“But the rale dimonstrashin,” said Mulvaney, “was in B Comp’ny barrick; we three headin’ it.”
Mulvaney climbed on to the refreshment-bar, settled himself comfortably by the beer, and went on, “Whin the row was at ut’s foinest an’ B Comp’ny was fur goin’ out to murther this man Thrigg on the p’rade-groun’, Learoyd here takes up his helmut an’ sez–fwhat was ut ye said?”
“Ah said,” said Learoyd, “gie us t’ brass. Tak oop a subscripshun, lads, for to put off t’ p’rade, an’ if t’ p’rade’s not put off, ah’ll gie t’ brass back agean. Thot’s wot ah said. All B Coomp’ny knawed me. Ah took oop a big subscripshun–fower rupees eight annas ’twas–an’ ah went oot to turn t’ job over. Mulvaney an’ Orth’ris coom with me.”
“We three raises the Divil In couples gin’rally,” explained Mulvaney.
Here Ortheris interrupted. “‘Ave you read the papers?” said he.
“Sometimes,” I said,
“We ‘ad read the papers, an’ we put hup a faked decoity, a–a sedukshun.”
“_Ab_dukshin, ye cockney,” said Mulvaney.
“_Ab_dukshin or _se_dukshun–no great odds. Any’ow, we arranged to taik an’ put Mister Benhira out o’ the way till Thursday was hover, or ‘e too busy to rux ‘isself about p’raids. _Hi_ was the man wot said, ‘We’ll make a few rupees off o’ the business.'”
“We hild a Council av War,” continued Mulvaney, “walkin’ roun’ by the Artill’ry Lines. I was Prisidint, Learoyd was Minister av Finance, an’ little Orth’ris here was”–
“A bloomin’ Bismarck! _Hi_ made the ‘ole show pay.”
“This interferin’ bit av a Benira man,” said Mulvaney, “did the thrick for us himself; for, on me sowl, we hadn’t a notion av what was to come afther the next minut. He was shoppin’ in the bazar on fut. Twas dhrawin’ dusk thin, an’ we stud watchin’ the little man hoppin’ in an’ out av the shops, thryin’ to injuce the naygurs to _mallum_ his _bat_. Prisintly, he sthrols up, his arrums full av thruck, an’ he sez in a consiquinshal way, shticking out his little belly, ‘Me good men,’ sez he, ‘have ye seen the Kernel’s b’roosh?’–‘B’roosh?’ says Learoyd. ‘There’s no b’roosh here–nobbut a _hekka_.’–‘Fwhat’s that?’ sez Thrigg. Learoyd shows him wan down the sthreet, an’ he sez, ‘How thruly Orientil! I will ride on a _hekka_.’ I saw thin that our Rigimintal Saint was for givin’ Thrigg over to us neck an’ brisket. I purshued a _hekka_, an’ I sez to the dhriver-divil, I sez, ‘Ye black limb, there’s a _Sahib_ comin’ for this _hekka_. He wants to go _jildi_ to the Padsahi Jhil’–’twas about tu moiles away–‘to shoot snipe–_chirria_. You dhrive _Jehannum ke marfik, mallum_–like Hell? ‘Tis no manner av use _bukkin’_ to the _Sahib_, bekaze he doesn’t _samjao_ your talk. Av he _bolos_ anything, just you _choop_ and _chel_. _Dekker?_ Go _arsty_ for the first _arder_-mile from cantonmints. Thin _chel, Shaitan ke marfik_, an’ the _chooper_ you _choops_ an’ the _jildier_ you _chels_ the better _kooshy_ will that _Sahib_ be; an’ here’s a rupee for ye?’
“The _hekka_-man knew there was somethin’ out av the common in the air. He grinned an’ sez, ‘_Bote achee!_ I goin’ damn fast.’ I prayed that the Kernel’s b’roosh wudn’t arrive till me darlin’ Benira by the grace av God was undher weigh. The little man puts his thruck into the _hekka_ an’ scuttles in like a fat guinea-pig; niver offerin’ us the price av a dhrink for our services in helpin’ him home, ‘He’s off to the Padsahi _jhil_,’ sez I to the others.”
Ortheris took up the tale–
“Jist then, little Buldoo kim up, ‘oo was the son of one of the Artillery grooms–‘e would ‘av made a ‘evinly newspaper-boy in London, bein’ sharp an’ fly to all manner o’ games, ‘E ‘ad bin watchin’ us puttin’ Mister Benhira into ‘is temporary baroush, an’ ‘e sez, ‘What _’ave_ you been a doin’ of, _Sahibs?_’ sez ‘e. Learoyd ‘e caught ‘im by the ear an ‘e sez”–
“Ah says,’ went on Learoyd, ‘Young mon, that mon’s gooin’ to have t’ goons out o’ Thursday–to-morrow–an’ thot’s more work for you, young mon. Now, sitha, tak’ a _tat_ an’ a _lookri,_ an’ ride tha domdest to t’ Padsahi Jhil. Cotch thot there _hekka_, and tell t’ driver iv your lingo thot you’ve coorn to tak’ his place. T’ _Sahib_ doesn’t speak t’ _bat_, an’ he’s a little mon. Drive t’ _hekka_ into t’ Padsahi Jhil into t’ waiter. Leave t’ _Sahib_ theer an’ roon hoam; an’ here’s a rupee for tha,'”
Then Mulvaney and Ortheris spoke together in alternate fragments: Mulvaney leading [You must pick out the two speakers as best you can]:–“He was a knowin’ little divil was Bhuldoo,–‘e sez _bote achee_ an’ cuts–wid a wink in his oi–but _Hi_ sez there’s money to be made–an’ I wanted to see the ind av the campaign–so _Hi_ says we’ll double hout to the Padsahi Jhil–an’ save the little man from bein’ dacoited by the murtherin’ Bhuldoo–an’ turn hup like reskooers in a Vic’oria Melodrama-so we doubled for the _jhil_, an’ prisintly there was the divil av a hurroosh behind us an’ three bhoys on grasscuts’ ponies come by, poundin’ along for the dear life–s’elp me Bob, hif Buldoo ‘adn’t raised a rig’lar _harmy_ of decoits–to do the job in shtile. An’ we ran, an’ they ran, shplittin’ with laughin’, till we gets near the _jhil_–and ‘ears sounds of distress floatin’ molloncolly on the hevenin’ hair.” [Ortheris was growing poetical under the influence of the beer. The duet recommenced: Mulvaney leading again.]
“Thin we heard Bhuldoo, the dacoit, shoutin’ to the _hekka_ man, an’ wan of the young divils brought his stick down on the top av the _hekka_-cover, an’ Benira Thrigg inside howled ‘Murther an’ Death.’ Buldoo takes the reins and dhrives like mad for the _jhil_, havin’ dishpersed the _hekka_-dhriver–‘oo cum up to us an’ ‘e sez, sez ‘e, ‘That _Sahib’s_ nigh mad with funk! Wot devil’s work ‘ave you led me into?’–‘Hall right,’ sez we, ‘you catch that there pony an’ come along. This _Sahib’s_ been decoited, an’ we’re going to resky ‘im!’ Says the driver, ‘Decoits! Wot decoits? That’s Buldoo the _budmash_’–‘Bhuldoo be shot!’ sez we, ”Tis a woild dissolute Pathan frum the hills. There’s about eight av thim coercin’ the _Sahib_. You remimber that an you’ll get another rupee!’ Thin we heard the _whop-whop-whop_ av the _hekka_ turnin’ over, an’ a splash av water an’ the voice av Benira Thrigg callin’ upon God to forgive his sins–an’ Buldoo an’ ‘is friends squotterin’ in the water like boys in the Serpentine.”
Here the Three Musketeers retired simultaneously into the beer.
“Well? What came next?” said I.
“Fwhat nex’?” answered Mulvaney, wiping his mouth. “Wud ye let three bould sodger-bhoys lave the ornamint av the House av Lords to be dhrowned an’ dacoited in a _jhil?_ We formed line av quarther-column an’ we discinded upon the inimy. For the better part av tin minutes you could not hear yerself spake. The _tattoo_ was screamin’ in chune wid Benira Thrigg an’ Bhuldoo’s army, an’ the shticks was whistlin’ roun’ the _hekka_, an’ Orth’ris was beatin’ the _hekka_-cover wid his fistes, an’ Learoyd yellin’, ‘Look out for their knives!’ an’ me cuttin’ into the dark, right an’ lef’, dishpersin’ arrmy corps av Pathans. Holy Mother av Moses! ’twas more disp’rit than Ahmid Kheyl wid Maiwund thrown in. Afther a while Bhuldoo an’ his bhoys flees. Have ye iver seen a rale live Lord thryin’ to hide his nobility undher a fut an’ a half av brown swamp-wather? Tis the livin’ image av a water-carrier’s goatskin wid the shivers. It tuk toime to pershuade me frind Benira he was not disimbowilled: an’ more toime to get out the _hekka_. The dhriver come up afther the battle, swearin’ he tuk a hand in repulsin’ the inimy. Benira was sick wid the fear. We escorted him back, very slow, to cantonmints, for that an’ the chill to soak into him. It suk! Glory be to the Rigimintil Saint, but it suk to the marrow av Lord Benira Thrigg!”
