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Title: Indian Tales

Author: Rudyard Kipling

Release Date: August, 2005  [EBook #8649]
[This file was first posted on July 29, 2003]

Edition: 10

Language: English

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INDIAN TALES

BY RUDYARD KIPLING







CONTENTS

"The Finest Story in the World"

With the Main Guard

Wee Willie Winkie

The Rout of the White Hussars

At Twenty-two

The Courting of Dinah Shadd

The Story of Muhammad Din

In Flood Time

My Own True Ghost Story

The Big Drunk Draf'

By Word of Mouth

The Drums of the Fore and Aft

The Sending of Dana Da

On the City Wall

The Broken-link Handicap

On Greenhow Hill

To Be Filed for Reference

The Man Who Would Be King

The Gate of the Hundred Sorrows

The Incarnation of Krishna Mulvaney

His Majesty the King

The Strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes

In the House of Suddhoo

Black Jack

The Taking of Lungtungpen

The Phantom Rickshaw

On the Strength of a Likeness

Private Learoyd's Story

Wressley of the Foreign Office

The Solid Muldoon

The Three Musketeers

Beyond the Pale

The God from the Machine

The Daughter of the Regiment

The Madness of Private Ortheris

L'Envoi



"THE FINEST STORY IN THE WORLD"

  "Or ever the knightly years were gone
      With the old world to the grave,
    I was a king in Babylon
      And you were a Christian slave,"
     --_W.E. Henley_.

His name was Charlie Mears; he was the only son of his mother who was a
widow, and he lived in the north of London, coming into the City every day
to work in a bank. He was twenty years old and suffered from aspirations.
I met him in a public billiard-saloon where the marker called him by his
given name, and he called the marker "Bullseyes." Charlie explained, a
little nervously, that he had only come to the place to look on, and since
looking on at games of skill is not a cheap amusement for the young, I
suggested that Charlie should go back to his mother.

That was our first step toward better acquaintance. He would call on me
sometimes in the evenings instead of running about London with his
fellow-clerks; and before long, speaking of himself as a young man must,
he told me of his aspirations, which were all literary. He desired to make
himself an undying name chiefly through verse, though he was not above
sending stories of love and death to the drop-a-penny-in-the-slot
journals. It was my fate to sit still while Charlie read me poems of many
hundred lines, and bulky fragments of plays that would surely shake the
world. My reward was his unreserved confidence, and the self-revelations
and troubles of a young man are almost as holy as those of a maiden.
Charlie had never fallen in love, but was anxious to do so on the first
opportunity; he believed in all things good and all things honorable, but,
at the same time, was curiously careful to let me see that he knew his way
about the world as befitted a bank clerk on twenty-five shillings a week.
He rhymed "dove" with "love" and "moon" with "June," and devoutly believed
that they had never so been rhymed before. The long lame gaps in his plays
he filled up with hasty words of apology and description and swept on,
seeing all that he intended to do so clearly that he esteemed it already
done, and turned to me for applause.

I fancy that his mother did not encourage his aspirations, and I know that
his writing-table at home was the edge of his washstand. This he told me
almost at the outset of our acquaintance; when he was ravaging my
bookshelves, and a little before I was implored to speak the truth as to
his chances of "writing something really great, you know." Maybe I
encouraged him too much, for, one night, he called on me, his eyes flaming
with excitement, and said breathlessly:

"Do you mind--can you let me stay here and write all this evening? I won't
interrupt you, I won't really. There's no place for me to write in at my
mother's."

"What's the trouble?" I said, knowing well what that trouble was.

"I've a notion in my head that would make the most splendid story that was
ever written. Do let me write it out here. It's _such_ a notion!"

There was no resisting the appeal. I set him a table; he hardly thanked
me, but plunged into the work at once. For half an hour the pen scratched
without stopping. Then Charlie sighed and tugged his hair. The scratching
grew slower, there were more erasures, and at last ceased. The finest
story in the world would not come forth.

"It looks such awful rot now," he said, mournfully. "And yet it seemed so
good when I was thinking about it. What's wrong?"

I could not dishearten him by saying the truth. So I answered: "Perhaps
you don't feel in the mood for writing."

"Yes I do--except when I look at this stuff. Ugh!"

"Read me what you've done," I said.

"He read, and it was wondrous bad, and he paused at all the specially
turgid sentences, expecting a little approval; for he was proud of those
sentences, as I knew he would be.

"It needs compression," I suggested, cautiously.

"I hate cutting my things down. I don't think you could alter a word here
without spoiling the sense. It reads better aloud than when I was writing
it."

"Charlie, you're suffering from an alarming disease afflicting a numerous
class. Put the thing by, and tackle it again in a week."

"I want to do it at once. What do you think of it?"

"How can I judge from a half-written tale? Tell me the story as it lies in
your head."

Charlie told, and in the telling there was everything that his ignorance
had so carefully prevented from escaping into the written word. I looked
at him, and wondering whether it were possible that he did not know the
originality, the power of the notion that had come in his way? It was
distinctly a Notion among notions. Men had been puffed up with pride by
notions not a tithe as excellent and practicable. But Charlie babbled on
serenely, interrupting the current of pure fancy with samples of horrible
sentences that he purposed to use. I heard him out to the end. It would be
folly to allow his idea to remain in his own inept hands, when I could do
so much with it. Not all that could be done indeed; but, oh so much!

"What do you think?" he said, at last. "I fancy I shall call it 'The Story
of a Ship.'"

"I think the idea's pretty good; but you won't be able to handle it for
ever so long. Now I"----

"Would it be of any use to you? Would you care to take it? I should be
proud," said Charlie, promptly.

There are few things sweeter in this world than the guileless, hot-headed,
intemperate, open admiration of a junior. Even a woman in her blindest
devotion does not fall into the gait of the man she adores, tilt her
bonnet to the angle at which he wears his hat, or interlard her speech
with his pet oaths. And Charlie did all these things. Still it was
necessary to salve my conscience before I possessed myself of Charlie's
thoughts.

"Let's make a bargain. I'll give you a fiver for the notion," I said.

Charlie became a bank-clerk at once.

"Oh, that's impossible. Between two pals, you know, if I may call you so,
and speaking as a man of the world, I couldn't. Take the notion if it's
any use to you. I've heaps more."

He had--none knew this better than I--but they were the notions of other
men.

"Look at it as a matter of business--between men of the world," I
returned. "Five pounds will buy you any number of poetry-books. Business
is business, and you may be sure I shouldn't give that price unless"----

"Oh, if you put it _that_ way," said Charlie, visibly moved by the thought
of the books. The bargain was clinched with an agreement that he should at
unstated intervals come to me with all the notions that he possessed,
should have a table of his own to write at, and unquestioned right to
inflict upon me all his poems and fragments of poems. Then I said, "Now
tell me how you came by this idea."

"It came by itself," Charlie's eyes opened a little.

"Yes, but you told me a great deal about the hero that you must have read
before somewhere."

"I haven't any time for reading, except when you let me sit here, and on
Sundays I'm on my bicycle or down the river all day. There's nothing wrong
about the hero, is there?"

"Tell me again and I shall understand clearly. You say that your hero went
pirating. How did he live?"

"He was on the lower deck of this ship-thing that I was telling you
about."

"What sort of ship?"

"It was the kind rowed with oars, and the sea spurts through the oar-holes
and the men row sitting up to their knees in water. Then there's a bench
running down between the two lines of oars and an overseer with a whip
walks up and down the bench to make the men work."

"How do you know that?"

"It's in the tale. There's a rope running overhead, looped to the upper
deck, for the overseer to catch hold of when the ship rolls. When the
overseer misses the rope once and falls among the rowers, remember the
hero laughs at him and gets licked for it. He's chained to his oar of
course--the hero."

"How is he chained?"

"With an iron band round his waist fixed to the bench he sits on, and a
sort of handcuff on his left wrist chaining him to the oar. He's on the
lower deck where the worst men are sent, and the only light comes from the
hatchways and through the oar-holes. Can't you imagine the sunlight just
squeezing through between the handle and the hole and wobbling about as
the ship moves?"

"I can, but I can't imagine your imagining it."

"How could it be any other way? Now you listen to me. The long oars on the
upper deck are managed by four men to each bench, the lower ones by three,
and the lowest of all by two. Remember, it's quite dark on the lowest deck
and all the men there go mad. When a man dies at his oar on that deck he
isn't thrown overboard, but cut up in his chains and stuffed through the
oar-hole in little pieces."

"Why?" I demanded, amazed, not so much at the information as the tone of
command in which it was flung out.

"To save trouble and to frighten the others. It needs two overseers to
drag a man's body up to the top deck; and if the men at the lower deck
oars were left alone, of course they'd stop rowing and try to pull up the
benches by all standing up together in their chains."

"You've a most provident imagination. Where have you been reading about
galleys and galley-slaves?"

"Nowhere that I remember. I row a little when I get the chance. But,
perhaps, if you say so, I may have read something."

He went away shortly afterward to deal with booksellers, and I wondered
how a bank clerk aged twenty could put into my hands with a profligate
abundance of detail, all given with absolute assurance, the story of
extravagant and bloodthirsty adventure, riot, piracy, and death in unnamed
seas. He had led his hero a desperate dance through revolt against the
overseers, to command of a ship of his own, and ultimate establishment of
a kingdom on an island "somewhere in the sea, you know"; and, delighted
with my paltry five pounds, had gone out to buy the notions of other men,
that these might teach him how to write. I had the consolation of knowing
that this notion was mine by right of purchase, and I thought that I could
make something of it.

When next he came to me he was drunk--royally drunk on many poets for the
first time revealed to him. His pupils were dilated, his words tumbled
over each other, and he wrapped himself in quotations. Most of all was he
drunk with Longfellow.

"Isn't it splendid? Isn't it superb?" he cried, after hasty greetings.
"Listen to this--

  "'Wouldst thou,'--so the helmsman answered,
     'Know the secret of the sea?
   Only those who brave its dangers
     Comprehend its mystery.'"

By gum!

  "'Only those who brave its dangers
     Comprehend its mystery,'"

he repeated twenty times, walking up and down the room and forgetting me.
"But _I_ can understand it too," he said to himself. "I don't know how to
thank you for that fiver, And this; listen--

  "'I remember the black wharves and the ships
     And the sea-tides tossing free,
   And the Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
   And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
     And the magic of the sea.'"

I haven't braved any dangers, but I feel as if I knew all about it."

"You certainly seem to have a grip of the sea. Have you ever seen it?"

"When I was a little chap I went to Brighton once; we used to live in
Coventry, though, before we came to London. I never saw it,

  "'When descends on the Atlantic
   The gigantic
   Storm-wind of the Equinox.'"

He shook me by the shoulder to make me understand the passion that was
shaking himself.

"When that storm comes," he continued, "I think that all the oars in the
ship that I was talking about get broken, and the rowers have their chests
smashed in by the bucking oar-heads. By the way, have you done anything
with that notion of mine yet?"

"No. I was waiting to hear more of it from you. Tell me how in the world
you're so certain about the fittings of the ship. You know nothing of
ships."

"I don't know. It's as real as anything to me until I try to write it
down. I was thinking about it only last night in bed, after you had loaned
me 'Treasure Island'; and I made up a whole lot of new things to go into
the story."

"What sort of things?"

"About the food the men ate; rotten figs and black beans and wine in a
skin bag, passed from bench to bench."

"Was the ship built so long ago as _that_?"

"As what? I don't know whether it was long ago or not. It's only a notion,
but sometimes it seems just as real as if it was true. Do I bother you
with talking about it?"

"Not in the least. Did you make up anything else?"

"Yes, but it's nonsense." Charlie flushed a little.

"Never mind; let's hear about it."

"Well, I was thinking over the story, and after awhile I got out of bed
and wrote down on a piece of paper the sort of stuff the men might be
supposed to scratch on their oars with the edges of their handcuffs. It
seemed to make the thing more lifelike. It _is_ so real to me, y'know."

"Have you the paper on you?"

"Ye-es, but what's the use of showing it? It's only a lot of scratches.
All the same, we might have 'em reproduced in the book on the front page."

"I'll attend to those details. Show me what your men wrote."

He pulled out of his pocket a sheet of note-paper, with a single line of
scratches upon it, and I put this carefully away.

"What is it supposed to mean in English?" I said.

"Oh, I don't know. Perhaps it means 'I'm beastly tired.' It's great
nonsense," he repeated, "but all those men in the ship seem as real as
people to me. Do do something to the notion soon; I should like to see it
written and printed."

"But all you've told me would make a long book."

"Make it then. You've only to sit down and write it out."

"Give me a little time. Have you any more notions?"

"Not just now. I'm reading all the books I've bought. They're splendid."

When he had left I looked at the sheet of note-paper with the inscription
upon it. Then I took my head tenderly between both hands, to make certain
that it was not coming off or turning round. Then ... but there seemed to
be no interval between quitting my rooms and finding myself arguing with a
policeman outside a door marked _Private_ in a corridor of the British
Museum. All I demanded, as politely as possible, was "the Greek antiquity
man." The policeman knew nothing except the rules of the Museum, and it
became necessary to forage through all the houses and offices inside the
gates. An elderly gentleman called away from his lunch put an end to my
search by holding the note-paper between finger and thumb and sniffing at
it scornfully.

"What does this mean? H'mm," said he. "So far as I can ascertain it is an
attempt to write extremely corrupt Greek on the part"--here he glared at
me with intention--"of an extremely illiterate--ah--person." He read
slowly from the paper, "_Pollock, Erckmann, Tauchnitz, Henniker_"-four
names familiar to me.

"Can you tell me what the corruption is supposed to mean--the gist of the
thing?" I asked.

"I have been--many times--overcome with weariness in this particular
employment. That is the meaning." He returned me the paper, and I fled
without a word of thanks, explanation, or apology.

I might have been excused for forgetting much. To me of all men had been
given the chance to write the most marvelous tale in the world, nothing
less than the story of a Greek galley-slave, as told by himself. Small
wonder that his dreaming had seemed real to Charlie. The Fates that are so
careful to shut the doors of each successive life behind us had, in this
case, been neglectful, and Charlie was looking, though that he did not
know, where never man had been permitted to look with full knowledge since
Time began. Above all, he was absolutely ignorant of the knowledge sold to
me for five pounds; and he would retain that ignorance, for bank-clerks do
not understand metempsychosis, and a sound commercial education does not
include Greek. He would supply me--here I capered among the dumb gods of
Egypt and laughed in their battered faces--with material to make my tale
sure--so sure that the world would hail it as an impudent and vamped
fiction. And I--I alone would know that it was absolutely and literally
true. I--I alone held this jewel to my hand for the cutting and polishing.
Therefore I danced again among the gods till a policeman saw me and took
steps in my direction.

It remained now only to encourage Charlie to talk, and here there was no
difficulty. But I had forgotten those accursed books of poetry. He came to
me time after time, as useless as a surcharged phonograph--drunk on Byron,
Shelley, or Keats. Knowing now what the boy had been in his past lives,
and desperately anxious not to lose one word of his babble, I could not
hide from him my respect and interest. He misconstrued both into respect
for the present soul of Charlie Mears, to whom life was as new as it was
to Adam, and interest in his readings; and stretched my patience to
breaking point by reciting poetry--not his own now, but that of others. I
wished every English poet blotted out of the memory of mankind. I
blasphemed the mightiest names of song because they had drawn Charlie from
the path of direct narrative, and would, later, spur him to imitate them;
but I choked down my impatience until the first flood of enthusiasm should
have spent itself and the boy returned to his dreams.

"What's the use of my telling you what _I_ think, when these chaps wrote
things for the angels to read?" he growled, one evening. "Why don't you
write something like theirs?"

"I don't think you're treating me quite fairly," I said, speaking under
strong restraint.

"I've given you the story," he said, shortly, replunging into "Lara."

"But I want the details."

"The things I make up about that damned ship that you call a galley?
They're quite easy. You can just make 'em up yourself. Turn up the gas a
little, I want to go on reading."

I could have broken the gas globe over his head for his amazing stupidity.
I could indeed make up things for myself did I only know what Charlie did
not know that he knew. But since the doors were shut behind me I could
only wait his youthful pleasure and strive to keep him in good temper. One
minute's want of guard might spoil a priceless revelation; now and again
he would toss his books aside--he kept them in my rooms, for his mother
would have been shocked at the waste of good money had she seen them--and
launched into his sea dreams, Again I cursed all the poets of England. The
plastic mind of the bank-clerk had been overlaid, colored and distorted by
that which he had read, and the result as delivered was a confused tangle
of other voices most like the muttered song through a City telephone in
the busiest part of the day.

He talked of the galley--his own galley had he but known it--with
illustrations borrowed from the "Bride of Abydos." He pointed the
experiences of his hero with quotations from "The Corsair," and threw in
deep and desperate moral reflections from "Cain" and "Manfred," expecting
me to use them all. Only when the talk turned on Longfellow were the
jarring cross-currents dumb, and I knew that Charlie was speaking the
truth as he remembered it.

"What do you think of this?" I said one evening, as soon as I understood
the medium in which his memory worked best, and, before he could
expostulate, read him the whole of "The Saga of King Olaf!"

He listened open-mouthed, flushed, his hands drumming on the back of the
sofa where he lay, till I came to the Song of Einar Tamberskelver and the
verse:

  "Einar then, the arrow taking
     From the loosened string,
   Answered: 'That was Norway breaking
     'Neath thy hand, O King.'"

He gasped with pure delight of sound.

"That's better than Byron, a little," I ventured.

"Better? Why it's _true!_ How could he have known?"

I went back and repeated:

  "What was that?' said Olaf, standing
     On the quarter-deck,
   'Something heard I like the stranding
     Of a shattered wreck?'"

"How could he have known how the ships crash and the oars rip out and go
_z-zzp_ all along the line? Why only the other night.... But go back
please and read 'The Skerry of Shrieks' again."

"No, I'm tired. Let's talk. What happened the other night?"

"I had an awful nightmare about that galley of ours. I dreamed I was
drowned in a fight. You see we ran alongside another ship in harbor. The
water was dead still except where our oars whipped it up. You know where I
always sit in the galley?" He spoke haltingly at first, under a fine
English fear of being laughed at,

"No. That's news to me," I answered, meekly, my heart beginning to beat.

"On the fourth oar from the bow on the right side on the upper deck. There
were four of us at that oar, all chained. I remember watching the water
and trying to get my handcuffs off before the row began. Then we closed up
on the other ship, and all their fighting men jumped over our bulwarks,
and my bench broke and I was pinned down with the three other fellows on
top of me, and the big oar jammed across our backs."

"Well?" Charlie's eyes were alive and alight. He was looking at the wall
behind my chair.

"I don't know how we fought. The men were trampling all over my back, and
I lay low. Then our rowers on the left side--tied to their oars, you
know--began to yell and back water. I could hear the water sizzle, and we
spun round like a cockchafer and I knew, lying where I was, that there was
a galley coming up bow-on, to ram us on the left side. I could just lift
up my head and see her sail over the bulwarks. We wanted to meet her bow
to bow, but it was too late. We could only turn a little bit because the
galley on our right had hooked herself on to us and stopped our moving.
Then, by gum! there was a crash! Our left oars began to break as the other
galley, the moving one y'know, stuck her nose into them. Then the
lower-deck oars shot up through the deck planking, butt first, and one of
them jumped clean up into the air and came down again close to my head."

"How was that managed?"

"The moving galley's bow was plunking them back through their own
oar-holes, and I could hear the devil of a shindy in the decks below. Then
her nose caught us nearly in the middle, and we tilted sideways, and the
fellows in the right-hand galley unhitched their hooks and ropes, and
threw things on to our upper deck--arrows, and hot pitch or something that
stung, and we went up and up and up on the left side, and the right side
dipped, and I twisted my head round and saw the water stand still as it
topped the right bulwarks, and then it curled over and crashed down on the
whole lot of us on the right side, and I felt it hit my back, and I woke."

"One minute, Charlie. When the sea topped the bulwarks, what did it look
like?" I had my reasons for asking. A man of my acquaintance had once gone
down with a leaking ship in a still sea, and had seen the water-level
pause for an instant ere it fell on the deck.

"It looked just like a banjo-string drawn tight, and it seemed to stay
there for years," said Charlie.

Exactly! The other man had said: "It looked like a silver wire laid down
along the bulwarks, and I thought it was never going to break." He had
paid everything except the bare life for this little valueless piece of
knowledge, and I had traveled ten thousand weary miles to meet him and
take his knowledge at second hand. But Charlie, the bank-clerk on
twenty-five shillings a week, he who had never been out of sight of a
London omnibus, knew it all. It was no consolation to me that once in his
lives he had been forced to die for his gains. I also must have died
scores of times, but behind me, because I could have used my knowledge,
the doors were shut.

"And then?" I said, trying to put away the devil of envy.

"The funny thing was, though, in all the mess I didn't feel a bit
astonished or frightened. It seemed as if I'd been in a good many fights,
because I told my next man so when the row began. But that cad of an
overseer on my deck wouldn't unloose our chains and give us a chance. He
always said that we'd all be set free after a battle, but we never were;
we never were." Charlie shook his head mournfully.

"What a scoundrel!"

"I should say he was. He never gave us enough to eat, and sometimes we
were so thirsty that we used to drink salt-water. I can taste that
salt-water still."

"Now tell me something about the harbor where the fight was fought."

"I didn't dream about that. I know it was a harbor, though; because we
were tied up to a ring on a white wall and all the face of the stone under
water was covered with wood to prevent our ram getting chipped when the
tide made us rock."

"That's curious. Our hero commanded the galley, didn't he?"

"Didn't he just! He stood by the bows and shouted like a good 'un. He was
the man who killed the overseer."

"But you were all drowned together, Charlie, weren't you?"

"I can't make that fit quite," he said, with a puzzled look. "The galley
must have gone down with all hands, and yet I fancy that the hero went on
living afterward. Perhaps he climbed into the attacking ship. I wouldn't
see that, of course. I was dead, you know." He shivered slightly and
protested that he could remember no more.

I did not press him further, but to satisfy myself that he lay in
ignorance of the workings of his own mind, deliberately introduced him to
Mortimer Collins's "Transmigration," and gave him a sketch of the plot
before he opened the pages.

"What rot it all is!" he said, frankly, at the end of an hour. "I don't
understand his nonsense about the Red Planet Mars and the King, and the
rest of it. Chuck me the Longfellow again."

I handed him the book and wrote out as much as I could remember of his
description of the sea-fight, appealing to him from time to time for
confirmation of fact or detail. He would answer without raising his eyes
from the book, as assuredly as though all his knowledge lay before him on
the printed page. I spoke under the normal key of my voice that the
current might not be broken, and I know that he was not aware of what he
was saying, for his thoughts were out on the sea with Longfellow.

"Charlie," I asked, "when the rowers on the gallies mutinied how did they
kill their overseers?"

"Tore up the benches and brained 'em. That happened when a heavy sea was
running. An overseer on the lower deck slipped from the centre plank and
fell among the rowers. They choked him to death against the side of the
ship with their chained hands quite quietly, and it was too dark for the
other overseer to see what had happened. When he asked, he was pulled down
too and choked, and the lower deck fought their way up deck by deck, with
the pieces of the broken benches banging behind 'em. How they howled!"

"And what happened after that?"

"I don't know. The hero went away--red hair and red beard and all. That
was after he had captured our galley, I think."

The sound of my voice irritated him, and he motioned slightly with his
left hand as a man does when interruption jars.

"You never told me he was red-headed before, or that he captured your
galley," I said, after a discreet interval.

Charlie did not raise his eyes.

"He was as red as a red bear," said he, abstractedly. "He came from the
north; they said so in the galley when he looked for rowers--not slaves,
but free men. Afterward--years and years afterward--news came from another
ship, or else he came back"--

His lips moved in silence. He was rapturously retasting some poem before
him.

"Where had he been, then?" I was almost whispering that the sentence might
come gentle to whichever section of Charlie's brain was working on my
behalf.

"To the Beaches--the Long and Wonderful Beaches!" was the reply, after a
minute of silence.

"To Furdurstrandi?" I asked, tingling from head to foot.

"Yes, to Furdurstrandi," he pronounced the word in a new fashion. "And I
too saw"----The voice failed.

"Do you know what you have said?" I shouted, incautiously.

He lifted his eyes, fully roused now, "No!" he snapped. "I wish you'd let
a chap go on reading. Hark to this:

  "'But Othere, the old sea captain,
   He neither paused nor stirred
     Till the king listened, and then
     Once more took up his pen
   And wrote down every word,

  "'And to the King of the Saxons
   In witness of the truth,
     Raising his noble head,
     He stretched his brown hand and said,
   "Behold this walrus tooth."'

By Jove, what chaps those must have been, to go sailing all over the shop
never knowing where they'd fetch the land! Hah!"

"Charlie," I pleaded, "if you'll only be sensible for a minute or two I'll
make our hero in our tale every inch as good as Othere."

"Umph! Longfellow wrote that poem. I don't care about writing things any
more. I want to read." He was thoroughly out of tune now, and raging over
my own ill-luck, I left him.

Conceive yourself at the door of the world's treasure-house guarded by a
child--an idle irresponsible child playing knuckle-bones--on whose favor
depends the gift of the key, and you will imagine one half my torment.
Till that evening Charlie had spoken nothing that might not lie within the
experiences of a Greek galley-slave. But now, or there was no virtue in
books, he had talked of some desperate adventure of the Vikings, of
Thorfin Karlsefne's sailing to Wineland, which is America, in the ninth or
tenth century. The battle in the harbor he had seen; and his own death he
had described. But this was a much more startling plunge into the past.
Was it possible that he had skipped half a dozen lives and was then dimly
remembering some episode of a thousand years later? It was a maddening
jumble, and the worst of it was that Charlie Mears in his normal condition
was the last person in the world to clear it up. I could only wait and
watch, but I went to bed that night full of the wildest imaginings. There
was nothing that was not possible if Charlie's detestable memory only held
good.

I might rewrite the Saga of Thorfin Karlsefne as it had never been written
before, might tell the story of the first discovery of America, myself the
discoverer. But I was entirely at Charlie's mercy, and so long as there
was a three-and-six-penny Bohn volume within his reach Charlie would not
tell. I dared not curse him openly; I hardly dared jog his memory, for I
was dealing with the experiences of a thousand years ago, told through the
mouth of a boy of to-day; and a boy of to-day is affected by every change
of tone and gust of opinion, so that he lies even when he desires to speak
the truth.

I saw no more of him for nearly a week. When next I met him it was in
Gracechurch Street with a billhook chained to his waist. Business took him
over London Bridge and I accompanied him. He was very full of the
importance of that book and magnified it. As we passed over the Thames we
paused to look at a steamer unloading great slabs of white and brown
marble. A barge drifted under the steamer's stern and a lonely cow in that
barge bellowed. Charlie's face changed from the face of the bank-clerk to
that of an unknown and--though he would not have believed this--a much
shrewder man. He flung out his arm across the parapet of the bridge and
laughing very loudly, said:

"When they heard _our_ bulls bellow the Skroelings ran away!"

I waited only for an instant, but the barge and the cow had disappeared
under the bows of the steamer before I answered.

"Charlie, what do you suppose are Skroelings?"

"Never heard of 'em before. They sound like a new kind of seagull. What a
chap you are for asking questions!" he replied. "I have to go to the
cashier of the Omnibus Company yonder. Will you wait for me and we can
lunch somewhere together? I've a notion for a poem."

"No, thanks. I'm off. You're sure you know nothing about Skroelings?"

"Not unless he's been entered for the Liverpool Handicap." He nodded and
disappeared in the crowd.

Now it is written in the Saga of Eric the Red or that of Thorfin
Karlsefne, that nine hundred years ago when Karlsefne's galleys came to
Leif's booths, which Leif had erected in the unknown land called Markland,
which may or may not have been Rhode Island, the Skroelings--and the Lord
He knows who these may or may not have been--came to trade with the
Vikings, and ran away because they were frightened at the bellowing of the
cattle which Thorfin had brought with him in the ships. But what in the
world could a Greek slave know of that affair? I wandered up and down
among the streets trying to unravel the mystery, and the more I considered
it, the more baffling it grew. One thing only seemed certain, and that
certainty took away my breath for the moment. If I came to full knowledge
of anything at all it would not be one life of the soul in Charlie Mears's
body, but half a dozen--half a dozen several and separate existences spent
on blue water in the morning of the world!

Then I walked round the situation.

Obviously if I used my knowledge I should stand alone and unapproachable
until all men were as wise as myself. That would be something, but manlike
I was ungrateful. It seemed bitterly unfair that Charlie's memory should
fail me when I needed it most. Great Powers above--I looked up at them
through the fog smoke--did the Lords of Life and Death know what this
meant to me? Nothing less than eternal fame of the best kind, that comes
from One, and is shared by one alone. I would be content--remembering
Clive, I stood astounded at my own moderation,--with the mere right to
tell one story, to work out one little contribution to the light
literature of the day. If Charlie were permitted full recollection for one
hour--for sixty short minutes--of existences that had extended over a
thousand years--I would forego all profit and honor from all that I should
make of his speech. I would take no share in the commotion that would
follow throughout the particular corner of the earth that calls itself
"the world." The thing should be put forth anonymously. Nay, I would make
other men believe that they had written it. They would hire bull-hided
self-advertising Englishmen to bellow it abroad. Preachers would found a
fresh conduct of life upon it, swearing that it was new and that they had
lifted the fear of death from all mankind. Every Orientalist in Europe
would patronize it discursively with Sanskrit and Pali texts. Terrible
women would invent unclean variants of the men's belief for the elevation
of their sisters. Churches and religions would war over it. Between the
hailing and re-starting of an omnibus I foresaw the scuffles that would
arise among half a dozen denominations all professing "the doctrine of the
True Metempsychosis as applied to the world and the New Era"; and saw,
too, the respectable English newspapers shying, like frightened kine, over
the beautiful simplicity of the tale. The mind leaped forward a
hundred--two hundred--a thousand years. I saw with sorrow that men would
mutilate and garble the story; that rival creeds would turn it upside down
till, at last, the western world which clings to the dread of death more
closely than the hope of life, would set it aside as an interesting
superstition and stampede after some faith so long forgotten that it
seemed altogether new. Upon this I changed the terms of the bargain that I
would make with the Lords of Life and Death. Only let me know, let me
write, the story with sure knowledge that I wrote the truth, and I would
burn the manuscript as a solemn sacrifice. Five minutes after the last
line was written I would destroy it all. But I must be allowed to write it
with absolute certainty.

There was no answer. The flaming colors of an Aquarium poster caught my
eye and I wondered whether it would be wise or prudent to lure Charlie
into the hands of the professional mesmerist, and whether, if he were
under his power, he would speak of his past lives. If he did, and if
people believed him ... but Charlie would be frightened and flustered, or
made conceited by the interviews. In either case he would begin to lie,
through fear or vanity. He was safest in my own hands,

"They are very funny fools, your English," said a voice at my elbow, and
turning round I recognized a casual acquaintance, a young Bengali law
student, called Grish Chunder, whose father had sent him to England to
become civilized. The old man was a retired native official, and on an
income of five pounds a month contrived to allow his son two hundred
pounds a year, and the run of his teeth in a city where he could pretend
to be the cadet of a royal house, and tell stories of the brutal Indian
bureaucrats who ground the faces of the poor.

Grish Chunder was a young, fat, full-bodied Bengali dressed with
scrupulous care in frock coat, tall hat, light trousers and tan gloves.
But I had known him in the days when the brutal Indian Government paid for
his university education, and he contributed cheap sedition to _Sachi
Durpan_, and intrigued with the wives of his schoolmates.

"That is very funny and very foolish," he said, nodding at the poster. "I
am going down to the Northbrook Club. Will you come too?"

I walked with him for some time. "You are not well," he said. "What is
there in your mind? You do not talk."

"Grish Chunder, you've been too well educated to believe in a God, haven't
you?"

"Oah, yes, _here!_ But when I go home I must conciliate popular
superstition, and make ceremonies of purification, and my women will
anoint idols."

"And hang up _tulsi_ and feast the _purohit_, and take you back into caste
again and make a good _khuttri_ of you again, you advanced social
Free-thinker. And you'll eat _desi_ food, and like it all, from the smell
in the courtyard to the mustard oil over you."

"I shall very much like it," said Grish Chunder, unguardedly, "Once a
Hindu--always a Hindu. But I like to know what the English think they
know."

"I'll tell you something that one Englishman knows. It's an old tale to
you."

I began to tell the story of Charlie in English, but Grish Chunder put a
question in the vernacular, and the history went forward naturally in the
tongue best suited for its telling. After all it could never have been
told in English. Grish Chunder heard me, nodding from time to time, and
then came up to my rooms where I finished the tale.

"_Beshak,_" he said, philosophically. "_Lekin darwaza band hai_. (Without
doubt, but the door is shut.) I have heard of this remembering of previous
existences among my people. It is of course an old tale with us, but, to
happen to an Englishman--a cow-fed _Malechh_--an outcast. By Jove, that is
most peculiar!"

"Outcast yourself, Grish Chunder! You eat cow-beef every day. Let's think
the thing over. The boy remembers his incarnations."

"Does he know that?" said Grish Chunder, quietly, swinging his legs as he
sat on my table. He was speaking in English now.

"He does not know anything. Would I speak to you if he did? Go on!"

"There is no going on at all. If you tell that to your friends they will
say you are mad and put it in the papers. Suppose, now, you prosecute for
libel."

"Let's leave that out of the question entirely. Is there any chance of his
being made to speak?"

"There is a chance. Oah, yess! But _if_ he spoke it would mean that all
this world would end now--_instanto_--fall down on your head. These things
are not allowed, you know. As I said, the door is shut."

"Not a ghost of a chance?"

"How can there be? You are a Christian, and it is forbidden to eat, in
your books, of the Tree of Life, or else you would never die. How shall
you all fear death if you all know what your friend does not know that he
knows? I am afraid to be kicked, but I am not afraid to die, because I
know what I know. You are not afraid to be kicked, but you are afraid to
die. If you were not, by God! you English would be all over the shop in an
hour, upsetting the balances of power, and making commotions. It would not
be good. But no fear. He will remember a little and a little less, and he
will call it dreams. Then he will forget altogether. When I passed my
First Arts Examination in Calcutta that was all in the cram-book on
Wordsworth. Trailing clouds of glory, you know."

"This seems to be an exception to the rule."

"There are no exceptions to rules. Some are not so hard-looking as others,
but they are all the same when you touch. If this friend of yours said
so-and-so and so-and-so, indicating that he remembered all his lost lives,
or one piece of a lost life, he would not be in the bank another hour. He
would be what you called sack because he was mad, and they would send him
to an asylum for lunatics. You can see that, my friend."

"Of course I can, but I wasn't thinking of him. His name need never appear
in the story,"

"Ah! I see. That story will never be written. You can try,"

"I am going to."

"For your own credit and for the sake of money, _of_ course?"

"No. For the sake of writing the story. On my honor that will be all."

"Even then there is no chance. You cannot play with the Gods. It is a very
pretty story now. As they say, Let it go on that--I mean at that. Be
quick; he will not last long."

"How do you mean?"

"What I say. He has never, so far, thought about a woman."

"Hasn't he, though!" I remembered some of Charlie's confidences.

"I mean no woman has thought about him. When that comes;
_bus_--_hogya_--all up! I know. There are millions of women here.
Housemaids, for instance."

I winced at the thought of my story being ruined by a housemaid. And yet
nothing was more probable.

Grish Chunder grinned.

"Yes--also pretty girls--cousins of his house, and perhaps _not_ of his
house. One kiss that he gives back again and remembers will cure all this
nonsense, or else"--

"Or else what? Remember he does not know that he knows."

"I know that. Or else, if nothing happens he will become immersed in the
trade and the financial speculations like the rest. It must be so. You can
see that it must be so. But the woman will come first, _I_ think."

There was a rap at the door, and Charlie charged in impetuously. He had
been released from office, and by the look in his eyes I could see that he
had come over for a long talk; most probably with poems in his pockets.
Charlie's poems were very wearying, but sometimes they led him to talk
about the galley.

Grish Chunder looked at him keenly for a minute.

"I beg your pardon," Charlie said, uneasily; "I didn't know you had any
one with you."

"I am going," said Grish Chunder,

He drew me into the lobby as he departed.

"That is your man," he said, quickly. "I tell you he will never speak all
you wish. That is rot--bosh. But he would be most good to make to see
things. Suppose now we pretend that it was only play"--I had never seen
Grish Chunder so excited--"and pour the ink-pool into his hand. Eh, what
do you think? I tell you that he could see _anything_ that a man could
see. Let me get the ink and the camphor. He is a seer and he will tell us
very many things."

"He may be all you say, but I'm not going to trust him to your gods and
devils."

"It will not hurt him. He will only feel a little stupid and dull when he
wakes up. You have seen boys look into the ink-pool before."

"That is the reason why I am not going to see it any more. You'd better
go, Grish Chunder."

He went, declaring far down the staircase that it was throwing away my
only chance of looking into the future.

This left me unmoved, for I was concerned for the past, and no peering of
hypnotized boys into mirrors and ink-pools would help me to that. But I
recognized Grish Chunder's point of view and sympathized with it.

"What a big black brute that was!" said Charlie, when I returned to him.
"Well, look here, I've just done a poem; did it instead of playing
dominoes after lunch. May I read it?"

"Let me read it to myself."

"Then you miss the proper expression. Besides, you always make my things
sound as if the rhymes were all wrong."

"Read it aloud, then. You're like the rest of 'em."

Charlie mouthed me his poem, and it was not much worse than the average of
his verses. He had been reading his books faithfully, but he was not
pleased when I told him that I preferred my Longfellow undiluted with
Charlie.

Then we began to go through the MS. line by line; Charlie parrying every
objection and correction with:

"Yes, that may be better, but you don't catch what I'm driving at."

Charles was, in one way at least, very like one kind of poet.

There was a pencil scrawl at the back of the paper and "What's that?" I
said.

"Oh that's not poetry at all. It's some rot I wrote last night before I
went to bed and it was too much bother to hunt for rhymes; so I made it a
sort of blank verse instead."

Here is Charlie's "blank verse":

   "We pulled for you when the wind was against us and the sails were low.
  _Will you never let us go?_

   We ate bread and onions when you took towns or ran aboard quickly when
you were beaten back by the foe,
   The captains walked up and down the deck in fair weather singing songs,
but we were below,
   We fainted with our chins on the oars and you did not see that we were
idle for we still swung to and fro.
  _Will you never let us go?_

  The salt made the oar bandies like sharkskin; our knees were cut to the
bone with salt cracks; our hair was stuck to our foreheads; and our lips
were cut to our gums and you whipped us because we could not row,
  _Will you never let us go?_

  But in a little time we shall run out of the portholes as the water runs
along the oarblade, and though you tell the others to row after us you
will never catch us till you catch the oar-thresh and tie up the winds in
the belly of the sail. Aho!
  _Will you never let us go?_"

"H'm. What's oar-thresh, Charlie?"

"The water washed up by the oars. That's the sort of song they might sing
in the galley, y'know. Aren't you ever going to finish that story and give
me some of the profits?"

"It depends on yourself. If you had only told me more about your hero in
the first instance it might have been finished by now. You're so hazy in
your notions."

"I only want to give you the general notion of it--the knocking about from
place to place and the fighting and all that. Can't you fill in the rest
yourself? Make the hero save a girl on a pirate-galley and marry her or do
something."

"You're a really helpful collaborator. I suppose the hero went through
some few adventures before he married."

"Well then, make him a very artful card--a low sort of man--a sort of
political man who went about making treaties and breaking them--a
black-haired chap who hid behind the mast when the fighting began."

"But you said the other day that he was red-haired."

"I couldn't have. Make him black-haired of course. You've no imagination."

Seeing that I had just discovered the entire principles upon which the
half-memory falsely called imagination is based, I felt entitled to laugh,
but forbore, for the sake of the tale.

"You're right _You're_ the man with imagination. A black-haired chap in a
decked ship," I said.

"No, an open ship--like a big boat."

This was maddening.

"Your ship has been built and designed, closed and decked in; you said so
yourself," I protested.

"No, no, not that ship. That was open, or half decked because--By Jove
you're right You made me think of the hero as a red-haired chap. Of course
if he were red, the ship would be an open one with painted sails,"

Surely, I thought, he would remember now that he had served in two galleys
at least--in a three-decked Greek one under the black-haired "political
man," and again in a Viking's open sea-serpent under the man "red as a red
bear" who went to Markland. The devil prompted me to speak.

"Why, 'of course,' Charlie?" said I.

"I don't know. Are you making fun of me?"

The current was broken for the time being. I took up a notebook and
pretended to make many entries in it.

"It's a pleasure to work with an imaginative chap like yourself," I said,
after a pause. "The way that you've brought out the character of the hero
is simply wonderful."

"Do you think so?" he answered, with a pleased flush. "I often tell myself
that there's more in me than my mo--than people think."

"There's an enormous amount in you."

"Then, won't you let me send an essay on The Ways of Bank Clerks to
_Tit-Bits_, and get the guinea prize?"

"That wasn't exactly what I meant, old fellow; perhaps it would be better
to wait a little and go ahead with the galley-story."

"Ah, but I sha'n't get the credit of that. _Tit-Bits_ would publish my
name and address if I win. What are you grinning at? They _would_."

"I know it. Suppose you go for a walk. I want to look through my notes
about our story."

Now this reprehensible youth who left me, a little hurt and put back,
might for aught he or I knew have been one of the crew of the _Argo_--had
been certainly slave or comrade to Thorfin Karlsefne. Therefore he was
deeply interested in guinea competitions. Remembering what Grish Chunder
had said I laughed aloud. The Lords of Life and Death would never allow
Charlie Mears to speak with full knowledge of his pasts, and I must even
piece out what he had told me with my own poor inventions while Charlie
wrote of the ways of bank clerks.

I got together and placed on one file all my notes; and the net result was
not cheering. I read them a second time. There was nothing that might not
have been compiled at secondhand from other people's books--except,
perhaps, the story of the fight in the harbor. The adventures of a Viking
had been written many times before; the history of a Greek galley-slave
was no new thing, and though I wrote both, who could challenge or confirm
the accuracy of my details? I might as well tell a tale of two thousand
years hence. The Lords of Life and Death were as cunning as Grish Chunder
had hinted. They would allow nothing to escape that might trouble or make
easy the minds of men. Though I was convinced of this, yet I could not
leave the tale alone. Exaltation followed reaction, not once, but twenty
times in the next few weeks. My moods varied with the March sunlight and
flying clouds. By night or in the beauty of a spring morning I perceived
that I could write that tale and shift continents thereby. In the wet,
windy afternoons, I saw that the tale might indeed be written, but would
be nothing more than a faked, false-varnished, sham-rusted piece of
Wardour Street work at the end. Then I blessed Charlie in many
ways--though it was no fault of his. He seemed to be busy with prize
competitions, and I saw less and less of him as the weeks went by and the
earth cracked and grew ripe to spring, and the buds swelled in their
sheaths. He did not care to read or talk of what he had read, and there
was a new ring of self-assertion in his voice. I hardly cared to remind
him of the galley when we met; but Charlie alluded to it on every
occasion, always as a story from which money was to be made.

"I think I deserve twenty-five per cent., don't I, at least," he said,
with beautiful frankness. "I supplied all the ideas, didn't I?"

This greediness for silver was a new side in his nature. I assumed that it
had been developed in the City, where Charlie was picking up the curious
nasal drawl of the underbred City man.

"When the thing's done we'll talk about it. I can't make anything of it at
present. Red-haired or black-haired hero are equally difficult."

He was sitting by the fire staring at the red coals. "I can't understand
what you find so difficult. It's all as clear as mud to me," he replied. A
jet of gas puffed out between the bars, took light and whistled softly.
"Suppose we take the red-haired hero's adventures first, from the time
that he came south to my galley and captured it and sailed to the
Beaches."

I knew better now than to interrupt Charlie. I was out of reach of pen and
paper, and dared not move to get them lest I should break the current. The
gas-jet puffed and whinnied, Charlie's voice dropped almost to a whisper,
and he told a tale of the sailing of an open galley to Furdurstrandi, of
sunsets on the open sea, seen under the curve of the one sail evening
after evening when the galley's beak was notched into the centre of the
sinking disc, and "we sailed by that for we had no other guide," quoth
Charlie. He spoke of a landing on an island and explorations in its woods,
where the crew killed three men whom they found asleep under the pines.
Their ghosts, Charlie said, followed the galley, swimming and choking in
the water, and the crew cast lots and threw one of their number overboard
as a sacrifice to the strange gods whom they had offended. Then they ate
sea-weed when their provisions failed, and their legs swelled, and their
leader, the red-haired man, killed two rowers who mutinied, and after a
year spent among the woods they set sail for their own country, and a wind
that never failed carried them back so safely that they all slept at
night. This, and much more Charlie told. Sometimes the voice fell so low
that I could not catch the words, though every nerve was on the strain, He
spoke of their leader, the red-haired man, as a pagan speaks of his God;
for it was he who cheered them and slew them impartially as he thought
best for their needs; and it was he who steered them for three days among
floating ice, each floe crowded with strange beasts that "tried to sail
with us," said Charlie, "and we beat them back with the handles of the
oars."

The gas-jet went out, a burned coal gave way, and the fire settled down
with a tiny crash to the bottom of the grate. Charlie ceased speaking, and
I said no word,

"By Jove!" he said, at last, shaking his head. "I've been staring at the
fire till I'm dizzy. What was I going to say?"

"Something about the galley."

"I remember now. It's 25 per cent. of the profits, isn't it?"

"It's anything you like when I've done the tale."

"I wanted to be sure of that. I must go now. I've--I've an appointment."
And he left me.

Had my eyes not been held I might have known that that broken muttering
over the fire was the swan-song of Charlie Mears. But I thought it the
prelude to fuller revelation. At last and at last I should cheat the Lords
of Life and Death!

When next Charlie came to me I received him with rapture. He was nervous
and embarrassed, but his eyes were very full of light, and his lips a
little parted.

"I've done a poem," he said; and then, quickly: "it's the best I've ever
done. Read it." He thrust it into my hand and retreated to the window.

I groaned inwardly. It would be the work of half an hour to
criticise--that is to say praise--the poem sufficiently to please Charlie.
Then I had good reason to groan, for Charlie, discarding his favorite
centipede metres, had launched into shorter and choppier verse, and verse
with a motive at the back of it. This is what I read:

  "The day Is most fair, the cheery wind
     Halloos behind the hill,
   Where he bends the wood as seemeth good,
     And the sapling to his will!
   Riot O wind; there is that in my blood
     That would not have thee still!

  "She gave me herself, O Earth, O Sky;
     Grey sea, she is mine alone!
   Let the sullen boulders hear my cry,
     And rejoice tho' they be but stone!

  "Mine! I have won her O good brown earth,
     Make merry! 'Tis hard on Spring;
   Make merry; my love is doubly worth
     All worship your fields can bring!
   Let the hind that tills you feel my mirth
     At the early harrowing,"

"Yes, it's the early harrowing, past a doubt," I said, with a dread at my
heart, Charlie smiled, but did not answer.

  "Red cloud of the sunset, tell it abroad;
     I am victor. Greet me O Sun,
   Dominant master and absolute lord
     Over the soul of one!"

"Well?" said Charlie, looking over my shoulder.

I thought it far from well, and very evil indeed, when he silently laid a
photograph on the paper--the photograph of a girl with a curly head, and a
foolish slack mouth.

"Isn't it--isn't it wonderful?" he whispered, pink to the tips of his
ears, wrapped in the rosy mystery of first love. "I didn't know; I didn't
think--it came like a thunderclap."

"Yes. It comes like a thunderclap. Are you very happy, Charlie?"

"My God--she--she loves me!" He sat down repeating the last words to
himself. I looked at the hairless face, the narrow shoulders already bowed
by desk-work, and wondered when, where, and how he had loved in his past
lives.

"What will your mother say?" I asked, cheerfully.

"I don't care a damn what she says."

At twenty the things for which one does not care a damn should, properly,
be many, but one must not include mothers in the list. I told him this
gently; and he described Her, even as Adam must have described to the
newly named beasts the glory and tenderness and beauty of Eve.
Incidentally I learned that She was a tobacconist's assistant with a
weakness for pretty dress, and had told him four or five times already
that She had never been kissed by a man before.

Charlie spoke on and on, and on; while I, separated from him by thousands
of years, was considering the beginnings of things. Now I understood why
the Lords of Life and Death shut the doors so carefully behind us. It is
that we may not remember our first wooings. Were it not so, our world
would be without inhabitants in a hundred years.

"Now, about that galley-story," I said, still more cheerfully, in a pause
in the rush of the speech.

Charlie looked up as though he had been hit. "The galley--what galley?
Good heavens, don't joke, man! This is serious! You don't know how serious
it is!"

Grish Chunder was right, Charlie had tasted the love of woman that kills
remembrance, and the finest story in the world would never be written.



WITH THE MAIN GUARD

   Der jungere Uhlanen
   Sit round mit open mouth
   While Breitmann tell dem stories
   Of fightin' in the South;
   Und gif dem moral lessons,
   How before der battle pops,
   Take a little prayer to Himmel
   Und a goot long drink of Schnapps.

      _Hans Breitmann's Ballads_.

"Mary, Mother av Mercy, fwhat the divil possist us to take an' kepe this
melancolius counthry? Answer me that, sorr."

It was Mulvaney who was speaking. The time was one o'clock of a stifling
June night, and the place was the main gate of Fort Amara, most desolate
and least desirable of all fortresses in India. What I was doing there at
that hour is a question which only concerns M'Grath the Sergeant of the
Guard, and the men on the gate.

"Slape," said Mulvaney, "is a shuparfluous necessity. This gyard'll shtay
lively till relieved." He himself was stripped to the waist; Learoyd on
the next bedstead was dripping from the skinful of water which Ortheris,
clad only in white trousers, had just sluiced over his shoulders; and a
fourth private was muttering uneasily as he dozed open-mouthed in the
glare of the great guard-lantern. The heat under the bricked archway was
terrifying.

"The worrst night that iver I remimber. Eyah! Is all Hell loose this
tide?" said Mulvaney. A puff of burning wind lashed through the
wicket-gate like a wave of the sea, and Ortheris swore.

"Are ye more heasy, Jock?" he said to Learoyd. "Put yer 'ead between your
legs. It'll go orf in a minute."

"Ah don't care. Ah would not care, but ma heart is plaayin' tivvy-tivvy on
ma ribs. Let me die! Oh, leave me die!" groaned the huge Yorkshireman, who
was feeling the heat acutely, being of fleshly build.

The sleeper under the lantern roused for a moment and raised himself on
his elbow,--"Die and be damned then!" he said. "_I_'m damned and I can't
die!"

"Who's that?" I whispered, for the voice was new to me.

"Gentleman born," said Mulvaney; "Corp'ril wan year, Sargint nex'. Red-hot
on his C'mission, but dhrinks like a fish. He'll be gone before the cowld
weather's here. So!"

He slipped his boot, and with the naked toe just touched the trigger of
his Martini. Ortheris misunderstood the movement, and the next instant the
Irishman's rifle was dashed aside, while Ortheris stood before him, his
eyes blazing with reproof.

"You!" said Ortheris. "My Gawd, _you!_ If it was you, wot would _we_ do?"

"Kape quiet, little man," said Mulvaney, putting him aside, but very
gently; "'tis not me, nor will ut be me whoile Dina Shadd's here. I was
but showin' something."

Learoyd, bowed on his bedstead, groaned, and the gentleman-ranker sighed
in his sleep. Ortheris took Mulvaney's tendered pouch, and we three smoked
gravely for a space while the dust-devils danced on the glacis and scoured
the red-hot plain.

"Pop?" said Ortheris, wiping his forehead.

"Don't tantalize wid talkin' av dhrink, or I'll shtuff you into your own
breech-block an'--fire you off!" grunted Mulvaney.

Ortheris chuckled, and from a niche in the veranda produced six bottles of
ginger ale.

"Where did ye get ut, ye Machiavel?" said Mulvaney. "'Tis no bazar pop."

"'Ow do _Hi_ know wot the Orf'cers drink?" answered Ortheris. "Arst the
mess-man."

"Ye'll have a Disthrict Coort-martial settin' on ye yet, me son," said
Mulvaney, "but"--he opened a bottle--"I will not report ye this time.
Fwhat's in the mess-kid is mint for the belly, as they say, 'specially
whin that mate is dhrink, Here's luck! A bloody war or a--no, we've got
the sickly season. War, thin!"--he waved the innocent "pop" to the four
quarters of Heaven. "Bloody war! North, East, South, an' West! Jock, ye
quakin' hayrick, come an' dhrink."

But Learoyd, half mad with the fear of death presaged in the swelling
veins of his neck, was pegging his Maker to strike him dead, and fighting
for more air between his prayers. A second time Ortheris drenched the
quivering body with water, and the giant revived.

"An' Ah divn't see thot a mon is i' fettle for gooin' on to live; an' Ah
divn't see thot there is owt for t' livin' for. Hear now, lads! Ah'm
tired--tired. There's nobbut watter i' ma bones, Let me die!"

The hollow of the arch gave back Learoyd's broken whisper in a bass boom.
Mulvaney looked at me hopelessly, but I remembered how the madness of
despair had once fallen upon Ortheris, that weary, weary afternoon in the
banks of the Khemi River, and how it had been exorcised by the skilful
magician Mulvaney.

"Talk, Terence!" I said, "or we shall have Learoyd slinging loose, and
he'll be worse than Ortheris was. Talk! He'll answer to your voice."

Almost before Ortheris had deftly thrown all the rifles of the Guard on
Mulvaney's bedstead, the Irishman's voice was uplifted as that of one in
the middle of a story, and, turning to me, he said--

"In barricks or out of it, as _you_ say, sorr, an Oirish rig'mint is the
divil an' more. 'Tis only fit for a young man wid eddicated fistesses. Oh
the crame av disruption is an Oirish rig'mint, an' rippin', tearin',
ragin' scattherers in the field av war! My first rig'mint was
Oirish--Faynians an' rebils to the heart av their marrow was they, an'
_so_ they fought for the Widdy betther than most, bein' contrairy--Oirish.
They was the Black Tyrone. You've heard av thim, sorr?"

Heard of them! I knew the Black Tyrone for the choicest collection of
unmitigated blackguards, dog-stealers, robbers of hen-roosts, assaulters
of innocent citizens, and recklessly daring heroes in the Army List. Half
Europe and half Asia has had cause to know the Black Tyrone--good luck be
with their tattered Colors as Glory has ever been!

"They _was_ hot pickils an' ginger! I cut a man's head tu deep wid my belt
in the days av my youth, an', afther some circumstances which I will
oblitherate, I came to the Ould Rig'mint, bearin' the character av a man
wid hands an' feet. But, as I was goin' to tell you, I fell acrost the
Black Tyrone agin wan day whin we wanted thim powerful bad, Orth'ris, me
son, fwhat was the name av that place where they sint wan comp'ny av us
an' wan av the Tyrone roun' a hill an' down again, all for to tache the
Paythans something they'd niver learned before? Afther Ghuzni 'twas."

"Don't know what the bloomin' Paythans called it. We call it Silver's
Theayter. You know that, sure!"

"Silver's Theatre--so 'twas, A gut betune two hills, as black as a bucket,
an' as thin as a girl's waist. There was over-many Paythans for our
convaynience in the gut, an' begad they called thimselves a Reserve--bein'
impident by natur! Our Scotchies an' lashins av Gurkys was poundin' into
some Paythan rig'mints, I think 'twas. Scotchies an' Gurkys are twins
bekaze they're so onlike, an' they get dhrunk together whin God plazes. As
I was sayin', they sint wan comp'ny av the Ould an wan av the Tyrone to
double up the hill an' clane out the Paythan Reserve. Orf'cers was scarce
in thim days, fwhat with dysintry an' not takin' care av thimselves, an'
we was sint out wid only wan orf'cer for the comp'ny; but he was a Man
that had his feet beneath him, an' all his teeth in their sockuts."

"Who was he?" I asked,

"Captain O'Neil--Old Crook--Cruikna-bulleen--him that I tould ye that tale
av whin he was in Burma.[1] Hah! He was a Man. The Tyrone tuk a little
orf'cer bhoy, but divil a bit was he in command, as I'll dimonstrate
presintly. We an' they came over the brow av the hill, wan on each side av
the gut, an' there was that ondacint Reserve waitin' down below like rats
in a pit.


