Full Text Archive logoFull Text Archive — Books, poems, drama…

Soldiers Three [Stories]

Part 2 out of 4

Adobe PDF icon
Download this document as a .pdf
File size: 0.4 MB
What's this? light bulb idea Many people prefer to read off-line or to print out text and read from the real printed page. Others want to carry documents around with them on their mobile phones and read while they are on the move. We have created .pdf files of all out documents to accommodate all these groups of people. We recommend that you download .pdfs onto your mobile phone when it is connected to a WiFi connection for reading off-line.

"'Wait till you're shot," said Father Dennis sweetly. "There's a
time for everything."

Dan Grady chuckled as he blew for the fiftieth time into the
breech of his speckless rifle. Mulcahy groaned and buried his head
in his arms till a stray shot spoke like a snipe immediately above
his head, and a general heave and tremour rippled the line. Other
shots followed and a few took effect, as a shriek or a grunt
attested. The officers, who had been lying down with the men, rose
and began to walk steadily up and down the front of their
companies.

This manoeuvre, executed, not for publication, but as a guarantee
of good faith, to soothe men, demands nerve. You must not hurry,
you must not look nervous, though you know that you are a mark for
every rifle within extreme range, and above all if you are smitten
you must make as little noise as possible and roll inwards through
the files. It is at this hour, when the breeze brings the first
salt whiff of the powder to noses rather cold at the tip, and the
eye can quietly take in the appearance of each red casualty, that
the strain on the nerves is strongest. Scotch regiments can endure
for half a day and abate no whit of their zeal at the end; English
regiments sometimes sulk under punishment, while the Irish, like
the French, are apt to run forward by ones and twos, which is just
as bad as running back. The truly wise commandant of highly-strung
troops allows them, in seasons of waiting, to hear the sound of
their own voices uplifted in song. There is a legend of an English
regiment that lay by its arms under fire chaunting "Sam Hall," to
the horror of its newly appointed and pious colonel. The Black
Boneens, who were suffering more than the Mavericks, on a hill
half a mile away, began presently to explain to all who cared to
listen -

We'll sound the jubilee, from the centre to the sea,
And Ireland shall be free, says the Shan-van Vogh.

"Sing, boys," said Father Dennis softly. "It looks as if we cared
for their Afghan peas."

Dan Grady raised himself to his knees and opened his mouth in a
song imparted to him, as to most of his comrades, in the strictest
confidence by Mulcahy - that Mulcahy then lying limp and fainting
on the grass, the chill fear of death upon him.

Company after company caught up the words which, the I. A. A. say,
are to herald the general rising of Erin, and to breathe which,
except to those duly appointed to hear, is death. Wherefore they
are printed in this place.

The Saxon in Heaven's just balance is weighed,
His doom like Belshazzar's in death has been cast,
And the hand of the venger shall never be stayed
Till his race, faith, and speech are a dream of the past.

They were heart-filling lines and they ran with a swirl; the I. A.
A. are better served by their pens than their petards. Dan clapped
Mulcahy merrily on the back, asking him to sing up. The officers
lay down again. There was no need to walk any more. Their men were
soothing themselves thunderously, thus -

St. Mary in Heaven has written the vow
That the land shall not rest till the heretic blood,
From the babe at the breast to the hand at the plough,
Has rolled to the ocean like Shannon in flood!

"I'll speak to you after all's over," said Father Dennis
authoritatively in Dan's ear. "What's the use of confessing to me
when you do this foolishness? Dan, you've been playing with fire!
I'll lay you more penance in a week than -"

"Come along to Purgatory with us, Father dear. The Boneens are on
the move; they'll let us go now!"

The regiment rose to the blast of the bugle as one man; but one
man there was who rose more swiftly than all the others, for half
an inch of bayonet was in the fleshy part of his leg.

"You've got to do it," said Dan grimly. "Do it decent, anyhow;"
and the roar of the rush drowned his words, for the rear companies
thrust forward the first, still singing as they swung down the
slope -

From the child at the breast to the hand at the plough
Shall roll to the ocean like Shannon in flood!

They should have sung it in the face of England, not of the
Afghans, whom it impressed as much as did the wild Irish yell.

"They came down singing," said the unofficial report of the enemy,
borne from village to village the next day. "They continued to
sing, and it was written that our men could not abide when they
came. It is believed that there was magic in the aforesaid song."

Dan and Horse Egan kept themselves in the neighbourhood of
Mulcahy. Twice the man would have bolted back in the confusion.
Twice he was heaved, kicked, and shouldered back again into the
unpaintable inferno of a hotly contested charge.

At the end, the panic excess of his fear drove him into madness
beyond all human courage. His eyes staring at nothing, his mouth
open and frothing, and breathing as one in a cold bath, he went
forward demented, while Dan toiled after him. The charge checked
at a high mud wall. It was Mulcahy who scrambled up tooth and nail
and hurled down among the bayonets the amazed Afghan who barred
his way. It was Mulcahy, keeping to the straight line of the rabid
dog, who led a collection of ardent souls at a newly unmasked
battery and flung himself on the muzzle of a gun as his companions
danced among the gunners. It was Mulcahy who ran wildly on from
that battery into the open plain, where the enemy were retiring in
sullen groups. His hands were empty, he had lost helmet and belt,
and he was bleeding from a wound in the neck. Dan and Horse Egan,
panting and distressed, had thrown themselves down on the ground
by the captured guns, when they noticed Mulcahy's charge.

"Mad," said Horse Egan critically. "Mad with fear! He's going
straight to his death, an' shouting's no use."

"Let him go. Watch now! If we fire we'll hit him maybe."

The last of a hurrying crowd of Afghans turned at the noise of
shod feet behind him, and shifted his knife ready to hand. This,
he saw, was no time to take prisoners. Mulcahy tore on, sobbing;
the straight-held blade went home through the defenceless breast,
and the body pitched forward almost before a shot from Dan's rifle
brought down the slayer and still further hurried the Afghan
retreat. The two Irishmen went out to bring in their dead.

"He was given the point, and that was an easy death," said Horse
Egan, viewing the corpse. "But would you ha' shot him, Danny, if
he had lived?"

"He didn't live, so there's no sayin'. But I doubt I wud have
bekaze of the fun he gave us - let alone the beer. Hike up his
legs, Horse, and we'll bring him in. Perhaps 'tis better this
way."

They bore the poor limp body to the mass of the regiment, lolling
open-mouthed on their rifles; and there was a general snigger when
one of the younger subalterns said, "That was a good man!"

"Phew," said Horse Egan, when a burial-party had taken over the
burden. "I'm powerful dhry, and this reminds me there'll be no
more beer at all."

"Fwhy not?" said Dan, with a twinkle in his eye as he stretched
himself for rest. "Are we not conspirin' all we can, an' while we
conspire are we not entitled to free dhrinks? Sure his ould mother
in New York would not let her son's comrades perish of drouth - if
she can be reached at the end of a letter."

"You're a janius," said Horse Egan. "0' coorse she will not. I
wish this crool war was over, an' we'd get back to canteen. Faith,
the Commander-in-chief ought to be hanged in his own little sword-
belt for makin' us work on wather."

The Mavericks were generally of Horse Egan's opinion. So they made
haste to get their work done as soon as possible, and their
industry was rewarded by unexpected peace. " We can fight the sons
of Adam," said the tribesmen, "but we cannot fight the sons of
Eblis, and this regiment never stays still in one place. Let us
therefore come in." They came in, and "this regiment" withdrew to
conspire under the leadership of Dan Grady.

Excellent as a subordinate, Dan failed altogether as a chief-in-
command - possibly because he was too much swayed by the advice of
the only man in the regiment who could manufacture more than one
kind of handwriting. The same mail that bore to Mulcahy's mother
in New York a letter from the colonel telling her how valiantly
her son had fought for the Queen, and how assuredly he would have
been recommended for the Victoria Cross had he survived, carried a
communication signed, I grieve to say, by that same colonel and
all the officers of the regiment, explaining their willingness to
do "anything which is contrary to the regulations and all kinds of
revolutions" if only a little money could be forwarded to cover
incidental expenses. Daniel Grady, Esquire, would receive funds,
vice Mulcahy, who "was unwell at this present time of writing."

Both letters were forwarded from New York to Tehama Street, San
Francisco, with marginal comments as brief as they were bitter.
The Third Three read and looked at each other. Then the Second
Conspirator - he who believed in "joining hands with the practical
branches" - began to laugh, and on recovering his gravity said,
"Gentlemen, I consider this will be a lesson to us. We're left
again. Those cursed Irish have let us down. I knew they would,
but" - here he laughed afresh - "I'd give considerable to know
what was at the back of it all."

His curiosity would have been satisfied had he seen Dan Grady,
discredited regimental conspirator, trying to explain to his
thirsty comrades in India the non-arrival of funds from New York.

THE MAN WHO WAS

The Earth gave up her dead that tide,
Into our camp he came,
And said his say, and went his way,
And left our hearts aflame.

Keep tally - on the gun-butt score
The vengeance we must take,
When God shall bring full reckoning,
For our dead comrade's sake.

Ballad.

Let it be clearly understood that the Russian is a delightful
person till he tucks in his shirt. As an Oriental he is charming.
It is only when he insists upon being treated as the most easterly
of western peoples instead of the most westerly of easterns that
he becomes a racial anomaly extremely difficult to handle. The
host never knows which side of his nature is going to turn up
next.

Dirkovitch was a Russian - a Russian of the Russians - who
appeared to get his bread by serving the Czar as an officer in a
Cossack regiment, and corresponding for a Russian newspaper with a
name that was never twice alike. He was a handsome young Oriental,
fond of wandering through unexplored portions of the earth, and he
arrived in India from nowhere in particular. At least no living
man could ascertain whether it was by way of Balkh, Badakshan,
Chitral, Beluchistan, or Nepaul, or anywhere else. The Indian
Government, being in an unusually affable mood, gave orders that
he was to be civilly treated and shown everything that was to be
seen. So he drifted, talking bad English and worse French, from
one city to another, till he foregathered with Her Majesty's White
Hussars in the city of Peshawur, which stands at the mouth of that
narrow swordcut in the hills that men call the Khyber Pass. He was
undoubtedly an officer, and he was decorated after the manner of
the Russians with little enamelled crosses, and he could talk, and
(though this has nothing to do with his merits) he had been given
up as a hopeless task, or cask, by the Black Tyrone, who
individually and collectively, with hot whiskey and honey, mulled
brandy, and mixed spirits of every kind, had striven in all
hospitality to make him drunk. And when the Black Tyrone, who are
exclusively Irish, fail to disturb the peace of head of a
foreigner - that foreigner is certain to be a superior man.

The White Hussars were as conscientious in choosing their wine as
in charging the enemy. All that they possessed, including some
wondrous brandy, was placed at the absolute disposition of
Dirkovitch, and he enjoyed himself hugely - even more than among
the Black Tyrones.