Here Ortheris, slowly, with immense pride–“‘E sez, ‘You har my noble preservers,’ sez ‘e. ‘You har a _h_onor to the British Harmy,’ sez ‘e. With that e’ describes the hawful band of dacoits wot set on ‘im. There was about forty of ’em an’ ‘e was hoverpowered by numbers, so ‘e was; but ‘e never lorst ‘is presence of mind, so ‘e didn’t. ‘E guv the _hekka_-driver five rupees for ‘is noble assistance, an’ ‘e said ‘e would see to us after ‘e ‘ad spoken to the Kernul. For we was a _h_onor to the Regiment, we was.”
“An’ we three,” said Mulvaney, with a seraphic smile, “have dhrawn the par-ti-cu-lar attinshin av Bobs Bahadur more than wanst. But he’s a rale good little man is Bobs. Go on, Orth’ris, my son.”
“Then we leaves ‘im at the Kernul’s ‘ouse, werry sick, an’ we cuts hover to B Comp’ny barrick an’ we sez we ‘ave saved Benira from a bloody doom, an’ the chances was agin there bein’ p’raid on Thursday. About ten minutes later come three envelicks, one for each of us. S’elp me Bob, if the old bloke ‘adn’t guv us a fiver apiece–sixty-four rupees in the bazar! On Thursday ‘e was in ‘orspital recoverin’ from ‘is sanguinary encounter with a gang of Pathans, an’ B Comp’ny was drinkin’ ’emselves into Clink by squads. So there never was no Thursday p’raid. But the Kernal, when ‘e ‘eard of our galliant conduct, ‘e sez, ‘Hi know there’s been some devilry somewheres,’ sez ‘e, ‘but I can’t bring it ‘ome to you three.'”
“An’ my privit imprisshin is,” said Mulvaney, getting off the bar and turning his glass upside down, “that, av they had known they wudn’t have brought ut home. ‘Tis flyin’ in the face, firstly av Nature, secon’ av the Rig’lations, an’ third the will av Terence Mulvaney, to hold p’rades av Thursdays.”
“Good, ma son!” said Learoyd; “but, young mon, what’s t’ notebook for?”
“‘Let be,” said Mulvaney; “this time next month we’re in the _Sherapis_. ‘Tis immortial fame the gentleman’s goin’ to give us. But kape it dhark till we’re out av the range av me little frind Bobs Bahadur.”
And I have obeyed Mulvaney’s order.
BEYOND THE PALE
Love heeds not caste nor sleep a broken bed. I went in search of love and lost myself.–_Hindu Proverb_.
A man should, whatever happens, keep to his own caste, race and breed. Let the White go to the White and the Black to the Black. Then, whatever trouble falls is in the ordinary course of things–neither sudden, alien nor unexpected.
This is the story of a man who wilfully stepped beyond the safe limits of decent everyday society, and paid for it heavily.
He knew too much in the first instance; and he saw too much in the second. He took too deep an interest in native life; but he will never do so again.
Deep away in the heart of the City, behind Jitha Megji’s _bustee_, lies Amir Nath’s Gully, which ends in a dead-wall pierced by one grated window. At the head of the Gully is a big cow-byre, and the walls on either side of the Gully are without windows. Neither Suchet Singh nor Gaur Chand approve of their womenfolk looking into the world. If Durga Charan had been of their opinion, he would have been a happier man to-day, and little Bisesa would have been able to knead her own bread. Her room looked out through the grated window into the narrow dark Gully where the sun never came and where the buffaloes wallowed in the blue slime. She was a widow, about fifteen years old, and she prayed the Gods, day and night, to send her a lover; for she did not approve of living alone.
One day, the man–Trejago his name was–came into Amir Nath’s Gully on an aimless wandering; and, after he had passed the buffaloes, stumbled over a big heap of cattle-food.
Then he saw that the Gully ended in a trap, and heard a little laugh from behind the grated window. It was a pretty little laugh, and Trejago, knowing that, for all practical purposes, the old _Arabian Nights_ are good guides, went forward to the window, and whispered that verse of “The Love Song of Har Dyal” which begins:
Can a man stand upright in the face of the naked Sun; or a Lover in the Presence of his Beloved?
If my feet fail me, O Heart of my Heart, am I to blame, being blinded by the glimpse of your beauty?
There came the faint _tchink_ of a woman’s bracelets from behind the grating, and a little voice went on with the song at the fifth verse:
Alas! alas! Can the Moon tell the Lotus of her love when the Gate of Heaven is shut and the clouds gather for the rains? They have taken my Beloved, and driven her with the pack-horses to the North.
There are iron chains on the feet that were set on my heart. Call to the bowmen to make ready–
The voice stopped suddenly, and Trejago walked out of Amir Nath’s Gully, wondering who in the world could have capped “The Love Song of Har Dyal” so neatly.
Next morning, as he was driving to office, an old woman threw a packet into his dog-cart. In the packet was the half of a broken glass-bangle, one flower of the blood-red _dhak_, a pinch of _bhusa_ or cattle-food, and eleven cardamoms. That packet was a letter–not a clumsy compromising letter, but an innocent unintelligible lover’s epistle.
Trejago knew far too much about these things, as I have said. No Englishman should be able to translate object-letters. But Trejago spread all the trifles on the lid of his office-box and began to puzzle them out.
A broken glass-bangle stands for a Hindu widow all India over; because, when her husband dies, a woman’s bracelets are broken on her wrists. Trejago saw the meaning of the little bit of the glass. The flower of the _dhak_ means diversely “desire,” “come,” “write,” or “danger,” according to the other things with it. One cardamom means “jealousy”; but when any article is duplicated in an object-letter, it loses its symbolic meaning and stands merely for one of a number indicating time, or, if incense, curds, or saffron be sent also, place. The message ran then–“A widow–_dhak_ flower and _bhusa_,–at eleven o’clock.” The pinch of _bhusa_ enlightened Trejago. He saw–this kind of letter leaves much to instinctive knowledge–that the _bhusa_ referred to the big heap of cattle-food over which he had fallen in Amir Nath’s Gully, and that the message must come from the person behind the grating; she being a widow. So the message ran then–“A widow, in the Gully in which is the heap of _bhusa_, desires you to come at eleven o’clock.”
Trejago threw all the rubbish into the fireplace and laughed. He knew that men in the East do not make love under windows at eleven in the forenoon, nor do women fix appointments a week in advance. So he went, that very night at eleven, into Amir Nath’s Gully, clad in a _boorka_, which cloaks a man as well as a woman. Directly the gongs of the City made the hour, the little voice behind the grating took up “The Love Song of Har Dyal” at the verse where the Panthan girl calls upon Har Dyal to return. The song is really pretty in the Vernacular. In English you miss the wail of it. It runs something like this–
Alone upon the housetops, to the North I turn and watch the lightning in the sky,– The glamour of thy footsteps in the North, _Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!_
Below my feet the still bazar is laid Far, far, below the weary camels lie,– The camels and the captives of thy raid. _Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!_
My father’s wife is old and harsh with years, And drudge of all my father’s house am I.– My bread is sorrow and my drink is tears, _Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!_
As the song stopped, Trejago stepped up under the grating and whispered–“I am here.”
Bisesa was good to look upon.
That night was the beginning of many strange things, and of a double life so wild that Trejago to-day sometimes wonders if it were not all a dream. Bisesa, or her old handmaiden who had thrown the object-letter, had detached the heavy grating from the brick-work of the wall; so that the window slid inside, leaving only a square of raw masonry into which an active man might climb.
In the daytime, Trejago drove through his routine of office-work, or put on his calling-clothes and called on the ladies of the Station; wondering how long they would know him if they knew of poor little Bisesa. At night, when all the City was still, came the walk under the evil-smelling _boorka_, the patrol through Jitha Megji’s _bustee_, the quick turn into Amir Nath’s Gully between the sleeping cattle and the dead walls, and then, last of all, Bisesa, and the deep, even breathing of the old woman who slept outside the door of the bare little room that Durga Charan allotted to his sister’s daughter. Who or what Durga Charan was, Trejago never inquired; and why in the world he was not discovered and knifed never occurred to him till his madness was over, and Bisesa … But this comes later.
