CHAPTER XX

_Stein-Brücker Meets Bertram Greene—and Death_

And so passed the days at Butindi, with a wearisome monotony of Stand-to, visiting the pickets, going out on patrol, improving the defences of the _boma_, foraging, gathering information, reconnoitring, trying to waylay and scupper enemy patrols, communicating with the other British outposts, surveying and map-making, beating off half-hearted attacks by strong raiding-patrols—all to the accompaniment of fever, dysentery, and growing weakness due to malnutrition and the terrible climate.

To Bertram it all soon became so familiar and normal that it seemed strange to think that he had ever known any other kind of life. His chief pleasure was to talk to Wavell, that most uncommon type of soldier, who was also philosopher, linguist, student, traveller, explorer and ethnologist.

From the others, Bertram learnt that Wavell was, among other things, a second Burton, having penetrated into Mecca and Medina in the disguise of a _haji_, a religious pilgrim, at the very greatest peril of his life. He had also fought, as a soldier of fortune, for the Arabs against the Turks, whom he loathed as only those who have lived under their rule can loathe them. He could have told our Foreign Office many interesting things about the Turk. (When, after he had been imprisoned and brutally treated by them at Sanaa, in the Yemen, he had appealed to our Foreign Office, it had sided rather with the Turk indeed, confirming the Unspeakable One’s strong impression that the English were a no-account race, even as the Germans said.) So Wavell had fought against them, helping the Arabs, whom he liked. And when the Great War broke out, he had raised a double company of these fierce, brave, and blood-thirsty little men in Arabia, and had drilled them into fine soldiers. Probably no other Englishman—or European of any sort—could have done this; but then Wavell spoke Arabic like an Arab, knew the Koran almost by heart, and knew his Arabs quite by heart.

That he showed a liking for Bertram was, to Bertram, a very great source of pride and pleasure. When Wavell went out on a reconnoitring-patrol, he went with him if he could get Major Mallery’s permission, and the two marched through the African jungle discussing art, poetry, travel, religion, and the ethnological problems of Arabia—followed by a hundred or so Arabs—Arabs who were killing Africans and being killed by Africans, often of their own religion and blood, because a gang of greedy materialists, a few thousand miles away, was suffering from megalomania. . . .

Indeed to Bertram it was food for much thought that in that tiny _boma_ in a tropical African swamp, Anglo-Indians, Englishmen, Colonials, Arabs, Yaos, Swahilis, Gurkhas, Rajputs, Sikhs, Marathas, Punjabis, Pathans, Soudanese, Nubians, Bengalis, Goanese, and a mob of assorted _shenzis_ of the primeval jungle, should be laying down their lives because, in distant Berlin, a hare-brained Kaiser could not control a crowd of greedy and swollen-headed military aristocrats.

* * * * *

“Your month’s tobacco ration, Greene,” said Berners one morning, as he entered Bertram’s hut, “and _don’t_ leave your boots on the floor to attract jigger-fleas—unless you _want_ blood-poisoning and guinea-worm—or is it guinea-fowl? Hang them on the wall. . . . And look between your toes every time you take ’em off. Jigger-fleas are, hell, once they get under the skin and lay their eggs. . .” and he handed Bertram some cakes of perfectly black tobacco.

“But, my dear chap, I couldn’t smoke _that_,” said Bertram, eyeing the horrible stuff askance.

“Of course you can’t _smoke_ it,” replied Berners.

“What can I do with it, then?” he asked.

“Anything you like. . . . I don’t care. . . . It’s your tobacco ration, and I’ve issued it to you, and there the matter ends. .. . You can revet your trench parapet with it if you like—or give it to the Wadegos to poison their arrows with. . . . Jolly useful stuff, really. . . . Sole your boots, tile the roof of your _banda_, make a parquet floor round your bed, put it in Chatterji’s tea, make a chair seat, lay down a pathway to the Mess, make your mother a teapot-stand, feed the chickens—oh, lots of things. But you can’t _smoke_ it, of course. . . . You expect too much, my lad. . . .”

“Why do they issue it, then?” asked Bertram.

“Same reason that they issue inedible bully-beef and unbreakable biscuits, I s’pose—contractors must _live_, mustn’t they? . . . Be reasonable. . . .”

And again it seemed to the foolish civilian mind of this young man that, since tons of this black cake tobacco (which no British officer ever has smoked or could smoke) cost money, however little—there would be more sense in spending the money on a small quantity of Turkish and Virginian cigarettes that _could_ be smoked, by men accustomed to such things, and suffering cruelly for lack of them. Throughout the campaign he saw a great deal of this strong, black cake issued (to men accustomed to good cigarettes, cigars or pipe-mixture), but he never saw any of it smoked. He presented his portion to Ali, who traded it to people of palate and stomach less delicate than those the British Government expects the British officer to possess. . . .

“You look seedy, Greene,” observed the Major that same evening, as Bertram dragged himself across the black mud from his _banda_ to the Bristol Bar—wondering if he would ever get there.

“Touch of fever, sir. I’m all right,” replied he, wishing that everyone and everything were not so nebulous and rotatory.

