Chapter II: Bones Changes His Religion

Captain Hamilton of the King’s Houssas had two responsibilities in life, a sister and a subaltern.

The sister’s name was Patricia Agatha, the subaltern had been born Tibbetts, christened Augustus, and named by Hamilton in his arbitrary way, “Bones.”

Whilst sister and subaltern were separated from one another by some three thousand miles of ocean--as far, in fact, as the Coast is from Bradlesham Thorpe in the County of Hampshire--Captain Hamilton bore his responsibilities without displaying a sense of the burden.

When Patricia Hamilton decided on paying a visit to her brother she did so with his heartiest approval, for he did not realize that in bringing his two responsibilities face to face he was not only laying the foundation of serious trouble, but was actually engaged in erecting the fabric.

Pat Hamilton had come and had been boisterously welcomed by her brother one white-hot morning, Houssas in undress uniform lining the beach and gazing solemnly upon Militini’s riotous joy. Mr. Commissioner Sanders, C.M.G., had given her a more formal welcome, for he was a little scared of women. Bones, as we know, had not been present--which was unfortunate in more ways than one.

It made matters no easier for the wretched Bones that Miss Hamilton was an exceedingly lovely lady. Men who live for a long time in native lands and see little save beautiful figures displayed without art and with very little adornment, are apt to regard any white woman with regular features as pretty, when the vision comes to them after a long interval spent amidst native people. But it needed neither contrast nor comparison to induce an admiration for Captain Hamilton’s sister.

She was of a certain Celtic type, above the medium height, with the freedom of carriage and gait which is the peculiar possession of her country-women. Her face was a true oval, and her complexion of that kind which tans readily but does not freckle.

Eyes and mouth were firm and steadfast; she was made for ready laughter, yet she was deep enough, and in eyes and mouth alike you read a tenderness beyond disguise. She had a trinity of admirers: her brother’s admiration was natural and critical; Sanders admired and feared; Lieutenant Tibbetts admired and resented.

From the moment when Bones strode off after the painful discovery, had slammed the door of his hut and had steadfastly declined all manner of food and sustenance, he had voluntarily cut himself off from his kind.

He met Hamilton on parade the following morning, hollow-eyed (as he hoped) after a sleepless night, and there was nothing in his attitude suggestive of the deepest respect and the profoundest regard for that paragraph of King’s Regulations which imposes upon the junior officer a becoming attitude of humility in the presence of his superior officer.

“How is your head, Bones?” asked Hamilton, after the parade had been dismissed.

“Thank you, sir,” said Bones bitterly--though why he should be bitter at the kindly inquiry only he knew--”thank you, sir, it is about the same. My temperature is--or was--up to one hundred and four, and I have been delirious. I wouldn’t like to say, dear old--sir, that I’m not nearly delirious now.”

“Come up to tiffin,” invited Hamilton.

Bones saluted--a sure preliminary to a dramatic oration.

“Sir,” he said firmly, “you’ve always been a jolly old officer to me before this contretemps wrecked my young life--but I shall never be quite the same man again, sir.”

“Don’t be an ass,” begged Hamilton.

“Revile me, sir,” said Bones dismally; “give me a dangerous mission, one of those jolly old adventures where a feller takes his life in one hand, his revolver in the other, but don’t ask me----”

“My sister wants to see you,” said Hamilton, cutting short the flow of eloquence.

“Ha, ha!” laughed Bones hollowly, and strode into his hut.

“And what I’m going to do with him, Heaven knows,” groaned Hamilton at tiffin. “The fact is, Pat, your arrival on the scene has thoroughly demoralized him.”

The girl folded her serviette and walked to the window, and stood looking out over the yellow stretch of the deserted parade-ground.

“I’m going to call on Bones,” she said suddenly.

“Poor Bones!” murmured Sanders.

“That’s very rude!” She took down her solar helmet from the peg behind the door and adjusted it carefully. Then she stepped through the open door, whistling cheerfully.

“I hope you don’t mind, sir,” apologized Hamilton, “but we’ve never succeeded in stopping her habit of whistling.”

Sanders laughed.

“It would be strange if she didn’t whistle,” he said cryptically.

Bones was lying on his back, his hands behind his head. A half-emptied tin of biscuits, no less than the remnants of a box of chocolates, indicated that anchorite as he was determined to be, his austerity did not run in the direction of starvation.

His mind was greatly occupied by a cinematograph procession of melancholy pictures. Perhaps he would go away, far, far, into the interior. Even into the territory of the great king where a man’s life is worth about five cents net. And as day by day passed and no news came of him--as how could it when his habitation was marked by a cairn of stones?--she would grow anxious and unhappy. And presently messengers would come bringing her a few poor trinkets he had bequeathed to her--a wrist-watch, a broken sword, a silver cigarette-case dented with the arrow that slew him--and she would weep silently in the loneliness of her room.

