Cupid in Africa Part 39

The faithful Ali, devoted follower of his old master's peregrinations, saw the muddy, blood-stained greasy bundles, which were that master's kit, safe on board the _Madras_ from the launch which had brought the party of wounded officers from the Kilindini pier. Personally he conducted the bundles to the cabin reserved for Second-Lieutenant B.

Greene, I.A.R., and then sought their owner where he reclined in a _chaise longue_ on deck, none the better for his long journey on the Uganda Railway.

"I'm coming back, Ali," said he as his retainer, a monument of restrained grief, came to him.

"Please G.o.d, _Bwana_," was the dignified reply.

"What will you do while I am away?" he asked, for the sake of something to say.

"Go and see my missus and childrens, my little damsels and damsons at Nairobi, sah," was the sad answer. "When _Bwana_ sailing now?"

"Not till this evening," answered Bertram, "and the last thing I want you to do for me is to take these two _chits_ to Stayne-Brooker Mem-Sahib and Stayne-Brooker Miss-Sahib as quickly as you can. You'll catch them at tiffin if you take a trolley now from Kilindini. They _must_ have them quickly. . . . If they come to see me before the ship sails at six, there'll be an extra present for one Ali Suleiman, what?"

"Oh, sah! _Bwana_ not mentioning it by golly," replied Ali and fled.

Mrs. Stayne-Brooker was crossing from the Hospital to Vasco da Gama Street for lunch when, having run quicker than any trolley ever did, he caught sight of her, salaamed and presented the two _chits_, written for Bertram by a hospital friend and companion of his journey, as soon as they got on board. She opened the one addressed to herself.

"_My Dear Mrs. Stayne-Brooker_," it ran, "_I have just reached the Madras_, _and sail at six this evening_. _I cannot tell you how much I should like to see you_, _if you could take your evening drive in this direction and come on board_. _How I wish I could stay and convalesce in Mombasa_! _Very much more than __ever words could possibly express_. _It is just awful to pa.s.s through like this_.

"_I do hope you can come_.

"_Your ever grateful and devoted_ "BERTRAM GREENE."

The worthy Ali, panting and perspiring, thought the lady was going to fall.

"_Bertram_!" she whispered, and then her heart beat again, and she regained control of her trembling limbs.

"You are Greene _Bwana's_ boy!" she said, searching Ali's bedewed but beaming countenance. "Is he-is he ill-hurt-wounded?" (She did not know that the man had been in her husband's service.)

"Yes, Mem," was the cheerful reply. "Shot in all arms and legs. Also quite well, thank you."

"Go and tell him I will come," she said. "Be quick. Here-_baksheesh_.

. . . Now, _hurry_."

"Oh, Mem! Mem-Sahib not mentioning it, thank you please," murmured Ali as his huge paw engulfed the rupees. Turning, he started forthwith upon the four-mile return run.

Putting the note addressed to her daughter on the lunch-table, beside her plate, she hurried into her room, crying for joy, and, with trembling hands, made her toilette. She must look her best-look her youngest.

He was back! He was safe! He was alive! Oh, the long, long night of silence through the black darkness of which she had miserably groped!

The weary, weary weeks of waiting and wondering, hoping and fearing, longing and doubting! But her prayers had been answered-and she was about to _see_ him. . . . And if he were shattered and broken? She could almost find it in her heart to hope he was-that she might spend her life in guarding, helping, comforting him. He would _need_ her, and oh, how she yearned to be needed, she who had never yet been really needed by man, woman, or child. . . .

"_Mother_!" said Miss Stayne-Brooker, as she went in to lunch. "_What_ a bright, gay girlie you look! . . . Here's a note from that Mr. Greene of yours. He says:

'_Dear Miss Stayne-Brooker_,

'_I am pa.s.sing through Mombasa_, _and am now on board the __Madras_.

_I can't come and see you-do you think you'd let your mother bring you to see me_'-_he's crossed that out and put_ '_see the Hospital Ship Madras_'-'_it might interest you_. _I have written to ask if she'd care to come_. _Do-could you_?

'_Always your grateful servant_, 'BERTRAM GREENE.'

But I am playing golf with Reggie and having tea with him at the Club, you know."

