Cupid in Africa

  CHAPTER IV_Terra Marique Jactatus_

  As he arrayed himself in all his war-paint, after his sleepless andunhappy night, Bertram felt feverish, and afraid. His head throbbedviolently, and he had that distressing sensation of being remorselesslyurged on, fatedly fury-driven and compelled to do all things withterrible haste and hurry.

  Excitement, anxiety, sleeplessness and the conflicting emotions of hopeand fear, were taking their toll of the nervous energy and vitality ofthe over-civilised youth.

  He felt alarmed at his own alarm, and anxious about his own anxiety—andfeared that, at this rate, he would be worn out before he began, aphysical and mental wreck, fitter for a hospital-ship than a troop-ship,before ever he started.

  “The lad’s over-engined for his beam,” observed Murray to himself, as helay on his camp cot, drinking his _choti hazri_ tea, and watchingBertram, who, with white face and trembling fingers, stood making morehaste than speed, as he fumbled with straps and buckles. “Take it easy,my son,” he said kindly. “There’s tons of time, and then some. I’ll seeyou’re not late. . . .”

  “Thanks, Murray,” replied Bertram, “but—”

  “Here—take those belts off at once,” interrupted the Adjutant. “Take thelot off and lie down again—and smoke this cigarette. . . . _At once_,d’ye hear?” and the tone was such that Bertram complied without comment.He sank on to the camp-bed, swung up his long legs, with their heavyboots, shorts, and puttees and puffed luxuriously. He had intended to bea non-smoker as well as a teetotaller, now that he was “mobilised,” butit would be as well to obey Murray now and begin his abstinence fromtobacco when he got on board. He lay and smoked obediently, and soonfelt, if not better, at least calmer, cooler and quieter.

  “Blooming old tub won’t start till to-night—you see’f she does,” saidMurray. “Sort of thing we always do in the Army. . . . _Always_. . . .Harry and hurry everybody on parade at seven, to catch a boat thatdoesn’t profess to sail till two, and probably won’t actually do it tillmidnight.”

  “I should die of shame if I were late for my first parade,” said Bertramanxiously.

  “You’d die of the Colonel, if you didn’t of shame,” was the reply. . . .“I’ll see you’re not late. You take things a bit easier, my son. YourKing and Country want you in East Africa, not in a lunatic asylum—”

  “_Pappa_! _What part did you take in the Great War_?” squeaked afalsetto voice from the door, and looking up, Bertram beheld LieutenantBludyer, always merry and bright, arrayed in crimson, scarlet-froggedpyjama coat, and pink pyjama trousers. On his feet were vermilion velvetslippers.

  “I’ll take a leading part in your dirty death,” said the Adjutant,turning to the speaker, or squeaker.

  “Thought this might be useful, Greene,” continued Bludyer in his naturalvoice, as he handed Bertram a slab of thin khaki linen and a conical capof a kind of gilded corduroy. “Make yourself a regimental _puggri_ inthe day of battle. Put the cap on your nut and wind the turban over it.. . . Bloke with a helmet and a white face hasn’t an earthly, advancingwith a line of Sepoys in _puggris_. The enemy give him their unitedattention until he is outed. . . .”

  “Oh, thanks, awfully, Bludyer,” began Bertram.

  “So go dirty till your face is like Murray’s, grow a hoary, hairy beard,an’ wear a turban on your fat head,” continued Bludyer. “Your orderlycould do it on for you, so that it wouldn’t all come down when youwaggled. . . .”

  “Thanks, most awfully. It’s exceedingly kind of you, Bludyer,”acknowledged Bertram, and proceeded to stuff the things into hishaversack.

  “Wow! Wow!” ejaculated Bludyer. “Nice-mannered lad and well brought up,ain’t he, Randolph Murray?” and seating himself on that officer’s bed, heproceeded to use the tea-cosy as a foot-warmer, the morning being chilly.

  The Adjutant arose and proceeded to dress.

