Guard, playing: Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stor’d, He hath loos’d the fateful 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 be-side 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 im-memorial 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 pig-tails. 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, drummed and piped among the straggling crowds; groups split away from the melee 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 confused revelling which rose from the side streets, Connolly from the saddle of his mule in classical form exhorted his legions.
“Guards,” he said loudly, “Chiefs and tribesmen of the Azanian Empire. Hear me. You are good men. You have fought valiantly for your Emperor. The slaughter was very splendid. It is a thing for which your children and your children’s children will hold you in honour. It was said in the camp that the Emperor had gone over the sea. I do not know if that is true. If he has, it is to prepare a reward for you in the great lands. But it is sufficient reward to a soldier to have slain his enemy.
“Guards, Chiefs and tribesmen of the Azanian Empire. The war is over. It is fitting that you should rest and rejoice. Two things only, I charge you, are forbidden. The white men, their houses, cattle, goods or women you must not take. Nor must you burn anything or any of the houses nor pour out the petrol in the streets. If any man do this he shall be killed. I have spoken. Long live the Emperor.
“Go on, you lucky bastards,” he added in English. “Go and make whoopee. I must get a brush up and some food before I do anything else.”
He rode across to the Grand Azanian Hotel. It was shut and barred. His two servants forced the door and he went in. At the best of times, even when the fortnightly Messageries liner was in and gay European sightseers paraded every corner of the city, the Grand Azanian Hotel had a gloomy and unwelcoming air. On this morning a chill of utter desolation struck through General Connolly as he passed through its empty and darkened rooms. Every movable object had been stripped from walls and floor and stowed away subterraneously during the preceding night. But the single bath at least was a fixture. Connolly set his servants to work pumping water and unpacking his uniform cases. Eventually an hour later he emerged, profoundly low in spirits, but clean, shaved and very fairly dressed. Then he rode towards the fort where the Emperor’s colours hung limp in the sultry air. No sign of life came from the houses; no welcome; no resistance. Marauding bands of his own people skulked from cor-ner to corner; once a terrified Indian rocketed up from the gutter and shot across his path like a rab-bit. It was not until he reached the White Fathers’ mission that he heard news of the Emperor. Here he encountered a vast Canadian priest with white habit and sunhat and spreading crimson beard, who was at that moment occupied in shaking almost to death the brigade sergeant-major of the Imperial Guard. At the General’s approach the reverend father released his victim with one hand—keeping a firm grip in his woollen hair with the other—removed the cheroot from his mouth and waved it cordially.
“Hullo, general, back from the wars, eh? They’ve been very anxious about you in the city. Is this creature part of the victorious army?”
“Looks like one of my chaps. What’s he been up to?”
“Up to? I came in from mass and found him eating my breakfast.” A tremendous buffet on the side of his head sent the sergeant-major dizzily across the road. “Don’t you let me find any more of your fellows hanging round the mission to-day or there’ll be trouble. It’s always the same when you have troops in a town. I remember in Duke Japheth’s re bellion, the wretched creatures were all over the place. They frightened the sisters terribly over at the fever hospital.”
“Father, is it true that the Emperor’s cut and run?”
“If he hasn’t he’s about the only person. I had that old fraud of an Armenian Archbishop in here the other night, trying to make me join him in a motor-boat. I told him I’d sooner have my throat cut on dry land than face that crossing in an open boat. I’ll bet he was sick.”
“But you don’t know where the Emperor is?”
“He might be over in the fort. He was the other day. Silly young ass, pasting up proclamations all over the town. I’ve got other things to bother about than young Seth. And mind you keep your misera-ble savages from my mission or they’ll know the reason why. I’ve got a lot of our people camped in here so as to be out of harm’s way, and I am not going to have them disturbed. Good morning to you, General.”
