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 assorted 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 brass on each shoulder-strap.

“Hullo!” said the taller of them to Bertram, who was wondering what “C.C.” might mean. “Just come ashore from the _Elymas_? Have a drink?”

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

“What the devil’s that?” asked the other, and both men regarded him seriously and with a kind of shocked interest. “Never heard of it.”

“Don’t think they keep it here,” put in the shorter of the two men. “How d’you make it?”

“Lemon-juice, soda-water, and sugar,” replied Bertram, and felt that he was blushing in a childish and absurd manner.

Both men shook their heads, more in sorrow than in anger. They looked at each other, as might two physicians at the bedside of one whose folly has brought him to a parlous pass.

“Quite new to Africa?” enquired the taller.

“Yes. Quite,” confessed Bertram.

“Ah! Well, let me give you a word of advice then,” continued the man. “_Don’t touch dangerous drinks_. Avoid all harmful liquor as you would poison. It is poison, in this climate. Drink is the curse of Africa. It makes the place the White Man’s Grave. You can’t be too careful. . . . Can you, Piggy?” he added, turning to his friend.

“Quite right, Bill,” replied “Piggy,” as he rang a little bell that stood on a neighbouring table. “Let’s have a ‘Devil’s Own’ cocktail and then some beer for a start, shall we? . . . No—can’t be too careful. . . . Look at me f’r example. Been in the country quarter of a century, an’ never exceeded once! Never _tasted_ it, in fact.”

“What—alcohol?” enquired Bertram.

“No. . . . I was talking about harmful liquor,” replied Piggy patiently. “Things like—_what_ did you call it? . . . Chalk-squash?”

“Lime-squash,” admitted Bertram with another glowing blush.

“Give it up, Sonny, give it up,” put in Bill. “Turn over a new leaf and start afresh. Make up your mind that, Heaven helping you, you’ll never touch a drop of the accursed poison again, but forswear slops and live cleanly; totally abstaining from—what is it?—soda-crunch?—fruit-juice, ginger-beer, lemonade, toast-water, barley-water, dirty-water, raspberryade, and all such filthy decoctions and inventions. . . .”

“Yes—give the country a chance,” interrupted Piggy. “Climate’s all right if you’ll take reasonable care and live moderately,” and he impatiently rang the little bell again. “’Course, if you _want_ to be ill and come to an early and dishonourable grave, drink all the rot-gut you can lay hands on—and break your mother’s heart. . . .”

Piggy lay back in his chair and gazed pensively at the ceiling. So did Bill. Bertram felt uncomfortable. “Dear, dear, dear!” murmured Bill, between a sigh and a grunt. “Chalk-powder and lemonade! . . . what a nerve! . . . Patient, unrecognised, unrewarded heroism. . . .”

“Merciful Heaven,” whispered Piggy, “slaked-lime and ginger-beer! . . What rash, waste courage and futile bravery. . . .” And suddenly leapt to his feet, swung the bell like a railway porter announcing the advent of a train, and roared “_Boy_!” until a white-clad, white-capped Swahili servant came running.

“_N’jo_, Boy!” he shouted. “Come here! . . . Lot of lazy, fat _n’gombe_. {72a} . . . Three ‘Devil’s Own’ cocktails, _late hapa_,” {72b} and as, with a humble “_Verna_, _Bwana_,” the servant hurried to the bar, grumbling.

“And now he’ll sit and have a _shauri_ {72c} with his pals, while we die of thirst in this accursed land of sin and sorrow. . . . Beastly _shenzis_. {72d} . . .”

“You don’t like Africa?” said Bertram, for the sake of something to say.

“Finest country on God’s earth. . . . The _only_ country,” was the prompt reply.

“I suppose the negro doesn’t make a very good servant?” Bertram continued, as Piggy rumbled on in denunciation.

“Finest servants in the world,” answered that gentleman. “The _only_ servants, in fact. . . .”

“Should I take one with me on active service?” asked Bertram, suddenly remembering Ali Suleiman, _alias_ Sloper.

“If you can get one,” was the reply. “You’ll be lucky if you can. . . . All snapped up by the officers of the Expeditionary Force, long ago.”

“Yes,” agreed Bill. “Make all the difference to your comfort if you can get one. Don’t take any but a Swahili, though. . . . You can depend on ’em, in a tight place. The good ones, that is. . . .”

A big, fat, clean-shaven man, dressed in white drill, strolled up to the little group. He reminded Bertram of the portraits of Mr. William Jennings Bryan who had recently visited India, and in three days unhesitatingly given his verdict on the situation, his solution of all political difficulties, and his opinion of the effete Britisher—uttering the final condemnation of that decadent.