  “Devil admire me!” he suddenly shouted, pointing at Bertram. “Look atthat infernal lazy swine! Did you ever see anything like it, Bludyer?Lying hogging there, lolling and loafing in bed, as if he had all day tofinish nothing in! . . . Here, get up, you idle hound, and earn yourliving. Dress for parade, if you can do nothing else.”

  And Bertram gathered that he might now get on with his preparations.

  “Yes,” added Bludyer, “you really ought to get on with the war, Greene._Isn’t_ he a devil-may-care fellow, Murray? He don’t give a damn if itsnows,” and adding that it was his flute-night at the Mission, and he nowmust go, the young gentleman remained seated where he was.

  “You aren’t hurrying a bit, Greene,” he remarked, after eyeing Bertramcritically for a few minutes. “He won’t prosper and grow rich like that,will he, Randolph Murray? That is not how the Virtuous Apprentice got onso nicely, and married his master’s aunt. . . . No. . . . And SamuelSmiles was never late for parade—of that I’m quite certain. No.‘_Self_-help’ was _his_ motto, and the devil take the other fellow. . . .Let me fasten that for you. This strap goes under not over. . . .” And,with his experienced assistance, Bertram was soon ready, and feeling likea trussed fowl and a Christmas-tree combined, by the time he hadfestooned about him his sword, revolver, full ammunition-pouches,field-glasses, water-bottle, belt-haversack, large haversack, map-case,compass-pouch, whistle-lanyard, revolver-lanyard, rolled cape, and thevarious belts, straps and braces connected with these articles.

  By the time the last buckle was fastened, he longed to take the whole lotoff again for a few minutes, and have a really comfortable breathe. (Buthe _did_ wish Miranda Walsingham could see him.)

  * * * * *

  In a corner of the parade-ground stood the Hundred, the selected draftwhich was to proceed to Africa to fill the gaps that war had torn in theranks of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth. On their flank the regimentalband was drawn up in readiness to play them to the docks. The men worekhaki turbans, tunics, shorts, puttees and hob-nailed boots, and carriedonly haversacks, water-bottles, bandoliers, rifles and bayonets. Therest of their kit, each man’s done up in a neat bundle inside hiswaterproof ground-sheet and striped cotton sleeping-_dhurrie_, had goneon in bullock-carts to await them at the wharf.

  Around the Hundred stood or squatted the remainder of the battalion, inevery kind and degree of dress and undress. Occasionally one of thesewould arise and go unto his pal in the ranks, fall upon his neck, embracehim once again, shake both his hands alternately, and then return to theeligible site whence, squatting on his heels, he could feast his eyesupon his _bhai_, his brother, his friend, so soon to be torn from him. . . .As the officers approached, these spectators fell back. Bertram’sheart beat so violently that he feared the others would hear it. Was hegoing to have “palpitations” and faint, or throw a fit or something? Hewas very white, and felt very ill. Was his ignorance and incompetence tobe exposed and manifested now? . . .

  “Look fierce and take over charge, my son,” said the Adjutant, as thesmall party of officers came in front of the draft.

  “Company!” shouted Bertram, “Shun!”

  That was all right. He had hit the note nicely, and his voice had fairlyboomed. He had heard that men judge a new officer by his voice, morethan anything.

  The Hundred sprang to attention, and Bertram, accompanied by the Adjutantand Macteith, walked slowly down the front rank and up the rear, doinghis best to look as though he were critically and carefully notingcertain points, and assuring himself that certain essentials were inorder. He was glad that he had not suddenly to answer such a question as“_What_ exactly are you peering at and looking for?” He wished he hadsufficient Hindustani to ask a stern but not unkindly question here andthere, or to make an occasional comment in the manner of one from whom nomilitary thing is hid. He suddenly remembered that he knew theHindustani for “How old are you?” so he asked this question of a manwhose orange-coloured beard would obviously have been white but for hennadye. Not in the least understanding the man’s reply, he remarked “H
’m!”in excellent imitation of the Colonel, and passed on.

  “Not the absolute pick of the regiment, I should think, are they?” heremarked to Murray, as they returned to the front of the company.

  “They are not,” he said.

