CHAPTER VI_Mombasa_
“If you’d like to go ashore and have a look at Mombasa after tiffin, Mr.Greene,” said the fourth officer of the _Elymas_ to Bertram, the nextmorning, as he leant against the rail and gazed at the wonderfulpalm-forest of the African shore, “some of us are going for a row—tostretch our muscles. We could drop you at the Kilindini _bunder_.”
“Many thanks,” replied Bertram. “I shall be very much obliged,” and hesmiled his very attractive and pleasant smile.
This was a welcome offer, for, privately, he hated being taken ashorefrom a ship by natives of the harbour in which the ship lay. One neverknew exactly what to pay the wretches. If one asked what the fare was,they always named some absurd amount, and if one used one’s common senseand gave them what seemed a reasonable sum they were inevitably hurt,shocked, disappointed in one, indignantly broken-hearted, and invariablywaxed clamorous, protestful, demanding more. It had been the same atMalta, Port Said and Aden on his way out to India. In Bombay harbour hehad once gone for a morning sail in a bunderboat, and on their return,the captain of the crew of three had demanded fifteen rupees for atwo-hour sail. A pound for two hours in a cranky sailing-boat!—and thescoundrels had followed him up the steps clamouring vociferously, until anative policeman had fallen upon them with blows and curses. . . . Howhe wished he was of those men who can give such people their due in sucha manner that they receive it in respectful silence, with apparentcontentment, if not gratitude. Something in the eye and the set of thejaw, evidently—and so was glad of the fourth officer’s kind suggestion.
He would have been still more glad had he heard the fourth officerannounce, at table, to his colleagues: “I offered to drop that chap,Lieutenant Greene, at Kilindini this afternoon, when we go for our grind.He can take the tiller-ropes. . . . I like him the best of the lot—noblooming swank and side about him.”
“Yes,” agreed the “wireless” operator, “he doesn’t talk to you as thoughhe owned the earth, but was really quite pleased to let you stand on itfor a bit. . . . I reckon he’ll do all right, though, when hegets-down-to-it with the Huns—if he doesn’t get done in. . . .”
And so it came to pass that Bertram was taken ashore that afternoon bysome half-dozen officers and officials (including the doctor, the purser,and the Marconi operator) of the _Elymas_—worthy representatives of thatill-paid, little-considered service, that most glorious andbeyond-praise, magnificent service, the British Mercantile Marine—and,landing in state upon the soil of the Dark Continent, knew “the pleasurethat touches the souls of men landing on strange shores.”
Arrived at the top of the stone steps of the Kilindini quay, Bertramencountered Africa in the appropriately representative person of a vastnegro gentleman, who wore a red fez cap (or tarboosh), a very long whitecalico night-dress and an all-embracing smile.
“_Jambo_!” quoth the huge Ethiopian, and further stretched his lips aninch nearer to his ears on either side.
Not being aware that the African “_Jambo_” is equivalent to the Indian“_Salaam_,” and means “Greeting and Good Health,” or words to thateffect, Bertram did not counter with a return “_Jambo_,” but noddedpleasantly and said: “Er—good afternoon.”
Whereupon the ebon one remarked: “Oh, my God, sah, ole chap, thank you,”to show, in the first place, that he quite realised the situation (towit, Bertram’s excusable ignorance of Swahili-Arabic), and that he washimself, fortunately, a fluent English scholar. Bertram stared inamazement at the pleasant-faced, friendly-looking giant.
“_Bwana_ will wanting servant, ole chap,” continued the negro, “don’t it?I am best servant for _Bwana_. Speaking English like hell, sah, please.Waiting here for _Bwana_ before long time to come. Good afternoon, thankyou, please, Master, by damn, ole chap. Also bringing letter for_Bwana_. . . . You read, thanks awfully, your mos’ obedient servant bydamn, oh, God, thank you, sah,” and produced a filthy envelope from someinner pocket of the aforementioned night-dress, which, innocent ofbuttons or trimming, revealed his tremendous bare chest.
