Trapped by Malays: A Tale of Bayonet and Kris. George Manville Fenn
proverb. It can’t mean a wigging this time. But if that pompous old pump, that buckled-up basha, lets the Major know that he caught poor old Pegg in my room to-day, I’m sure to get a lecture about making too free with the men instead of going about amongst them perched up upon metaphorical stilts. Well, whatever he wants to see me about, it can’t be for a wigging, or else he wouldn’t have summoned me just close upon soup-and-’tater call.”
The smart-looking young subaltern drew himself up, looking his military best, as he made for the Major’s quarters, before which, in light undress uniform, a private was marching up and down, crossing the doorway and the windows of the mess-room, through which the lamps of the dinner-table shone, as they were being lit by the servants. The regimental glass and plate were beginning to glitter on the table, while a soft, warm breeze was rustling the tropical leaves and beginning to cool the atmosphere, as it swept from the surrounding jungle through the widely opened casements.
“Yes! Come in!” came in a loud, bluff, rather rich voice; and the next minute Archie was face to face with the fine-looking, white-haired, florid Major in command of the infantry detachment stationed at Campong Dang in support of Her Majesty’s Resident, Sir Charles Dallas, whose duty it was to instruct the Malay Rajah of Pahpah how to rule his turbulent bearers of spear and kris and wearers of sarong and baju, in accordance with modern civilisation, and without putting a period to their lives for every offence by means of the sudden insertion of an ugly-looking, wavy weapon before throwing them to the ugliest reptiles that ever haunted a muddy stream.
“Ah! Hum! Yes.”
There was a pause in the strange salute, and, “ ’Tis a row, then,” said Archie to himself. “You received my despatch, Mr. Maine?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And of course, sir, you are perfectly aware of my reasons for summoning you?”
“No, sir,” replied Archie.
“What! Now, that’s what I intensely dislike, Mr. Maine. If there is anything that annoys, irritates, or makes me dissatisfied with the men—the gentlemen under my command, it is evasion, shuffling, shirking, or prevarication.”
At the beginning of this speech the young officer felt nervous and troubled with a feeling of anxiety, but his commanding officer’s tone and words sent the blood flushing up into his face, and he replied warmly:
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I am neither shuffling nor prevaricating when I tell you that I do not know why you have sent for me.” Then to himself—
“He could not have known about the Sergeant, for that was after he had sent his note.”
He had time to say this to himself, for the Major was staring at him in amazement.
“What! What! What!” he exclaimed. “How—how dah you, sir? I’d have you to know that when I address my subordinates—ahem!—arrrum!—I—that is—hum—dear me, how confoundedly you have grown like your father, Archibald! Just his manner. I—that is—well, look here, sir; I have been very much put out about you. I promised my old comrade that I would do the best that I could in the way of helping you on and making you a useful officer and a thorough gentleman, and you know, between men, Archibald Maine, it has not been quite the thing. This is not the first time I have had to speak to you and complain of your conduct.”
“No, sir,” said the lad in rather a sulky tone; “and when I was in fault I never shuffled or prevaricated.”
“Never, Archie, my lad,” said the Major energetically. “It was bad form of me, but I was angry with your father’s son. My words were ill-chosen, and there—there—I apologise.”
“Oh no, sir!” cried the lad, warming up and speaking excitedly; “there is no need for that. I suppose I have been in the wrong, but I did not really know what I had been doing when you sent your letter.”
“Of course you did not, my boy; but—er—I was not thinking of that. It was about your conduct generally, and I had made up my mind to have you here and give you what you would call a wigging, Archie—eh?—wigging, sir! Dreadfully boyish expression!—and then, on second thoughts, I said to myself, ‘Much better to have the lad in quietly, break the ice and that sort of thing, tell him what I wanted to talk about, and then make him sit by me at the mess, and put it to him quietly over a glass of wine.’ Understand, my lad?”
Archie’s lips parted to speak, but the recollection of many old kindnesses began to crowd up so that he could not trust his voice, and he only nodded.
“That’s right. You see, my lad, your father and I were boys together—not perfect either. We used to quarrel frightfully. Well, sir, something inside me began to remind me of old times, and make apologies for you, and I was going to talk to you about being an officer and a gentleman—and dignity of manner, and impressing yourself upon your men—just point out that an officer can be kind to his lads and slacken the discipline a little sensibly without losing tone or touch, but there must be a proper feeling between officer and man. An officer need not be a bully and a tyrant, but he must be firm. His men must respect him, and see that the man who leads them knows his duty and is brave almost to a fault; and knowing this, every man who is worth his salt will follow him even to the death if duty calls. It is a grand position, Archie, my lad—that of being a leader of men—and it is shared with the General by the youngest subaltern who wears the Queen’s scarlet. See what I mean?”
“Yes, sir,” said the lad in a deep, low voice.
“Well, sir,” almost shouted the Major, “that’s what I was going to say to you, sir, over a glass of wine to-night, and put it to you that it was quite time that you, a young man grown, should put away boyish things and come to an end of tricks and pranks and youthful follies, and take upon you and show that you are worthy of the great birthright—manhood, when—confound it all! I was nearly breaking out swearing!—in comes to me that—hang him!—that overbearing bully—Yah! Tut, tut, tut, tut, tut!—it put me out dreadfully, and I am speaking in haste, for Ripsy is a fine, trustworthy man—my best non-com—to complain to me about you making a chum, a regular companion, of that confounded, low-bred cockney rascal, Pegg. Hang him! I’ll have his peg sharpened and make him spin in a more upright manner before I have done with him! Ripsy told me that the fellow was on fatigue-work—takes advantage of the freedom of his position to sneak off to your quarters to hatch some prank or mischief or another; and I had to listen to his complaint and—confound him!—to answer his question, ‘Is it right for a subaltern to encourage a low-bred rascal like that to come to his quarters?’ What do you say?”
“It was my fault, sir, entirely.”
“Yes; and that’s your fault too, Archibald Maine. You take a fancy to and make a companion of a private who bears the worst character in this detachment. You see even now, sir, you have made so much of a companion of him that you are ready to take the blame for his fault.”
“In this case rightly, sir,” said Archie, speaking with firmness. “I had jerked your note out of the window, and as the poor fellow passed—”
“Poor fellow!” cried the Major irritably. “There, again!”
“I told him to pick it up and bring it in,” continued Archie firmly; and the Major grunted, for he was evidently cooling down.
“There! Humph! Dinner,” grunted the Major again. “Now, quick! What have you got to say?”
Archie was silent for a few moments, for the simple reason that he could not speak, only stand trying to gaze steadily in the eyes of the fine old officer, who was watching him intently with a look that forced him to speak at last; but even then his voice shook a little, in spite of his efforts to make it firm and loud. Then the word that had struggled for utterance came, and it was in Latin:
“Peccavi.”
It was only that word, but it was enough to make the old Major lean forward, clap one hand on the lad’s shoulder, and half-whisper:
“Spoken