[Footnote 1:
   Now first of the foemen of Boh Da Thone
   Was Captain O'Neil of the Black Tyrone.
      _The Ballad of Boh Da Thone. _]

"'Howld on, men,' sez Crook, who tuk a mother's care av us always. 'Rowl
some rocks on thim by way av visitin'-kyards.' We hadn't rowled more than
twinty bowlders, an' the Paythans was beginnin' to swear tremenjus, whin
the little orf'cer bhoy av the Tyrone shqueaks out acrost the
valley:--'Fwhat the devil an' all are you doin', shpoilin' the fun for my
men? Do ye not see they'll stand?'

"'Faith, that's a rare pluckt wan!' sez Crook. 'Niver mind the rocks, men.
Come along down an' take tay wid thim!'

"'There's damned little sugar in ut!' sez my rear-rank man; but Crook
heard.

"'Have ye not all got spoons?' he sez, laughin', an' down we wint as fast
as we cud. Learoyd bein' sick at the Base, he, av coorse, was not there."

"Thot's a lie!" said Learoyd, dragging his bedstead nearer. "Ah gotten
_thot_ theer, an' you knaw it, Mulvaney." He threw up his arms, and from
the right arm-pit ran, diagonally through the fell of his chest, a thin
white line terminating near the fourth left rib.

"My mind's goin'," said Mulvaney, the unabashed. "Ye were there. Fwhat I
was thinkin' of! Twas another man, av coorse. Well, you'll remimber thin,
Jock, how we an' the Tyrone met wid a bang at the bottom an' got jammed
past all movin' among the Paythans."

"Ow! It _was_ a tight 'ole. I was squeezed till I thought I'd bloomin'
well bust," said Ortheris, rubbing his stomach meditatively,

"'Twas no place for a little man, but _wan_ little man"--Mulvaney put his
hand on Ortheris's shoulder--"saved the life av me. There we shtuck, for
divil a bit did the Paythans flinch, an' divil a bit dare we: our business
bein' to clear 'em out. An' the most exthryordinar' thing av all was that
we an' they just rushed into each other's arrums, an' there was no firing
for a long time. Nothin' but knife an' bay'nit when we cud get our hands
free: an' that was not often. We was breast-on to thim, an' the Tyrone was
yelpin' behind av us in a way I didn't see the lean av at first But I knew
later, an' so did the Paythans.

"'Knee to knee!' sings out Crook, wid a laugh whin the rush av our comin'
into the gut shtopped, an' he was huggin' a hairy great Paythan, neither
bein' able to do anything to the other, tho' both was wishful.

"'Breast to breast!' he sez, as the Tyrone was pushin' us forward closer
an' closer.

"'An' hand over back!' sez a Sargint that was behin'. I saw a sword lick
out past Crook's ear, an' the Paythan was tuk in the apple av his throat
like a pig at Dromeen fair.

"'Thank ye, Brother Inner Guard,' sez Crook, cool as a cucumber widout
salt. 'I wanted that room.' An' he wint forward by the thickness av a
man's body, havin' turned the Paythan undher him. The man bit the heel off
Crook's boot in his death-bite.

"'Push, men!' sez Crook. 'Push, ye paper-backed beggars!' he sez. 'Am I to
pull ye through?' So we pushed, an' we kicked, an' we swung, an' we swore,
an' the grass bein' slippery, our heels wouldn't bite, an' God help the
front-rank man that wint down that day!"

"'Ave you ever bin in the Pit hentrance o' the Vic. on a thick night?"
interrupted Ortheris. "It was worse nor that, for they was goin' one way
an' we wouldn't 'ave it. Leastaways, I 'adn't much to say."

"Faith, me son, ye said ut, thin. I kep' the little man betune my knees as
long as I cud, but he was pokin' roun' wid his bay'nit, blindin' an'
stiffin' feroshus. The devil of a man is Orth'ris in a ruction--aren't
ye?" said Mulvaney.

"Don't make game!" said the Cockney. "I knowed I wasn't no good then, but
I gev 'em compot from the lef' flank when we opened out. No!" he said,
bringing down his hand with a thump on the bedstead, "a bay'nit ain't no
good to a little man--might as well 'ave a bloomin' fishin'-rod! I 'ate a
clawin', maulin' mess, but gimme a breech that's wore out a bit, an'
hamminition one year in store, to let the powder kiss the bullet, an' put
me somewheres where I ain't trod on by 'ulkin swine like you, an' s'elp me
Gawd, I could bowl you over five times outer seven at height 'undred.
Would yer try, you lumberin' Hirishman."

"No, ye wasp, I've seen ye do ut. I say there's nothin' better than the
bay'nit, wid a long reach, a double twist av ye can, an' a slow recover."

"Dom the bay'nit," said Learoyd, who had been listening intently, "Look
a-here!" He picked up a rifle an inch below the foresight with an
underhand action, and used it exactly as a man would use a dagger.

"Sitha," said he, softly, "thot's better than owt, for a mon can bash t'
faace wi' thot, an', if he divn't, he can breeak t' forearm o' t' gaard,
'Tis not i' t' books, though. Gie me t' butt"

"Each does ut his own way, like makin' love," said Mulvaney, quietly; "the
butt or the bay'nit or the bullet accordin' to the natur' av the man.
Well, as I was sayin', we shtuck there breathin' in each other's faces and
swearin' powerful; Orth'ris cursin' the mother that bore him bekaze he was
not three inches taller.

"Prisintly he sez:--'Duck, ye lump, an' I can get at a man over your
shouldher!'

"'You'll blow me head off,' I sez, throwin' my arm clear; 'go through
under my arm-pit, ye bloodthirsty little scutt,' sez I, 'but don't shtick
me or I'll wring your ears round.'

"Fwhat was ut ye gave the Paythan man for-ninst me, him that cut at me
whin I cudn't move hand or foot? Hot or cowld was ut?"

"Cold," said Ortheris, "up an' under the rib-jint. 'E come down flat. Best
for you 'e did."

"Thrue, my son! This jam thing that I'm talkin' about lasted for five
minutes good, an' thin we got our arms clear an' wint in. I misremimber
exactly fwhat I did, but I didn't want Dinah to be a widdy at the Dep�t.
Thin, after some promishkuous hackin' we shtuck again, an' the Tyrone
behin' was callin' us dogs an' cowards an' all manner av names; we barrin'
their way.

"'Fwhat ails the Tyrone?' thinks I; 'they've the makin's av a most
convanient fight here.'

"A man behind me sez beseechful an' in a whisper:--'Let me get at thim!
For the Love av Mary give me room beside ye, ye tall man!"

"'An' who are you that's so anxious to be kilt?' sez I, widout turnin' my
head, for the long knives was dancin' in front like the sun on Donegal Bay
whin ut's rough.

"'We've seen our dead,' he sez, squeezin' into me; 'our dead that was men
two days gone! An' me that was his cousin by blood could not bring Tim
Coulan off! Let me get on,' he sez, 'let me get to thim or I'll run ye
through the back!'

"'My troth,' thinks I, 'if the Tyrone have seen their dead, God help the
Paythans this day!' An' thin I knew why the Oirish was ragin' behind us as
they was.

"I gave room to the man, an' he ran forward wid the Haymaker's Lift on his
bay'nit an' swung a Paythan clear off his feet by the belly-band av the
brute, an' the iron bruk at the lockin'-ring.

"'Tim Coulan 'll slape easy to-night,' sez he, wid a grin; an' the next
minut his head was in two halves and he wint down grinnin' by sections.

"The Tyrone was pushin' an' pushin' in, an' our men was swearin' at thim,
an' Crook was workin' away in front av us all, his sword-arm swingin' like
a pump-handle an' his revolver spittin' like a cat. But the strange thing
av ut was the quiet that lay upon. 'Twas like a fight in a drame--except
for thim that was dead.

"Whin I gave room to the Oirishman I was expinded an' forlorn in my
inside. 'Tis a way I have, savin' your presince, sorr, in action. 'Let me
out, bhoys,' sez I, backin' in among thim. 'I'm goin' to be onwell!' Faith
they gave me room at the wurrud, though they would not ha' given room for
all Hell wid the chill off. When I got clear, I was, savin' your presince,
sorr, outragis sick bekaze I had dhrunk heavy that day.

"Well an' far out av harm was a Sargint av the Tyrone sittin' on the
little orf'cer bhoy who had stopped Crook from rowlin' the rocks. Oh, he
was a beautiful bhoy, an' the long black curses was slidin' out av his
innocint mouth like mornin'-jew from a rose!

"'Fwhat have you got there?' sez I to the Sargint.

"'Wan av Her Majesty's bantams wid his spurs up,' sez he. 'He's goin' to
Coort-martial me.'

"'Let me go!' sez the little orf'cer bhoy. 'Let me go and command my men!'
manin' thereby the Black Tyrone which was beyond any command--ay, even av
they had made the Divil a Field orf'cer.

"'His father howlds my mother's cow-feed in Clonmel,' sez the man that was
sittin' on him. 'Will I go back to _his_ mother an' tell her that I've let
him throw himself away? Lie still, ye little pinch av dynamite, an'
Coort-martial me aftherward.'

"'Good,' sez I; ''tis the likes av him makes the likes av the
Commandher-in-Chief, but we must presarve thim. Fwhat d'you want to do,
sorr?' sez I, very politeful.

"'Kill the beggars--kill the beggars!' he shqueaks; his big blue eyes
brimmin' wid tears.

"'An' how'll ye do that?' sez I. 'You've shquibbed off your revolver like
a child wid a cracker; you can make no play wid that fine large sword av
yours; an' your hand's shakin' like an asp on a leaf. Lie still an' grow,'
sez I.

"'Get back to your comp'ny,' sez he; 'you're insolint!'

"'All in good time,' sez I, 'but I'll have a dhrink first.'

"Just thin Crook comes up, blue an' white all over where he wasn't red.

"'Wather!' sez he; 'I'm dead wid drouth! Oh, but it's a gran' day!'

"He dhrank half a skinful, and the rest he tilts into his chest, an' it
fair hissed on the hairy hide av him. He sees the little orf'cer bhoy
undher the Sargint.

"'Fwhat's yonder?' sez he.

"'Mutiny, sorr,' sez the Sargint, an' the orf'cer bhoy begins pleadin'
pitiful to Crook to be let go: but divil a bit wud Crook budge.

"'Kape him there,' he sez, ''tis no child's work this day. By the same
token,' sez he, 'I'll confishcate that iligant nickel-plated
scent-sprinkler av yours, for my own has been vomitin' dishgraceful!'

"The fork av his hand was black wid the backspit av the machine. So he tuk
the orf'cer bhoy's revolver. Ye may look, sorr, but, by my faith, _there's
a dale more done in the field than iver gets into Field Ordhers!_

"'Come on, Mulvaney,' sez Crook; 'is this a Coort-martial?' The two av us
wint back together into the mess an' the Paythans were still standin' up.
They was not _too_ impart'nint though, for the Tyrone was callin' wan to
another to remimber Tim Coulan.

"Crook stopped outside av the strife an' looked anxious, his eyes rowlin'
roun'.

"'Fwhat is ut, sorr?' sez I; 'can I get ye anything?'

"'Where's a bugler?' sez he.

"I wint into the crowd--our men was dhrawin' breath behin' the Tyrone who
was fightin' like sowls in tormint--an' prisintly I came acrost little
Frehan, our bugler bhoy, pokin' roun' among the best wid a rifle an'
bay'nit.

"'Is amusin' yoursilf fwhat you're paid for, ye limb?' sez I, catchin' him
by the scruff. 'Come out av that an' attind to your duty.' I sez; but the
bhoy was not pleased.

"'I've got wan,' sez he, grinnin', 'big as you, Mulvaney, an' fair half as
ugly. Let me go get another.'

"I was dishpleased at the personability av that remark, so I tucks him
under my arm an' carries him to Crook who was watchin' how the fight wint.
Crook cuffs him till the bhoy cries, an' thin sez nothin' for a whoile.

"The Paythans began to flicker onaisy, an' our men roared. 'Opin ordher!
Double!' sez Crook. 'Blow, child, blow for the honor av the British
Arrmy!'

"That bhoy blew like a typhoon, an' the Tyrone an' we opined out as the
Paythans broke, an' I saw that fwhat had gone before wud be kissin' an'
huggin' to fwhat was to come. We'd dhruv thim into a broad part av the gut
whin they gave, an' thin we opined out an' fair danced down the valley,
dhrivin' thim before us. Oh, 'twas lovely, an' stiddy, too! There was the
Sargints on the flanks av what was left av us, kapin' touch, an' the fire
was runnin' from flank to flank, an' the Paythans was dhroppin'. We opined
out wid the widenin' av the valley, an' whin the valley narrowed we closed
again like the shticks on a lady's fan, an' at the far ind av the gut
where they thried to stand, we fair blew them off their feet, for we had
expinded very little ammunition by reason av the knife work."

"Hi used thirty rounds goin' down that valley," said Ortheris, "an' it was
gentleman's work. Might 'a' done it in a white 'andkerchief an' pink silk
stockin's, that part. Hi was on in that piece."

"You could ha' heard the Tyrone yellin' a mile away," said Mulvaney, "an'
'twas all their Sargints cud do to get thim off. They was mad--mad--mad!
Crook sits down in the quiet that fell whin we had gone down the valley,
an' covers his face wid his hands. Prisintly we all came back again
accordin' to our natures and disposishins, for they, mark you, show
through the hide av a man in that hour.

"'Bhoys! bhoys!' sez Crook to himself. 'I misdoubt we could ha' engaged at
long range an' saved betther men than me.' He looked at our dead an' said
no more.

"'Captain dear,' sez a man av the Tyrone, comin' up wid his mouth bigger
than iver his mother kissed ut, spittin' blood like a whale; 'Captain
dear,' sez he, 'if wan or two in the shtalls have been discommoded, the
gallery have enjoyed the performinces av a Roshus.'

"Thin I knew that man for the Dublin dockrat he was--wan av the bhoys that
made the lessee av Silver's Theatre grey before his time wid tearin' out
the bowils av the benches an' t'rowin' thim into the pit. So I passed the
wurrud that I knew when I was in the Tyrone an' we lay in Dublin. 'I don't
know who 'twas,' I whispers, 'an' I don't care, but anyways I'll knock the
face av you, Tim Kelly.'

"'Eyah!' sez the man, 'was you there too? We'll call ut Silver's Theatre.'
Half the Tyrone, knowin' the ould place, tuk ut up: so we called ut
Silver's Theatre.

"The little orf'cer bhoy av the Tyrone was thremblin' an' cryin', He had
no heart for the Coort-martials that he talked so big upon. 'Ye'll do well
later,' sez Crook, very quiet, 'for not bein' allowed to kill yourself for
amusemint.'

"'I'm a dishgraced man!' sez the little orf'cer bhoy.

"Put me undher arrest, sorr, if you will, but by my sowl, I'd do ut again
sooner than face your mother wid you dead,' sez the Sargint that had sat
on his head, standin' to attention an' salutin'. But the young wan only
cried as tho' his little heart was breakin'.

"Thin another man av the Tyrone came up, wid the fog av fightin' on him."

"The what, Mulvaney?"

"Fog av fightin'. You know, sorr, that, like makin' love, ut takes each
man diff'rint. Now I can't help bein' powerful sick whin I'm in action.
Orth'ris, here, niver stops swearin' from ind to ind, an' the only time
that Learoyd opins his mouth to sing is whin he is messin' wid other
people's heads; for he's a dhirty fighter is Jock. Recruities sometime
cry, an' sometime they don't know fwhat they do, an' sometime they are all
for cuttin' throats an' such like dirtiness; but some men get
heavy-dead-dhrunk on the fightin'. This man was. He was staggerin', an'
his eyes were half shut, an' we cud hear him dhraw breath twinty yards
away. He sees the little orf'cer bhoy, an' comes up, talkin' thick an'
drowsy to himsilf. 'Blood the young whelp!' he sez; 'blood the young
whelp;' an' wid that he threw up his arms, shpun roun', an' dropped at our
feet, dead as a Paythan, an' there was niver sign or scratch on him. They
said 'twas his heart was rotten, but oh, 'twas a quare thing to see!

"Thin we wint to bury our dead, for we wud not lave thim to the Paythans,
an' in movin' among the haythen we nearly lost that little orf'cer bhoy.
He was for givin' wan divil wather and layin' him aisy against a rock. 'Be
careful, sorr,' sez I; 'a wounded Paythan's worse than a live wan.' My
troth, before the words was out of my mouth, the man on the ground fires
at the orf'cer bhoy lanin' over him, an' I saw the helmit fly. I dropped
the butt on the face av the man an' tuk his pistol. The little orf'cer
bhoy turned very white, for the hair av half his head was singed away.

"'I tould you so, sorr!' sez I; an', afther that, whin he wanted to help a
Paythan I stud wid the muzzle contagious to the ear. They dare not do
anythin' but curse. The Tyrone was growlin' like dogs over a bone that had
been taken away too soon, for they had seen their dead an' they wanted to
kill ivry sowl on the ground. Crook tould thim that he'd blow the hide off
any man that misconducted himself; but, seeing that ut was the first time
the Tyrone had iver seen their dead, I do not wondher they were on the
sharp. 'Tis a shameful sight! Whin I first saw ut I wud niver ha' given
quarter to any man north of the Khaibar--no, nor woman either, for the
women used to come out afther dhark--Auggrh!

"Well, evenshually we buried our dead an' tuk away our wounded, an' come
over the brow av the hills to see the Scotchies an' the Gurkys taking tay
with the Paythans in bucketsfuls. We were a gang av dissolute ruffians,
for the blood had caked the dust, an' the sweat had cut the cake, an' our
bay'nits was hangin' like butchers' steels betune ur legs, an' most av us
were marked one way or another.

"A Staff Orf'cer man, clean as a new rifle, rides up an' sez: 'What damned
scarecrows are you?'

"'A comp'ny av Her Majesty's Black Tyrone an' wan av the Ould Rig'mint,'
sez Crook very quiet, givin' our visitors the flure as 'twas.

"'Oh!' sez the Staff Orf'cer; 'did you dislodge that Reserve?'

"'No!' sez Crook, an' the Tyrone laughed.

"'Thin fwhat the divil have ye done?'

"'Disthroyed ut,' sez Crook, an' he took us on, but not before Toomey that
was in the Tyrone sez aloud, his voice somewhere in his stummick: 'Fwhat
in the name av misfortune does this parrit widout a tail mane by shtoppin'
the road av his betthers?'

"The Staff Orf'cer wint blue, an' Toomey makes him pink by changin' to the
voice av a minowderin' woman an' sayin': 'Come an' kiss me, Major dear,
for me husband's at the wars an' I'm all alone at the Depot.'

"The Staff Orf'cer wint away, an' I cud see Crook's shoulthers shakin'.

"His Corp'ril checks Toomey. 'Lave me alone,' sez Toomey, widout a wink.
'I was his batman before he was married an' he knows fwhat I mane, av you
don't. There's nothin' like livin' in the hoight av society.' D'you
remimber that, Orth'ris!"

"Hi do. Toomey, 'e died in 'orspital, next week it was, 'cause I bought
'arf his kit; an' I remember after that"--

"GUARRD, TURN OUT!"

The Relief had come; it was four o'clock. "I'll catch a kyart for you,
sorr," said Mulvaney, diving hastily into his accoutrements. "Come up to
the top av the Fort an' we'll pershue our invistigations into M'Grath's
shtable." The relieved Guard strolled round the main bastion on its way to
the swimming-bath, and Learoyd grew almost talkative. Ortheris looked into
the Fort ditch and across the plain. "Ho! it's weary waitin' for Ma-ary!"
he hummed; "but I'd like to kill some more bloomin' Paythans before my
time's up. War! Bloody war! North, East, South, and West."

"Amen," said Learoyd, slowly.

"Fwhat's here?" said Mulvaney, checking at a blurr of white by the foot of
the old sentry-box. He stooped and touched it. "It's Norah--Norah
M'Taggart! Why, Nonie, darlin', fwhat are ye doin' out av your mother's
bed at this time?"

The two-year-old child of Sergeant M'Taggart must have wandered for a
breath of cool air to the very verge of the parapet of the Fort ditch, Her
tiny night-shift was gathered into a wisp round her neck and she moaned in
her sleep. "See there!" said Mulvaney; "poor lamb! Look at the heat-rash
on the innocint skin av her. 'Tis hard--crool hard even for us. Fwhat must
it be for these? Wake up, Nonie, your mother will be woild about you.
Begad, the child might ha' fallen into the ditch!"

He picked her up in the growing light, and set her on his shoulder, and
her fair curls touched the grizzled stubble of his temples. Ortheris and
Learoyd followed snapping their fingers, while Norah smiled at them a
sleepy smile. Then carolled Mulvaney, clear as a lark, dancing the baby on
his arm--

  "If any young man should marry you,
     Say nothin' about the joke;
   That iver ye slep' in a sinthry-box,
     Wrapped up in a soldier's cloak."

"Though, on my sowl, Nonie," he said, gravely, "there was not much cloak
about you. Niver mind, you won't dhress like this ten years to come. Kiss
your friends an' run along to your mother."

Nonie, set down close to the Married Quarters, nodded with the quiet
obedience of the soldier's child, but, ere she pattered off over the
flagged path, held up her lips to be kissed by the Three Musketeers.
Ortheris wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and swore
sentimentally; Learoyd turned pink; and the two walked away together. The
Yorkshireman lifted up his voice and gave in thunder the chorus of _The
Sentry-Box_, while Ortheris piped at his side.

"'Bin to a bloomin' sing-song, you two?" said the Artilleryman, who was
taking his cartridge down to the Morning Gun, "You're over merry for these
dashed days."

   "I bid ye take care o' the brat," said he,
   "For it comes of a noble race"

Learoyd bellowed. The voices died out in the swimming-bath.

"Oh, Terence!" I said, dropping into Mulvaney's speech, when we were
alone, "it's you that have the Tongue!"

He looked at me wearily; his eyes were sunk in his head, and his face was
drawn and white, "Eyah!" said he; "I've blandandhered thim through the
night somehow, but can thim that helps others help thimselves? Answer me
that, sorr!"

And over the bastions of Fort Amara broke the pitiless day.



WEE WILLIE WINKIE

"An officer and a gentleman."

His full name was Percival William Williams, but he picked up the other
name in a nursery-book, and that was the end of the christened titles. His
mother's _ayah_ called him Willie-_Baba_, but as he never paid the
faintest attention to anything that the _ayah_ said, her wisdom did not
help matters.

His father was the Colonel of the 195th, and as soon as Wee Willie Winkie
was old enough to understand what Military Discipline meant, Colonel
Williams put him under it. There was no other way of managing the child.
When he was good for a week, he drew good-conduct pay; and when he was
bad, he was deprived of his good-conduct stripe. Generally he was bad, for
India offers so many chances to little six-year-olds of going wrong.

Children resent familiarity from strangers, and Wee Willie Winkie was a
very particular child. Once he accepted an acquaintance, he was graciously
pleased to thaw. He accepted Brandis, a subaltern of the 195th, on sight.
Brandis was having tea at the Colonel's, and Wee Willie Winkie entered
strong in the possession of a good-conduct badge won for not chasing the
hens round the compound. He regarded Brandis with gravity for at least ten
minutes, and then delivered himself of his opinion.

"I like you," said he, slowly, getting off his chair and coming over to
Brandis. "I like you. I shall call you Coppy, because of your hair. Do you
_mind_ being called Coppy? it is because of ve hair, you know."

Here was one of the most embarrassing of Wee Willie Winkie's
peculiarities. He would look at a stranger for some time, and then,
without warning or explanation, would give him a name. And the name stuck.
No regimental penalties could break Wee Willie Winkie of this habit. He
lost his good-conduct badge for christening the Commissioner's wife
"Pobs"; but nothing that the Colonel could do made the Station forego the
nickname, and Mrs. Collen remained Mrs. "Pobs" till the end of her stay.
So Brandis was christened "Coppy," and rose, therefore, in the estimation
of the regiment.

If Wee Willie Winkie took an interest in any one, the fortunate man was
envied alike by the mess and the rank and file. And in their envy lay no
suspicion of self-interest. "The Colonel's son" was idolized on his own
merits entirely. Yet Wee Willie Winkie was not lovely. His face was
permanently freckled, as his legs were permanently scratched, and in spite
of his mother's almost tearful remonstrances he had insisted upon having
his long yellow locks cut short in the military fashion. "I want my hair
like Sergeant Tummil's," said Wee Willie Winkie, and, his father abetting,
the sacrifice was accomplished.

Three weeks after the bestowal of his youthful affections on Lieutenant
Brandis--henceforward to be called "Coppy" for the sake of brevity--Wee
Willie Winkie was destined to behold strange things and far beyond his
comprehension.

Coppy returned his liking with interest. Coppy had let him wear for five
rapturous minutes his own big sword--just as tall as Wee Willie Winkie.
Coppy had promised him a terrier puppy; and Coppy had permitted him to
witness the miraculous operation of shaving. Nay, more--Coppy had said
that even he, Wee Willie Winkie, would rise in time to the ownership of a
box of shiny knives, a silver soap-box and a silver-handled
"sputter-brush," as Wee Willie Winkie called it. Decidedly, there was no
one except his father, who could give or take away good-conduct badges at
pleasure, half so wise, strong, and valiant as Coppy with the Afghan and
Egyptian medals on his breast. Why, then, should Coppy be guilty of the
unmanly weakness of kissing--vehemently kissing--a "big girl," Miss
Allardyce to wit? In the course of a morning ride, Wee Willie Winkie had
seen Coppy so doing, and, like the gentleman he was, had promptly wheeled
round and cantered back to his groom, lest the groom should also see.

Under ordinary circumstances he would have spoken to his father, but he
felt instinctively that this was a matter on which Coppy ought first to be
consulted.

"Coppy," shouted Wee Willie Winkie, reining up outside that subaltern's
bungalow early one morning--"I want to see you, Coppy!"

"Come in, young 'un," returned Coppy, who was at early breakfast in the
midst of his dogs. "What mischief have you been getting into now?"

Wee Willie Winkie had done nothing notoriously bad for three days, and so
stood on a pinnacle of virtue.

"I've been doing nothing bad," said he, curling himself into a long chair
with a studious affectation of the Colonel's languor after a hot parade.
He buried his freckled nose in a tea-cup and, with eyes staring roundly
over the rim, asked:--"I say, Coppy, is it pwoper to kiss big girls?"

"By Jove! You're beginning early. Who do you want to kiss?"

"No one. My muvver's always kissing me if I don't stop her. If it isn't
pwoper, how was you kissing Major Allardyce's big girl last morning, by ve
canal?"

Coppy's brow wrinkled. He and Miss Allardyce had with great craft managed
to keep their engagement secret for a fortnight. There were urgent and
imperative reasons why Major Allardyce should not know how matters stood
for at least another month, and this small marplot had discovered a great
deal too much.

"I saw you," said Wee Willie Winkie, calmly. "But ve groom didn't see. I
said, '_Hut jao_.'"

"Oh, you had that much sense, you young Rip," groaned poor Coppy, half
amused and half angry. "And how many people may you have told about it?"

"Only me myself. You didn't tell when I twied to wide ve buffalo ven my
pony was lame; and I fought you wouldn't like."

"Winkie," said Coppy, enthusiastically, shaking the small hand, "you're
the best of good fellows. Look here, you can't understand all these
things. One of these days--hang it, how can I make you see it!--I'm going
to marry Miss Allardyce, and then she'll be Mrs. Coppy, as you say. If
your young mind is so scandalized at the idea of kissing big girls, go and
tell your father."

"What will happen?" said Wee Willie Winkie, who firmly believed that his
father was omnipotent.

"I shall get into trouble." said Coppy, playing his trump card with an
appealing look at the holder of the ace.

"Ven I won't," said Wee Willie Winkie, briefly. "But my faver says it's
un-man-ly to be always kissing, and I didn't fink _you'd_ do vat, Coppy."

"I'm not always kissing, old chap. It's only now and then, and when you're
bigger you'll do it too. Your father meant it's not good for little boys."

"Ah!" said Wee Willie Winkie, now fully enlightened. "It's like ve
sputter-brush?"

"Exactly," said Coppy, gravely.

"But I don't fink I'll ever want to kiss big girls, nor no one, 'cept my
muvver. And I _must_ vat, you know."

There was a long pause, broken by Wee Willie Winkie,

"Are you fond of vis big girl, Coppy?"

"Awfully!" said Coppy.

"Fonder van you are of Bell or ve Butcha--or me?"

"It's in a different way," said Coppy. "You see, one of these days Miss
Allardyce will belong to me, but you'll grow up and command the Regiment
and--all sorts of things. It's quite different, you see."

"Very well," said Wee Willie Winkie, rising. "If you're fond of ve big
girl, I won't tell any one. I must go now."

Coppy rose and escorted his small guest to the door, adding: "You're the
best of little fellows, Winkie. I tell you what. In thirty days from now
you can tell if you like--tell any one you like."

Thus the secret of the Brandis-Allardyce engagement was dependent on a
little child's word. Coppy, who knew Wee Willie Winkie's idea of truth,
was at ease, for he felt that he would not break promises. Wee Willie
Winkie betrayed a special and unusual interest in Miss Allardyce, and,
slowly revolving round that embarrassed young lady, was used to regard her
gravely with unwinking eye. He was trying to discover why Coppy should
have kissed her. She was not half so nice as his own mother. On the other
hand, she was Coppy's property, and would in time belong to him. Therefore
it behooved him to treat her with as much respect as Coppy's big sword or
shiny pistol.

The idea that he shared a great secret in common with Coppy kept Wee
Willie Winkie unusually virtuous for three weeks. Then the Old Adam broke
out, and he made what he called a "camp-fire" at the bottom of the garden.
How could he have foreseen that the flying sparks would have lighted the
Colonel's little hayrick and consumed a week's store for the horses?
Sudden and swift was the punishment--deprivation of the good-conduct badge
and, most sorrowful of all, two days confinement to barracks--the house
and veranda--coupled with the withdrawal of the light of his father's
countenance.

He took the sentence like the man he strove to be, drew himself up with a
quivering under-lip, saluted, and, once clear of the room, ran to weep
bitterly in his nursery--called by him "my quarters," Coppy came in the
afternoon and attempted to console the culprit.

"I'm under awwest," said Wee Willie Winkie, mournfully, "and I didn't
ought to speak to you."

Very early the next morning he climbed on to the roof of the house--that
was not forbidden--and beheld Miss Allardyce going for a ride.

"Where are you going?" cried Wee Willie Winkie.

"Across the river," she answered, and trotted forward.

Now the cantonment in which the 195th lay was bounded on the north by a
river--dry in the winter. From his earliest years, Wee Willie Winkie had
been forbidden to go across the river, and had noted that even Coppy--the
almost almighty Coppy--had never set foot beyond it. Wee Willie Winkie had
once been read to, out of a big blue book, the history of the Princess and
the Goblins--a most wonderful tale of a land where the Goblins were always
warring with the children of men until they were defeated by one Curdie.
Ever since that date it seemed to him that the bare black and purple hills
across the river were inhabited by Goblins, and, in truth, every one had
said that there lived the Bad Men. Even in his own house the lower halves
of the windows were covered with green paper on account of the Bad Men who
might, if allowed clear view, fire into peaceful drawing-rooms and
comfortable bedrooms. Certainly, beyond the river, which was the end of
all the Earth, lived the Bad Men. And here was Major Allardyce's big girl,
Coppy's property, preparing to venture into their borders! What would
Coppy say if anything happened to her? If the Goblins ran off with her as
they did with Curdie's Princess? She must at all hazards be turned back.

The house was still. Wee Willie Winkie reflected for a moment on the very
terrible wrath of his father; and then--broke his arrest! It was a crime
unspeakable. The low sun threw his shadow, very large and very black, on
the trim garden-paths, as he went down to the stables and ordered his
pony. It seemed to him in the hush of the dawn that all the big world had
been bidden to stand still and look at Wee Willie Winkie guilty of mutiny.
The drowsy groom handed him his mount, and, since the one great sin made
all others insignificant, Wee Willie Winkie said that he was going to ride
over to Coppy Sahib, and went out at a foot-pace, stepping on the soft
mould of the flower-borders.

The devastating track of the pony's feet was the last misdeed that cut him
off from all sympathy of Humanity, He turned into the road, leaned
forward; and rode as fast as the pony could put foot to the ground in the
direction of the river.

But the liveliest of twelve-two ponies can do little against the long
canter of a Waler. Miss Allardyce was far ahead, had passed through the
crops, beyond the Police-post when all the guards were asleep, and her
mount was scattering the pebbles of the river bed as Wee Willie Winkie
left the cantonment and British India behind him. Bowed forward and still
flogging, Wee Willie Winkie shot into Afghan territory, and could just see
Miss Allardyce a black speck, flickering across the stony plain. The
reason of her wandering was simple enough. Coppy, in a tone of
too-hastily-assumed authority, had told her over night, that she must not
ride out by the river. And she had gone to prove her own spirit and teach
Coppy a lesson.

Almost at the foot of the inhospitable hills, Wee Willie Winkie saw the
Waler blunder and come down heavily. Miss Allardyce struggled clear, but
her ankle had been severely twisted, and she could not stand. Having thus
demonstrated her spirit, she wept copiously, and was surprised by the
apparition of a white, wide-eyed child in khaki, on a nearly spent pony.

"Are you badly, badly hurted?" shouted Wee Willie Winkie, as soon as he
was within range. "You didn't ought to be here."

"I don't know," said Miss Allardyce, ruefully, ignoring the reproof. "Good
gracious, child, what are _you_ doing here?"

"You said you was going acwoss ve wiver," panted Wee Willie Winkie,
throwing himself off his pony. "And nobody--not even Coppy--must go acwoss
ve wiver, and I came after you ever so hard, but you wouldn't stop, and
now you've hurted yourself, and Coppy will be angwy wiv me, and--I've
bwoken my awwest! I've bwoken my awwest!"

The future Colonel of the 195th sat down and sobbed. In spite of the pain
in her ankle the girl was moved.

"Have you ridden all the way from cantonments, little man? What for?"

"You belonged to Coppy. Coppy told me so!" wailed Wee Willie Winkie,
disconsolately. "I saw him kissing you, and he said he was fonder of you
van Bell or ve Butcha or me. And so I came. You must get up and come back.
You didn't ought to be here. Vis is a bad place, and I've bwoken my
awwest."

"I can't move, Winkie," said Miss Allardyce, with a groan. "I've hurt my
foot. What shall I do?"

She showed a readiness to weep afresh, which steadied Wee Willie Winkie,
who had been brought up to believe that tears were the depth of
unmanliness. Still, when one is as great a sinner as Wee Willie Winkie,
even a man may be permitted to break down,

"Winkie," said Miss Allardyce, "when you've rested a little, ride back and
tell them to send out something to carry me back in. It hurts fearfully."

The child sat still for a little time and Miss Allardyce closed her eyes;
the pain was nearly making her faint. She was roused by Wee Willie Winkie
tying up the reins on his pony's neck and setting it free with a vicious
cut of his whip that made it whicker. The little animal headed toward the
cantonments.

"Oh, Winkie! What are you doing?"

"Hush!" said Wee Willie Winkie. "Vere's a man coming--one of ve Bad Men. I
must stay wiv you. My faver says a man must _always_ look after a girl.
Jack will go home, and ven vey'll come and look for us. Vat's why I let
him go."

Not one man but two or three had appeared from behind the rocks of the
hills, and the heart of Wee Willie Winkie sank within him, for just in
this manner were the Goblins wont to steal out and vex Curdie's soul. Thus
had they played in Curdie's garden, he had seen the picture, and thus had
they frightened the Princess's nurse. He heard them talking to each other,
and recognized with joy the bastard Pushto that he had picked up from one
of his father's grooms lately dismissed. People who spoke that tongue
could not be the Bad Men. They were only natives after all.

They came up to the bowlders on which Miss Allardyce's horse had
blundered.

Then rose from the rock Wee Willie Winkie, child of the Dominant Race,
aged six and three-quarters, and said briefly and emphatically "_Jao!_"
The pony had crossed the river-bed.

The men laughed, and laughter from natives was the one thing Wee Willie
Winkie could not tolerate. He asked them what they wanted and why they did
not depart. Other men with most evil faces and crooked-stocked guns crept
out of the shadows of the hills, till, soon, Wee Willie Winkie was face to
face with an audience some twenty strong, Miss Allardyce screamed.

"Who are you?" said one of the men.

"I am the Colonel Sahib's son, and my order is that you go at once. You
black men are frightening the Miss Sahib. One of you must run into
cantonments and take the news that Miss Sahib has hurt herself, and that
the Colonel's son is here with her."

"Put our feet into the trap?" was the laughing reply. "Hear this boy's
speech!"

"Say that I sent you--I, the Colonel's son. They will give you money."

"What is the use of this talk? Take up the child and the girl, and we can
at least ask for the ransom. Ours are the villages on the heights," said a
voice in the background.

These _were_ the Bad Men--worse than Goblins--and it needed all Wee Willie
Winkie's training to prevent him from bursting into tears. But he felt
that to cry before a native, excepting only his mother's _ayah_, would be
an infamy greater than any mutiny. Moreover, he, as future Colonel of the
195th, had that grim regiment at his back.

"Are you going to carry us away?" said Wee Willie Winkie, very blanched
and uncomfortable.

"Yes, my little _Sahib Bahadur_," said the tallest of the men, "and eat
you afterward."

"That is child's talk," said Wee Willie Winkie. "Men do not eat men."

A yell of laughter interrupted him, but he went on firmly,--"And if you do
carry us away, I tell you that all my regiment will come up in a day and
kill you all without leaving one. Who will take my message to the Colonel
Sahib?"

Speech in any vernacular--and Wee Willie Winkie had a colloquial
acquaintance with three--was easy to the boy who could not yet manage his
"r's" and "th's" aright.

Another man joined the conference, crying:--"O foolish men! What this babe
says is true. He is the heart's heart of those white troops. For the sake
of peace let them go both, for if he be taken, the regiment will break
loose and gut the valley. _Our_ villages are in the valley, and we shall
not escape. That regiment are devils. They broke Khoda Yar's breast-bone
with kicks when he tried to take the rifles; and if we touch this child
they will fire and rape and plunder for a month, till nothing remains.
Better to send a man back to take the message and get a reward. I say that
this child is their God, and that they will spare none of us, nor our
women, if we harm him."

It was Din Mahommed, the dismissed groom of the Colonel, who made the
diversion, and an angry and heated discussion followed. Wee Willie Winkie,
standing over Miss Allardyce, waited the upshot. Surely his "wegiment,"
his own "wegiment," would not desert him if they knew of his extremity.


       *
       *
       *
       *
       *

The riderless pony brought the news to the 195th, though there had been
consternation in the Colonel's household for an hour before. The little
beast came in through the parade ground in front of the main barracks,
where the men were settling down to play Spoil-five till the afternoon.
Devlin, the Color Sergeant of E Company, glanced at the empty saddle and
tumbled through the barrack-rooms, kicking up each Room Corporal as he
passed. "Up, ye beggars! There's something happened to the Colonel's son,"
he shouted.

"He couldn't fall off! S'elp me, 'e _couldn't_ fall off," blubbered a
drummer-boy, "Go an' hunt acrost the river. He's over there if he's
anywhere, an' maybe those Pathans have got 'im. For the love o' Gawd don't
look for 'im in the nullahs! Let's go over the river."

"There's sense in Mott yet," said Devlin. "E Company, double out to the
river--sharp!"

So E Company, in its shirt-sleeves mainly, doubled for the dear life, and
in the rear toiled the perspiring Sergeant, adjuring it to double yet
faster. The cantonment was alive with the men of the 195th hunting for Wee
Willie Winkie, and the Colonel finally overtook E Company, far too
exhausted to swear, struggling in the pebbles of the river-bed.

Up the hill under which Wee Willie Winkie's Bad Men were discussing the
wisdom of carrying off the child and the girl, a look-out fired two shots.

"What have I said?" shouted Din Mahommed. "There is the warning! The
_pulton_ are out already and are coming across the plain! Get away! Let us
not be seen with the boy!"

The men waited for an instant, and then, as another shot was fired,
withdrew into the hills, silently as they had appeared.

"The wegiment is coming," said Wee Willie Winkie, confidently, to Miss
Allardyce, "and it's all wight. Don't cwy!"

He needed the advice himself, for ten minutes later, when his father came
up, he was weeping bitterly with his head in Miss Allardyce's lap.

And the men of the 195th carried him home with shouts and rejoicings; and
Coppy, who had ridden a horse into a lather, met him, and, to his intense
disgust, kissed him openly in the presence of the men.

But there was balm for his dignity. His father assured him that not only
would the breaking of arrest be condoned, but that the good-conduct badge
would be restored as soon as his mother could sew it on his blouse-sleeve.
Miss Allardyce had told the Colonel a story that made him proud of his
son.

"She belonged to you, Coppy," said Wee Willie Winkie, indicating Miss
Allardyce with a grimy forefinger. "I _knew_ she didn't ought to go acwoss
ve wiver, and I knew ve wegiment would come to me if I sent Jack home."

"You're a hero, Winkie," said Coppy--"a _pukka_ hero!"

"I don't know what vat means," said Wee Willie Winkie, "but you mustn't
call me Winkie any no more, I'm Percival Will'am Will'ams."

And in this manner did Wee Willie Winkie enter into his manhood.



THE ROUT OF THE WHITE HUSSARS

  It was not in the open fight
     We threw away the sword,
   But in the lonely watching
     In the darkness by the ford.
   The waters lapped, the night-wind blew,
   Full-armed the Fear was born and grew.
   And we were flying ere we knew
     From panic in the night.
        --_Beoni Bar>/I>.

Some people hold that an English Cavalry regiment cannot run. This is a
mistake. I have seen four hundred and thirty-seven sabres flying over the
face of the country in abject terror--have seen the best Regiment that
ever drew bridle wiped off the Army List for the space of two hours. If
you repeat this tale to the White Hussars they will, in all probability,
treat you severely. They are not proud of the incident.

You may know the White Hussars by their "side," which is greater than that
of all the Cavalry Regiments on the roster. If this is not a sufficient
mark, you may know them by their old brandy. It has been sixty years in
the Mess and is worth going far to taste. Ask for the "McGaire" old
brandy, and see that you get it. If the Mess Sergeant thinks that you are
uneducated, and that the genuine article will be lost on you, he will
treat you accordingly. He is a good man. But, when you are at Mess, you
must never talk to your hosts about forced marches or long-distance rides.
The Mess are very sensitive; and, if they think that you are laughing at
them, will tell you so.

As the White Hussars say, it was all the Colonel's fault. He was a new
man, and he ought never to have taken the Command. He said that the
Regiment was not smart enough. This to the White Hussars, who knew that
they could walk round any Horse and through any Guns, and over any Foot on
the face of the earth! That insult was the first cause of offence.

Then the Colonel cast the Drum-Horse--the Drum-Horse of the White Hussars!
Perhaps you do not see what an unspeakable crime he had committed. I will
try to make it clear. The soul of the Regiment lives in the Drum-Horse who
carries the silver kettle-drums. He is nearly always a big piebald Waler.
That is a point of honor; and a Regiment will spend anything you please on
a piebald. He is beyond the ordinary laws of casting. His work is very
light, and he only manoeuvres at a foot-pace. Wherefore, so long as he can
step out and look handsome, his well-being is assured. He knows more about
the Regiment than the Adjutant, and could not make a mistake if he tried.

The Drum-Horse of the White Hussars was only eighteen years old, and
perfectly equal to his duties. He had at least six years' more work in
him, and carried himself with all the pomp and dignity of a Drum-Major of
the Guards. The Regiment had paid Rs.1200 for him.

But the Colonel said that he must go, and he was cast in due form and
replaced by a washy, bay beast, as ugly as a mule, with a ewe-neck,
rat-tail, and cow-hocks. The Drummer detested that animal, and the best of
the Band-horses put back their ears and showed the whites of their eyes at
the very sight of him. They knew him for an upstart and no gentleman. I
fancy that the Colonel's ideas of smartness extended to the Band, and that
he wanted to make it take part in the regular parade movements. A Cavalry
Band is a sacred thing. It only turns out for Commanding Officers'
parades, and the Band Master is one degree more important than the
Colonel. He is a High Priest and the "Keel Row" is his holy song. The
"Keel Row" is the Cavalry Trot; and the man who has never heard that tune
rising, high and shrill, above the rattle of the Regiment going past the
saluting-base, has something yet to hear and understand.

When the Colonel cast the Drum-Horse of the White Hussars, there was
nearly a mutiny.

The officers were angry, the Regiment were furious, and the Bandsmen
swore--like troopers. The Drum-Horse was going to be put up to
auction--public auction--to be bought, perhaps, by a Parsee and put into a
cart! It was worse than exposing the Inner life of the Regiment to the
whole world, or selling the Mess Plate to a Jew--a Black Jew.

The Colonel was a mean man and a bully. He knew what the Regiment thought
about his action; and, when the troopers offered to buy the Drum-Horse, he
said that their offer was mutinous and forbidden by the Regulations.

But one of the Subalterns--Hogan-Yale, an Irishman--bought the Drum-Horse
for Rs. 160 at the sale, and the Colonel was wroth. Yale professed
repentance--he was unnaturally submissive--and said that, as he had only
made the purchase to save the horse from possible ill-treatment and
starvation, he would now shoot him and end the business. This appeared to
soothe the Colonel, for he wanted the Drum-Horse disposed of. He felt that
he had made a mistake, and could not of course acknowledge it. Meantime,
the presence of the Drum-Horse was an annoyance to him.

Yale took to himself a glass of the old brandy, three cheroots, and his
friend Martyn; and they all left the Mess together. Yale and Martyn
conferred for two hours in Yale's quarters; but only the bull-terrier who
keeps watch over Yale's boot-trees knows what they said. A horse, hooded
and sheeted to his ears, left Yale's stables and was taken, very
unwillingly, into the Civil Lines. Yale's groom went with him. Two men
broke into the Regimental Theatre and took several paint-pots and some
large scenery-brushes. Then night fell over the Cantonments, and there was
a noise as of a horse kicking his loose-box to pieces in Yale's stables.
Yale had a big, old, white Waler trap-horse.

The next day was a Thursday, and the men, hearing that Yale was going to
shoot the Drum-Horse in the evening, determined to give the beast a
regular regimental funeral--a finer one than they would have given the
Colonel had he died just then. They got a bullock-cart and some sacking,
and mounds and mounds of roses, and the body, under sacking, was carried
out to the place where the anthrax cases were cremated; two-thirds of the
Regiment following. There was no Band, but they all sang "The Place where
the old Horse died" as something respectful and appropriate to the
occasion. When the corpse was dumped into the grave and the men began
throwing down armfuls of roses to cover it, the Farrier-Sergeant ripped
out an oath and said aloud, "Why, it ain't the Drum-Horse any more than
it's me!" The Troop Sergeant-Majors asked him whether he had left his head
in the Canteen. The Farrier-Sergeant said that he knew the Drum-Horse's
feet as well as he knew his own; but he was silenced when he saw the
regimental number burned in on the poor stiff, upturned near-fore.

Thus was the Drum-Horse of the White Hussars buried; the Farrier-Sergeant
grumbling. The sacking that covered the corpse was smeared In places with
black paint; and the Farrier-Sergeant drew attention to this fact. But the
Troop Sergeant-Major of E Troop kicked him severely on the shin, and told
him that he was undoubtedly drunk.

On the Monday following the burial, the Colonel sought revenge on the
White Hussars. Unfortunately, being at that time temporarily in Command of
the Station, he ordered a Brigade field-day. He said that he wished to
make the Regiment "sweat for their damned insolence," and he carried out
his notion thoroughly. That Monday was one of the hardest days in the
memory of the White Hussars. They were thrown against a skeleton-enemy,
and pushed forward, and withdrawn, and dismounted, and "scientifically
handled" in every possible fashion over dusty country, till they sweated
profusely. Their only amusement came late in the day when they fell upon
the battery of Horse Artillery and chased it for two miles. This was a
personal question, and most of the troopers had money on the event; the
Gunners saying openly that they had the legs of the White Hussars. They
were wrong. A march-past concluded the campaign, and when the Regiment got
back to their Lines, the men were coated with dirt from spur to
chin-strap.

The White Hussars have one great and peculiar privilege. They won it at
Fontenoy, I think.

Many Regiments possess special rights such as wearing collars with undress
uniform, or a bow of riband between the shoulders, or red and white roses
in their helmets on certain days of the year. Some rights are connected
with regimental saints, and some with regimental successes. All are valued
highly; but none so highly as the right of the White Hussars to have the
Band playing when their horses are being watered in the Lines. Only one
tune is played, and that tune never varies. I don't know its real name,
but the White Hussars call it, "Take me to London again." It sounds very
pretty. The Regiment would sooner be struck off the roster than forego
their distinction.

After the "dismiss" was sounded, the officers rode off home to prepare for
stables; and the men filed into the lines riding easy. That is to say,
they opened their tight buttons, shifted their helmets, and began to joke
or to swear as the humor took them; the more careful slipping off and
easing girths and curbs. A good trooper values his mount exactly as much
as he values himself, and believes, or should believe, that the two
together are irresistible where women or men, girls or guns, are
concerned.

Then the Orderly-Officer gave the order, "Water horses," and the Regiment
loafed off to the squadron-troughs which were in rear of the stables and
between these and the barracks. There were four huge troughs, one for each
squadron, arranged _en �chelon_, so that the whole Regiment could water in
ten minutes if it liked. But it lingered for seventeen, as a rule, while
the Band played.

The Band struck up as the squadrons filed off to the troughs, and the men
slipped their feet out of the stirrups and chaffed each other. The sun was
just setting in a big, hot bed of red cloud, and the road to the Civil
Lines seemed to run straight into the sun's eye. There was a little dot on
the road. It grew and grew till it showed as a horse, with a sort of
gridiron-thing on his back. The red cloud glared through the bars of the
gridiron. Some of the troopers shaded their eyes with their hands and
said--"What the mischief 'as that there 'orse got on 'im?"

In another minute they heard a neigh that every soul--horse and man--in
the Regiment knew, and saw, heading straight toward the Band, the dead
Drum-Horse of the White Hussars!

On his withers banged and bumped the kettledrums draped in crape, and on
his back, very stiff and soldierly, sat a bareheaded skeleton.

The Band stopped playing, and, for a moment, there was a hush.

Then some one in E Troop--men said it was the Troop-Sergeant-Major--swung
his horse round and yelled. No one can account exactly for what happened
afterward; but it seems that, at least, one man in each troop set an
example of panic, and the rest followed like sheep. The horses that had
barely put their muzzles into the troughs reared and capered; but as soon
as the Band broke, which it did when the ghost of the Drum-Horse was about
a furlong distant, all hooves followed suit, and the clatter of the
stampede--quite different from the orderly throb and roar of a movement on
parade, or the rough horse-play of watering in camp--made them only more
terrified. They felt that the men on their backs were afraid of something.
When horses once know that, all is over except the butchery.

Troop after troop turned from the troughs and ran--anywhere and
everywhere--like spilled quicksilver. It was a most extraordinary
spectacle, for men and horses were in all stages of easiness, and the
carbine-buckets flopping against their sides urged the horses on. Men were
shouting and cursing, and trying to pull clear of the Band which was being
chased by the Drum-Horse whose rider had fallen forward and seemed to be
spurring for a wager.

The Colonel had gone over to the Mess for a drink. Most of the officers
were with him, and the Subaltern of the Day was preparing to go down to
the lines, and receive the watering reports from the Troop-Sergeant-
Majors. When "Take me to London again" stopped, after twenty bars, every
one in the Mess said, "What on earth has happened?" A minute later, they
heard unmilitary noises, and saw, far across the plain, the White Hussars
scattered, and broken, and flying.

The Colonel was speechless with rage, for he thought that the Regiment had
risen against him or was unanimously drunk. The Band, a disorganized mob,
tore past, and at its heels labored the Drum-Horse--the dead and buried
Drum-Horse--with the jolting, clattering skeleton, Hogan-Yale whispered
softly to Martyn--"No wire will stand that treatment," and the Band, which
had doubled like a hare, came back again. But the rest of the Regiment was
gone, was rioting all over the Province, for the dusk had shut in and each
man was howling to his neighbor that the Drum-Horse was on his flank.
Troop-horses are far too tenderly treated as a rule. They can, on
emergencies, do a great deal, even with seventeen stone on their backs. As
the troopers found out.

How long this panic lasted I cannot say. I believe that when the moon rose
the men saw they had nothing to fear, and, by twos and threes and
half-troops, crept back into Cantonments very much ashamed of themselves.
Meantime, the Drum-Horse, disgusted at his treatment by old friends,
pulled up, wheeled round, and trotted up to the Mess veranda-steps for
bread. No one liked to run; but no one cared to go forward till the
Colonel made a movement and laid hold of the skeleton's foot. The Band had
halted some distance away, and now came back slowly. The Colonel called
it, individually and collectively, every evil name that occurred to him at
the time; for he had set his hand on the bosom of the Drum-Horse and found
flesh and blood. Then he beat the kettle-drums with his clenched fist, and
discovered that they were but made of silvered paper and bamboo. Next,
still swearing, he tried to drag the skeleton out of the saddle, but found
that it had been wired into the cantle. The sight of the Colonel, with his
arms round the skeleton's pelvis and his knee in the old Drum-Horse's
stomach, was striking. Not to say amusing. He worried the thing off in a
minute or two, and threw it down on the ground, saying to the Band--"Here,
you curs, that's what you're afraid of." The skeleton did not look pretty
in the twilight The Band-Sergeant seemed to recognize it, for he began to
chuckle and choke. "Shall I take it away, sir?" said the Band-Sergeant.
"Yes," said the Colonel, "take it to Hell, and ride there yourselves!"

The Band-Sergeant saluted, hoisted the skeleton across his saddle-bow, and
led off to the stables. Then the Colonel began to make inquiries for the
rest of the Regiment, and the language he used was wonderful, He would
disband the Regiment--he would court-martial every soul in it--he would
not command such a set of rabble, and so on, and so on. As the men dropped
in, his language grew wilder, until at last it exceeded the utmost limits
of free speech allowed even to a Colonel of Horse.

Martyn took Hogan-Yale aside and suggested compulsory retirement from the
Service as a necessity when all was discovered. Martyn was the weaker man
of the two. Hogan-Yale put up his eyebrows and remarked, firstly, that he
was the son of a Lord, and, secondly, that he was as innocent as the babe
unborn of the theatrical resurrection of the Drum-Horse.

"My instructions," said Yale, with a singularly sweet smile, "were that
the Drum-Horse should be sent back as impressively as possible. I ask you,
_am_ I responsible if a mule-headed friend sends him back in such a manner
as to disturb the peace of mind of a regiment of Her Majesty's Cavalry?"

Martyn said, "You are a great man, and will in time become a General; but
I'd give my chance of a troop to be safe out of this affair."

Providence saved Martyn and Hogan-Yale. The Second-in-Command led the
Colonel away to the little curtained alcove wherein the Subalterns of the
White Hussars were accustomed to play poker of nights; and there, after
many oaths on the Colonel's part, they talked together in low tones. I
fancy that the Second-in-Command must have represented the scare as the
work of some trooper whom it would be hopeless to detect; and I know that
he dwelt upon the sin and the shame of making a public laughing-stock of
the scare.

"They will call us," said the Second-in-Command, who had really a fine
imagination--"they will call us the 'Fly-by-Nights'; they will call us the
'Ghost Hunters'; they will nickname us from one end of the Army List to
the other. All the explanation in the world won't make outsiders
understand that the officers were away when the panic began. For the honor
of the Regiment and for your own sake keep this thing quiet."

The Colonel was so exhausted with anger that soothing him down was not so
difficult as might be imagined. He was made to see, gently and by degrees,
that it was obviously impossible to court-martial the whole Regiment and
equally impossible to proceed against any subaltern who, in his belief,
had any concern in the hoax.

"But the beast's alive! He's never been shot at all!" shouted the Colonel.
"It's flat flagrant disobedience! I've known a man broke for less--dam
sight less. They're mocking me, I tell you, Mutman! They're mocking me!"

Once more, the Second-in-Command set himself to soothe the Colonel, and
wrestled with him for half an hour. At the end of that time, the
Regimental Sergeant-Major reported himself. The situation was rather novel
to him; but he was not a man to be put out by circumstances. He saluted
and said, "Regiment all comeback, Sir." Then, to propitiate the
Colonel--"An' none of the 'orses any the worse, Sir,"

The Colonel only snorted and answered--"You'd better tuck the men into
their cots, then, and see that they don't wake up and cry in the night"
The Sergeant withdrew.

His little stroke of humor pleased the Colonel, and, further, he felt
slightly ashamed of the language he had been using. The Second-in-Command
worried him again, and the two sat talking far into the night.