And perhaps he would find strength to send a few scrawled words asking for her pardon, and the tears would well up in her beautiful grey eyes--as they were already welling in Bones’s eyes at the picture he drew--and she would know--all.

“Phweet!”

Or else, maybe he would be stricken down with fever, and she would want to come and nurse him, but he would refuse.

“Tell her,” he would say weakly, but oh, so bravely, “tell her ... I ask only ... her pardon.”

“Phweet!”

Bones heard the second whistle. It came from the open window immediately above his head. A song bird was a rare visitor to these parts, but he was too lazy and too absorbed to look up.

Perhaps (he resumed) she would never see him again, never know the deep sense of injustice...

“Phwee--et!”

It was clearer and more emphatic, and he half turned his head to look----

He was on his feet in a second, his hand raised to his damp forehead, for leaning on the window sill, her lips pursed for yet another whistle, was the lady of his thoughts.

She met his eyes sternly.

“Come outside--misery!” she said, and Bones gasped and obeyed.

“What do you mean,” she demanded, “by sulking in your wretched little hut when you ought to be crawling about on your hands and knees begging my pardon?”

Bones said nothing.

“Bones,” said this outrageous girl, shaking her head reprovingly, “you want a jolly good slapping!”

Bones extended his bony wrist.

“Slap!” he said defiantly.

He had hardly issued the challenge when a very firm young palm, driven by an arm toughened by a long acquaintance with the royal and ancient game, came “Smack!” and Bones winced.

“Play the game, dear old Miss Hamilton,” he said, rubbing his wrist.

“Play the game yourself, dear old Bones,” she mimicked him. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself----”

“Let bygones be bygones, jolly old Miss Hamilton,” begged Bones magnanimously. “And now that I see you’re a sport, put it there, if it weighs a ton.”

And he held out his nobbly hand and caught the girl’s in a grip that made her grimace.

Five minutes later he was walking her round the married quarters of his Houssas, telling her the story of his earliest love affair. She was an excellent listener, and seldom interrupted him save to ask if there was any insanity in his family, or whether the girl was short-sighted; in fact, as Bones afterwards said, it might have been Hamilton himself.

“What on earth are they finding to talk about?” wondered Sanders, watching the confidences from the depths of a big cane chair on the verandah.

“Bones,” replied Hamilton lazily, “is telling her the story of his life and how he saved the territories from rebellion. He’s also begging her not to breathe a word of this to me for fear of hurting my feelings.”

At that precise moment Bones was winding up a most immodest recital of his accomplishments with a less immodest footnote.

“Of course, dear old Miss Hamilton,” he was saying, lowering his voice, “I shouldn’t like a word of this to come to your jolly old brother’s ears. He’s an awfully good sort, but naturally in competition with an agile mind like mine, understanding the native as I do, he hasn’t an earthly----”

“Why don’t you write the story of your adventures?” she asked innocently. “It would sell like hot cakes.”

Bones choked with gratification.

“Precisely my idea--oh, what a mind you’ve got! What a pity it doesn’t run in the family! I’ll tell you a precious secret--not a word to anybody--honest?”

“Honest,” she affirmed.

Bones looked round.

“It’s practically ready for the publisher,” he whispered, and stepped back to observe the effect of his words.

She shook her head in admiration, her eyes were dancing with delight, and Bones realized that here at last he had met a kindred soul.

“It must be awfully interesting to write books,” she sighed. “I’ve tried--but I can never invent anything.”

“Of course, in my case----” corrected Bones.

“I suppose you just sit down with a pen in your hand and imagine all sorts of things,” she mused, directing her feet to the Residency.

“This is the story of my life,” explained Bones earnestly. “Not fiction ... but all sorts of adventures that actually happened.”

“To whom?” she asked.

“To me,” claimed Bones, louder than was necessary.

“Oh!” she said.

“Don’t start ‘Oh-ing,’” said Bones in a huff. “If you and I are going to be good friends, dear old Miss Hamilton, don’t say ‘Oh!’”

“Don’t be a bully, Bones.” She turned on him so fiercely that he shrank back.

“Play the game,” he said feebly; “play the game, dear old sister!”

She led him captive to the stoep and deposited him in the easiest chair she could find.

From that day he ceased to be anything but a slave, except on one point.

The question of missions came up at tiffin, and Miss Hamilton revealed the fact that she favoured the High Church and held definite views on the clergy.

Bones confessed that he was a Wesleyan.

