Читать книгу Wilmshurst of the Frontier Force - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 4

"Four o'clock mornin', sah; bugle him go for revally."

Dudley Wilmshurst, Second Lieutenant of the Nth West African Regiment, threw off the light coverings, pulled aside the mosquito curtains, and sat upon the edge of his cot, hardly able to realise that Tari Barl, his Haussa servant, had announced the momentous news. Doubtful whether his senses were not playing him false Wilmshurst glanced round the room. On a metal table, the legs of which stood in metal jars filled with water and paraffin to counteract the ravages of the white ants, lay his field-equipment—a neatly-rolled green canvas valise with his name and regiment stamped in bold block letters; his Sam Browne belt with automatic pistol holster attached; his sword—a mere token of authority but otherwise little better than a useless encumbrance—and a pair of binoculars in a leather case that bore signs of the excessive dampness of the climate on The Coast, as the littoral of the African shore 'twixt the Niger and the Senegal Rivers is invariably referred to by the case-hardened white men who have fought against the pestilential climate and won.

A short distance from the oil stove on which a kettle was boiling, thanks to the energy and thoughtfulness of Private Tari Barl, stood an assortment of camp equipment: canvas tent d'abri, ground sheets, aluminium mess traps, a folding canvas bath, and last but not least an indispensable Doulton pump filter.

When a man's head is buzzing from the effects of strong doses of quinine, and his limbs feel limp and almost devoid of strength, it is not to be wondered at that he is decidedly "off colour." It was only Wilmshurst's indomitable will that had pulled him through a bout of malaria in time to be passed fit for active service with the "Waffs," as the West African Field Force is commonly known from the initial letters of the official designation.

And here was Tari Barl—"Tarry Barrel," his master invariably dubbed him—smiling all over his ebony features as he stood, clad in active service kit and holding a cup of fragrant tea.

Tari Barl was a typical specimen of the West African native from whom the ranks of the Coast regiments are recruited. In height about five feet ten, he was well built from his thighs upwards. Even his loosely-fitting khaki tunic did not conceal the massive chest with its supple muscles and the long, sinewy arms that knew how to swing to the rhythm of bayonet exercise. His legs, however, were thin and spindly. To any one not accustomed to the native build it would seem strange that the apparently puny lower limbs could support such a heavy frame. He was wearing khaki shorts and puttees; even the latter, tightly fitting, did little to disguise the meagreness of his calves. He was barefooted, for the West African soldier has a rooted dislike to boots, although issued as part of his equipment. On ceremonial parades he will wear them, outwardly uncomplainingly, but at the first opportunity he will discard them, slinging the unnecessary footgear round his neck. Thorns, that in the "bush" will rip the best pair of British-made marching-boots to shreds in a very short time, trouble him hardly at all, for the soles of his feet, which with the palms of his hands are the only white parts of his epidermis, are as hard as iron.

"All my kit ready, Tarry Barrel?" enquired Wilmshurst as he sipped his tea.

"All ready, sah; Sergeant Bela Moshi him lib for tell fatigue party mighty quick. No need worry, sah."

Dismissing his servant the subaltern "tubbed" and dressed. They start the day early on the Coast, getting through most of the routine before nine, since the intense heat of the tropical sun makes strenuous exertion not only unpleasant but highly dangerous.

But to-day was of a different order. The regiment was to embark at eight o'clock on board the transport Zungeru for active service in the vast stretch of country known as "German East," where the Huns with their well-trained Askaris, or native levies, were putting up a stiff resistance against the Imperial and Colonial troops of the British Empire.

On his way to the mess Wilmshurst ran up against Barkley, the P.M.O. of the garrison.

"Hullo there!" exclaimed the doctor. "How goes it? Fit?"

"Absolutely," replied the subaltern.

The doctor smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He knew perfectly well that no officer warned for active service would reply otherwise.

"Buzzing all gone?"

"Practically," replied Wilmshurst.