Bisesa was an endless delight to Trejago. She was as ignorant as a bird; and her distorted versions of the rumors from the outside world that had reached her in her room, amused Trejago almost as much as her lisping attempts to pronounce his name–“Christopher.” The first syllable was always more than she could manage, and she made funny little gestures with her roseleaf hands, as one throwing the name away, and then, kneeling before Trejago, asked him, exactly as an Englishwoman would do, if he were sure he loved her. Trejago swore that he loved her more than any one else in the world. Which was true.
After a month of this folly, the exigencies of his other life compelled Trejago to be especially attentive to a lady of his acquaintance. You may take it for a fact that anything of this kind is not only noticed and discussed by a man’s own race but by some hundred and fifty natives as well. Trejago had to walk with this lady and talk to her at the Band-stand, and once or twice to drive with her; never for an instant dreaming that this would affect his dearer, out-of-the-way life. But the news flew, in the usual mysterious fashion, from mouth to mouth, till Bisesa’s duenna heard of it and told Bisesa. The child was so troubled that she did the household work evilly, and was beaten by Durga Charan’s wife in consequence.
A week later, Bisesa taxed Trejago with the flirtation. She understood no gradations and spoke openly. Trejago laughed and Bisesa stamped her little feet–little feet, light as marigold flowers, that could lie in the palm of a man’s one hand.
Much that is written about Oriental passion and impulsiveness is exaggerated and compiled at second-hand, but a little of it is true; and when an Englishman finds that little, it is quite as startling as any passion in his own proper life. Bisesa raged and stormed, and finally threatened to kill herself if Trejago did not at once drop the alien _Memsahib_ who had come between them. Trejago tried to explain, and to show her that she did not understand these things from a Western standpoint. Bisesa drew herself up, and said simply–
“I do not. I know only this–it is not good that I should have made you dearer than my own heart to me, _Sahib_. You are an Englishman. I am only a black girl”–she was fairer than bar-gold in the Mint,–“and the widow of a black man.”
Then she sobbed and said–“But on my soul and my Mother’s soul, I love you. There shall no harm come to you, whatever happens to me.”
Trejago argued with the child, and tried to soothe her, but she seemed quite unreasonably disturbed. Nothing would satisfy her save that all relations between them should end. He was to go away at once. And he went. As he dropped out of the window, she kissed his forehead twice, and he walked home wondering.
A week, and then three weeks, passed without a sign from Bisesa. Trejago, thinking that the rupture had lasted quite long enough, went down to Amir Nath’s Gully for the fifth time in the three weeks, hoping that his rap at the sill of the shifting grating would be answered. He was not disappointed.
There was a young moon, and one stream of light fell down into Amir Nath’s Gully, and struck the grating which was drawn away as he knocked. From the black dark, Bisesa held out her arms into the moonlight. Both hands had been cut off at the wrists, and the stumps were nearly healed.
Then, as Bisesa bowed her head between her arms and sobbed, some one in the room grunted like a wild beast, and something sharp–knife, sword, or spear,–thrust at Trejago in his _boorka_. The stroke missed his body, but cut into one of the muscles of the groin, and he limped slightly from the wound for the rest of his days.
The grating went into its place. There was no sign whatever from inside the house,–nothing but the moonlight strip on the high wall, and the blackness of Amir Nath’s Gully behind.
The next thing Trejago remembers, after raging and shouting like a madman between those pitiless walls, is that he found himself near the river as the dawn was breaking, threw away his _boorka_ and went home bareheaded.
*
*
*
*
*
What was the tragedy–whether Bisesa had, in a fit of causeless despair, told everything, or the intrigue had been discovered and she tortured to tell; whether Durga Charan knew his name and what became of Bisesa–Trejago does not know to this day. Something horrible had happened, and the thought of what it must have been, comes upon Trejago in the night now and again, and keeps him company till the morning. One special feature of the case is that he does not know where lies the front of Durga Charan’s house. It may open on to a courtyard common to two or more houses, or it may lie behind any one of the gates of Jitha Megji’s _bustee_. Trejago cannot tell. He cannot get Bisesa–poor little Bisesa–back again. He has lost her in the City where each man’s house is as guarded and as unknowable as the grave; and the grating that opens into Amir Nath’s Gully has been walled up.
But Trejago pays his calls regularly, and is reckoned a very decent sort of man.
There is nothing peculiar about him, except a slight stiffness, caused by a riding-strain, in the right leg.
THE GOD FROM THE MACHINE
Hit a man an’ help a woman, an’ ye can’t be far wrong anyways.–_Maxims of Private Mulvaney._
The Inexpressibles gave a ball. They borrowed a seven-pounder from the Gunners, and wreathed it with laurels, and made the dancing-floor plate-glass and provided a supper, the like of which had never been eaten before, and set two sentries at the door of the room to hold the trays of programme-cards. My friend, Private Mulvaney, was one of the sentries, because he was the tallest man in the regiment. When the dance was fairly started the sentries were released, and Private Mulvaney went to curry favor with the Mess Sergeant in charge of the supper. Whether the Mess Sergeant gave or Mulvaney took, I cannot say. All that I am certain of is that, at supper-time, I found Mulvaney with Private Ortheris, two-thirds of a ham, a loaf of bread, half a _pate-de-foie-gras_, and two magnums of champagne, sitting on the roof of my carriage. As I came up I heard him saying–
“Praise be a danst doesn’t come as often as Ord’ly-room, or, by this an’ that, Orth’ris, me son, I wud be the dishgrace av the rig’mint instid av the brightest jool in uts crown.”
“_Hand_ the Colonel’s pet noosance,” said Ortheris, “But wot makes you curse your rations? This ‘ere fizzy stuff’s good enough.”
“Stuff, ye oncivilized pagin! ‘Tis champagne we’re dhrinkin’ now. ‘Tisn’t that I am set ag’in. ‘Tis this quare stuff wid the little bits av black leather in it. I misdoubt I will be distressin’ly sick wid it in the mornin’. Fwhat is ut?”
“Goose liver,” I said, climbing on the top of the carriage, for I knew that it was better to sit out with Mulvaney than to dance many dances.
“Goose liver is ut?” said Mulvaney. “Faith, I’m thinkin’ thim that makes it wud do betther to cut up the Colonel. He carries a power av liver undher his right arrum whin the days are warm an’ the nights chill. He wud give thim tons an’ tons av liver. ‘Tis he sez so. ‘I’m all liver to-day,’ sez he; an’ wid that he ordhers me ten days C.B. for as moild a dhrink as iver a good sodger took betune his teeth.”
“That was when ‘e wanted for to wash ‘isself in the Fort Ditch,” Ortheris explained. “Said there was too much beer in the Barrack water-butts for a God-fearing man. You was lucky in gettin’ orf with wot you did, Mulvaney.”
“Say you so? Now I’m pershuaded I was cruel hard trated, seein’ fwhat I’ve done for the likes av him in the days whin my eyes were wider opin than they are now. Man alive, for the Colonel to whip _me_ on the peg in that way! Me that have saved the repitation av a ten times better man than him! Twas ne-farious–an’ that manes a power av evil!”
“Never mind the nefariousness,” I said. “Whose reputation did you save?”
“More’s the pity, ’twasn’t my own, but I tuk more trouble wid ut than av ut was. ‘Twas just my way, messin’ wid fwhat was no business av mine. Hear now!” He settled himself at ease on the top of the carriage. “I’ll tell you all about ut. Av coorse I will name no names, for there’s wan that’s an orf’cer’s lady now, that was in ut, and no more will I name places, for a man is thracked by a place.”
“Eyah!” said Ortheris, lazily, “but this is a mixed story wot’s comin’.”
“Wanst upon a time, as the childer-books say, I was a recruity.”
“Was you though?” said Ortheris; “now that’s extryordinary!”
“Orth’ris,” said Mulvaney, “av you opin thim lips av yours again, I will, savin’ your presince, sorr, take you by the slack av your trousers an’ heave you.”
“I’m mum,” said Ortheris. “Wot ‘appened when you was a recruity?”
“I was a betther recruity than you iver was or will be, but that’s neither here nor there. Thin I became a man, an’ the divil of a man I was fifteen years ago. They called me Buck Mulvaney in thim days, an’, begad, I tuk a woman’s eye. I did that! Ortheris, ye scrub, fwhat are ye sniggerin’ at? Do you misdoubt me?”