But he remained distressingly European through it all. The White
Hussars were "My dear true friends," "Fellow-soldiers glorious,"
and "Brothers inseparable." He would unburden himself by the hour
on the glorious future that awaited the combined arms of England
and Russia when their hearts and their territories should run side
by side, and the great mission of civilising Asia should begin.
That was unsatisfactory, because Asia is not going to be civilised
after the methods of the West. There is too much Asia and she is
too old. You cannot reform a lady of many lovers, and Asia has
been insatiable in her flirtations aforetime. She will never
attend Sunday-school or learn to vote save with swords for
tickets.

Dirkovitch knew this as well as any one else, but it suited him to
talk special-correspondently and to make himself as genial as he
could. Now and then he volunteered a little, a very little,
information about his own sotnia of Cossacks, left apparently to
look after themselves somewhere at the back of beyond. He had done
rough work in Central Asia, and had seen rather more help-yourself
fighting than most men of his years. But he was careful never to
betray his superiority, and more than careful to praise on all
occasions the appearance, drill, uniform, and organisation of Her
Majesty's White Hussars. And indeed they were a regiment to be
admired. When Lady Durgan, widow of the late Sir John Durgan,
arrived in their station, and after a short time had been proposed
to by every single man at mess, she put the public sentiment very
neatly when she explained that they were all so nice that unless
she could marry them all, including the colonel and some majors
already married, she was not going to content herself with one
hussar. Wherefore she wedded a little man in a rifle regiment,
being by nature contradictious; and the White Hussars were going
to wear crape on their arms, but compromised by attending the
wedding in full force, and lining the aisle with unutterable
reproach. She had jilted them all - from Basset-Holmer the senior
captain to little Mildred the junior subaltern, who could have
given her four thousand a year and a title.

The only persons who did not share the general regard for the
White Hussars were a few thousand gentlemen of Jewish extraction
who lived across the border, and answered to the name of Pathan.
They had once met the regiment officially and for something less
than twenty minutes, but the interview, which was complicated with
many casualties, had filled them with prejudice. They even called
the White Hussars children of the devil and sons of persons whom
it would be perfectly impossible to meet in decent society. Yet
they were not above making their aversion fill their money-belts.
The regiment possessed carbines - beautiful Martini-Henry carbines
that would lob a bullet into an enemy's camp at one thousand
yards, and were even handier than the long rifle. Therefore they
were coveted all along the border, and since demand inevitably
breeds supply, they were supplied at the risk of life and limb for
exactly their weight in coined silver - seven and one half pounds'
weight of rupees, or sixteen pounds sterling reckoning the rupee
at par. They were stolen at night by snaky-haired thieves who
crawled on their stomachs under the nose of the sentries; they
disappeared mysteriously from locked arm-racks, and in the hot
weather, when all the barrack doors and windows were open, they
vanished like puffs of their own smoke. The border people desired
them for family vendettas and contingencies. But in the long cold
nights of the northern Indian winter they were stolen most
extensively. The traffic of murder was liveliest among the hills
at that season, and prices ruled high. The regimental guards were
first doubled and then trebled. A trooper does not much care if he
loses a weapon - Government must make it good - but he deeply
resents the loss of his sleep. The regiment grew very angry, and
one rifle-thief bears the visible marks of their anger upon him to
this hour. That incident stopped the burglaries for a time, and
the guards were reduced accordingly, and the regiment devoted
itself to polo with unexpected results; for it beat by two goals
to one that very terrible polo corps the Lushkar Light Horse,
though the latter had four ponies apiece for a short hour's fight,
as well as a native officer who played like a lambent flame across
the ground.

They gave a dinner to celebrate the event. The Lushkar team came,
and Dirkovitch came, in the fullest full uniform of a Cossack
officer, which is as full as a dressing-gown, and was introduced
to the Lushkars, and opened his eyes as he regarded. They were
lighter men than the Hussars, and they carried themselves with the
swing that is the peculiar right of the Punjab Frontier Force and
all Irregular Horse. Like everything else in the Service it has to
be learnt, but, unlike many things, it is never forgotten, and
remains on the body till death.

The great beam-roofed mess-room of the White Hussars was a sight
to be remembered. All the mess plate was out on the long table -
the same table that had served up the bodies of five officers
after a forgotten fight long and long ago - the dingy, battered
standards faced the door of entrance, clumps of winter-roses lay
between the silver candlesticks, and the portraits of eminent
officers deceased looked down on their successors from between the
heads of sambhur, nilghai, markhor, and, pride of all the mess,
two grinning snow-leopards that had cost Basset-Holmer four
months' leave that he might have spent in England, instead of on
the road to Thibet and the daily risk of his life by ledge, snow-
slide, and grassy slope.

The servants in spotless white muslin and the crest of their
regiments on the brow of their turbans waited behind their
masters, who were clad in the scarlet and gold of the White
Hussars, and the cream and silver of the Lushkar Light Horse.
Dirkovitch's dull green uniform was the only dark spot at the
board, but his big onyx eyes made up for it. He was fraternising
effusively with the captain of the Lushkar team, who was wondering
how many of Dirkovitch's Cossacks his own dark wiry down-
countrymen could account for in a fair charge. But one does not
speak of these things openly.

The talk rose higher and higher, and the regimental band played
between the courses, as is the immemorial custom, till all tongues
ceased for a moment with the removal of the dinner-slips and the
first toast of obligation, when an officer rising said, "Mr. Vice,
the Queen," and little Mildred from the bottom of the table
answered, "The Queen, God bless her," and the big spurs clanked as
the big men heaved themselves up and drank the Queen upon whose
pay they were falsely supposed to settle their mess-bills. That
Sacrament of the Mess never grows old, and never ceases to bring a
lump into the throat of the listener wherever he be by sea or by
land. Dirkovitch rose with his "brothers glorious," but he could
not understand. No one but an officer can tell what the toast
means; and the bulk have more sentiment than comprehension.
Immediately after the little silence that follows on the ceremony
there entered the native officer who had played for the Lushkar
team. He could not, of course, eat with the mess, but he came in
at dessert, all six feet of him, with the blue and silver turban
atop, and the big black boots below. The mess rose joyously as he
thrust forward the hilt of his sabre in token of fealty for the
colonel of the White Hussars to touch, and dropped into a vacant
chair amid shouts of: "Rung ho, Hira Singh!" (which being
translated means "Go in and win "). "Did I whack you over the
knee, old man?" "Ressaidar Sahib, what the devil made you play
that kicking pig of a pony in the last ten minutes?" "Shabash,
Ressaidar Sahib!" Then the voice of the colonel, "The health of
Ressaidar Hira Singh!"

After the shouting had died away Hira Singh rose to reply, for he
was the cadet of a royal house, the son of a king's son, and knew
what was due on these occasions. Thus he spoke in the vernacular:
- "Colonel Sahib and officers of this regiment. Much honour have
you done me. This will I remember. We came down from afar to play
you. But we were beaten." (" No fault of yours, Ressaidar Sahib.
Played on our own ground, y' know. Your ponies were cramped from
the railway. Don't apologise!") "Therefore perhaps we will come
again if it be so ordained." (" Hear! Hear! Hear, indeed! Bravo!
Hsh!") "Then we will play you afresh" ("Happy to meet you.") "till
there are left no feet upon our ponies. Thus far for sport." He
dropped one hand on his sword-hilt and his eye wandered to
Dirkovitch lolling back in his chair. "But if by the will of God
there arises any other game which is not the polo game, then be
assured, Colonel Sahib and officers, that we will play it out side
by side, though they," again his eye sought Dirkovitch, "though
they, I say, have fifty ponies to our one horse." And with a deep-
mouthed Rung ho! that sounded like a musket-butt on flagstones he
sat down amid leaping glasses.

Dirkovitch, who had devoted himself steadily to the brandy - the
terrible brandy aforementioned - did not understand, nor did the
expurgated translations offered to him at all convey the point.
Decidedly Hira Singh's was the speech of the evening, and the
clamour might have continued to the dawn had it not been broken by
the noise of a shot without that sent every man feeling at his
defenseless left side. Then there was a scuffle and a yell of
pain.

"Carbine-stealing again!" said the adjutant, calmly sinking back
in his chair. "This comes of reducing the guards. I hope the
sentries have killed him."

The feet of armed men pounded on the verandah flags, and it was as
though something was being dragged.

"Why don't they put him in the cells till the morning?" said the
colonel testily. "See if they've damaged him, sergeant."

The mess sergeant fled out into the darkness and returned with two
troopers and a corporal, all very much perplexed.

"Caught a man stealin' carbines, sir," said the corporal.
"Leastways 'e was crawlin' towards the barricks, sir, past the
main road sentries, an' the sentry 'e sez, sir -"

The limp heap of rags upheld by the three men groaned. Never was
seen so destitute and demoralised an Afghan. He was turbanless,
shoeless, caked with dirt, and all but dead with rough handling.
Hira Singh started slightly at the sound of the man's pain.
Dirkovitch took another glass of brandy.

"What does the sentry say?" said the colonel.

"Sez 'e speaks English, sir," said the corporal.

"So you brought him into mess instead of handing him over to the
sergeant! If he spoke all the Tongues of the Pentecost you've no
business -"

Again the bundle groaned and muttered. Little Mildred had risen
from his place to inspect. He jumped back as though he had been
shot.

"Perhaps it would be better, sir, to send the men away," said he
to the colonel, for he was a much privileged subaltern. He put his
arms round the rag-bound horror as he spoke, and dropped him into
a chair. It may not have been explained that the littleness of
Mildred lay in his being six feet four and big in proportion. The
corporal seeing that an officer was disposed to look after the
capture, and that the colonel's eye was beginning to blaze,
promptly removed himself and his men. The mess was left alone with
the carbine-thief, who laid his head on the table and wept
bitterly, hopelessly, and inconsolably as little children weep.

Hira Singh leapt to his feet. "Colonel Sahib,"
said he, "that man is no Afghan, for they weep Ai! Ai! Nor is he
of Hindustan, for they weep Oh! Ho! He weeps after the fashion of
the white men, who say Ow! Ow!"

"Now where the dickens did you get that knowledge, Hira Singh?"
said the captain of the Lushkar team.

"Hear him!" said Hira Singh simply, pointing at the crumpled
figure that wept as though it would never cease.

"He said, 'My God!" said little Mildred. "I heard him say it."

The colonel and the mess-room looked at the man in silence. It is
a horrible thing to hear a man cry. A woman can sob from the top -
of her palate, or her lips, or anywhere else, but a man must cry
from his diaphragm, and it rends him to pieces.

"Poor devil!" said the colonel, coughing tremendously. "We ought
to send him to hospital. He's been man-handled."

Now the adjutant loved his carbines. They were to him as his
grandchildren, the men standing in the first place. He grunted
rebelliously: "I can understand an Afghan stealing, because he's
built that way. But I can't understand his crying. That makes it
worse."

