Cupid in Africa

by Percival Christopher Wren

“I dunno what we’re doing here at all,” put in a third speaker. “You can’t invade a blooming continent like German East with a weak brigade of sick Sepoys. . . . Sort of bloomin’ Jameson’s Raid. . . . Why—they could come down the railway from Tabora or Kilimanjaro way with enough European troops alone to eat us alive. What are we here, irritating ’em at all for, I want to know? . . .”

“Why, to maintain Britain’s glorious traditions—of sending far too weak a force in the first place,” put in the first speaker. “They’ll send an adequate army later on, all right, and do the job in style. We’ve got to demonstrate the necessity for the adequate army first, though. . . .”

“Sort of bait, like,” said another, and yawned. “Well, we’ve all fished, I expect. . . . Know how the worm feels now. . . .”

“I’ve only fished with flies,” observed a languid and euphuistic voice.

“What an honour for the ’appy fly!” replied the worm-fisherman, and there was a guffaw of laughter.

Bertram realised that he was loitering to the point of eavesdropping, and strolled on, pondering many things in his heart. . . .

In one corner of the great square of mud which was the Camp, Bertram came upon a battery consisting of four tiny guns. Grouped about them stood their Sepoy gunners, evidently at drill of some kind, for, at a sudden word from a British officer standing near, they leapt upon them, laboured frantically for five seconds, stood clear again, and, behold, each gun lay dismembered and prone upon the ground—the wheels off, the trail detached, the barrel of the gun itself in two parts, so that the breech half was separate from the muzzle half. At another word from the officer the statuesque Sepoys again sprang to life, seized each man a piece of the dismembered gun, lifted it above his head, raised it up and down, replaced it on the ground and once more stood at attention. Another order, and, in five seconds, the guns were reassembled and ready to fire.

“A mountain-battery of screw guns, so called because they screw and unscrew in the middle of the barrel,” said Bertram to himself, and concluded that the drill he had just witnessed was that required for putting the dissected guns on the backs of mules for mountain transport, and rebuilding them for use. Certainly they were wonderfully nippy, these Sepoys, and seemed, perhaps, rather more cheery than the others. One old gentleman who had a chestful of medal-ribbons raised and lowered a gun-wheel above his head as though it had been of cardboard, in spite of his long grey beard and pensioner-like appearance.

Bertram envied the subaltern in command of this battery. How splendid it must be to know exactly what to do and to be able to do it; to be conscious that you are adequate and competent, equal to any demand that can be made upon you. Probably this youth was enjoying this campaign in the mud and stench and heat as much as he had ever enjoyed a picnic or tramping or boating holiday in England. . . . Lucky dog. . . .

At about seven o’clock that evening, Bertram “dined” in the Officers’ Mess of the Hundred and Ninety-Eighth. The rickety hut, through the walls of which the fires of the Camp could be seen, and through the roof of which the great stars were visible, was lighted, or left in darkness, by a hurricane-lamp which dangled from the ridge-pole. The officers of the corps sat on boxes, cane-stools, shooting-seats, or patent “weight-less” contrivances of aluminium and canvas. The vacant-faced youth, whose name was Grayne, had a bicycle-saddle which could be raised and lowered on a metal rod. He was very proud of it and fell over backwards twice during dinner. Bertram would have had nothing whatever to sit on had not the excellent and foresighted Ali discovered the fact in time to nail the two sides of a box in the shape of the letter T by means of a stone and the nails still adhering to the derelict wood. On this Bertram balanced himself with less danger and discomfort than might have been expected, the while he viewed with mixed feelings Ali’s apologies and promise that he would steal a really nice stool or chair by the morrow.