Next day but one, there was a Commanding Officer's parade, and the Colonel
harangued the White Hussars vigorously. The pith of his speech was that,
since the Drum-Horse in his old age had proved himself capable of cutting
up the whole Regiment, he should return to his post of pride at the head
of the Band, _but_ the Regiment were a set of ruffians with bad
consciences.

The White Hussars shouted, and threw everything movable about them into
the air, and when the parade was over, they cheered the Colonel till they
couldn't speak. No cheers were put up for Lieutenant Hogan-Yale, who
smiled very sweetly in the background.

Said the Second-in-Command to the Colonel, unofficially--

"These little things ensure popularity, and do not the least affect
discipline."

"But I went back on my word," said the Colonel.

"Never mind," said the Second-in-Command. "The White Hussars will follow
you anywhere from to-day. Regiments are just like women. They will do
anything for trinketry."

A week later, Hogan-Yale received an extraordinary letter from some one
who signed himself "Secretary, _Charity and Zeal,_ 3709, E. C.," and asked
for "the return of our skeleton which we have reason to believe is in your
possession."

"Who the deuce is this lunatic who trades in bones?" said Hogan-Yale.

"Beg your pardon, Sir," said the Band-Sergeant, "but the skeleton is with
me, an' I'll return it if you'll pay the carriage into the Civil Lines.
There's a coffin with it, Sir."

Hogan-Yale smiled and handed two rupees to the Band-Sergeant, saying,
"Write the date on the skull, will you?"

If you doubt this story, and know where to go, you can see the date on the
skeleton. But don't mention the matter to the White Hussars.

I happened to know something about it, because I prepared the Drum-Horse
for his resurrection. He did not take kindly to the skeleton at all.



AT TWENTY-TWO

Narrow as the womb, deep as the Pit, and dark as the heart of a
man.--_Sonthal Miner's Proverb_.

"A weaver went out to reap but stayed to unravel the corn-stalks. Ha! Ha!
Ha! Is there any sense in a weaver?"

Janki Meah glared at Kundoo, but, as Janki Meah was blind, Kundoo was not
impressed. He had come to argue with Janki Meah, and, if chance favored,
to make love to the old man's pretty young wife.

This was Kundoo's grievance, and he spoke in the name of all the five men
who, with Janki Meah, composed the gang in Number Seven gallery of
Twenty-Two. Janki Meah had been blind for the thirty years during which he
had served the Jimahari Collieries with pick and crowbar. All through
those thirty years he had regularly, every morning before going down,
drawn from the overseer his allowance of lamp-oil--just as if he had been
an eyed miner. What Kundoo's gang resented, as hundreds of gangs had
resented before, was Janki Meah's selfishness. He would not add the oil to
the common stock of his gang, but would save and sell it.

"I knew these workings before you were born," Janki Meah used to reply; "I
don't want the light to get my coal out by, and I am not going to help
you. The oil is mine, and I intend to keep it."

A strange man in many ways was Janki Meah, the white-haired, hot tempered,
sightless weaver who had turned pitman. All day long--except on Sundays
and Mondays when he was usually drunk--he worked in the Twenty-Two shaft
of the Jimahari Colliery as cleverly as a man with all the senses. At
evening he went up in the great steam-hauled cage to the pit-bank, and
there called for his pony--a rusty, coal-dusty beast, nearly as old as
Janki Meah. The pony would come to his side, and Janki Meah would clamber
on to its back and be taken at once to the plot of land which he, like the
other miners, received from the Jimahari Company. The pony knew that
place, and when, after six years, the Company changed all the allotments
to prevent the miners from acquiring proprietary rights, Janki Meah
represented, with tears in his eyes, that were his holdings shifted, he
would never be able to find his way to the new one. "My horse only knows
that place," pleaded Janki Meah, and so he was allowed to keep his land.

On the strength of this concession and his accumulated oil-savings, Janki
Meah took a second wife--a girl of the Jolaha main stock of the Meahs, and
singularly beautiful. Janki Meah could not see her beauty; wherefore he
took her on trust, and forbade her to go down the pit. He had not worked
for thirty years in the dark without knowing that the pit was no place for
pretty women. He loaded her with ornaments--not brass or pewter, but real
silver ones--and she rewarded him by flirting outrageously with Kundoo of
Number Seven gallery gang. Kundoo was really the gang-head, but Janki Meah
insisted upon all the work being entered in his own name, and chose the
men that he worked with. Custom--stronger even than the Jimahari
Company--dictated that Janki, by right of his years, should manage these
things, and should, also, work despite his blindness. In Indian mines
where they cut into the solid coal with the pick and clear it out from
floor to ceiling, he could come to no great harm. At Home, where they
undercut the coal and bring it down in crashing avalanches from the roof,
he would never have been allowed to set foot in a pit. He was not a
popular man, because of his oil-savings; but all the gangs admitted that
Janki knew all the _khads,_ or workings, that had ever been sunk or worked
since the Jimahari Company first started operations on the Tarachunda
fields.

Pretty little Unda only knew that her old husband was a fool who could be
managed. She took no interest in the collieries except in so far as they
swallowed up Kundoo five days out of the seven, and covered him with
coal-dust. Kundoo was a great workman, and did his best not to get drunk,
because, when he had saved forty rupees, Unda was to steal everything that
she could find in Janki's house and run with Kundoo to a land where there
were no mines, and every one kept three fat bullocks and a milch-buffalo.
While this scheme ripened it was his custom to drop in upon Janki and
worry him about the oil savings. Unda sat in a corner and nodded approval.
On the night when Kundoo had quoted that objectionable proverb about
weavers, Janki grew angry.

"Listen, you pig," said he, "blind I am, and old I am, but, before ever
you were born, I was grey among the coal. Even in the days when the
Twenty-Two _khad_ was unsunk and there were not two thousand men here, I
was known to have all knowledge of the pits. What _khad_ is there that I
do not know, from the bottom of the shaft to the end of the last drive? Is
it the Baromba _khad_, the oldest, or the Twenty-Two where Tibu's gallery
runs up to Number Five?"

"Hear the old fool talk!" said Kundoo, nodding to Unda. "No gallery of
Twenty-Two will cut into Five before the end of the Rains. We have a
month's solid coal before us. The Babuji says so."

"Babuji! Pigji! Dogji! What do these fat slugs from Calcutta know? He
draws and draws and draws, and talks and talks and talks, and his maps are
all wrong. I, Janki, know that this is so. When a man has been shut up in
the dark for thirty years, God gives him knowledge. The old gallery that
Tibu's gang made is not six feet from Number Five."

"Without doubt God gives the blind knowledge," said Kundoo, with a look at
Unda. "Let it be as you say. I, for my part, do not know where lies the
gallery of Tibu's gang, but _I_ am not a withered monkey who needs oil to
grease his joints with."

Kundoo swung out of the hut laughing, and Unda giggled. Janki turned his
sightless eyes toward his wife and swore. "I have land, and I have sold a
great deal of lamp-oil," mused Janki; "but I was a fool to marry this
child."

A week later the Rains set in with a vengeance, and the gangs paddled
about in coal-slush at the pit-banks. Then the big mine-pumps were made
ready, and the Manager of the Colliery ploughed through the wet toward the
Tarachunda River swelling between its soppy banks. "Lord send that this
beastly beck doesn't misbehave," said the Manager, piously, and he went to
take counsel with his Assistant about the pumps.

But the Tarachunda misbehaved very much indeed. After a fall of three
inches of rain in an hour it was obliged to do something. It topped its
bank and joined the flood water that was hemmed between two low hills just
where the embankment of the Colliery main line crossed. When a large part
of a rain-fed river, and a few acres of flood-water, made a dead set for a
nine-foot culvert, the culvert may spout its finest, but the water cannot
_all_ get out. The Manager pranced upon one leg with excitement, and his
language was improper.

He had reason to swear, because he knew that one inch of water on land
meant a pressure of one hundred tons to the acre; and here were about five
feet of water forming, behind the railway embankment, over the shallower
workings of Twenty-Two. You must understand that, in a coal-mine, the coal
nearest the surface is worked first from the central shaft. That is to
say, the miners may clear out the stuff to within ten, twenty, or thirty
feet of the surface, and, when all is worked out, leave only a skin of
earth upheld by some few pillars of coal. In a deep mine where they know
that they have any amount of material at hand, men prefer to get all their
mineral out at one shaft, rather than make a number of little holes to tap
the comparatively unimportant surface-coal.

And the Manager watched the flood.

The culvert spouted a nine-foot gush; but the water still formed, and word
was sent to clear the men out of Twenty-Two. The cages came up crammed and
crammed again with the men nearest the pit-eye, as they call the place
where you can see daylight from the bottom of the main shaft. All away and
away up the long black galleries the flare-lamps were winking and dancing
like so many fireflies, and the men and the women waited for the clanking,
rattling, thundering cages to come down and fly up again. But the
outworkings were very far off, and word could not be passed quickly,
though the heads of the gangs and the Assistant shouted and swore and
tramped and stumbled. The Manager kept one eye on the great troubled pool
behind the embankment, and prayed that the culvert would give way and let
the water through in time. With the other eye he watched the cages come up
and saw the headmen counting the roll of the gangs. With all his heart and
soul he swore at the winder who controlled the iron drum that wound up the
wire rope on which hung the cages.

In a little time there was a down-draw in the water behind the
embankment--a sucking whirlpool, all yellow and yeasty. The water had
smashed through the skin of the earth and was pouring into the old shallow
workings of Twenty-Two.

Deep down below, a rush of black water caught the last gang waiting for
the cage, and as they clambered in, the whirl was about their waists. The
cage reached the pit-bank, and the Manager called the roll. The gangs were
all safe except Gang Janki, Gang Mogul, and Gang Rahim, eighteen men, with
perhaps ten basket-women who loaded the coal into the little iron
carriages that ran on the tramways of the main galleries. These gangs were
in the out-workings, three-quarters of a mile away, on the extreme fringe
of the mine. Once more the cage went down, but with only two English men
in it, and dropped into a swirling, roaring current that had almost
touched the roof of some of the lower side-galleries. One of the wooden
balks with which they had propped the old workings shot past on the
current, just missing the cage.

"If we don't want our ribs knocked out, we'd better go," said the Manager.
"We can't even save the Company's props."

The cage drew out of the water with a splash, and a few minutes later, it
was officially reported that there were at least ten feet of water in the
pit's eye. Now ten feet of water there meant that all other places in the
mine were flooded except such galleries as were more than ten feet above
the level of the bottom of the shaft. The deep workings would be full, the
main galleries would be full, but in the high workings reached by inclines
from the main roads, there would be a certain amount of air cut off, so to
speak, by the water and squeezed up by it. The little science-primers
explain how water behaves when you pour it down test-tubes. The flooding
of Twenty-Two was an illustration on a large scale.


       *
       *
       *
       *
       *

"By the Holy Grove, what has happened to the air!" It was a Sonthal
gangman of Gang Mogul in Number Nine gallery, and he was driving a
six-foot way through the coal. Then there was a rush from the other
galleries, and Gang Janki and Gang Rahim stumbled up with their
basket-women.

"Water has come in the mine," they said, "and there is no way of getting
out."

"I went down," said Janki--"down the slope of my gallery, and I felt the
water."

"There has been no water in the cutting in our time," clamored the women,
"Why cannot we go away?"

"Be silent!" said Janki, "Long ago, when my father was here, water came to
Ten--no, Eleven--cutting, and there was great trouble. Let us get away to
where the air is better."

The three gangs and the basket-women left Number Nine gallery and went
further up Number Sixteen. At one turn of the road they could see the
pitchy black water lapping on the coal. It had touched the roof of a
gallery that they knew well--a gallery where they used to smoke their
_huqas_ and manage their flirtations. Seeing this, they called aloud upon
their Gods, and the Mehas, who are thrice bastard Muhammadans, strove to
recollect the name of the Prophet. They came to a great open square whence
nearly all the coal had been extracted. It was the end of the
out-workings, and the end of the mine.

Far away down the gallery a small pumping-engine, used for keeping dry a
deep working and fed with steam from above, was throbbing faithfully. They
heard it cease.

"They have cut off the steam," said Kundoo, hopefully. "They have given
the order to use all the steam for the pit-bank pumps. They will clear out
the water."

"If the water has reached the smoking-gallery," said Janki, "all the
Company's pumps can do nothing for three days."

"It is very hot," moaned Jasoda, the Meah basket-woman. "There is a very
bad air here because of the lamps."

"Put them out," said Janki; "why do you want lamps?" The lamps were put
out and the company sat still in the utter dark. Somebody rose quietly and
began walking over the coals. It was Janki, who was touching the walls
with his hands. "Where is the ledge?" he murmured to himself.

"Sit, sit!" said Kundoo. "If we die, we die. The air is very bad."

But Janki still stumbled and crept and tapped with his pick upon the
walls. The women rose to their feet.

"Stay all where you are. Without the lamps you cannot see, and I--I am
always seeing," said Janki. Then he paused, and called out: "Oh, you who
have been in the cutting more than ten years, what is the name of this
open place? I am an old man and I have forgotten."

"Bullia's Room," answered the Sonthal, who had complained of the vileness
of the air.

"Again," said Janki.

"Bullia's Room."

"Then I have found it," said Janki. "The name only had slipped my memory.
Tibu's gang's gallery is here."

"A lie," said Kundoo. "There have been no galleries in this place since my
day."

"Three paces was the depth of the ledge," muttered Janki, without
heeding--"and--oh, my poor bones!--I have found it! It is here, up this
ledge, Come all you, one by one, to the place of my voice, and I will
count you,"

There was a rush in the dark, and Janki felt the first man's face hit his
knees as the Sonthal scrambled up the ledge.

"Who?" cried Janki.

"I, Sunua Manji."

"Sit you down," said Janki, "Who next?"

One by one the women and the men crawled up the ledge which ran along one
side of "Bullia's Room." Degraded Muhammadan, pig-eating Musahr and wild
Sonthal, Janki ran his hand over them all.

"Now follow after," said he, "catching hold of my heel, and the women
catching the men's clothes." He did not ask whether the men had brought
their picks with them. A miner, black or white, does not drop his pick.
One by one, Janki leading, they crept into the old gallery--a six-foot way
with a scant four feet from hill to roof.

"The air is better here," said Jasoda. They could hear her heart beating
in thick, sick bumps.

"Slowly, slowly," said Janki. "I am an old man, and I forget many things.
This is Tibu's gallery, but where are the four bricks where they used to
put their _huqa_ fire on when the Sahibs never saw? Slowly, slowly, O you
people behind."

They heard his hands disturbing the small coal on the floor of the gallery
and then a dull sound. "This is one unbaked brick, and this is another and
another. Kundoo is a young man--let him come forward. Put a knee upon this
brick and strike here. When Tibu's gang were at dinner on the last day
before the good coal ended, they heard the men of Five on the other side,
and Five worked _their_ gallery two Sundays later--or it may have been
one. Strike there, Kundoo, but give me room to go back."

Kundoo, doubting, drove the pick, but the first soft crush of the coal was
a call to him. He was fighting for his life and for Unda--pretty little
Unda with rings on all her toes--for Unda and the forty rupees. The women
sang the Song of the Pick--the terrible, slow, swinging melody with the
muttered chorus that repeats the sliding of the loosened coal, and, to
each cadence, Kundoo smote in the black dark. When he could do no more,
Sunua Manji took the pick, and struck for his life and his wife, and his
village beyond the blue hills over the Tarachunda River. An hour the men
worked, and then the women cleared away the coal.

"It is farther than I thought," said Janki. "The air is very bad; but
strike, Kundoo, strike hard,"

For the fifth time Kundoo took up the pick as the Sonthal crawled back.
The song had scarcely recommenced when it was broken by a yell from Kundoo
that echoed down the gallery: "_Par hua! Par hua!_ We are through, we are
through!" The imprisoned air in the mine shot through the opening, and the
women at the far end of the gallery heard the water rush through the
pillars of "Bullia's Room" and roar against the ledge. Having fulfilled
the law under which it worked, it rose no farther. The women screamed and
pressed forward, "The water has come--we shall be killed! Let us go."

Kundoo crawled through the gap and found himself in a propped gallery by
the simple process of hitting his head against a beam.

"Do I know the pits or do I not?" chuckled Janki. "This is the Number
Five; go you out slowly, giving me your names. Ho! Rahim, count your gang!
Now let us go forward, each catching hold of the other as before."

They formed a line in the darkness and Janki led them--for a pit-man in a
strange pit is only one degree less liable to err than an ordinary mortal
underground for the first time. At last they saw a flare-lamp, and Gangs
Janki, Mogul, and Rahim of Twenty-Two stumbled dazed into the glare of the
draught-furnace at the bottom of Five; Janki feeling his way and the rest
behind.

"Water has come into Twenty-Two. God knows where are the others. I have
brought these men from Tibu's gallery in our cutting; making connection
through the north side of the gallery. Take us to the cage," said Janki
Meah.


       *
       *
       *
       *
       *

At the pit-bank of Twenty-Two, some thousand people clamored and wept and
shouted. One hundred men--one thousand men--had been drowned in the
cutting. They would all go to their homes to-morrow. Where were their men?
Little Unda, her cloth drenched with the rain, stood at the pit-mouth
calling down the shaft for Kundoo. They had swung the cages clear of the
mouth, and her only answer was the murmur of the flood in the pit's eye
two hundred and sixty feet below.

"Look after that woman! She'll chuck herself down the shaft in a minute,"
shouted the Manager.

But he need not have troubled; Unda was afraid of Death. She wanted
Kundoo. The Assistant was watching the flood and seeing how far he could
wade into it. There was a lull in the water, and the whirlpool had
slackened. The mine was full, and the people at the pit-bank howled.

"My faith, we shall be lucky if we have five hundred hands on the place
to-morrow!" said the Manager. "There's some chance yet of running a
temporary dam across that water. Shove in anything--tubs and bullock-carts
if you haven't enough bricks. Make them work _now_ if they never worked
before. Hi! you gangers, make them work."

Little by little the crowd was broken into detachments, and pushed toward
the water with promises of overtime. The dam-making began, and when it was
fairly under way, the Manager thought that the hour had come for the
pumps. There was no fresh inrush into the mine. The tall, red,
iron-clamped pump-beam rose and fell, and the pumps snored and guttered
and shrieked as the first water poured out of the pipe.

"We must run her all to-night," said the Manager, wearily, "but there's no
hope for the poor devils down below. Look here, Gur Sahai, if you are
proud of your engines, show me what they can do now."

Gur Sahai grinned and nodded, with his right hand upon the lever and an
oil-can in his left. He could do no more than he was doing, but he could
keep that up till the dawn. Were the Company's pumps to be beaten by the
vagaries of that troublesome Tarachunda River? Never, never! And the pumps
sobbed and panted: "Never, never!" The Manager sat in the shelter of the
pit-bank roofing, trying to dry himself by the pump-boiler fire, and, in
the dreary dusk, he saw the crowds on the dam scatter and fly.

"That's the end," he groaned. "'Twill take us six weeks to persuade 'em
that we haven't tried to drown their mates on purpose. Oh, for a decent,
rational Geordie!"

But the flight had no panic in it. Men had run over from Five with
astounding news, and the foremen could not hold their gangs together.
Presently, surrounded by a clamorous crew, Gangs Rahim, Mogul, and Janki,
and ten basket-women, walked up to report themselves, and pretty little
Unda stole away to Janki's hut to prepare his evening meal.

"Alone I found the way," explained Janki Meah, "and now will the Company
give me pension?"

The simple pit-folk shouted and leaped and went back to the dam, reassured
in their old belief that, whatever happened, so great was the power of the
Company whose salt they ate, none of them could be killed. But Gur Sahai
only bared his white teeth and kept his hand upon the lever and proved his
pumps to the uttermost.


       *
       *
       *
       *
       *

"I say," said the Assistant to the Manager, a week later, "do you
recollect _Germinal?_"

"Yes. 'Queer thing, I thought of it In the cage when that balk went by.
Why?"

"Oh, this business seems to be _Germinal_ upside down. Janki was in my
veranda all this morning, telling me that Kundoo had eloped with his
wife--Unda or Anda, I think her name was."

"Hillo! And those were the cattle that you risked your life to clear out
of Twenty-Two!"

"No--I was thinking of the Company's props, not the Company's men."

"Sounds better to say so _now_; but I don't believe you, old fellow."



THE COURTING OF DINAH SHADD

  What did the colonel's lady think?
     Nobody never knew.
   Somebody asked the sergeant's wife
     An' she told 'em true.
   When you git to a man in the case
     They're like a row o' pins,
   For the colonel's lady an' Judy O'Grady
     Are sisters under their skins.

    _Barrack Room Ballad._

All day I had followed at the heels of a pursuing army engaged on one of
the finest battles that ever camp of exercise beheld. Thirty thousand
troops had by the wisdom of the Government of India been turned loose over
a few thousand square miles of country to practice in peace what they
would never attempt in war. Consequently cavalry charged unshaken infantry
at the trot. Infantry captured artillery by frontal attacks delivered in
line of quarter columns, and mounted infantry skirmished up to the wheels
of an armored train which carried nothing more deadly than a twenty-five
pounder Armstrong, two Nordenfeldts, and a few score volunteers all cased
in three-eighths-inch boiler-plate. Yet it was a very lifelike camp.
Operations did not cease at sundown; nobody knew the country and nobody
spared man or horse. There was unending cavalry scouting and almost
unending forced work over broken ground. The Army of the South had finally
pierced the centre of the Army of the North, and was pouring through the
gap hot-foot to capture a city of strategic importance. Its front extended
fanwise, the sticks being represented by regiments strung out along the
line of route backward to the divisional transport columns and all the
lumber that trails behind an army on the move. On its right the broken
left of the Army of the North was flying in mass, chased by the Southern
horse and hammered by the Southern guns till these had been pushed far
beyond the limits of their last support. Then the flying sat down to rest,
while the elated commandant of the pursuing force telegraphed that he held
all in check and observation.

Unluckily he did not observe that three miles to his right flank a flying
column of Northern horse with a detachment of Ghoorkhas and British troops
had been pushed round, as fast as the failing light allowed, to cut across
the entire rear of the Southern Army, to break, as it were, all the ribs
of the fan where they converged by striking at the transport, reserve
ammunition, and artillery supplies. Their instructions were to go in,
avoiding the few scouts who might not have been drawn off by the pursuit,
and create sufficient excitement to impress the Southern Army with the
wisdom of guarding their own flank and rear before they captured cities.
It was a pretty manoeuvre, neatly carried out.

Speaking for the second division of the Southern Army, our first
intimation of the attack was at twilight, when the artillery were laboring
in deep sand, most of the escort were trying to help them out, and the
main body of the infantry had gone on. A Noah's Ark of elephants, camels,
and the mixed menagerie of an Indian transport-train bubbled and squealed
behind the guns, when there appeared from nowhere in particular British
infantry to the extent of three companies, who sprang to the heads of the
gun-horses and brought all to a standstill amid oaths and cheers.

"How's that, umpire?" said the major commanding the attack, and with one
voice the drivers and limber gunners answered "Hout!" while the colonel of
artillery sputtered.

"All your scouts are charging our main body," said the major. "Your flanks
are unprotected for two miles. I think we've broken the back of this
division. And listen,--there go the Ghoorkhas!"

A weak fire broke from the rear-guard more than a mile away, and was
answered by cheerful howlings. The Ghoorkhas, who should have swung clear
of the second division, had stepped on its tail in the dark, but drawing
off hastened to reach the next line of attack, which lay almost parallel
to us five or six miles away.

Our column swayed and surged irresolutely,--three batteries, the
divisional ammunition reserve, the baggage, and a section of the hospital
and bearer corps. The commandant ruefully promised to report himself "cut
up" to the nearest umpires and commending his cavalry and all other
cavalry to the special care of Eblis, toiled on to resume touch with the
rest of the division.

"We'll bivouac here to-night," said the major, "I have a notion that the
Ghoorkhas will get caught. They may want us to re-form on. Stand easy till
the transport gets away,"

A hand caught my beast's bridle and led him out of the choking dust; a
larger hand deftly canted me out of the saddle; and two of the hugest
hands in the world received me sliding. Pleasant is the lot of the special
correspondent who falls into such hands as those of Privates Mulvaney,
Ortheris, and Learoyd.

"An' that's all right," said the Irishman, calmly. "We thought we'd find
you somewheres here by. Is there anything av yours in the transport?
Orth'ris 'll fetch ut out."

Ortheris did "fetch ut out," from under the trunk of an elephant, in the
shape of a servant and an animal both laden with medical comforts. The
little man's eyes sparkled.

"If the brutil an' licentious soldiery av these parts gets sight av the
thruck," said Mulvaney, making practiced investigation, "they'll loot
ev'rything. They're bein' fed on iron-filin's an' dog-biscuit these days,
but glory's no compensation for a belly-ache. Praise be, we're here to
protect you, sorr. Beer, sausage, bread (soft an' that's a cur'osity),
soup in a tin, whisky by the smell av ut, an' fowls! Mother av Moses, but
ye take the field like a confectioner! 'Tis scand'lus."

"'Ere's a orficer," said Ortheris, significantly. "When the sergent's done
lushin' the privit may clean the pot."

I bundled several things into Mulvaney's haversack before the major's hand
fell on my shoulder and he said, tenderly, "Requisitioned for the Queen's
service. Wolseley was quite wrong about special correspondents: they are
the soldier's best friends. Come and take pot-luck with us to-night."

And so it happened amid laughter and shoutings that my well-considered
commissariat melted away to reappear later at the mess-table, which was a
waterproof sheet spread on the ground. The flying column had taken three
days' rations with it, and there be few things nastier than government
rations--especially when government is experimenting with German toys.
Erbsenwurst, tinned beef of surpassing tinniness, compressed vegetables,
and meat-biscuits may be nourishing, but what Thomas Atkins needs is bulk
in his inside. The major, assisted by his brother officers, purchased
goats for the camp and so made the experiment of no effect. Long before
the fatigue-party sent to collect brushwood had returned, the men were
settled down by their valises, kettles and pots had appeared from the
surrounding country and were dangling over fires as the kid and the
compressed vegetable bubbled together; there rose a cheerful clinking of
mess-tins; outrageous demands for "a little more stuffin' with that there
liver-wing;" and gust on gust of chaff as pointed as a bayonet and as
delicate as a gun-butt.

"The boys are in a good temper," said the major. "They'll be singing
presently. Well, a night like this is enough to keep them happy."

Over our heads burned the wonderful Indian stars, which are not all
pricked in on one plane, but, preserving an orderly perspective, draw the
eye through the velvet darkness of the void up to the barred doors of
heaven itself. The earth was a grey shadow more unreal than the sky. We
could hear her breathing lightly in the pauses between the howling of the
jackals, the movement of the wind in the tamarisks, and the fitful mutter
of musketry-fire leagues away to the left. A native woman from some unseen
hut began to sing, the mail-train thundered past on its way to Delhi, and
a roosting crow cawed drowsily. Then there was a belt-loosening silence
about the fires, and the even breathing of the crowded earth took up the
story.

The men, full fed, turned to tobacco and song,--their officers with them.
The subaltern is happy who can win the approval of the musical critics in
his regiment, and is honored among the more intricate step-dancers. By
him, as by him who plays cricket cleverly, Thomas Atkins will stand in
time of need, when he will let a better officer go on alone. The ruined
tombs of forgotten Mussulman saints heard the ballad of _Agra Town, The
Buffalo Battery, Marching to Kabul, The long, long Indian Day, The Place
where the Punkah-coolie died_, and that crashing chorus which announces,

  Youth's daring spirit, manhood's fire,
     Firm hand and eagle eye,
   Must he acquire who would aspire
     To see the grey boar die.

To-day, of all those jovial thieves who appropriated my commissariat and
lay and laughed round that waterproof sheet, not one remains. They went to
camps that were not of exercise and battles without umpires. Burmah, the
Soudan, and the frontier,--fever and fight,--took them in their time.

I drifted across to the men's fires in search of Mulvaney, whom I found
strategically greasing his feet by the blaze. There is nothing
particularly lovely in the sight of a private thus engaged after a long
day's march, but when you reflect on the exact proportion of the "might,
majesty, dominion, and power" of the British Empire which stands on those
feet you take an interest in the proceedings.

"There's a blister, bad luck to ut, on the heel," said Mulvaney. "I can't
touch ut. Prick ut out, little man,"

Ortheris took out his house-wife, eased the trouble with a needle, stabbed
Mulvaney in the calf with the same weapon, and was swiftly kicked into the
fire.

"I've bruk the best av my toes over you, ye grinnin' child av disruption,"
said Mulvaney, sitting cross-legged and nursing his feet; then seeing me,
"Oh, ut's you, sorr! Be welkim, an' take that maraudin' scutt's place,
Jock, hold him down on the cindhers for a bit."

But Ortheris escaped and went elsewhere, as I took possession of the
hollow he had scraped for himself and lined with his greatcoat. Learoyd on
the other side of the fire grinned affably and in a minute fell fast
asleep.

"There's the height av politeness for you," said Mulvaney, lighting his
pipe with a flaming branch. "But Jock's eaten half a box av your sardines
at wan gulp, an' I think the tin too. What's the best wid you, sorr, an'
how did you happen to be on the losin' side this day whin we captured
you?"

"The Army of the South is winning all along the line," I said.

"Then that line's the hangman's rope, savin' your presence. You'll learn
to-morrow how we rethreated to dhraw thim on before we made thim trouble,
an' that's what a woman does. By the same tokin, we'll be attacked before
the dawnin' an' ut would be betther not to slip your boots. How do I know
that? By the light av pure reason. Here are three companies av us ever so
far inside av the enemy's flank an' a crowd av roarin', tarin', squealin'
cavalry gone on just to turn out the whole hornet's nest av them. Av
course the enemy will pursue, by brigades like as not, an' thin we'll have
to run for ut. Mark my words. I am av the opinion av Polonius whin he
said, 'Don't fight wid ivry scutt for the pure joy av fightin', but if you
do, knock the nose av him first an' frequint.'. We ought to ha' gone on
an' helped the Ghoorkhas."

"But what do you know about Polonius?" I demanded. This was a new side of
Mulvaney's character.

"All that Shakespeare iver wrote an' a dale more that the gallery
shouted," said the man of war, carefully lacing his boots. "Did I not tell
you av Silver's theatre in Dublin, whin I was younger than I am now an' a
patron av the drama? Ould Silver wud never pay actor-man or woman their
just dues, an' by consequince his comp'nies was collapsible at the last
minut. Thin the bhoys wud clamor to take a part, an' oft as not ould
Silver made them pay for the fun. Faith, I've seen Hamlut played wid a new
black eye an' the queen as full as a cornucopia. I remimber wanst Hogin
that 'listed in the Black Tyrone an' was shot in South Africa, he sejuced
ould Silver into givin' him Hamlut's part instid av me that had a fine
fancy for rhetoric in those days. Av course I wint into the gallery an'
began to fill the pit wid other people's hats, an' I passed the time av
day to Hogin walkin' through Denmark like a hamstrung mule wid a pall on
his back, 'Hamlut,' sez I, 'there's a hole in your heel. Pull up your
shtockin's, Hamlut,' sez I, 'Hamlut, Hamlut, for the love av decincy dhrop
that skull an' pull up your shtockin's.' The whole house begun to tell him
that. He stopped his soliloquishms mid-between. 'My shtockin's may be
comin' down or they may not,' sez he, screwin' his eye into the gallery,
for well he knew who I was. 'But afther this performince is over me an'
the Ghost 'll trample the tripes out av you, Terence, wid your ass's
bray!' An' that's how I come to know about Hamlut. Eyah! Those days, those
days! Did you iver have onendin' devilmint an' nothin' to pay for it in
your life, sorr?"

"Never, without having to pay," I said.

"That's thrue! 'Tis mane whin you considher on ut; but ut's the same wid
horse or fut. A headache if you dhrink, an' a belly-ache if you eat too
much, an' a heart-ache to kape all down. Faith, the beast only gets the
colic, an' he's the lucky man."

He dropped his head and stared into the fire, fingering his moustache the
while. From the far side of the bivouac the voice of Corbet-Nolan, senior
subaltern of B Company, uplifted itself in an ancient and much appreciated
song of sentiment, the men moaning melodiously behind him.

   The north wind blew coldly, she dropped from that hour,
   My own little Kathleen, my sweet little Kathleen,
   Kathleen, my Kathleen, Kathleen O'Moore!

With forty-five O's in the last word: even at that distance you might have
cut the soft South Irish accent with a shovel.

"For all we take we must pay, but the price is cruel high," murmured
Mulvaney when the chorus had ceased.

"What's the trouble?" I said gently, for I knew that he was a man of an
inextinguishable sorrow.

"Hear now," said he. "Ye know what I am now. _I_ know what I mint to be at
the beginnin' av my service. I've tould you time an' again, an' what I
have not Dinah Shadd has. An' what am I? Oh, Mary Mother av Hiven, an ould
dhrunken, untrustable baste av a privit that has seen the reg'ment change
out from colonel to drummer-boy, not wanst or twice, but scores av times!
Ay, scores! An' me not so near gettin' promotion as in the first! An' me
livin' on an' kapin' clear av clink, not by my own good conduck, but the
kindness av some orf'cer-bhoy young enough to be son to me! Do I not know
ut? Can I not tell whin I'm passed over at p'rade, tho' I'm rockin' full
av liquor an' ready to fall all in wan piece, such as even a suckin' child
might see, bekaze, 'Oh, 'tis only ould Mulvaney!' An' whin I'm let off in
ord'ly-room through some thrick of the tongue an' a ready answer an' the
ould man's mercy, is ut smilin' I feel whin I fall away an' go back to
Dinah Shadd, thryin' to carry ut all off as a joke? Not I! 'Tis hell to
me, dumb hell through ut all; an' next time whin the fit comes I will be
as bad again. Good cause the reg'ment has to know me for the best soldier
in ut. Better cause have I to know mesilf for the worst man. I'm only fit
to tache the new drafts what I'll niver learn mesilf; an' I am sure, as
tho' I heard ut, that the minut wan av these pink-eyed recruities gets
away from my 'Mind ye now,' an' 'Listen to this, Jim, bhoy,'--sure I am
that the sergint houlds me up to him for a warnin'. So I tache, as they
say at musketry-instruction, by direct and ricochet fire. Lord be good to
me, for I have stud some throuble!"

"Lie down and go to sleep," said I, not being able to comfort or advise.
"You're the best man in the regiment, and, next to Ortheris, the biggest
fool. Lie down and wait till we're attacked. What force will they turn
out? Guns, think you?"

"Try that wid your lorrds an' ladies, twistin' an' turnin' the talk, tho'
you mint ut well. Ye cud say nothin' to help me, an' yet ye niver knew
what cause I had to be what I am."

"Begin at the beginning and go on to the end," I said, royally. "But rake
up the fire a bit first."

I passed Ortheris's bayonet for a poker.

"That shows how little we know what we do," said Mulvaney, putting it
aside. "Fire takes all the heart out av the steel, an' the next time, may
be, that our little man is fighting for his life his bradawl 'll break,
an' so you'll ha' killed him, manin' no more than to kape yourself warm.
'Tis a recruity's thrick that. Pass the clanin'-rod, sorr."

I snuggled down abased; and after an interval the voice of Mulvaney began.

"Did I iver tell you how Dinah Shadd came to be wife av mine?"

I dissembled a burning anxiety that I had felt for some months--ever since
Dinah Shadd, the strong, the patient, and the infinitely tender, had of
her own good love and free will washed a shirt for me, moving in a barren
land where washing was not.

"I can't remember," I said, casually. "Was it before or after you made
love to Annie Bragin, and got no satisfaction?"

The story of Annie Bragin is written in another place. It is one of the
many less respectable episodes in Mulvaney's checkered career.

"Before--before--long before, was that business av Annie Bragin an' the
corp'ril's ghost. Niver woman was the worse for me whin I had married
Dinah. There's a time for all things, an' I know how to kape all things in
place--barrin' the dhrink, that kapes me in my place wid no hope av comin'
to be aught else."

"Begin at the beginning," I insisted. "Mrs. Mulvaney told me that you
married her when you were quartered in Krab Bokhar barracks."

"An' the same is a cess-pit," said Mulvaney, piously. "She spoke thrue,
did Dinah. 'Twas this way. Talkin' av that, have ye iver fallen in love,
sorr?"

I preserved the silence of the damned. Mulvaney continued--

"Thin I will assume that ye have not. _I_ did. In the days av my youth, as
I have more than wanst tould you, I was a man that filled the eye an'
delighted the sowl av women. Niver man was hated as I have bin. Niver man
was loved as I--no, not within half a day's march av ut! For the first
five years av my service, whin I was what I wud give my sowl to be now, I
tuk whatever was within my reach an' digested ut--an' that's more than
most men can say. Dhrink I tuk, an' ut did me no harm. By the Hollow av
Hiven, I cud play wid four women at wanst, an' kape them from findin' out
anythin' about the other three, an' smile like a fullblown marigold
through ut all. Dick Coulhan, av the battery we'll have down on us
to-night, could drive his team no better than I mine, an' I hild the
worser cattle! An' so I lived, an' so I was happy till afther that
business wid Annie Bragin--she that turned me off as cool as a meat-safe,
an' taught me where I stud in the mind av an honest woman. 'Twas no sweet
dose to swallow.

"Afther that I sickened awhile an' tuk thought to my reg'mental work;
conceiting mesilf I wud study an' be a sargint, an' a major-gineral twinty
minutes afther that. But on top av my ambitiousness there was an empty
place in my sowl, an' me own opinion av mesilf cud not fill ut. Sez I to
mesilf, 'Terence, you're a great man an' the best set-up in the reg'mint.
Go on an' get promotion.' Sez mesilf to me, 'What for?' Sez I to mesilf,
'For the glory av ut!' Sez mesilf to me, 'Will that fill these two strong
arrums av yours, Terence?' 'Go to the devil,' sez I to mesilf, 'Go to the
married lines,' sez mesilf to me. 'Tis the same thing,' sez I to mesilf.
'Av you're the same man, ut is,' said mesilf to me; an' wid that I
considhered on ut a long while. Did you iver feel that way, sorr?"

I snored gently, knowing that if Mulvaney were uninterrupted he would go
on. The clamor from the bivouac fires beat up to the stars, as the rival
singers of the companies were pitted against each other.

"So I felt that way an' a bad time ut was. Wanst, bein' a fool, I wint
into the married lines more for the sake av spakin' to our ould
color-sergint Shadd than for any thruck wid womenfolk. I was a corp'ril
then--rejuced aftherward, but a corp'ril then. I've got a photograft av
mesilf to prove ut. 'You'll take a cup av tay wid us?' sez Shadd. 'I will
that,' I sez, 'tho' tay is not my divarsion.'

"''Twud be better for you if ut were,' sez ould Mother Shadd, an' she had
ought to know, for Shadd, in the ind av his service, dhrank bung-full each
night.

"Wid that I tuk off my gloves--there was pipe-clay in thim, so that they
stud alone--an' pulled up my chair, lookin' round at the china ornaments
an' bits av things in the Shadds' quarters. They were things that belonged
to a man, an' no camp-kit, here to-day an' dishipated next. 'You're
comfortable in this place, sergint,' sez I. ''Tis the wife that did ut,
boy,' sez he, pointin' the stem av his pipe to ould Mother Shadd, an' she
smacked the top av his bald head apon the compliment. 'That manes you want
money,' sez she.

"An' thin--an' thin whin the kettle was to be filled, Dinah came in--my
Dinah--her sleeves rowled up to the elbow an' her hair in a winkin' glory
over her forehead, the big blue eyes beneath twinklin' like stars on a
frosty night, an' the tread av her two feet lighter than wastepaper from
the colonel's basket in ord'ly-room whin ut's emptied. Bein' but a shlip
av a girl she went pink at seein' me, an' I twisted me moustache an'
looked at a picture forninst the wall. Niver show a woman that ye care the
snap av a finger for her, an' begad she'll come bleatin' to your
boot-heels!"

"I suppose that's why you followed Annie Bragin till everybody in the
married quarters laughed at you," said I, remembering that unhallowed
wooing and casting off the disguise of drowsiness.

"I'm layin' down the gin'ral theory av the attack," said Mulvaney, driving
his boot into the dying fire. "If you read the _Soldier's Pocket Book_,
which niver any soldier reads, you'll see that there are exceptions. Whin
Dinah was out av the door (an' 'twas as tho' the sunlight had shut
too)--'Mother av Hiven, sergint,' sez I, 'but is that your
daughter?'--'I've believed that way these eighteen years,' sez ould Shadd,
his eyes twinklin'; 'but Mrs. Shadd has her own opinion, like iv'ry
woman,'--'Tis wid yours this time, for a mericle,' sez Mother Shadd. 'Thin
why in the name av fortune did I niver see her before?' sez I. 'Bekaze
you've been thrapesin' round wid the married women these three years past.
She was a bit av a child till last year, an' she shot up wid the spring,'
sez ould Mother Shadd, 'I'll thrapese no more,' sez I. 'D'you mane that?'
sez ould Mother Shadd, lookin' at me side-ways like a hen looks at a hawk
whin the chickens are runnin' free. 'Try me, an' tell,' sez I. Wid that I
pulled on my gloves, dhrank off the tay, an' went out av the house as
stiff as at gin'ral p'rade, for well I knew that Dinah Shadd's eyes were
in the small av my back out av the scullery window. Faith! that was the
only time I mourned I was not a cav'lry man for the pride av the spurs to
jingle.

"I wint out to think, an' I did a powerful lot av thinkin', but ut all
came round to that shlip av a girl in the dotted blue dhress, wid the blue
eyes an' the sparkil in them. Thin I kept off canteen, an' I kept to the
married quarthers, or near by, on the chanst av meetin' Dinah. Did I meet
her? Oh, my time past, did I not; wid a lump in my throat as big as my
valise an' my heart goin' like a farrier's forge on a Saturday morning?
'Twas 'Good day to ye, Miss Dinah,' an' 'Good day t'you, corp'ril,' for a
week or two, and divil a bit further could I get bekaze av the respect I
had to that girl that I cud ha' broken betune finger an' thumb."

Here I giggled as I recalled the gigantic figure of Dinah Shadd when she
handed me my shirt.

"Ye may laugh," grunted Mulvaney. "But I'm speakin' the trut', an' 'tis
you that are in fault. Dinah was a girl that wud ha' taken the
imperiousness out av the Duchess av Clonmel in those days. Flower hand,
foot av shod air, an' the eyes av the livin' mornin' she had that is my
wife to-day--ould Dinah, and niver aught else than Dinah Shadd to me.

"'Twas after three weeks standin' off an' on, an' niver makin' headway
excipt through the eyes, that a little drummer boy grinned in me face whin
I had admonished him wid the buckle av my belt for riotin' all over the
place, 'An' I'm not the only wan that doesn't kape to barricks,' sez he. I
tuk him by the scruff av his neck,--my heart was hung on a hair-thrigger
those days, you will onderstand--an' 'Out wid ut,' sez I, 'or I'll lave no
bone av you unbreakable,'--'Speak to Dempsey,' sez he howlin'. 'Dempsey
which?' sez I, 'ye unwashed limb av Satan.'--'Av the Bob-tailed
Dhragoons,' sez he, 'He's seen her home from her aunt's house in the civil
lines four times this fortnight,'--'Child!' sez I, dhroppin' him, 'your
tongue's stronger than your body. Go to your quarters. I'm sorry I
dhressed you down.'

"At that I went four ways to wanst huntin' Dempsey. I was mad to think
that wid all my airs among women I shud ha' been chated by a basin-faced
fool av a cav'lryman not fit to trust on a trunk. Presintly I found him in
our lines--the Bobtails was quartered next us--an' a tallowy, topheavy son
av a she-mule he was wid his big brass spurs an' his plastrons on his
epigastrons an' all. But he niver flinched a hair.

"'A word wid you, Dempsey,' sez I. 'You've walked wid Dinah Shadd four
times this fortnight gone.'

"'What's that to you?' sez he. 'I'll walk forty times more, an' forty on
top av that, ye shovel-futted clod-breakin' infantry lance-corp'ril.'

"Before I cud gyard he had his gloved fist home on my cheek an' down I
went full-sprawl. 'Will that content you?' sez he, blowin' on his knuckles
for all the world like a Scots Greys orf'cer. 'Content!' sez I. 'For your
own sake, man, take off your spurs, peel your jackut, an' onglove. 'Tis
the beginnin' av the overture; stand up!'

"He stud all he know, but he niver peeled his jacket, an' his shoulders
had no fair play. I was fightin' for Dinah Shadd an' that cut on my cheek.
What hope had he forninst me? 'Stand up,' sez I, time an' again whin he
was beginnin' to quarter the ground an' gyard high an' go large. 'This
isn't ridin'-school,' I sez. 'O man, stand up an' let me get in at ye.'
But whin I saw he wud be runnin' about, I grup his shtock in my left an'
his waist-belt in my right an' swung him clear to my right front, head
undher, he hammerin' my nose till the wind was knocked out av him on the
bare ground. 'Stand up,' sez I, 'or I'll kick your head into your chest!'
and I wud ha' done ut too, so ragin' mad I was.

"'My collar-bone's bruk,' sez he. 'Help me back to lines. I'll walk wid
her no more.' So I helped him back."

"And was his collar-bone broken?" I asked, for I fancied that only Learoyd
could neatly accomplish that terrible throw.

"He pitched on his left shoulder point. Ut was. Next day the news was in
both barricks, an' whin I met Dinah Shadd wid a cheek on me like all the
reg'mintal tailor's samples there was no 'Good mornin', corp'ril,' or
aught else. 'An' what have I done, Miss Shadd,' sez I, very bould,
plantin' mesilf forninst her, 'that ye should not pass the time of day?'

"'Ye've half-killed rough-rider Dempsey,' sez she, her dear blue eyes
fillin' up.

"'May be,' sez I. 'Was he a friend av yours that saw ye home four times in
the fortnight?'

"'Yes,' sez she, but her mouth was down at the corners, 'An'--an' what's
that to you?' she sez.

"'Ask Dempsey,' sez I, purtendin' to go away.

"'Did you fight for me then, ye silly man?' she sez, tho' she knew ut all
along.

"'Who else?' sez I, an' I tuk wan pace to the front.

"'I wasn't worth ut,' sez she, fingerin' in her apron.

"'That's for me to say,' sez I. 'Shall I say ut?'

"'Yes,' sez she, in a saint's whisper, an' at that I explained mesilf; and
she tould me what ivry man that is a man, an' many that is a woman, hears
wanst in his life.

"'But what made ye cry at startin', Dinah, darlin'?' sez I.

"'Your--your bloody cheek,' sez she, duckin' her little head down on my
sash (I was on duty for the day) an' whimperin' like a sorrowful angil.

"Now a man cud take that two ways. I tuk ut as pleased me best an' my
first kiss wid ut. Mother av Innocence! but I kissed her on the tip av the
nose and undher the eye; an' a girl that let's a kiss come tumble-ways
like that has never been kissed before. Take note av that, sorr. Thin we
wint hand in hand to ould Mother Shadd like two little childher, an' she
said 'twas no bad thing, an' ould Shadd nodded behind his pipe, an' Dinah
ran away to her own room. That day I throd on rollin' clouds. All earth
was too small to hould me. Begad, I cud ha' hiked the sun out av the sky
for a live coal to my pipe, so magnificent I was. But I tuk recruities at
squad-drill instid, an' began wid general battalion advance whin I shud
ha' been balance-steppin' them. Eyah! that day! that day!"

A very long pause. "Well?" said I.

"'Twas all wrong," said Mulvaney, with an enormous sigh. "An' I know that
ev'ry bit av ut was my own foolishness. That night I tuk maybe the half av
three pints--not enough to turn the hair of a man in his natural senses.
But I was more than half drunk wid pure joy, an' that canteen beer was so
much whisky to me, I can't tell how it came about, but _bekaze_ I had no
thought for anywan except Dinah, _bekaze_ I hadn't slipped her little
white arms from my neck five minuts, _bekaze_ the breath of her kiss was
not gone from my mouth, I must go through the married lines on my way to
quarters an' I must stay talkin' to a red-headed Mullingar heifer av a
girl, Judy Sheehy, that was daughter to Mother Sheehy, the wife of Nick
Sheehy, the canteen-sergint--the Black Curse av Shielygh be on the whole
brood that are above groun' this day!

"'An' what are ye houldin' your head that high for, corp'ril?' sez Judy.
'Come in an' thry a cup av tay,' she sez, standin' in the doorway. Bein'
an ontrustable fool, an' thinkin' av anything but tay, I wint.

"'Mother's at canteen,' sez Judy, smoothin' the hair av hers that was like
red snakes, an' lookin' at me corner-ways out av her green cats' eyes. 'Ye
will not mind, corp'ril?'

"'I can endure,' sez I; ould Mother Sheehy bein' no divarsion av mine, nor
her daughter too. Judy fetched the tea things an' put thim on the table,
leanin' over me very close to get thim square. I dhrew back, thinkin' av
Dinah.

"'Is ut afraid you are av a girl alone?' sez Judy.

"'No,' sez I. 'Why should I be?'

"'That rests wid the girl,' sez Judy, dhrawin' her chair next to mine.

"'Thin there let ut rest,' sez I; an' thinkin' I'd been a trifle onpolite,
I sez, 'The tay's not quite sweet enough for my taste. Put your little
finger in the cup, Judy. 'Twill make ut necthar.'

"'What's necthar?' sez she.

"'Somethin' very sweet,' sez I; an' for the sinful life av me I cud not
help lookin' at her out av the corner av my eye, as I was used to look at
a woman.

"'Go on wid ye, corp'ril,' sez she. 'You're a flirrt.'

"'On me sowl I'm not,' sez I.

"'Then you're a cruel handsome man, an' that's worse,' sez she, heaving
big sighs an' lookin' crossways.

"'You know your own mind,' sez I.

"''Twud be better for me if I did not,' she sez.

"'There's a dale to be said on both sides av that,' sez I, unthinkin'.

"'Say your own part av ut, then, Terence, darlin',' sez she; 'for begad
I'm thinkin' I've said too much or too little for an honest girl,' an' wid
that she put her arms round my neck an' kissed me.

"'There's no more to be said afther that,' sez I, kissin' her back
again--Oh the mane scutt that I was, my head ringin' wid Dinah Shadd! How
does ut come about, sorr, that when a man has put the comether on wan
woman, he's sure bound to put it on another? 'Tis the same thing at
musketry, Wan day ivry shot goes wide or into the bank, an' the next, lay
high lay low, sight or snap, ye can't get off the bull's-eye for ten shots
runnin'."

"That only happens to a man who has had a good deal of experience. He does
it without thinking," I replied.

"Thankin' you for the complimint, sorr, ut may be so. But I'm doubtful
whether you mint ut for a complimint. Hear now; I sat there wid Judy on my
knee tellin' me all manner av nonsinse an' only sayin' 'yes' an' 'no,'
when I'd much better ha' kept tongue betune teeth. An' that was not an
hour afther I had left Dinah! What I was thinkin' av I cannot say,
Presintly. quiet as a cat, ould Mother Sheehy came in velvet-dhrunk. She
had her daughter's red hair, but 'twas bald in patches, an' I cud see in
her wicked ould face, clear as lightnin', what Judy wud be twenty years to
come. I was for jumpin' up, but Judy niver moved.

"'Terence has promust, mother,' sez she, an' the could sweat bruk out all
over me. Ould Mother Sheehy sat down of a heap an' began playin' wid the
cups. 'Thin you're a well-matched pair,' she sez, very thick. 'For he's
the biggest rogue that iver spoiled the queen's shoe-leather,' an'--

"'I'm off, Judy,' sez I. 'Ye should not talk nonsinse to your mother. Get
her to bed, girl.'

"'Nonsinse!' sez the ould woman, prickin' up her ears like a cat an'
grippin' the table-edge. ''Twill be the most nonsinsical nonsinse for you,
ye grinnin' badger, if nonsinse 'tis. Git clear, you. I'm goin' to bed.'

"I ran out into the dhark, my head in a stew an' my heart sick, but I had
sinse enough to see that I'd brought ut all on mysilf. 'It's this to pass
the time av day to a panjandhrum av hellcats,' sez I. 'What I've said, an'
what I've not said do not matther. Judy an' her dam will hould me for a
promust man, an' Dinah will give me the go, an' I desarve ut. I will go
an' get dhrunk,' sez I, 'an' forget about ut, for 'tis plain I'm not a
marrin' man.'

"On my way to canteen I ran against Lascelles, color-sergeant that was av
E Comp'ny, a hard, hard man, wid a torment av a wife. 'You've the head av
a drowned man on your shoulders,' sez he; 'an' you're goin' where you'll
get a worse wan. 'Come back,' sez he. 'Let me go,' sez I. 'I've thrown my
luck over the wall wid my own hand!'--'Then that's not the way to get ut
back again,' sez he. 'Have out wid your throuble, ye fool-bhoy.' An' I
tould him how the matther was.

"He sucked in his lower lip. 'You've been thrapped,' sez he. 'Ju Sheehy
wud be the betther for a man's name to hers as soon as can. An' ye thought
ye'd put the comether on her,--that's the natural vanity of the baste.
Terence, you're a big born fool, but you're not bad enough to marry into
that comp'ny. If you said anythin', an' for all your protestations I'm
sure ye did--or did not, which is worse,--eat ut all--lie like the father
of all lies, but come out av ut free av Judy. Do I not know what ut is to
marry a woman that was the very spit an' image av Judy whin she was young?
I'm gettin' old an' I've larnt patience, but you, Terence, you'd raise
hand on Judy an' kill her in a year. Never mind if Dinah gives you the go,
you've desarved ut; never mind if the whole reg'mint laughs you all day.
Get shut av Judy an' her mother. They can't dhrag you to church, but if
they do, they'll dhrag you to hell. Go back to your quarters and lie
down,' sez he. Thin over his shoulder, 'You _must_ ha' done with thim,'

"Next day I wint to see Dinah, but there was no tucker in me as I walked.
I knew the throuble wud come soon enough widout any handlin' av mine, an'
I dreaded ut sore.

"I heard Judy callin' me, but I hild straight on to the Shadds' quarthers,
an' Dinah wud ha' kissed me but I put her back.

"'Whin all's said, darlin',' sez I, 'you can give ut me if ye will, tho' I
misdoubt 'twill be so easy to come by then.'

"I had scarce begun to put the explanation into shape before Judy an' her
mother came to the door. I think there was a veranda, but I'm forgettin'.

"'Will ye not step in?' sez Dinah, pretty and polite, though the Shadds
had no dealin's with the Sheehys. Old Mother Shadd looked up quick, an'
she was the fust to see the throuble; for Dinah was her daughter.

"'I'm pressed for time to-day,' sez Judy as bould as brass; 'an' I've only
come for Terence,--my promust man. Tis strange to find him here the day
afther the day.'

"Dinah looked at me as though I had hit her, an' I answered straight.

"'There was some nonsinse last night at the Sheehys' quarthers, an' Judy's
carryin' on the joke, darlin',' sez I.

"'At the Sheehys' quarthers?' sez Dinah very slow, an' Judy cut in wid:
'He was there from nine till ten, Dinah Shadd, an' the betther half av
that time I was sittin' on his knee, Dinah Shadd. Ye may look and ye may
look an' ye may look me up an' down, but ye won't look away that Terence
is my promust man, Terence, darlin', 'tis time for us to be comin' home.'

"Dinah Shadd niver said word to Judy. 'Ye left me at half-past eight,' she
sez to me, 'an' I niver thought that ye'd leave me for Judy,--promises, or
no promises. Go back wid her, you that have to be fetched by a girl! I'm
done with you,' sez she, and she ran into her own room, her mother
followin'. So I was alone wid those two women and at liberty to spake my
sentiments.

"'Judy Sheehy,' sez I, 'if you made a fool av me betune the lights you
shall not do ut in the day. I niver promised you words or lines.'

"'You lie,' sez ould Mother Sheehy, 'an' may ut choke you waere you
stand!' She was far gone in dhrink.

"'An' tho' ut choked me where I stud I'd not change,' sez I. 'Go home,
Judy. I take shame for a decent girl like you dhraggin' your mother out
bareheaded on this errand. Hear now, and have ut for an answer. I gave my
word to Dinah Shadd yesterday, an', more blame to me, I was wid you last
night talkin' nonsinse but nothin' more. You've chosen to thry to hould me
on ut. I will not be held thereby for anythin' in the world. Is that
enough?'

"Judy wint pink all over. 'An' I wish you joy av the perjury,' sez she,
duckin' a curtsey. 'You've lost a woman that would ha' wore her hand to
the bone for your pleasure; an' 'deed, Terence, ye were not thrapped....'
Lascelles must ha' spoken plain to her. 'I am such as Dinah is--'deed I
am! Ye've lost a fool av a girl that'll niver look at you again, an' ye've
lost what ye niver had,--your common honesty. If you manage your men as
you manage your love-makin', small wondher they call you the worst
corp'ril in the comp'ny. Come away, mother,' sez she.