The brandy must have affected Dirkovitch, for he lay back in his
chair and stared at the ceiling. There was nothing special in the
ceiling beyond a shadow as of a huge black coffin. Owing to some
peculiarity in the construction of the mess-room, this shadow was
always thrown when the candles were lighted. It never disturbed
the digestion of the White Hussars. They were in fact rather proud
of it.

"Is he going to cry all night?" said the colonel, "or are we
supposed to sit up with little Mildred's guest until he feels
better?"

The man in the chair threw up his head and stared at the mess.
"Oh, my God!" he said, and every soul in the mess rose to his
feet. Then the Lushkar captain did a deed for which he ought to
have been given the Victoria Cross - distinguished gallantry in a
fight against overwhelming curiosity. He picked up his team with
his eyes as the hostess picks up the ladies at the opportune
moment, and pausing only by the colonel's chair to say, "This
isn't our affair, you know, sir," led them into the verandah and
the gardens. Hira Singh was the last to go, and he looked at
Dirkovitch. But Dirkovitch had departed into a brandy-paradise of
his own. His lips moved without sound and he was studying the
coffin on the ceiling.

"White - white all over," said Basset-Holmer, the adjutant. "What
a pernicious renegade he must be! I wonder where he came from?"

The colonel shook the man gently by the arm, and "Who are you?"
said he.

There was no answer. The man stared round the mess-room and smiled
in the colonel's face. Little Mildred, who was always more of a
woman than a man till "Boot and saddle" was sounded, repeated the
question in a voice that would have drawn confidences from a
geyser. The man only smiled. Dirkovitch at the far end of the
table slid gently from his chair to the floor. No son of Adam in
this present imperfect world can mix the Hussars' champagne with
the Hussars' brandy by five and eight glasses of each without
remembering the pit whence he was digged and descending thither.
The band began to play the tune with which the White Hussars from
the date of their formation have concluded all their functions.
They would sooner be disbanded than abandon that tune; it is a
part of their system. The man straightened himself in his chair
and drummed on the table with his fingers.

"I don't see why we should entertain lunatics," said the colonel.
"Call a guard and send him off to the cells. We'll look into the
business in the morning. Give him a glass of wine first, though."

Little Mildred filled a sherry-glass with the brandy and thrust it
over to the man. He drank, and the tune rose louder, and he
straightened himself yet more. Then he put out his long-taloned
hands to a piece of plate opposite and fingered it lovingly. There
was a mystery connected with that piece of plate, in the shape of
a spring which converted what was a seven-branched candlestick,
three springs on each side and one in the middle, into a sort of
wheel-spoke candelabrum. He found the spring, pressed it, and
laughed weakly. He rose from his chair and inspected a picture on
the wall, then moved on to another picture, the mess watching him
without a word. When he came to the mantelpiece he shook his head
and seemed distressed. A piece of plate representing a mounted
hussar in full uniform caught his eye. He pointed to it, and then
to the mantelpiece with inquiry in his eyes.

"What is it - Oh, what is it?" said little Mildred. Then as a
mother might speak to a child, "That is a horse. Yes, a horse."

Very slowly came the answer in a thick, passionless guttural-"
Yes, I - have seen. But - where is the horse?"

You could have heard the hearts of the mess beating as the men
drew back to give the stranger full room in his wanderings. There
was no question of calling the guard.

Again he spoke - very slowly, "Where is our horse?"

There is but one horse in the White Hussars, and his portrait
hangs outside the door of the mess-room. He is the piebald drum-
horse, the king of the regimental band, that served the regiment
for seven-and-thirty years, and in the end was shot for old age.
Half the mess tore the thing down from its place and thrust it
into the man's hands. He placed it above the mantelpiece, it
clattered on the ledge as his poor hands dropped it, and he
staggered towards the bottom of the table, falling into Mildred's
chair. Then all the men spoke to one another something after this
fashion, "The drum-horse hasn't hung over the mantelpiece since
'67." "How does he know?" "Mildred, go and speak to him again."
"Colonel, what are you going to do?" "Oh, dry up, and give the
poor devil a chance to pull himself together." "It isn't possible
anyhow. The man's a lunatic."

Little Mildred stood at the colonel's side, talking in his ear.
"Will you be good enough to take your seats please, gentlemen!" he
said, and the mess dropped into the chairs. Only Dirkovitch's
seat, next to little Mildred's, was blank, and little Mildred
himself had found Hira Singh's place. The wide-eyed mess-sergeant
filled the glasses in dead silence. Once more the colonel rose,
but his hand shook, and the port spilled on the table as he looked
straight at the man in little Mildred's chair and said hoarsely,
"Mr. Vice, the Queen." There was a little pause, but the man
sprung to his feet and answered without hesitation, "The Queen,
God bless her!" and as he emptied the thin glass he snapped the
shank between his fingers.

Long and long ago, when the Empress of India was a young woman,
and there were no unclean ideals in the land, it was the custom of
a few messes to drink the Queen's toast in broken glass, to the
vast delight of the mess-contractors. The custom is now dead,
because there is nothing to break anything for, except now and
again the word of a Government, and that has been broken already.

"That settles it," said the colonel, with a gasp. "He's not a
sergeant. What in the world is he?"

The entire mess echoed the word, and the volley of questions would
have scared any man. It was no wonder that the ragged, filthy
invader could only smile and shake his head.

From under the table, calm and smiling, rose Dirkovitch, who had
been roused from healthful slumber by feet upon his body. By the
side of the man he rose, and the man shrieked and grovelled. It
was a horrible sight, coming so swiftly upon the pride and glory
of the toast that had brought the strayed wits together.

Dirkovitch made no offer to raise him, but little Mildred heaved
him up in an instant. It is not good that a gentleman who can
answer to the Queen's toast should lie at the feet of a subaltern
of Cossacks.

The hasty action tore the wretch's upper clothing nearly to the
waist, and his body was seamed with dry black scars. There is only
one weapon in the world that cuts in parallel lines, and it is
neither the cane nor the cat. Dirkovitch saw the marks, and the
pupils of his eyes dilated. Also his face changed. He said
something that sounded like Shto ve takete, and the man fawning
answered, Chetyre.

"What's that?" said everybody together.

"His number. That is number four, you know." Dirkovitch spoke very
thickly.

"What has a Queen's officer to do with a qualified number?" said
the Colonel, and an unpleasant growl ran round the table.

"How can I tell?" said the affable Oriental with a sweet smile.
"He is a - how you have it? - escape - run-a-way, from over
there." He nodded towards the darkness of the night.

"Speak to him if he'll answer you, and speak to him gently," said
little Mildred, settling the man in a chair. It seemed most
improper to all present that Dirkovitch should sip brandy as he
talked in purring, spitting Russian to the creature who answered
so feebly and with such evident dread. But since Dirkovitch
appeared to understand, no one said a word. All breathed heavily,
leaning forward, in the long gaps of the conversation. The next
time that they have no engagements on hand the White Hussars
intend to go to St. Petersburg in a body to learn Russian.

"He does not know how many years ago," said Dirkovitch, facing the
mess, "but he says it was very long ago in a war. I think that
there was an accident. He says he was of this glorious and
distinguished regiment in the war."

"The rolls! The rolls! Holmer, get the rolls!" said little
Mildred, and the adjutant dashed off bare-headed to the orderly-
room, where the muster-rolls of the regiment were kept. He
returned just in time to hear Dirkovitch conclude, "Therefore, my
dear friends, I am most sorry to say there was an accident which
would have been reparable if he had apologised to that our
colonel, which he had insulted."

Then followed another growl which the colonel tried to beat down.
The mess was in no mood just then to weigh insults to Russian
colonels.

"He does not remember, but I think that there was an accident, and
so he was not exchanged among the prisoners, but he was sent to
another place - how do you say? - the country. So, he says, he
came here. He does not know how he came. Eh? He was at Chepany," -
the man caught the word, nodded, and shivered, - "at Zhigansk and
Irkutsk. I cannot understand how he escaped. He says, too, that he
was in the forests for many years, but how many years he has
forgotten - that with many things. It was an accident; done
because he did not apologise to that our colonel. Ah!"

Instead of echoing Dirkovitch's sigh of regret, it is sad to
record that the White Hussars livelily exhibited un-Christian
delight and other emotions, hardly restrained by their sense of
hospitality. Holmer flung the frayed and yellow regimental rolls
on the table, and the men flung themselves at these.

"Steady! Fifty-six - fifty-five - fifty-four," said Holmer. "Here
we are. 'Lieutenant Austin Limmason. Missing.' That was before
Sebastopol. What an infernal shame! Insulted one of their
colonels, and was quietly shipped off. Thirty years of his life
wiped out."

"But he never apologised. Said he'd see him damned first,"
chorused the mess.

"Poor chap! I suppose he never had the chance afterwards. How did
he come here?" said the colonel.

The dingy heap in the chair could give no answer.

"Do you know who you are?"

It laughed weakly.

"Do you know that you are Limmason -Lieutenant Limmason of the
White Hussars?"

Swiftly as a shot came the answer, in a slightly surprised tone,
"Yes, I'm -Limmason, of course." The light died out in his eyes,
and the man collapsed, watching every motion of Dirkovitch with
terror. A flight from Siberia may fix a few elementary facts in
the mind, but it does not seem to lead to continuity of thought.
The man could not explain how, like a homing pigeon, he had found
his way to his own old mess again. Of what he had suffered or seen
he knew nothing. He cringed before Dirkovitch as instinctively as
he had pressed the spring of the candlestick, sought the picture
of the drum-horse, and answered to the toast of the Queen. The
rest was a blank that the dreaded Russian tongue could only in
part remove. His head bowed on his breast, and he giggled and
cowered alternately.

The devil that lived in the brandy prompted Dirkovitch at this
extremely inopportune moment to make a speech. He rose, swaying
slightly, gripped the table-edge, while his eyes glowed like
opals, and began:

"Fellow-soldiers glorious - true friends and hospitables. It was
an accident, and deplorable - most deplorable." Here he smiled
sweetly all round the mess. "But you will think of this little,
little thing. So little, is it not? The Czar! Posh! I slap my
fingers - I snap my fingers at him. Do I believe in him? No! But
in us Slav who has done nothing, him I believe. Seventy - how much
- millions peoples that have done nothing - not one thing. Posh!
Napoleon was an episode." He banged a hand on the table. "Hear
you, old peoples, we have done nothing in the world - out here.
All our work is to do; and it shall be done, old peoples. Get a-
way!" He waved his hand imperiously, and pointed to the man. "You
see him. He is not good to see. He was just one little - oh, so
little -accident, that no one remembered. Now he is

That! So will you be, brother soldiers so brave so will you be.
But you will never come back. You will all go where he is gone,
or" - he pointed to the great coffin-shadow on the ceiling, and
muttering, "Seventy millions - get a-way, you old peoples," fell
asleep.

