Cupid in Africa Part 34

"Does the man know English then?" asked the perturbed and undecided Bertram.

"Yessah-all the same better as I do," was the reply. "And he pretending to be poor _shenzi_ porter. He knowing _Germani_ too. . . ."

At any rate, he might look into _this_, and if anything suspicious transpired, he could at least prevent Desmont from leaving before Mallery returned.

"Has he seen you?" asked Bertram.

"No, sah, nor has Desmont _Bwana_," was the reply-and Bertram bade Ali show him where the porters were.

They were outside the _boma_, squatting round a cooking-fire near the "lines" of the Kavirondo porters.

Approaching the little group, Bertram drew his revolver and held it behind him. He did not know why he did this. Possibly subconscious memory of Ali's advice, perhaps with the expectation that the men might attack him or attempt to escape; or perhaps a little pleasant touch of melodrama. . . .

"_Jambo_, _Murad ibn Mustapha_!" he said suddenly. "_Desmont Bwana wants you at once_. _Go quickly_."

A man arose immediately and approached him. "Go back and sit down," said Bertram, covering the man with his revolver and speaking in German. He returned and sat down. Evidently he understood English and German and answered to the name of Murad ibn Mustapha! . . .

Ali had spoken the truth and it was now up to Bertram Greene to act wisely, promptly and firmly. This lot should be kept under arrest anyhow. But might not all this be part of Desmont's game as a scout, spy and secret service agent of the British Intelligence Department. Yes, _or_ of the German Intelligence Department.

If there was a German uniform in one of the chop-boxes, it might well be a disguise for him to wear in German East. Or it might be his real dress. Anyhow-he shouldn't leave the outpost until Major Mallery returned. .

. . And that was a weak shelving of responsibility. He was in command of the post, and Major Mallery and the other officers with him might be scuppered. It was quite possible that neither the Major's party nor Captain Wavell's might ever get back to Butindi. He strolled over to his _banda_ and looked in.

Desmont was evidently suffering from digestive troubles or a bad conscience, for his face was contorted, he moved restlessly and ground his teeth.

Suddenly he screamed like a woman and cried:

"_Ach_! _Gott in Himmel_! _Nein_, _Nein_! _Ich_ . . ."

Bertram drew his revolver. The man was a German. Englishmen don't talk German in their sleep.

The alleged Desmont moaned.

"_Zu mude_," he said. "_Zu mude_." . . .

Bertram sat down on his camp-stool and watched the man.

The Herr Doktor Karl Stein-Brucker had made a name for himself in German East, as one who knew how to manage the native. This in a country where they all pride themselves on knowing how to manage the native-how to put the fear of Frightfulness and _Kultur_ into his heart. He had once given a great increase to a growing reputation by flogging a woman to death, on suspicion of unfaithfulness. He had wielded the _kiboko_ with his own (literally) red right hand until he was aweary, and had then pa.s.sed the job on to Murad ibn Mustapha, who was very slow to tire. But even he had had to be kept to it at last. . . .

"_Noch nichte_!" had the Herr Doktor said, "_Not yet_!" as Murad wished to stop, and

"_Ganz klein wenig_!" as the brawny arm dropped. "_Just a little more_."

It had been a notable and memorable punishment-but the devil of it was that whenever the Herr Doktor got run down or over-ate himself, he had a most terrible nightmare, wherein Marayam, streaming with blood, pursued him, caught him, and flogged him. And when she tired, he was doomed to urge her on to further efforts. After screaming with agony, he must moan "_Zu mude_! _Zu mude_!" and then-when she would have stopped-"_Noch nichte_!" and "_Ganz klein wenig_!" so that she began afresh. Then he must struggle, break free, leap at her-and find himself sweating, weeping and trembling beside his bed.

Presently the moaning sleeper cried "_Noch nichte_!" and a little later "_Ganz klein wenig_!"-and then with a scream and a struggle, leapt from the camp cot and sprang at Bertram, whose revolver straightway went off.

With a cough and a gurgle the _soi-disant_ Desmont collapsed with a 450 service bullet through his heart.

When Major Mallery returned at dawn he found a delirious Second-Lieutenant Greene (and a dead European, and a wonderful tale from one Ali Suleiman. . . .)

With a temperature of 1058 he did not seem likely to live. . . .

Whether Bertram Greene lived or died, however, he had, albeit ignorantly, avenged the cruel wrong done to his father. . . . He-the despised and rejected one-had avenged Major Hugh Walsingham Greene. Fate plays some queer tricks and Time's whirligig performs some quaint gyrations!

PART III THE BAKING OF BERTRAM BY LOVE

CHAPTER I _Mrs. Stayne-Brooker Again_

Luckily for himself, Second-Lieutenant Bertram Greene was quite unconscious when he was lifted from his camp-bed into a stretcher by the myrmidons of Mr. Chatterji and dispatched, carriage paid, to M'paga.

What might happen to him there was no concern of Mr. Chatterji's-which was the important point so far as that gentleman was concerned.

Unconscious he remained as the four Kavirondo porters, the stretcher on their heads, jogged along the jungle path in the wake of Ali and the three other porters who bore his baggage. Behind the stretcher-bearers trotted four more of their brethren who would relieve them of their burden at regular intervals.

Ali was in command, and was also in a hurry, for various reasons, including prowling enemy patrols and his master's dire need of help. He accordingly set a good pace and kept the "low n.i.g.g.e.rs" of his party to it by fabulous promises, hideous threats, and even more by the charm of song-part song in fact. Lifting up his powerful voice he delivered in deep diapason a mighty

"_Ah-Nah-Nee-Nee_! _Ah-Nah-Nee-Nee_!"

to which all the congregation responded

"_Umba Jo-eel_! _Umba Jo-eel_"

as is meet and right to do.

And when, after a few hundred thousand repet.i.tions of this, in strophe and antistrophe, there seemed a possibility that restless and volatile minds desiring change might seek some new thing, Ali sang

"_Hay-Ah-Mon-Nee_! _Hay-Ah-Mon-Nee_!"

which is quite different, and the jogging, sweating congregation, with deep earnestness and conviction, took up the response:

"_Tunk-Tunk-Tunk-Tunk_!"

and all fear of the boredom of monotony was gone-especially as, after a couple of hours of this, you could go back to the former soulful and heartsome Threnody, and begin again. But if they got no forrader with the concert they steadily got forrader with the journey, as their loping jog-trot ate up the miles.

And, in time to their regular foot-fall and chanting, the insensible head of the white man rolled from side to side unceasingly. . . .

Unconscious he still was when the little party entered the Base Camp, and Private Henry Hall remarked to Private John Jones:

"That there bloke's gone West all right but 'e ain't gone long. . . .

You can see 'e's dead becos 'is 'ead's a waggling and you can see 'e ain't bin dead _long_ becos 'is 'ead's a waggling. . . ."

And Private John Jones, addressing the speaker as Mister Bloomin'-Well Sherlock 'Olmes, desired that he would cease to chew the fat.