Cupid in Africa

by Percival Christopher Wren

“Had a touch of breakfast?” enquired the other.

“No,” replied Bertram.

“Hence the milk in the coco-nut,” said Bridges, and added, “If you want to live long and die happy in Africa, you must do yourself well. It’s the secret of success. You treat your tummy well—and often—and it’ll do the same for you. . . . If you don’t, well, you’ll be no good to yourself nor anyone else.”

“Thanks,” said the ever-grateful Bertram, and arose feeling much better.

“Fall in, Subedar Sahib,” said he to the Gurkha officer, and the latter quickly assembled his men as a company in line.

The Subedar of the Sherepur Sikhs approached and saluted. “We want to be the advance-guard, Sahib,” he said.

“Certainly,” replied Bertram, and added innocently, “There is no enemy between here and the camp.”

The Sikh flashed a glance of swift suspicion at him. . . . Was this an intentional riposte? Was the young Sahib more subtle than he looked? Had he meant “The Sikhs may form the advance-guard because there is no fear of attack,” with the implication that the Gurkhas would again have held the post of honour and danger if there had been any danger?

“I don’t like the look of that bloke,” observed Bridges, as the Sikh turned away, and added: “Well—I’ll handle your stuff now, if you’ll bung off,” and continued his way to the dump, followed by Mr. MacGinty and a seemingly endless file of very tall, very weedy, Kavirondo negroes, of an unpleasant, scaly, greyish-black colour and more unpleasant, indescribable, but fishlike odour. These worthies were variously dressed, some in a panga or machete, some in a tin pot, others in a gourd, a snuff-box, a tea-cup, a saucepan or a jam-jar. Every man, however, without exception, possessed a red blanket, and every man, without exception, wore it, for modesty’s sake, folded small upon his head—where it also served the purpose of a porter’s pad, intervening between his head and the load which it was his life’s work to bear thereupon. . . . When these people conversed, it was in the high, piping voices of little children, and when Bridges, Mr. MacGinty-my-lad, or any less neapara (head man), made a threatening movement towards one of them, the culprit would forthwith put his hands to his ears, draw up one foot to the other knee, close his eyes, cringe, and emit an incredibly thin, small squeal, a sound infinitely ridiculous in the mouth of a man six feet or more in stature. . . . When the last of these quaint creatures had passed, Bertram strode to where the Sherepur Sikhs had formed up in line, ready to march off at the head of the force. The Subedar gave an order, the ranks opened, the front rank turned about, and the rifles, with bayonet already fixed, came down to the “ready,” and Bertram found himself between the two rows of flickering points.

“Charge magazhinge,” shouted the Subedar, and Bertram found an odd dozen of rifles waving in the direction of his stomach, chest, face, neck and back, as their owners gaily loaded them. . . . Was there going to be an “accident”? . . . Were there covert smiles on any of the fierce bearded faces of the big men? . . . Should he make a dash from between the ranks? . . . No—he would stand his ground and look displeased at this truly “native” method of charging magazines. It seemed a long time before the Subedar gave the orders, “Front rank—about turn. . . . Form fours. . . . Right,” and the company was ready to march off.