"Sweet, and to the point," said little Mildred. "What's the use of
getting wroth? Let's make this poor devil comfortable."

But that was a matter suddenly and swiftly taken from the loving
hands of the White Hussars. The lieutenant had returned only to go
away again three days later, when the wail of the Dead March, and
the tramp of the squadrons, told the wondering Station, who saw no
gap in the mess-table, that an officer of the regiment had
resigned his new-found commission.

And Dirkovitch, bland, supple, and always genial, went away too by
a night train. Little Mildred and another man saw him off, for he
was the guest of the mess, and even had he smitten the colonel
with the open hand, the law of that mess allowed no relaxation of
hospitality.

"Good-bye, Dirkovitch, and a pleasant journey," said little
Mildred.

"Au revoir," said the Russian.

"Indeed! But we thought you were going home?"

"Yes, but I will come again. My dear friends, is that road shut?"
He pointed to where the North Star burned over the Khyber Pass.

"By Jove! I forgot. Of course. Happy to meet you, old man, any
time you like. Got everything you want? Cheroots, ice, bedding?
That's all right. Well, au revoir, Dirkovitch."

"Um," said the other man, as the tail-lights of the train grew
small. "Of - all - the - unmitigated!"

Little Mildred answered nothing, but watched the North Star and
hummed a selection from recent Simla burlesque that had much
delighted the White Hussars. It ran -

I'm sorry for Mister Bluebeard,
I'm sorry to cause him pain;
But a terrible spree there's sure to be
When he comes back again.

ONLY A SUBALTERN

Not only to enforce by command but to encourage by example the
energetic discharge of duty and the steady endurance of the
difficulties and privations inseparable from Military Service. -
Bengal Army Regulations.

They made Bobby Wick pass an examination at Sandhurst. He was a
gentleman before he was gazetted, so, when the Empress announced
that "Gentleman-Cadet Robert Hanna Wick" was posted as Second
Lieutenant to the Tyneside Tail Twisters at Krab Bokhar, he became
an officer and a gentleman, which is an enviable thing; and there
was joy in the house of Wick, where Mamma Wick and all the little
Wicks fell upon their knees and offered incense to Bobby by virtue
of his achievements.

Papa Wick had been a Commissioner in his day, holding authority
over three millions of men in the Chota-Buldana Division, building
great works for the good of the land, and doing his best to make
two blades of grass grow where there was but one before. Of
course, nobody knew anything about this in the little English
village where he was just "old Mr. Wick" and had forgotten that he
was a Companion of the Order of the Star of India.

He patted Bobby on the shoulder and said: "Well done, my boy!"

There followed, while the uniform was being prepared, an interval
of pure delight, during which Bobby took brevet-rank as a "man" at
the women-swamped tennis-parties and tea-fights of the village,
and, I daresay, had his joining-time been extended, would have
fallen in love with several girls at once. Little country villages
at Home are very full of nice girls, because all the young men
come out to India to make their fortunes.

"India," said Papa Wick, "is the place. I've had thirty years of
it, and, begad, I'd like to go back again. When you join the Tail
Twisters you'll be among friends, if every one hasn't forgotten
Wick of Chota-Buldana, and a lot of people will be kind to you for
our sakes. The mother will tell you more about outfit than I can,
but remember this. Stick to your Regiment, Bobby - stick to your
Regiment. You'll see men all round you going into the Staff Corps,
and doing every possible sort of duty but regimental, and you may
be tempted to follow suit. Now so long as you keep within your
allowance, and I haven't stinted you there, stick to the Line, the
whole Line, and nothing but the Line. Be careful how you back
another young fool's bill, and if you fall in love with a woman
twenty years older than yourself, don't tell me about it, that's
all."

With these counsels, and many others equally valuable, did Papa
Wick fortify Bobby ere that last awful night at Portsmouth when
the Officers' Quarters held more inmates than were provided for by
the Regulations, and the liberty-men of the ships fell foul of the
drafts for India, and the battle raged from the Dockyard Gates
even to the slums of Longport, while the drabs of Fratton came
down and scratched the faces of the Queen's Officers.

Bobby Wick, with an ugly bruise on his freckled nose, a sick and
shaky detachment to manoeuvre inship, and the comfort of fifty
scornful females to attend to, had no time to feel homesick till
the Malabar reached mid-Channel, when he doubled his emotions with
a little guard-visiting and a great many other matters.

The Tail Twisters were a most particular Regiment. Those who knew
them least said that they were eaten up with "side." But their
reserve and their internal arrangements generally were merely
protective diplomacy. Some five years before, the Colonel
commanding had looked into the fourteen fearless eyes of seven
plump and juicy subalterns who had all applied to enter the Staff
Corps, and had asked them why the three stars should he, a colonel
of the Line, command a dashed nursery for double-dashed bottle-
suckers who put on condemned tin spurs and rode qualified mokes at
the hiatused heads of forsaken Black Regiments. He was a rude man
and a terrible. Wherefore the remnant took measures (with the
half-butt as an engine of public opinion) till the rumour went
abroad that young men who used the Tail Twisters as a crutch to
the Staff Corps had many and varied trials to endure. However, a
regiment has just as much right to its own secrets as a woman.

When Bobby came up from Deolali and took his place among the Tail
Twisters, it was gently but firmly borne in upon him that the
Regiment was his father and his mother and his indissolubly wedded
wife, and that there was no crime under the canopy of heaven
blacker than that of bringing shame on the Regiment, which was the
best-shooting, best-drilled, best set-up, bravest, most
illustrious, and in all respects most desirable Regiment within
the compass of the Seven Seas. He was taught the legends of the
Mess Plate, from the great grinning Golden Gods that had come out
of the Summer Palace in Pekin to the silver-mounted markhor-horn
snuffmull presented by the last C. 0. (he who spake to the seven
subalterns). And every one of those legends told him of battles
fought at long odds, without fear as without support; of
hospitality catholic as an Arab's; of friendships deep as the sea
and steady as the fighting-line; of honour won by hard roads for
honour's sake; and of instant and unquestioning devotion to the
Regiment - the Regiment that claims the lives of all and lives
forever.

More than once, too, he came officially into contact with the
Regimental colours, which looked like the lining of a bricklayer's
hat on the end of a chewed stick. Bobby did not kneel and worship
them, because British subalterns are not constructed in that
manner. Indeed, he condemned them for their weight at the very
moment that they were filling him with awe and other more noble
sentiments.

But best of all was the occasion when he moved with the Tail
Twisters in review order at the breaking of a November day.
Allowing for duty-men and sick, the Regiment was one thousand and
eighty strong, and Bobby belonged to them; for was he not a
Subaltern of the Line, - the whole Line and nothing but the Line,
- as the tramp of two thousand one hundred and sixty sturdy
ammunition boots attested? He would not have changed places with
Deighton of the Horse Battery, whirling by in a pillar of cloud to
a chorus of "Strong right! Strong left!" or Hogan-Yale of the
White Hussars, leading his squadron for all it was worth, with the
price of horseshoes thrown in; or "Tick" Boileau, trying to live
up to his fierce blue and gold turban while the wasps of the
Bengal Cavalry stretched to a gallop in the wake of the long,
lollopping Walers of the White Hussars.

They fought through the clear cool day, and Bobby felt a little
thrill run down his spine when he heard the tinkle-tinkle-tinkle
of the empty cartridge-cases hopping from the breech-blocks after
the roar of the volleys; for he knew that he should live to hear
that sound in action. The review ended in a glorious chase across
the plain - batteries thundering after cavalry to the huge disgust
of the White Hussars, and the Tyneside Tail Twisters hunting a
Sikh Regiment till the lean, lathy Singhs panted with exhaustion.
Bobby was dusty and dripping long before noon, but his enthusiasm
was merely focused - not diminished.

He returned to sit at the feet of Revere, his "skipper," that is
to say, the Captain of his Company, and to be instructed in the
dark art and mystery of managing men, which is a very large part
of the Profession of Arms.

"If you haven't a taste that way," said Revere between his puffs
of his cheroot, "you'll never be able to get the hang of it, but
remember, Bobby, 'tisn't the best drill, though drill is nearly
everything, that hauls a Regiment through Hell and out on the
other side. It's the man who knows how to handle men - goat-men,
swine-men, dog-men, and so on."

"Dormer, for instance," said Bobby; "I think he comes under the
head of fool-men. He mopes like a sick owl."

"That 's where you make your mistake, my son. Dormer isn't a fool
yet, but he's a dashed dirty soldier, and his room corporal makes
fun of his socks before kit-inspection. Dormer, being two-thirds
pure brute, goes into a corner and growls."

"How do you know'?" said Bobby admiringly.

"Because a Company commander has to know these things - because,
if he does not know, he may have crime - ay, murder - brewing
under his very nose and yet not see that it's there. Dormer is
being badgered out of his mind - big as he is - and he hasn't
intellect enough to resent it. He's taken to quiet boozing, and,
Bobby, when the butt of a room goes on the drink, or takes to
moping by himself, measures are necessary to pull him out of
himself."

"What measures? 'Man can't run round coddling his men for ever."

"No. The men would precious soon show him that he was not wanted.
You've got to -

Here the Colour-sergeant entered with some papers; Bobby reflected
for a while as Revere looked through the Company forms.

"Does Dormer do anything, Sergeant?" Bobby asked with the air of
one continuing an interrupted conversation.

"No, sir. Does 'is dooty like a hortomato," said the Sergeant, who
delighted in long words. "A dirty soldier, and 'e's under full
stoppages for new kit. It's covered with scales, sir."

"Scales? What scales?"

"Fish-scales, sir. 'E's always pokin' in the mud by the river an'
a-cleanin' them muchly-fish with 'is thumbs." Revere was still
absorbed in the Company papers, and the Sergeant, who was sternly
fond of Bobby, continued, -" 'E generally goes down there when
'e's got 'is skinful, beggin' your pardon, sir, an' they do say
that the more lush - inebriated 'e is, the more fish 'e catches.
They call 'im the Looney Fishmonger in the Comp'ny, sir."

Revere signed the last paper and the Sergeant retreated.

"It's a filthy amusement," sighed Bobby to himself. Then aloud to
Revere: "Are you really worried about Dormer?"

"A little. You see he's never mad enough to send to hospital, or
drunk enough to run in, but at any minute he may flare up,
brooding and sulking as he does. He resents any interest being
shown in him, and the only time I took him out shooting he all but
shot me by accident."

"I fish," said Bobby, with a wry face. "I hire a country-boat and
go down river from Thursday to Sunday, and the amiable Dormer goes
with me - if you can spare us both."

"You blazing young fool!" said Revere, but his heart was full of
much more pleasant words.

Bobby, the Captain of a dhoni, with Private Dormer for mate,
dropped down the river on Thursday morning - the Private at the
bow, the Subaltern at the helm. The Private glared uneasily at the
Subaltern, who respected the reserve of the Private.