  “Pretty old, some of them,” added Bertram, who was privately hoping thathe did not look such a fraudulent Ass as he felt.

  Major Fordinghame strolled up and returned the salutes of the group ofofficers.

  “This experienced officer thinks the draft is not the pure cream of theregiment, Major,” said Murray, indicating Bertram.

  “Fancy that, now,” replied Major Fordinghame, and Bertram blushed hotly.

  “I thought some of them seemed rather old, sir,” he said, “but—er—perhapsold soldiers are better than young ones?”

  “It’s a matter of taste—as the monkey said when he chewed his father’sear,” murmured Bludyer.

  Silence fell upon the little group.

  “And both have their draw-backs—as the monkey said when she pulled hertwins’ tails,” he added pensively.

  Bertram wondered what he had better do next.

  The Native Officer of the draft came hurrying up, and saluted. AnotherHindustani sentence floated into Bertram’s mind. “You are late, JemadarSahib,” said he, severely.

  Jemadar Hassan Ali poured forth a torrent of excuse or explanation whichBertram could not follow.

  “What do you do if a Havildar or Naik or Sepoy is late for parade?” heasked, or attempted to ask, in slow and barbarous Hindustani.

  Another torrent of verbiage, scarcely a word of which was intelligible tohim.

  He put on a hard, cold and haughty look, or attempted to do so, and kept,perforce, an eloquent but chilling silence. Murray and the Majorexchanged glances.

  “Greene Sahib is _very_ particular and _very_ strict, Jemadar Sahib,”said the Major. “You had better bear it in mind, and tell the men too.He’ll stand no sort of nonsense from anybody. You’ll find him very kindso long as he is satisfied, but if he isn’t—well!” and the Major shruggedhis shoulders expressively.

  Bertram looked gratefully at the Major (for he understood “Englishman’sHindustani”), and as sternly as he could at the Jemadar, who salutedagain and retired.

  The Colonel rode up, and the officers sprang to attention.

  “Everything ready, sir,” said the Adjutant. “They can march off when youlike.”

  “H’m!” said the Colonel, and stared at Bertram as though he honestly andunaffectedly did wonder why God made such things. He then wheeled hishorse towards the waiting Hundred. “Men of the Hundred andNinety-Ninth,” said he in faultless Hindustani, “you are now going acrossthe Black Water to fight the enemies of the King Emperor, and ofyourselves. They would like to conquer your country and oppress you.You go to fight for your own homes and children, as well as for yourEmperor. Bring honour to your regiment and yourselves. Show the_Germanis_ and their _Hubshis _{50} what Indian Sepoys can do—both intime of battle and in time of hunger, thirst, and hardship. Before God Isay I would give anything to come with you, but I have to do my dutyhere—for the present. We may meet again in Africa. Good-bye. Goodluck. . . . Good-bye. . . .” The Jemadar called for three cheers forthe Colonel, and the Hundred lustily cried: “_’Eep_, _’Eep_, _’Oorayee_.”The remainder of the regiment joined in, and then cheered the Hundred.Meanwhile, the Colonel turned to Bertram.

  “Good-by, young Greene. Good luck,” he said, and leaning from his horse,wrung Bertram’s hand as though it had been that of his only son.

  Similarly did the others, with minor differences.

  “Well—it’s useless to weep these unavailing tears,” sobbed Bludyer.“There’s an end to everything, as the monkey said when he seized the tipof his mother’s nose. . . .”

  “Farewell, my blue-nosed, golden-eyed, curly-eared Mother’s Darling,”said Macteith.

  “Good luck, sonny. Write and let me know how you get on,” said Murray.“You’ll do. You’ve got the guts all right, and you’ll very soon get thehang of things. . . .”

  “March ’em off, now,” he added. “Chuck a chest, and don’t give a damnfor anybody,” and Bertram carefully collected his voice, swallowed a kindof lump in his throat, bade his wildly beating heart be still, gavethought to the drill-book, and roared:

  “Company! . . . _’Shun_! . . . Slope _Arms_! . . . Form _fours_! . . ._Right_! . . . Quick _march_!”—the band struck up—and they were off.

