The Jemadar in command approached and saluted Bertram, who recognised the features of Hassan Ali.
“It’s you, is it!” he grunted, and proceeded to explain that the Jemadar would command the rear-guard of one hundred men, and that by the time it was augmented to a hundred and fifty by the process of picking up flankers left to guard side-turnings, the column would be halted while fifty men made their way up to the advance-guard again, and so on.
“D’you understand?” concluded Bertram.
“Nahin, Sahib,” replied the Jemadar.
“Then fall out,” snapped Bertram. “I’ll put an intelligent private in command, and you can watch him until you do,” and then he broke into English: “I’ve had about enough of you, my lad, and if you give me any of your damned nonsense, I’ll twist your tail till you howl. Call yourself an officer! . . .” and here the Jemadar, saluting repeatedly, like an automaton, declared that light had just dawned upon his mind and that he clearly understood.
“And so you’d better,” answered Bertram harshly, staring with a hard scowl into the Jemadar’s eyes until they wavered and sank. “So you’d better, if you want to keep your rank. . . . March one hundred men down the path past the Officers’ Mess, and halt them a thousand yards from here. . . . The coolies will follow. You will return and fall in behind the coolies with the other hundred as rear-guard. See that the coolies do not straggle. March behind your men—so that you are the very last man of the whole convoy. D’you understand?”
Jemadar Hassan Ali did understand, and he also understood that he’d made a bad mistake about Second-Lieutenant Greene. He was evidently one of those subtle and clever people who give the impression that they are not hushyar, [142] that they are foolish and incompetent, and then suddenly destroy you when they see you have thoroughly gained that impression.
Respect and fear awoke in the breast of the worthy Jemadar, for he admired cunning, subtlety and cleverness beyond all things. . . . He marched a half of his little force off into the darkness, halted them some half-mile down the path (or rivulet) that led into the jungle, put them in charge of the senior Havildar and returned.
Meanwhile, Lieutenant Bridges, in a cloak and pyjamas, had arrived, yawning and shivering, to superintend the loading up of the porters. At an order, given in Swahili, the first line of squatting Kavirondo arose and rushed to the dump.
“Extraordinary zeal!” remarked Bertram to Bridges.