After six hours, Dormer paced to the stern, saluted, and said -"
Beg y' pardon, sir, but was you ever on the Durh'm Canal?"

"No," said Bobby Wick. "Come and have some tiffin."

They ate in silence. As the evening fell, Private Dormer broke
forth, speaking to himself -

"Hi was on the Durh'm Canal, jes' such a night, come next week
twelvemonth, a-trailin' of my toes in the water." He smoked and
said no more till bedtime.

The witchery of the dawn turned the gray river-reaches to purple,
gold, and opal; and it was as though the lumbering dhoni crept
across the splendours of a new heaven.

Private Dormer popped his head out of his blanket and gazed at the
glory below and around.

"Well - damn - my eyes!" said Private Dormer in an awed whisper.
"This 'ere is like a bloomin' gallantry-show!" For the rest of the
day he was dumb, but achieved an ensanguined filthiness through
the cleaning of big fish.

The boat returned on Saturday evening. Dormer had been struggling
with speech since noon. As the lines and luggage were being
disembarked, he found tongue.

"Beg y' pardon, sir," he said, "but would you - would you min'
shakin' 'ands with me, sir?"

"Of course not," said Bobby, and he shook accordingly. Dormer
returned to barracks and Bobby to mess.

"He wanted a little quiet and some fishing, I think," said Bobby.
"My aunt, but he's a filthy sort of animal! Have you ever seen him
clean 'them muchly-fish with 'is thumbs?"

"Anyhow," said Revere three weeks later, "he's doing his best to
keep his things clean."

When the spring died, Bobby joined in the general scramble for
Hill leave, and to his surprise and delight secured three months.

"As good a boy as I want," said Revere, the admiring skipper.

"The best of the batch," said the Adjutant to the Colonel. "Keep
back that young skrimshanker Porkiss, sir, and let Revere make him
sit up."

So Bobby departed joyously to Simla Pahar with a tin box of
gorgeous raiment.

"Son of Wick - old Wick of Chota-Buldana? Ask him to dinner,
dear," said the aged men.

"What a nice boy!" said the matrons and the maids.

"First-class place, Simla. Oh, ri - - ipping!" said Bobby Wick,
and ordered new white cord breeches on the strength of it.

"We're in a bad way," wrote Revere to Bobby at the end of two
months. "Since you left, the Regiment has taken to fever and is
fairly rotten with it - two hundred in hospital, about a hundred
in cells - drinking to keep off fever - and the Companies on
parade fifteen file strong at the outside. There's rather more
sickness in the out-villages than I care for, but then I'm so
blistered with prickly-heat that I'm ready to hang myself. What's
the yarn about your mashing a Miss Haverley up there? Not serious,
I hope? You're over-young to hang millstones round your neck, and
the Colonel will turf you out of that in double-quick time if you
attempt it."

It was not the Colonel that brought Bobby out of Simla, but a much
more to be respected Commandant. The sickness in the out-villages
spread, the Bazar was put out of bounds, and then came the news
that the Tail Twisters must go into camp. The message flashed to
the Hill stations. - "Cholera - Leave stopped - Officers
recalled." Alas, for the white gloves in the neatly soldered
boxes, the rides and the dances and picnics that were to be, the
loves half spoken, and the debts
unpaid! Without demur and without question, fast as tonga could
fly or pony gallop, back to their Regiments and their Batteries,
as though they were hastening to their weddings, fled the
subalterns.

Bobby received his orders on returning from a dance at Viceregal
Lodge, where he had but only the Haverley girl knows what Bobby
had said or how many waltzes he had claimed for the next ball. Six
in the morning saw Bobby at the Tonga Office in the drenching
rain, the whirl of the last waltz still in his ears, and an
intoxication due neither to wine nor waltzing in his brain.

"Good man!" shouted Deighton of the Horse Battery through the
mists. "Whar you raise dat tonga? I'm coming with you. Ow! But
I've a head and half. I didn't sit out all night. They say the
Battery's awful bad," and he hummed dolorously -

"Leave the what at the what's-its-name,
Leave the flock without shelter,
Leave the corpse uninterred,
Leave the bride at the altar

"My faith! It'll be more bally corpse than bride, though, this
journey. Jump in, Bobby. Get on, Coachwan!"

On the Umballa platform waited a detachment of officers discussing
the latest news from the stricken cantonment, and it was here that
Bobby learned the real condition of the Tail Twisters.

"They went into camp," said an elderly Major recalled from the
whist-tables at Mussoorie to a sickly Native Regiment, "they went
into camp with two hundred and ten sick in carts. Two hundred and
ten fever cases only, and the balance looking like so many ghosts
with sore eyes. A Madras Regiment could have walked through 'em."

"But they were as fit as be-damned when I left them!" said Bobby.

"Then you'd better make them as fit as be-damned when you rejoin,"
said the Major brutally.

Bobby pressed his forehead against the rain-splashed window-pane
as the train lumbered across the sodden Doab, and prayed for the
health of the Tyneside Tail Twisters. Naini Tal had sent down her
contingent with all speed; the lathering ponies of the Dalhousie
Road staggered into Pathankot, taxed to the full stretch of their
strength; while from cloudy Darjiling the Calcutta Mail whirled up
the last straggler of the little army that was to fight a fight,
in which was neither medal nor honour for the winning, against an
enemy none other than "the sickness that destroyeth in the
noonday."

And as each man reported himself, he said: "This is a bad
business," and went about his own forthwith, for every Regiment
and Battery in the cantonment was under canvas, the sickness
bearing them company.

Bobby fought his way through the rain to the Tail Twisters'
temporary mess, and Revere could have fallen on the boy's neck for
the joy of seeing that ugly, wholesome phiz once more.

"Keep 'em amused and interested," said Revere. "They went on the
drink, poor fools, after the first two cases, and there was no
improvement. Oh, it's good to have you back, Bobby! Porkiss is a -
never mind."

Deighton came over from the Artillery camp to attend a dreary mess
dinner, and contributed to the general gloom by nearly weeping
over the condition of his beloved Battery. Porkiss so far forgot
himself as to insinuate that the presence of the officers could do
no earthly good, and that the best thing would be to send the
entire Regiment into hospital and "let the doctors look after
them." Porkiss was demoralised with fear, nor was his peace of
mind restored when Revere said coldly: "Oh! The sooner you go out
the better, if that's your way of thinking. Any public school
could send us fifty good men in your place, but it takes time,
time, Porkiss, and money, and a certain amount of trouble, to make
a Regiment. S'pose you're the person we go into camp for, eh?"

Whereupon Porkiss was overtaken with a great and chilly fear which
a drenching in the rain did not allay, and, two days later,
quitted this world for another where, men do fondly hope,
allowances are made for the weaknesses of the flesh. The
Regimental Sergeant-Major looked wearily across the Sergeants'
Mess tent when the news was announced.

"There goes the worst of them," he said. "It'll take the best, and
then, please God, it'll stop." The Sergeants were silent till one
said: "It couldn't be him!" and all knew of whom Travis was
thinking.

Bobby Wick stormed through the tents of his Company, rallying,
rebuking, mildly, as is consistent with the Regulations, chaffing
the fainthearted; haling the sound into the watery sunlight when
there was a break in the weather, and bidding them be of good
cheer, for their trouble was nearly at an end; scuttling on his
dun pony round the outskirts of the camp and heading back men who,
with the innate perversity of British soldiers, were always
wandering into infected villages, or drinking deeply from rain-
flooded marshes; comforting the panic-stricken with rude speech,
and more than once tending the dying who had no friends - the men
without "townies"; organizing, with banjos and burnt cork, Sing-
songs which should allow the talent of the Regiment full play; and
generally, as he explained, "playing the giddy garden-goat all
round."

"You're worth half a dozen of us, Bobby," said Revere in a moment
of enthusiasm. "How the devil do you keep it up?"

Bobby made no answer, but had Revere looked into the breast-pocket
of his coat he might have seen there a sheaf of badly-written
letters which perhaps accounted for the power that possessed the
boy. A letter came to Bobby every other day. The spelling was not
above reproach, but the sentiments must have been most
satisfactory, for on receipt Bobby's eyes softened marvellously,
and he was wont to fall into a tender abstraction for a while ere,
shaking his cropped head, he charged into his work.

By what power he drew after him the hearts of the roughest, and
the Tail Twisters counted in their ranks some rough diamonds
indeed, was a mystery to both skipper and C. 0., who learned from
the regimental chaplain that Bobby was considerably more in
request in the hospital tents than the Reverend John Emery.

"The men seem fond of you. Are you in the hospitals much?" said
the Colonel, who did his daily round and ordered the men to get
well with a hardness that did not cover his bitter grief.

"A little, sir," said Bobby.

"Shouldn't go there too often if I were you. They say it's not
contagious, but there's no use in running unnecessary risks. We
can't afford to have you down, y' know."

Six days later, it was with the utmost difficulty that the post-
runner plashed his way out to the camp with the mail-bags, for the
rain was falling in torrents. Bobby received a letter, bore it off
to his tent, and, the programme for the next week's Sing-song
being satisfactorily disposed of, sat down to answer it. For an
hour the unhandy pen toiled over the paper, and where sentiment
rose to more than normal tide-level, Bobby Wick stuck out his
tongue and breathed heavily. He was not used to letter-writing.

"Beg y' pardon, sir," said a voice at the tent door; "but Dormer's
'orrid bad, sir, an' they've taken him orf, sir."

"Damn Private Dormer and you too!" said Bobby Wick, running the
blotter over the half-finished letter. "Tell him I'll come in the
morning."

"'E's awful bad, sir," said the voice hesitatingly. There was an
undecided squelching of heavy boots.

"Well?" said Bobby impatiently.

"Excusin' 'imself before 'and for takin' the liberty, 'e says it
would be a comfort for to assist 'im, sir, if -

"

tattoo lao! Get my pony! Here, come in out of the rain till I'm
ready. What blasted nuisances you are! That's brandy. Drink some;
you want it. Hang on to my stirrup and tell me if I go too fast."

Strengthened by a four-finger "nip" which he swallowed without a
wink, the Hospital Orderly kept up with the slipping, mud-stained,
and very disgusted pony as it shambled to the hospital tent.

Private Dormer was certainly "'orrid bad." He had all but reached
the stage of collapse, and was not pleasant to look upon.

"What's this, Dormer?" said Bobby, bending over the man. "You're
not going out this time. You've got to come fishing with me once
or twice more yet."

The blue lips parted and in the ghost of a whisper said, - "Beg y'
pardon, sir, disturbin' of you now, but would you min' 'oldin' my
'and, sir'?

