The minister tried to assert himself. ‘But as I said, the ceremony has been completed, Corporal Kilmaster produced a licence!’
‘Let me see it if you please!’ demanded Wedlock. When the dubious minister complied, the recipient tore the licence in half.
‘There will be a copy,’ pointed out the minister.
Wedlock was grave. ‘If you write one word in that register, if any of you breathe so much as a word, you’ll put this man in gaol.’
‘Well, I have no wish to be responsible …’ The minister exchanged uneasy glances with the witnesses, both of whom hung their heads in discomfort.
Emily was finding it harder to sustain her air of dignified calm, and urged Probyn, ‘Go with him, dear one!’
‘But what about you, Em?’ he wailed.
She closed her eyes, fighting off tears. ‘I will be all right. I beg you don’t make this sacrifice.’
With one last anguished cry he hugged her, almost smothering her with the ferocity of his embrace. Then, with one angry movement he wrenched himself from her arms and stormed out of the church, such agony in his heart that it felt as if he had lost his mother all over again.
14
Never had there been pain like this.
True to his word, Wedlock had restricted the matter to the corporals’ mess, there had been no hint of gossip from the ranks nor from their superiors, his stripe was still on his arm and his career safe, but it made not an ounce of difference to the one afflicted. Nothing could remove this terrible, gnawing, constant ache.
In return for keeping silent Wedlock had extracted the pledge that Lance-Corporal Kilmaster would make no attempt to see Emily. And he had not. Not so much as a note, nor a wave of goodbye as he left the island, nor even a backwards look to see if she was there amongst the crowd. For he did not know how to cope with his betrayal of her.
Even now on the ship that took him to Cape Town he just could not believe that he would never see her again. How could he, when the smell of her skin remained in his senses, his body still reacted to her absent embrace.
Only by virtue of self-discipline and regimentation could he maintain the role that was demanded of him. To the callow youths in his platoon he behaved as normal, if perhaps a little testier of late, a little less forgiving, but compared to Wedlock’s malevolent rule his conduct provoked few grumbles.
That his pain went unnoticed made it no less severe. The very act of eating was an ordeal, every morsel transformed to a boulder, choking and sickening him.
Another week was to pass and he felt no better. Whilst others disembarked, Probyn’s company remained on board to be joined by four companies of the Black Watch bound for Mauritius. Greatrix’s company was also amongst those headed for the Indian Ocean, Probyn had spotted him on the quay waiting to come aboard, but even his best friend’s presence was no salve for this weeping abscess.
Still, it helped to be rid of one thorn in his side, the one who constantly reminded him of his misfortune and, indeed, who was responsible for it. Wedlock was now lining up his section to disembark, squawking and pecking like the vicious gamecock he was. Good riddance, came the thought.
His men now marching to order, Wedlock caught Probyn’s sullen glare and delayed his leaving to offer comment. ‘Well, you’ll no doubt be happy to see the back of me.’
Probyn merely curled his lip and looked away. It was all he could do to prevent his hands closing round the other’s throat.
Wedlock manufactured a friendly tone, tapping Probyn on the breast. ‘A word of advice for when you get to Mauritius. Don’t go tupping any more nig—’
The sentence had barely emerged when Probyn’s knuckles slammed into his face, the swiftness of it taking the other completely by surprise. There was a mad rush then to avert any further violence before an officer got wind of it, Goodwill and another struggling to prevent Wedlock from retaliating, others holding Probyn back, both men riving and twisting to be at each other until Wedlock was bundled off the ship by his friends.
Released, Probyn dismissed the congratulations on his lucky punch, his heart thumping with anger. It had been a long time coming, but the small satisfaction it gave was inadequate compensation for his loss.
However, diversion came aboard then in the form of Greatrix and once the ranks were settled and the ship was underway there was much catching up to do in the corporals’ mess.
‘You still owe me a letter, maister,’ complained Greatrix.
Probyn apologized. ‘There wasn’t much to write about.’ In truth, he had been somewhat remiss with his letter-writing since meeting Emily.
