As Bertram left the boma in company of the Major, he found it difficult to realise that, only a few hours earlier he had not set eyes on the place. He seemed to have been immured within its walls of mud and wattle for days, rather than hours.
About the large clearing that lay on that side of the fort, Sepoys, servants, porters and askaris came and went upon their occasions; the stretcher-bearers, gun-teams, and a company of Gurkhas were at drill; and in the trenches, the long, weedy bodies of the Kavirondo rose and fell as they dug in the mud and clay. Near the gate a doleful company of sick and sorry porters squatted and watched a dresser of the Indian Subordinate Medical Department, as he sprinkled iodoform from a pepperbox on to the hideous sores and wounds of a separate squad requiring such treatment. The sight of an intensely black back, with a huge wound of a glowing red, upon which fell a rain of brilliant yellow iodoform, held Bertram’s spell-bound gaze, while it made him feel exceedingly sick. Those patients suffering from ghastly sores and horrible festering wounds seemed gay and lighthearted and utterly indifferent, while the remainder, suffering from tumbo, [174] fever, cold in the head, or world-weariness, appeared to consider themselves at the last gasp, and each, like the Dying Gladiator, did lean his head upon his hand while his manly brow consented to Death, but conquered agony.
“The reason why the African will regard a gaping wound, or great festering sore, with no more than mild interest, while he will wilt away and proceed to perish if he has a stomach-ache is an interestin’ exemplification of omne ignotum pro magnifico,” remarked the Major.
Bertram stared at his superior officer in amazement. The tone and language were utterly different from those hitherto connected, in Bertram’s experience, with that gentleman. Was this a subtle mockery of Bertram as a civilian Intellectual? Or was it that the Major liked to be “all things to all men” and considered this the style of conversation likely to be suitable to the occasion?
“Yes, sir?” said Bertram, a trifle shortly.
“Yes,” continued Major Mallery. “He believes that all internal complaints are due to Devils. A stomach-ache is, to him, painful and irrefragible proof that he hath a Devil. One has entered into him and abideth. It’s no good telling him anything to the contrary—because he can feel It there, and surely he’s the best judge of what he can feel? So any internal complaint terrifies him to such an extent that he dies of fright—whereas he’ll think nothing of a wound that would kill you or me. . . .”
Here, apparently, the Major’s mocking fancy tired, or else his effort to talk “high-brow” to an Intellectual could be no further sustained, for he fell to lower levels with the remark:
“Rum blokes. . . Dam’ funny. . .” and fell silent.
A well-trodden mud path led down to the river, on the far side of which was the water-picket commanding the approach, not to a ford, but to the only spot where impenetrable jungle did not prevent access to the river. . . .
“Blighters nearly copped us badly down here before we built the fort,” said the Major. “Look in here . . .” and he parted some bushes beside the path and disappeared. Following him, Bertram found himself in a long, narrow clearing cut out of the solid jungle and parallel with the path.