  Yes, he, Bertram Greene, pale clerkly person, poet and æsthete, wasmarching proudly, in full military attire, at the head of a hundredfighting-men—marching to the inspiring strains of the regimental band, towhere the trooper waited on the tide! If his father could only see him!He was happy as he had never been before in his life, and he was proud ashe never had been before. . . . If Miranda could only see him! He,Bertram Greene, was actually marching to war, with sword on thigh, andhead held high, in sole command of a hundred trained fighting-men!

  His heart beat very fast, but without pain now, and he was, for themoment, free of his crushing sense of inadequacy, inexperience andunworthiness. He was only conscious of a great pride, a great hope, anda great determination to be worthy, so far as in him lay the power, ofhis high fate. . . .

  No man forgets his first march at the head of his own force, if heforgets his first march in uniform. For Bertram this was both. It washis first march in uniform, and he was in whole and sole control of thisparty—like a Centurion of old tramping the Roman Road at the head of hishundred Legionaries—and Bertram felt he would not forget it if he livedtill his years equalled the number of his men.

  It was not a very long march, and it was certainly not a very picturesqueone—along the cobbled Dock Road, with its almost innumerable cotton-ladenbullock-carts—but Bertram trod on air through a golden dream city and wasexalted, brother to the Knights of Arthur who quested for the Grail andwent about to right the wrong and to succour the oppressed. . . .

  Arrived at the dock-gates, he was met and guided aright, by a brassardedmyrmidon of the Embarkation Staff Officer, to where His Majesty’sTransport _Elymas_ lay in her basin beside a vast shed-covered wharf.

  Beneath this shed, Bertram halted his men, turned them into line, andbade them pile arms, fall out, and sit them down in close proximity totheir rifles.

  Leaving the Jemadar in charge, he then went up the gangway of the_Elymas_ in search of the said Embarkation Staff Officer, who, he hadbeen told, would allot him and his men their quarters on the ship. As hegazed around the deserted forward well-deck, he saw an officer, who worea lettered red band round his arm, hurrying towards him along thepromenade deck, his hands full of papers, a pencil in his mouth, and acareworn, worried look upon his face.

  “You Greene, by any chance?” he called, as he ran sideway down the narrowladder from the upper deck.

  “Yes, sir,” replied Bertram, saluting as he perceived that the officerwas a captain. “Just arrived with a draft of a hundred men from theHundred and Ninety-Ninth,” he added proudly.

  “Good dog,” was the reply, “keep the perishers out of it for a bit tillI’m ready. . . . Better come with me now though, and I’ll show you,_one_, where they’re to put their rifles; _two_, where they’re to putthemselves; _three_, where they will do their beastly cooking; and_four_, where you will doss down yourself. . . . Don’t let there be anymistakes, because there are simply millions more coming,” and he led theway to a companion hatch in the after well-deck, and clattered down aladder into the bowels of the ship, Bertram following him in his twistsand turns with a growing sense of bewilderment.

  He was very glad to hear that he and his merry men were not to have theship to themselves, for there were a thousand and one points that hewould be very glad to be able to refer to the decision of Authority, orthe advice of Experience.

  The Embarkation Officer, dripping and soaked and sodden withperspiration, as was Bertram himself, wound his devious way, along narrowpassa
ges, ladders and tunnels, to a kind of cage-like cloak-room fittedwith racks.

