CHAPTER VII_The Mombasa Club_
As Bertram lay drinking in the beauty of the scene, the Club began tofill, and more particularly that part of it devoted to the dispensationand consumption of assorted alcoholic beverages. Almost everybody was inuniform, the majority in that of the Indian Army (as there was a largebase camp of the Indian Expeditionary Force at Kilindini), and theremainder in those of British regiments, the Navy, the Royal IndianMarine, the Royal Engineers, the Royal Army Medical Corps, Artillery,local Volunteer Corps, and the “Legion of Frontiersmen.” A few ladiesadorned the lawn and verandahs. Two large and weather-beaten butunascetic-looking men of middle age sat them down in chairs which stoodnear to that of Bertram. They were clad in khaki tunics, shorts andputtees, and bore the legend “C.C.” in letters of brass on eachshoulder-strap.
“Hullo!” said the taller of them to Bertram, who was wondering what“C.C.” might mean. “Just come ashore from the _Elymas_? Have a drink?”
“Yes,” replied he; “just landed. . . . Thanks—may I have a lime-squash?”
“What the devil’s that?” asked the other, and both men regarded himseriously and with a kind of shocked interest. “Never heard of it.”
“Don’t think they keep it here,” put in the shorter of the two men. “Howd’you make it?”
“Lemon-juice, soda-water, and sugar,” replied Bertram, and felt that hewas blushing in a childish and absurd manner.
Both men shook their heads, more in sorrow than in anger. They looked ateach other, as might two physicians at the bedside of one whose folly hasbrought him to a parlous pass.
“Quite new to Africa?” enquired the taller.
“Yes. Quite,” confessed Bertram.
“Ah! Well, let me give you a word of advice then,” continued the man.“_Don’t touch dangerous drinks_. Avoid all harmful liquor as you wouldpoison. It is poison, in this climate. Drink is the curse of Africa.It makes the place the White Man’s Grave. You can’t be too careful. . . .Can you, Piggy?” he added, turning to his friend.
“Quite right, Bill,” replied “Piggy,” as he rang a little bell that stoodon a neighbouring table. “Let’s have a ‘Devil’s Own’ cocktail and thensome beer for a start, shall we? . . . No—can’t be too careful. . . .Look at me f’r example. Been in the country quarter of a century, an’never exceeded once! Never _tasted_ it, in fact.”
“What—alcohol?” enquired Bertram.
“No. . . . I was talking about harmful liquor,” replied Piggy patiently.“Things like—_what_ did you call it? . . . Chalk-squash?”
“Lime-squash,” admitted Bertram with another glowing blush.
“Give it up, Sonny, give it up,” put in Bill. “Turn over a new leaf andstart afresh. Make up your mind that, Heaven helping you, you’ll nevertouch a drop of the accursed poison again, but forswear slops and livecleanly; totally abstaining from—what is it?—soda-crunch?—fruit-juice,ginger-beer, lemonade, toast-water, barley-water, dirty-water,raspberryade, and all such filthy decoctions and inventions. . . .”
“Yes—give the country a chance,” interrupted Piggy. “Climate’s all rightif you’ll take reasonable care and live moderately,” and he impatientlyrang the little bell again. “’Course, if you _want_ to be ill and cometo an early and dishonourable grave, drink all the rot-gut you can layhands on—and break your mother’s heart. . . .”
Piggy lay back in his chair and gazed pensively at the ceiling. So didBill. Bertram felt uncomfortable. “Dear, dear, dear!” murmured Bill,between a sigh and a grunt. “Chalk-powder and lemonade! . . . what anerve! . . . Patient, unrecognised, unrewarded heroism. . . .”
“Merciful Heaven,” whispered Piggy, “slaked-lime and ginger-beer! . .What rash, waste courage and futile bravery. . . .” And suddenly leaptto his feet, swung the bell like a railway porter announcing the adventof a train, and roared “_Boy_!” until a white-clad, white-capped Swahiliservant came running.
“_N’jo_, Boy!” he shouted. “Come here! . . . Lot of lazy, fat_n’gombe_. {72a} . . . Three ‘Devil’s Own’ cocktails, _late hapa_,”{72b} and as, with a humble “_Verna_, _Bwana_,” the servant hurried tothe bar, grumbling.
“And now he’ll sit and have a _shauri_ {72c} with his pals, while we dieof thirst in this accursed land of sin and sorrow. . . . Beastly_shenzis_. {72d} . . .”
“You don’t like Africa?” said Bertram, for the sake of something to say.
“Finest country on God’s earth. . . . The _only_ country,” was theprompt reply.
“I suppose the negro doesn’t make a very good servant?” Bertramcontinued, as Piggy rumbled on in denunciation.
“Finest servants in the world,” answered that gentleman. “The _only_servants, in fact. . . .”
“Should I take one with me on active service?” asked Bertram, suddenlyremembering Ali Suleiman, _alias_ Sloper.
“If you can get one,” was the reply. “You’ll be lucky if you can. . . .All snapped up by the officers of the Expeditionary Force, long ago.”
