Cupid in Africa

by Percival Christopher Wren

“They had a hundred men at least, in here,” said Major Mallery, “and you might have come along the path a hundred times without spotting them. There was a machine-gun up that tree, to deal with the force behind the point of ambush, and a big staked pit farther down the path to catch those in front who ran straight on. . . . Lovely trap. . . . They used to occupy it from dawn to sunset every day, poor fellers. . . .”

“What happened?” asked Bertram.

“Our Intelligence Department learnt all about it from the local shenzis, and we forestalled them one merry morn. They were ambushed in their own ambush. . . . The shenzi doesn’t love his Uncle Fritz a bit. No appreciation of Kultur-by-kiboko. He calls the Germans ‘the Twenty-Five Lashes People,’ because the first thing the German does when he goes to a village is to give everybody twenty-five of the best, by way of introducing himself and starting with a proper understanding. Puts things on a proper footing from the beginning. . . .”

“Their askaris are staunch enough, aren’t they?” asked Bertram.

“Absolutely. They are well paid and well fed, and they are allowed to do absolutely as they like in the way of loot, rape, arson and murder, once the fighting is over. . . . They flog them most unmercifully for disciplinary offences—and the nigger understands that. Also they leave the defeated foe—his village, crops, property, women, children and wounded—to their mercy—and the nigger understands that too. . . . Our askaris are not nearly so contented with our milder punishments, cumbrous judicial system, and absolute prohibition of loot, rape, arson and the murder of the wounded. Yes—the German askari will stick to the German so long as he gets the conqueror’s rights whenever he conquers—as is the immemorial law and custom of Africa. . . . ‘What’s the good of fighting a cove if you’re going to cosset and coddle him directly you’ve won, and give him something out of the poor-box—instead of dismembering him?’ says he. . . . You might say the askari-class is to the Native what the Junker-class is to the peasant, in Germany.”

And conversing thus, the two officers visited the pickets and the sentries, who sat on machans in the tops of high trees and, in theory at any rate, scoured the adjacent country with tireless all-seeing eye.

Returning to the fort, Bertram saw the materials for his own private freehold residence being carried to the eligible site selected for its erection by the united wisdom of the Station Staff Officer and the Quartermaster. It was built and furnished in less than an hour by a party of Kavirondo, who used no other tools than their pangas, and it consisted of a framework of stout saplings firmly planted in the ground, wattle, and thatched leaves, twigs and grass. It had a window-frame and a doorway, and it kept out the sun and the first few drops of a shower of rain. If a banda does little else, it provides one’s own peculiar place apart, where one can be private and alone. . . . On the table and shelf—of sticks bound together with strips of bark—Ali set forth his master’s impedimenta, and took a pride in the Home. . . .

Finding that the spine-pad of quilted red flannel—which Murray had advised him to get and to wear buttoned on to the inner side of his shirt, as a protection against the sun’s actinic rays—was soaked with perspiration, Bertram gave it to Ali that it might be dried. What he did not foresee was that his faithful retainer would tie a long strip of bark from the new banda to the opposite one across the “street,” and pin the red flannel article to flap in the breeze and the face of the passer-by. . . .

“Oh, I say, you fellers, look here!” sang out the voice of Gussie Augustus Gus, as Bertram was finishing his shave, a few minutes later. “Here’s that careless fellow, Greene, been and left his chest-protector off! . . . It’s on the line to air, and I don’t know what he’s doing without it.” The voice broke with anguish and trouble as it continued: “Perhaps running about with nothing on at all. . . . On his chest, I mean. . . .”

There was a laugh from neighbouring bandas and tents where Vereker, Berners, Halke and “Leesey” Lindsay were washing by their cottage doors, preparatory to breakfast.