Bertram felt uncomfortable, and, for a moment, again wished that he wasone of those men-with-an-eye-and-a-jaw who could give a glare, a grunt,and a jerk of the head which would cause the most importunate native tofade unobtrusively away.
On the one hand, he knew it would be folly to engage as a servant thefirst wandering scoundrel who accosted him and suggested that he shoulddo so; while, on the other, he distinctly liked this man’s cheery,smiling face, he realised that servants would probably be at a decidedpremium, and he recognised the extreme desirability of having a servant,if have one he must, who spoke English, however weird, and understood itwhen spoken. Should he engage the man then and there? Would he, by sodoing, show himself a man of quick decision and prompt action—one ofthose forceful, incisive men he so admired? Or would he merely be actingfoolishly and prematurely, merely exhibiting himself as a rash andunbalanced young ass? Anyhow, he would read the “chits” which the filthyenvelope presumably contained. If these were satisfactory, he would tellthe man that the matter was under consideration, and that he might lookout for him again and hear his decision.
As Bertram surmised, the envelope contained the man’s “chits,” ortestimonials. The first stated that Ali Sloper, the bearer, had been on_safari_ with the writer, and had proved to be a good plain cook, areliable and courageous gun-carrier, a good shot, and an honest, willingworker. The second was written by a woman whose house-boy Ali Suleimanhad been for two years in Mombasa, and who stated that she had had worseones. The third and last was written at the Nairobi Club by aglobe-trotting Englishman named Stayne-Brooker, who had employed the manas personal “boy” and headman of porters, on a protracted lion-shootingtrip across the Athi and Kapiti Plains and found him intelligent, keen,cheery, and staunch. (_Where had he heard the name Stayne-Brookerbefore—or had he dreamed it as a child_?) Certainly this fellow waswell-recommended, and appeared to be just the man to take as one’spersonal servant on active service. But _did_ one take a servant onactive service? One could not stir, or exist, without one in India, andofficers took syces and servants with them on frontier campaigns—butAfrica is not India. . . . However, he could soon settle that point byasking.
“I’ll think about it,” he said, returning the chits. “I shall be comingashore again to-morrow. . . . How much pay do you want?”
“Oh, sah! Master not mentioning it!” was the reply of this remarkableperson. “Oh, nothing, nothing, sah! _Bwana_ offering me forty rupees amensem, I say ‘No, sah! Too much.’ . . . Master not mention it.”
“It might not be half a bad idea to mention it, y’know,” said Bertram,smiling and turning to move on.
“Oh, God, sah, thank you, please,” replied Ali Sloper, _alias_ AliSuleiman. “I do not wanting forty. I am accepting thirty rupees, sah,and am now your mos’ obedient servant by damn from the beginning forever. And when _Bwana_, loving me still more, can pay more, ole chap.God bless my thank-you soul”—and “fell in” behind Bertram as thoughprepared to follow him thence to the end of the world or beyond.
Bertram gazed around, and found that he was in a vast yard, two sides ofwhich were occupied by the largest corrugated-iron sheds he had ever seenin his life. One of these appeared to be the Customs shed, and intoanother a railway wandered. Between two of them, great gates let a whitesandy road escape into the Unknown. On the stone quay the heat, shut inand radiated by towering iron sheds, was the greatest he had everexperienced, and he gasped for breath and trickled with perspiration. Hedevoutly hoped that this was not a fair sample of Africa’s normaltemperature. Doubtless it would be cooler away from the quay, which,with the iron sheds, seemed to form a Titanic oven for the quick andthorough baking of human beings. It being Sunday afternoon, there werebut few such, and those few appeared to be thoroughly enjoying theroasting process, if one might judge from their grinning faces and happylaughter. They were all Africans, and, for the most part, clad in long,clean night-
dresses and fez caps. Evidently Ali Sloper or Suleiman wasdressed in the height of local fashion. On a bench, by the door of theCustoms shed, lounged some big negroes in dark blue tunics and shorts,with blue puttees between bare knees and bare feet. Their talltarbooshes made them look even taller than they were, and the big brassplates on their belt-buckles shone like gold. Bertram wondered whetherthe Germans had just such brawny giants in their Imperial African Rifles,and tried to imagine himself defeating one of them in single combat. Theeffort was a failure.
