‘It’s in here,’ I said, and I took it out of the haversack.
‘The Webley,’ he said, studying it. ‘Captain Boyd favoured the Colt – the single-action.’
I said, ‘That’s rather old-fashioned – and slow.’
(With a single-action piece, you’d to cock the gun manually before firing.)
‘He liked the balance of it,’ said Jarvis. ‘And for rapid firing . . . well, he had his machine guns.’
To test Jarvis out, I said, ‘Do you want to come and look at the station? We could try and see where Boyd was found?’
‘No fear,’ he said, ‘I’m going to have a jolly day today. Good luck in the desert, sir. They say a pint of water every half hour.’
As he saluted from the driver’s seat, and roared off in the van, I thought: that bloke’s been on a large quantity of some liquid himself, and it’s not water.
In the station, a number of Royal Engineers were making the engine ready, one touring the lubrication points with an oil can. They were at the far end of the platform. Immediately before me, squatting on his haunches on the platform and stroking a thin cat, was the station master. He held out his long thin fingers, and the cat would move through them back and forth, like a little bull charging the cape of the bullfighter.
‘Hello‚ my dear,’ he said to me.
I nodded and looked away. Did his greeting mean he’d recognised me? It was hard to tell. The Salon de Thé was on the opposite platform, and I could not help but glance over. The door of the place now stood open, and it looked in worse order than before, sunk in dust and dirt.
‘Bad,’ said the station master, seeing where I was looking. He then pointed up, and repeated the word. I saw a great hole in the station roof.
A voice said, ‘Just as well it’s not raining,’ and Shepherd was alongside me, also looking up.
Setting down two huge brown canvas bags, he glanced sidelong at me and smiled. He appeared calm, but my own thoughts were racing in a circus. Where had he come slinking up from? What was in the bags? The station master was still sitting six feet away, playing with the bloody cat. He looked between me and Shepherd, apparently revolving a further remark. What was the Arabic for ‘Go away’? Stevens had known. But a few seconds later, the fellow did it of his own accord.
Shepherd wore shorts, and carried a thin haversack, but there was an identity between the tanned, skinny man before me now and the reserved figure in a good suit that I’d first seen in London, a sort of enviable style to the man. I heard the bark of an engine, which then became a rhythmical snuffling and chuffing. A filthy carriage was being shunted towards us. It was a period piece all right, with verandas at front and rear.
‘Is it German, sir?’ I enquired.
‘Turkish,’ said Shepherd, and it seemed to me that he said it proudly. The thing was greenish in colour, with faded white scribble of Turkish Arabic on the side. What did it say? First Class? Third Class? There were curtains at the dusty windows.
The tank engine smashed it up hard against our engine’s tender, and a private of the Royal Engineers began coupling up.
‘Doesn’t look much, does it?’ said Shepherd.
I had to agree.
‘. . . But it was the personal saloon of General von der Goltz.’
I’d heard of him; he was commander of the German forces in Mespot. I’d seen a photograph of the fellow. Being German, he was fat and wore a monocle.
‘Where’s he these days, sir?’
‘Dead,’ said Shepherd. ‘. . . Cholera.’
If a general could die of it, then anybody could. We wandered forwards towards the engine. It was a big beast was The Elephant. And the tender was nearly as long again. Well, it had to be for desert running. I mentioned this.
‘Four thousand gallons,’ said Shepherd, and I thought: If it comes to it, we can drink it. The stuff would come ready-boiled, too.
I suddenly realised: the engine had got its side rods back; and I recalled that Shepherd had been asked about this at the Club meeting. Indicating them, I asked Shepherd: ‘Where did you find them, sir?’
‘Oh‚ they were buried nearby,’ he said, and he coloured slightly, but for once didn’t follow up with additional data.
Stevens now approached, wearing pack, haversack and rifle. He too wore shorts, and as he stood by the locomotive I thought: You’re the real elephant. With a nod of apology to me, Shepherd walked forward to meet Stevens, and they began speaking out of my earshot. They would keep doing that.
Shading my eyes, I put my face towards the window of the green carriage. All I could make out in the gloom was a sort of old-fashioned-looking sofa with a bundle of rifles laid on it, all strapped together with webbing. Why so many? And who would they be aimed at?