"But divil a fut would the ould woman budge! 'D'you hould by that?' sez
she, peerin' up under her thick grey eyebrows.

"'Ay, an wud,' sez I, 'tho' Dinah give me the go twinty times. I'll have
no thruck with you or yours,' sez I. 'Take your child away, ye shameless
woman.'

"'An' am I shameless?' sez she, bringin' her hands up above her head.
'Thin what are you, ye lyin', schamin', weak-kneed, dhirty-souled son av a
sutler? Am _I_ shameless? Who put the open shame on me an' my child that
we shud go beggin' through the lines in the broad daylight for the broken
word of a man? Double portion of my shame be on you, Terence Mulvaney,
that think yourself so strong! By Mary and the saints, by blood and water
an' by ivry sorrow that came into the world since the beginnin', the black
blight fall on you and yours, so that you may niver be free from pain for
another when ut's not your own! May your heart bleed in your breast drop
by drop wid all your friends laughin' at the bleedin'! Strong you think
yourself? May your strength be a curse to you to dhrive you into the
divil's hands against your own will! Clear-eyed you are? May your eyes see
dear evry step av the dark path you take till the hot cindhers av hell put
thim out! May the ragin' dry thirst in my own ould bones go to you that
you shall niver pass bottle full nor glass empty. God preserve the light
av your onder-standin' to you, my jewel av a bhoy, that ye may niver
forget what you mint to be an' do, whin you're wallowin' in the muck! May
ye see the betther and follow the worse as long as there's breath in your
body; an' may ye die quick in a strange land; watchin' your death before
ut takes you, an' onable to stir hand or foot!'

"I heard a scufflin' in the room behind, and thin Dinah Shadd's hand
dhropped into mine like a rose-leaf into a muddy road.

"'The half av that I'll take,' sez she, 'an' more too if I can. Go home,
ye silly talkin' woman,--go home an' confess.'

"'Come away! Come away!' sez Judy, pullin' her mother by the shawl. ''Twas
none av Terence's fault. For the love av Mary stop the talkin'!'

"'An' you!' said ould Mother Sheehy, spinnin' round forninst Dinah. 'Will
ye take the half av that man's load? Stand off from him, Dinah Shadd,
before he takes you down too--you that look to be a quarther-master-
sergeant's wife in five years. You look too high, child. You shall _wash_
for the quarther-master-sergeant, whin he plases to give you the job out
av charity; but a privit's wife you shall be to the end, an' evry sorrow
of a privit's wife you shall know and nivir a joy but wan, that shall go
from you like the running tide from a rock. The pain av bearin' you shall
know but niver the pleasure av giving the breast; an' you shall put away
a man-child into the common ground wid never a priest to say a prayer over
him, an' on that man-child ye shall think ivry day av your life. Think
long, Dinah Shadd, for you'll niver have another tho' you pray till your
knees are bleedin'. The mothers av childer shall mock you behind your back
when you're wringing over the washtub. You shall know what ut is to help a
dhrunken husband home an' see him go to the gyard-room. Will that plase
you, Dinah Shadd, that won't be seen talkin' to my daughter? You shall
talk to worse than Judy before all's over. The sergints' wives shall look
down on you contemptuous, daughter av a sergint, an' you shall cover ut
all up wid a smiling face when your heart's burstin'. Stand off av him,
Dinah Shadd, for I've put the Black Curse of Shielygh upon him an' his own
mouth shall make ut good."

"She pitched forward on her head an' began foamin' at the mouth. Dinah
Shadd ran out wid water, an' Judy dhragged the ould woman into the veranda
till she sat up.

"'I'm old an' forlore,' she sez, thremblin' an' cryin', 'and 'tis like I
say a dale more than I mane.'

"'When you're able to walk,--go,' says ould Mother Shadd. 'This house has
no place for the likes av you that have cursed my daughter.'

"'Eyah!' said the ould woman. 'Hard words break no bones, an' Dinah Shadd
'll keep the love av her husband till my bones are green corn, Judy
darlin', I misremember what I came here for. Can you lend us the bottom av
a taycup av tay, Mrs. Shadd?'

"But Judy dhragged her off cryin' as tho' her heart wud break. An' Dinah
Shadd an' I, in ten minutes we had forgot ut all."

"Then why do you remember it now?" said I.

"Is ut like I'd forget? Ivry word that wicked ould woman spoke fell thrue
in my life aftherward, an' I cud ha' stud ut all--stud ut all--excipt when
my little Shadd was born. That was on the line av march three months
afther the regiment was taken with cholera. We were betune Umballa an'
Kalka thin, an' I was on picket. Whin I came off duty the women showed me
the child, an' ut turned on uts side an' died as I looked. We buried him
by the road, an' Father Victor was a day's march behind wid the heavy
baggage, so the comp'ny captain read a prayer. An' since then I've been a
childless man, an' all else that ould Mother Sheehy put upon me an' Dinah
Shadd. What do you think, sorr?"

I thought a good deal, but it seemed better then to reach out for
Mulvaney's hand. The demonstration nearly cost me the use of three
fingers. Whatever he knows of his weaknesses, Mulvaney is entirely
ignorant of his strength.

"But what do you think?" he repeated, as I was straightening out the
crushed fingers.

My reply was drowned in yells and outcries from the next fire, where ten
men were shouting for "Orth'ris," "Privit Orth'ris," "Mistah
Or--ther--ris!" "Deah boy," "Cap'n Orth'ris," "Field-Marshal Orth'ris,"
"Stanley, you pen'north o' pop, come 'ere to your own comp'ny!" And the
cockney, who had been delighting another audience with recondite and
Rabelaisian yarns, was shot down among his admirers by the major force.

"You've crumpled my dress-shirt 'orrid," said he, "an' I shan't sing no
more to this 'ere bloomin' drawin'-room."

Learoyd, roused by the confusion, uncoiled himself, crept behind Ortheris,
and slung him aloft on his shoulders.

"Sing, ye bloomin' hummin' bird!" said he, and Ortheris, beating time on
Learoyd's skull, delivered himself, in the raucous voice of the Ratcliffe
Highway, of this song:--

   My girl she give me the go onst,
     When I was a London lad,
   An' I went on the drink for a fortnight,
     An' then I went to the bad.
   The Queen she give me a shillin'
     To fight for 'er over the seas;
   But Guv'ment built me a fever-trap,
     An' Injia give me disease.

_Chorus._

   Ho! don't you 'eed what a girl says,
     An' don't you go for the beer;
   But I was an ass when I was at grass,
     An' that is why I'm here.

   I fired a shot at a Afghan,
     The beggar 'e fired again,
   An' I lay on my bed with a 'ole in my 'ed,
     An' missed the next campaign!
   I up with my gun at a Burman
     Who carried a bloomin' _dah_,
   But the cartridge stuck and the bay'nit bruk,
     An' all I got was the scar.

_Chorus._

   Ho! don't you aim at a Afghan
     When you stand on the sky-line clear;
   An' don't you go for a Burman
     If none o' your friends is near.

  I served my time for a corp'ral,
     An' wetted my stripes with pop,
   For I went on the bend with a intimate friend,
     An' finished the night in the "shop."
   I served my time for a sergeant;
     The colonel 'e sez "No!
   The most you'll see is a full C.B." [1]
     An' ... very next night 'twas so.

[Footnote 1: Confined to barracks.]

_Chorus._

   Ho! don't you go for a corp'ral
     Unless your 'ed is clear;
   But I was an ass when I was at grass,
     An' that is why I'm 'ere.

   I've tasted the luck o' the army
     In barrack an' camp an' clink,
   An' I lost my tip through the bloomin' trip
     Along o' the women an' drink.
   I'm down at the heel o' my service
     An' when I am laid on the shelf,
   My very wust friend from beginning to end
     By the blood of a mouse was myself!

_Chorus_.

   Ho! don't you 'eed what a girl says,
     An' don't you go for the beer:
   But I was an ass when I was at grass,
     An' that is why I'm 'ere,

"Ay, listen to our little man now, singin' an' shoutin' as tho' trouble
had niver touched him. D' you remember when he went mad with the
homesickness?" said Mulvaney, recalling a never-to-be-forgotten season
when Ortheris waded through the deep waters of affliction and behaved
abominably. "But he's talkin' bitter truth, though. Eyah!

  "My very worst frind from beginnin' to ind   By the blood av a mouse was
mesilf!"

       *       *       *       *       *

When I woke I saw Mulvaney, the night-dew gemming his moustache, leaning
on his rifle at picket, lonely as Prometheus on his rock, with I know not
what vultures tearing his liver.



THE STORY OF MUHAMMAD DIN

  Who is the happy man? He that sees in his own house at home, little
children crowned with dust, leaping and falling and crying.
--_Munichandra_, translated by Professor Peterson.

The polo-ball was an old one, scarred, chipped, and dinted. It stood on
the mantelpiece among the pipe-stems which Imam Din, _khitmatgar_, was
cleaning for me.

"Does the Heaven-born want this ball?" said Imam Din, deferentially.

The Heaven-born set no particular store by it; but of what use was a
polo-ball to a _khitmatgar_?

"By your Honor's favor, I have a little son. He has seen this ball, and
desires it to play with. I do not want it for myself."

No one would for an instant accuse portly old Imam Din of wanting to play
with polo-balls. He carried out the battered thing into the veranda; and
there followed a hurricane of joyful squeaks, a patter of small feet, and
the _thud-thud-thud_ of the ball rolling along the ground. Evidently the
little son had been waiting outside the door to secure his treasure. But
how had he managed to see that polo-ball?

Next day, coming back from office half an hour earlier than usual, I was
aware of a small figure in the dining-room--a tiny, plump figure in a
ridiculously inadequate shirt which came, perhaps, half-way down the tubby
stomach. It wandered round the room, thumb in mouth, crooning to itself as
it took stock of the pictures. Undoubtedly this was the "little son."

He had no business in my room, of course; but was so deeply absorbed in
his discoveries that he never noticed me in the doorway. I stepped into
the room and startled him nearly into a fit. He sat down on the ground
with a gasp. His eyes opened, and his mouth followed suit. I knew what was
coming, and fled, followed by a long, dry howl which reached the servants'
quarters far more quickly than any command of mine had ever done. In ten
seconds Imam Din was in the dining-room. Then despairing sobs arose, and I
returned to find Imam Din admonishing the small sinner who was using most
of his shirt as a handkerchief.

"This boy," said Imam Din, judicially, "is a _budmash_--a big _budmash_.
He will, without doubt, go to the _jail-khana_ for his behavior." Renewed
yells from the penitent, and an elaborate apology to myself from Imam Din.

"Tell the baby," said I, "that the _Sahib_ is not angry, and take him
away." Imam Din conveyed my forgiveness to the offender, who had now
gathered all his shirt round his neck, stringwise, and the yell subsided
into a sob. The two set off for the door. "His name," said Imam Din, as
though the name were part of the crime, "is Muhammad Din, and he is a
_budmash_." Freed from present danger, Muhammad Din turned round in his
father's arms, and said gravely, "It is true that my name is Muhammad Din,
_Tahib_, but I am not a _budmash_. I am a _man!_"

From that day dated my acquaintance with Muhammad Din. Never again did he
come into my dining-room, but on the neutral ground of the garden, we
greeted each other with much state, though our conversation was confined
to "_Talaam, Tahib_" from his side, and "_Salaam, Muhammad Din_" from
mine. Daily on my return from office, the little white shirt, and the fat
little body used to rise from the shade of the creeper-covered trellis
where they had been hid; and daily I checked my horse here, that my
salutation might not be slurred over or given unseemly.

Muhammad Din never had any companions. He used to trot about the compound,
in and out of the castor-oil bushes, on mysterious errands of his own. One
day I stumbled upon some of his handiwork far down the grounds. He had
half buried the polo-ball in dust, and stuck six shriveled old marigold
flowers in a circle round it.

Outside that circle again was a rude square, traced out in bits of red
brick alternating with fragments of broken china; the whole bounded by a
little bank of dust. The water-man from the well-curb put in a plea for
the small architect, saying that it was only the play of a baby and did
not much disfigure my garden.

Heaven knows that I had no intention of touching the child's work then or
later; but, that evening, a stroll through the garden brought me unawares
full on it; so that I trampled, before I knew, marigold-heads, dust-bank,
and fragments of broken soap-dish into confusion past all hope of mending.
Next morning, I came upon Muhammad Din crying softly to himself over the
ruin I had wrought. Some one had cruelly told him that the _Sahib_ was
very angry with him for spoiling the garden, and had scattered his
rubbish, using bad language the while. Muhammad Din labored for an hour at
effacing every trace of the dust-bank and pottery fragments, and it was
with a tearful and apologetic face that he said "_Talaam, Tahib_," when I
came home from office. A hasty inquiry resulted in Imam Din informing
Muhammad Din that, by my singular favor, he was permitted to disport
himself as he pleased. Whereat the child took heart and fell to tracing
the ground-plan of an edifice which was to eclipse the marigold-polo-ball
creation.

For some months, the chubby little eccentricity revolved in his humble
orbit among the castor-oil bushes and in the dust; always fashioning
magnificent palaces from stale flowers thrown away by the bearer, smooth
water-worn pebbles, bits of broken glass, and feathers pulled, I fancy,
from my fowls--always alone, and always crooning to himself.

A gaily-spotted sea-shell was dropped one day close to the last of his
little buildings; and I looked that Muhammad Din should build something
more than ordinarily splendid on the strength of it. Nor was I
disappointed. He meditated for the better part of an hour, and his
crooning rose to a jubilant song. Then he began tracing in the dust. It
would certainly be a wondrous palace, this one, for it was two yards long
and a yard broad in ground-plan. But the palace was never completed.

Next day there was no Muhammad Din at the head of the carriage-drive, and
no "_Talaam, Tahib_" to welcome my return. I had grown accustomed to the
greeting, and its omission troubled me. Next day Imam Din told me that the
child was suffering slightly from fever and needed quinine. He got the
medicine, and an English Doctor.

"They have no stamina, these brats," said the Doctor, as he left Imam
Din's quarters.

A week later, though I would have given much to have avoided it, I met on
the road to the Mussulman burying-ground Imam Din, accompanied by one
other friend, carrying in his arms, wrapped in a white cloth, all that was
left of little Muhammad Din.



IN FLOOD TIME

   Tweed said tae Till:
   "What gars ye rin sae Still?"
   Till said tae Tweed:
   "Though ye rin wi' speed
   An' I rin slaw--
   Yet where ye droon ae man
   I droon twa."

There is no getting over the river to-night, Sahib. They say that a
bullock-cart has been washed down already, and the _ekka_ that went over a
half hour before you came, has not yet reached the far side. Is the Sahib
in haste? I will drive the ford-elephant in to show him. _Oh�, mahout_
there in the shed! Bring out Ram Pershad, and if he will face the current,
good. An elephant never lies, Sahib, and Ram Pershad is separated from his
friend Kala Nag. He, too, wishes to cross to the far side. Well done! Well
done! my King! Go half way across, _mahoutji_, and see what the river
says. Well done, Ram Pershad! Pearl among elephants, go into the river!
Hit him on the head, fool! Was the goad made only to scratch thy own fat
back with, bastard? Strike! Strike! What are the boulders to thee, Ram
Pershad, my Rustum, my mountain of strength? Go in! Go in!

No, Sahib! It is useless. You can hear him trumpet. He is telling Kala Nag
that he cannot come over. See! He has swung round and is shaking his head.
He is no fool. He knows what the Barhwi means when it is angry. Aha!
Indeed, thou art no fool, my child! _Salaam_, Ram Pershad, Bahadur! Take
him under the trees, _mahout_, and see that he gets his spices. Well done,
thou chiefest among tuskers. _Salaam_ to the Sirkar and go to sleep.

What is to be done? The Sahib must wait till the river goes down. It will
shrink to-morrow morning, if God pleases, or the day after at the latest.
Now why does the Sahib get so angry? I am his servant. Before God, _I_ did
not create this stream! What can I do? My hut and all that is therein is
at the service of the Sahib, and it is beginning to rain. Come away, my
Lord, How will the river go down for your throwing abuse at it? In the old
days the English people were not thus. The fire-carriage has made them
soft. In the old days, when they drave behind horses by day or by night,
they said naught if a river barred the way, or a carriage sat down in the
mud. It was the will of God--not like a fire-carriage which goes and goes
and goes, and would go though all the devils in the land hung on to its
tail. The fire-carriage hath spoiled the English people. After all, what
is a day lost, or, for that matter, what are two days? Is the Sahib going
to his own wedding, that he is so mad with haste? Ho! Ho! Ho! I am an old
man and see few Sahibs. Forgive me if I have forgotten the respect that is
due to them. The Sahib is not angry?

His own wedding! Ho! Ho! Ho! The mind of an old man is like the
_numah_-tree. Fruit, bud, blossom, and the dead leaves of all the years of
the past flourish together. Old and new and that which is gone out of
remembrance, all three are there! Sit on the bedstead, Sahib, and drink
milk. Or--would the Sahib in truth care to drink my tobacco? It is good.
It is the tobacco of Nuklao. My son, who is in service there sent it to
me. Drink, then, Sahib, if you know how to handle the tube. The Sahib
takes it like a Musalman. Wah! Wah! Where did he learn that? His own
wedding! Ho! Ho! Ho! The Sahib says that there is no wedding in the matter
at all? Now _is_ it likely that the Sahib would speak true talk to me who
am only a black man? Small wonder, then, that he is in haste. Thirty years
have I beaten the gong at this ford, but never have I seen a Sahib in such
haste. Thirty years, Sahib! That is a very long time. Thirty years ago
this ford was on the track of the _bunjaras_, and I have seen two thousand
pack-bullocks cross in one night. Now the rail has come, and the
fire-carriage says _buz-buz-buz_, and a hundred lakhs of maunds slide
across that big bridge. It is very wonderful; but the ford is lonely now
that there are no _bunjaras_ to camp under the trees.

Nay, do not trouble to look at the sky without. It will rain till the
dawn. Listen! The boulders are talking to-night in the bed of the river.
Hear them! They would be husking your bones, Sahib, had you tried to
cross. See, I will shut the door and no rain can enter. _Wahi! Ahi! Ugh!_
Thirty years on the banks of the ford! An old man am I and--where is the
oil for the lamp?


       *
       *
       *
       *
       *

Your pardon, but, because of my years, I sleep no sounder than a dog; and
you moved to the door. Look then, Sahib. Look and listen. A full half
_kos_ from bank to bank is the stream now--you can see it under the
stars--and there are ten feet of water therein. It will not shrink because
of the anger in your eyes, and it will not be quiet on account of your
curses. Which is louder, Sahib--your voice or the voice of the river? Call
to it--perhaps it will be ashamed. Lie down and sleep afresh, Sahib. I
know the anger of the Barhwi when there has fallen rain in the foot-hills.
I swam the flood, once, on a night tenfold worse than this, and by the
Favor of God I was released from Death when I had come to the very gates
thereof.

May I tell the tale? Very good talk. I will fill the pipe anew.

Thirty years ago it was, when I was a young man and had but newly come to
the ford. I was strong then, and the _bunjaras_ had no doubt when I said
"this ford is clear." I have toiled all night up to my shoulder-blades in
running water amid a hundred bullocks mad with fear, and have brought them
across losing not a hoof. When all was done I fetched the shivering men,
and they gave me for reward the pick of their cattle--the bell-bullock of
the drove. So great was the honor in which I was held! But, to-day when
the rain falls and the river rises, I creep into my hut and whimper like a
dog. My strength is gone from me. I am an old man and the fire-carriage
has made the ford desolate. They were wont to call me the Strong One of
the Barhwi.

Behold my face, Sahib--it is the face of a monkey. And my arm--it is the
arm of an old woman. I swear to you, Sahib, that a woman has loved this
face and has rested in the hollow of this arm. Twenty years ago, Sahib.
Believe me, this was true talk--twenty years ago.

Come to the door and look across. Can you see a thin fire very far away
down the stream? That is the temple-fire, in the shrine of Hanuman, of the
village of Pateera. North, under the big star, is the village itself, but
it is hidden by a bend of the river. Is that far to swim, Sahib? Would you
take off your clothes and adventure? Yet I swam to Pateera--not once but
many times; and there are _muggers_ in the river too.

Love knows no caste; else why should I, a Musalman and the son of a
Musalman, have sought a Hindu woman--a widow of the Hindus--the sister of
the headman of Pateera? But it was even so. They of the headman's
household came on a pilgrimage to Muttra when She was but newly a bride.
Silver tires were upon the wheels of the bullock-cart, and silken curtains
hid the woman. Sahib, I made no haste in their conveyance, for the wind
parted the curtains and I saw Her. When they returned from pilgrimage the
boy that was Her husband had died, and I saw Her again in the
bullock-cart. By God, these Hindus are fools! What was it to me whether
She was Hindu or Jain--scavenger, leper, or whole? I would have married
Her and made Her a home by the ford. The Seventh of the Nine Bars says
that a man may not marry one of the idolaters? Is that truth? Both Shiahs
and Sunnis say that a Musalman may not marry one of the idolaters? Is the
Sahib a priest, then, that he knows so much? I will tell him something
that he does not know. There is neither Shiah nor Sunni, forbidden nor
idolater, in Love; and the Nine Bars are but nine little fagots that the
flame of Love utterly burns away. In truth, I would have taken Her; but
what could I do? The headman would have sent his men to break my head with
staves. I am not--I was not--afraid of any five men; but against half a
village who can prevail?

Therefore it was my custom, these things having been arranged between us
twain, to go by night to the village of Pateera, and there we met among
the crops; no man knowing aught of the matter. Behold, now! I was wont to
cross here, skirting the jungle to the river bend where the railway bridge
is, and thence across the elbow of land to Pateera. The light of the
shrine was my guide when the nights were dark. That jungle near the river
is very full of snakes--little _karaits_ that sleep on the sand--and
moreover, Her brothers would have slain me had they found me in the crops.
But none knew--none knew save She and I; and the blown sand of the
river-bed covered the track of my feet. In the hot months it was an easy
thing to pass from the ford to Pateera, and in the first Rains, when the
river rose slowly, it was an easy thing also. I set the strength of my
body against the strength of the stream, and nightly I ate in my hut here
and drank at Pateera yonder. She had said that one Hirnam Singh, a thief,
had sought Her, and he was of a village up the river but on the same bank.
All Sikhs are dogs, and they have refused in their folly that good gift of
God--tobacco. I was ready to destroy Hirnam Singh that ever he had come
nigh Her; and the more because he had sworn to Her that She had a lover,
and that he would lie in wait and give the name to the headman unless She
went away with him. What curs are these Sikhs!

After that news, I swam always with a little sharp knife in my belt, and
evil would it have been for a man had he stayed me, I knew not the face of
Hirnam Singh, but I would have killed any who came between me and Her.

Upon a night in the beginning of the Rains, I was minded to go across to
Pateera, albeit the river was angry. Now the nature of the Barhwi is this,
Sahib. In twenty breaths it comes down from the Hills, a wall three feet
high, and I have seen it, between the lighting of a fire and the cooking
of a _chupatty_, grow from a runnel to a sister of the Jumna.

When I left this bank there was a shoal a half mile down, and I made shift
to fetch it and draw breath there ere going forward; for I felt the hands
of the river heavy upon my heels. Yet what will a young man not do for
Love's sake? There was but little light from the stars, and midway to the
shoal a branch of the stinking deodar tree brushed my mouth as I swam.
That was a sign of heavy rain in the foot-hills and beyond, for the deodar
is a strong tree, not easily shaken from the hillsides. I made haste, the
river aiding me, but ere I had touched the shoal, the pulse of the stream
beat, as it were, within me and around, and, behold, the shoal was gone
and I rode high on the crest of a wave that ran from bank to bank. Has the
Sahib ever been cast into much water that fights and will not let a man
use his limbs? To me, my head upon the water, it seemed as though there
were naught but water to the world's end, and the river drave me with its
driftwood. A man is a very little thing in the belly of a flood. And
_this_ flood, though I knew it not, was the Great Flood about which men
talk still. My liver was dissolved and I lay like a log upon my back in
the fear of Death. There were living things in the water, crying and
howling grievously--beasts of the forest and cattle, and once the voice of
a man asking for help. But the rain came and lashed the water white, and I
heard no more save the roar of the boulders below and the roar of the rain
above. Thus I was whirled down-stream, wrestling for the breath in me. It
is very hard to die when one is young. Can the Sahib, standing here, see
the railway bridge? Look, there are the lights of the mail-train going to
Peshawur! The bridge is now twenty feet above the river, but upon that
night the water was roaring against the lattice-work and against the
lattice came I feet first, But much driftwood was piled there and upon the
piers, and I took no great hurt. Only the river pressed me as a strong man
presses a weaker. Scarcely could I take hold of the lattice-work and crawl
to the upper boom. Sahib, the water was foaming across the rails a foot
deep! Judge therefore what manner of flood it must have been. I could not
hear, I could not see. I could but lie on the boom and pant for breath.

After a while the rain ceased and there came out in the sky certain new
washed stars, and by their light I saw that there was no end to the black
water as far as the eye could travel, and the water had risen upon the
rails. There were dead beasts in the driftwood on the piers, and others
caught by the neck in the lattice-work, and others not yet drowned who
strove to find a foothold on the lattice-work--buffaloes and kine, and
wild pig, and deer one or two, and snakes and jackals past all counting.
Their bodies were black upon the left side of the bridge, but the smaller
of them were forced through the lattice-work and whirled down-stream.

Thereafter the stars died and the rain came down afresh and the river rose
yet more, and I felt the bridge begin to stir under me as a man stirs in
his sleep ere he wakes. But I was not afraid, Sahib. I swear to you that I
was not afraid, though I had no power in my limbs. I knew that I should
not die till I had seen Her once more. But I was very cold, and I felt
that the bridge must go.

There was a trembling in the water, such a trembling as goes before the
coming of a great wave, and the bridge lifted its flank to the rush of
that coming so that the right lattice dipped under water and the left rose
clear. On my beard, Sahib, I am speaking God's truth! As a Mirzapore
stone-boat careens to the wind, so the Barhwi Bridge turned. Thus and in
no other manner.

I slid from the boom into deep water, and behind me came the wave of the
wrath of the river. I heard its voice and the scream of the middle part of
the bridge as it moved from the piers and sank, and I knew no more till I
rose in the middle of the great flood. I put forth my hand to swim, and
lo! it fell upon the knotted hair of the head of a man. He was dead, for
no one but I, the Strong One of Barhwi, could have lived in that race. He
had been dead full two days, for he rode high, wallowing, and was an aid
to me, I laughed then, knowing for a surety that I should yet see Her and
take no harm; and I twisted my fingers in the hair of the man, for I was
far spent, and together we went down the stream--he the dead and I the
living. Lacking that help I should have sunk: the cold was in my marrow,
and my flesh was ribbed and sodden on my bones. But _he_ had no fear who
had known the uttermost of the power of the river; and I let him go where
he chose. At last we came into the power of a side-current that set to the
right bank, and I strove with my feet to draw with it. But the dead man
swung heavily in the whirl, and I feared that some branch had struck him
and that he would sink. The tops of the tamarisk brushed my knees, so I
knew we were come into flood-water above the crops, and, after, I let down
my legs and felt bottom--the ridge of a field--and, after, the dead man
stayed upon a knoll under a fig-tree, and I drew my body from the water
rejoicing.

Does the Sahib know whither the backwash of the flood had borne me? To the
knoll which is the eastern boundary-mark of the village of Pateera! No
other place. I drew the dead man up on the grass for the service that he
had done me, and also because I knew not whether I should need him again.
Then I went, crying thrice like a jackal, to the appointed place which was
near the byre of the headman's house. But my Love was already there,
weeping. She feared that the flood had swept my hut at the Barhwi Ford.
When I came softly through the ankle-deep water, She thought it was a
ghost and would have fled, but I put my arms round Her, and--I was no
ghost in those days, though I am an old man now. Ho! Ho! Dried corn, in
truth. Maize without juice. Ho! Ho! [Footnote: I grieve to say that the
Warden of Barhwi ford is responsible here for two very bad puns in the
vernacular.--_R.K._]

I told Her the story of the breaking of the Barhwi Bridge, and She said
that I was greater than mortal man, for none may cross the Barhwi in full
flood, and I had seen what never man had seen before. Hand in hand we went
to the knoll where the dead lay, and I showed Her by what help I had made
the ford. She looked also upon the body under the stars, for the latter
end of the night was clear, and hid Her face in Her hands, crying: "It is
the body of Hirnam Singh!" I said: "The swine is of more use dead than
living, my Beloved," and She said: "Surely, for he has saved the dearest
life in the world to my love. None the less, he cannot stay here, for that
would bring shame upon me." The body was not a gunshot from her door.

Then said I, rolling the body with my hands: "God hath judged between us,
Hirnam Singh, that thy blood might not be upon my head. Now, whether I
have done thee a wrong in keeping thee from the burning-ghat, do thou and
the crows settle together." So I cast him adrift into the flood-water, and
he was drawn out to the open, ever wagging his thick black beard like a
priest under the pulpit-board. And I saw no more of Hirnam Singh.

Before the breaking of the day we two parted, and I moved toward such of
the jungle as was not flooded. With the full light I saw what I had done
in the darkness, and the bones of my body were loosened in my flesh, for
there ran two _kos_ of raging water between the village of Pateera and the
trees of the far bank, and, in the middle, the piers of the Barhwi Bridge
showed like broken teeth in the jaw of an old man. Nor was there any life
upon the waters--neither birds nor boats, but only an army of drowned
things--bullocks and horses and men--and the river was redder than blood
from the clay of the foot-hills. Never had I seen such a flood--never
since that year have I seen the like--and, O Sahib, no man living had done
what I had done. There was no return for me that day. Not for all the
lands of the headman would I venture a second time without the shield of
darkness that cloaks danger. I went a _kos_ up the river to the house of a
blacksmith, saying that the flood had swept me from my hut, and they gave
me food. Seven days I stayed with the blacksmith, till a boat came and I
returned to my house. There was no trace of wall, or roof, or
floor--naught but a patch of slimy mud. Judge, therefore, Sahib, how far
the river must have risen.

It was written that I should not die either in my house, or in the heart
of the Barhwi, or under the wreck of the Barhwi Bridge, for God sent down
Hirnam Singh two days dead, though I know not how the man died, to be my
buoy and support. Hirnam Singh has been in Hell these twenty years, and
the thought of that night must be the flower of his torment.

Listen, Sahib! The river has changed its voice. It is going to sleep
before the dawn, to which there is yet one hour. With the light it will
come down afresh. How do I know? Have I been here thirty years without
knowing the voice of the river as a father knows the voice of his son?
Every moment it is talking less angrily. I swear that there will be no
danger for one hour or, perhaps, two. I cannot answer for the morning. Be
quick, Sahib! I will call Ram Pershad, and he will not turn back this
time. Is the paulin tightly corded upon all the baggage? _Oh�, mahout_
with a mud head, the elephant for the Sahib, and tell them on the far side
that there will be no crossing after daylight.

Money? Nay, Sahib. I am not of that kind. No, not even to give sweetmeats
to the baby-folk. My house, look you, is empty, and I am an old man.

_Dutt_, Ram Pershad! _Dutt! Dutt! Dutt!_ Good luck go with you, Sahib.



MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY

   As I came through the Desert thus it was--
   As I came through the Desert.

--_The City of Dreadful Night_.

Somewhere in the Other World, where there are books and pictures and plays
and shop-windows to look at, and thousands of men who spend their lives in
building up all four, lives a gentleman who writes real stories about the
real insides of people; and his name is Mr. Walter Besant. But he will
insist upon treating his ghosts--he has published half a workshopful of
them--with levity. He makes his ghost-seers talk familiarly, and, in some
cases, flirt outrageously, with the phantoms. You may treat anything, from
a Viceroy to a Vernacular Paper, with levity; but you must behave
reverently toward a ghost, and particularly an Indian one.

There are, in this land, ghosts who take the form of fat, cold, pobby
corpses, and hide in trees near the roadside till a traveler passes. Then
they drop upon his neck and remain. There are also terrible ghosts of
women who have died in child-bed. These wander along the pathways at dusk,
or hide in the crops near a village, and call seductively. But to answer
their call is death in this world and the next. Their feet are turned
backward that all sober men may recognize them. There are ghosts of little
children who have been thrown into wells. These haunt well-curbs and the
fringes of jungles, and wail under the stars, or catch women by the wrist
and beg to be taken up and carried. These and the corpse-ghosts, however,
are only vernacular articles and do not attack Sahibs. No native ghost has
yet been authentically reported to have frightened an Englishman; but many
English ghosts have scared the life out of both white and black.

Nearly every other Station owns a ghost. There are said to be two at
Simla, not counting the woman who blows the bellows at Syree d�k-bungalow
on the Old Road; Mussoorie has a house haunted of a very lively Thing; a
White Lady is supposed to do night-watchman round a house in Lahore;
Dalhousie says that one of her houses "repeats" on autumn evenings all the
incidents of a horrible horse-and-precipice accident; Murree has a merry
ghost, and, now that she has been swept by cholera, will have room for a
sorrowful one; there are Officers Quarters in Mian Mir whose doors open
without reason, and whose furniture is guaranteed to creak, not with the
heat of June but with the weight of Invisibles who come to lounge in the
chair; Peshawur possesses houses that none will willingly rent; and there
is something--not fever--wrong with a big bungalow in Allahabad. The older
Provinces simply bristle with haunted houses, and march phantom armies
along their main thoroughfares.

Some of the d�k-bungalows on the Grand Trunk Road have handy little
cemeteries in their compound--witnesses to the "changes and chances of
this mortal life" in the days when men drove from Calcutta to the
Northwest. These bungalows are objectionable places to put up in. They are
generally very old, always dirty, while the _khansamah_ is as ancient as
the bungalow. He either chatters senilely, or falls into the long trances
of age. In both moods he is useless. If you get angry with him, he refers
to some Sahib dead and buried these thirty years, and says that when he
was in that Sahib's service not a _khansamah_ in the Province could touch
him. Then he jabbers and mows and trembles and fidgets among the dishes,
and you repent of your irritation.

In these d�k-bungalows, ghosts are most likely to be found, and when
found, they should be made a note of. Not long ago it was my business to
live in d�k-bungalows. I never inhabited the same house for three nights
running, and grew to be learned in the breed. I lived in Government-built
ones with red brick walls and rail ceilings, an inventory of the furniture
posted in every room, and an excited snake at the threshold to give
welcome. I lived in "converted" ones--old houses officiating as
d�k-bungalows--where nothing was in its proper place and there wasn't even
a fowl for dinner. I lived in second-hand palaces where the wind blew
through open-work marble tracery just as uncomfortably as through a broken
pane. I lived in d�k-bungalows where the last entry in the visitors' book
was fifteen months old, and where they slashed off the curry-kid's head
with a sword. It was my good-luck to meet all sorts of men, from sober
traveling missionaries and deserters flying from British Regiments, to
drunken loafers who threw whiskey bottles at all who passed; and my still
greater good-fortune just to escape a maternity case. Seeing that a fair
proportion of the tragedy of our lives out here acted itself in
d�k-bungalows, I wondered that I had met no ghosts. A ghost that would
voluntarily hang about a d�k-bungalow would be mad of course; but so many
men have died mad in d�k-bungalows that there must be a fair percentage of
lunatic ghosts.

In due time I found my ghost, or ghosts rather, for there were two of
them. Up till that hour I had sympathized with Mr. Besant's method of
handling them, as shown in "_The Strange Case of Mr. Lucraft and other
Stories._" I am now in the Opposition.

We will call the bungalow Katmal d�k-bungalow. But _that_ was the smallest
part of the horror. A man with a sensitive hide has no right to sleep in
d�k-bungalows. He should marry. Katmal d�k-bungalow was old and rotten and
unrepaired. The floor was of worn brick, the walls were filthy, and the
windows were nearly black with grime. It stood on a bypath largely used by
native Sub-Deputy Assistants of all kinds, from Finance to Forests; but
real Sahibs were rare. The _khansamah_, who was nearly bent double with
old age, said so.

When I arrived, there was a fitful, undecided rain on the face of the
land, accompanied by a restless wind, and every gust made a noise like the
rattling of dry bones in the stiff toddy-palms outside. The _khansamah_
completely lost his head on my arrival. He had served a Sahib once. Did I
know that Sahib? He gave me the name of a well-known man who has been
buried for more than a quarter of a century, and showed me an ancient
daguerreotype of that man in his prehistoric youth. I had seen a steel
engraving of him at the head of a double volume of Memoirs a month before,
and I felt ancient beyond telling.

The day shut in and the _khansamah_ went to get me food. He did not go
through the pretence of calling it "_khana_"--man's victuals. He said
"_ratub_," and that means, among other things, "grub"--dog's rations.
There was no insult in his choice of the term. He had forgotten the other
word, I suppose.

While he was cutting up the dead bodies of animals, I settled myself down,
after exploring the d�k-bungalow. There were three rooms, beside my own,
which was a corner kennel, each giving into the other through dingy white
doors fastened with long iron bars. The bungalow was a very solid one, but
the partition-walls of the rooms were almost jerry-built in their
flimsiness. Every step or bang of a trunk echoed from my room down the
other three, and every footfall came back tremulously from the far walls.
For this reason I shut the door. There were no lamps--only candles in long
glass shades. An oil wick was set in the bath-room.

For bleak, unadulterated misery that d�k-bungalow was the worst of the
many that I had ever set foot in. There was no fireplace, and the windows
would not open; so a brazier of charcoal would have been useless. The rain
and the wind splashed and gurgled and moaned round the house, and the
toddy-palms rattled and roared. Half a dozen jackals went through the
compound singing, and a hyena stood afar off and mocked them. A hyena
would convince a Sadducee of the Resurrection of the Dead--the worst sort
of Dead. Then came the _ratub_--a curious meal, half native and half
English in composition--with the old _khansamah_ babbling behind my chair
about dead and gone English people, and the wind-blown candles playing
shadow-bo-peep with the bed and the mosquito-curtains. It was just the
sort of dinner and evening to make a man think of every single one of his
past sins, and of all the others that he intended to commit if he lived.

Sleep, for several hundred reasons, was not easy. The lamp in the
bath-room threw the most absurd shadows into the room, and the wind was
beginning to talk nonsense.

Just when the reasons were drowsy with blood-sucking I heard the
regular--"Let-us-take-and-heave-him-over" grunt of doolie-bearers in the
compound. First one doolie came in, then a second, and then a third. I
heard the doolies dumped on the ground, and the shutter in front of my
door shook. "That's some one trying to come in," I said. But no one spoke,
and I persuaded myself that it was the gusty wind. The shutter of the room
next to mine was attacked, flung back, and the inner door opened, "That's
some Sub-Deputy Assistant," I said, "and he has brought his friends with
him. Now they'll talk and spit and smoke for an hour."

But there were no voices and no footsteps, No one was putting his luggage
into the next room. The door shut, and I thanked Providence that I was to
be left in peace. But I was curious to know where the doolies had gone. I
got out of bed and looked into the darkness. There was never a sign of a
doolie. Just as I was getting into bed again, I heard, in the next room,
the sound that no man in his senses can possibly mistake--the whir of a
billiard ball down the length of the slates when the striker is stringing
for break. No other sound is like it. A minute afterward there was another
whir, and I got into bed. I was not frightened--indeed I was not. I was
very curious to know what had become of the doolies. I jumped into bed for
that reason.

Next minute I heard the double click of a cannon and my hair sat up. It is
a mistake to say that hair stands up. The skin of the head tightens and
you can feel a faint, prickly bristling all ever the scalp. That is the
hair sitting up.

There was a whir and a click, and both sounds could only have been made by
one thing--a billiard ball. I argued the matter out at great length with
myself; and the more I argued the less probable it seemed that one bed,
one table, and two chairs--all the furniture of the room next to
mine--could so exactly duplicate the sounds of a game of billiards. After
another cannon, a three-cushion one to judge by the whir, I argued no
more. I had found my ghost and would have given worlds to have escaped
from that d�k-bungalow. I listened, and with each listen the game grew
clearer. There was whir on whir and click on click. Sometimes there was a
double click and a whir and another click. Beyond any sort of doubt,
people were playing billiards in the next room. And the next room was not
big enough to hold a billiard table!

Between the pauses of the wind I heard the game go forward--stroke after
stroke. I tried to believe that I could not hear voices; but that attempt
was a failure.

Do you know what fear is? Not ordinary fear of insult, injury or death,
but abject, quivering dread of something that you cannot see--fear that
dries the inside of the mouth and half of the throat--fear that makes you
sweat on the palms of the hands, and gulp in order to keep the uvula at
work? This is a fine Fear--a great cowardice, and must be felt to be
appreciated. The very improbability of billiards in a d�k-bungalow proved
the reality of the thing. No man--drunk or sober--could imagine a game a
billiards, or invent the spitting crack of a "screw-cannon."

A severe course of d�k-bungalows has this disadvantage--it breeds infinite
credulity. If a man said to a confirmed d�k-bungalow-haunter:--"There is a
corpse in the next room, and there's a mad girl in the next but one, and
the woman and man on that camel have just eloped from a place sixty miles
away," the hearer would not disbelieve because he would know that nothing
is too wild, grotesque, or horrible to happen in a d�k-bungalow.

This credulity, unfortunately extends to ghosts. A rational person fresh
from his own house would have turned on his side and slept. I did not. So
surely as I was given up as a bad carcass by the scores of things in the
bed because the bulk of my blood was in my heart, so surely did I hear
every stroke of a long game at billiards played in the echoing room behind
the iron-barred door. My dominant fear was that the players might want a
marker. It was an absurd fear; because creatures who could play in the
dark would be above such superfluities. I only know that that was my
terror; and it was real.

After a long long while, the game stopped, and the door banged, I slept
because I was dead tired. Otherwise I should have preferred to have kept
awake. Not for everything in Asia would I have dropped the door-bar and
peered into the dark of the next room.

When the morning came, I considered that I had done well and wisely, and
inquired for the means of departure.

"By the way, _khansamah_," I said, "what were those three doolies doing in
my compound in the night?"

"There were no doolies," said the _khansamah_.

I went into the next room and the daylight streamed through the open door.
I was immensely brave. I would, at that hour, have played Black Pool with
the owner of the big Black Pool down below.

"Has this place always been a d�k-bungalow?" I asked.

"No," said the _khansamah_. "Ten or twenty years ago, I have forgotten how
long, it was a billiard-room."

"A how much?"

"A billiard-room for the Sahibs who built the Railway. I was _khansamah_
then in the big house where all the Railway-Sahibs lived, and I used to
come across with brandy-_shrab_. These three rooms were all one, and they
held a big table on which the Sahibs played every evening. But the Sahibs
are all dead now, and the Railway runs, you say, nearly to Kabul."

"Do you remember anything about the Sahibs?"

"It is long ago, but I remember that one Sahib, a fat man and always
angry, was playing here one night, and he said to me:--'Mangal Khan,
brandy-_pani do_,' and I filled the glass, and he bent over the table to
strike, and his head fell lower and lower till it hit the table, and his
spectacles came off, and when we--the Sahibs and I myself--ran to lift him
he was dead. I helped to carry him out. Aha, he was a strong Sahib! But he
is dead and I, old Mangal Khan, am still living, by your favor."

That was more than enough! I had my ghost--a first-hand, authenticated
article. I would write to the Society for Psychical Research--I would
paralyze the Empire with the news! But I would, first of all, put eighty
miles of assessed crop-land between myself and that d�k-bungalow before
nightfall. The Society might send their regular agent to investigate later
on.

I went into my own room and prepared to pack after noting down the facts
of the case. As I smoked I heard the game begin again--with a miss in balk
this time, for the whir was a short one.

The door was open and I could see into the room. _Click-click!_ That was a
cannon. I entered the room without fear, for there was sunlight within and
a fresh breeze without. The unseen game was going on at a tremendous rate.
And well it might, when a restless little rat was running to and fro
inside the dingy ceiling-cloth, and a piece of loose window-sash was
making fifty breaks off the window-bolt as it shook in the breeze!

Impossible to mistake the sound of billiard balls! Impossible to mistake
the whir of a ball over the slate! But I was to be excused. Even when I
shut my enlightened eyes the sound was marvelously like that of a fast
game.

Entered angrily the faithful partner of my sorrows, Kadir Baksh.

"This bungalow is very bad and low-caste! No wonder the Presence was
disturbed and is speckled. Three sets of doolie-bearers came to the
bungalow late last night when I was sleeping outside, and said that it was
their custom to rest in the rooms set apart for the English people! What
honor has the _khansamah_? They tried to enter, but I told them to go. No
wonder, if these _Oorias_ have been here, that the Presence is sorely
spotted. It is shame, and the work of a dirty man!"

Kadir Baksh did not say that he had taken from each gang two annas for
rent in advance, and then, beyond my earshot, had beaten them with the big
green umbrella whose use I could never before divine. But Kadir Baksh has
no notions of morality.

There was an interview with the _khansamah_, but as he promptly lost his
head, wrath gave place to pity, and pity led to a long conversation, in
the course of which he put the fat Engineer-Sahib's tragic death in three
separate stations--two of them fifty miles away. The third shift was to
Calcutta, and there the Sahib died while driving a dog-cart.

If I had encouraged him the _khansamah_ would have wandered all through
Bengal with his corpse.

I did not go away as soon as I intended. I stayed for the night, while the
wind and the rat and the sash and the window-bolt played a ding-dong
"hundred and fifty up." Then the wind ran out and the billiards stopped,
and I felt that I had ruined my one genuine, hall-marked ghost story.

Had I only stopped at the proper time, I could have made _anything_ out of
it.

That was the bitterest thought of all!



THE BIG DRUNK DRAF'

   We're goin' 'ome, we're goin' 'ome--
     Our ship is _at_ the shore,
   An' you mus' pack your 'aversack,
     For we won't come back no more.
   Ho, don't you grieve for me,
     My lovely Mary Ann,
   For I'll marry you yet on a fourp'ny bit,
     As a time-expired ma-a-an!

_Barrack Room Ballad_.

An awful thing has happened! My friend, Private Mulvaney, who went home in
the _Serapis_, time-expired, not very long ago, has come back to India as
a civilian! It was all Dinah Shadd's fault. She could not stand the poky
little lodgings, and she missed her servant Abdullah more than words could
tell. The fact was that the Mulvaneys had been out here too long, and had
lost touch of England.

Mulvaney knew a contractor on one of the new Central India lines, and
wrote to him for some sort of work. The contractor said that if Mulvaney
could pay the passage he would give him command of a gang of coolies for
old sake's sake. The pay was eighty-five rupees a month, and Dinah Shadd
said that if Terence did not accept she would make his life a "basted
purgathory." Therefore the Mulvaneys came out as "civilians," which was a
great and terrible fall; though Mulvaney tried to disguise it, by saying
that he was "Ker'nel on the railway line, an' a consequinshal man."

He wrote me an invitation, on a tool-indent form, to visit him; and I came
down to the funny little "construction" bungalow at the side of the line.
Dinah Shadd had planted peas about and about, and nature had spread all
manner of green stuff round the place. There was no change in Mulvaney
except the change of clothing, which was deplorable, but could not be
helped. He was standing upon his trolly, haranguing a gang-man, and his
shoulders were as well drilled, and his big, thick chin was as
clean-shaven as ever.

"I'm a civilian now," said Mulvaney. "Cud you tell that I was iver a
martial man? Don't answer, sorr, av you're strainin' betune a complimint
an' a lie. There's no houldin' Dinah Shadd now she's got a house av her
own. Go inside, an' dhrink tay out av chiny in the drrrrawin'-room, an'
thin we'll dhrink like Christians undher the tree here. Scutt, ye
naygur-folk! There's a Sahib come to call on me, an' that's more than
he'll iver do for you onless you run! Get out, an' go on pilin' up the
earth, quick, till sundown."

When we three were comfortably settled under the big _sisham_ in front of
the bungalow, and the first rush of questions and answers about Privates
Ortheris and Learoyd and old times and places had died away, Mulvaney
said, reflectively--"Glory be there's no p'rade to-morrow, an' no
bun-headed Corp'ril-bhoy to give you his lip. An' yit I don't know. Tis
harrd to be something ye niver were an' niver meant to be, an' all the
ould days shut up along wid your papers. Eyah! I'm growin' rusty, an' 'tis
the will av God that a man mustn't serve his Quane for time an' all."

He helped himself to a fresh peg, and sighed furiously.

"Let your beard grow, Mulvaney," said I, "and then you won't be troubled
with those notions. You'll be a real civilian."

Dinah Shadd had told me in the drawing-room of her desire to coax Mulvaney
into letting his beard grow. "Twas so civilian-like," said poor Dinah, who
hated her husband's hankering for his old life.

"Dinah Shadd, you're a dishgrace to an honust, clane-scraped man!" said
Mulvaney, without replying to me. "Grow a beard on your own chin, darlint,
and lave my razors alone. They're all that stand betune me and
dis-ris-pect-ability. Av I didn't shave, I wud be torminted wid an
outrajis thurrst; for there's nothin' so dhryin' to the throat as a big
billy-goat beard waggin' undher the chin. Ye wudn't have me dhrink
_always,_ Dinah Shadd? By the same token, you're kapin' me crool dhry now.
Let me look at that whiskey."

The whiskey was lent and returned, but Dinah Shadd, who had been just as
eager as her husband in asking after old friends, rent me with--

"I take shame for you, sorr, coming down here--though the Saints know
you're as welkim as the daylight whin you _do_ come--an' upsettin'
Terence's head wid your nonsense about--about fwhat's much better
forgotten. He bein' a civilian now, an' you niver was aught else. Can you
not let the Arrmy rest? 'Tis not good for Terence."

I took refuge by Mulvaney, for Dinah Shadd has a temper of her own.

"Let be--let be," said Mulvaney, "'Tis only wanst in a way I can talk
about the ould days." Then to me:--"Ye say Dhrumshticks is well, an' his
lady tu? I niver knew how I liked the grey garron till I was shut av him
an' Asia."--"Dhrumshticks" was the nickname of the Colonel commanding
Mulvaney's old regiment.--"Will you be seein' him again? You will. Thin
tell him"--Mulvaney's eyes began to twinkle--"tell him wid
Privit"--"_Mister_, Terence," interrupted Dinah Shadd.

"Now the Divil an' all his angils an' the Firmament av Hiven fly away wid
the 'Mister,' an' the sin av making me swear be on your confession, Dinah
Shadd! _Privit_, I tell ye. Wid _Privit_ Mulvaney's best obedience, that
but for me the last time-expired wud be still pullin' hair on their way to
the sea."

He threw himself back in the chair, chuckled, and was silent.

"Mrs. Mulvaney," I said, "please take up the whiskey, and don't let him
have it until he has told the story."

Dinah Shadd dexterously whipped the bottle away, saying at the same time,
"'Tis nothing to be proud av," and thus captured by the enemy, Mulvaney
spake:--

"'Twas on Chuseday week. I was behaderin' round wid the gangs on the
'bankmint--I've taught the hoppers how to kape step an' stop
screechin'--whin a head-gangman comes up to me, wid about two inches av
shirt-tail hanging round his neck an' a disthressful light in his oi.
'Sahib,' sez he, 'there's a reg'mint an' a half av soldiers up at the
junction, knockin' red cinders out av ivrything an' ivrybody! They thried
to hang me in my cloth,' he sez, 'an' there will be murder an' ruin an'
rape in the place before nightfall! They say they're comin' down here to
wake us up. What will we do wid our womenfolk?'

"'Fetch my throlly!' sez I; 'my heart's sick in my ribs for a wink at
anything wid the Quane's uniform on ut, Fetch my throlly, an' six av the
jildiest men, and run me up in shtyle.'"

"He tuk his best coat," said Dinah Shadd, reproachfully.

"'Twas to do honor to the Widdy. I cud ha' done no less, Dinah Shadd. You
and your digresshins interfere wid the coorse av the narrative. Have you
iver considhered fwhat I wud look like wid me _head_ shaved as well as my
chin? You bear that in your mind, Dinah darlin'.

"I was throllied up six miles, all to get a shquint at that draf'. I
_knew_ 'twas a spring draf' goin' home, for there's no rig'mint
hereabouts, more's the pity."

"Praise the Virgin!" murmured Dinah Shadd. But Mulvaney did not hear.

"Whin I was about three-quarters av a mile off the rest-camp, powtherin'
along fit to burrst, I heard the noise av the men an', on my sowl, sorr, I
cud catch the voice av Peg Barney bellowin' like a bison wid the
belly-ache. You remimber Peg Barney that was in D Comp'ny--a red, hairy
scraun, wid a scar on his jaw? Peg Barney that cleared out the Blue
Lights' jubilee meeting wid the cook-room mop last year?

"Thin I knew ut was a draf' of the ould rig'mint, an' I was conshumed wid
sorrow for the bhoy that was in charge. We was harrd scrapin's at any
time. Did I iver tell you how Horker Kelley went into clink nakid as
Phoebus Apollonius, wid the shirts av the Corp'ril an' file undher his
arrum? An' _he_ was a moild man! But I'm digreshin'. 'Tis a shame both to
the rig'mints and the Arrmy sendin' down little orf'cer bhoys wid a draf'
av strong men mad wid liquor an' the chanst av gettin' shut av India, an'
_niver a punishment that's fit to be given right down an' away from
cantonmints to the dock!_ 'Tis this nonsince. Whin I am servin' my time,
I'm undher the Articles av War, an' can be whipped on the peg for _thim_.
But whin I've _served_ my time, I'm a Reserve man, an' the Articles av War
haven't any hould on me. An orf'cer _can't_ do anythin' to a time-expired
savin' confinin' him to barricks. 'Tis a wise rig'lation bekaze a
time-expired does not have any barricks; bein' on the move all the time.
'Tis a Solomon av a rig'lation, is that. I wud like to be inthroduced to
the man that made ut. 'Tis easier to get colts from a Kibbereen horse-fair
into Galway than to take a bad draf' over ten miles av country.
Consiquintly that rig'lation--for fear that the men wud be hurt by the
little orf'cer bhoy. No matther. The nearer my throlly came to the
rest-camp, the woilder was the shine, an' the louder was the voice av Peg
Barney. ''Tis good I am here,' thinks I to myself, 'for Peg alone is
employment for two or three.' He bein', I well knew, as copped as a
dhrover.

"Faith, that rest-camp was a sight! The tent-ropes was all skew-nosed, an'
the pegs looked as dhrunk as the men--fifty av thim--the scourin's, an'
rinsin's, an' Divil's lavin's av the Ould Rig'mint. I tell you, sorr, they
were dhrunker than any men you've ever seen in your mortial life. _How_
does a draf' get dhrunk? How does a frog get fat? They suk ut in through
their shkins.

"There was Peg Barney sittin' on the groun' in his shirt--wan shoe off an'
wan shoe on--whackin' a tent-peg over the head wid his boot, an' singin'
fit to wake the dead. 'Twas no clane song that he sung, though. 'Twas the
Divil's Mass."

"What's that?" I asked.

"Whin a bad egg is shut av the Army, he sings the Divil's Mass for a good
riddance; an' that manes swearin' at ivrything from the
Commandher-in-Chief down to the Room-Corp'ril, such as you niver in your
days heard. Some men can swear so as to make green turf crack! Have you
iver heard the Curse in an Orange Lodge? The Divil's Mass is ten times
worse, an' Peg Barney was singin' ut, whackin' the tent-peg on the head
wid his boot for each man that he cursed. A powerful big voice had Peg
Barney, an' a hard swearer he was whin sober. I stood forninst him, an'
'twas not me oi alone that cud tell Peg was dhrunk as a coot.

"'Good mornin', Peg,' I sez, whin he dhrew breath afther cursin' the
Adj'tint Gen'ral; 'I've put on my best coat to see you, Peg Barney,' sez
I.

"'Thin take ut off again,' sez Peg Barney, latherin' away wid the boot;
'take ut off an' dance, ye lousy civilian!'

"Wid that he begins cursin' ould Dhrumshticks, being so full he clean
disremimbers the Brigade-Major an' the Judge Advokit Gen'ral.

"'Do you not know me, Peg?' sez I, though me blood was hot in me wid being
called a civilian."

"An' him a decent married man!" wailed Dinah Shadd.

"'I do not,' sez Peg, 'but dhrunk or sober I'll tear the hide off your
back wid a shovel whin I've stopped singin'.'

"'Say you so, Peg Barney?' sez I. 'Tis clear as mud you've forgotten me.
I'll assist your autobiography.' Wid that I stretched Peg Barney, boot an'
all, an' wint into the camp. An awful sight ut was!