At the gates was a very different type of person, smarter, quicker, moreactive and intelligent-looking, a Sikh Sepoy of the local militarypolice. The man sprang to attention and saluted with a soldierlypromptness and smartness that were a pleasure to behold.
Outside the dock, the heat was not quite so intense, but the white sandyroad, running between high grass and palms, also ran uphill, and, as theperspiration ran down his face, Bertram wished he might discover thevilest, most ramshackle and moth-eaten _tikka-ghari_ that ever disgracedthe streets of Bombay. That the hope was vain he knew, and that in allthe island of Mombasa there is no single beast of burden, thanks to thetsetse fly, whose sting is death to them. . . . And the Mombasa Club,the Fort, and European quarter were at the opposite side of the island,four miles away, according to report. Where were these trolley-trams ofwhich he had heard? If he had to walk much farther up this hill, hisuniform would look as though he had swum ashore in it.
“Master buck up like hell, ole chap, thank you,” boomed a voice behind.“Trolley as nearer as be damned please. Niggers make push by Jove toClub, thank God,” and turning, Bertram beheld the smiling Ali beamingdown upon him as he strolled immediately behind him.
“Go away, you ass,” replied the hot and irritated Bertram, only toreceive an even broader smile and the assurance that his faithful oldservant would never desert him—not after having been his devoted slavesince so long a time ago before and for ever more after also. And aminute or two later the weary warfarer came in sight of a very narrow,single tram-line, beside the road. Where this abruptly ended stood acouple of strange vehicles, like small, low railway-trolleys, with wheelsthe size of dinner-plates. On each trolley was a seat of sufficientlength to accommodate two people, and above the bench was a canvas roofor shade, supported by iron rods. From a neighbouring bench sprang fourmen, also clad in night-dresses and fez caps, who, with strange howls andgesticulations, bore down upon the approaching European.
“_Hapa_, {66} _Bwana_!” they yelled. “_Trolley hapa_,” and, for amoment, Bertram thought they would actually seize him and struggle forpossession of his body. He determined that if one of the shriekingfiends laid a hand upon him, he would smite him with what violence hemight. The heat was certainly affecting his temper. He wondered what itwould feel like to strike a man—a thing he had never done in his life.But, on reaching him, the men merely pointed to their respective trolleysand skipped back to them, still pointing, and apparently calling Heavento witness their subtle excellences and charms.
As Bertram was about to step on to the foremost trolley, the men incharge of the other sprang forward with yelps of anguish, only to receivecause for louder yelps of deeper anguish at the hands of Ali, who, withblows and buffets, drove them before him. Bertram wondered why the pairof them, each as big as their assailant, should flee before him thus.Was it by reason of Ali’s greater moral force, juster cause, superiorsocial standing as the follower of a white man, or merely the fact thathe took it upon him to be the aggressor. Probably the last.Anyhow—thank Heaven for the gloriously cool and refreshing breeze, causedby the rapid rush of the trolley through the heavy air, as thetrolley-“boys” ran it down the decline from the hill-top whence they hadstarted.
