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The Floating Press - F. Westerman Percy

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109 pages

English

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In the early decades of the twentieth century, member of the Royal Navy and lifelong seaman Percy F. Westerman began writing juvenile action-adventure novels, drawing on his own experiences during World War I and in other theaters of war. He achieved widespread acclaim and the undying devotion of millions of young readers. In this installment of the series, an intrepid crew of men plays a critical part in a campaign in Africa.

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Children's

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 août 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776528561
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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WILMSHURST OF THE FRONTIER FORCE
* * *
PERCY F. WESTERMAN

*
Wilmshurst of the Frontier Force First published in 1918 ISBN 978-1-77652-856-1 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter I - On Active Service Chapter II - Chaos in the Cabin Chapter III - The Raider Chapter IV - Spofforth, Macgregor, and the Lioness Chapter V - How the Kopje was Stormed Chapter VI - The Warning Shot Chapter VII - A True Man or a Traitor? Chapter VIII - Ulrich Von Gobendorff Chapter IX - The Fight for the Seaplane Chapter X - Preparations Chapter XI - The Sniper Chapter XII - The Storming of M'ganga Chapter XIII - The Fugitive Chapter XIV - On the Track Chapter XV - Rescued Chapter XVI - 'Gainst Heavy Odds Chapter XVII - Water! Chapter XVIII - Im the Enemy's Position Chapter XIX - Cornered at Last Chapter XX - Quits
Chapter I - On Active Service
*
"Four o'clock mornin', sah; bugle him go for revally."
Dudley Wilmshurst, Second Lieutenant of the Nth West African Regiment,threw off the light coverings, pulled aside the mosquito curtains, andsat upon the edge of his cot, hardly able to realise that Tari Barl,his Haussa servant, had announced the momentous news. Doubtful whetherhis senses were not playing him false Wilmshurst glanced round theroom. On a metal table, the legs of which stood in metal jars filledwith water and paraffin to counteract the ravages of the white ants,lay his field-equipment—a neatly-rolled green canvas valise with hisname and regiment stamped in bold block letters; his Sam Browne beltwith automatic pistol holster attached; his sword—a mere token ofauthority but otherwise little better than a useless encumbrance—and apair of binoculars in a leather case that bore signs of the excessivedampness of the climate on The Coast, as the littoral of the Africanshore 'twixt the Niger and the Senegal Rivers is invariably referred toby the case-hardened white men who have fought against the pestilentialclimate and won.
A short distance from the oil stove on which a kettle was boiling,thanks to the energy and thoughtfulness of Private Tari Barl, stood anassortment of camp equipment: canvas tent d'abri , ground sheets,aluminium mess traps, a folding canvas bath, and last but not least anindispensable Doulton pump filter.
When a man's head is buzzing from the effects of strong doses ofquinine, and his limbs feel limp and almost devoid of strength, it isnot to be wondered at that he is decidedly "off colour." It was onlyWilmshurst's indomitable will that had pulled him through a bout ofmalaria in time to be passed fit for active service with the "Waffs,"as the West African Field Force is commonly known from the initialletters of the official designation.
And here was Tari Barl—"Tarry Barrel," his master invariably dubbedhim—smiling all over his ebony features as he stood, clad in activeservice kit and holding a cup of fragrant tea.
Tari Barl was a typical specimen of the West African native from whomthe ranks of the Coast regiments are recruited. In height about fivefeet ten, he was well built from his thighs upwards. Even hisloosely-fitting khaki tunic did not conceal the massive chest with itssupple muscles and the long, sinewy arms that knew how to swing to therhythm of bayonet exercise. His legs, however, were thin and spindly.To any one not accustomed to the native build it would seem strangethat the apparently puny lower limbs could support such a heavy frame.He was wearing khaki shorts and puttees; even the latter, tightlyfitting, did little to disguise the meagreness of his calves. He wasbarefooted, for the West African soldier has a rooted dislike to boots,although issued as part of his equipment. On ceremonial parades hewill wear them, outwardly uncomplainingly, but at the first opportunityhe will discard them, slinging the unnecessary footgear round his neck.Thorns, that in the "bush" will rip the best pair of British-mademarching-boots to shreds in a very short time, trouble him hardly atall, for the soles of his feet, which with the palms of his hands arethe only white parts of his epidermis, are as hard as iron.
"All my kit ready, Tarry Barrel?" enquired Wilmshurst as he sipped histea.
"All ready, sah; Sergeant Bela Moshi him lib for tell fatigue partymighty quick. No need worry, sah."
