“Begorra—if ut’s loin-eaters they are, it’s Terry Brannigan’ll gird up his loins an’ be found there missing entoirely. . . . Oi’d misloike to be ’aten by a loin, Greene . . .” and he frowned over the idea and grew momentarily despondent.
“’Tis not phwat I wint for a sojer for, at all, at all,” he complained, and added a lament to the effect that he was not as tough as O’Toole’s pig. But the mention of this animal appeared to have a cheering effect, for he burst into song.
“Ye’ve heard of Larry O’Toole,
O’ the beautiful town o’ Drumgool?
Faith, he had but wan eye
To ogle ye by,
But, begorra, that wan was a jool. . . .”
After dinner, Bertram sought out Colonel Haldon for further orders, information and advice.
“Everybody clears off to-morrow morning, my boy,” said he, “and in twenty-four hours we shall be scattered over a country as big as Europe. You’ll be in command, till further orders, of all native troops landed at Mombasa. I don’t suppose you’ll be there long, though. You may get orders to bung off with the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth draft of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth, or you may have to see them off under a Native Officer and go in the opposite direction yourself. . . . Don’t worry, anyway. You’ll be all right. . . .”
That night Bertram again slept but little, and had a bad relapse into the old state of self-distrust, depression and anxiety. This sense of inadequacy, inexperience and unworth was overwhelming. What did he know about Sepoys that he should, for a time, be in sole command and charge of a mixed force of Regular troops and Imperial Service troops which comprised Gurkhas, Sikhs, Pathans, Punjabi Mahommedans, Deccani Marathas, Rajputs, and representatives of almost every other fighting race in India? It would be bad enough if he could thoroughly understand the language of any one of them. As it was, he had a few words of cook-house Hindustani, and a man whom he disliked and distrusted as his sole representative and medium of intercourse with the men. Suppose the fellow was rather his mis-representative? Suppose he fomented trouble, as only a native can? What if there were a sudden row and quarrel between some of the naturally inimical races—a sort of inter-tribal shindy between the Sikhs and the Pathans, for example? Who was wretched little “Blameless Bertram,” to think he could impose his authority upon such people and quell the riot with a word? What if they defied him and the Jemadar did not support him? What sort of powers and authority had he? . . . He did not know. . . . Suppose there were a row, and there was real fighting and bloodshed? It would get into the papers, and his name would be held up to the contempt of the whole British Empire. It would get into the American papers too. Then an exaggerated account of it would be published in the Press of the Central Powers and their wretched allies, to show the rotten condition of the Indian Army. The neutral papers would copy it. Soon there would not be a corner of the civilised world where people had not heard the name of Greene, the name of the wretched creature who could not maintain order and discipline among a few native troops, but allowed some petty quarrel between two soldiers to develop into an “incident.” Yes—that’s what would happen, a “regrettable incident.” . . . And the weary old round of self-distrust, depreciation and contempt went its sorry cycle once again. . . .
Going on deck in the morning, Bertram discovered that supplementary orders had been published, and that all native troops would be disembarked under his command at twelve noon, and that he would report, upon landing, to the Military Landing Officer, from whom he would receive further orders. . . . Troops would carry no ammunition, nor cooked rations. All kits would go ashore with the men. . . .
Bertram at once proceeded to the companion leading down to the well-deck, called a Sepoy of the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth, and “sent his salaams” to the Jemadar of that regiment, to the Subedar of the Gurkhas, the Subedar of the Sherepur Sikhs and the Jemadar of the Very Mixed Contingent.
To these officers he endeavoured to make it clear that every man of their respective commands, and every article of those men’s kit, bedding, and accoutrements, and all stores, rations and ammunition, must be ready for disembarkation at midday.
The little Gurkha Subedar smiled brightly, saluted, and said he quite understood—which was rather clever of him, as his Hindustani was almost as limited as was Bertram’s. However, he had grasped, from Bertram’s barbarous and laborious “Sub admi . . . sub saman . . . sub chiz . . . tyar . . . bara badji . . . ither se jainga . . .” that “all men . . . all baggage . . . all things . . . at twelve o’clock . . . will go from here”—and that was good enough for him.