‘Blimey, there is here,’ replied Greatrix. ‘Suppose you’ve heard about Dr Jim?’
Probyn shook his head. ‘We never heard anything on St Helena.’
Greatrix then relayed the latest news from Rhodesia, Probyn affecting to listen with interest. His friend was unusually animated, announcing that Dr Jameson had invaded the Transvaal creating an international incident. Apparently it was based on President Kruger’s refusal to allow the Uitlanders the right to vote when their wealth contributed the greater part to the Transvaal coffers and they had plotted revolt aided by Jameson. But the conspiracy had gone badly wrong, Dr Jameson and his raiders had been arrested and the Uitlanders holding Johannesburg had given in. ‘What puzzles me,’ said a bright-eyed Greatrix, ‘is how an upright soldier like Major Grey was part of it. He wouldn’t have been involved if he thought there was something fishy – anyway, whatever the cause, there’s been hell to pay with the Boers, they’ve really got it in for us now, even the ones in the Cape – the Prime Minister’s had to resign and everything! And just for good measure the German Kaiser’s stuck his two pennorth in as well, siding with old Kruger …’
There came a passing remark from another. ‘I hope you’re not talking shop.’
Greatrix sat back and took a sip of tea. ‘No, just giving my friend the basic details of the Raid, but that’s enough of me droning on. I should hate to get him too excited.’ His companion had yawned frequently throughout.
Probyn was immediately repentant. ‘Sorry, I haven’t been sleeping well since I learned me dad died.’
Greatrix displayed suitable remorse, nodding gravely. ‘I thought you looked a bit miserable.’
If only you knew the real reason, thought Probyn, but he felt totally unable to broach the matter even with his friend.
‘Me dog’s snuffed it too,’ said Greatrix dispassionately. ‘Puff adder got him.’
Probyn made no comment, just sat there looking glum, examining the red knuckles damaged by Wedlock’s cheekbone. ‘I never knew we’d be away this long,’ he breathed eventually. ‘Apart from those few days I spent with me dad I haven’t been home in four years. I’m very grateful, truly I am for all the wonders I’ve seen, things that other people can only dream about, but I just want to go home.’
Greatrix admitted that he was homesick too, raising the question of whether to extend his service with the colours to twelve years or enter the reserve. ‘So, are you still going for your pontoon, then?’
Probyn hesitated, but it was not really a serious decision for one who loved army life, it was just the dejection over Emily that caused this ambivalence. ‘I suppose so.’
Greatrix nodded, chewing on a nail. ‘Me an’ all. But I know what you mean, I’d just like to be back in mucky old England once in a while, and see white faces again. I’ve nowt against darkies but I’m getting a bit sick of them.’
If he had been unable to ventilate his pain before, there was no chance of him doing so now. Merely dealing his friend a grim nod, Probyn gazed into mid air as the ship carried him towards yet another lump of volcanic rock surrounded by ocean, yearning for Emily’s dear brown face.
* * *
The voyage lasted over a week but for most of those aboard it was an enjoyable trip with concerts, sports and games, the band playing nightly. Not given to maudlin, Probyn joined in too, though he derived little joy.
O
n the tenth day a picturesque island materialized against a hazy sky, a grand outline of lofty hills, magnificent terraced mountains, their jagged summits tangled with angel hair, beaches of white ground coral, casuarinas and palm trees and the lush damp greenness of cane fields.
The dockside at Port Louis was a seething mass of different races, Creole, Arab, Indian, Chinese, interspersed with a few maggoty faces of the newly arrived from England. Here, the two friends were again to part company, Greatrix marching through a city of white colonial buildings and soaring palms to Fort Adelaide, Probyn’s company, band and drums and the rest of HQ entraining for Curepipe eight miles inland.
The railway system was abysmal, transporting them at five monotonous miles per hour through acres and acres of sugar cane, across a network of bridges spanning deep ravines and pockets of mist to the highest point on the island. Things were no better when they eventually arrived at the barracks, these being situated close to the mouth of an inactive volcano, the crater clothed in dense forest with a lake in its basin. The atmosphere was heavily laden with moisture and there was an overlying smell of mould in their living quarters, these being raised on struts. The body of Black Watch whom they were here to relieve seemed ecstatic to be leaving.
After smoothing the commotion that took place at finding a python in their hut, the men refusing to go to bed until he had one of the natives remove it, Probyn finally managed to settle them down, then peeled off his own damp clothes and hung them in a drying shed that reeked of stale sweat. Then after automatically checking his cot for scorpions and snakes, he fell upon it, the sheets immediately clinging to him. He kicked them off bad-temperedly and tried to sleep. Pray God tomorrow things would improve.
* * *
They did not. If anything, he felt even worse as the week wore on, his clothes constantly damp, the atmosphere laden with moisture, rain or mist occurring every day, food rotting within hours, rats scurrying about – and there was so little to occupy, parades being over before the sun got too intense, thereby lending him ample time in which to brood.
Once, he would have been interested in the bird life, the green parakeets with red beaks that came to perch at his window in hope of food, birds of scarlet and yellow and other gaudy apparel. None of them provided any novelty now, he had seen them all before. Nor did he care for the chittering monkeys who performed acrobatics upon the roof for they had too many attributes of people, regarding both species as a nuisance.
Attempting to shake off his despondency and to remove the staid image he was creating amongst his peers, on Saturday evening he accepted the invitation from his fellow corporals who had arranged to travel to a village and attend a sega, the hip wriggling dance performed by Creoles. The sight of a woman dancing had never failed to excite, perhaps it was just the tonic he needed.
After tea and a refreshing plunge in the bathing pond they set off for the village. Clubbing together, they went first to see the headman and offered to pay for wine and rum to get the party going. Baskets of exotic fruit, were placed before the visitors, bananas, mangoes, pineapples, though these invoked little relish, the soldiers having become accustomed to such fare, and were neglected in favour of alcohol.
Faking enthusiasm, Probyn rubbed his hands together gleefully, but, unobserved, his expression was quick to fade into its sombre mask. Taking the occasional sparing sip of rum, trying not to think of Emily, he gazed around him waiting for the show to begin, his eyes falling on a dog chained in the dark shadows beneath the velvety spread of a tree and causing him to think instead of Greatrix and their trek to Bulawayo. The area, too, reminded him of Africa with thorn trees and grassy plains, wild flowering creepers with bright red flowers growing amongst the village huts from which peeped wide-eyed children. Emily had loved children …
‘Try one of these, they taste like apple and custard!’
Feeling a nudge, Probyn wrenched his mind from Emily and took the apple-like fruit that was thrust at him. At first bite he found it disgusting, and spat out the mush discreetly. The light was fading rapidly now, the noise of a thousand parrots squabbling for a roost in the surrounding trees almost drowning out his friends’ high spirits. With firelight providing the illumination, the music began, if music one could call it, the instruments being tin cooking pots and spoons, hand clapping, seeds shaken in a tin and a gourd with strings. Probyn tried to look intent as the dancers appeared. They moved slowly at first, snaking their hips in accompaniment to the drumbeat, the villagers congregating around them, singing in Creole. Gradually, the pace increased, building into a frenetic beat, the musicians eventually becoming overworked and others leaping in to take their place, but the dancers seemed inexhaustible, one of them coming to stand over Probyn thrusting her hips provocatively into his face. It was all too much. Angry and frustrated over his lost love, he leapt to his feet and stormed off into the darkness.
‘Miserable sod,’ commented one of his fellows, then paying Kilmaster no more thought, returned his focus to the erotic dance.
