LITMIR.BIZ

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very strict, Jemadar Sahib,” said the Major. “You had better bear it in mind, and tell the men too. He’ll stand no sort of nonsense from anybody. You’ll find him very kind so long as he is satisfied, but if he isn’t—well!” and the Major shrugged his shoulders expressively.

      Bertram looked gratefully at the Major (for he understood “Englishman’s Hindustani”), and as sternly as he could at the Jemadar, who saluted again and retired.

      The Colonel rode up, and the officers sprang to attention.

      “Everything ready, sir,” said the Adjutant. “They can march off when you like.”

      “H’m!” said the Colonel, and stared at Bertram as though he honestly and unaffectedly did wonder why God made such things. He then wheeled his horse towards the waiting Hundred. “Men of the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth,” said he in faultless Hindustani, “you are now going across the Black Water to fight the enemies of the King Emperor, and of yourselves. They would like to conquer your country and oppress you. You go to fight for your own homes and children, as well as for your Emperor. Bring honour to your regiment and yourselves. Show the Germanis and their Hubshis ⁹ what Indian Sepoys can do—both in time of battle and in time of hunger, thirst, and hardship. Before God I say I would give anything to come with you, but I have to do my duty here—for the present. We may meet again in Africa. Good-bye. Good luck. . . . Good-bye. . . .” The Jemadar called for three cheers for the Colonel, and the Hundred lustily cried: “’Eep, ’Eep, ’Oorayee.” The remainder of the regiment joined in, and then cheered the Hundred. Meanwhile, the Colonel turned to Bertram.

      “Good-by, young Greene. Good luck,” he said, and leaning from his horse, wrung Bertram’s hand as though it had been that of his only son.

      Similarly did the others, with minor differences.

      “Well—it’s useless to weep these unavailing tears,” sobbed Bludyer. “There’s an end to everything, as the monkey said when he seized the tip of his mother’s nose. . . .”

      “Farewell, my blue-nosed, golden-eyed, curly-eared Mother’s Darling,” said Macteith.

      “Good luck, sonny. Write and let me know how you get on,” said Murray. “You’ll do. You’ve got the guts all right, and you’ll very soon get the hang of things. . . .”

      “March ’em off, now,” he added. “Chuck a chest, and don’t give a damn for anybody,” and Bertram carefully collected his voice, swallowed a kind of lump in his throat, bade his wildly beating heart be still, gave thought to the drill-book, and roared:

      “Company! . . . ’Shun! . . . Slope Arms! . . . Form fours! . . . Right! . . . Quick march!”—the band struck up—and they were off.

      Yes, he, Bertram Greene, pale clerkly person, poet and æsthete, was marching proudly, in full military attire, at the head of a hundred fighting-men—marching to the inspiring strains of the regimental band, to where the trooper waited on the tide! If his father could only see him! He was happy as he had never been before in his life, and he was proud as he never had been before. . . . If Miranda could only see him! He, Bertram Greene, was actually marching to war, with sword on thigh, and head held high, in sole command of a hundred trained fighting-men!

      His heart beat very fast, but without pain now, and he was, for the moment, free of his crushing sense of inadequacy, inexperience and unworthiness. He was only conscious of a great pride, a great hope, and a great determination to be worthy, so far as in him lay the power, of his high fate. . . .

      No man forgets his first march at the head of his own force, if he forgets his first march in uniform. For Bertram this was both. It was his first march in uniform, and he was in whole and sole control of this party—like a Centurion of old tramping the Roman Road at the head of his hundred Legionaries—and Bertram felt he would not forget it if he lived till his years equalled the number of his men.

      It was not a very long march, and it was certainly not a very picturesque one—along the cobbled Dock Road, with its almost innumerable cotton-laden bullock-carts—but Bertram trod on air through a golden dream city and was exalted, brother to the Knights of Arthur who quested for the Grail and went about to right the wrong and to succour the oppressed. . . .

      Arrived at the dock-gates, he was met and guided aright, by a brassarded myrmidon of the Embarkation Staff Officer, to where His Majesty’s Transport Elymas lay in her basin beside a vast shed-covered wharf.

      Beneath this shed, Bertram halted his men, turned them into line, and bade them pile arms, fall out, and sit them down in close proximity to their rifles.

      Leaving the Jemadar in charge, he then went up the gangway of the Elymas in search of the said Embarkation Staff Officer, who, he had been told, would allot him and his men their quarters on the ship. As he gazed around the deserted forward well-deck, he saw an officer, who wore a lettered red band round his arm, hurrying towards him along the promenade deck, his hands full of papers, a pencil in his mouth, and a careworn, worried look upon his face.

      “You Greene, by any chance?” he called, as he ran sideway down the narrow ladder from the upper deck.

      “Yes, sir,” replied Bertram, saluting as he perceived that the officer was a captain. “Just arrived with a draft of a hundred men from the Hundred and Ninety-Ninth,” he added proudly.

      “Good dog,” was the reply, “keep the perishers out of it for a bit till I’m ready. . . . Better come with me now though, and I’ll show you, one, where they’re to put their rifles; two, where they’re to put themselves; three, where they will do their beastly cooking; and four, where you will doss down yourself. . . . Don’t let there be any mistakes, because there are simply millions more coming,” and he led the way to a companion hatch in the after well-deck, and clattered down a ladder into the bowels of the ship, Bertram following him in his twists and turns with a growing sense of bewilderment.

      He was very glad to hear that he and his merry men were not to have the ship to themselves, for there were a thousand and one points that he would be very glad to be able to refer to the decision of Authority, or the advice of Experience.

      The Embarkation Officer, dripping and soaked and sodden with perspiration, as was Bertram himself, wound his devious way, along narrow passages, ladders and tunnels, to a kind of cage-like cloak-room fitted with racks.

      “Your men’ll come here in single file, by the way we have come,” said he, “enter this armoury one by one, leave their rifles on these racks, and go up that ladder to the deck above, and round to the ladder leading out on the forward well-deck. You’ll have to explain it carefully, and shepherd ’m along too, or there’ll be a jam and loss of life and—worse—loss of time. . . . In the early days we managed badly on one occasion and got a crowd of Sikhs pushing against a crowd of Pathans. . . .” He then led the disintegrating Bertram by devious paths to a dark oven-like and smelly place (which Bertram mentally labelled “the horizontal section of the fo’c’sle, three storeys down”) in which the Hundred were to live, or to die—poor devils! There would hardly be standing room—and thence to the scene of their culinary labours. Lastly, when the bewildered youth was again feeling very ill, the Embarkation Officer retraced his steps, showed him certain water-taps for the use of his men, and led the way up and out to the blessed light of day, fresh air, and the comparative coolness of the deck. “Your cabin’s along here,” said he, entering a long corridor that debouched on to the well-deck. “Let’s see, Number 43, I think. Yes. A two-berth cabin to yourself—and last trip we had three generals in a one-berth cabin, four colonels in a bath at once, and five common officers on top of one another in each chair at table. . . . Fact—I assure you. . . . Go in and chuck away all that upholstery—you can run about in your shirt-sleeves now, or naked if you like, so long as you wear a helmet to show you are in uniform. . . . Bye-bye—be a good boy,” and he bustled away.

      Bertram thankfully took the Embarkation Officer’s advice, and cast off all impedimenta until he was clad only in khaki shirt,

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