The Disciplinarians

Lieutenant Augustus Tibbetts of the Houssas stood at attention before his chief.

He stood straight as a ramrod, his hands at his sides, his eyeglass jammed in his eye, and Hamilton of the Houssas looked at him sorrowfully.

"Bones, you're an ass!" he said at last.

"Yes, sir," said Bones.

"I sent you to Ochori to prevent a massacre, and instead of throwing that chief straight into the Village of Iron after you caught him ambushing an enemy, you fined him ten dollars."

"Yes, sir," said Bones.

There was a painful pause.

"Well, you're an ass!" said Hamilton, who could think of nothing better to say.

"Yes, sir," said Bones, "I think you're repeating yourself, sir. I seem to have heard that kind of comment before."

"You've made Bosambo and the whole of the Ochori sick as monkeys, and you've made me look a fool."

"Hardly my fault, sir," said Bones gently.

"I hardly know what to do with you," said Hamilton, drawing his pipe from his pocket and slowly filling it. "Naturally, Bones, I can never let you loose on the country again." He lit his pipe and puffed thoughtfully. "And of course—"

"Pardon me, sir," said Bones, still uncomfortably erect, "this is intended to be a sort of official inquiry and all that, isn't it?"

"It is," said Hamilton.

"Well, sir," said Bones, "may I ask you not to smoke? When a fellow's honor and reputation are being weighed in the balance, sir, believe me, smoking isn't decent—it isn't really, sir."

Hamilton looked around for something to throw at his critic and found a tolerably heavy book, but Bones dodged and fielded it dexterously. "And if you must throw things at me, sir," he added, examining the title on the back of the missile, "will you avoid as far as possible using the sacred volumes of the Army List? It hurts me to say this, sir, but I was well brought up."

"What's the time?" asked Hamilton, and his second-in-command examined his watch.

"Ten to lunch," he said. "Good Lord, we've been talking for an hour. Any news from Sanders?"

"He's in town—that's all I know—but don't change the subject, Bones. Everybody is disgusted with you—Sanders would have brought him to trial at the very least."

"I couldn't do it, sir," said Bones firmly. "Poor old bird! He looked such an ass, and besides, he reminded me so strongly of an aunt of mine that I simply couldn't."

No doubt Lieutenant Francis Augustus Tibbetts of the Houssas, with his sunburned nose, his large saucer eyes, and his air of solemn innocence, had shaken the faith of the impressionable folk. This much Hamilton was to learn: for Tibbetts had been sent with a party of Houssas to crush an incipient rebellion in the Akasava, and having caught N'gori in the very act of most treacherously and damnably preparing an ambush against the virtuous Bosambo, Chief of the Ochori, had done no more than fine him ten dollars.

And this was in a land where even the Spanish dollar had never been seen except by Bosambo, who was reported to have more than his share of silver in a deep hole beneath the floor of his hut.

Little wonder that Captain Hamilton held an informal court-martial of one, the closing stages of which I have described, and sentenced his wholly inefficient subordinate to seven days' field exercise in the forest with half a company of Houssas.

"Oh, dash it, you don't mean that?" asked Bones in dismay when the verdict was conveyed to him at lunch.

"I do," said Hamilton firmly. "I would be failing in my duty if I didn't make you realize what a perfect ass you are."

"Perfect—yes," protested Bones, "ass—no. The fact is, dear old fellow, I have a temperament. You're not going to make me go tramping through that beastly forest digging rifle pits and pitching tents and all that damn nonsense; it's too horrible to think about."

"Nevertheless," said Hamilton, "you will do it while I go north to sit on the heads of all those who try to profit from your misguided leniency. I shall be back in time for the Administration Inspection—don't forget that His Excellency—"

"Bless his jolly old heart!" murmured Bones.

"—is paying his annual visit on the twenty-first."

A ray of hope shot through the gloom of Lieutenant Tibbetts' mind.

"Under the circumstances, dear old friend, don't you think it would be best to scrap that silly idea of field training? What about putting up a sign and getting the fellows to paint 'Welcome to the United Territories' or 'God Bless Our Home' or something?"

Hamilton withered him with a glance.

His last words, shouted from the bridge of the Zaire as her stern wheel went threshing ahead, were, "Remember, Bones! No shirking!"

"Honi soit qui mal y pense!" roared Bones.

Hamilton had enough evidence of the effect his subordinate's leniency had produced. News travels fast, and the Akasava are great talkers. Hamilton, arriving at the Isisi city on his way up the river, found a crowd on the beach to watch his mooring, their arms folded and hugging their sides—a sure gesture of indifferent idleness—but neither the paramount chief, nor his son, nor any of his counselors waited to pay their respects.