As soon as the trolley had gained sufficient momentum, they leapt on tothe back of the vehicle, and there clung until it began to slow downagain. Up-hill they slowly pushed with terrific grunts, on the levelthey maintained a good speed, and down-hill the thing rattled, bumped andbounded at a terrific pace, the while Bertram wondered how long it wouldkeep the rails, and precisely what would happen if it jumped them. Hadhe but known it, there was a foot-brake beneath the seat, which he shouldhave used when going down-hill. ’Twas not for the two specimens ofAfric’s ebon sons, who perched and clung behind him, to draw hisattention to it. Was he not a _Bwana_, a white man, and therefore onewho knew all things? And if he wanted to break his neck had he not aright so to do? And if they, too, should be involved in the mightysmash, would not that fact prove quite conclusively that it was their_kismet_ to be involved in the smash, and therefore inevitable? Whoshall avoid his fate? . . . And so, in blissful ignorance, Bertramswooped down-hill in joyous, mad career. He wished the pace were slowerat times, for everything was new and strange and most interesting.Native huts, such as he had seen in pictures (labelled “kaffir-kraals”)in his early geography book, alternated with official-looking buildings,patches of jungle; gardens of custard-apple, mango, paw-paw, banana, andpapai trees; neat and clean police-posts, bungalows, cultivated fields,dense woods and occasional mosques, Arab houses, go-downs, {67} temples,and native infantry “lines.”
On the dazzlingly white road (which is made of coral and nothing else)were few people. An occasional Indian Sepoy, a British soldier, an_askari_ of the King’s African Rifles, an official _peon_ with abelt-plate as big as a saucer (and bearing some such legend as _HarbourPolice_ or _Civil Hospital_), a tall Swahili in the inevitable longnight-dress and tarboosh, or a beautifully worked skull cap, a file ofnative women clad each in a single garment of figured cotton whichextended from arm-pit to ankle, leaving the arms and shoulders bare. Thehairdressing of these ladies interested Bertram, for each head displayednot one, but a dozen, partings, running from the forehead to the neck,and suggesting the seams on a football. At the end of each parting was abrief pigtail bound with wire. Bertram wondered why these women alwayswalked one behind the other in single file, and decided that it was aninherited and unconscious instinct implanted by a few thousand years ofuse of narrow jungle-paths from which they dared not stray as the armedmen-folk did. . . .
After half an hour or so of travelling this thrillingly interesting road,Bertram perceived that they were drawing near to the busy haunts of men.From a church, a congregation of Goanese or else African-Portuguese waspouring. The scene was a very Indian one—the women, with their duskyfaces and long muslin veils worn _sari_-fashion over their Europeandresses of cotton or satin; the men, with their rusty black suits orcotton coats and trousers and European hats or solar _topis_. One veryvenerable gentleman, whose ancestors certainly numbered more Africansthan Portuguese, wore a golfing suit (complete, except for thestockings), huge hob-nailed boots, and an over-small straw-yard with agay ribbon. A fine upstanding specimen of the race, obviously the idolof his young wife, who walked beside him with her adoring gaze fixed uponhis shining face, began well with an authentic silk hat, continuedexcellently with a swallow-tailed morning-coat, white waistcoat, highcollar and black satin tie, but fell away from these high achievementswith a pair of tight short flannel tennis-trousers, grey Army socks, andwhite canvas shoes.
“An idol with feet of pipe-clay,” smiled Bertram to himself, as hischariot drove heavily through the throng, and his charioteers howled“_Semeele_! _Semeele_!” at the tops of their voices.
Soon the tram-line branched and bifurcated, and tributary lines joined itfrom garden-enclosed bungalows and side turnings. Later he discoveredthat every private house has its own private tram-line running from itsfront door down its drive out to the main line in the street, and that,in Mombasa, one keeps one’s own trolley for use on the public line, aselsewhere one keeps one’s own carriage or motor-car.
On, past the Grand Hotel, a stucco building of two storeys, went therumbling, rattling vehicle, past a fine public garden and blindinglywhite stucco houses that lined the blindingly white coral road, across apublic square adorned with flowering shrubs and trees, to where arose avast grey pile,
the ancient blood-drenched Portuguese fort, and anarrow-streeted, whitewashed town of tall houses and low shops began.
