Black Mischief Read Online Free PDF Page B

procession. First in tattered, field grey uniforms came the brass
band of the Imperial Guard, playing John Brown’s Body.
     
    Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the
Lord;
    He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes
of wrath are stored;
    He has loosed the mighty lightning of his terrible
swift sword;
    His truth is marching on.
     
    Behind
them came the infantry; hard, bare feet rhythmically kicking up the dust,
threadbare uniforms, puttees wound up anyhow, caps at all angles, Lee-Enfield
rifles with fixed bayonets slung on their shoulders; fuzzy heads, jolly
nigger-minstrel faces, black chests shining through buttonless tunics, pockets
bulging with loot. Dividing these guardsmen from the irregular troops rode
General Connolly on a tall, grey mule, with his staff officers beside him. He
was a stocky Irishman in early middle age who had seen varied service in the
Black and Tans, the South African Police and the Kenya Game Reserves before
enlisting under the Emperor’s colours. But on this morning his appearance was
rather that of a lost explorer than a conquering commander-in-chief. He had a
week’s growth of reddish beard below his cavalry moustaches; irregular slashes
had converted his breeches into shorts; open shirt and weather-worn white topee
took the place of tunic and cap. Field glasses, map case, sword and revolver
holster hung incongruously round him. He was smoking a pipe of rank local
tobacco.
    On
their heels came the hordes of Wanda and Sakuyu warriors. In the hills these
had followed in a diffuse rabble. Little units of six or a dozen trotted round
the stirrups of the headmen before them they drove geese and goats pillaged
from surrounding farms. Sometimes they squatted down to rest; sometimes they
ran to catch up. The big chiefs had bands of their own — mounted drummers
thumping great bowls of cowhide and wood, pipers blowing down six-foot chanters
of bamboo. Here and there a camel swayed above the heads of the mob. They were
armed with weapons of every kind: antiquated rifles, furnished with bandoliers
of brass cartridges and empty cartridge cases; short hunting spears, swords and
knives; the great, seven-foot broad-bladed spear of the Wanda; behind one
chief a slave carried a machine-gun under a velvet veil; a few had short bows
and iron-wood maces of immemorial design.
    The
Sakuyu wore their hair in a dense fuzz; their chests and arms were embossed
with ornamental scars; the Wanda had their teeth filed into sharp points, their
hair braided into dozens of mud-caked pigtails. In accordance with their
unseemly usage, any who could wore strung round his neck the members of a slain
enemy.
    As this
great host swept down on the city and surged through the gates, it broke into a
dozen divergent streams, spurting and trickling on all sides like water from a
rotten hose-pipe, forcing out jets of men, mounts and livestock into the
by-ways and back streets, eddying down the blind alleys and into enclosed
courts. Solitary musicians, separated from their bands, drum med and piped
among the straggling crowds; groups split away from the mêlée and began dancing
in the alleys; the doors of the liquor shops were broken in and a new and
nastier element appeared in the carnival, as drink-crazed warriors began to re-enact
their deeds of heroism, bloodily laying about their former comrades-in-arms
with knives and clubs.
    ‘God,’
said Connolly, ‘I shall be glad when I’ve got this menagerie off my hands. I
wonder if his nibs has really bolted. Anything is possible in this abandoned
country.’
    No one
appeared in the streets. Only rows of furtive eyes behind the shuttered windows
watched the victors slow progress through the city. In the main square the
General halted the guards and such of the irregular troops as were still
amenable to discipline; they squatted on the ground, chewing at bits of sugar
cane, crunching nuts and polishing their teeth with little lengths of stick,
while above the drone of