Hamilton sent for them, and still they did not come, sending a message that they were sick. So Hamilton went striding through the city streets, his long sword flapping at his side, four Houssas padding swiftly behind him in their curious jog-trot. B'sano, the young chief of the Isisi, came out lazily from his hut and stood with feet spread and arms akimbo, watching the approaching Houssa, and he had no fear, for it was said that now that Sandi was away from the country, no man had the authority to punish.

And the counselors behind B'sano had their bunched spears and wicker shields, contrary to all custom—as Sanders had made the custom.

"O chief," said Hamilton, with his ready smile, "I waited for you, and you did not come."

"Soldier," said B'sano insolently, "I am the king of these people and answerable to none except my lord Sandi, who, as you know, has left us."

"That I know," said the patient Houssa, "and because it is in my heart to show all people what manner of law Sandi has left behind, I fine you and your city ten thousand matakos so that you may remember that the law lives, though Sandi is far away, and though all rulers change and die."

A slow gleam of contempt came to the chief's eyes.

"Soldier," said he, "I do not pay matako—wa!"

He stumbled back, his mouth agape with fear.

The long barrel of Hamilton's revolver rested coldly on his bare stomach.

"We will have a fire," said Hamilton, and spoke to his sergeant in Arabic. "Here in the center of the city we will make a fire of proud shields and unlawful spears."

One by one the counselors dropped their wicker shields upon the fire the Houssa sergeant had kindled, and as they dropped them, the sergeant methodically handcuffed the Isisi chief's advisors in pairs.

"You shall find other counselors, B'sano," said Hamilton, as the men were led to the Zaire. "See that I do not return bringing a new chief."

"Lord," said the chief humbly, "I am your dog."

Not only B'sano was at fault. Up and down the river, old grievances awaited settlement: there were scores to settle, misunderstandings to resolve. Mostly these had to do with questions of tribal superiority and could only be settled by bloody combat.

Also picture a secret order, ruthlessly suppressed by Sanders, practiced by trembling men, each afraid of the other despite their oaths; it received new life when the news spread: "Sandi has gone—there is no law."

This was a fine time for dreamers of dreams and for men who saw portents and understood the wisdom of Ju-jus.

Bemebibi, chief of the Lesser Isisi, was too fat a man for a dreamer, for visions visit those with countable ribs and a cough. Nor was he tall nor commanding by any standard. He had broad shoulders and a short neck. His head was round, his eyes small and cunning. He was an irritable man, with a habit of beating his counselors when they displeased him, and he was a ready destroyer of men.

Some say he practiced sacrifice in the forests, he and the members of his society, but no one spoke with any certainty or authority, for Bemebibi was chief alike of a community and an order. In the Lesser Isisi alone, the White Ghosts had flourished despite every effort to stamp them out.

It was a society into which the adventurous youth of the Isisi were initiated joyfully, for there is little difference in the temperament of youth, whether one wears a cloth about his loins or lavender spats on his feet.

Thus it came about that half the adult male population of the Lesser Isisi had sworn by letting blood and rubbing salt:

(1) To hop on one foot for a spear's length every night and morning.

(2) To love all ghosts and speak gently of devils.

(3) To be deaf and blind, and to throw spears swiftly for the love of the White Ghosts.

One night Bemebibi went into the forest with six highmen of his order. They came to a secret place by a pool and squatted in a circle, each man laying his hands on the soles of his feet in the prescribed fashion.

"Snakes live in holes," said Bemebibi conventionally. "Ghosts dwell by water, and all devils sit in the bodies of little birds."

They repeated this after him, moving their heads from side to side slowly.

"This is a good night," said the chief, when the ritual was ended, "for now I see the end of our great plans. Sandi is gone, and M'ilitini is by the place where the three rivers meet, and he has come in fear. Also by magic I have learned that he is terrified because he knows I am a terrible man. Now I think it is time for all ghosts to strike swiftly."

He spoke with emotion, swaying his body from side to side after the manner of orators. His voice grew thick and husky as the immensity of his design grew upon him.

"There is no law in the land," he sang. "Sandi is gone, and only a little, thin man punishes in fear. M'ilitini's blood is like water—let us sacrifice."

One of his highmen disappeared into the dark forest and returned soon, dragging a half-witted youth named Ko'so, grinning and mumbling and content until the curved N'gombi knife that his captor wielded came "snack" to his neck, and then he spoke no more.

Too late Hamilton came through the forest with his twenty Houssas. Bemebibi saw the end and was content to make a fight of it, as were his partners in crime.

"Use your bayonets," said Hamilton briefly, and drew his long, white sword.

Bemebibi lunged at him with his stabbing spear, and Hamilton caught the poisoned spearhead on his steel guard, turned it aside, and drove forward straight and swiftly from his shoulder.

"Bury all these men," said Hamilton, and spent a beastly night in the forest.

So passed Bemebibi, and his people gave him up to the ghosts, him and his highmen.

There were other problems, less tragic, to deal with: a Bosambo grieved rather than sulking, and haughty N'gori to be kicked into a sense of his unimportance, chiefs major and minor to be brought to a state of penitence.

Hamilton zigzagged up the river swiftly. In those days he earned for himself the name "Dragon-fly," or its native equivalent, and the comparison was apt, for it seemed the Zaire would pause, buzzing angrily, then dart off in unexpected directions; the spirit of complacency that had settled upon the land gave way to one of apprehension, which in old days followed Sanders when he arrived in a mood of reprisal.

Hamilton sent a letter by canoe to his second-in-command. It began simply:

"Bones—I will not call you 'dear Bones,'" it continued with a hint of rancor, "for you are not dear to me. I am trying to clear up the mess you have made so that when His Excellency arrives I can show him a law-abiding country. I have missed you, Bones, but had you been near me on more than one occasion, I should not have missed you. Bones, were you ever kicked as a boy? Did any good fellow ever grab you by the scruff of the neck and the seat of your trousers and throw you into an evil-smelling pond? Try to think and send me the name of the man who did this, so I may send him a letter of thanks.

"Your absurd weakness has kept me on the move for days. Oh, Bones, Bones! I am in a sweat, lest even now you are tampering with the discipline of my Houssas—lest you are passing around tea and cakes to the Alis and Ahmets and Mustaphas of my soldiers; lest you are brightening their evenings with imitations of Frank Tinney and fanning the flies from their sleeping forms," the letter went on.

"Cad!" muttered Bones, as he read this.

There were six pages in that vein, and at the end six more of instructions. Bones was in the forest when the letter came to him, unshaven, weary, and full of trouble.

He hated work, he loathed field exercise; he regarded bridge-building over imaginary streams and the whole infernal curriculum of military training as being within the province of boy scouts and wholly beneath the dignity of an officer of the Houssas. And he felt horribly guilty as he read Hamilton's letter, for the night before, he had most certainly entertained his company with a banjo rendition of the Soldiers' Chorus from "Faust."

He ruffled his beautiful hair, jammed down his helmet, squared his shoulders, and with a fiendish expression—an expression Bones intended to represent stern, unbending devotion to duty—he stepped out of his tent, determined to undo whatever mischief he had done and earn, if not the love, at least the respect of his men.

There is in all services a subtle fear and hope, having less to do with material consequences than with a sense of harmony that rejects the discordance of failure. Also, Hamilton was a human man who, while respecting Sanders and holding his qualities in high regard, secretly hoped that he could carry on the work of the heaven-born Commissioner without needing his superiors' charity.

He wished—not unnaturally—to present a triumphant palm to his country and say, "Behold! These are the talents Sanders left—I have increased them twofold by my care."

He came down stream in haste, having completed his work of pacification, and stopped at the Village of Irons long enough to hand over to the Houssa warder four unhappy counselors of the Isisi king.

"Keep these men until our lord Sandi's return."

At Bosinkusu he was delayed by a storm—a wild, whirling beast of a storm that lashed the river's waters and swept the Zaire broadside toward the shore. At M'idibi, the villagers, whose duty it was to cut and stack wood for the government steamers, had gone into the forest to consult a celebrated witch doctor, gambling that Hamilton would choose the wooding village ten miles down river to restock his boat.

So beyond a thin pile of logs on the river's edge—put there to deceive the casual observer passing by—there was no wood, and Hamilton had to set his men to cutting.

He had nearly finished the tiresome work when the villagers returned in a body, singing an unmusical song and decked out with ropes of flowers.

"Now," explained the headman, "we have been to a palaver with a holy man, and he has promised us that some day a great harvest of corn will come to us, which will be reaped by magic and laid at our doors while we sleep."

"And I," said the exasperated Houssa, "promise you a great harvest of whips that, far from coming in your sleep, will keep you awake."

"Master, we did not know you would come so soon," said the humble headman. "Also, there was a rumor that your lordship had been drowned in the storm and your puc-a-puc sunk, and my young men were happy because there would be no more wood to cut."

The Zaire, with fuel replenished, slipped down the river, Hamilton leaning over the rail and making dire threats as the boat drifted away from the faithless village. He had cut things very fine and could only hope to reach headquarters an hour or so before the Administrator arrived by the mail-boat. If Bones could be trusted, there would be no cause for worry. Bones should have the men's quarters whitewashed, the parade ground swept and ready, stores in excellent order for inspection, and all the books ready for the Accountant-General to glance over.

But Bones!

Hamilton writhed internally at the thought of Francis Augustus and his inefficiency.

He had sent his second the most detailed instructions, but if he knew his man, the languid Bones would do no more than pass those instructions on to a subordinate.

It was ten o'clock on the morning of the inspection that the Zaire came chugging furiously to the tiny concrete quay, and Hamilton sighed with relief. For there, awaiting him, stood Lieutenant Tibbetts in his full glory—helmet sparkling white, steel sword hilt a-glitter, khaki uniform spotless and well fitting.

"Everything is in order, sir," said Bones, saluting, and Hamilton thought he detected a gruffer, more robust note in his tone.

"Mail-boat's just in, sir," Bones continued with unusual fierceness. "You're just in time to meet His Excellency. Stores are laid out, books are in good order, and parade ground and quarters are whitewashed as per your orders, sir."

He saluted again, his eyes bulging, his face a veritable mask of ferocity, and, turning on his heel, he led the way to the beach.

"Here, hold on!" said Hamilton. "What the devil's the matter with you?"

"I've seen the error of my ways, sir," growled Bones, saluting punctiliously. "I've been an ass, sir—too lenient—given you a lot of trouble—it won't happen again."

There was no time to ask further questions. The two men had to run to reach the landing place in time, for the surfboats were at that moment rolling to the yellow beach.

Sir Robert Sanleigh, in spotless white, was carried ashore, and his staff followed.

"Ah, Hamilton," said the great Bob, "everything all right?"

"Yes, your Excellency," said Hamilton. "There have been one or two serious killing palavers, on which I will report."

Sir Robert nodded.

"You were bound to have a little trouble as soon as Sanders went," he said.

He was a methodical man and had little time for the work at hand, for the mail-boat was waiting to carry him to another station. The books, quarters, and stores were in apple-pie order, and inwardly Hamilton praised the young man who strode silently and fiercely by his side, his face still contorted with new-found sternness.

"The Houssas are all right, I suppose?" asked Sir Robert. "Discipline good—no crime?"

"The discipline is excellent, sir," replied Hamilton heartily, "and we haven't had any serious crime for years."

Sir Robert Sanleigh fixed his pince-nez on his nose and looked around the parade ground. A dozen Houssas stood at attention in the center, in two ranks.

"Where are the rest of your men?" asked the Administrator.

"In gaol, sir." It was Bones who answered.

Hamilton gasped.

"In gaol? I'm sorry—but I knew nothing about this. I've just arrived from the interior, your Excellency."

They walked across to the small party.

"Where is Sergeant Abiboo?" asked Hamilton suddenly.

"In gaol, sir," said Bones promptly. "Sentenced to death—for scratching his leg on parade after being warned repeatedly by me to give up that disgusting habit."

"Where is Corporal Ahmet, Bones?" asked Hamilton, frantic.

"In gaol, sir," said Bones. "I gave him twenty years for talking in the ranks and cheekin' me when I told him to shut up. There's a whole lot of them, sir," he went on casually. "I sentenced two fellows to death for fighting in the lines, and gave another bloke ten years for—"

"I think that will do," said Sir Robert tactfully. "A most excellent inspection, Captain Hamilton—now I think I'll get back to my ship."

He took Hamilton aside on the beach.

"What did you call that young man?" he asked.

"Bones, your Excellency," said Hamilton miserably.

"I should call him Blood and Bones," smiled His Excellency as he shook hands.

"What's the good of picking on me, dear old chap?" asked Bones indignantly. "If I let a fellow off, I'm kicked; and if I punish him, I'm kicked—it's enough to make a fellow give up being judicial—"

"Bones, you're a goop," said Hamilton in despair.

"A goop, sir? If you'd be kind enough to explain—"

"There's an ass," said Hamilton, ticking off one finger; "and there's a silly ass," he ticked off a second; "and there's a silly ass who is such a silly ass that he doesn't know what a silly ass he is: we call him a goop."

"Thank you, sir," said Bones without resentment. "And which is the goop, you or—?"

Hamilton dropped his hand to his revolver butt, and for a moment there was murder in his eyes.