Cupid in Africa Part 8

This was a welcome offer, for, privately, he hated being taken ash.o.r.e from a s.h.i.+p by natives of the harbour in which the s.h.i.+p lay. One never knew 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 sense and gave them what seemed a reasonable sum they were inevitably hurt, shocked, disappointed in one, indignantly broken-hearted, and invariably waxed clamorous, protestful, demanding more. It had been the same at Malta, Port Said and Aden on his way out to India. In Bombay harbour he had 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 a two-hour sail. A pound for two hours in a cranky sailing-boat!-and the scoundrels had followed him up the steps clamouring vociferously, until a native policeman had fallen upon them with blows and curses. . . . How he wished he was of those men who can give such people their due in such a manner that they receive it in respectful silence, with apparent contentment, if not grat.i.tude. Something in the eye and the set of the jaw, evidently-and so was glad of the fourth officer's kind suggestion.

He would have been still more glad had he heard the fourth officer announce, 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-no blooming sw.a.n.k and side about him."

"Yes," agreed the "wireless" operator, "he doesn't talk to you as though he owned the earth, but was really quite pleased to let you stand on it for a bit. . . . I reckon he'll do all right, though, when he gets-down-to-it with the Huns-if he doesn't get done in. . . ."

And so it came to pa.s.s that Bertram was taken ash.o.r.e that afternoon by some half-dozen officers and officials (including the doctor, the purser, and the Marconi operator) of the _Elymas_-worthy representatives of that ill-paid, little-considered service, that most glorious and beyond-praise, magnificent service, the British Mercantile Marine-and, landing in state upon the soil of the Dark Continent, knew "the pleasure that touches the souls of men landing on strange sh.o.r.es."

Arrived at the top of the stone steps of the Kilindini quay, Bertram encountered Africa in the appropriately representative person of a vast negro gentleman, who wore a red fez cap (or tarboosh), a very long white calico night-dress and an all-embracing smile.

"_Jambo_!" quoth the huge Ethiopian, and further stretched his lips an inch 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 that effect, Bertram did not counter with a return "_Jambo_," but nodded pleasantly and said: "Er-good afternoon."

Whereupon the ebon one remarked: "Oh, my G.o.d, sah, ole chap, thank you,"

to show, in the first place, that he quite realised the situation (to wit, Bertram's excusable ignorance of Swahili-Arabic), and that he was himself, fortunately, a fluent English scholar. Bertram stared in amazement 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 h.e.l.l, sah, please.

Waiting here for _Bwana_ before long time to come. Good afternoon, thank you, please, Master, by d.a.m.n, ole chap. Also bringing letter for _Bwana_. . . . You read, thanks awfully, your mos' obedient servant by d.a.m.n, oh, G.o.d, thank you, sah," and produced a filthy envelope from some inner pocket of the aforementioned night-dress, which, innocent of b.u.t.tons or tr.i.m.m.i.n.g, revealed his tremendous bare chest.

Bertram felt uncomfortable, and, for a moment, again wished that he was one 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 to fade un.o.btrusively away.

On the one hand, he knew it would be folly to engage as a servant the first wandering scoundrel who accosted him and suggested that he should do so; while, on the other, he distinctly liked this man's cheery, smiling face, he realised that servants would probably be at a decided premium, and he recognised the extreme desirability of having a servant, if have one he must, who spoke English, however weird, and understood it when spoken. Should he engage the man then and there? Would he, by so doing, show himself a man of quick decision and prompt action-one of those forceful, incisive men he so admired? Or would he merely be acting foolishly and prematurely, merely exhibiting himself as a rash and unbalanced young a.s.s? Anyhow, he would read the "chits" which the filthy envelope presumably contained. If these were satisfactory, he would tell the man that the matter was under consideration, and that he might look out for him again and hear his decision.