“Devil a doubt!” said Ortheris; “but I’ve ‘eard summat like that before!”
Mulvaney dismissed the impertinence with a lofty wave of his hand and continued–
“An’ the orf’cers av the rig’mint I was in in thim days _was_ orfcers–gran’ men, wid a manner on ’em, an’ a way wid ’em such as is not made these days–all but wan–wan o’ the capt’ns. A bad dhrill, a wake voice, an’ a limp leg–thim three things are the signs av a bad man. You bear that in your mind, Orth’ris, me son.
“An’ the Colonel av the rig’mint had a daughter–wan av thim lamblike, bleatin’, pick-me-up-an’-carry-me-or-I’ll-die gurls such as was made for the natural prey av men like the Capt’n, who was iverlastin’ payin’ coort to her, though the Colonel he said time an’ over, ‘Kape out av the brute’s way, my dear.’ But he niver had the heart for to send her away from the throuble, bein’ as he was a widower, an’ she their wan child.”
“Stop a minute, Mulvaney,” said I; “how in the world did you come to know these things?”
“How did I come?” said Mulvaney, with a scornful grunt; “bekaze I’m turned durin’ the Quane’s pleasure to a lump av wood, lookin’ out straight forninst me, wid a–a–candelabbrum in my hand, for you to pick your cards out av, must I not see nor feel? Av coorse I du! Up my back, an’ in my boots, an’ in the short hair av the neck–that’s where I kape my eyes whim I’m on duty an’ the reg’lar wans are fixed. Know! Take my word for it, sorr, ivrything an’ a great dale more is known in a rig’mint; or fwhat wud be the use av a Mess Sargint, or a Sargint’s wife doin’ wet-nurse to the Major’s baby? To reshume. He was a bad dhrill was this Capt’n–a rotten bad dhrill–an’ whin first I ran me eye over him, I sez to myself: ‘My Militia bantam!’ I sez, ‘My cock av a Gosport dunghill’–’twas from Portsmouth he came to us–‘there’s combs to be cut,’ sez I, ‘an’ by the grace av God, ’tis Terence Mulvaney will cut thim.’
“So he wint menowderin’, and minanderin’, an’ blandandhering roun’ an’ about the Colonel’s daughter, an’ she, poor innocint, lookin’ at him like a Comm’ssariat bullock looks at the Comp’ny cook. He’d a dhirty little scrub av a black moustache, an’ he twisted an’ turned ivry wurrd he used as av he found ut too sweet for to spit out.
“Eyah! He was a tricky man an’ a liar by natur’. Some are born so. He was wan. I knew he was over his belt in money borrowed from natives; besides a lot av other matthers which, in regard for your presince, sorr, I will oblitherate. A little av fwhat I knew, the Colonel knew, for he wud have none av him, an’ that, I’m thinkin’, by fwhat happened aftherward, the Capt’in knew.
“Wan day, bein’ mortial idle, or they wud never ha’ thried ut, the rig’mint gave amsure theatricals–orf’cers an’ orfcers’ ladies. You’ve seen the likes time an’ again, sorr, an’ poor fun ’tis for them that sit in the back row an’ stamp wid their boots for the honor av the rig’mint. I was told off for to shif’ the scenes, haulin’ up this an’ draggin’ down that. Light work ut was, wid lashins av beer and the gurl that dhressed the orf’cers’ ladies–but she died in Aggra twelve years gone, an’ my tongue’s gettin’ the betther av me. They was actin’ a play thing called _Sweethearts_, which you may ha’ heard av, an’ the Colonel’s daughter she was a lady’s maid. The Capt’n was a boy called Broom–Spread Broom was his name in the play. Thin I saw–ut come out in the actin’–fwhat I niver saw before, an’ that was that he was no gentleman. They was too much together, thim two, a-whishperin’ behind the scenes I shifted, an’ some av what they said I heard; for I was death–blue death an’ ivy–on the comb-cuttin’. He was iverlastin’ly oppressing her to fall in wid some sneakin’ schame av his, an’ she was thryin’ to stand out against him, but not as though she was set in her will. I wonder now in thim days that my ears did not grow a yard on me head wid list’nin’. But I looked straight forninst me an’ hauled up this an’ dragged down that, such as was my duty, an’ the orf’cers’ ladies sez one to another, thinkin’ I was out av listen-reach: ‘Fwhat an obligin’ young man is this Corp’ril Mulvaney!’ I was a Corp’ril then. I was rejuced aftherward, but, no matther, I was a Corp’ril wanst.
“Well, this _Sweethearts’_ business wint on like most amshure theatricals, an’ barrin’ fwhat I suspicioned, ’twasn’t till the dhress-rehearsal that I saw for certain that thim two–he the blackguard, an’ she no wiser than she should ha’ been–had put up an evasion.”
“A what?” said I.
“E-vasion! Fwhat you call an elopemint. E-vasion I calls it, bekaze, exceptin’ whin ’tis right an’ natural an’ proper, ’tis wrong an’ dhirty to steal a man’s wan child, she not knowin’ her own mind. There was a Sargint in the Comm’ssariat who set my face upon e-vasions. I’ll tell you about that”–
“Stick to the bloomin’ Captains, Mulvaney,” said Ortheris; “Comm’ssariat Sargints is low.”
Mulvaney accepted the amendment and went on:–
“Now I knew that the Colonel was no fool, any more than me, for I was hild the smartest man in the rig’mint, an’ the Colonel was the best orf’cer commandin’ in Asia; so fwhat he said an’ _I_ said was a mortial truth. We knew that the Capt’n was bad, but, for reasons which I have already oblitherated, I knew more than me Colonel. I wud ha’ rolled out his face wid the butt av my gun before permittin’ av him to steal the gurl. Saints knew av he wud ha’ married her, and av he didn’t she wud be in great tormint, an’ the divil av a ‘scandal.’ But I niver sthruck, niver raised me hand on my shuperior orf’cer; an’ that was a merricle now I come to considher it.”
“Mulvaney, the dawn’s risin’,” said Ortheris, “an’ we’re no nearer ‘ome than we was at the beginnin’. Lend me your pouch. Mine’s all dust.”
Mulvaney pitched his pouch over, and filled his pipe afresh.
“So the dhress-rehearsal came to an end, an’, bekaze I was curious, I stayed behind whin the scene-shiftin’ was ended, an’ I shud ha’ been in barricks, lyin’ as flat as a toad under a painted cottage thing. They was talkin’ in whispers, an’ she was shiverin’ an’ gaspin’ like a fresh-hukked fish. ‘Are you sure you’ve got the hang av the manewvers?’ sez he, or wurrds to that effec’, as the coort-martial sez. ‘Sure as death,’ sez she, ‘but I misdoubt ’tis cruel hard on my father.’ ‘Damn your father,’ sez he, or anyways ’twas fwhat he thought, ‘the arrangement is as clear as mud. Jungi will drive the carri’ge afther all’s over, an’ you come to the station, cool an’ aisy, in time for the two o’clock thrain, where I’ll be wid your kit.’ ‘Faith,’ thinks I to myself, ‘thin there’s a ayah in the business tu!’
“A powerful bad thing is a ayah. Don’t you niver have any thruck wid wan. Thin he began sootherin’ her, an’ all the orfcers an’ orfcers’ ladies left, an’ they put out the lights. To explain the theory av the flight, as they say at Muskthry, you must understand that afther this _Sweethearts’_ nonsinse was ended, there was another little bit av a play called _Couples_–some kind av couple or another. The gurl was actin’ in this, but not the man. I suspicioned he’d go to the station wid the gurl’s kit at the end av the first piece. Twas the kit that flusthered me, for I knew for a Capt’n to go trapesing about the impire wid the Lord knew what av a _truso_ on his arrum was nefarious, an’ wud be worse than easin’ the flag, so far as the talk aftherward wint.”
‘”Old on, Mulvaney. Wot’s _truso_?” said Ortheris.
“You’re an oncivilized man, me son. Whin a gurl’s married, all her kit an’ ‘coutrements are _truso_, which manes weddin’-portion. An’ ’tis the same whin she’s runnin’ away, even wid the biggest blackguard on the Arrmy List.
“So I made my plan av campaign. The Colonel’s house was a good two miles away. ‘Dennis,’ sez I to my color-sargint, ‘av you love me lend me your kyart, for me heart is bruk an’ me feet is sore wid trampin’ to and from this foolishness at the Gaff.’ An’ Dennis lent ut, wid a rampin’, stampin’ red stallion in the shafts. Whin they was all settled down to their _Sweethearts_ for the first scene, which was a long wan, I slips outside and into the kyart. Mother av Hivin! but I made that horse walk, an’ we came into the Colonel’s compound as the divil wint through Athlone–in standin’ leps. There was no one there excipt the sarvints, an’ I wint round to the back an’ found the girl’s ayah.
