CHAPTER IX

In the Ring

For a full minute silence reigned. The chums had light-heartedly discussed the possibility of the convoy sailing; but now, when the supposition merged into hard fact, they could hardly realize the gravity of the situation.

Mitigating circumstances or otherwise, reduced to rock-bottom level, the three non-coms, had overstayed their leave, and were actually deserters, from a military point of view. It was just possible that they might be sent back under arrest to New Zealand. The thought that they would be done Out of "having a slap at Fritz" almost stunned them.

"Let's get back," said Fortescue, as the grey-hulled vessels grew more and more indistinct in the starlit night. "We'll make for the transport office and report ourselves. If we hadn't taken that fellow's advice and wasted precious time looking for Van what's-his-name we might have caught the tender."

"I wonder whether that fellow in the train was all above board?" said Malcolm. "Now I come to think over the matter it looks rather fishy. And we told him a jolly lot, too. He might be a Boche."

"If he is a Boche, and I run across him, I'll bash him," said Selwyn vehemently.

"Set to, you Diggers!" ordered Fortescue. "Selwyn, you take an oar and relieve Carr. Now, then, you pull while I back."

Under the reverse action of the oars the boat turned towards the shore, then both men pulled their hardest.

"We don't seem to be moving," remarked Malcolm after five minutes had elapsed. "I've been watching those two lights, and they have been in line ever since we turned."

"Perhaps we're aground," suggested Fortescue, and thrusting his oar vertically into the water he sounded. The thirteen-foot oar failed to touch bottom.

"Plenty of water," he reported. "Carr, you must be making a mistake. Now, Selwyn, put your back into it. I've never had such a heavy old tub to pull in all my previous experience."

"We're not gaining an inch," reported Malcolm.

"Current out of the river, most likely," was Selwyn's theory.

For once Fortescue lost his temper.

"Currents, you young jackal!" he exclaimed. "Do you think this is a Bath-bun shop? We are a crowd of jackasses. We never unmoored the boat properly."

The craft was fitted with a short bowsprit, from the end of which a wire shroud or "bobstay" led to a shackle-plate in the stem. When the mooring-buoy had been thrown overboard, the rope had caught between the bobstay and the stem, with the result that for the last hour the three raw amateurs in salt-water seamanship had been simply keeping their craft straining at the end of the buoy-rope.

The tension was broken in a double sense. The mooring-rope was this time properly cast adrift, while the mercurial spirits of the three absentees rose to the occasion.

"We've been a crowd of mugs," declared Selwyn, laughing. "Swotting for an hour or more and fancying we were on the move. Now what's to be done?"

"I suggest that we sleep on board until daybreak," said Fortescue. "No good purpose is served by jogging into Cape Town at this hour of the night. I suppose neither of you thought to bring along any tommy?"

The others had to admit that they were unprovided with food.

"Then tighten your belts, boys," continued Fortescue. "We've been feeding like turkey-cocks; a few hours' fast won't do much harm."

With the first streaks of dawn they ran the boat ashore, secured her with a rope, and set off towards the town. When the transport office opened the three absentees reported themselves, and, after having had a stiff "dressing down" were placed under open arrest.

"One advantage of being a non-com.," remarked Fortescue. "We are lucky not to be in the 'clink'."

"That Tommy officer seems a good sort," declared Malcolm. "As you say, he might have made things hot for us. So we have to cool our heels here until we can proceed with the next draft."

Two days later the three chums received instructions to report on board the _Pomfret Castle_, which was due to sail with a mixed contingent on the following afternoon. The vessel was a Union Castle liner commandeered by the Government. Capable of doing twenty-two knots, compared with the _Pintail's_ seventeen, it was more than likely, U-boats and mines excepted, that the _Pomfret Castle_ would arrive at Plymouth days ahead of the convoy with the New Zealand reinforcements.

Taking no chances this time, Malcolm and his companions went on board a couple of hours before the authorized time. Baggage was still being stowed, while the decks teemed with troops of various nationalities. The bulk consisted of South Africans, mostly veterans of middle age, with a sprinkling of youths; detachments transferred from Mesopotamia to France; and Imperial troops from German South-East Africa. A draft of Maoris, and about twenty Australians who had overstayed their leave at Cape Town, completed the muster.

Instructed by the embarkation officer, the New Zealanders went below to their mess.

"Hallo, here are three Diggers!" exclaimed a strapping Queenslander. "Make them at home, you chaps. Now our mess is quite filled up. By Gum, I don't quite cotton on to those Dutchmen. I'm a believer in Australia for the Australians, and You fellows stand in with that crush."

The speaker introduced himself as Jack Kennedy, quartermaster-sergeant by rank, and sheep-farmer in civilian life. His left hand was in a sling, a strip of surgical plaster embellished his cheek. During his stay at Cape Town he had been forced into a squabble with a crowd of disloyal Cape Dutch. Words led to blows, with the result that three of his opponents were picked up insensible, while Kennedy was taken to the military hospital with a broken wrist and a nasty contusion of the forehead, caused by the nail-shod boot of an eighteen-stone antagonist.

"No kits?" continued Kennedy. "Your chaps went on and left you behind? We were much in the same sort of hole, only Buck-up Miller here knows the ropes. We'll soon see that you are comfortable. How about a pannikin of tea?"

Under the attentions of their new chums Malcolm and his companions soon adapted themselves to present conditions, and before the _Pomfret Castle_ cleared Table Bay the Anzacs felt as if they had known each other for years.

Although the troops on board were going to fight a common foe--a foe that victorious would speedily prove more than a menace to Australia, to United South Africa, and to civilization in general--there was a certain amount of misunderstanding between the Afrikanders and their brothers-in-arms. In spite of the utmost endurance on the part of the Imperial officers, petty squabbles were frequent. The Boers, for instance, were prone to treat the Maoris in a similar manner to the Kaffir "boys". They could not understand how a white man could treat a Maori as an equal, being ignorant of the high moral and physical standard of the latter, that has justly earned the appreciation and admiration of the New Zealand colonists. For their part the Maoris accepted the Afrikanders' remarks with courteous equanimity, but there were others on board who championed them--with no uncertain voice.

Big Kennedy 'was as good as his word, and before nightfall each of the New Zealanders had a full kit, although they wisely refrained from asking questions as to the origin of the source of supplies. Already they were well advanced in the ways of the old campaigner. If they kept rigidly to the codes of civil life they would soon have found themselves very much out in the cold as far as personal comforts were concerned, although on board, in camp, and on active service, it was noticeable that personal property was rightly considered as inviolate.

One of the morning parades had Just ended, and Malcolm was hurrying down the accommodation-ladder to the mess deck when he was brought up sharply by a huge fist tapping him on the centre of his chest. Coming out of the brilliant sunshine to the comparative gloom 'tween decks, young Carr could not at first discern the features of the man who barred his progress.

It was a Maori. The man was grinning broadly, yet he did not say a single word.

"Te Paheka!" exclaimed Malcolm in astonishment. "You here?"

A few months previously, when Malcolm saw Te Paheka vanishing round a corner as he drove juggernaut at a furious rate, the lad had come to the conclusion that he had seen the last of his Maori friend for many a long day. And now, by one of the vagaries of fate, Te Paheka was on board the _Pomfret Castle_, rigged out in khaki, and bound for the goal of freedom--the Western Front.

"Yes, I came along," explained Te Paheka. "Since you added a few years to your age I thought I would make a corresponding reduction in mine. Things were a bit dull. You heard about the car? Selwyn told you, then? I've cleared out. Sold every acre of land that I could legally dispose of. The rest the paternal Government prevents me getting rid of; but it's let, so I think I'm good for about four hundred a year. By the time I return--if I ever do see Wairakato again--I'll have enough to buy the out-and-out top-hole racing car in New Zealand."

Just then four men hurried along the alley-way. By the letters S.A.H.A. on their shoulder-straps, Malcolm knew that they belonged to the South African Heavy Artillery. As the foremost passed by he deliberately lurched against Te Paheka.

"Out of my way, Zwartnek!" he shouted, adding something in _Taal_ which, fortunately for him, neither Malcolm nor the Maori understood.

As the last of the four men passed, Malcolm, seething with indignation, caught a glimpse of his features.

"Dash it all!" he soliloquized. "Where have I seen that fellow before?"

Te Paheka took no notice of the insult.

"I would have told that fellow to _impshie_ pretty sharp if I'd been you, Te Paheka," observed the lad.

The Maori shrugged his broad shoulders.

"Manners, Malcolm, or the lack of them," he remarked. "This evening I hope to teach him a lesson. There's a boxing-match fixed up, and I hear that this fellow is the champion of his battery. I'll do my best to take him down a peg."

The two men separated, Te Paheka going to his mess, while Malcolm made his way to his quarters, where he informed Selwyn of his chance meeting with the Maori.

"And," he added, "although I'm not absolutely sure about it, I have an idea that the blighter who let us down on the train from Muizenberg is on board."

"A transport officer?" enquired Fortescue.

"No; in khaki--an Afrikander artilleryman."

Fortescue whistled softly.

"Sure?" he asked.

"No, I said I wasn't," declared Malcolm. "I only caught sight of him as he passed. The blighter looked a bit sheepish, and didn't want to catch my eye."

"Golly!" ejaculated Selwyn. "That's fishy! We'll keep a look-out for him. Wonder if he'll put in an appearance at the boxing-match?"

"We will, in any case," observed Kennedy. "All our boys will be there to give your Maori chum a buck up. I'll pass the word to some of the Tommy soldiers. They're good sports, and will shout with the rest of us."

With the laudable intention of keeping the men's minds fully occupied during the hours of leisure, the officers had arranged for the boxing-tournament at an early stage of the voyage. The contests were to take place on the promenade deck, a space having been roped off and seats provided for the officers. Every other available part of the deck which would command a view of the "ring" was packed. Men were clustered like flies in the boats on the boat deck, others swarmed up the shrouds, to the choleric but ineffectual protests of the ship's officers.

Several pairs of sparring-men having displayed their prowess and received indiscriminate praise and rebuffs from their respective supporters, the event of the evening was announced.

Gunner Jan van Eindhovengen was open to engage upon a ten-round contest with any non-commissioned officer or man amongst the troops on board.

Amidst the vociferous shouts of "Oom Jan" from his compatriots, the Afrikander stepped into the ring. Stripped to the waist, his huge bulk, bull neck, and massive limbs showed to their fullest advantage. Across his chest and back the muscles stood out like knots on a gnarled oak. His arms were as thick as the thigh of an ordinary man, while his seconds had considerable difficulty in placing the gloves on his enormous hands. With a supercilious and self-confident smile he folded his arms across his chest and surveyed the dense crowd of spectators.

Having summed up the formidable champion, Malcolm directed his attention towards the group of men from which van Eindhovengen had just emerged. From the other side of the ring the lad scanned the faces of the Afrikander's comrades, but Without the desired result. In vain he looked for the man who, he felt confident, was the selfsame individual they had met on the Muizenberg train.

"A freak of the imagination, I suppose," decided the lad, whereupon he devoted his attention to the events in the ring.

A counter-blast of cheering announced the appearance of a challenger--Sergeant Smithers, of the 2nd Battalion West Othershires. The Sergeant was the best boxer of his regiment, but he had forgotten that a protracted sojourn in the reputed site of the Garden of Eden--where a boundless expanse of glaring sand, a total absence of verdure, millions of tormenting flies, and a meagre menu consisting chiefly of bully beef and tepid water, are the outstanding characteristics--is apt to undermine one's physical condition.

Severely punished, Sergeant Smithers held out for five rounds, while the gigantic Jan, disdaining the services of his seconds, grimly eyed the circle of spectators in the hope of meeting another antagonist.

Softly, then gradually increasing in volume until it rose to a tremendous roar, the Maori war-song greeted the appearance of Te Paheka. In wonderment, for, with few exceptions, none of the other troops had heard the chant-like chorus before, the white men relapsed into silence. For the moment all attention was shifted from van Eindhovengen to the new challenger.

Although middle-aged, Te Paheka displayed the figure of an athlete. His well-developed muscles rippled under his olivine skin. They lacked the gnarled appearance of those of his antagonist, but their easy, rhythmic undulations contrasted favourably with the jerky, bombastic movements of the Afrikander's muscles and sinews. In height van Eindhovengen exceeded him by two inches, and was a good two stone heavier. Standing alone, Te Paheka would have been regarded as a huge man. Confronting the artilleryman, he looked no more than of medium height and build.

Clad in a pair of shorts of a vivid orange hue--for Te Paheka shared with the rest of the Maoris a love of brilliant colour--and with a silk red ensign emblazoned with the New Zealand stars round his waist, Te Paheka grinned amicably at the Afrikander. The Maori's bare chest and back were covered with elaborate tattooing, but, according to modern custom, his face was unmarked.