As Bertram surmised, the envelope contained the man's "chits," or testimonials. The first stated that Ali Sloper, the bearer, had been on _safari_ with the writer, and had proved to be a good plain cook, a reliable and courageous gun-carrier, a good shot, and an honest, willing worker. The second was written by a woman whose house-boy Ali Suleiman had been for two years in Mombasa, and who stated that she had had worse ones. The third and last was written at the Nairobi Club by a globe-trotting Englishman named Stayne-Brooker, who had employed the man as personal "boy" and headman of porters, on a protracted lion-shooting trip across the Athi and Kapiti Plains and found him intelligent, keen, cheery, and staunch. (_Where had he heard the name Stayne-Brooker before-or had he dreamed it as a child_?) Certainly this fellow was well-recommended, and appeared to be just the man to take as one's personal servant on active service. But _did_ one take a servant on active service? One could not stir, or exist, without one in India, and officers took syces and servants with them on frontier campaigns-but Africa is not India. . . . However, he could soon settle that point by asking.

"I'll think about it," he said, returning the chits. "I shall be coming ash.o.r.e again to-morrow. . . . How much pay do you want?"

"Oh, sah! Master not mentioning it!" was the reply of this remarkable person. "Oh, nothing, nothing, sah! _Bwana_ offering me forty rupees a mensem, 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, G.o.d, sah, thank you, please," replied Ali Sloper, _alias_ Ali Suleiman. "I do not wanting forty. I am accepting thirty rupees, sah, and am now your mos' obedient servant by d.a.m.n from the beginning for ever. And when _Bwana_, loving me still more, can pay more, ole chap.

G.o.d bless my thank-you soul"-and "fell in" behind Bertram as though prepared 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 of which were occupied by the largest corrugated-iron sheds he had ever seen in his life. One of these appeared to be the Customs shed, and into another a railway wandered. Between two of them, great gates let a white sandy road escape into the Unknown. On the stone quay the heat, shut in and radiated by towering iron sheds, was the greatest he had ever experienced, and he gasped for breath and trickled with perspiration. He devoutly hoped that this was not a fair sample of Africa's normal temperature. Doubtless it would be cooler away from the quay, which, with the iron sheds, seemed to form a t.i.tanic oven for the quick and thorough baking of human beings. It being Sunday afternoon, there were but few such, and those few appeared to be thoroughly enjoying the roasting process, if one might judge from their grinning faces and happy laughter. They were all Africans, and, for the most part, clad in long, clean night-dresses and fez caps. Evidently Ali Sloper or Suleiman was dressed in the height of local fas.h.i.+on. On a bench, by the door of the Customs shed, lounged some big negroes in dark blue tunics and shorts, with blue puttees between bare knees and bare feet. Their tall tarbooshes made them look even taller than they were, and the big bra.s.s plates on their belt-buckles shone like gold. Bertram wondered whether the Germans had just such brawny giants in their Imperial African Rifles, and tried to imagine himself defeating one of them in single combat. The effort was a failure.

At the gates was a very different type of person, smarter, quicker, more active and intelligent-looking, a Sikh Sepoy of the local military police. The man sprang to attention and saluted with a soldierly promptness and smartness that were a pleasure to behold.

Outside the dock, the heat was not quite so intense, but the white sandy road, running between high gra.s.s and palms, also ran uphill, and, as the perspiration ran down his face, Bertram wished he might discover the vilest, most ramshackle and moth-eaten _tikka-ghari_ that ever disgraced the streets of Bombay. That the hope was vain he knew, and that in all the island of Mombasa there is no single beast of burden, thanks to the tsetse 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 of which he had heard? If he had to walk much farther up this hill, his uniform would look as though he had swum ash.o.r.e in it.

"Master buck up like h.e.l.l, ole chap, thank you," boomed a voice behind.

"Trolley as nearer as be d.a.m.ned please. n.i.g.g.e.rs make push by Jove to Club, thank G.o.d," and turning, Bertram beheld the smiling Ali beaming down upon him as he strolled immediately behind him.

"Go away, you a.s.s," replied the hot and irritated Bertram, only to receive an even broader smile and the a.s.surance that his faithful old servant would never desert him-not after having been his devoted slave since so long a time ago before and for ever more after also. And a minute or two later the weary warfarer came in sight of a very narrow, single tram-line, beside the road. Where this abruptly ended stood a couple of strange vehicles, like small, low railway-trolleys, with wheels the size of dinner-plates. On each trolley was a seat of sufficient length to accommodate two people, and above the bench was a canvas roof or shade, supported by iron rods. From a neighbouring bench sprang four men, also clad in night-dresses and fez caps, who, with strange howls and gesticulations, bore down upon the approaching European.

"_Hapa_, {66} _Bwana_!" they yelled. "_Trolley hapa_," and, for a moment, Bertram thought they would actually seize him and struggle for possession of his body. He determined that if one of the shrieking fiends laid a hand upon him, he would smite him with what violence he might. The heat was certainly affecting his temper. He wondered what it would 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 trolleys and skipped back to them, still pointing, and apparently calling Heaven to witness their subtle excellences and charms.

As Bertram was about to step on to the foremost trolley, the men in charge of the other sprang forward with yelps of anguish, only to receive cause for louder yelps of deeper anguish at the hands of Ali, who, with blows and buffets, drove them before him. Bertram wondered why the pair of them, each as big as their a.s.sailant, should flee before him thus.

Was it by reason of Ali's greater moral force, juster cause, superior social standing as the follower of a white man, or merely the fact that he took it upon him to be the aggressor. Probably the last.

Anyhow-thank Heaven for the gloriously cool and refres.h.i.+ng breeze, caused by the rapid rush of the trolley through the heavy air, as the trolley-"boys" ran it down the decline from the hill-top whence they had started.

As soon as the trolley had gained sufficient momentum, they leapt on to the back of the vehicle, and there clung until it began to slow down again. Up-hill they slowly pushed with terrific grunts, on the level they maintained a good speed, and down-hill the thing rattled, b.u.mped and bounded at a terrific pace, the while Bertram wondered how long it would keep the rails, and precisely what would happen if it jumped them. Had he but known it, there was a foot-brake beneath the seat, which he should have used when going down-hill. 'Twas not for the two specimens of Afric's ebon sons, who perched and clung behind him, to draw his attention to it. Was he not a _Bwana_, a white man, and therefore one who knew all things? And if he wanted to break his neck had he not a right so to do? And if they, too, should be involved in the mighty smash, would not that fact prove quite conclusively that it was their _kismet_ to be involved in the smash, and therefore inevitable? Who shall avoid his fate? . . . And so, in blissful ignorance, Bertram swooped down-hill in joyous, mad career. He wished the pace were slower at 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, and papai 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 a belt-plate as big as a saucer (and bearing some such legend as _Harbour Police_ or _Civil Hospital_), a tall Swahili in the inevitable long night-dress and tarboosh, or a beautifully worked skull cap, a file of native women clad each in a single garment of figured cotton which extended from arm-pit to ankle, leaving the arms and shoulders bare. The hairdressing of these ladies interested Bertram, for each head displayed not 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 a brief pigtail bound with wire. Bertram wondered why these women always walked one behind the other in single file, and decided that it was an inherited and unconscious instinct implanted by a few thousand years of use of narrow jungle-paths from which they dared not stray as the armed men-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 was pouring. The scene was a very Indian one-the women, with their dusky faces and long muslin veils worn _sari_-fas.h.i.+on over their European dresses of cotton or satin; the men, with their rusty black suits or cotton coats and trousers and European hats or solar _topis_. One very venerable gentleman, whose ancestors certainly numbered more Africans than Portuguese, wore a golfing suit (complete, except for the stockings), huge hob-nailed boots, and an over-small straw-yard with a gay ribbon. A fine upstanding specimen of the race, obviously the idol of his young wife, who walked beside him with her adoring gaze fixed upon his s.h.i.+ning face, began well with an authentic silk hat, continued excellently with a swallow-tailed morning-coat, white waistcoat, high collar and black satin tie, but fell away from these high achievements with a pair of tight short flannel tennis-trousers, grey Army socks, and white canvas shoes.

"An idol with feet of pipe-clay," smiled Bertram to himself, as his chariot 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 it from garden-enclosed bungalows and side turnings. Later he discovered that every private house has its own private tram-line running from its front 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, as elsewhere one keeps one's own carriage or motor-car.

On, past the Grand Hotel, a stucco building of two storeys, went the rumbling, rattling vehicle, past a fine public garden and blindingly white stucco houses that lined the blindingly white coral road, across a public square adorned with flowering shrubs and trees, to where arose a vast grey pile, the ancient blood-drenched Portuguese fort, and a narrow-streeted, whitewashed town of tall houses and low shops began.

Here the trolley-boys halted, and Bertram found himself at the entrance of the garden of the Mombasa Club, which nestles in the shadow of its mighty neighbour, the Fort-where once resided the Portuguese Governor and the garrison that defied the Arab and kept "the Island of Blood" for Portugal, and where now reside the Prison Governor and the convicts that include the Arab, and keep the public gardens for the public.

Boldly entering the Club, Bertram left his card on the Secretary and Members (otherwise stuck it on a green-baize board devoted to that purpose), and commenced a tour of inspection of the almost empty building. Evidently Society did not focus itself until the cool of the evening, in Africa as in India, and evidently this club very closely resembled a thousand others across the Indian Ocean from Bombay to Hong Kong, where the Briton congregates in exile. The only difference between this and any "station" club in India appeared to be in the facts that the servants were negroes and the trophies on the walls were different and finer. Magnificent horns, such as India does not produce, alternated with heads of lion and other feral beasts. Later Bertram discovered another difference in that the cheery and hospitable denizens of the Mombasa Club were, on the whole, a thirstier race than those of the average Indian club, and p.r.o.ne to expect and desire an equal thirst in one their guest. He decided that it was merely a matter of climate-a question of greater humidity.

Emerging from an airy and s.p.a.cious upstairs bar-room on to a vast verandah, his breath was taken away by the beauty of the scene that met his eye, a scene whose charm lay chiefly in its colouring, in the wonderful sapphire blue of the strip of sea that lay between the low cliff, on which the club was built, and the bold headland of the opposite sh.o.r.e of the mainland, the vivid emerald green of the cocoa-palms that clothed that same headland, the golden clouds, the snowy white-horses into which the wind (which is always found in this spot and nowhere else in Mombasa) whipped the wavelets of the tide-rip, the mauve-grey distances of the Indian Ocean, with its wine-dark cloud-shadows, the brown-grey of the h.o.a.ry fort (built entirely of coral), the rich red of tiled roofs, the vivid splashes of red, orange, yellow and purple from flowering vine and tree and shrub-a wonderful colour-scheme enhanced and intensified by the dazzling brightness of the sun and the crystal clearness of the limpid, humid air. . . . And in such surroundings Man had earned the t.i.tle of "The Island of Blood" for the beautiful place-and, once again, as in those barbarous far-off days of Arab and Portuguese, the shedding of blood was the burden of his song and the high end and aim of his existence. . . . Bertram sank into a long chair, put his feet up on the mahogany leg-rests, and slaked the colour-thirst of his aesthetic 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_ say when she knew that he was at the Front? . . . Dear old Miranda. . . .

Where had he heard the name, _Stayne-Brooker_, before? _Had_ he dreamed it in a nightmare as a child-or had he heard it mentioned in hushed accents 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 a chair that commanded a view of his. Presently she noticed him. . . . A new-comer evidently, or she would have seen him before. . . . What an exceedingly nice face he had-refined, delicate. . . . Involuntarily she contrasted it with the face of the evil and sensual satyr to whom she was married. . . . She would like to talk to him. . . .

Bertram opened his eyes, and Mrs. Stayne-Brooker became absorbed in the pages 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 husband in the fighting-line somewhere? He would like to talk to her-she looked so kind and so unhappy. . . . A girl, whose face he did not see, came and called her away. . .

CHAPTER VII _The Mombasa Club_

As Bertram lay drinking in the beauty of the scene, the Club began to fill, and more particularly that part of it devoted to the dispensation and consumption of a.s.sorted alcoholic beverages. Almost everybody was in uniform, the majority in that of the Indian Army (as there was a large base camp of the Indian Expeditionary Force at Kilindini), and the remainder in those of British regiments, the Navy, the Royal Indian Marine, the Royal Engineers, the Royal Army Medical Corps, Artillery, local Volunteer Corps, and the "Legion of Frontiersmen." A few ladies adorned the lawn and verandahs. Two large and weather-beaten but unascetic-looking men of middle age sat them down in chairs which stood near to that of Bertram. They were clad in khaki tunics, shorts and puttees, and bore the legend "C.C." in letters of bra.s.s on each shoulder-strap.

"Hullo!" said the taller of them to Bertram, who was wondering what "C.C." might mean. "Just come ash.o.r.e from the _Elymas_? Have a drink?"

"Yes," replied he; "just landed. . . . Thanks-may I have a lime-squash?"