“Yes,” agreed Bill. “Make all the difference to your comfort if you canget one. Don’t take any but a Swahili, though. . . . You can depend on’em, in a tight place. The good ones, that is. . . .”
A big, fat, clean-shaven man, dressed in white drill, strolled up to thelittle group. He reminded Bertram of the portraits of Mr. WilliamJennings Bryan who had recently visited India, and in three daysunhesitatingly given his verdict on the situation, his solution of allpolitical difficulties, and his opinion of the effete Britisher—utteringthe final condemnation of that decadent.
“Hello! Hiram Silas P. Pocahantas of Pah,” remarked Piggy, with delicatepleasantry, and the big man nodded, smiled, and drew up a chair.
“The drinks are on me, boys,” quoth he. “Set ’em up,” and bursting intosong, more or less tunefully, announced—
“I didn’t raise my boy to be a soldier,”
whereat Bill hazarded the opinion that the day might unexpectedly andruddily dawn when he’d blooming well wish he bally well _had_, and thathe could join them in a cocktail if he liked—or he could bung off if hedidn’t. Apparently William disapproved of the American’s attitude, andthat of his Government, toward the War and the Allies’ part therein; for,on the American’s “allowing he would _con_sume a highball” and the liquorarriving, he drank a health to those who are not too proud to fight, tothose who do not give themselves airs as the Champions of Freedom, andthen stand idly by when Freedom is trampled in the dust, and to thosewhose Almighty God is not the Almighty Dollar!
Expecting trouble, Bertram was surprised to find that the American wasapparently amused, merely murmured “Shucks,” and, in the midst of aviolent political dissertation from Bill, ably supported by Piggy, wentto sleep with a long thin cigar in the corner of his long thin mouth. Hehad heard it all before.
Bertram found his Devil’s Own cocktail an exceedingly potent andunpleasant concoction. He decided that his first meeting with thisbeverage of the Evil One should be his last, and when Piggy, suddenlysitting up, remarked: “What’s wrong with the drinks?” and tinkled thebell, he arose, said a hurried farewell in some confusion, and fled.
“’Tain’t right to send a half-baked lad like that to fight the ColonialGerman,” observed Bill, idly watching his retreating form.
“Nope,” agreed the American, waking up. “I _was_ going to say it’sadding insult to injury—but you ain’t injured Fritz any, yet, I guess,”and went to sleep again before either of the glaring Englishmen couldthink of a retort.
Ere Bertram left the Club, he heard two pieces of “inside” militaryinformation divulged quite openly, and by the Staff itself. As hereached the porch, a lady of fluffy appearance and kittenish demeanourwas delaying a red-tabbed captain who appeared to be endeavouring toescape.
“And, oh, Captain, _do_ tell me what ‘A.S.C.’ and ‘C.C.’ mean,” said thelady. “I saw a man with ‘A.S.C.’ on his shoulders, and there are twoofficers with
‘C.C.,’ in the Club. . . . _Do_ you know what it means? Iam _so_ interested in military matters. Or is it a secret?”
“Oh, no!” replied the staff-officer, as he turned to flee. “‘A.S.C.’stands for Ally Sloper’s Cavalry, of course, and ‘C.C.’ for CoolieCatchers. . . . They are slave-traders, really, with a Governmentcontract for the supply of porters. They get twenty rupees for eachslave caught and delivered alive, and ten for a dead one, or one who dieswithin a week.”
“What do they want the _dead_ ones for?” she whispered.
“_That_ I dare not tell you,” replied the officer darkly, and with arapid salute, departed.
Emerging from the Club garden on to the white road, Bertram gazed aroundfor his trolley-boys and beheld them not.
“All right, ole chap,” boomed the voice of Ali, who suddenly appearedbeside him. “I looking after _Bwana_. Master going back along shippy?I fetch trolley now and see _Bwana_ at Kilindini, thank you, please sah,good God,” and he disappeared in the direction of the town, returning acouple of minutes later with the trolley.
“Master not pay these dam’ thieves too much, ole chap,” he remarked.“Two journey and one hour wait, they ask five rupees. Master givetwo-an’-a-puck.”
“How much is a ‘puck’?” enquired Bertram, ever anxious to learn.
“Sah?” returned the puzzled Ali.
“What’s a puck?” repeated Bertram, and a smile of bright intelligenceengulfed the countenance of the big Swahili.
“Oh, yessah!” he rumbled. “Give two rupee and what _Bwana_ call‘puck-in-the-neck.’ All the same, biff-on-the-napper, dig-in-the-ribs,smack-in-the-eye, kick-up-the—”
“_Oh_, yes, I see,” interrupted Bertram, smiling—but at the back of hisamusement was the sad realisation that he was not of the class of_bwanas_ who can gracefully, firmly and finally present two-and-a-puck toextortionate and importunate trolley-boys.
He stepped on to the trolley and sat down, as Ali, saluting and salaamingrespectfully, again bade him be of good cheer and high heart, as he wouldsee him at Kilindini.