“‘Ye black brazen Jezebel,’ sez I, ‘sellin’ your masther’s honor for five rupees–pack up all the Miss Sahib’s kit an’ look slippy! _Capt’n Sahib’s_ order,’ sez I, ‘Going to the station we are,’ I sez, an’ wid that I laid my finger to my nose an’ looked the schamin’ sinner I was.
“‘_Bote acchy,_’ says she; so I knew she was in the business, an’ I piled up all the sweet talk I’d iver learned in the bazars on to this she-bullock, an’ prayed av her to put all the quick she knew into the thing. While she packed, I stud outside an’ sweated, for I was wanted for to shif’ the second scene. I tell you, a young gurl’s e-vasion manes as much baggage as a rig’mint on the line av march! ‘Saints help Dennis’s springs,’ thinks I, as I bundled the stuff into the thrap, ‘for I’ll have no mercy!’
“‘I’m comin’ too,’ says the ayah.
“‘No, you don’t,’ sez I, ‘later–_pechy_! You _baito_ where you are. I’ll _pechy_ come an’ bring you _sart_, along with me, you maraudin”–niver mind fwhat I called her.
“Thin I wint for the Gaff, an’ by the special ordher av Providence, for I was doin’ a good work you will ondersthand, Dennis’s springs hild toight. ‘Now, whin the Capt’n goes for that kit,’ thinks I, ‘he’ll be throubled.’ At the end av _Sweethearts_ off the Capt’n runs in his kyart to the Colonel’s house, an’ I sits down on the steps and laughs. Wanst an’ again I slipped in to see how the little piece was goin’, an’ whin ut was near endin’ I stepped out all among the carriages an’ sings out very softly, ‘Jungi!’ Wid that a carr’ge began to move, an’ I waved to the dhriver. ‘_Hitherao!_’ sez I, an’ he _hitheraoed_ till I judged he was at proper distance, an’ thin I tuk him, fair an’ square betune the eyes, all I knew for good or bad, an’ he dhropped wid a guggle like the canteen beer-engine whin ut’s runnin’ low, Thin I ran to the kyart an’ tuk out all the kit an’ piled it into the carr’ge, the sweat runnin’ down my face in dhrops, ‘Go home,’ sez I, to the _sais;_ ‘you’ll find a man close here. Very sick he is. Take him away, an’ av you iver say wan wurrd about fwhat you’ve _dekkoed,_ I’ll _marrow_ you till your own wife won’t _sumjao_ who you are!’ Thin I heard the stampin’ av feet at the ind av the play, an’ I ran in to let down the curtain. Whin they all came out the gurl thried to hide herself behind wan av the pillars, an’ sez ‘Jungi’ in a voice that wouldn’t ha’ scared a hare. I run over to Jungi’s carr’ge an’ tuk up the lousy old horse-blanket on the box, wrapped my head an’ the rest av me in ut, an’ dhrove up to where she was.
“‘Miss Sahib,’ sez I; ‘going to the station? _Captain Sahib’s_ order!’ an’ widout a sign she jumped in all among her own kit.
“I laid to an’ dhruv like steam to the Colonel’s house before the Colonel was there, an’ she screamed an’ I thought she was goin’ off. Out comes the ayah, saying all sorts av things about the Capt’n havin’ come for the kit an’ gone to the station.
“‘Take out the luggage, you divil,’ sez I, ‘or I’ll murther you!’
“The lights av the thraps people comin’ from the Gaff was showin’ across the parade ground, an’, by this an’ that, the way thim two women worked at the bundles an’ thrunks was a caution! I was dyin’ to help, but, seein’ I didn’t want to be known, I sat wid the blanket roun’ me an’ coughed an’ thanked the Saints there was no moon that night.
“Whin all was in the house again, I niver asked for _bukshish_ but dhruv tremenjus in the opp’site way from the other carr’ge an’ put out my lights. Presintly, I saw a naygur-man wallowin’ in the road. I slipped down before I got to him, for I suspicioned Providence was wid me all through that night. ‘Twas Jungi, his nose smashed in flat, all dumb sick as you please. Dennis’s man must have tilted him out av the thrap. Whin he came to, ‘Hutt!’ sez I, but he began to howl.
“‘You black lump av dirt,’ I sez, ‘is this the way you dhrive your _gharri_? That _tikka_ has been _owin’_ an’ _fere-owin’_ all over the bloomin’ country this whole bloomin’ night, an’ you as _mut-walla_ as Davey’s sow. Get up, you hog!’ sez I, louder, for I heard the wheels av a thrap in the dark; ‘get up an’ light your lamps, or you’ll be run into!’ This was on the road to the Railway Station.
“‘Fwhat the divil’s this?’ sez the Capt’n’s voice in the dhark, an’ I could judge he was in a lather av rage.
“‘_Gharri_ dhriver here, dhrunk, sorr,’ sez I; ‘I’ve found his _gharri_ sthrayin’ about cantonmints, an’ now I’ve found him.’
“‘Oh!’ sez the Capt’n; ‘fwhat’s his name?’ I stooped down an’ pretended to listen.
“‘He sez his name’s Jungi, sorr,’ sez I.
“‘Hould my harse,’ sez the Capt’n to his man, an’ wid that he gets down wid the whip an’ lays into Jungi, just mad wid rage an’ swearin’ like the scutt he was.
“I thought, afther a while, he wud kill the man, so I sez:–‘Stop, sorr, or you’ll murdher him!’ That dhrew all his fire on me, an’ he cursed me into Blazes, an’ out again. I stud to attenshin an’ saluted:–‘Sorr,’ sez I, ‘av ivry man in this wurruld had his rights, I’m thinkin’ that more than wan wud be beaten to a jelly for this night’s work–that niver came off at all, sorr, as you see?’ ‘Now,’ thinks I to myself, ‘Terence Mulvaney, you’ve cut your own throat, for he’ll sthrike, an’ you’ll knock him down for the good av his sowl an’ your own iverlastin’ dishgrace!’
“But the Capt’n never said a single wurrd. He choked where he stud, an’ thin he went into his thrap widout sayin’ good-night, an’ I wint back to barricks.”
“And then?” said Ortheris and I together.
“That was all,” said Mulvaney, “niver another word did I hear av the whole thing. All I know was that there was no e-vasion, an’ that was fwhat I wanted. Now, I put ut to you, sorr, Is ten days’ C.B. a fit an’ a proper tratement for a man who has behaved as me?”
“Well, any’ow,” said Ortheris, “tweren’t this ‘ere Colonel’s daughter, an’ you _was_ blazin’ copped when you tried to wash in the Fort Ditch.”
“That,” said Mulvaney, finishing the champagne, “is a shuparfluous an’ impert’nint observation.”
THE DAUGHTER OF THE REGIMENT
Jain ‘Ardin’ was a Sarjint’s wife,
A Sarjint’s wife wus she,
She married of ‘im in Orldershort An’ comed across the sea.
(_Chorus_)
‘Ave you never ‘eard tell o’ Jain ‘Ardin’? Jain ‘Ardin’?
Jain ‘Ardin’?
‘Ave you never ‘eard tell o’ Jain ‘Ardin’? The pride o’ the Companee?
_Old Barrack Room Ballad._
“A gentleman who doesn’t know the Circasian Circle ought not to stand up for it–puttin’ everybody out.” That was what Miss McKenna said, and the Sergeant who was my _vis-a-vis_ looked the same thing. I was afraid of Miss McKenna. She was six feet high, all yellow freckles and red hair, and was simply clad in white satin shoes, a pink muslin dress, an apple-green stuff sash, and black silk gloves, with yellow roses in her hair. Wherefore I fled from Miss McKenna and sought my friend Private Mulvaney, who was at the cant–refreshment-table.
“So you’ve been dancin’ with little Jhansi McKenna, sorr–she that’s goin’ to marry Corp’ril Slane? Whin you next conversh wid your lorruds an’ your ladies, tell thim you’ve danced wid little Jhansi. ‘Tis a thing to be proud av.”
But I wasn’t proud. I was humble. I saw a story in Private Mulvaney’s eye; and besides, if he stayed too long at the bar, he would, I knew, qualify for more pack-drill. Now to meet an esteemed friend doing pack-drill outside the guardroom is embarrassing, especially if you happen to be walking with his Commanding Officer.
“Come on to the parade-ground, Mulvaney, it’s cooler there, and tell me about Miss McKenna. What is she, and who is she, and why is she called ‘Jhansi’?”