"All right; stick to five grains of quinine during the whole of the voyage—and don't be afraid to let me know if you aren't up to the mark. Suppose you've heard nothing further of your brother?"

Wilmshurst shook his head.

"Not since the letter written just before the war, and that took nearly twelve months before it reached me. It's just possible that Rupert is in the thick of it with the Rhodesian crush."

Barkley made no comment. He was an old college chum of Rupert Wilmshurst, who was fifteen years older than his brother Dudley. The elder Wilmshurst was a proverbial rolling stone. Almost as soon as he left Oxford he went abroad and, after long wanderings in the interior of China, Siberia, and Manchuria, where his adventures merely stimulated the craving for wandering on the desolate parts of the earth, he went to the Cape, working his way up country until he made a temporary settlement on the northern Rhodesian shores of Lake Tanganyika.

It was thence that he wrote to his brother Dudley, who had just taken up a Crown appointment on the Coast, mentioning that he had penetrated into the territory known as German East.

The subaltern remembered the letter almost by heart.

"There'll be trouble out here before very long," wrote Rupert. "Britishers settling down in this part almost invariably roll a cricket-pitch or lay out a football field. With Hans it is very different. The Germans' idea of colonization is to start building up a military organization. Every 'post' in which there are German settlers has its company of armed blacks—Askaris they call them. And as for ammunition, they are laying in stores sufficient to wage a two-years' war; not merely small arms ammunition, but quick-firer shells as well. Quite by accident I found kegs of cartridges buried close to my camp. For what reason? The natives are quiet enough, so the ammunition is not for use against them. I am sending this letter by a trusty native to be posted at Pambete, as it would be unwise to make use of the German colonial post. Meanwhile I am penetrating further into this stretch of territory under the Black Cross Ensign—possibly in the direction of Tabora. My researches may be taken seriously by the Foreign Office, but I have my doubts. Fortunately I have a jolly good pal with me, a Scotsman named Macgregor, whom I met at Jo-burg. Don't be anxious if you don't hear from me for some time."

The letter was dated July, 1914, and three years, Dudley reflected, is a very exaggerated interpretation of the term "some time." Even taking into consideration the lack of efficient internal and external communication, the state of war embroiling practically the whole civilized world and the perils to which shipping was subjected owing to the piratical exploits of the Huns—all these facts would hardly offer sufficient explanation for a total absence of news from Rupert Wilmshurst unless——

There are parts of Africa which are still described as the Dark Continent—wild, desolate stretches where a man can disappear without leaving the faintest trace of the manner of his presumed death, while in German East there were unscrupulous despots—the disciples of atrocious kultur—only too ready to condemn an Englishman without even the farcical formality of a court-martial.

Already events had proved that Rupert Wilmshurst's statement was well-founded. In her African colonies, in Kiau-Chau, and elsewhere for years past Germany had been assiduously preparing for The Day. Under the firm but erroneous impression that Great Britain would have her hands full in connection with affairs at home, that the Boers in South Africa would revolt and that the Empire would fall to pieces at the declaration of war between England and Germany, the Hun in Africa had prepared huge stores of munitions and trained thousands of native troops with the intention of wresting the adjoining ill-defended territories from their owners.

No wonder that the Huns hugged themselves with delight when by a disastrous stroke of statesmanship Great Britain exchanged the crumbling island of Heligoland for some millions of square miles of undeveloped territory hitherto held by Germany. While Heligoland was being protected by massive concrete walls and armed by huge guns to form a practically impregnable bulwark to the North Sea coast of Germany, England was by peaceful methods developing her new African acquisition. Germany could then afford to wait until the favourable opportunity and by force of arms seize and hold the territory that was once hers and which in the meantime had enormously increased commercially at the expense of Britain.