  “Your men’ll come here in single file, by the way we have come,” said he,“enter this armoury one by one, leave their rifles on these racks, and goup that ladder to the deck above, and round to the ladder leading out onthe forward well-deck. You’ll have to explain it carefully, and shepherd’m along too, or there’ll be a jam and loss of life and—worse—loss oftime. . . . In the early days we managed badly on one occasion and got acrowd of Sikhs pushing against a crowd of Pathans. . . .” He then ledthe disintegrating Bertram by devious paths to a dark oven-like andsmelly place (which Bertram mentally labelled “the horizontal section ofthe fo’c’sle, three storeys down”) in which the Hundred were to live, orto die—poor devils! There would hardly be standing room—and thence tothe scene of their culinary labours. Lastly, when the bewildered youthwas again feeling very ill, the Embarkation Officer retraced his steps,showed him certain water-taps for the use of his men, and led the way upand out to the blessed light of day, fresh air, and the comparativecoolness of the deck. “Your cabin’s along here,” said he, entering along corridor that debouched on to the well-deck. “Let’s see, Number 43,I think. Yes. A two-berth cabin to yourself—and last trip we had threegenerals in a one-berth cabin, four colonels in a bath at once, and fivecommon officers on top of one another in each chair at table. . . .Fact—I assure you. . . . Go in and chuck away all that upholstery—youcan run about in your shirt-sleeves now, or naked if you like, so long asyou wear a helmet to show you are in uniform. . . . Bye-bye—be a goodboy,” and he bustled away.

  Bertram thankfully took the Embarkation Officer’s advice, and cast offall impedimenta until he was clad only in khaki shirt, shorts, putteesand boots. He thought he could enter into the feelings of a butterfly asit emerges from the constricting folds of its cocoon.

  He sat down for a minute on the white bed prepared for his occupation.The other was cumbered with his valise, sack, and strapped bundle, whichhad come down on the first of the bullock-carts and been brought on boardat once. He looked round the well-appointed, spotless cabin, with itswhite paint and mahogany fittings, electric fans and lights. That onejust beside his pillow would be jolly for reading in bed. Anyhow, he’dhave a comfortable and restful voyage. What a blessing that he had acabin to himself, and what a pity that the voyage took only about tendays. . . . Would life on a troop-ship be a thing of disciplinedstrenuousness, or would it be just a perfectly slack time for everybody?. . . It should be easy for him to hide his ignorance while onboard—there couldn’t be very much in the way of drill. . . . How hishead throbbed, and how seedy and tired he felt! . . . He lay back on hisbed and then sprang up in alarm and horror at what he had done. A prettyway to commence his Active Service!—and, putting on his heavy anduncomfortable helmet, he hurried to the wharf.

  Going down the gangway, he again encountered the Embarkation Officer.

  “Better let your men file on board with their rifles first, and then offagain for their kits and bedding, and then back again to the quarters Ishowed you. Having pegged out their claims there, and each man hung histraps on the peg above his sleeping-mat, they can go up on the afterwell-deck and absolutely nowhere else. See? And no man to leave theship again, on any pretence whatever. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Bertram, and privately wondered if he would even findhis way again to that cage-like cloak-room in the hold, and that“horizontal section of the fo’c’sle three storeys down.”

  But he _must_ do this, his very first job, absolutely correctly, andwithout any bungling and footling. He must imagine that he was going infor an examination again—an examination this time in quite a new subject,“The art of getting men on board a ship, bedding them down, each with hisown bundle of kit, in one place, and storing their rifles in another,without confusion or loss of time.” _Quite_ a new subject, and one inwhich previous studies, Classics, Literature, Philosophy, Art, were notgoing to be of any great value.

  Perhaps it would be as well to take the Jemadar, Havildars and Naiks on apersonally conducted tour to the armoury, quarters, cooking-places andtaps, and explain the _modus operandi_ to them as well as he could. Onecan do a good deal to eke out a scanty knowledge of the vernacular bymeans of signs and wonders—though sometimes one makes the signs and theother person wonders. . . .

  Returning to the oven-like shed, resonant with the piercing howls of_byle-ghari-wallas_, {54} coolies, Lascars and overseers; the rackingrattle and clang and clatter of chains, cranes, derricks anddonkey-engines; the crashing of iron-bound wheels over cobble-stones, andthe general pandemonium of a busy wharf, he beckoned the Jemadar to himand made him understand that he wanted a couple of Havildars and fourNaiks to accompany him on board.

  Suddenly he had a bright idea. (Good old drill-book and retentive memoryof things read, heard, or seen!) . . . “Why have you set no sentry overthe arms, Jemadar Sahib? It should not be necessary for me to have togive the order,” he said as well as he could in his halting Hindustani.