Breaking into a trot, Probyn tried to run out his anger, ran and ran and ran. A sambhur crashed out of the undergrowth and leapt across his path, making him jump and cry out in alarm. The deer vanished into the night. He sagged with fatigue, resting his hands on his knees and panting his lungs out. Would this wretchedness never cease? Damn her! Why had she started it all? All he had asked of her were some bits of material for his patchwork, why oh why had she insisted on taking it further? She was old enough to know better, had taken advantage of his grief – and his father could shoulder some of the blame too! If he had died when he had been meant to die three years ago instead of hanging on none of this would have happened.
Fuming and sweating, he lashed out at a bush, scattering leaves and bark, alarming the roosting parrots who set up a jarring din. No better for this display of rage, he made his miserable way back to barracks.
* * *
Over the following weeks the atmosphere, already heavily laden with humidity, became unbearable, finally culminating in a cyclone. Prewarned of its coming, the day turning black as night, the soldiers rushed around securing all doors and windows. Once barricaded inside, no one was allowed to leave except when on duty.
‘But don’t think this means you’re getting out of gym!’ Probyn warned his squad, trying to make a joke of it for some of the youngsters were frightened by the strength of the wind which at times felt as if it were capable of blowing the hut away and them with it. ‘I’ve got some nice little physical jerks to keep you occupied!’ And he set them to jumping and running on the spot, dripping with perspiration, whilst outside the powerful wind and rain set up a terrific noise, howling and wrecking all within its path.
With no supplies able to get through it was good old bully beef and biscuits for every meal, those who consumed it staring miserably out of the window, though it was impossible to see anything beyond the deluge except occasionally when the wind swept aside the curtain of water one could see palm trees being buffeted and bent to mimic inside-out umbrellas.
In the evening whilst the cyclone raged around them, for want of anything better to do Lance-Corporal Kilmaster set his men on the regimental patchwork they had begun on St Helena, attending also to the one of his own, though it dredged up sad memories and before long he had tossed it aside, lying on his moist bed to watch a gecko scamper around the walls, for it was impossible to sleep with this fearful racket going on.
The cyclone raged for four days. With the deluge finally evaporating into a cloud of steam in the brilliant sunshine, the prisoners emerged from their huts to survey the damage. Whilst others gasped over the wreckage, Probyn reflected instead upon his mood, amazed to find that the tempest had acted as a catharsis, completely purging him of grief. Thank God, it was over.
Feeling oddly cheerful, he became slightly bombastic towards his underlings. ‘Right you wasters, you’ve done nowt for too long, get all this debris cleared up! Privates Johnson, Williams, get them fallen branches out of the road.
Adams, shift that broken glass. Roberts, go see what’s happened to that goat, and if you see any dodos on the way bring them to me, the government’s offering a reward for every one sighted.’
Roberts beheld him slack-jawed. ‘I thought they were extinct, Corp?’
‘And most of them are! But they say there could still be the odd one hopping about and the government’s keen to find it, so keep your eyes peeled and I might share the reward with you.’ Normally one who defended less intelligent beings, Probyn could not help this streak of impishness today, chuckling with others as the hapless Roberts dashed away on his futile quest.
The cyclone that had marked a turning point in his life, had a beneficial effect on the humidity too, from then on the weather becoming much more bearable. For a time the soldiers remained short of fresh food, the railway having been damaged by torrents of water rushing down the ravines and dislodging the foundations, but eventually things were mended and life became not so bad. Things were also improved by the arrival of new khaki uniforms, far more comfortable than red serge.
More complimentary, too, for one accursed by auburn hair, thought Probyn as he stepped out in his own new attire this afternoon, casting an eye around the camp to check that all was in order.
‘Roberts! Where’s your ruddy headgear?’
About to come down the steps of his hut, the dullard paused. ‘I’m only off to the lat, Corp.’
‘Don’t argue! You’re puggled enough without the sun baking your brain. Get it on or you’ll be on a charge.’
‘By, you’re turning into a right little tyrant, you are!’
At the gruff drawl, Probyn wheeled around to see his friend Greatrix and immediately lost his frown to rush forth and greet him. It was the first time they had seen each other in two months.
Family of the Empire Page 38