Greenmantle by John Buchan (snow like ashes series .txt) 📕

I have got to be Maritz’s men. We went into Angola, and now we’re trekking for the Fatherland to get a bit of our own back from the infernal English. Neither of us knows any German⁠—publicly. We’d better plan out the fighting we were in⁠—Kakamas will do for one, and Schuit Drift. You were a Ngamiland hunter before the war. They won’t have your dossier, so you can tell any lie you like. I’d better be an educated Afrikander, one of Beyers’s bright lads, and a pal of old Hertzog. We can let our imagination loose about that part, but we must stick to the same yarn about the fighting.”

“Ja, Cornelis,” said Peter. (He had called me Cornelis ever since I had told him my new name. He was a wonderful chap for catching on to any game.) “But after we get into Germany, what then? There can’t be much difficulty about the beginning. But once we’re among the beer-swillers I don’t quite see our line. We’re to find out about something that’s going on in Turkey? When I was a boy the predikant used to preach about Turkey. I wish I was better educated and remembered whereabouts in the map it was.”

“You leave that to me,” I said; “I’ll explain it all to you before we get there. We haven’t got much of a spoor, but we’ll cast about, and with luck will pick it up. I’ve seen you do it often enough when we hunted kudu on the Kafue.”

Peter nodded. “Do we sit still in a German town?” he asked anxiously. “I shouldn’t like that, Cornelis.”

“We move gently eastward to Constantinople,” I said.

Peter grinned. “We should cover a lot of new country. You can reckon on me, friend Cornelis. I’ve always had a hankering to see Europe.”

He rose to his feet and stretched his long arms.

“We’d better begin at once. God, I wonder what’s happened to old Solly Maritz, with his bottle face? Yon was a fine battle at the drift when I was sitting up to my neck in the Orange praying that Brits’ lads would take my head for a stone.”

Peter was as thorough a mountebank, when he got started, as Blenkiron himself. All the way back to Lisbon he yarned about Maritz and his adventures in German South West till I half believed they were true. He made a very good story of our doings, and by his constant harping on it I pretty soon got it into my memory. That was always Peter’s way. He said if you were going to play a part, you must think yourself into it, convince yourself that you were it, till you really were it and didn’t act but behaved naturally. The two men who had started that morning from the hotel door had been bogus enough, but the two men that returned were genuine desperadoes itching to get a shot at England.

We spent the evening piling up evidence in our favour. Some kind of republic had been started in Portugal, and ordinarily the cafés would have been full of politicians, but the war had quieted all these local squabbles, and the talk was of nothing but what was doing in France and Russia. The place we went to was a big, well-lighted show on a main street, and there were a lot of sharp-eyed fellows wandering about that I guessed were spies and police agents. I knew that Britain was the one country that doesn’t bother about this kind of game, and that it would be safe enough to let ourselves go.

I talked Portuguese fairly well, and Peter spoke it like a Lourenco Marques barkeeper, with a lot of Shangaan words to fill up. He started on curaçao, which I reckoned was a new drink to him, and presently his tongue ran freely. Several neighbours pricked up their ears, and soon we had a small crowd round our table.

We talked to each other of Maritz and our doings. It didn’t seem to be a popular subject in that café. One big blue-black fellow said that Maritz was a dirty swine who would soon be hanged. Peter quickly caught his knife-wrist with one hand and his throat with the other, and demanded an apology. He got it. The Lisbon boulevardiers have not lost any lions.

After that there was a bit of a squash in our corner. Those near to us were very quiet and polite, but the outer fringe made remarks. When Peter said that if Portugal, which he admitted he loved, was going to stick to England she was backing the wrong horse, there was a murmur of disapproval. One decent-looking old fellow, who had the air of a ship’s captain, flushed all over his honest face, and stood up looking straight at Peter. I saw that we had struck an Englishman, and mentioned it to Peter in Dutch.

Peter played his part perfectly. He suddenly shut up, and, with furtive looks around him, began to jabber to me in a low voice. He was the very picture of the old stage conspirator.

The old fellow stood staring at us. “I don’t very well understand this damned lingo,” he said; “but if so be you dirty Dutchmen are sayin’ anything against England, I’ll ask you to repeat it. And if so be as you repeats it I’ll take either of you on and knock the face off him.”

He was a chap after my own heart, but I had to keep the game up. I said in Dutch to Peter that we mustn’t get brawling in a public house. “Remember the big thing,” I said darkly. Peter nodded, and the old fellow, after staring at us for a bit, spat scornfully, and walked out.

“The time is coming when the Englander will sing small,” I observed to the crowd. We stood drinks to one or two, and then swaggered into the street. At the door a hand touched my arm, and, looking down, I saw a little scrap of