“D’ye mane to say you’ve niver heard av Ould Pummeloe’s daughter? An’ you thinkin’ you know things! I’m wid ye in a minut whin me poipe’s lit.”
We came out under the stars. Mulvaney sat down on one of the artillery bridges, and began in the usual way: his pipe between his teeth, his big hands clasped and dropped between his knees, and his cap well on the back of his head–
“Whin Mrs. Mulvaney, that is, was Miss Shadd that was, you were a dale younger than you are now, an’ the Army was dif’rint in sev’ril e-senshuls. Bhoys have no call for to marry nowadays, an’ that’s why the Army has so few rale good, honust, swearin’, strapagin’, tinder-hearted, heavy-futted wives as ut used to have whin I was a Corp’ril. I was rejuced aftherward–but no matther–I was a Corp’ril wanst. In thim times, a man lived _an’_ died wid his regiment; an’ by natur’, he married whin he was a _man_. Whin I was Corp’ril–Mother av Hivin, how the rigimint has died an’ been borrun since that day!–my Color-Sar’jint was Ould McKenna–an’ a married man tu. An’ his woife–his first woife, for he married three times did McKenna–was Bridget McKenna, from Portarlington, like mesilf. I’ve misremembered fwhat her first name was; but in B Comp’ny we called her ‘Ould Pummeloe,’ by reason av her figure, which was entirely cir-cum-fe-renshill. Like the big dhrum! Now that woman–God rock her sowl to rest in glory!–was for everlastin’ havin’ childher; an’ McKenna, whin the fifth or sixth come squallin’ on to the musther-roll, swore he wud number thim off in future. But Ould Pummeloe she prayed av him to christen them after the names av the stations they was borrun in. So there was Colaba McKenna, an’ Muttra McKenna, an’ a whole Presidincy av other McKennas, an’ little Jhansi, dancin’ over yonder. Whin the childher wasn’t bornin’, they was dying; for, av our childher die like sheep in these days, they died like flies thin, I lost me own little Shadd–but no matther. ‘Tis long ago, and Mrs. Mulvaney niver had another.
“I’m digresshin. Wan divil’s hot summer, there come an order from some mad ijjit, whose name I misremember, for the rigimint to go up-country. Maybe they wanted to know how the new rail carried throops. They knew! On me sowl, they knew before they was done! Old Pummeloe had just buried Muttra McKenna; an’, the season bein’ onwholesim, only little Jhansi McKenna, who was four year ould thin, was left on hand.
“Five children gone in fourteen months. ‘Twas harrd, wasn’t ut?
“So we wint up to our new station in that blazin’ heat–may the curse av Saint Lawrence conshume the man who gave the ordher! Will I iver forget that move? They gave us two wake thrains to the rigimint; an’ we was eight hundher’ and sivinty strong. There was A, B, C, an’ D Companies in the secon’ thrain, wid twelve women, no orficers’ ladies, an’ thirteen childher. We was to go six hundher’ miles, an’ railways was new in thim days. Whin we had been a night in the belly av the thrain–the men ragin’ in their shirts an’ dhrinkin’ anything they cud find, an’ eatin’ bad fruit-stuff whin they cud, for we cudn’t stop ’em–I was a Corp’ril thin–the cholera bruk out wid the dawnin’ av the day.
“Pray to the Saints, you may niver see cholera in a throop-thrain! ‘Tis like the judgmint av God hittin’ down from the nakid sky! We run into a rest-camp–as ut might have been Ludianny, but not by any means so comfortable. The Orficer Commandin’ sent a telegrapt up the line, three hundher’ mile up, askin’ for help. Faith, we wanted ut, for ivry sowl av the followers ran for the dear life as soon as the thrain stopped; an’ by the time that telegrapt was writ, there wasn’t a naygur in the station exceptin’ the telegrapt-clerk–an’ he only bekaze he was held down to his chair by the scruff av his sneakin’ black neck. Thin the day began wid the noise in the carr’ges, an’ the rattle av the men on the platform fallin’ over, arms an’ all, as they stud for to answer the Comp’ny muster-roll before goin’ over to the camp. ‘Tisn’t for me to say what like the cholera was like. Maybe the Doctor cud ha’ tould, av he hadn’t dropped on to the platform from the door av a carriage where we was takin’ out the dead. He died wid the rest. Some bhoys had died in the night. We tuk out siven, and twenty more was sickenin’ as we tuk thim. The women was huddled up anyways, screamin’ wid fear.
“Sez the Commandin’ Orficer whose name I misremember, ‘Take the women over to that tope av trees yonder. Get thim out av the camp. ‘Tis no place for thim.’
“Ould Pummeloe was sittin’ on her beddin’-rowl, thryin’ to kape little Jhansi quiet. ‘Go off to that tope!’ sez the Orficer. ‘Go out av the men’s way!’
“‘Be damned av I do!’ sez Ould Pummeloe, an’ little Jhansi, squattin’ by her mother’s side, squeaks out, ‘Be damned av I do,’ tu. Thin Ould Pummeloe turns to the women an’ she sez, ‘Are ye goin’ to let the bhoys die while you’re picnickin’, ye sluts?’ sez she. ‘Tis wather they want. Come on an’ help.’
“Wid that, she turns up her sleeves an’ steps out for a well behind the rest-camp–little Jhansi trottin’ behind wid a _lotah_ an’ string, an’ the other women followin’ like lambs, wid horse-buckets and cookin’ pots. Whin all the things was full, Ould Pummeloe marches back into camp–’twas like a battlefield wid all the glory missin’–at the hid av the rigimint av women.
“‘McKenna, me man!’ she sez, wid a voice on her like grand-roun’s challenge, ‘tell the bhoys to be quiet. Ould Pummeloe’s comin’ to look afther thim–wid free dhrinks.’
“Thin we cheered, an’ the cheerin’ in the lines was louder than the noise av the poor divils wid the sickness on thim. But not much.
“You see, we was a new an’ raw rigimint in those days, an’ we cud make neither head nor tail av the sickness; an’ so we was useless. The men was goin’ roun’ an’ about like dumb sheep, waitin’ for the nex’ man to fall over, an’ sayin’ undher their spache, ‘Fwhat is ut? In the name av God, _fwhat_ is ut?’ ‘Twas horrible. But through ut all, up an’ down, an’ down an’ up, wint Ould Pummeloe an’ little Jhansi–all we cud see av the baby, undher a dead man’s helmut wid the chin-strap swingin’ about her little stummick–up an’ down wid the wather an’ fwhat brandy there was.
“Now an’ thin Ould Pummeloe, the tears runnin’ down her fat, red face, sez, ‘Me bhoys, me poor, dead, darlin’ bhoys!’ But, for the most, she was thryin’ to put heart into the men an’ kape thim stiddy; and little Jhansi was tellin’ thim all they wud be ‘betther in the mornin’.’ ‘Twas a thrick she’d picked up from hearin’ Ould Pummeloe whin Muttra was burnin’ out wid fever. In the mornin’! ‘Twas the iverlastin’ mornin’ at St. Pether’s Gate was the mornin’ for seven-an’-twenty good men; and twenty more was sick to the death in that bitter, burnin’ sun. But the women worked like angils as I’ve said, an’ the men like divils, till two doctors come down from above, and we was rescued.
“But, just before that, Ould Pummeloe, on her knees over a bhoy in my squad–right-cot man to me he was in the barrick–tellin’ him the worrud av the Church that niver failed a man yet, sez, ‘Hould me up, bhoys! I’m feelin’ bloody sick!’ ‘Twas the sun, not the cholera, did ut. She mis-remembered she was only wearin’ her ould black bonnet, an’ she died wid ‘McKenna, me man,’ houldin’ her up, an’ the bhoys howled whin they buried her.
“That night, a big wind blew, an’ blew, an’ blew, an’ blew the tents flat. But it blew the cholera away an’ niver another case there was all the while we was waitin’–ten days in quarintin’. Av you will belave me, the thrack av the sickness in the camp was for all the wurruld the thrack av a man walkin’ four times in a figur-av-eight through the tents. They say ’tis the Wandherin’ Jew takes the cholera wid him. I believe ut.
“An’ _that_,” said Mulvaney, illogically, “is the cause why little Jhansi McKenna is fwhat she is. She was brought up by the Quartermaster Sergeant’s wife whin McKenna died, but she b’longs to B Comp’ny; and this tale I’m tellin’ you-_wid_ a proper appreciashin av Jhansi McKenna–I’ve belted into ivry recruity av the Comp’ny as he was drafted. ‘Faith, ’twas me belted Corp’ril Slane into askin’ the girl!”