He did not mention that he had been up all night with dysentery, and had been unable to swallow solid food for three days. (Nor that his temperature was one hundred and four—because he was unaware of the fact.) But he knew that the moment was not far off when all his will-power and uttermost effort would be unable to get him off his camp-bed. He had done his best—but the worst climate in the world, a diet of indigestible and non-nutritious food, taken in hopelessly inadequate quantities; bad water; constant fever; dysentery; long patrol marches; night alarms; high nerve-tension (when a sudden bang followed by a fusillade might mean a desultory attention, a containing action while a more important place was being seriously attacked, or that final and annihilating assault of a big force which was daily expected); and the monotonous, dirty, dreary life in that evil spot, had completely undermined his strength. He was “living on his nerves,” and they were nearly gone. “You look like an old hen whose neck has been half-wrung for to-morrow’s dinner before she was found to be the wrong one, and reprieved,” said Augustus. “You let me make you a real, rousing cock-eye, and then we’ll have an _n’goma_ {198}—all the lot of us. . . .”

But finding Bertram quite unequal to dealing with a cock-eye or sustaining his part in a tribal dance that should “astonish the natives,” he helped Bertram over to his _banda_, took off his boots and got him a hot drink of condensed milk and water laced with ration rum.

In the morning Bertram took his place at Stand-to and professed himself equal to performing his duty, which was that of making a reconnoitring-patrol as far as Paso, where there was another outpost. . . .

Here he arrived in time for tea, and had some with real fresh cow’s milk in it; and had a cheery buck with Major Bidwell, Captains Tucker and Bremner, and Lieutenants Innes (another Filbert), Richardson, Stirling, Carroll, and Jones—stout fellows all, and very kind to him. He was very sorry indeed when it was time for him to march back again with his patrol.

He started on the homeward journey, feeling fairly well, for him; but he could never remember how he completed it. . . .

The darkness gathered so rapidly that he had a suspicion that the darkness was within him. Then he found that he was continually running into trees or being brought up short by impenetrable bush that somehow sprang up before him. . . . Also he was talking aloud, and rather surprised at his eloquence. . . . Then he was lying on the ground—being put on his feet again—falling again . . . trying to fight a bothering swarm of _askaris_ with a quill pen, while he addressed the House of Commons on the iniquity of allowing Bupendranath Chatterji to be in medical charge of four hundred men with insufficient material to deal with a street accident. . . . Marching again, falling again, being put on his feet again. . . .

* * * * *

After two days on his camp-bed he was somewhat better, and on the next day he found himself in sole command of the Butindi outpost and a man of responsibility and pride. Urgent messages had taken Major Mallery with half the force in one direction, and Captain Wavell with half the remainder in another.

Suppose there should be an attack while he was in command! He half hoped there would be. . . .

Towards evening an alarm from a sentry and the turning out of the guard brought him running to the main gate, shouting “Stand-to!” as he ran.

Through his glasses he saw that a European and a small party of natives were approaching the _boma_. . . .

The new-comer was an Englishman of the name of Desmont, in the Intelligence Department, who had just made a long and dangerous tour through the neighbouring parts of German East in search of information. Apparently Butindi was the first British outpost that he had struck, as he asked endless questions about others—apparently with a view to visiting them _en route_ to the Base Camp. Bertram extended to him such hospitality as Butindi could afford, and gave him all the help and information in his power. He had a very strong conviction that the man was disguised (whether his huge beard was false or not), but he supposed that it was very natural in the case of an Intelligence Department spy, scout, or secret agent. Anyhow, he was most obviously English. . . .

While he sat in the Officers’ Mess and talked with the man—a most interesting conversation—Ali Suleiman entered with coco-nuts and a rum-jar. Seeing the stranger, he instantly wheeled about and retired, sending another servant in with the drinks. . . .

After a high-tea of coco-nut, biscuit, bully-beef, and roasted mealie-cobs, Desmont, who looked worn out, asked if he might lie down for a few hours before he “moved off” again. Bertram at once took him to his own _banda_ and bade him make himself at home. Five minutes later came Ali with an air of mystery to where Bertram paced up and down the “High Street,” and asked if he might speak with him.

“That man a _Germani_, sah!” quoth he. “Spy-man he is. Debbil-man. His own name _not_ Desmont _Bwana_, and he is big man in Dar-es-Salaam and Tabora, and knowing all the big _Germani bwanas_. I was his gun-boy and I go with him to _Germani_ East. . . . _Bwana_ go and shoot him for dead, sah, by damn!”

Bertram sat down heavily on a chop-box.

“_What_?” gasped he.

“Yessah, thank you please. One of those porters not a _shenzi_ at all. He Desmont _Bwana’s_ head boy Murad. Very bad man, sah. Master look in this spy-man’s chop-boxes. _Germani_ uniform in one—under rice and posho. Master see. . . .”

“You’re a fool, Ali,” said Bertram.

“Yessah,” said Ali, “and Desmont _Bwana_ a _Germani_ spy-man. Master go an’ shoot him for dead while asleep—or tie him to tree till Mallery _Bwana_ coming. . . .”

_Now_ what was to be done? Here was a case for swift action by the “strong silent man” type of person who thought like lightning and acted like some more lightning.

If he did nothing and let the man go when he had rested, would his conduct be that of a fool and a weakling who could not act promptly and efficiently on information received—conduct deserving the strongest censure? . . .

And if he arrested and detained one of their own Intelligence Officers, on the word of a native servant, would he ever hear the last of it?

“_Bwana_ come and catch this bad man Murad,” suggested Ali. “_Bwana_ say, ‘_Jambo_, _Murad ibn Mustapha_! _How much rupees Desmont Bwana paying you for spy-work_?’ and _Bwana_ see him jump! By damn, sah! _Bwana_ hold revolver ready.” . . .

“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 müde_,” he said. “_Zu müde_.” . . .

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

* * * * *

The Herr Doktor Karl Stein-Brücker 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 passed 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 müde_! _Zu müde_!” 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 105·8 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!