Cupid in Africa

by Percival Christopher Wren

“Halt! Baitho!” [148] he shouted—gave the drill-book sign to lie down—and waited, for a second that seemed like a year, to feel the withering blast of fire that should tear through them at point-blank range. . . . Why did it not come? . . . Why did no guttural German voice shout an order to fire? . . . . He remained standing upright, while the Sepoys, crouching low, worked the bolts of their rifles to load the latter from their magazines. He was glad to see that they made ready thus, without awaiting an order, even as they sank to the ground. Would it not be better to march in future with a cartridge in the chamber and the cut-off of the magazine open? . . . Accidents? . . . Not if he made them march with rifles at the “slope.” . . . Better the risk of an accident than the risk of being caught napping. . . . Why did not the accursed German give the order to fire? . . . Was it because Bertram had got his men crouching down so quickly? . . . Would the crashing volley thunder out, the moment they arose? . . . They could not stay squatting, kneeling and lying in the mud for ever. . . . Where was the ambush? . . . Had they Maxims in trees, commanding this path? . . . Were the enemy massed in a clearing a foot or two from the road, and separated from it only by a thin screen of foliage? . . . . What should he do if there were a sudden bayonet-charge down the path, by huge ferocious askaris? . . . You can’t meet a charge with efficient rifle-fire when you are in single file and your utmost effort at deployment would get two, or possibly three crowded and hampered men abreast. . . . On the other hand, the enemy would not be charging under ideal conditions either. . . . More likely a machine-gun would suddenly nip out, from concealment beside the path, and wither the column away with a blast of fire at six hundred rounds a minute. . . . Perhaps the “point” marching on ahead would have the sense and the courage and the time to get into the gun-team with their bayonets before it got the gun going? . . . Why did not the enemy fire? . . . He would go mad if they didn’t do so soon. . . . Were they playing with him, as a cat plays with a mouse? . . .

The whistle rang out again, harsh, peremptory, fateful—and then Ali Suleiman laughed, and pointed at a small bird. As he did so, the bird whistled again, with precisely the note of a police-whistle blown under the stress of fear, excitement or anger, a clamant, bodeful, and insistent signal.

Bertram would have welcomed warmly an opportunity to wring little birdie’s neck, in the gust of anger that followed the fright.

Giving the signal to rise and advance, Bertram strode on, and, still under the stimulus of alarm, forgot that he was tired.

He analysed his feelings. . . . Was he frightened and afraid? Not at all. The whistle had “made him jump,” and given him a “start,” of course. The waiting for the blast of fire, that he knew would follow the signal, had been terribly trying—a torture to the nerves. The problem of what to do, in response to the enemy’s first move, had been an agonising anxiety—but he would certainly have done something—given clear orders as to object and distance if there had been anything to fire at; used his revolver coolly and set a good example if there had been a charge down the path; headed a fierce rush at the Maxim if one had come out of cover and prepared to open fire. . . . No—he decidedly was not frightened and afraid. . . He was glad that he had remained erect, and, with his hand on his revolver, had, with seeming coolness, scanned the surrounding trees and jungle for signs of an ambushed enemy. . . .

The road forked, and he turned to Ali Suleiman, who had marched near him from the start, in the proud capacity of guide.

“Which of these paths?” said he.

“The left hands, sah, please God,” was the reply; “the right is closed also.”

“What d’you mean?” asked Bertram, staring down the open track that branched to the right.

“See, Bwana,” replied Ali, pointing to a small branch that lay in the middle of the path, with its broken end towards them and its leaves away from them. “Road closed. I ’spec askari patrol from Butani putting it there, when they know Bwana coming, thank God, please.”