“Not really?”
“Man, I did! She’s no beauty to look at, but she’s Ould Pummeloe’s daughter, an’ ’tis my juty to provide for her. Just before Slane got his promotion I sez to him, ‘Slane,’ sez I, ‘to-morrow ’twill be insubordinashin av me to chastise you; but, by the sowl av Ould Pummeloe, who is now in glory, av you don’t give me your wurrud to ask Jhansi McKenna at wanst, I’ll peel the flesh off yer bones wid a brass huk to-night, ‘Tis a dishgrace to B Comp’ny she’s been single so long!’ sez I. Was I goin’ to let a three-year-ould preshume to discoorse wid me–my will bein’ set? No! Slane wint an’ asked her. He’s a good bhoy is Slane. Wan av these days he’ll get into the Com’ssariat an’ dhrive a buggy wid his–savin’s. So I provided for Ould Pummeloe’s daughter; an’ now you go along an’ dance agin wid her.”
And I did.
I felt a respect for Miss Jhansi McKenna; and I went to her wedding later on.
Perhaps I will tell you about that one of these days.
THE MADNESS OF PRIVATE ORTHERIS
Oh! Where would I be when my froat was dry? Oh! Where would I be when the bullets fly? Oh! Where would I be when I come to die?
Why,
Somewheres anigh my chum.
If ‘e’s liquor ‘e’ll give me some, If I’m dyin’ ‘e’ll ‘old my ‘ead,
An’ ‘e’ll write ’em ‘Ome when I’m dead.– Gawd send us a trusty chum!
_Barrack Room Ballad._
My friends Mulvaney and Ortheris had gone on a shooting-expedition for one day. Learoyd was still in hospital, recovering from fever picked up in Burma. They sent me an invitation to join them, and were genuinely pained when I brought beer–almost enough beer to satisfy two Privates of the Line … and Me.
“‘Twasn’t for that we bid you welkim, sorr,” said Mulvaney, sulkily. “Twas for the pleasure av your comp’ny.”
Ortheris came to the rescue with–“Well, ‘e won’t be none the worse for bringin’ liquor with ‘im. We ain’t a file o’ Dooks. We’re bloomin’ Tommies, ye cantankris Hirishman; an’ ‘eres your very good ‘ealth!”
We shot all the forenoon, and killed two pariah-dogs, four green parrots, sitting, one kite by the burning-ghaut, one snake flying, one mud-turtle, and eight crows. Game was plentiful. Then we sat down to tiffin–“bull-mate an’ bran-bread,” Mulvaney called it–by the side of the river, and took pot shots at the crocodiles in the intervals of cutting up the food with our only pocket-knife. Then we drank up all the beer, and threw the bottles into the water and fired at them. After that, we eased belts and stretched ourselves on the warm sand and smoked. We were too lazy to continue shooting.
Ortheris heaved a big sigh, as he lay on his stomach with his head between his fists. Then he swore quietly into the blue sky.
“Fwhat’s that for?” said Mulvaney, “Have ye not drunk enough?”
“Tott’nim Court Road, an’ a gal I fancied there. Wot’s the good of sodgerin’?”
“Orth’ris, me son,” said Mulvaney, hastily, “’tis more than likely you’ve got throuble in your inside wid the beer. I feel that way mesilf whin my liver gets rusty.”
Ortheris went on slowly, not heeding the interruption–
“I’m a Tommy–a bloomin’, eight-anna, dog-stealin’ Tommy, with a number instead of a decent name. Wot’s the good o’ me? If I ‘ad a stayed at ‘Ome, I might a married that gal and a kep’ a little shorp in the ‘Ammersmith ‘Igh.–‘S. Orth’ris, Prac-ti-cal Taxi-der-mist.’ With a stuff’ fox, like they ‘as in the Haylesbury Dairies, in the winder, an’ a little case of blue and yaller glass-heyes, an’ a little wife to call ‘shorp!’ ‘shorp!’ when the door-bell rung. As it _his_, I’m on’y a Tommy–a Bloomin’, Gawd-forsaken, Beer-swillin’ Tommy. ‘Rest on your harms–_’versed_, Stan’ at–_hease; ‘Shun_. ‘Verse–_harms_. Right an’ lef–_tarrn_. Slow–_march_. ‘Alt–_front_. Rest on your harms–_’versed_. With blank-cartridge–_load_.’ An’ that’s the end o’ me.” He was quoting fragments from Funeral Parties’ Orders.
“Stop ut!” shouted Mulvaney. “Whin you’ve fired into nothin’ as often as me, over a better man than yoursilf, you will not make a mock av thim orders. ‘Tis worse than whistlin’ the _Dead March_ in barricks. An’ you full as a tick, an’ the sun cool, an’ all an’ all! I take shame for you. You’re no better than a Pagin–you an’ your firin’-parties an’ your glass-eyes. Won’t _you_ stop ut, sorr?”
What could I do? Could I tell Ortheris anything that he did not know of the pleasures of his life? I was not a Chaplain nor a Subaltern, and Ortheris had a right to speak as he thought fit.
“Let him run, Mulvaney,” I said. “It’s the beer.”
“‘No! ‘Tisn’t the beer,” said Mulvaney. “I know fwhat’s comin’. He’s tuk this way now an’ agin, an’ it’s bad–it’s bad–for I’m fond av the bhoy.”
Indeed, Mulvaney seemed needlessly anxious; but I knew that he looked after Ortheris in a fatherly way.
“Let me talk, let me talk,” said Ortheris, dreamily. “D’you stop your parrit screamin’ of a ‘ot day, when the cage is a-cookin’ ‘is pore little pink toes orf, Mulvaney?”
“Pink toes! D’ye mane to say you’ve pink toes undher your bullswools, ye blandanderin’,”–Mulvaney gathered himself together for a terrific denunciation–“school-misthress! Pink toes! How much Bass wid the label did that ravin’ child dhrink?”
“‘Tain’t Bass,” said Ortheris, “It’s a bitterer beer nor that. It’s ‘omesickness!”
“Hark to him! An’ he goin’ Home in the _Sherapis_ in the inside av four months!”
“I don’t care. It’s all one to me. ‘Ow d’you know I ain’t ‘fraid o’ dyin’ ‘fore I gets my discharge paipers?” He recommenced, in a sing-song voice, the Orders.
I had never seen this side of Ortheris’ character before, but evidently Mulvaney had, and attached serious importance to it. While Ortheris babbled, with his head on his arms, Mulvaney whispered to me–
“He’s always tuk this way whin he’s been checked overmuch by the childher they make Sarjints nowadays. That an’ havin’ nothin’ to do. I can’t make ut out anyways.”
“Well, what does it matter? Let him talk himself through.”
Ortheris began singing a parody of “The Ramrod Corps,” full of cheerful allusions to battle, murder, and sudden death. He looked out across the river as he sang; and his face was quite strange to me. Mulvaney caught me by the elbow to ensure attention.
“Matther? It matthers everything! ‘Tis some sort av fit that’s on him. I’ve seen ut. ‘Twill hould him all this night, an’ in the middle av it he’ll get out av his cot an’ go rakin’ in the rack for his ‘coutremints. Thin he’ll come over to me an’ say, ‘I’m goin’ to Bombay. Answer for me in the mornin’.’ Thin me an’ him will fight as we’ve done before–him to go an’ me to hould him–an’ so we’ll both come on the books for disturbin’ in barricks. I’ve belted him, an’ I’ve bruk his head, an’ I’ve talked to him, but ’tis no manner av use whin the fit’s on him. He’s as good a bhoy as ever stepped whin his mind’s clear. I know fwhat’s comin’, though, this night in barricks. Lord send he doesn’t loose on me whin I rise to knock him down. ‘Tis that that’s in my mind day an’ night.”
This put the case in a much less pleasant light, and fully accounted for Mulvaney’s anxiety. He seemed to be trying to coax Ortheris out of the fit; for he shouted down the bank where the boy was lying–
“Listen now, you wid the ‘pore pink toes’ an’ the glass eyes! Did you shwim the Irriwaddy at night, behin’ me, as a bhoy shud; or were you hidin’ under a bed, as you was at Ahmid Kheyl?”