“How will you get there? Would you like to ride?” asked the kind-heartedand considerate Bertram (far too kind-hearted and considerate for thesuccessful handling of black or brown subordinates and inferiors).
“Oh, God, sah, no, please,” replied the smiling Ali. “This Swahili slavecannot sit with _Bwana_, and cannot run with damn low trolley-boys. Canrunning by self though like gentleman, thank you, please,” and as thetrolley started, added: “So long, ole chap. See Master at Kilindini byrunning like hell. Ta-ta by damn!” When the trolley had disappearedround a bend of the road, he generously kilted up his flowing night-dressand started off at the long loping trot which the African can maintainover incredible distances.
Arrived at Kilindini, Bertram paid the trolley-boys and discovered that,while they absorbed rupees with the greatest avidity, they looked askanceat such fractions thereof as the eight-anna, four-anna, and two-annapiece, poking them over in their palms and finally tendering them back tohim with many grunts and shakes of the head as he said:
“Well, you’ll _have_ to take them, you silly asses,” to theuncomprehending coolies. “_That_ lot makes a rupee—one half-a-rupee andtwo quarters, and that lot makes a rupee—four two-anna bits and twofour-annas, doesn’t it?”
But the men waxed clamorous, and one of them threw his money on theground with an impudent and offensive gesture. Bertram coloured hotly,and his fist clenched. He hesitated; ought he. . . . _Smack_! _Thud_!and the man rolled in the dust as Ali Sloper, _alias_ Suleiman, sprangupon him, smote him again, and stood over him, pouring forth a terrifictorrent of violent vituperation.
As the victim of his swift assault obediently picked up the rejectedcoins, he turned to Bertram.
“These dam’ niggers not knowing _annas_, sah,” he said, “only _cents_.This not like East Indiaman’s country. Hundred cents making one rupeehere. All shopkeepers saying, ‘No damn good’ if master offering annas,please God, sah.”
“Well—I haven’t enough money with me, then—” began Bertram.
“I pay trolley-boys, sah,” interrupted Ali quickly, “and Master canpaying me to-morrow—or on pay-day at end of mensem.”
“But, look here,” expostulated Bertram, as this new-found guide,philosopher and friend sent the apparently satisfied coolies about theirbusiness. “I might not see you to-morrow. You’d better come with me tothe ship and—”
“Oh, sah, sah!” cried the seemingly hurt and offended Ali, “am I not_Bwana’s_ faithful ole servant?” and turning from the subject as closed,said he would produce a boat to convey his cherished employer to hisship.
“Master bucking up like hell now, please,” he advised. “No boat allowedto move in harbour after six pip emma, sah, thank God, please.”
“Who on earth’s Pip Emma?” enquired the bewildered Bertram, as theyhurried down the hill to the quay.
“What British soldier-mans and officer-_bwanas_ in Signal Corps call‘p.m.,’ sah,” was the reply. “Master saying ‘six p.m.,’ but Signal_Bwana_ always saying ‘six pip emma’—all same meaning but differentlanguage, please God, sah. P’r’aps German talk, sah? I do’n’ know,sah.”
And Bertram then remembered being puzzled by a remark of Maxton (to theeffect that he had endeavoured to go down to his cabin at “three ackemma” and being full of “beer,” had fallen “ack over tock” down thecompanion), and saw light on the subject. Truly these brigade signallerpeople talked in a weird tongue that might seem a foreign language to anuninitiated listener.
At the pier he saw Commander Finnis, of the Royal Indian Marine, andgratefully accepted an offer of a joy-ride in his launch to the good ship_Elymas_, to which that officer was proceeding.
“We’re disembarking you blokes to-morrow morning,” said he to Bertram, asthey seated themselves in the stern of the smart little boat. “Indiantroops going under canvas here, and British entraining for Nairobi. TwoBritish officers of Indian Army to proceed by tug at once to M’paga, afew hours down the coast, in German East. Scrap going on there. Poordevils will travel on deck, packed tight with fifty sheep and a gang ofnigger coolies. . . . _Some_ whiff!” and he chuckled callously.
“D’you know who are going?” asked Bertram eagerly. Suppose he should beone of them—and in a “scrap” by this time to-morrow! How would hecomport himself in his first fight?
“No,” yawned the Commander. “O.C. troops on board will settle that.”
And Bertram held his peace, visualising himself as collecting his kit,hurrying on to a dirty little tug to sit in the middle of a flock ofsheep while the boat puffed and panted through the night along themysterious African shore, landing on some white coral beach beneath thepalms at dawn, hurrying to join the little force fighting with its backto the sea and its face to the foe, leaping into a trench, seizing therifle of a dying man whose limp fingers unwillingly relaxed their grip,firing rapidly but accurately into the—
“Up you go,” quoth Commander Finnis, and Bertram arose and stepped on tothe platform at the bottom of the ladder that hospitably climbed the sideof His Majesty’s Troop-ship _Elymas_.