"'Where's the orf'cer in charge av the detachment?' sez I to Scrub
Greene--the manest little worm that ever walked.

"'There's no orf'cer, ye ould cook,' sez Scrub; 'we're a bloomin'
Republic.'

"'Are you that?' sez I; 'thin I'm O'Connell the Dictator, an' by this you
will larn to kape a civil tongue in your rag-box.'

"Wid that I stretched Scrub Greene an' wint to the orf'cer's tent. 'Twas a
new little bhoy--not wan I'd iver seen before. He was sittin' in his tent,
purtendin' not to 'ave ear av the racket.

"I saluted--but for the life av me! mint to shake hands whin I went in.
Twas the sword hangin' on the tent-pole changed my will.

"'Can't I help, sorr?' sez I; ''tis a strong man's job they've given you,
an' you'll be wantin' help by sundown.' He was a bhoy wid bowils, that
child, an' a rale gintleman.

"'Sit down,' sez he.

"'Not before my orf'cer,' sez I; an' I tould him fwhat my service was.

"'I've heard av you,' sez he. 'You tuk the town av Lungtungpen nakid.'

"'Faith,' thinks I, 'that's Honor an' Glory, for 'twas Lift'nint Brazenose
did that job. 'I'm wid ye, sorr,' sez I, 'if I'm av use. They shud niver
ha' sent you down wid the draf'. Savin' your presince, sorr,' I sez, 'tis
only Lift'nint Hackerston in the Ould Rig'mint can manage a Home draf'.'

"'I've niver had charge of men like this before,' sez he, playin' wid the
pens on the table; 'an' I see by the Rig'lations'--

"'Shut your oi to the Rig'lations, sorr,' I sez, 'till the throoper's into
blue wather. By the Rig'lations you've got to tuck thim up for the night,
or they'll be runnin' foul av my coolies an' makin' a shiverarium half
through the country. Can you trust your noncoms, sorr?'

"'Yes,' sez he.

"'Good,' sez I; 'there'll be throuble before the night. Are you marchin',
sorr?'

"'To the next station,' sez he.

"'Better still,' sez I; 'there'll be big throuble.'

"'Can't be too hard on a Home draf',' sez he; 'the great thing is to get
thim in-ship.'

"'Faith you've larnt the half av your lesson, sorr,' sez I, 'but av you
shtick to the Rig'lations you'll niver get thim in-ship at all, at all. Or
there won't be a rag av kit betune thim whin you do.'

"'Twas a dear little orf'cer bhoy, an' by way av kapin' his heart up, I
tould him fwhat I saw wanst in a draf' in Egypt."

"What was that, Mulvaney?" said I.

"Sivin an' fifty men sittin' on the bank av a canal, laughin' at a poor
little squidgereen av an orf'cer that they'd made wade into the slush an'
pitch the things out av the boats for their Lord High Mightinesses. That
made me orf'cer bhoy woild wid indignation.

"'Soft an' aisy, sorr,' sez I; 'you've niver had your draf' in hand since
you left cantonmints. Wait till the night, an' your work will be ready to
you. Wid your permission, sorr, I will investigate the camp, an' talk to
my ould friends. Tis no manner av use thryin' to shtop the divilmint
_now_.'

"Wid that I wint out into the camp an' inthrojuced mysilf to ivry man
sober enough to remimber me. I was some wan in the ould days, an' the
bhoys was glad to see me--all excipt Peg Barney wid a eye like a tomata
five days in the bazar, an' a nose to match. They come round me an' shuk
me, an' I tould thim I was in privit employ wid an income av me own, an' a
drrrawin'-room fit to bate the Quane's; an' wid me lies an' me shtories
an' nonsinse gin'rally, I kept 'em quiet in wan way an' another, knockin'
roun' the camp. Twas _bad_ even thin whin I was the Angil av Peace.

"I talked to me ould non-coms--_they_ was sober--an' betune me an' thim we
wore the draf' over into their tents at the proper time. The little
orf'cer bhoy he comes round, decint an' civil-spoken as might be.

"'Rough quarters, men,' sez he, 'but you can't look to be as comfortable
as in barricks. We must make the best av things. I've shut my eyes to a
dale av dog's tricks to-day, an' now there must be no more av ut.'

"'No more we will. Come an' have a dhrink, me son,' sez Peg Barney,
staggerin' where he stud. Me little orf'cer bhoy kep' his timper.

"'You're a sulky swine, you are,' sez Peg Barney, an' at that the men in
the tent began to laugh.

"I tould you me orf'cer bhoy had bowils. He cut Peg Barney as near as
might be on the oi that I'd squshed whin we first met. Peg wint spinnin'
acrost the tent.

"'Peg him out, sorr,' sez I, in a whishper.

"'Peg him out!' sez me orf'cer bhoy, up loud, just as if 'twas
battalion-p'rade an' he pickin' his wurrds from the Sargint.

"The non-coms tuk Peg Barney--a howlin' handful he was--an' in three
minuts he was pegged out--chin down, tight-dhrawn--on his stummick, a
tent-peg to each arm an' leg, swearin' fit to turn a naygur white.

"I tuk a peg an' jammed ut into his ugly jaw.--'Bite on that, Peg Barney,'
I sez; 'the night is settin' frosty, an' you'll be wantin' divarsion
before the mornin'. But for the Rig'lations you'd be bitin' on a bullet
now at the thriangles, Peg Barney,' sez I.

"All the draf' was out av their tents watchin' Barney bein' pegged.

"''Tis agin the Rig'lations! He strook him!' screeches out Scrub Greene,
who was always a lawyer; an' some of the men tuk up the shoutin'.

"'Peg out that man!' sez my orf'cer bhoy, niver losin' his timper; an' the
non-coms wint in and pegged out Scrub Greene by the side av Peg Barney.

"I cud see that the draf' was comin' roun'. The men stud not knowin' fwhat
to do.

"'Get to your tents!' sez me orf'cer bhoy. 'Sargint, put a sintry over
these two men.'

"The men wint back into the tents like jackals, an' the rest av the night
there was no noise at all excipt the stip av the sintry over the two, an'
Scrub Greene blubberin' like a child. 'Twas a chilly night, an' faith, ut
sobered Peg Barney.

"Just before Revelly, my orf'cer bhoy comes out an' sez: 'Loose those men
an' send thim to their tents!' Scrub Greene wint away widout a word, but
Peg Barney, stiff wid the cowld, stud like a sheep, thryin' to make his
orf'cer understhand he was sorry for playin' the goat.

"There was no tucker in the draf' whin ut fell in for the march, an' divil
a wurrd about 'illegality' cud I hear.

"I wint to the ould Color Sargint and I sez:--'Let me die in glory,' sez
I. 'I've seen a man this day!'

"'A man he is,' sez ould Hother; 'the draf's as sick as a herrin'. They'll
all go down to the sea like lambs. That bhoy has the bowils av a
cantonmint av Gin'rals.'

"'Amin,' sez I, 'an' good luck go wid him, wheriver he be, by land or by
sea. Let me know how the draf' gets clear.'

"An' do you know how they _did_? That bhoy, so I was tould by letter from
Bombay, bullydamned 'em down to the dock, till they cudn't call their
sowls their own. From the time they left me oi till they was 'tween decks,
not wan av thim was more than dacintly dhrunk. An', by the Holy Articles
av War, whin they wint aboard they cheered him till they cudn't spake, an'
_that_, mark you, has not come about wid a draf' in the mim'ry av livin'
man! You look to that little orf'cer bhoy. He has bowils. 'Tis not ivry
child that wud chuck the Rig'lations to Flanders an' stretch Peg Barney on
a wink from a brokin an' dilapidated ould carkiss like mesilf. I'd be
proud to serve"--

"Terrence, you're a civilian," said Dinah Shadd, warningly.

"So I am--so I am. Is ut likely I wud forget ut? But he was a gran' bhoy
all the same, an' I'm only a mudtipper wid a hod on my shoulthers. The
whiskey's in the heel av your hand, sorr. Wid your good lave we'll dhrink
to the Ould Rig'mint--three fingers--standin' up!"

And we drank.



BY WORD OF MOUTH

   Not though you die to-night, O Sweet, and wail,
       A spectre at my door,
   Shall mortal Fear make Love immortal fail--
       I shall but love you more,
   Who, from Death's house returning, give me still
   One moment's comfort in my matchless ill.

--_Shadow Houses_.

This tale may be explained by those who know how souls are made, and where
the bounds of the Possible are put down. I have lived long enough in this
India to know that it is best to know nothing, and can only write the
story as it happened.

Dumoise was our Civil Surgeon at Meridki, and we called him "Dormouse,"
because he was a round little, sleepy little man. He was a good Doctor and
never quarreled with any one, not even with our Deputy Commissioner who
had the manners of a bargee and the tact of a horse. He married a girl as
round and as sleepy-looking as himself. She was a Miss Hillardyce,
daughter of "Squash" Hillardyce of the Berars, who married his Chief's
daughter by mistake. But that is another story.


       *
       *
       *
       *
       *

A honeymoon in India is seldom more than a week long; but there is nothing
to hinder a couple from extending it over two or three years. India is a
delightful country for married folk who are wrapped up in one another.
They can live absolutely alone and without interruption--just as the
Dormice did. Those two little people retired from the world after their
marriage, and were very happy. They were forced, of course, to give
occasional dinners, but they made no friends thereby, and the Station went
its own way and forgot them; only saying, occasionally, that Dormouse was
the best of good fellows though dull. A Civil Surgeon who never quarrels
is a rarity, appreciated as such.

Few people can afford to play Robinson Crusoe anywhere--least of all in
India, where we are few in the land and very much dependent on each
other's kind offices. Dumoise was wrong in shutting himself from the world
for a year, and he discovered his mistake when an epidemic of typhoid
broke out in the Station in the heart of the cold weather, and his wife
went down. He was a shy little man, and five days were wasted before he
realized that Mrs. Dumoise was burning with something worse than simple
fever, and three days more passed before he ventured to call on Mrs.
Shute, the Engineer's wife, and timidly speak about his trouble.

Nearly every household in India knows that Doctors are very helpless in
typhoid. The battle must be fought out between Death and the Nurses minute
by minute and degree by degree. Mrs. Shute almost boxed Dumoise's ears for
what she called his "criminal delay," and went off at once to look after
the poor girl. We had seven cases of typhoid in the Station that winter
and, as the average of death is about one in every five cases, we felt
certain that we should have to lose somebody. But all did their best. The
women sat up nursing the women, and the men turned to and tended the
bachelors who were down, and we wrestled with those typhoid cases for
fifty-six days, and brought them through the Valley of the Shadow in
triumph. But, just when we thought all was over, and were going to give a
dance to celebrate the victory, little Mrs. Dumoise got a relapse and died
in a week and the Station went to the funeral. Dumoise broke down utterly
at the brink of the grave, and had to be taken away.

After the death, Dumoise crept into his own house and refused to be
comforted. He did his duties perfectly, but we all felt that he should go
on leave, and the other men of his own Service told him so. Dumoise was
very thankful for the suggestion--he was thankful for anything in those
days--and went to Chini on a walking-tour. Chini is some twenty marches
from Simla, in the heart of the Hills, and the scenery is good if you are
in trouble. You pass through big, still deodar-forests, and under big,
still cliffs, and over big, still grass-downs swelling like a woman's
breasts; and the wind across the grass, and the rain among the deodars
says--"Hush--hush--hush." So little Dumoise was packed off to Chini, to
wear down his grief with a full-plate camera and a rifle. He took also a
useless bearer, because the man had been his wife's favorite servant. He
was idle and a thief, but Dumoise trusted everything to him.

On his way back from Chini, Dumoise turned aside to Bagi, through the
Forest Reserve which is on the spur of Mount Huttoo. Some men who have
traveled more than a little say that the march from Kotegarh to Bagi is
one of the finest in creation. It runs through dark wet forest, and ends
suddenly in bleak, nipped hillside and black rocks. Bagi d�k-bungalow is
open to all the winds and is bitterly cold. Few people go to Bagi. Perhaps
that was the reason why Dumoise went there. He halted at seven in the
evening, and his bearer went down the hillside to the village to engage
coolies for the next day's march. The sun had set, and the night-winds
were beginning to croon among the rocks. Dumoise leaned on the railing of
the veranda, waiting for his bearer to return. The man came back almost
immediately after he had disappeared, and at such a rate that Dumoise
fancied he must have crossed a bear. He was running as hard as he could up
the face of the hill.

But there was no bear to account for his terror. He raced to the veranda
and fell down, the blood spurting from his nose and his face iron-grey.
Then he gurgled--"I have seen the _Memsahib_! I have seen the _Memsahib_!"

"Where?" said Dumoise.

"Down there, walking on the road to the village. She was in a blue dress,
and she lifted the veil of her bonnet and said--'Ram Dass, give my
_salaams_ to the _Sahib_, and tell him that I shall meet him next month at
Nuddea.' Then I ran away, because I was afraid."

What Dumoise said or did I do not know. Ram Dass declares that he said
nothing, but walked up and down the veranda all the cold night, waiting
for the _Memsahib_ to come up the hill and stretching out his arms into
the dark like a madman. But no _Memsahib_ came, and, next day, he went on
to Simla cross-questioning the bearer every hour.

Ram Dass could only say that he had met Mrs. Dumoise and that she had
lifted up her veil and given him the message which he had faithfully
repeated to Dumoise. To this statement Ram Dass adhered. He did not know
where Nuddea was, had no friends at Nuddea, and would most certainly never
go to Nuddea; even though his pay were doubled,

Nuddea is in Bengal and has nothing whatever to do with a Doctor serving
in the Punjab. It must be more than twelve hundred miles south of Meridki.

Dumoise went through Simla without halting, and returned to Meridki, there
to take over charge from the man who had been officiating for him during
his tour. There were some Dispensary accounts to be explained, and some
recent orders of the Surgeon-General to be noted, and, altogether, the
taking-over was a full day's work, In the evening, Dumoise told his _locum
tenens_, who was an old friend of his bachelor days, what had happened at
Bagi; and the man said that Ram Dass might as well have chosen Tuticorin
while he was about it.

At that moment, a telegraph-peon came in with a telegram from Simla,
ordering Dumoise not to take over charge at Meridki, but to go at once to
Nuddea on special duty. There was a nasty outbreak of cholera at Nuddea,
and the Bengal Government, being short-handed, as usual, had borrowed a
Surgeon from the Punjab.

Dumoise threw the telegram across the table and said--"Well?"

The other Doctor said nothing. It was all that he could say.

Then he remembered that Dumoise had passed through Simla on his way from
Bagi; and thus might, possibly, have heard first news of the impending
transfer.

He tried to put the question, and the implied suspicion into words, but
Dumoise stopped him with--"If I had desired _that_, I should never have
come back from Chini. I was shooting there. I wish to live, for I have
things to do ... but I shall not be sorry."

The other man bowed his head, and helped, in the twilight, to pack up
Dumoise's just opened trunks. Ram Dass entered with the lamps.

"Where is the _Sahib_ going?" he asked.

"To Nuddea," said Dumoise, softly.

Ram Dass clawed Dumoise's knees and boots and begged him not to go. Ram
Dass wept and howled till he was turned out of the room. Then he wrapped
up all his belongings and came back to ask for a character. He was not
going to Nuddea to see his _Sahib_ die and, perhaps, to die himself.

So Dumoise gave the man his wages and went down to Nuddea alone; the other
Doctor bidding him good-bye as one under sentence of death.

Eleven days later he had joined his _Memsahib_; and the Bengal Government
had to borrow a fresh Doctor to cope with that epidemic at Nuddea, The
first importation lay dead in Chooadanga D�k Bungalow.



THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT

"And a little child shall lead them."

In the Army List they still stand as "The Fore and Fit Princess
Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen-Auspach's Merther-Tydfilshire Own Royal Loyal
Light Infantry, Regimental District 329A," but the Army through all its
barracks and canteens knows them now as the "Fore and Aft." They may in
time do something that shall make their new title honorable, but at
present they are bitterly ashamed, and the man who calls them "Fore and
Aft" does so at the risk of the head which is on his shoulders.

Two words breathed into the stables of a certain Cavalry Regiment will
bring the men out into the streets with belts and mops and bad language;
but a whisper of "Fore and Aft" will bring out this regiment with rifles.

Their one excuse is that they came again and did their best to finish the
job in style. But for a time all their world knows that they were openly
beaten, whipped, dumb-cowed, shaking and afraid. The men know it; their
officers know it; the Horse Guards know it, and when the next war comes
the enemy will know it also. There are two or three regiments of the Line
that have a black mark against their names which they will then wipe out,
and it will be excessively inconvenient for the troops upon whom they do
their wiping.

The courage of the British soldier is officially supposed to be above
proof, and, as a general rule, it is so. The exceptions are decently
shoveled out of sight, only to be referred to in the freshet of unguarded
talk that occasionally swamps a Mess-table at midnight. Then one hears
strange and horrible stories of men not following their officers, of
orders being given by those who had no right to give them, and of disgrace
that, but for the standing luck of the British Army, might have ended in
brilliant disaster. These are unpleasant stories to listen to, and the
Messes tell them under their breath, sitting by the big wood fires, and
the young officer bows his head and thinks to himself, please God, his men
shall never behave unhandily,

The British soldier is not altogether to be blamed for occasional lapses;
but this verdict he should not know. A moderately intelligent General will
waste six months in mastering the craft of the particular war that he may
be waging; a Colonel may utterly misunderstand the capacity of his
regiment for three months after it has taken the field; and even a Company
Commander may err and be deceived as to the temper and temperament of his
own handful: wherefore the soldier, and the soldier of to-day more
particularly, should not be blamed for falling back. He should be shot or
hanged afterward--_pour encourager les autres_; but he should not be
vilified in newspapers, for that is want of tact and waste of space.

He has, let us say, been in the service of the Empress for, perhaps, four
years. He will leave in another two years. He has no inherited morals, and
four years are not sufficient to drive toughness into his fibre, or to
teach him how holy a thing is his Regiment. He wants to drink, he wants to
enjoy himself--in India he wants to save money--and he does not in the
least like getting hurt. He has received just sufficient education to make
him understand half the purport of the orders he receives, and to
speculate on the nature of clean, incised, and shattering wounds. Thus, if
he is told to deploy under fire preparatory to an attack, he knows that he
runs a very great risk of being killed while he is deploying, and suspects
that he is being thrown away to gain ten minutes' time. He may either
deploy with desperate swiftness, or he may shuffle, or bunch, or break,
according to the discipline under which he has lain for four years.

Armed with imperfect knowledge, cursed with the rudiments of an
imagination, hampered by the intense selfishness of the lower classes, and
unsupported, by any regimental associations, this young man is suddenly
introduced to an enemy who in eastern lands is always ugly, generally tall
and hairy, and frequently noisy. If he looks to the right and the left and
sees old soldiers--men of twelve years' service, who, he knows, know what
they are about--taking a charge, rush, or demonstration without
embarrassment, he is consoled and applies his shoulder to the butt of his
rifle with a stout heart. His peace is the greater if he hears a senior,
who has taught him his soldiering and broken his head on occasion,
whispering:--"They'll shout and carry on like this for five minutes. Then
they'll rush in, and then we've got 'em by the short hairs!"

But, on the other hand, if he sees only men of his own term of service,
turning white and playing with their triggers and saying:--"What the
Hell's up now?" while the Company Commanders are sweating into their
sword-hilts and shouting:--"Front-rank, fix bayonets. Steady
there--steady! Sight for three hundred--no, for five! Lie down, all!
Steady! Front-rank, kneel!" and so forth, he becomes unhappy; and grows
acutely miserable when he hears a comrade turn over with the rattle of
fire-irons falling into the fender, and the grunt of a pole-axed ox. If he
can be moved about a little and allowed to watch the effect of his own
fire on the enemy he feels merrier, and may be then worked up to the blind
passion of fighting, which is, contrary to general belief, controlled by a
chilly Devil and shakes men like ague. If he is not moved about, and
begins to feel cold at the pit of the stomach, and in that crisis is badly
mauled and hears orders that were never given, he will break, and he will
break badly; and of all things under the sight of the Sun there is nothing
more terrible than a broken British regiment. When the worst comes to the
worst and the panic is really epidemic, the men must be e'en let go, and
the Company Commanders had better escape to the enemy and stay there for
safety's sake. If they can be made to come again they are not pleasant men
to meet, because they will not break twice.

About thirty years from this date, when we have succeeded in
half-educating everything that wears trousers, our Army will be a
beautifully unreliable machine. It will know too much and it will do too
little. Later still, when all men are at the mental level of the officer
of to-day it will sweep the earth. Speaking roughly, you must employ
either blackguards or gentlemen, or, best of all, blackguards commanded by
gentlemen, to do butcher's work with efficiency and despatch. The ideal
soldier should, of course, think for himself--the _Pocketbook_ says so.
Unfortunately, to attain this virtue, he has to pass through the phase of
thinking of himself, and that is misdirected genius. A blackguard may be
slow to think for himself, but he is genuinely anxious to kill, and a
little punishment teaches him how to guard his own skin and perforate
another's. A powerfully prayerful Highland Regiment, officered by rank
Presbyterians, is, perhaps, one degree more terrible in action than a
hard-bitten thousand of irresponsible Irish ruffians led by most improper
young unbelievers. But these things prove the rule--which is that the
midway men are not to be trusted alone. They have ideas about the value of
life and an upbringing that has not taught them to go on and take the
chances. They are carefully unprovided with a backing of comrades who have
been shot over, and until that backing is re-introduced, as a great many
Regimental Commanders intend it shall be, they are more liable to disgrace
themselves than the size of the Empire or the dignity of the Army allows.
Their officers are as good as good can be, because their training begins
early, and God has arranged that a clean-run youth of the British middle
classes shall, in the matter of backbone, brains, and bowels, surpass all
other youths. For this reason a child of eighteen will stand up, doing
nothing, with a tin sword in his hand and joy in his heart until he is
dropped. If he dies, he dies like a gentleman. If he lives, he writes Home
that he has been "potted," "sniped," "chipped" or "cut over," and sits
down to besiege Government for a wound-gratuity until the next little war
breaks out, when he perjures himself before a Medical Board, blarneys his
Colonel, burns incense round his Adjutant, and is allowed to go to the
Front once more.

Which homily brings me directly to a brace of the most finished little
fiends that ever banged drum or tootled fife in the Band of a British
Regiment. They ended their sinful career by open and flagrant mutiny and
were shot for it. Their names were Jakin and Lew--Piggy Lew--and they were
bold, bad drummer-boys, both of them frequently birched by the Drum-Major
of the Fore and Aft.

Jakin was a stunted child of fourteen, and Lew was about the same age.
When not looked after, they smoked and drank. They swore habitually after
the manner of the Barrack-room, which is cold-swearing and comes from
between clinched teeth; and they fought religiously once a week. Jakin had
sprung from some London gutter and may or may not have passed through Dr.
Barnado's hands ere he arrived at the dignity of drummer-boy. Lew could
remember nothing except the regiment and the delight of listening to the
Band from his earliest years. He hid somewhere in his grimy little soul a
genuine love for music, and was most mistakenly furnished with the head of
a cherub: insomuch that beautiful ladies who watched the Regiment in
church were wont to speak of him as a "darling." They never heard his
vitriolic comments on their manners and morals, as he walked back to
barracks with the Band and matured fresh causes of offence against Jakin.

The other drummer-boys hated both lads on account of their illogical
conduct. Jakin might be pounding Lew, or Lew might be rubbing Jakin's head
in the dirt, but any attempt at aggression on the part of an outsider was
met by the combined forces of Lew and Jakin; and the consequences were
painful. The boys were the Ishmaels of the corps, but wealthy Ishmaels,
for they sold battles in alternate weeks for the sport of the barracks
when they were not pitted against other boys; and thus amassed money.

On this particular day there was dissension in the camp. They had just
been convicted afresh of smoking, which is bad for little boys who use
plug-tobacco, and Lew's contention was that Jakin had "stunk so 'orrid bad
from keepin' the pipe in pocket," that he and he alone was responsible for
the birching they were both tingling under.

"I tell you I 'id the pipe back o' barricks," said Jakin, pacifically.

"You're a bloomin' liar," said Lew, without heat.

"You're a bloomin' little barstard," said Jakin, strong in the knowledge
that his own ancestry was unknown.

Now there is one word in the extended vocabulary of barrack-room abuse
that cannot pass without comment. You may call a man a thief and risk
nothing. You may even call him a coward without finding more than a boot
whiz past your ear, but you must not call a man a bastard unless you are
prepared to prove it on his front teeth.

"You might ha' kep' that till I wasn't so sore," said Lew, sorrowfully,
dodging round Jakin's guard.

"I'll make you sorer," said Jakin, genially, and got home on Lew's
alabaster forehead. All would have gone well and this story, as the books
say, would never have been written, had not his evil fate prompted the
Bazar-Sergeant's son, a long, employless man of five and twenty, to put in
an appearance after the first round. He was eternally in need of money,
and knew that the boys had silver.

"Fighting again," said he. "I'll report you to my father, and he'll report
you to the Color-Sergeant."

"What's that to you?" said Jakin, with an unpleasant dilation of the
nostrils.

"Oh! nothing to _me_. You'll get into trouble, and you've been up too
often to afford that."

"What the Hell do you know about what we've done?" asked Lew the Seraph.
"_You_ aren't in the Army, you lousy, cadging civilian."

He closed in on the man's left flank.

"Jes' 'cause you find two gentlemen settlin' their differences with their
fistes you stick in your ugly nose where you aren't wanted. Run 'ome to
your 'arf-caste slut of a Ma--or we'll give you what-for," said Jakin.

The man attempted reprisals by knocking the boys' heads together. The
scheme would have succeeded had not Jakin punched him vehemently in the
stomach, or had Lew refrained from kicking his shins. They fought
together, bleeding and breathless, for half an hour, and after heavy
punishment, triumphantly pulled down their opponent as terriers pull down
a jackal.

"Now," gasped Jakin, "I'll give you what-for." He proceeded to pound the
man's features while Lew stamped on the outlying portions of his anatomy.
Chivalry is not a strong point in the composition of the average
drummer-boy. He fights, as do his betters, to make his mark.

Ghastly was the ruin that escaped, and awful was the wrath of the
Bazar-Sergeant. Awful too was the scene in Orderly-room when the two
reprobates appeared to answer the charge of half-murdering a "civilian."
The Bazar-Sergeant thirsted for a criminal action, and his son lied. The
boys stood to attention while the black clouds of evidence accumulated.

"You little devils are more trouble than the rest of the Regiment put
together," said the Colonel, angrily. "One might as well admonish
thistledown, and I can't well put you in cells or under stoppages. You
must be flogged again."

"Beg y' pardon, Sir. Can't we say nothin' in our own defence, Sir?"
shrilled Jakin.

"Hey! What? Are you going to argue with me?" said the Colonel.

"No, Sir," said Lew. "But if a man come to you, Sir, and said he was going
to report you, Sir, for 'aving a bit of a turn-up with a friend, Sir, an'
wanted to get money out o' _you_, Sir"--

The Orderly-room exploded in a roar of laughter. "Well?" said the Colonel.

"That was what that measly _jarnwar_ there did, Sir, and 'e'd 'a' _done_
it, Sir, if we 'adn't prevented 'im. We didn't 'it 'im much, Sir. 'E
'adn't no manner o' right to interfere with us, Sir. I don't mind bein'
flogged by the Drum-Major, Sir, nor yet reported by _any_ Corp'ral, but
I'm--but I don't think it's fair, Sir, for a civilian to come an' talk
over a man in the Army."

A second shout of laughter shook the Orderly-room, but the Colonel was
grave.

"What sort of characters have these boys?" he asked of the Regimental
Sergeant-Major.

"Accordin' to the Bandmaster, Sir," returned that revered official--the
only soul in the regiment whom the boys feared--"they do everything _but_
lie, Sir."

"Is it like we'd go for that man for fun, Sir?" said Lew, pointing to the
plaintiff.

"Oh, admonished,--admonished!" said the Colonel, testily, and when the
boys had gone he read the Bazar-Sergeant's son a lecture on the sin of
unprofitable meddling, and gave orders that the Bandmaster should keep the
Drums in better discipline.

"If either of you come to practice again with so much as a scratch on your
two ugly little faces," thundered the Bandmaster, "I'll tell the
Drum-Major to take the skin off your backs. Understand that, you young
devils."

Then he repented of his speech for just the length of time that Lew,
looking like a Seraph in red worsted embellishments, took the place of one
of the trumpets--in hospital--and rendered the echo of a battle-piece. Lew
certainly was a musician, and had often in his more exalted moments
expressed a yearning to master every instrument of the Band.

"There's nothing to prevent your becoming a Bandmaster, Lew," said the
Bandmaster, who had composed waltzes of his own, and worked day and night
in the interests of the Band.

"What did he say?" demanded Jakin, after practice.

"'Said I might be a bloomin' Bandmaster, an' be asked in to 'ave a glass
o' sherry-wine on Mess-nights."

"Ho! 'Said you might be a bloomin' non-combatant, did 'e! That's just
about wot 'e would say. When I've put in my boy's service--it's a bloomin'
shame that doesn't count for pension--I'll take on a privit. Then I'll be
a Lance in a year--knowin' what I know about the ins an' outs o' things.
In three years I'll be a bloomin' Sergeant. I won't marry then, not I!
I'll 'old on and learn the orf'cers' ways an' apply for exchange into a
reg'ment that doesn't know all about me. Then I'll be a bloomin' orf'cer.
Then I'll ask you to 'ave a glass o' sherry-wine, _Mister_ Lew, an' you'll
bloomin' well 'ave to stay in the hanty-room while the Mess-Sergeant
brings it to your dirty 'ands."

"'S'pose _I_'m going to be a Bandmaster? Not I, quite. I'll be a orf'cer
too. There's nothin' like taking to a thing an' stickin' to it, the
Schoolmaster says. The reg'ment don't go 'ome for another seven years.
I'll be a Lance then or near to."

Thus the boys discussed their futures, and conducted themselves with
exemplary piety for a week. That is to say, Lew started a flirtation with
the Color-Sergeant's daughter, aged thirteen,--"not," as he explained to
Jakin, "with any intention o' matrimony, but by way o' keepin' my 'and
in." And the black-haired Cris Delighan enjoyed that flirtation more than
previous ones, and the other drummer-boys raged furiously together, and
Jakin preached sermons on the dangers of "bein' tangled along o'
petticoats."

But neither love nor virtue would have held Lew long in the paths of
propriety had not the rumor gone abroad that the Regiment was to be sent
on active service, to take part in a war which, for the sake of brevity,
we will call "The War of the Lost Tribes."

The barracks had the rumor almost before the Mess-room, and of all the
nine hundred men in barracks not ten had seen a shot fired in anger. The
Colonel had, twenty years ago, assisted at a Frontier expedition; one of
the Majors had seen service at the Cape; a confirmed deserter in E Company
had helped to clear streets in Ireland; but that was all. The Regiment had
been put by for many years. The overwhelming mass of its rank and file had
from three to four years' service; the non-commissioned officers were
under thirty years old; and men and sergeants alike had forgotten to speak
of the stories written in brief upon the Colors--the New Colors that had
been formally blessed by an Archbishop in England ere the Regiment came
away.

They wanted to go to the Front--they were enthusiastically anxious to
go--but they had no knowledge of what war meant, and there was none to
tell them. They were an educated regiment, the percentage of
school-certificates in their ranks was high, and most of the men could do
more than read and write. They had been recruited in loyal observance of
the territorial idea; but they themselves had no notion of that idea. They
were made up of drafts from an over-populated manufacturing district. The
system had put flesh and muscle upon their small bones, but it could not
put heart into the sons of those who for generations had done overmuch
work for overscanty pay, had sweated in drying-rooms, stooped over looms,
coughed among white-lead and shivered on lime-barges. The men had found
food and rest in the Army, and now they were going to fight
"niggers"--people who ran away if you shook a stick at them.

Wherefore they cheered lustily when the rumor ran, and the shrewd, clerkly
non-commissioned officers speculated on the chances of batta and of saving
their pay. At Headquarters, men said:--"The Fore and Fit have never been
under fire within the last generation. Let us, therefore, break them in
easily by setting them to guard lines of communication." And this would
have been done but for the fact that British Regiments were wanted--badly
wanted--at the Front, and there were doubtful Native Regiments that could
fill the minor duties, "Brigade 'em with two strong Regiments," said
Headquarters. "They may be knocked about a bit, but they'll learn their
business before they come through. Nothing like a night-alarm and a little
cutting-up of stragglers to make a Regiment smart in the field. Wait till
they've had half a dozen sentries' throats cut."

The Colonel wrote with delight that the temper of his men was excellent,
that the Regiment was all that could be wished and as sound as a bell. The
Majors smiled with a sober joy, and the subalterns waltzed in pairs down
the Mess-room after dinner and nearly shot themselves at revolver
practice. But there was consternation in the hearts of Jakin and Lew. What
was to be done with the drums? Would the Band go to the Front? How many of
the drums would accompany the Regiment?

They took council together, sitting in a tree and smoking.

"It's more than a bloomin' toss-up they'll leave us be'ind at the Depot
with the women. You'll like that," said Jakin, sarcastically.

"'Cause o' Cris, y' mean? Wot's a woman, or a 'ole bloomin' dep�t o'
women, 'longside o' the chanst of field-service? You know I'm as keen on
goin' as you," said Lew.

"Wish I was a bloomin' bugler," said Jakin, sadly. "They'll take Tom Kidd
along, that I can plaster a wall with, an' like as not they won't take
us."

"Then let's go an' make Tom Kidd so bloomin' sick 'e can't bugle no more.
You 'old 'is 'ands an' I'll kick him," said Lew, wriggling on the branch.

"That ain't no good neither. We ain't the sort o' characters to presoom on
our rep'tations--they're bad. If they have the Band at the Depot we don't
go, and no error _there_. If they take the Band we may get cast for
medical unfitness. Are you medical fit, Piggy?" said Jakin, digging Lew in
the ribs with force.

"Yus," said Lew, with an oath. "The Doctor says your 'eart's weak through
smokin' on an empty stummick. Throw a chest an' I'll try yer."

Jakin threw out his chest, which Lew smote with all his might, Jakin
turned very pale, gasped, crowed, screwed up his eyes and said,--"That's
all right."

"You'll do," said Lew. "I've 'eard o' men dyin' when you 'it 'em fair on
the breast-bone."

"Don't bring us no nearer goin', though," said Jakin. "Do you know where
we're ordered?"

"Gawd knows, an' 'e won't split on a pal. Somewheres up to the Front to
kill Paythans--hairy big beggars that turn you inside out if they get 'old
o' you. They say their women are good-looking, too."

"Any loot?" asked the abandoned Jakin.

"Not a bloomin' anna, they say, unless you dig up the ground an' see what
the niggers 'ave 'id. They're a poor lot." Jakin stood upright on the
branch and gazed across the plain.

"Lew," said he, "there's the Colonel coming, 'Colonel's a good old beggar.
Let's go an' talk to 'im."

Lew nearly fell out of the tree at the audacity of the suggestion. Like
Jakin he feared not God neither regarded he Man, but there are limits even
to the audacity of drummer-boy, and to speak to a Colonel was ...

But Jakin had slid down the trunk and doubled in the direction of the
Colonel. That officer was walking wrapped in thought and visions of a C.
B.--yes, even a K.C.B., for had he not at command one of the best
Regiments of the Line--the Fore and Fit? And he was aware of two small
boys charging down upon him. Once before it had been solemnly reported to
him that "the Drums were in a state of mutiny"; Jakin and Lew being the
ringleaders. This looked like an organized conspiracy.

The boys halted at twenty yards, walked to the regulation four paces, and
saluted together, each as well set-up as a ramrod and little taller.

The Colonel was in a genial mood; the boys appeared very forlorn and
unprotected on the desolate plain, and one of them was handsome.

"Well!" said the Colonel, recognizing them. "Are you going to pull me down
in the open? I'm sure I never interfere with you, even though"--he sniffed
suspiciously--"you have been smoking."

It was time to strike while the iron was hot. Their hearts beat
tumultuously.

"Beg y' pardon, Sir," began Jakin. "The Reg'ment's ordered on active
service, Sir?"

"So I believe," said the Colonel, courteously.

"Is the Band goin', Sir?" said both together. Then, without pause, "We're
goin', Sir, ain't we?"

"You!" said the Colonel, stepping back the more fully to take in the two
small figures. "You! You'd die in the first march."

"No, we wouldn't, Sir. We can march with the Regiment anywheres--p'rade
an' anywhere else," said Jakin.

"If Tom Kidd goes 'ell shut up like a clasp-knife," said Lew, "Tom 'as
very close veins in both 'is legs, Sir."

"Very how much?"

"Very close veins, Sir. That's why they swells after long p'rade, Sir, If
'e can go, we can go, Sir."

Again the Colonel looked at them long and intently.

"Yes, the Band is going," he said, as gravely as though, he had been
addressing a brother officer. "Have you any parents, either of you two?"

"No, Sir," rejoicingly from Lew and Jakin. "We're both orphans, Sir.
There's no one to be considered of on our account, Sir."

"You poor little sprats, and you want to go up to the Front with the
Regiment, do you? Why?"

"I've wore the Queen's Uniform for two years," said Jakin. "It's very
'ard, Sir, that a man don't get no recompense for doin' 'is dooty, Sir."

"An'--an' if I don't go, Sir," interrupted Lew, "the Bandmaster 'e says
'e'll catch an' make a bloo--a blessed musician o' me, Sir. Before I've
seen any service, Sir."

The Colonel made no answer for a long time. Then he said quietly:--"If
you're passed by the Doctor I dare say you can go. I shouldn't smoke if I
were you."

The boys saluted and disappeared. The Colonel walked home and told the
story to his wife, who nearly cried over it. The Colonel was well pleased.
If that was the temper of the children, what would not the men do?

Jakin and Lew entered the boys' barrack-room with great stateliness, and
refused to hold any conversation with their comrades for at least ten
minutes. Then, bursting with pride, Jakin drawled:--"I've bin intervooin'
the Colonel. Good old beggar is the Colonel. Says I to 'im, 'Colonel,'
says I, 'let me go the Front, along o' the Reg'ment.' 'To the Front you
shall go,' says 'e, 'an' I only wish there was more like you among the
dirty little devils that bang the bloomin' drums.' Kidd, if you throw your
'coutrements at me for tellin' you the truth to your own advantage, your
legs 'll swell."

None the less there was a Battle-Royal in the barrack-room, for the boys
were consumed with envy and hate, and neither Jakin nor Lew behaved in
conciliatory wise.

"I'm goin' out to say adoo to my girl," said Lew, to cap the climax.
"Don't none o' you touch my kit because it's wanted for active service, me
bein' specially invited to go by the Colonel"

He strolled forth and whistled in the clump of trees at the back of the
Married Quarters till Cris came to him, and, the preliminary kisses being
given and taken, Lew began to explain the situation.

"I'm goin' to the Front with the Reg'ment," he said, valiantly,

"Piggy, you're a little liar," said Cris, but her heart misgave her, for
Lew was not in the habit of lying.

"Liar yourself, Cris," said Lew. slipping an arm round her. "I'm goin'
When the Reg'ment marches out you'll see me with 'em, all galliant and
gay. Give us another kiss, Cris, on the strength of it."

"If you'd on'y a-stayed at the Dep�t--where you _ought_ to ha' bin--you
could get as many of 'em as--as you dam please," whimpered Cris, putting
up her mouth.

"It's 'ard, Cris. I grant you it's 'ard. But what's a man to do? If I'd
a-stayed at the Dep�t, you wouldn't think anything of me,"

"Like as not, but I'd 'ave you with me, Piggy, An' all the thinkin' in the
world isn't like kissin'."

"An' all the kissin' in the world isn't like 'avin' a medal to wear on the
front o' your coat."

"_You_ won't get no medal."

"Oh, yus, I shall though. Me an' Jakin are the only acting-drummers
that'll be took along. All the rest is full men, an' we'll get our medals
with them."

"They might ha' taken anybody but you, Piggy. You'll get killed--you're so
venturesome. Stay with me, Piggy, darlin', down at the Dep�t, an' I'll
love you true forever."

"Ain't you goin' to do that _now_, Cris? You said you was."

"O' course I am, but th' other's more comfortable. Wait till you've growed
a bit, Piggy. You aren't no taller than me now."

"I've bin in the army for two years an' I'm not goin' to get out of a
chanst o' seein' service an' don't you try to make me do so. I'll come
back, Cris, an' when I take on as a man I'll marry you--marry you when I'm
a Lance."

"Promise, Piggy?"

Lew reflected on the future as arranged by Jakin a short time previously,
but Cris's mouth was very near to his own.

"I promise, s'elp me Gawd!" said he.

Cris slid an arm round his neck.

"I won't 'old you back no more, Piggy. Go away an' get your medal, an'
I'll make you a new button-bag as nice as I know how," she whispered.

"Put some o' your 'air into it, Cris, an' I'll keep it in my pocket so
long's I'm alive."

Then Cris wept anew, and the interview ended. Public feeling among the
drummer-boys rose to fever pitch and the lives of Jakin and Lew became
unenviable. Not only had they been permitted to enlist two years before
the regulation boy's age--fourteen--but, by virtue, it seemed, of their
extreme youth, they were allowed to go to the Front--which thing had not
happened to acting-drummers within the knowledge of boy. The Band which
was to accompany the Regiment had been cut down to the regulation twenty
men, the surplus returning to the ranks. Jakin and Lew were attached to
the Band as supernumeraries, though they would much have preferred being
Company buglers.

"'Don't matter much," said Jakin, after the medical inspection, "Be
thankful that we're 'lowed to go at all. The Doctor 'e said that if we
could stand what we took from the Bazar-Sergeant's son we'd stand pretty
nigh anything."

"Which we will," said Lew, looking tenderly at the ragged and ill-made
house-wife that Cris had given him, with a lock of her hair worked into a
sprawling "L" upon the cover.

"It was the best I could," she sobbed. "I wouldn't let mother nor the
Sergeant's tailor 'elp me. Keep it always, Piggy, an' remember I love you
true."

They marched to the railway station, nine hundred and sixty strong, and
every soul in cantonments turned out to see them go. The drummers gnashed
their teeth at Jakin and Lew marching with the Band, the married women
wept upon the platform, and the Regiment cheered its noble self black in
the face.

"A nice level lot," said the Colonel to the Second-in-Command, as they
watched the first four companies entraining.

"Fit to do anything," said the Second-in-Command, enthusiastically. "But
it seems to me they're a thought too young and tender for the work in
hand. It's bitter cold up at the Front now."

"They're sound enough," said the Colonel. "We must take our chance of sick
casualties."

So they went northward, ever northward, past droves and droves of camels,
armies of camp followers, and legions of laden mules, the throng
thickening day by day, till with a shriek the train pulled up at a
hopelessly congested junction where six lines of temporary track
accommodated six forty-wagon trains; where whistles blew, Babus sweated
and Commissariat officers swore from dawn till far into the night amid the
wind-driven chaff of the fodder-bales and the lowing of a thousand steers.

"Hurry up--you're badly wanted at the Front," was the message that greeted
the Fore and Aft, and the occupants of the Red Cross carriages told the
same tale.

"Tisn't so much the bloomin' fighting," gasped a headbound trooper of
Hussars to a knot of admiring Fore and Afts. "Tisn't so much the bloomin'
fightin', though there's enough o' that. It's the bloomin' food an' the
bloomin' climate. Frost all night 'cept when it hails, and biling sun all
day, and the water stinks fit to knock you down. I got my 'ead chipped
like a egg; I've got pneumonia too, an' my guts is all out o' order.
Tain't no bloomin' picnic in those parts, I can tell you."

"Wot are the niggers like?" demanded a private.

"There's some prisoners in that train yonder. Go an' look at 'em. They're
the aristocracy o' the country. The common folk are a dashed sight uglier.
If you want to know what they fight with, reach under my seat an' pull out
the long knife that's there."

They dragged out and beheld for the first time the grim, bone-handled,
triangular Afghan knife. It was almost as long as Lew.

"That's the thing to jint ye," said the trooper, feebly.

"It can take off a man's arm at the shoulder as easy as slicing butter. I
halved the beggar that used that 'un, but there's more of his likes up
above. They don't understand thrustin', but they're devils to slice."

The men strolled across the tracks to inspect the Afghan prisoners. They
were unlike any "niggers" that the Fore and Aft had ever met--these huge,
black-haired, scowling sons of the Beni-Israel. As the men stared the
Afghans spat freely and muttered one to another with lowered eyes.

"My eyes! Wot awful swine!" said Jakin, who was in the rear of the
procession. "Say, old man, how you got _puckrowed_, eh? _Kiswasti_ you
wasn't hanged for your ugly face, hey?"

The tallest of the company turned, his leg-irons, clanking at the
movement, and stared at the boy. "See!" he cried to his fellows in Pushto.
"They send children against us. What a people, and what fools!"

"_Hya!_" said Jakin, nodding his head cheerily. "You go down-country.
_Khana_ get, _peenikapanee_ get--live like a bloomin' Raja _ke marfik_.
That's a better _bandobust_ than baynit get it in your innards. Good-bye,
ole man. Take care o' your beautiful figure-'ed, an' try to look _kushy_."

The men laughed and fell in for their first march when they began to
realize that a soldier's life was not all beer and skittles. They were
much impressed with the size and bestial ferocity of the niggers whom they
had now learned to call "Paythans," and more with the exceeding discomfort
of their own surroundings. Twenty old soldiers in the corps would have
taught them how to make themselves moderately snug at night, but they had
no old soldiers, and, as the troops on the line of march said, "they lived
like pigs." They learned the heart-breaking cussedness of camp-kitchens
and camels and the depravity of an E.P. tent and a wither-wrung mule. They
studied animalculae in water, and developed a few cases of dysentery in
their study.

At the end of their third march they were disagreeably surprised by the
arrival in their camp of a hammered iron slug which, fired from a steady
rest at seven hundred yards, flicked out the brains of a private seated by
the fire. This robbed them of their peace for a night, and was the
beginning of a long-range fire carefully calculated to that end. In the
daytime they saw nothing except an occasional puff of smoke from a crag
above the line of march. At night there were distant spurts of flame and
occasional casualties, which set the whole camp blazing into the gloom,
and, occasionally, into opposite tents. Then they swore vehemently and
vowed that this was magnificent but not war.

Indeed it was not. The Regiment could not halt for reprisals against the
_franctireurs_ of the country side. Its duty was to go forward and make
connection with the Scotch and Gurkha troops with which it was brigaded.
The Afghans knew this, and knew too, after their first tentative shots,
that they were dealing with a raw regiment. Thereafter they devoted
themselves to the task of keeping the Fore and Aft on the strain. Not for
anything would they have taken equal liberties with a seasoned corps--with
the wicked little Gurkhas, whose delight it was to lie out in the open on
a dark night and stalk their stalkers--with the terrible, big men dressed
in women's clothes, who could be heard praying to their God in the
night-watches, and whose peace of mind no amount of "sniping" could
shake--or with those vile Sikhs, who marched so ostentatiously unprepared
and who dealt out such grim reward to those who tried to profit by that
unpreparedness. This white regiment was different--quite different. It
slept like a hog, and, like a hog, charged in every direction when it was
roused. Its sentries walked with a footfall that could be heard for a
quarter of a mile; would fire at anything that moved--even a driven
donkey--and when they had once fired, could be scientifically "rushed" and
laid out a horror and an offence against the morning sun. Then there were
camp-followers who straggled and could be cut up without fear. Their
shrieks would disturb the white boys, and the loss of their services would
inconvenience them sorely.

Thus, at every march, the hidden enemy became bolder and the regiment
writhed and twisted under attacks it could not avenge. The crowning
triumph was a sudden night-rush ending in the cutting of many tent-ropes,
the collapse of the sodden canvas and a glorious knifing of the men who
struggled and kicked below. It was a great deed, neatly carried out, and
it shook the already shaken nerves of the Fore and Aft. All the courage
that they had been required to exercise up to this point was the "two
o'clock in the morning courage"; and they, so far, had only succeeded in
shooting their comrades and losing their sleep.

Sullen, discontented, cold, savage, sick, with their uniforms dulled and
unclean, the "Fore and Aft" joined their Brigade.

"I hear you had a tough time of it coming up," said the Brigadier. But
when he saw the hospital-sheets his face fell.

"This is bad," said he to himself. "They're as rotten as sheep." And aloud
to the Colonel,--"I'm afraid we can't spare you just yet. We want all we
have, else I should have given you ten days to recruit in."

The Colonel winced. "On my honor, Sir," he returned, "there is not the
least necessity to think of sparing us. My men have been rather mauled and
upset without a fair return. They only want to go in somewhere where they
can see what's before them."

"'Can't say I think much of the Fore and Fit," said the Brigadier, in
confidence, to his Brigade-Major. "They've lost all their soldiering, and,
by the trim of them, might have marched through the country from the other
side. A more fagged-out set of men I never put eyes on."

"Oh, they'll improve as the work goes on. The parade gloss has been rubbed
off a little, but they'll put on field polish before long," said the
Brigade-Major. "They've been mauled, and they don't quite understand it."

They did not. All the hitting was on one side, and it was cruelly hard
hitting with accessories that made them sick. There was also the real
sickness that laid hold of a strong man and dragged him howling to the
grave. Worst of all, their officers knew just as little of the country as
the men themselves, and looked as if they did. The Fore and Aft were in a
thoroughly unsatisfactory condition, but they believed that all would be
well if they could once get a fair go-in at the enemy. Pot-shots up and
down the valleys were unsatisfactory, and the bayonet never seemed to get
a chance. Perhaps it was as well, for a long-limbed Afghan with a knife
had a reach of eight feet, and could carry away enough lead to disable
three Englishmen, The Fore and Fit would like some rifle-practice at the
enemy--all seven hundred rifles blazing together. That wish showed the
mood of the men.

The Gurkhas walked into their camp, and in broken, barrack-room English
strove to fraternize with them; offered them pipes of tobacco and stood
them treat at the canteen. But the Fore and Aft, not knowing much of the
nature of the Gurkhas, treated them as they would treat any other
"niggers," and the little men in green trotted back to their firm friends
the Highlanders, and with many grins confided to them:--"That dam white,
regiment no dam use. Sulky--ugh! Dirty--ugh! Hya, any tot for Johnny?"
Whereat the Highlanders smote the Gurkhas as to the head, and told them
not to vilify a British Regiment, and the Gurkhas grinned cavernously, for
the Highlanders were their elder brothers and entitled to the privileges
of kinship. The common soldier who touches a Gurkha is more than likely to
have his head sliced open.

Three days later the Brigadier arranged a battle according to the rules of
war and the peculiarity of the Afghan temperament. The enemy were massing
in inconvenient strength among the hills, and the moving of many green
standards warned him that the tribes were "up" in aid of the Afghan
regular troops. A Squadron and a half of Bengal Lancers represented the
available Cavalry, and two screw-guns borrowed from a column thirty miles
away, the Artillery at the General's disposal.

"If they stand, as I've a very strong notion that they will, I fancy we
shall see an infantry fight that will be worth watching," said the
Brigadier. "We'll do it in style. Each regiment shall be played into
action by its Band, and we'll hold the Cavalry in reserve."

"For _all_ the reserve?" somebody asked.

"For all the reserve; because we're going to crumple them up," said the
Brigadier, who was an extraordinary Brigadier, and did not believe in the
value of a reserve when dealing with Asiatics. And, indeed, when you come
to think of it, had the British Army consistently waited for reserves in
all its little affairs, the boundaries of Our Empire would have stopped at
Brighton beach.

That battle was to be a glorious battle.

The three regiments debouching from three separate gorges, after duly
crowning the heights above, were to converge from the centre, left and
right upon what we will call the Afghan army, then stationed toward the
lower extremity of a flat-bottomed valley. Thus it will be seen that three
sides of the valley practically belonged to the English, while the fourth
was strictly Afghan property. In the event of defeat the Afghans had the
rocky hills to fly to, where the fire from the guerilla tribes in aid
would cover their retreat. In the event of victory these same tribes would
rush down and lend their weight to the rout of the British.

The screw-guns were to shell the head of each Afghan rush that was made in
close formation, and the Cavalry, held in reserve in the right valley,
were to gently stimulate the break-up which would follow on the combined
attack. The Brigadier, sitting upon a rock overlooking the valley, would
watch the battle unrolled at his feet. The Fore and Aft would debouch from
the central gorge, the Gurkhas from the left, and the Highlanders from the
right, for the reason that the left flank of the enemy seemed as though it
required the most hammering. It was not every day that an Afghan force
would take ground in the open, and the Brigadier was resolved to make the
most of it.

"If we only had a few more men," he said, plaintively, "we could surround
the creatures and crumble 'em up thoroughly. As it is, I'm afraid we can
only cut them up as they run. It's a great pity."

The Fore and Aft had enjoyed unbroken peace for five days, and were
beginning, in spite of dysentery, to recover their nerve. But they were
not happy, for they did not know the work in hand, and had they known,
would not have known how to do it. Throughout those five days in which old
soldiers might have taught them the craft of the game, they discussed
together their misadventures in the past--how such an one was alive at
dawn and dead ere the dusk, and with what shrieks and struggles such
another had given up his soul under the Afghan knife. Death was a new and
horrible thing to the sons of mechanics who were used to die decently of
zymotic disease; and their careful conservation in barracks had done
nothing to make them look upon it with less dread.

Very early in the dawn the bugles began to blow, and the Fore and Aft,
filled with a misguided enthusiasm, turned out without waiting for a cup
of coffee and a biscuit; and were rewarded by being kept under arms in the
cold while the other regiments leisurely prepared for the fray. All the
world knows that it is ill taking the breeks off a Highlander. It is much
iller to try to make him stir unless he is convinced of the necessity for
haste.

The Fore and Aft awaited, leaning upon their rifles and listening to the
protests of their empty stomachs. The Colonel did his best to remedy the
default of lining as soon as it was borne in upon him that the affair
would not begin at once, and so well did he succeed that the coffee was
just ready when--the men moved off, their Band leading. Even then there
had been a mistake in time, and the Fore and Aft came out into the valley
ten minutes before the proper hour. Their Band wheeled to the right after
reaching the open, and retired behind a little rocky knoll still playing
while the regiment went past.

It was not a pleasant sight that opened on the uninstructed view, for the
lower end of the valley appeared to be filled by an army in position--real
and actual regiments attired in red coats, and--of this there was no
doubt--firing Martini-Henri bullets which cut up the ground a hundred
yards in front of the leading company. Over that pock-marked ground the
regiment had to pass, and it opened the ball with a general and profound
courtesy to the piping pickets; ducking in perfect time, as though it had
been brazed on a rod. Being half-capable of thinking for itself, it fired
a volley by the simple process of pitching its rifle into its shoulder and
pulling the trigger. The bullets may have accounted for some of the
watchers on the hillside, but they certainly did not affect the mass of
enemy in front, while the noise of the rifles drowned any orders that
might have been given.

"Good God!" said the Brigadier, sitting on the rock high above all. "That
regiment has spoiled the whole show. Hurry up the others, and let the
screw-guns get off."

But the screw-guns, in working round the heights, had stumbled upon a
wasp's nest of a small mud fort which they incontinently shelled at eight
hundred yards, to the huge discomfort of the occupants, who were
unaccustomed to weapons of such devilish precision.

The Fore and Aft continued to go forward but with shortened stride. Where
were the other regiments, and why did these niggers use Martinis? They
took open order instinctively, lying down and firing at random, rushing a
few paces forward and lying down again, according to the regulations. Once
in this formation, each man felt himself desperately alone, and edged in
toward his fellow for comfort's sake.

Then the crack of his neighbor's rifle at his ear led him to fire as
rapidly as he could--again for the sake of the comfort of the noise. The
reward was not long delayed. Five volleys plunged the files in banked
smoke impenetrable to the eye, and the bullets began to take ground twenty
or thirty yards in front of the firers, as the weight of the bayonet
dragged down, and to the right arms wearied with holding the kick of the
leaping Martini. The Company Commanders peered helplessly through the
smoke, the more nervous mechanically trying to fan it away with their
helmets.

"High and to the left!" bawled a Captain till he was hoarse. "No good!
Cease firing, and let it drift away a bit."

Three and four times the bugles shrieked the order, and when it was obeyed
the Fore and Aft looked that their foe should be lying before them in mown
swaths of men. A light wind drove the smoke to leeward, and showed the
enemy still in position and apparently unaffected. A quarter of a ton of
lead had been buried a furlong in front of them, as the ragged earth
attested.