Here the trolley-boys halted, and Bertram found himself at the entranceof the garden of the Mombasa Club, which nestles in the shadow of itsmighty neighbour, the Fort—where once resided the Portuguese Governor andthe garrison that defied the Arab and kept “the Island of Blood” forPortugal, and where now reside the Prison Governor and the convicts thatinclude the Arab, and keep the public gardens for the public.
Boldly entering the Club, Bertram left his card on the Secretary andMembers (otherwise stuck it on a green-baize board devoted to thatpurpose), and commenced a tour of inspection of the almost emptybuilding. Evidently Society did not focus itself until the cool of theevening, in Africa as in India, and evidently this club very closelyresembled a thousand others across the Indian Ocean from Bombay to HongKong, where the Briton congregates in exile. The only difference betweenthis and any “station” club in India appeared to be in the facts that theservants were negroes and the trophies on the walls were different andfiner. Magnificent horns, such as India does not produce, alternatedwith heads of lion and other feral beasts. Later Bertram discoveredanother difference in that the cheery and hospitable denizens of theMombasa Club were, on the whole, a thirstier race than those of theaverage Indian club, and prone to expect and desire an equal thirst inone their guest. He decided that it was merely a matter of climate—aquestion of greater humidity.
Emerging from an airy and spacious upstairs bar-room on to a vastverandah, his breath was taken away by the beauty of the scene that methis eye, a scene whose charm lay chiefly in its colouring, in thewonderful sapphire blue of the strip of sea that lay between the lowcliff, on which the club was built, and the bold headland of the oppositeshore of the mainland, the vivid emerald green of the cocoa-palms thatclothed that same headland, the golden clouds, the snowy white-horsesinto which the wind (which is always found in this spot and nowhere elsein Mombasa) whipped the wavelets of the tide-rip, the mauve-greydistances of the Indian Ocean, with its wine-dark cloud-shadows, thebrown-grey of the hoary fort (built entirely of coral), the rich red oftiled roofs, the vivid splashes of red, orange, yellow and purple fromflowering vine and tree and shrub—a wonderful colour-scheme enhanced andintensified by the dazzling brightness of the sun and the crystalclearness of the limpid, humid air. . . . And in such surroundings Manhad earned the title of “The Island of Blood” for the beautifulplace—and, once again, as in those barbarous far-off days of Arab andPortuguese, the shedding of blood was the burden of his song and the highend and aim of his existence. . . . Bertram sank into a long chair, puthis feet up on the mahogany leg-rests, and slaked the colour-thirst ofhis æsthetic soul with quiet, joyous thankfulness. . . . Beautiful! . . .
What would his father say when he knew that his son was at the Front? . . .
What was Miranda doing? Nursing, probably. . . . What would _she_ saywhen she knew that he was at the Front? . . . Dear old Miranda. . . .
Where had he heard the name, _Stayne-Brooker_, before? _Had_ he dreamedit in a nightmare as a child—or had he heard it mentioned in hushedaccents of grief and horror by the “grown-ups” at Leighcombe Priory? . . .Some newspaper case perhaps. . . . He had certainly heard it before.. . . He closed his eyes. . . .
A woman strolled by with a selection of magazines in her hand, and took achair that commanded a view of his. Presently she noticed him. . . . Anew-comer evidently, or she would have seen him before. . . . What anexceedingly nice face he had—refined, delicate. . . . Involuntarily shecontrasted it with the face of the evil and sensual satyr to whom she wasmarried. . . . She would like to talk to him. . . .
Bertram opened his eyes, and Mrs. Stayne-Brooker became absorbed in thepages of her magazine. . . .
What a beautiful face she had, and _how_ sad and weary she looked . . .drawn and worried and anxious. . . . Had she perhaps a beloved husbandin the fighting-line somewhere? He would like to talk to her—she lookedso kind and so unhappy. . . . A girl, whose face he did not see, cameand called her away. . .