"All right, dear. I'll go and see the poor boy."

"That's right, darling. You won't mind if I don't, will you? . . . He's _your_ friend, you know."

"Yes," said Mrs. Stayne-Brooker, "he's _my_ friend," and Miss Stayne-Brooker wondered at the tone of her mother's voice. . . . (Poor old Mums; she made quite a silly of herself over this Mr. Greene!)

--5

Having blessed and rewarded the worthy Ali, returned dove-like to the _Madras_, Bertram possessed his soul with what patience he could, and sought distraction from the gnawing tooth of anxiety by watching the unfamiliar life of a hospital-ship. . . .

Suppose Eva Stayne-Brooker could not come! Suppose the ship sailed unexpectedly early! . . .

He could not sit still in that chair and wait, and wait. . . .

A pair of very pretty nurses, with the sallow ivory complexion, black hair and large liquid eyes of the Eurasian, walked up and down.

Another, plain, fat, and superiorly English, walked apart from them.

Two very stout Indian gentlemen, in the uniform of Majors of the Indian Medical Service, promenaded, chattering and gesticulating. The Chief Engineer (a Scot, of course), leaning against the rail and smoking a black Burma cheroot, eyed them with a kind of wonder, and smiled tolerantly upon them. . . . Travel and much time for philosophical reflection had confairrmed in him the opeenion that it tak's all sorrts to mak' a Univairse. . . .

From time to time, a sick or wounded man was hoisted on board, lying on a platform that dangled from four ropes at the end of a chain and was worked by a crane. From the launch to the deck of the ship he was slung like so much merchandise or luggage, but without jar or jolt. Or a walking-wounded or convalescent sick man would slowly climb the companion that sloped diagonally at an easy angle along the ship's side from the promenade-deck to the water.

On the fore and aft well-decks, crowds of sick or wounded Sepoys crouched huddled in grey blankets, or moved slowly about with every evidence of woe and pain. It takes an Indian Sepoy to do real justice to illness of any kind. He is a born actor and loves acting the dying man better than any part in life's drama. This is not to say that he is a malingerer or a weakling-but that when he is sick he _is_ going to get, at any rate, the satisfaction of letting everybody know it and of collecting such sympathy and admiration as he can.

"No, there is no one so sick as a sick Indian," smiled Bertram to himself.

In contrast was the demeanour of a number of British soldiers sitting and lying about the deck allotted to them, adjoining but railed off from that of the officers.

Laughter and jest were the order of the day. One blew into a mouth-organ with more industry than skill; another endeavoured to teach one of the ship's cats to waltz on its hind legs; some played "brag" with a pack of incredibly dirty little cards; and others sat and exchanged experiences, truthfully and otherwise.

Near to where Bertram stood, a couple sprawled on the deck and leaned against a hatch. The smaller of the two appeared to be enjoying the process of annoying the larger, as he tapped his protruding and outlying tracts with a _kiboko_, listening intently after each blow in the manner of a doctor taking soundings as to the thoracic or abdominal condition of a patient.

An extra sharp tap caused the larger man to punch his a.s.sailant violently in the ribs, whereupon the latter threw his arms round the puncher's neck, kissed him, and stated, with utter disregard for facts:

"'Erb! In our lives we was werry beautiful, an' in our deafs we wos not diwided." (Evidently a reminiscence of the Chaplain's last sermon.)

But little mollified by the compliment, Herbert smote again, albeit less violently, as he remarked with a sneer:

"Ho, yus! You wouldn't a bin divided all right if you'd stopped one o'

them liddle four-point-seven sh.e.l.ls at Mikocheni, you would. Not 'arf, you wouldn't. . . ."

But for crutches, splints, slings and bandages, no one would have supposed this to be a collection of sick and wounded men, wreckage of the storm of war, flotsam and jetsam stranded here, broken and useless. . . .

Bertram returned to his chair and tried to control his sick impatience and anxiety. Would she come? What should he say to her if she did? . .

. Should he "propose"-(beastly word)? He had not thought much about marriage. . . . To see her and hear her voice was what he really wanted.

Should he tell her he loved her? . . . Surely that would be unnecessary.