This was at once a gross insult and a direct lie, and Mulvaney meant it to bring on a fight. But Ortheris seemed shut up in some sort of trance. He answered slowly, without a sign of irritation, in the same cadenced voice as he had used for his firing-party orders–
“_Hi_ swum the Irriwaddy in the night, as you know, for to take the town of Lungtungpen, nakid an’ without fear. _Hand_ where I was at Ahmed Kheyl you know, and four bloomin’ Pathans know too. But that was summat to do, an’ didn’t think o’ dyin’. Now I’m sick to go ‘Ome–go ‘Ome–go ‘Ome! No, I ain’t mammy-sick, because my uncle brung me up, but I’m sick for London again; sick for the sounds of ‘er, an’ the sights of ‘er, and the stinks of ‘er; orange peel and hasphalte an’ gas comin’ in over Vaux’all Bridge. Sick for the rail goin’ down to Box’Ill, with your gal on your knee an’ a new clay pipe in your face. That, an’ the Stran’ lights where you knows ev’ry one, an’ the Copper that takes you up is a old friend that tuk you up before, when you was a little, smitchy boy lying loose ‘tween the Temple an’ the Dark Harches. No bloomin’ guard-mountin’, no bloomin’ rotten-stone, nor khaki, an’ yourself your own master with a gal to take an’ see the Humaners practicin’ a-hookin’ dead corpses out of the Serpentine o’ Sundays. An’ I lef’ all that for to serve the Widder beyond the seas, where there ain’t no women and there ain’t no liquor worth ‘avin’, and there ain’t nothin’ to see, nor do, nor say, nor feel, nor think. Lord love you, Stanley Orth’ris, but you’re a bigger bloomin’ fool than the rest o’ the reg’ment and Mulvaney wired together! There’s the Widder sittin’ at ‘Ome with a gold crownd on ‘er ‘ead; and ‘ere am Hi, Stanley Orth’ris, the Widder’s property, a rottin’ FOOL!”
His voice rose at the end of the sentence, and he wound up with a six-shot Anglo-Vernacular oath. Mulvaney said nothing, but looked at me as if he expected that I could bring peace to poor Ortheris’ troubled brain.
I remembered once at Rawal Pindi having seen a man, nearly mad with drink, sobered by being made a fool of. Some regiments may know what I mean. I hoped that we might slake off Ortheris in the same way, though he was perfectly sober. So I said–
“What’s the use of grousing there, and speaking against The Widow?”
“I didn’t!” said Ortheris, “S’elp me, Gawd, I never said a word agin ‘er, an’ I wouldn’t–not if I was to desert this minute!”
Here was my opening. “Well, you meant to, anyhow. What’s the use of cracking-on for nothing? Would you slip it now if you got the chance?”
“On’y try me!” said Ortheris, jumping to his feet as if he had been stung.
Mulvaney jumped too. “Fwhat are you going to do?” said he.
“Help Ortheris down to Bombay or Karachi, whichever he likes. You can report that he separated from you before tiffin, and left his gun on the bank here!”
“I’m to report that–am I?” said Mulvaney, slowly. “Very well. If Orth’ris manes to desert now, and will desert now, an’ you, sorr, who have been a frind to me an’ to him, will help him to ut, I, Terence Mulvaney, on my oath which I’ve never bruk yet, will report as you say, But”–here he stepped up to Ortheris, and shook the stock of the fowling-piece in his face–“your fists help you, Stanley Orth’ris, if ever I come across you agin!”
“I don’t care!” said Ortheris. “I’m sick o’ this dorg’s life. Give me a chanst. Don’t play with me. Le’ me go!”
“Strip,” said I, “and change with me, and then I’ll tell you what to do.”
I hoped that the absurdity of this would check Ortheris; but he had kicked off his ammunition-boots and got rid of his tunic almost before I had loosed my shirt-collar. Mulvaney gripped me by the arm–
“The fit’s on him: the fit’s workin’ on him still! By my Honor and Sowl, we shall be accessiry to a desartion yet. Only, twenty-eight days, as you say, sorr, or fifty-six, but think o’ the shame–the black shame to him an’ me!” I had never seen Mulvaney so excited.
But Ortheris was quite calm, and, as soon as he had exchanged clothes with me, and I stood up a Private of the Line, he said shortly, “Now! Come on. What nex’? D’ye mean fair. What must I do to get out o’ this ‘ere a-Hell?”
I told him that, if he would wait for two or three hours near the river, I would ride into the Station and come back with one hundred rupees. He would, with that money in his pocket, walk to the nearest side-station on the line, about five miles away, and would there take a first-class ticket for Karachi. Knowing that he had no money on him when he went out shooting, his regiment would not immediately wire to the seaports, but would hunt for him in the native villages near the river. Further, no one would think of seeking a deserter in a first-class carriage. At Karachi, he was to buy white clothes and ship, if he could, on a cargo-steamer.
Here he broke in. If I helped him to Karachi, he would arrange all the rest. Then I ordered him to wait where he was until it was dark enough for me to ride into the station without my dress being noticed. Now God in His wisdom has made the heart of the British Soldier, who is very often an unlicked ruffian, as soft as the heart of a little child, in order that he may believe in and follow his officers into tight and nasty places. He does not so readily come to believe in a “civilian,” but, when he does, he believes implicitly and like a dog. I had had the honor of the friendship of Private Ortheris, at intervals, for more than three years, and we had dealt with each other as man by man, Consequently, he considered that all my words were true, and not spoken lightly.
Mulvaney and I left him in the high grass near the river-bank, and went away, still keeping to the high grass, toward my horse. The shirt scratched me horribly.
We waited nearly two hours for the dusk to fall and allow me to ride off. We spoke of Ortheris in whispers, and strained our ears to catch any sound from the spot where we had left him. But we heard nothing except the wind in the plume-grass.
“I’ve bruk his head,” said Mulvaney, earnestly, “time an’ agin. I’ve nearly kilt him wid the belt, an’ _yet_ I can’t knock thim fits out av his soft head. No! An’ he’s not soft, for he’s reasonable an’ likely by natur’. Fwhat is ut? Is ut his breedin’ which is nothin’, or his edukashin which he niver got? You that think ye know things, answer me that.”
But I found no answer. I was wondering how long Ortheris, in the bank of the river, would hold out, and whether I should be forced to help him to desert, as I had given my word.
Just as the dusk shut down and, with a very heavy heart, I was beginning to saddle up my horse, we heard wild shouts from the river.
The devils had departed from Private Stanley Ortheris, No. 22639, B Company. The loneliness, the dusk, and the waiting had driven them out as I had hoped. We set off at the double and found him plunging about wildly through the grass, with his coat off–my coat off, I mean. He was calling for us like a madman.
When we reached him he was dripping with perspiration, and trembling like a startled horse. We had great difficulty in soothing him. He complained that he was in civilian kit, and wanted to tear my clothes off his body. I ordered him to strip, and we made a second exchange as quickly as possible.
The rasp of his own “greyback” shirt and the squeak of his boots seemed to bring him to himself. He put his hands before his eyes and said–
“Wot was it? I ain’t mad, I ain’t sunstrook, an’ I’ve bin an’ gone an’ said, an’ bin an’ gone an’ done…. _Wot_ ‘ave I bin an’ done!”
“Fwhat have you done?” said Mulvaney. “You’ve dishgraced yourself–though that’s no matter. You’ve dishgraced B Comp’ny, an’ worst av all, you’ve dishgraced _Me!_ Me that taught you how for to walk abroad like a man–whin you was a dhirty little, fish-backed little, whimperin’ little recruity. As you are now, Stanley Orth’ris!”
Ortheris said nothing for a while, Then he unslung his belt, heavy with the badges of half a dozen regiments that his own had lain with, and handed it over to Mulvaney.
“I’m too little for to mill you, Mulvaney,” he, “an’ you’ve strook me before; but you can take an’ cut me in two with this ‘ere if you like.”
Mulvaney turned to me.
“Lave me to talk to him, sorr,” said Mulvaney.
I left, and on my way home thought a good deal over Ortheris in particular, and my friend Private Thomas Atkins whom I love, in general.
But I could not come to any conclusion of any kind whatever.
L’ENVOI
And they were stronger hands than mine That digged the Ruby from the earth–
More cunning brains that made it worth The large desire of a King;
And bolder hearts that through the brine Went down the Perfect Pearl to bring.
Lo, I have wrought in common clay
Rude figures of a rough-hewn race; For Pearls strew not the market-place
In this my town of banishment,
Where with the shifting dust I play And eat the bread of Discontent.
Yet is there life in that I make,– Oh, Thou who knowest, turn and see.
As Thou hast power over me,
So have I power over these,
Because I wrought them for Thy sake, And breathe in them mine agonies.
Small mirth was in the making. Now
I lift the cloth that cloaks the clay, And, wearied, at Thy feet I lay
My wares ere I go forth to sell.
The long bazar will praise–but Thou– Heart of my heart, have I done well?