Bobby sat on the side of the bed, and the icy-cold hand closed on
his own like a vice, forcing a lady's ring which was on the little
finger deep into the flesh. Bobby set his lips and waited, the
water dripping from the hem of his trousers. An hour passed, and
the grasp of the hand did not relax, nor did the expression of the
drawn face change. Bobby with infinite craft lit himself a cheroot
with the left hand (his right arm was numbed to the elbow), and
resigned himself to a night of pain.

Dawn showed a very white-faced Subaltern sitting on the side of a
sick man's cot, and a Doctor in the doorway using language unfit
for publication.

"Have you been here all night, you young ass?" said the Doctor.

"There or thereabouts," said Bobby ruefully. "He's frozen on to
me."

Dormer's mouth shut with a click. He turned his head and sighed.
The clinging hand opened, and Bobby's arm fell useless at his
side.

"He'll do," said the Doctor quietly. "It must have been a toss-up
all through the night. 'Think you're to be congratulated on this
case."

"Oh, bosh!" said Bobby. "I thought the man had gone out long ago -
only - only I didn't care to take my hand away. Rub my arm down,
there's a good chap. What a grip the brute has! I'm chilled to the
marrow!" He passed out of the tent shivering.

Private Dormer was allowed to celebrate his repulse of Death by
strong waters. Four days later, he sat on the side of his cot and
said to the patients mildly: "I'd 'a' liken to 'a' spoken to 'im -
so I should."

But at that time Bobby was reading yet another letter, - he had
the most persistent correspondent of any man in camp, - and was
even then about to write that the sickness had abated, and in
another week at the outside would be gone. He did not intend to
say that the chill of a sick man's hand seemed to have struck into
the heart whose capacities for affection he dwelt on at such
length. He did intend to enclose the illustrated programme of the
forthcoming Sing-song, whereof he was not a little proud. He also
intended to write on many other matters which do not concern us,
and doubtless would have done so but for the slight feverish
headache which made him dull and unresponsive at mess.

"You are overdoing it, Bobby," said his skipper. "'Might give the
rest of us credit of doing a little work. You go on as if you were
the whole Mess rolled into one. Take it easy."

"I will," said Bobby. "I'm feeling done up, somehow." Revere
looked at him anxiously and said nothing.

There was a flickering of lanterns about the camp that night, and
a rumour that brought men out of their cots to the tent doors, a
paddling of the naked feet of doolie-bearers, and the rush of a
galloping horse.

"Wot's up?" asked twenty tents; and through twenty tents ran the
answer - "Wick, 'e's down."

They brought the news to Revere and he groaned. "Any one but Bobby
and I shouldn't have cared! The Sergeant-Major was right."

"Not going out this journey," gasped Bobby, as he was lifted from
the doolie. "Not going out this journey." Then with an air of
supreme conviction - "I can't, you see."

"Not if I can do anything!" said the Surgeon-Major, who had
hastened over from the mess where he had been dining.

He and the Regimental Surgeon fought together with Death for the
life of Bobby Wick. Their work was interrupted by a hairy
apparition in a blue-gray dressing-gown, who stared in horror at
the bed and cried - "Oh, my Gawd! It can't be 'im!" until an
indignant Hospital Orderly whisked him away.

If care of man and desire to live could have done aught, Bobby
would have been saved. As it was, he made a fight of three days,
and the Surgeon-Major's brow uncreased. "We'll save him yet," he
said; and the Surgeon, who, though he ranked with the Captain, had
a very youthful heart, went out upon the word and pranced joyously
in the mud.

"Not going out this journey," whispered Bobby Wick gallantly, at
the end of the third day.

"Bravo!" said the Surgeon-Major. "That's the way to look at it,
Bobby."

As evening fell a gray shade gathered round Bobby's mouth, and he
turned his face to the tent-wall wearily. The Surgeon-Major
frowned.

"I'm awfully tired," said Bobby, very faintly. "What's the use of
bothering me with medicine? I - don't - want - it. Let me alone."

The desire for life had departed, and Bobby was content to drift
away on the easy tide of Death.

"It's no good," said the Surgeon-Major. "He doesn't want to live.
He's meeting it, poor child." And he blew his nose.

Half a mile away, the regimental band was playing the overture to
the Sing-song, for the men had been told that Bobby was out of
danger. The clash of the brass and the wail of the horns reached
Bobby's ears.

Is there a single joy or pain,
That I should never kno-ow?
You do not love me, 'tis in vain,
Bid me good-bye and go!

An expression of hopeless irritation crossed the boy's face, and
he tried to shake his head.

The Surgeon-Major bent down -" What is it, Bobby? "---" Not that
waltz," muttered Bobby. "That's our own - our very ownest own . .
Mummy dear."

With this he sank into the stupor that gave place to death early
next morning.

Revere, his eyes red at the rims and his nose very white, went
into Bobby's tent to write a letter to Papa Wick which should bow
the white head of the ex-Commissioner of Chota-Buldana in the
keenest sorrow of his life. Bobby's little store of papers lay in
confusion on the table, and among them a half-finished letter. The
last sentence ran: "So you see, darling, there is really no fear,
because as long as I know you care for me and I care for you,
nothing can touch me."

Revere stayed in the tent for an hour. When he came out, his eyes
were redder than ever.

Private Conklin sat on a turned-down bucket, and listened to a not
unfamiliar tune. Private Conklin was a convalescent and should
have been tenderly treated.

"Ho! "said Private Conklin. "There's another bloomin' orf'cer da-
ed."

The bucket shot from under him, and his eyes filled with a
smithyful of sparks. A tall man in a blue-gray bedgown was
regarding him with deep disfavour.

"You ought to take shame for yourself, Conky! Orf'cer? - bloomin'
orf'cer? I'll learn you to misname the likes of 'im. Hangel!
Bloomin' Hangel! That's wot 'e is!"

And the Hospital Orderly was so satisfied with the justice of the
punishment that he did not even order Private Dormer back to his
cot.

IN THE MATTER OF A PRIVATE

Hurrah! hurrah! a soldier's life for me!
Shout, boys, shout! for it makes you jolly and free.

The Ramrod Corps.

People who have seen say that one of the quaintest spectacles of
human frailty is an outbreak of hysterics in a girls' school. It
starts without warning, generally on a hot afternoon, among the
elder pupils. A girl giggles till the giggle gets beyond control.
Then she throws up her head and cries, "Honk, honk, honk," like a
wild goose, and tears mix with the laughter. If the mistress be
wise, she will rap out something severe at this point to check
matters. If she be tender-hearted, and send for a drink of water,
the chances are largely in favour of another girl laughing at the
afflicted one and herself collapsing. Thus the trouble spreads,
and may end in half of what answers to the Lower Sixth of a boys'
school rocking and whooping together. Given a week of warm
weather, two stately promenades per diem, a heavy mutton and rice
meal in the middle of the day, a certain amount of nagging from
the teachers, and a few other things, some amazing effects
develop. At least, this is what folk say who have had experience.

Now, the Mother Superior of a Convent and the Colonel of a British
Infantry Regiment would be justly shocked at any comparison being
made between their respective charges. But it is a fact that,
under certain circumstances, Thomas in bulk can be worked up into
ditthering, rippling hysteria. He does not weep, but he shows his
trouble unmistakably, and the consequences get into the
newspapers, and all the good people who hardly know a Martini from
a Snider say: "Take away the brute's ammunition!"

Thomas isn't a brute, and his business, which is to look after the
virtuous people, demands that he shall have his ammunition to his
hand. He doesn't wear silk stockings, and he really ought to be
supplied with a new Adjective to help him to express his opinions:
but, for all that, he is a great man. If you call him "the heroic
defender of the national honour" one day, and "a brutal and
licentious soldiery" the next, you naturally bewilder him, and he
looks upon you with suspicion. There is nobody to speak for Thomas
except people who have theories to work off on him, and nobody
understands Thomas except Thomas, and he does not always know what
is the matter with himself.

That is the prologue. This is the story: -

Corporal Slane was engaged to be married to Miss Jhansi M'Kenna,
whose history is well known in the regiment and elsewhere. He had
his Colonel's permission, and, being popular with the men, every
arrangement had been made to give the wedding what Private
Ortheris called "eeklar." It fell in the heart of the hot weather,
and, after the wedding, Slane was going up to the Hills with the
bride. None the less, Slane's grievance was that the affair would
be only a hired-carriage wedding, and he felt that the "eeklar" of
that was meagre. Miss M'Kenna did not care so much. The Sergeant's
wife was helping her to make her wedding-dress, and she was very
busy. Slane was, just then, the only moderately contented man in
barracks. All the rest were more or less miserable.

And they had so much to make them happy, too. All their work was
over at eight in the morning, and for the rest of the day they
could lie on their backs and smoke Canteen-plug and swear at the
punkah-coolies. They enjoyed a fine, full flesh meal in the middle
of the day, and then threw themselves down on their cots and
sweated and slept till it was cool enough to go out with their
"towny," whose vocabulary contained less than six hundred words,
and the Adjective, and whose views on every conceivable question
they had heard many times before.

There was the Canteen, of course, and there was the Temperance
Room with the second-hand papers in it; but a man of any
profession cannot read for eight hours a day in a temperature of
96 or 98 in the shade, running up sometimes to 103 at midnight.
Very few men, even though they get a pannikin of flat, stale,
muddy beer and hide it under their cots, can continue drinking for
six hours a day. One man tried, but he died, and nearly the whole
regiment went to his funeral because it gave them something to do.
It was too early for the excitement of fever or cholera. The men
could only wait and wait and wait, and watch the shadow of the
barrack creeping across the blinding white dust. That was a gay
life.

They lounged about cantonments - it was too hot for any sort of
game, and almost too hot for vice - and fuddled themselves in the
evening, and filled themselves to distension with the healthy
nitrogenous food provided for them, and the more they stoked the
less exercise they took and more explosive they grew. Then tempers
began to wear away, and men fell a-brooding over insults real or
imaginary, for they had nothing else to think of. The tone of the
repartees changed, and instead of saying light-heartedly: I'll
knock your silly face in," men grew laboriously polite and hinted
that the cantonments were not big enough for themselves and their
enemy, and that there would be more space for one of the two in
another Place.

It may have been the Devil who arranged the thing, but the fact of
the case is that Losson had for a long time been worrying Simmons
in an aimless way. It gave him occupation. The two had their cots
side by side, and would sometimes spend a long afternoon swearing
at each other; but Simmons was afraid of Losson and dared not
challenge him to a fight. He thought over the words in the hot
still nights, and half the hate he felt towards Losson he vented
on the wretched punkah-coolie.

Losson bought a parrot in the bazar, and put it into a little
cage, and lowered the cage into the cool darkness of a well, and
sat on the well-curb, shouting bad language down to the parrot. He
taught it to say: "Simmons, ye so-oor," which means swine, and
several other things entirely unfit for publication. He was a big
gross man, and he shook like a jelly when the parrot had the
sentence correctly. Simmons, however, shook with rage, for all the
room were laughing at him - the parrot was such a disreputable
puff of green feathers and it looked so human when it chattered.
Losson used to sit, swinging his fat legs, on the side of the cot,
and ask the parrot what it thought of Simmons. The parrot would
answer: "Simmons, ye so-oor." Good boy," Losson used to say,
scratching the parrot's head; "ye 'ear that, Sim?" And Simmons
used to turn over on his stomach and make answer: "I 'ear. Take
'eed you don't 'ear something one of these days."

