The Soul of a Regiment | Page 6

Sirdar turned his head suddenly and gazed at one corner of the field,
and the noise of talking ceased -- not so suddenly as the music had
done, for not everybody could see what was happening at first -- but
dying down gradually and fading away to nothing as the amazing thing
came into view.
It was a detachment of five men -- a drummer and three fifes, and one
other man who marched behind them -- though he scarcely resembled a
man. He marched, though, like a British soldier.

He was ragged -- they all were -- dirty and unkempt. He seemed very
nearly starved, for his bare legs were thinner than a mummy's; round
his loins was a native loin-cloth, and his hair was plastered down with
mud like a religious fanatic's. His only other garment was a tattered
khaki tunic that might once have been a soldier's, and he wore no shoes
or sandals of any kind.
He marched though, with a straight back and his chin up, and anybody
who was half observant might have noticed that he was marching two
paces right flank rear; it is probable, though, that in the general
amazement, nobody did notice it.
As the five debouched upon the polo ground, four of them abreast and
one behind, the four men raised their arms, the man behind issued a
sharp command, the right hand man thumped his drum, and a wail
proceeded from the fifes. They swung into a regimental quickstep now,
and the wail grew louder, rising and falling fitfully and distinctly
keeping time with the drum.
Then the tune grew recognizable. The crowd listened now in
awe-struck silence. The five approaching figures were grotesque
enough to raise a laugh and the tune was grotesquer, and more pitiable
still; but there was something electric in the atmosphere that told of
tragedy, and not even the natives made a sound as the five marched
straight across the field to where the Sirdar sat beneath the Egyptian
flag.
Louder and louder grew the tune as the fifes warmed up to it; louder
thumped the drum. It was flat, and notes were missing here and there.
False notes appeared at unexpected intervals, but the tune was
unmistakable. "The Campbells are coming! Hurrah! Hurrah!" wailed
the three fifes, and the five men marched to it as no undrilled natives
ever did.
"Halt!" ordered the man behind when the strange cortege had reached
the Sirdar; and his "Halt!" rang out in good clean military English.
"Front!" he ordered, and they "fronted" like a regiment. "Right Dress!"

They were in line already, but they went through the formality of
shuffling their feet. "Eyes Front!" The five men faced the Sirdar, and
no one breathed. "General salute -- pre-sent arms!"
They had no arms. The band stood still at attention. The fifth man he of
the bare legs and plastered hair -- whipped his right hand to his
forehead in the regulation military salute -- held it there for the
regulation six seconds, swaying as he did so and tottering from the
knees, then whipped it to his side again, and stood at rigid attention. He
seemed able to stand better that way, for his knees left off shaking.
"Who are you?" asked the Sirdar then.
"First Egyptian Foot, sir."
The crowd behind was leaning forward, listening; those that had been
near enough to hear that gasped. The Sirdar's face changed suddenly to
the look of cold indifference behind which a certain type of Englishman
hides his emotion.
Then came the time-honored question, prompt as the ax of a guillotine
-- inevitable as Fate itself:
"Where are your colors?"
The fifth man -- he who had issued the commands fumbled with his
tunic. The buttons were missing, and the front of it was fastened up
with a string; his fingers seemed to have grown feeble; he plucked at it,
but it would not come undone.
"Where are---"
The answer to that question should be like an echo, and nobody should
need to ask it twice. But the string burst suddenly, and the first time of
asking sufficed. The ragged, unkempt long-haired mummy undid his
tunic and pulled it open.
"Here, sir!" he answered.

The colors, blood-soaked, torn -- unrecognizable almost -- were round
his body! As the ragged tunic fell apart, the colors fell with it; Grogram
caught them, and stood facing the Sirdar with them in his hand. His
bare chest was seared with half-healed wounds and criss-crossed with
the marks of floggings, and his skin seemed to be drawn tight as a
mummy's across his ribs. He was a living skeleton!
The Sirdar sprang to his feet and raised his hat; for the colors of a
regiment are second, in holiness, to the Symbols of the Church. The