Dismissing his servant the subaltern "tubbed" and dressed. They startthe day early on the Coast, getting through most of the routine beforenine, since the intense heat of the tropical sun makes strenuousexertion not only unpleasant but highly dangerous.
But to-day was of a different order. The regiment was to embark ateight o'clock on board the transport Zungeru for active service inthe vast stretch of country known as "German East," where the Huns withtheir well-trained Askaris, or native levies, were putting up a stiffresistance against the Imperial and Colonial troops of the BritishEmpire.
On his way to the mess Wilmshurst ran up against Barkley, the P.M.O. ofthe garrison.
"Hullo there!" exclaimed the doctor. "How goes it? Fit?"
"Absolutely," replied the subaltern.
The doctor smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He knew perfectly wellthat no officer warned for active service would reply otherwise.
"Buzzing all gone?"
"Practically," replied Wilmshurst.
"All right; stick to five grains of quinine during the whole of thevoyage—and don't be afraid to let me know if you aren't up to themark. Suppose you've heard nothing further of your brother?"
Wilmshurst shook his head.
"Not since the letter written just before the war, and that took nearlytwelve months before it reached me. It's just possible that Rupert isin the thick of it with the Rhodesian crush."
Barkley made no comment. He was an old college chum of RupertWilmshurst, who was fifteen years older than his brother Dudley. Theelder Wilmshurst was a proverbial rolling stone. Almost as soon as heleft Oxford he went abroad and, after long wanderings in the interiorof China, Siberia, and Manchuria, where his adventures merelystimulated the craving for wandering on the desolate parts of theearth, he went to the Cape, working his way up country until he made atemporary settlement on the northern Rhodesian shores of LakeTanganyika.
It was thence that he wrote to his brother Dudley, who had just takenup a Crown appointment on the Coast, mentioning that he had penetratedinto the territory known as German East.
The subaltern remembered the letter almost by heart.
"There'll be trouble out here before very long," wrote Rupert."Britishers settling down in this part almost invariably roll acricket-pitch or lay out a football field. With Hans it is verydifferent. The Germans' idea of colonization is to start building up amilitary organization. Every 'post' in which there are German settlershas its company of armed blacks—Askaris they call them. And as forammunition, they are laying in stores sufficient to wage a two-years'war; not merely small arms ammunition, but quick-firer shells as well.Quite by accident I found kegs of cartridges buried close to my camp.For what reason? The natives are quiet enough, so the ammunition isnot for use against them. I am sending this letter by a trusty nativeto be posted at Pambete, as it would be unwise to make use of theGerman colonial post. Meanwhile I am penetrating further into thisstretch of territory under the Black Cross Ensign—possibly in thedirection of Tabora. My researches may be taken seriously by theForeign Office, but I have my doubts. Fortunately I have a jolly goodpal with me, a Scotsman named Macgregor, whom I met at Jo-burg. Don'tbe anxious if you don't hear from me for some time."
The letter was dated July, 1914, and three years, Dudley reflected, isa very exaggerated interpretation of the term "some time." Even takinginto consideration the lack of efficient internal and externalcommunication, the state of war embroiling practically the wholecivilized world and the perils to which shipping was subjected owing tothe piratical exploits of the Huns—all these facts would hardly offersufficient explanation for a total absence of news from RupertWilmshurst unless—
There are parts of Africa which are still described as the DarkContinent—wild, desolate stretches where a man can disappear withoutleaving the faintest trace of the manner of his presumed death, whilein German East there were unscrupulous despots—the disciples ofatrocious kultur—only too ready to condemn an Englishman without eventhe farcical formality of a court-martial.
Already events had proved that Rupert Wilmshurst's statement waswell-founded. In her African colonies, in Kiau-Chau, and elsewhere foryears past Germany had been assiduously preparing for The Day. Underthe firm but erroneous impression that Great Britain would have herhands full in connection with affairs at home, that the Boers in SouthAfrica would revolt and that the Empire would fall to pieces at thedeclaration of war between England and Germany, the Hun in Africa hadprepared huge stores of munitions and trained thousands of nativetroops with the intention of wresting the adjoining ill-defendedterritories from their owners.
No wonder that the Huns hugged themselves with delight when by adisastrous stroke of statesmanship Great Britain exchanged thecrumbling island of Heligoland for some millions of square miles ofundeveloped territory hitherto held by Germany. While Heligoland wasbeing protected by massive concrete wa