That was not demoralizing to the Afghans, who have not European nerves.
They were waiting for the mad riot to die down, and were firing quietly
into the heart of the smoke. A private of the Fore and Aft spun up his
company shrieking with agony, another was kicking the earth and gasping,
and a third, ripped through the lower intestines by a jagged bullet, was
calling aloud on his comrades to put him out of his pain. These were the
casualties, and they were not soothing to hear or see. The smoke cleared
to a dull haze.

Then the foe began to shout with a great shouting and a mass--a black
mass--detached itself from the main body, and rolled over the ground at
horrid speed. It was composed of, perhaps, three hundred men, who would
shout and fire and slash if the rush of their fifty comrades who were
determined to die carried home. The fifty were Ghazis, half-maddened with
drugs and wholly mad with religious fanaticism. When they rushed the
British fire ceased, and in the lull the order was given to close ranks
and meet them with the bayonet.

Any one who knew the business could have told the Fore and Aft that the
only way of dealing with a Ghazi rush is by volleys at long ranges;
because a man who means to die, who desires to die, who will gain heaven
by dying, must, in nine cases out of ten, kill a man who has a lingering
prejudice in favor of life if he can close with the latter. Where they
should have closed and gone forward, the Fore and Aft opened out and
skirmished, and where they should have opened out and fired, they closed
and waited.

A man dragged from his blankets half awake and unfed is never in a
pleasant frame of mind. Nor does his happiness increase when he watches
the whites of the eyes of three hundred six-foot fiends upon whose beards
the foam is lying, upon whose tongues is a roar of wrath, and in whose
hands are three-foot knives.

The Fore and Aft heard the Gurkha bugles bringing that regiment forward at
the double, while the neighing of the Highland pipes came from the left.
They strove to stay where they were, though the bayonets wavered down the
line like the oars of a ragged boat. Then they felt body to body the
amazing physical strength of their foes; a shriek of pain ended the rush,
and the knives fell amid scenes not to be told. The men clubbed together
and smote blindly--as often as not at their own fellows. Their front
crumpled like paper, and the fifty Ghazis passed on; their backers, now
drunk with success, fighting as madly as they.

Then the rear-ranks were bidden to close up, and the subalterns dashed
into the stew--alone. For the rear-rank had heard the clamor in front, the
yells and the howls of pain, and had seen the dark stale blood that makes
afraid. They were not going to stay. It was the rushing of the camps over
again. Let their officers go to Hell, if they chose; they would get away
from the knives.

"Come on!" shrieked the subalterns, and their men, cursing them, drew
back, each closing into his neighbor and wheeling round.

Charteris and Devlin, subalterns of the last company, faced their death
alone in the belief that their men would follow.

"You've killed me, you cowards," sobbed Devlin and dropped, cut from the
shoulder-strap to the centre of the chest, and a fresh detachment of his
men retreating, always retreating, trampled him under foot as they made
for the pass whence they had emerged.

   I kissed her in the kitchen and I kissed her in the hall.
       Child'un, child'un, follow me!
   Oh Golly, said the cook, is he gwine to kiss us all?
       Halla-Halla-Halla Hallelujah!

The Gurkhas were pouring through the left gorge and over the heights at
the double to the invitation of their regimental Quickstep. The black
rocks were crowned with dark green spiders as the bugles gave tongue
jubilantly:

   In the morning! In the morning by the bright light!
   When Gabriel blows his trumpet in the morning!

The Gurkha rear-companies tripped and blundered over loose stones. The
front-files halted for a moment to take stock of the valley and to settle
stray boot-laces. Then a happy little sigh of contentment soughed down the
ranks, and it was as though the land smiled, for behold there below was
the enemy, and it was to meet them that the Gurkhas had doubled so
hastily. There was much enemy. There would be amusement. The little men
hitched their _kukris_ well to hand, and gaped expectantly at their
officers as terriers grin ere the stone is cast for them to fetch. The
Gurkhas' ground sloped downward to the valley, and they enjoyed a fair
view of the proceedings. They sat upon the bowlders to watch, for their
officers were not going to waste their wind in assisting to repulse a
Ghazi rush more than half a mile away. Let the white men look to their own
front.

"Hi! yi!" said the Subadar-Major, who was sweating profusely, "Dam fools
yonder, stand close-order! This is no time for close order, it's the time
for volleys. Ugh!"

Horrified, amused, and, indignant, the Gurkhas beheld the retirement--let
us be gentle--of the Fore and Aft with a running chorus of oaths and
commentaries.

"They run! The white men run! Colonel Sahib, may _we_ also do a little
running?" murmured Runbir Thappa, the Senior Jemadar.

But the Colonel would have none of it. "Let the beggars be cut up a
little," said he wrathfully. "'Serves 'em right They'll be prodded into
facing round in a minute." He looked through his field-glasses, and caught
the glint of an officer's sword.

"Beating 'em with the flat--damned conscripts! How the Ghazis are walking
into them!" said he.

The Fore and Aft, heading back, bore with them their officers. The
narrowness of the pass forced the mob into solid formation, and the
rear-rank delivered some sort of a wavering volley. The Ghazis drew off,
for they did not know what reserves the gorge might hide. Moreover, it was
never wise to chase white men too far. They returned as wolves return to
cover, satisfied with the slaughter that they had done, and only stopping
to slash at the wounded on the ground. A quarter of a mile had the Fore
and Aft retreated, and now, jammed in the pass, was quivering with pain,
shaken and demoralized with fear, while the officers, maddened beyond
control, smote the men with the hilts and the flats of their swords.

"Get back! Get back, you cowards--you women! Right about face--column of
companies, form--you hounds!" shouted the Colonel, and the subalterns
swore aloud. But the Regiment wanted to go--to go anywhere out of the
range of those merciless knives. It swayed to and fro irresolutely with
shouts and outcries, while from the right the Gurkhas dropped volley after
volley of cripple-stopper Snider bullets at long range into the mob of the
Ghazis returning to their own troops.

The Fore and Aft Band, though protected from direct fire by the rocky
knoll under which it had sat down, fled at the first rush. Jakin and Lew
would have fled also, but their short legs left them fifty yards in the
rear, and by the time the Band had mixed with the regiment, they were
painfully aware that they would have to close in alone and unsupported.

"Get back to that rock," gasped Jakin. "They won't see us there."

And they returned to the scattered instruments of the Band; their hearts
nearly bursting their ribs.

"Here's a nice show for _us_," said Jakin, throwing himself full length on
the ground. "A bloomin' fine show for British Infantry! Oh, the devils!
They've gone an' left us alone here! Wot 'll we do?"

Lew took possession of a cast-off water bottle, which naturally was full
of canteen rum, and drank till he coughed again.

"Drink," said he, shortly. "They'll come back in a minute or two--you
see."

Jakin drank, but there was no sign of the regiment's return. They could
hear a dull clamor from the head of the valley of retreat, and saw the
Ghazis slink back, quickening their pace as the Gurkhas fired at them.

"We're all that's left of the Band, an' we'll be cut up as sure as death,"
said Jakin.

"I'll die game, then," said Lew, thickly, fumbling with his tiny drummer's
sword. The drink was working on his brain as it was on Jakin's.

"'Old on! I know something better than fightin'," said Jakin, stung by the
splendor of a sudden thought due chiefly to rum. "Tip our bloomin' cowards
yonder the word to come back. The Paythan beggars are well away. Come on,
Lew! We won't get hurt. Take the fife an' give me the drum. The Old Step
for all your bloomin' guts are worth! There's a few of our men coming back
now. Stand up, ye drunken little defaulter. By your right--quick march!"

He slipped the drum-sling over his shoulder, thrust the fife into Lew's
hand, and the two boys marched out of the cover of the rock into the open,
making a hideous hash of the first bars of the "British Grenadiers."

As Lew had said, a few of the Fore and Aft were coming back sullenly and
shamefacedly under the stimulus of blows and abuse; their red coats shone
at the head of the valley, and behind them were wavering bayonets. But
between this shattered line and the enemy, who with Afghan suspicion
feared that the hasty retreat meant an ambush, and had not moved
therefore, lay half a mile of a level ground dotted only by the wounded.

The tune settled into full swing and the boys kept shoulder to shoulder,
Jakin banging the drum as one possessed. The one fife made a thin and
pitiful squeaking, but the tune carried far, even to the Gurkhas.

"Come on, you dogs!" muttered Jakin, to himself, "Are we to play
forhever?" Lew was staring straight in front of him and marching more
stiffly than ever he had done on parade.

And in bitter mockery of the distant mob, the old tune of the Old Line
shrilled and rattled:

   Some talk of Alexander,
     And some of Hercules;
   Of Hector and Lysander,
     And such great names as these!

There was a far-off clapping of hands from the Gurkhas, and a roar from
the Highlanders in the distance, but never a shot was fired by British or
Afghan. The two little red dots moved forward in the open parallel to the
enemy's front.

   But of all the world's great heroes
     There's none that can compare,
   With a tow-row-row-row-row-row
     To the British Grenadier!

The men of the Fore and Aft were gathering thick at the entrance into the
plain. The Brigadier on the heights far above was speechless with rage.
Still no movement from the enemy. The day stayed to watch the children.

Jakin halted and beat the long roll of the Assembly, while the fife
squealed despairingly.

"Right about face! Hold up, Lew, you're drunk," said Jakin. They wheeled
and marched back:

   Those heroes of antiquity
     Ne'er saw a cannon-ball,
   Nor knew the force o' powder,

"Here they come!" said Jakin. "Go on, Lew:"

    To scare their foes withal!

The Fore and Aft were pouring out of the valley. What officers had said to
men in that time of shame and humiliation will never be known; for neither
officers nor men speak of it now.

"They are coming anew!" shouted a priest among the Afghans. "Do not kill
the boys! Take them alive, and they shall be of our faith."

But the first volley had been fired, and Lew dropped on his face. Jakin
stood for a minute, spun round and collapsed, as the Fore and Aft came
forward, the maledictions of their officers in their ears, and in their
hearts the shame of open shame.

Half the men had seen the drummers die, and they made no sign. They did
not even shout. They doubled out straight across the plain in open order,
and they did not fire.

"This," said the Colonel of Gurkhas, softly, "is the real attack, as it
ought to have been delivered. Come on, my children."

"Ulu-lu-lu-lu!" squealed the Gurkhas, and came down with a joyful clicking
of _kukris_--those vicious Gurkha knives.

On the right there was no rush. The Highlanders, cannily commending their
souls to God (for it matters as much to a dead man whether he has been
shot in a Border scuffle or at Waterloo) opened out and fired according to
their custom, that is to say without heat and without intervals, while the
screw-guns, having disposed of the impertinent mud fort aforementioned,
dropped shell after shell into the clusters round the flickering green
standards on the heights.

"Charrging is an unfortunate necessity," murmured the Color-Sergeant of
the right company of the Highlanders.

"It makes the men sweer so, but I am thinkin' that it will come to a
charrge if these black devils stand much longer. Stewarrt, man, you're
firing into the eye of the sun, and he'll not take any harm for Government
ammuneetion. A foot lower and a great deal slower! What are the English
doing? They're very quiet there in the centre. Running again?"

The English were not running. They were hacking and hewing and stabbing,
for though one white man is seldom physically a match for an Afghan in a
sheepskin or wadded coat, yet, through the pressure of many white men
behind, and a certain thirst for revenge in his heart, he becomes capable
of doing much with both ends of his rifle. The Fore and Aft held their
fire till one bullet could drive through five or six men, and the front of
the Afghan force gave on the volley. They then selected their men, and
slew them with deep gasps and short hacking coughs, and groanings of
leather belts against strained bodies, and realized for the first time
that an Afghan attacked is far less formidable than an Afghan attacking;
which fact old soldiers might have told them.

But they had no old soldiers in their ranks.

The Gurkhas' stall at the bazar was the noisiest, for the men were
engaged--to a nasty noise as of beef being cut on the block--with the
_kukri_, which they preferred to the bayonet; well knowing how the Afghan
hates the half-moon blade.

As the Afghans wavered, the green standards on the mountain moved down to
assist them in a last rally. Which was unwise. The Lancers chafing in the
right gorge had thrice despatched their only subaltern as galloper to
report on the progress of affairs. On the third occasion he returned, with
a bullet-graze on his knee, swearing strange oaths in Hindoostani, and
saying that all things were ready. So that Squadron swung round the right
of the Highlanders with a wicked whistling of wind in the pennons of its
lances, and fell upon the remnant just when, according to all the rules of
war, it should have waited for the foe to show more signs of wavering.

But it was a dainty charge, deftly delivered, and it ended by the Cavalry
finding itself at the head of the pass by which the Afghans intended to
retreat; and down the track that the lances had made streamed two
companies of the Highlanders, which was never intended by the Brigadier.
The new development was successful. It detached the enemy from his base as
a sponge is torn from a rock, and left him ringed about with fire in that
pitiless plain. And as a sponge is chased round the bath-tub by the hand
of the bather, so were the Afghans chased till they broke into little
detachments much more difficult to dispose of than large masses.

"See!" quoth the Brigadier. "Everything has come as I arranged. We've cut
their base, and now we'll bucket 'em to pieces."

A direct hammering was all that the Brigadier had dared to hope for,
considering the size of the force at his disposal; but men who stand or
fall by the errors of their opponents may be forgiven for turning Chance
into Design. The bucketing went forward merrily. The Afghan forces were
upon the run--the run of wearied wolves who snarl and bite over their
shoulders. The red lances dipped by twos and threes, and, with a shriek,
up rose the lance-butt, like a spar on a stormy sea, as the trooper
cantering forward cleared his point. The Lancers kept between their prey
and the steep hills, for all who could were trying to escape from the
valley of death. The Highlanders gave the fugitives two hundred yards'
law, and then brought them down, gasping and choking ere they could reach
the protection of the bowlders above. The Gurkhas followed suit; but the
Fore and Aft were killing on their own account, for they had penned a mass
of men between their bayonets and a wall of rock, and the flash of the
rifles was lighting the wadded coats.

"We cannot hold them, Captain Sahib!" panted a Ressaldar of Lancers. "Let
us try the carbine. The lance is good, but it wastes time."

They tried the carbine, and still the enemy melted away--fled up the hills
by hundreds when there were only twenty bullets to stop them. On the
heights the screw-guns ceased firing--they had run out of ammunition--and
the Brigadier groaned, for the musketry fire could not sufficiently smash
the retreat. Long before the last volleys were fired, the litters were out
in force looking for the wounded. The battle was over, and, but for want
of fresh troops, the Afghans would have been wiped off the earth. As it
was they counted their dead by hundreds, and nowhere were the dead thicker
than in the track of the Fore and Aft.

But the Regiment did not cheer with the Highlanders, nor did they dance
uncouth dances with the Gurkhas among the dead. They looked under their
brows at the Colonel as they leaned upon their rifles and panted.

"Get back to camp, you. Haven't you disgraced yourself enough for one day!
Go and look to the wounded. It's all you're fit for," said the Colonel.
Yet for the past hour the Fore and Aft had been doing all that mortal
commander could expect. They had lost heavily because they did not know
how to set about their business with proper skill, but they had borne
themselves gallantly, and this was their reward.

A young and sprightly Color-Sergeant, who had begun to imagine himself a
hero, offered his water-bottle to a Highlander, whose tongue was black
with thirst. "I drink with no cowards," answered the youngster, huskily,
and, turning to a Gurkha, said, "Hya, Johnny! Drink water got it?" The
Gurkha grinned and passed his bottle. The Fore and Aft said no word.

They went back to camp when the field of strife had been a little mopped
up and made presentable, and the Brigadier, who saw himself a Knight in
three months, was the only soul who was complimentary to them. The Colonel
was heart-broken and the officers were savage and sullen.

"Well," said the Brigadier, "they are young troops of course, and it was
not unnatural that they should retire in disorder for a bit."

"Oh, my only Aunt Maria!" murmured a junior Staff Officer. "Retire in
disorder! It was a bally run!"

"But they came again as we all know," cooed the Brigadier, the Colonel's
ashy-white face before him, "and they behaved as well as could possibly be
expected. Behaved beautifully, indeed. I was watching them. It's not a
matter to take to heart, Colonel. As some German General said of his men,
'they wanted to be shooted over a little, that was all.' To himself he
said: 'Now they're blooded I can give 'em responsible work. It's as well
that they got what they did. 'Teach 'em more than half a dozen rifle
flirtations, that will--later--run alone and bite. Poor old Colonel,
though.'"

All that afternoon the heliograph winked and flickered on the hills,
striving to tell the good news to a mountain forty miles away. And in the
evening there arrived, dusty, sweating, and sore, a misguided
Correspondent who had gone out to assist at a trumpery village-burning and
who had read off the message from afar, cursing his luck the while.

"Let's have the details somehow--as full as ever you can, please. It's the
first time I've ever been left this campaign," said the Correspondent to
the Brigadier; and the Brigadier, nothing loath, told him how an Army of
Communication had been crumpled up, destroyed, and all but annihilated by
the craft, strategy, wisdom, and foresight of the Brigadier,

But some say, and among these be the Gurkhas who watched on the hillside,
that that battle was won by Jakin and Lew, whose little bodies were borne
up just in time to fit two gaps at the head of the big ditch-grave for the
dead under the heights of Jagai.



THE SENDING OF DANA DA

When the Devil rides on your chest remember the _chamar.--Native Proverb_.

Once upon a time, some people in India made a new Heaven and a new Earth
out of broken tea-cups, a missing brooch or two, and a hair-brush. These
were hidden under brushes, or stuffed into holes in the hillside, and an
entire Civil Service of subordinate Gods used to find or mend them again;
and every one said: "There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are
dreamed of in our philosophy." Several other things happened also, but the
Religion never seemed to get much beyond its first manifestations; though
it added an air-line postal service, and orchestral effects in order to
keep abreast of the times, and choke off competition.

This Religion was too elastic for ordinary use. It stretched itself and
embraced pieces of everything that the medicine-men of all ages have
manufactured. It approved of and stole from Freemasonry; looted the
Latter-day Rosicrucians of half their pet words; took any fragments of
Egyptian philosophy that it found in the _Encyclopaedia Britannica_;
annexed as many of the Vedas as had been translated into French or
English, and talked of all the rest; built in the German versions of what
is left of the Zend Avesta; encouraged White, Grey and Black Magic,
including spiritualism, palmistry, fortune-telling by cards, hot
chestnuts, double-kerneled nuts and tallow droppings; would have adopted
Voodoo and Oboe had it known anything about them, and showed itself, in
every way, one of the most accommodating arrangements that had ever been
invented since the birth of the Sea.

When it was in thorough working order, with all the machinery, down to the
subscriptions, complete, Dana Da came from nowhere, with nothing in his
hands, and wrote a chapter in its history which has hitherto been
unpublished. He said that his first name was Dana, and his second was Da.
Now, setting aside Dana of the New York _Sun_, Dana is a Bhil name, and Da
fits no native of India unless you except the Bengali D� as the original
spelling. Da is Lap or Finnish; and Dana Da was neither Finn, Chin, Bhil,
Bengali, Lap, Nair, Gond, Romaney, Magh, Bokhariot, Kurd, Armenian,
Levantine, Jew, Persian, Punjabi, Madrasi, Parsee, nor anything else known
to ethnologists. He was simply Dana Da, and declined to give further
information. For the sake of brevity and as roughly indicating his origin,
he was called "The Native." He might have been the original Old Man of the
Mountains, who is said to be the only authorized head of the Tea-cup
Creed. Some people said that he was; but Dana Da used to smile and deny
any connection with the cult; explaining that he was an "Independent
Experimenter."

As I have said, he came from nowhere, with his hands behind his back, and
studied the Creed for three weeks; sitting at the feet of those best
competent to explain its mysteries. Then he laughed aloud and went away,
but the laugh might have been either of devotion or derision.

When he returned he was without money, but his pride was unabated. He
declared that he knew more about the Things in Heaven and Earth than those
who taught him, and for this contumacy was abandoned altogether.

His next appearance in public life was at a big cantonment in Upper India,
and he was then telling fortunes with the help of three leaden dice, a
very dirty old cloth, and a little tin box of opium pills. He told better
fortunes when he was allowed half a bottle of whiskey; but the things
which he invented on the opium were quite worth the money. He was in
reduced circumstances. Among other people's he told the fortune of an
Englishman who had once been interested in the Simla Creed, but who, later
on, had married and forgotten all his old knowledge in the study of babies
and things. The Englishman allowed Dana Da to tell a fortune for charity's
sake, and gave him five rupees, a dinner, and some old clothes. When he
had eaten, Dana Da professed gratitude, and asked if there were anything
he could do for his host--in the esoteric line.

"Is there any one that you love?" said Dana Da. The Englishman loved his
wife, but had no desire to drag her name into the conversation. He
therefore shook his head.

"Is there any one that you hate?" said Dana Da. The Englishman said that
there were several men whom he hated deeply.

"Very good," said Dana Da, upon whom the whiskey and the opium were
beginning to tell. "Only give me their names, and I will despatch a
Sending to them and kill them."

Now a Sending is a horrible arrangement, first invented, they say, in
Iceland. It is a Thing sent by a wizard, and may take any form, but, most
generally, wanders about the land in the shape of a little purple cloud
till it finds the Sendee, and him it kills by changing into the form of a
horse, or a cat, or a man without a face. It is not strictly a native
patent, though _chamars_ of the skin and hide castes can, if irritated,
despatch a Sending which sits on the breast of their enemy by night and
nearly kills him, Very few natives care to irritate _chamars_ for this
reason.

"Let me despatch a Sending," said Dana Da; "I am nearly dead now with
want, and drink, and opium; but I should like to kill a man before I die.
I can send a Sending anywhere you choose, and in any form except in the
shape of a man."

The Englishman had no friends that he wished to kill, but partly to soothe
Dana Da, whose eyes were rolling, and partly to see what would be done, he
asked whether a modified Sending could not be arranged for--such a Sending
as should make a man's life a burden to him, and yet do him no harm. If
this were possible, he notified his willingness to give Dana Da ten rupees
for the job.

"I am not what I was once," said Dana Da, "and I must take the money
because I am poor. To what Englishman shall I send it?"

"Send a Sending to Lone Sahib," said the Englishman, naming a man who had
been most bitter in rebuking him for his apostasy from the Tea-cup Creed.
Dana Da laughed and nodded.

"I could have chosen no better man myself," said he. "I will see that he
finds the Sending about his path and about his bed."

He lay down on the hearth-rug, turned up the whites of his eyes, shivered
all over and began to snort. This was Magic, or Opium, or the Sending, or
all three. When he opened his eyes he vowed that the Sending had started
upon the war-path, and was at that moment flying up to the town where Lone
Sahib lives,

"Give me my ten rupees," said Dana Da, wearily, "and write a letter to
Lone Sahib, telling him, and all who believe with him, that you and a
friend are using a power greater than theirs. They will see that you are
speaking the truth."

He departed unsteadily, with the promise of some more rupees if anything
came of the Sending,

The Englishman sent a letter to Lone Sahib, couched in what he remembered
of the terminology of the Creed. He wrote: "I also, in the days of what
you held to be my backsliding, have obtained Enlightenment, and with
Enlightenment has come Power." Then he grew so deeply mysterious that the
recipient of the letter could make neither head nor tail of it, and was
proportionately impressed; for he fancied that his friend had become a
"fifth-rounder." When a man is a "fifth-rounder" he can do more than Slade
and Houdin combined,

Lone Sahib read the letter in five different fashions, and was beginning a
sixth interpretation when his bearer dashed in with the news that there
was a cat on the bed. Now if there was one thing that Lone Sahib hated
more than another, it was a cat. He scolded the bearer for not turning it
out of the house. The bearer said that he was afraid. All the doors of the
bedroom had been shut throughout the morning, and no _real_ cat could
possibly have entered the room. He would prefer not to meddle with the
creature.

Lone Sahib entered the room gingerly, and there, on the pillow of his bed,
sprawled and whimpered a wee white kitten; not a jumpsome, frisky little
beast, but a slug-like crawler with its eyes barely opened and its paws
lacking strength or direction--a kitten that ought to have been in a
basket with its mamma. Lone Sahib caught it by the scruff of its neck,
handed it over to the sweeper to be drowned, and fined the bearer four
annas.

That evening, as he was reading in his room, he fancied that he saw
something moving about on the hearth-rug, outside the circle of light from
his reading-lamp. When the thing began to myowl, he realized that it was a
kitten--a wee white kitten, nearly blind and very miserable. He was
seriously angry, and spoke bitterly to his bearer, who said that there was
no kitten in the room when he brought in the lamp, and _real_ kittens of
tender age generally had mother-cats in attendance.

"If the Presence will go out into the veranda and listen," said the
bearer, "he will hear no cats. How, therefore, can the kitten on the bed
and the kitten on the hearth-rug be real kittens?"

Lone Sahib went out to listen, and the bearer followed him, but there was
no sound of any one mewing for her children. He returned to his room,
having hurled the kitten down the hillside, and wrote out the incidents of
the day for the benefit of his co-religionists. Those people were so
absolutely free from superstition that they ascribed anything a little out
of the common to Agencies. As it was their business to know all about the
Agencies, they were on terms of almost indecent familiarity with
Manifestations of every kind. Their letters dropped from the
ceiling--unstamped--and Spirits used to squatter up and down their
staircases all night; but they had never come into contact with kittens.
Lone Sahib wrote out the facts, noting the hour and the minute, as every
Psychical Observer is bound to do, and appending the Englishman's letter
because it was the most mysterious document and might have had a bearing
upon anything in this world or the next. An outsider would have translated
all the tangle thus: "Look out! You laughed at me once, and now I am going
to make you sit up,"

Lone Sahib's co-religionists found that meaning in it; but their
translation was refined and full of four-syllable words. They held a
sederunt, and were filled with tremulous joy, for, in spite of their
familiarity with all the other worlds and cycles, they had a very human
awe of things sent from Ghost-land. They met in Lone Sahib's room in
shrouded and sepulchral gloom, and their conclave was broken up by
clinking among the photo-frames on the mantelpiece. A wee white kitten,
nearly blind, was looping and writhing itself between the clock and the
candlesticks. That stopped all investigations or doubtings. Here was the
Manifestation in the flesh. It was, so far as could be seen, devoid of
purpose, but it was a Manifestation of undoubted authenticity.

They drafted a Round Robin to the Englishman, the backslider of old days,
adjuring him in the interests of the Creed to explain whether there was
any connection between the embodiment of some Egyptian God or other (I
have forgotten the name) and his communication. They called the kitten Ra,
or Toth, or Tum, or some thing; and when Lone Sahib confessed that the
first one had, at his most misguided instance, been drowned by the
sweeper, they said consolingly that in his next life he would be a
"bounder," and not even a "rounder" of the lowest grade. These words may
not be quite correct, but they accurately express the sense of the house.

When the Englishman received the Round Robin--it came by post--he was
startled and bewildered. He sent into the bazar for Dana Da, who read the
letter and laughed, "That is my Sending," said he. "I told you I would
work well. Now give me another ten rupees."

"But what in the world is this gibberish about Egyptian Gods?" asked the
Englishman,

"Cats," said Dana Da, with a hiccough, for he had discovered the
Englishman's whiskey bottle. "Cats, and cats, and cats! Never was such a
Sending. A hundred of cats. Now give me ten more rupees and write as I
dictate."

Dana Da's letter was a curiosity. It bore the Englishman's signature, and
hinted at cats--at a Sending of Cats. The mere words on paper were creepy
and uncanny to behold.

"What have you done, though?" said the Englishman; "I am as much in the
dark as ever. Do you mean to say that you can actually send this absurd
Sending you talk about?"

"Judge for yourself," said Dana Da. "What does that letter mean? In a
little time they will all be at my feet and yours, and I--O Glory!--will
be drugged or drunk all day long."

Dana Da knew his people.

When a man who hates cats wakes up in the morning and finds a little
squirming kitten on his breast, or puts his hands into his ulster-pocket
and finds a little half-dead kitten where his gloves should be, or opens
his trunk and finds a vile kitten among his dress-shirts, or goes for a
long ride with his mackintosh strapped on his saddle-bow and shakes a
little squawling kitten from its folds when he opens it, or goes out to
dinner and finds a little blind kitten under his chair, or stays at home
and finds a writhing kitten under the quilt, or wriggling among his boots,
or hanging, head downward, in his tobacco-jar, or being mangled by his
terrier in the veranda,--when such a man finds one kitten, neither more
nor less, once a day in a place where no kitten rightly could or should
be, he is naturally upset. When he dare not murder his daily trove because
he believes it to be a Manifestation, an Emissary, an Embodiment, and half
a dozen other things all out of the regular course of nature, he is more
than upset. He is actually distressed. Some of Lone Sahib's
co-religionists thought that he was a highly favored individual; but many
said that if he had treated the first kitten with proper respect--as
suited a Toth-Ra-Tum-Sennacherib Embodiment--all this trouble would have
been averted. They compared him to the Ancient Mariner, but none the less
they were proud of him and proud of the Englishman who had sent the
Manifestation. They did not call it a Sending because Icelandic magic was
not in their programme.

After sixteen kittens, that is to say after one fortnight, for there were
three kittens on the first day to impress the fact of the Sending, the
whole camp was uplifted by a letter--it came flying through a window--from
the Old Man of the Mountains--the Head of all the Creed--explaining the
Manifestation in the most beautiful language and soaking up all the credit
of it for himself. The Englishman, said the letter, was not there at all.
He was a backslider without Power or Asceticism, who couldn't even raise a
table by force of volition, much less project an army of kittens through
space. The entire arrangement, said the letter, was strictly orthodox,
worked and sanctioned by the highest Authorities within the pale of the
Creed. There was great joy at this, for some of the weaker brethren seeing
that an outsider who had been working on independent lines could create
kittens, whereas their own rulers had never gone beyond crockery--and
broken at best--were showing a desire to break line on their own trail. In
fact, there was the promise of a schism. A second Round Robin was drafted
to the Englishman, beginning: "O Scoffer," and ending with a selection of
curses from the Rites of Mizraim and Memphis and the Commination of
Jugana, who was a "fifth-rounder," upon whose name an upstart
"third-rounder" once traded. A papal excommunication is a _billet-doux_
compared to the Commination of Jugana. The Englishman had been proved,
under the hand and seal of the Old Man of the Mountains, to have
appropriated Virtue and pretended to have Power which, in reality,
belonged only to the Supreme Head. Naturally the Round Robin did not spare
him.

He handed the letter to Dana Da to translate into decent English. The
effect on Dana Da was curious. At first he was furiously angry, and then
he laughed for five minutes.

"I had thought," he said, "that they would have come to me. In another
week I would have shown that I sent the Sending, and they would have
discrowned the Old Man of the Mountains who has sent this Sending of mine.
Do you do nothing. The time has come for me to act. Write as I dictate,
and I will put them to shame. But give me ten more rupees."

At Dana Da's dictation the Englishman wrote nothing less than a formal
challenge to the Old Man of the Mountains. It wound up: "And if this
Manifestation be from your hand, then let it go forward; but if it be from
my hand, I will that the Sending shall cease in two days' time. On that
day there shall be twelve kittens and thenceforward none at all. The
people shall judge between us." This was signed by Dana Da, who added
pentacles and pentagrams, and a _crux ansaia_, and half a dozen
_swastikas_, and a Triple Tau to his name, just to show that he was all he
laid claim to be.

The challenge was read out to the gentlemen and ladies, and they
remembered then that Dana Da had laughed at them some years ago. It was
officially announced that the Old Man of the Mountains would treat the
matter with contempt; Dana Da being an Independent Investigator without a
single "round" at the back of him. But this did not soothe his people.
They wanted to see a fight. They were very human for all their
spirituality. Lone Sahib, who was really being worn out with kittens,
submitted meekly to his fate. He felt that he was being "kittened to prove
the power of Dana Da," as the poet says.

When the stated day dawned, the shower of kittens began. Some were white
and some were tabby, and all were about the same loathsome age. Three were
on his hearth-rug, three in his bath-room, and the other six turned up at
intervals among the visitors who came to see the prophecy break down.
Never was a more satisfactory Sending. On the next day there were no
kittens, and the next day and all the other days were kittenless and
quiet. The people murmured and looked to the Old Man of the Mountains for
an explanation. A letter, written on a palm-leaf, dropped from the
ceiling, but every one except Lone Sahib felt that letters were not what
the occasion demanded. There should have been cats, there should have been
cats,--full-grown ones. The letter proved conclusively that there had been
a hitch in the Psychic Current which, colliding with a Dual Identity, had
interfered with the Percipient Activity all along the main line. The
kittens were still going on, but owing to some failure in the Developing
Fluid, they were not materialized. The air was thick with letters for a
few days afterward. Unseen hands played Gl�ck and Beethoven on
finger-bowls and clock-shades; but all men felt that Psychic Life was a
mockery without materialized Kittens. Even Lone Sahib shouted with the
majority on this head. Dana Da's letters were very insulting, and if he
had then offered to lead a new departure, there is no knowing what might
not have happened.

But Dana Da was dying of whiskey and opium in the Englishman's godown, and
had small heart for honors.

"They have been put to shame," said he. "Never was such a Sending. It has
killed me."

"Nonsense," said the Englishman, "you are going to die, Dana Da, and that
sort of stuff must be left behind. I'll admit that you have made some
queer things come about. Tell me honestly, now, how was it done?"

"Give me ten more rupees," said Dana Da, faintly, "and if I die before I
spend them, bury them with me." The silver was counted out while Dana Da
was fighting with Death. His hand closed upon the money and he smiled a
grim smile.

"Bend low," he whispered. The Englishman bent.

"_Bunnia_--Mission--school--expelled--_box-wallah_ (peddler)--Ceylon
pearl-merchant--all mine English education--out-casted, and made up name
Dana Da--England with American thought-reading man and--and--you gave me
ten rupees several times--I gave the Sahib's bearer two-eight a month for
cats--little, little cats. I wrote, and he put them about--very clever
man. Very few kittens now in the _bazar_. Ask Lone Sahib's sweeper's
wife."

So saying, Dana Da gasped and passed away into a land where, if all be
true, there are no materializations and the making of new creeds is
discouraged.

But consider the gorgeous simplicity of it all!



ON THE CITY WALL

  Then she let them down by a cord through the window; for her house was
upon the town-wall, and she dwelt upon the wall.--_Joshua_ ii. 15.

Lalun is a member of the most ancient profession in the world. Lilith was
her very-great-grandmamma, and that was before the days of Eve as every
one knows. In the West, people say rude things about Lalun's profession,
and write lectures about it, and distribute the lectures to young persons
in order that Morality may be preserved. In the East where the profession
is hereditary, descending from mother to daughter, nobody writes lectures
or takes any notice; and that is a distinct proof of the inability of the
East to manage its own affairs.

Lalun's real husband, for even ladies of Lalun's profession in the East
must have husbands, was a big jujube-tree. Her Mamma, who had married a
fig-tree, spent ten thousand rupees on Lalun's wedding, which was blessed
by forty-seven clergymen of Mamma's church, and distributed five thousand
rupees in charity to the poor. And that was the custom of the land. The
advantages of having a jujube-tree for a husband are obvious. You cannot
hurt his feelings, and he looks imposing.

Lalun's husband stood on the plain outside the City walls, and Lalun's
house was upon the east wall facing the river. If you fell from the broad
window-seat you dropped thirty feet sheer into the City Ditch. But if you
stayed where you should and looked forth, you saw all the cattle of the
City being driven down to water, the students of the Government College
playing cricket, the high grass and trees that fringed the river-bank, the
great sand bars that ribbed the river, the red tombs of dead Emperors
beyond the river, and very far away through the blue heat-haze, a glint of
the snows of the Himalayas.

Wali Dad used to lie in the window-seat for hours at a time watching this
view. He was a young Muhammadan who was suffering acutely from education
of the English variety and knew it. His father had sent him to a
Mission-school to get wisdom, and Wali Dad had absorbed more than ever his
father or the Missionaries intended he should. When his father died, Wali
Dad was independent and spent two years experimenting with the creeds of
the Earth and reading books that are of no use to anybody.

After he had made an unsuccessful attempt to enter the Roman Catholic
Church and the Presbyterian fold at the same time (the Missionaries found
him out and called him names, but they did not understand his trouble), he
discovered Lalun on the City wall and became the most constant of her few
admirers. He possessed a head that English artists at home would rave over
and paint amid impossible surroundings--a face that female novelists would
use with delight through nine hundred pages. In reality he was only a
clean-bred young Muhammadan, with penciled eyebrows, small-cut nostrils,
little feet and hands, and a very tired look in his eyes. By virtue of his
twenty-two years he had grown a neat black beard which he stroked with
pride and kept delicately scented. His life seemed to be divided between
borrowing books from me and making love to Lalun in the window-seat. He
composed songs about her, and some of the songs are sung to this day in
the City from the Street of the Mutton-Butchers to the Copper-Smiths'
ward.

One song, the prettiest of all, says that the beauty of Lalun was so great
that it troubled the hearts of the British Government and caused them to
lose their peace of mind. That is the way the song is sung in the streets;
but, if you examine it carefully and know the key to the explanation, you
will find that there are three puns in it--on "beauty," "heart," and
"peace of mind,"--so that it runs: "By the subtlety of Lalun the
administration of the Government was troubled and it lost such and such a
man." When Wali Dad sings that song his eyes glow like hot coals, and
Lalun leans back among the cushions and throws bunches of jasmine-buds at
Wali Dad.

But first it is necessary to explain something about the Supreme
Government which is above all and below all and behind all. Gentlemen come
from England, spend a few weeks in India, walk round this great Sphinx of
the Plains, and write books upon its ways and its works, denouncing or
praising it as their own ignorance prompts. Consequently all the world
knows how the Supreme Government conducts itself, But no one, not even the
Supreme Government, knows everything about the administration of the
Empire. Year by year England sends out fresh drafts for the first
fighting-line, which is officially called the Indian Civil Service. These
die, or kill themselves by overwork, or are worried to death or broken in
health and hope in order that the land may be protected from death and
sickness, famine and war, and may eventually become capable of standing
alone. It will never stand alone, but the idea is a pretty one, and men
are willing to die for it, and yearly the work of pushing and coaxing and
scolding and petting the country into good living goes forward. If an
advance be made all credit is given to the native, while the Englishmen
stand back and wipe their foreheads. If a failure occurs the Englishmen
step forward and take the blame. Overmuch tenderness of this kind has bred
a strong belief among many natives that the native is capable of
administering the country, and many devout Englishmen believe this also,
because the theory is stated in beautiful English with all the latest
political color.

There be other men who, though uneducated, see visions and dream dreams,
and they, too, hope to administer the country in their own way--that is to
say, with a garnish of Red Sauce. Such men must exist among two hundred
million people, and, if they are not attended to, may cause trouble and
even break the great idol called _Pax Britannic_, which, as the newspapers
say, lives between Peshawur and Cape Comorin. Were the Day of Doom to dawn
to-morrow, you would find the Supreme Government "taking measures to allay
popular excitement" and putting guards upon the graveyards that the Dead
might troop forth orderly. The youngest Civilian would arrest Gabriel on
his own responsibility if the Archangel could not produce a Deputy
Commissioner's permission to "make music or other noises" as the license
says.

Whence it is easy to see that mere men of the flesh who would create a
tumult must fare badly at the hands of the Supreme Government. And they
do. There is no outward sign of excitement; there is no confusion; there
is no knowledge. When due and sufficient reasons have been given, weighed
and approved, the machinery moves forward, and the dreamer of dreams and
the seer of visions is gone from his friends and following. He enjoys the
hospitality of Government; there is no restriction upon his movements
within certain limits; but he must not confer any more with his brother
dreamers. Once in every six months the Supreme Government assures itself
that he is well and takes formal acknowledgment of his existence. No one
protests against his detention, because the few people who know about it
are in deadly fear of seeming to know him; and never a single newspaper
"takes up his case" or organizes demonstrations on his behalf, because the
newspapers of India have got behind that lying proverb which says the Pen
is mightier than the Sword, and can walk delicately.

So now you know as much as you ought about Wali Dad, the educational
mixture, and the Supreme Government.

Lalun has not yet been described. She would need, so Wali Dad says, a
thousand pens of gold and ink scented with musk. She has been variously
compared to the Moon, the Dil Sagar Lake, a spotted quail, a gazelle, the
Sun on the Desert of Kutch, the Dawn, the Stars, and the young bamboo.
These comparisons imply that she is beautiful exceedingly according to the
native standards, which are practically the same as those of the West. Her
eyes are black and her hair is black, and her eyebrows are black as
leeches; her mouth is tiny and says witty things; her hands are tiny and
have saved much money; her feet are tiny and have trodden on the naked
hearts of many men. But, as Wali Dad sings: "Lalun _is_ Lalun, and when
you have said that, you have only come to the Beginnings of Knowledge."

The little house on the City wall was just big enough to hold Lalun, and
her maid, and a pussy-cat with a silver collar. A big pink and blue
cut-glass chandelier hung from the ceiling of the reception room. A petty
Nawab had given Lalun the horror, and she kept it for politeness' sake.
The floor of the room was of polished chunam, white as curds. A latticed
window of carved wood was set in one wall; there was a profusion of
squabby pluffy cushions and fat carpets everywhere, and Lalun's silver
_huqa_, studded with turquoises, had a special little carpet all to its
shining self. Wali Dad was nearly as permanent a fixture as the
chandelier. As I have said, he lay in the window-seat and meditated on
Life and Death and Lalun--specially Lalun. The feet of the young men of
the City tended to her doorways and then--retired, for Lalun was a
particular maiden, slow of speech, reserved of mind, and not in the least
inclined to orgies which were nearly certain to end in strife. "If I am of
no value, I am unworthy of this honor," said Lalun. "If I am of value,
they are unworthy of Me," And that was a crooked sentence.

In the long hot nights of latter April and May all the City seemed to
assemble in Lalun's little white room to smoke and to talk. Shiahs of the
grimmest and most uncompromising persuasion; Sufis who had lost all belief
in the Prophet and retained but little in God; wandering Hindu priests
passing southward on their way to the Central India fairs and other
affairs; Pundits in black gowns, with spectacles on their noses and
undigested wisdom in their insides; bearded headmen of the wards; Sikhs
with all the details of the latest ecclesiastical scandal in the Golden
Temple; red-eyed priests from beyond the Border, looking like trapped
wolves and talking like ravens; M.A.'s of the University, very superior
and very voluble--all these people and more also you might find in the
white room. Wali Dad lay in the window-seat and listened to the talk.

"It is Lalun's salon," said Wali Dad to me, "and it is electic--is not
that the word? Outside of a Freemason's Lodge I have never seen such
gatherings. _There_ I dined once with a Jew--a Yahoudi!" He spat into the
City Ditch with apologies for allowing national feelings to overcome him.
"Though I have lost every belief in the world," said he, "and try to be
proud of my losing, I cannot help hating a Jew. Lalun admits no Jews
here."

"But what in the world do all these men do?" I asked.

"The curse of our country," said Wali Dad. "They talk. It is like the
Athenians--always hearing and telling some new thing. Ask the Pearl and
she will show you how much she knows of the news of the City and the
Province. Lalun knows everything."

"Lalun," I said at random--she was talking to a gentleman of the Kurd
persuasion who had come in from God-knows-where--"when does the 175th
Regiment go to Agra?"

"It does not go at all," said Lalun, without turning her head. "They have
ordered the 118th to go in its stead. That Regiment goes to Lucknow in
three months, unless they give a fresh order."

"That is so," said Wali Dad without a shade of doubt. "Can you, with your
telegrams and your newspapers, do better? Always hearing and telling some
new thing," he went on. "My friend, has your God ever smitten a European
nation for gossiping in the bazars? India has gossiped for
centuries--always standing in the bazars until the soldiers go by.
Therefore--you are here to-day instead of starving in your own country,
and I am not a Muhammadan--I am a Product--a Demnition Product. That also
I owe to you and yours: that I cannot make an end to my sentence without
quoting from your authors." He pulled at the _huqa_ and mourned, half
feelingly, half in earnest, for the shattered hopes of his youth. Wali Dad
was always mourning over something or other--the country of which he
despaired, or the creed in which he had lost faith, or the life of the
English which he could by no means understand.

Lalun never mourned. She played little songs on the _sitar_, and to hear
her sing, "_O Peacock, cry again_," was always a fresh pleasure. She knew
all the songs that have ever been sung, from the war-songs of the South
that make the old men angry with the young men and the young men angry
with the State, to the love-songs of the North where the swords
whinny-whicker like angry kites in the pauses between the kisses, and the
Passes fill with armed men, and the Lover is torn from his Beloved and
cries, _Ai, Ai, Ai!_ evermore. She knew how to make up tobacco for the
_huqa_ so that it smelled like the Gates of Paradise and wafted you gently
through them. She could embroider strange things in gold and silver, and
dance softly with the moonlight when it came in at the window. Also she
knew the hearts of men, and the heart of the City, and whose wives were
faithful and whose untrue, and more of the secrets of the Government
Offices than are good to be set down in this place. Nasiban, her maid,
said that her jewelry was worth ten thousand pounds, and that, some night,
a thief would enter and murder her for its possession; but Lalun said that
all the City would tear that thief limb from limb, and that he, whoever he
was, knew it.

So she took her _sitar_ and sat in the windowseat and sang a song of old
days that had been sung by a girl of her profession in an armed camp on
the eve of a great battle--the day before the Fords of the Jumna ran red
and Sivaji fled fifty miles to Delhi with a Toorkh stallion at his horse's
tail and another Lalun on his saddle-bow. It was what men call a Mahratta
_Laonee_, and it said:

   Their warrior forces Chimnajee
     Before the Peishwa led,
   The Children of the Sun and Fire
     Behind him turned and fled.

And the chorus said:

   With them there fought who rides so free
     With sword and turban red,
   The warrior-youth who earns his fee
     At peril of his head,

"At peril of his head," said Wali Dad in English to me, "Thanks to your
Government, all our heads are protected, and with the educational
facilities at my command"--his eyes twinkled wickedly--"I might be a
distinguished member of the local administration. Perhaps, in time, I
might even be a member of a Legislative Council."

"Don't speak English," said Lalun, bending over her _sitar_ afresh. The
chorus went out from the City wall to the blackened wall of Fort Amara
which dominates the City. No man knows the precise extent of Fort Amara.
Three kings built it hundreds of years ago, and they say that there are
miles of underground rooms beneath its walls. It is peopled with many
ghosts, a detachment of Garrison Artillery and a Company of Infantry. In
its prime it held ten thousand men and filled its ditches with corpses.

"At peril of his head," sang Lalun, again and again.

A head moved on one of the Ramparts--the grey head of an old man--and a
voice, rough as shark-skin on a sword-hilt, sent back the last line of the
chorus and broke into a song that I could not understand, though Lalun and
Wali Dad listened intently.

"What is it?" I asked. "Who is it?"

"A consistent man," said Wali Dad. "He fought you in '46, when he was a
warrior-youth; refought you in '57, and he tried to fight you in '71, but
you had learned the trick of blowing men from guns too well. Now he is
old; but he would still fight if he could."

"Is he a Wahabi, then? Why should he answer to a Mahratta _laonee_ if he
be Wahabi--or Sikh?" said I.

"I do not know," said Wali Dad. "He has lost perhaps, his religion.
Perhaps he wishes to be a King. Perhaps he is a King. I do not know his
name."

"That is a lie, Wali Dad. If you know his career you must know his name."

"That is quite true. I belong to a nation of liars. I would rather not
tell you his name. Think for yourself."

Lalun finished her song, pointed to the Fort, and said simply: "Khem
Singh."

"Hm," said Wali Dad. "If the Pearl chooses to tell you the Pearl is a
fool."

I translated to Lalun, who laughed. "I choose to tell what I choose to
tell. They kept Khem Singh in Burma," said she. "They kept him there for
many years until his mind was changed in him. So great was the kindness of
the Government. Finding this, they sent him back to his own country that
he might look upon it before he died. He is an old man, but when he looks
upon this his country his memory will come. Moreover, there be many who
remember him."

"He is an Interesting Survival," said Wali Dad, pulling at the _huqa_. "He
returns to a country now full of educational and political reform, but, as
the Pearl says, there are many who remember him. He was once a great man.
There will never he any more great men in India. They will all, when they
are boys, go whoring after strange gods, and they will become
citizens--'fellow-citizens'--'illustrious fellow-citizens.' What is it
that the native papers call them?"

Wali Dad seemed to be in a very bad temper. Lalun looked out of the window
and smiled into the dust-haze. I went away thinking about Khem Singh who
had once made history with a thousand followers, and would have been a
princeling but for the power of the Supreme Government aforesaid.

The Senior Captain Commanding Fort Amara was away on leave, but the
Subaltern, his Deputy, drifted down to the Club, where I found him and
inquired of him whether it was really true that a political prisoner had
been added to the attractions of the Fort. The Subaltern explained at
great length, for this was the first time that he had held Command of the
Fort, and his glory lay heavy upon him.

"Yes," said he, "a man was sent in to me about a week ago from down the
line--a thorough gentleman whoever he is. Of course I did all I could for
him. He had his two servants and some silver cooking-pots, and he looked
for all the world like a native officer. I called him Subadar Sahib; just
as well to be on the safe side, y'know. 'Look here, Subadar Sahib,' I
said, 'you're handed over to my authority, and I'm supposed to guard you.
Now I don't want to make your life hard, but you must make things easy for
me. All the Fort is at your disposal, from the flagstaff to the dry ditch,
and I shall be happy to entertain you in any way I can, but you mustn't
take advantage of it. Give me your word that you won't try to escape,
Subadar Sahib, and I'll give you my word that you shall have no heavy
guard put over you.' I thought the best way of getting him was by going at
him straight, y'know, and it was, by Jove! The old man gave me his word,
and moved about the Fort as contented as a sick crow. He's a rummy
chap--always asking to be told where he is and what the buildings about
him are. I had to sign a slip of blue paper when he turned up,
acknowledging receipt of his body and all that, and I'm responsible,
y'know, that he doesn't get away. Queer thing, though, looking after a
Johnnie old enough to be your grandfather, isn't it? Come to the Fort one
of these days and see him?"

For reasons which will appear, I never went to the Fort while Khem Singh
was then within its walls. I knew him only as a grey head seen from
Lalun's window--a grey head and a harsh voice. But natives told me that,
day by day, as he looked upon the fair lands round Amara, his memory came
back to him and, with it, the old hatred against the Government that had
been nearly effaced in far-off Burma. So he raged up and down the West
face of the Fort from morning till noon and from evening till the night,
devising vain things in his heart, and croaking war-songs when Lalun sang
on the City wall. As he grew more acquainted with the Subaltern he
unburdened his old heart of some of the passions that had withered it.
"Sahib," he used to say, tapping his stick against the parapet, "when I
was a young man I was one of twenty thousand horsemen who came out of the
City and rode round the plain here. Sahib, I was the leader of a hundred,
then of a thousand, then of five thousand, and now!"--he pointed to his
two servants. "But from the beginning to to-day I would cut the throats of
all the Sahibs in the land if I could. Hold me fast, Sahib, lest I get
away and return to those who would follow me. I forgot them when I was in
Burma, but now that I am in my own country again, I remember everything."

"Do you remember that you have given me your Honor not to make your
tendance a hard matter?" said the Subaltern.

"Yes, to you, only to you, Sahib," said Khem Singh. "To you, because you
are of a pleasant countenance. If my turn comes again, Sahib, I will not
hang you nor cut your throat."

"Thank you," said the Subaltern, gravely, as he looked along the line of
guns that could pound the City to powder in half an hour. "Let us go into
our own quarters, Khem Singh. Come and talk with me after dinner."

Khem Singh would sit on his own cushion at the Subaltern's feet, drinking
heavy, scented anise-seed brandy in great gulps, and telling strange
stories of Fort Amara, which had been a palace in the old days, of Begums
and Ranees tortured to death--aye, in the very vaulted chamber that now
served as a Mess-room; would tell stories of Sobraon that made the
Subaltern's cheeks flush and tingle with pride of race, and of the Kuka
rising from which so much was expected and the foreknowledge of which was
shared by a hundred thousand souls. But he never told tales of '57
because, as he said, he was the Subaltern's guest, and '57 is a year that
no man, Black or White, cares to speak of. Once only, when the anise-seed
brandy had slightly affected his head, he said: "Sahib, speaking now of a
matter which lay between Sobraon and the affair of the Kukas, it was ever
a wonder to us that you stayed your hand at all, and that, having stayed
it, you did not make the land one prison. Now I hear from without that you
do great honor to all men of our country and by your own hands are
destroying the Terror of your Name which is your strong rock and defence.
This is a foolish thing. Will oil and water mix? Now in '57"--

"I was not born then, Subadar Sahib," said the Subaltern, and Khem Singh
reeled to his quarters,

The Subaltern would tell me of these conversations at the Club, and my
desire to see Khem Singh increased. But Wali Dad, sitting in the
window-seat of the house on the City wall, said that it would be a cruel
thing to do, and Lalun pretended that I preferred the society of a
grizzled old Sikh to hers.

"Here is tobacco, here is talk, here are many friends and all the news of
the City, and, above all, here is myself. I will tell you stories and sing
you songs, and Wali Dad will talk his English nonsense in your ears. Is
that worse than watching the caged animal yonder? Go to-morrow then, if
you must, but to-day such and such an one will be here, and he will speak
of wonderful things."

It happened that To-morrow never came, and the warm heat of the latter
Rains gave place to the chill of early October almost before I was aware
of the flight of the year. The Captain commanding the Fort returned from
leave and took over charge of Khem Singh according to the laws of
seniority. The Captain was not a nice man. He called all natives
"niggers," which, besides being extreme bad form, shows gross ignorance.

"What's the use of telling off two Tommies to watch that old nigger?" said
he.

"I fancy it soothes his vanity," said the Subaltern. "The men are ordered
to keep well out of his way, but he takes them as a tribute to his
importance, poor old wretch."

"I won't have Line men taken off regular guards in this way. Put on a
couple of Native Infantry."

"Sikhs?" said the Subaltern, lifting his eyebrows.

"Sikhs, Pathans, Dogras--they're all alike, these black vermin," and the
Captain talked to Khem Singh in a manner which hurt that old gentleman's
feelings. Fifteen years before, when he had been caught for the second
time, every one looked upon him as a sort of tiger. He liked being
regarded in this light. But he forgot that the world goes forward in
fifteen years, and many Subalterns are promoted to Captaincies,

"The Captain-pig is in charge of the Fort?" said Khem Singh to his native
guard every morning. And the native guard said: "Yes, Subadar Sahib," in
deference to his age and his air of distinction; but they did not know who
he was.

In those days the gathering in Lalun's little white room was always large
and talked more than before,

"The Greeks," said Wali Dad who had been borrowing my books, "the
inhabitants of the city of Athens, where they were always hearing and
telling some new thing, rigorously secluded their women--who were fools.
Hence the glorious institution of the heterodox women--is it not?--who
were amusing and _not_ fools. All the Greek philosophers delighted in
their company. Tell me, my friend, how it goes now in Greece and the other
places upon the Continent of Europe. Are your women-folk also fools?"

"Wali Dad," I said, "you never speak to us about your women-folk and we
never speak about ours to you. That is the bar between us."

"Yes," said Wali Dad, "it is curious to think that our common
meeting-place should be here, in the house of a common--how do you call
_her_?" He pointed with the pipe-mouth to Lalun.

"Lalun is nothing but Lalun," I said, and that was perfectly true. "But if
you took your place in the world, Wali Dad, and gave up dreaming dreams"--

"I might wear an English coat and trouser. I might be a leading Muhammadan
pleader. I might be received even at the Commissioner's tennis-parties
where the English stand on one side and the natives on the other, in order
to promote social intercourse throughout the Empire. Heart's Heart," said
he to Lalun quickly, "the Sahib says that I ought to quit you."

"The Sahib is always talking stupid talk," returned Lalun, with a laugh.
"In this house I am a Queen and thou art a King. The Sahib"--she put her
arms above her head and thought for a moment--"the Sahib shall be our
Vizier--thine and mine, Wali Dad--because he has said that thou shouldst
leave me."

Wali Dad laughed immoderately, and I laughed too. "Be it so," said he. "My
friend, are you willing to take this lucrative Government appointment?
Lalun, what shall his pay be?"

But Lalun began to sing, and for the rest of the time there was no hope of
getting a sensible answer from her or Wall Dad. When the one stopped, the
other began to quote Persian poetry with a triple pun in every other line.
Some of it was not strictly proper, but it was all very funny, and it only
came to an end when a fat person in black, with gold _pince-nez_, sent up
his name to Lalun, and Wali Dad dragged me into the twinkling night to
walk in a big rose-garden and talk heresies about Religion and Governments
and a man's career in life.

The Mohurrum, the great mourning-festival of the Muhammadans, was close at
hand, and the things that Wali Dad said about religious fanaticism would
have secured his expulsion from the loosest-thinking Muslim sect. There
were the rose-bushes round us, the stars above us, and from every quarter
of the City came the boom of the big Mohurrum drums, You must know that
the City is divided in fairly equal proportions between the Hindus and the
Musalmans, and where both creeds belong to the fighting races, a big
religious festival gives ample chance for trouble. When they can--that is
to say when the authorities are weak enough to allow it--the Hindus do
their best to arrange some minor feast-day of their own in time to clash
with the period of general mourning for the martyrs Hasan and Hussain, the
heroes of the Mohurrum. Gilt and painted paper presentations of their
tombs are borne with shouting and wailing, music, torches, and yells,
through the principal thoroughfares of the City, which fakements are
called _tazias_. Their passage is rigorously laid down beforehand by the
Police, and detachments of Police accompany each _tazias_, lest the Hindus
should throw bricks at it and the peace of the Queen and the heads of Her
loyal subjects should thereby be broken. Mohurrum time in a "fighting"
town means anxiety to all the officials, because, if a riot breaks out,
the officials and not the rioters are held responsible. The former must
foresee everything, and while not making their precautions ridiculously
elaborate, must see that they are at least adequate.

"Listen to the drums!" said Wali Dad. "That is the heart of the
people--empty and making much noise. How, think you, will the Mohurrum go
this year? I think that there will be trouble."

He turned down a side-street and left me alone with the stars and a sleepy
Police patrol. Then I went to bed and dreamed that Wali Dad had sacked the
City and I was made Vizier, with Lalun's silver _huqa_ for mark of office.

All day the Mohurrum drums beat in the City, and all day deputations of
tearful Hindu gentlemen besieged the Deputy Commissioner with assurances
that they would be murdered ere next dawning by the Muhammadans. "Which,"
said the Deputy Commissioner, in confidence to the Head of Police, "is a
pretty fair indication that the Hindus are going to make 'emselves
unpleasant. I think we can arrange a little surprise for them. I have
given the heads of both Creeds fair warning. If they choose to disregard
it, so much the worse for them."

There was a large gathering in Lalun's house that night, but of men that I
had never seen before, if I except the fat gentleman in black with the
gold _pince-nez_. Wali Dad lay in the window-seat, more bitterly scornful
of his Faith and its manifestations than I had ever known him. Lalun's
maid was very busy cutting up and mixing tobacco for the guests. We could
hear the thunder of the drums as the processions accompanying each _tazia_
marched to the central gathering-place in the plain outside the City,
preparatory to their triumphant reentry and circuit within the walls. All
the streets seemed ablaze with torches, and only Fort Amara was black and
silent.

When the noise of the drums ceased, no one in the white room spoke for a
time. "The first _tazia_ has moved off," said Wali Dad, looking to the
plain.

"That is very early," said the man with the _pince-nez_.

"It is only half-past eight." The company rose and departed.

"Some of them were men from Ladakh," said Lalun, when the last had gone.
"They brought me brick-tea such as the Russians sell, and a tea-turn from
Peshawur. Show me, now, how the English _Memsahibs_ make tea."

The brick-tea was abominable. When it was finished Wali Dad suggested
going into the streets. "I am nearly sure that there will be trouble
to-night," he said. "All the City thinks so, and _Vox Populi_ is _Vox
Dei_, as the Babus say. Now I tell you that at the corner of the Padshahi
Gate you will find my horse all this night if you want to go about and to
see things. It is a most disgraceful exhibition. Where is the pleasure of
saying '_Ya Hasan, Ya Hussain_,' twenty thousand times in a night?"

All the processions--there were two and twenty of them--were now well
within the City walls. The drums were beating afresh, the crowd were
howling "_Ya Hasan! Ya Hussain!_" and beating their breasts, the brass
bands were playing their loudest, and at every corner where space allowed,
Muhammadan preachers were telling the lamentable story of the death of the
Martyrs. It was impossible to move except with the crowd, for the streets
were not more than twenty feet wide. In the Hindu quarters the shutters of
all the shops were up and cross-barred. As the first _tazia_, a gorgeous
erection ten feet high, was borne aloft on the shoulders of a score of
stout men into the semi-darkness of the Gully of the Horsemen, a brickbat
crashed through its talc and tinsel sides.

"Into thy hands, O Lord?" murmured Wali Dad. profanely, as a yell went up
from behind, and a native officer of Police jammed his horse through the
crowd. Another brickbat followed, and the _tazia_ staggered and swayed
where it had stopped.

"Go on! In the name of the _Sirkar_, go forward!" shouted the Policeman;
but there was an ugly cracking and splintering of shutters, and the crowd
halted, with oaths and growlings, before the house whence the brickbat had
been thrown.

Then, without any warning, broke the storm--not only in the Gully of the
Horsemen, but in half a dozen other places. The _tazias_ rocked like ships
at sea, the long pole-torches dipped and rose round them while the men
shouted: "The Hindus are dishonoring the _tazias!_ Strike! Strike! Into
their temples for the faith!" The six or eight Policemen with each _tazia_
drew their batons, and struck as long as they could in the hope of forcing
the mob forward, but they were overpowered, and as contingents of Hindus
poured into the streets, the fight became general. Half a mile away where
the _tazias_ were yet untouched the drums and the shrieks of "_Ya Hasan!
Ya Hussain!_" continued, but not for long. The priests at the corners of
the streets knocked the legs from the bedsteads that supported their
pulpits and smote for the Faith, while stones fell from the silent houses
upon friend and foe, and the packed streets bellowed: "_Din! Din! Din!_" A
_tazia_ caught fire, and was dropped for a flaming barrier between Hindu
and Musalman at the corner of the Gully. Then the crowd surged forward,
and Wali Dad drew me close to the stone pillar of a well.

"It was intended from the beginning!" he shouted in my ear, with more heat
than blank unbelief should be guilty of. "The bricks were carried up to
the houses beforehand. These swine of Hindus! We shall be gutting kine in
their temples to-night!"

_Tazia_ after _tazia_, some burning, others torn to pieces, hurried past
us and the mob with them, howling, shrieking, and striking at the house
doors in their flight. At last we saw the reason of the rush. Hugonin, the
Assistant District Superintendent of Police, a boy of twenty, had got
together thirty constables and was forcing the crowd through the streets.
His old grey Police-horse showed no sign of uneasiness as it was spurred
breast-on into the crowd, and the long dog-whip with which he had armed
himself was never still.

"They know we haven't enough Police to hold 'em," he cried as he passed
me, mopping a cut on his face, "They _know_ we haven't! Aren't any of the
men from the Club coming down to help? Get on, you sons of burned
fathers!" The dog-whip cracked across the writhing backs, and the
constables smote afresh with baton and gun-butt. With these passed the
lights and the shouting, and Wali Dad began to swear under his breath.
From Fort Amara shot up a single rocket; then two side by side. It was the
signal for troops.

Petitt, the Deputy Commissioner, covered with dust and sweat, but calm and
gently smiling, cantered up the clean-swept street in rear of the main
body of the rioters, "No one killed yet," he shouted. "I'll keep 'em on
the run till dawn! Don't let 'em halt, Hugonin! Trot 'em about till the
troops come."

The science of the defence lay solely in keeping the mob on the move. If
they had breathing-space they would halt and fire a house, and then the
work of restoring order would be more difficult, to say the least of it.
Flames have the same effect on a crowd as blood has on a wild beast.

Word had reached the Club and men in evening-dress were beginning to show
themselves and lend a hand in heading off and breaking up the shouting
masses with stirrup-leathers, whips, or chance-found staves. They were not
very often attacked, for the rioters had sense enough to know that the
death of a European would not mean one hanging but many, and possibly the
appearance of the thrice-dreaded Artillery. The clamor in the City
redoubled. The Hindus had descended into the streets in real earnest and
ere long the mob returned. It was a strange sight. There were no
_tazias_--only their riven platforms--and there were no Police. Here and
there a City dignitary, Hindu or Muhammadan, was vainly imploring his
co-religionists to keep quiet and behave themselves--advice for which his
white beard was pulled. Then a native officer of Police, unhorsed but
still using his spurs with effect, would be borne along, warning all the
crowd of the danger of insulting the Government. Everywhere men struck
aimlessly with sticks, grasping each other by the throat, howling and
foaming with rage, or beat with their bare hands on the doors of the
houses.

"It is a lucky thing that they are fighting with natural weapons," I said
to Wali Dad, "else we should have half the City killed."

I turned as I spoke and looked at his face. His nostrils were distended,
his eyes were fixed, and he was smiting himself softly on the breast. The
crowd poured by with renewed riot--a gang of Musalmans hard-pressed by
some hundred Hindu fanatics. Wali Dad left my side with an oath, and
shouting: "_Ya Hasan! Ya Hussain!_" plunged into the thick of the fight
where I lost sight of him.

I fled by a side alley to the Padshahi Gate where I found Wali Dad's
house, and thence rode to the Fort. Once outside the City wall, the tumult
sank to a dull roar, very impressive under the stars and reflecting great
credit on the fifty thousand angry able-bodied men who were making it. The
troops who, at the Deputy Commissioner's instance, had been ordered to
rendezvous quietly near the Fort, showed no signs of being impressed. Two
companies of Native Infantry, a squadron of Native Cavalry and a company
of British Infantry were kicking their heels in the shadow of the East
face, waiting for orders to march in. I am sorry to say that they were all
pleased, unholily pleased, at the chance of what they called "a little
fun." The senior officers, to be sure, grumbled at having been kept out of
bed, and the English troops pretended to be sulky, but there was joy in
the hearts of all the subalterns, and whispers ran up and down the line:
"No ball-cartridge--what a beastly shame!" "D'you think the beggars will
really stand up to us?" "'Hope I shall meet my money-lender there. I owe
him more than I can afford." "Oh, they won't let us even unsheathe
swords." "Hurrah! Up goes the fourth rocket. Fall in, there!"

The Garrison Artillery, who to the last cherished a wild hope that they
might be allowed to bombard the City at a hundred yards' range, lined the
parapet above the East gateway and cheered themselves hoarse as the
British Infantry doubled along the road to the Main Gate of the City. The
Cavalry cantered on to the Padshahi Gate, and the Native Infantry marched
slowly to the Gate of the Butchers. The surprise was intended to be of a
distinctly unpleasant nature, and to come on top of the defeat of the
Police who had been just able to keep the Muhammadans from firing the
houses of a few leading Hindus. The bulk of the riot lay in the north and
northwest wards. The east and southeast were by this time dark and silent,
and I rode hastily to Lalun's house for I wished to tell her to send some
one in search of Wali Dad. The house was unlighted, but the door was open,
and I climbed upstairs in the darkness. One small lamp in the white room
showed Lalun and her maid leaning half out of the window, breathing
heavily and evidently pulling at something that refused to come.

"Thou art late--very late," gasped Lalun, without turning her head. "Help
us now, O Fool, if thou hast not spent thy strength howling among the
_tazias_. Pull! Nasiban and I can do no more! O Sahib, is it you? The
Hindus have been hunting an old Muhammadan round the Ditch with clubs. If
they find him again they will kill him. Help us to pull him up."

I put my hands to the long red silk waist-cloth that was hanging out of
the window, and we three pulled and pulled with all the strength at our
command. There was something very heavy at the end, and it swore in an
unknown tongue as it kicked against the City wall.

"Pull, oh, pull!" said Lalun, at the last. A pair of brown hands grasped
the window-sill and a venerable Muhammadan tumbled upon the floor, very
much out of breath. His jaws were tied up, his turban had fallen over one
eye, and he was dusty and angry.

Lalun hid her face in her hands for an instant and said something about
Wali Dad that I could not catch,

Then, to my extreme gratification, she threw her arms round my neck and
murmured pretty things. I was in no haste to stop her; and Nasiban, being
a handmaiden of tact, turned to the big jewel-chest that stands in the
corner of the white room and rummaged among the contents. The Muhammadan
sat on the floor and glared.

"One service more, Sahib, since thou hast come so opportunely," said
Lalun. "Wilt thou"--it is very nice to be thou-ed by Lalun--"take this old
man across the City--the troops are everywhere, and they might hurt him
for he is old--to the Kumharsen Gate? There I think he may find a carriage
to take him to his house. He is a friend of mine, and thou art--more than
a friend--therefore I ask this."

Nasiban bent over the old man, tucked something into his belt, and I
raised him up, and led him into the streets. In crossing from the east to
the west of the City there was no chance of avoiding the troops and the
crowd. Long before I reached the Gully of the Horsemen I heard the shouts
of the British Infantry crying cheeringly: "Hutt, ye beggars! Hutt, ye
devils! Get along! Go forward, there!" Then followed the ringing of
rifle-butts and shrieks of pain. The troops were banging the bare toes of
the mob with their gun-butts--for not a bayonet had been fixed. My
companion mumbled and jabbered as we walked on until we were carried back
by the crowd and had to force our way to the troops. I caught him by the
wrist and felt a bangle there--the iron bangle of the Sikhs--but I had no
suspicions, for Lalun had only ten minutes before put her arms round me.
Thrice we were carried back by the crowd, and when we made our way past
the British Infantry it was to meet the Sikh Cavalry driving another mob
before them with the butts of their lances.

"What are these dogs?" said the old man.

"Sikhs of the Cavalry, Father," I said, and we edged our way up the line
of horses two abreast and found the Deputy Commissioner, his helmet
smashed on his head, surrounded by a knot of men who had come down from
the Club as amateur constables and had helped the Police mightily.

"We'll keep 'em on the run till dawn," said Petitt, "Who's your villainous
friend?"

I had only time to say: "The Protection of the _Sirkar!_" when a fresh
crowd flying before the Native Infantry carried us a hundred yards nearer
to the Kumharsen Gate, and Petitt was swept away like a shadow.

"I do not know--I cannot see--this is all new to me!" moaned my companion.
"How many troops are there in the City?"

"Perhaps five hundred," I said.

"A lakh of men beaten by five hundred--and Sikhs among them! Surely,
surely, I am an old man, but--the Kumharsen Gate is new. Who pulled down
the stone lions? Where is the conduit? Sahib, I am a very old man, and,
alas, I--I cannot stand." He dropped in the shadow of the Kumharsen Gate
where there was no disturbance. A fat gentleman wearing gold _pince-nez_
came out of the darkness.

"You are most kind to bring my old friend," he said, suavely. "He is a
landholder of Akala. He should not be in a big City when there is
religious excitement. But I have a carriage here. You are quite truly
kind. Will you help me to put him into the carriage? It is very late."

We bundled the old man into a hired victoria that stood close to the gate,
and I turned back to the house on the City wall. The troops were driving
the people to and fro, while the Police shouted, "To your houses! Get to
your houses!" and the dog-whip of the Assistant District Superintendent
cracked remorselessly. Terror-stricken _bunnias_ clung to the stirrups of
the cavalry, crying that their houses had been robbed (which was a lie),
and the burly Sikh horsemen patted them on the shoulder, and bade them
return to those houses lest a worse thing should happen. Parties of five
or six British soldiers, joining arms, swept down the side-gullies, their
rifles on their backs, stamping, with shouting and song, upon the toes of
Hindu and Musalman. Never was religious enthusiasm more systematically
squashed; and never were poor breakers of the peace more utterly weary and
footsore. They were routed out of holes and corners, from behind
well-pillars and byres, and bidden to go to their houses. If they had no
houses to go to, so much the worse for their toes.

On returning to Lalun's door I stumbled over a man at the threshold. He
was sobbing hysterically and his arms flapped like the wings of a goose.
It was Wali Dad, Agnostic and Unbeliever, shoeless, turbanless, and
frothing at the mouth, the flesh on his chest bruised and bleeding from
the vehemence with which he had smitten himself. A broken torch-handle lay
by his side, and his quivering lips murmured, "Ya Hasan! Ya Hussain!" as I
stooped over him. I pushed him a few steps up the staircase, threw a
pebble at Lalun's City window and hurried home.

Most of the streets were very still, and the cold wind that comes before
the dawn whistled down them. In the centre of the Square of the Mosque a
man was bending over a corpse. The skull had been smashed in by gun-butt
or bamboo-stave.

"It is expedient that one man should die for the people," said Petitt,
grimly, raising the shapeless head. "These brutes were beginning to show
their teeth too much."

And from afar we could hear the soldiers singing "Two Lovely Black Eyes,"
as they drove the remnant of the rioters within doors.


       *
       *
       *
       *
       *

Of course you can guess what happened? I was not so clever. When the news
went abroad that Khem Singh had escaped from the Fort, I did not, since I
was then living this story, not writing it, connect myself, or Lalun, or
the fat gentleman of the gold _pince-nez_, with his disappearance. Nor did
it strike me that Wali Dad was the man who should have convoyed him across
the City, or that Lalun's arms round my neck were put there to hide the
money that Nasiban gave to Kehm Singh, and that Lalun had used me and my
white face as even a better safeguard than Wali Dad who proved himself so
untrustworthy. All that I knew at the time was that, when Fort Amara was
taken up with the riots, Khem Singh profited by the confusion to get away,
and that his two Sikh guards also escaped.

But later on I received full enlightenment; and so did Khem Singh. He fled
to those who knew him in the old days, but many of them were dead and more
were changed, and all knew something of the Wrath of the Government. He
went to the young men, but the glamour of his name had passed away, and
they were entering native regiments of Government offices, and Khem Singh
could give them neither pension, decorations, nor influence--nothing but a
glorious death with their backs to the mouth of a gun. He wrote letters
and made promises, and the letters fell into bad hands, and a wholly
insignificant subordinate officer of Police tracked them down and gained
promotion thereby. Moreover, Khem Singh was old, and anise-seed brandy was
scarce, and he had left his silver cooking-pots in Fort Amara with his
nice warm bedding, and the gentleman with the gold _pince-nez_ was told by
those who had employed him that Khem Singh as a popular leader was not
worth the money paid.

"Great is the mercy of these fools of English!" said Khem Singh when the
situation was put before him. "I will go back to Fort Amara of my own free
will and gain honor. Give me good clothes to return in,"

So, at his own time, Khem Singh knocked at the wicket-gate of the Fort and
walked to the Captain and the Subaltern, who were nearly grey-headed on
account of correspondence that daily arrived from Simla marked "Private,"

"I have come back, Captain Sahib," said Khem Singh, "Put no more guards
over me. It is no good out yonder."

A week later I saw him for the first time to my knowledge, and he made as
though there were an understanding between us.

"It was well done, Sahib," said he, "and greatly I admired your astuteness
in thus boldly facing the troops when I, whom they would have doubtless
torn to pieces, was with you. Now there is a man in Fort Ooltagarh whom a
bold man could with ease help to escape. This is the position of the Fort
as I draw it on the sand"--

But I was thinking how I had become Lalun's Vizier after all.



THE BROKEN-LINK HANDICAP

   While the snaffle holds, or the long-neck slings,
   While the big beam tilts, or the last bell rings,
   While horses are horses to train and to race.
   Then women and wine take a second place
       For me--for me--
       While a short "ten-three"
   Has a field to squander or fence to face!

_--Song of the. G. R._

There are more ways of running a horse to suit your book than pulling his
head off in the straight. Some men forget this. Understand clearly that
all racing is rotten--as everything connected with losing money must be.
In India, in addition to its inherent rottenness, it has the merit of
being two-thirds sham; looking pretty on paper only. Every one knows every
one else far too well for business purposes. How on earth can you rack and
harry and post a man for his losings, when you are fond of his wife, and
live in the same Station with him? He says, "On the Monday following," "I
can't settle just yet." You say, "All right, old man," and think yourself
lucky if you pull off nine hundred out of a two-thousand-rupee debt. Any
way you look at it, Indian racing is immoral, and expensively immoral.
Which is much worse. If a man wants your money, he ought to ask for it, or
send round a subscription-list, instead of juggling about the country,
with an Australian larrikin; a "brumby," with as much breed as the boy; a
brace of _chumars_ in gold-laced caps; three or four _ekka_-ponies with
hogged manes, and a switch-tailed demirep of a mare called Arab because
she has a kink in her flag. Racing leads to the _shroff_ quicker than
anything else. But if you have no conscience and no sentiments, and good
hands, and some knowledge of pace, and ten years' experience of horses,
and several thousand rupees a month, I believe that you can occasionally
contrive to pay your shoeing-bills.

Did you ever know Shackles--b. w. g., 15. 1-3/8--coarse, loose, mule-like
ears--barrel as long as a gatepost--tough as a telegraph-wire--and the
queerest brute that ever looked through a bridle? He was of no brand,
being one of an ear-nicked mob taken into the _Bucephalus_ at �4:10s., a
head to make up freight, and sold raw and out of condition at Calcutta for
Rs.275. People who lost money on him called him a "brumby"; but if ever
any horse had Harpoon's shoulders and The Gin's temper, Shackles was that
horse. Two miles was his own particular distance. He trained himself, ran
himself, and rode himself; and, if his jockey insulted him by giving him
hints, he shut up at once and bucked the boy off. He objected to
dictation. Two or three of his owners did not understand this, and lost
money in consequence. At last he was bought by a man who discovered that,
if a race was to be won, Shackles, and Shackles only, would win it in his
own way, so long as his jockey sat still. This man had a riding-boy called
Brunt--a lad from Perth, West Australia--and he taught Brunt, with a
trainer's whip, the hardest thing a jock can learn--to sit still, to sit
still, and to keep on sitting still. When Brunt fairly grasped this truth,
Shackles devastated the country. No weight could stop him at his own
distance; and the fame of Shackles spread from Ajmir in the South, to
Chedputter in the North. There was no horse like Shackles, so long as he
was allowed to do his work in his own way. But he was beaten in the end;
and the story of his fall is enough to make angels weep.

At the lower end of the Chedputter racecourse, just before the turn into
the straight, the track passes close to a couple of old brick-mounds
enclosing a funnel-shaped hollow. The big end of the funnel is not six
feet from the railings on the off-side. The astounding peculiarity of the
course is that, if you stand at one particular place, about half a mile
away, inside the course, and speak at ordinary pitch, your voice just hits
the funnel of the brick-mounds and makes a curious whining echo there. A
man discovered this one morning by accident while out training with a
friend. He marked the place to stand and speak from with a couple of
bricks, and he kept his knowledge to himself. _Every_ peculiarity of a
course is worth remembering in a country where rats play the mischief with
the elephant-litter, and Stewards build jumps to suit their own stables.
This man ran a very fairish country-bred, a long, racking high mare with
the temper of a fiend, and the paces of an airy wandering seraph--a
drifty, glidy stretch. The mare was, as a delicate tribute to Mrs. Reiver,
called "The Lady Regula Baddun"--or for short, Regula Baddun.

Shackles' jockey, Brunt, was a quite well-behaved boy, but his nerve had
been shaken. He began his career by riding jump-races in Melbourne, where
a few Stewards want lynching, and was one of the jockeys who came through
the awful butchery--perhaps you will recollect it--of the Maribyrnong
Plate. The walls were colonial ramparts--logs of _jarrah_ spiked into
masonry--with wings as strong as Church buttresses. Once in his stride, a
horse had to jump or fall. He couldn't run out. In the Maribyrnong Plate,
twelve horses were jammed at the second wall. Red Hat, leading, fell this
side, and threw out The Gled, and the ruck came up behind and the space
between wing and wing was one struggling, screaming, kicking shambles.
Four jockeys were taken out dead; three were very badly hurt, and Brunt
was among the three. He told the story of the Maribyrnong Plate sometimes;
and when he described how Whalley on Red Hat, said, as the mare fell under
him--"God ha' mercy, I'm done for!" and how, next instant, Sithee There
and White Otter had crushed the life out of poor Whalley, and the dust hid
a small hell of men and horses, no one marveled that Brunt had dropped
jump-races and Australia together. Regula Baddun's owner knew that story
by heart. Brunt never varied it in the telling. He had no education.

Shackles came to the Chedputter Autumn races one year, and his owner
walked about insulting the sportsmen of Chedputter generally, till they
went to the Honorary Secretary in a body and said, "Appoint handicappers,
and arrange a race which shall break Shackles and humble the pride of his
owner." The Districts rose against Shackles and sent up of their best;
Ousel, who was supposed to be able to do his mile in 1-53; Petard, the
stud-bred, trained by a cavalry regiment who knew how to train; Gringalet,
the ewe-lamb of the 75th; Bobolink, the pride of Peshawar; and many
others.

They called that race The Broken-Link Handicap, because it was to smash
Shackles; and the Handicappers piled on the weights, and the Fund gave
eight hundred rupees, and the distance was "round the course for all
horses." Shackles' owner said, "You can arrange the race with regard to
Shackles only. So long as you don't bury him under weight-cloths, I don't
mind." Regula Baddun's owner said, "I throw in my mare to fret Ousel. Six
furlongs is Regula's distance, and she will then lie down and die. So also
will Ousel, for his jockey doesn't understand a waiting race." Now, this
was a lie, for Regula had been in work for two months at Dehra, and her
chances were good, always supposing that Shackles broke a blood-vessel--or
Brunt moved on him.

The plunging in the lotteries was fine. They filled eight thousand-rupee
lotteries on the Broken-Link Handicap, and the account in the _Pioneer_
said that "favoritism was divided." In plain English, the various
contingents were wild on their respective horses; for the Handicappers had
done their work well. The Honorary Secretary shouted himself hoarse
through the din; and the smoke of the cheroots was like the smoke, and the
rattling of the dice-boxes like the rattle of small-arm fire.

Ten horses started--very level--and Regula Baddun's owner cantered out on
his hack to a place inside the circle of the course, where two bricks had
been thrown. He faced toward the brick-mounds at the lower end of the
course and waited.

The story of the running is in the _Pioneer_. At the end of the first
mile, Shackles crept out of the ruck, well on the outside, ready to get
round the turn, lay hold of the bit and spin up the straight before the
others knew he had got away. Brunt was sitting still, perfectly happy,
listening to the "drum-drum-drum" of the hoofs behind, and knowing that,
in about twenty strides, Shackles would draw one deep breath and go up the
last half-mile like the "Flying Dutchman." As Shackles went short to take
the turn and came abreast of the brick-mound, Brunt heard, above the noise
of the wind in his ears, a whining, wailing voice on the offside,
saying--"God ha' mercy, I'm done for!" In one stride. Brunt saw the whole
seething smash of the Maribyrnong Plate before him, started in his saddle
and gave a yell of terror. The start brought the heels into Shackles'
side, and the scream hurt Shackles' feelings. He couldn't stop dead; but
he put out his feet and slid along for fifty yards, and then, very gravely
and judicially, bucked off Brunt--a shaking, terror-stricken lump, while
Regula Baddun made a neck-and-neck race with Bobolink up the straight, and
won by a short head--Petard a bad third. Shackles' owner, in the Stand,
tried to think that his field-glasses had gone wrong. Regula Baddun's
owner, waiting by the two bricks, gave one deep sigh of relief, and
cantered back to the Stand. He had won, in lotteries and bets, about
fifteen thousand.

It was a Broken-Link Handicap with a vengeance. It broke nearly all the
men concerned, and nearly broke the heart of Shackles' owner. He went down
to interview Brunt. The boy lay, livid and gasping with fright, where he
had tumbled off. The sin of losing the race never seemed to strike him.
All he knew was that Whalley had "called" him, that the "call" was a
warning; and, were he cut in two for it, he would never get up again. His
nerve had gone altogether, and he only asked his master to give him a good
thrashing, and let him go. He was fit for nothing, he said. He got his
dismissal, and crept up to the paddock, white as chalk, with blue lips,
his knees giving way under him. People said nasty things in the paddock;
but Brunt never heeded. He changed into tweeds, took his stick and went
down the road, still shaking with fright, and muttering over and over
again--"God ha' mercy, I'm done for!" To the best of my knowledge and
belief he spoke the truth.

So now you know how the Broken-Link Handicap was run and won. Of course
you don't believe it. You would credit anything about Russia's designs on
India, or the recommendations of the Currency Commission; but a little bit
of sober fact is more than you can stand.



ON GREENHOW HILL

   To Love's low voice she lent a careless ear;
     Her hand within his rosy fingers lay,
   A chilling weight. She would not turn or hear;
     But with averted face went on her way.
   But when pale Death, all featureless and grim,
     Lifted his bony hand, and beckoning
   Held out his cypress-wreath, she followed him,
     And Love was left forlorn and wondering,
   That she who for his bidding would not stay,
   At Death's first whisper rose and went away.

  _Rivals,_

"_Oh�, Ahmed Din! Shafiz Ulla ahoo!_ Bahadur Khan, where are you? Come out
of the tents, as I have done, and fight against the English. Don't kill
your own kin! Come out to me!"

The deserter from a native corps was crawling round the outskirts of the
camp, firing at intervals, and shouting invitations to his old comrades.
Misled by the rain and the darkness, he came to the English wing of the
camp, and with his yelping and rifle-practice disturbed the men. They had
been making roads all day, and were tired.

Ortheris was sleeping at Learoyd's feet. "Wot's all that?" he said
thickly. Learoyd snored, and a Snider bullet ripped its way through the
tent wall. The men swore, "it's that bloomin' deserter from the
Aurangabadis," said Ortheris. "Git up, some one, an' tell 'im 'e's come to
the wrong shop,"

"Go to sleep, little man," said Mulvaney, who was steaming nearest the
door. "I can't arise and expaytiate with him. Tis rainin' entrenchin'
tools outside."

"'Tain't because you bloomin' can't. It's 'cause you bloomin' won't, ye
long, limp, lousy, lazy beggar, you. 'Ark to 'im 'owlin'!"

"Wot's the good of argifying? Put a bullet into the swine! 'E's keepin' us
awake!" said another voice.

A subaltern shouted angrily, and a dripping sentry whined from the
darkness--

"'Tain't no good, sir. I can't see 'im. 'E's 'idin' somewhere down 'ill."

Ortheris tumbled out of his blanket. "Shall I try to get 'im, sir?" said
he.

"No," was the answer. "Lie down. I won't have the whole camp shooting all
round the clock. Tell him to go and pot his friends."

Ortheris considered for a moment. Then, putting his head under the tent
wall, he called, as a 'bus conductor calls in a block, "'Igher up, there!
'Igher up!"

The men laughed, and the laughter was carried down wind to the deserter,
who, hearing that he had made a mistake, went off to worry his own
regiment half a mile away. He was received with shots; the Aurangabadis
were very angry with him for disgracing their colors.

"An' that's all right," said Ortheris, withdrawing his head as he heard
the hiccough of the Sniders in the distance. "S'elp me Gawd, tho', that
man's not fit to live--messin' with my beauty-sleep this way."

"Go out and shoot him in the morning, then," said the subaltern
incautiously. "Silence in the tents now. Get your rest, men."

Ortheris lay down with a happy little sigh, and in two minutes there was
no sound except the rain on the canvas and the all-embracing and elemental
snoring of Learoyd.

The camp lay on a bare ridge of the Himalayas, and for a week had been
waiting for a flying column to make connection. The nightly rounds of the
deserter and his friends had become a nuisance.

In the morning the men dried themselves in hot sunshine and cleaned their
grimy accoutrements. The native regiment was to take its turn of
road-making that day while the Old Regiment loafed.

"I'm goin' to lay for a shot at that man," said Ortheris, when he had
finished washing out his rifle, "'E comes up the watercourse every evenin'
about five o'clock. If we go and lie out on the north 'ill a bit this
afternoon we'll get 'im."

"You're a bloodthirsty little mosquito," said Mulvaney, blowing blue
clouds into the air. "But I suppose I will have to come wid you. Pwhere's
Jock?"

"Gone out with the Mixed Pickles, 'cause 'e thinks 'isself a bloomin'
marksman," said Ortheris, with scorn,

The "Mixed Pickles" were a detachment of picked shots, generally employed
in clearing spurs of hills when the enemy were too impertinent. This
taught the young officers how to handle men, and did not do the enemy much
harm. Mulvaney and Ortheris strolled out of camp, and passed the
Aurangabadis going to their road-making,

"You've got to sweat to-day," said Ortheris, genially. "We're going to get
your man. You didn't knock 'im out last night by any chance, any of you?"

"No. The pig went away mocking us. I had one shot at him," said a private,
"He's my cousin, and _I_ ought to have cleared our dishonor. But good luck
to you."

They went cautiously to the north hill, Ortheris leading, because, as he
explained, "this is a long-range show, an' I've got to do it." His was an
almost passionate devotion to his rifle, which, by barrack-room report, he
was supposed to kiss every night before turning in. Charges and scuffles
he held in contempt, and, when they were inevitable, slipped between
Mulvaney and Learoyd, bidding them to fight for his skin as well as their
own. They never failed him. He trotted along, questing like a hound on a
broken trail, through the wood of the north hill. At last he was
satisfied, and threw himself down on the soft pine-needle slope that
commanded a clear view of the watercourse and a brown, bare hillside
beyond it. The trees made a scented darkness in which an army corps could
have hidden from the sun-glare without.

"'Ere's the tail o' the wood," said Ortheris. "'E's got to come up the
watercourse, 'cause it gives 'im cover. We'll lay 'ere. 'Tain't not arf so
bloomin' dusty neither."

He buried his nose in a clump of scentless white violets. No one had come
to tell the flowers that the season of their strength was long past, and
they had bloomed merrily in the twilight of the pines.

"This is something like," he said, luxuriously. "Wot a 'evinly clear drop
for a bullet acrost! How much d'you make it, Mulvaney?"

"Seven hunder. Maybe a trifle less, bekaze the air's so thin."

_Wop! Wop! Wop!_ went a volley of musketry on the rear face of the north
hill.

"Curse them Mixed Pickles firin' at nothin'! They'll scare arf the
country."

"Thry a sightin' shot in the middle of the row," said Mulvaney, the man of
many wiles. "There's a red rock yonder he'll be sure to pass. Quick!"

Ortheris ran his sight up to six hundred yards and fired. The bullet threw
up a feather of dust by a clump of gentians at the base of the rock.

"Good enough!" said Ortheris, snapping the scale down. "You snick your
sights to mine or a little lower. You're always firin' high. But remember,
first shot to me, O Lordy! but it's a lovely afternoon."

The noise of the firing grew louder, and there was a tramping of men in
the wood. The two lay very quiet, for they knew that the British soldier
is desperately prone to fire at anything that moves or calls. Then Learoyd
appeared, his tunic ripped across the breast by a bullet, looking ashamed
of himself. He flung down on the pine-needles, breathing in snorts.

"One o' them damned gardeners o' th' Pickles," said he, fingering the
rent. "Firin' to th' right flank, when he knowed I was there. If I knew
who he was I'd 'a' rippen the hide offan him. Look at ma tunic!"

"That's the spishil trustability av a marksman. Train him to hit a fly wid
a stiddy rest at seven hunder, an' he loose on anythin' he sees or hears
up to th' mile. You're well out av that fancy-firin' gang, Jock. Stay
here."

"Bin firin' at the bloomin' wind in the bloomin' treetops," said Ortheris,
with a chuckle. "I'll show you some firin' later on."

They wallowed in the pine-needles, and the sun warmed them where they lay.
The Mixed Pickles ceased firing, and returned to camp, and left the wood
to a few scared apes. The watercourse lifted up its voice in the silence,
and talked foolishly to the rocks. Now and again the dull thump of a
blasting charge three miles away told that the Aurangabadis were in
difficulties with their road-making. The men smiled as they listened and
lay still, soaking in the warm leisure. Presently Learoyd, between the
whiffs of his pipe--

"Seems queer--about 'im yonder--desertin' at all."

"'E'll be a bloomin' side queerer when I've done with 'im," said Ortheris.
They were talking in whispers, for the stillness of the wood and the
desire of slaughter lay heavy upon them.

"I make no doubt he had his reasons for desertin'; but, my faith! I make
less doubt ivry man has good reason for killin' him," said Mulvaney.

"Happen there was a lass tewed up wi'it. Men do more than more for th'
sake of a lass."

"They make most av us 'list. They've no manner av right to make us
desert."

"Ah; they make us 'list, or their fathers do," said Learoyd, softly, his
helmet over his eyes.

Ortheris's brows contracted savagely. He was watching the valley, "If it's
a girl I'll shoot the beggar twice over, an' second time for bein' a fool.
You're blasted sentimental all of a sudden, Thinkin' o' your last near
shave?"

"Nay, lad; ah was but thinkin' o' what had happened,"

"An' fwhat has happened, ye lumberin' child av calamity, that you're
lowing like a cow-calf at the back av the pasture, an' suggestin'
invidious excuses for the man Stanley's goin' to kill. Ye'll have to wait
another hour yet, little man. Spit it out, Jock, an' bellow melojus to the
moon. It takes an earthquake or a bullet graze to fetch aught out av you.
Discourse, Don Juan! The a-moors av Lotharius Learoyd! Stanley, kape a
rowlin' rig'mental eye on the valley."

"It's along o' yon hill there," said Learoyd, watching the bare
sub-Himalayan spur that reminded him of his Yorkshire moors. He was
speaking more to himself than his fellows.

"Ay," said he, "Rumbolds Moor stands up ower Skipton town, an' Greenhow
Hill stands up ower Pately Brig. I reckon you've never heeard tell o'
Greenhow Hill, but yon bit o' bare stuff if there was nobbut a white road
windin' is like ut; strangely like. Moors an' moors an' moors, wi' never a
tree for shelter, an' grey houses wi' flagstone rooves, and pewits cryin',
an' a windhover goin' to and fro just like these kites. And cold! A wind
that cuts you like a knife. You could tell Greenhow Hill folk by the
red-apple color o' their cheeks an' nose tips, and their blue eyes, driven
into pin-points by the wind. Miners mostly, burrowin' for lead i' th'
hillsides, followin' the trail of th' ore vein same as a field-rat. It was
the roughest minin' I ever seen. Yo'd come on a bit o' creakin' wood
windlass like a well-head, an' you was let down i' th' bight of a rope,
fendin' yoursen off the side wi' one hand, carryin' a candle stuck in a
lump o' clay with t'other, an' clickin' hold of a rope with t'other hand."

"An' that's three of them," said Mulvaney. "Must be a good climate in
those parts."

Learoyd took no heed.

"An' then yo' came to a level, where you crept on your hands and knees
through a mile o' windin' drift, 'an' you come out into a cave-place as
big as Leeds Townhall, with a engine pumpin' water from workin's 'at went
deeper still. It's a queer country, let alone minin', for the hill is full
of those natural caves, an' the rivers an' the becks drops into what they
call pot-holes, an' come out again miles away."

"Wot was you doin' there?" said Ortheris.

"I was a young chap then, an' mostly went wi' 'osses, leadin' coal and
lead ore; but at th' time I'm tellin' on I was drivin' the waggon-team i'
th' big sumph. I didn't belong to that countryside by rights. I went there
because of a little difference at home, an' at fust I took up wi' a rough
lot. One night we'd been drinkin', an' I must ha' hed more than I could
stand, or happen th' ale was none so good. Though i' them days, By for
God, I never seed bad ale." He flung his arms over his head, and gripped a
vast handful of white violets. "Nah," said he, "I never seed the ale I
could not drink, the bacca I could not smoke, nor the lass I could not
kiss. Well, we mun have a race home, the lot on us. I lost all th' others,
an' when I was climbin' ower one of them walls built o' loose stones, I
comes down into the ditch, stones and all, an' broke my arm. Not as I
knawed much about it, for I fell on th' back of my head, an' was knocked
stupid like. An' when I come to mysen it were mornin', an' I were lyin' on
the settle i' Jesse Roantree's house-place, an' 'Liza Roantree was settin'
sewin'. I ached all ower, and my mouth were like a limekiln. She gave me a
drink out of a china mug wi' gold letters--'A Present from Leeds'--as I
looked at many and many a time at after. 'Yo're to lie still while Dr.
Warbottom comes, because your arm's broken, and father has sent a lad to
fetch him. He found yo' when he was goin' to work, an' carried you here on
his back,' sez she. 'Oa!' sez I; an' I shet my eyes, for I felt ashamed o'
mysen. 'Father's gone to his work these three hours, an' he said he' tell
'em to get somebody to drive the tram.' The clock ticked, an' a bee comed
in the house, an' they rung i' my head like mill-wheels. An' she give me
another drink an' settled the pillow. 'Eh, but yo're young to be getten
drunk an' such like, but yo' won't do it again, will yo'?'--'Noa,' sez I,
'I wouldn't if she'd not but stop they mill-wheels clatterin'.'"

"Faith, it's a good thing to be nursed by a woman when you're sick!" said
Mulvaney. "Dir' cheap at the price av twenty broken heads."

Ortheris turned to frown across the valley. He had not been nursed by many
women in his life.

"An' then Dr. Warbottom comes ridin' up, an' Jesse Roantree along with
'im. He was a high-larned doctor, but he talked wi' poor folk same as
theirsens. 'What's ta bin agaate on naa?' he sings out. 'Brekkin' tha
thick head?' An' he felt me all ovver. 'That's none broken. Tha' nobbut
knocked a bit sillier than ordinary, an' that's daaft eneaf.' An' soa he
went on, callin' me all the names he could think on, but settin' my arm,
wi' Jesse's help, as careful as could be. 'Yo' mun let the big oaf bide
here a bit, Jesse,' he says, when he hed strapped me up an' given me a
dose o' physic; 'an' you an' 'Liza will tend him, though he's scarcelins
worth the trouble. An' tha'll lose tha work,' sez he, 'an' tha'll be upon
th' Sick Club for a couple o' months an' more. Doesn't tha think tha's a
fool?'"

"But whin was a young man, high or low, the other av a fool, I'd like to
know?" said Mulvaney, "Sure, folly's the only safe way to wisdom, for I've
thried it."

"Wisdom!" grinned Ortheris, scanning his comrades with uplifted chin.
"You're bloomin' Solomons, you two, ain't you?"

Learoyd went calmly on, with a steady eye like an ox chewing the cud.

"And that was how I come to know 'Liza Roantree. There's some tunes as she
used to sing--aw, she were always singin'--that fetches Greenhow Hill
before my eyes as fair as yon brow across there. And she would learn me to
sing bass, an' I was to go to th' chapel wi' 'em where Jesse and she led
the singin', th' old man playin' the fiddle. He was a strange chap, old
Jesse, fair mad wi' music, an' he made me promise to learn the big fiddle
when my arm was better. It belonged to him, and it stood up in a big case
alongside o' th' eight-day clock, but Willie Satterthwaite, as played it
in the chapel, had getten deaf as a door-post, and it vexed Jesse, as he
had to rap him ower his head wi' th' fiddle-stick to make him give ower
sawin' at th' right time.

"But there was a black drop in it all, an' it was a man in a black coat
that brought it. When th' primitive Methodist preacher came to Greenhow,
he would always stop wi' Jesse Roantree, an' he laid hold of me from th'
beginning. It seemed I wor a soul to be saved, and he meaned to do it. At
th' same time I jealoused 'at he were keen o' savin' 'Liza Roantree's soul
as well, and I could ha' killed him many a time. An' this went on till one
day I broke out, an' borrowed th' brass for a drink from 'Liza. After
fower days I come back, wi' my tail between my legs, just to see 'Liza
again. But Jesse were at home an' th' preacher--th' Reverend Amos
Barraclough. 'Liza said naught, but a bit o' red come into her face as
were white of a regular thing. Says Jesse, tryin' his best to be civil,
'Nay, lad, it's like this. You've getten to choose which way it's goin' to
be. I'll ha' nobody across ma doorstep as goes a-drinkin', an' borrows my
lass's money to spend i' their drink. Ho'd tha tongue, 'Liza,' sez he,
when she wanted to put in a word 'at I were welcome to th' brass, and she
were none afraid that I wouldn't pay it back. Then the Reverend cuts in,
seein' as Jesse were losin' his temper, an' they fair beat me among them.
But it were 'Liza, as looked an' said naught, as did more than either o'
their tongues, an' soa I concluded to get converted."

"Fwhat?" shouted Mulvaney. Then, checking himself, he said softly, "Let
be! Let be! Sure the Blessed Virgin is the mother of all religion an' most
women; an' there's a dale av piety in a girl if the men would only let ut
stay there. I'd ha' been converted myself under the circumstances."

"Nay, but," pursued Learoyd with a blush, "I meaned it."

Ortheris laughed as loudly as he dared, having regard to his business at
the time.

"Ay, Ortheris, you may laugh, but you didn't know yon preacher
Barraclough--a little white-faced chap, wi' a voice as 'ud wile a bird off
an a bush, and a way o' layin' hold of folks as made them think they'd
never had a live man for a friend before. You never saw him, an'--an'--you
never seed 'Liza Roantree--never seed 'Liza Roantree.... Happen it was as
much 'Liza as th' preacher and her father, but anyways they all meaned it,
an' I was fair shamed o' mysen, an' so I become what they call a changed
character. And when I think on, it's hard to believe as yon chap going to
prayermeetin's, chapel, and class-meetin's were me. But I never had naught
to say for mysen, though there was a deal o' shoutin', and old Sammy
Strother, as were almost clemmed to death and doubled up with the
rheumatics, would sing out, 'Joyful! Joyful!' and 'at it were better to go
up to heaven in a coal-basket than down to hell i' a coach an' six. And he
would put his poor old claw on my shoulder, sayin', 'Doesn't tha feel it,
tha great lump? Doesn't tha feel it?' An' sometimes I thought I did, and
then again I thought I didn't, an' how was that?"

"The iverlastin' nature av mankind," said Mulvaney. "An', furthermore, I
misdoubt you were built for the Primitive Methodians. They're a new corps
anyways. I hold by the Ould Church, for she's the mother of them all--ay,
an' the father, too. I like her bekase she's most remarkable regimental in
her fittings. I may die in Honolulu, Nova Zambra, or Cape Cayenne, but
wherever I die, me bein' fwhat I am, an' a priest handy, I go under the
same orders an' the same words an' the same unction as tho' the Pope
himself come down from the roof av St. Peter's to see me off. There's
neither high nor low, nor broad nor deep, nor betwixt nor between wid her,
an' that's what I like. But mark you, she's no manner av Church for a wake
man, bekaze she takes the body and the soul av him, onless he has his
proper work to do. I remember when my father died that was three months
comin' to his grave; begad he'd ha' sold the shebeen above our heads for
ten minutes' quittance of purgathory. An' he did all he could. That's why
I say ut takes a strong man to deal with the Ould Church, an' for that
reason you'll find so many women go there. An' that same's a conundrum."

"Wot's the use o' worritin' 'bout these things?" said Ortheris. "You're
bound to find all out quicker nor you want to, any'ow." He jerked the
cartridge out of the breech-block into the palm of his hand. "Ere's my
chaplain," he said, and made the venomous black-headed bullet bow like a
marionette. "'E's goin' to teach a man all about which is which, an' wot's
true, after all, before sundown. But wot 'appened after that, Jock?"

"There was one thing they boggled at, and almost shut th' gate i' my face
for, and that were my dog Blast, th' only one saved out o' a litter o'
pups as was blowed up when a keg o' minin' powder loosed off in th'
storekeeper's hut. They liked his name no better than his business, which
were fightin' every dog he comed across; a rare good dog, wi' spots o'
black and pink on his face, one ear gone, and lame o' one side wi' being
driven in a basket through an iron roof, a matter of half a mile.

"They said I mun give him up 'cause he were worldly and low; and would I
let mysen be shut out of heaven for the sake on a dog? 'Nay,' says I, 'if
th' door isn't wide enough for th' pair on us, we'll stop outside, for
we'll none be parted.' And th' preacher spoke up for Blast, as had a
likin' for him from th' first--I reckon that was why I come to like th'
preacher--and wouldn't hear o' changin' his name to Bless, as some o' them
wanted. So th' pair on us became reg'lar chapel-members. But it's hard for
a young chap o' my build to cut traces from the world, th' flesh, an' the
devil all uv a heap. Yet I stuck to it for a long time, while th' lads as
used to stand about th' town-end an' lean ower th' bridge, spittin' into
th' beck o' a Sunday, would call after me, 'Sitha, Learoyd, when's ta bean
to preach, 'cause we're comin' to hear tha.'--'Ho'd tha jaw. He hasn't
getten th' white choaker on ta morn,' another lad would say, and I had to
double my fists hard i' th' bottom of my Sunday coat, and say to mysen,
'If 'twere Monday and I warn't a member o' the Primitive Methodists, I'd
leather all th' lot of yond'.' That was th' hardest of all--to know that I
could fight and I mustn't fight."

Sympathetic grunts from Mulvaney.

"So what wi' singin', practicin', and class-meetin's, and th' big fiddle,
as he made me take between my knees, I spent a deal o' time i' Jesse
Roantree's house-place. But often as I was there, th' preacher fared to me
to go oftener, and both th' old man an' th' young woman were pleased to
have him. He lived i' Pately Brig, as were a goodish step off, but he
come. He come all the same. I liked him as well or better as any man I'd
ever seen i' one way, and yet I hated him wi' all my heart i' t'other, and
we watched each other like cat and mouse, but civil as you please, for I
was on my best behavior, and he was that fair and open that I was bound to
be fair with him. Rare good company he was, if I hadn't wanted to wring
his cliver little neck half of the time. Often and often when he was goin'
from Jesse's I'd set him a bit on the road."

"See 'im 'ome, you mean?" said Ortheris,

"Ay. It's a way we have i' Yorkshire o' seein' friends off. You was a
friend as I didn't want to come back, and he didn't want me to come back
neither, and so we'd walk together toward Pately, and then he'd set me
back again, and there we'd be wal two o'clock i' the mornin' settin' each
other to an' fro like a blasted pair o' pendulums twixt hill and valley,
long after th' light had gone out i' 'Liza's window, as both on us had
been looking at, pretending to watch the moon."

"Ah!" broke in Mulvaney, "ye'd no chanst against the maraudin'
psalm-singer. They'll take the airs an' the graces instid av the man nine
times out av ten, an' they only find the blunder later--the wimmen."

"That's just where yo're wrong," said Learoyd, reddening under the
freckled tan of his cheeks. "I was th' first wi' 'Liza, an' yo'd think
that were enough. But th' parson were a steady-gaited sort o' chap, and
Jesse were strong o' his side, and all th' women i' the congregation
dinned it to 'Liza 'at she were fair fond to take up wi' a wastrel
ne'er-do-weel like me, as was scarcelins respectable an' a fighting dog at
his heels. It was all very well for her to be doing me good and saving my
soul, but she must mind as she didn't do herself harm. They talk o' rich
folk bein' stuck up an' genteel, but for cast-iron pride o' respectability
there's naught like poor chapel folk. It's as cold as th' wind o' Greenhow
Hill--ay, and colder, for 'twill never change. And now I come to think on
it, one at strangest things I know is 'at they couldn't abide th' thought
o' soldiering. There's a vast o' fightin' i' th' Bible, and there's a deal
of Methodists i' th' army; but to hear chapel folk talk yo'd think that
soldierin' were next door, an' t'other side, to hangin'. I' their meetin's
all their talk is o' fightin'. When Sammy Strother were stuck for summat
to say in his prayers, he'd sing out, 'Th' sword o' th' Lord and o'
Gideon. They were allus at it about puttin' on th' whole armor o'
righteousness, an' fightin' the good fight o' faith. And then, atop o' 't
all, they held a prayer-meetin' ower a young chap as wanted to 'list, and
nearly deafened him, till he picked up his hat and fair ran away. And
they'd tell tales in th' Sunday-school o' bad lads as had been thumped and
brayed for bird-nesting o' Sundays and playin' truant o' week days, and
how they took to wrestlin', dog-fightin', rabbit-runnin', and drinkin',
till at last, as if 'twere a hepitaph on a gravestone, they damned him
across th' moors wi', 'an' then he went and 'listed for a soldier,' an'
they'd all fetch a deep breath, and throw up their eyes like a hen
drinkin'."

"Fwhy is ut?" said Mulvaney, bringing down his hand on his thigh with a
crack, "In the name av God, fwhy is ut? I've seen ut, tu. They cheat an'
they swindle an' they lie an' they slander, an' fifty things fifty times
worse; but the last an' the worst by their reckonin' is to serve the Widdy
honest. It's like the talk av childer--seein' things all round."

"Plucky lot of fightin' good fights of whatsername they'd do if we didn't
see they had a quiet place to fight in. And such fightin' as theirs is!
Cats on the tiles. T'other callin' to which to come on. I'd give a month's
pay to get some o' them broad-backed beggars in London sweatin' through a
day's road-makin' an' a night's rain. They'd carry on a deal
afterward--same as we're supposed to carry on. I've bin turned out of a
measly arf-license pub down Lambeth way, full o' greasy kebmen, 'fore
now," said Ortheris with an oath.

"Maybe you were dhrunk," said Mulvaney, soothingly.

"Worse nor that. The Forders were drunk. _I_ was wearin' the Queen's
uniform."

"I'd no particular thought to be a soldier i' them days," said Learoyd,
still keeping his eye on the bare hill opposite, "but this sort o' talk
put it i' my head. They was so good, th' chapel folk, that they tumbled
ower t'other side. But I stuck to it for 'Liza's sake, specially as she
was learning me to sing the bass part in a horotorio as Jesse were gettin'
up. She sung like a throstle hersen, and we had practicin's night after
night for a matter of three months."

"I know what a horotorio is," said Ortheris, pertly. "It's a sort of
chaplain's sing-song--words all out of the Bible, and hullabaloojah
choruses."

"Most Greenhow Hill folks played some instrument or t'other, an' they all
sung so you mignt have heard them miles away, and they were so pleased wi'
the noise they made they didn't fair to want anybody to listen. The
preacher sung high seconds when he wasn't playin' the flute, an' they set
me, as hadn't got far with big fiddle, again Willie Satterthwaite, to jog
his elbow when he had to get a' gate playin'. Old Jesse was happy if ever
a man was, for he were th' conductor an' th' first fiddle an' th' leadin'
singer, beatin' time wi' his fiddle-stick, till at times he'd rap with it
on the table, and cry out, 'Now, you mun all stop; it's my turn,' And he'd
face round to his front, fair sweating wi' pride, to sing th' tenor solos.
But he were grandest i' th' choruses, waggin' his head, flinging his arms
round like a windmill, and singin' hisself black in the face. A rare
singer were Jesse.

"Yo' see, I was not o' much account wi' 'em all exceptin' to 'Liza
Roantree, and I had a deal o' time settin' quiet at meetings and horotorio
practices to hearken their talk, and if it were strange to me at
beginnin', it got stranger still at after, when I was shut on it, and
could study what it meaned.

"Just after th' horotorios come off, 'Liza, as had allus been weakly like,
was took very bad. I walked Dr. Warbottom's horse up and down a deal of
times while he were inside, where they wouldn't let me go, though I fair
ached to see her.

"'She'll be better i' noo, lad--better i' noo,' he used to say. 'Tha mun
ha' patience.' Then they said if I was quiet I might go in, and th'
Reverend Amos Barraclough used to read to her lyin' propped up among th'
pillows. Then she began to mend a bit, and they let me carry her on to th'
settle, and when it got warm again she went about same as afore. Th'
preacher and me and Blast was a deal together i' them days, and i' one way
we was rare good comrades. But I could ha' stretched him time and again
with a good will. I mind one day he said he would like to go down into th'
bowels o' th' earth, and see how th' Lord had builded th' framework o' th'
everlastin' hills. He were one of them chaps as had a gift o' sayin'
things. They rolled off the tip of his clever tongue, same as Mulvaney
here, as would ha' made a rare good preacher if he had nobbut given his
mind to it. I lent him a suit o' miner's kit as almost buried th' little
man, and his white face down i' th' coat-collar and hat-flap looked like
the face of a boggart, and he cowered down i' th' bottom o' the waggon. I
was drivin' a tram as led up a bit of an incline up to th' cave where the
engine was pumpin', and where th' ore was brought up and put into th'
waggons as went down o' themselves, me puttin' th' brake on and th' horses
a-trottin' after. Long as it was daylight we were good friends, but when
we got fair into th' dark, and could nobbut see th' day shinin' at the
hole like a lamp at a street-end, I feeled downright wicked. Ma religion
dropped all away from me when I looked back at him as were always comin'
between me and 'Liza. The talk was 'at they were to be wed when she got
better, an' I couldn't get her to say yes or nay to it. He began to sing a
hymn in his thin voice, and I came out wi' a chorus that was all cussin'
an' swearin' at my horses, an' I began to know how I hated him. He were
such a little chap, too. I could drop him wi' one hand down Garstang's
Copper-hole--a place where th' beck slithered ower th' edge on a rock, and
fell wi' a bit of a whisper into a pit as no rope i' Greenhow could
plump."