In the restless nights, after he had been asleep all day, fits of
blind rage came upon Simmons and held him till he trembled all
over, while he thought in how many different ways he would slay
Losson. Sometimes he would picture himself trampling the life out
of the man with heavy ammunition-boots, and at others smashing in
his face with the butt, and at others jumping on his shoulders and
dragging the head back till the neckbone cracked. Then his mouth
would feel hot and fevered, and he would reach out for another sup
of the beer in the pannikin.

But the fancy that came to him most frequently and stayed with him
longest was one connected with the great roll of fat under
Losson's right ear. He noticed it first on a moonlight night, and
thereafter it was always before his eyes. It was a fascinating
roll of fat. A man could get his hand upon it and tear away one
side of the neck; or he could place the muzzle of a rifle on it
and blow away all the head in a flash. Losson had no right to be
sleek and contented and well-to-do, when he, Simmons, was the butt
of the room. Some day, perhaps, he would show those who laughed at
the "Simmons, ye so-oor" joke, that he was as good as the rest,
and held a man's life in the crook of his forefinger. When Losson
snored, Simmons hated him more bitterly than ever. Why should
Losson be able to sleep when Simmons had to stay awake hour after
hour, tossing and turning on the tapes, with the dull liver pain
gnawing into his right side and his head throbbing and aching
after Canteen? He thought over this for many, many nights, and the
world became unprofitable to him. He even blunted his naturally
fine appetite with beer and tobacco; and all the while the parrot
talked at and made a mock of him.

The heat continued and the tempers wore away more quickly than
before. A Sergeant's wife died of heat-apoplexy in the night, and
the rumour ran abroad that it was cholera. Men rejoiced openly,
hoping that it would spread and send them into camp. But that was
a false alarm.

It was late on a Tuesday evening, and the men were waiting in the
deep double verandahs for "Last Post," when Simmons went to the
box at the foot of his bed, took out his pipe, and slammed the lid
down with a bang that echoed through the deserted barrack like the
crack of a rifle. Ordinarily speaking, the men would have taken no
notice; but their nerves were fretted to fiddle-strings. They
jumped up, and three or four clattered into the barrack-room only
to find Simmons kneeling by his box.

"Ow! It's you, is it?" they said, and laughed foolishly. "We
thought 'twas -"

Simmons rose slowly. If the accident had so shaken his fellows,
what would not the reality do?

"You thought it was - did you? And what makes you think?" he said,
lashing himself into madness as he went on; "to Hell with your
thinking, ye dirty spies!"

"Simmons, ye so-oor," chuckled the parrot in the verandah
sleepily, recognising a well-known voice. Now that was absolutely
all.

The tension snapped. Simmons fell back on the arm-rack
deliberately, - the men were at the far end of the room, - and
took out his rifle and packet of ammunition. "Don't go playing the
goat, Sim!" said Losson. "Put it down," but there was a quaver in
his voice. Another man stooped, slipped his boot, and hurled it at
Simmons's head. The prompt answer was a shot which, fired at
random, found its billet in Losson's throat. Losson fell forward
without a word, and the others scattered.

"You thought it was!" yelled Simmons. "You're drivin' me to it! I
tell you you're drivin' me to it! Get up, Losson, an' don't lie
shammin' there - you an' your blasted parrit that druv me to it!

But there was an unaffected reality about Losson's pose that
showed Simmons what he had done. The men were still clamouring in
the verandah. Simmons appropriated two more packets of ammunition
and ran into the moonlight, muttering: "I'll make a night of it.
Thirty roun's, an' the last for myself. Take you that, you dogs!"

He dropped on one knee and fired into the brown of the men on the
verandah, but the bullet flew high, and landed in the brickwork
with a vicious phwit that made some of the younger ones turn pale.
It is, as musketry theorists observe, one thing to fire and
another to be fired at.

Then the instinct of the chase flared up. The news spread from
barrack to barrack, and the men doubled out intent on the capture
of Simmons, the wild beast, who was heading for the Cavalry
parade-ground, stopping now and again to send back a shot and a
curse in the direction of his pursuers.

"I'll learn you to spy on me!" he shouted; "I'll learn you to give
me dorg's names! Come on, the 'ole lot o' you! Colonel John
Anthony Deever, C. B.!" -he turned towards the Infantry Mess and
shook his rifle - "you think yourself the devil of a man - but I
tell you that if you put your ugly old carcass outside o' that
door, I'll make you the poorest-lookin' man in the army. Come out,
Colonel John Anthony Deever, C. B.! Come Out and see me practiss
on the rainge. I'm
the crack shot of the 'ole bloomin' battalion." In proof of which
statement Simmons fired at the lighted windows of the mess-house.

"Private Simmons, E Comp'ny, on the Cavalry p'rade-ground, Sir,
with thirty rounds," said a Sergeant breathlessly to the Colonel.
"Shootin' right and lef', Sir. Shot Private Losson. What's to be
done, Sir?"

Colonel John Anthony Deever, C. B., sallied out, only to be
saluted by a spurt of dust at his feet.

"Pull up!" said the Second in Command; "I don't want my step in
that way, Colonel. He's as dangerous as a mad dog."

"Shoot him like one, then," said the Colonel bitterly, "if he
won't take his chance. My regiment, too! If it had been the
Towheads I could have understood."

Private Simmons had occupied a strong position near a well on the
edge of the parade-ground, and was defying the regiment to come
on. The regiment was not anxious to comply, for there is small
honour in being shot by a fellow-private. Only Corporal Slane,
rifle in hand, threw himself down on the ground, and wormed his
way towards the well.

"Don't shoot," said he to the men round him; "like as not you'll
'it me. I'll catch the beggar livin'."

Simmons ceased shouting for a while, and th noise of trap-wheels
could be heard across the plain. Major Oldyne, Commanding the
Horse Battery, was coming back from a dinner in the Civil Lines;
was driving after his usual custom - that is to say, as fast as
the horse could go.

"A orf'cer! A blooming spangled orf'cer!" shrieked Simmons; "I'll
make a scarecrow of that orf'cer!" The trap stopped.

"What's this?" demanded the Major of Gunners. "You there, drop
your rifle."

"Why, it's Jerry Blazes! I ain't got no quarrel with you, Jerry
Blazes. Pass, frien', an' all's well!"

But Jerry Blazes had not the faintest intention of passing a
dangerous murderer. He was, as his adoring Battery swore long and
fervently, without knowledge of fear, and they were surely the
best judges, for Jerry Blazes, it was notorious, had done his
possible to kill a man each time the Battery went out.

He walked towards Simmons, with the intention of rushing him and
knocking him down.

"Don't make me do it, Sir," said Simmons; "I ain't got nothing
ag'in' you. Ah! you would?" - the Major broke into a run - "Take
that, then!"

The Major dropped with a bullet through his shoulder, and Simmons
stood over him. He had lost the satisfaction of killing Losson in
the desired way: but here was a helpless body to his hand. Should
he slip in another cartridge, and blow off the head, or with the
butt smash in the white face? He stopped to consider, and a cry
went up from the far side of the parade-ground: "He's killed Jerry
Blazes!" But in the shelter of the well-pillars Simmons was safe,
except when he stepped out to fire. "I'll blow yer 'andsome 'ead
off, Jerry Blazes," said Simmons reflectively. "Six and three is
nine an' one is ten, an' that leaves me another nineteen, an' one
for myself" He tugged at the string of the second packet of
ammunition. Corporal Slane crawled out of the shadow of a bank
into the moonlight.

"I see you!" said Simmons. "Come a bit furder on an' I'll do for
you."

"I'm comin'," said Corporal Slane briefly; "you've done a bad
day's work, Sim. Come out 'ere an' come back with me."

"Come to," laughed Simmons, sending a cartridge home with his
thumb. "Not before I've settled you an' Jerry Blazes."

The Corporal was lying at full length in the dust of the parade-
ground, a rifle under him. Some of the less cautious men in the
distance shouted: "Shoot 'im! Shoot 'im, Slane!"

"You move 'and or foot, Slane," said Simmons, "an' I'll kick Jerry
Blazes' 'ead in, and shoot you after."

"I ain't movin'," said the Corporal, raising his head; "you
daren't 'it a man on 'is legs. Let go o' Jerry Blazes an' come out
o' that with your fistes. Come an' 'it me. You daren't, you bloom-
in' dog-shooter!"

"I dare."

"You lie, you man-sticker. You sneakin', Sheeny butcher, you lie.
See there!" Slane kicked the rifle away, and stood up in the peril
of his life. "Come on, now!"

The temptation was more than Simmons could resist, for the
Corporal in his white clothes offered a perfect mark.

"Don't misname me," shouted Simmons, firing as he spoke. The shot
missed, and the shooter, blind with rage, threw his rifle down and
rushed at Slane from the protection of the well. Within striking
distance, he kicked savagely at Slane's stomach, but the weedy
Corporal knew something of Simmons's weakness, and knew, too, the
deadly guard for that kick. Bowing forward and drawing up his
right leg till the heel of the right foot was set some three
inches above the inside of the left knee-cap, he met the blow
standing on one leg - exactly as Gonds stand when they meditate -
and ready for the fall that would follow. There was an oath, the
Corporal fell over to his own left as shinbone met shinbone, and
the Private collapsed, his right leg broken an inch above the
ankle.

"Pity you don't know that guard, Sim," said Slane, spitting out
the dust as he rose. Then raising his voice - "Come an' take him
on. I've bruk 'is leg." This was not strictly true, for the
Private had accomplished his own downfall, since it is the special
merit of that leg-guard that the harder the kick the greater the
kicker's discomfiture.

Slane walked to Jerry Blazes and hung over him with ostentatious
anxiety, while Simmons, weeping with pain, was carried away. "'Ope
you ain't 'urt badly, Sir," said Slane. The Major had fainted, and
there was an ugly, ragged hole through the top of his arm. Slane
knelt down and murmured: "S'elp me, I believe 'e's dead. Well, if
that ain't my blooming luck all over!"

But the Major was destined to lead his Battery afield for many a
long day with unshaken nerve. He was removed, and nursed and
petted into convalescence, while the Battery discussed the wisdom
of capturing Simmons and blowing him from a gun. They idolised
their Major, and his reappearance on parade brought about a scene
nowhere provided for in the Army Regulations.