"Allemachte!" exclaimed one of van Eindhovengen's supporters. "He is not nearly so big as Oom Jan. Oom Jan will wipe the floor with him."

"The presumptuous nigger!" said another. "He does not know Oom Jan!"

Even Malcolm felt doubtful concerning Te Paheka's chances. He knew the Maori to be a good boxer, as most natives are, but age, if only ten or fifteen years, together with inferior reach and weight, must assuredly handicap Te Paheka considerably. The two men advanced and shook hands, van Eindhovengen with obvious disdain, Te Paheka as naturally as the gentleman he was.

"Take your corners, men!"

Round No. 1 commenced. The Afrikander, confident of knocking out his opponent quickly and completely, led off with a tremendous blow with his left. Had the glove hit its mark Te Paheka would have been shot over the ropes like a stone from a catapult. Stepping smartly back a couple Of paces, he allowed the blow to fall on empty air.

"Jehoshaphat!" ejaculated Kennedy. "Why didn't the Maori take advantage of it? The Dutchy nearly overbalanced himself with the force of his blow."

Malcolm, to whom the remark was addressed, made no reply beyond a confident nod. Already he was tumbling to Te Paheka's tactics. The Maori was fighting a rear-guard action hoping that his staying powers and agility were greater than those of his ponderous opponent.

Round and round the ring the two men went, until the South Africans yelled to their man to hurry up and the Anzacs began to mutter impatiently.

Thud! Te Paheka had got one home on the face of the Afrikander. Outwardly it had little or no effect upon Jan's rugged figurehead.

The Maoris yelled with delight, but the next instant their hopes were dashed to the ground as Te Paheka, incautiously attempting to follow up his advantage, laid himself open to a terrific blow from the Afrikander's right. With a dull crash he landed heavily on the sanded floor.

Over him stood van Eindhovengen, ready to strike him down should he attempt to rise. The cool, deliberate voice of the timekeeper calling off the fateful ten seconds silenced all other sounds of approbation or encouragement to the fallen man. In the intervals between the numbers one could have heard a pin drop. For the first time since the tournament started could be heard the plash of the waves against the ship's sides and the gentle moan of the wind through the rigging.

Seven--eight--nine!

The Afrikander struck--but struck emptiness--where Te Paheka had been a fraction of a second before. With an agility so rapid that the spectators had not time to grasp its significance, the Maori regained his feet, dealt a numbing blow upon the biceps of his antagonist, and was off to the opposite corner of the ring.

Before the boxers could engage again "Time" sounded.

Te Paheka was glad of the respite. It was also remarked that Jan did not scorn the attentions of his second. A dull mark on the upper part of his brawny right arm promised trouble to him in the near future.

During the second round the Maori kept strictly on the defensive, while van Eindhovengen tired himself considerably in making blind and ineffectual rushes at his nimble opponent. His supporters no longer yelled to him to "hurry up and knock the black out", while the Maoris sung their choruses again and again every time Jan failed to drive Te Paheka over the ropes.

The third round was a slow one. The Afrikander, realizing that he was fatiguing himself with futile efforts, adopted semi-defensive tactics, in the hope that the Maori would close. It was not until the close of time that the latter succeeded in getting home a "body punch", which did not improve Jan's temper.

"Do something this time, you chaps!" shouted a Tommy as the men faced each other for the fourth round. "You're supposed to be sparring, not going in for a waltzing race."

"By Jove, he's cornered!" exclaimed Fortescue, as Te Paheka, stepping back to avoid a left-hander, came in contact with the ropes.

The Afrikander's glove rasped the Maori's ribs. So violent was the effort that again Jan was on the point of overbalancing. This time Te Paheka followed up the advantage. An upper cut caught van Eindhovengen full on the point of his chin, while almost simultaneously the Maori drove home a resounding blow on the Afrikander's solar plexus.

Down like a felled ox the huge South African dropped. In silence the spectators heard the fateful ten seconds called, then a vociferous cheer from Afrikanders, Anzacs, and Maoris alike greeted the victor. For that instant the sporting instincts of the men triumphed over racial prejudices, and for the rest of the voyage--and after--the Maoris and Afrikanders "hit it off" splendidly.