“Hello! Hiram Silas P. Pocahantas of Pah,” remarked Piggy, with delicate pleasantry, and the big man nodded, smiled, and drew up a chair.

“The drinks are on me, boys,” quoth he. “Set ’em up,” and bursting into song, more or less tunefully, announced—

“I didn’t raise my boy to be a soldier,”

whereat Bill hazarded the opinion that the day might unexpectedly and ruddily dawn when he’d blooming well wish he bally well _had_, and that he could join them in a cocktail if he liked—or he could bung off if he didn’t. Apparently William disapproved of the American’s attitude, and that of his Government, toward the War and the Allies’ part therein; for, on the American’s “allowing he would _con_sume a highball” and the liquor arriving, he drank a health to those who are not too proud to fight, to those who do not give themselves airs as the Champions of Freedom, and then stand idly by when Freedom is trampled in the dust, and to those whose Almighty God is not the Almighty Dollar!

Expecting trouble, Bertram was surprised to find that the American was apparently amused, merely murmured “Shucks,” and, in the midst of a violent political dissertation from Bill, ably supported by Piggy, went to sleep with a long thin cigar in the corner of his long thin mouth. He had heard it all before.

Bertram found his Devil’s Own cocktail an exceedingly potent and unpleasant concoction. He decided that his first meeting with this beverage of the Evil One should be his last, and when Piggy, suddenly sitting up, remarked: “What’s wrong with the drinks?” and tinkled the bell, he arose, said a hurried farewell in some confusion, and fled.

“’Tain’t right to send a half-baked lad like that to fight the Colonial German,” observed Bill, idly watching his retreating form.

“Nope,” agreed the American, waking up. “I _was_ going to say it’s adding insult to injury—but you ain’t injured Fritz any, yet, I guess,” and went to sleep again before either of the glaring Englishmen could think of a retort.

Ere Bertram left the Club, he heard two pieces of “inside” military information divulged quite openly, and by the Staff itself. As he reached the porch, a lady of fluffy appearance and kittenish demeanour was delaying a red-tabbed captain who appeared to be endeavouring to escape.

“And, oh, Captain, _do_ tell me what ‘A.S.C.’ and ‘C.C.’ mean,” said the lady. “I saw a man with ‘A.S.C.’ on his shoulders, and there are two officers with ‘C.C.,’ in the Club. . . . _Do_ you know what it means? I am _so_ interested in military matters. Or is it a secret?”

“Oh, no!” replied the staff-officer, as he turned to flee. “‘A.S.C.’ stands for Ally Sloper’s Cavalry, of course, and ‘C.C.’ for Coolie Catchers. . . . They are slave-traders, really, with a Government contract for the supply of porters. They get twenty rupees for each slave caught and delivered alive, and ten for a dead one, or one who dies within a week.”

“What do they want the _dead_ ones for?” she whispered.

“_That_ I dare not tell you,” replied the officer darkly, and with a rapid salute, departed.

Emerging from the Club garden on to the white road, Bertram gazed around for his trolley-boys and beheld them not.

“All right, ole chap,” boomed the voice of Ali, who suddenly appeared beside him. “I looking after _Bwana_. Master going back along shippy? I fetch trolley now and see _Bwana_ at Kilindini, thank you, please sah, good God,” and he disappeared in the direction of the town, returning a couple of minutes later with the trolley.

“Master not pay these dam’ thieves too much, ole chap,” he remarked. “Two journey and one hour wait, they ask five rupees. Master give two-an’-a-puck.”

“How much is a ‘puck’?” enquired Bertram, ever anxious to learn.

“Sah?” returned the puzzled Ali.

“What’s a puck?” repeated Bertram, and a smile of bright intelligence engulfed the countenance of the big Swahili.

“Oh, yessah!” he rumbled. “Give two rupee and what _Bwana_ call ‘puck-in-the-neck.’ All the same, biff-on-the-napper, dig-in-the-ribs, smack-in-the-eye, kick-up-the—”

“_Oh_, yes, I see,” interrupted Bertram, smiling—but at the back of his amusement was the sad realisation that he was not of the class of _bwanas_ who can gracefully, firmly and finally present two-and-a-puck to extortionate and importunate trolley-boys.

He stepped on to the trolley and sat down, as Ali, saluting and salaaming respectfully, again bade him be of good cheer and high heart, as he would see him at Kilindini.

“How will you get there? Would you like to ride?” asked the kind-hearted and considerate Bertram (far too kind-hearted and considerate for the successful handling of black or brown subordinates and inferiors).