Great, too, was the glory that fell to Slane's share. The Gunners
would have made him drunk thrice a day for at least a fortnight.
Even the Colonel of his own regiment complimented him upon his
coolness, and the local paper called him a hero. These things did
not puff him up. When the Major offered him money and thanks, the
virtuous Corporal took the one and put aside the other. But he had
a request to make and prefaced it with many a "Beg y' pardon,
Sir." Could the Major see his way to letting the Slane-M'Kenna
wedding be adorned by the presence of four Battery horses to pull
a hired barouche? The Major could, and so could the Battery.
Excessively so. It was a gorgeous wedding.

"Wot did I do it for?" said Corporal Slane.
"For the 'orses o' course. Jhansi ain't a beauty to look at, but I
wasn't goin' to 'ave a hired turnout. Jerry Blazes? If I 'adn't
'a' wanted something, Sim might ha' blowed Jerry Blazes' blooming
'ead into Hirish stew for aught I'd 'a' cared."

And they hanged Private Simmons - hanged him as high as Haman in
hollow square of the regiment; and the Colonel said it was Drink;
and the Chaplain was sure it was the Devil; and Simmons fancied it
was both, but he didn't know, and only hoped his fate would be a
warning to his companions; and half a dozen "intelligent
publicists" wrote six beautiful leading articles on "The
Prevalence of Crime in the Army."

But not a soul thought of comparing the "bloody-minded Simmons" to
the squawking, gaping school-girl with which this story opens.

THE LOST LEGION

When the Indian Mutiny broke out, and a little time before the
siege of Delhi, a regiment of Native Irregular Horse was stationed
at Peshawur on the frontier of India. That regiment caught what
John Lawrence called at the time "the prevalent mania," and would
have thrown in its lot with the mutineers, had it been allowed to
do so. The chance never came, for, as the regiment swept off down
south, it was headed off by a remnant of an English corps into the
hills of Afghanistan, and there the newly conquered tribesmen
turned against it as wolves turn against buck. It was hunted for
the sake of its arms and accoutrements from hill to hill, from
ravine to ravine, up and down the dried beds of rivers and round
the shoulders of bluffs, till it disappeared as water sinks in the
sand
- this officerless rebel regiment. The only trace left of its
existence to-day is a nominal roll drawn up in neat round hand and
countersigned by an officer who called himself, "Adjutant, late
Irregular Cavalry." The paper is yellow with years and dirt, but
on the back of it you can still read a pencil-note by John
Lawrence, to this effect: "See that the two native officers who
remained loyal are not deprived of their estates. -J. L." Of six
hundred and fifty sabres only two stood strain, and John Lawrence
in the midst of all the agony of the first months of the Mutiny
found time to think about their merits.

That was more than thirty years ago, and the tribesmen across the
Afghan border who helped to annihilate the regiment are now old
men. Sometimes a graybeard speaks of his share in the massacre.
"They came," he will say, "across the border, very proud, calling
upon us to rise and kill the English, and go down to the sack of
Delhi. But we who had just been conquered by the same English knew
that they were over-bold, and that the Government could account
easily for those down-country dogs. This Hindustani regiment,
therefore, we treated with fair words, and kept standing in one
place till the redcoats came after them very hot and angry. Then
this regiment ran forward a little more into our hills to avoid
the wrath of the English, and we lay upon their flanks watching
from the sides of the hills till we were well assured that their
path was lost behind them. Then we came down, for we desired their
clothes, and their bridles, and their rifles, and their boots -
more especially their boots. That was a great killing - done
slowly." Here the old man will rub his nose, and shake his long
snaky
locks, and lick his bearded lips, and grin till the yellow tooth-
stumps show. "Yea, we killed them because we needed their gear,
and we knew that their lives had been forfeited to God on account
of their sin - the sin of treachery to the salt which they had
eaten. They rode up and down the valleys, stumbling and rocking in
their saddles, and howling for mercy. We drove them slowly like
cattle till they were all assembled in one place, the flat wide
valley of Sheor Kt. Many had died from want of water, but there
still were many left, and they could not make any stand. We went
among them pulling them down with our hands two at a time, and our
boys killed them who were new to the sword. My share of the
plunder was such and such - so many guns, and so many saddles. The
guns were good in those days. Now we steal the Government rifles,
and despise smooth barrels. Yes, beyond doubt we wiped that
regiment from off the face of the earth, and even the memory of
the deed is now dying. But men say -"

At this point the tale would stop abruptly, and it was impossible
to find out what men said across the border. The Afghans were
always a secretive race, and vastly preferred doing something
wicked to saying anything at all. They would be quiet and well-
behaved for months, till one night, without word or warning, they
would rush a police-post, cut the throats of a constable or two,
dash through a village, carry away three or four women, and
withdraw, in the red glare of burning thatch, driving the cattle
and goats before them to their own desolate hills. The Indian
Government would become almost tearful on these occasions. First
it would say, "Please be good and we'll forgive you." The tribe
concerned in the latest depredation would collectively put its
thumb to its nose and answer rudely. Then the Government would
say: "Hadn't you better pay up a little money for those few
corpses you left behind you the other night?" Here the tribe would
temporise, and lie and bully, and some of the younger men, merely
to show contempt of authority, would raid another police-post and
fire into some frontier mud-fort, and, if lucky, kill a real
English officer. Then the Government would say: -" Observe; if you
really persist in this line of conduct, you will be hurt." If the
tribe knew exactly what was going on in India, it would apologise
or be rude, according as it learned whether the Government was
busy with other things or able to devote its full attention to
their performances. Some of the tribes knew to one corpse how far
to go. Others became excited, lost their heads, and told the
Government to come on. With sorrow and tears, and one eye on the
British taxpayer at home, who insisted on regarding these
exercises as brutal wars of annexation, the Government would
prepare an expensive little field-brigade and some guns, and send
all up into the hills to chase the wicked tribe out of the
valleys, where the corn grew, into the hill-tops, where there was
nothing to eat. The tribe would turn out in full strength and
enjoy the campaign, for they knew that their women would never be
touched, that their wounded would be nursed, not mutilated, and
that as soon as each man's bag of corn was spent they could
surrender and palaver with the English General as though they had
been a real enemy. Afterwards, years afterwards, they would pay
the blood-money, driblet by driblet, to the Government, and tell
their children how they had slain the redcoats by thousands. The
only drawback to this kind of picnic-war was the weakness of the
redcoats for solemnly blowing up with powder their fortified
towers and keeps. This the tribes always considered mean.

Chief among the leaders of the smaller tribes - the little clans
who knew to a penny the expense of moving white troops against
them - was a priest-bandit-chief whom we will call the Gulla Kutta
Mullah. His enthusiasm for Border murder as an art was almost
dignified. He would cut down a mail-runner from pure wantonness,
or bombard a mud-fort with rifle-fire when he knew that our men
needed to sleep. In his leisure moments he would go on circuit
among his neighbours, and try to incite other tribes to devilry.
Also, he kept a kind of hotel for fellow-outlaws in his own
village, which lay in a valley called Bersund. Any respectable
murderer on that section of the frontier was sure to lie up at
Bersund, for it was reckoned an exceedingly safe place. The sole
entry to it ran through a narrow gorge which could be converted
into a death-trap in five minutes. It was surrounded by high
hills, reckoned inaccessible to all save born mountaineers, and
here the Gulla Kutta Mullah lived in great state, the head of a
colony of mud and stone huts, and in each mud hut hung some
portion of a red uniform and the plunder of dead men. The
Government particularly wished for his capture, and once invited
him formally to come out and be hanged on account of the many
murders in which he had taken a direct part. He replied: -

"I am only twenty miles, as the crow flies, from your border. Come
and fetch me."
"Some day we will come," said the Government, "and hanged you will
be."

The Gulla Kutta Mullah let the matter slip from his mind. He knew
that the patience of the Government was as long as a summer day;
but he did not realise that its arm was as long as a winter night.
Months afterwards, when there was peace on the border, and all
India was quiet, the Indian Government turned in its sleep and
remembered the Gulla Kutta Mullah at Bersund, with his thirteen
outlaws. The movement against him of one single regiment - which
the telegrams would have translated as war - would have been
highly impolitic. This was a time for silence and speed, and,
above all, absence of bloodshed.

You must know that all along the north-west frontier of India
there is spread a force of some thirty thousand foot and horse,
whose duty it is to quietly and unostentatiously shepherd the
tribes in front of them. They move up and down, and down and up,
from one desolate little post to another; they are ready to take
the field at ten minutes' notice; they are always half in and half
out of a difficulty somewhere along the monotonous line; their
lives are as hard as their own muscles, and the papers never say
anything about them. It was from this force that the Government
picked its men.

One night, at a station where the mounted Night Patrol fire as
they challenge, and the wheat rolls in great blue-green waves
under our cold northern moon, the officers were playing billiards
in the mud-walled club-house, when orders came to them that they
were to go on parade at once for a night-drill. They grumbled, and
went to turn out their men - a hundred English troops, let us say,
two hundred Goorkhas, and about a hundred cavalry of the finest
native cavalry in the world.

When they were on the parade-ground, it was explained to them in
whispers that they must set off at once across the hills to
Bersund. The English troops were to post themselves round the
hills at the side of the valley; the Goorkhas would command the
gorge and the death-trap, and the cavalry would fetch a long march
round and get to the back of the circle of hills, whence, if there
were any difficulty, they could charge down on the Mullah's men.
But orders were very strict that there should be no fighting and
no noise. They were to return in the morning with every round of
ammunition intact, and the Mullah and the thirteen outlaws bound
in their midst. If they were successful, no one would know or care
anything about their work; but failure meant probably a small
border war, in which the Gulla Kutta Mullah would pose as a
popular leader against a big bullying power, instead of a common
Border murderer.

Then there was silence, broken only by the clicking of the
compass-needles and snapping of watch-cases, as the heads of
columns compared bearings and made appointments for the
rendezvous. Five minutes later the parade-ground was empty; the
green coats of the Goorkhas and the overcoats of the English
troops had faded into the darkness, and the cavalry were cantering
away in the face of a blinding drizzle.

What the Goorkhas and the English did will be seen later on. The
heavy work lay with the horses, for they had to go far and pick
their way clear of habitations. Many of the troopers were natives
of that part of the world, ready and anxious to fight against
their kin, and some of the officers had made private and
unofficial excursions into those hills before. They crossed the
border, found a dried river-bed, cantered up that, walked through
a stony gorge, risked crossing a low hill under cover of the
darkness, skirted another hill, leaving their hoof-marks deep in
some ploughed ground, felt their way along another water-course,
ran over the neck of a spur praying that no one would hear their
horses grunting, and so worked on in the rain and the darkness
till they had left Bersund and its crater of hills a little behind
them, and to the left, and it was time to swing round. The ascent
commanding the back of Bersund was steep, and they halted to draw
breath in a broad level valley below the height. That is to say,
the men reined up, but the horses, blown as they were, refused to
halt. There was unchristian language, the worse for being
delivered in a whisper, and you heard the saddles squeaking in the
darkness as the horses plunged.

Book of the day: