guard, Bertram explained-and, after half an hour's uneventful march through the stinking swamp, reached the Base Camp of the M'paga Field Force-surely one of the ugliest, dreariest and most depressing spots in which ever a British force sat down and acquired a.s.sorted diseases.

CHAPTER X _M'paga_

Halting his column, closing it up, and calling it to attention, Bertram marched past the guard of King's African Rifles and entered the Camp.

This consisted of a huge square, enclosed by low earthen walls and shallow trenches, in which were the "lines" of the Indian and African infantry, composing the inadequate little force which was invading German East Africa, rather with the idea of protecting British East than achieving conquest. The "lines" of the Sepoys and _askaris_ consisted of rows of tiny low tents, while along the High Street of the Camp stood hospital tents, officers' messes, the General's tent, and that of his Brigade Major, and various other tents connected with the mysteries of the field telegraph and telephone, the Army Service Corps' supply and transport, and various offices of Brigade and Regimental Headquarters.

As he pa.s.sed the General's tent (indicated by a flagstaff and Union Jack), a tall lean officer, with a white-moustached, keen-eyed face, emerged and held up his hand. Seeing the crossed swords of a General on his shoulder-straps, Bertram endeavoured to rise to the occasion, roared: "_Eyes right_," "_Eyes front_," and then "_Halt_," saluted and stepped forward.

The General shook hands with him, and said: "Glad to see you. Hope you're ready for plenty of hard work, for there's plenty for you. . .

Glad to see your men looking so businesslike and marching so smartly. . . .

All right-carry on. . . ."

Bertram would gladly have died for that General on the spot, and it was positively with a lump (of grat.i.tude, so to speak) in his throat that he gave the order "_Quick march_," and proceeded, watched by hundreds of native soldiers, who crawled out of their low tents or rose up from where they lay or squatted to clean accoutrements, gossip, eat, or contemplate Infinity.

Arrived at the opposite entrance of the Camp, Bertram felt foolish, but concealed the fact by pretending that he had chosen this as a suitable halting place, bawled: "_Halt_," "_Into line_-_left turn_," "_Stand at ease_," "_Stand easy_," and determined to wait events. He had carried out his orders and brought the troops to the Camp as per instructions.

Somebody else could come and take them if they wanted them. . . .

As he stood, trying to look unconcerned, a small knot of British officers strolled up, headed by a tall and important-looking person arrayed in helmet, open shirt, shorts, grey stockings and khaki canvas shoes.

"Greene?" said he.

"Yes, sir," said Bertram, saluting.

"Brigade Major," continued the officer, apparently introducing himself.

"March the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth on and report to Colonel Rock. The Hundred and Ninety-Eighth are outside the perimeter," and he pointed to where, a quarter of a mile away, were some gra.s.s huts and rows of tiny tents. "The remainder will be taken over by their units here, and your responsibility for them ceases."

Bertram, very thankful to be rid of them, marched on with the Hundred, and halted them in front of the low tents, from which, with whoops of joy, poured forth the warriors of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth in search of any _bhai_, pal, townee, bucky, or aunt's cousin's husband's sister's son-(who, as such, would have a strong claim upon his good offices)-in the ranks of this thrice-welcome reinforcement.

Leaving the Hundred in charge of Jemadar Ha.s.san Ali to await orders, Bertram strode to a large gra.s.s _banda_, or hut, consisting of three walls and a roof, through the open end of which he could see a group of British officers sitting on boxes and stools, about a long and most uneven, undulating table of box-sides nailed on sticks and supported by four upright logs.

At the head of this table, on which were maps and papers, sat a small thick-set man, who looked the personification of vigour, force and restless activity. Seeing that this officer wore a crown and star on his shoulder-strap, Bertram went up to him, saluted, and said:

"Second-Lieutenant Greene, I.A.R., sir. I have brought a hundred men from the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth, and nine cooking-pots-which Colonel Frost wishes to have returned at once. . . ."

"The men or the cooking-pots, or both?" enquired Colonel Rock, whose habit of sarcastic and savage banter made him feared by all who came in contact with him, and served to conceal a very kindly and sympathetic nature.

"The cooking-pots, sir," replied Bertram, blushing as the other officers eyed him critically and with half-smiles at the Colonel's humour.

Bertram felt, a little cynically, that such wit from an officer of their own rank would not have seemed so pleasingly humorous to some of these gentlemen, and that, moreover, he had again discovered a Military Maxim on his own account. _The value and humorousness of any witty remark made by any person in military uniform is in inverse ratio to the rank and seniority of the individual to whom it is made_. In other words, a Colonel must smile at a General's joke, a Major must grin broadly, a Captain laugh appreciatively, a Subaltern giggle right heartily, a Warrant Officer or N.C.O. explode into roars of laughter, and a private soldier roll helpless upon the ground in spasms and convulsions of helpless mirth.