But the Kaiser had miscalculated the loyalty of the colonies. Canada, South Africa, Australia, and New Zealand, to say nothing of smaller offshoots of the Empire, had rallied to the flag. Boers who fourteen years previously had fought doggedly and determinedly against England volunteered for service, and their offer was accepted for expeditions against German West Africa and then against German East, while shoulder to shoulder with their late enemies were Imperial troops, including Indian and West African contingents. Amongst the reinforcements from the latter was the Nth West African Regiment.

By six o'clock breakfast was over and the troops were falling in for parade and C.O.'s inspection. As Second Lieutenant Wilmshurst crossed the dusty barrack "square," which was a rectangle enclosed on three sides by the native huts and on the fourth by the Quartermaster's "stores" and orderly room, he found that the men of his platoon were already drawn up in full marching order. At the sight of their young officer—for it was the first time for several weeks that Wilmshurst had appeared on parade—a streak of dazzling ivory started and stretched from end to end of the line as the Haussas' mouths opened wide in welcoming smiles, displaying a lavish array of teeth that contrasted vividly with their ebony features.

That Wilmshurst was popular with his men there could be no doubt. Had it been otherwise not a suspicion of a smile would have appeared upon their faces. The subaltern had the knack of handling African troops, and without that knack an officer might just as well transfer elsewhere. Firmness, strict impartiality, and consideration for the welfare of the men under his orders had been rewarded by a whole-hearted devotion on the part of the blacks to "Massa Wilmst," while every man had the satisfaction that he was known by name to the junior subaltern.

The company officer had not yet put in an appearance, but the platoon commanders and their subordinates were engaged either in discussing impending plans or else minutely examining their men's equipment, lest the eagle eye of the C.O. should detect some deficiency during the forthcoming inspection.

"All correct, sergeant?" enquired Wilmshurst, addressing a tall Haussa, Bela Moshi by name.

The sergeant saluted smartly, replying, with a broad smile, that everything was in order. A child by nature, Bela Moshi had developed into a smart and efficient soldier without losing the simple characteristics of the African native. He was a first-class marksman, although it had required long and patient training to get him to understand the use of sights and verniers and to eradicate the belief, everywhere prevalent amongst savage races, that to raise the backsight to its highest elevation results in harder hitting by the bullet.

Bela Moshi was smart with the machine-gun, too, while for scouting and tracking work there were few who equalled him. The regiment was father and mother to the ebon warrior, while of all the officers Wilmshurst was his special favourite.

The subaltern realised it but could give no reason for Bela Moshi's preferential treatment; not that Wilmshurst had gone out of his way to favour the man. He treated the rank and file of his platoon with impartial fairness, ever ready to hear complaints, but woe betide the black who tried to "get to windward" of the young officer.

Upon the approach of the C.O. the ranks stiffened. The display of ivory vanished, and with thick, pouting lips, firmly closed, and eyes fixed rigidly in front the men awaited the minute inspection.

Colonel Quarrier was a man who had grown grey in the service of the Crown. For over thirty years he had held a commission in the Nth West Africa Regiment, rising from a fresh young Second Lieutenant to the rank of Colonel Commandant and ruler of the destinies of nearly a thousand men. "Case hardened" to the attacks of mosquitos, his system overcharged with malarial germs until the scourge of the Coast failed to harm him, Colonel Quarrier possessed one of the principal qualifications for bush-fighting in the Tropics—a "salted" constitution.

Already he had served in four African campaigns, having but recently taken part in the comparatively brief but strenuous Kamarun expedition. He was a past-master in the art of fighting in miasmic jungles, and now he was about to engage in operations on a larger and slightly different scale—bush-fighting in German East, where ranges of temperature are experienced from the icy cold air of the upper ground of Kilimanjaro to the sweltering heat of the low-lying land but a few degrees south of the Line.

The parade over a hoarse order rang out. A drum and bugle band belonging to another regiment struck up a lively air and the black and khaki lines swung about into "column of route."

The "Waffs" were off to the conquest of the last of Germany's ultra-European colonies.