Again Learoyd rooted up the innocent violets. "Ay, he should see th'
bowels o' th' earth an' never naught else. I could take him a mile or two
along th' drift, and leave him wi' his candle doused to cry hallelujah,
wi' none to hear him and say amen. I was to lead him down th' ladder-way
to th' drift where Jesse Roantree was workin', and why shouldn't he slip
on th' ladder, wi' my feet on his fingers till they loosed grip, and I put
him down wi' my heel? If I went fust down th' ladder I could click hold on
him and chuck him over my head, so as he should go squshin' down the shaft
breakin' his bones at ev'ry timberin' as Bill Appleton did when he was
fresh, and hadn't a bone left when he wrought to th' bottom. Niver a
blasted leg to walk from Pately. Niver an arm to put round 'Liza
Roantree's waist. Niver no more--niver no more."

The thick lips curled back over the yellow teeth, and that flushed face
was not pretty to look upon. Mulvaney nodded sympathy, and Ortheris, moved
by his comrade's passion, brought up the rifle to his shoulder, and
searched the hillside for his quarry, muttering ribaldry about a sparrow,
a spout, and a thunderstorm. The voice of the watercourse supplied the
necessary small talk till Learoyd picked up his story,

"But it's none so easy to kill a man like yon. When I'd given up my horses
to th' lad as took my place and I was showin' th' preacher th' workin's,
shoutin' into his ear across th' clang o' th' pumpin' engines, I saw he
were afraid o' naught; and when the lamplight showed his black eyes, I
could feel as he was masterin' me again. I were no better nor Blast
chained up short and growlin' i' the depths of him while a strange dog
went safe past.

"'Th' art a coward and a fool,' I said to mysen; an' I wrestled i' my mind
again' him till, when we come to Garstang's Copper-hole, I laid hold o'
the preacher and lifted him up over my head and held him into the darkest
on it. 'Now, lad,' I says, 'it's to be one or t'other on us--thee or
me--for 'Liza Roantree. Why, isn't thee afraid for thysen?' I says, for he
were still i' my arms as a sack. 'Nay; I'm but afraid for thee, my poor
lad, as knows naught,' says he. I set him down on th' edge, an' th' beck
run stiller, an' there was no more buzzin' in my head like when th' bee
come through th' window o' Jesse's house. 'What dost tha mean?' says I.

"'I've often thought as thou ought to know,' says he, 'but 'twas hard to
tell thee. 'Liza Roantree's for neither on us, nor for nobody o' this
earth, Dr. Warbottom says--and he knows her, and her mother before
her--that she is in a decline, and she cannot live six months longer. He's
known it for many a day. Steady, John! Steady!' says he. And that weak
little man pulled me further back and set me again' him, and talked it all
over quiet and still, me turnin' a bunch o' candles in my hand, and
counting them ower and ower again as I listened. A deal on it were th'
regular preachin' talk, but there were a vast lot as made me begin to
think as he were more of a man than I'd ever given him credit for, till I
were cut as deep for him as I were for mysen.

"Six candles we had, and we crawled and climbed all that day while they
lasted, and I said to mysen, ''Liza Roantree hasn't six months to live.'
And when we came into th' daylight again we were like dead men to look at,
an' Blast come behind us without so much as waggin' his tail. When I saw
'Liza again she looked at me a minute and says, 'Who's telled tha? For I
see tha knows.' And she tried to smile as she kissed me, and I fair broke
down.

"Yo' see, I was a young chap i' them days, and had seen naught o' life,
let alone death, as is allus a-waitin'. She telled me as Dr. Warbottom
said as Greenhow air was too keen, and they were goin' to Bradford, to
Jesse's brother David, as worked i' a mill, and I mun hold up like a man
and a Christian, and she'd pray for me. Well, and they went away, and the
preacher that same back end o' th' year were appointed to another circuit,
as they call it, and I were left alone on Greenhow Hill.

"I tried, and I tried hard, to stick to th' chapel, but 'tweren't th' same
thing at after. I hadn't 'Liza's voice to follow i' th' singin', nor her
eyes a-shinin' acrost their heads. And i' th' class-meetings they said as
I mun have some experiences to tell, and I hadn't a word to say for mysen.

"Blast and me moped a good deal, and happen we didn't behave ourselves
over well, for they dropped us and wondered however they'd come to take us
up. I can't tell how we got through th' time, while i' th' winter I gave
up my job and went to Bradford. Old Jesse were at th' door o' th' house,
in a long street o' little houses. He'd been sendin' th' children 'way as
were clatterin' their clogs in th' causeway, for she were asleep.

"'Is it thee?' he says; 'but you're not to see her. I'll none have her
wakened for a nowt like thee. She's goin' fast, and she mun go in peace.
Thou 'lt never be good for naught i' th' world, and as long as thou lives
thou'll never play the big fiddle. Get away, lad, get away!' So he shut
the door softly i' my face.

"Nobody never made Jesse my master, but it seemed to me he was about
right, and I went away into the town and knocked up against a recruiting
sergeant. The old tales o' th' chapel folk came buzzin' into my head. I
was to get away, and this were th' regular road for the likes o' me, I
listed there and then, took th' Widow's shillin', and had a bunch o'
ribbons pinned i' my hat.

"But next day I found my way to David Roantree's door, and Jesse came to
open it. Says he, 'Thou's come back again wi' th' devil's colors
flyin'--thy true colors, as I always telled thee.'

"But I begged and prayed of him to let me see her nobbut to say good-bye,
till a woman calls down th' stairway, 'She says John Learoyd's to come
up.' Th' old man shifts aside in a flash, and lays his hand on my arm,
quite gentle like. 'But thou'lt be quiet, John,' says he, 'for she's rare
and weak. Thou was allus a good lad.'

"Her eyes were all alive wi' light, and her hair was thick on the pillow
round her, but her cheeks were thin--thin to frighten a man that's strong.
'Nay, father, yo mayn't say th' devil's colors. Them ribbons is pretty.'
An' she held out her hands for th' hat, an' she put all straight as a
woman will wi' ribbons. 'Nay, but what they're pretty,' she says. 'Eh, but
I'd ha' liked to see thee i' thy red coat, John, for thou was allus my own
lad--my very own lad, and none else.'

"She lifted up her arms, and they come round my neck i' a gentle grip, and
they slacked away, and she seemed fainting. 'Now yo' mun get away, lad,'
says Jesse, and I picked up my hat and I came downstairs.

"Th' recruiting sergeant were waitin' for me at th' corner public-house.
'You've seen your sweetheart?' says he. 'Yes, I've seen her,' says I.
'Well, we'll have a quart now, and you'll do your best to forget her,'
says he, bein' one o' them smart, bustlin' chaps. 'Ay, sergeant,' says I.
'Forget her.' And I've been forgettin' her ever since."

He threw away the wilted clump of white violets as he spoke. Ortheris
suddenly rose to his knees, his rifle at his shoulder, and peered across
the valley in the clear afternoon light. His chin cuddled the stock, and
there was a twitching of the muscles of the right cheek as he sighted:
Private Stanley Ortheris was engaged on his business, A speck of white
crawled up the watercourse.

"See that beggar? ... Got 'im,"

Seven hundred yards away, and a full two hundred down the hillside, the
deserter of the Aurangabadis pitched forward, rolled down a red rock, and
lay very still, with his face in a clump of blue gentians, while a big
raven flapped out of the pine wood to make investigation.

"That's a clean shot, little man," said Mulvaney.

Learoyd thoughtfully watched the smoke clear away. "Happen there was a
lass tewed up wi' him, too," said he.

Ortheris did not reply. He was staring across the valley, with the smile
of the artist who looks on the completed work.



TO BE FILED FOR REFERENCE

   By the hoof of the Wild Goat up-tossed
   From the Cliff where She lay in the Sun,
       Fell the Stone
   To the Tarn where the daylight is lost;
   So She fell from the light of the Sun,
       And alone.

   Now the fall was ordained from the first,
   With the Goat and the Cliff and the Tarn,
       But the Stone
   Knows only Her life is accursed,
   As She sinks in the depths of the Tarn,
       And alone.

   Oh, Thou who hast builded the world!
   Oh, Thou who hast lighted the Sun!
   Oh, Thou who hast darkened the Tarn!
       Judge Thou
   The sin of the Stone that was hurled
   By the Goat from the light of the Sun,
   As She sinks in the mire of the Tarn,
       Even now--even now--even now!
 --_From the Unpublished Papers of McIntosh Jellaluidin_.

"Say is it dawn, is it dusk in thy Bower, Thou whom I long for, who
longest for me? Oh, be it night--be it"--Here he fell over a little
camel-colt that was sleeping in the Serai where the horse-traders and the
best of the blackguards from Central Asia live; and, because he was very
drunk indeed and the night was dark, he could not rise again till I helped
him. That was the beginning of my acquaintance with McIntosh Jellaludin,
When a loafer, and drunk, sings "The Song of the Bower," he must be worth
cultivating. He got off the camel's back and said, rather thickly,
"I--I--I'm a bit screwed, but a dip in Loggerhead will put me right again;
and, I say, have you spoken to Symonds about the mare's knees?"

Now Loggerhead was six thousand weary miles away from us, close to
Mesopotamia, where you mustn't fish and poaching is impossible, and
Charley Symonds' stable a half mile farther across the paddocks. It was
strange to hear all the old names, on a May night, among the horses and
camels of the Sultan Caravanserai. Then the man seemed to remember himself
and sober down at the same time. We leaned against the camel and pointed
to a corner of the Serai where a lamp was burning.

"I live there," said he, "and I should be extremely obliged if you would
be good enough to help my mutinous feet thither; for I am more than
usually drunk--most--most phenomenally tight But not in respect to my
head. 'My brain cries out against'--how does it go? But my head rides on
the--rolls on the dunghill I should have said, and controls the qualm."

I helped him through the gangs of tethered horses and he collapsed on the
edge of the veranda in front of the line of native quarters.

"Thanks--a thousand thanks! O Moon and little, little Stars! To think that
a man should so shamelessly ... Infamous liquor too. Ovid in exile drank
no worse. Better. It was frozen. Alas! I had no ice. Good-night. I would
introduce you to my wife were I sober--or she civilized."

A native woman came out of the darkness of the room, and began calling the
man names; so I went away. He was the most interesting loafer that I had
had the pleasure of knowing for a long time; and later on, he became a
friend of mine. He was a tall, well-built, fair man, fearfully shaken with
drink, and he looked nearer fifty than the thirty-five which, he said, was
his real age. When a man begins to sink in India, and is not sent Home by
his friends as soon as may be, he falls very low from a respectable point
of view. By the time that he changes his creed, as did McIntosh, he is
past redemption.

In most big cities, natives will tell you of two or three _Sahibs_,
generally low-caste, who have turned Hindu or Mussulman, and who live more
or less as such, But it is not often that you can get to know them. As
McIntosh himself used to say, "If I change my religion for my stomach's
sake, I do not seek to become a martyr to missionaries, nor am I anxious
for notoriety."

At the outset of acquaintance McIntosh warned me, "Remember this. I am not
an object for charity, I require neither your money, your food, nor your
cast-off raiment. I am that rare animal, a self-supporting drunkard. If
you choose, I will smoke with you, for the tobacco of the bazars does not,
I admit, suit my palate; and I will borrow any books which you may not
specially value. It is more than likely that I shall sell them for bottles
of excessively filthy country liquors, In return, you shall share such
hospitality as my house affords. Here is a charpoy on which two can sit,
and it is possible that there may, from time to time, be food in that
platter. Drink, unfortunately, you will find on the premises at any hour:
and thus I make you welcome to all my poor establishment."

I was admitted to the McIntosh household--I and my good tobacco. But
nothing else. Unluckily, one cannot visit a loafer in the Serai by day.
Friends buying horses would not understand it. Consequently, I was obliged
to see McIntosh after dark. He laughed at this, and said simply, "You are
perfectly right. When I enjoyed a position in society, rather higher than
yours, I should have done exactly the same thing. Good heavens! I was
once"--he spoke as though he had fallen from the Command of a
Regiment--"an Oxford Man!" This accounted for the reference to Charley
Symonds' stable.

"You," said McIntosh, slowly, "have not had that advantage; but, to
outward appearance, you do not seem possessed of a craving for strong
drinks. On the whole, I fancy that you are the luckier of the two. Yet I
am not certain. You are--forgive my saying so even while I am smoking your
excellent tobacco--painfully ignorant of many things."

We were sitting together on the edge of his bedstead, for he owned no
chairs, watching the horses being watered for the night, while the native
woman was preparing dinner. I did not like being patronized by a loafer,
but I was his guest for the time being, though he owned only one very torn
alpaca-coat and a pair of trousers made out of gunny-bags. He took the
pipe out of his mouth, and went on judicially, "All things considered, I
doubt whether you are the luckier. I do not refer to your extremely
limited classical attainments, or your excruciating quantities, but to
your gross ignorance of matters more immediately under your notice. That,
for instance," he pointed to a woman cleaning a samovar near the well in
the centre of the Serai. She was flicking the water out of the spout in
regular cadenced jerks.

"There are ways and ways of cleaning samovars. If you knew why she was
doing her work in that particular fashion, you would know what the Spanish
Monk meant when he said--

   I the Trinity illustrate,
       Drinking watered orange-pulp--
   In three sips the Arian frustrate,
       While he drains his at one gulp--

and many other things which now are hidden from your eyes. However, Mrs.
McIntosh has prepared dinner. Let us come and eat after the fashion of the
people of the country--of whom, by the way, you know nothing."

The native woman dipped her hand in the dish with us. This was wrong. The
wife should always wait until the husband has eaten. McIntosh Jellaludin
apologized, saying--

"It is an English prejudice which I have not been able to overcome; and
she loves me. Why, I have never been able to understand. I foregathered
with her at Jullundur, three years ago, and she has remained with me ever
since. I believe her to be moral, and know her to be skilled in cookery."

He patted the woman's head as he spoke, and she cooed softly. She was not
pretty to look at.

McIntosh never told me what position he had held before his fall. He was,
when sober, a scholar and a gentleman. When drunk, he was rather more of
the first than the second. He used to get drunk about once a week for two
days. On those occasions the native woman tended him while he raved in all
tongues except his own. One day, indeed, he began reciting _Atalanta in
Calydon_, and went through it to the end, beating time to the swing of the
verse with a bedstead-leg. But he did most of his ravings in Greek or
German. The man's mind was a perfect rag-bag of useless things. Once, when
he was beginning to get sober, he told me that I was the only rational
being in the Inferno into which he had descended--a Virgil in the Shades,
he said--and that, in return for my tobacco, he would, before he died,
give me the materials of a new Inferno that should make me greater than
Dante. Then he fell asleep on a horse-blanket and woke up quite calm.

"Man," said he, "when you have reached the uttermost depths of
degradation, little incidents which would vex a higher life, are to you of
no consequence. Last night, my soul was among the Gods; but I make no
doubt that my bestial body was writhing down here in the garbage."

"You were abominably drunk if that's what you mean," I said,

"I _was_ drunk--filthily drunk. I who am the son of a man with whom you
have no concern--I who was once Fellow of a College whose buttery-hatch
you have not seen. I was loathsomely drunk. But consider how lightly I am
touched. It is nothing to me. Less than nothing; for I do not even feel
the headache which should be my portion. Now, in a higher life, how
ghastly would have been my punishment, how bitter my repentance! Believe
me my friend with the neglected education, the highest is as the
lowest--always supposing each degree extreme."

He turned round on the blanket, put his head between his fists and
continued--

"On the Soul which I have lost and on the Conscience which I have killed,
I tell you that I cannot feel! I am as the Gods, knowing good and evil,
but untouched by either. Is this enviable or is it not?"

When a man has lost the warning of "next morning's head," he must be in a
bad state. I answered, looking at McIntosh on the blanket, with his hair
over his eyes and his lips blue-white, that I did not think the
insensibility good enough.

"For pity's sake, don't say that! I tell you, it _is_ good and most
enviable. Think of my consolations!"

"Have you so many, then, McIntosh?"

"Certainly; your attempts at sarcasm which is essentially the weapon of a
cultured man, are crude. First, my attainments, my classical and literary
knowledge, blurred, perhaps, by immoderate drinking--which reminds me that
before my soul went to the Gods last night, I sold the Pickering Horace
you so kindly loaned me. Ditta Mull the clothesman has it. It fetched ten
annas, and may be redeemed for a rupee--but still infinitely superior to
yours. Secondly, the abiding affection of Mrs. McIntosh, best of wives.
Thirdly, a monument, more enduring than brass, which I have built up in
the seven years of my degradation."

He stopped here, and crawled across the room for a drink of water. He was
very shaky and sick.

He referred several times to his "treasure"--some great possession that he
owned--but I held this to be the raving of drink. He was as poor and as
proud as he could be. His manner was not pleasant, but he knew enough
about the natives, among whom seven years of his life had been spent, to
make his acquaintance worth having. He used actually to laugh at
Strickland as an ignorant man--"ignorant West and East"--he said. His
boast was, first, that he was an Oxford Man of rare and shining parts,
which may or may not have been true--I did not know enough to check his
statements--and, secondly, that he "had his hand on the pulse of native
life"--which was a fact. As an Oxford Man, he struck me as a prig: he was
always throwing his education about. As a Mohammedan _faquir_--as McIntosh
Jellaludin--he was all that I wanted for my own ends. He smoked several
pounds of my tobacco, and taught me several ounces of things worth
knowing; but he would never accept any gifts, not even when the cold
weather came, and gripped the poor thin chest under the poor thin
alpaca-coat. He grew very angry, and said that I had insulted him, and
that he was not going into hospital. He had lived like a beast and he
would die rationally, like a man.

As a matter of fact, he died of pneumonia; and on the night of his death
sent over a grubby note asking me to come and help him to die.

The native woman was weeping by the side of the bed. McIntosh, wrapped in
a cotton cloth, was too weak to resent a fur coat being thrown over him.
He was very active as far as his mind was concerned, and his eyes were
blazing. When he had abused the Doctor who came with me, so foully that
the indignant old fellow left, he cursed me for a few minutes and calmed
down.

Then he told his wife to fetch out "The Book" from a hole in the wall. She
brought out a big bundle, wrapped in the tail of a petticoat, of old
sheets of miscellaneous note-paper, all numbered and covered with fine
cramped writing. McIntosh ploughed his hand through the rubbish and
stirred it up lovingly.

"This," he said, "is my work--the Book of McIntosh Jellaludin, showing
what he saw and how he lived, and what befell him and others; being also
an account of the life and sins and death of Mother Maturin. What Mirza
Murad Ali Beg's book is to all other books on native life, will my work be
to Mirza Murad Ali Beg's!"

This, as will be conceded by any one who knows Mirza Murad Ali Beg's book,
was a sweeping statement. The papers did not look specially valuable; but
McIntosh handled them as if they were currency-notes. Then said he
slowly--

"In despite the many weaknesses of your education, you have been good to
me. I will speak of your tobacco when I reach the Gods. I owe you much
thanks for many kindnesses. But I abominate indebtedness. For this reason,
I bequeath to you now the monument more enduring than brass--my one
book--rude and imperfect in parts, but oh how rare in others! I wonder if
you will understand it. It is a gift more honorable than.... Bah! where is
my brain rambling to? You will mutilate it horribly. You will knock out
the gems you call Latin quotations, you Philistine, and you will butcher
the style to carve into your own jerky jargon; but you cannot destroy the
whole of it. I bequeath it to you. Ethel.... My brain again! ... Mrs.
McIntosh, bear witness that I give the _Sahib_ all these papers. They
would be of no use to you, Heart of my Heart; and I lay it upon you," he
turned to me here, "that you do not let my book die in its present form.
It is yours unconditionally--the story of McIntosh Jellaludin, which is
_not_ the story of McIntosh Jellaludin, but of a greater man than he, and
of a far greater woman. Listen now! I am neither mad nor drunk! That book
will make you famous."

I said, "Thank you," as the native woman put the bundle into my arms.

"My only baby!" said McIntosh, with a smile. He was sinking fast, but he
continued to talk as long as breath remained. I waited for the end;
knowing that, in six cases out of ten a dying man calls for his mother. He
turned on his side and said--

"Say how it came into your possession. No one will believe you, but my
name, at least, will live. You will treat it brutally, I know you will.
Some of it must go; the public are fools and prudish fools. I was their
servant once. But do your mangling gently--very gently. It is a great
work, and I have paid for it in seven years' damnation."

His voice stopped for ten or twelve breaths, and then he began mumbling a
prayer of some kind in Greek. The native woman cried very bitterly.
Lastly, he rose in bed and said, as loudly as slowly--"Not guilty, my
Lord!"

Then he fell back, and the stupor held him till he died. The native woman
ran into the Serai among the horses, and screamed and beat her breasts;
for she had loved him.

Perhaps his last sentence in life told what McIntosh had once gone
through; but, saving the big bundle of old sheets in the cloth, there was
nothing in his room to say who or what he had been.

The papers were in a hopeless muddle.

Strickland helped me to sort them, and he said that the writer was either
an extreme liar or a most wonderful person. He thought the former. One of
these days, you may be able to judge for yourselves. The bundle needed
much expurgation and was full of Greek nonsense, at the head of the
chapters, which has all been cut out.

If the thing is ever published, some one may perhaps remember this story,
now printed as a safeguard to prove that McIntosh Jellaludin and not I
myself wrote the Book of Mother Maturin.

I don't want the _Giant's Robe_ to come true in my case.



THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING

"Brother to a Prince and fellow to a beggar if he be found worthy."

The Law, as quoted, lays down a fair conduct of life, and one not easy to
follow. I have been fellow to a beggar again and again under circumstances
which prevented either of us finding out whether the other was worthy. I
have still to be brother to a Prince, though I once came near to kinship
with what might have been a veritable King and was promised the reversion
of a Kingdom--army, law-courts, revenue and policy all complete. But,
to-day, I greatly fear that my King is dead, and if I want a crown I must
go and hunt it for myself.

The beginning of everything was in a railway train upon the road to Mhow
from Ajmir. There had been a Deficit in the Budget, which necessitated
traveling, not Second-class, which is only half as dear as First-class,
but by Intermediate, which is very awful indeed. There are no cushions in
the Intermediate class, and the population are either Intermediate, which
is Eurasian, or native, which for a long night journey is nasty, or
Loafer, which is amusing though intoxicated. Intermediates do not
patronize refreshment-rooms. They carry their food in bundles and pots,
and buy sweets from the native sweetmeat-sellers, and drink the roadside
water. That is why in the hot weather Intermediates are taken out of the
carriages dead, and in all weathers are most properly looked down upon.

My particular Intermediate happened to be empty till I reached Nasirabad,
when a huge gentleman in shirt-sleeves entered, and, following the custom
of Intermediates, passed the time of day. He was a wanderer and a vagabond
like myself, but with an educated taste for whiskey. He told tales of
things he had seen and done, of out-of-the-way corners of the Empire into
which he had penetrated, and of adventures in which he risked his life for
a few days' food. "If India was filled with men like you and me, not
knowing more than the crows where they'd get their next day's rations, it
isn't seventy millions of revenue the land would be paying--it's seven
hundred millions," said he: and as I looked at his mouth and chin I was
disposed to agree with him. We talked politics--the politics of Loaferdom
that sees things from the underside where the lath and plaster is not
smoothed off--and we talked postal arrangements because my friend wanted
to send a telegram back from the next station to Ajmir, which is the
turning-off place from the Bombay to the Mhow line as you travel westward.
My friend had no money beyond eight annas which he wanted for dinner, and
I had no money at all, owing to the hitch in the Budget before mentioned.
Further, I was going into a wilderness where, though I should resume touch
with the Treasury, there were no telegraph offices. I was, therefore,
unable to help him in any way.

"We might threaten a Station-master, and make him send a wire on tick,"
said my friend, "but that'd mean inquiries for you and for me, and I've
got my hands full these days. Did you say you are traveling back along
this line within any days?"

"Within ten," I said.

"Can't you make it eight?" said he. "Mine is rather urgent business."

"I can send your telegram within ten days if that will serve you," I said.

"I couldn't trust the wire to fetch him now I think of it. It's this way.
He leaves Delhi on the 23d for Bombay. That means he'll be running through
Ajmir about the night of the 23d."

"But I'm going into the Indian Desert," I explained.

"Well _and_ good," said he. "You'll be changing at Marwar Junction to get
into Jodhpore territory--you must do that--and he'll be coming through
Marwar Junction in the early morning of the 24th by the Bombay Mail. Can
you be at Marwar Junction on that time? 'Twon't be inconveniencing you
because I know that there's precious few pickings to be got out of these
Central India States--even though you pretend to be correspondent of the
_Backwoodsman_."

"Have you ever tried that trick?" I asked.

"Again and again, but the Residents find you out, and then you get
escorted to the Border before you've time to get your knife into them. But
about my friend here. I _must_ give him a word o' mouth to tell him what's
come to me or else he won't know where to go. I would take it more than
kind of you if you was to come out of Central India in time to catch him
at Marwar junction, and say to him:--'He has gone South for the week.'
He'll know what that means. He's a big man with a red beard, and a great
swell he is. You'll find him sleeping like a gentleman with all his
luggage round him in a Second-class compartment. But don't you be afraid.
Slip down the window, and say:--'He has gone South for the week,' and
he'll tumble. It's only cutting your time of stay in those parts by two
days. I ask you as a stranger--going to the West," he said, with emphasis.

"Where have _you_ come from?" said I.

"From the East," said he, "and I am hoping that you will give him the
message on the Square--for the sake of my Mother as well as your own."

Englishmen are not usually softened by appeals to the memory of their
mothers, but for certain reasons, which will be fully apparent, I saw fit
to agree.

"It's more than a little matter," said he, "and that's why I ask you to do
it--and now I know that I can depend on you doing it. A Second-class
carriage at Marwar Junction, and a red-haired man asleep in it. You'll be
sure to remember. I get out at the next station, and I must hold on there
till he comes or sends me what I want."

"I'll give the message if I catch him," I said, "and for the sake of your
Mother as well as mine I'll give you a word of advice. Don't try to run
the Central India States just now as the correspondent of the
_Backwoodsman_. There's a real one knocking about here, and it might lead
to trouble."

"Thank you," said he, simply, "and when will the swine be gone? I can't
starve because he's ruining my work. I wanted to get hold of the Degumber
Rajah down here about his father's widow, and give him a jump."

"What did he do to his father's widow then?"

"Filled her up with red pepper and slippered her to death as she hung from
a beam. I found that out myself and I'm the only man that would dare going
into the State to get hush-money for it. They'll try to poison me, same as
they did in Chortumna when I went on the loot there. But you'll give the
man at Marwar Junction my message?"

He got out at a little roadside station, and I reflected. I had heard,
more than once, of men personating correspondents of newspapers and
bleeding small Native States with threats of exposure, but I had never met
any of the caste before. They lead a hard life, and generally die with
great suddenness. The Native States have a wholesome horror of English
newspapers, which may throw light on their peculiar methods of government,
and do their best to choke correspondents with champagne, or drive them
out of their mind with four-in-hand barouches. They do not understand that
nobody cares a straw for the internal administration of Native States so
long as oppression and crime are kept within decent limits, and the ruler
is not drugged, drunk, or diseased from one end of the year to the other.
Native States were created by Providence in order to supply picturesque
scenery, tigers, and tall-writing. They are the dark places of the earth,
full of unimaginable cruelty, touching the Railway and the Telegraph on
one side, and, on the other, the days of Harun-al-Raschid. When I left the
train I did business with divers Kings, and in eight days passed through
many changes of life. Sometimes I wore dress-clothes and consorted with
Princes and Politicals, drinking from crystal and eating from silver.
Sometimes I lay out upon the ground and devoured what I could get, from a
plate made of a flapjack, and drank the running water, and slept under the
same rug as my servant. It was all in the day's work.

Then I headed for the Great Indian Desert upon the proper date, as I had
promised, and the night Mail set me down at Marwar Junction, where a funny
little, happy-go-lucky, native-managed railway runs to Jodhpore. The
Bombay Mail from Delhi makes a short halt at Marwar. She arrived as I got
in, and I had just time to hurry to her platform and go down the
carriages. There was only one Second-class on the train. I slipped the
window and looked down upon a flaming red beard, half covered by a railway
rug. That was my man, fast asleep, and I dug him gently in the ribs. He
woke with a grunt and I saw his face in the light of the lamps. It was a
great and shining face.

"Tickets again?" said he.

"No," said I. "I am to tell you that he is gone South for the week. He is
gone South for the week!"

The train had begun to move out. The red man rubbed his eyes. "He has gone
South for the week," he repeated. "Now that's just like his impidence. Did
he say that I was to give you anything?--'Cause I won't."

"He didn't," I said, and dropped away, and watched the red lights die out
in the dark. It was horribly cold because the wind was blowing off the
sands. I climbed into my own train--not an Intermediate Carriage this
time--and went to sleep.

If the man with the beard had given me a rupee I should have kept it as a
memento of a rather curious affair. But the consciousness of having done
my duty was my only reward.

Later on I reflected that two gentlemen like my friends could not do any
good if they foregathered and personated correspondents of newspapers, and
might, if they "stuck up" one of the little rat-trap states of Central
India or Southern Rajputana, get themselves into serious difficulties. I
therefore took some trouble to describe them as accurately as I could
remember to people who would be interested in deporting them: and
succeeded, so I was later informed, in having them headed back from the
Degumber borders.

Then I became respectable, and returned to an Office where there were no
Kings and no incidents except the daily manufacture of a newspaper. A
newspaper office seems to attract every conceivable sort of person, to the
prejudice of discipline. Zenana-mission ladies arrive, and beg that the
Editor will instantly abandon all his duties to describe a Christian
prize-giving in a back-slum of a perfectly inaccessible village; Colonels
who have been overpassed for commands sit down and sketch the outline of a
series of ten, twelve, or twenty-four leading articles on Seniority
_versus_ Selection; missionaries wish to know why they have not been
permitted to escape from their regular vehicles of abuse and swear at a
brother-missionary under special patronage of the editorial We; stranded
theatrical companies troop up to explain that they cannot pay for their
advertisements, but on their return from New Zealand or Tahiti will do so
with interest; inventors of patent punkah-pulling machines, carriage
couplings and unbreakable swords and axle-trees call with specifications
in their pockets and hours at their disposal; tea-companies enter and
elaborate their prospectuses with the office pens; secretaries of
ball-committees clamor to have the glories of their last dance more fully
expounded; strange ladies rustle in and say:--"I want a hundred lady's
cards printed _at once_, please," which is manifestly part of an Editor's
duty; and every dissolute ruffian that ever tramped the Grand Trunk Road
makes it his business to ask for employment as a proofreader. And, all the
time, the telephone-bell is ringing madly, and Kings are being killed on
the Continent, and Empires are saying--"You're another," and Mister
Gladstone is calling down brimstone upon the British Dominions, and the
little black copy-boys are whining, "_kaa-pi-chay-ha-yeh_" (copy wanted)
like tired bees, and most of the paper is as blank as Modred's shield,

But that is the amusing part of the year. There are six other months
wherein none ever come to call, and the thermometer walks inch by inch up
to the top of the glass, and the office is darkened to just above
reading-light, and the press machines are red-hot of touch, and nobody
writes anything but accounts of amusements in the Hill-stations or
obituary notices. Then the telephone becomes a tinkling terror, because it
tells you of the sudden deaths of men and women that you knew intimately,
and the prickly-heat covers you as with a garment, and you sit down and
write:--"A slight increase of sickness is reported from the Khuda Janta
Khan District. The outbreak is purely sporadic in its nature, and, thanks
to the energetic efforts of the District authorities, is now almost at an
end. It is, however, with deep regret we record the death, etc."

Then the sickness really breaks out, and the less recording and reporting
the better for the peace of the subscribers. But the Empires and the Kings
continue to divert themselves as selfishly as before, and the Foreman
thinks that a daily paper really ought to come out once in twenty-four
hours, and all the people at the Hill-stations in the middle of their
amusements say:--"Good gracious! Why can't the paper be sparkling? I'm
sure there's plenty going on up here."

That is the dark half of the moon, and, as the advertisements say, "must
be experienced to be appreciated."

It was in that season, and a remarkably evil season, that the paper began
running the last issue of the week on Saturday night, which is to say
Sunday morning, after the custom of a London paper. This was a great
convenience, for immediately after the paper was put to bed, the dawn
would lower the thermometer from 96  to almost 84  for half an hour, and
in that chill--you have no idea how cold is 84  on the grass until you
begin to pray for it--a very tired man could set off to sleep ere the heat
roused him.

One Saturday night it was my pleasant duty to put the paper to bed alone.
A King or courtier or a courtesan or a community was going to die or get a
new Constitution, or do something that was important on the other side of
the world, and the paper was to be held open till the latest possible
minute in order to catch the telegram. It was a pitchy black night, as
stifling as a June night can be, and the _loo_, the red-hot wind from the
westward, was booming among the tinder-dry trees and pretending that the
rain was on its heels. Now and again a spot of almost boiling water would
fall on the dust with the flop of a frog, but all our weary world knew
that was only pretence. It was a shade cooler in the press-room than the
office, so I sat there, while the type ticked and clicked, and the
night-jars hooted at the windows, and the all but naked compositors wiped
the sweat from their foreheads and called for water. The thing that was
keeping us back, whatever it was, would not come off, though the _loo_
dropped and the last type was set, and the whole round earth stood still
in the choking heat, with its finger on its lip, to wait the event. I
drowsed, and wondered whether the telegraph was a blessing, and whether
this dying man, or struggling people was aware of the inconvenience the
delay was causing. There was no special reason beyond the heat and worry
to make tension, but, as the clock hands crept up to three o'clock and the
machines spun their fly-wheels two and three times to see that all was in
order, before I said the word that would set them off, I could have
shrieked aloud.

Then the roar and rattle of the wheels shivered the quiet into little
bits. I rose to go away, but two men in white clothes stood in front of
me. The first one said:--"It's him!" The second said:--"So it is!" And
they both laughed almost as loudly as the machinery roared, and mopped
their foreheads. "We see there was a light burning across the road and we
were sleeping in that ditch there for coolness, and I said to my friend
here, The office is open. Let's come along and speak to him as turned us
back from the Degumber State," said the smaller of the two. He was the man
I had met in the Mhow train, and his fellow was the red-bearded man of
Marwar Junction. There was no mistaking the eyebrows of the one or the
beard of the other.

I was not pleased, because I wished to go to sleep, not to squabble with
loafers. "What do you want?" I asked.

"Half an hour's talk with you cool and comfortable, in the office," said
the red-bearded man. "We'd _like_ some drink--the Contrack doesn't begin
yet, Peachey, so you needn't look--but what we really want is advice. We
don't want money. We ask you as a favor, because you did us a bad turn
about Degumber."

I led from the press-room to the stifling office with the maps on the
walls, and the red-haired man rubbed his hands. "That's something like,"
said he, "This was the proper shop to come to. Now, Sir, let me introduce
to you Brother Peachey Carnehan, that's him, and Brother Daniel Dravot,
that is _me_, and the less said about our professions the better, for we
have been most things in our time. Soldier, sailor, compositor,
photographer, proof-reader, street-preacher, and correspondents of the
_Backwoodsman_ when we thought the paper wanted one. Carnehan is sober,
and so am I. Look at us first and see that's sure. It will save you
cutting into my talk. We'll take one of your cigars apiece, and you shall
see us light."

I watched the test. The men were absolutely sober, so I gave them each a
tepid peg.

"Well _and_ good," said Carnehan of the eyebrows, wiping the froth from
his moustache. "Let me talk now, Dan, We have been all over India, mostly
on foot. We have been boiler-fitters, engine-drivers, petty contractors,
and all that, and we have decided that India isn't big enough for such as
us."

They certainly were too big for the office. Dravot's beard seemed to fill
half the room and Carnehan's shoulders the other half, as they sat on the
big table. Carnehan continued:--"The country isn't half worked out because
they that governs it won't let you touch it. They spend all their blessed
time in governing it, and you can't lift a spade, nor chip a rock, nor
look for oil, nor anything like that without all the Government
saying--'Leave it alone and let us govern.' Therefore, such as it is, we
will let it alone, and go away to some other place where a man isn't
crowded and can come to his own. We are not little men, and there is
nothing that we are afraid of except Drink, and we have signed a Contrack
on that. _Therefore_, we are going away to be Kings."

"Kings in our own right," muttered Dravot.

"Yes, of course," I said. "You've been tramping in the sun, and it's a
very warm night, and hadn't you better sleep over the notion? Come
to-morrow."

"Neither drunk nor sunstruck," said Dravot. "We have slept over the notion
half a year, and require to see Books and Atlases, and we have decided
that there is only one place now in the world that two strong men can
Sar-a-_whack_. They call it Kafiristan. By my reckoning it's the top
right-hand corner of Afghanistan, not more than three hundred miles from
Peshawur. They have two and thirty heathen idols there, and we'll be the
thirty-third. It's a mountaineous country, and the women of those parts
are very beautiful."

"But that is provided against in the Contrack," said Carnehan. "Neither
Women nor Liquor, Daniel."

"And that's all we know, except that no one has gone there, and they
fight, and in any place where they fight a man who knows how to drill men
can always be a King. We shall go to those parts and say to any King we
find--'D'you want to vanquish your foes?' and we will show him how to
drill men; for that we know better than anything else. Then we will
subvert that King and seize his Throne and establish a Dy-nasty."

"You'll be cut to pieces before you're fifty miles across the Border," I
said. "You have to travel through Afghanistan to get to that country. It's
one mass of mountains and peaks and glaciers, and no Englishman has been
through it. The people are utter brutes, and even if you reached them you
couldn't do anything."

"That's more like," said Carnehan. "If you could think us a little more
mad we would be more pleased. We have come to you to know about this
country, to read a book about it, and to be shown maps. We want you to
tell us that we are fools and to show us your books." He turned to the
bookcases.

"Are you at all in earnest?" I said.

"A little," said Dravot, sweetly. "As big a map as you have got, even if
it's all blank where Kafiristan is, and any books you've got. We can read,
though we aren't very educated."

I uncased the big thirty-two-miles-to-the-inch map of India, and two
smaller Frontier maps, hauled down volume INF-KAN of the _Encyclopaedia
Britannica_, and the men consulted them.

"See here!" said Dravot, his thumb on the map. "Up to Jagdallak, Peachey
and me know the road. We was there with Roberts's Army. We'll have to turn
off to the right at Jagdallak through Laghmann territory. Then we get
among the hills--fourteen thousand feet--fifteen thousand--it will be cold
work there, but it don't look very far on the map."

I handed him Wood on the _Sources of the Oxus_. Carnehan was deep in the
_Encyclopaedia_.

"They're a mixed lot," said Dravot, reflectively; "and it won't help us to
know the names of their tribes. The more tribes the more they'll fight,
and the better for us. From Jagdallak to Ashang. H'mm!"

"But all the information about the country is as sketchy and inaccurate as
can be," I protested. "No one knows anything about it really. Here's the
file of the _United Services Institute_. Read what Bellew says."

"Blow Bellew!" said Carnehan. "Dan, they're an all-fired lot of heathens,
but this book here says they think they're related to us English."

I smoked while the men pored over _Raverty_, _Wood_, the maps and the
_Encyclopaedia_.

"There is no use your waiting," said Dravot, politely, "It's about four
o'clock now. We'll go before six o'clock if you want to sleep, and we
won't steal any of the papers. Don't you sit up. We're two harmless
lunatics, and if you come, to-morrow evening, down to the Serai we'll say
good-bye to you."

"You _are_ two fools," I answered, "You'll be turned back at the Frontier
or cut up the minute you set foot in Afghanistan. Do you want any money or
a recommendation down-country? I can help you to the chance of work next
week."

"Next week we shall be hard at work ourselves, thank you," said Dravot.
"It isn't so easy being a King as it looks. When we've got our Kingdom in
going order we'll let you know, and you can come up and help us to govern
it."

"Would two lunatics make a Contrack like that?" said Carnehan, with
subdued pride, showing me a greasy half-sheet of note-paper on which was
written the following. I copied it, then and there, as a curiosity:

_This Contract between me and you persuing witnesseth in the name of
God--Amen and so forth.

   (One) That me and you will settle this matter together: _i.e._,
     to be Kings of Kafiristan.

   (Two) That you and me will not, while this matter is being settled,
     look at any Liquor, nor any Woman, black, white or brown, so
     as to get mixed up with one or the other harmful.

   (Three) That we conduct ourselves with dignity and discretion, and
     if one of us gets into trouble the other will stay by him.

   Signed by you and me this day.

   Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan.

   Daniel Dravot.

   Both Gentlemen at Large._

"There was no need for the last article," said Carnehan, blushing
modestly; "but it looks regular. Now you know the sort of men that loafers
are--we _are_ loafers, Dan, until we get out of India--and _do_ you think
that we would sign a Contrack like that unless we was in earnest? We have
kept away from the two things that make life worth having."

"You won't enjoy your lives much longer if you are going to try this
idiotic adventure. Don't set the office on fire," I said, "and go away
before nine o'clock."

I left them still poring over the maps and making notes on the back of the
"Contrack." "Be sure to come down to the Serai to-morrow," were their
parting words.

The Kumharsen Serai is the great four-square sink of humanity where the
strings of camels and horses from the North load and unload. All the
nationalities of Central Asia may be found there, and most of the folk of
India proper. Balkh and Bokhara there meet Bengal and Bombay, and try to
draw eye-teeth. You can buy ponies, turquoises, Persian pussy-cats,
saddle-bags, fat-tailed sheep and musk in the Kumharsen Serai, and get
many strange things for nothing. In the afternoon I went down there to see
whether my friends intended to keep their word or were lying about drunk.

A priest attired in fragments of ribbons and rags stalked up to me,
gravely twisting a child's paper whirligig. Behind him was his servant
bending under the load of a crate of mud toys, The two were loading up two
camels, and the inhabitants of the Serai watched them with shrieks of
laughter.

"The priest is mad," said a horse-dealer to me, "He is going up to Kabul
to sell toys to the Amir. He will either be raised to honor or have his
head cut off. He came in here this morning and has been behaving madly
ever since."

"The witless are under the protection of God," stammered a flat-cheeked
Usbeg in broken Hindi. "They foretell future events."

"Would they could have foretold that my caravan would have been cut up by
the Shinwaris almost within shadow of the Pass!" grunted the Eusufzai
agent of a Rajputana trading-house whose goods had been feloniously
diverted into the hands of other robbers just across the Border, and whose
misfortunes were the laughing-stock of the bazar. "Oh�, priest, whence
come you and whither do you go?"

"From Roum have I come," shouted the priest, waving his whirligig; "from
Roum, blown by the breath of a hundred devils across the sea! O thieves,
robbers, liars, the blessing of Pir Khan on pigs, dogs, and perjurers! Who
will take the Protected of God to the North to sell charms that are never
still to the Amir? The camels shall not gall, the sons shall not fall
sick, and the wives shall remain faithful while they are away, of the men
who give me place in their caravan. Who will assist me to slipper the King
of the Roos with a golden slipper with a silver heel? The protection of
Pir Khan be upon his labors!" He spread out the skirts of his gaberdine
and pirouetted between the lines of tethered horses.

"There starts a caravan from Peshawur to Kabul in twenty days, _Huzrut_,"
said the Eusufzai trader, "My camels go therewith. Do thou also go and
bring us good luck."

"I will go even now!" shouted the priest, "I will depart upon my winged
camels, and be at Peshawur in a day! Ho! Hazar Mir Khan," he yelled to his
servant, "drive out the camels, but let me first mount my own."

He leaped on the back of his beast as it knelt, and, turning round to me,
cried:--"Come thou also, Sahib, a little along the road, and I will sell
thee a charm--an amulet that shall make thee King of Kafiristan."

Then the light broke upon me, and I followed the two camels out of the
Serai till we reached open road and the priest halted.

"What d' you think o' that?" said he in English. "Carnehan can't talk
their patter, so I've made him my servant. He makes a handsome servant,
'Tisn't for nothing that I've been knocking about the country for fourteen
years. Didn't I do that talk neat? We'll hitch on to a caravan at Peshawur
till we get to Jagdallak, and then we'll see if we can get donkeys for our
camels, and strike into Kafiristan. Whirligigs for the Amir, O Lor! Put
your hand under the camel-bags and tell me what you feel."

I felt the butt of a Martini, and another and another.

"Twenty of 'em," said Dravot, placidly. "Twenty of 'em, and ammunition to
correspond, under the whirligigs and the mud dolls."

"Heaven help you if you are caught with those things!" I said. "A Martini
is worth her weight in silver among the Pathans."

"Fifteen hundred rupees of capital--every rupee we could beg, borrow, or
steal--are invested on these two camels," said Dravot. "We won't get
caught. We're going through the Khaiber with a regular caravan. Who'd
touch a poor mad priest?"

"Have you got everything you want?" I asked, overcome with astonishment.

"Not yet, but we shall soon. Give us a memento of your kindness,
_Brother_. You did me a service yesterday, and that time in Marwar. Half
my Kingdom shall you have, as the saying is." I slipped a small charm
compass from my watch-chain and handed it up to the priest.

"Good-bye," said Dravot, giving me hand cautiously. "It's the last time
we'll shake hands with an Englishman these many days. Shake hands with
him, Carnehan," he cried, as the second camel passed me.

Carnehan leaned down and shook hands. Then the camels passed away along
the dusty road, and I was left alone to wonder. My eye could detect no
failure in the disguises. The scene in Serai attested that they were
complete to the native mind. There was just the chance, therefore, that
Carnehan and Dravot would be able to wander through Afghanistan without
detection. But, beyond, they would find death, certain and awful death.

Ten days later a native friend of mine, giving me the news of the day from
Peshawur, wound up his letter with:--"There has been much laughter here on
account of a certain mad priest who is going in his estimation to sell
petty gauds and insignificant trinkets which he ascribes as great charms
to H.H. the Amir of Bokhara. He passed through Peshawur and associated
himself to the Second Summer caravan that goes to Kabul. The merchants are
pleased because through superstition they imagine that such mad fellows
bring good-fortune."

The two, then, were beyond the Border. I would have prayed for them, but,
that night, a real King died in Europe, and demanded on obituary notice.


       *
       *
       *
       *
       *

The wheel of the world swings through the same phases again and again.
Summer passed and winter thereafter, and came and passed again. The daily
paper continued and I with it, and upon the third summer there fell a hot
night, a night-issue, and a strained waiting for something to be
telegraphed from the other side of the world, exactly as had happened
before. A few great men had died in the past two years, the machines
worked with more clatter, and some of the trees in the Office garden were
a few feet taller. But that was all the difference.

I passed over to the press-room, and went through just such a scene as I
have already described. The nervous tension was stronger than it had been
two years before, and I felt the heat more acutely. At three o'clock I
cried, "Print off," and turned to go, when there crept to my chair what
was left of a man. He was bent into a circle, his head was sunk between
his shoulders, and he moved his feet one over the other like a bear. I
could hardly see whether he walked or crawled--this rag-wrapped, whining
cripple who addressed me by name, crying that he was come back. "Can you
give me a drink?" he whimpered. "For the Lord's sake, give me a drink!"

I went back to the office, the man following with groans of pain, and I
turned up the lamp.

"Don't you know me?" he gasped, dropping into a chair, and he turned his
drawn face, surmounted by a shock of grey hair, to the light.

I looked at him intently. Once before had I seen eyebrows that met over
the nose in an inch-broad black band, but for the life of me I could not
tell where.

"I don't know you," I said, handing him the whiskey. "What can I do for
you?"

He took a gulp of the spirit raw, and shivered in spite of the suffocating
heat.

"I've come back," he repeated; "and I was the King of Kafiristan--me and
Dravot--crowned Kings we was! In this office we settled it--you setting
there and giving us the books. I am Peachey--Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan,
and you've been setting here ever since--O Lord!"

I was more than a little astonished, and expressed my feelings
accordingly,

"It's true," said Carnehan, with a dry cackle, nursing his feet, which
were wrapped in rags. "True as gospel. Kings we were, with crowns upon our
heads--me and Dravot--poor Dan--oh, poor, poor Dan, that would never take
advice, not though I begged of him!"

"Take the whiskey," I said, "and take your own time. Tell me all you can
recollect of everything from beginning to end. You got across the border
on your camels, Dravot dressed as a mad priest and you his servant. Do you
remember that?"

"I ain't mad--yet, but I shall be that way soon. Of course I remember.
Keep looking at me, or maybe my words will go all to pieces. Keep looking
at me in my eyes and don't say anything."

I leaned forward and looked into his face as steadily as I could. He
dropped one hand upon the table and I grasped it by the wrist. It was
twisted like a bird's claw, and upon the back was a ragged, red,
diamond-shaped scar.

"No, don't look there. Look at _me_," said Carnehan.

"That comes afterward, but for the Lord's sake don't distrack me. We left
with that caravan, me and Dravot playing all sorts of antics to amuse the
people we were with. Dravot used to make us laugh in the evenings when all
the people was cooking their dinners--cooking their dinners, and ... what
did they do then? They lit little fires with sparks that went into
Dravot's beard, and we all laughed--fit to die. Little red fires they was,
going into Dravot's big red beard--so funny." His eyes left mine and he
smiled foolishly.

"You went as far as Jagdallak with that caravan," I said, at a venture,
"after you had lit those fires. To Jagdallak, where you turned off to try
to get into Kafiristan."

"No, we didn't neither. What are you talking about? We turned off before
Jagdallak, because we heard the roads was good. But they wasn't good
enough for our two camels--mine and Dravot's. When we left the caravan,
Dravot took off all his clothes and mine too, and said we would be
heathen, because the Kafirs didn't allow Mohammedans to talk to them. So
we dressed betwixt and between, and such a sight as Daniel Dravot I never
saw yet nor expect to see again. He burned half his beard, and slung a
sheep-skin over his shoulder, and shaved his head into patterns. He shaved
mine, too, and made me wear outrageous things to look like a heathen. That
was in a most mountaineous country, and our camels couldn't go along any
more because of the mountains. They were tall and black, and coming home I
saw them fight like wild goats--there are lots of goats in Kafiristan. And
these mountains, they never keep still, no more than the goats. Always
fighting they are, and don't let you sleep at night."

"Take some more whiskey," I said, very slowly. "What did you and Daniel
Dravot do when the camels could go no further because of the rough roads
that led into Kafiristan?"

"What did which do? There was a party called Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan
that was with Dravot. Shall I tell you about him? He died out there in the
cold. Slap from the bridge fell old Peachey, turning and twisting in the
air like a penny whirligig that you can sell to the Amir.--No; they was
two for three ha'pence, those whirligigs, or I am much mistaken and woful
sore. And then these camels were no use, and Peachey said to Dravot--'For
the Lord's sake, let's get out of this before our heads are chopped off,'
and with that they killed the camels all among the mountains, not having
anything in particular to eat, but first they took off the boxes with the
guns and the ammunition, till two men came along driving four mules.
Dravot up and dances in front of them, singing,--'Sell me four Mules.'
Says the first man,--'If you are rich enough to buy, you are rich enough
to rob;' but before ever he could put his hand to his knife, Dravot breaks
his neck over his knee, and the other party runs away. So Carnehan loaded
the mules with the rifles that was taken off the camels, and together we
starts forward into those bitter cold mountaineous parts, and never a road
broader than the back of your hand."

He paused for a moment, while I asked him if he could remember the nature
of the country through which he had journeyed.

"I am telling you as straight as I can, but my head isn't as good as it
might be. They drove nails through it to make me hear better how Dravot
died. The country was mountaineous and the mules were most contrary, and
the inhabitants was dispersed and solitary. They went up and up, and down
and down, and that other party, Carnehan, was imploring of Dravot not to
sing and whistle so loud, for fear of bringing down the tremenjus
avalanches. But Dravot says that if a King couldn't sing it wasn't worth
being King, and whacked the mules over the rump, and never took no heed
for ten cold days. We came to a big level valley all among the mountains,
and the mules were near dead, so we killed them, not having anything in
special for them or us to eat. We sat upon the boxes, and played odd and
even with the cartridges that was jolted out,

"Then ten men with bows and arrows ran down that valley, chasing twenty
men with bows and arrows, and the row was tremenjus. They was fair
men--fairer than you or me--with yellow hair and remarkable well built.
Says Dravot, unpacking the guns--'This is the beginning of the business.
We'll fight for the ten men,' and with that he fires two rifles at the
twenty men, and drops one of them at two hundred yards from the rock where
we was sitting. The other men began to run, but Carnehan and Dravot sits
on the boxes picking them off at all ranges, up and down the valley. Then
we goes up to the ten men that had run across the snow too, and they fires
a footy little arrow at us. Dravot he shoots above their heads and they
all falls down flat. Then he walks over them and kicks them, and then he
lifts them up and shakes hands all round to make them friendly like. He
calls them and gives them the boxes to carry, and waves his hand for all
the world as though he was King already. They takes the boxes and him
across the valley and up the hill into a pine wood on the top, where there
was half a dozen big stone idols. Dravot he goes to the biggest--a fellow
they call Imbra--and lays a rifle and a cartridge at his feet, rubbing his
nose respectful with his own nose, patting him on the head, and saluting
in front of it. He turns round to the men and nods his head, and
says,--'That's all right. I'm in the know too, and all these old jim-jams
are my friends.' Then he opens his mouth and points down it, and when the
first man brings him food, he says--'No;' and when the second man brings
him food, he says--'No;' but when one of the old priests and the boss of
the village brings him food, he says--'Yes;' very haughty, and eats it
slow. That was how we came to our first village, without any trouble, just
as though we had tumbled from the skies. But we tumbled from one of those
damned rope-bridges, you see, and you couldn't expect a man to laugh much
after that."

"Take some more whiskey and go on," I said. "That was the first village
you came into. How did you get to be King?"

"I wasn't King," said Carnehan. "Dravot he was the King, and a handsome
man he looked with the gold crown on his head and all. Him and the other
party stayed in that village, and every morning Dravot sat by the side of
old Imbra, and the people came and worshipped. That was Dravot's order.
Then a lot of men came into the valley, and Carnehan and Dravot picks them
off with the rifles before they knew where they was, and runs down into
the valley and up again the other side, and finds another village, same as
the first one, and the people all falls down flat on their faces, and
Dravot says, 'Now what is the trouble between you two villages?' and the
people points to a woman, as fair as you or me, that was carried off, and
Dravot takes her back to the first village and counts up the dead--eight
there was. For each dead man Dravot pours a little milk on the ground and
waves his arms like a whirligig and 'That's all right,' says he. Then he
and Carnehan takes the big boss of each village by the arm and walks them
down into the valley, and shows them how to scratch a line with a spear
right down the valley, and gives each a sod of turf from both sides o' the
line. Then all the people comes down and shouts like the devil and all,
and Dravot says,--'Go and dig the land, and be fruitful and multiply,'
which they did, though they didn't understand. Then we asks the names of
things in their lingo--bread and water and fire and idols and such, and
Dravot leads the priest of each village up to the idol, and says he must
sit there and judge the people, and if anything goes wrong he is to be
shot.

"Next week they was all turning up the land in the valley as quiet as bees
and much prettier, and the priests heard all the complaints and told
Dravot in dumb show what it was about. 'That's just the beginning,' says
Dravot. 'They think we're Gods.' He and Carnehan picks out twenty good men
and shows them how to click off a rifle, and form fours, and advance in
line, and they was very pleased to do so, and clever to see the hang of
it. Then he takes out his pipe and his baccy-pouch and leaves one at one
village and one at the other, and off we two goes to see what was to be
done in the next valley. That was all rock, and there was a little village
there, and Carnehan says,--'Send 'em to the old valley to plant,' and
takes 'em there and gives 'em some land that wasn't took before. They were
a poor lot, and we blooded 'em with a kid before letting 'em into the new
Kingdom. That was to impress the people, and then they settled down quiet,
and Carnehan went back to Dravot who had got into another valley, all snow
and ice and most mountaineous. There was no people there and the Army got
afraid, so Dravot shoots one of them, and goes on till he finds some
people in a village, and the Army explains that unless the people wants to
be killed they had better not shoot their little matchlocks; for they had
matchlocks. We makes friends with the priest and I stays there alone with
two of the Army, teaching the men how to drill, and a thundering big Chief
comes across the snow with kettle-drums and horns twanging, because he
heard there was a new God kicking about. Carnehan sights for the brown of
the men half a mile across the snow and wings one of them. Then he sends a
message to the Chief that, unless he wished to be killed, he must come and
shake hands with me and leave his arms behind. The chief comes alone
first, and Carnehan shakes hands with him and whirls his arms about, same
as Dravot used, and very much surprised that Chief was, and strokes my
eyebrows. Then Carnehan goes alone to the Chief, and asks him in dumb show
if he had an enemy he hated. 'I have,' says the Chief. So Carnehan weeds
out the pick of his men, and sets the two of the Army to show them drill
and at the end of two weeks the men can manoeuvre about as well as
Volunteers. So he marches with the Chief to a great big plain on the top
of a mountain, and the Chie