  The Jemadar looked annoyed—and distinctly felt as he looked. Half themen had heard the reproof. He, an old soldier of fifteen years’ service,to be set right by a child like this! And the annoying part of it wasthat the amateur was right! Of course he should have put a sentry overthe arms. It was probably the first time he had omitted to do so, whennecessary, since he had first held authority . . . and he raged inwardly.There are few things that annoy an Indian more than to be “told off”before subordinates, particularly when he is obviously in the wrong. Wasthis youthful Greene Sahib a person of more knowledge and experience thanhad been reported by the Adjutant’s Office _babu_? The _babu_ hadcertainly described him as one whom the other officers laughed at for hisignorance and inexperience. Had not the worthy Chatterji Chuckerbuttirelated in detail how Macteith Sahib had called upon his gods and feignedgreat sickness after offensively examining Greene Sahib through hisfield-glasses? Strange and unfathomable are the ways of Sahibs, andperhaps the true inwardness of the incident had been quite otherwise? Itmight have been an honorific ceremony, in fact, and Macteith Sahib mighthave feigned sickness at his own unworthiness, according to etiquette?. . . After all, the military salute itself is only a motion simulatingthe shading of one’s eyes from the effulgent glory of the person onesalutes; and the Oriental bowing and touching the forehead is only amotion simulating taking up dust and putting it on one’s head. . . .Yes—the _babu_ may have been wrong, and Macteith Sahib may really havebeen acclaiming Greene Sahib his superior, and declaring his ownmiserable unworthiness. . . . One never knew with Sahibs. Their mindsare unreadable, and one can never get at what they are thinking, or grasptheir point of view. One could only rest assured that there is alwaysmethod in their madness—that they are clever as devils, brave as lions,and—averse from giving commissions as lieutenants, captains, majors, andcolonels to Indian Native Officers. . .

  “Get a move on, Jemadar Sahib,” said the voice of Greene Sahib curtly, inEnglish, and the Jemadar bustled off to set the sentry and call theHavildars and Naiks—rage in his heart. . . .

  More easily than he had expected, Bertram found his way, at the head ofthe party, to the required places, and showed the Jemadar andNon-commissioned Officers how the men should come and depart, in suchmanner as to avoid hindering each other and to obviate the possibility ofa jam.

  The Jemadar began to ask questions, and Bertram began to dislike theJemadar. He was a talker, and appeared to be what schoolboys call“tricky.” He knew that Bertram had very little Hindustani, and seemedanxious to increase the obviousness of the fact.

  Bertram felt unhappy and uncomfortable. He wished to be perfectlycourteous to him as a Native Officer, but it would not do to let the manmistake politeness for weakness, and inexperience for inefficiency. . . .Was there a faint gleam of a grin on the fellow’s face as he said: “I donot understand,” at the end of Bertram’s attempt at explanation?

  “Do _you_ understan
d?” the latter said, suddenly, turning to the seniorHavildar, the man who had turned out the Guard for him on his firstapproach to the Lines on that recent day that seemed so long ago.

  “_Han_, {56a} _Sahib_,” replied the man instantly and readily.“_Béshak_!” {56b}

  “Then you’d better explain to the Jemadar Sahib, who does not,” saidBertram with a click of his jaw, as he turned to depart.

  The Jemadar hastened to explain that he _fully_ understood, as Bertramstrode off. Apparently complete apprehension had come as soon as herealised that his dullness was to be enlightened by the explanation ofthe quicker-witted Havildar. He gave that innocent and unfortunate man alook of bitter hatred, and, as he followed Bertram, he ground his teeth.Havildar Afzul Khan Ishak should live to learn the extreme unwisdom ofunderstanding things that Jemadar Hassan Ali professed not to understand.As for Second-Lieutenant Greene—perhaps he should live to learn theunwisdom of quarrelling with an experienced Native Officer who was thesole channel of communication between that stranger and the Draft atwhose head he had been placed by a misguided Sircar. . . .