“Do you mean to tell me that you’re a Nonconformist?” she asked incredulously.

“That’s my dinky little religion, dear old Miss Hamilton,” said Bones. “I’d have gone into the Church only I hadn’t enough--enough----”

“Brains?” suggested Hamilton.

“Call is the word,” said Bones. “I wasn’t called--or if I was I was out--haw-haw! That’s a rippin’ little bit of persiflage, Miss Hamilton?”

“Be serious, Bones,” said the girl; “you mustn’t joke about things.”

She put him through a cross-examination to discover the extent of his convictions. In self-defence Bones, with only the haziest idea of the doctrine he defended, summarily dismissed certain of Miss Hamilton’s most precious beliefs.

“But, Bones,” she persisted, “if I asked you to change----”

Bones shook his head.

“Dear old friend,” he said solemnly, “there are two things I’ll never do--alter the faith of my distant but happy youth, or listen to one disparagin’ word about the jolliest old sister that ever----”

“That will do, Bones,” she said, with dignity. “I can see that you don’t like me as I thought you did--what do you think, Mr. Sanders?”

Sanders smiled.

“I can hardly judge--you see,” he added apologetically, “I’m a Wesleyan too.”

“Oh!” said Patricia, and fled in confusion.

Bones rose in silence, crossed to his chief and held out his hand.

“Brother,” he said brokenly.

“What the devil are you doing?” snarled Sanders.

“Spoken like a true Christian, dear old Excellency and sir,” murmured Bones. “We’ll bring her back to the fold.”

He stepped nimbly to the door, and the serviette ring that Sanders threw with unerring aim caught his angular shoulder as he vanished.

That same night Sanders had joyful news to impart. He came into the Residency to find Bones engaged in mastering the art of embroidery under the girl’s tuition.

Sanders interrupted what promised to be a most artistic execution.

“Who says a joy-ride to the upper waters of the Isisi?”

Hamilton jumped up.

“Joy-ride?” he said, puzzled.

Sanders nodded.

“We leave to-morrow for the Lesser Isisi to settle a religious palaver--Bucongo of the Lesser Isisi is getting a little too enthusiastic a Christian, and Ahmet has been sending some queer reports. I’ve been putting off the palaver for weeks, but Administration says it has no objection to my making a picnic of duty--so we’ll all go.”

“Tri-umph!” said Hamilton. “Bones, leave your needlework and go overhaul the stores.”

Bones, kneeling on a chair, his elbows on the table, looked up.

“As jolly old Francis Drake said when the Spanish Armada----”

“To the stores, you insubordinate beggar!” commanded Hamilton, and Bones made a hurried exit.

The accommodation of the Zaire was limited, but there was the launch, a light-draught boat which was seldom used except for tributary work.

“I could put Bones in charge of the Wiggle,” he said, “but he’d be pretty sure to smash her up. Miss Hamilton will have my cabin, and you and I could take the two smaller cabins.”

Bones, to whom it was put, leapt at the suggestion, brushing aside all objections. They were answered before they were framed.

As for the girl, she was beside herself with joy.

“Will there be any fighting?” she asked breathlessly. “Shall we be attacked?”

Sanders shook his head smilingly.

“All you have to do,” said Bones confidently, “is to stick to me. Put your faith in old Bones. When you see the battle swayin’ an’ it isn’t certain which way it’s goin’, look for my jolly old banner wavin’ above the stricken field.”

“And be sure it is his banner,” interrupted Hamilton, “and not his large feet. Now the last time we had a fight...”

And he proceeded to publish and utter a scandalous libel, Bones protesting incoherently the while.

The expedition was on the point of starting when Hamilton took his junior aside.

“Bones,” he said, not unkindly, “I know you’re a whale of a navigator, and all that sort of thing, and my sister, who has an awfully keen sense of humour, would dearly love to see you at the helm of the Wiggle, but as the Commissioner wants to make a holiday, I think it would be best if you left the steering to one of the boys.”

Bones drew himself up stiffly.

“Dear old officer,” he said aggrieved, “I cannot think that you wish to speak disparagingly of my intelligence----”

“Get that silly idea out of your head,” said Hamilton. “That is just what I’m trying to do.”

“I’m under your jolly old orders, sir,” Bones said with the air of an early Christian martyr, “and according to Paragraph 156 of King’s Regulations----”

“Don’t let us go into that,” said Hamilton. “I’m not giving you any commands, I’m merely making a sensible suggestion. Of course, if you want to make an ass of yourself----”

“I have never had the slightest inclination that way, cheery old sir,” said Bones, “and I’m not likely at my time of life to be influenced by my surroundings.”