“Oh, God, sah, no, please,” replied the smiling Ali. “This Swahili slave cannot sit with _Bwana_, and cannot run with damn low trolley-boys. Can running by self though like gentleman, thank you, please,” and as the trolley started, added: “So long, ole chap. See Master at Kilindini by running like hell. Ta-ta by damn!” When the trolley had disappeared round a bend of the road, he generously kilted up his flowing night-dress and started off at the long loping trot which the African can maintain over incredible distances.

Arrived at Kilindini, Bertram paid the trolley-boys and discovered that, while they absorbed rupees with the greatest avidity, they looked askance at such fractions thereof as the eight-anna, four-anna, and two-anna piece, poking them over in their palms and finally tendering them back to him with many grunts and shakes of the head as he said:

“Well, you’ll _have_ to take them, you silly asses,” to the uncomprehending coolies. “_That_ lot makes a rupee—one half-a-rupee and two quarters, and that lot makes a rupee—four two-anna bits and two four-annas, doesn’t it?”

But the men waxed clamorous, and one of them threw his money on the ground with an impudent and offensive gesture. Bertram coloured hotly, and his fist clenched. He hesitated; ought he. . . . _Smack_! _Thud_! and the man rolled in the dust as Ali Sloper, _alias_ Suleiman, sprang upon him, smote him again, and stood over him, pouring forth a terrific torrent of violent vituperation.

As the victim of his swift assault obediently picked up the rejected coins, he turned to Bertram.

“These dam’ niggers not knowing _annas_, sah,” he said, “only _cents_. This not like East Indiaman’s country. Hundred cents making one rupee here. All shopkeepers saying, ‘No damn good’ if master offering annas, please God, sah.”

“Well—I haven’t enough money with me, then—” began Bertram.

“I pay trolley-boys, sah,” interrupted Ali quickly, “and Master can paying me to-morrow—or on pay-day at end of mensem.”

“But, look here,” expostulated Bertram, as this new-found guide, philosopher and friend sent the apparently satisfied coolies about their business. “I might not see you to-morrow. You’d better come with me to the ship and—”

“Oh, sah, sah!” cried the seemingly hurt and offended Ali, “am I not _Bwana’s_ faithful ole servant?” and turning from the subject as closed, said he would produce a boat to convey his cherished employer to his ship.

“Master bucking up like hell now, please,” he advised. “No boat allowed to move in harbour after six pip emma, sah, thank God, please.”

“Who on earth’s Pip Emma?” enquired the bewildered Bertram, as they hurried down the hill to the quay.

“What British soldier-mans and officer-_bwanas_ in Signal Corps call ‘p.m.,’ sah,” was the reply. “Master saying ‘six p.m.,’ but Signal _Bwana_ always saying ‘six pip emma’—all same meaning but different language, please God, sah. P’r’aps German talk, sah? I do’n’ know, sah.”

And Bertram then remembered being puzzled by a remark of Maxton (to the effect that he had endeavoured to go down to his cabin at “three ack emma” and being full of “beer,” had fallen “ack over tock” down the companion), and saw light on the subject. Truly these brigade signaller people talked in a weird tongue that might seem a foreign language to an uninitiated listener.

At the pier he saw Commander Finnis, of the Royal Indian Marine, and gratefully accepted an offer of a joy-ride in his launch to the good ship _Elymas_, to which that officer was proceeding.

“We’re disembarking you blokes to-morrow morning,” said he to Bertram, as they seated themselves in the stern of the smart little boat. “Indian troops going under canvas here, and British entraining for Nairobi. Two British officers of Indian Army to proceed by tug at once to M’paga, a few hours down the coast, in German East. Scrap going on there. Poor devils will travel on deck, packed tight with fifty sheep and a gang of nigger coolies. . . . _Some_ whiff!” and he chuckled callously.

“D’you know who are going?” asked Bertram eagerly. Suppose he should be one of them—and in a “scrap” by this time to-morrow! How would he comport himself in his first fight?

“No,” yawned the Commander. “O.C. troops on board will settle that.”

And Bertram held his peace, visualising himself as collecting his kit, hurrying on to a dirty little tug to sit in the middle of a flock of sheep while the boat puffed and panted through the night along the mysterious African shore, landing on some white coral beach beneath the palms at dawn, hurrying to join the little force fighting with its back to the sea and its face to the foe, leaping into a trench, seizing the rifle of a dying man whose limp fingers unwillingly relaxed their grip, firing rapidly but accurately into the—

“Up you go,” quoth Commander Finnis, and Bertram arose and stepped on to the platform at the bottom of the ladder that hospitably climbed the side of His Majesty’s Troop-ship _Elymas_.