  Returning to the wharf, and conscious that he had a splitting head, asticky mouth, shaking limbs, sore throat and husky voice, Bertram roaredorders to the squatting Sepoys, who sprang up, fell in, unpiled arms, andmarched in file up the gangway and down into the bowels of the ship,shepherded and directed by the Non-commissioned Officers whom he hadposted at various strategic points. All went well, and, an hour later,his first job was successfully accomplished. His men were on board and“shaking down” in their new quarters. He was free to retire to hiscabin, bathe his throbbing head, and lie down for an hour or so.

  * * * * *

  At about midday he arose refreshed, and went on deck, with the delightfulfeeling that, his own labours of the moment accomplished, he could lookon at the accomplishment of those of others. Excellent! . . . And formany days to come he would be free from responsibility and anxiety, hewould have a time of rest, recuperation, and fruitful thought and study.. . . Throughout the morning detachments of Sepoys of the Indian Armyand Imperial Service Troops continued to arrive at the wharf and toembark. Bertram was much interested in a double-company of Gurkhas undera Gurkha Subedar, their yellowish Mongolian faces eloquent ofdetermination, grit, and hardiness.

  They contrasted strongly with a company of tall, hairy Sikhs, almosttwice their size, man for man, but with evidences of more enthusiasm thandiscipline in their bearing. Another interesting unit was a band ofwarriors of very mixed nationality, under a huge Jemadar who looked apicture of fat contentment, his face knowing no other expression than anall-embracing smile. It was whispered later that this unit sawbreech-loading rifles for the first time, on board the _Elymas_, havingbeen more familiar, hitherto, with jezails, jingals, match-locks,flintlocks, and blunderbusses. Probably a gross exaggeration, or aninvention of Lieutenant Stanner, of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth, whogave them the name of “The Mixed Pickles.”

  All three of these detachments were Imperial Service Troops—that is tosay, were in the service of various Indian Rajahs—but were of verydifferent value, both the Gurkhas and the Sikhs being as good material ascould be found among native troops anywhere in the world.

  To Bertram, the picture of the little Gurkha Subedar, the tall SikhSubedar, and the burly Jemadar of the Mixed Pickles, was a veryinteresting one, as the three stood together on the wharf, eyeing eachother like three strange dogs of totally different breeds—say, a fightingterrier, a wolf-hound and a mastiff.

  With a snap and a slick, and a smart “_One two_,” a company of BritishInfantry arrived and embarked. Beside the Mixed Pickles they were as aNavy motor-launch beside a native bunderboat. At them they smiledamusedly, at the Sikhs they stared, and at the Gurkhas they grinnedappreciatively.

  The news having spread that the _Elymas_ would not start until themorrow, various visitors came on board, in search of friends whom theyknew to be sailing by her. Captain Stott, R.A.M.C., came over from the_Madras_ hospital ship, in search of Colonel Haldon. Murray and Macteithcame down to see Stanner, of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth, and oneTerence Brannigan, of the Baluchis. . . .

  “Who’s the chap on your right, Colonel?” asked Captain Stott, of gentleand kindly old Colonel Haldon at dinner that evening. “Rather an unusualface to be ‘in’ khaki—or one would have said so before the war,” and heindicated Bertram.

  “Dunno,” was the reply. “Stranger to me. Nice-lookin’ boy. . . . Looksa wee-trifle more like a chaplain than a butcher, as you say,” thoughCaptain Stott had not said that at all.

  Seeing Bertram talking to Murray and Macteith after dinner, Captain Stottasked the latter who he was, for physiognomy and character-study were ahobby of his.

  Macteith told him what he knew, and added: “And they’re sending _that_half-baked milksop to British East” (and implied: “While _I_, Lieutenantand Quartermaster Reginald Macteith, remain to kick my heels at thedepot.”)

  Next day the _Elymas_ began her voyage, a period of delightful _dolce farniente_ that passed like a dream, until one wonderful evening, thepalm-clad shores of Africa “arose from out of the azure sea,” and, with agreat thrill of excitement, hope, anxiety and fear Bertram gazed upon thebeautiful scene, as the _Elymas_ threaded the lovely Kilindini Creekwhich divides the Island of Mombasa from the mainland.