He is a portly, rosy old bachelor,
with a curly brown beard and a military bearing; a man of fine
education and wide experience, seasoned in colonial diplomacy.
The ruling idea in his mind is discipline, authority. His official
speech is abrupt and final, the manner of a martinet covering a
heart full of kindness and generous impulses.
"Come," he says, after a good breakfast, "I want you to see my
camp. It is not as fine and fancy as the later ones. But we built
it in a hurry and we had it ready on time."
A short ride over a sandy road brings you to the city gate--an
opening in the wire enclosure of perhaps two or three square miles
among the dwarf pines and oaks. The guard-house is kept by a squad
of Dutch soldiers. But it is in no sense a prison-camp, for people
are coming and going freely all the time, and the only rules within
are those of decency and good order.
"Capacity, ten thousand," says the commandant, sweeping his hand
around the open circle, "quite a city, _niet waar?_ I will
show you the various arrangements."
All the buildings are of wood, a mushroom city, but constructed with
intelligence to meet the needs of the sudden, helpless population.
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