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diff --git a/78240-0.txt b/78240-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..46fda03 --- /dev/null +++ b/78240-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11715 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78240 *** + + + + + MANY INVENTIONS + + [Illustration] + + + + + MANY INVENTIONS + + BY + + RUDYARD KIPLING + + + ‘Lo, this only have I found, that God hath made man upright; but + they have sought out many inventions.’--ECCLESIASTES vii. 29. + + + London + + MACMILLAN AND CO. + + AND NEW YORK + + 1893 + + _All rights reserved_ + + + + + CONTENTS + + + PAGE + + THE DISTURBER OF TRAFFIC 1 + + A CONFERENCE OF THE POWERS 22 + + MY LORD THE ELEPHANT 41 + + ONE VIEW OF THE QUESTION 67 + + ‘THE FINEST STORY IN THE WORLD’ 90 + + HIS PRIVATE HONOUR 129 + + A MATTER OF FACT 154 + + THE LOST LEGION 172 + + IN THE RUKH 189 + + ‘BRUGGLESMITH’ 226 + + ‘LOVE-O’-WOMEN’ 247 + + THE RECORD OF BADALIA HERODSFOOT 279 + + JUDSON AND THE EMPIRE 309 + + THE CHILDREN OF THE ZODIAC 342 + + + + + TO THE TRUE ROMANCE. + + + _Thy face is far from this our war, + Our call and counter-cry, + I shall not find Thee quick and kind, + Nor know Thee till I die. + Enough for me in dreams to see + And touch Thy garments’ hem: + Thy feet have trod so near to God + I may not follow them._ + + Through wantonness if men profess + They weary of Thy parts, + E’en let them die at blasphemy + And perish with their arts; + But we that love, but we that prove + Thine excellence august, + While we adore discover more + Thee perfect, wise, and just. + + Since spoken word Man’s spirit stirred + Beyond his belly-need, + What is is Thine of fair design + In thought and craft and deed; + Each stroke aright of toil and fight, + That was and that shall be, + And hope too high wherefore we die, + Has birth and worth in Thee. + + Who holds by Thee hath Heaven in fee + To gild his dross thereby, + And knowledge sure that he endure + A child until he die-- + For to make plain that man’s disdain + Is but new Beauty’s birth-- + For to possess in loneliness + The joy of all the earth. + + As Thou didst teach all lovers speech + And Life her mystery, + So shalt Thou rule by every school + Till love and longing die, + Who wast or yet the lights were set, + A whisper in the Void, + Who shalt be sung through planets young + When this is clean destroyed. + + Beyond the bounds our staring rounds, + Across the pressing dark, + The children wise of outer skies + Look hitherward and mark + A light that shifts, a glare that drifts, + Rekindling thus and thus, + Not all forlorn, for Thou hast borne + Strange tales to them of us. + + Time hath no tide but must abide + The servant of Thy will; + Tide hath no time, for to Thy rhyme + The ranging stars stand still-- + Regent of spheres that lock our fears + Our hopes invisible, + Oh ’twas certes at Thy decrees + We fashioned Heaven and Hell! + + Pure Wisdom hath no certain path + That lacks thy morning-eyne, + And captains bold by Thee controlled + Most like to Gods design; + Thou art the Voice to kingly boys + To lift them through the fight, + And Comfortress of Unsuccess, + To give the dead good-night-- + + A veil to draw ’twixt God His Law + And Man’s infirmity, + A shadow kind to dumb and blind + The shambles where we die; + A sum to trick th’ arithmetic + Too base of leaguing odds, + The spur of trust, the curb of lust, + Thou handmaid of the Gods! + + Oh Charity, all patiently + Abiding wrack and scaith! + Oh Faith, that meets ten thousand cheats + Yet drops no jot of faith! + Devil and brute Thou dost transmute + To higher, lordlier show, + Who art in sooth that utter Truth + The careless angels know! + + _Thy face is far from this our war, + Our call and counter-cry, + I may not find Thee quick and kind, + Nor know Thee till I die._ + + _Yet may I look with heart unshook + On blow brought home or missed-- + Yet may I hear with equal ear + The clarions down the List; + Yet set my lance above mischance + And ride the barriere-- + Oh, hit or miss, how little ’tis, + My Lady is not there!_ + + + + + THE DISTURBER OF TRAFFIC. + + + From the wheel and the drift of Things + Deliver us, good Lord; + And we will meet the wrath of kings, + The faggot, and the sword. + + Lay not Thy toil before our eyes, + Nor vex us with Thy wars, + Lest we should feel the straining skies + O’ertrod by trampling stars. + + A veil ’twixt us and Thee, dread Lord, + A veil ’twixt us and Thee: + Lest we should hear too clear, too clear, + And unto madness see! + + MIRIAM COHEN. + + +The Brothers of the Trinity order that none unconnected with their +service shall be found in or on one of their Lights during the hours +of darkness; but their servants can be made to think otherwise. If you +are fair-spoken and take an interest in their duties, they will allow +you to sit with them through the long night and help to scare the ships +into mid-channel. + +Of the English south-coast Lights, that of St. Cecilia-under-the-Cliff +is the most powerful, for it guards a very foggy coast. When the +sea-mist veils all, St. Cecilia turns a hooded head to the sea and +sings a song of two words once every minute. From the land that +song resembles the bellowing of a brazen bull; but off-shore they +understand, and the steamers grunt gratefully in answer. + +Fenwick, who was on duty one night, lent me a pair of black glass +spectacles, without which no man can look at the Light unblinded, and +busied himself in last touches to the lenses before twilight fell. +The width of the English Channel beneath us lay as smooth and as +many-coloured as the inside of an oyster-shell. A little Sunderland +cargo-boat had made her signal to Lloyd’s Agency, half a mile up the +coast, and was lumbering down to the sunset, her wake lying white +behind her. One star came out over the cliffs, the waters turned to +lead colour, and St. Cecilia’s Light shot out across the sea in eight +long pencils that wheeled slowly from right to left, melted into one +beam of solid light laid down directly in front of the tower, dissolved +again into eight, and passed away. The light-frame of the thousand +lenses circled on its rollers, and the compressed-air engine that drove +it hummed like a bluebottle under a glass. The hand of the indicator +on the wall pulsed from mark to mark. Eight pulse-beats timed one +half-revolution of the Light; neither more nor less. + +Fenwick checked the first few revolutions carefully; he opened the +engine’s feed-pipe a trifle, looked at the racing governor, and again +at the indicator, and said: ‘She’ll do for the next few hours. We’ve +just sent our regular engine to London, and this spare one’s not by any +manner so accurate.’ + +‘And what would happen if the compressed air gave out?’ I asked. + +‘We’d have to turn the flash by hand, keeping an eye on the indicator. +There’s a regular crank for that. But it hasn’t happened yet. We’ll +need all our compressed air to-night.’ + +‘Why?’ said I. I had been watching him for not more than a minute. + +‘Look,’ he answered, and I saw that the dead sea-mist had risen out +of the lifeless sea and wrapped us while my back had been turned. The +pencils of the Light marched staggeringly across tilted floors of white +cloud. From the balcony round the light-room the white walls of the +lighthouse ran down into swirling, smoking space. The noise of the tide +coming in very lazily over the rocks was choked down to a thick drawl. + +‘That’s the way our sea-fogs come,’ said Fenwick, with an air of +ownership. ‘Hark, now, to that little fool calling out ’fore he’s hurt.’ + +Something in the mist was bleating like an indignant calf; it might +have been half a mile or half a hundred miles away. + +‘Does he suppose we’ve gone to bed?’ continued Fenwick. ‘You’ll hear +us talk to him in a minute. He knows puffickly where he is, and he’s +carrying on to be told like if he was insured.’ + +‘Who is “he”?’ + +‘That Sunderland boat, o’ course. Ah!’ + +I could hear a steam-engine hiss down below in the mist where the +dynamos that fed the Light were clacking together. Then there came a +roar that split the fog and shook the lighthouse. + +‘GIT-_toot_!’ blared the fog-horn of St. Cecilia. The bleating ceased. + +‘Little fool!’ Fenwick repeated. Then, listening: ‘Blest if that +aren’t another of them! Well, well, they always say that a fog do draw +the ships of the sea together. They’ll be calling all night, and so’ll +the siren. We’re expecting some tea-ships up-Channel.... If you put my +coat on that chair, you’ll feel more so-fash, sir.’ + +It is no pleasant thing to thrust your company upon a man for the +night. I looked at Fenwick, and Fenwick looked at me; each gauging the +other’s capacities for boring and being bored. Fenwick was an old, +clean-shaven, gray-haired man who had followed the sea for thirty +years, and knew nothing of the land except the lighthouse in which he +served. He fenced cautiously to find out the little that I knew, and +talked down to my level till it came out that I had met a captain in +the merchant service who had once commanded a ship in which Fenwick’s +son had served; and further, that I had seen some places that Fenwick +had touched at. He began with a dissertation on pilotage in the Hugli. +I had been privileged to know a Hugli pilot intimately. Fenwick had +only seen the imposing and masterful breed from a ship’s chains, and +his intercourse had been cut down to ‘Quarter less five,’ and remarks +of a strictly business-like nature. Hereupon he ceased to talk down +to me, and became so amazingly technical that I was forced to beg him +to explain every other sentence. This set him fully at his ease; and +then we spoke as men together, each too interested to think of anything +except the subject in hand. And that subject was wrecks, and voyages, +and old-time trading, and ships cast away in desolate seas, steamers +we both had known, their merits and demerits, lading, Lloyd’s, and, +above all, Lights. The talk always came back to Lights: Lights of +the Channel; Lights on forgotten islands, and men forgotten on them; +Light-ships--two months’ duty and one month’s leave--tossing on kinked +cables in ever-troubled tideways; and Lights that men had seen where +never lighthouse was marked on the charts. + +Omitting all those stories, and omitting also the wonderful ways by +which he arrived at them, I tell here, from Fenwick’s mouth, one that +was not the least amazing. It was delivered in pieces between the +roller-skate rattle of the revolving lenses, the bellowing of the +fog-horn below, the answering calls from the sea, and the sharp tap of +reckless night-birds that flung themselves at the glasses. It concerned +a man called Dowse, once an intimate friend of Fenwick, now a waterman +at Portsmouth, believing that the guilt of blood is on his head, and +finding no rest either at Portsmouth or Gosport Hard. + + * * * * * + +... ‘And if anybody was to come to you and say, “I know the Javva +currents,” don’t you listen to him; for those currents is never yet +known to mortal man. Sometimes they’re here, sometimes they’re there, +but they never runs less than five knots an hour through and among +those islands of the Eastern Archipelagus. There’s reverse currents +in the Gulf of Boni--and that’s up north in Celebes--that no man can +explain; and through all those Javva passages from the Bali Narrows, +Dutch Gut, and Ombay, which I take it is the safest, they chop and they +change, and they banks the tides fust on one shore and then on another, +till your ship’s tore in two. I’ve come through the Bali Narrows, stern +first, in the heart o’ the south-east monsoon, with a sou’-sou’-west +wind blowing atop of the northerly flood, and our skipper said he +wouldn’t do it again, not for all Jamrach’s. You’ve heard o’ Jamrach’s, +sir?’ + +‘Yes; and was Dowse stationed in the Bali Narrows?’ I said. + +‘No; he was not at Bali, but much more east o’ them passages, and +that’s Flores Strait, at the east end o’ Flores. It’s all on the +way south to Australia when you’re running through that Eastern +Archipelagus. Sometimes you go through Bali Narrows if you’re +full-powered, and sometimes through Flores Strait, so as to stand south +at once, and fetch round Timor, keeping well clear o’ the Sahul Bank. +Elseways, if you aren’t full-powered, why it stands to reason you go +round by the Ombay Passage, keeping careful to the north side. You +understand that, sir?’ + +I was not full-powered, and judged it safer to keep to the north +side--of Silence. + +‘And on Flores Strait, in the fairway between Adonare Island and the +mainland, they put Dowse in charge of a screw-pile Light called the +Wurlee Light. It’s less than a mile across the head of Flores Strait. +Then it opens out to ten or twelve mile for Solor Strait, and then it +narrows again to a three-mile gut, with a topplin’ flamin’ volcano +by it. That’s old Loby Toby by Loby Toby Strait, and if you keep his +Light and the Wurlee Light in a line you won’t take much harm, not on +the darkest night. That’s what Dowse told me, and I can well believe +him, knowing these seas myself; but you must ever be mindful of the +currents. And there they put Dowse, since he was the only man that that +Dutch government which owns Flores could find that would go to Wurlee +and tend a fixed Light. Mostly they uses Dutch and Italians; Englishmen +being said to drink when alone. I never could rightly find out what +made Dowse accept of that position, but accept he did, and used to sit +for to watch the tigers come out of the forests to hunt for crabs and +such like round about the lighthouse at low tide. The water was always +warm in those parts, as I know well, and uncommon sticky, and it ran +with the tides as thick and smooth as hogwash in a trough. There was +another man along with Dowse in the Light, but he wasn’t rightly a +man. He was a Kling. No, nor yet a Kling he wasn’t, but his skin was +in little flakes and cracks all over, from living so much in the salt +water as was his usual custom. His hands was all webby-foot, too. He +was called, I remember Dowse saying now, an Orange-Lord, on account of +his habits. You’ve heard of an Orange-Lord, sir?’ + +‘Orang-Laut?’ I suggested. + +‘That’s the name,’ said Fenwick, smacking his knee. ‘An Orang-Laut, of +course, and his name was Challong; what they call a sea-gypsy. Dowse +told me that that man, long hair and all, would go swimming up and down +the straits just for something to do; running down on one tide and +back again with the other, swimming side-stroke, and the tides going +tremenjus strong. Elseways he’d be skipping about the beach along with +the tigers at low tide, for he was most part a beast; or he’d sit in +a little boat praying to old Loby Toby of an evening when the volcano +was spitting red at the south end of the strait. Dowse told me that he +wasn’t a companionable man, like you and me might have been to Dowse. + +‘Now I can never rightly come at what it was that began to ail Dowse +after he had been there a year or something less. He was saving of all +his pay and tending to his Light, and now and again he’d have a fight +with Challong and tip him off the Light into the sea. Then, he told me, +his head began to feel streaky from looking at the tide so long. He +said there was long streaks of white running inside it; like wall-paper +that hadn’t been properly pasted up, he said. The streaks, they would +run with the tides, north and south, twice a day, accordin’ to them +currents, and he’d lie down on the planking--it was a screw-pile +Light--with his eye to a crack and watch the water streaking through +the piles just so quiet as hogwash. He said the only comfort he got +was at slack water. Then the streaks in his head went round and round +like a sampan in a tide-rip; but that was heaven, he said, to the +other kind of streaks,--the straight ones that looked like arrows on a +wind-chart, but much more regular, and that was the trouble of it. No +more he couldn’t ever keep his eyes off the tides that ran up and down +so strong, but as soon as ever he looked at the high hills standing +all along Flores Strait for rest and comfort his eyes would be pulled +down like to the nesty streaky water; and when they once got there he +couldn’t pull them away again till the tide changed. He told me all +this himself, speaking just as though he was talking of somebody else.’ + +‘Where did you meet him?’ I asked. + +‘In Portsmouth harbour, a-cleaning the brasses of a Ryde boat, but I’d +known him off and on through following the sea for many years. Yes, he +spoke about himself very curious, and all as if he was in the next +room laying there dead. Those streaks, they preyed upon his intellecks, +he said; and he made up his mind, every time that the Dutch gunboat +that attends to the Lights in those parts come along, that he’d ask to +be took off. But as soon as she did come something went click in his +throat, and he was so took up with watching her masts, because they +ran longways, in the contrary direction to his streaks, that he could +never say a word until she was gone away and her masts was under sea +again. Then, he said, he’d cry by the hour; and Challong swum round +and round the Light, laughin’ at him and splashin’ water with his +webby-foot hands. At last he took it into his pore sick head that the +ships, and particularly the steamers that came by,--there wasn’t many +of them,--made the streaks, instead of the tides as was natural. He +used to sit, he told me, cursing every boat that come along,--sometimes +a junk, sometimes a Dutch brig, and now and again a steamer rounding +Flores Head and poking about in the mouth of the strait. Or there’d +come a boat from Australia running north past old Loby Toby hunting for +a fair current, but never throwing out any papers that Challong might +pick up for Dowse to read. Generally speaking, the steamers kept more +westerly, but now and again they came looking for Timor and the west +coast of Australia. Dowse used to shout to them to go round by the +Ombay Passage, and not to come streaking past him, making the water all +streaky, but it wasn’t likely they’d hear. He says to himself after a +month, “I’ll give them one more chance,” he says. “If the next boat +don’t attend to my just representations,”--he says he remembers using +those very words to Challong,--“I’ll stop the fairway.” + +‘The next boat was a Two-streak cargo-boat very anxious to make her +northing. She waddled through under old Loby Toby at the south end of +the strait, and she passed within a quarter of a mile of the Wurlee +Light at the north end, in seventeen fathom o’ water, the tide against +her. Dowse took the trouble to come out with Challong in a little prow +that they had,--all bamboos and leakage,--and he lay in the fairway +waving a palm branch, and, so he told me, wondering why and what for he +was making this fool of himself. Up come the Two-streak boat, and Dowse +shouts: “Don’t you come this way again, making my head all streaky! +Go round by Ombay, and leave me alone.” Some one looks over the port +bulwarks and shies a banana at Dowse, and that’s all. Dowse sits down +in the bottom of the boat and cries fit to break his heart. Then he +says, “Challong, what am I a-crying for?” and they fetches up by the +Wurlee Light on the half-flood. + +‘“Challong,” he says, “there’s too much traffic here, and that’s why +the water’s so streaky as it is. It’s the junks and the brigs and +the steamers that do it,” he says; and all the time he was speaking +he was thinking, “Lord, Lord, what a crazy fool I am!” Challong said +nothing, because he couldn’t speak a word of English except say “dam,” +and he said that where you or me would say “yes.” Dowse lay down on +the planking of the Light with his eye to the crack, and he saw the +muddy water streaking below, and he never said a word till slack water, +because the streaks kept him tongue-tied at such times. At slack water +he says, “Challong, we must buoy this fairway for wrecks,” and he holds +up his hands several times, showing that dozens of wrecks had come +about in the fairway; and Challong says, “Dam.” + +‘That very afternoon he and Challong rows to Wurlee, the village in +the woods that the Light was named after, and buys canes,--stacks and +stacks of canes, and coir rope thick and fine, all sorts,--and they +sets to work making square floats by lashing of the canes together. +Dowse said he took longer over those floats than might have been +needed, because he rejoiced in the corners, they being square, and +the streaks in his head all running longways. He lashed the canes +together, criss-cross and thwartways,--any way but longways,--and +they made up twelve-foot-square floats, like rafts. Then he stepped +a twelve-foot bamboo or a bundle of canes in the centre, and to the +head of that he lashed a big six-foot W letter, all made of canes, and +painted the float dark green and the W white, as a wreck-buoy should be +painted. Between them two they makes a round dozen of these new kind of +wreck-buoys, and it was a two months’ job. There was no big traffic, +owing to it being on the turn of the monsoon, but what there was Dowse +cursed at, and the streaks in his head, they ran with the tides, as +usual. + +‘Day after day, so soon as a buoy was ready, Challong would take it +out, with a big rock that half sunk the prow and a bamboo grapnel, and +drop it dead in the fairway. He did this day or night, and Dowse could +see him of a clear night, when the sea brimed, climbing about the buoys +with the sea-fire dripping off him. They was all put into place, twelve +of them, in seventeen-fathom water; not in a straight line, on account +of a well-known shoal there, but slantways, and two, one behind the +other, mostly in the centre of the fairway. You must keep the centre +of those Javva currents, for currents at the side is different, and in +narrow water, before you can turn a spoke, you get your nose took round +and rubbed upon the rocks and the woods. Dowse knew that just as well +as any skipper. Likeways he knew that no skipper daren’t run through +uncharted wrecks in a six-knot current. He told me he used to lie +outside the Light watching his buoys ducking and dipping so friendly +with the tide; and the motion was comforting to him on account of its +being different from the run of the streaks in his head. + +‘Three weeks after he’d done his business up comes a steamer through +Loby Toby Straits, thinking she’d run into Flores Sea before night. He +saw her slow down; then she backed. Then one man and another come up +on the bridge, and he could see there was a regular powwow, and the +flood was driving her right on to Dowse’s wreck-buoys. After that she +spun round and went back south, and Dowse nearly killed himself with +laughing. But a few weeks after that a couple of junks came shouldering +through from the north, arm in arm, like junks go. It takes a good +deal to make a Chinaman understand danger. They junks set well in the +current, and went down the fairway, right among the buoys, ten knots +an hour, blowing horns and banging tin pots all the time. That made +Dowse very angry; he having taken so much trouble to stop the fairway. +No boats run Flores Straits by night, but it seemed to Dowse that if +junks’d do that in the day, the Lord knew but what a steamer might +trip over his buoys at night; and he sent Challong to run a coir rope +between three of the buoys in the middle of the fairway, and he fixed +naked lights of coir steeped in oil to that rope. The tides was the +only things that moved in those seas, for the airs was dead still +till they began to blow, and _then_ they would blow your hair off. +Challong tended those lights every night after the junks had been so +impident,--four lights in about a quarter of a mile hung up in iron +skillets on the rope; and when they was alight,--and coir burns well, +very like a lamp wick,--the fairway seemed more madder than anything +else in the world. First there was the Wurlee Light, then these four +queer lights, that couldn’t be riding-lights, almost flush with the +water, and behind them, twenty mile off, but the biggest light of all, +there was the red top of old Loby Toby volcano. Dowse told me that he +used to go out in the prow and look at his handiwork, and it made him +scared, being like no lights that ever was fixed. + +‘By and by some more steamers came along, snorting and snifting at +the buoys, but never going through, and Dowse says to himself: “Thank +goodness I’ve taught them not to come streaking through my water. Ombay +Passage is good enough for them and the like of them.” But he didn’t +remember how quick that sort of news spreads among the shipping. Every +steamer that fetched up by those buoys told another steamer and all the +port officers concerned in those seas that there was something wrong +with Flores Straits that hadn’t been charted yet. It was block-buoyed +for wrecks in the fairway, they said, and no sort of passage to use. +Well, the Dutch, of course they didn’t know anything about it. They +thought our Admiralty Survey had been there, and they thought it very +queer but neighbourly. You understand us English are always looking up +marks and lighting sea-ways all the world over, never asking with your +leave or by your leave, seeing that the sea concerns us more than any +one else. So the news went to and back from Flores to Bali, and Bali +to Probolingo, where the railway is that runs to Batavia. All through +the Javva seas everybody got the word to keep clear o’ Flores Straits, +and Dowse, he was left alone except for such steamers and small craft +as didn’t know. They’d come up and look at the straits like a bull +over a gate, but those nodding wreck-buoys scared them away. By and by +the Admiralty Survey ship--the _Britomarte_ I think she was--lay in +Macassar Roads off Fort Rotterdam, alongside of the _Amboina_, a dirty +little Dutch gunboat that used to clean there; and the Dutch captain +says to our captain, “What’s wrong with Flores Straits?” he says. + +‘“Blowed if I know,” says our captain, who’d just come up from the +Angelica Shoal. + +‘“Then why did you go and buoy it?” says the Dutchman. + +‘“Blowed if I have,” says our captain. “That’s your lookout.” + +‘“Buoyed it is,” says the Dutch captain, “according to what they tell +me; and a whole fleet of wreck-buoys, too.” + +‘“Gummy!” says our captain. “It’s a dorg’s life at sea, any way. I must +have a look at this. You come along after me as soon as you can;” +and down he skimmed that very night, round the heel of Celebes, three +days’ steam to Flores Head, and he met a Two-streak liner, very angry, +backing out of the head of the strait; and the merchant captain gave +our Survey ship something of his mind for leaving wrecks uncharted in +those narrow waters and wasting his company’s coal. + +‘“It’s no fault o’ mine,” says our captain. + +‘“I don’t care whose fault it is,” says the merchant captain, who had +come aboard to speak to him just at dusk. “The fairway’s choked with +wreck enough to knock a hole through a dock-gate. I saw their big ugly +masts sticking up just under my forefoot. Lord ha’ mercy on us!” he +says, spinning round. “The place is like Regent Street of a hot summer +night.” + +‘And so it was. They two looked at Flores Straits, and they saw lights +one after the other stringing across the fairway. Dowse, he had seen +the steamers hanging there before dark, and he said to Challong: “We’ll +give ’em something to remember. Get all the skillets and iron pots you +can and hang them up alongside o’ the regular four lights. We must +teach ’em to go round by the Ombay Passage, or they’ll be streaking +up our water again!” Challong took a header off the lighthouse, got +aboard the little leaking prow, with his coir soaked in oil and all +the skillets he could muster, and he began to show his lights, four +regulation ones and half-a-dozen new lights hung on that rope which +was a little above the water. Then he went to all the spare buoys with +all his spare coir, and hung a skillet-flare on every pole that he +could get at,--about seven poles. So you see, taking one with another, +there was the Wurlee Light, four lights on the rope between the three +centre fairway wreck-buoys that was hung out as a usual custom, six or +eight extry ones that Challong had hung up on the same rope, and seven +dancing flares that belonged to seven wreck-buoys,--eighteen or twenty +lights in all crowded into a mile of seventeen-fathom water, where no +tide ’d ever let a wreck rest for three weeks, let alone ten or twelve +wrecks, as the flares showed. + +‘The Admiralty captain, he saw the lights come out one after another, +same as the merchant skipper did who was standing at his side, and he +said:-- + +‘“There’s been an international cata-strophe here or elseways,” and +then he whistled. “I’m going to stand on and off all night till the +Dutchman comes,” he says. + +‘“I’m off,” says the merchant skipper. “My owners don’t wish for me to +watch illuminations. That strait’s choked with wreck, and I shouldn’t +wonder if a typhoon hadn’t driven half the junks o’ China there.” +With that he went away; but the Survey ship, she stayed all night at +the head o’ Flores Strait, and the men admired of the lights till the +lights was burning out, and then they admired more than ever. + +‘A little bit before morning the Dutch gunboat come flustering up, and +the two ships stood together watching the lights burn out and out, till +there was nothing left ’cept Flores Straits, all green and wet, and a +dozen wreck-buoys, and Wurlee Light. + +‘Dowse had slept very quiet that night, and got rid of his streaks by +means of thinking of the angry steamers outside. Challong was busy, +and didn’t come back to his bunk till late. In the gray early morning +Dowse looked out to sea, being, as he said, in torment, and saw all +the navies of the world riding outside Flores Strait fairway in a +half-moon, seven miles from wing to wing, most wonderful to behold. +Those were the words he used to me time and again in telling the tale. + +‘Then, he says, he heard a gun fired with a most tremenjus explosion, +and all them great navies crumbled to little pieces of clouds, and +there was only two ships remaining, and a man-o’-war’s boat rowing to +the Light, with the oars going sideways instead o’ longways as the +morning tides, ebb or flow, would continually run. + +‘“What the devil’s wrong with this strait?” says a man in the boat as +soon as they was in hailing distance. “Has the whole English Navy sunk +here, or what?” + +‘“There’s nothing wrong,” says Dowse, sitting on the platform outside +the Light, and keeping one eye very watchful on the streakiness of the +tide, which he always hated, ’specially in the mornings. “You leave +me alone and I’ll leave you alone. Go round by the Ombay Passage, +and don’t cut up my water. You’re making it streaky.” All the time +he was saying that he kept on thinking to himself, “Now that’s +foolishness,--now that’s nothing but foolishness;” and all the time he +was holding tight to the edge of the platform in case the streakiness +of the tide should carry him away. + +‘Somebody answers from the boat, very soft and quiet, “We’re going +round by Ombay in a minute, if you’ll just come and speak to our +captain and give him his bearings.” + +‘Dowse, he felt very highly flattered, and he slipped into the boat, +not paying any attention to Challong. But Challong swum along to the +ship after the boat. When Dowse was in the boat, he found, so he says, +he couldn’t speak to the sailors ’cept to call them “white mice with +chains about their neck,” and Lord knows he hadn’t seen or thought +o’ white mice since he was a little bit of a boy with them in his +hankerchief. So he kept himself quiet, and so they come to the Survey +ship; and the man in the boat hails the quarter-deck with something +that Dowse could not rightly understand, but there was one word he +spelt out again and again,--m-a-d, mad,--and he heard some one behind +him saying of it backwards. So he had two words,--m-a-d, mad, d-a-m, +dam; and he put they two words together as he come on the quarter-deck, +and he says to the captain very slowly, “I be damned if I am mad,” but +all the time his eye was held like by the coils of rope on the belaying +pins, and he followed those ropes up and up with his eye till he was +quite lost and comfortable among the rigging, which ran criss-cross, +and slopeways, and up and down, and any way but straight along under +his feet north and south. The deck-seams, they ran _that_ way, and +Dowse daresn’t look at them. They was the same as the streaks of the +water under the planking of the lighthouse. + +‘Then he heard the captain talking to him very kind, and for the life +of him he couldn’t tell why; and what he wanted to tell the captain was +that Flores Strait was too streaky, like bacon, and the steamers only +made it worse; but all he could do was to keep his eye very careful on +the rigging and sing:-- + + “I saw a ship a-sailing, + A-sailing on the sea; + And oh, it was all lading + With pretty things for me!” + +Then he remembered that was foolishness, and he started off to say +about the Ombay Passage, but all he said was: “The captain was a +duck,--meaning no offence to you, sir,--but there was something on his +back that I’ve forgotten. + + “And when the ship began to move + The captain says, ‘Quack-quack!’” + +‘He notices the captain turns very red and angry, and he says to +himself, “My foolish tongue’s run away with me again. I’ll go +forward;” and he went forward, and catched the reflection of himself +in the binnacle brasses; and he saw that he was standing there and +talking mother-naked in front of all them sailors, and he ran into +the fo’c’s’le howling most grievous. He must ha’ gone naked for weeks +on the Light, and Challong o’ course never noticed it. Challong was +swimmin’ round and round the ship, sayin’ “dam” for to please the men +and to be took aboard, because he didn’t know any better. + +‘Dowse didn’t tell what happened after this, but seemingly our Survey +ship lowered two boats and went over to Dowse’s buoys. They took one +sounding, and then finding it was all correct they cut the buoys that +Dowse and Challong had made, and let the tide carry ’em out through the +Loby Toby end of the strait; and the Dutch gunboat, she sent two men +ashore to take care o’ the Wurlee Light, and the _Britomarte_, she went +away with Dowse, leaving Challong to try to follow them, a-calling +“dam--dam” all among the wake of the screw, and half heaving himself +out of water and joining his webby-foot hands together. He dropped +astern in five minutes, and I suppose he went back to the Wurlee Light. +You can’t drown an Orange-Lord, not even in Flores Strait on flood-tide. + +‘Dowse come across me when he came to England with the Survey ship, +after being more than six months in her, and cured of his streaks by +working hard and not looking over the side more than he could help. +He told me what I’ve told you, sir, and he was very much ashamed of +himself; but the trouble on his mind was to know whether he hadn’t sent +something or other to the bottom with his buoyings and his lightings +and such like. He put it to me many times, and each time more and more +sure he was that something had happened in the straits because of him. +I think that distructed him, because I found him up at Fratton one +day, in a red jersey, a-praying before the Salvation Army, which had +produced him in their papers as a Reformed Pirate. They knew from his +mouth that he had committed evil on the deep waters,--that was what +he told them,--and piracy, which no one does now except Chineses, was +all they knew of. I says to him: “Dowse, don’t be a fool. Take off +that jersey and come along with me.” He says: “Fenwick, I’m a-saving +of my soul; for I do believe that I have killed more men in Flores +Strait than Trafalgar.” I says: “A man that thought he’d seen all the +navies of the earth standing round in a ring to watch his foolish false +wreck-buoys” (those was my very words I used) “ain’t fit to have a +soul, and if he did he couldn’t kill a louse with it. John Dowse, you +was mad then, but you are a damn sight madder now. Take off that there +jersey!” + +‘He took it off and come along with me, but he never got rid o’ that +suspicion that he’d sunk some ships a-cause of his foolishnesses at +Flores Straits; and now he’s a wherryman from Portsmouth to Gosport, +where the tides run crossways and you can’t row straight for ten +strokes together.... So late as all this! Look!’ + + * * * * * + +Fenwick left his chair, passed to the Light, touched something that +clicked, and the glare ceased with a suddenness that was pain. Day had +come, and the Channel needed St. Cecilia no longer. The sea-fog rolled +back from the cliffs in trailed wreaths and dragged patches, as the sun +rose and made the dead sea alive and splendid. The stillness of the +morning held us both silent as we stepped on the balcony. A lark went +up from the cliffs behind St. Cecilia, and we smelt a smell of cows in +the lighthouse pastures below. + +Then we were both at liberty to thank the Lord for another day of clean +and wholesome life. + + + + + A CONFERENCE OF THE POWERS. + + + Life liveth but in life, and doth not roam + To other lands if all be well at home: + ‘Solid as ocean foam,’ quoth ocean foam. + + +The room was blue with the smoke of three pipes and a cigar. The +leave-season had opened in India, and the firstfruits on this side of +the water were ‘Tick’ Boileau, of the 45th Bengal Cavalry, who called +on me, after three years’ absence, to discuss old things which had +happened. Fate, who always does her work handsomely, sent up the same +staircase within the same hour The Infant, fresh from Upper Burma, +and he and Boileau looking out of my window saw walking in the street +one Nevin, late in a Gurkha regiment which had been through the Black +Mountain Expedition. They yelled to him to come up, and the whole +street was aware that they desired him to come up, and he came up, and +there followed Pandemonium in my room because we had foregathered from +the ends of the earth, and three of us were on a holiday, and none of +us were twenty-five, and all the delights of all London lay waiting our +pleasure. + +Boileau took the only other chair, The Infant, by right of his bulk, +the sofa; and Nevin, being a little man, sat cross-legged on the top of +the revolving bookcase, and we all said, ‘Who’d ha’ thought it!’ and +‘What are you doing here?’ till speculation was exhausted and the talk +went over to inevitable ‘shop.’ Boileau was full of a great scheme for +winning a military _attaché_-ship at St. Petersburg; Nevin had hopes of +the Staff College, and The Infant had been moving heaven and earth and +the Horse Guards for a commission in the Egyptian army. + +‘What’s the use o’ that?’ said Nevin, twirling round on the bookcase. + +‘Oh, heaps! ’Course, if you get stuck with a Fellaheen regiment, you’re +sold; but if you are appointed to a Soudanese lot, you’re in clover. +They are first-class fighting-men--and just think of the eligible +central position of Egypt in the next row.’ + +This was putting the match to a magazine. We all began to explain the +Central Asian question off-hand, flinging army corps from the Helmund +to Kashmir with more than Russian recklessness. Each of the boys made +for himself a war to his own liking, and when we had settled all +the details of Armageddon, killed all our senior officers, handled +a division apiece, and nearly torn the atlas in two in attempts to +explain our theories, Boileau needs must lift up his voice above the +clamour, and cry, ‘Anyhow it’ll be the Hell of a row!’ in tones that +carried conviction far down the staircase. + +Entered, unperceived in the smoke, William the Silent. ‘Gen’elman to +see you, sir,’ said he, and disappeared, leaving in his stead none +other than Mr. Eustace Cleever. William would have introduced the +Dragon of Wantley with equal disregard of present company. + +‘I--I beg your pardon. I didn’t know that there was anybody--with you. +I----’ + +But it was not seemly to allow Mr. Cleever to depart: he was a great +man. The boys remained where they were, for any movement would have +choked up the little room. Only when they saw his gray hairs they stood +on their feet, and when The Infant caught the name, he said: + +‘Are you--did you write that book called _As it was in the Beginning_?’ + +Mr. Cleever admitted that he had written the book. + +‘Then--then I don’t know how to thank you, sir,’ said The Infant, +flushing pink. ‘I was brought up in the country you wrote about--all my +people live there; and I read the book in camp on the Hlinedatalone, +and I knew every stick and stone, and the dialect too; and, by Jove! it +was just like being at home and hearing the country-people talk. Nevin, +you know _As it was in the Beginning_? So does Ti--Boileau.’ + +Mr. Cleever has tasted as much praise, public and private, as one man +may safely swallow; but it seemed to me that the out-spoken admiration +in The Infant’s eyes and the little stir in the little company came +home to him very nearly indeed. + +‘Won’t you take the sofa?’ said The Infant. ‘I’ll sit on Boileau’s +chair, and----’ here he looked at me to spur me to my duties as a host; +but I was watching the novelist’s face. Cleever had not the least +intention of going away, but settled himself on the sofa. + +Following the first great law of the Army, which says ‘all property is +common except money, and you’ve only got to ask the next man for that,’ +The Infant offered tobacco and drink. It was the least he could do; but +not the most lavish praise in the world held half as much appreciation +and reverence as The Infant’s simple ‘Say when, sir,’ above the long +glass. + +Cleever said ‘when,’ and more thereto, for he was a golden talker, +and he sat in the midst of hero-worship devoid of all taint of +self-interest. The boys asked him of the birth of his book and +whether it was hard to write, and how his notions came to him; and +he answered with the same absolute simplicity as he was questioned. +His big eyes twinkled, he dug his long thin hands into his gray beard +and tugged it as he grew animated. He dropped little by little from +the peculiar pinching of the broader vowels--the indefinable ‘Euh,’ +that runs through the speech of the pundit caste--and the elaborate +choice of words, to freely-mouthed ‘ows’ and ‘ois,’ and, for him at +least, unfettered colloquialisms. He could not altogether understand +the boys, who hung upon his words so reverently. The line of the +chin-strap, that still showed white and untanned on cheek-bone and +jaw, the steadfast young eyes puckered at the corners of the lids with +much staring through red-hot sunshine, the slow, untroubled breathing, +and the curious, crisp, curt speech seemed to puzzle him equally. He +could create men and women, and send them to the uttermost ends of the +earth, to help delight and comfort; he knew every mood of the fields, +and could interpret them to the cities, and he knew the hearts of many +in city and the country, but he had hardly, in forty years, come into +contact with the thing which is called a Subaltern of the Line. He told +the boys this in his own way. + +‘Well, how should you?’ said The Infant. ‘You--you’re quite different, +y’ see, sir.’ + +The Infant expressed his ideas in his tone rather than his words, but +Cleever understood the compliment. + +‘We’re only Subs,’ said Nevin, ‘and we aren’t exactly the sort of men +you’d meet much in your life, I s’pose.’ + +‘That’s true,’ said Cleever. ‘I live chiefly among men who write, +and paint, and sculp, and so forth. We have our own talk and our own +interests, and the outer world doesn’t trouble us much.’ + +‘That must be awfully jolly,’ said Boileau, at a venture. ‘We have our +own shop, too, but ’tisn’t half as interesting as yours, of course. You +know all the men who’ve ever done anything; and we only knock about +from place to place, and we do nothing.’ + +‘The Army’s a very lazy profession if you choose to make it so,’ said +Nevin. ‘When there’s nothing going on, there is nothing going on, and +you lie up.’ + +‘Or try to get a billet somewhere, to be ready for the next show,’ said +The Infant with a chuckle. + +‘To me,’ said Cleever softly, ‘the whole idea of warfare seems so +foreign and unnatural, so essentially vulgar, if I may say so, that I +can hardly appreciate your sensations. Of course, though, any change +from life in garrison towns must be a godsend to you.’ + +Like many home-staying Englishmen, Cleever believed that the newspaper +phrase he quoted covered the whole duty of the Army whose toils enabled +him to enjoy his many-sided life in peace. The remark was not a happy +one, for Boileau had just come off the Frontier, The Infant had been on +the warpath for nearly eighteen months, and the little red man Nevin +two months before had been sleeping under the stars at the peril of +his life. But none of them tried to explain, till I ventured to point +out that they had all seen service and were not used to idling. Cleever +took in the idea slowly. + +‘Seen service?’ said he. Then, as a child might ask, ‘Tell me. Tell me +everything about everything.’ + +‘How do you mean?’ said The Infant, delighted at being directly +appealed to by the great man. + +‘Good Heavens! How am I to make you understand, if you can’t see. In +the first place, what is your age?’ + +‘Twenty-three next July,’ said The Infant promptly. + +Cleever questioned the others with his eyes. + +‘I’m twenty-four,’ said Nevin. + +‘And I’m twenty-two,’ said Boileau. + +‘And you’ve all seen service?’ + +‘We’ve all knocked about a little bit, sir, but The Infant’s the +war-worn veteran. He’s had two years’ work in Upper Burma,’ said Nevin. + +‘When you say work, what do you mean, you extraordinary creatures?’ + +‘Explain it, Infant,’ said Nevin. + +‘Oh, keeping things in order generally, and running about after little +_dakus_--that’s dacoits--and so on. There’s nothing to explain.’ + +‘Make that young Leviathan speak,’ said Cleever impatiently, above his +glass. + +‘How can he speak?’ said I. ‘He’s done the work. The two don’t go +together. But, Infant, you’re ordered to _bukh_.’ + +‘What about? I’ll try.’ + +‘_Bukh_ about a _daur_. You’ve been on heaps of ’em,’ said Nevin. + +‘What in the world does that mean? Has the Army a language of its own?’ + +The Infant turned very red. He was afraid he was being laughed at, and +he detested talking before outsiders; but it was the author of _As it +was in the Beginning_ who waited. + +‘It’s all so new to me,’ pleaded Cleever; ‘and--and you said you liked +my book.’ + +This was a direct appeal that The Infant could understand, and he began +rather flurriedly, with much slang bred of nervousness-- + +‘Pull me up, sir, if I say anything you don’t follow. About six months +before I took my leave out of Burma, I was on the Hlinedatalone, +up near the Shan States, with sixty Tommies--private soldiers, +that is--and another subaltern, a year senior to me. The Burmese +business was a subaltern’s war, and our forces were split up into +little detachments, all running about the country and trying to keep +the dacoits quiet. The dacoits were having a first-class time, y’ +know--filling women up with kerosine and setting ’em alight, and +burning villages, and crucifying people.’ + +The wonder in Eustace Cleever’s eyes deepened. He could not quite +realise that the cross still existed in any form. + +‘Have you ever seen a crucifixion?’ said he. + +‘Of course not. ’Shouldn’t have allowed it if I had; but I’ve seen the +corpses. The dacoits had a trick of sending a crucified corpse down +the river on a raft, just to show they were keeping their tail up and +enjoying themselves. Well, that was the kind of people I had to deal +with.’ + +‘Alone?’ said Cleever. Solitude of the soul he could understand--none +better--but he had never in the body moved ten miles from his fellows. + +‘I had my men, but the rest of it was pretty much alone. The nearest +post that could give me orders was fifteen miles away, and we used to +heliograph to them, and they used to give us orders same way--too many +orders.’ + +‘Who was your C. O.?’ said Boileau. + +‘Bounderby--Major. _Pukka_ Bounderby; more Bounder than _pukka_. He +went out up Bhamo way. Shot, or cut down, last year,’ said The Infant. + +‘What are these interludes in a strange tongue?’ said Cleever to me. + +‘Professional information--like the Mississippi pilots’ talk,’ said +I. ‘He did not approve of his major, who died a violent death. Go on, +Infant.’ + +‘Far too many orders. You couldn’t take the Tommies out for a two days’ +_daur_--that’s expedition--without being blown up for not asking leave. +And the whole country was humming with dacoits. I used to send out +spies, and act on their information. As soon as a man came in and told +me of a gang in hiding, I’d take thirty men with some grub, and go out +and look for them, while the other subaltern lay doggo in camp.’ + +‘Lay! Pardon me, but _how_ did he lie?’ said Cleever. + +‘Lay doggo--lay quiet, with the other thirty men. When I came back, +he’d take out his half of the men, and have a good time of his own.’ + +‘Who was he?’ said Boileau. + +‘Carter-Deecey, of the Aurungabadis. Good chap, but too _zubberdusty_, +and went _bokhar_ four days out of seven. He’s gone out, too. Don’t +interrupt a man.’ + +Cleever looked helplessly at me. + +‘The other subaltern,’ I translated swiftly, ‘came from a native +regiment, and was overbearing in his demeanour. He suffered much from +the fever of the country, and is now dead. Go on, Infant.’ + +‘After a bit, we got into trouble for using the men on frivolous +occasions, and so I used to put my signaller under arrest to prevent +him reading the helio-orders. Then I’d go out and leave a message +to be sent an hour after I got clear of the camp, something like +this: “Received important information; start in an hour unless +countermanded.” If I was ordered back, it didn’t much matter. I swore +the C. O.’s watch was wrong, or something, when I came back. The +Tommies enjoyed the fun, and--Oh, yes, there was one Tommy who was the +bard of the detachment. He used to make up verses on everything that +happened.’ + +‘What sort of verses?’ said Cleever. + +‘Lovely verses; and the Tommies used to sing ’em. There was one song +with a chorus, and it said something like this.’ The Infant dropped +into the true barrack-room twang: + + ‘Theebaw, the Burma king, did a very foolish thing, + When ’e mustered ’ostile forces in ar-rai, + ’E little thought that _we_, from far across the sea, + Would send our armies up to Mandalai!’ + +‘O gorgeous!’ said Cleever. ‘And how magnificently direct! The notion +of a regimental bard is new to me, but of course it must be so.’ + +‘He was awf’ly popular with the men,’ said The Infant. ‘He had them +all down in rhyme as soon as ever they had done anything. He was a +great bard. He was always ready with an elegy when we picked up a +Boh--that’s a leader of dacoits.’ + +‘How did you pick him up?’ said Cleever. + +‘Oh! shot him if he wouldn’t surrender.’ + +‘You! Have you shot a man?’ + +There was a subdued chuckle from all three boys, and it dawned on the +questioner that one experience in life which was denied to himself, and +he weighed the souls of men in a balance, had been shared by three very +young gentlemen of engaging appearance. He turned round on Nevin, who +had climbed to the top of the bookcase, and was sitting cross-legged as +before. + +‘And have _you_, too?’ + +‘’Think so,’ said Nevin sweetly. ‘In the Black Mountain. He was rolling +cliffs on to my half-company, and spoiling our formation. I took a +rifle from a man, and brought him down at the second shot.’ + +‘Good heavens! And how did you feel afterwards?’ + +‘Thirsty. I wanted a smoke, too.’ + +Cleever looked at Boileau--the youngest. Surely his hands were +guiltless of blood. + +Boileau shook his head and laughed. ‘Go on, Infant,’ said he. + +‘And you too?’ said Cleever. + +‘Fancy so. It was a case of cut, cut or be cut, with me; so I +cut--One. I couldn’t do any more, sir.’ + +Cleever looked as though he would like to ask many questions, but The +Infant swept on, in the full tide of his tale. + +‘Well, we were called insubordinate young whelps at last, and strictly +forbidden to take the Tommies out any more without orders. I wasn’t +sorry, because Tommy is such an exacting sort of creature. He wants +to live as though he were in barracks all the time. I was grubbing on +fowls and boiled corn, but my Tommies wanted their pound of fresh meat, +and their half ounce of this, and their two ounces of t’other thing, +and they used to come to me and badger me for plug-tobacco when we were +four days in jungle. I said: “I can get you Burma tobacco, but I don’t +keep a canteen up my sleeve.” They couldn’t see it. They wanted all the +luxuries of the season, confound ’em.’ + +‘You were alone when you were dealing with these men?’ said Cleever, +watching The Infant’s face under the palm of his hand. He was getting +new ideas, and they seemed to trouble him. + +‘Of course, unless you count the mosquitoes. They were nearly as big as +the men. After I had to lie doggo I began to look for something to do; +and I was great pals with a man called Hicksey in the Police, the best +man that ever stepped on earth; a first-class man.’ + +Cleever nodded applause. He knew how to appreciate enthusiasm. + +‘Hicksey and I were as thick as thieves. He had some Burma mounted +police--rummy chaps, armed with sword and snider carbine. They rode +punchy Burma ponies, with string stirrups, red cloth saddles, and red +bell-rope headstalls. Hicksey used to lend me six or eight of them +when I asked him--nippy little devils, keen as mustard. But they told +their wives too much, and all my plans got known, till I learned to +give false marching orders over-night, and take the men to quite a +different village in the morning. Then we used to catch the simple +_daku_ before breakfast, and make him very sick. It’s a ghastly country +on the Hlinedatalone; all bamboo jungle, with paths about four feet +wide winding through it. The _dakus_ knew all the paths, and potted at +us as we came round a corner; but the mounted police knew the paths as +well as the _dakus_, and we used to go stalking ’em in and out. Once +we flushed ’em, the men on the ponies had the advantage of the men on +foot. We held all the country absolutely quiet, for ten miles round, in +about a month. Then we took Boh Na-ghee, Hicksey and I and the Civil +officer. That was a lark!’ + +‘I think I am beginning to understand a little,’ said Cleever. ‘It was +a pleasure to you to administer and fight?’ + +‘Rather! There’s nothing nicer than a satisfactory little expedition, +when you find your plans fit together, and your conformation’s +_teek_--correct, you know, and the whole _sub-chiz_--I mean, when +everything works out like formulæ on a blackboard. Hicksey had all the +information about the Boh. He had been burning villages and murdering +people right and left, and cutting up Government convoys and all that. +He was lying doggo in a village about fifteen miles off, waiting to +get a fresh gang together. So we arranged to take thirty mounted +police, and turn him out before he could plunder into our newly-settled +villages. At the last minute, the Civil officer in our part of the +world thought he’d assist at the performance.’ + +‘Who was he?’ said Nevin. + +‘His name was Dennis,’ said The Infant slowly. ‘And we’ll let it stay +so. He’s a better man now than he was then.’ + +‘But how old was the Civil power?’ said Cleever. ‘The situation is +developing itself.’ + +‘He was about six-and-twenty, and he was awf’ly clever. He knew a +lot of things, but I don’t think he was quite steady enough for +dacoit-hunting. We started overnight for Boh Na-ghee’s village, and we +got there just before morning, without raising an alarm. Dennis had +turned out armed to his teeth--two revolvers, a carbine, and all sorts +of things. I was talking to Hicksey about posting the men, and Dennis +edged his pony in between us, and said, “What shall I do? What shall I +do? Tell me what to do, you fellows.” We didn’t take much notice; but +his pony tried to bite me in the leg, and I said, “Pull out a bit, old +man, till we’ve settled the attack.” He kept edging in, and fiddling +with his reins and his revolvers, and saying, “Dear me! Dear me! Oh, +dear me! What do you think I’d better do?” The man was in a deadly +funk, and his teeth were chattering.’ + +‘I sympathise with the Civil power,’ said Cleever. ‘Continue, young +Clive.’ + +‘The fun of it was, that he was supposed to be our superior officer. +Hicksey took a good look at him, and told him to attach himself to +my party. ’Beastly mean of Hicksey, that. The chap kept on edging in +and bothering, instead of asking for some men and taking up his own +position, till I got angry, and the carbines began popping on the +other side of the village. Then I said, “For God’s sake be quiet, and +sit down where you are! If you see anybody come out of the village, +shoot at him.” I knew he couldn’t hit a hay-rick at a yard. Then I +took my men over the garden wall--over the palisades, y’ know--somehow +or other, and the fun began. Hicksey had found the Boh in bed under a +mosquito-curtain, and he had taken a flying jump on to him.’ + +‘A flying jump!’ said Cleever. ‘Is _that_ also war?’ + +‘Yes,’ said The Infant, now thoroughly warmed. ‘Don’t you know how you +take a flying jump on to a fellow’s head at school, when he snores in +the dormitory? The Boh was sleeping in a bedful of swords and pistols, +and Hicksey came down like Zazel through the netting, and the net got +mixed up with the pistols and the Boh and Hicksey, and they all rolled +on the floor together. I laughed till I couldn’t stand, and Hicksey +was cursing me for not helping him; so I left him to fight it out and +went into the village. Our men were slashing about and firing, and so +were the dacoits, and in the thick of the mess, some ass set fire to a +house, and we all had to clear out. I froze on to the nearest _daku_ +and ran to the palisade, shoving him in front of me. He wriggled loose, +and bounded over the other side. I came after him; but when I had one +leg one side and one leg the other of the palisade, I saw that the +_daku_ had fallen flat on Dennis’s head. That man had never moved from +where I left him. They rolled on the ground together, and Dennis’s +carbine went off and nearly shot me. The _daku_ picked himself up and +ran, and Dennis buzzed his carbine after him, and it caught him on the +back of his head, and knocked him silly. You never saw anything so +funny in your life. I doubled up on the top of the palisade and hung +there, yelling with laughter. But Dennis began to weep like anything. +“Oh, I’ve killed a man,” he said. “I’ve killed a man, and I shall never +know another peaceful hour in my life! Is he dead? Oh, _is_ he dead? +Good Lord, I’ve killed a man!” I came down and said, “Don’t be a fool;” +but he kept on shouting, “Is he dead?” till I could have kicked him. +The _daku_ was only knocked out of time with the carbine. He came to +after a bit, and I said, “Are you hurt much?” He groaned and said “No.” +His chest was all cut with scrambling over the palisade. “The white +man’s gun didn’t do that,” he said, “I did that, and _I_ knocked the +white man over.” Just like a Burman, wasn’t it? But Dennis wouldn’t be +happy at any price. He said: “Tie up his wounds. He’ll bleed to death. +Oh, he’ll bleed to death!” “Tie ’em up yourself,” I said, “if you’re so +anxious.” “I can’t touch him,” said Dennis, “but here’s my shirt.” He +took off his shirt, and fixed the braces again over his bare shoulders. +I ripped the shirt up, and bandaged the dacoit quite professionally. He +was grinning at Dennis all the time; and Dennis’s haversack was lying +on the ground, bursting full of sandwiches. Greedy hog! I took some, +and offered some to Dennis. “How can I eat?” he said. “How can you ask +me to eat? His very blood is on your hands now, and you’re eating _my_ +sandwiches!” “All right,” I said; “I’ll give ’em to the _daku_.” So I +did, and the little chap was quite pleased, and wolfed ’em down like +one o’clock.’ + +Cleever brought his hand down on the table with a thump that made the +empty glasses dance. ‘That’s Art!’ he said. ‘Flat, flagrant mechanism! +Don’t tell me that happened on the spot!’ + +The pupils of The Infant’s eyes contracted to two pin-points. ‘I beg +your pardon,’ he said, slowly and stiffly, ‘but I am telling this thing +_as_ it happened.’ + +Cleever looked at him a moment. ‘My fault entirely,’ said he; ‘I should +have known. Please go on.’ + +‘Hicksey came out of what was left of the village with his prisoners +and captives, all neatly tied up. Boh Na-ghee was first, and one of the +villagers, as soon as he found the old ruffian helpless, began kicking +him quietly. The Boh stood it as long as he could, and then groaned, +and we saw what was going on. Hicksey tied the villager up, and gave +him a half-a-dozen, good, with a bamboo, to remind him to leave a +prisoner alone. You should have seen the old Boh grin. Oh! but Hicksey +was in a furious rage with everybody. He’d got a wipe over the elbow +that had tickled up his funny-bone, and he was rabid with me for not +having helped him with the Boh and the mosquito-net. I had to explain +that I couldn’t do anything. If you’d seen ’em both tangled up together +on the floor in one kicking cocoon, you’d have laughed for a week. +Hicksey swore that the only decent man of his acquaintance was the Boh, +and all the way to camp Hicksey was talking to the Boh, and the Boh +was complaining about the soreness of his bones. When we got back, and +had had a bath, the Boh wanted to know when he was going to be hanged. +Hicksey said he couldn’t oblige him on the spot, but had to send him +to Rangoon. The Boh went down on his knees, and reeled off a catalogue +of his crimes--he ought to have been hanged seventeen times over, by +his own confession--and implored Hicksey to settle the business out of +hand. “If I’m sent to Rangoon,” said he, “they’ll keep me in jail all +my life, and that is a death every time the sun gets up or the wind +blows.” But we had to send him to Rangoon, and, of course, he was let +off down there, and given penal servitude for life. When I came to +Rangoon I went over the jail--I had helped to fill it, y’ know--and the +old Boh was there, and he spotted me at once. He begged for some opium +first, and I tried to get him some, but that was against the rules. +Then he asked me to have his sentence changed to death, because he was +afraid of being sent to the Andamans. I couldn’t do that either, but I +tried to cheer him, and told him how things were going up-country, and +the last thing he said was--“Give my compliments to the fat white man +who jumped on me. If I’d been awake I’d have killed him.” I wrote that +to Hicksey next mail, and--and that’s all. I’m ’fraid I’ve been gassing +awf’ly, sir.’ + +Cleever said nothing for a long time. The Infant looked uncomfortable. +He feared that, misled by enthusiasm, he had filled up the novelist’s +time with unprofitable recital of trivial anecdotes. + +Then said Cleever, ‘I can’t understand. Why should you have seen and +done all these things before you have cut your wisdom-teeth?’ + +‘Don’t know,’ said The Infant apologetically. ‘I haven’t seen +much--only Burmese jungle.’ + +‘And dead men, and war, and power, and responsibility,’ said Cleever, +under his breath. ‘You won’t have any sensations left at thirty, if you +go on as you have done. But I want to hear more tales--more tales!’ He +seemed to forget that even subalterns might have engagements of their +own. + +‘We’re thinking of dining out somewhere--the lot of us--and going on to +the Empire afterwards,’ said Nevin, with hesitation. He did not like to +ask Cleever to come too. The invitation might be regarded as perilously +near to ‘cheek.’ And Cleever, anxious not to wag a gray beard unbidden +among boys at large, said nothing on his side. + +Boileau solved the little difficulty by blurting out: ‘Won’t you come +too, sir?’ + +Cleever almost shouted ‘Yes,’ and while he was being helped into his +coat, continued to murmur ‘Good heavens!’ at intervals in a way that +the boys could not understand. + +‘I don’t think I’ve been to the Empire in my life,’ said he; ‘but--what +_is_ my life after all? Let us go.’ + +They went out with Eustace Cleever, and I sulked at home because they +had come to see me but had gone over to the better man; which was +humiliating. They packed him into a cab with utmost reverence, for was +he not the author of _As it was in the Beginning_, and a person in +whose company it was an honour to go abroad? From all I gathered later, +he had taken less interest in the performance before him than in their +conversations, and they protested with emphasis that he was ‘as good a +man as they make. ’Knew what a man was driving at almost before he said +it; and yet he’s so damned simple about things any man knows.’ That was +one of many comments. + +At midnight they returned, announcing that they were ‘highly +respectable gondoliers,’ and that oysters and stout were what they +chiefly needed. The eminent novelist was still with them, and I think +he was calling them by their shorter names. I am certain that he said +he had been moving in worlds not realised, and that they had shown him +the Empire in a new light. + +Still sore at recent neglect, I answered shortly, ‘Thank heaven we have +within the land ten thousand as good as they,’ and when he departed, +asked him what he thought of things generally. + +He replied with another quotation, to the effect that though singing +was a remarkably fine performance, I was to be quite sure that few lips +would be moved to song if they could find a sufficiency of kissing. + +Whereby I understood that Eustace Cleever, decorator and colourman in +words, was blaspheming his own Art, and would be sorry for this in the +morning. + + + + + MY LORD THE ELEPHANT. + + + ’Less you want your toes trod off you’d better get back at once, + For the bullocks are walkin’ two by two, + The _byles_ are walkin’ two by two, + The bullocks are walkin’ two by two, + An’ the elephants bring the guns! + Ho! Yuss! + Great--big--long--black forty-pounder guns: + Jiggery-jolty to and fro, + Each as big as a launch in tow-- + Blind--dumb--broad-breeched beggars o’ batterin’ guns! + + _Barrack-room Ballad._ + + +Touching the truth of this tale there need be no doubt at all, for +it was told to me by Mulvaney at the back of the elephant-lines, one +warm evening when we were taking the dogs out for exercise. The twelve +Government elephants rocked at their pickets outside the big mud-walled +stables (one arch, as wide as a bridge-arch, to each restless beast), +and the _mahouts_ were preparing the evening meal. Now and again some +impatient youngster would smell the cooking flour-cakes and squeal; and +the naked little children of the elephant-lines would strut down the +row shouting and commanding silence, or, reaching up, would slap at the +eager trunks. Then the elephants feigned to be deeply interested in +pouring dust upon their heads, but, so soon as the children passed, the +rocking, fidgeting, and muttering broke out again. + +The sunset was dying, and the elephants heaved and swayed dead black +against the one sheet of rose-red low down in the dusty gray sky. It +was at the beginning of the hot weather, just after the troops had +changed into their white clothes, so Mulvaney and Ortheris looked +like ghosts walking through the dusk. Learoyd had gone off to another +barrack to buy sulphur ointment for his last dog under suspicion of +mange, and with delicacy had put his kennel into quarantine at the back +of the furnace where they cremate the anthrax cases. + +‘_You_ wouldn’t like mange, little woman?’ said Ortheris, turning +my terrier over on her fat white back with his foot. ‘You’re no end +bloomin’ partic’lar, you are. ’Oo wouldn’t take no notice o’ me t’other +day ’cause she was goin’ ’ome all alone in ’er dorg-cart, eh? Settin’ +on the box-seat like a bloomin’ little tart, you was, Vicy. Now you run +along an’ make them ’uttees ’oller. Sick ’em, Vicy, loo!’ + +Elephants loathe little dogs. Vixen barked herself down the pickets, +and in a minute all the elephants were kicking and squealing and +clucking together. + +‘Oh, you soldier-men,’ said a mahout angrily, ‘call off your she-dog. +She is frightening our elephant-folk.’ + +‘Rummy beggars!’ said Ortheris meditatively. ‘’Call ’em people, same as +if they was. An’ they are too. Not so bloomin’ rummy when you come to +think of it, neither.’ + +Vixen returned yapping to show that she could do it again if she liked, +and established herself between Ortheris’s knees, smiling a large smile +at his lawful dogs who dared not fly at her. + +‘’Seed the battery this mornin’?’ said Ortheris. He meant the +newly-arrived elephant-battery; otherwise he would have said simply +‘guns.’ Three elephants harnessed tandem go to each gun, and those +who have not seen the big forty-pounders of position trundling along +in the wake of their gigantic team have yet something to behold. The +lead-elephant had behaved very badly on parade; had been cut loose, +sent back to the lines in disgrace, and was at that hour squealing and +lashing out with his trunk at the end of the line; a picture of blind, +bound, bad temper. His mahout, standing clear of the flail-like blows, +was trying to soothe him. + +‘That’s the beggar that cut up on p’rade. ’E’s _must_,’ said Ortheris +pointing. ‘There’ll be murder in the lines soon, and then, per’aps, +’e’ll get loose an’ we’ll ’ave to be turned out to shoot ’im, same as +when one o’ they native king’s elephants _musted_ last June. ’Ope ’e +will.’ + +‘_Must_ be sugared!’ said Mulvaney contemptuously from his +resting-place on a pile of dried bedding. ‘He’s no more than in a +powerful bad timper wid bein’ put upon. I’d lay my kit he’s new to the +gun-team, an’ by natur’ he hates haulin’. Ask the mahout, sorr.’ + +I hailed the old white-bearded mahout who was lavishing pet words on +his sulky red-eyed charge. + +‘He is not _musth_,’ the man replied indignantly; ‘only his honour has +been touched. Is an elephant an ox or a mule that he should tug at +a trace? His strength is in his head--Peace, peace, my Lord! It was +not _my_ fault that they yoked thee this morning!--Only a low-caste +elephant will pull a gun, and _he_ is a Kumeria of the Doon. It cost +a year and the life of a man to break him to burden. They of the +Artillery put him in the gun-team because one of their base-born brutes +had gone lame. No wonder that he was, and is wrath.’ + +‘Rummy! Most unusual rum,’ said Ortheris. ‘Gawd, ’e is in a temper, +though! S’pose ’e got loose!’ + +Mulvaney began to speak but checked himself, and I asked the mahout +what would happen if the heel-chains broke. + +‘God knows, who made elephants,’ he said simply. ‘In his now state +peradventure he might kill you three, or run at large till his rage +abated. He would not kill me, except he were _musth_. _Then_ would he +kill me before any one in the world, because he loves me. Such is the +custom of the elephant-folk; and the custom of us mahout-people matches +it for foolishness. We trust each our own elephant, till our own +elephant kills us. Other castes trust women, but we the elephant-folk. +I have seen men deal with enraged elephants and live; but never was +man yet born of woman that met my lord the elephant in his _musth_ and +lived to tell of the taming. They are enough bold who meet him angry.’ + +I translated. Then said Terence: ‘Ask the heathen if he iver saw a man +tame an elephint,--anyways--a white man.’ + +‘Once,’ said the mahout, ‘I saw a man astride of such a beast in the +town of Cawnpore; a bare-headed man, a white man, beating it upon the +head with a gun. It was said he was possessed of devils or drunk.’ + +‘Is ut like, think you, he’d be doin’ it sober?’ said Mulvaney after +interpretation, and the chained elephant roared. + +‘There’s only one man top of earth that would be the partic’lar kind +o’ sorter bloomin’ fool to do it!’ said Ortheris. ‘When was that, +Mulvaney?’ + +‘As the naygur sez, in Cawnpore; an’ I was that fool--in the days av my +youth. But it came about as naturil as wan thing leads to another,--me +an’ the elephint, and the elephint and me; an’ the fight betune us was +the most naturil av all.’ + +‘That’s just wot it would ha’ been,’ said Ortheris. ‘Only you must ha’ +been more than usual full. You done one queer trick with an elephant +that I know of, why didn’t you never tell us the other one?’ + +‘Bekase, onless you had heard the naygur here say what he has said +spontaneous, you’d ha’ called me for a liar, Stanley, my son, an’ it +would ha’ bin my duty an’ my delight to give you the father an’ mother +av a beltin’! There’s only wan fault about you, little man, an’ that’s +thinking you know all there is in the world, an’ a little more. ’Tis a +fault that has made away wid a few orf’cers I’ve served undher, not to +spake av ivry man but two that I iver thried to make into a privit.’ + +‘Ho!’ said Ortheris with ruffled plumes, ‘an’ ’oo was your two bloomin’ +little Sir Garnets, eh?’ + +‘Wan was mesilf,’ said Mulvaney with a grin that darkness could not +hide; ‘an’--seein’ that he’s not here there’s no harm speakin’ av +him--t’other was Jock.’ + +‘Jock’s no more than a ’ayrick in trousies. ’E be’aves _like_ one; an’ +’e can’t _’it_ one at a ’undred; ’e was born _on_ one, an’ s’welp +me ’e’ll die _under_ one for not bein’ able to say wot ’e wants in a +Christian lingo,’ said Ortheris, jumping up from the piled fodder only +to be swept off his legs. Vixen leaped upon his stomach, and the other +dogs followed and sat down there. + +‘I know what Jock is like,’ I said. ‘I want to hear about the elephant, +though.’ + +‘It’s another o’ Mulvaney’s bloomin’ panoramas,’ said Ortheris, gasping +under the dogs. ‘’Im an’ Jock for the ’ole bloomin’ British Army! +You’ll be sayin’ you won Waterloo next,--you an’ Jock. Garn!’ + +Neither of us thought it worth while to notice Ortheris. The big +gun-elephant threshed and muttered in his chains, giving tongue now +and again in crashing trumpet-peals, and to this accompaniment Terence +went on: ‘In the beginnin’,’ said he, ‘me bein’ what I was, there was a +misunderstandin’ wid my sergeant that was then. He put his spite on me +for various reasons,’-- + +The deep-set eyes twinkled above the glow of the pipe-bowl, and +Ortheris grunted, ‘Another petticoat!’ + +‘For various an’ promiscuous reasons; an’ the upshot av it was that +he come into barricks wan afternoon whin’ I was settlin’ my cowlick +before goin’ walkin’, called me a big baboon (which I was not), an’ a +demoralisin’ beggar (which I was), an’ bid me go on fatigue thin an’ +there, helpin’ shift E. P. tents, fourteen av thim from the rest-camps. +At that, me bein’ set on my walk--’ + +‘Ah!’ from under the dogs, ‘’e’s a Mormon, Vic. Don’t you ’ave nothin’ +to do with ’im, little dorg.’ + +‘Set on my walk, I tould him a few things that came up in my mind, an’ +wan thing led on to another, an’ betune talkin’ I made time for to hit +the nose av him so that he’d be no Venus to any woman for a week to +come. ’Twas a fine big nose, and well it paid for a little groomin’. +Afther that I was so well pleased wid my handicraftfulness that I niver +raised fist on the gyard that came to take me to Clink. A child might +ha’ led me along, for I knew old Kearney’s nose was ruined. That summer +the Ould Rig’ment did not use their own Clink, bekase the cholera +was hangin’ about there like mildew on wet boots, an’ ’twas murdher +to confine in ut. We borrowed the Clink that belonged to the Holy +Christians (the rig’ment that has never seen service yet), and that lay +a matther av a mile away, acrost two p’rade-grounds an’ the main road, +an’ all the ladies av Cawnpore goin’ out for their afternoon dhrive. So +I moved in the best av society, my shadow dancin’ along forninst me, +an’ the gyard as solemn as putty, the bracelets on my wrists, an’ my +heart full contint wid the notion av Kearney’s pro--pro--probosculum in +a shling. + +‘In the middle av ut all I perceived a gunner-orf’cer in full +rig’mentals perusin’ down the road, hell-for-leather, wid his mouth +open. He fetched wan woild despairin’ look on the dog-kyarts an’ the +polite society av Cawnpore, an’ thin he dived like a rabbut into a +dhrain by the side av the road. + +‘“Bhoys,” sez I, “that orf’cer’s dhrunk. ’Tis scand’lus. Let’s take him +to Clink too.” + +‘The corp’ril of the gyard made a jump for me, unlocked my stringers, +an’ he sez: “If it comes to runnin’, run for your life. If it doesn’t, +I’ll trust your honour. Anyways,” sez he, “come to Clink whin you can.” + +‘Then I behild him runnin’ wan way, stuffin’ the bracelets in his +pocket, they bein’ Gov’ment property, and the gyard runnin’ another, +an’ all the dog-kyarts runnin’ all ways to wanst, an’ me alone lookin’ +down the red bag av a mouth av an elephint forty-two feet high at the +shoulder, tin feet wide, wid tusks as long as the Ochterlony Monumint. +That was my first reconnaissance. Maybe he was not quite so contagious, +nor quite so tall, but I didn’t stop to throw out pickets. Mother av +Hiven, how I ran down the road! The baste began to inveshtigate the +dhrain wid the gunner-orf’cer in ut; an’ that was the makin’ av me. I +tripped over wan of the rifles that my gyard had discarded (onsoldierly +blackguards they was!), an’ whin I got up I was facin’ t’other way +about an’ the elephint was huntin’ for the gunner-orf’cer. I can see +his big fat back yet. Excipt that he didn’t dig, he car’ied on for all +the world like little Vixen here at a rat-hole. He put his head down +(by my sowl he nearly stood on ut!) to shquint down the dhrain; thin +he’d grunt, and run round to the other ind in case the orf’cer was gone +out by the backdoor; an’ he’d shtuff his trunk down the flue an’ get +ut filled wid mud, an’ blow ut out, an’ grunt, an’ swear! My troth, +he swore all hiven down upon that orf’cer; an’ what a commissariat +elephint had to do wid a gunner-orf’cer passed me. Me havin’ nowhere to +go except to Clink, I stud in the road wid the rifle, a Snider an’ no +amm’nition, philosophisin’ upon the rear ind av the animal. All round +me, miles and miles, there was howlin’ desolation, for ivry human sowl +wid two legs, or four for the matther av that, was ambuscadin’, an’ +this ould rapparee stud on his head tuggin’ an’ gruntin’ above the +dhrain, his tail stickin’ up to the sky, an’ he thryin’ to thrumpet +through three feet av road-sweepin’s up his thrunk. Begad, ’twas wickud +to behold! + +‘Subsequint he caught sight av me standin’ alone in the wide, wide +world lanin’ on the rifle. That dishcomposed him, bekase he thought I +was the gunner-orf’cer got out unbeknownst. He looked betune his feet +at the dhrain, an’ he looked at me, an’ I sez to myself: “Terence, my +son, you’ve been watchin’ this Noah’s ark too long. Run for your life!” +Dear knows I wanted to tell him I was only a poor privit on my way to +Clink, an’ no orf’cer at all, at all; but he put his ears forward av +his thick head, an’ I rethreated down the road grippin’ the rifle, my +back as cowld as a tombstone, an’ the slack av my trousies, where I +made sure he’d take hould, crawlin’ wid,--wid invidjus apprehension. + +‘I might ha’ run till I dhropped, bekase I was betune the two straight +lines av the road, an’ a man, or a thousand men for the matther av +that, are the like av sheep in keepin’ betune right an’ left marks.’ + +‘Same as canaries,’ said Ortheris from the darkness. ‘Draw a line on a +bloomin’ little board, put their bloomin’ little beakses there; stay so +for hever an’ hever, amen, they will. ’Seed a ’ole reg’ment, I ’ave, +walk crabways along the edge of a two-foot water-cut ’stid o’ thinkin’ +to cross it. Men _is_ sheep--bloomin’ sheep. Go on.’ + +‘But I saw his shadow wid the tail av my eye,’ continued the man of +experiences, ‘an’ “Wheel,” I sez, “Terence, wheel!” an’ I wheeled. +’Tis truth that I cud hear the shparks flyin’ from my heels; an’ I +shpun into the nearest compound, fetched wan jump from the gate to +the verandah av the house, an’ fell over a tribe of naygurs wid a +half-caste boy at a desk, all manufacturin’ harness. ’Twas Antonio’s +Carriage Emporium at Cawnpore. You know ut, sorr? + +‘Ould Grambags must ha’ wheeled abreast wid me, for his trunk came +lickin’ into the verandah like a belt in a barrick-room row, before I +was in the shop. The naygurs an’ the half-caste boy howled an’ wint out +at the backdoor, an’ I stud lone as Lot’s wife among the harness. A +powerful thirsty thing is harness, by reason av the smell to ut. + +‘I wint into the backroom, nobody bein’ there to invite, an’ I found +a bottle av whisky and a goglet av wather. The first an’ the second +dhrink I never noticed bein’ dhry, but the fourth an’ the fifth tuk +good hould av me an’ I begun to think scornful av elephints. “Take the +upper ground in manœ’vrin’, Terence,” I sez; “an’ you’ll be a gen’ral +yet,” sez I. An’ wid that I wint up to the flat mud roof av the house +an’ looked over the edge av the parapit, threadin’ delicate. Ould +Barrel-belly was in the compound, walkin’ to an’ fro, pluckin’ a piece +av grass here an’ a weed there, for all the world like our colonel that +is now whin his wife’s given him a talkin’ down an’ he’s prom’nadin’ to +ease his timper. His back was to me, an’ by the same token I hiccupped. +He checked in his walk, wan ear forward like a deaf ould lady wid an +ear-thrumpet, an’ his thrunk hild out in a kind av fore-reaching hook. +Thin he wagged his ear sayin’, “Do my sinses deceive me?” as plain as +print, an’ he recomminst promenadin’. You know Antonio’s compound? +’Twas as full thin as ’tis now av new kyarts and ould kyarts, an’ +second-hand kyarts an’ kyarts for hire,--landos, an’ b’rooshes, an’ +brooms, an’ wag’nettes av ivry description. Thin I hiccupped again, +an’ he began to study the ground beneath him, his tail whistlin’ wid +emotion. Thin he lapped his thrunk round the shaft av a wag’nette an’ +dhrew it out circumspectuous an’ thoughtful. “He’s not there,” he sez, +fumblin’ in the cushions wid his thrunk. Thin I hiccupped again, an’ +wid that he lost his patience good an’ all, same as this wan in the +lines here.’ + +The gun-elephant was breaking into peal after peal of indignant +trumpetings, to the disgust of the other animals who had finished their +food and wished to drowse. Between the outcries we could hear him +picking restlessly at his ankle ring. + +‘As I was sayin’,’ Mulvaney went on, ‘he behaved dishgraceful. He let +out wid his fore-fut like a steam-hammer, bein’ convinced that I was +in ambuscade adjacent; an’ that wag’nette ran back among the other +carriages like a field-gun in charge. Thin he hauled ut out again +an’ shuk ut, an’ by nature it came all to little pieces. Afther that +he went sheer damn, slam, dancin’, lunatic, double-shuffle demented +wid the whole of Antonio’s shtock for the season. He kicked, an’ he +straddled, and he stamped, an’ he pounded all at wanst, his big bald +head bobbin’ up an’ down, solemn as a rigadoon. He tuk a new shiny +broom an’ kicked ut on wan corner, an’ ut opened out like a blossomin’ +lily; an’ he shtuck wan fool-foot through the flure av ut an’ a wheel +was shpinnin’ on his tusk. At that he got scared, an’ by this an’ that +he fair sat down plump among the carriages, an’ they pricked ’im wid +splinters till he was a boundin’ pincushin. In the middle av the mess, +whin the kyarts was climbin’ wan on top av the other, an’ rickochettin’ +off the mud walls, an’ showin’ their agility, wid him tearin’ their +wheels off, I heard the sound av distrestful wailin’ on the housetops, +an’ the whole Antonio firm an’ fam’ly was cursin’ me an’ him from the +roof next door; me bekase I’d taken refuge wid them, and he bekase he +was playin’ shtep-dances wid the carriages av the aristocracy. + +‘“Divart his attention,” sez Antonio, dancin’ on the roof in his big +white waistcoat. “Divart his attention,” he sez, “or I’ll prosecute +you.” An’ the whole fam’ly shouts, “Hit him a kick, mister soldier.” + +‘“He’s divartin’ himself,” I sez, for it was just the worth av a man’s +life to go down into the compound. But by way av makin’ show I threw +the whisky-bottle (’twas not full whin I came there) at him. He shpun +round from what was left av the last kyart, an’ shtuck his head into +the verandah not three feet below me. Maybe ’twas the temptin’ness av +his back or the whisky. Anyways, the next thing I knew was me, wid my +hands full av mud an’ mortar, all fours on his back, an’ the Snider +just slidin’ off the slope av his head. I grabbed that an’ scuffled +on his neck, dhruv my knees undher his big flappin’ ears, an’ we wint +to glory out av that compound wid a shqueal that crawled up my back +an’ down my belly. Thin I remimbered the Snider, an’ I grup ut by +the muzzle an’ hit him on the head. ’Twas most forlorn--like tappin’ +the deck av a throopship wid a cane to stop the engines whin you’re +sea-sick. But I parsevered till I sweated, an’ at last from takin’ no +notice at all he began to grunt. I hit wid the full strength that was +in me in those days, an’ it might ha’ discommoded him. We came back +to the p’rade-groun’ forty miles an hour, trumpetin’ vainglorious. I +never stopped hammerin’ him for a minut’; ’twas by way av divartin’ him +from runnin’ undher the trees an’ scrapin’ me off like a poultice. The +p’rade-groun’ an’ the road was all empty, but the throops was on the +roofs av the barricks, an’ betune Ould Thrajectory’s gruntin’ an’ mine +(for I was winded wid my stone-breakin’), I heard them clappin’ an’ +cheerin’. He was growin’ more confused an’ tuk to runnin’ in circles. + +‘“Begad,” sez I to mysilf, “there’s dacincy in all things, Terence. +’Tis like you’ve shplit his head, and whin you come out av Clink you’ll +be put under stoppages for killin’ a Gov’ment elephint.” At that I +caressed him.’ + +‘’Ow the devil did you do that? Might as well pat a barrick,’ said +Ortheris. + +‘Thried all manner av endearin’ epitaphs, but bein’ more than a little +shuk up I disremimbered what the divil would answer to. So, “Good dog,” +I sez; “Pretty puss,” sez I; “Whoa mare,” I sez; an’ at that I fetched +him a shtroke av the butt for to conciliate him, an’ he stud still +among the barricks. + +‘“Will no one take me off the top av this murderin’ volcano?” I sez at +the top av my shout; an’ I heard a man yellin’, “Hould on, faith an’ +patience, the other elephints are comin’.” “Mother av Glory,” I sez, +“will I rough-ride the whole stud? Come an’ take me down, ye cowards!” + +‘Thin a brace av fat she-elephints wid mahouts an’ a commissariat +sergint came shuffling round the corner av the barricks; an’ the +mahouts was abusin’ ould Potiphar’s mother an’ blood-kin. + +‘“Obsarve my reinforcemints,” I sez. “The’re goin’ to take you to +Clink, my son;” an’ the child av calamity put his ears forward an’ +swung head on to those females. The pluck av him, afther my oratorio on +his brain-pan, wint to the heart av me. “I’m in dishgrace mesilf,” I +sez, “but I’ll do what I can for ye. Will ye go to Clink like a man, or +fight like a fool whin there’s no chanst?” Wid that I fetched him wan +last lick on the head, an’ he fetched a tremenjus groan an’ dhropped +his thrunk. “Think,” sez I to him, an’ “Halt!” I sez to the mahouts. +They was anxious so to do. I could feel the ould reprobit meditating +undher me. At last he put his thrunk straight out an’ gave a most +melancholious toot (the like av a sigh wid an elephint); an’ by that I +knew the white flag was up an’ the rest was no more than considherin’ +his feelin’s. + +‘“He’s done,” I sez. “Kape open ordher left an’ right alongside. We’ll +go to Clink quiet.” + +‘Sez the commissariat sergeant to me from his elephant, “Are you a man +or a mericle?” sez he. + +‘“I’m betwixt an’ betune,” I sez, thryin’ to set up stiff-back. “An’ +what,” sez I, “may ha’ set this animal off in this opprobrious shtyle?” +I sez, the gun-butt light an’ easy on my hip an’ my left hand dhropped, +such as throopers behave. We was bowlin’ on to the elephint-lines under +escort all this time. + +‘“I was not in the lines whin the throuble began,” sez the sergeant. +“They tuk him off carryin’ tents an’ such like, an’ put him to the +gun-team. I knew he would not like ut, but by token it fair tore his +heart out.” + +‘“Faith, wan man’s meat is another’s poison,” I sez. “’Twas bein’ put +on to carry tents that was the ruin av me.” An’ my heart warrumed to +Ould Double Ends bekase he had been put upon. + +‘“We’ll close on him here,” sez the sergeant, whin we got to the +elephint-lines. All the mahouts an’ their childher was round the +pickets cursin’ my poney from a mile to hear. “You skip off on to my +elephint’s back,” he sez. “There’ll be throuble.” + +‘“Sind that howlin’ crowd away,” I sez, “or he’ll thrample the life +out av thim.” I cud feel his ears beginnin’ to twitch. “An’ do you an’ +your immoril she-elephints go well clear away. I will get down here. +He’s an Irishman,” I sez, “for all his long Jew’s nose, an’ he shall be +threated like an Irishman.” + +‘“Are ye tired av life?” sez the sergeant. + +‘“Divil a bit,” I sez; “but wan av us has to win, an’ I’m av opinion +’tis me. Get back,” I sez. + +‘The two elephints wint off, an’ Smith O’Brine came to a halt dead +above his own pickuts. “Down,” sez I, whackin’ him on the head, an’ +down he wint, shouldher over shouldher like a hill-side slippin’ afther +rain. “Now,” sez I, slidin down his nose an’ runnin’ to the front av +him, “you will see the man that’s betther than you.” + +‘His big head was down betune his big forefeet, an’ they was twisted +in sideways like a kitten’s. He looked the picture av innocince an’ +forlornsomeness, an’ by this an’ that his big hairy undherlip was +thremblin’, an’ he winked his eyes together to kape from cryin’. “For +the love av God,” I sez, clean forgettin’ he was a dumb baste; “don’t +take ut to heart so! Aisy, be aisy,” I sez; an’ wid that I rubbed his +cheek an’ betune his eyes an’ the top av his thrunk, talkin’ all the +time. “Now,” sez I, “I’ll make you comfortable for the night. Send wan +or two childher here,” I sez to the sergeant who was watchin’ for to +see me killed. “He’ll rouse at the sight av a man.”’ + +‘You got bloomin’ clever all of a sudden,’ said Ortheris. ‘’Ow did you +come to know ’is funny little ways that soon?’ + +‘Bekase,’ said Terence with emphasis, ‘bekase I had conquered the +beggar, my son.’ + +‘Ho!’ said Ortheris between doubt and derision. ‘G’on.’ + +‘His mahout’s child an’ wan or two other line-babies came runnin’ up, +not bein’ afraid av anything, an’ some got wather, an’ I washed the +top av his poor sore head (begad, I had done him to a turn!), an’ +some picked the pieces av carts out av his hide, an’ we scraped him, +an’ handled him all over, an’ we put a thunderin’ big poultice av +neem-leaves (the same that ye stick on a pony’s gall) on his head, an’ +it looked like a smokin’-cap, an’ we put a pile av young sugar-cane +forninst him, an’ he began to pick at ut. “Now,” sez I, settin’ down +on his fore-foot, “we’ll have a dhrink, an’ let bygones be.” I sent a +naygur-child for a quart av arrack, an’ the sergeant’s wife she sint me +out four fingers av whisky, an’ whin the liquor came I cud see by the +twinkle in Ould Typhoon’s eye that he was no more a stranger to ut than +me,--worse luck, than me! So he tuk his quart like a Christian, an’ +_thin_ I put his shackles on, chained him fore an’ aft to the pickets, +an’ gave him my blessin’, an wint back to barricks.’ + +‘And after?’ I said in the pause. + +‘Ye can guess,’ said Mulvaney. ‘There was confusion, an’ the colonel +gave me ten rupees, an’ the adj’tant gave me five, an’ my comp’ny +captain gave me five, an’ the men carried me round the barricks +shoutin’.’ + +‘Did you go to Clink?’ said Ortheris. + +‘I niver heard a word more about the misundherstandin’ wid Kearney’s +beak, if that’s what you mane; but sev’ril av the bhoys was tuk off +sudden to the Holy Christians’ Hotel that night. Small blame to +thim,--they had twenty rupees in dhrinks. I wint to lie down an’ sleep +ut off, for I was as done an’ double done as him there in the lines. +’Tis no small thing to go ride elephants. + +‘Subsequint, me an’ the Venerable Father av Sin became mighty friendly. +I wud go down to the lines, whin I was in dishgrace, an’ spend an +afthernoon collogin’ wid him; he chewin’ wan stick av sugar-cane an’ +me another, as thick as thieves. He’d take all I had out av my pockets +an’ put ut back again, an’ now an’ thin I’d bring him beer for his +dijistin’, an’ I’d give him advice about bein’ well behaved an’ keepin’ +off the books. Afther that he wint the way av the Army, an’ that’s +bein’ thransferred as soon as you’ve made a good friend.’ + +‘So you never saw him again?’ I demanded. + +‘Do you belave the first half av the affair?’ said Terence. + +‘I’ll wait till Learoyd comes,’ I said evasively. Except when he was +carefully tutored by the other two and the immediate money-benefit +explained, the Yorkshireman did not tell lies; and Terence, I knew, had +a profligate imagination. + +‘There’s another part still,’ said Mulvaney. ‘Ortheris was in that.’ + +‘Then I’ll believe it all,’ I answered, not from any special belief in +Ortheris’s word, but from desire to learn the rest. Ortheris stole a +pup from me when our acquaintance was new, and with the little beast +stifling under his overcoat, denied not only the theft, but that he +ever was interested in dogs. + +‘That was at the beginnin’ av the Afghan business,’ said Mulvaney; +‘years afther the men that had seen me do the thrick was dead or +gone home. I came not to speak av ut at the last bekase,--bekase I +do _not_ care to knock the face av ivry man that calls me a liar. At +the very beginnin’ av the marchin’ I wint sick like a fool. I had a +boot-gall, but I was all for keepin’ up wid the rig’mint and such +like foolishness. So I finished up wid a hole in my heel that you cud +ha’ dhruv a tent-peg into. Faith, how often have I preached that to +recruities since, for a warnin’ to thim to look afther their feet! Our +docthor, who knew our business as well as his own, he sez to me, in the +middle av the Tangi Pass it was: “That’s sheer damned carelessness,” +sez he. “How often have I tould you that a marchin’ man is no stronger +than his feet,--his feet,--his feet!” he sez. “Now to hospital you +go,” he sez, “for three weeks, an expense to your Quane an’ a nuisince +to your counthry. Next time,” sez he, “perhaps you’ll put some av the +whisky you pour down your throat, an’ some av the tallow you put into +your hair, into your socks,” sez he. Faith he was a just man. So soon +as we come to the head av the Tangi I wint to hospital, hoppin’ on wan +fut, woild wid disappointment. ’Twas a field-hospital (all flies an’ +native apothecaries an’ liniment) dhropped, in a way av speakin’, close +by the head av the Tangi. The hospital guard was ravin’ mad wid us +sick for keepin’ thim there, an’ we was ravin’ mad at bein’ kept; an’ +through the Tangi, day an’ night an’ night an’ day, the fut an’ horse +an’ guns an’ commissariat an’ tents an’ followers av the brigades was +pourin’ like a coffee-mill. The doolies came dancin’ through, scores +an’ scores av thim, an’ they’d turn up the hill to hospital wid their +sick, an’ I lay in bed nursin’ my heel, an’ hearin’ the men bein’ tuk +out. I remimber wan night (the time I was tuk wid fever) a man came +rowlin’ through the tents an’, “Is there any room to die here?” he sez; +“there’s none wid the columns”; an’ at that he dhropped dead acrost +a cot, an’ thin the man in ut began to complain against dyin’ all +alone in the dust undher dead men. Thin I must ha’ turned mad wid the +fever, an’ for a week I was prayin’ the saints to stop the noise av the +columns movin’ through the Tangi. Gun-wheels it was that wore my head +thin. Ye know how ’tis wid fever?’ + +We nodded; there was no need to explain. + +‘Gun-wheels an’ feet an’ people shoutin’, but mostly gun-wheels. ’Twas +neither night nor day to me for a week. In the mornin’ they’d rowl up +the tent-flies, an’ we sick cud look at the Pass an’ considher what was +comin’ next. Horse, fut, or guns, they’d be sure to dhrop wan or two +sick wid us an’ we’d get news. Wan mornin’, whin the fever hild off of +me, I was watchin’ the Tangi, an’ ’twas just like the picture on the +backside av the Afghan medal,--men an’ elephints an’ guns comin’ wan at +a time crawlin’ out of a dhrain.’ + +‘It were a dhrain,’ said Ortheris with feeling. ‘I’ve fell out an’ been +sick in the Tangi twice; an’ wot turns my innards ain’t no bloomin’ +vi’lets neither.’ + +‘The Pass give a twist at the ind, so everything shot out suddint an’ +they’d built a throop-bridge (mud an’ dead mules) over a nullah at the +head av ut. I lay an’ counted the elephints (gun-elephints) thryin’ +the bridge wid their thrunks an’ rolling out sagacious. The fifth +elephint’s head came round the corner, an’ he threw up his thrunk, an’ +he fetched a toot, an’ there he shtuck at the head of the Tangi like a +cork in a bottle. “Faith,” thinks I to mysilf, “he will not thrust the +bridge; there will be throuble.”’ + +‘Trouble! My Gawd!’ said Ortheris. ‘Terence, _I_ was be’ind that +blooming ’uttee up to my stock in dust. Trouble!’ + +‘Tell on then, little man; I only saw the hospital ind av ut.’ Mulvaney +knocked the ashes out of his pipe, as Ortheris heaved the dogs aside +and went on. + +‘We was escort to them guns, three comp’nies of us,’ he said. ‘Dewcy +was our major, an’ our orders was to roll up anything we come across in +the Tangi an’ shove it out t’other end. Sort o’ pop-gun picnic, see? +We’d rolled up a lot o’ lazy beggars o’ native followers, an’ some +commissariat supplies that was bivoo-whackin’ for ever seemin’ly, an’ +all the sweepin’s of ’arf a dozen things what ought to ’ave bin at the +front weeks ago, an’ Dewcy, he sez to us: “You’re most ’eart-breakin’ +sweeps,” ’e sez. “For ’eving’s sake,” sez ’e, “do a little sweepin’ +now.” So we swep’,--s’welp me, ’ow we did sweep ’em along! There was +a full reg’ment be’ind us; most anxious to get on they was; an’ they +kep’ on sendin’ to us with the colonel’s compliments, an’ what in ’ell +was we stoppin’ the way for, please? Oh, they was partic’lar polite! So +was Dewcy! ’E sent ’em back wot-for, an’ ’e give us wot-for, an’ we +give the guns wot-for, an’ they give the commissariat wot-for, an’ the +commissariat give first-class extry wot-for to the native followers, +an’ on we’d go again till we was stuck, an’ the ’ole Pass ’ud be +swimmin’ Allelujah for a mile an’ a ’arf. We ’adn’t no tempers, nor +no seats to our trousies, an’ our coats an’ our rifles was chucked in +the carts, so as we might ha’ been cut up any minute, an’ we was doin’ +drover-work. That was wot it was; drovin’ on the Islin’ton road! + +‘I was close up at the ’ead of the column when we saw the end of the +Tangi openin’ out ahead of us, an’ I sez: “The door’s open, boys. +’Oo’ll git to the gall’ry fust?” I sez. Then I saw Dewcy screwin’ ’is +bloomin’ eyeglass in ’is eye an’ lookin’ straight on. “Propped,--_ther_ +beggar!” he sez; an’ the be’ind end o’ that bloomin’ old ’uttee was +shinin’ through the dust like a bloomin’ old moon made ’o tarpaulin. +Then we ’alted, all chock-a-block, one atop o’ the other, an’ right at +the back o’ the guns there sails in a lot o’ silly grinnin’ camels, +what the commissariat was in charge of--sailin’ away as if they was at +the Zoological Gardens an’ squeezin’ our men most awful. The dust was +that up you couldn’t see your ’and; an’ the more we ’it ’em on the ’ead +the more their drivers sez, “Accha! Accha!” an’ by Gawd it was “at yer” +before you knew where you was. An’ that ’uttee’s be’ind end stuck in +the Pass good an’ tight, an’ no one knew wot for. + +‘Fust thing we ’ad to do was to fight they bloomin’ camels. I wasn’t +goin’ to be eat by no bull-_oont_; so I ’eld up my trousies with one +’and, standin’ on a rock, an’ ’it away with my belt at every nose I saw +bobbin’ above me. Then the camels fell back, an’ they ’ad to fight +to keep the rear-guard an’ the native followers from crushin’ into +them; an’ the rear-guard ’ad to send down the Tangi to warn the other +reg’ment that we was blocked. I ’eard the mahouts shoutin’ in front +that the ’uttee wouldn’t cross the bridge; an’ I saw Dewcy skippin’ +about through the dust like a musquito worm in a tank. Then our +comp’nies got tired o’ waitin’ an’ begun to mark time, an’ some goat +struck up _Tommy, make room for your Uncle_. After _that_, you couldn’t +neither see nor breathe nor ’ear; an’ there we was, singin’ bloomin’ +serenades to the end of a’ elephant that don’t care for tunes! I sung +too; I couldn’t do nothin’ else. They was strengthenin’ the bridge in +front, all for the sake of the ’uttee. By an’ by a’ orf’cer caught me +by the throat an’ choked the sing out of me. So I caught the next man I +could see by the throat an’ choked the sing out of _’im_.’ + +‘What’s the difference between being choked by an officer and being +hit?’ I asked, remembering a little affair in which Ortheris’s honour +had been injured by his lieutenant. + +‘One’s a bloomin’ lark, an’ one’s a bloomin’ insult!’ said Ortheris. +‘Besides, we was on service, an’ no one cares what an orf’cer does +then, s’long as ’e gets our rations an’ don’t get us unusual cut up. +After that we got quiet, an’ I ’eard Dewcy say that ’e’d court-martial +the lot of us soon as we was out of the Tangi. Then we give three +cheers for Dewcy an’ three more for the Tangi; an’ the ’uttee’s be’ind +end was stickin’ in the Pass, so we cheered _that_. Then they said +the bridge had been strengthened, an’ we give three cheers for the +bridge; but the ’uttee wouldn’t move a bloomin’ hinch. Not ’im! Then +we cheered ’im again, an’ Kite Dawson, that was corner-man at all the +sing-songs (’e died on the way down) began to give a nigger lecture +on the be’ind ends of elephants, an’ Dewcy, ’e tried to keep ’is face +for a minute, but, Lord, you couldn’t do such when Kite was playin’ +the fool an’ askin’ whether ’e mightn’t ’ave leave to rent a villa +an’ raise ’is orphan children in the Tangi, ’cos ’e couldn’t get ’ome +no more. Then up come a orf’cer (mounted, like a fool, too) from the +reg’mint at the back with some more of his colonel’s pretty little +compliments, an’ what was this delay, please. We sung ’im _There’s +another bloomin’ row downstairs_ till ’is ’orse bolted, an’ then we +give ’im three cheers; an’ Kite Dawson sez ’e was goin’ to write to +_The Times_ about the awful state of the streets in Afghanistan. The +’uttee’s be’ind end was stickin’ in the Pass all the time. At last one +o’ the mahouts came to Dewcy an’ sez something. “Oh Lord!” sez Dewcy, +“_I_ don’t know the beggar’s visiting-list! I’ll give ’im another ten +minutes an’ then I’ll shoot ’im.” Things was gettin’ pretty dusty in +the Tangi, so we all listened. “’E wants to see a friend,” sez Dewcy +out loud to the men, an’ ’e mopped ’is forehead an’ sat down on a +gun-tail. + +‘I leave it to you to judge ’ow the reg’ment shouted. “That’s all +right,” we sez. “Three cheers for Mister Winterbottom’s friend,” +sez we. “Why didn’t you say so at first? Pass the word for old +Swizzletail’s wife,”--and such like. Some o’ the men they didn’t laugh. +They took it same as if it might have been a’ introduction like, ’cos +they knew about ’uttees. Then we all run forward over the guns an’ in +an’ out among the elephants’ legs,--Lord, I wonder ’arf the comp’nies +wasn’t squashed--an’ the next thing I saw was Terence ’ere, lookin’ +like a sheet o’ wet paper, comin’ down the ’illside wid a sergeant. +“’Strewth,” I sez. “I might ha’ knowed ’e’d be at the bottom of any +cat’s trick,” sez I. Now you tell wot ’appened your end?’ + +‘I lay be the same as you did, little man, listenin’ to the noises an’ +the bhoys singin’. Presintly I heard whisperin’ an’ the doctor sayin’, +“Get out av this, wakin’ my sick wid your jokes about elephints.” An’ +another man sez, all angry: “’Tis a joke that is stoppin’ two thousand +men in the Tangi. That son av sin av a haybag av an elephint sez, or +the mahouts sez for him, that he wants to see a friend, an’ he’ll not +lift hand or fut till he finds him. I’m wore out wid inthrojucin’ +sweepers an’ coolies to him, an’ his hide’s as full o’ bay’net pricks +as a musquito-net av holes, an’ I’m here undher ordhers, docther dear, +to ask if any one, sick or well, or alive or dead, knows an elephint. +I’m not mad,” he sez, settin’ on a box av medical comforts. “’Tis my +ordhers, an’ ’tis my mother,” he sez, “that would laugh at me for the +father av all fools to-day. Does any wan here know an elephint?” We +sick was all quiet. + +‘“Now you’ve had your answer,” sez the doctor. “Go away.” + +‘“Hould on,” I sez, thinkin’ mistiways in my cot, an’ I did not know my +own voice. “I’m by way av bein’ acquainted wid an elephant, myself,” I +sez. + +‘“That’s delirium,” sez the doctor. “See what you’ve done, sergeant. +Lie down, man,” he sez, seein’ me thryin’ to get up. + +‘“’Tis not,” I sez. “I rode him round Cawnpore barricks. He will not +ha’ forgotten. I bruk his head wid a rifle.” + +‘“Mad as a coot,” sez the doctor, an’ thin he felt my head. “It’s +quare,” sez he. “Man,” he sez, “if you go, d’you know ’twill either +kill or cure?” + +‘“What do I care?” sez I. “If I’m mad, ’tis better dead.” + +‘“Faith, that’s sound enough,” sez the doctor. “You’ve no fever on you +now.” + +‘“Come on,” sez the sergeant. “We’re all mad to-day, an’ the throops +are wantin’ their dinner.” He put his arm round av me an’ I came +into the sun, the hills an’ the rocks skippin’ big giddy-go-rounds. +“Seventeen years have I been in the army,” sez the sergeant, “an’ the +days av mericles are not done. They’ll be givin’ us more pay next. +Begad,” he sez, “the brute knows you!” + +‘Ould Obstructionist was screamin’ like all possist whin I came up, an’ +I heard forty million men up the Tangi shoutin’, “He knows him!” Thin +the big thrunk came round me an’ I was nigh fainting wid weakness. “Are +you well, Malachi?” I sez, givin’ him the name he answered to in the +lines. “Malachi, my son, are you well?” sez I, “for I am not.” At that +he thrumpeted again till the Pass rang to ut, an’ the other elephints +tuk it up. Thin I got a little strength back. “Down, Malachi,” I sez, +“an’ put me up, but touch me tendher for I am not good.” He was on +his knees in a minut an’ he slung me up as gentle as a girl. “Go on +now, my son,” I sez. “You’re blockin’ the road.” He fetched wan more +joyous toot, an’ swung grand out av the head av the Tangi, his gun-gear +clankin’ on his back; an’ at the back av him there wint the most +amazin’ shout I iver heard. An’ thin I felt my head shpin, an’ a mighty +sweat bruk out on me, an’ Malachi was growin’ taller an’ taller to me +settin’ on his back, an’ I sez, foolish like an’ weak, smilin’ all +round an’ about, “Take me down,” I sez, “or I’ll fall.” + +‘The next I remimber was lyin’ in my cot again, limp as a chewed rag +but cured av the fever, an’ the Tangi as empty as the back av my hand. +They’d all gone up to the front, an’ ten days later I wint up too, +havin’ blocked an’ unblocked an entire army corps. What do you think av +ut, sorr?’ + +‘I’ll wait till I see Learoyd,’ I repeated. + +‘Ah’m here,’ said a shadow from among the shadows. ‘Ah’ve heard t’ tale +too.’ + +‘Is it true, Jock?’ + +‘Ay; true as t’owd bitch has getten t’mange. Orth’ris, yo’ maun’t let +t’dawgs hev owt to do wi’ her.’ + + + + + ONE VIEW OF THE QUESTION. + + +_From Shafiz Ullah Khan, son of Hyat Ullah Khan, in the honoured + service of His Highness the Rao Sahib of Jagesur, which is in the + northern borders of Hindustan, and Orderly to his Highness, this to + Kazi Jamal-ud-Din, son of Kazi Ferisht-ud-Din Khan, in the service of + the Rao Sahib, a minister much honoured. From that place which they + call the Northbrook Club, in the town of London, under the shadow of + the Empress, it is written:_ + +Between brother and chosen brother be no long protestations of Love + and Sincerity. Heart speaks naked to Heart, and the Head answers for + all. Glory and Honour on thy house till the ending of the years and a + tent in the borders of Paradise. + + +MY BROTHER,--In regard to that for which I was despatched follows the +account. I have purchased for the Rao Sahib, and paid sixty pounds +in every hundred, the things he most desired. Thus; two of the great +fawn-coloured tiger-dogs, male and female, their pedigree being written +upon paper, and silver collars adorning their necks. For the Rao +Sahib’s greater pleasure I send them at once by the steamer, in charge +of a man who will render account of them at Bombay to the bankers +there. They are the best of all dogs in this place. Of guns I have +bought five--two silver-sprigged in the stock, with gold scroll-work +about the hammer, both double-barrelled, hard-striking, cased in +velvet and red leather; three of unequalled workmanship, but lacking +adornment; a pump-gun that fires fourteen times--this when the Rao +Sahib drives pig; a double-barrelled shell-gun for tiger, and that is a +miracle of workmanship; and a fowling-piece no lighter than a feather, +with green and blue cartridges by the thousand. Also a very small rifle +for blackbuck, that yet would slay a man at four hundred paces. The +harness with the golden crests for the Rao Sahib’s coach is not yet +complete, by reason of the difficulty of lining the red velvet into +leather; but the two-horse harness and the great saddle with the golden +holsters that is for state use have been put with camphor into a tin +box, and I have signed it with my ring. Of the grained leather case of +women’s tools and tweezers for the hair and beard, of the perfumes and +the silks, and all that was wanted by the women behind the curtains, I +have no knowledge. They are matters of long coming, and the hawk-bells, +hoods, and jesses with the golden lettering are as much delayed as +they. Read this in the Rao Sahib’s ear, and speak of my diligence +and zeal, that favour may not be abated by absence, and keep the eye +of constraint upon that jesting dog without teeth--Bahadur Shah--for +by thy aid and voice, and what I have done in regard to the guns, I +look, as thou knowest, for the headship of the army of Jagesur. That +conscienceless one desires it also, and I have heard that the Rao Sahib +leans thatward. Have ye done, then, with the drinking of wine in your +house, my brother, or has Bahadur Shah become a forswearer of brandy? I +would not that drink should end him; but the well-mixed draught leads +to madness. Consider. + +And now in regard to this land of the Sahibs, follows that thou hast +demanded. God is my witness that I have striven to understand all that +I saw and a little of what I heard. My words and intention are those of +truth, yet it may be that I write of nothing but lies. + +Since the first wonder and bewilderment of my beholding is gone--we +note the jewels in the ceiling-dome, but later the filth on the +floor--I see clearly that this town, London, which is as large as +all Jagesur, is accursed, being dark and unclean, devoid of sun, and +full of low-born, who are perpetually drunk, and howl in the streets +like jackals, men and women together. At nightfall it is the custom +of countless thousands of women to descend into the streets and sweep +them, roaring, making jests, and demanding liquor. At the hour of this +attack it is the custom of the householders to take their wives and +children to the playhouses and the places of entertainment; evil and +good thus returning home together as do kine from the pools at sundown. +I have never seen any sight like this sight in all the world, and I +doubt that a double is to be found on the hither side of the gates of +Hell. Touching the mystery of their craft, it is an ancient one, but +the householders assemble in herds, being men and women, and cry aloud +to their God that it is not there; the said women pounding at the doors +without. Moreover, upon the day when they go to prayer the drink-places +are only opened when the mosques are shut; as who should dam the +Jumna river for Friday only. Therefore the men and women, being +forced to accomplish their desires in the shorter space, become the +more furiously drunk, and roll in the gutter together. They are there +regarded by those going to pray. Further, and for visible sign that +the place is forgotten of God, there falls upon certain days, without +warning, a cold darkness, whereby the sun’s light is altogether cut off +from all the city, and the people, male and female, and the drivers of +the vehicles grope and howl in this Pit at high noon, none seeing the +other. The air being filled with the smoke of Hell--sulphur and pitch +as it is written--they die speedily with gaspings, and so are buried in +the dark. This is a terror beyond the pen, but, by my head, I write of +what I have seen! + +It is not true that the Sahibs worship one God, as do we of the Faith, +or that the differences in their creed be like those now running +between Shiah and Sunni. I am but a fighting man, and no darvesh, +caring, as thou knowest, as much for Shiah as Sunni. But I have spoken +to many people of the nature of their Gods. One there is who is the +head of the Mukht-i-Fauj,[1] and he is worshipped by men in blood-red +clothes, who shout and become without sense. Another is an image, +before whom they burn candles and incense in just such a place as I +have seen when I went to Rangoon to buy Burma ponies for the Rao. +Yet a third has naked altars facing a great assembly of dead. To +him they sing chiefly; and for others there is a woman who was the +mother of the great prophet that was before Mahommed. The common folk +have no God, but worship those who may speak to them hanging from +the lamps in the street. The most wise people worship themselves and +such things as they have made with their mouths and their hands, and +this is to be found notably among the barren women, of whom there are +many. It is the custom of men and women to make for themselves such +God as they desire; pinching and patting the very soft clay of their +thought into the acceptable mould of their lusts. So each is furnished +with a Godling after his own heart; and this Godling is changed in a +little, as the stomach turns or the health is altered. Thou wilt not +believe this tale, my brother. Nor did I when I was first told, but +now it is nothing to me; so greatly has the foot of travel let out the +stirrup-holes of belief. + +But thou wilt say, ‘What matter to us whether Ahmed’s beard or Mahmud’s +be the longer! Speak what thou canst of the Accomplishment of Desire.’ +Would that thou wert here to talk face to face and walk abroad with me +and learn. + +To this people it is a matter of Heaven and Hell whether Ahmed’s beard +and Mahmud’s tally or differ but by a hair. Thou knowest the system of +their statecraft? It is this. Certain men, appointing themselves, go +about and speak to the low-born, the peasants, the leather-workers, +and the cloth-dealers, and the women, saying: ‘Give us leave by your +favour to speak for you in the council.’ Securing that permission by +large promises, they return to the council-place, and, sitting unarmed, +some six hundred together, speak at random each for himself and his own +ball of low-born. The viziers and dewans of the Empress must ever beg +money at their hands, for unless more than a half of the six hundred +be of one heart towards the spending of the revenues, neither horse can +be shod, rifle loaded, nor man clothed throughout the land. Remember +this very continually. The six hundred are above the Empress, above the +Viceroy of India, above the Head of the Army and every other power that +thou hast ever known. _Because they hold the revenues._ + +They are divided into two hordes--the one perpetually hurling abuse at +the other, and bidding the low-born hamper and rebel against all that +the other may devise for government. Except that they are unarmed, and +so call each other liar, dog, and bastard without fear, even under the +shadow of the Empress’s throne, they are at bitter war which is without +any end. They pit lie against lie, till the low-born and common folk +grow drunk with lies, and in their turn begin to lie and refuse to pay +the revenues. Further, they divide their women into bands, and send +them into this fight with yellow flowers in their hands, and since the +belief of a woman is but her lover’s belief stripped of judgment, very +many wild words are added. Well said the slave-girl to Mámún in the +delectable pages of the Son of Abdullah:-- + + ‘Oppression and the sword slay fast-- + Thy breath kills slowly but at last.’ + +If they desire a thing they declare that it is true. If they desire +it not, though that were Death itself, they cry aloud, ‘It has never +been.’ Thus their talk is the talk of children, and like children they +snatch at what they covet, not considering whether it is their own or +another’s. And in their councils, when the army of unreason has come +to the defile of dispute, and there is no more talk left on either +side, they, dividing, count heads, and the will of that side which has +the larger number of heads makes that law. But the outnumbered side run +speedily among the common people and bid them trample on that law, and +slay the officers thereof. Follows slaughter by night of men unarmed, +and the slaughter of cattle and insults to women. They do not cut off +the noses of women, but they crop their hair and scrape the flesh with +pins. Then those shameless ones of the council stand up before the +judges wiping their mouths and making oath. They say: ‘Before God we +are free from blame. Did we say “Heave that stone out of that road and +kill that one and no other”?’ So they are not made shorter by the head +because they said only: ‘Here are stones and yonder is such a fellow +obeying the Law which is no law because we do not desire it.’ + +Read this in the Rao Sahib’s ear, and ask him if he remembers that +season when the Manglôt headmen refused revenue, not because they could +not pay, but because they judged the cess extreme. I and thou went out +with the troopers all one day and the black lances raised the thatch, +so that there was hardly any need of firing; and no man was slain. +But this land is at secret war and veiled killing. In five years of +peace they have slain within their own borders and of their own kin +more men than would have fallen had the ball of dissension been left +to the mallet of the army. And yet there is no hope of peace, for soon +the sides again divide, and then they will cause to be slain more men +unarmed and in the fields. And so much for that matter, which is to our +advantage. There is a better thing to be told, and one tending to the +Accomplishment of Desire. Read here with a fresh mind after sleep. I +write as I understand. + +Above all this war without honour lies that which I find hard to put +into writing, and thou knowest I am unhandy of the pen. I will ride +the steed of Inability sideways at the wall of Expression. The earth +under foot is sick and sour with the much handling of man, as a grazing +ground sours under cattle; and the air is sick too. Upon the ground +they have laid in this town, as it were, the stinking boards of a +stable, and through these boards, between a thousand thousand houses, +the rank humours of the earth sweat through to the overburdened air +that returns them to their breeding-place; for the smoke of their +cooking fires keeps all in as the cover the juices of the sheep. And in +like manner there is a green-sickness among the people, and especially +among the six hundred men who talk. Neither winter nor autumn abates +that malady of the soul. I have seen it among women in our own country, +and in boys not yet blooded to the sword; but I have never seen so +much thereof before. Through the peculiar operation of this thing the +people, abandoning honour and steadfastness, question all authority, +not as men question, but as girls, whimperingly, with pinching in the +back when the back is turned and mowing. If one cries in the streets, +‘There has been an injustice,’ they take him not to make complaint to +those appointed, but all who pass, drinking his words, fly clamorously +to the house of the accused and write evil things of him, his wives and +his daughters; for they take no thought to the weighing of evidence, +but are as women. And with one hand they beat their constables who +guard the streets, and with the other beat the constables for resenting +that beating, and fine them. When they have in all things made light of +the State they cry to the State for help, and it is given, so that the +next time they will cry more. Such as are oppressed riot through the +streets, bearing banners that hold four days’ labour and a week’s bread +in cost and toil; and when neither horse nor foot can pass by they +are satisfied. Others, receiving wages, refuse to work till they get +more, and the priests help them, and also men of the six hundred--for +where rebellion is, one of those men will come as a kite to a dead +bullock--and priests, talker, and men together declare that it is right +because these will not work that no others may attempt. In this manner +they have so confused the loading and the unloading of the ships that +come to this town that, in sending the Rao Sahib’s guns and harness, +I saw fit to send the cases by the train to another ship that sailed +from another place. There is now no certainty in any sending. But who +injures the merchants shuts the door of well-being on the city and the +army. And ye know what Sa’adi saith:-- + + ‘How may the merchant westward fare + When he hears the tale of the tumults there?’ + +No man can keep faith because he cannot tell how his underlings will +go. They have made the servant greater than the master, for that he +is the servant; not reckoning that each is equal under God to the +appointed task. That is a thing to be put aside in the cupboard of the +mind. + +Further, the misery and outcry of the common folk of whom the earth’s +bosom is weary, has so wrought upon the minds of certain people who +have never slept under fear nor seen the flat edge of the sword on the +heads of a mob, that they cry out: ‘Let us abate everything that is, +and altogether labour with our bare hands.’ Their hands in that employ +would fester at the second stroke; and I have seen, for all their +unrest at the agonies of others, they abandon no whit of soft living. +Unknowing the common folk, or indeed the minds of men, they offer +strong drink of words, such as they themselves use, to empty bellies; +and that wine breeds drunkenness of soul. The distressful persons stand +all day long at the door of the drink-places to the number of very many +thousands. The well-wishing people of small discernment give them words +or pitifully attempt in schools to turn them into craftsmen, weavers, +or builders, of whom there be more than enough. Yet they have not +the wisdom to look at the hands of the taught, whereon a man’s craft +and that of his father is written by God and Necessity. They believe +that the son of a drunkard shall drive a straight chisel and the +charioteer do plaster-work. They take no thought in the dispensation of +generosity, which is as the closed fingers of a water-scooping palm. +Therefore the rough timber of a very great army drifts unhewn through +the slime of their streets. If the Government, which is to-day and +to-morrow changes, spent on these hopeless ones some money to clothe +and equip, I should not write what I write. But these people despise +the trade of arms, and rest content with the memory of old battles; the +women and the talking men aiding them. + +Thou wilt say: ‘Why speak continually of women and fools?’ I answer by +God, the Fashioner of the Heart, the fools sit among the six hundred, +and the women sway their councils. Hast thou forgotten when the order +came across the seas that rotted out the armies of the English with us, +so that soldiers fell sick by the hundred where but ten had sickened +before? That was the work of not more than twenty of the men and some +fifty of the barren women. I have seen three or four of them, male and +female, and they triumph openly, in the name of their God, because +three regiments of the white troops are not. This is to our advantage; +because the sword with the rust-spot breaks over the turban of the +enemy. But if they thus tear their own flesh and blood ere their +madness be risen to its height, what will they do when the moon is full? + +Seeing that power lay in the hands of the six hundred, and not in the +Viceroy or elsewhere, I have throughout my stay sought the shadow +of those among them who talk most and most extravagantly. They lead +the common folk, and receive permission from their good will. It is +the desire of some of these men--indeed, of almost as many as caused +the rotting of the English army--that our lands and peoples should +accurately resemble those of the English upon this very day. May God, +the Contemner of Folly, forbid! I myself am accounted a show among +them, and of us and ours they know naught, some calling me Hindu and +others Rajput, and using towards me, in ignorance, slave-talk and +expressions of great disrespect. Some of them are well-born, but +the greater part are low-born, coarse-skinned, waving their arms, +high-voiced, without dignity, slack in the mouth, shifty-eyed, and, as +I have said, swayed by the wind of a woman’s cloak. + +Now this is a tale but two days old. There was a company at meat, and a +high-voiced woman spoke to me, in the face of the men, of the affairs +of our womankind. It was her ignorance that made each word an edged +insult. Remembering this I held my peace till she had spoken a new law +as to the control of our zenanas, and all who are behind the curtains. + +Then I--‘Hast thou ever felt the life stir under thy heart or laid a +little son between thy breasts, O most unhappy?’ Thereto she hotly, +with a haggard eye--‘No, for I am a free woman, and no servant of +babes.’ Then I softly--‘God deal lightly with thee, my sister, for thou +art in heavier bondage than any slave, and the fuller half of the earth +is hidden from thee. The first ten years of the life of a man are his +mother’s, and from the dusk to the dawn surely the wife may command the +husband. Is it a great thing to stand back in the waking hours while +the men go abroad unhampered by thy hands on the bridle-rein?’ Then she +wondered that a heathen should speak thus: yet she is a woman honoured +among these men, and openly professes that she hath no profession of +faith in her mouth. Read this in the ear of the Rao Sahib, and demand +how it would fare with me if I brought such a woman for his use. It +were worse than that yellow desert-bred girl from Cutch, who set the +girls to fighting for her own pleasure, and slippered the young prince +across the mouth. Rememberest thou? + +In truth the fountain-head of power is putrid with long standing still. +These men and women would make of all India a dung-cake, and would +fain leave the mark of the fingers upon it. And they have power and +the control of the revenues, and that is why I am so particular in +description. _They have power over all India._ Of what they speak they +understand nothing, for the low-born’s soul is bounded by his field, +and he grasps not the connection of affairs from pole to pole. They +boast openly that the Viceroy and the others are their servants. When +the masters are mad, what shall the servants do? + +Some hold that all war is sin, and Death the greatest fear under God. +Others declare with the Prophet that it is evil to drink, to which +teaching their streets bear evident witness; and others there are, +specially the low-born, who aver that all dominion is wicked and +sovereignty of the sword accursed. These protested to me, making, as +it were, an excuse that their kin should hold Hindustan, and hoping +that upon a day they will depart. Knowing well the breed of white man +in our borders I would have laughed, but forbore, remembering that +these speakers had power in the counting of heads. Yet others cry aloud +against the taxation of Hindustan under the Sahibs’ rule. To this I +assent, remembering the yearly mercy of the Rao Sahib when the turbans +of the troopers come through the blighted corn, and the women’s anklets +go into the melting-pot. But I am no good speaker. _That_ is the duty +of the boys from Bengal--hill asses with an eastern bray--Mahrattas +from Poona, and the like. These, moving among fools, represent +themselves as the sons of some one, being beggar-taught, offspring of +grain-dealers, curriers, sellers of bottles, and money-lenders, as thou +knowest. Now, we of Jagesur owe naught save friendship to the English +who took us by the sword, and having taken us let us go, assuring the +Rao Sahib’s succession for all time. But _these_ base-born, having won +their learning through the mercy of the Government, attired in English +clothes, forswearing the faith of their fathers for gain, spread rumour +and debate against the Government, and are, therefore, very dear to +certain of the six hundred. I have heard these cattle speak as princes +and rulers of men, and I have laughed; but not altogether. + +Once it happened that a son of some grain-bag sat with me at meat, +who was arrayed and speaking after the manner of the English. At each +mouthful he committed perjury against the Salt that he had eaten; the +men and women applauding. When, craftily falsifying, he had magnified +oppression and invented untold wrong, together with the desecration +of his tun-bellied gods, he demanded in the name of his people the +government of all our land, and turning, laid palm to my shoulder, +saying--‘Here is one who is with us, albeit he professes another faith; +he will bear out my words.’ This he delivered in English, and, as it +were, exhibited me to that company. Preserving a smiling countenance, I +answered in our own tongue--‘Take away that hand, man without a father, +or the folly of these folk shall not save thee, nor my silence guard +thy reputation. Sit off, herd.’ And in their speech I said--‘He speaks +truth. When the favour and wisdom of the English allows us yet a little +larger share in the burden and the reward, the Mussalman will deal with +the Hindu.’ He alone saw what was in my heart. I was merciful towards +him because he was accomplishing our desires; but remember that his +father is one Durga Charan Laha, in Calcutta. Lay thy hand upon _his_ +shoulder if ever chance sends. It is not good that bottle-dealers and +auctioneers should paw the sons of princes. I walk abroad sometimes +with the man that all this world may know the Hindu and Mussalman are +one, but when we come to the unfrequented streets I bid him walk behind +me and that is sufficient honour. + +And why did I eat dirt? + +Thus, my brother, it seems to my heart, which has almost burst in the +consideration of these matters. The Bengalis and the beggar-taught +boys know well that the Sahibs’ power to govern comes neither from the +Viceroy nor the head of the army, but from the hands of the six hundred +in this town, and peculiarly those who talk most. They will therefore +yearly address themselves more and more to that protection, and working +on the green-sickness of the land, as has ever been their custom, will +in time cause, through the perpetually-instigated interference of the +six hundred, the hand of the Indian Government to become inoperative, +so that no measure nor order may be carried through without clamour and +argument on their part; for that is the delight of the English at this +hour. Have I overset the bounds of possibility? No. Even thou must have +heard that one of the six hundred, having neither knowledge, fear, nor +reverence before his eyes, has made in sport a new and a written scheme +for the government of Bengal, and openly shows it abroad as a king +might read his crowning proclamation. And this man, meddling in affairs +of State, speaks in the council for an assemblage of leather-dressers, +makers of boots and harness, and openly glories in that he has no God. +Has either minister of the Empress, Empress, Viceroy, or any other +raised a voice against this leather-man? Is not his power therefore to +be sought, and that of his like-thinkers with it? Thou seest. + +The telegraph is the servant of the six hundred, and all the Sahibs in +India, omitting not one, are the servants of the telegraph. Yearly, +too, thou knowest, the beggar-taught will hold that which they call +their Congress, first at one place and then at another, leavening +Hindustan with rumour, echoing the talk among the low-born people here, +and demanding that they, like the six hundred, control the revenues. +And they will bring every point and letter over the heads of the +Governors and the Lieutenant-Governors, and whoever hold authority, and +cast it clamorously at the feet of the six hundred here; and certain +of those word-confounders and the barren women will assent to their +demands, and others will weary of disagreement. Thus fresh confusion +will be thrown into the councils of the Empress even as the island +near by is helped and comforted into the smothered war of which I have +written. Then yearly, as they have begun and we have seen, the low-born +men of the six hundred anxious for honour will embark for our land, +and, staying a little while, will gather round them and fawn before +the beggar-taught, and these departing from their side will assuredly +inform the peasants, and the fighting men for whom there is no employ, +that there is a change toward and a coming of help from over the seas. +That rumour will not grow smaller in the spreading. And, most of all, +the Congress, when it is not under the eye of the six hundred--who, +though they foment dissension and death, pretend great reverence for +the law which is no law--will, stepping aside, deliver uneasy words +to the peasants, speaking, as it has done already, of the remission +of taxation, and promising a new rule. That is to our advantage, but +the flower of danger is in the seed of it. Thou knowest what evil a +rumour may do; though in the Black Year when thou and I were young +our standing to the English brought gain to Jagesur and enlarged our +borders, for the Government gave us land on both sides. Of the Congress +itself nothing is to be feared that ten troopers could not remove; +but if its words too soon perturb the minds of those waiting or _of +princes in idleness_, a flame may come before the time, and since there +are now many white hands to quench it, all will return to the former +condition. If the flame be kept under we need have no fear, because, +sweating and panting, the one trampling on the other, the white people +here are digging their own graves. The hand of the Viceroy will be +tied, the hearts of the Sahibs will be downcast, and all eyes will turn +to England disregarding any orders. Meantime, keeping tally on the +sword-hilt against the hour when the score must be made smooth by the +blade, it is well for us to assist and greatly befriend the Bengali +that he may get control of the revenues and the posts. We must even +write to England that we be of one blood with the school-men. It is +not long to wait; by my head it is not long! This people are like the +great king Ferisht, who, eaten with the scabs of long idleness, plucked +off his crown and danced naked among the dung-hills. But I have not +forgotten the profitable end of that tale. The vizier set him upon a +horse and led him into battle. Presently his health returned, and he +caused to be engraven on the crown:-- + + ‘Though I was cast away by the king + Yet, through God, I returned and he added to my brilliance + Two great rubies (Balkh and Iran).’ + +If this people be purged and bled out by battle, their sickness may go +and their eyes be cleared to the necessities of things. But they are +now far gone in rottenness. Even the stallion, too long heel-roped, +forgets how to fight: and these men are mules. I do not lie when I say +that unless they are bled and taught with the whip, they will hear and +obey all that is said by the Congress and the black men here, hoping to +turn our land into their own orderless Jehannum. For the men of the six +hundred, being chiefly low-born and unused to authority, desire much to +exercise rule, extending their arms to the sun and moon, and shouting +very greatly in order to hear the echo of their voices, each one saying +some new strange thing and parting the goods and honour of others among +the rapacious, that he may obtain the favour of the common folk. And +all this is to our advantage. + +Therefore write, that they may read, of gratitude and of love and the +law. I myself, when I return, will show how the dish should be dressed +to take the taste here; for it is here that we must come. Cause to be +established in Jagesur a newspaper, and fill it with translations of +their papers. A beggar-taught may be brought from Calcutta for thirty +rupees a month, and if he writes in Gurmukhi our people cannot read. +Create, further, councils other than the panchayats of headmen, village +by village and district by district, instructing them beforehand what +to say according to the order of the Rao. Print all these things in +a book in English, and send it to this place, and to every man of +the six hundred. Bid the beggar-taught write in front of all that +Jagesur follows fast on the English plan. If thou squeezest the Hindu +shrine at Theegkot, and it is ripe, remit the head-tax, and perhaps +the marriage-tax, with great publicity. But above all things keep the +troops ready, and in good pay, even though we glean the stubble with +the wheat and stint the Rao Sahib’s women. All must go softly. Protest +thou thy love for the voice of the common people in all things, and +affect to despise the troops. That shall be taken for a witness in this +land. The headship of the troops must be mine. See that Bahadur Shah’s +wits go wandering over the wine, but do not send him to God. I am an +old man, but I may yet live to lead. + +If this people be not bled out and regain strength, we, watching how +the tide runs, when we see that the shadow of their hand is all but +lifted from Hindustan, must bid the Bengali demand the removal of the +residue or set going an uneasiness to that end. We must have a care +neither to hurt the life of the Englishmen nor the honour of their +women, for in that case six times the six hundred here could not hold +those who remain from making the land swim. We must care that they are +not mobbed by the Bengalis, but honourably escorted, while the land is +held down with the threat of the sword if a hair of their heads fall. +Thus we shall gain a good name, and when rebellion is unaccompanied +by bloodshed, as has lately befallen in a far country, the English, +disregarding honour, call it by a new name: even one who has been a +minister of the Empress, but is now at war against the law, praises +it openly before the common folk. So greatly are they changed since +the days of Nikhal Seyn![2] And then, if all go well and the Sahibs, +who through continual checking and browbeating will have grown sick +at heart, see themselves abandoned by their kin--for this people have +allowed their greatest to die on dry sand through delay and fear of +expense--we may go forward. This people are swayed by names. A new +name therefore must be given to the rule of Hindustan (and that the +Bengalis may settle among themselves), and there will be many writings +and oaths of love, such as the little island over seas makes when it +would fight more bitterly; and after that the residue are diminished +the hour comes, and we must strike so that the sword is never any more +questioned. + +By the favour of God and the conservation of the Sahibs these many +years, Hindustan contains very much plunder, which we can in no way eat +hurriedly. There will be to our hand the scaffolding of the house of +state, for the Bengali shall continue to do our work, and must account +to us for the revenue, and learn his seat in the order of things. +Whether the Hindu kings of the west will break in to share that spoil +before we have swept it altogether, thou knowest better than I; but +be certain that, then, strong hands will seek their own thrones, and +it may be that the days of the king of Delhi will return if we only, +curbing our desires, pay due obedience to the outward appearances and +the names. Thou rememberest the old song:-- + + ‘Hadst thou not called it Love, I had said it were a drawn sword, + But since thou hast spoken, I believe and--I die.’ + +It is in my heart that there will remain in our land a few Sahibs +undesirous of returning to England. These we must cherish and protect, +that by their skill and cunning we may hold together and preserve unity +in time of war. The Hindu kings will never trust a Sahib in the core of +their counsels. I say again that if we of the Faith confide in them, we +shall trample upon our enemies. + +Is all this a dream to thee, gray fox of my mother’s bearing? I have +written of what I have seen and heard, but from the same clay two men +will never fashion platters alike, nor from the same facts draw equal +conclusions. Once more, there is a green-sickness upon all the people +of this country. They eat dirt even now to stay their cravings. Honour +and stability have departed from their councils, and the knife of +dissension has brought down upon their heads the flapping tent-flies +of confusion. The Empress is old. They speak disrespectfully of her +and hers in the street. They despise the sword, and believe that the +tongue and the pen sway all. The measure of their ignorance and their +soft belief is greater than the measure of the wisdom of Solomon, the +son of David. All these things I have seen whom they regard as a wild +beast and a spectacle. By God the Enlightener of Intelligence, if +the Sahibs in India could breed sons who lived so that their houses +might be established, I would almost fling my sword at the Viceroy’s +feet, saying: ‘Let us here fight for a kingdom together, thine and +mine, disregarding the babble across the water. Write a letter to +England, saying that we love them but would depart from their camps +and make all clean under a new crown.’ But the Sahibs die out at +the third generation in our land, and it may be that I dream dreams. +Yet not altogether. Until a white calamity of steel and bloodshed, +the bearing of burdens, the trembling for life, and the hot rage of +insult--_for pestilence would unman them if eyes not unused to men +see clear_--befall this people, our path is safe. They are sick. The +Fountain of Power is a gutter which all may defile; and the voices of +the men are overborne by the squealings of mules and the whinnying of +barren mares. If through adversity they become wise, then, my brother, +strike with and for them, and later, when thou and I are dead, and the +disease grows up again (the young men bred in the school of fear and +trembling and word-confounding have yet to live out their appointed +span), those who have fought on the side of the English may ask and +receive what they choose. At present seek quietly to confuse, and +delay, and evade, and make of no effect. In this business four score of +the six hundred are our true helpers. + +Now the pen, and the ink, and the hand weary together, as thy eyes will +weary in this reading. Be it known to my house that I return soon, but +do not speak of the hour. Letters without name have come to me touching +my honour. The honour of my house is thine. If they be, as I believe, +the work of a dismissed groom, Futteh Lal, that ran at the tail of +my wine-coloured Katthiawar stallion, his village is beyond Manglôt; +look to it that his tongue no longer lengthens itself on the names of +those who are mine. If it be otherwise, put a guard upon my house till +I come, and especially see that no sellers of jewellery, astrologers, +or midwives have entrance to the women’s rooms. We rise by our +slaves, and by our slaves we fall, as it was said. To all who are of +my remembrance I bring gifts according to their worth. I have written +twice of the gift that I would cause to be given to Bahadur Shah. + +The blessing of God and his Prophet on thee and thine till the end +which is appointed. Give me felicity by informing me of the state of +thy health. My head is at the Rao Sahib’s feet; my sword is at his left +side, a little above my heart. Follows my seal. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[1] Salvation Army. + +[2] Nicholson, a gentleman once of some notoriety in India. + + + + + ‘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 was full of +aspirations. I met him in a public billiard-saloon where the marker +called him by his first name, and he called the marker ‘Bullseye.’ +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 towards 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 +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 honourable, 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 his 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, 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 ideas 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 thought 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 afterwards 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 at +last to the 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--as a +beggar would enfold himself in the purple of Emperors. 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 slips + 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 oar-heads bucking. 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 +lent 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 life-like. 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 notepaper, 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. I mean it to mean “I’m beastly tired.” It’s great +nonsense,’ he repeated, ‘but all those men in the ship seem as real as +real 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 notepaper 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 notepaper 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 marvellous 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 of the Egyptian +court 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 for 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, coloured, and distorted by that which he had read, and +the result as delivered was a confused tangle of other voices most like +the mutter and hum 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 nearly 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 dream about that galley of ours. I dreamed I was +drowned in a fight. You see we ran alongside another ship in harbour. +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 clear up into the air and +came down again close at my head.’ + +‘How was that managed?’ + +‘The moving galley’s bow was plunking them back through their own +oar-holes, and I could hear no end 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 travelled 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, who had never been out of +sight of a made road, 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 row 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 harbour where the fight was fought.’ + +‘I didn’t dream about that. I know it was a harbour, 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 afterwards. 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 knew 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 galleys 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. Afterwards--years and years afterwards--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 gently 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 +favour 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 harbour 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-sixpenny 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 must lie even when he most desires to speak the truth. + +I saw no more of Charlie for nearly a week. When next I met him it was +in Gracechurch Street with a bill-book 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 ship’s 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 Skrœlings 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 Skrœlings?’ + +‘Never heard of ’em before. They sound like a new kind of sea-gull. +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 Skrœlings?’ + +‘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 +Skrœlings--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 reviewed 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 honour 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 +patronise 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 colours 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 then, 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 recognised a casual acquaintance, a young Bengali +law student, called Grish Chunder, whose father had sent him to England +to become civilised. 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 the _Sachi Durpan_, and intrigued with the wives of his +fourteen-year-old 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 on 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 +Freethinker. 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 _Mlechh_--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 his 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 Christi-án, 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 honour 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. They kiss you behind doors.’ + +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 speculation 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 speak 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, insisting 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 hypnotised boys into mirrors and ink-pools would help me to that. +But I recognised Grish Chunder’s point of view and sympathised 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.’ + +Charlie 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-handles like shark-skin; 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 oar-blade, 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 note-book 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 second-hand from other people’s +books--except, perhaps, the story of the fight in the harbour. 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 in +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 burnt coal gave way, and the fire settled 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-book.’ + +‘I remember now. It’s twenty-five 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 not my eyes 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 +favourite 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; + Gray 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 and most beautiful +wooings. Were this 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. + + + + + HIS PRIVATE HONOUR. + + +The autumn batch of recruits for the Old Regiment had just been +uncarted. As usual they were said to be the worst draft that had ever +come from the Depôt. Mulvaney looked them over, grunted scornfully, and +immediately reported himself very sick. + +‘Is it the regular autumn fever?’ said the doctor, who knew something +of Terence’s ways. ‘Your temperature’s normal.’ + +‘’Tis wan hundred and thirty-seven rookies to the bad, sorr. I’m not +very sick now, but I will be dead if these boys are thrown at me in my +rejuced condition. Doctor, dear, supposin’ you was in charge of three +cholera camps an’----’ + +‘Go to hospital then, you old contriver,’ said the doctor, laughing. + +Terence bundled himself into a blue bedgown,--Dinah Shadd was away +attending to a major’s lady, who preferred Dinah without a diploma to +anybody else with a hundred,--put a pipe in his teeth, and paraded the +hospital balcony, exhorting Ortheris to be a father to the new recruits. + +‘They’re mostly your own sort, little man,’ he said, with a grin; ‘the +top-spit av Whitechapel. I’ll interogue them whin they’re more like +something they never will be,--an’ that’s a good honest soldier like +me.’ + +Ortheris yapped indignantly. He knew as well as Terence what the coming +work meant, and he thought Terence’s conduct mean. Then he strolled +off to look at the new cattle, who were staring at the unfamiliar +landscape with large eyes, and asking if the kites were eagles and the +pariah-dogs jackals. + +‘Well, you are a holy set of bean-faced beggars, _you_ are,’ he said +genially to a knot in the barrack-square. Then, running his eye over +them,--‘Fried fish an’ whelks is about your sort. Blimy if they haven’t +sent some pink-eyed Jews too. You chap with the greasy ’ed, which o’ +the Solomons was your father, Moses?’ + +‘My name’s Anderson,’ said a voice sullenly. + +‘Oh, Samuelson! All right, Samuelson! An’ ’ow many o’ the likes o’ you +Sheenies are comin’ to spoil B Company?’ + +There is no scorn so complete as that of the old soldier for the new. +It is right that this should be so. A recruit must learn first that he +is not a man but a thing, which in time, and by the mercy of Heaven, +may develop into a soldier of the Queen if it takes care and attends +to good advice. Ortheris’s tunic was open, his cap overlopped one +eye, and his hands were behind his back as he walked round, growing +more contemptuous at each step. The recruits did not dare to answer, +for they were new boys in a strange school, who had called themselves +soldiers at the Depôt in comfortable England. + +‘Not a single pair o’ shoulders in the whole lot. I’ve seen some bad +drafts in my time,--some bloomin’ bad drafts; but this ’ere draft +beats any draft I’ve ever known. Jock, come an’ look at these squidgy, +ham-shanked beggars.’ + +Learoyd was walking across the square. He arrived slowly, circled round +the knot as a whale circles round a shoal of small fry, said nothing, +and went away whistling. + +‘Yes, you may well look sheepy,’ Ortheris squeaked to the boys. ‘It’s +the likes of you breaks the ’earts of the likes of us. We’ve got to +lick you into shape, and never a ha’penny extry do we get for so doin’, +and you ain’t never grateful neither. Don’t you go thinkin’ it’s the +Colonel nor yet the company orf’cer that makes you. It’s _us_, you +Johnnie Raws--you Johnnie _bloomin’_ Raws!’ + +A company officer had come up unperceived behind Ortheris at the end +of this oration. ‘You may be right, Ortheris,’ he said quietly, ‘but +I shouldn’t shout it.’ The recruits grinned as Ortheris saluted and +collapsed. + +Some days afterwards I was privileged to look over the new batch, +and they were everything that Ortheris had said, and more. B Company +had been devastated by forty or fifty of them; and B Company’s drill +on parade was a sight to shudder at. Ortheris asked them lovingly +whether they had not been sent out by mistake, and whether they had not +better post themselves back to their friends. Learoyd thrashed them +methodically one by one, without haste but without slovenliness; and +the older soldiers took the remnants from Learoyd and went over them in +their own fashion. Mulvaney stayed in hospital, and grinned from the +balcony when Ortheris called him a shirker and other worse names. + +‘By the grace av God we’ll brew men av them yet,’ Terence said one +day. ‘Be vartuous an’ parsevere, me son. There’s the makin’s av +colonels in that mob if we only go deep enough--wid a belt.’ + +‘We!’ Ortheris replied, dancing with rage. ‘I just love you and your +“we’s.” ’Ere’s B Company drillin’ like a drunk Militia reg’ment.’ + +‘So I’ve been officially acquent,’ was the answer from on high; ‘but +I’m too sick this tide to make certain.’ + +‘An’ you, you fat H’irishman, shiftin’ an’ shirkin’ up there among the +arrerroot an’ the sago!’ + +‘_An’_ the port wine,--you’ve forgot the port wine, Orth’ris: ’tis none +so bad.’ Terence smacked his lips provokingly. + +‘And we’re wore off our feet with these ’ere--kangaroos. Come out o’ +that, an’ earn your pay. Come on down outer that, an’ _do_ something +’stead o’ grinnin’ up there like a Jew monkey, you frowsy-’eaded +Fenian!’ + +‘When I’m better av my various complaints I’ll have a little private +talkin’ wid you. In the meanwhile,--duck!’ + +Terence flung an empty medicine bottle at Ortheris’s head and dropped +into a long chair, and Ortheris came to tell me his opinion of Mulvaney +three times over,--each time entirely varying all the words. + +‘There’ll be a smash one o’ these days,’ he concluded. ‘Well, it’s none +o’ my fault, but it’s ’ard on B Company.’ + +It was very hard on B Company, for twenty seasoned men cannot push +twice that number of fools into their places and keep their own +places at the same time. The recruits should have been more evenly +distributed through the regiment, but it seemed good to the Colonel +to mass them in a company where there was a fair proportion of old +soldiers. He found his reward early one morning when the battalion was +advancing by companies in echelon from the right. The order was given +to form company squares, which are compact little bricks of men very +unpleasant for a line of charging cavalry to deal with. B Company was +on the left flank, and had ample time to know what was going on. For +that reason presumably it gathered itself into a thing like a decayed +aloe-clump, the bayonets pointing anywhere in general and nowhere in +particular; and in that clump, roundel, or mob, it stayed till the dust +had gone down and the Colonel could see and speak. He did both, and +the speaking part was admitted by the regiment to be the finest thing +that the ‘old man’ had ever risen to since one delightful day at a +sham-fight, when a cavalry division had occasion to walk over his line +of skirmishers. He said, almost weeping, that he had given no order +for rallying groups, and that he preferred to see a little dressing +among the men occasionally. He then apologised for having mistaken B +Company for men. He said that they were but weak little children, and +that since he could not offer them each a perambulator and a nursemaid +(this may sound comic to read, but B Company heard it by word of mouth +and winced) perhaps the best thing for them to do would be to go back +to squad-drill. To that end he proposed sending them, out of their +turn, to garrison duty in Fort Amara, five miles away,--D Company were +next for this detestable duty and nearly cheered the Colonel. There he +devoutly hoped that their own subalterns would drill them to death, as +they were of no use in their present life. + +It was an exceedingly painful scene, and I made haste to be near B +Company barracks when parade was dismissed and the men were free to +talk. There was no talking at first, because each old soldier took a +new draft and kicked him very severely. The non-commissioned officers +had neither eyes nor ears for these accidents. They left the barracks +to themselves, and Ortheris improved the occasion by a speech. I +did not hear that speech, but fragments of it were quoted for weeks +afterwards. It covered the birth, parentage, and education of every man +in the company by name: it gave a complete account of Fort Amara from +a sanitary and social point of view; and it wound up with an abstract +of the whole duty of a soldier, each recruit his use in life, and +Ortheris’s views on the use and fate of the recruits of B Company. + +‘You can’t drill, you can’t walk, you can’t shoot,--you,--you awful +rookies! Wot’s the good of you? You eats and you sleeps, and you eats, +and you goes to the doctor for medicine when your innards is out o’ +order for all the world as if you was bloomin’ generals. An’ now you’ve +topped it all, you bats’-eyed beggars, with getting us druv out to that +stinkin’ Fort ’Ammerer. We’ll fort you when we get out there; yes, an’ +we’ll ’ammer you too. Don’t you think you’ve come into the H’army to +drink Heno, an’ club your comp’ny, an’ lie on your cots an’ scratch +your fat heads. You can do that at ’ome sellin’ matches, which is all +you’re fit for, you keb-huntin’, penny-toy, bootlace, baggage-tout, +’orse-’oldin’, sandwich-backed se-werss, you.[3] I’ve spoke you as +fair as I know ’ow, and you give good ’eed, ’cause if Mulvaney stops +skrimshanking--gets out o’ ’orspital--when we’re in the Fort, I lay +your lives will be trouble to you.’ + +That was Ortheris’s peroration, and it caused B Company to be +christened the Boot-black Brigade. With this disgrace on their slack +shoulders they went to garrison duty at Fort Amara with their officers, +who were under instructions to twist their little tails. The army, +unlike every other profession, cannot be taught through shilling +books. First a man must suffer, then he must learn his work, and the +self-respect that that knowledge brings. The learning is hard, in a +land where the army is not a red thing that walks down the street to +be looked at, but a living tramping reality that may be needed at the +shortest notice, when there is no time to say, ‘Hadn’t you better?’ and +‘Won’t you please?’ + +The company officers divided themselves into three. When Brander the +captain was wearied, he gave over to Maydew, and when Maydew was hoarse +he ordered the junior subaltern Ouless to bucket the men through squad +and company drill, till Brander could go on again. Out of parade hours +the old soldiers spoke to the recruits as old soldiers will, and +between the four forces at work on them, the new draft began to stand +on their feet and feel that they belonged to a good and honourable +service. This was proved by their once or twice resenting Ortheris’s +technical lectures. + +‘Drop it now, lad,’ said Learoyd, coming to the rescue. ‘Th’ pups are +biting back. They’re none so rotten as we looked for.’ + +‘Ho! Yes. You think yourself soldiers now, ’cause you don’t fall over +each other on p’rade, don’t you? You think ’cause the dirt don’t cake +off you week’s end to week’s end that you’re clean men. You think +’cause you can fire your rifle without more nor shuttin’ both eyes, +you’re something to fight, don’t you? You’ll know later on,’ said +Ortheris to the barrack-room generally. ‘Not but what you’re a little +better than you was,’ he added, with a gracious wave of his cutty. + +It was in this transition-stage that I came across the new draft once +more. Their officers, in the zeal of youth forgetting that the old +soldiers who stiffened the sections must suffer equally with the raw +material under hammering, had made all a little stale and unhandy +with continuous drill in the square, instead of marching the men into +the open and supplying them with skirmishing drill. The month of +garrison-duty in the Fort was nearly at an end, and B Company were +quite fit for a self-respecting regiment to drill with. They had +no style or spring,--that would come in time,--but so far as they +went they were passable. I met Maydew one day and inquired after +their health. He told me that young Ouless was putting a polish on a +half-company of them in the great square by the east bastion of the +Fort that afternoon. Because the day was Saturday I went off to taste +the full beauty of leisure in watching another man hard at work. + +The fat forty-pound muzzle-loaders on the east bastion made a very +comfortable resting-place. You could sprawl full length on the iron +warmed by the afternoon sun to blood heat, and command an easy view of +the parade-ground which lay between the powder-magazine and the curtain +of the bastion. + +I saw a half-company called over and told off for drill, saw Ouless +come from his quarters, tugging at his gloves, and heard the first +_’Shun!_ that locks the ranks and shows that work has begun. Then I +went off on my own thoughts; the squeaking of the boots and the rattle +of the rifles making a good accompaniment, and the line of red coats +and black trousers a suitable background to them all. They concerned +the formation of a territorial army for India,--an army of specially +paid men enlisted for twelve years’ service in Her Majesty’s Indian +possessions, with the option of extending on medical certificates for +another five and the certainty of a pension at the end. They would +be such an army as the world had never seen,--one hundred thousand +trained men drawing annually five, no, fifteen thousand men from +England, making India their home, and allowed to marry in reason. Yes, +I thought, watching the line shift to and fro, break and re-form, we +would buy back Cashmere from the drunken imbecile who was turning it +into a hell, and there we would plant our much-married regiments,--the +men who had served ten years of their time,--and there they should +breed us white soldiers, and perhaps a second fighting-line of +Eurasians. At all events Cashmere was the only place in India that the +Englishman could colonise, and if we had foot-hold there we could.... +Oh, it was a beautiful dream! I left that territorial army swelled +to a quarter of a million men far behind, swept on as far as an +independent India, hiring war-ships from the mother-country, guarding +Aden on the one side and Singapore on the other, paying interest on +her loans with beautiful regularity, but borrowing no men from beyond +her own borders--a colonised, manufacturing India with a permanent +surplus and her own flag. I had just installed myself as Viceroy, +and by virtue of my office had shipped four million sturdy thrifty +natives to the Malayan Archipelago, where labour is always wanted and +the Chinese pour in too quickly, when I became aware that things were +not going smoothly with the half-company. There was a great deal too +much shuffling and shifting and ‘as you were-ing.’ The non-commissioned +officers were snapping at the men, and I fancied Ouless backed one of +his orders with an oath. He was in no position to do this, because he +was a junior who had not yet learned to pitch his word of command in +the same key twice running. Sometimes he squeaked, and sometimes he +grunted; and a clear full voice with a ring in it has more to do with +drill than people think. He was nervous both on parade and in mess, +because he was unproven and knew it. One of his majors had said in +his hearing, ‘Ouless has a skin or two to slough yet, and he hasn’t +the sense to be aware of it.’ That remark had stayed in Ouless’s mind +and caused him to think about himself in little things, which is not +the best training for a young man. He tried to be cordial at mess, +and became over-effusive. Then he tried to stand on his dignity, and +appeared sulky and boorish. He was only hunting for the just medium +and the proper note, and had found neither because he had never faced +himself in a big thing. With his men he was as ill at ease as he was +with his mess, and his voice betrayed him. I heard two orders and +then:--‘Sergeant, what _is_ that rear-rank man doing, damn him?’ That +was sufficiently bad. A company officer ought not to ask sergeants for +information. He commands, and commands are not held by syndicates. + +It was too dusty to see the drill accurately, but I could hear the +excited little voice pitching from octave to octave, and the uneasy +ripple of badgered or bad-tempered files running down the ranks. Ouless +had come on parade as sick of his duty as were the men of theirs. The +hot sun had told on everybody’s temper, but most of all on the youngest +man’s. He had evidently lost his self-control, and not possessing the +nerve or the knowledge to break off till he had recovered it again, was +making bad worse by ill-language. + +The men shifted their ground and came close under the gun I was lying +on. They were wheeling quarter-right and they did it very badly, +in the natural hope of hearing Ouless swear again. He could have +taught them nothing new, but they enjoyed the exhibition. Instead of +swearing Ouless lost his head completely, and struck out nervously +at the wheeling flank-man with a little Malacca riding-cane that he +held in his hand for a pointer. The cane was topped with thin silver +over lacquer, and the silver had worn through in one place, leaving a +triangular flap sticking up. I had just time to see that Ouless had +thrown away his commission by striking a soldier, when I heard the rip +of cloth and a piece of gray shirt showed under the torn scarlet on the +man’s shoulder. It had been the merest nervous flick of an exasperated +boy, but quite enough to forfeit his commission, since it had been +dealt in anger to a volunteer and no pressed man, who could not under +the rules of the service reply. The effect of it, thanks to the natural +depravity of things, was as though Ouless had cut the man’s coat off +his back. Knowing the new draft by reputation, I was fairly certain +that every one of them would swear with many oaths that Ouless had +actually thrashed the man. In that case Ouless would do well to pack +his trunk. His career as a servant of the Queen in any capacity was +ended. The wheel continued, and the men halted and dressed immediately +opposite my resting-place. Ouless’s face was perfectly bloodless. The +flanking man was a dark red, and I could see his lips moving in wicked +words. He was Ortheris! After seven years’ service and three medals, +he had been struck by a boy younger than himself! Further, he was my +friend and a good man, a proved man, and an Englishman. The shame of +the thing made me as hot as it made Ouless cold, and if Ortheris had +slipped in a cartridge and cleared the account at once I should have +rejoiced. The fact that Ortheris, of all men, had been struck, proved +that the boy could not have known whom he was hitting; but he should +have remembered that he was no longer a boy. And then I was sorry for +him, and then I was angry again, and Ortheris stared in front of him +and grew redder and redder. + +The drill halted for a moment. No one knew why, for not three men could +have seen the insult, the wheel being end-on to Ouless at the time. +Then, led, I conceived, by the hand of Fate, Brander, the captain, +crossed the drill-ground, and his eye was caught by not more than a +square foot of gray shirt over a shoulder-blade that should have been +covered by well-fitting tunic. + +‘Heavens and earth!’ he said, crossing in three strides. ‘Do you let +your men come on parade in rags, sir? What’s that scare-crow doing +here? Fall out, that flank-man. What do you mean by----_You_, Ortheris! +of all men. What the deuce do you mean?’ + +‘Beg y’ pardon, sir,’ said Ortheris. ‘I scratched it against the +guard-gate running up to parade.’ + +‘Scratched it! Ripped it up, you mean. It’s half off your back.’ + +‘It was a little tear at first, sir, but in portin’ arms it got +stretched, sir, an’--an’ I can’t look be’ind me. I felt it givin’, sir.’ + +‘Hm!’ said Brander. ‘I should think you did feel it give. I thought it +was one of the new draft. You’ve a good pair of shoulders. Go on!’ + +He turned to go. Ouless stepped after him, very white, and said +something in a low voice. + +‘Hey, what? What? Ortheris,’ the voice dropped. I saw Ortheris salute, +say something, and stand at attention. + +‘Dismiss,’ said Brander curtly. The men were dismissed. ‘I can’t make +this out. You say----?’ he nodded at Ouless, who said something again. +Ortheris stood still, the torn flap of his tunic falling nearly to his +waist-belt. He had, as Brander said, a good pair of shoulders, and +prided himself on the fit of his tunic. + +‘Beg y’ pardon, sir,’ I heard him say, ‘but I think Lieutenant Ouless +has been in the sun too long. He don’t quite remember things, sir. I +come on p’rade with a bit of a rip, and it spread, sir, through portin’ +arms, as I ’ave said, sir.’ + +Brander looked from one face to the other and I suppose drew his own +conclusions, for he told Ortheris to go with the other men who were +flocking back to barracks. Then he spoke to Ouless and went away, +leaving the boy in the middle of the parade-ground fumbling with his +sword-knot. + +He looked up, saw me lying on the gun, and came to me biting the back +of his gloved forefinger, so completely thrown off his balance that he +had not sense enough to keep his trouble to himself. + +‘I say, you saw that, I suppose?’ He jerked his head back to the +square, where the dust left by the departing men was settling down in +white circles. + +‘I did,’ I answered, for I was not feeling polite. + +‘What the devil ought I to do?’ He bit his finger again. ‘I told +Brander what I had done. I hit him.’ + +‘I’m perfectly aware of that,’ I said, ‘and I don’t suppose Ortheris +has forgotten it already.’ + +‘Ye--es; but I’m dashed if I know what I ought to do. Exchange into +another company, I suppose. I can’t ask the man to exchange, I suppose. +Hey?’ + +The suggestion showed the glimmerings of proper sense, but he should +not have come to me or any one else for help. It was his own affair, +and I told him so. He seemed unconvinced, and began to talk of the +possibilities of being cashiered. At this point the spirit moved me, +on behalf of the unavenged Ortheris, to paint him a beautiful picture +of his insignificance in the scheme of creation. He had a papa and a +mamma seven thousand miles away, and perhaps some friends. They would +feel his disgrace, but no one else would care a penny. He would be only +Lieutenant Ouless of the Old Regiment dismissed the Queen’s service for +conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman. The Commander-in-Chief, +who would confirm the orders of the court-martial, would not know who +he was; his mess would not speak of him; he would return to Bombay, +if he had money enough to go home, more alone than when he had come +out. Finally,--I rounded the sketch with precision,--he was only one +tiny dab of red in the vast gray field of the Indian Empire. He must +work this crisis out alone, and no one could help him, and no one +cared--(this was untrue, because I cared immensely; he had spoken the +truth to Brander on the spot)--whether he pulled through it or did not +pull through it. At last his face set and his figure stiffened. + +‘Thanks, that’s quite enough. I don’t want to hear any more,’ he said +in a dry grating voice, and went to his own quarters. + +Brander spoke to me afterwards and asked me some absurd +question--whether I had seen Ouless cut the coat off Ortheris’s back. +I knew that jagged sliver of silver would do its work well, but I +contrived to impress on Brander the completeness, the wonderful +completeness, of my disassociation from that drill. I began to tell him +all about my dreams for the new territorial army in India, and he left +me. + +I could not see Ortheris for some days, but I learnt that when he +returned to his fellows he had told the story of the blow in vivid +language. Samuelson, the Jew, then asserted that it was not good enough +to live in a regiment where you were drilled off your feet and knocked +about like a dog. The remark was a perfectly innocent one, and exactly +tallied with Ortheris’s expressed opinions. Yet Ortheris had called +Samuelson an unmentionable Jew, had accused him of kicking women on +the head in London, and howling under the cat, had hustled him, as a +bantam hustles a barn-door cock, from one end of the barrack-room to +the other, and finally had heaved every single article of Samuelson’s +valise and bedding-roll into the verandah and the outer dirt, kicking +Samuelson every time that the bewildered creature stooped to pick +anything up. My informant could not account for this inconsistency, but +it seemed to me that Ortheris was working off his temper. + +Mulvaney had heard the story in hospital. First his face clouded, then +he spat, and then laughed. I suggested that he had better return to +active duty, but he saw it in another light, and told me that Ortheris +was quite capable of looking after himself and his own affairs. ‘An’ +if I did come out,’ said Terence, ‘like as not I would be catchin’ +young Ouless by the scruff av his trousies an’ makin’ an example av him +before the men. Whin Dinah came back I would be under court-martial, +an’ all for the sake av a little bit av a bhoy that’ll make an orf’cer +yet. What’s he goin’ to do, sorr, do ye know?’ + +‘Which?’ said I. + +‘Ouless, av course. I’ve no fear for the _man_. Begad, tho’, if ut had +come to me--but ut could not have so come--I’d ha’ made him cut his +wisdom-teeth on his own sword-hilt.’ + +‘I don’t think he knows himself what he means to do,’ I said. + +‘I should not wonder,’ said Terence. ‘There’s a dale av thinkin’ before +a young man whin he’s done wrong an’ knows ut, an’ is studyin’ how to +put ut right. Give the word from me to our little man there, that if he +had ha’ told on his shuperior orf’cer I’d ha’ come out to Fort Amara to +kick him into the Fort ditch, an’ that’s a forty-fut drop.’ + +Ortheris was not in good condition to talk to. He wandered up and down +with Learoyd brooding, so far as I could see, over his lost honour, +and using, as I could hear, incendiary language. Learoyd would nod and +spit and smoke and nod again, and he must have been a great comfort to +Ortheris--almost as great a comfort as Samuelson, whom Ortheris bullied +disgracefully. If the Jew opened his mouth in the most casual remark +Ortheris would plunge down it with all arms and accoutrements, while +the barrack-room stared and wondered. + +Ouless had retired into himself to meditate. I saw him now and again, +and he avoided me because I had witnessed his shame and spoken my mind +on it. He seemed dull and moody, and found his half-company anything +but pleasant to drill. The men did their work and gave him very little +trouble, but just when they should have been feeling their feet, +and showing that they felt them by spring and swing and snap, the +elasticity died out, and it was only drilling with war-game blocks. +There is a beautiful little ripple in a well-made line of men, exactly +like the play of a perfectly-tempered sword. Ouless’s half-company +moved as a broomstick moves, and would have broken as easily. + +I was speculating whether Ouless had sent money to Ortheris, which +would have been bad, or had apologised to him in private, which would +have been worse, or had decided to let the whole affair slide, which +would have been worst of all, when orders came to me to leave the +station for a while. I had not spoken directly to Ortheris, for his +honour was not my honour, and he was its only guardian, and he would +not say anything except bad words. + +I went away, and from time to time thought a great deal of that +subaltern and that private in Fort Amara, and wondered what would be +the upshot of everything. + +When I returned it was early spring. B Company had been shifted from +the Fort to regular duty in cantonments, the roses were getting +ready to bud on the Mall, and the regiment, which had been at a +camp of exercise among other things, was going through its spring +musketry-course under an adjutant who had a notion that its shooting +average was low. He had stirred up the company officers and they had +bought extra ammunition for their men--the Government allowance is +just sufficient to foul the rifling--and E Company, which counted +many marksmen, was vapouring and offering to challenge all the other +companies, and the third-class shots were very sorry that they had ever +been born, and all the subalterns were a rich ripe saddle-colour from +sitting at the butts six and eight hours a day. + +I went off to the butts after breakfast very full of curiosity to see +how the new draft had come forward. Ouless was there with his men by +the bald hillock that marks the six hundred yards’ range, and the men +were in gray-green _khaki_, that shows the best points of a soldier +and shades off into every background he may stand against. Before I +was in hearing distance I could see, as they sprawled on the dusty +grass, or stood up and shook themselves, that they were men made over +again--wearing their helmets with the cock of self-possession, swinging +easily, and jumping to the word of command. Coming nearer, I heard +Ouless whistling _Ballyhooley_ between his teeth as he looked down the +range with his binoculars, and the back of Lieutenant Ouless was the +back of a free man and an officer. He nodded as I came up, and I heard +him fling an order to a non-commissioned officer in a sure and certain +voice. The flag ran up from the target, and Ortheris threw himself +down on his stomach to put in his ten shots. He winked at me over the +breechblock as he settled himself, with the air of a man who has to go +through tricks for the benefit of children. + +‘Watch, you men,’ said Ouless to the squad behind. ‘He’s half your +weight, Brannigan, but he isn’t afraid of his rifle.’ + +Ortheris had his little affectations and pet ways as the rest of us +have. He weighed his rifle, gave it a little kick-up, cuddled down +again, and fired across the ground that was beginning to dance in the +sun-heat. + +‘Miss!’ said a man behind. + +‘Too much bloomin’ background in front,’ Ortheris muttered. + +‘I should allow two feet for refraction,’ said Ouless. + +Ortheris fired again, made his outer, crept in, found the bull and +stayed there; the non-commissioned officer pricking off the shots. + +‘Can’t make out ’ow I missed that first,’ he said, rising, and stepping +back to my side, as Learoyd took his place. + +‘Is it company practice?’ I asked. + +‘No. Only just knockin’ about. Ouless, ’e’s givin’ ten rupees for +second-class shots. I’m outer it, of course, but I come on to show ’em +the proper style o’ doin’ things. Jock looks like a sea-lion at the +Brighton Aquarium sprawlin’ an’ crawlin’ down there, don’t ’e? Gawd, +what a butt this end of ’im would make.’ + +‘B Company has come up very well,’ I said. + +‘They ’ad to. They’re none so dusty now, are they? Samuelson even, ’e +can shoot sometimes. We’re gettin’ on as well as can be expected, thank +you.’ + +‘How do you get on with----?’ + +‘Oh, _’im_! First-rate! There’s nothin’ wrong with ’im.’ + +‘Was it all settled then?’ + +‘’Asn’t Terence told you? I should say it was. ’E’s a gentleman, ’e is.’ + +‘Let’s hear,’ I said. + +Ortheris twinkled all over, tucked his rifle across his knees and +repeated, ‘’E’s a gentleman. ’E’s an officer too. You saw all that +mess in Fort ’Ammerer. ’Twasn’t none o’ _my_ fault, as you can guess. +Only some goat in the drill judged it was be’aviour or something to +play the fool on p’rade. That’s why we drilled so bad. When ’e ’it me, +I was so took aback I couldn’t do nothing, an’ when I wished for to +knock ’im down the wheel ’ad gone on, an’ I was facin’ you there lyin’ +on the guns. After the captain had come up an’ was raggin’ me about +my tunic bein’ tore, I saw the young beggar’s eye, an’ ’fore I could +’elp myself I begun to lie like a good ’un. You ’eard that? It was +quite instinkive, but, my! I was in a lather. Then _he_ said to the +captain, “I struck ’im!” sez ’e, an’ I ’eard Brander whistle, an’ then +I come out with a new set o’ lies all about portin’ arms an’ ’ow the +rip growed, same as you ’eard. I done that too before I knew where I +was. Then I give Samuelson what-for in barricks when he was dismissed. +You should ha’ seen ’is kit by the time I’d finished with it. It was +all over the bloomin’ Fort! Then me an’ Jock went off to Mulvaney in +’orspital, five-mile walk, an’ I was hoppin’ mad. Ouless, ’e knowed it +was court-martial for me if I ’it ’im back--’e _must_ ha’ knowed. Well, +I sez to Terence, whisperin’ under the ’orspital balcony--“Terence,” +sez I, “what in ’ell am I to do?” I told ’im all about the row same as +you saw. Terence ’e whistles like a bloomin’ old bullfinch up there in +’orspital, an’ ’e sez, “You ain’t to blame,” sez ’e. “’Strewth,” sez +I, “d’you suppose I’ve come ’ere five mile in the sun to take blame?” +I sez. “I want that young beggar’s hide took off. I ain’t a bloomin’ +conscrip’,” I sez. “I’m a private servin’ of the Queen, an’ as good +a man as ’e is,” I sez, “for all ’is commission an’ ’is airs an’ ’is +money,” sez I.’ + +‘What a fool you were,’ I interrupted. Ortheris, being neither a menial +nor an American, but a free man, had no excuse for yelping. + +‘That’s exactly what Terence said. I wonder you set it the same way so +pat if ’e ’asn’t been talkin’ to you. ’E sez to me--“You ought to ’ave +more sense,” ’e sez, “at your time of life. What differ do it make to +you,” ’e sez, “whether ’e ’as a commission or no commission? That’s +none o’ your affair. It’s between man an’ man,” ’e sez, “if ’e ’eld +a general’s commission. Moreover,” ’e sez, “you don’t look ’andsome +’oppin’ about on your ’ind legs like that. Take him away, Jock.” Then +’e went inside, an’ that’s all I got outer Terence. Jock, ’e sez as +slow as a march in slow time,--“Stanley,” ’e sez, “that young beggar +didn’t _go_ for to ’it you.” “I don’t give a damn whether ’e did or +’e didn’t. ’It me ’e did,” I sez. “Then you’ve only got to report to +Brander,” sez Jock. “What d’yer take me for?” I sez, as I was so mad I +nearly ’it Jock. An’ he got me by the neck an’ shoved my ’ead into a +bucket o’ water in the cook-’ouse an’ then we went back to the Fort, +an’ I give Samuelson a little more trouble with ’is kit. ’E sez to me, +“_I_ haven’t been strook without ’ittin’ back.” “Well, you’re goin’ to +be now,” I sez, an’ I give ’im one or two for ’isself, an’ arxed ’im +very polite to ’it back, but he didn’t. I’d ha’ killed ’im if ’e ’ad. +That done me a lot o’ good. + +‘Ouless ’e didn’t make no show for some days,--not till after you was +gone; an’ I was feelin’ sick an’ miserable, an’ didn’t know what I +wanted, ’cept to black his little eyes good. I ’oped ’e might send me +some money for my tunic. Then I’d ha’ had it out with him on p’rade +and took my chance. Terence was in ’orspital still, you see, an’ ’e +wouldn’t give me no advice. + +‘The day after you left, Ouless come across me carrying a bucket on +fatigue, an’ e’ sez to me very quietly, “Ortheris, you’ve got to come +out shootin’ with me,” ’e sez. I felt like to bunging the bucket in ’is +eye, but I didn’t. I got ready to go instead. Oh, ’e’s a gentleman! We +went out together, neither sayin’ nothin’ to the other till we was well +out into the jungle beyond the river with ’igh grass all round,--pretty +near that place where I went off my ’ead with you. Then ’e puts his gun +down an’ sez very quietly: “Ortheris, I strook you on p’rade,” ’e sez. +“Yes, sir,” sez I, “you did.” “I’ve been studying it out by myself,” +’e sez. “Oh, you ’ave, ’ave you?” sez I to myself, “an’ a nice time +you’ve been about it, you bun-faced little beggar.” “Yes, sir,” sez I. +“What made you screen me?” ’e sez. “I don’t know,” I sez, an’ no more I +did, nor do. “I can’t ask you to exchange,” ’e sez. “An’ I don’t want +to exchange myself,” sez ’e. “What’s comin’ now?” I thinks to myself. +“Yes, sir,” sez I. He looks round at the ’igh grass all about, an’ ’e +sez to himself more than to me,--“I’ve got to go through it alone, by +myself!” ’E looked so queer for a minute that, s’elp me, I thought the +little beggar was going to pray. Then he turned round again an’ ’e sez, +“What do you think yourself?” ’e sez. “I don’t quite see what you mean, +sir,” I sez. “What would you like?” ’e sez. An’ I thought for a minute +’e was goin’ to give me money, but ’e run ’is ’and up to the top-button +of ’is shootin’ coat an’ loosed it. “Thank you, sir,” I sez. “I’d like +that very well,” I sez, an’ both our coats was off an’ put down.’ + +‘Hooray!’ I shouted incautiously. + +‘Don’t make a noise on the butts,’ said Ouless from the shooting-place. +‘It puts the men off.’ + +I apologised, and Ortheris went on. + +‘Our coats was off, an’ ’e sez, “Are you ready?” sez ’e. “Come on +then.” I come on, a bit uncertain at first, but he took me one under +the chin that warmed me up. I wanted to mark the little beggar an’ I +hit high, but he went an’ jabbed me over the heart like a good one. He +wasn’t so strong as me, but he knew more, an’ in about two minutes I +calls “Time.” ’E steps back,--it was in-fightin’ then: “Come on when +you’re ready,” ’e sez; and when I had my wind I come on again, an’ I +got ’im one on the nose that painted ’is little aristocratic white +shirt for ’im. That fetched ’im, an’ I knew it quicker nor light. He +come all round me, close-fightin’, goin’ steady for my heart. I held on +all I could an’ split ’is ear, but then I began to hiccup, an’ the game +was up. I come in to feel if I could throw ’im, an’ ’e got me one on +the mouth that downed me an’--look ’ere!’ + +Ortheris raised the left corner of his upper lip. An eye-tooth was +wanting. + +‘’E stood over me an’ ’e sez, “Have you ’ad enough?” ’e sez. “Thank +you, I ’ave,” sez I. He took my ’and an’ pulled me up, an’ I was pretty +shook. “Now,” ’e sez, “I’ll apologise for ’ittin’ you. It was all my +fault,” ’e sez, “an’ it wasn’t meant for you.” “I knowed that, sir,” I +sez, “an’ there’s no need for no apology.” “Then it’s an accident,” ’e +sez; “an’ you must let me pay for the coat. Else it’ll be stopped out +o’ your pay.” I wouldn’t ha’ took the money before, but I did then. +’E give me ten rupees,--enough to pay for a coat twice over, an’ we +went down to the river to wash our faces, which was well marked. His +was special. Then he sez to himself, sputterin’ the water out of ’is +mouth, “I wonder if I done right,” ’e sez. “Yes, sir,” sez I. “There’s +no fear about that.” “It’s all well for _you_,” ’e sez, “but what +about the comp’ny?” “Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” I sez, “I don’t think +the comp’ny will give no trouble.” Then we went shootin’, an’ when we +come back I was feelin’ as chirpy as a cricket, an’ I took an’ rolled +Samuelson up an’ down the verandah, an’ give out to the comp’ny that +the difficulty between me an’ Lieutenant Ouless was satisfactory put a +stop to. I told Jock, o’ course, an’ Terence. Jock didn’t say nothing, +but Terence ’e sez: “You’re a pair, you two. An’, begad, I don’t know +which was the better man.” There ain’t nothin’ wrong with Ouless. ’E’s +a gentleman all over, an’ ’e’s come on as much as B Comp’ny. I lay ’e’d +lose ’is commission, tho’, if it come out that ’e’d been fightin’ with +a private. Ho! ho! Fightin’ all an afternoon with a bloomin’ private +like me! What do you think?’ he added, brushing the breech of his rifle. + +‘I think what the umpires said at the sham-fight; both sides deserve +great credit. But I wish you’d tell me what made you save him in the +first place.’ + +‘I was pretty sure that ’e ’adn’t meant it for me, though that wouldn’t +ha’ made no difference if ’e’d been copped for it. An’ ’e was that +young too that it wouldn’t ha’ been fair. Besides, if I had ha’ done +that I’d ha’ missed the fight, and I’d ha’ felt bad all my time. Don’t +you see it that way, sir?’ + +‘It was your right to get him cashiered if you chose,’ I insisted. + +‘My right!’ Ortheris answered with deep scorn. ‘My right! I ain’t a +recruity to go whinin’ about my rights to this an’ my rights to that, +just as if I couldn’t look after myself. My rights! ’Strewth A’mighty! +I’m a man.’ + +The last squad were finishing their shots in a storm of low-voiced +chaff. Ouless withdrew to a little distance in order to leave the men +at ease, and I saw his face in the full sunlight for a moment, before +he hitched up his sword, got his men together, and marched them back to +barracks. It was all right. The boy was proven. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[3] Ortheris meant _soors_--which means pigs. + + + + + A MATTER OF FACT. + + + And if ye doubt the tale I tell, + Steer through the South Pacific swell; + Go where the branching coral hives + Unending strife of endless lives, + Where, leagued about the ’wildered boat, + The rainbow jellies fill and float; + And, lilting where the laver lingers, + The starfish trips on all her fingers; + Where, ’neath his myriad spines ashock, + The sea-egg ripples down the rock; + An orange wonder dimly guessed, + From darkness where the cuttles rest, + Moored o’er the darker deeps that hide + The blind white Sea-snake and his bride + Who, drowsing, nose the long-lost ships + Let down through darkness to their lips. + + --_The Palms._ + + +Once a priest, always a priest; once a mason, always a mason; but once +a journalist, always and for ever a journalist. + +There were three of us, all newspaper men, the only passengers on a +little tramp steamer that ran where her owners told her to go. She had +once been in the Bilbao iron ore business, had been lent to the Spanish +Government for service at Manilla; and was ending her days in the +Cape Town coolie-trade, with occasional trips to Madagascar and even +as far as England. We found her going to Southampton in ballast, and +shipped in her because the fares were nominal. There was Keller, of an +American paper, on his way back to the States from palace executions in +Madagascar; there was a burly half-Dutchman, called Zuyland, who owned +and edited a paper up-country near Johannesberg; and there was myself, +who had solemnly put away all journalism, vowing to forget that I had +ever known the difference between an imprint and a stereo advertisement. + +Ten minutes after Keller spoke to me, as the _Rathmines_ cleared Cape +Town, I had forgotten the aloofness I desired to feign, and was in +heated discussion on the immorality of expanding telegrams beyond a +certain fixed point. Then Zuyland came out of his cabin, and we were +all at home instantly, because we were men of the same profession +needing no introduction. We annexed the boat formally, broke open +the passengers’ bath-room door--on the Manilla lines the Dons do not +wash--cleaned out the orange-peel and cigar-ends at the bottom of the +bath, hired a Lascar to shave us throughout the voyage, and then asked +each other’s names. + +Three ordinary men would have quarrelled through sheer boredom before +they reached Southampton. We, by virtue of our craft, were anything +but ordinary men. A large percentage of the tales of the world, the +thirty-nine that cannot be told to ladies and the one that can, are +common property coming of a common stock. We told them all, as a +matter of form, with all their local and specific variants which are +surprising. Then came, in the intervals of steady card-play, more +personal histories of adventure and things seen and suffered: panics +among white folk, when the blind terror ran from man to man on the +Brooklyn Bridge, and the people crushed each other to death they knew +not why; fires, and faces that opened and shut their mouths horribly +at red-hot window frames; wrecks in frost and snow, reported from the +sleet-sheathed rescue-tug at the risk of frost-bite; long rides after +diamond thieves; skirmishes on the veldt and in municipal committees +with the Boers; glimpses of lazy tangled Cape politics and the +mule-rule in the Transvaal; card-tales, horse-tales, woman-tales, by +the score and the half hundred; till the first mate, who had seen more +than us all put together, but lacked words to clothe his tales with, +sat open-mouthed far into the dawn. + +When the tales were done we picked up cards till a curious hand or a +chance remark made one or other of us say, ‘That reminds me of a man +who--or a business which--’ and the anecdotes would continue while the +_Rathmines_ kicked her way northward through the warm water. + +In the morning of one specially warm night we three were sitting +immediately in front of the wheel-house, where an old Swedish boatswain +whom we called ‘Frithiof the Dane’ was at the wheel, pretending that +he could not hear our stories. Once or twice Frithiof spun the spokes +curiously, and Keller lifted his head from a long chair to ask, ‘What +is it? Can’t you get any steerage-way on her?’ + +‘There is a feel in the water,’ said Frithiof, ‘that I cannot +understand. I think that we run downhills or somethings. She steers bad +this morning.’ + +Nobody seems to know the laws that govern the pulse of the big waters. +Sometimes even a landsman can tell that the solid ocean is atilt, and +that the ship is working herself up a long unseen slope; and sometimes +the captain says, when neither full steam nor fair wind justifies the +length of a day’s run, that the ship is sagging downhill; but how these +ups and downs come about has not yet been settled authoritatively. + +‘No, it is a following sea,’ said Frithiof; ‘and with a following sea +you shall not get good steerage-way.’ + +The sea was as smooth as a duck-pond, except for a regular oily swell. +As I looked over the side to see where it might be following us from, +the sun rose in a perfectly clear sky and struck the water with its +light so sharply that it seemed as though the sea should clang like a +burnished gong. The wake of the screw and the little white streak cut +by the log-line hanging over the stern were the only marks on the water +as far as eye could reach. + +Keller rolled out of his chair and went aft to get a pine-apple from +the ripening stock that was hung inside the after awning. + +‘Frithiof, the log-line has got tired of swimming. It’s coming home,’ +he drawled. + +‘What?’ said Frithiof, his voice jumping several octaves. + +‘Coming home,’ Keller repeated, leaning over the stern. I ran to his +side and saw the log-line, which till then had been drawn tense over +the stern railing, slacken, loop, and come up off the port quarter. +Frithiof called up the speaking-tube to the bridge, and the bridge +answered, ‘Yes, nine knots.’ Then Frithiof spoke again, and the answer +was, ‘What do you want of the skipper?’ and Frithiof bellowed, ‘Call +him up.’ + +By this time Zuyland, Keller, and myself had caught something of +Frithiof’s excitement, for any emotion on shipboard is most contagious. +The captain ran out of his cabin, spoke to Frithiof, looked at the +log-line, jumped on the bridge, and in a minute we felt the steamer +swing round as Frithiof turned her. + +‘Going back to Cape Town?’ said Keller. + +Frithiof did not answer, but tore away at the wheel. Then he beckoned +us three to help, and we held the wheel down till the _Rathmines_ +answered it, and we found ourselves looking into the white of our own +wake, with the still oily sea tearing past our bows, though we were not +going more than half steam ahead. + +The captain stretched out his arm from the bridge and shouted. A minute +later I would have given a great deal to have shouted too, for one-half +of the sea seemed to shoulder itself above the other half, and came on +in the shape of a hill. There was neither crest, comb, nor curl-over to +it; nothing but black water with little waves chasing each other about +the flanks. I saw it stream past and on a level with the _Rathmines’_ +bow-plates before the steamer hove up her bulk to rise, and I argued +that this would be the last of all earthly voyages for me. Then we +lifted for ever and ever and ever, till I heard Keller saying in my +ear, ‘The bowels of the deep, good Lord!’ and the _Rathmines_ stood +poised, her screw racing and drumming on the slope of a hollow that +stretched downwards for a good half-mile. + +We went down that hollow, nose under for the most part, and the air +smelt wet and muddy, like that of an emptied aquarium. There was a +second hill to climb; I saw that much: but the water came aboard and +carried me aft till it jammed me against the wheel-house door, and +before I could catch breath or clear my eyes again we were rolling +to and fro in torn water, with the scuppers pouring like eaves in a +thunderstorm. + +‘There were three waves,’ said Keller; ‘and the stoke-hold’s flooded.’ + +The firemen were on deck waiting, apparently, to be drowned. The +engineer came and dragged them below, and the crew, gasping, began to +work the clumsy Board of Trade pump. That showed nothing serious, and +when I understood that the _Rathmines_ was really on the water, and not +beneath it, I asked what had happened. + +‘The captain says it was a blow-up under the sea--a volcano,’ said +Keller. + +‘It hasn’t warmed anything,’ I said. I was feeling bitterly cold, and +cold was almost unknown in those waters. I went below to change my +clothes, and when I came up everything was wiped out in clinging white +fog. + +‘Are there going to be any more surprises?’ said Keller to the captain. + +‘I don’t know. Be thankful you’re alive, gentlemen. That’s a tidal wave +thrown up by a volcano. Probably the bottom of the sea has been lifted +a few feet somewhere or other. I can’t quite understand this cold +spell. Our sea-thermometer says the surface water is 44°, and it should +be 68° at least.’ + +‘It’s abominable,’ said Keller, shivering. ‘But hadn’t you better +attend to the fog-horn? It seems to me that I heard something.’ + +‘Heard! Good heavens!’ said the captain from the bridge, ‘I should +think you did.’ He pulled the string of our fog-horn, which was a weak +one. It sputtered and choked, because the stoke-hold was full of water +and the fires were half-drowned, and at last gave out a moan. It was +answered from the fog by one of the most appalling steam-sirens I have +ever heard. Keller turned as white as I did, for the fog, the cold fog, +was upon us, and any man may be forgiven for fearing a death he cannot +see. + +‘Give her steam there!’ said the captain to the engine-room. ‘Steam for +the whistle, if we have to go dead slow.’ + +We bellowed again, and the damp dripped off the awnings on to the deck +as we listened for the reply. It seemed to be astern this time, but +much nearer than before. + +‘The _Pembroke Castle_ on us!’ said Keller; and then, viciously, ‘Well, +thank God, we shall sink her too.’ + +‘It’s a side-wheel steamer,’ I whispered. ‘Can’t you hear the paddles?’ + +This time we whistled and roared till the steam gave out, and the +answer nearly deafened us. There was a sound of frantic threshing in +the water, apparently about fifty yards away, and something shot past +in the whiteness that looked as though it were gray and red. + +‘The _Pembroke Castle_ bottom up,’ said Keller, who, being a +journalist, always sought for explanations. ‘That’s the colours of a +Castle liner. We’re in for a big thing.’ + +‘The sea is bewitched,’ said Frithiof from the wheel-house. ‘There are +_two_ steamers!’ + +Another siren sounded on our bow, and the little steamer rolled in the +wash of something that had passed unseen. + +‘We’re evidently in the middle of a fleet,’ said Keller quietly. ‘If +one doesn’t run us down, the other will. Phew! What in creation is +that?’ + +I sniffed, for there was a poisonous rank smell in the cold air--a +smell that I had smelt before. + +‘If I was on land I should say that it was an alligator. It smells like +musk,’ I answered. + +‘Not ten thousand alligators could make that smell,’ said Zuyland; ‘I +have smelt them.’ + +‘Bewitched! Bewitched!’ said Frithiof. ‘The sea she is turned upside +down, and we are walking along the bottom.’ + +Again the _Rathmines_ rolled in the wash of some unseen ship, and a +silver-gray wave broke over the bow, leaving on the deck a sheet of +sediment--the gray broth that has its place in the fathomless deeps of +the sea. A sprinkling of the wave fell on my face, and it was so cold +that it stung as boiling water stings. The dead and most untouched +deep water of the sea had been heaved to the top by the submarine +volcano--the chill still water that kills all life and smells of +desolation and emptiness. We did not need either the blinding fog or +that indescribable smell of musk to make us unhappy--we were shivering +with cold and wretchedness where we stood. + +‘The hot air on the cold water makes this fog,’ said the captain; ‘it +ought to clear in a little time.’ + +‘Whistle, oh! whistle, and let’s get out of it,’ said Keller. + +The captain whistled again, and far and far astern the invisible twin +steam-sirens answered us. Their blasting shriek grew louder, till at +last it seemed to tear out of the fog just above our quarter, and I +cowered while the _Rathmines_ plunged bows under on a double swell that +crossed. + +‘No more,’ said Frithiof, ‘it is not good any more. Let us get away, in +the name of God.’ + +‘Now if a torpedo-boat with a _City of Paris_ siren went mad and broke +her moorings and hired a friend to help her, it’s just conceivable that +we might be carried as we are now. Otherwise this thing is----’ + +The last words died on Keller’s lips, his eyes began to start from his +head, and his jaw fell. Some six or seven feet above the port bulwarks, +framed in fog, and as utterly unsupported as the full moon, hung a +Face. It was not human, and it certainly was not animal, for it did not +belong to this earth as known to man. The mouth was open, revealing a +ridiculously tiny tongue--as absurd as the tongue of an elephant; there +were tense wrinkles of white skin at the angles of the drawn lips, +white feelers like those of a barbel sprung from the lower jaw, and +there was no sign of teeth within the mouth. But the horror of the face +lay in the eyes, for those were sightless--white, in sockets as white +as scraped bone, and blind. Yet for all this the face, wrinkled as the +mask of a lion is drawn in Assyrian sculpture, was alive with rage +and terror. One long white feeler touched our bulwarks. Then the face +disappeared with the swiftness of a blindworm popping into its burrow, +and the next thing that I remember is my own voice in my own ears, +saying gravely to the mainmast, ‘But the air-bladder ought to have been +forced out of its mouth, you know.’ + +Keller came up to me, ashy white. He put his hand into his pocket, +took a cigar, bit it, dropped it, thrust his shaking thumb into his +mouth and mumbled, ‘The giant gooseberry and the raining frogs! Gimme +a light--gimme a light! Say, gimme a light.’ A little bead of blood +dropped from his thumb-joint. + +I respected the motive, though the manifestation was absurd. ‘Stop, +you’ll bite your thumb off,’ I said, and Keller laughed brokenly as +he picked up his cigar. Only Zuyland, leaning over the port bulwarks, +seemed self-possessed. He declared later that he was very sick. + +‘We’ve seen it,’ he said, turning round. ‘That is it.’ + +‘What?’ said Keller, chewing the unlighted cigar. + +As he spoke the fog was blown into shreds, and we saw the sea, gray +with mud, rolling on every side of us and empty of all life. Then +in one spot it bubbled and became like the pot of ointment that the +Bible speaks of. From that wide-ringed trouble a Thing came up--a +gray and red Thing with a neck--a Thing that bellowed and writhed in +pain. Frithiof drew in his breath and held it till the red letters of +the ship’s name, woven across his jersey, straggled and opened out as +though they had been type badly set. Then he said with a little cluck +in his throat, ‘Ah me! It is blind. _Hur illa!_ That thing is blind,’ +and a murmur of pity went through us all, for we could see that the +thing on the water was blind and in pain. Something had gashed and cut +the great sides cruelly and the blood was spurting out. The gray ooze +of the undermost sea lay in the monstrous wrinkles of the back, and +poured away in sluices. The blind white head flung back and battered +the wounds, and the body in its torment rose clear of the red and +gray waves till we saw a pair of quivering shoulders streaked with +weed and rough with shells, but as white in the clear spaces as the +hairless, maneless, blind, toothless head. Afterwards, came a dot on +the horizon and the sound of a shrill scream, and it was as though a +shuttle shot all across the sea in one breath, and a second head and +neck tore through the levels, driving a whispering wall of water to +right and left. The two Things met--the one untouched and the other in +its death-throe--male and female, we said, the female coming to the +male. She circled round him bellowing, and laid her neck across the +curve of his great turtle-back, and he disappeared under water for an +instant, but flung up again, grunting in agony while the blood ran. +Once the entire head and neck shot clear of the water and stiffened, +and I heard Keller saying, as though he was watching a street accident, +‘Give him air. For God’s sake, give him air.’ Then the death-struggle +began, with crampings and twistings and jerkings of the white bulk +to and fro, till our little steamer rolled again, and each gray wave +coated her plates with the gray slime. The sun was clear, there was no +wind, and we watched, the whole crew, stokers and all, in wonder and +pity, but chiefly pity. The Thing was so helpless, and, save for his +mate, so alone. No human eye should have beheld him; it was monstrous +and indecent to exhibit him there in trade waters between atlas degrees +of latitude. He had been spewed up, mangled and dying from his rest on +the sea-floor, where he might have lived till the Judgment Day, and we +saw the tides of his life go from him as an angry tide goes out across +rocks in the teeth of a landward gale. His mate lay rocking on the +water a little distance off, bellowing continually, and the smell of +musk came down upon the ship making us cough. + +At last the battle for life ended, in a batter of coloured seas. We +saw the writhing neck fall like a flail, the carcase turn sideways, +showing the glint of a white belly and the inset of a gigantic hind +leg or flipper. Then all sank, and sea boiled over it, while the mate +swam round and round, darting her head in every direction. Though we +might have feared that she would attack the steamer, no power on earth +could have drawn any one of us from our places that hour. We watched, +holding our breaths. The mate paused in her search; we could hear the +wash beating along her sides; reared her neck as high as she could +reach, blind and lonely in all that loneliness of the sea, and sent one +desperate bellow booming across the swells as an oyster-shell skips +across a pond. Then she made off to the westward, the sun shining on +the white head and the wake behind it, till nothing was left to see but +a little pin point of silver on the horizon. We stood on our course +again; and the _Rathmines_, coated with the sea-sediment, from bow to +stern, looked like a ship made gray with terror. + + * * * * * + +‘We must pool our notes,’ was the first coherent remark from Keller. +‘We’re three trained journalists--we hold absolutely the biggest scoop +on record. Start fair.’ + +I objected to this. Nothing is gained by collaboration in journalism +when all deal with the same facts, so we went to work each according +to his own lights. Keller triple-headed his account, talked about +our ‘gallant captain,’ and wound up with an allusion to American +enterprise in that it was a citizen of Dayton, Ohio, that had seen the +sea-serpent. This sort of thing would have discredited the Creation, +much more a mere sea tale, but as a specimen of the picture-writing +of a half-civilised people it was very interesting. Zuyland took a +heavy column and a half, giving approximate lengths and breadths and +the whole list of the crew whom he had sworn on oath to testify to his +facts. There was nothing fantastic or flamboyant in Zuyland. I wrote +three-quarters of a leaded bourgeois column, roughly speaking, and +refrained from putting any journalese into it for reasons that had +begun to appear to me. + +Keller was insolent with joy. He was going to cable from Southampton +to the New York _World_, mail his account to America on the same day, +paralyse London with his three columns of loosely knitted headlines, +and generally efface the earth. ‘You’ll see how I work a big scoop when +I get it,’ he said. + +‘Is this your first visit to England?’ I asked. + +‘Yes,’ said he. ‘You don’t seem to appreciate the beauty of our scoop. +It’s pyramidal--the death of the sea-serpent! Good heavens alive, man, +it’s the biggest thing ever vouchsafed to a paper!’ + +‘Curious to think that it will never appear in any paper, isn’t it?’ I +said. + +Zuyland was near me, and he nodded quickly. + +‘What do you mean?’ said Keller. ‘If you’re enough of a Britisher to +throw this thing away, I shan’t. I thought you were a newspaper-man.’ + +‘I am. That’s why I know. Don’t be an ass, Keller. Remember, I’m seven +hundred years your senior, and what your grandchildren may learn five +hundred years hence, I learned from my grandfathers about five hundred +years ago. You won’t do it, because you can’t.’ + +This conversation was held in open sea, where everything seems +possible, some hundred miles from Southampton. We passed the Needles +Light at dawn, and the lifting day showed the stucco villas on the +green and the awful orderliness of England--line upon line, wall upon +wall, solid stone dock and monolithic pier. We waited an hour in the +Customs shed, and there was ample time for the effect to soak in. + +‘Now, Keller, you face the music. The _Havel_ goes out to-day. Mail by +her, and I’ll take you to the telegraph-office,’ I said. + +I heard Keller gasp as the influence of the land closed about him, +cowing him as they say Newmarket Heath cows a young horse unused to +open courses. + +‘I want to retouch my stuff. Suppose we wait till we get to London?’ he +said. + +Zuyland, by the way, had torn up his account and thrown it overboard +that morning early. His reasons were my reasons. + +In the train Keller began to revise his copy, and every time that he +looked at the trim little fields, the red villas, and the embankments +of the line, the blue pencil plunged remorselessly through the slips. +He appeared to have dredged the dictionary for adjectives. I could +think of none that he had not used. Yet he was a perfectly sound +poker-player and never showed more cards than were sufficient to take +the pool. + +‘Aren’t you going to leave him a single bellow?’ I asked +sympathetically. ‘Remember, everything goes in the States, from a +trouser-button to a double-eagle.’ + +‘That’s just the curse of it,’ said Keller below his breath. ‘We’ve +played ’em for suckers so often that when it comes to the golden +truth--I’d like to try this on a London paper. You have first call +there, though.’ + +‘Not in the least. I’m not touching the thing in our papers. I shall be +happy to leave ’em all to you; but surely you’ll cable it home?’ + +‘No. Not if I can make the scoop here and see the Britishers sit up.’ + +‘You won’t do it with three columns of slushy headline, believe me. +They don’t sit up as quickly as some people.’ + +‘I’m beginning to think that too. Does _nothing_ make any difference +in this country?’ he said, looking out of the window. ‘How old is that +farmhouse?’ + +‘New. It can’t be more than two hundred years at the most.’ + +‘Um. Fields, too?’ + +‘That hedge there must have been clipped for about eighty years.’ + +‘Labour cheap--eh?’ + +‘Pretty much. Well, I suppose you’d like to try the _Times_, wouldn’t +you?’ + +‘No,’ said Keller, looking at Winchester Cathedral. ‘Might as well try +to electrify a hay-stack. And to think that the _World_ would take +three columns and ask for more--with illustrations too! It’s sickening.’ + +‘But the _Times_ might,’ I began. + +Keller flung his paper across the carriage, and it opened in its +austere majesty of solid type--opened with the crackle of an +encyclopædia. + +‘Might! You _might_ work your way through the bow-plates of a cruiser. +Look at that first page!’ + +‘It strikes you that way, does it?’ I said. ‘Then I’d recommend you to +try a light and frivolous journal.’ + +‘With a thing like this of mine--of ours? It’s sacred history!’ + +I showed him a paper which I conceived would be after his own heart, in +that it was modelled on American lines. + +‘That’s homey,’ he said, ‘but it’s not the real thing. Now, I should +like one of these fat old _Times_ columns. Probably there’d be a bishop +in the office, though.’ + +When we reached London Keller disappeared in the direction of the +Strand. What his experiences may have been I cannot tell, but it seems +that he invaded the office of an evening paper at 11.45 a.m. (I told +him English editors were most idle at that hour), and mentioned my name +as that of a witness to the truth of his story. + +‘I was nearly fired out,’ he said furiously at lunch. ‘As soon as I +mentioned you, the old man said that I was to tell you that they didn’t +want any more of your practical jokes, and that you knew the hours to +call if you had anything to sell, and that they’d see you condemned +before they helped to puff one of your infernal yarns in advance. Say, +what record do you hold for truth in this country, anyway?’ + +‘A beauty. You ran up against it, that’s all. Why don’t you leave the +English papers alone and cable to New York? Everything goes over there.’ + +‘Can’t you see that’s just why?’ he repeated. + +‘I saw it a long time ago. You don’t intend to cable, then?’ + +‘Yes I do,’ he answered, in the over-emphatic voice of one who does not +know his own mind. + +That afternoon I walked him abroad and about, over the streets that run +between the pavements like channels of grooved and tongued lava, over +the bridges that are made of enduring stone, through subways floored +and sided with yard-thick concrete, between houses that are never +rebuilt, and by river-steps hewn, to the eye, from the living rock. A +black fog chased us into Westminster Abbey, and, standing there in the +darkness, I could hear the wings of the dead centuries circling round +the head of Litchfield A. Keller, journalist, of Dayton, Ohio, U.S.A., +whose mission it was to make the Britishers sit up. + +He stumbled gasping into the thick gloom, and the roar of the traffic +came to his bewildered ears. + +‘Let’s go to the telegraph-office and cable,’ I said. ‘Can’t you hear +the New York _World_ crying for news of the great sea-serpent, blind, +white, and smelling of musk, stricken to death by a submarine volcano, +and assisted by his loving wife to die in mid-ocean, as visualised by +an American citizen, the breezy, newsy, brainy newspaper-man of Dayton, +Ohio? ’Rah for the Buckeye State. Step lively! Both gates! Szz! Boom! +Aah!’ Keller was a Princeton man, and he seemed to need encouragement. + +‘You’ve got me on your own ground,’ said he, tugging at his overcoat +pocket. He pulled out his copy, with the cable forms--for he had +written out his telegram--and put them all into my hand, groaning, ‘I +pass. If I hadn’t come to your cursed country--If I’d sent it off at +Southampton--If I ever get you west of the Alleghannies, if----’ + +‘Never mind, Keller. It isn’t your fault. It’s the fault of your +country. If you had been seven hundred years older you’d have done what +I am going to do.’ + +‘What are you going to do?’ + +‘Tell it as a lie.’ + +‘Fiction?’ This with the full-blooded disgust of a journalist for the +illegitimate branch of the profession. + +‘You can call it that if you like. I shall call it a lie.’ + +And a lie it has become; for Truth is a naked lady, and if by accident +she is drawn up from the bottom of the sea, it behoves a gentleman +either to give her a print petticoat or to turn his face to the wall +and vow that he did not see. + + + + + THE LOST LEGION. + + +When the Indian Mutiny broke out, and a little time before the siege of +Delhi, a regiment of Native Irregular Horse was stationed at Peshawur +on the frontier of India. That regiment caught what John Lawrence +called at the time ‘the prevalent mania,’ and would have thrown in +its lot with the mutineers, had it been allowed to do so. The chance +never came, for, as the regiment swept off down south, it was headed +up by a remnant of an English corps into the hills of Afghanistan, and +there the newly-conquered tribesmen turned against it as wolves turn +against buck. It was hunted for the sake of its arms and accoutrements +from hill to hill, from ravine to ravine, up and down the dried beds +of rivers and round the shoulders of bluffs, till it disappeared as +water sinks in the sand--this officerless, rebel regiment. The only +trace left of its existence to-day is a nominal roll drawn up in +neat round hand and counter-signed by an officer who called himself +‘Adjutant, late ---- Irregular Cavalry.’ The paper is yellow with +years and dirt, but on the back of it you can still read a pencil note +by John Lawrence; to this effect: ‘See that the two native officers +who remained loyal are not deprived of their estates.--J. L.’ Of six +hundred and fifty sabres only two stood strain, and John Lawrence in +the midst of all the agony of the first months of the Mutiny found time +to think about their merits. + +That was more than thirty years ago, and the tribesmen across the +Afghan border who helped to annihilate the regiment are now old men. +Sometimes a graybeard speaks of his share in the massacre. ‘They +came,’ he will say, ‘across the border, very proud, calling upon us to +rise and kill the English, and go down to the sack of Delhi. But we +who had just been conquered by the same English knew that they were +over bold, and that the Government could account easily for those +down-country dogs. This Hindustani regiment, therefore, we treated +with fair words, and kept standing in one place till the redcoats came +after them very hot and angry. Then this regiment ran forward a little +more into our hills to avoid the wrath of the English, and we lay upon +their flanks watching from the sides of the hills till we were well +assured that their path was lost behind them. Then we came down, for we +desired their clothes, and their bridles, and their rifles, and their +boots--more especially their boots. That was a great killing--done +slowly.’ Here the old man will rub his nose, and shake his long snaky +locks, and lick his bearded lips, and grin till the yellow tooth-stumps +show. ‘Yes, we killed them because we needed their gear, and we +knew that their lives had been forfeited to God on account of their +sin--the sin of treachery to the salt which they had eaten. They rode +up and down the valleys, stumbling and rocking in their saddles, and +howling for mercy. We drove them slowly like cattle till they were all +assembled in one place, the flat wide valley of Sheor Kôt. Many had +died from want of water, but there still were many left, and they could +not make any stand. We went among them pulling them down with our hands +two at a time, and our boys killed them who were new to the sword. +My share of the plunder was such and such--so many guns, and so many +saddles. The guns were good in those days. Now we steal the Government +rifles, and despise smooth barrels. Yes, beyond doubt we wiped that +regiment from off the face of the earth, and even the memory of the +deed is now dying. But men say----’ + +At this point the tale would stop abruptly, and it was impossible to +find out what men said across the border. The Afghans were always a +secretive race, and vastly preferred doing something wicked to saying +anything at all. They would be quiet and well-behaved for months, till +one night without word or warning, they would rush a police-post, cut +the throats of a constable or two, dash through a village, carry away +three or four women, and withdraw, in the red glare of burning thatch, +driving the cattle and goats before them to their own desolate hills. +The Indian Government would become almost tearful on these occasions. +First it would say, ‘Please be good and we’ll forgive you.’ The tribe +concerned in the latest depredation would collectively put its thumb to +its nose and answer rudely. Then the Government would say: ‘Hadn’t you +better pay up a little money for those few corpses you left behind you +the other night?’ Here the tribe would temporise, and lie and bully, +and some of the younger men, merely to show contempt of authority, +would raid another police-post and fire into some frontier mud fort, +and, if lucky, kill a real English officer. Then the Government +would say: ‘Observe; if you really persist in this line of conduct, +you will be hurt.’ If the tribe knew exactly what was going on in +India, it would apologise or be rude, according as it learned whether +the Government was busy with other things or able to devote its full +attention to their performances. Some of the tribes knew to one corpse +how far to go. Others became excited, lost their heads, and told the +Government to come on. With sorrow and tears, and one eye on the +British taxpayer at home, who insisted on regarding these exercises as +brutal wars of annexation, the Government would prepare an expensive +little field-brigade and some guns, and send all up into the hills to +chase the wicked tribe out of the valleys, where the corn grew, into +the hill-tops where there was nothing to eat. The tribe would turn +out in full strength and enjoy the campaign, for they knew that their +women would never be touched, that their wounded would be nursed, +not mutilated, and that as soon as each man’s bag of corn was spent +they could surrender and palaver with the English General as though +they had been a real enemy. Afterwards, years afterwards, they would +pay the blood-money, driblet by driblet, to the Government and tell +their children how they had slain the redcoats by thousands. The only +drawback to this kind of picnic-war was the weakness of the redcoats +for solemnly blowing up with powder their fortified towers and keeps. +This the tribes always considered mean. + +Chief among the leaders of the smaller tribes--the little clans who +knew to a penny the expense of moving white troops against them--was +a priest-bandit-chief whom we will call the Gulla Kutta Mullah. +His enthusiasm for border murder as an art was almost dignified. He +would cut down a mail-runner from pure wantonness, or bombard a mud +fort with rifle fire when he knew that our men needed to sleep. In +his leisure moments he would go on circuit among his neighbours, and +try to incite other tribes to devilry. Also, he kept a kind of hotel +for fellow-outlaws in his own village, which lay in a valley called +Bersund. Any respectable murderer on that section of the frontier was +sure to lie up at Bersund, for it was reckoned an exceedingly safe +place. The sole entry to it ran through a narrow gorge which could +be converted into a death-trap in five minutes. It was surrounded by +high hills, reckoned inaccessible to all save born mountaineers, and +here the Gulla Kutta Mullah lived in great state, the head of a colony +of mud and stone huts, and in each mud hut hung some portion of a +red uniform and the plunder of dead men. The Government particularly +wished for his capture, and once invited him formally to come out and +be hanged on account of a few of the murders in which he had taken a +direct part. He replied:-- + +‘I am only twenty miles, as the crow flies, from your border. Come and +fetch me.’ + +‘Some day we will come,’ said the Government, ‘and hanged you will be.’ + +The Gulla Kutta Mullah let the matter from his mind. He knew that the +patience of the Government was as long as a summer day; but he did not +realise that its arm was as long as a winter night. Months afterwards, +when there was peace on the border, and all India was quiet, the +Indian Government turned in its sleep and remembered the Gulla Kutta +Mullah at Bersund, with his thirteen outlaws. The movement against him +of one single regiment--which the telegrams would have translated as +war--would have been highly impolitic. This was a time for silence and +speed, and, above all, absence of bloodshed. + +You must know that all along the north-west frontier of India there is +spread a force of some thirty thousand foot and horse, whose duty it is +quietly and unostentatiously to shepherd the tribes in front of them. +They move up and down, and down and up, from one desolate little post +to another; they are ready to take the field at ten minutes’ notice; +they are always half in and half out of a difficulty somewhere along +the monotonous line; their lives are as hard as their own muscles, and +the papers never say anything about them. It was from this force that +the Government picked its men. + +One night at a station where the mounted Night Patrol fire as they +challenge, and the wheat rolls in great blue-green waves under our cold +northern moon, the officers were playing billiards in the mud-walled +club-house, when orders came to them that they were to go on parade +at once for a night-drill. They grumbled, and went to turn out their +men--a hundred English troops, let us say, two hundred Goorkhas, and +about a hundred cavalry of the finest native cavalry in the world. + +When they were on the parade-ground, it was explained to them in +whispers that they must set off at once across the hills to Bersund. +The English troops were to post themselves round the hills at the +side of the valley; the Goorkhas would command the gorge and the +death-trap, and the cavalry would fetch a long march round and get to +the back of the circle of hills, whence, if there were any difficulty, +they could charge down on the Mullah’s men. But orders were very strict +that there should be no fighting and no noise. They were to return in +the morning with every round of ammunition intact, and the Mullah and +the thirteen outlaws bound in their midst. If they were successful, no +one would know or care anything about their work; but failure meant +probably a small border war, in which the Gulla Kutta Mullah would pose +as a popular leader against a big bullying power, instead of a common +border murderer. + +Then there was silence, broken only by the clicking of the compass +needles and snapping of watch-cases, as the heads of columns compared +bearings and made appointments for the rendezvous. Five minutes later +the parade-ground was empty; the green coats of the Goorkhas and the +overcoats of the English troops had faded into the darkness, and the +cavalry were cantering away in the face of a blinding drizzle. + +What the Goorkhas and the English did will be seen later on. The +heavy work lay with the horses, for they had to go far and pick their +way clear of habitations. Many of the troopers were natives of that +part of the world, ready and anxious to fight against their kin, and +some of the officers had made private and unofficial excursions into +those hills before. They crossed the border, found a dried river bed, +cantered up that, walked through a stony gorge, risked crossing a +low hill under cover of the darkness, skirted another hill, leaving +their hoof-marks deep in some ploughed ground, felt their way along +another watercourse, ran over the neck of a spur praying that no one +would hear their horses grunting, and so worked on in the rain and +the darkness, till they had left Bersund and its crater of hills a +little behind them, and to the left, and it was time to swing round. +The ascent commanding the back of Bersund was steep, and they halted +to draw breath in a broad level valley below the height. That is to +say, the men reined up, but the horses, blown as they were, refused to +halt. There was unchristian language, the worse for being delivered in +a whisper, and you heard the saddles squeaking in the darkness as the +horses plunged. + +The subaltern at the rear of one troop turned in his saddle and said +very softly:-- + +‘Carter, what the blessed heavens are you doing at the rear? Bring your +men up, man.’ + +There was no answer, till a trooper replied:-- + +‘Carter Sahib is forward--not there. There is nothing behind us.’ + +‘There is,’ said the subaltern. ‘The squadron’s walking on its own +tail.’ + +Then the Major in command moved down to the rear swearing softly and +asking for the blood of Lieutenant Halley--the subaltern who had just +spoken. + +‘Look after your rearguard,’ said the Major. ‘Some of your infernal +thieves have got lost. They’re at the head of the squadron, and you’re +a several kinds of idiot.’ + +‘Shall I tell off my men, sir?’ said the subaltern sulkily, for he was +feeling wet and cold. + +‘Tell ’em off!’ said the Major. ‘_Whip_ ’em off, by Gad! You’re +squandering them all over the place. There’s a troop behind you _now_!’ + +‘So I was thinking,’ said the subaltern calmly. ‘I have all my men +here, sir. Better speak to Carter.’ + +‘Carter Sahib sends salaam and wants to know why the regiment is +stopping,’ said a trooper to Lieutenant Halley. + +‘Where under heaven _is_ Carter?’ said the Major. + +‘Forward with his troop,’ was the answer. + +‘Are we walking in a ring, then, or are we the centre of a blessed +brigade?’ said the Major. + +By this time there was silence all along the column. The horses were +still; but, through the drive of the fine rain, men could hear the feet +of many horses moving over stony ground. + +‘We’re being stalked,’ said Lieutenant Halley. + +‘They’ve no horses here. Besides they’d have fired before this,’ said +the Major. ‘It’s--it’s villagers’ ponies.’ + +‘Then our horses would have neighed and spoilt the attack long ago. +They must have been near us for half an hour,’ said the subaltern. + +‘Queer that we can’t smell the horses,’ said the Major, damping his +finger and rubbing it on his nose as he sniffed up wind. + +‘Well, it’s a bad start,’ said the subaltern, shaking the wet from his +overcoat. ‘What shall we do, sir?’ + +‘Get on,’ said the Major. ‘We shall catch it to-night.’ + +The column moved forward very gingerly for a few paces. Then there +was an oath, a shower of blue sparks as shod hooves crashed on small +stones, and a man rolled over with a jangle of accoutrements that would +have waked the dead. + +‘Now we’ve gone and done it,’ said Lieutenant Halley. ‘All the hillside +awake, and all the hillside to climb in the face of musketry-fire. This +comes of trying to do night-hawk work.’ + +The trembling trooper picked himself up and tried to explain that his +horse had fallen over one of the little cairns that are built of loose +stones on the spot where a man has been murdered. There was no need +for reasons. The Major’s big Australian charger blundered next, and +the column came to a halt in what seemed to be a very graveyard of +little cairns all about two feet high. The manœuvres of the squadron +are not reported. Men said that it felt like mounted quadrilles without +training and without the music; but at last the horses, breaking rank +and choosing their own way, walked clear of the cairns, till every +man of the squadron re-formed and drew rein a few yards up the slope +of the hill. Then, according to Lieutenant Halley, there was another +scene very like the one which has been described. The Major and Carter +insisted that all the men had not joined rank, and that there were +more of them in the rear clicking and blundering among the dead men’s +cairns. Lieutenant Halley told off his own troopers again and resigned +himself to wait. Later on he told me:-- + +‘I didn’t much know, and I didn’t much care what was going on. The row +of that trooper falling ought to have scared half the country, and I +would take my oath that we were being stalked by a full regiment in the +rear, and _they_ were making row enough to rouse all Afghanistan. I sat +tight, but nothing happened.’ + +The mysterious part of the night’s work was the silence on the +hillside. Everybody knew that the Gulla Kutta Mullah had his outpost +huts on the reverse side of the hill, and everybody expected by the +time that the Major had sworn himself into a state of quiet that the +watchmen there would open fire. When nothing occurred, they said that +the gusts of the rain had deadened the sound of the horses, and thanked +Providence. At last the Major satisfied himself (_a_) that he had left +no one behind among the cairns, and (_b_) that he was not being taken +in the rear by a large and powerful body of cavalry. The men’s tempers +were thoroughly spoiled, the horses were lathered and unquiet, and one +and all prayed for the daylight. + +They set themselves to climb up the hill, each man leading his +mount carefully. Before they had covered the lower slopes or the +breast-plates had begun to tighten, a thunderstorm came up behind, +rolling across the low hills and drowning any noise less than that of +cannon. The first flash of the lightning showed the bare ribs of the +ascent, the hill-crest standing steely blue against the black sky, +the little falling lines of the rain, and, a few yards to their left +flank, an Afghan watch-tower, two-storied, built of stone, and entered +by a ladder from the upper story. The ladder was up, and a man with a +rifle was leaning from the window. The darkness and the thunder rolled +down in an instant, and, when the lull followed, a voice from the +watch-tower cried, ‘Who goes there?’ + +The cavalry were very quiet, but each man gripped his carbine and +stood beside his horse. Again the voice called, ‘Who goes there?’ and +in a louder key, ‘O, brothers, give the alarm!’ Now, every man in the +cavalry would have died in his long boots sooner than have asked for +quarter; but it is a fact that the answer to the second call was a +long wail of ‘Marf karo! Marf karo!’ which means, ‘Have mercy! Have +mercy!’ It came from the climbing regiment. + +The cavalry stood dumbfoundered, till the big troopers had time to +whisper one to another: ‘Mir Khan, was that thy voice? Abdullah, didst +_thou_ call?’ Lieutenant Halley stood beside his charger and waited. +So long as no firing was going on he was content. Another flash of +lightning showed the horses with heaving flanks and nodding heads, the +men, white eye-balled, glaring beside them, and the stone watch-tower +to the left. This time there was no head at the window, and the rude +iron-clamped shutter that could turn a rifle bullet was closed. + +‘Go on, men,’ said the Major. ‘Get up to the top at any rate.’ The +squadron toiled forward, the horses wagging their tails and the men +pulling at the bridles, the stones rolling down the hillside and +the sparks flying. Lieutenant Halley declares that he never heard a +squadron make so much noise in his life. They scrambled up, he said, +as though each horse had eight legs and a spare horse to follow him. +Even then there was no sound from the watch-tower, and the men stopped +exhausted on the ridge that overlooked the pit of darkness in which the +village of Bersund lay. Girths were loosed, curb-chains shifted, and +saddles adjusted, and the men dropped down among the stones. Whatever +might happen now, they had the upper ground of any attack. + +The thunder ceased, and with it the rain, and the soft thick darkness +of a winter night before the dawn covered them all. Except for the +sound of falling water among the ravines below, everything was still. +They heard the shutter of the watch-tower below them thrown back with +a clang, and the voice of the watcher calling: ‘Oh, Hafiz Ullah!’ + +The echoes took up the call, ‘La-la-la!’ And an answer came from the +watch-tower hidden round the curve of the hill, ‘What is it, Shahbaz +Khan?’ + +Shahbaz Khan replied in the high-pitched voice of the mountaineer: +‘Hast thou seen?’ + +The answer came back: ‘Yes. God deliver us from all evil spirits!’ + +There was a pause, and then: ‘Hafiz Ullah, I am alone! Come to me!’ + +‘Shahbaz Khan, I am alone also; but I dare not leave my post!’ + +‘That is a lie; thou art afraid.’ + +A longer pause followed, and then: ‘I am afraid. Be silent! They are +below us still. Pray to God and sleep.’ + +The troopers listened and wondered, for they could not understand what +save earth and stone could lie below the watch-towers. + +Shahbaz Khan began to call again: ‘They are below us. I can see them. +For the pity of God come over to me, Hafiz Ullah! My father slew ten of +them. Come over!’ + +Hafiz Ullah answered in a very loud voice, ‘Mine was guiltless. Hear, +ye Men of the Night, neither my father nor my blood had any part in +that sin. Bear thou they own punishment, Shahbaz Khan.’ + +‘Oh, some one ought to stop those two chaps crowing away like cocks +there,’ said Lieutenant Halley, shivering under his rock. + +He had hardly turned round to expose a new side of him to the rain +before a bearded, long-locked, evil-smelling Afghan rushed up the hill, +and tumbled into his arms. Halley sat upon him, and thrust as much of a +sword-hilt as could be spared down the man’s gullet. ‘If you cry out, I +kill you,’ he said cheerfully. + +The man was beyond any expression of terror. He lay and quaked, +grunting. When Halley took the sword-hilt from between his teeth, he +was still inarticulate, but clung to Halley’s arm, feeling it from +elbow to wrist. + +‘The Rissala! The dead Rissala!’ he gasped. ‘It is down there!’ + +‘No; the Rissala, the very much alive Rissala. It is up here,’ said +Halley, unshipping his watering-bridle, and fastening the man’s hands. +‘Why were you in the towers so foolish as to let us pass?’ + +‘The valley is full of the dead,’ said the Afghan. ‘It is better to +fall into the hands of the English than the hands of the dead. They +march to and fro below there. I saw them in the lightning.’ + +He recovered his composure after a little, and whispering, because +Halley’s pistol was at his stomach, said: ‘What is this? There is no +war between us now, and the Mullah will kill me for not seeing you +pass!’ + +‘Rest easy,’ said Halley; ‘we are coming to kill the Mullah, if God +please. His teeth have grown too long. No harm will come to thee unless +the daylight shows thee as a face which is desired by the gallows for +crime done. But what of the dead regiment?’ + +‘I only kill within my own border,’ said the man, immensely relieved. +‘The Dead Regiment is below. The men must have passed through it on +their journey--four hundred dead on horses, stumbling among their own +graves, among the little heaps--dead men all, whom we slew.’ + +‘Whew!’ said Halley. ‘That accounts for my cursing Carter and the Major +cursing me. Four hundred sabres, eh? No wonder we thought there were a +few extra men in the troop. Kurruk Shah,’ he whispered to a grizzled +native officer that lay within a few feet of him, ‘hast thou heard +anything of a dead Rissala in these hills?’ + +‘Assuredly,’ said Kurruk Shah with a grim chuckle. ‘Otherwise, why did +I, who have served the Queen for seven-and-twenty years, and killed +many hill-dogs, shout aloud for quarter when the lightning revealed us +to the watch-towers? When I was a young man I saw the killing in the +valley of Sheor-Kôt there at our feet, and I know the tale that grew up +therefrom. But how can the ghosts of unbelievers prevail against us who +are of the Faith? Strap that dog’s hands a little tighter, Sahib. An +Afghan is like an eel.’ + +‘But a dead Rissala,’ said Halley, jerking his captive’s wrist. ‘That +is foolish talk, Kurruk Shah. The dead are dead. Hold still, _sag_.’ +The Afghan wriggled. + +‘The dead are dead, and for that reason they walk at night. What need +to talk? We be men; we have our eyes and ears. Thou canst both see and +hear them, down the hillside,’ said Kurruk Shah composedly. + +Halley stared and listened long and intently. The valley was full of +stifled noises, as every valley must be at night; but whether he saw or +heard more than was natural Halley alone knows, and he does not choose +to speak on the subject. + +At last, and just before the dawn, a green rocket shot up from the far +side of the valley of Bersund, at the head of the gorge, to show that +the Goorkhas were in position. A red light from the infantry at left +and right answered it, and the cavalry burnt a white flare. Afghans in +winter are late sleepers, and it was not till full day that the Gulla +Kutta Mullah’s men began to straggle from their huts, rubbing their +eyes. They saw men in green, and red, and brown uniforms, leaning on +their arms, neatly arranged all round the crater of the village of +Bersund, in a cordon that not even a wolf could have broken. They +rubbed their eyes the more when a pink-faced young man, who was not +even in the Army, but represented the Political Department, tripped +down the hillside with two orderlies, rapped at the door of the Gulla +Kutta Mullah’s house, and told him quietly to step out and be tied up +for safe transport. That same young man passed on through the huts, +tapping here one cateran, and there another lightly with his cane; and +as each was pointed out, so he was tied up, staring hopelessly at the +crowned heights around where the English soldiers looked down with +incurious eyes. Only the Mullah tried to carry it off with curses and +high words, till a soldier who was tying his hands said:-- + +‘None o’ your lip! Why didn’t you come out when you was ordered, +instead o’ keepin’ us awake all night? You’re no better than my own +barrack-sweeper, you white-’eaded old polyanthus! Kim up!’ + +Half an hour later the troops had gone away with the Mullah and his +thirteen friends. The dazed villagers were looking ruefully at a +pile of broken muskets and snapped swords, and wondering how in the +world they had come so to miscalculate the forbearance of the Indian +Government. + +It was a very neat little affair, neatly carried out, and the men +concerned were unofficially thanked for their services. + +Yet it seems to me that much credit is also due to another regiment +whose name did not appear in the brigade orders, and whose very +existence is in danger of being forgotten. + + + + + IN THE RUKH. + + + The Only Son lay down again and dreamed that he dreamed a dream. + The last ash dropped from the dying fire with the click of a falling + spark, + And the Only Son woke up again and called across the dark:-- + ‘Now, was I born of womankind and laid in a mother’s breast? + For I have dreamed of a shaggy hide whereon I went to rest. + And was I born of womankind and laid on a father’s arm? + For I have dreamed of long white teeth that guarded me from harm. + Oh, was I born of womankind and did I play alone? + For I have dreamed of playmates twain that bit me to the bone. + And did I break the barley bread and steep it in the tyre? + For I have dreamed of a youngling kid new riven from the byre. + An hour it lacks and an hour it lacks to the rising of the moon-- + But I can see the black roof-beams as plain as it were noon! + ’Tis a league and a league to the Lena Falls where the trooping + sambhur go, + But I can hear the little fawn that bleats behind the doe! + ’Tis a league and a league to the Lena Falls where the crop and the + upland meet, + But I can smell the warm wet wind that whispers through the wheat!’ + + _The Only Son._ + + +Of the wheels of public service that turn under the Indian Government, +there is none more important than the Department of Woods and Forests. +The reboisement of all India is in its hands: or will be when +Government has the money to spend. Its servants wrestle with wandering +sand-torrents and shifting dunes: wattling them at the sides, damming +them in front, and pegging them down atop with coarse grass and +spindling pine after the rules of Nancy. They are responsible for all +the timber in the State forests of the Himalayas, as well as for the +denuded hillsides that the monsoons wash into dry gullies and aching +ravines; each cut a mouth crying aloud what carelessness can do. They +experiment with battalions of foreign trees, and coax the blue gum +to take root and, perhaps, dry up the Canal fever. In the plains the +chief part of their duty is to see that the belt fire-lines in the +forest reserves are kept clean, so that when drought comes and the +cattle starve, they may throw the reserve open to the villager’s herds +and allow the man himself to gather sticks. They poll and lop for the +stacked railway-fuel along the lines that burn no coal; they calculate +the profit of their plantations to five points of decimals; they are +the doctors and midwives of the huge teak forests of Upper Burma, the +rubber of the Eastern Jungles, and the gall-nuts of the South; and they +are always hampered by lack of funds. But since a Forest Officer’s +business takes him far from the beaten roads and the regular stations, +he learns to grow wise in more than wood-lore alone; to know the people +and the polity of the jungle; meeting tiger, bear, leopard, wild-dog, +and all the deer, not once or twice after days of beating, but again +and again in the execution of his duty. He spends much time in saddle +or under canvas--the friend of newly planted trees, the associate of +uncouth rangers and hairy trackers--till the woods, that show his care, +in turn set their mark upon him and he ceases to sing the naughty +French songs he learned at Nancy, and grows silent with the silent +things of the underbrush. + +Gisborne of the Woods and Forests had spent four years in the service. +At first he loved it without comprehension, because it led him into the +open on horseback and gave him authority. Then he hated it furiously, +and would have given a year’s pay for one month of such society as +India affords. That crisis over, the forests took him back again, and +he was content to serve them, to deepen and widen his fire-lines, to +watch the green mist of his new plantation against the older foliage, +to dredge out the choked stream, and to follow and strengthen the +last struggle of the forest where it broke down and died among the +long pig-grass. On some still day that grass would be burned off, and +a hundred beasts that had their homes there would rush out before +the pale flames at high noon. Later, the forest would creep forward +over the blackened ground in orderly lines of saplings, and Gisborne, +watching, would be well pleased. His bungalow, a thatched white-walled +cottage of two rooms, was set at one end of the great _rukh_ and +overlooking it. He made no pretence at keeping a garden, for the _rukh_ +swept up to his door, curled over in a thicket of bamboo, and he rode +from his verandah into its heart without the need of any carriage-drive. + +Abdul Gafur, his fat Mohammedan butler, fed him when he was at home, +and spent the rest of the time gossiping with the little band of native +servants whose huts lay behind the bungalow. There were two grooms, +a cook, a water-carrier, and a sweeper, and that was all. Gisborne +cleaned his own guns and kept no dog. Dogs scared the game, and it +pleased the man to be able to say where the subjects of his kingdom +would drink at moonrise, eat before dawn, and lie up in the day’s +heat. The rangers and forest-guards lived in little huts far away in +the _rukh_, only appearing when one of them had been injured by a +falling tree or a wild beast. There Gisborne was alone. + +In spring the _rukh_ put out few new leaves, but lay dry and still +untouched by the finger of the year, waiting for rain. Only there was +then more calling and roaring in the dark on a quiet night; the tumult +of a battle-royal among the tigers, the bellowing of arrogant buck, or +the steady wood-chopping of an old boar sharpening his tushes against +a bole. Then Gisborne laid aside his little-used gun altogether, for +it was to him a sin to kill. In summer, through the furious May heats, +the _rukh_ reeled in the haze, and Gisborne watched for the first sign +of curling smoke that should betray a forest fire. Then came the Rains +with a roar, and the _rukh_ was blotted out in fetch after fetch of +warm mist, and the broad leaves drummed the night through under the big +drops; and there was a noise of running water, and of juicy green stuff +crackling where the wind struck it, and the lightning wove patterns +behind the dense matting of the foliage, till the sun broke loose +again and the _rukh_ stood with hot flanks smoking to the newly washed +sky. Then the heat and the dry cold subdued everything to tiger-colour +again. So Gisborne learned to know his _rukh_ and was very happy. His +pay came month by month, but he had very little need for money. The +currency notes accumulated in the drawer where he kept his home-letters +and the recapping-machine. If he drew anything, it was to make a +purchase from the Calcutta Botanical Gardens, or to pay a ranger’s +widow a sum that the Government of India would never have sanctioned +for her man’s death. + +Payment was good, but vengeance was also necessary, and he took that +when he could. One night of many nights a runner, breathless and +gasping, came to him with the news that a forest-guard lay dead by the +Kanye stream, the side of his head smashed in as though it had been an +egg-shell. Gisborne went out at dawn to look for the murderer. It is +only travellers and now and then young soldiers who are known to the +world as great hunters. The Forest Officers take their _shikar_ as part +of the day’s work, and no one hears of it. Gisborne went on foot to the +place of the kill: the widow was wailing over the corpse as it lay on +a bedstead, while two or three men were looking at footprints on the +moist ground. ‘That is the Red One,’ said a man. ‘I knew he would turn +to man in time, but surely there is game enough even for him. This must +have been done for devilry.’ + +‘The Red One lies up in the rocks at the back of the _sal_ trees,’ said +Gisborne. He knew the tiger under suspicion. + +‘Not now, Sahib, not now. He will be raging and ranging to and fro. +Remember that the first kill is a triple kill always. Our blood makes +them mad. He may be behind us even as we speak.’ + +‘He may have gone to the next hut,’ said another. ‘It is only four +_koss_. Wallah, who is this!’ + +Gisborne turned with the others. A man was walking down the dried bed +of the stream, naked except for the loin-cloth, but crowned with a +wreath of the tasselled blossoms of the white convolvulus creeper. So +noiselessly did he move over the little pebbles, that even Gisborne, +used to the soft-footedness of trackers, started. + +‘The tiger that killed,’ he began, without any salute, ‘has gone to +drink, and now he is asleep under a rock beyond that hill.’ His voice +was clear and bell-like, utterly different from the usual whine of the +native, and his face as he lifted it in the sunshine might have been +that of an angel strayed among the woods. The widow ceased wailing +above the corpse and looked round-eyed at the stranger, returning to +her duty with double strength. + +‘Shall I show the Sahib?’ he said simply. + +‘If thou art sure--’ Gisborne began. + +‘Sure indeed. I saw him only an hour ago--the dog. It is before his +time to eat man’s flesh. He has yet a dozen sound teeth in his evil +head.’ + +The men kneeling above the footprints slunk off quietly, for fear that +Gisborne should ask them to go with him, and the young man laughed a +little to himself. + +‘Come, Sahib,’ he cried, and turned on his heel, walking before his +companion. + +‘Not so fast. I cannot keep that pace,’ said the white man. ‘Halt +there. Thy face is new to me.’ + +‘That may be. I am but newly come into this forest.’ + +‘From what village?’ + +‘I am without a village. I came from over there.’ He flung out his arm +towards the north. + +‘A gipsy then?’ + +‘No, Sahib. I am a man without caste, and for matter of that without a +father.’ + +‘What do men call thee?’ + +‘Mowgli, Sahib. And what is the Sahib’s name?’ + +‘I am the warden of this _rukh_--Gisborne is my name.’ + +‘How? Do they number the trees and the blades of grass here?’ + +‘Even so; lest such gipsy fellows as thou set them afire.’ + +‘I! I would not hurt the jungle for any gift. That is my home.’ + +He turned to Gisborne with a smile that was irresistible, and held up a +warning hand. + +‘Now, Sahib, we must go a little quietly. There is no need to wake the +dog, though he sleeps heavily enough. Perhaps it were better if I went +forward alone and drove him down wind to the Sahib.’ + +‘Allah! Since when have tigers been driven to and fro like cattle by +naked men?’ said Gisborne, aghast at the man’s audacity. + +He laughed again softly. ‘Nay, then, come along with me and shoot him +in thy own way with the big English rifle.’ + +Gisborne stepped in his guide’s track, twisted, crawled, and clomb and +stooped and suffered through all the many agonies of a jungle-stalk. +He was purple and dripping with sweat when Mowgli at the last bade him +raise his head and peer over a blue baked rock near a tiny hill pool. +By the water-side lay the tiger extended and at ease, lazily licking +clean again an enormous elbow and fore paw. He was old, yellow-toothed, +and not a little mangy, but in that setting and sunshine, imposing +enough. + +Gisborne had no false ideas of sport where the man-eater was concerned. +This thing was vermin, to be killed as speedily as possible. He waited +to recover his breath, rested the rifle on the rock and whistled. The +brute’s head turned slowly not twenty feet from the rifle-mouth, and +Gisborne planted his shots, business-like, one behind the shoulder and +the other a little below the eye. At that range the heavy bones were no +guard against the rending bullets. + +‘Well, the skin was not worth keeping at any rate,’ said he as the +smoke cleared away and the beast lay kicking and gasping in the last +agony. + +‘A dog’s death for a dog,’ said Mowgli quietly. ‘Indeed there is +nothing in that carrion worth taking away.’ + +‘The whiskers. Dost thou not take the whiskers?’ said Gisborne, who +knew how the rangers valued such things. + +‘I? Am I a lousy _shikarri_ of the jungle to paddle with a tiger’s +muzzle? Let him lie. Here come his friends already.’ + +A dropping kite whistled shrilly overhead, as Gisborne snapped out the +empty shells, and wiped his face. + +‘And if thou art not a _shikarri_, where didst thou learn thy knowledge +of the tiger-folk?’ said he. ‘No tracker could have done better.’ + +‘I hate all tigers,’ said Mowgli curtly. ‘Let the Sahib give me his gun +to carry. Arré, it is a very fine one. And where does the Sahib go now?’ + +‘To my house.’ + +‘May I come? I have never yet looked within a white man’s house.’ + +Gisborne returned to his bungalow, Mowgli striding noiselessly before +him, his brown skin glistening in the sunlight. + +He stared curiously at the verandah and the two chairs there, fingered +the split bamboo shade curtains with suspicion, and entered, looking +always behind him. Gisborne loosed a curtain to keep out the sun. It +dropped with a clatter, but almost before it touched the flagging of +the verandah Mowgli had leaped clear and was standing with heaving +chest in the open. + +‘It is a trap,’ he said quickly. + +Gisborne laughed. ‘White men do not trap men. Indeed thou art +altogether of the jungle.’ + +‘I see,’ said Mowgli, ‘it has neither catch nor fall. I--I never beheld +these things till to-day.’ + +He came in on tiptoe and stared with large eyes at the furniture of the +two rooms. Abdul Gafur, who was laying lunch, looked at him with deep +disgust. + +‘So much trouble to eat, and so much trouble to lie down after you have +eaten!’ said Mowgli with a grin. ‘We do better in the jungle. It is +very wonderful. There are very many rich things here. Is the Sahib not +afraid that he may be robbed? I have never seen such wonderful things.’ +He was staring at a dusty Benares brass plate on a ricketty bracket. + +‘Only a thief from the jungle would rob here,’ said Abdul Gafur, +setting down a plate with a clatter. Mowgli opened his eyes wide and +stared at the white-bearded Mohammedan. + +‘In my country when goats bleat very loud we cut their throats,’ he +returned cheerfully. ‘But have no fear, thou, I am going.’ + +He turned and disappeared into the _rukh_. Gisborne looked after him +with a laugh that ended in a little sigh. There was not much outside +his regular work to interest the Forest Officer, and this son of the +forest, who seemed to know tigers as other people know dogs, would have +been a diversion. + +‘He’s a most wonderful chap,’ thought Gisborne; ‘he’s like the +illustrations in the Classical Dictionary. I wish I could have made him +a gun-boy. There’s no fun in shikarring alone, and this fellow would +have been a perfect _shikarri_. I wonder what in the world he is.’ + +That evening he sat on the verandah under the stairs smoking as he +wondered. A puff of smoke curled from the pipe-bowl. As it cleared he +was aware of Mowgli sitting with arms crossed on the verandah edge. A +ghost could not have drifted up more noiselessly. Gisborne started and +let the pipe drop. + +‘There is no man to talk to out there in the _rukh_,’ said Mowgli; +‘I came here, therefore.’ He picked up the pipe and returned it to +Gisborne. + +‘Oh,’ said Gisborne, and after a long pause, ‘What news is there in the +_rukh_? Hast thou found another tiger?’ + +‘The nilghai are changing their feeding-ground against the new moon, as +is their custom. The pig are feeding near the Kanye river now, because +they will not feed with the nilghai, and one of their sows has been +killed by a leopard in the long grass at the water-head. I do not know +any more.’ + +‘And how didst thou know all these things?’ said Gisborne, leaning +forward and looking at the eyes that glittered in the starlight. + +‘How should I not know? The nilghai has his custom and his use, and a +child knows that pig will not feed with him.’ + +‘I do not know this,’ said Gisborne. + +‘Tck! Tck! And thou art in charge--so the men of the huts tell me--in +charge of all this _rukh_.’ He laughed to himself. + +‘It is well enough to talk and to tell child’s tales,’ Gisborne +retorted, nettled at the chuckle. ‘To say that this and that goes on in +the _rukh_. No man can deny thee.’ + +‘As for the sow’s carcass, I will show thee her bones to-morrow,’ +Mowgli returned, absolutely unmoved. ‘Touching the matter of the +nilghai, if the Sahib will sit here very still I will drive one nilghai +up to this place, and by listening to the sounds carefully, the Sahib +can tell whence that nilghai has been driven.’ + +‘Mowgli, the jungle has made thee mad,’ said Gisborne. ‘Who can drive +nilghai?’ + +‘Still--sit still, then. I go.’ + +‘Gad, the man’s a ghost!’ said Gisborne; for Mowgli had faded out into +the darkness and there was no sound of feet. The _rukh_ lay out in +great velvety folds in the uncertain shimmer of the star-dust--so still +that the least little wandering wind among the tree-tops came up as the +sigh of a child sleeping equably. Abdul Gafur in the cook-house was +clicking plates together. + +‘Be still there!’ shouted Gisborne, and composed himself to listen as +a man can who is used to the stillness of the _rukh_. It had been his +custom, to preserve his self-respect in his isolation, to dress for +dinner each night, and the stiff white shirt-front creaked with his +regular breathing till he shifted a little sideways. Then the tobacco +of a somewhat foul pipe began to purr, and he threw the pipe from him. +Now, except for the night-breath in the _rukh_, everything was dumb. + +From an inconceivable distance, and drawled through immeasurable +darkness, came the faint, faint echo of a wolf’s howl. Then silence +again for, it seemed, long hours. At last, when his legs below the +knees had lost all feeling, Gisborne heard something that might have +been a crash far off through the undergrowth. He doubted till it was +repeated again and yet again. + +‘That’s from the west,’ he muttered; ‘there’s something on foot there.’ +The noise increased--crash on crash, plunge on plunge--with the thick +grunting of a hotly pressed nilghai, flying in panic terror and taking +no heed to his course. + +A shadow blundered out from between the tree-trunks, wheeled back, +turned again grunting, and with a clatter on the bare ground dashed up +almost within reach of his hand. It was a bull nilghai, dripping with +dew--his withers hung with a torn trail of creeper, his eyes shining +in the light from the house. The creature checked at sight of the man, +and fled along the edge of the _rukh_ till he melted in the darkness. +The first idea in Gisborne’s bewildered mind was the indecency of +thus dragging out for inspection the big blue bull of the _rukh_--the +putting him through his paces in the night which should have been his +own. + +Then said a smooth voice at his ear as he stood staring: + +‘He came from the water-head where he was leading the herd. From the +west he came. Does the Sahib believe now, or shall I bring up the herd +to be counted? The Sahib is in charge of this _rukh_.’ + +Mowgli had reseated himself on the verandah, breathing a little +quickly. Gisborne looked at him with open mouth. ‘How was that +accomplished?’ he said. + +‘The Sahib saw. The bull was driven--driven as a buffalo is. Ho! ho! He +will have a fine tale to tell when he returns to the herd.’ + +‘That is a new trick to me. Canst thou run as swiftly as the nilghai, +then?’ + +‘The Sahib has seen. If the Sahib needs more knowledge at any time of +the movings of the game, I, Mowgli, am here. This is a good _rukh_, and +I shall stay.’ + +‘Stay then, and if thou hast need of a meal at any time my servants +shall give thee one.’ + +‘Yes, indeed, I am fond of cooked food,’ Mowgli answered quickly. ‘No +man may say that I do not eat boiled and roast as much as any other +man. I will come for that meal. Now, on my part, I promise that the +Sahib shall sleep safely in his house by night, and no thief shall +break in to carry away his so rich treasures.’ + +The conversation ended itself on Mowgli’s abrupt departure. Gisborne +sat long smoking, and the upshot of his thoughts was that in Mowgli he +had found at last that ideal ranger and forest-guard for whom he and +the Department were always looking. + +‘I must get him into the Government service somehow. A man who can +drive nilghai would know more about the _rukh_ than fifty men. He’s a +miracle--a _lusus naturæ_--but a forest-guard he must be if he’ll only +settle down in one place,’ said Gisborne. + +Abdul Gafur’s opinion was less favourable. He confided to Gisborne at +bedtime that strangers from God-knew-where were more than likely to be +professional thieves, and that he personally did not approve of naked +outcastes who had not the proper manner of addressing white people. +Gisborne laughed and bade him go to his quarters, and Abdul Gafur +retreated growling. Later in the night he found occasion to rise up and +beat his thirteen-year-old daughter. Nobody knew the cause of dispute, +but Gisborne heard the cry. + +Through the days that followed Mowgli came and went like a shadow. +He had established himself and his wild house-keeping close to the +bungalow, but on the edge of the _rukh_, where Gisborne, going out +on to the verandah for a breath of cool air, would see him sometimes +sitting in the moonlight, his forehead on his knees, or lying out along +the fling of a branch, closely pressed to it as some beast of the +night. Thence Mowgli would throw him a salutation and bid him sleep at +ease, or descending would weave prodigious stories of the manners of +the beasts in the _rukh_. Once he wandered into the stables and was +found looking at the horses with deep interest. + +‘That,’ said Abdul Gafur pointedly, ‘is sure sign that some day he +will steal one. Why, if he lives about this house, does he not take +an honest employment? But no, he must wander up and down like a loose +camel, turning the heads of fools and opening the jaws of the unwise +to folly.’ So Abdul Gafur would give harsh orders to Mowgli when they +met, would bid him fetch water and pluck fowls, and Mowgli, laughing +unconcernedly, would obey. + +‘He has no caste,’ said Abdul Gafur. ‘He will do anything. Look to +it, Sahib, that he does not do too much. A snake is a snake, and a +jungle-gipsy is a thief till the death.’ + +‘Be silent, then,’ said Gisborne. ‘I allow thee to correct thy own +household if there is not too much noise, because I know thy customs +and use. My custom thou dost not know. The man is without doubt a +little mad.’ + +‘Very little mad indeed,’ said Abdul Gafur. ‘But we shall see what +comes thereof.’ + +A few days later on his business took Gisborne into the _rukh_ for +three days. Abdul Gafur being old and fat was left at home. He did +not approve of lying up in rangers’ huts, and was inclined to levy +contributions in his master’s name of grain and oil and milk from those +who could ill afford such benevolences. Gisborne rode off early one +dawn a little vexed that his man of the woods was not at the verandah +to accompany him. He liked him--liked his strength, fleetness, and +silence of foot, and his ever-ready open smile; his ignorance of all +forms of ceremony and salutations, and the child-like tales that he +would tell (and Gisborne would credit now) of what the game was doing +in the _rukh_. After an hour’s riding through the greenery, he heard a +rustle behind him, and Mowgli trotted at his stirrup. + +‘We have a three days’ work toward,’ said Gisborne, ‘among the new +trees.’ + +‘Good,’ said Mowgli. ‘It is always good to cherish young trees. They +make cover if the beasts leave them alone. We must shift the pig again.’ + +‘Again? How?’ Gisborne smiled. + +‘Oh, they were rooting and tusking among the young _sal_ last night, +and I drove them off. Therefore I did not come to the verandah this +morning. The pig should not be on this side of the _rukh_ at all. We +must keep them below the head of the Kanye river.’ + +‘If a man could herd clouds he might do that thing; but, Mowgli, if +as thou sayest, thou art herder in the _rukh_ for no gain and for no +pay----’ + +‘It is the Sahib’s _rukh_,’ said Mowgli, quickly looking up. Gisborne +nodded thanks and went on: ‘Would it not be better to work for pay from +the Government? There is a pension at the end of long service.’ + +‘Of that I have thought,’ said Mowgli, ‘but the rangers live in huts +with shut doors, and all that is all too much a trap to me. Yet I +think----’ + +‘Think well then and tell me later. Here we will stay for breakfast.’ + +Gisborne dismounted, took his morning meal from his home-made +saddle-bags, and saw the day open hot above the _rukh_. Mowgli lay in +the grass at his side staring up to the sky. + +Presently he said in a lazy whisper: ‘Sahib, is there any order at the +bungalow to take out the white mare to-day?’ + +‘No, she is fat and old and a little lame beside. Why?’ + +‘She is being ridden now and _not_ slowly on the road that runs to the +railway line.’ + +‘Bah, that is two _koss_ away. It is a wood-pecker.’ + +Mowgli put up his forearm to keep the sun out of his eyes. + +‘The road curves in with a big curve from the bungalow. It is not more +than a _koss_, at the farthest, as the kite goes; and sound flies with +the birds. Shall we see?’ + +‘What folly! To run a _koss_ in this sun to see a noise in the forest.’ + +‘Nay, the pony is the Sahib’s pony. I meant only to bring her here. If +she is not the Sahib’s pony, no matter. If she is, the Sahib can do +what he wills. She is certainly being ridden hard.’ + +‘And how wilt thou bring her here, madman?’ + +‘Has the Sahib forgotten? By the road of the nilghai and no other.’ + +‘Up then and run if thou art so full of zeal.’ + +‘Oh, I do not run!’ He put out his hand to sign for silence, and still +lying on his back called aloud thrice--with a deep gurgling cry that +was new to Gisborne. + +‘She will come,’ he said at the end. ‘Let us wait in the shade.’ The +long eyelashes drooped over the wild eyes as Mowgli began to doze in +the morning hush. Gisborne waited patiently: Mowgli was surely mad, but +as entertaining a companion as a lonely Forest Officer could desire. + +‘Ho! ho!’ said Mowgli lazily, with shut eyes. ‘He has dropped off. +Well, first the mare will come and then the man.’ Then he yawned as +Gisborne’s pony stallion neighed. Three minutes later Gisborne’s white +mare, saddled, bridled, but riderless, tore into the glade where they +were sitting, and hurried to her companion. + +‘She is not very warm,’ said Mowgli, ‘but in this heat the sweat comes +easily. Presently we shall see her rider, for a man goes more slowly +than a horse--especially if he chance to be a fat man and old.’ + +‘Allah! This is the devil’s work,’ cried Gisborne leaping to his feet, +for he heard a yell in the jungle. + +‘Have no care, Sahib. He will not be hurt. He also will say that it is +devil’s work. Ah! Listen! Who is that?’ + +It was the voice of Abdul Gafur in an agony of terror, crying out upon +unknown things to spare him and his gray hairs. + +‘Nay, I cannot move another step,’ he howled. ‘I am old and my turban +is lost. Arré! Arré! But I will move. Indeed I will hasten. I will run! +Oh, Devils of the Pit, I am a Mussalman!’ + +The undergrowth parted and gave up Abdul Gafur, turbanless, shoeless, +with his waist-cloth unbound, mud and grass in his clutched hands, and +his face purple. He saw Gisborne, yelled anew, and pitched forward, +exhausted and quivering, at his feet. Mowgli watched him with a sweet +smile. + +‘This is no joke,’ said Gisborne sternly. ‘The man is like to die, +Mowgli.’ + +‘He will not die. He is only afraid. There was no need that he should +have come out of a walk.’ + +Abdul Gafur groaned and rose up, shaking in every limb. + +‘It was witchcraft--witchcraft and devildom!’ he sobbed, fumbling with +his hand in his breast. ‘Because of my sin I have been whipped through +the woods by devils. It is all finished. I repent. Take them, Sahib!’ +He held out a roll of dirty paper. + +‘What is the meaning of this, Abdul Gafur?’ said Gisborne, already +knowing what would come. + +‘Put me in the jail-khana--the notes are all here--but lock me up +safely that no devils may follow. I have sinned against the Sahib and +his salt which I have eaten; and but for those accursed wood-demons, +I might have bought land afar off and lived in peace all my days.’ He +beat his head upon the ground in an agony of despair and mortification. +Gisborne turned the roll of notes over and over. It was his accumulated +back-pay for the last nine months--the roll that lay in the drawer with +the home-letters and the recapping-machine. Mowgli watched Abdul Gafur, +laughing noiselessly to himself. ‘There is no need to put me on the +horse again. I will walk home slowly with the Sahib, and then he can +send me under guard to the jail-khana. The Government gives many years +for this offence,’ said the butler sullenly. + +Loneliness in the _rukh_ affects very many ideas about very many +things. Gisborne stared at Abdul Gafur, remembering that he was a very +good servant, and that a new butler must be broken into the ways of the +house from the beginning, and at the best would be a new face and a new +tongue. + +‘Listen, Abdul Gafur,’ he said. ‘Thou hast done great wrong, and +altogether lost thy _izzat_ and thy reputation. But I think that this +came upon thee suddenly.’ + +‘Allah! I had never desired the notes before. The Evil took me by the +throat while I looked.’ + +‘That also I can believe. Go then back to my house, and when I return +I will send the notes by a runner to the Bank, and there shall be no +more said. Thou art too old for the jail-khana. Also thy household is +guiltless.’ + +For answer Abdul Gafur sobbed between Gisborne’s cowhide riding-boots. + +‘Is there no dismissal then?’ he gulped. + +‘That we shall see. It hangs upon thy conduct when we return. Get upon +the mare and ride slowly back.’ + +‘But the devils! The _rukh_ is full of devils.’ + +‘No matter, my father. They will do thee no more harm unless, indeed, +the Sahib’s orders be not obeyed,’ said Mowgli. ‘Then, perchance, they +may drive thee home--by the road of the nilghai.’ + +Abdul Gafur’s lower jaw dropped as he twisted up his waist-cloth, +staring at Mowgli. + +‘Are they _his_ devils? His devils! And I had thought to return and lay +the blame upon this warlock!’ + +‘That was well thought of, Huzrut; but before we make a trap we see +first how big the game is that may fall into it. Now I thought no more +than that a man had taken one of the Sahib’s horses. I did not know +that the design was to make me a thief before the Sahib, or my devils +had haled thee here by the leg. It is not too late now.’ + +Mowgli looked inquiringly at Gisborne, but Abdul Gafur waddled hastily +to the white mare, scrambled on her back and fled; the woodways +crashing and echoing behind him. + +‘That was well done,’ said Mowgli. ‘But he will fall again unless he +holds by the mane.’ + +‘Now it is time to tell me what these things mean,’ said Gisborne a +little sternly. ‘What is this talk of thy devils? How can men be driven +up and down the _rukh_ like cattle? Give answer.’ + +‘Is the Sahib angry because I have saved him his money?’ + +‘No, but there is trick-work in this that does not please me.’ + +‘Very good. Now if I rose and stepped three paces into the _rukh_ there +is no one, not even the Sahib, could find me till I choose. As I would +not willingly do this, so I would not willingly tell. Have patience a +little, Sahib, and some day I will show thee everything, for, if thou +wilt, some day we will drive the buck together. There is no devil-work +in the matter at all. Only ... I know the _rukh_ as a man knows the +cooking-place in his house.’ + +Mowgli was speaking as he would speak to an impatient child. Gisborne, +puzzled, baffled, and a great deal annoyed, said nothing, but stared on +the ground and thought. When he looked up the man of the woods had gone. + +‘It is not good,’ said a level voice from the thicket, ‘for friends to +be angry. Wait till the evening, Sahib, when the air cools.’ + +Left to himself thus, dropped as it were in the heart of the _rukh_, +Gisborne swore, then laughed, remounted his pony, and rode on. He +visited a ranger’s hut, overlooked a couple of new plantations, left +some orders as to the burning of a patch of dry grass, and set out +for a camping-ground of his own choice, a pile of splintered rocks +roughly roofed over with branches and leaves, not far from the banks +of the Kanye stream. It was twilight when he came in sight of his +resting-place, and the _rukh_ was waking to the hushed ravenous life of +the night. + +A camp-fire flickered on the knoll, and there was the smell of a very +good dinner in the wind. + +‘Um,’ said Gisborne, ‘that’s better than cold meat at any rate. Now the +only man who’d be likely to be here’d be Muller, and, officially, he +ought to be looking over the Changamanga _rukh_. I suppose that’s why +he’s on my ground.’ + +The gigantic German who was the head of the Woods and Forests of all +India, Head Ranger from Burma to Bombay, had a habit of flitting +bat-like without warning from one place to another, and turning up +exactly where he was least looked for. His theory was that sudden +visitations, the discovery of shortcomings and a word-of-mouth +upbraiding of a subordinate were infinitely better than the slow +processes of correspondence, which might end in a written and official +reprimand--a thing in after years to be counted against a Forest +Officer’s record. As he explained it: ‘If I only talk to my boys like a +Dutch uncle, dey say, “It was only dot damned old Muller,” and dey do +better next dime. But if my fat-head clerk he write and say dot Muller +der Inspecdor-General fail to onderstand and is much annoyed, first dot +does no goot because I am not dere, and, second, der fool dot comes +after me he may say to my best boys: “Look here, you haf been wigged by +my bredecessor.” I tell you der big brass-hat pizness does not make der +trees grow.’ + +Muller’s deep voice was coming out of the darkness behind the firelight +as he bent over the shoulders of his pet cook. ‘Not so much sauce, you +son of Belial! Worcester sauce he is a gondiment and not a fluid. Ah, +Gisborne, you haf come to a very bad dinner. Where is your camp?’ and +he walked up to shake hands. + +‘I’m the camp, sir,’ said Gisborne. ‘I didn’t know you were about here.’ + +Muller looked at the young man’s trim figure. ‘Goot! That is very goot! +One horse and some cold things to eat. When I was young I did my camp +so. Now you shall dine with me. I went into Headquarters to make up +my rebort last month. I haf written half--ho! ho!--and der rest I haf +leaved to my glerks and come out for a walk. Der Government is mad +about dose reborts. I dold der Viceroy so at Simla.’ + +Gisborne chuckled, remembering the many tales that were told of +Muller’s conflicts with the Supreme Government. He was the chartered +libertine of all the offices, for as a Forest Officer he had no equal. + +‘If I find you, Gisborne, sitting in your bungalow und hatching reborts +to me about der blantations instead of riding der blantations, I will +dransfer you to der middle of der Bikaneer Desert to reforest _him_. I +am sick of reborts und chewing paper when we should do our work.’ + +‘There’s not much danger of my wasting time over my annuals. I hate +them as much as you do, sir.’ + +The talk went over at this point to professional matters. Muller had +some questions to ask, and Gisborne orders and hints to receive, till +dinner was ready. It was the most civilised meal Gisborne had eaten +for months. No distance from the base of supplies was allowed to +interfere with the work of Muller’s cook; and that table spread in the +wilderness began with devilled small fresh-water fish, and ended with +coffee and cognac. + +‘Ah!’ said Muller at the end, with a sigh of satisfaction as he lighted +a cheroot and dropped into his much worn camp-chair. ‘When I am making +reborts I am Freethinker und Atheist, but here in der _rukh_ I am +more than Christian. I am Bagan also.’ He rolled the cheroot-butt +luxuriously under his tongue, dropped his hands on his knees, and +stared before him into the dim shifting heart of the _rukh_, full of +stealthy noises; the snapping of twigs like the snapping of the fire +behind him; the sigh and rustle of a heat-bended branch recovering +her straightness in the cool night; the incessant mutter of the Kanye +stream, and the undernote of the many-peopled grass uplands out of +sight beyond a swell of hill. He blew out a thick puff of smoke, and +began to quote Heine to himself. + +‘Yes, it is very goot. Very goot. “Yes, I work miracles, and, by +Gott, dey come off too.” I remember when dere was no _rukh_ more big +than your knee, from here to der plough-lands, und in drought-time +der cattle ate bones of dead cattle up and down. Now der trees haf +come back. Dey were planted by a Freethinker, because he know just de +cause dot made der effect. But der trees dey had der cult of der old +gods--“und der Christian Gods howl loudly.” Dey could not live in der +_rukh_, Gisborne.’ + +A shadow moved in one of the bridle-paths--moved and stepped out into +the starlight. + +‘I haf said true. Hush! Here is Faunus himself come to see der +Insbector-General. Himmel, he is der god! Look!’ + +It was Mowgli, crowned with his wreath of white flowers and walking +with a half-peeled branch--Mowgli, very mistrustful of the firelight +and ready to fly back to the thicket on the least alarm. + +‘That’s a friend of mine,’ said Gisborne. ‘He’s looking for me. Ohé, +Mowgli!’ + +Muller had barely time to gasp before the man was at Gisborne’s side, +crying: ‘I was wrong to go. I was wrong, but I did not know then that +the mate of him that was killed by this river was awake looking for +thee. Else I should not have gone away. She tracked thee from the +back-range, Sahib.’ + +‘He is a little mad,’ said Gisborne, ‘and he speaks of all the beasts +about here as if he was a friend of theirs.’ + +‘Of course--of course. If Faunus does not know, who should know?’ said +Muller gravely. ‘What does he say about tigers--dis god who knows you +so well?’ + +Gisborne relighted his cheroot, and before he had finished the story of +Mowgli and his exploits it was burned down to moustache-edge. Muller +listened without interruption. ‘Dot is not madness,’ he said at last +when Gisborne had described the driving of Abdul Gafur. ‘Dot is not +madness at all.’ + +‘What is it, then? He left me in a temper this morning because I asked +him to tell how he did it. I fancy the chap’s possessed in some way.’ + +‘No, dere is no bossession, but it is most wonderful. Normally they die +young--dese beople. Und you say now dot your thief-servant did not say +what drove der poney, and of course der nilghai he could not speak.’ + +‘No, but, confound it, there wasn’t anything. I listened, and I can +hear most things. The bull and the man simply came headlong--mad with +fright.’ + +For answer Muller looked Mowgli up and down from head to foot, then +beckoned him nearer. He came as a buck treads a tainted trail. + +‘There is no harm,’ said Muller in the vernacular. ‘Hold out an arm.’ + +He ran his hand down to the elbow, felt that, and nodded. ‘So I +thought. Now the knee.’ Gisborne saw him feel the knee-cap and smile. +Two or three white scars just above the ankle caught his eye. + +‘Those came when thou wast very young?’ he said. + +‘Ay,’ Mowgli answered with a smile. ‘They were love-tokens from the +little ones.’ Then to Gisborne over his shoulder. ‘This Sahib knows +everything. Who is he?’ + +‘That comes after, my friend. Now where are _they_?’ said Muller. + +Mowgli swept his hand round his head in a circle. + +‘So! And thou canst drive nilghai? See! There is my mare in her +pickets. Canst thou bring her to me without frightening her?’ + +‘Can I bring the mare to the Sahib without frightening her!’ Mowgli +repeated, raising his voice a little above its normal pitch. ‘What is +more easy, if the heel-ropes are loose?’ + +‘Loosen the head and heel-pegs,’ shouted Muller to the groom. They were +hardly out of the ground before the mare, a huge black Australian, +flung up her head and cocked her ears. + +‘Careful! I do not wish her driven into the _rukh_,’ said Muller. + +Mowgli stood still fronting the blaze of the fire--in the very form and +likeness of that Greek god who is so lavishly described in the novels. +The mare whickered, drew up one hind leg, found that the heel-ropes +were free, and moved swiftly to her master, on whose bosom she dropped +her head, sweating lightly. + +‘She came of her own accord. My horses will do that,’ cried Gisborne. + +‘Feel if she sweats,’ said Mowgli. + +Gisborne laid a hand on the damp flank. + +‘It is enough,’ said Muller. + +‘It is enough,’ Mowgli repeated, and a rock behind him threw back the +word. + +‘That’s uncanny, isn’t it?’ said Gisborne. + +‘No, only wonderful--most wonderful. Still you do not know, Gisborne?’ + +‘I confess I don’t.’ + +‘Well then, I shall not tell. He says dot some day he will show you +what it is. It would be gruel if I told. But why he is not dead I do +not understand. Now listen thou.’ Muller faced Mowgli, and returned to +the vernacular. ‘I am the head of all the _rukhs_ in the country of +India and others across the Black Water. I do not know how many men be +under me--perhaps five thousand, perhaps ten. Thy business is this,--to +wander no more up and down the _rukh_ and drive beasts for sport or for +show, but to take service under me, who am the Government in the matter +of Woods and Forests, and to live in this _rukh_ as a forest-guard; to +drive the villagers’ goats away when there is no order to feed them in +the _rukh_; to admit them when there is an order; to keep down, as thou +canst keep down, the boar and the nilghai when they become too many; +to tell Gisborne Sahib how and where tigers move, and what game there +is in the forests; and to give sure warning of all the fires in the +_rukh_, for thou canst give warning more quickly than any other. For +that work there is a payment each month in silver, and at the end, when +thou hast gathered a wife and cattle and, may be, children, a pension. +What answer?’ + +‘That’s just what I----’ Gisborne began. + +‘My Sahib spoke this morning of such a service. I walked all day alone +considering the matter, and my answer is ready here. I serve, _if_ I +serve in this _rukh_ and no other: _with_ Gisborne Sahib and with no +other.’ + +‘It shall be so. In a week comes the written order that pledges the +honour of the Government for the pension. After that thou wilt take up +thy hut where Gisborne Sahib shall appoint.’ + +‘I was going to speak to you about it,’ said Gisborne. + +‘I did not want to be told when I saw that man. Dere will never be a +forest-guard like him. He is a miracle. I tell you, Gisborne, some day +you will find it so. Listen, he is blood-brother to every beast in der +_rukh_!’ + +‘I should be easier in my mind if I could understand him.’ + +‘Dot will come. Now I tell you dot only once in my service, and dot is +thirty years, haf I met a boy dot began as this man began. Und he died. +Sometimes you hear of dem in der census reports, but dey all die. Dis +man haf lived, and he is an anachronism, for he is before der Iron Age, +and der Stone Age. Look here, he is at der beginnings of der history +of man--Adam in der Garden, und now we want only an Eva! No! He is +older than dot child-tale, shust as der _rukh_ is older dan der gods. +Gisborne, I am a Bagan now, once for all.’ + +Through the rest of the long evening Muller sat smoking and smoking, +and staring and staring into the darkness, his lips moving in +multiplied quotations, and great wonder upon his face. He went to his +tent, but presently came out again in his majestic pink sleeping-suit, +and the last words that Gisborne heard him address to the _rukh_ +through the deep hush of midnight were these, delivered with immense +emphasis:-- + + ‘Dough we shivt und bedeck und bedrape us, + Dou art noble und nude und andeek; + Libidina dy moder, Briapus + Dy fader, a God und a Greek. + +Now I know dot, Bagan _or_ Christian, I shall nefer know der inwardness +of der _rukh_!’ + + * * * * * + +It was midnight in the bungalow a week later when Abdul Gafur, ashy +gray with rage, stood at the foot of Gisborne’s bed and whispering bade +him awake. + +‘Up, Sahib,’ he stammered. ‘Up and bring thy gun. Mine honour is gone. +Up and kill before any see.’ + +The old man’s face had changed, so that Gisborne stared stupidly. + +‘It was for this, then, that that jungle outcaste helped me to polish +the Sahib’s table, and drew water and plucked fowls. They have gone off +together for all my beatings, and now he sits among his devils dragging +her soul to the Pit. Up, Sahib, and come with me!’ + +He thrust a rifle into Gisborne’s half-wakened hand and almost dragged +him from the room on to the verandah. + +‘They are there in the _rukh_; even within gunshot of the house. Come +softly with me.’ + +‘But what is it? What is the trouble, Abdul?’ + +‘Mowgli, and his devils. Also my own daughter,’ said Abdul Gafur. +Gisborne whistled and followed his guide. Not for nothing, he knew, +had Abdul Gafur beaten his daughter of nights, and not for nothing had +Mowgli helped in the housework a man whom his own powers, whatever +those were, had convicted of theft. Also, a forest wooing goes quickly. + +There was the breathing of a flute in the _rukh_, as it might have been +the song of some wandering wood-god, and, as they came nearer, a murmur +of voices. The path ended in a little semicircular glade walled partly +by high grass and partly by trees. In the centre, upon a fallen trunk, +his back to the watchers and his arm round the neck of Abdul Gafur’s +daughter, sat Mowgli, newly crowned with flowers, playing upon a rude +bamboo flute, to whose music four huge wolves danced solemnly on their +hind legs. + +‘Those are his devils,’ Abdul Gafur whispered. He held a bunch of +cartridges in his hand. The beasts dropped to a long-drawn quavering +note and lay still with steady green eyes, glaring at the girl. + +‘Behold,’ said Mowgli, laying aside the flute. ‘Is there anything of +fear in that? I told thee, little Stout-heart, that there was not, and +thou didst believe. Thy father said--and oh, if thou couldst have seen +thy father being driven by the road of the nilghai!--thy father said +that they were devils; and by Allah, who is thy God, I do not wonder +that he so believed.’ + +The girl laughed a little rippling laugh, and Gisborne heard Abdul +grind his few remaining teeth. This was not at all the girl that +Gisborne had seen with a half-eye slinking about the compound veiled +and silent; but another--a woman full blown in a night as the orchid +puts out in an hour’s moist heat. + +‘But they are my playmates and my brothers; children of that mother +that gave me suck, as I told thee behind the cook-house,’ Mowgli went +on. ‘Children of the father that lay between me and the cold at the +mouth of the cave when I was a little naked child. Look’--a wolf raised +his gray jowl, slavering at Mowgli’s knee--‘my brother knows that I +speak of them. Yes, when I was a little child he was a cub rolling with +me on the clay.’ + +‘But thou hast said that thou art human-born, cooed the girl, nestling +closer to the shoulder. ‘Thou art human-born?’ + +‘Said! Nay, I know that I am human born, because my heart is in thy +hold, little one.’ Her head dropped under Mowgli’s chin. Gisborne put +up a warning hand to restrain Abdul Gafur, who was not in the least +impressed by the wonder of the sight. + +‘But I was a wolf among wolves none the less till a time came when +Those of the jungle bade me go because I was a man.’ + +‘Who bade thee go? That is not like a true man’s talk.’ + +‘The very beasts themselves. Little one, thou wouldst never believe +that telling, but so it was. The beasts of the jungle bade me go, but +these four followed me because I was their brother. Then was I a +herder of cattle among men, having learned their language. Ho! ho! The +herds paid toll to my brothers, till a woman, an old woman, beloved, +saw me playing by night with my brethren in the crops. They said that I +was possessed of devils, and drove me from that village with sticks and +stones, and the four came with me by stealth and not openly. That was +when I had learned to eat cooked meat and to talk boldly. From village +to village I went, heart of my heart, a herder of cattle, a tender of +buffaloes, a tracker of game, but there was no man that dared lift a +finger against me twice.’ He stooped down and patted one of the heads. +‘Do thou also like this. There is neither hurt nor magic in them. See, +they know thee.’ + +‘The woods are full of all manner of devils,’ said the girl with a +shudder. + +‘A lie. A child’s lie,’ Mowgli returned confidently. ‘I have lain out +in the dew under the stars and in the dark night, and I know. The +jungle is my house. Shall a man fear his own roof-beams or a woman her +man’s hearth? Stoop down and pat them.’ + +‘They are dogs and unclean,’ she murmured, bending forward with averted +head. + +‘Having eaten the fruit, now we remember the Law!’ said Abdul Gafur +bitterly. ‘What is the need of this waiting, Sahib? Kill!’ + +‘H’sh, thou. Let us learn what has happened,’ said Gisborne. + +‘That is well done,’ said Mowgli, slipping his arm round the girl +again. ‘Dogs or no dogs, they were with me through a thousand villages.’ + +‘Ahi, and where was thy heart then? Through a thousand villages. Thou +hast seen a thousand maids. I--that am--that am a maid no more, have I +thy heart?’ + +‘What shall I swear by? By Allah, of whom thou speakest?’ + +‘Nay, by the life that is in thee, and I am well content. Where was thy +heart in those days?’ + +Mowgli laughed a little. ‘In my belly, because I was young and always +hungry. So I learned to track and to hunt, sending and calling my +brothers back and forth as a king calls his armies. Therefore I drove +the nilghai for the foolish young Sahib, and the big fat mare for the +big fat Sahib, when they questioned my power. It were as easy to have +driven the men themselves. Even now,’ his voiced lifted a little--‘even +now I know that behind me stand thy father and Gisborne Sahib. Nay, do +not run, for no ten men dare move a pace forward. Remembering that thy +father beat thee more than once, shall I give the word and drive him +again in rings through the _rukh_?’ A wolf stood up with bared teeth. + +Gisborne felt Abdul Gafur tremble at his side. Next, his place was +empty, and the fat man was skimming down the glade. + +‘Remains only Gisborne Sahib,’ said Mowgli, still without turning; ‘but +I have eaten Gisborne Sahib’s bread, and presently I shall be in his +service, and my brothers will be his servants to drive game and carry +the news. Hide thou in the grass.’ + +The girl fled, the tall grass closed behind her and the guardian wolf +that followed, and Mowgli turning with his three retainers faced +Gisborne as the Forest Officer came forward. + +‘That is all the magic,’ he said, pointing to the three. ‘The fat Sahib +knew that we who are bred among wolves run on our elbows and our knees +for a season. Feeling my arms and legs, he felt the truth which thou +didst not know. Is it so wonderful, Sahib?’ + +‘Indeed it is all more wonderful than magic. These then drove the +nilghai?’ + +‘Ay, as they would drive Eblis if I gave the order. They are my eyes +and feet to me.’ + +‘Look to it, then, that Eblis does not carry a double rifle. They have +yet something to learn, thy devils, for they stand one behind the +other, so that two shots would kill the three.’ + +‘Ah, but they know they will be thy servants as soon as I am a +forest-guard.’ + +‘Guard or no guard, Mowgli, thou hast done a great shame to Abdul +Gafur. Thou hast dishonoured his house and blackened his face.’ + +‘For that, it was blackened when he took thy money, and made blacker +still when he whispered in thy ear a little while since to kill a +naked man. I myself will talk to Abdul Gafur, for I am a man of the +Government service, with a pension. He shall make the marriage by +whatsoever rite he will, or he shall run once more. I will speak to him +in the dawn. For the rest, the Sahib has his house and this is mine. It +is time to sleep again, Sahib.’ + +Mowgli turned on his heel and disappeared into the grass, leaving +Gisborne alone. The hint of the wood-god was not to be mistaken; and +Gisborne went back to the bungalow, where Abdul Gafur, torn by rage and +fear, was raving in the verandah. + +‘Peace, peace,’ said Gisborne, shaking him, for he looked as though +he were going to have a fit. ‘Muller Sahib has made the man a +forest-guard, and as thou knowest there is a pension at the end of that +business, and it is Government service.’ + +‘He is an outcaste--a _mlech_--a dog among dogs; an eater of carrion! +What pension can pay for that?’ + +‘Allah knows; and thou hast heard that the mischief is done. Wouldst +thou blaze it to all the other servants? Make the _shadi_ swiftly, +and the girl will make him a Mussalman. He is very comely. Canst thou +wonder that after thy beatings she went to him?’ + +‘Did he say that he would chase me with his beasts?’ + +‘So it seemed to me. If he be a wizard, he is at least a very strong +one.’ + +Abdul Gafur thought awhile, and then broke down and howled, forgetting +that he was a Mussalman:-- + +‘Thou art a Brahmin. I am thy cow. Make thou the matter plain, and save +my honour if it can be saved!’ + +A second time then Gisborne plunged into the _rukh_ and called Mowgli. +The answer came from high overhead, and in no submissive tones. + +‘Speak softly,’ said Gisborne, looking up. ‘There is yet time to strip +thee of thy place and hunt thee with thy wolves. The girl must go back +to her father’s house to-night. To-morrow there will be the _shadi_, +by the Mussalman law, and then thou canst take her away. Bring her to +Abdul Gafur.’ + +‘I hear.’ There was a murmur of two voices conferring among the leaves. +‘Also, we will obey--for the last time.’ + + * * * * * + +A year later Muller and Gisborne were riding through the _rukh_ +together, talking of their business. They came out among the rocks near +the Kanye stream; Muller riding a little in advance. Under the shade +of a thorn thicket sprawled a naked brown baby, and from the brake +immediately behind him peered the head of a gray wolf. Gisborne had +just time to strike up Muller’s rifle, and the bullet tore spattering +through the branches above. + +‘Are you mad?’ thundered Muller. ‘Look!’ + +‘I see,’ said Gisborne quietly. ‘The mother’s somewhere near. You’ll +wake the whole pack, by Jove!’ + +The bushes parted once more, and a woman unveiled snatched up the child. + +‘Who fired, Sahib?’ she cried to Gisborne. + +‘This Sahib. He had not remembered thy man’s people.’ + +‘Not remembered? But indeed it may be so, for we who live with them +forget that they are strangers at all. Mowgli is down the stream +catching fish. Does the Sahib wish to see him? Come out, ye lacking +manners. Come out of the bushes, and make your service to the Sahibs.’ + +Muller’s eyes grew rounder and rounder. He swung himself off the +plunging mare and dismounted, while the jungle gave up four wolves who +fawned round Gisborne. The mother stood nursing her child and spurning +them aside as they brushed against her bare feet. + +‘You were quite right about Mowgli,’ said Gisborne. ‘I meant to have +told you, but I’ve got so used to these fellows in the last twelve +months that it slipped my mind.’ + +‘Oh, don’t apologise,’ said Muller. ‘It’s nothing. Gott in Himmel! “Und +I work miracles--und dey come off too!”’ + + + + + ‘BRUGGLESMITH.’ + + + This day the ship went down, and all hands was drowned but me. + + CLARK RUSSELL. + + +The first officer of the _Breslau_ asked me to dinner on board, +before the ship went round to Southampton to pick up her passengers. +The _Breslau_ was lying below London Bridge, her fore-hatches opened +for cargo, and her deck littered with nuts and bolts, and screws and +chains. The Black M‘Phee had been putting some finishing touches to his +adored engines, and M‘Phee is the most tidy of chief engineers. If the +leg of a cockroach gets into one of his slide-valves the whole ship +knows it, and half the ship has to clean up the mess. + +After dinner, which the first officer, M‘Phee, and I ate in one little +corner of the empty saloon, M‘Phee returned to the engine-room to +attend to some brass-fitters. The first officer and I smoked on the +bridge and watched the lights of the crowded shipping till it was time +for me to go home. It seemed, in the pauses of our conversation, that I +could catch an echo of fearful bellowings from the engine-room, and the +voice of M‘Phee singing of home and the domestic affections. + +‘M‘Phee has a friend aboard to-night--a man who was a boiler-maker at +Greenock when M‘Phee was a ’prentice,’ said the first officer. ‘I +didn’t ask him to dine with us because----’ + +‘I see--I mean I hear,’ I answered. We talked on for a few minutes +longer, and M‘Phee came up from the engine-room with his friend on his +arm. + +‘Let me present ye to this gentleman,’ said M‘Phee. ‘He’s a great +admirer o’ your wor-rks. He has just hearrd o’ them.’ + +M‘Phee could never pay a compliment prettily. The friend sat down +suddenly on a bollard, saying that M‘Phee had under-stated the truth. +Personally, he on the bollard considered that Shakespeare was trembling +in the balance solely on my account, and if the first officer wished +to dispute this he was prepared to fight the first officer then or +later, ‘as per invoice.’ ‘Man, if ye only knew,’ said he, wagging his +head, ‘the times I’ve lain in my lonely bunk reading _Vanity Fair_ an’ +sobbin’--ay, weepin’ bitterly, at the pure fascination of it.’ + +He shed a few tears for guarantee of good faith, and the first officer +laughed. M‘Phee resettled the man’s hat, that had tilted over one +eyebrow. + +‘That’ll wear off in a little. It’s just the smell o’ the engine-room,’ +said M‘Phee. + +‘I think I’ll wear off myself,’ I whispered to the first officer. ‘Is +the dinghy ready?’ + +The dinghy was at the gangway, which was down, and the first officer +went forward to find a man to row me to the bank. He returned with a +very sleepy Lascar, who knew the river. + +‘Are you going?’ said the man on the bollard. ‘Well, I’ll just see +ye home. M‘Phee, help me down the gangway. It has as many ends as a +cat-o’-nine-tails, and--losh!--how innumerable are the dinghys!’ + +‘You’d better let him come with you,’ said the first officer. ‘Muhammad +Jan, put the drunk sahib ashore first. Take the sober sahib to the next +stairs.’ + +I had my foot in the bow of the dinghy, the tide was making up-stream, +when the man cannoned against me, pushed the Lascar back on the +gangway, cast loose the painter, and the dinghy began to saw, +stern-first, along the side of the _Breslau_. + +‘We’ll have no exter-r-raneous races here,’ said the man. ‘I’ve known +the Thames for thirty years----’ + +There was no time for argument. We were drifting under the _Breslau’s_ +stern, and I knew that her propeller was half out of water, in the +middle of an inky tangle of buoys, low-lying hawsers, and moored ships, +with the tide ripping through them. + +‘What shall I do?’ I shouted to the first officer. + +‘Find the Police Boat as soon as you can, and for God’s sake get some +way on the dinghy. Steer with the oar. The rudder’s unshipped and----’ + +I could hear no more. The dinghy slid away, bumped on a mooring-buoy, +swung round and jigged off irresponsibly as I hunted for the oar. The +man sat in the bow, his chin on his hands, smiling. + +‘Row, you ruffian,’ I said. ‘Get her out into the middle of the +river----’ + +‘It’s a preevilege to gaze on the face o’ genius. Let me go on +thinking. There was “Little Bar-rnaby Dorrit” and “The Mystery o’ the +Bleak Druid.” I sailed in a ship called the _Druid_ once--badly found +she was. It all comes back to me so sweet. It all comes back to me. +Man, ye steer like a genius.’ + +We bumped round another mooring-buoy and drifted on to the bows of a +Norwegian timber-ship--I could see the great square holes on either +side of the cutwater. Then we dived into a string of barges and scraped +through them by the paint on our planks. It was a consolation to think +that the dinghy was being reduced in value at every bump, but the +question before me was when she would begin to leak. The man looked +ahead into the pitchy darkness and whistled. + +‘Yon’s a Castle liner; her ties are black. She’s swinging across +stream. Keep her port light on our starboard bow, and go large,’ he +said. + +‘How can I keep anything anywhere? You’re sitting on the oars. Row, +man, if you don’t want to drown.’ + +He took the sculls, saying sweetly: ‘No harm comes to a drunken man. +That’s why I wished to come wi’ _you_. Man, ye’re not fit to be alone +in a boat.’ + +He flirted the dinghy round the big ship, and for the next ten minutes +I enjoyed--positively enjoyed--an exhibition of first-class steering. +We threaded in and out of the mercantile marine of Great Britain as a +ferret threads a rabbit-hole, and we, he that is to say, sang joyously +to each ship till men looked over bulwarks and cursed us. When we came +to some moderately clear water he gave the sculls to me, and said: + +‘If ye could row as ye write, I’d respect you for all your vices. Yon’s +London Bridge. Take her through.’ + +We shot under the dark ringing arch, and came out the other side, +going up swiftly with the tide chanting songs of victory. Except that +I wished to get home before morning, I was growing reconciled to the +jaunt. There were one or two stars visible, and by keeping into the +centre of the stream, we could not come to any very serious danger. + +The man began to sing loudly:-- + + ‘The smartest clipper that you could find, + Yo ho! Oho! + Was the _Marg’ret Evans_ of the Black X Line, + A hundred years ago! + +Incorporate that in your next book, which is marvellous.’ Here he stood +up in the bows and declaimed:-- + + ‘Ye Towers o’ Julia, London’s lasting wrong, + By mony a foul an’ midnight murder fed-- + Sweet Thames run softly till I end my song-- + And yon’s the grave as little as my bed. + +I’m a poet mysel an’ I can feel for others.’ + +‘Sit down,’ said I. ‘You’ll have the boat over.’ + +‘Ay, I’m settin’--settin’ like a hen.’ He plumped down heavily, and +added, shaking his forefinger at me:-- + + ‘Lear-rn, prudent, cautious self-control + Is wisdom’s root. + +How did a man o’ your parts come to be so drunk? Oh, it’s a sinfu’ +thing, an’ ye may thank God on all fours that I’m with you. What’s yon +boat?’ + +We had drifted far up the river, and a boat manned by four men, who +rowed with a soothingly regular stroke, was overhauling us. + +‘It’s the River Police,’ I said, at the top of my voice. + +‘Oh ay! If your sin do not find you out on dry land, it will find you +out in the deep waters. Is it like they’ll give us drink?’ + +‘Exceedingly likely. I’ll hail them.’ I hailed. + +‘What are you doing?’ was the answer from the boat. + +‘It’s the _Breslau’s_ dinghy broken loose,’ I began. + +‘It’s a vara drunken man broke loose,’ roared my companion, ‘and I’m +taking him home by water, for he cannot stand on dry land.’ Here he +shouted my name twenty times running, and I could feel the blushes +racing over my body three deep. + +‘You’ll be locked up in ten minutes, my friend,’ I said, ‘and I don’t +think you’ll be bailed either.’ + +‘H’sh, man, h’sh. They think I’m your uncle.’ He caught up a scull and +began splashing the boat as it ranged alongside. + +‘You’re a nice pair,’ said the sergeant at last. + +‘I am anything you please so long as you take this fiend away. Tow us +in to the nearest station, and I’ll make it worth your while,’ I said. + +‘Corruption--corruption,’ roared the man, throwing himself flat in the +bottom of the boat. ‘Like unto the worms that perish, so is man! And +all for the sake of a filthy half-crown to be arrested by the river +police at my time o’ life!’ + +‘For pity’s sake, row,’ I shouted. ‘The man’s drunk.’ + +They rowed us to a flat--a fire or a police-station; it was too dark to +see which. I could feel that they regarded me in no better light than +the other man. I could not explain, for I was holding the far end of +the painter, and feeling cut off from all respectability. + +We got out of the boat, my companion falling flat on his wicked face, +and the sergeant asked us rude questions about the dinghy. My companion +washed his hands of all responsibility. He was an old man; he had been +lured into a stolen boat by a young man--probably a thief--he had saved +the boat from wreck (this was absolutely true), and now he expected +salvage in the shape of hot whisky and water. The sergeant turned to +me. Fortunately I was in evening dress, and had a card to show. More +fortunately still, the sergeant happened to know the _Breslau_ and +M‘Phee. He promised to send the dinghy down next tide, and was not +beyond accepting my thanks, in silver. + +As this was satisfactorily arranged, I heard my companion say angrily +to a constable, ‘If you will not give it to a dry man, ye maun to a +drookit.’ Then he walked deliberately off the edge of the flat into the +water. Somebody stuck a boat-hook into his clothes and hauled him out. + +‘Now,’ said he triumphantly, ‘under the rules o’ the R-royal Humane +Society, ye must give me hot whisky and water. Do not put temptation +before the laddie. He’s my nephew an’ a good boy i’ the main. Tho’ why +he should masquerade as Mister Thackeray on the high seas is beyond my +comprehension. Oh the vanity o’ youth! M‘Phee told me ye were as vain +as a peacock. I mind that now.’ + +‘You had better give him something to drink and wrap him up for the +night. I don’t know who he is,’ I said desperately, and when the man +had settled down to a drink supplied on my representations, I escaped +and found that I was near a bridge. + +I went towards Fleet Street, intending to take a hansom and go home. +After the first feeling of indignation died out, the absurdity of the +experience struck me fully and I began to laugh aloud in the empty +streets, to the scandal of a policeman. The more I reflected the +more heartily I laughed, till my mirth was quenched by a hand on my +shoulder, and turning I saw him who should have been in bed at the +river police-station. He was damp all over; his wet silk hat rode far +at the back of his head, and round his shoulders hung a striped yellow +blanket, evidently the property of the State. + +‘The crackling o’ thorns under a pot,’ said he, solemnly. ‘Laddie, have +ye not thought o’ the sin of idle laughter? My heart misgave me that +ever ye’d get home, an’ I’ve just come to convoy you a piece. They’re +sore uneducate down there by the river. They wouldna listen to me when +I talked o’ your worrks, so I e’en left them. Cast the blanket about +you, laddie. It’s fine and cold.’ + +I groaned inwardly. Providence evidently intended that I should frolic +through eternity with M‘Phee’s infamous acquaintance. + +‘Go away,’ I said; ‘go home, or I’ll give you in charge!’ + +He leaned against a lamp-post and laid his finger to his nose--his +dishonourable, carnelian neb. + +‘I mind now that M‘Phee told me ye were vainer than a peacock, an’ +your castin’ me adrift in a boat shows ye were drunker than an owl. A +good name is as a savoury bakemeat. I ha’ nane.’ He smacked his lips +joyously. + +‘Well, I know that,’ I said. + +‘Ay, but _ye_ have. I mind now that M‘Phee spoke o’ your reputation +that you’re so proud of. Laddie, if ye gie me in charge--I’m old enough +to be your father--I’ll bla-ast your reputation as far as my voice +can carry; for I’ll call you by name till the cows come hame. It’s no +jestin’ matter to be a friend to me. If you discard my friendship, ye +must come to Vine Street wi’ me for stealin’ the _Breslau’s_ dinghy.’ + +Then he sang at the top of his voice:-- + + ‘In the morrnin’ + I’ the morrnin’ by the black van-- + We’ll toodle up to Vine Street i’ the morrnin’! + +Yon’s my own composeetion, but _I’m_ not vain. We’ll go home together, +laddie, we’ll go home together.’ And he sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’ to show +that he meant it. + +A policeman suggested that we had better move on, and we moved on to +the Law Courts near St. Clement Danes. My companion was quieter now, +and his speech, which up till that time had been distinct--it was a +marvel to hear how in his condition he could talk dialect--began to +slur and slide and slummock. He bade me observe the architecture of +the Law Courts and linked himself lovingly to my arm. Then he saw a +policeman, and before I could shake him off, whirled me up to the man +singing:-- + + ‘Every member of the Force, + Has a watch and chain of course--’ + +and threw his dripping blanket over the helmet of the Law. In any +other country in the world we should have run an exceedingly good +chance of being shot, or dirked, or clubbed--and clubbing is worse +than being shot. But I reflected in that wet-cloth tangle that this +was England, where the police are made to be banged and battered and +bruised, that they may the better endure a police-court reprimand next +morning. We three fell in a festoon, he calling on me by name--that was +the tingling horror of it--to sit on the policeman’s head and cut the +traces. I wriggled clear first and shouted to the policeman to kill the +blanket-man. + +Naturally the policeman answered: ‘You’re as bad as ’im,’ and chased +me, as the smaller man, round St. Clement Danes into Holywell Street, +where I ran into the arms of another policeman. That flight could not +have lasted more than a minute and a half, but it seemed to me as +long and as wearisome as the foot-bound flight of a nightmare. I had +leisure to think of a thousand things as I ran; but most I thought of +the great and god-like man who held a sitting in the north gallery of +St. Clement Danes a hundred years ago. I know that he at least would +have felt for me. So occupied was I with these considerations, that +when the other policeman hugged me to his bosom and said: ‘What are you +tryin’ to do?’ I answered with exquisite politeness: ‘Sir, let us take +a walk down Fleet Street.’ ‘Bow Street’ll do _your_ business, I think,’ +was the answer, and for a moment I thought so too, till it seemed I +might scuffle out of it. Then there was a hideous scene, and it was +complicated by my companion hurrying up with the blanket and telling +me--always by name--that he would rescue me or perish in the attempt. + +‘Knock him down,’ I pleaded. ‘Club his head open first and I’ll explain +afterwards.’ + +The first policeman, the one who had been outraged, drew his truncheon +and cut at my companion’s head. The high silk hat crackled and the +owner dropped like a log. + +‘Now you’ve done it,’ I said. ‘You’ve probably killed him.’ + +Holywell Street never goes to bed. A small crowd gathered on the spot, +and some one of German extraction shrieked: ‘You haf killed the man.’ + +Another cried: ‘Take his bloomin’ number. I saw him strook cruel ’ard. +Yah!’ + +Now the street was empty when the trouble began, and, saving the two +policemen and myself, no one had seen the blow. I said, therefore, in a +loud and cheerful voice:-- + +‘The man’s a friend of mine. He’s fallen down in a fit. Bobby, will you +bring the ambulance?’ Under my breath I added: ‘It’s five shillings +apiece, and the man didn’t hit you.’ + +‘No, but ’im and you tried to scrob me,’ said the policeman. + +This was not a thing to argue about. + +‘Is Dempsey on duty at Charing Cross?’ I said. + +‘Wot d’you know of Dempsey, you bloomin’ garrotter?’ said the policeman. + +‘If Dempsey’s there, he knows me. Get the ambulance quick, and I’ll +take him to Charing Cross.’ + +‘You’re coming to Bow Street, _you_ are,’ said the policeman crisply. + +‘The man’s dying’--he lay groaning on the pavement--‘get the +ambulance,’ said I. + +There is an ambulance at the back of St. Clement Danes, whereof I know +more than most people. The policeman seemed to possess the keys of the +box in which it lived. We trundled it out--it was a three-wheeled +affair with a hood--and we bundled the body of the man upon it. + +A body in an ambulance looks very extremely dead. The policemen +softened at the sight of the stiff boot-heels. + +‘Now then,’ said they, and I fancied that they still meant Bow Street. + +‘Let me see Dempsey for three minutes if he’s on duty,’ I answered. + +‘Very good. He is.’ + +Then I knew that all would be well, but before we started I put my +head under the ambulance-hood to see if the man were alive. A guarded +whisper came to my ear. + +‘Laddie, you maun pay me for a new hat. They’ve broken it. Dinna desert +me now, laddie. I’m o’er old to go to Bow Street in my gray hairs for a +fault of yours. Laddie, dinna desert me.’ + +‘You’ll be lucky if you get off under seven years,’ I said to the +policeman. + +Moved by a very lively fear of having exceeded their duty, the two +policemen left their beats, and the mournful procession wound down the +empty Strand. Once west of the Adelphi, I knew I should be in my own +country; and the policemen had reason to know that too, for as I was +pacing proudly a little ahead of the catafalque, another policeman said +‘Good-night, sir,’ to me as he passed. + +‘Now, you see,’ I said, with condescension. ‘I wouldn’t be in your +shoes for something. On my word, I’ve a great mind to march you two +down to Scotland Yard.’ + +‘If the gentleman’s a friend o’ yours, per’aps--’ said the policeman +who had given the blow, and was reflecting on the consequences. + +‘Perhaps you’d like me to go away and say nothing about it,’ I said. +Then there hove into view the figure of Constable Dempsey, glittering +in his oil-skins, and an angel of light to me. I had known him for +months; he was an esteemed friend of mine, and we used to talk together +in the early mornings. The fool seeks to ingratiate himself with +Princes and Ministers; and courts and cabinets leave him to--perish +miserably. The wise man makes allies among the police and the hansoms, +so that his friends spring up from the round-house and the cab-rank, +and even his offences become triumphal processions. + +‘Dempsey,’ said I, ‘have the police been on strike again? They’ve put +some things on duty at St. Clement Danes that want to take me to Bow +Street for garrotting.’ + +‘Lor, sir!’ said Dempsey indignantly. + +‘Tell them I’m not a garrotter, nor a thief. It’s simply disgraceful +that a gentleman can’t walk down the Strand without being man-handled +by these roughs. One of them has done his best to kill my friend here; +and I’m taking the body home. Speak for me, Dempsey.’ + +There was no time for the much misrepresented policemen to say a word. +Dempsey spoke to them in language calculated to frighten. They tried to +explain, but Dempsey launched into a glowing catalogue of my virtues, +as noted by gas in the early hours. ‘And,’ he concluded vehemently, ‘’e +writes for the papers, too. How’d _you_ like to be written for in the +papers--in verse, too, which is ’is ’abit. You leave ’im alone. ’Im +an’ me have been friends for months.’ + +‘What about the dead man?’ said the policeman who had not given the +blow. + +‘I’ll tell you,’ I said relenting, and to the three policemen under +the lights of Charing Cross assembled, I recounted faithfully and at +length the adventures of the night, beginning with the _Breslau_ and +ending at St. Clement Danes. I described the sinful old ruffian in the +ambulance in words that made him wriggle where he lay, and never since +the Metropolitan Police was founded did three policemen laugh as those +three laughed. The Strand echoed to it, and the unclean birds of the +night stood and wondered. + +‘Oh lor’!’ said Dempsey, wiping his eyes, ‘I’d ha’ given anything to +see that old man runnin’ about with a wet blanket an’ all! Excuse me, +sir, but you ought to get took up every night for to make us ’appy.’ He +dissolved into fresh guffaws. + +There was a clinking of silver and the two policemen of St. Clement +Danes hurried back to their beats, laughing as they ran. + +‘Take ’im to Charing Cross,’ said Dempsey between shouts. ‘They’ll send +the ambulance back in the morning.’ + +‘Laddie, ye’ve misca’ed me shameful names, but I’m o’er old to go to a +hospital. Dinna desert me, laddie. Tak me home to my wife,’ said the +voice in the ambulance. + +‘He’s none so bad. ’Is wife’ll comb ’is hair for ’im proper,’ said +Dempsey, who was a married man. + +‘Where d’you live?’ I demanded. + +‘Brugglesmith,’ was the answer. + +‘What’s that?’ I said to Dempsey, more skilled than I in +portmanteau-words. + +‘Brook Green, ’Ammersmith,’ Dempsey translated promptly. + +‘Of course,’ I said. ‘That’s just the sort of place he would choose to +live in. I only wonder that it was not Kew.’ + +‘Are you going to wheel him ’ome, sir,’ said Dempsey. + +‘I’d wheel him home if he lived in ---- Paradise. He’s not going to get +out of this ambulance while I’m here. He’d drag me into a murder for +tuppence.’ + +‘Then strap ’im up an’ make sure,’ said Dempsey, and he deftly buckled +two straps that hung by the side of the ambulance over the man’s body. +Brugglesmith--I know not his other name--was sleeping deeply. He even +smiled in his sleep. + +‘That’s all right,’ said Dempsey, and I moved off, wheeling my devil’s +perambulator before me. Trafalgar Square was empty except for the few +that slept in the open. One of these wretches ranged alongside and +begged for money, asserting that he had been a gentleman once. + +‘So have I,’ I said. ‘That was long ago. I’ll give you a shilling if +you’ll help me to push this thing.’ + +‘Is it a murder?’ said the vagabond, shrinking back. ‘I’ve not got to +_that_ yet.’ + +‘No, it’s going to be one,’ I answered. ‘I have.’ + +The man slunk back into the darkness and I pressed on, through Cockspur +Street, and up to Piccadilly Circus, wondering what I should do with my +treasure. All London was asleep, and I had only this drunken carcass +to bear me company. It was silent--silent as chaste Piccadilly. A young +man of my acquaintance came out of a pink brick club as I passed. A +faded carnation drooped from his button-hole; he had been playing +cards, and was walking home before the dawn, when he overtook me. + +‘What are you doing?’ he said. + +I was far beyond any feeling of shame. ‘It’s for a bet,’ said I. ‘Come +and help.’ + +‘Laddie, who’s yon?’ said the voice beneath the hood. + +‘Good Lord!’ said the young man, leaping across the pavement. Perhaps +card-losses had told on his nerves. Mine were steel that night. + +‘The Lord, The Lord?’ the passionless, incurious voice went on. ‘Dinna +be profane, laddie. He’ll come in His ain good time.’ + +The young man looked at me with horror. + +‘It’s all part of the bet,’ I answered. ‘Do come and push!’ + +‘W--where are you going to?’ said he. + +‘Brugglesmith,’ said the voice within. ‘Laddie, d’ye ken my wife?’ + +‘No,’ said I. + +‘Well, she’s just a tremenjus wumman. Laddie, I want a drink. Knock at +one o’ those braw houses, laddie, an’--an’--ye may kiss the girrl for +your pains.’ + +‘Lie still, or I’ll gag you,’ I said, savagely. + +The young man with the carnation crossed to the other side of +Piccadilly, and hailed the only hansom visible for miles. What he +thought I cannot tell. + +I pressed on--wheeling, eternally wheeling--to Brook Green, +Hammersmith. There I would abandon Brugglesmith to the gods of that +desolate land. We had been through so much together that I could not +leave him bound in the street. Besides, he would call after me, and oh! +it is a shameful thing to hear one’s name ringing down the emptiness of +London in the dawn. + +So I went on, past Apsley House, even to the coffee-stall, but there +was no coffee for Brugglesmith. And into Knightsbridge--respectable +Knightsbridge--I wheeled my burden, the body of Brugglesmith. + +‘Laddie, what are ye going to do wi’ me?’ he said when opposite the +barracks. + +‘Kill you,’ I said briefly, ‘or hand you over to your wife. Be quiet.’ + +He would not obey. He talked incessantly--sliding in one sentence from +clear cut dialect to wild and drunken jumble. At the Albert Hall he +said that I was the ‘Hattle Gardle buggle,’ which I apprehend is the +Hatton Garden burglar. At Kensington High Street he loved me as a son, +but when my weary legs came to the Addison Road Bridge he implored +me with tears to unloose the straps and to fight against the sin +of vanity. No man molested us. It was as though a bar had been set +between myself and all humanity till I had cleared my account with +Brugglesmith. The glimmering of light grew in the sky; the cloudy brown +of the wood pavement turned to heather-purple; I made no doubt that I +should be allowed vengeance on Brugglesmith ere the evening. + +At Hammersmith the heavens were steel-gray, and the day came weeping. +All the tides of the sadness of an unprofitable dawning poured into the +soul of Brugglesmith. He wept bitterly, because the puddles looked +cold and houseless. I entered a half-waked public-house--in evening +dress and an ulster, I marched to the bar--and got him whisky on +condition that he should cease kicking at the canvas of the ambulance. +Then he wept more bitterly, for that he had ever been associated with +me, and so seduced into stealing the _Breslau’s_ dinghy. + +The day was white and wan when I reached my long journey’s end, and, +putting back the hood, bade Brugglesmith declare where he lived. +His eyes wandered disconsolately round the red and gray houses till +they fell on a villa in whose garden stood a staggering board with +the legend ‘To Let.’ It needed only this to break him down utterly, +and with the breakage fled his fine fluency in his guttural northern +tongue; for liquor levels all. + +‘Olely lil while,’ he sobbed. ‘Olely lil while. Home--falmy--besht +of falmies--wife too--_you_ dole know my wife! Left them all a lill +while ago. Now everything’s sold--all sold. Wife--falmy--all sold. +Lemmegellup!’ + +I unbuckled the straps cautiously. Brugglesmith rolled off his +resting-place and staggered to the house. + +‘Wattle I do?’ he said. + +Then I understood the baser depths in the mind of Mephistopheles. + +‘Ring,’ I said; ‘perhaps they are in the attic or the cellar.’ + +‘You do’ know my wife. She shleeps on soful in the dorlin’ room, +waiting meculhome. _You_ do’ know my wife.’ + +He took off his boots, covered them with his tall hat, and craftily +as a Red Indian picked his way up the garden path and smote the bell +marked ‘Visitors’ a severe blow with the clenched fist. + +‘Bell sole too. Sole electick bell! Wassor bell this? I can’t riggle +bell,’ he moaned despairingly. + +‘You pull it--pull it hard,’ I repeated, keeping a wary eye down the +road. Vengeance was coming and I desired no witnesses. + +‘Yes, I’ll pull it hard.’ He slapped his forehead with inspiration. +‘I’ll pull it out.’ + +Leaning back he grasped the knob with both hands and pulled. A wild +ringing in the kitchen was his answer. Spitting on his hands he pulled +with renewed strength, and shouted for his wife. Then he bent his +ear to the knob, shook his head, drew out an enormous yellow and red +handkerchief, tied it round the knob, turned his back to the door, and +pulled over his shoulder. + +Either the handkerchief or the wire, it seemed to me, was bound to give +way. But I had forgotten the bell. Something cracked in the kitchen, +and Brugglesmith moved slowly down the doorsteps, pulling valiantly. +Three feet of wire followed him. + +‘Pull, oh pull!’ I cried. ‘It’s coming now.’ + +‘Qui’ ri’,’ he said. ‘_I’ll_ riggle bell.’ + +He bowed forward, the wire creaking and straining behind him, the +bell-knob clasped to his bosom, and from the noises within I fancied +the bell was taking away with it half the wood-work of the kitchen and +all the basement banisters. + +‘Get a purchase on her,’ I shouted, and he spun round, lapping that +good copper wire about him. I opened the garden gate politely, and he +passed out, spinning his own cocoon. Still the bell came up, hand over +hand, and still the wire held fast. He was in the middle of the road +now, whirling like an impaled cockchafer, and shouting madly for his +wife and family. There he met with the ambulance, the bell within the +house gave one last peal, and bounded from the far end of the hall to +the inner side of the hall-door, where it stayed fast. So did not my +friend Brugglesmith. He fell upon his face, embracing the ambulance +as he did so, and the two turned over together in the toils of the +never-sufficiently-to-be-advertised copper wire. + +‘Laddie,’ he gasped, his speech returning, ‘have I a legal remedy?’ + +‘I will go and look for one,’ I said, and, departing, found two +policemen. These I told that daylight had surprised a burglar in Brook +Green while he was engaged in stealing lead from an empty house. +Perhaps they had better take care of that bootless thief. He seemed to +be in difficulties. + +I led the way to the spot, and behold! in the splendour of the dawning, +the ambulance, wheels uppermost, was walking down the muddy road on +two stockinged feet--was shuffling to and fro in a quarter of a circle +whose radius was copper wire, and whose centre was the bell-plate of +the empty house. + +Next to the amazing ingenuity with which Brugglesmith had contrived to +lash himself under the ambulance, the thing that appeared to impress +the constables most was the fact of the St. Clement Danes ambulance +being at Brook Green, Hammersmith. + +They even asked me, of all people in the world, whether I knew anything +about it! + +They extricated him; not without pain and dirt. He explained that he +was repelling boarding-attacks by a ‘Hattle Gardle buggle’ who had +sold his house, wife, and family. As to the bell-wire, he offered +no explanation, and was borne off shoulder-high between the two +policemen. Though his feet were not within six inches of the ground, +they paddled swiftly, and I saw that in his magnificent mind he was +running--furiously running. + +Sometimes I have wondered whether he wished to find me. + + + + + ‘LOVE-O’-WOMEN.’ + + + ‘A lamentable tale of things + Done long ago, and ill done.’ + + +The horror, the confusion, and the separation of the murderer from +his comrades were all over before I came. There remained only on the +barrack-square the blood of man calling from the ground. The hot sun +had dried it to a dusky goldbeater-skin film, cracked lozenge-wise by +the heat; and as the wind rose, each lozenge, rising a little, curled +up at the edges as if it were a dumb tongue. Then a heavier gust blew +all away down wind in grains of dark coloured dust. It was too hot +to stand in the sunshine before breakfast. The men were in barracks +talking the matter over. A knot of soldiers’ wives stood by one of the +entrances to the married quarters, while inside a woman shrieked and +raved with wicked filthy words. + +A quiet and well-conducted sergeant had shot down, in broad daylight +just after early parade, one of his own corporals, had then returned +to barracks and sat on a cot till the guard came for him. He would, +therefore, in due time be handed over to the High Court for trial. +Further, but this he could hardly have considered in his scheme of +revenge, he would horribly upset my work; for the reporting of that +trial would fall on me without a relief. What that trial would be like +I knew even to weariness. There would be the rifle carefully uncleaned, +with the fouling marks about breech and muzzle, to be sworn to by half +a dozen superfluous privates; there would be heat, reeking heat, till +the wet pencil slipped sideways between the fingers; and the punkah +would swish and the pleaders would jabber in the verandahs, and his +Commanding Officer would put in certificates to the prisoner’s moral +character, while the jury would pant and the summer uniforms of the +witnesses would smell of dye and soaps; and some abject barrack-sweeper +would lose his head in cross-examination, and the young barrister who +always defended soldiers’ cases for the credit that they never brought +him, would say and do wonderful things, and would then quarrel with me +because I had not reported him correctly. At the last, for he surely +would not be hanged, I might meet the prisoner again, ruling blank +account-forms in the Central Jail, and cheer him with the hope of his +being made a warder in the Andamans. + +The Indian Penal Code and its interpreters do not treat murder, under +any provocation whatever, in a spirit of jest. Sergeant Raines would +be very lucky indeed if he got off with seven years, I thought. He had +slept the night upon his wrongs, and killed his man at twenty yards +before any talk was possible. That much I knew. Unless, therefore, +the case was doctored a little, seven years would be his least; and I +fancied it was exceedingly well for Sergeant Raines that he had been +liked by his Company. + +That same evening--no day is so long as the day of a murder--I met +Ortheris with the dogs, and he plunged defiantly into the middle of the +matter. ‘I’ll be one o’ the witnesses,’ said he. ‘I was in the verandah +when Mackie come along. ’E come from Mrs. Raines’s quarters. Quigley, +Parsons, an’ Trot, they was in the inside verandah, so _they_ couldn’t +’ave ’eard nothing. Sergeant Raines was in the verandah talkin’ to me, +an’ Mackie ’e come along acrost the square an’ ’e sez, “Well,” sez ’e, +“’ave they pushed your ’elmet off yet, Sergeant?” ’e sez. An’ at that +Raines ’e catches ’is breath an’ ’e sez, “My Gawd, I can’t stand this!” +sez ’e, an’ ’e picks up my rifle an’ shoots Mackie. See?’ + +‘But what were you doing with your rifle in the outer verandah an hour +after parade?’ + +‘Cleanin’ ’er,’ said Ortheris, with the sullen brassy stare that always +went with his choicer lies. + +He might as well have said that he was dancing naked, for at no time +did his rifle need hand or rag on her twenty minutes after parade. +Still, the High Court would not know his routine. + +‘Are you going to stick to that--on the Book?’ I asked. + +‘Yes. Like a bloomin’ leech.’ + +‘All right, I don’t want to know any more. Only remember that Quigley, +Parsons, and Trot couldn’t have been where you say without hearing +something; and there’s nearly certain to be a barrack-sweeper who was +knocking about the square at the time. There always is.’ + +‘’Twasn’t the sweeper. It was the beastie. ’E’s all right.’ + +Then I knew that there was going to be some spirited doctoring, +and I felt sorry for the Government Advocate who would conduct the +prosecution. + +When the trial came on I pitied him more, for he was always quick to +lose his temper and made a personal matter of each lost cause. Raines’s +young barrister had for once put aside his unslaked and welling passion +for alibis and insanity, had forsworn gymnastics and fireworks, and +worked soberly for his client. Mercifully the hot weather was yet +young, and there had been no flagrant cases of barrack-shootings up to +the time; and the jury was a good one, even for an Indian jury, where +nine men out of every twelve are accustomed to weighing evidence. +Ortheris stood firm and was not shaken by any cross-examination. The +one weak point in his tale--the presence of his rifle in the outer +verandah--went unchallenged by civilian wisdom, though some of the +witnesses could not help smiling. The Government Advocate called for +the rope, contending throughout that the murder had been a deliberate +one. Time had passed, he argued, for that reflection which comes so +naturally to a man whose honour is lost. There was also the Law, +ever ready and anxious to right the wrongs of the common soldier if, +indeed, wrong had been done. But he doubted much whether there had been +any sufficient wrong. Causeless suspicion over-long brooded upon had +led, by his theory, to deliberate crime. But his attempts to minimise +the motive failed. The most disconnected witness knew--had known for +weeks--the causes of offence; and the prisoner, who naturally was the +last of all to know, groaned in the dock while he listened. The one +question that the trial circled round was whether Raines had fired +under sudden and blinding provocation given that very morning; and +in the summing-up it was clear that Ortheris’s evidence told. He had +contrived most artistically to suggest that he personally hated the +Sergeant, who had come into the verandah to give him a talking to for +insubordination. In a weak moment the Government Advocate asked one +question too many. ’Beggin’ _your_ pardon, sir,’ Ortheris replied, +‘’e was callin’ me a dam’ impudent little lawyer.’ The Court shook. +The jury brought it in a killing, but with every provocation and +extenuation known to God or man, and the Judge put his hand to his brow +before giving sentence, and the Adam’s apple in the prisoner’s throat +went up and down like mercury pumping before a cyclone. + +In consideration of all considerations, from his Commanding Officer’s +certificate of good conduct to the sure loss of pension, service, +and honour, the prisoner would get two years, to be served in India, +and--there need be no demonstration in Court. The Government Advocate +scowled and picked up his papers; the guard wheeled with a clash, and +the prisoner was relaxed to the Secular Arm, and driven to the jail in +a broken down _ticca-gharri_. + +His guard and some ten or twelve military witnesses, being less +important, were ordered to wait till what was officially called the +cool of the evening before marching back to cantonments. They gathered +together in one of the deep red brick verandahs of a disused lock-up +and congratulated Ortheris, who bore his honours modestly. I sent my +work into the office and joined them. Ortheris watched the Government +Advocate driving off to lunch. + +‘That’s a nasty little bald-’eaded little butcher, that is,’ he said. +‘’E don’t please me. ’E’s got a colley dog wot do, though. I’m goin’ up +to Murree in a week. That dawg’ll bring fifteen rupees anywheres.’ + +‘You had better spend ut in Masses,’ said Terence, unbuckling his belt; +for he had been on the prisoner’s guard, standing helmeted and bolt +upright for three long hours. + +‘Not me,’ said Ortheris cheerfully. ‘Gawd’ll put it down to B Comp’ny’s +barrick-damages one o’ these days. You look strapped, Terence.’ + +‘Faith, I’m not so young as I was. That guard-mountin’ wears on the +sole av the fut, and this’--he sniffed contemptuously at the brick +verandah--‘is as hard setting as standin’!’ + +‘Wait a minute. I’ll get the cushions out of my cart,’ I said. + +‘’Strewth--sofies. We’re going it gay,’ said Ortheris, as Terence +dropped himself section by section on the leather cushions, saying +prettily, ‘May ye niver want a soft place wheriver you go, an’ power +to share ut wid a frind. Another for yourself? That’s good. It lets me +sit longways. Stanley, pass me a pipe. Augrrh! An’ that’s another man +gone all to pieces bekaze av a woman. I must ha’ been on forty or fifty +prisoners’ gyards, first an’ last; an’ I hate ut new ivry time.’ + +‘Let’s see. You were on Losson’s, Lancey’s, Dugard’s, and Stebbins’s, +that I can remember,’ I said. + +‘Ay, an’ before that an’ before that--scores av thim,’ he answered with +a worn smile. ’Tis better to die than to live for them, though. Whin +Raines comes out--he’ll be changin’ his kit at the jail now--he’ll +think that too. He shud ha’ shot hemself an’ the woman by rights an’ +made a clean bill av all. Now he’s left the woman--she tuk tay wid +Dinah Sunday gone last--an’ he’s left himself. Mackie’s the lucky man.’ + +‘He’s probably getting it hot where he is,’ I ventured, for I knew +something of the dead Corporal’s record. + +‘Be sure av that,’ said Terence, spitting over the edge of the +verandah. ‘But fwhat he’ll get there is light marchin’-ordher to fwhat +he’d ha’ got here if he’d lived.’ + +‘Surely not. He’d have gone on and forgotten--like the others.’ + +‘Did ye know Mackie well, sorr?’ said Terence. + +‘He was on the Pattiala guard of honour last winter, and I went out +shooting with him in an _ekka_ for the day, and I found him rather an +amusing man.’ + +‘Well, he’ll ha’ got shut av amusemints, excipt turnin’ from wan side +to the other, these few years to come. I knew Mackie, an’ I’ve seen +too many to be mistuk in the muster av wan man. He might ha’ gone on +an’ forgot as you say, sorr, but he was a man wid an educashin, an’ +he used ut for his schames; an’ the same educashin, an’ talkin’, an’ +all that made him able to do fwhat he had a mind to wid a woman, that +same wud turn back again in the long-run an’ tear him alive. I can’t +say fwhat that I mane to say bekaze I don’t know how, but Mackie was +the spit an’ livin’ image av a man that I saw march the same march +_all but_; an’ ’twas worse for him that he did not come by Mackie’s +ind. Wait while I remember now. ’Twas whin I was in the Black Tyrone, +an’ he was drafted us from Portsmouth; an’ fwhat was his misbegotten +name? Larry--Larry Tighe ut was; an’ wan of the draft said he was a +gentleman-ranker, an’ Larry tuk an’ three-parts killed him for saying +so. An’ he was a big man, an’ a strong man, an’ a handsome man, an’ +that tells heavy in practice wid some women, but, takin’ them by an’ +large, not wid all. Yet ’twas wid all that Larry dealt--_all_--for he +cud put the comether on any woman that trod the green earth av God, +an’ he knew ut. Like Mackie that’s roastin’ now, he knew ut, an’ niver +did he put the comether on any woman save an’ excipt for the black +shame. ’Tis not me that shud be talkin’, dear knows, dear knows, but +the most av my mis--misallinces was for pure devilry, an’ mighty sorry +I have been whin harm came; an’ time an’ again wid a girl, ay, an’ a +woman too, for the matter av that, whin I have seen by the eyes av +her that I was makin’ more throuble than I talked, I have hild off +an’ let be for the sake av the mother that bore me. But Larry, I’m +thinkin’, he was suckled by a she-divil, for he never let wan go that +came nigh to listen to him. ’Twas his business, as if it might ha’ ben +sinthry-go. He was a good soldier too. Now there was the Colonel’s +governess--an’ he a privit too!--that was never known in barricks; an’ +wan av the Major’s maids, and she was promised to a man; an’ some more +outside; an’ fwhat ut was amongst _us_ we’ll never know till Judgment +Day. ’Twas the nature av the baste to put the comether on the best av +thim--not the prettiest by any manner av manes--but the like av such +women as you cud lay your hand on the Book an’ swear there was niver +thought av foolishness in. An’ for that very reason, mark you, he was +niver caught. He came close to ut wanst or twice, but caught he niver +was, an’ that cost him more at the ind than the beginnin’. He talked +to me more than most, bekaze he tould me, barrin’ the accident av +my educashin, I’d av been the same kind av divil he was. “An’ is ut +like,” he wud say, houldin’ his head high--“is ut like that I’d iver be +thrapped? For fwhat am I when all’s said an’ done?” he sez. “A damned +privit,” sez he. “An’ is ut like, think you, that thim I know wud be +connect wid a privit like me? Number tin thousand four hundred an’ +sivin,” he sez grinnin’. I knew by the turn av his spache when he was +not takin’ care to talk rough-shod that he was a gentleman-ranker. + +‘“I do not undherstan’ ut at all,” I sez; “but I know,” sez I, “that +the divil looks out av your eyes, an’ I’ll have no share wid you. A +little fun by way av amusemint where ’twill do no harm, Larry, is right +and fair, but I am mistook if ’tis any amusemint to you,” I sez. + +‘“You are much mistook,” he sez. “An’ I counsel you not to judge your +betters.” + +‘“My betthers!” I sez. “God help you, Larry. There’s no betther in +this; ’tis all bad, as ye will find for yoursilf.” + +‘“You’re not like me,” he says, tossin’ his head. + +‘“Praise the Saints, I am not,” I sez. “Fwhat I have done I have +done an’ been crool sorry for. Fwhin your time comes,” sez I, “ye’ll +remimber fwhat I say.” + +‘“An’ whin that time comes,” sez he, “I’ll come to you for ghostly +consolation, Father Terence,” an’ at that he wint off afther some +more divil’s business--for to get expayrience, he tould me. He was +wicked--rank wicked--wicked as all Hell! I’m not construct by nature to +go in fear av any man, but, begad, I was afraid av Larry. He’d come in +to barricks wid his cap on three hairs, an’ lie on his cot and stare at +the ceilin’, and now an’ again he’d fetch a little laugh, the like av a +splash in the bottom av a well, an’ by that I knew he was schamin’ new +wickedness, an’ I’d be afraid. All this was long an’ long ago, but ut +hild me straight--for a while. + +‘I tould you, did I not, sorr, that I was caressed an’ pershuaded to +lave the Tyrone on account av a throuble?’ + +‘Something to do with a belt and a man’s head wasn’t it?’ Terence had +never given the tale in full. + +‘It was. Faith, ivry time I go on prisoner’s gyard in coort I wondher +fwhy I was not where the pris’ner is. But the man I struk tuk it in +fair fight an’ he had the good sinse not to die. Considher now, fwhat +wud ha’ come to the Arrmy if he had! I was enthreated to exchange, an’ +my Commandin’ Orf’cer pled wid me. I wint, not to be disobligin’, an’ +Larry tould me he was powerful sorry to lose me, though fwhat I’d done +to make him sorry I do not know. So to the Ould Reg’mint I came, lavin’ +Larry to go to the divil his own way, an’ niver expectin’ to see him +again excipt as a shootin’-case in barracks.... Who’s that quittin’ +the compound?’ Terence’s quick eye had caught sight of a white uniform +skulking behind the hedge. + +‘The Sergeant’s gone visiting,’ said a voice. + +‘Thin I command here, an’ I will have no sneakin’ away to the bazar, +an’ huntin’ for you wid a pathrol at midnight. Nalson, for I know ut’s +you, come back to the verandah.’ + +Nalson, detected, slunk back to his fellows. There was a grumble that +died away in a minute or two, and Terence turning on the other side +went on:-- + +‘That was the last I saw av Larry for a while. Exchange is the same as +death for not thinkin’, an’ by token I married Dinah, an’ that kept me +from remimberin’ ould times. Thin we went up to the Front, an’ ut tore +my heart in tu to lave Dinah at the Depôt in Pindi. Consequint, whin I +was at the Front I fought circumspectuous till I warrmed up, an’ thin I +fought double tides. You remember fwhat I tould you in the gyard-gate +av the fight at Silver’s Theatre?’ + +‘Wot’s that about Silver’s Theayter?’ said Ortheris quickly, over his +shoulder. + +‘Nothin’, little man. A tale that ye know. As I was sayin’, afther that +fight, us av the Ould Rig’mint an’ the Tyrone was all mixed together +takin’ shtock av the dead, an’ av coorse I wint about to find if there +was any man that remembered me. The second man I came acrost--an’ how +I’d missed him in the fight I do not know--was Larry, an’ a fine man he +looked, but oulder, by reason that he had fair call to be. “Larry,” sez +I, “how is ut wid you?” + +‘“Ye’re callin’ the wrong man,” he sez, wid his gentleman’s smile, +“Larry has been dead these three years. They call him ‘Love-o’-Women’ +now,” he sez. By that I knew the ould divil was in him yet, but the ind +av a fight is no time for the beginnin’ av confession, so we sat down +an’ talked av times. + +‘“They tell me you’re a married man,” he sez, puffin’ slow at his +poipe. “Are ye happy?” + +‘“I will be whin I get back to Depôt,” I sez. “’Tis a +reconnaissance-honeymoon now.” + +‘“I’m married too,” he sez, puffin’ slow an’ more slow, an’ stopperin’ +wid his forefinger. + +‘“Send you happiness,” I sez. “That’s the best hearin’ for a long time.” + +‘“Are ye av that opinion?” he sez; an’ thin he began talkin’ av the +campaign. The sweat av Silver’s Theatre was not dhry upon him an’ he +was prayin’ for more work. I was well contint to lie and listen to the +cook-pot lids. + +‘Whin he got up off the ground he shtaggered a little, an’ laned over +all twisted. + +‘“Ye’ve got more than ye bargained for,” I sez. “Take an inventory, +Larry. ’Tis like you’re hurt.” + +‘He turned round stiff as a ramrod an’ damned the eyes av me up an’ +down for an impartinent Irish-faced ape. If that had been in barracks, +I’d ha’ stretched him an’ no more said; but ’twas at the Front, an’ +afther such a fight as Silver’s Theatre I knew there was no callin’ +a man to account for his tempers. He might as well ha’ kissed me. +Aftherwards I was well pleased I kept my fists home. Thin our Captain +Crook--Cruik-na-bulleen--came up. He’d been talkin’ to the little +orf’cer bhoy av the Tyrone. “We’re all cut to windystraws,” he sez, +“but the Tyrone are damned short for noncoms. Go you over there, +Mulvaney, an’ be Deputy-Sergeant, Corp’ral, Lance, an’ everything else +ye can lay hands on till I bid you stop.” + +‘I wint over an’ tuk hould. There was wan sergeant left standin’, an’ +they’d pay no heed to him. The remnint was me, an’ ’twas full time I +came. Some I talked to, an’ some I did not, but before night the bhoys +av the Tyrone stud to attention, by gad, if I sucked on my poipe above +a whishper. Betune you an’ me an’ Bobbs I was commandin’ the company, +an’ that was what Crook had thransferred me for; an’ the little orf’cer +bhoy knew ut, and I knew ut, but the comp’ny did not. And _there_, mark +you, is the vartue that no money an’ no dhrill can buy--the vartue av +the ould soldier that knows his orf’cer’s work an’ does ut for him at +the salute! + +‘Thin the Tyrone, wid the Ould Rig’mint in touch, was sint maraudin’ +an’ prowlin’ acrost the hills promishcuous an’ onsatisfactory. ’Tis my +privit opinion that a gin’ral does not know half his time fwhat to do +wid three-quarthers his command. So he shquats on his hunkers an’ bids +them run round an’ round forninst him while he considhers on it. Whin +by the process av nature they get sejuced into a big fight that was +none av their seekin’, he sez: “Obsarve my shuperior janius. I meant ut +to come so.” We ran round an’ about, an’ all we got was shootin’ into +the camp at night, an’ rushin’ empty _sungars_ wid the long bradawl, +an’ bein’ hit from behind rocks till we was wore out--all excipt +Love-o’-Women. That puppy-dog business was mate an’ dhrink to him. +Begad he cud niver get enough av ut. Me well knowin’ that it is just +this desultorial campaignin’ that kills the best men, an’ suspicionin’ +that if I was cut, the little orf’cer bhoy wud expind all his men in +thryin’ to get out, I wud lie most powerful doggo whin I heard a shot, +an’ curl my long legs behind a bowlder, an’ run like blazes whin the +ground was clear. Faith, if I led the Tyrone in rethreat wanst I led +thim forty times! Love-o’-Women wud stay pottin’ an’ pottin’ from +behind a rock, and wait till the fire was heaviest, an’ thin stand +up an’ fire man-height clear. He wud lie out in camp too at night, +snipin’ at the shadows, for he never tuk a mouthful av slape. My +commandin’ orf’cer--save his little soul!--cud not see the beauty av my +strategims, an’ whin the Ould Rig’mint crossed us, an’ that was wanst +a week, he’d throt off to Crook, wid his big blue eyes as round as +saucers, an’ lay an information against me. I heard thim wanst talkin’ +through the tent-wall, an’ I nearly laughed. + +‘“He runs--runs like a hare,” sez the little orf’cer bhoy. “’Tis +demoralisin’ my men.” + +‘“Ye damned little fool,” sez Crook laughin’. “He’s larnin’ you your +business. Have ye been rushed at night yet?” + +‘“No,” sez that child; wishful he had been. + +‘“Have you any wounded?” sez Crook. + +‘“No,” he sez. “There was no chanst for that. They follow Mulvaney too +quick,” he sez. + +‘“Fwhat more do you want, thin?” sez Crook. “Terence is bloodin’ you +neat an’ handy,” he sez. “He knows fwhat you do not, an’ that’s that +there’s a time for ivrything. He’ll not lead you wrong,” he sez, “but +I’d give a month’s pay to larn fwhat he thinks av you.” + +‘That kept the babe quiet, but Love-o’-Women was pokin’ at me for +ivrything I did, an’ specially my manœuvres. + +‘“Mr. Mulvaney,” he sez wan evenin’, very contempshus, “you’re growin’ +very _jeldy_ on your feet. Among gentlemen,” he sez, “among gentlemen +that’s called no pretty name.” + +‘“Among privits ’tis different,” I sez. “Get back to your tent. I’m +sergeant here,” I sez. + +‘There was just enough in the voice av me to tell him he was playin’ +wid his life betune his teeth. He wint off, an’ I noticed that this man +that was contempshus set off from the halt wid a shunt as tho’ he was +bein’ kicked behind. That same night there was a Paythan picnic in tha +hills about, an’ firin’ into our tents fit to wake the livin’ dead. +“Lie down all,” I sez. “Lie down an’ kape still. They’ll no more than +waste ammunition.” + +‘I heard a man’s feet on the ground, an’ thin a ’Tini joinin’ in the +chorus. I’d been lyin’ warm, thinkin’ av Dinah an’ all, but I crup +out wid the bugle for to look round in case there was a rush; an’ the +’Tini was flashin’ at the fore-ind av the camp, an’ the hill near by +was fair flickerin’ wid long-range fire. Undher the starlight I behild +Love-o’-Women settin’ on a rock wid his belt and helmet off. He shouted +wanst or twice, an’ thin I heard him say: “They shud ha’ got the range +long ago. Maybe they’ll fire at the flash.” Thin he fired again, an’ +that dhrew a fresh volley, and the long slugs that they chew in their +teeth came floppin’ among the rocks like tree-toads av a hot night. +“That’s better,” sez Love-o’-Women. “Oh Lord, how long, how long!” he +sez, an’ at that he lit a match an’ held ut above his head. + +‘“Mad,” thinks I, “mad as a coot,” an’ I tuk wan stip forward, an’ +the nixt I knew was the sole av my boot flappin’ like a cavalry gydon +an’ the funny-bone av my toes tinglin’. ’Twas a clane-cut shot--a +slug--that niver touched sock or hide, but set me bare-fut on the +rocks. At that I tuk Love-o’-Women by the scruff an’ threw him under a +bowlder, an’ whin I sat down I heard the bullets patterin’ on that same +good stone. + +‘“Ye may dhraw your own wicked fire,” I sez, shakin’ him, “but I’m not +goin’ to be kilt too.” + +‘“Ye’ve come too soon,” he sez. “Ye’ve come too soon. In another minute +they cudn’t ha’ missed me. Mother av’ God,” he sez, “fwhy did ye not +lave me be? Now ’tis all to do again,” an’ he hides his face in his +hands. + +‘“So that’s it,” I sez, shakin’ him again. “That’s the manin’ av your +disobeyin’ ordhers.” + +‘“I dare not kill meself,” he sez, rockin’ to and fro. “My own hand wud +not let me die, and there’s not a bullet this month past wud touch me. +I’m to die slow,” he sez. “I’m to die slow. But I’m in hell now,” he +sez, shriekin’ like a woman. “I’m in hell now!” + +‘“God be good to us all,” I sez, for I saw his face. “Will ye tell a +man the throuble? If ’tis not murder, maybe we’ll mend it yet.” + +‘At that he laughed. “D’you remember fwhat I said in the Tyrone +barricks about comin’ to you for ghostly consolation. I have not +forgot,” he sez. “That came back, and the rest av my time is on me now, +Terence. I’ve fought ut off for months an’ months, but the liquor will +not bite any more. Terence,” he sez, “I can’t get dhrunk!” + +‘Thin I knew he spoke the truth about bein’ in hell, for whin liquor +does not take hould the sowl av a man is rotten in him. But me bein’ +such as I was, fwhat could I say to him? + +‘“Di’monds an’ pearls,” he begins again. “Di’monds an’ pearls I have +thrown away wid both hands--an’ fwhat have I left? Oh, fwhat have I +left?” + +‘He was shakin’ an’ thremblin’ up against my shouldher, an’ the slugs +were singin’ overhead, an’ I was wonderin’ whether my little bhoy wud +have sinse enough to kape his men quiet through all this firin’. + +‘“So long as I did not think,” sez Love-o’-Women, “so long I did not +see--I wud not see, but I can now, what I’ve lost. The time an’ the +place,” he sez, “an’ the very words I said whin ut pleased me to go off +alone to hell. But thin, even thin,” he sez, wrigglin’ tremenjous, “I +wud not ha’ been happy. There was too much behind av me. How cud I ha’ +believed her sworn oath--me that have bruk mine again an’ again for the +sport av seein’ thim cry? An’ there are the others,” he sez. “Oh, what +will I do--what will I do?” He rocked back an’ forward again, an’ I +think he was cryin’ like wan av the women he talked av. + +‘The full half of fwhat he said was Brigade Ordhers to me, but from the +rest an’ the remnint I suspicioned somethin’ av his throuble. ’Twas the +judgmint av God had grup the heel av him, as I tould him ’twould in the +Tyrone barricks. The slugs was singin’ over our rock more an’ more, an’ +I sez for to divart him: “Let bad alone,” I sez. “They’ll be tryin’ to +rush the camp in a minut’.” + +‘I had no more than said that whin a Paythan man crep’ up on his belly +wid his knife betune his teeth, not twinty yards from us. Love-o’-Women +jumped up an’ fetched a yell, an’ the man saw him an’ ran at him (he’d +left his rifle under the rock) wid the knife. Love-o’-Women niver +turned a hair, but by the Living Power, for I saw ut, a stone twisted +under the Paythan man’s feet an’ he came down full sprawl, an’ his +knife wint tinkling acrost the rocks! “I tould you I was Cain,” sez +Love-o’-Women. “Fwhat’s the use av killin’ him? He’s an honust man--by +compare.” + +‘I was not dishputin’ about the morils av Paythans that tide, so I +dhropped Love-o’-Women’s butt acrost the man’s face, an’ “Hurry into +camp,” I sez, “for this may be the first av a rush.” + +‘There was no rush after all, though we waited undher arms to give +them a chanst. The Paythan man must ha’ come alone for the mischief, +an’ afther a while Love-o’-Women wint back to his tint wid that quare +lurchin’ sind-off in his walk that I cud niver understand. Begad, I +pitied him, an’ the more bekase he made me think for the rest av the +night av the day whin I was confirmed Corp’ril, not actin’ Lef’tinant, +an’ my thoughts was not good to me.’ + +‘Ye can ondersthand that afther that night we came to talkin’ a dale +together, an’ bit by bit ut came out fwhat I’d suspicioned. The whole +av his carr’in’s on an’ divilments had come back on him hard, as liquor +comes back whin you’ve been on the dhrink for a wake. All he’d said an’ +all he’d done, an’ only he cud tell how much that was, come back, and +there was niver a minut’s peace in his sowl. ’Twas the Horrors widout +any cause to see, an’ yet, an’ yet--fwhat am I talkin’ av? He’d ha’ +taken the Horrors wid thankfulness. Beyon’ the repentince av the man, +an’ that was beyon’ the nature av man--awful, awful, to behould!--there +was more that was worst than any repentince. Av the scores an’ scores +that he called over in his mind (an’ they were drivin’ him mad), there +was, mark you, wan woman av all an’ she was not his wife, that cut him +to the quick av his marrow. ’Twas there he said that he’d thrown away +di’monds an’ pearls past count, an’ thin he’d begin again like a blind +_byle_ in an oil-mill, walkin’ round and round, to considher (him that +was beyond all touch av bein’ happy this side hell!) how happy he wud +ha’ been wid _her_. The more he considhered, the more he’d consate +himself that he’d lost mighty happiness, an’ thin he wud work ut all +backwards, an’ cry that he niver cud ha’ been happy anyway. + +‘Time an’ time an’ again in camp, on p’rade, ay, an’ in action, I’ve +seen that man shut his eyes an’ duck his head as ye wud duck to the +flicker av a bay’nit. For ’twas thin, he tould me, that the thought +av all he’d missed came an’ stud forninst him like red-hot irons. For +what he’d done wid the others he was sorry, but he did not care; but +this wan woman that I’ve tould of, by the Hilts av God, she made him +pay for all the others twice over! Niver did I know that a man cud +enjure such tormint widout his heart crackin’ in his ribs, an’ I have +been’--Terence turned the pipe-stem slowly between his teeth--‘I have +been in some black cells. All I iver suffered tho’ was not to be talked +of alongside av _him_ ... an’ what could I do? Paternosters was no more +than peas on plates for his sorrows. + +‘Evenshually we finished our prom’nade acrost the hills, and, thanks to +me for the same, there was no casualties an’ no glory. The campaign was +comin’ to an ind, an’ all the rig’mints was being drawn together for +to be sint back home. Love-o’-Women was mighty sorry bekaze he had no +work to do, an’ all his time to think in. I’ve heard that man talkin’ +to his belt-plate an’ his side-arms while he was soldierin’ thim, all +to prevent himself from thinkin’, an’ ivry time he got up afther he had +been settin’ down or wint on from the halt, he’d start wid that kick +an’ traverse that I tould you of--his legs sprawlin’ all ways to wanst. +He wud niver go see the docthor, tho’ I tould him to be wise. He’d +curse me up an’ down for my advice; but I knew he was no more a man to +be reckoned wid than the little bhoy was a commandin’ orf’cer, so I let +his tongue run if it aised him. + +‘Wan day--’twas on the way back--I was walkin’ round camp wid him, an’ +he stopped an’ struck ground wid his right fut three or four times +doubtful. “Fwhat is ut?” I sez. “Is that ground?” sez he; an’ while +I was thinkin’ his mind was goin’, up comes the docthor, who’d been +anatomisin’ a dead bullock. Love-o’-Women starts to go on quick, an’ +lands me a kick on the knee while his legs was gettin’ into marchin’ +ordher. + +‘“Hould on there,” sez the docthor; an’ Love-o’-Women’s face, that was +lined like a gridiron, turns red as brick. + +‘“’Tention,” says the docthor; an’ Love-o’-Women stud so. “Now shut +your eyes,” sez the docthor. “No, ye must not hould by your comrade.” + +‘“Tis all up,” sez Love-o’-Women, thrying to smile. “I’d fall, docthor, +an’ you know ut.” + +“Fall?” I sez. “Fall at attention wid your eyes shut! Fwhat do you +mane?” + +‘“The docthor knows,” he sez. “I’ve hild up as long as I can, but +begad I’m glad ’tis all done. But I will die slow,” he sez, “I will die +very slow.” + +‘I cud see by the docthor’s face that he was mortial sorry for the +man, an’ he ordered him to hospital. We wint back together, an’ I was +dumb-struck. Love-o’-Women was cripplin’ and crumblin’ at ivry step. +He walked wid a hand on my shoulder all slued sideways, an’ his right +leg swingin’ like a lame camel. Me not knowin’ more than the dead fwhat +ailed him, ’twas just as though the docthor’s word had done ut all--as +if Love-o’-Women had but been waitin’ for the word to let go. + +‘In hospital he sez somethin’ to the docthor that I could not catch. + +‘“Holy Shmoke!” sez the docthor, “an’ who are you, to be givin’ names +to your diseases? ’Tis agin all the reg’lations.” + +‘“I’ll not be a privit much longer,” sez Love-o’-Women in his +gentleman’s voice, an’ the docthor jumped. + +“Thrate me as a study, Doctor Lowndes,” he sez; an’ that was the first +time I’d iver heard a docthor called his name. + +‘“Good-bye, Terence,” sez Love-o’-Women. “’Tis a dead man I am widout +the pleasure av dyin’. You’ll come an’ set wid me sometimes for the +peace av my sowl.” + +‘Now I had been minded for to ask Crook to take me back to the Ould +Rig’mint; the fightin’ was over, an’ I was wore out wid the ways av the +bhoys in the Tyrone; but I shifted my will, an’ hild on, and wint to +set wid Love-o’-Women in the hospital. As I have said, sorr, the man +bruk all to little pieces under my hand. How long he had hild up an’ +forced himself fit to march I cannot tell, but in hospital but two days +later he was such as I hardly knew. I shuk hands wid him, an’ his grip +was fair strong, but his hands wint all ways to wanst, an’ he cud not +button his tunic. + +‘“I’ll take long an’ long to die yet,” he sez, “for the wages av sin +they’re like interest in the rig’mintal savin’s-bank--sure, but a +damned long time bein’ paid.” + +‘The docthor sez to me, quiet one day, “Has Tighe there anythin’ on his +mind?” he sez. “He’s burnin’ himself out.” + +‘“How shud I know, sorr?” I sez, as innocint as putty. + +‘“They call him Love-o’-Women in the Tyrone, do they not?” he sez. “I +was a fool to ask. Be wid him all you can. He’s houldin’ on to your +strength.” + +‘“But fwhat ails him, docthor?” I sez. + +‘“They call ut Locomotus attacks us,” he sez, “bekaze,” sez he, +“ut attacks us like a locomotive, if ye know fwhat that manes. +An’ ut comes,” sez he, lookin’ at me, “ut comes from bein’ called +Love-o’-Women.” + +‘“You’re jokin’, docthor,” I sez. + +‘“Jokin’!” sez he. “If iver you feel that you’ve got a felt sole in +your boot instid av a Government bull’s-wool, come to me,” he sez, “an’ +I’ll show you whether ’tis a joke.” + +‘You would not belave ut, sorr, but that, an’ seein’ Love-o’-Women +overtuk widout warnin’, put the cowld fear av Attacks us on me so +strong that for a week an’ more I was kickin’ my toes against stones +an’ stumps for the pleasure av feelin’ thim hurt. + +‘An’ Love-o’-Women lay in the cot (he might have gone down wid the +wounded before an’ before, but he asked to stay wid me), and fwhat +there was in his mind had full swing at him night an’ day an’ ivry hour +av the day an’ the night, and he shrivelled like beef-rations in a hot +sun, an’ his eyes was like owls’ eyes, an’ his hands was mut’nous. + +‘They was gettin’ the rig’mints away wan by wan, the campaign bein’ +inded, but as ushuil they was behavin’ as if niver a rig’mint had been +moved before in the mem’ry av man. Now, fwhy is that, sorr? There’s +fightin’, in an’ out, nine months av the twelve somewhere in the army. +There has been--for years an’ years an’ years; an’ I wud ha’ thought +they’d begin to get the hang av providin’ for throops. But no! Ivry +time ’tis like a girls’ school meetin’ a big red bull whin they’re +goin’ to church; an’ “Mother av God,” sez the Commissariat an’ the +Railways an’ the Barrick-masters, “fwhat will we do now?” The ordhers +came to us av the Tyrone an’ the Ould Rig’mint an’ half a dozen more +to go down, an’ there the ordhers stopped dumb. We wint down, by the +special grace av God--down the Khaiber anyways. There was sick wid us, +an’ I’m thinkin’ that some av thim was jolted to death in the doolies, +but they was anxious to be kilt so if they cud get to Peshawur alive +the sooner. I walked by Love-o’-Women--there was no marchin’, an’ +Love-o’-Women was not in a stew to get on. “If I’d only ha’ died up +there,” sez he through the dooli-curtains, an’ thin he’d twist up his +eyes an’ duck his head for the thoughts that come an’ raked him. + +‘Dinah was in Depôt at Pindi, but I wint circumspectuous, for well I +knew ’tis just at the rump-ind av all things that his luck turns on a +man. By token I had seen a dhriver of a batthery goin’ by at a trot +singin’ “Home, swate home” at the top av his shout, and takin’ no heed +to his bridle-hand--I had seen that man dhrop under the gun in the +middle of a word, and come out by the limber like--like a frog on a +pavestone. No. I wud _not_ hurry, though, God knows, my heart was all +in Pindi. Love-o’-Women saw fwhat was in my mind, an’ “Go on, Terence,” +he sez, “I know fwhat’s waitin’ for you.” “I will not,” I sez. “’Twill +kape a little yet.” + +‘Ye know the turn of the pass forninst Jumrood and the nine-mile road +on the flat to Peshawur? All Peshawur was along that road day and +night waitin’ for frinds--men, women, childer, and bands. Some av the +throops was camped round Jumrood, an’ some wint on to Peshawur to get +away down to their cantonmints. We came through in the early mornin’, +havin’ been awake the night through, and we dhruv sheer into the middle +av the mess. Mother av Glory, will I iver forget that comin’ back? The +light was not fair lifted, and the first we heard was “For ’tis my +delight av a shiny night,” frum a band that thought we was the second +four comp’nies av the Lincolnshire. At that we was forced to sind them +a yell to say who we was, an’ thin up wint “The wearin’ av the Green.” +It made me crawl all up my backbone, not havin’ taken my brequist. +Then right smash into our rear came fwhat was left av the Jock +Elliott’s--wid four pipers an’ not half a kilt among thim, playing’ for +the dear life, an’ swingin’ their rumps like buck-rabbits, an’ a native +rig’mint shriekin’ blue murther. Ye niver heard the like! There was +men cryin’ like women that did--an’ faith I do not blame them! Fwhat +bruk me down was the Lancers’ Band--shinin’ an’ spick like angils, wid +the ould dhrum-horse at the head an’ the silver kettle-dhrums an’ all +an’ all, waitin’ for their men that was behind us. They shtruck up the +Cavalry Canter; an’ begad those poor ghosts that had not a sound fut +in a throop they answered to ut; the men rockin’ in their saddles. +We thried to cheer them as they wint by, but ut came out like a big +gruntin’ cough, so there must have been many that was feelin’ like +me. Oh, but I’m forgettin’! The Fly-by-Nights was waitin’ for their +second battalion, an’ whin ut came out, there was the Colonel’s horse +led at the head--saddle-empty. The men fair worshipped him, an’ he’d +died at Ali Musjid on the road down. They waited till the remnint av +the battalion was up, and thin--clane against ordhers, for who wanted +_that_ chune that day?--they wint back to Peshawur slow-time an’ +tearin’ the bowils out av ivry man that heard, wid “The Dead March.” +Right acrost our line they wint, an’ ye know their uniforms are as +black as the Sweeps, crawlin’ past like the dead, an’ the other bands +damnin’ them to let be. + +‘Little they cared. The carpse was wid them, an’ they’d ha taken ut so +through a Coronation. Our ordhers was to go into Peshawur, an’ we wint +hot-fut past The Fly-by-Nights, not singin’, to lave that chune behind +us. That was how we tuk the road of the other corps. + +‘’Twas ringin’ in my ears still whin I felt in the bones of me that +Dinah was comin’, an’ I heard a shout, an’ thin I saw a horse an’ a +tattoo latherin’ down the road, hell-to-shplit, under women. I knew--I +knew! Wan was the Tyrone Colonel’s wife--ould Beeker’s lady--her gray +hair flyin’ an’ her fat round carkiss rowlin’ in the saddle, an’ the +other was Dinah, that shud ha’ been at Pindi. The Colonel’s lady she +charged the head av our column like a stone wall, an’ she all but +knocked Beeker off his horse, throwin’ her arms round his neck an’ +blubberin’, “Me bhoy! me bhoy!” an’ Dinah wheeled left an’ came down +our flank, an’ I let a yell that had suffered inside av me for months +and--Dinah came! Will I iver forget that while I live! She’d come on +pass from Pindi, an’ the Colonel’s lady had lint her the tattoo. They’d +been huggin’ an’ cryin’ in each other’s arms all the long night. + +‘So she walked along wid her hand in mine, asking forty questions to +wanst, an’ beggin’ me on the Virgin to make oath that there was not a +bullet consaled in me, unbeknownst somewhere, an’ thin I remembered +Love-o’-Women. He was watchin’ us, an’ his face was like the face av +a divil that has been cooked too long. I did not wish Dinah to see +ut, for whin a woman’s runnin’ over with happiness she’s like to be +touched, for harm afterwards, by the laste little thing in life. So I +dhrew the curtain, an’ Love-o’-Women lay back and groaned. + +‘Whin we marched into Peshawur Dinah wint to barracks to wait for me, +an’, me feelin’ so rich that tide, I wint on to take Love-o’-Women to +hospital. It was the last I cud do, an’ to save him the dust an’ the +smother I turned the dooli-men down a road well clear av the rest av +the throops, an’ we wint along, me talkin’ through the curtains. Av a +sudden I heard him say: + +‘“Let me look. For the mercy av Hiven, let me look.” I had been so tuk +up wid gettin’ him out av the dust an’ thinkin’ av Dinah that I had not +kept my eyes about me. There was a woman ridin’ a little behind av us; +an’, talkin’ ut over wid Dinah afterwards, that same woman must ha’ rid +out far on the Jumrood road. Dinah said that she had been hoverin’ like +a kite on the left flank av the columns. + +‘I halted the dooli to set the curtains, an’ she rode by, walkin’ pace, +an’ Love-o’-Women’s eyes wint afther her as if he wud fair haul her +down from the saddle. + +‘“Follow there,” was all he sez, but I niver heard a man speak in that +voice before or since; an’ I knew by those two wan words an’ the look +in his face that she was Di’monds-an’-Pearls that he’d talked av in his +disthresses. + +‘We followed till she turned into the gate av a little house that stud +near the Edwardes’ Gate. There was two girls in the verandah, an’ they +ran in whin they saw us. Faith, at long eye-range it did not take me +a wink to see fwhat kind av house ut was. The throops bein’ there an’ +all, there was three or four such; but aftherwards the polis bade thim +go. At the verandah Love-o’-Women sez, catchin’ his breath, “Stop +here,” an’ thin, an’ thin, wid a grunt that must ha’ tore the heart up +from his stomick, he swung himself out av the dooli, an’ my troth he +stud up on his feet wid the sweat pourin’ down his face! If Mackie was +to walk in here now I’d be less tuk back than I was thin. Where he’d +dhrawn his power from, God knows--or the Divil--but ’twas a dead man +walkin’ in the sun, wid the face av a dead man and the breath av a dead +man, hild up by the Power, an’ the legs an’ the arms av the carpse +obeyin’ ordhers. + +‘The woman stud in the verandah. She’d been a beauty too, though her +eyes was sunk in her head, an’ she looked Love-o’-Women up an’ down +terrible. “An’,” she sez, kicking back the tail av her habit,--“An’,” +she sez, “fwhat are you doin’ _here_, married man?” + +‘Love-o’-Women said nothin’, but a little froth came to his lips, an’ +he wiped ut off wid his hand an’ looked at her an’ the paint on her, +an’ looked, an’ looked, an’ looked. + +‘“An’ yet,” she sez, wid a laugh. (Did you hear Raines’ wife laugh whin +Mackie died? Ye did not? Well for you.) “An’ yet,” she sez, “who but +you have betther right,” sez she. “You taught me the road. You showed +me the way,” she sez. “Ay, look,” she sez, “for ’tis your work; you +that tould me--d’you remimber it?--that a woman who was false to wan +man cud be false to two. I have been that,” she sez, “that an’ more, +for you always said I was a quick learner, Ellis. Look well,” she +sez, “for it is me that you called your wife in the sight av God long +since.” An’ she laughed. + +‘Love-o’-Women stud still in the sun widout answerin’. Thin he groaned +an coughed to wanst, an’ I thought ’twas the death-rattle, but he +niver tuk his eyes off her face, not for a blink. Ye cud ha’ put her +eyelashes through the flies av an E.P. tent, they were so long. + +‘“Fwhat do you do here?” she sez, word by word, “that have taken away +my joy in my man this five years gone--that have broken my rest an’ +killed my body an’ damned my soul for the sake av seein’ how ’twas +done. Did your expayrience aftherwards bring you acrost any woman that +give you more than I did? Wud I not ha’ died for you, an’ wid you, +Ellis? Ye know that, man! If iver your lyin’ sowl saw truth in uts life +ye know that.” + +‘An’ Love-o’-Women lifted up his head and said, “I knew,” an’ that was +all. While she was spakin’ the Power hild him up parade-set in the sun, +an’ the sweat dhripped undher his helmet. ’Twas more an’ more throuble +for him to talk, an’ his mouth was running twistways. + +‘“Fwhat do you do _here_?” she sez, an’ her voice wint up. ’Twas +like bells tollin’ before. “Time was whin you were quick enough wid +your words,--you that talked me down to hell. Are ye dumb now?” An’ +Love-o’-Women got his tongue, an’ sez simple, like a little child, “May +I come in?” he sez. + +‘“The house is open day an’ night,” she sez, wid a laugh; an’ +Love-o’-Women ducked his head an’ hild up his hand as tho’ he was +gyardin’. The Power was on him still--it hild him up still, for, by my +sowl, as I’ll never save ut, he walked up the verandah steps that had +been a livin’ carpse in hospital for a month! + +‘“An’ now?” she sez, lookin’ at him; an’ the red paint stud lone on the +white av her face like a bull’s-eye on a target. + +‘He lifted up his eyes, slow an’ very slow, an’ he looked at her long +an’ very long, an’ he tuk his spache betune his teeth wid a wrench that +shuk him. + +‘“I’m dyin’, Aigypt--dyin’,” he sez. Ay, those were his words, for +I remimber the name he called her. He was turnin’ the death-colour, +but his eyes niver rowled. They were set--set on her. Widout word or +warnin’ she opened her arms full stretch, an’ “Here!” she sez. (Oh, +fwhat a golden mericle av a voice ut was!) “Die here!” she sez; an’ +Love-o’-Women dhropped forward, an’ she hild him up, for she was a fine +big woman. + +‘I had no time to turn, bekaze that minut I heard the sowl quit +him--tore out in the death-rattle--an’ she laid him back in a long +chair, an’ she sez to me, “Misther soldier,” she sez, “will ye not wait +an’ talk to wan av the girls? This sun’s too much for him.” + +‘Well I knew there was no sun he’d iver see, but I cud not spake, +so I wint away wid the empty dooli to find the docthor. He’d been +breakfastin’ an’ lunchin’ iver since we’d come in, an’ he was full as a +tick. + +‘“Faith, ye’ve got dhrunk mighty soon,” he sez, whin I’d tould him, +“to see that man walk. Barrin’ a puff or two av life, he was a carpse +before we left Jumrood. I’ve a great mind,” he sez, “to confine you.” + +‘“There’s a dale av liquor runnin’ about, docthor,” I sez, solemn as +a hard-boiled egg. “Maybe ’tis so; but will ye not come an’ see the +carpse at the house?” + +‘“’Tis dishgraceful,” he sez, “that I would be expected to go to a +place like that. Was she a pretty woman?” he sez, an’ at that he set +off double-quick. + +‘I cud see that the two was in the verandah where I’d left them, +an’ I knew by the hang av her head an’ the noise av the crows fwhat +had happened. ’Twas the first and the last time that I’d iver +known woman to use the pistol. They fear the shot as a rule, but +Di’monds-an’-Pearls she did not--she did not. + +‘The docthor touched the long black hair av her head (’twas all +loose upon Love-o’-Women’s tunic), an’ that cleared the liquor out +av him. He stud considherin’ a long time, his hands in his pockets, +an’ at last he sez to me, “Here’s a double death from naturil causes, +most naturil causes; an’ in the present state av affairs the rig’mint +will be thankful for wan grave the less to dig. _Issiwasti_,” he sez. +“_Issiwasti_, Privit Mulvaney, these two will be buried together in the +Civil Cemet’ry at my expinse; an’ may the good God,” he sez, “make it +so much for me whin my time comes. Go you to your wife,” he sez. “Go +an’ be happy. I’ll see to this all.” + +‘I left him still considherin’. They was buried in the Civil Cemet’ry +together, wid a Church av England service. There was too many buryin’s +thin to ask questions, an’ the docthor--he ran away wid Major--Major +Van Dyce’s lady that year--he saw to ut all. Fwhat the right an’ the +wrong av Love-o’-Women an’ Di’monds-an’-Pearls was I niver knew, an’ I +will niver know; but I’ve tould ut as I came acrost ut--here an’ there +in little pieces. _So_, being fwhat I am, an’ knowin’ fwhat I knew, +that’s fwhy I say in this shootin’-case here, Mackie’s that dead an’ in +hell is the lucky man. There are times, sorr, whin ’tis better for the +man to die than to live, an’ by consequince forty million times betther +for the woman.’ + + * * * * * + +‘H’up there!’ said Ortheris. ‘It’s time to go.’ + +The witnesses and guard formed up in the thick white dust of the +parched twilight and swung off, marching easy and whistling. Down +the road to the green by the church I could hear Ortheris, the black +Book-lie still uncleansed on his lips, setting, with a fine sense of +the fitness of things, the shrill quickstep that runs-- + + ‘Oh, do not despise the advice of the wise, + Learn wisdom from those that are older, + And don’t try for things that are out of your reach-- + An’ that’s what the Girl told the Soldier! + Soldier! soldier! + Oh, that’s what the Girl told the Soldier!’ + + + + + THE RECORD OF BADALIA HERODSFOOT. + + + The year’s at the spring + And day’s at the dawn; + Morning’s at seven; + The hill-side’s dew-pearled; + The lark’s on the wing; + The snail’s on the thorn: + God’s in his heaven-- + All’s right with the world!--_Pippa Passes._ + + +This is not that Badalia whose spare names were Joanna, Pugnacious, and +M‘Canna, as the song says, but another and a much nicer lady. + +In the beginning of things she had been unregenerate; had worn the +heavy fluffy fringe which is the ornament of the costermonger’s girl, +and there is a legend in Gunnison Street that on her wedding-day she, +a flare-lamp in either hand, danced dances on a discarded lover’s +winkle-barrow, till a policeman interfered, and then Badalia danced +with the Law amid shoutings. Those were her days of fatness, and they +did not last long, for her husband after two years took to himself +another woman, and passed out of Badalia’s life, over Badalia’s +senseless body; for he stifled protest with blows. While she was +enjoying her widowhood the baby that the husband had not taken away +died of croup, and Badalia was altogether alone. With rare fidelity +she listened to no proposals for a second marriage according to the +customs of Gunnison Street, which do not differ from those of the +Barralong. ‘My man,’ she explained to her suitors, ‘’e’ll come back +one o’ these days, an’ then, like as not, ’e’ll take an’ kill me if I +was livin’ ’long o’ you. You don’t know Tom; I do. Now you go. I can do +for myself--not ’avin’ a kid.’ She did for herself with a mangle, some +tending of babies, and an occasional sale of flowers. This latter trade +is one that needs capital, and takes the vendor very far westward, +insomuch that the return journey from, let us say, the Burlington +Arcade to Gunnison Street, E., is an excuse for drink, and then, as +Badalia pointed out, ‘You come ’ome with your shawl arf off of your +back, ’an your bonnick under your arm, and the price of nothing-at-all +in your pocket, let alone a slop takin’ care o’ you.’ Badalia did +not drink, but she knew her sisterhood, and gave them rude counsel. +Otherwise she kept herself to herself, and meditated a great deal upon +Tom Herodsfoot, her husband, who would come back some day, and the baby +who would never return. In what manner these thoughts wrought upon her +mind will not be known. + +Her entry into society dates from the night when she rose literally +under the feet of the Reverend Eustace Hanna, on the landing of No. 17 +Gunnison Street, and told him that he was a fool without discernment in +the dispensation of his district charities. + +‘You give Lascar Loo custids,’ said she, without the formality of +introduction; ‘give her pork-wine. Garn! Give ’er blankits. Garn ’ome! +’Er mother, she eats ’em all, and drinks the blankits. Gits ’em back +from the shop, she does, before you come visiting again, so as to +’ave ’em all handy an’ proper; an’ Lascar Loo she sez to you, “Oh, my +mother’s that good to me!” she do. Lascar Loo ’ad better talk so, bein’ +sick abed, ’r else ’er mother would kill ’er. Garn! you’re a bloomin’ +gardener--you an’ yer custids! Lascar Loo don’t never smell of ’em +even.’ + +Thereon the curate, instead of being offended, recognised in the +heavy eyes under the fringe the soul of a fellow-worker, and so bade +Badalia mount guard over Lascar Loo, when the next jelly or custard +should arrive, to see that the invalid actually ate it. This Badalia +did, to the disgust of Lascar Loo’s mother, and the sharing of a black +eye between the three; but Lascar Loo got her custard, and coughing +heartily, rather enjoyed the fray. + +Later on, partly through the Reverend Eustace Hanna’s swift recognition +of her uses, and partly through certain tales poured out with moist +eyes and flushed cheeks by Sister Eva, youngest and most impressionable +of the Little Sisters of the Red Diamond, it came to pass that Badalia, +arrogant, fluffy-fringed, and perfectly unlicensed in speech, won a +recognised place among such as labour in Gunnison Street. + +These were a mixed corps, zealous or hysterical, faint-hearted or only +very wearied of battle against misery, according to their lights. The +most part were consumed with small rivalries and personal jealousies, +to be retailed confidentially to their own tiny cliques in the pauses +between wrestling with death for the body of a moribund laundress, +or scheming for further mission-grants to resole a consumptive +compositor’s very consumptive boots. There was a rector that lived +in dread of pauperising the poor, would fain have held bazaars for +fresh altar-cloths, and prayed in secret for a large new brass bird, +with eyes of red glass, fondly believed to be carbuncles. There was +Brother Victor, of the Order of Little Ease, who knew a great deal +about altar-cloths but kept his knowledge in the background while he +strove to propitiate Mrs. Jessel, the Secretary of the Tea Cup Board, +who had money to dispense but hated Rome--even though Rome would, on +its honour, do no more than fill the stomach, leaving the dazed soul to +the mercies of Mrs. Jessel. There were all the Little Sisters of the +Red Diamond, daughters of the horseleech, crying ‘Give’ when their own +charity was exhausted, and pitifully explaining to such as demanded +an account of their disbursements in return for one half-sovereign, +that relief-work in a bad district can hardly be systematised on the +accounts’ side without expensive duplication of staff. There was the +Reverend Eustace Hanna, who worked impartially with Ladies’ Committees, +Androgynous Leagues and Guilds, Brother Victor, and anybody else who +could give him money, boots, or blankets, or that more precious help +that allows itself to be directed by those who know. And all these +people learned, one by one, to consult Badalia on matters of personal +character, right to relief, and hope of eventual reformation in +Gunnison Street. Her answers were seldom cheering, but she possessed +special knowledge and complete confidence in herself. + +‘I’m Gunnison Street,’ she said to the austere Mrs. Jessel. ‘I know +what’s what, _I_ do, an’ they don’t want your religion, Mum, not a +single ----. Excuse me. It’s all right when they comes to die, Mum, but +till they die what they wants is things to eat. The men they’ll shif’ +for themselves. That’s why Nick Lapworth sez to you that ’e wants to be +confirmed an’ all that. ’E won’t never lead no new life, nor ’is wife +won’t get no good out o’ all the money you gives ’im. No more you can’t +pauperise them as ’asn’t things to begin with. They’re bloomin’ well +pauped. The women they can’t shif’ for themselves--’specially bein’ +always confined. ’Ow should they? They wants things if they can get ’em +anyways. If not they dies, and a good job too, for women is cruel put +upon in Gunnison Street.’ + +‘Do you believe that--that Mrs. Herodsfoot is altogether a proper +person to trust funds to?’ said Mrs. Jessel to the curate after this +conversation. ‘She seems to be utterly godless in her speech at least.’ + +The curate agreed. She was godless according to Mrs. Jessel’s views, +but did not Mrs. Jessel think that since Badalia knew Gunnison Street +and its needs, as none other knew it, she might in a humble way be, as +it were, the scullion of charity from purer sources, and that if, say, +the Tea Cup Board could give a few shillings a week, and the Little +Sisters of the Red Diamond a few more, and, yes, he himself could +raise yet a few more, the total, not at all likely to be excessive, +might be handed over to Badalia to dispense among her associates. +Thus Mrs. Jessel herself would be set free to attend more directly +to the spiritual wants of certain large-limbed hulking men who sat +picturesquely on the lower benches of her gatherings and sought for +truth--which is quite as precious as silver, when you know the market +for it. + +‘She’ll favour her own friends,’ said Mrs. Jessel. The curate refrained +from mirth, and, after wise flattery, carried his point. To her +unbounded pride Badalia was appointed the dispenser of a grant--a +weekly trust, to be held for the benefit of Gunnison Street. + +‘I don’t know what we can get together each week,’ said the curate to +her. ‘But here are seventeen shillings to start with. You do what you +like with them among your people, only let me know how it goes so that +we shan’t get muddled in the accounts. D’you see?’ + +‘Ho yuss! ’Taint much though, is it?’ said Badalia, regarding the +white coins in her palm. The sacred fever of the administrator, only +known to those who have tasted power, burned in her veins. ‘Boots is +boots, unless they’re give you, an’ then they ain’t fit to wear unless +they’re mended top an’ bottom; an’ jellies is jellies; an’ I don’t +think anything o’ that cheap pork-wine, but it all comes to something. +It’ll go quicker ’n a quartern of gin--seventeen bob. An’ I’ll keep a +book--same as I used to do before Tom went an’ took up ’long o’ that +pan-faced slut in Hennessy’s Rents. We was the only barrer that kep’ +regular books, me an’--’im.’ + +She bought a large copy-book--her unschooled handwriting demanded +room--and in it she wrote the story of her war; boldly, as befits a +general, and for no other eyes than her own and those of the Reverend +Eustace Hanna. Long ere the pages were full the mottled cover had been +soaked in kerosene--Lascar Loo’s mother, defrauded of her percentage +on her daughter’s custards, invaded Badalia’s room in 17 Gunnison +Street, and fought with her to the damage of the lamp and her own hair. +It was hard, too, to carry the precious ‘pork-wine’ in one hand and the +book in the other through an eternally thirsty land; so red stains were +added to those of the oil. But the Reverend Eustace Hanna, looking at +the matter of the book, never objected. The generous scrawls told their +own tale, Badalia every Saturday night supplying the chorus between the +written statements thus:-- + +_Mrs. Hikkey, very ill brandy 3d. Cab for hospital, she had to go, 1s. +Mrs. Poone confined. In money for tea (she took it I know, sir) 6d. Met +her husband out looking for work._ + +‘I slapped ’is face for a bone-idle beggar! ’E won’t get no work becos +’e’s--excuse me, sir. Won’t you go on?’ The curate continued-- + +_Mrs. Vincent. Confid. No linning for baby. Most untidy. In money 2s. +6d. Some cloths from Miss Evva._ + +‘Did Sister Eva do that?’ said the curate very softly. Now charity was +Sister Eva’s bounden duty, yet to one man’s eyes each act of her daily +toil was a manifestation of angelic grace and goodness--a thing to +perpetually admire. + +‘Yes, sir. She went back to the Sisters’ ’Ome an’ took ’em off ’er own +bed. Most beautiful marked too. Go on, sir. That makes up four and +thruppence.’ + +_Mrs. Junnet to keep good fire coals is up. 7d._ + +_Mrs. Lockhart took a baby to nurse to earn a triffle but mother can’d +pay husband summons over and over. He won’t help. Cash 2s. 2d. Worked +in a ketchin but had to leave. Fire, tea, and shin of beef 1s. 7½d._ + +‘There was a fight there, sir,’ said Badalia, ‘Not me, sir. ’Er +’usband, o’ course ’e come in at the wrong time, was wishful to ’ave +the beef, so I calls up the next floor an’ down comes that mulatter man +wot sells the sword-stick canes, top o’ Ludgate-’ill. “Muley,” sez I, +“you big black beast, you, take an’ kill this big white beast ’ere.” +I knew I couldn’t stop Tom Lockart ’alf drunk, with the beef in ’is +’ands. “I’ll beef ’m,” sez Muley, an’ ’e did it, with that pore woman +a-cryin’ in the next room, an’ the top banisters on that landin’ is +broke out, but she got ’er beef-tea, an’ Tom ’e’s got ’is gruel. Will +you go on, sir?’ + +‘No, I think it will be all right. I’ll sign for the week,’ said +the curate. One gets so used to these things profanely called human +documents. + +‘Mrs. Churner’s baby’s got diptheery,’ said Badalia, turning to go. + +‘Where’s that? The Churners of Painter’s Alley, or the other Churners +in Houghton Street?’ + +‘Houghton Street. The Painter’s Alley people, they’re sold out an’ +left.’ + +‘Sister Eva’s sitting one night a week with old Mrs. Probyn in Houghton +Street--isn’t she?’ said the curate uneasily. + +‘Yes; but she won’t sit no longer. _I’ve_ took up Mrs. Probyn. I can’t +talk ’er no religion, but she don’t want it; an’ Miss Eva she don’t +want no diptheery, tho’ she sez she does. Don’t _you_ be afraid for +Miss Eva.’ + +‘But--but you’ll get it, perhaps.’ + +‘Like as not.’ She looked the curate between the eyes, and her own eyes +flamed under the fringe. ‘Maybe I’d like to get it, for aught you know.’ + +The curate thought upon these words for a little time till he began to +think of Sister Eva in the gray cloak with the white bonnet ribbons +under the chin. Then he thought no more of Badalia. + +What Badalia thought was never expressed in words, but it is known in +Gunnison Street that Lascar Loo’s mother, sitting blind drunk on her +own doorstep, was that night captured and wrapped up in the war-cloud +of Badalia’s wrath, so that she did not know whether she stood on her +head or her heels, and after being soundly bumped on every particular +stair up to her room, was set down on Badalia’s bed, there to whimper +and quiver till the dawn, protesting that all the world was against +her, and calling on the names of children long since slain by dirt and +neglect. Badalia, snorting, went out to war, and since the hosts of the +enemy were many, found enough work to keep her busy till the dawn. + +As she had promised, she took Mrs. Probyn into her own care, and began +by nearly startling the old lady into a fit with the announcement that +‘there ain’t no God like as not, an’ if there _is_ it don’t matter to +you or me, an’ any’ow you take this jelly.’ Sister Eva objected to +being shut off from her pious work in Houghton Street, but Badalia +insisted, and by fair words and the promise of favours to come so +prevailed on three or four of the more sober men of the neighbourhood +that they blockaded the door whenever Sister Eva attempted to force an +entry, and pleaded the diphtheria as an excuse. ‘I’ve got to keep ’er +out o’ ’arm’s way,’ said Badalia, ‘an’ out she keeps. The curick won’t +care a ---- for me, but--he wouldn’t any’ow.’ + +The effect of that quarantine was to shift the sphere of Sister Eva’s +activity to other streets, and notably those most haunted by the +Reverend Eustace Hanna and Brother Victor, of the Order of Little Ease. +There exists, for all their human bickerings, a very close brotherhood +in the ranks of those whose work lies in Gunnison Street. To begin +with, they have seen pain--pain that no word or deed of theirs can +alleviate--life born into Death, and Death crowded down by unhappy +life. Also they understand the full significance of drink, which is a +knowledge hidden from very many well-meaning people, and some of them +have fought with the beasts at Ephesus. They meet at unseemly hours +in unseemly places, exchange a word or two of hasty counsel, advice, +or suggestion, and pass on to their appointed toil, since time is +precious and lives hang in the balance of five minutes. For many, the +gas-lamps are their sun, and the Covent Garden wains the chariots of +the twilight. They have all in their station begged for money, so that +the freemasonry of the mendicant binds them together. + +To all these influences there was added in the case of two workers +that thing which men have agreed to call Love. The chance that Sister +Eva might catch diphtheria did not enter into the curate’s head till +Badalia had spoken. Then it seemed a thing intolerable and monstrous +that she should be exposed not only to this risk, but any accident +whatever of the streets. A wain coming round a corner might kill +her; the rotten staircases on which she trod daily and nightly might +collapse and maim her; there was danger in the tottering coping-stones +of certain crazy houses that he knew well; danger more deadly within +those houses. What if one of a thousand drunken men crushed out that +precious life? A woman had once flung a chair at the curate’s head. +Sister Eva’s arm would not be strong enough to ward off a chair. There +were also knives that were quick to fly. These and other considerations +cast the soul of the Reverend Eustace Hanna into torment that no +leaning upon Providence could relieve. God was indubitably great and +terrible--one had only to walk through Gunnison Street to see that +much--but it would be better, vastly better, that Eva should have the +protection of his own arm. And the world that was not too busy to watch +might have seen a woman, not too young, light-haired and light-eyed, +slightly assertive in her speech, and very limited in such ideas as lay +beyond the immediate sphere of her duty, where the eyes of the Reverend +Eustace Hanna turned to follow the footsteps of a Queen crowned in a +little gray bonnet with white ribbons under the chin. + +If that bonnet appeared for a moment at the bottom of a courtyard, +or nodded at him on a dark staircase, then there was hope yet for +Lascar Loo, living on one lung and the memory of past excesses, hope +even for whining sodden Nick Lapworth, blaspheming, in the hope of +money, over the pangs of a ‘true conversion this time, s’elp me Gawd, +sir.’ If that bonnet did not appear for a day, the mind of the curate +was filled with lively pictures of horror, visions of stretchers, +a crowd at some villainous crossing, and a policeman--he could see +that policeman--jerking out over his shoulder the details of the +accident, and ordering the man who would have set his body against the +wheels--heavy dray wheels, he could see them--to ‘move on.’ Then there +was less hope for the salvation of Gunnison Street and all in it. + +This agony Brother Victor beheld one day when he was coming from +a death-bed. He saw the light in the eye, the relaxing muscles of +the mouth, and heard a new ring in the voice that had told flat all +the forenoon. Sister Eva had turned into Gunnison Street after a +forty-eight hours’ eternity of absence. She had not been run over. +Brother Victor’s heart must have suffered in some human fashion, or +he would never have seen what he saw. But the Law of his Church made +suffering easy. His duty was to go on with his work until he died, +even as Badalia went on. She, magnifying her office, faced the drunken +husband; coaxed the doubly shiftless, thriftless girl-wife into a +little forethought, and begged clothes when and where she could for the +scrofulous babes that multiplied like the green scum on the untopped +water-cisterns. + +The story of her deeds was written in the book that the curate signed +weekly, but she never told him any more of fights and tumults in the +street. ‘Mis’ Eva does ’er work ’er way. I does mine mine. But I do +more than Mis’ Eva ten times over, an’ “Thank yer, Badalia,” sez ’e, +“that’ll do for this week.” I wonder what Tom’s doin’ now long o’ +that--other woman. ’Seems like as if I’d go an’ look at ’im one o’ +these days. But I’d cut ’er liver out--couldn’t ’elp myself. Better not +go, p’raps.’ + +Hennessy’s Rents lay more than two miles from Gunnison Street, and were +inhabited by much the same class of people. Tom had established himself +there with Jenny Wabstow, his new woman, and for weeks lived in great +fear of Badalia’s suddenly descending upon him. The prospect of actual +fighting did not scare him: but he objected to the police-court that +would follow, and the orders for maintenance and other devices of a +law that cannot understand the simple rule that ‘when a man’s tired +of a woman ’e ain’t such a bloomin’ fool as to live with ’er no more, +an’ that’s the long an’ short of it.’ For some months his new wife +wore very well, and kept Tom in a state of decent fear and consequent +orderliness. Also work was plentiful. Then a baby was born, and, +following the law of his kind, Tom, little interested in the children +he helped to produce, sought distraction in drink. He had confined +himself, as a rule, to beer, which is stupefying and comparatively +innocuous: at least, it clogs the legs, and though the heart may +ardently desire to kill, sleep comes swiftly, and the crime often +remains undone. Spirits, being more volatile, allow both the flesh and +the soul to work together--generally to the inconvenience of others. +Tom discovered that there was merit in whisky--if you only took enough +of it--cold. He took as much as he could purchase or get given him, and +by the time that his woman was fit to go abroad again, the two rooms of +their household were stripped of many valuable articles. Then the woman +spoke her mind, not once, but several times, with point, fluency, and +metaphor; and Tom was indignant at being deprived of peace at the end +of his day’s work, which included much whisky. He therefore withdrew +himself from the solace and companionship of Jenny Wabstow, and she +therefore pursued him with more metaphors. At the last, Tom would turn +round and hit her--sometimes across the head, and sometimes across the +breast, and the bruises furnished material for discussion on doorsteps +among such women as had been treated in like manner by their husbands. +They were not few. + +But no very public scandal had occurred till Tom one day saw fit to +open negotiations with a young woman for matrimony according to the +laws of free selection. He was getting very tired of Jenny, and the +young woman was earning enough from flower-selling to keep him in +comfort, whereas Jenny was expecting another baby and most unreasonably +expected consideration on this account. The shapelessness of her figure +revolted him, and he said as much in the language of his breed. Jenny +cried till Mrs. Hart, lineal descendant, and Irish of the ‘mother +to Mike of the donkey-cart,’ stopped her on her own staircase and +whispered: ‘God be good to you, Jenny, my woman, for I see how ’tis +with you.’ Jenny wept more than ever, and gave Mrs. Hart a penny and +some kisses, while Tom was conducting his own wooing at the corner of +the street. + +The young woman, prompted by pride, not by virtue, told Jenny of his +offers, and Jenny spoke to Tom that night. The altercation began in +their own rooms, but Tom tried to escape; and in the end all Hennessy’s +Rents gathered themselves upon the pavement and formed a court to which +Jenny appealed from time to time, her hair loose on her neck, her +raiment in extreme disorder, and her steps astray from drink. ‘When +your man drinks, you’d better drink too! It don’t ’urt so much when ’e +’its you then,’ says the Wisdom of the Women. And surely they ought to +know. + +‘Look at ’im!’ shrieked Jenny. ‘Look at ’im, standin’ there without any +word to say for himself, that ’ud smitch off and leave me an’ never +so much as a shillin’ lef’ be’ind! You call yourself a man--you call +yourself the bleedin’ shadow of a man? I’ve seen better men than you +made outer chewed paper and spat out arterwards. Look at ’im! ’E’s been +drunk since Thursday last, an’ ’e’ll be drunk s’ long’s ’e can get +drink. ’E’s took all I’ve got, an’ me--an’ me--as you see----’ + +A murmur of sympathy from the women. + +‘Took it all, he did, an’ atop of his blasted pickin’ an’ +stealin’--yes, you, you thief--’e goes off an’ tries to take up long +o’ that’--here followed a complete and minute description of the young +woman. Luckily, she was not on the spot to hear. ‘’E’ll serve ’er as ’e +served me! ’E’ll drink every bloomin’ copper she makes an’ then leave +’er alone, same as ’e done me! O women, look you, I’ve bore ’im one an’ +there’s another on the way, an’ ’e’d up an’ leave me as I am now--the +stinkin’ dorg. An’ you _may_ leave me. I don’t want none o’ your +leavin’s. Go away. Get away!’ The hoarseness of passion overpowered the +voice. The crowd attracted a policeman as Tom began to slink away. + +‘Look at ’im,’ said Jenny, grateful for the new listener. ‘Ain’t there +no law for such as ’im? ’E’s took all my money, ’e’s beat me once, +twice an’ over. ’E’s swine drunk when ’e ain’t mad drunk, an’ now, an’ +now ’e’s trying to pick up along o’ another woman. ’Im I give up a four +times better man for. Ain’t there no law?’ + +‘What’s the matter now? You go into your ’ouse. I’ll see to the man. +’As ’e been ’itting you?’ said the policeman. + +‘’Ittin’ me? ’E’s cut my ’eart in two, an’ ’e stands there grinnin’ as +tho’ ’twas all a play to ’im.’ + +‘You go on into your ’ouse an’ lie down a bit.’ + +‘I’m a married woman, I tell you, an’ I’ll ’ave my ’usband!’ + +‘I ain’t done her no bloomin’ ’arm,’ said Tom from the edge of the +crowd. He felt that public opinion was running against him. + +‘You ain’t done me any bloomin’ good, you dorg. I’m a married woman, I +am, an’ I won’t ’ave my ’usband took from me.’ + +‘Well, if you _are_ a married woman, cover your breasts,’ said the +policeman soothingly. He was used to domestic brawls. + +‘Shan’t--thank you for your impidence. Look ’ere!’ She tore open her +dishevelled bodice and showed such crescent-shaped bruises as are made +by a well-applied chair-back. ‘That’s what ’e done to me acause my +heart wouldn’t break quick enough! ’E’s tried to get in an’ break it. +Look at that, Tom, that you gave me last night; an’ I made it up with +you. But that was before I knew what you were tryin’ to do long o’ that +woman----’ + +‘D’you charge ’im?’ said the policeman. ‘’E’ll get a month for it, +per’aps.’ + +‘No’ said Jenny firmly. It was one thing to expose her man to the scorn +of the street, and another to lead him to jail. + +‘Then you go in an’ lie down, and you’--this to the crowd--‘pass along +the pavement, there. Pass along. ’Taint nothing to laugh at.’ To Tom, +who was being sympathised with by his friends, ‘It’s good for you she +didn’t charge you, but mind this now, the next time,’ etc. + +Tom did not at all appreciate Jenny’s forbearance, nor did his friends +help to compose his mind. He had whacked the woman because she was a +nuisance. For precisely the same reason he had cast about for a new +mate. And all his kind acts had ended in a truly painful scene in +the street, a most unjustifiable exposure by and of his woman, and a +certain loss of caste--this he realised dimly--among his associates. +Consequently, all women were nuisances, and consequently whisky was a +good thing. His friends condoled with him. Perhaps he had been more +hard on his woman than she deserved, but her disgraceful conduct under +provocation excused all offence. + +‘I wouldn’t ’ave no more to do with ’er--a woman like that there,’ said +one comforter. + +‘Let ’er go an’ dig for her bloomin’ self. A man wears ’isself out +to ’is bones shovin’ meat down their mouths, while they sit at ’ome +easy all day; an’ the very fust time, mark you, you ’as a bit of a +difference, an’ very proper too for a man as _is_ a man, she ups an’ +’as you out into the street, callin’ you Gawd knows what all. What’s +the good o’ that, I arx you?’ So spoke the second comforter. + +The whisky was the third, and his suggestion struck Tom as the best +of all. He would return to Badalia his wife. Probably she would have +been doing something wrong while he had been away, and he could then +vindicate his authority as a husband. Certainly she would have money. +Single women always seemed to possess the pence that God and the +Government denied to hard-working men. He refreshed himself with more +whisky. It was beyond any doubt that Badalia would have done something +wrong. She might even have married another man. He would wait till the +new husband was out of the way, and, after kicking Badalia, would get +money and a long absent sense of satisfaction. There is much virtue in +a creed or a law, but when all is prayed and suffered, drink is the +only thing that will make clean all a man’s deeds in his own eyes. Pity +it is that the effects are not permanent. + +Tom parted with his friends, bidding them tell Jenny that he was going +to Gunnison Street, and would return to her arms no more. Because +this was the devil’s message, they remembered and severally delivered +it, with drunken distinctness, in Jenny’s ears. Then Tom took more +drink till his drunkenness rolled back and stood off from him as a +wave rolls back and stands off the wreck it will swamp. He reached +the traffic-polished black asphalte of a side-street and trod warily +among the reflections of the shop-lamps that burned in gulfs of pitchy +darkness, fathoms beneath his boot-heels. He was very sober indeed. +Looking down his past, he beheld that he was justified of all his +actions so entirely and perfectly that if Badalia had in his absence +dared to lead a blameless life he would smash her for not having gone +wrong. + +Badalia at that moment was in her own room after the regular nightly +skirmish with Lascar Loo’s mother. To a reproof as stinging as a +Gunnison Street tongue could make it, the old woman, detected for the +hundredth time in the theft of the poor delicacies meant for the +invalid, could only cackle and answer-- + +‘D’you think Loo’s never bilked a man in ’er life? She’s dyin’ +now--on’y she’s so cunning long about it. Me! I’ll live for twenty +years yet.’ + +Badalia shook her, more on principle than in any hope of curing her, +and thrust her into the night, where she collapsed on the pavement and +called upon the devil to slay Badalia. + +He came upon the word in the shape of a man with a very pale face who +asked for her by name. Lascar Loo’s mother remembered. It was Badalia’s +husband--and the return of a husband to Gunnison Street was generally +followed by beatings. + +‘Where’s my wife?’ said Tom. ‘Where’s my slut of a wife?’ + +‘Upstairs an’ be ---- to her,’ said the old woman, falling over on her +side. ‘’Ave you come back for ’er, Tom?’ + +‘Yes. ’Oo’s she took up while I bin gone?’ + +‘All the bloomin’ curicks in the parish. She’s that set up you wouldn’t +know ’er.’ + +‘’Strewth she is!’ + +‘Oh, yuss. Mor’n that, she’s always round an’ about with them +sniffin’ Sisters of Charity an’ the curick. Mor’n that, ’e gives ’er +money--pounds an’ pounds a week. Been keepin’ her that way for months, +’e ’as. No wonder you wouldn’t ’ave nothin’ to do with ’er when you +left. An’ she keeps me outer the food-stuff they gets for me lyin’ +dyin’ out ’ere like a dorg. She’s been a blazin’ bad un has Badalia +since you lef’.’ + +‘Got the same room still, ’as she?’ said Tom, striding over Lascar +Loo’s mother, who was picking at the chinks between the pave-stones. + +‘Yes, but so fine you wouldn’t know it.’ + +Tom went up the stairs and the old lady chuckled. Tom was angry. +Badalia would not be able to bump people for some time to come, or to +interfere with the heaven-appointed distribution of custards. + +Badalia, undressing to go to bed, heard feet on the stair that she knew +well. Ere they stopped to kick at her door she had, in her own fashion, +thought over very many things. + +‘Tom’s back,’ she said to herself. ‘An’ I’m glad ... spite o’ the +curick an’ everythink.’ + +She opened the door, crying his name. + +The man pushed her aside. + +‘I don’t want none o’ your kissin’s an’ slaverin’s. I’m sick of ’em,’ +said he. + +‘You ain’t ’ad so many neither to make you sick these two years past.’ + +‘I’ve ’ad better. Got any money?’ + +‘On’y a little--orful little.’ + +‘That’s a ---- lie, an’ you know it.’ + +‘’Taint--and, oh Tom, what’s the use o’ talkin’ money the minute you +come back? Didn’t you like Jenny? I knowed you wouldn’t.’ + +‘Shut your ’ead. Ain’t you got enough to make a man drunk fair?’ + +‘You don’t want bein’ made more drunk any. You’re drunk a’ready. You +come to bed, Tom.’ + +‘To you?’ + +‘Ay, to me. Ain’t I nothin’--spite o’ Jenny?’ + +She put out her arms as she spoke. But the drink held Tom fast. + +‘Not for me,’ said he, steadying himself against the wall. ‘Don’t I +know ’ow you’ve been goin’ on while I was away, yah!’ + +‘Arsk about!’ said Badalia indignantly, drawing herself together. ‘’Oo +sez anythink agin me ’ere?’ + +‘’Oo sez? W’y, everybody. I ain’t come back more’n a minute fore I +finds you’ve been with the curick Gawd knows where. Wot curick was ’e?’ + +‘The curick that’s ’ere always,’ said Badalia hastily. She was thinking +of anything rather than the Rev. Eustace Hanna at that moment. Tom +sat down gravely in the only chair in the room. Badalia continued her +arrangements for going to bed. + +‘Pretty thing that,’ said Tom, ‘to tell your own lawful married +’usband--an’ I guv five bob for the weddin’-ring. Curick that’s ’ere +always! Cool as brass you are. Ain’t you got no shame? Ain’t ’e under +the bed now?’ + +‘Tom, you’re bleedin’ drunk. I ain’t done nothin’ to be ’shamed of.’ + +‘You! You don’t know wot shame is. But I ain’t come ’ere to mess with +you. Give me wot you’ve got, an’ then I’ll dress you down an’ go to +Jenny.’ + +‘I ain’t got nothin’ ’cept some coppers an’ a shillin’ or so.’ + +‘Wot’s that about the curick keepin’ you on five poun’ a week?’ + +‘’Oo told you that?’ + +‘Lascar Loo’s mother, lyin’ on the pavemint outside, an’ more honest +than you’ll ever be. Give me wot you’ve got!’ + +Badalia passed over to a little shell pin-cushion on the mantelpiece, +drew thence four shillings and threepence--the lawful earnings of her +trade--and held them out to the man who was rocking in his chair and +surveying the room with wide-opened rolling eyes. + +‘That ain’t five poun’,’ said he drowsily. + +‘I ain’t got no more. Take it an’ go--if you won’t stay.’ + +Tom rose slowly, gripping the arms of the chair. ‘Wot about the +curick’s money that ’e guv you?’ said he. ‘Lascar Loo’s mother told me. +You give it over to me now, or I’ll make you.’ + +‘Lascar Loo’s mother don’t know anything about it.’ + +‘She do, an’ more than you want her to know.’ + +‘She don’t. I’ve bumped the ’eart out of ’er, and I can’t give you +the money. Anythin’ else but that, Tom, an’ everythin’ else but that, +Tom, I’ll give willin’ and true. ’Taint my money. Won’t the dollar be +enough? That money’s my trust. There’s a book along of it too.’ + +‘Your trust? Wot are you doin’ with any trust that your ’usband don’t +know of? You an’ your trust! Take you that!’ + +Tom stepped towards her and delivered a blow of the clenched fist +across the mouth. ‘Give me wot you’ve got,’ said he, in the thick +abstracted voice of one talking in dreams. + +‘I won’t,’ said Badalia, staggering to the washstand. With any other +man than her husband she would have fought savagely as a wild cat; but +Tom had been absent two years, and, perhaps, a little timely submission +would win him back to her. None the less, the weekly trust was sacred. + +The wave that had so long held back descended on Tom’s brain. He +caught Badalia by the throat and forced her to her knees. It seemed +just to him in that hour to punish an erring wife for two years of +wilful desertion; and the more, in that she had confessed her guilt by +refusing to give up the wage of sin. + +Lascar Loo’s mother waited on the pavement without for the sounds +of lamentation, but none came. Even if Tom had released her gullet, +Badalia would not have screamed. + +‘Give it up, you slut!’ said Tom. ‘Is that ’ow you pay me back for all +I’ve done?’ + +‘I can’t. ’Tain’t my money. Gawd forgive you, Tom, for wot you’re----,’ +the voice ceased as the grip tightened, and Tom heaved Badalia against +the bed. Her forehead struck the bed-post, and she sank, half kneeling, +on the floor. It was impossible for a self-respecting man to refrain +from kicking her: so Tom kicked with the deadly intelligence born of +whisky. The head drooped to the floor, and Tom kicked at that till the +crisp tingle of hair striking through his nailed boot with the chill of +cold water, warned him that it might be as well to desist. + +‘Where’s the curick’s money, you kep’ woman?’ he whispered in the +blood-stained ear. But there was no answer--only a rattling at the +door, and the voice of Jenny Wabstow crying ferociously, ‘Come out o’ +that, Tom, an’ come ’ome with me! An’ you, Badalia, I’ll tear your face +off its bones!’ + +Tom’s friends had delivered their message, and Jenny, after the first +flood of passionate tears, rose up to follow Tom, and, if possible, to +win him back. She was prepared even to endure an exemplary whacking +for her performances in Hennessy’s Rents. Lascar Loo’s mother guided +her to the chamber of horrors, and chuckled as she retired down the +staircase. If Tom had not banged the soul out of Badalia, there would +at least be a royal fight between that Badalia and Jenny. And Lascar +Loo’s mother knew well that Hell has no fury like a woman fighting +above the life that is quick in her. + +Still there was no sound audible in the street. Jenny swung back the +unbolted door, to discover her man stupidly regarding a heap by the +bed. An eminent murderer has remarked that if people did not die so +untidily, most men, and all women, would commit at least one murder +in their lives. Tom was reflecting on the present untidiness, and the +whisky was fighting with the clear current of his thoughts. + +‘Don’t make that noise,’ he said. ‘Come in quick.’ + +‘My Gawd!’ said Jenny, checking like a startled wild beast. ‘Wot’s all +this ’ere? You ain’t----’ + +‘Dunno. ’Spose I did it.’ + +‘Did it! You done it a sight too well this time.’ + +‘She was aggravatin’,’ said Tom thickly, dropping back into the chair. +‘That aggravatin’ you’d never believe. Livin’ on the fat o’ the land +among these aristocratic parsons an’ all. Look at them white curtings +on the bed. _We_ ain’t got no white curtings. What I want to know +is----’ The voice died as Badalia’s had died, but from a different +cause. The whisky was tightening its grip after the accomplished deed, +and Tom’s eyes were beginning to close. Badalia on the floor breathed +heavily. + +‘No, nor like to ’ave,’ said Jenny. ‘You’ve done for ’er this time. You +go!’ + +‘Not me. She won’t hurt. Do ’er good. I’m goin’ to sleep. Look at those +there clean sheets! Aint you comin’ too?’ + +Jenny bent over Badalia, and there was intelligence in the battered +woman’s eyes--intelligence and much hate. + +‘I never told ’im to do such,’ Jenny whispered. ‘’Twas Tom’s own +doin’--none o’ mine. Shall I get ’im took, dear?’ + +The eyes told their own story. Tom, who was beginning to snore, must +not be taken by the Law. + +‘Go,’ said Jenny. ‘Get out! Get out of ’ere.’ + +‘You--told--me--that--this afternoon,’ said the man very sleepily. +‘Lemme go asleep.’ + +‘That wasn’t nothing. You’d only ’it me. This time it’s +murder--murder--murder! Tom, you’ve killed ’er now.’ She shook the man +from his rest, and understanding with cold terror filled his fuddled +brain. + +‘I done it for your sake, Jenny,’ he whimpered feebly, trying to take +her hand. + +‘You killed ’er for the money, same as you would ha’ killed me. Get out +o’ this. Lay ’er on the bed first, you brute!’ + +They lifted Badalia on to the bed, and crept forth silently. + +‘I can’t be took along o’ you--and if you was took you’d say I made you +do it, an’ try to get me ’anged. Go away--anywhere outer ’ere,’ said +Jenny, and she dragged him down the stairs. + +‘Goin’ to look for the curick?’ said a voice from the pavement. Lascar +Loo’s mother was still waiting patiently to hear Badalia squeal. + +‘Wot curick?’ said Jenny swiftly. There was a chance of salving her +conscience yet in regard to the bundle upstairs. + +‘’Anna--63 Roomer Terrace--close ’ere,’ said the old woman. She had +never been favourably regarded by the curate. Perhaps, since Badalia +had not squealed, Tom preferred smashing the man to the woman. There +was no accounting for tastes. + +Jenny thrust her man before her till they reached the nearest main +road. ‘Go away, now,’ she gasped. ‘Go off anywheres, but don’t come +back to me. I’ll never go with you again; an’, Tom--Tom, d’you ’ear +me?--clean your boots.’ + +Vain counsel. The desperate thrust of disgust which she bestowed upon +him sent him staggering face-down into the kennel, where a policeman +showed interest in his welfare. + +‘Took for a common drunk. Gawd send they don’t look at ’is boots! +’Anna, 63 Roomer Terrace!’ Jenny settled her hat and ran. + +The excellent housekeeper of the Roomer Chambers still remembers how +there arrived a young person, blue-lipped and gasping, who cried only: +‘Badalia, 17 Gunnison Street. Tell the curick to come at once--at +once--at once!’ and vanished into the night. This message was borne to +the Rev. Eustace Hanna, then enjoying his beauty-sleep. He saw there +was urgency in the demand, and unhesitatingly knocked up Brother Victor +across the landing. As a matter of etiquette, Rome and England divided +their cases in the district according to the creeds of the sufferers; +but Badalia was an institution, and not a case, and there was no +district-relief etiquette to be considered. ‘Something has happened to +Badalia,’ the curate said, ‘and it’s your affair as well as mine. Dress +and come along.’ + +‘I am ready,’ was the answer. ‘Is there any hint of what’s wrong?’ + +‘Nothing beyond a runaway-knock and a call.’ + +‘Then it’s a confinement or a murderous assault. Badalia wouldn’t wake +us up for anything less. I’m qualified for both, thank God.’ + +The two men raced to Gunnison Street, for there were no cabs abroad, +and under any circumstances a cab-fare means two days’ good firing +for such as are perishing with cold. Lascar Loo’s mother had gone to +bed, and the door was naturally on the latch. They found considerably +more than they had expected in Badalia’s room, and the Church of Rome +acquitted itself nobly with bandages, while the Church of England could +only pray to be delivered from the sin of envy. The Order of Little +Ease, recognising that the soul is in most cases accessible through the +body, take their measures and train their men accordingly. + +‘She’ll do now,’ said Brother Victor, in a whisper. ‘It’s internal +bleeding, I fear, and a certain amount of injury to the brain. She has +a husband, of course?’ + +‘They all have, more’s the pity.’ + +‘Yes, there’s a domesticity about these injuries that shows their +origin.’ He lowered his voice. ‘It’s a perfectly hopeless business, you +understand. Twelve hours at the most.’ + +Badalia’s right hand began to beat on the counterpane, palm down. + +‘I think you are wrong,’ said the Church of England. ‘She is going.’ + +‘No, that’s not the picking at the counterpane,’ said the Church of +Rome. ‘She wants to say something; you know her better than I.’ + +The curate bent very low. + +‘Send for Miss Eva,’ said Badalia, with a cough. + +‘In the morning. She will come in the morning,’ said the curate, and +Badalia was content. Only the Church of Rome, who knew something of the +human heart, knitted his brows and said nothing. After all, the law of +his order was plain. His duty was to watch till the dawn while the moon +went down. + +It was a little before her sinking that the Rev. Eustace Hanna said, +‘Hadn’t we better send for Sister Eva? She seems to be going fast.’ + +Brother Victor made no answer, but as early as decency admitted there +came one to the door of the house of the Little Sisters of the Red +Diamond and demanded Sister Eva, that she might soothe the pain of +Badalia Herodsfoot. That man, saying very little, led her to Gunnison +Street, No. 17, and into the room where Badalia lay. Then he stood on +the landing, and bit the flesh of his fingers in agony, because he was +a priest trained to know, and knew how the hearts of men and women beat +back at the rebound, so that Love is born out of horror, and passion +declares itself when the soul is quivering with pain. + +Badalia, wise to the last, husbanded her strength till the coming of +Sister Eva. It is generally maintained by the Little Sisters of the Red +Diamond that she died in delirium, but since one Sister at least took +a half of her dying advice, this seems uncharitable. + +She tried to turn feebly on the bed, and the poor broken human +machinery protested according to its nature. + +Sister Eva started forward, thinking that she heard the dread +forerunner of the death-rattle. Badalia lay still conscious, and spoke +with startling distinctness, the irrepressible irreverence of the +street-hawker, the girl who had danced on the winkle-barrow, twinkling +in her one available eye. + +‘Sounds jest like Mrs. Jessel, don’t it? Before she’s ’ad ’er lunch an’ +’as been talkin’ all the mornin’ to her classes.’ + +Neither Sister Eva nor the curate said anything. Brother Victor stood +without the door, and the breath came harshly between his teeth, for he +was in pain. + +‘Put a cloth over my ’ead,’ said Badalia. ‘I’ve got it good, an’ I +don’t want Miss Eva to see. I ain’t pretty this time.’ + +‘Who was it?’ said the curate. + +‘Man from outside. Never seed ’im no more’n Adam. Drunk, I s’pose. +S’elp me Gawd that’s truth! Is Miss Eva ’ere? I can’t see under the +towel. I’ve got it good, Miss Eva. Excuse my not shakin’ ’ands with +you, but I’m not strong, an’ it’s fourpence for Mrs. Imeny’s beef-tea, +an’ wot you can give ’er for baby-linning. Allus ’avin’ kids, these +people. I ’adn’t oughter talk, for _my_ ’usband ’e never come a-nigh +me these two years, or I’d a-bin as bad as the rest; but ’e never come +a-nigh me.... A man come and ’it me over the ’ead, an’ ’e kicked me, +Miss Eva; so it was just the same’s if I had ha’ had a ’usband, ain’t +it? The book’s in the drawer, Mister ’Anna, an’ it’s all right, an’ I +never guv up a copper o’ the trust money--not a copper. You look under +the chist o’ drawers--all wot isn’t spent this week is there.... An’, +Miss Eva, don’t you wear that gray bonnick no more. I kep’ you from the +diptheery, an’--an’ I didn’t want to keep you so, but the curick said +it ’ad to be done. I’d a sooner ha’ took up with ’im than any one, only +Tom ’e come, an’ then--you see, Miss Eva, Tom ’e never come a-nigh me +for two years, nor I ’aven’t seen ’im yet. S’elp me ----, I ’aven’t. Do +you ’ear? But you two go along, and make a match of it. I’ve wished +otherways often, but o’ course it was not for the likes o’ me. If Tom +’ad come back, which ’e never did, I’d ha’ been like the rest--sixpence +for beef-tea for the baby, an’ a shilling for layin’ out the baby. +You’ve seen it in the books, Mister ’Anna. That’s what it is; an’ o’ +course, you couldn’t never ’ave nothing to do with me. But a woman she +wishes as she looks, an’ never you ’ave no doubt about ’im, Miss Eva. +I’ve seen it in ’is face time an’ agin--time an’ agin.... Make it a +four pound ten funeral--with a pall.’ + +It was a seven pound fifteen shilling funeral, and all Gunnison Street +turned out to do it honour. All but two; for Lascar Loo’s mother saw +that a Power had departed, and that her road lay clear to the custards. +Therefore, when the carriages rattled off, the cat on the doorstep +heard the wail of the dying prostitute who could not die-- + +‘Oh, mother, mother, won’t you even let me lick the spoon!’ + + + + + JUDSON AND THE EMPIRE. + + + Gloriana! The Don may attack us + Whenever his stomach be fain; + He must reach us before he can rack us.... + And where are the galleons of Spain? + + DOBSON. + + +One of the many beauties of a democracy is its almost superhuman skill +in developing troubles with other countries and finding its honour +abraded in the process. A true democracy has a large contempt for all +other lands that are governed by Kings and Queens and Emperors; and +knows little and thinks less of their internal affairs. All it regards +is its own dignity, which is its King, Queen, and Knave. So, sooner or +later, its international differences end in the common people, who have +no dignity, shouting the common abuse of the street, which also has no +dignity, across the seas in order to vindicate their new dignity. The +consequences may or may not be war; but the chances do not favour peace. + +One advantage in living in a civilised land which is really governed +lies in the fact that all the Kings and Queens and Emperors of the +Continent are closely related by blood or marriage; are, in fact, +one large family. A wise head among them knows that what appears to +be a studied insult may be no more than some man’s indigestion or +woman’s indisposition, to be treated as such, and explained by quiet +talk. Again, a popular demonstration, headed by King and Court, may +mean nothing more than that so-and-so’s people are out of hand for +the minute. When a horse falls to kicking in a hunt-crowd at a gate, +the rider does not dismount, but puts his open hand behind him, and +the others draw aside. It is so with the rulers of men. In the old +days they cured their own and their people’s bad temper with fire and +slaughter; but now that the fire is so long of range and the slaughter +so large, they do other things; and few among their people guess how +much they owe of mere life and money to what the slang of the minute +calls ‘puppets’ and ‘luxuries.’ + +Once upon a time there was a little Power, the half-bankrupt wreck of a +once great empire, that lost its temper with England, the whipping-boy +of all the world, and behaved, as every one said, most scandalously. +But it is not generally known that that Power fought a pitched battle +with England and won a glorious victory. The trouble began with the +people. Their own misfortunes had been many, and for private rage it +is always refreshing to find a vent in public swearing. Their national +vanity had been deeply injured, and they thought of their ancient +glories and the days when their fleets had first rounded the Cape of +Storms, and their own newspapers called upon Camoens and urged them +to extravagances. It was the gross, smooth, sleek, lying England that +was checking their career of colonial expansion. They assumed at once +that their ruler was in league with England, so they cried with great +heat that they would forthwith become a Republic and colonially expand +themselves as a free people should. This made plain, the people threw +stones at the English Consuls and spat at English ladies, and cut off +drunken sailors of Our fleet in their ports and hammered them with +oars, and made things very unpleasant for tourists at their customs, +and threatened awful deaths to the consumptive invalids of Madeira, +while the junior officers of the Army drank fruit-extracts and entered +into most blood-curdling conspiracies against their monarch; all with +the object of being a Republic. Now the history of the South American +Republics shows that it is not good that Southern Europeans should be +also Republicans. They glide too quickly into military despotism; and +the propping of men against walls and shooting them in detachments +can be arranged much more economically and with less effect on the +death-rate by a hide-bound monarchy. Still the performances of the +Power as represented by its people were extremely inconvenient. It was +the kicking horse in the crowd, and probably the rider explained that +he could not check it. So the people enjoyed all the glory of war with +none of the risks, and the tourists who were stoned in their travels +returned stolidly to England and told the _Times_ that the police +arrangements of foreign towns were defective. + +This, then, was the state of affairs north the Line. South it was +more strained, for there the Powers were at direct issue: England, +unable to go back because of the pressure of adventurous children +behind her, and the actions of far-away adventurers who would not +come to heel, but offering to buy out her rival; and the other Power, +lacking men or money, stiff in the conviction that three hundred +years of slave-holding and intermingling with the nearest natives +gave an inalienable right to hold slaves and issue half-castes to all +eternity. They had built no roads. Their towns were rotting under +their hands; they had no trade worth the freight of a crazy steamer; +and their sovereignty ran almost one musket-shot inland when things +were peaceful. For these very reasons they raged all the more, and the +things that they said and wrote about the manners and customs of the +English would have driven a younger nation to the guns with a long red +bill for wounded honour. + +It was then that Fate sent down in a twin-screw shallow-draft gunboat, +of some 270 tons displacement, designed for the defence of rivers, +Lieutenant Harrison Edward Judson, to be known for the future as +Bai-Jove-Judson. His type of craft looked exactly like a flat-iron with +a match stuck up in the middle; it drew five feet of water or less; +carried a four-inch gun forward, which was trained by the ship; and, on +account of its persistent rolling, was, to live in, three degrees worse +than a torpedo-boat. When Judson was appointed to take charge of the +thing on her little trip of six or seven thousand miles southward, his +first remark as he went to look her over in dock was, ‘Bai Jove, that +topmast wants staying forward!’ The topmast was a stick about as thick +as a clothes-prop; but the flat-iron was Judson’s first command, and he +would not have exchanged his position for second post on the _Anson_ +or the _Howe_. He navigated her, under convoy, tenderly and lovingly +to the Cape (the story of the topmast came with him), and he was so +absurdly in love with his wallowing wash-tub when he reported himself, +that the Admiral of the station thought it would be a pity to kill a +new man on her, and allowed Judson to continue in his unenvied rule. + +The Admiral visited her once in Simon’s Bay, and she was bad, even +for a flat-iron gunboat, strictly designed for river and harbour +defence. She sweated clammy drops of dew between decks in spite of a +preparation of powdered cork that was sprinkled over her inside paint. +She rolled in the long Cape swell like a buoy; her foc’s’le was a +dog-kennel; Judson’s cabin was practically under the water-line; not +one of her dead-lights could ever be opened; and her compasses, thanks +to the influence of the four-inch gun, were a curiosity even among +Admiralty compasses. But Bai-Jove-Judson was radiant and enthusiastic. +He had even contrived to fill Mr. Davies, the second-class engine-room +artificer, who was his chief engineer, with the glow of his passion. +The Admiral, who remembered his own first command, when pride forbade +him to slack off a single rope on a dewy night, and he had racked his +rigging to pieces in consequence, looked at the flat-iron keenly. +Her fenders were done all over with white sennit, which was truly +white; her big gun was varnished with a better composition than the +Admiralty allowed; the spare sights were cased as carefully as the +chronometers; the chocks for spare spars, two of them, were made of +four-inch Burma teak carved with dragons’ heads (that was one result of +Bai-Jove-Judson’s experiences with the naval brigade in the Burmese +war), the bow-anchor was varnished instead of being painted, and there +were charts other than the Admiralty scale supplied. The Admiral was +well pleased, for he loved a ship’s husband--a man who had a little +money of his own and was willing to spend it on his command. Judson +looked at him hopefully. He was only a Junior Navigating Lieutenant +under eight years’ standing. He might be kept in Simon’s Bay for six +months, and his ship at sea was his delight. The dream of his heart +was to enliven her dismal official gray with a line of gold-leaf and, +perhaps, a little scroll-work at her blunt barge-like bows. + +‘There’s nothing like a first command, is there?’ said the Admiral, +reading his thoughts. ‘You seem to have rather queer compasses though. +Better get them adjusted.’ + +‘It’s no use, sir,’ said Judson. ‘The gun would throw out the Pole +itself. But--but I’ve got the hang of most of the weaknesses.’ + +‘Will you be good enough to lay that gun over thirty degrees, please?’ +The gun was put over. Round and round and round went the needle +merrily, and the Admiral whistled. + +‘You must have kept close to your convoy?’ + +‘Saw her twice between here and Madeira, sir,’ said Judson with a +flush, for he resented the slur on his steamship. ‘She’s--she’s a +little out of hand now, but she will settle down after a while.’ + +The Admiral went over the side, according to the rules of the Service, +but the Staff-Captain must have told the other men of the squadron in +Simon’s Bay, for they one and all made light of the flat-iron for many +days. ‘What can you shake out of her, Judson?’ said the Lieutenant of +the _Mongoose_, a real white-painted ram-bow gunboat with quick-firing +guns, as he came into the upper verandah of the little naval Club +overlooking the dockyard one hot afternoon. It is in that club, as the +captains come and go, that you hear all the gossip of all the Seven +Seas. + +‘Ten point four,’ said Bai-Jove-Judson. + +‘Ah! That was on her trial trip. She’s too much by the head now. I told +you staying that topmast would throw her out.’ + +‘You leave my top-hamper alone,’ said Judson, for the joke was +beginning to pall on him. + +‘Oh, my soul! Listen to him. Juddy’s top-hamper. Keate, have you heard +of the flat-iron’s top-hamper? You’re to leave it alone. Commodore +Judson’s feelings are hurt.’ + +Keate was the Torpedo Lieutenant of the big _Vortigern_, and he +despised small things. ‘His top-hamper,’ said he slowly. ‘Oh, ah yes, +of course. Juddy, there’s a shoal of mullet in the bay, and I think +they’re foul of your screws. Better go down, or they’ll carry away +something.’ + +‘I don’t let things carry away as a rule. You see _I’ve_ no Torpedo +Lieutenant aboard, thank God.’ + +Keate within the past week had so managed to bungle the slinging-in of +a small torpedo-boat on the _Vortigern_, that the boat had broken the +crutches on which she rested, and was herself being repaired in the +dockyard under the Club windows. + +‘One for you, Keate. Never mind, Juddy, you’re hereby appointed +dockyard-tender for the next three years, and if you’re very good and +there’s no sea on, you shall take me round the harbour. Waitabeechee, +Commodore. What’ll you take? Vanderhum for the “Cook and the captain +bold, And the mate o’ the _Nancy_ brig, And the bo’sun tight” [Juddy, +put that cue down or I’ll put you under arrest for insulting the +lieutenant of a real ship], “And the midshipmite, And the crew of the +captain’s gig.”’ + +By this time Judson had pinned him in a corner, and was prodding him +with the half-butt. The Admiral’s Secretary entered, and saw the +scuffle from the door. + +‘Ouch! Juddy, I apologise. Take that--er--topmast of yours away! Here’s +the man with the bow-string. I wish I were a Staff-captain instead of a +bloody lootenant. Sperril sleeps below every night. That’s what makes +Sperril tumble home from the waist upwards. Sperril, I defy you to +touch me. I’m under orders for Zanzibar. Probably I shall annex it!’ + +‘Judson, the Admiral wants to see you!’ said the Staff-Captain, +disregarding the scoffer of the _Mongoose_. + +‘I told you you’d be a dockyard-tender yet, Juddy. A side of fresh +beef to-morrow and three dozen snapper on ice. On ice, you understand, +Juddy?’ + +Bai-Jove-Judson and the Staff-Captain went out together. + +‘Now, what does the old man want with Judson?’ said Keate from the bar. + +‘Don’t know. Juddy’s a damned good fellow, though. I wish to goodness +he was on the _Mongoose_ with us.’ + +The Lieutenant of the _Mongoose_ dropped into a chair and read the +mail-papers for an hour. Then he saw Bai-Jove-Judson in the street and +shouted to him. Judson’s eyes were very bright, and his figure was held +very straight, and he moved joyously. Except for the Lieutenant of the +_Mongoose_, the Club was empty. + +‘Juddy, there will be a beautiful row,’ said that young man when he +had heard the news delivered in an undertone. ‘You’ll probably have to +fight, and yet I can’t see what the old man’s thinking of to----’ + +‘My orders are not to row under any circumstances,’ said Judson. + +‘Go-look-see? That all? When do you go?’ + +‘To-night if I can. I must go down and see about things. I say, I may +want a few men for the day.’ + +‘Anything on the _Mongoose_ is at your service. There’s my gig come +over now. I know that coast, dead, drunk, or asleep, and you’ll need +all the knowledge you can get. If it had only been us two together! +Come along with me.’ + +For one whole hour Judson remained closeted in the stern cabin of the +_Mongoose_, listening, poring over chart upon chart and taking notes, +and for an hour the marine at the door heard nothing but things like +these: ‘Now you’ll have to lie in here if there’s any sea on. That +current is ridiculously under-estimated, and it sets _west_ at this +season of the year, remember. Their boats never come south of this, +see? So it’s no good looking out for them.’ And so on and so forth, +while Judson lay at length on the locker by the three-pounder, and +smoked and absorbed it all. + +Next morning there was no flat-iron in Simon’s Bay; only a little +smudge of smoke off Cape Hangklip to show that Mr. Davies, the +second-class engine-room artificer, was giving her all she could carry. +At the Admiral’s house the ancient and retired bo’sun who had seen many +admirals come and go, brought out his paint and brushes and gave a new +coat of pure raw pea-green to the two big cannon balls that stood one +on each side of the Admiral’s entrance-gate. He felt dimly that great +events were stirring. + +And the flat-iron, constructed, as has been before said, solely for +the defence of rivers, met the great roll off Cape Agulhas and was +swept from end to end and sat upon her twin screws and leaped as +gracefully as a cow in a bog from one sea to another, till Mr. Davies +began to fear for the safety of his engines, and the Kroo boys that +made the majority of the crew were deathly sick. She ran along a +very badly-lighted coast, past bays that were no bays, where ugly +flat-topped rocks lay almost level with the water, and very many +extraordinary things happened that have nothing to do with the story, +but they were all duly logged by Bai-Jove-Judson. + +At last the coast changed and grew green and low and exceedingly +muddy, and there were broad rivers whose bars were little islands +standing three or four miles out at sea, and Bai-Jove-Judson hugged +the shore more closely than ever, remembering what the lieutenant of +the _Mongoose_ had told him. Then he found a river full of the smell +of fever and mud, with green stuff growing far into its waters, and a +current that made the flat-iron gasp and grunt. + +‘We will turn up here,’ said Bai-Jove-Judson, and they turned up +accordingly; Mr. Davies wondering what in the world it all meant, +and the Kroo boys grinning merrily. Bai-Jove-Judson went forward to +the bows and meditated, staring through the muddy waters. After two +hours of rooting through this desolation at an average rate of five +miles an hour, his eyes were cheered by the sight of one white buoy in +the coffee-hued mid-stream. The flat-iron crept up to it cautiously, +and a leadsman took soundings all round it from a dinghy, while +Bai-Jove-Judson smoked and thought, with his head on one side. + +‘About seven feet, isn’t there?’ said he. ‘That must be the tail-end +of the shoal. There’s four fathom in the fairway. Knock that buoy +down with axes. I don’t think it’s picturesque, somehow.’ The Kroo +men hacked the wooden sides to pieces in three minutes, and the +mooring-chain sank with the last splinters of wood. Bai-Jove-Judson +laid the flat-iron carefully over the site, while Mr. Davies watched, +biting his nails nervously. + +‘Can you back her against this current?’ said Bai-Jove-Judson. Mr. +Davies could, inch by inch, but only inch by inch, and Bai-Jove-Judson +stood in the bows and gazed at various things on the bank as they came +into line or opened out. The flat-iron dropped down over the tail of +the shoal, exactly where the buoy had been, and backed once more before +Bai-Jove-Judson was satisfied. Then they went up-stream for half an +hour, put into shoal-water by the bank and waited, with a slip-rope on +the anchor. + +‘Seems to me,’ said Mr. Davies deferentially, ‘like as if I heard some +one a-firing off at intervals, so to say.’ + +There was beyond doubt a dull mutter in the air. + +‘Seems to me,’ said Bai-Jove-Judson, ‘as if I heard a screw. Stand by +to slip her moorings.’ + +Another ten minutes passed and the beat of engines grew plainer. +Then round the bend of the river came a remarkably prettily-built +white-painted gunboat with a blue and white flag bearing a red boss in +the centre. + +‘Unshackle abaft the windlass! Stream both buoys! Easy astern. Let go, +all!’ The slip-rope flew out, the two buoys bobbed in the water to mark +where anchor and cable had been left, and the flat-iron waddled out +into mid-stream with the white ensign at her one mast-head. + +‘Give her all you can. That thing has the legs of us,’ said Judson. +‘And down we go.’ + +‘It’s war--bloody war! He’s going to fire,’ said Mr. Davies, looking up +through the engine-room hatch. + +The white gunboat without a word of explanation fired three guns +at the flat-iron, cutting the trees on the banks into green chips. +Bai-Jove-Judson was at the wheel, and Mr. Davies and the current helped +the boat to an almost respectable degree of speed. + +It was an exciting chase, but it did not last for more than five +minutes. The white gunboat fired again, and Mr. Davies in his +engine-room gave a wild shout. + +‘What’s the matter? Hit?’ said Bai-Jove-Judson. + +‘No, I’ve just seized of your roos-de-gare. Beg y’ pardon, sir.’ + +‘Right O! Just the half a fraction of a point more.’ The wheel turned +under the steady hand, as Bai-Jove-Judson watched his marks on the bank +falling in line swiftly as troops anxious to aid. The flat-iron smelt +the shoal-water under her, checked for an instant, and went on. ‘Now +we’re over. Come along, you thieves, there!’ said Judson. + +The white gunboat, too hurried even to fire, was storming in the wake +of the flat-iron, steering as she steered. This was unfortunate, +because the lighter craft was dead over the missing buoy. + +‘What you do here?’ shouted a voice from the bows. + +‘I’m going on. Sit tight. Now you’re arranged for.’ + +There was a crash and a clatter as the white gun-boat’s nose took the +shoal, and the brown mud boiled up in oozy circles under her forefoot. +Then the current caught her stern on the starboard side and drove her +broadside on to the shoal, slowly and gracefully. There she heeled at +an undignified angle, and her crew yelled aloud. + +‘Neat! Oh, damn neat!’ quoth Mr. Davies, dancing on the engine-room +plates, while the Kroo stokers beamed. + +The flat-iron turned up-stream again, and passed under the hove-up +starboard side of the white gunboat, to be received with howls and +imprecations in a strange tongue. The stranded boat, exposed even to +her lower strakes, was as defenceless as a turtle on its back, without +the advantage of the turtle’s plating. And the one big bluff gun in the +bows of the flat-iron was unpleasantly near. + +But the captain was valiant and swore mightily. Bai-Jove-Judson took no +sort of notice. His business was to go up the river. + +‘We will come in a flotilla of boats and ecrazer your vile tricks,’ +said the captain, with language that need not be published. + +Then said Bai-Jove-Judson, who was a linguist: ‘You stayo where you +areo, or I’ll leave a holo in your bottomo that will make you muchos +perforatados.’ + +There was a great deal of mixed language in reply, but Bai-Jove-Judson +was out of hearing in a few minutes, and Mr. Davies, himself a man of +few words, confided to one of his subordinates that Lieutenant Judson +was ‘a most remarkable prompt officer in a way of putting it.’ + +For two hours the flat-iron pawed madly through the muddy water, and +that which had been at first a mutter became a distinct rumble. + +‘Was war declared?’ said Mr. Davies, and Bai-Jove-Judson laughed. +‘Then, damn his eyes, he might have spoilt my pretty little engines. +There’s war up there, though.’ + +The next bend brought them full in sight of a small but lively village, +built round a whitewashed mud house of some pretensions. There were +scores and scores of saddle-coloured soldiery in dirty white uniforms +running to and fro and shouting round a man in a litter, and on a +gentle slope that ran inland for four or five miles something like a +brisk battle was raging round a rude stockade. A smell of unburied +carcasses floated through the air and vexed the sensitive nose of Mr. +Davies, who spat over the side. + +‘I want to get this gun on that house,’ said Bai-Jove-Judson, +indicating the superior dwelling over whose flat roof floated the blue +and white flag. The little twin screws kicked up the water exactly as +a hen’s legs kick in the dust before she settles down to a bath. The +little boat moved uneasily from left to right, backed, yawed again, +went ahead, and at last the gray, blunt gun’s nose was held as straight +as a rifle-barrel on the mark indicated. Then Mr. Davies allowed the +whistle to speak as it is not allowed to speak in Her Majesty’s service +on account of waste of steam. The soldiery of the village gathered into +knots and groups and bunches, and the firing up the hill ceased, and +every one except the crew of the flat-iron yelled aloud. Something like +an English cheer came down wind. + +‘Our chaps in mischief for sure, probably,’ said Mr. Davies. ‘They must +have declared war weeks ago, in a kind of way, seems to me.’ + +‘Hold her steady, you son of a soldier!’ shouted Bai-Jove-Judson, as +the muzzle fell off the white house. + +Something rang as loudly as a ship’s bell on the forward plates of the +flat-iron, something spluttered in the water, and another thing cut a +groove in the deck planking an inch in front of Bai-Jove-Judson’s left +foot. The saddle-coloured soldiery were firing as the mood took them, +and the man in the litter waved a shining sword. The muzzle of the big +gun kicked down a fraction as it was laid on the mud wall at the bottom +of the house garden. Ten pounds of gun-powder shut up in a hundred +pounds of metal was its charge. Three or four yards of the mud wall +jumped up a little, as a man jumps when he is caught in the small of +the back with a knee-cap, and then fell forward, spreading fan-wise in +the fall. The soldiery fired no more that day, and Judson saw an old +black woman climb to the flat roof of the house. She fumbled for a time +with the flag halliards, then, finding that they were jammed, took off +her one garment, which happened to be an Isabella-coloured petticoat, +and waved it impatiently. The man in the litter flourished a white +handkerchief, and Bai-Jove-Judson grinned. ‘Now we’ll give ’em one up +the hill. Round with her, Mr. Davies. Curse the man who invented those +floating gun-platforms! When can I pitch in a notice without slaying +one of those little devils?’ + +The side of the slope was speckled with men returning in a disorderly +fashion to the river-front. Behind them marched a small but very +compact body of men who had filed out of the stockade. These last +dragged quick-firing guns with them. + +‘Bai Jove, it’s a regular army. I wonder whose,’ said Bai-Jove-Judson, +and he waited developments. The descending troops met and mixed with +the troops in the village, and, with the litter in the centre, crowded +down to the river, till the men with the quick-firing guns came up +behind them. Then they divided left and right and the detachment +marched through. + +‘Heave these damned things over!’ said the leader of the party, and one +after another ten little gatlings splashed into the muddy water. The +flat-iron lay close to the bank. + +‘When you’re _quite_ done,’ said Bai-Jove-Judson politely, ‘would you +mind telling me what’s the matter? I’m in charge here.’ + +‘We’re the Pioneers of the General Development Company,’ said the +leader. ‘These little bounders have been hammering us in lager for +twelve hours, and we’re getting rid of their gatlings. Had to climb out +and take them; but they’ve snaffled the lock-actions. Glad to see you.’ + +‘Any one hurt?’ + +‘No one killed exactly; but we’re very dry.’ + +‘Can you hold your men?’ + +The man turned round and looked at his command with a grin. There were +seventy of them, all dusty and unkempt. + +‘We shan’t sack this ash-bin, if that’s what you mean. We’re mostly +gentlemen here, though we don’t look it.’ + +‘All right. Send the head of this post, or fort, or village, or +whatever it is, aboard, and make what arrangements you can for your +men.’ + +‘We’ll find some barrack accommodation somewhere. Hullo! You in the +litter there, go aboard the gunboat.’ The command wheeled round, pushed +through the dislocated soldiery, and began to search through the +village for spare huts. + +The little man in the litter came aboard smiling nervously. He was in +the fullest of full uniform, with many yards of gold lace and dangling +chains. Also he wore very large spurs; the nearest horse being not more +than four hundred miles away. ‘My children,’ said he, facing the silent +soldiery, ‘lay aside your arms.’ + +Most of the men had dropped them already and were sitting down to +smoke. ‘Let nothing,’ he added in his own tongue, ‘tempt you to kill +these who have sought your protection.’ + +‘Now,’ said Bai-Jove-Judson, on whom the last remark was lost, ‘will +you have the goodness to explain what the deuce you mean by all this +nonsense?’ + +‘It was of a necessitate,’ said the little man. ‘The operations of war +are unconformible. I am the Governor and I operate Captain. Be’old my +little sword!’ + +‘Confound your little sword, sir. I don’t want it. You’ve fired on our +flag. You’ve been firing at our people here for a week, and I’ve been +fired at coming up the river.’ + +‘Ah! The _Guadala_. She have misconstrued you for a slaver possibly. +How are the _Guadala_?’ + +‘Mistook a ship of Her Majesty’s navy for a slaver! _You_ mistake _any_ +craft for a slaver. Bai Jove, sir, I’ve a good mind to hang you at the +yard-arm!’ + +There was nothing nearer that terrible spar than the walking-stick in +the rack of Judson’s cabin. The Governor looked at the one mast and +smiled a deprecating smile. + +‘The position is embarrassment,’ he said. ‘Captain, do you think those +illustrious traders burn my capital? My people will give them beer.’ + +‘Never mind the traders, I want an explanation.’ + +‘Hum! There are popular uprising in Europe, Captain--in my country.’ +His eye wandered aimlessly round the horizon. + +‘What has that to do with----’ + +‘Captain, you are very young. There is still uproariment. But I,’--here +he slapped his chest till his epaulets jingled--‘I am loyalist to pits +of _all_ my stomachs.’ + +‘Go on,’ said Judson, and his mouth quivered. + +‘An order arrive to me to establish a custom-houses here, and to +collect of the taximent from the traders when she are come here +necessarily. That was on account of political understandings with your +country and mine. But to that arrangement there was no money also. Not +one damn little cowrie! I desire damnably to extend all commercial +things, and why? I am loyalist and there is rebellion--yes, I tell +you--Republics in my country for to just begin. You do not believe? +See some time how it exist. I cannot make this custom-houses and pay +so the high-paid officials. The people too in my country they say the +King she has no regardance into Honour of her nation. He throw away +everything--Gladstone her all, you say, hey?’ + +‘Yes, that’s what we say,’ said Judson with a grin. + +‘Therefore they say, let us be Republics on hot cakes. But I--I am +loyalist to all my hands’ ends. Captain, once I was attaché at Mexico. +I say the Republics are no good. The peoples have her stomach high. +They desire--they desire--Oh, course for the bills.’ + +‘What on earth is that?’ + +‘The cock-fight for pay at the gate. You give something, pay for see +bloody-row. Do I make my comprehension?’ + +‘A run for their money--is that what you mean? Gad, you’re a sporting +Governor!’ + +‘So I say. I am loyalist too.’ He smiled more easily. ‘Now how can +anything do herself for the customs-houses; but when the Company’s +mens she arrives, _then_ a cock-fight for pay-at-gate that is quite +correct. My army he says it will Republic and shoot me off upon walls +if I have not give her blood. An army, Captain, are terrible in her +angries--especialment when she are not paid. I know too,’ here he +laid his hand on Judson’s shoulder, ‘I know too we are old friends. +Yes! Badajos, Almeida, Fuentes d’Onor--time ever since; and a little, +little cock-fight for pay-at-gate that is good for my King. More sit +her tight on throne behind, you see? Now,’ he waved his free hand round +the decayed village, ‘I say to my armies, Fight! Fight the Company’s +men when she come, but fight not so very strong that you are any dead. +It is all in the raporta that I send. But you understand, Captain, we +are good friends all the time. Ah! Ciudad Rodrigo, you remember? No? +Perhaps your father then? So you see no one are dead, and we fight +a fight, and it is all in the raporta, to please the people in our +country; and my armies they do not put me against the walls, you see?’ + +‘Yes; but the _Guadala_. She fired on us. Was that part of your game, +my joker?’ + +‘The _Guadala_. Ah! No, I think not. Her captain he is too big fool. +But I thought she have gone down the coast. Those your gunboats poke +her nose and shove her oar in every place. How is _Guadala_?’ + +‘On a shoal. Stuck till I take her off.’ + +‘There are any deads?’ + +‘No.’ + +The Governor drew a breath of deep relief. ‘There are no deads here. So +you see none are deads anywhere, and nothing is done. Captain, you talk +to the Company’s mens. I think they are not pleased.’ + +‘Naturally.’ + +‘They have no senses. I thought to go backwards again they would. I +leave her stockade alone all night to let them out, but they stay and +come facewards to me, not backwards. They did not know we must conquer +much in all these battles, or the King, he is kicked off her throne. +Now we have won this battle--this great battle,’ he waved his arms +abroad, ‘and I think you will say so that we have won, Captain. You are +loyalist also? You would not disturb to the peaceful Europe? Captain, I +tell you this. Your Queen she know too. She would not fight her cousin. +It is a--a hand-up thing.’ + +‘What?’ + +‘Hand-up thing. Jobe you put. How you say?’ + +‘Put-up job?’ + +‘Yes. Put-up job. Who is hurt? We win. You lose. All righta!’ + +Bai-Jove-Judson had been exploding at intervals for the last five +minutes. Here he broke down completely and roared aloud. + +‘But look here, Governor,’ he said at last, ‘I’ve got to think of other +things than your riots in Europe. You’ve fired on our flag.’ + +‘Captain, if you are me, you would have done how? And also, and +also,’ he drew himself up to his full height, ‘we are both brave men +of bravest countries. Our honour is the honour of our King,’ here he +uncovered, ‘and of our Queen,’ here he bowed low. ‘Now, Captain, you +shall shell my palace and I will be your prisoner.’ + +‘Skittles!’ said Bai-Jove-Judson. ‘I can’t shell that old hencoop.’ + +‘Then come to dinner. Madeira, she are still to us, and I have of the +best she manufac.’ + +He skipped over the side beaming, and Bai-Jove-Judson went into the +cabin to laugh his laugh out. When he had recovered a little he +sent Mr. Davies to the head of the Pioneers, the dusty man with the +gatlings, and the troops who had abandoned the pursuit of arms watched +the disgraceful spectacle of two men reeling with laughter on the +quarter-deck of a gunboat. + +‘I’ll put my men to build him a custom-house,’ said the head of the +Pioneers gasping. ‘We’ll make him one decent road at least. That +Governor ought to be knighted. I’m glad now that we didn’t fight ’em in +the open, or we’d have killed some of them. So he’s won great battles, +has he? Give him the compliments of the victims, and tell him I’m +coming to dinner. You haven’t such a thing as a dress-suit, have you? I +haven’t seen one for six months.’ + +That evening there was a dinner in the village--a general and +enthusiastic dinner, whose head was in the Governor’s house, and whose +tail threshed at large throughout all the streets. The Madeira was +everything that the Governor had said, and more, and it was tested +against two or three bottles of Bai-Jove-Judson’s best Vanderhum, which +is Cape brandy ten years in the bottle, flavoured with orange-peel and +spices. Before the coffee was removed (by the lady who had made the +flag of truce) the Governor had given the whole of his governorship and +its appurtenances, once to Bai-Jove-Judson for services rendered by +Judson’s grandfather in the Peninsular War, and once to the head of the +Pioneers, in consideration of that gentleman’s good friendship. After +the negotiation he retreated for a while into an inner apartment, and +there evolved a true and complete account of the defeat of the English +arms, which he read with his cocked hat over one eye to Judson and his +companion. It was Judson who suggested the sinking of the flat-iron +with all hands, and the head of the Pioneers who supplied the list of +killed and wounded (not more than two hundred) in his command. + +‘Gentlemen,’ said the Governor from under his cocked hat, ‘the peace +of Europe are saved by this raporta. You shall all be Knights of the +Golden Hide. She shall go by the _Guadala_.’ + +‘Great Heavens!’ said Bai-Jove-Judson, flushed but composed, ‘That +reminds me that I’ve left that boat stuck on her broadside down the +river. I must go down and sooth the commandante. He’ll be blue with +rage. Governor, let us go a sail on the river to cool our heads. A +picnic, you understand.’ + +‘Ya--as: everything I understand. Ho! A picnica! You are all my +prisoner, but I am a good gaoler. We shall picnic on the river, and we +shall take _all_ the girls. Come on, my prisoners.’ + +‘I do hope,’ said the head of the Pioneers, staring from the verandah +into the roaring village, ‘that my chaps won’t set the town alight by +accident. Hullo! Hullo! A guard of honour for His Excellency, the most +illustrious Governor!’ + +Some thirty men answered the call, made a swaying line upon a more +swaying course, and bore the Governor most swayingly of all high in +their arms as they staggered down to the river. And the song that +they sang bade them, ‘Swing, swing together, their body between their +knees’; and they obeyed the words of the song faithfully, except that +they were anything but ‘steady from stroke to bow.’ His Excellency the +Governor slept on his uneasy litter, and did not wake when the chorus +dropped him on the deck of the flat-iron. + +‘Good-night and good-bye,’ said the head of the Pioneers to Judson. +‘I’d give you my card if I had it, but I’m so damned drunk I hardly +know my own Club. Oh yes! It’s the Travellers. If ever we meet in town, +remember me. I must stay here and look after my fellows. We’re all +right in the open, now. I s’pose you’ll return the Governor some time. +This is a political crisis. Good-night.’ + +The flat-iron went down-stream through the dark. The Governor slept on +deck, and Judson took the wheel, but how he steered, and why he did +not run into each bank many times, that officer does not remember. +Mr. Davies did not note anything unusual, for there are two ways of +taking too much, and Judson was only ward-room, not fo’c’s’le drunk. +As the night grew colder the Governor woke up, and expressed a desire +for whisky and soda. When that came they were nearly abreast of the +stranded _Guadala_, and His Excellency saluted the flag that he could +not see with loyal and patriotic strains. + +‘They do not see. They do not hear,’ he cried. ‘Ten thousand saints! +They sleep, and I have won battles! Ha!’ + +He started forward to the gun, which, very naturally, was loaded, +pulled the lanyard, and woke the dead night with the roar of the full +charge behind a common shell. That shell, mercifully, just missed the +stern of the _Guadala_, and burst on the bank. ‘Now you shall salute +your Governor,’ said he, as he heard feet running in all directions +within the iron skin. ‘Why you demand so base a quarter? I am here +with all my prisoners.’ + +In the hurly-burly and the general shriek for mercy his reassurances +were not heard. + +‘Captain,’ said a grave voice from the ship, ‘we have surrendered. Is +it the custom of the English to fire on a helpless ship?’ + +‘Surrendered! Holy Virgin! I go to cut off all their heads. You shall +be ate by wild ants--flog and drowned! Throw me a balcony. It is I, +the Governor! You shall never surrender. Judson of my soul, ascend her +inside, and send me a bed, for I am sleepy; but, oh, I will multiple +time kill that captain!’ + +‘Oh!’ said the voice in the darkness, ‘I begin to comprehend.’ And a +rope-ladder was thrown, up which the Governor scrambled, with Judson at +his heels. + +‘Now we will enjoy executions,’ said the Governor on the deck. ‘All +these Republicans shall be shot. Little Judson, if I am _not_ drunk, +why are so sloping the boards which do not support?’ + +The deck, as I have said, was at a very stiff cant. His Excellency sat +down, slid to leeward, and fell asleep again. + +The captain of the _Guadala_ bit his moustache furiously, and muttered +in his own tongue: ‘“This land is the father of great villains and the +step-father of honest men.” You see our material, Captain. It is so +everywhere with us. You have killed some of the rats, I hope?’ + +‘Not a rat,’ said Judson genially. + +‘That is a pity. If they were dead, our country might send us men, but +our country is dead too, and I am dishonoured on a mud-bank through +your English treachery.’ + +‘Well, it seems to me that firing on a little tub of our size without +a word of warning when you knew that the countries were at peace is +treachery enough in a small way.’ + +‘If one of my guns had touched you, you would have gone to the bottom, +all of you. I would have taken the risk with my Government. By that +time it would have been----’ + +‘A Republic. So you really _did_ mean fighting on your own hook! You’re +rather a dangerous officer to cut loose in a navy like yours. Well, +what are you going to do now?’ + +‘Stay here. Go away in boats. What does it matter? That drunken +cat’--he pointed to the shadow in which the Governor slept--‘is here. I +must take him back to his hole.’ + +‘Very good. I’ll tow you off at daylight if you get steam up.’ + +‘Captain, I warn you that as soon as she floats again I will fight you.’ + +‘Humbug! You’ll have lunch with me, and then you’ll take the Governor +up the river.’ + +The captain was silent for some time. Then he said: ‘Let us drink. What +must be, must be, and after all we have not forgotten the Peninsular. +You will admit, Captain, that it is bad to be run upon a shoal like a +mud-dredger?’ + +‘Oh, we’ll pull you off before you can say knife. Take care of His +Excellency. I shall try to get a little sleep now.’ + +They slept on both ships till the morning, and then the work of towing +off the _Guadala_ began. With the help of her own engines, and the +tugging and puffing of the flat-iron, she slid off the mud-bank +sideways into deep water, the flat-iron immediately under her stern, +and the big eye of the four-inch gun almost peering through the window +of the captain’s cabin. + +Remorse in the shape of a violent headache had overtaken the Governor. +He was uneasily conscious that he might perhaps have exceeded his +powers, and the captain of the _Guadala_, in spite of all his patriotic +sentiments, remembered distinctly that no war had been declared between +the two countries. He did not need the Governor’s repeated reminders +that war, serious war, meant a Republic at home, possible supersession +in his command, and much shooting of living men against dead walls. + +‘We have satisfied our honour,’ said the Governor in confidence. ‘Our +army is appeased, and the raporta that you take home will show that +we were loyal and brave. That other captain? Bah! He is a boy. He +will call this a--a--Judson of my soul, how you say this is--all this +affairs which have transpirated between us?’ + +Judson was watching the last hawser slipping through the fairlead. +‘Call it? Oh, I should call it rather a lark. Now your boat’s all +right, captain. When will you come to lunch?’ + +‘I told you,’ said the Governor, ‘it would be a larque to him.’ + +‘Mother of the Saints! then what is his seriousness?’ said the captain. +‘We shall be happy to come when you will. Indeed, we have no other +choice,’ he added bitterly. + +‘Not at all,’ said Judson, and as he looked at the three or four shot +blisters on the bows of his boat a brilliant idea took him. ‘It is we +who are at your mercy. See how His Excellency’s guns knocked us about.’ + +‘Senor Capitan,’ said the Governor pityingly, ‘that is very sad. You +are most injured, and your deck too, it is all shot over. We shall not +be too severe on a beat man, shall we, captain?’ + +‘You couldn’t spare us a little paint, could you? I’d like to patch up +a little after the--action,’ said Judson meditatively, fingering his +upper lip to hide a smile. + +‘Our storeroom is at your disposition,’ said the captain of the +_Guadala_, and his eye brightened; for a few lead splashes on gray +paint make a big show. + +‘Mr. Davies, go aboard and see what they have to spare--to spare, +remember. Their spar-colour with a little working up should be just our +free-board tint.’ + +‘Oh yes. I’ll spare them,’ said Mr. Davies savagely. ‘I don’t +understand this how-d’you-do and damn-your-eyes business coming one +atop of the other, in a manner o’ speaking! By all rights, they’re our +lawful prize, after a manner o’ sayin’.’ + +The Governor and the captain came to lunch in the absence of Mr. +Davies. Bai-Jove-Judson had not much to offer them, but what he had was +given as by a beaten foeman to a generous conqueror. When they were a +little warmed--the Governor genial and the captain almost effusive--he +explained quite casually over the opening of a bottle that it would not +be to his interest to report the affair seriously, and it was in the +highest degree improbable that the Admiral would treat it in any grave +fashion. + +‘When my decks are cut up’ (there was one groove across four planks), +‘and my plates buckled’ (there were five lead patches on three plates), +‘and I meet such a boat as the _Guadala_, and a mere accident saves me +from being blown out of the water----’ + +‘Yes. A mere accident, Captain. The shoal-buoy has been lost,’ said the +captain of the _Guadala_. + +‘Ah? I do not know this river. That was very sad. But as I was +saying, when an accident saves me from being sunk, what can I do but +go away--if that is possible? But I fear that I have no coal for the +sea-voyage. It is very sad.’ Judson had compromised on what he knew of +the French tongue as a medium of communication. + +‘It is enough,’ said the Governor, waving a generous hand. ‘Judson of +my soul, the coal is yours and you shall be repaired--yes, repaired +all over, of your battle’s wounds. You shall go with all the honours +of all the wars. Your flag shall fly. Your drum shall beat. Your, +ah!--jolly-boys shall spoke their bayonets! Is it not so, captain?’ + +‘As you say, Excellency. But those traders in the town. What of them?’ + +The Governor looked puzzled for an instant. He could not quite remember +what had happened to those jovial men who had cheered him overnight. +Judson interrupted swiftly: ‘His Excellency has set them to forced +works on barracks and magazines, and, I think, a custom-house. When +that is done they will be released, I hope, Excellency.’ + +‘Yes, they shall be released for your sake, little Judson of my heart.’ +Then they drank the health of their respective sovereigns, while +Mr. Davies superintended the removal of the scarred plank and the +shot-marks on the deck and the bow-plates. + +‘Oh, this is too bad,’ said Judson when they went on deck. ‘That idiot +has exceeded his instructions, but--but you must let me pay for this!’ + +Mr. Davies, his legs in the water as he sat on a staging slung over +the bows, was acutely conscious that he was being blamed in a foreign +tongue. He twisted uneasily, and went on with his work. + +‘What is it?’ said the Governor. + +‘That thick-head has thought that we needed some gold-leaf, and he has +borrowed that from your storeroom, but I must make it good.’ Then in +English, ‘Stand up, Mr. Davies! What the Furnace in Tophet do you mean +by taking their gold-leaf? My ----, are we a set of hairy pirates to +scoff the storeroom out of a painted Levantine bumboat. Look contrite, +you butt-ended, broad-breeched, bottle-bellied, swivel-eyed son of a +tinker, you! My Soul alive, can’t I maintain discipline in my own ship +without a hired blacksmith of a boiler-rivetter putting me to shame +before a yellow-nosed picaroon! Get off the staging, Mr. Davies, and +go to the engine-room! Put down that leaf first, though, and leave the +books where they are. I’ll send for you in a minute. Go aft!’ + +Now, only the upper half of Mr. Davies’s round face was above the +bulwarks when this torrent of abuse descended upon him; and it rose +inch by inch as the shower continued, blank amazement, bewilderment, +rage, and injured pride chasing each other across it till he saw +his superior officer’s left eyelid flutter on the cheek twice. Then +he fled to the engine-room, and wiping his brow with a handful of +cotton-waste, sat down to overtake circumstances. + +‘I am desolated,’ said Judson to his companions, ‘but you see the +material that they give us. This leaves me more in your debt than +before. The stuff I can replace’ [gold-leaf is never carried on +floating gun-platforms], ‘but for the insolence of that man how shall I +apologise?’ + +Mr. Davies’s mind moved slowly, but after a while he transferred the +cotton-waste from his forehead to his mouth and bit on it to prevent +laughter. He began a second dance on the engine-room plates. ‘Neat! +Oh, damned neat!’ he chuckled. ‘I’ve served with a good few, but there +never was one so neat as him. And I thought he was the new kind that +don’t know how to throw a few words, as it were.’ + +‘Mr. Davies, you can continue your work,’ said Judson down the +engine-room hatch. ‘These officers have been good enough to speak in +your favour. Make a thorough job of it while you are about it. Slap on +every man you have. Where did you get hold of it?’ + +‘Their storeroom is a regular theatre, sir. You couldn’t miss it. +There’s enough for two first-rates, and I’ve scoffed the best half of +it.’ + +‘Look sharp then. We shall be coaling from her this afternoon. You’ll +have to cover it all up.’ + +‘Neat! Oh, damned neat!’ said Mr. Davies under his breath, as he +gathered his subordinates together, and set about accomplishing the +long-deferred wish of Judson’s heart. + + * * * * * + +It was the _Martin Frobisher_, the flagship, a great war-boat when she +was new, in the days when men built for sail as well as for steam. She +could turn twelve knots under full sail, and it was under that that +she stood up the mouth of the river, a pyramid of silver beneath the +moon. The Admiral, fearing that he had given Judson a task beyond his +strength, was coming to look for him, and incidentally to do a little +diplomatic work along the coast. There was hardly wind enough to move +the _Frobisher_ a couple of knots an hour, and the silence of the land +closed about her as she entered the fairway. Her yards sighed a little +from time to time, and the ripple under her bows answered the sigh. The +full moon rose over the steaming swamps, and the Admiral gazing upon it +thought less of Judson and more of the softer emotions. In answer to +the very mood of his mind there floated across the silver levels of the +water, mellowed by distance to a most poignant sweetness, the throb of +a mandolin, and the voice of one who called upon a genteel Julia--upon +Julia, and upon Love. The song ceased, and the sighing of the yards was +all that broke the silence of the big ship. + +Again the mandolin began, and the commander on the lee side of the +quarter-deck grinned a grin that was reflected in the face of the +signal-midshipman. Not a word of the song was lost, and the voice of +the singer was the voice of Judson. + + ‘Last week down our alley came a toff, + Nice old geyser with a nasty cough, + Sees my missus, takes his topper off, + Quite in a gentlemanly way’-- + +and so on to the end of the verse. The chorus was borne by several +voices, and the signal-midshipman’s foot began to tap the deck +furtively. + + ‘“What cheer!” all the neighbours cried. + “Oo are you goin’ to meet, Bill? + ’Ave you bought the street, Bill?” + Laugh?--I thought I should ha’ died + When I knocked ’em in the Old Kent Road.’ + +It was the Admiral’s gig, rowing softly, that came into the midst of +that merry little smoking-concert. It was Judson, with the beribboned +mandolin round his neck, who received the Admiral as he came up the +side of the _Guadala_, and it may or may not have been the Admiral +who stayed till three in the morning and delighted the hearts of the +Captain and the Governor. He had come as an unbidden guest, and he +departed as an honoured one, but strictly unofficial throughout. Judson +told his tale next day in the Admiral’s cabin as well as he could in +the face of the Admiral’s gales of laughter; but the most amazing tale +was that told by Mr. Davies to his friends in the dockyard at Simon’s +Town from the point of view of a second-class engine-room artificer, +all unversed in diplomacy. + +And if there be no truth either in my tale, which is Judson’s tale, +or the tales of Mr. Davies, you will _not_ find in harbour at Simon’s +Town to-day a flat-bottomed, twin-screw gunboat, designed solely for +the defence of rivers, about two hundred and seventy tons displacement +and five feet draught, wearing in open defiance of the rules of the +Service a gold line on her gray paint. It follows also that you will +be compelled to credit that version of the fray which, signed by His +Excellency the Governor and despatched in the _Guadala_, satisfied the +self-love of a great and glorious people, and saved a monarchy from the +ill-considered despotism which is called a Republic. + + + + + THE CHILDREN OF THE ZODIAC. + + + Though thou love her as thyself, + As a self of purer clay, + Though her parting dim the day, + Stealing grace from all alive, + Heartily know + When half Gods go + The Gods arrive. EMERSON. + + +Thousands of years ago, when men were greater than they are to-day, +the Children of the Zodiac lived in the world. There were six Children +of the Zodiac--the Ram, the Bull, Leo, the Twins, and the Girl; and +they were afraid of the Six Houses which belonged to the Scorpion, +the Balance, the Crab, the Fishes, the Archer, and the Waterman. Even +when they first stepped down upon the earth and knew that they were +immortal Gods, they carried this fear with them; and the fear grew as +they became better acquainted with mankind and heard stories of the Six +Houses. Men treated the Children as Gods and came to them with prayers +and long stories of wrong, while the Children of the Zodiac listened +and could not understand. + +A mother would fling herself before the feet of the Twins, or the Bull, +crying: ‘My husband was at work in the fields and the Archer shot him +and he died; and my son will also be killed by the Archer. Help me!’ +The Bull would lower his huge head and answer: ‘What is that to me?’ +Or the Twins would smile and continue their play, for they could not +understand why the water ran out of people’s eyes. At other times a man +and a woman would come to Leo or the Girl crying: ‘We two are newly +married and we are very happy. Take these flowers.’ As they threw the +flowers they would make mysterious sounds to show that they were happy, +and Leo and the Girl wondered even more than the Twins why people +shouted ‘Ha! ha! ha!’ for no cause. + +This continued for thousands of years by human reckoning, till on a +day, Leo met the Girl walking across the hills and saw that she had +changed entirely since he had last seen her. The Girl, looking at Leo, +saw that he too had changed altogether. Then they decided that it would +be well never to separate again, in case even more startling changes +should occur when the one was not at hand to help the other. Leo kissed +the Girl and all Earth felt that kiss, and the Girl sat down on a hill +and the water ran out of her eyes; and this had never happened before +in the memory of the Children of the Zodiac. + +As they sat together a man and a woman came by, and the man said to the +woman: + +‘What is the use of wasting flowers on those dull Gods? They will never +understand, darling.’ + +The Girl jumped up and put her arms round the woman, crying, ‘I +understand. Give me the flowers and I will give you a kiss.’ + +Leo said beneath his breath to the man: ‘What was the new name that I +heard you give to your woman just now?’ + +The man answered, ‘Darling, of course.’ + +‘Why “of course”?’ said Leo; ‘and if of course, what does it mean?’ + +‘It means “very dear,” and you have only to look at your wife to see +why.’ + +‘I see,’ said Leo; ‘you are quite right’; and when the man and the +woman had gone on he called the Girl ‘darling wife’; and the Girl wept +again from sheer happiness. + +‘I think,’ she said at last, wiping her eyes, ‘I think that we two have +neglected men and women too much. What did you do with the sacrifices +they made to you, Leo?’ + +‘I let them burn,’ said Leo; ‘I could not eat them. What did you do +with the flowers?’ + +‘I let them wither. I could not wear them, I had so many of my own,’ +said the Girl, ‘and now I am sorry.’ + +‘There is nothing to grieve for,’ said Leo; ‘we belong to each other.’ + +As they were talking the years of men’s life slipped by unnoticed, and +presently the man and the woman came back, both white-headed, the man +carrying the woman. + +‘We have come to the end of things,’ said the man quietly. ‘This that +was my wife--’ + +‘As I am Leo’s wife,’ said the Girl quickly, her eyes staring. + +‘--was my wife, has been killed by one of your Houses.’ The man set +down his burden, and laughed. + +‘Which House?’ said Leo angrily, for he hated all the Houses equally. + +‘You are Gods, you should know,’ said the man. ‘We have lived together +and loved one another, and I have left a good farm for my son. What +have I to complain of except that I still live?’ + +As he was bending over his wife’s body there came a whistling through +the air, and he started and tried to run away, crying, ‘It is the arrow +of the Archer. Let me live a little longer--only a little longer!’ The +arrow struck him and he died. Leo looked at the Girl and she looked at +him, and both were puzzled. + +‘He wished to die,’ said Leo. ‘He said that he wished to die, and when +Death came he tried to run away. He is a coward.’ + +‘No, he is not,’ said the Girl; ‘I think I feel what he felt. Leo, we +must learn more about this for their sakes.’ + +‘For _their_ sakes,’ said Leo, very loudly. + +‘Because _we_ are never going to die,’ said the Girl and Leo together, +still more loudly. + +‘Now sit you still here, darling wife,’ said Leo, ‘while I go to the +Houses whom we hate, and learn how to make these men and women live as +we do.’ + +‘And love as we do,’ said the Girl. + +‘I do not think they need to be taught that,’ said Leo, and he strode +away very angry, with his lion-skin swinging from his shoulder, till he +came to the House where the Scorpion lives in the darkness, brandishing +his tail over his back. + +‘Why do you trouble the children of men?’ said Leo, with his heart +between his teeth. + +‘Are you so sure that I trouble the children of men alone?’ said the +Scorpion. ‘Speak to your brother the Bull, and see what he says.’ + +‘I come on behalf of the children of men,’ said Leo. ‘I have learned to +love as they do, and I wish them to live as I--as we do.’ + +‘Your wish was granted long ago. Speak to the Bull. He is under my +special care,’ said the Scorpion. + +Leo dropped back to the earth again, and saw the great star Aldebaran, +that is set in the forehead of the Bull, blazing very near to the +earth. When he came up to it he saw that his brother the Bull, yoked to +a countryman’s plough, was toiling through a wet rice-field with his +head bent down, and the sweat streaming from his flanks. The countryman +was urging him forward with a goad. + +‘Gore that insolent to death,’ cried Leo, ‘and for the sake of our +honour come out of the mire.’ + +‘I cannot,’ said the Bull, ‘the Scorpion has told me that some day, of +which I cannot be sure, he will sting me where my neck is set on my +shoulders, and that I shall die bellowing.’ + +‘What has that to do with this disgraceful work?’ said Leo, standing on +the dyke that bounded the wet field. + +‘Everything. This man could not plough without my help. He thinks that +I am a stray beast.’ + +‘But he is a mud-crusted cottar with matted hair,’ insisted Leo. ‘We +are not meant for his use.’ + +‘You may not be; I am. I cannot tell when the Scorpion may choose to +sting me to death--perhaps before I have turned this furrow.’ The Bull +flung his bulk into the yoke, and the plough tore through the wet +ground behind him, and the countryman goaded him till his flanks were +red. + +‘Do you like this?’ Leo called down the dripping furrows. + +‘No,’ said the Bull over his shoulder as he lifted his hind legs from +the clinging mud and cleared his nostrils. + +Leo left him scornfully and passed to another country, where he found +his brother the Ram in the centre of a crowd of country-people who were +hanging wreaths round his neck and feeding him on freshly-plucked green +corn. + +‘This is terrible,’ said Leo. ‘Break up that crowd and come away, my +brother. Their hands are spoiling your fleece.’ + +‘I cannot,’ said the Ram. ‘The Archer told me that on some day of which +I had no knowledge, he would send a dart through me, and that I should +die in very great pain.’ + +‘What has that to do with this disgraceful show?’ said Leo, but he did +not speak as confidently as before. + +‘Everything in the world,’ said the Ram. ‘These people never saw a +perfect sheep before. They think that I am a stray, and they will carry +me from place to place as a model to all their flocks.’ + +‘But they are greasy shepherds; we are not intended to amuse them,’ +said Leo. + +‘You may not be, I am,’ said the Ram. ‘I cannot tell when the Archer +may choose to send his arrow at me--perhaps before the people a mile +down the road have seen me.’ The Ram lowered his head that a yokel +newly arrived might throw a wreath of wild garlic-leaves over it, and +waited patiently while the farmers tugged his fleece. + +‘Do you like this?’ cried Leo over the shoulders of the crowd. + +‘No,’ said the Ram, as the dust of the trampling feet made him sneeze, +and he snuffed at the fodder piled before him. + +Leo turned back intending to retrace his steps to the Houses, but as +he was passing down a street he saw two small children, very dusty, +rolling outside a cottage door, and playing with a cat. They were the +Twins. + +‘What are you doing here?’ said Leo, indignant. + +‘Playing,’ said the Twins calmly. + +‘Cannot you play on the banks of the Milky Way?’ said Leo. + +‘We did,’ said they, ‘till the Fishes swam down and told us that some +day they would come for us and not hurt us at all and carry us away. So +now we are playing at being babies down here. The people like it.’ + +‘Do you like it?’ said Leo. + +‘No,’ said the Twins, ‘but there are no cats in the Milky Way,’ and +they pulled the cat’s tail thoughtfully. A woman came out of the +doorway and stood behind them, and Leo saw in her face a look that he +had sometimes seen in the Girl’s. + +‘She thinks that we are foundlings,’ said the Twins, and they trotted +indoors to the evening meal. + +Then Leo hurried as swiftly as possible to all the Houses one after +another; for he could not understand the new trouble that had come +to his brethren. He spoke to the Archer, and the Archer assured him +that so far as that House was concerned Leo had nothing to fear. The +Waterman, the Fishes, and the Scorpion gave the same answer. They knew +nothing of Leo, and cared less. They were the Houses, and they were +busied in killing men. + +At last he came to that very dark House where Cancer the Crab lies +so still that you might think he was asleep if you did not see the +ceaseless play and winnowing motion of the feathery branches round his +mouth. That movement never ceases. It is like the eating of a smothered +fire into rotten timber in that it is noiseless and without haste. + +Leo stood in front of the Crab, and the half darkness allowed him a +glimpse of that vast blue-black back, and the motionless eyes. Now and +again he thought that he heard some one sobbing, but the noise was very +faint. + +‘Why do you trouble the children of men?’ said Leo. There was no +answer, and against his will Leo cried, ‘Why do you trouble us? What +have we done that you should trouble us?’ + +This time Cancer replied, ‘What do I know or care? You were born into +my House, and at the appointed time I shall come for you.’ + +‘When is the appointed time?’ said Leo, stepping back from the restless +movement of the mouth. + +‘When the full moon fails to call the full tide,’ said the Crab, ‘I +shall come for the one. When the other has taken the earth by the +shoulders, I shall take that other by the throat.’ + +Leo lifted his hand to the apple of his throat, moistened his lips, and +recovering himself, said: + +‘Must I be afraid for two, then?’ + +‘For two,’ said the Crab, ‘and as many more as may come after.’ + +‘My brother, the Bull, had a better fate,’ said Leo, sullenly; ‘he is +alone.’ + +A hand covered his mouth before he could finish the sentence, and he +found the Girl in his arms. Womanlike, she had not stayed where Leo had +left her, but had hastened off at once to know the worst, and passing +all the other Houses, had come straight to Cancer. + +‘That is foolish,’ said the Girl, whispering. ‘I have been waiting in +the dark for long and long before you came. _Then_ I was afraid. But +now----’ She put her head down on his shoulder and sighed a sigh of +contentment. + +‘I am afraid now,’ said Leo. + +‘That is on my account,’ said the Girl. ‘I know it is, because I am +afraid for your sake. Let us go, husband.’ + +They went out of the darkness together and came back to the Earth, Leo +very silent, and the Girl striving to cheer him. ‘My brother’s fate is +the better one,’ Leo would repeat from time to time, and at last he +said: ‘Let us each go our own way and live alone till we die. We were +born into the House of Cancer, and he will come for us.’ + +‘I know; I know. But where shall I go? And where will you sleep in the +evening? But let us try. I will stay here. Do you go on?’ + +Leo took six steps forward very slowly, and three long steps backward +very quickly, and the third step set him again at the Girl’s side. This +time it was she who was begging him to go away and leave her, and he +was forced to comfort her all through the night. That night decided +them both never to leave each other for an instant, and when they had +come to this decision they looked back at the darkness of the House of +Cancer high above their heads, and with their arms round each other’s +necks laughed, ‘Ha! ha! ha!’ exactly as the children of men laughed. +And that was the first time in their lives that they had ever laughed. + +Next morning they returned to their proper home, and saw the flowers +and the sacrifices that had been laid before their doors by the +villagers of the hills. Leo stamped down the fire with his heel and +the Girl flung the flower-wreaths out of sight, shuddering as she did +so. When the villagers returned, as of custom, to see what had become +of their offerings, they found neither roses nor burned flesh on the +altars, but only a man and a woman, with frightened white faces, +sitting hand-in-hand on the altar-steps. + +‘Are you not Virgo?’ said a woman to the Girl. ‘I sent you flowers +yesterday.’ + +‘Little sister,’ said the Girl, flushing to her forehead, ‘do not send +any more flowers, for I am only a woman like yourself.’ The man and the +woman went away doubtfully. + +‘Now, what shall we do?’ said Leo. + +‘We must try to be cheerful, I think,’ said the Girl. ‘We know the very +worst that can happen to us, but we do not know the best that love can +bring us. We have a great deal to be glad of.’ + +‘The certainty of death,’ said Leo. + +‘All the children of men have that certainty also; yet they laughed +long before we ever knew how to laugh. We must learn to laugh, Leo. We +have laughed once already.’ + +People who consider themselves Gods, as the Children of the Zodiac +did, find it hard to laugh, because the Immortals know nothing worth +laughter or tears. Leo rose up with a very heavy heart, and he and the +girl together went to and fro among men; their new fear of death behind +them. First they laughed at a naked baby attempting to thrust its fat +toes into its foolish pink mouth; next they laughed at a kitten chasing +her own tail; and then they laughed at a boy trying to steal a kiss +from a girl, and getting his ears boxed. Lastly, they laughed because +the wind blew in their faces as they ran down a hill-side together, and +broke panting and breathless into a knot of villagers at the bottom. +The villagers laughed too at their flying clothes and wind-reddened +faces; and in the evening gave them food and invited them to a dance on +the grass, where everybody laughed through the mere joy of being able +to dance. + +That night Leo jumped up from the Girl’s side crying: ‘Every one of +those people we met just now will die----’ + +‘So shall we,’ said the Girl sleepily. ‘Lie down again, dear.’ Leo +could not see that her face was wet with tears. + +But Leo was up and far across the fields, driven forward by the fear of +death for himself and for the Girl, who was dearer to him than himself. +Presently he came across the Bull drowsing in the moonlight after a +hard day’s work, and looking through half-shut eyes at the beautiful +straight furrows that he had made. + +‘Ho!’ said the Bull, ‘so you have been told these things too. Which of +the Houses holds your death?’ + +Leo pointed upwards to the dark House of the Crab and groaned. ‘And he +will come for the Girl too,’ he said. + +‘Well,’ said the Bull, ‘what will you do?’ + +Leo sat down on the dyke and said that he did not know. + +‘You cannot pull a plough,’ said the Bull, with a little touch of +contempt. ‘I can, and that prevents me from thinking of the Scorpion.’ + +Leo was angry and said nothing till the dawn broke, and the cultivator +came to yoke the Bull to his work. + +‘Sing,’ said the Bull, as the stiff muddy ox-bow creaked and strained. +‘My shoulder is galled. Sing one of the songs that we sang when we +thought we were all Gods together.’ + +Leo stepped back into the cane-brake and lifted up his voice in a song +of the Children of the Zodiac--the war-whoop of the young Gods who are +afraid of nothing. At first he dragged the song along unwillingly, and +then the song dragged him, and his voice rolled across the fields, and +the Bull stepped to the tune and the cultivator banged his flanks out +of sheer light-heartedness, and the furrows rolled away behind the +plough more and more swiftly. Then the Girl came across the fields +looking for Leo and found him singing in the cane. She joined her voice +to his, and the cultivator’s wife brought her spinning into the open +and listened with all her children round her. When it was time for the +nooning, Leo and the Girl had sung themselves both thirsty and hungry, +but the cultivator and his wife gave them rye-bread and milk, and many +thanks, and the Bull found occasion to say: ‘You have helped me to do a +full half-field more than I should have done. But the hardest part of +the day is to come, brother.’ + +Leo wished to lie down and brood over the words of the Crab. The Girl +went away to talk to the cultivator’s wife and baby, and the afternoon +ploughing began. + +‘Help us now,’ said the Bull. ‘The tides of the day are running down. +My legs are very stiff. Sing if you never sang before.’ + +‘To a mud-spattered villager?’ said Leo. + +‘He is under the same doom as ourselves. Are you a coward?’ said the +Bull. Leo flushed and began again with a sore throat and a bad temper. +Little by little he dropped away from the songs of the Children and +made up a song as he went along; and this was a thing he could never +have done had he not met the Crab face to face. He remembered facts +concerning cultivators, and bullocks, and rice-fields, that he had +not particularly noticed before the interview, and he strung them +all together, growing more interested as he sang, and he told the +cultivator much more about himself and his work than the cultivator +knew. The Bull grunted approval as he toiled down the furrows for the +last time that day, and the song ended, leaving the cultivator with a +very good opinion of himself in his aching bones. The Girl came out +of the hut where she had been keeping the children quiet, and talking +woman-talk to the wife, and they all ate the evening meal together. + +‘Now yours must be a very pleasant life,’ said the cultivator, ‘sitting +as you do on a dyke all day and singing just what comes into your head. +Have you been at it long, you two--gipsies?’ + +‘Ah!’ lowed the Bull from his byre. ‘That’s all the thanks you will +ever get from men, brother.’ + +‘No. We have only just begun it,’ said the Girl; ‘but we are going to +keep to it as long as we live. Are we not, Leo?’ + +‘Yes,’ said he, and they went away hand-in-hand. + +‘You can sing beautifully, Leo,’ said she, as a wife will to her +husband. + +‘What were you doing?’ said he. + +‘I was talking to the mother and the babies,’ she said. ‘You would not +understand the little things that make us women laugh.’ + +‘And--and I am to go on with this--this gipsy-work?’ said Leo. + +‘Yes, dear, and I will help you.’ + +There is no written record of the life of Leo and of the Girl, so we +cannot tell how Leo took to his new employment which he detested. We +are only sure that the Girl loved him when and wherever he sang; even +when, after the song was done, she went round with the equivalent of +a tambourine, and collected the pence for the daily bread. There were +times too when it was Leo’s very hard task to console the Girl for the +indignity of horrible praise that people gave him and her--for the +silly wagging peacock feathers that they stuck in his cap, and the +buttons and pieces of cloth that they sewed on his coat. Womanlike, +she could advise and help to the end, but the meanness of the means +revolted. + +‘What does it matter,’ Leo would say, ‘so long as the songs make them +a little happier?’ And they would go down the road and begin again on +the old old refrain: that whatever came or did not come the children +of men must not be afraid. It was heavy teaching at first, but in +process of years Leo discovered that he could make men laugh and hold +them listening to him even when the rain fell. Yet there were people +who would sit down and cry softly, though the crowd was yelling with +delight, and there were people who maintained that Leo made them do +this; and the Girl would talk to them in the pauses of the performance +and do her best to comfort them. People would die too, while Leo was +talking, and singing, and laughing, for the Archer, and the Scorpion, +and the Crab, and the other Houses were as busy as ever. Sometimes the +crowd broke, and were frightened, and Leo strove to keep them steady +by telling them that this was cowardly; and sometimes they mocked at +the Houses that were killing them, and Leo explained that this was even +more cowardly than running away. + +In their wanderings they came across the Bull, or the Ram, or the +Twins, but all were too busy to do more than nod to each other across +the crowd, and go on with their work. As the years rolled on even that +recognition ceased, for the Children of the Zodiac had forgotten that +they had ever been Gods working for the sake of men. The Star Aldebaran +was crusted with caked dirt on the Bull’s forehead, the Ram’s fleece +was dusty and torn, and the Twins were only babies fighting over the +cat on the doorstep. It was then that Leo said: ‘Let us stop singing +and making jokes.’ And it was then that the girl said: ‘No--’ but she +did not know why she said ‘No’ so energetically. Leo maintained that +it was perversity, till she herself, at the end of a dusty day, made +the same suggestion to him, and he said ‘most certainly not,’ and they +quarrelled miserably between the hedgerows, forgetting the meaning of +the stars above them. Other singers and other talkers sprang up in the +course of the years, and Leo, forgetting that there could never be too +many of these, hated them for dividing the applause of the children of +men, which he thought should be all his own. The Girl would grow angry +too, and then the songs would be broken, and the jests fall flat for +weeks to come, and the children of men would shout: ‘Go home, you two +gipsies. Go home and learn something worth singing!’ + +After one of these sorrowful shameful days, the Girl, walking by Leo’s +side through the fields, saw the full moon coming up over the trees, +and she clutched Leo’s arm, crying: ‘The time has come now. Oh, Leo, +forgive me!’ + +‘What is it?’ said Leo. He was thinking of the other singers. + +‘My husband!’ she answered, and she laid his hand upon her breast, +and the breast that he knew so well was hard as stone. Leo groaned, +remembering what the Crab had said. + +‘Surely we were Gods once,’ he cried. + +‘Surely we are Gods still,’ said the Girl. ‘Do you not remember when +you and I went to the house of the Crab and--were not very much afraid? +And since then ... we have forgotten what we were singing for--we sang +for the pence, and, oh, we fought for them!--We, who are the Children +of the Zodiac.’ + +‘It was my fault,’ said Leo. + +‘How can there be any fault of yours that is not mine too?’ said the +Girl. ‘My time has come, but you will live longer, and....’ The look in +her eyes said all she could not say. + +‘Yes, I will remember that we are Gods,’ said Leo. + +It is very hard, even for a child of the Zodiac, who has forgotten his +Godhead, to see his wife dying slowly and to know that he cannot help +her. The Girl told Leo in those last months of all that she had said +and done among the wives and the babies at the back of the roadside +performances, and Leo was astonished that he knew so little of her who +had been so much to him. When she was dying she told him never to fight +for pence or quarrel with the other singers; and, above all, to go on +with his singing immediately after she was dead. + +Then she died, and after he had buried her he went down the road to +a village that he knew, and the people hoped that he would begin +quarrelling with a new singer that had sprung up while he had been +away. But Leo called him ‘my brother.’ The new singer was newly +married--and Leo knew it--and when he had finished singing, Leo +straightened himself and sang the ‘Song of the Girl,’ which he had made +coming down the road. Every man who was married or hoped to be married, +whatever his rank or colour, understood that song--even the bride +leaning on the new husband’s arm understood it too--and presently when +the song ended, and Leo’s heart was bursting in him, the men sobbed. +‘That was a sad tale,’ they said at last, ‘now make us laugh.’ Because +Leo had known all the sorrow that a man could know, including the full +knowledge of his own fall who had once been a God--he, changing his +song quickly, made the people laugh till they could laugh no more. They +went away feeling ready for any trouble in reason, and they gave Leo +more peacock feathers and pence than he could count. Knowing that pence +led to quarrels and that peacock feathers were hateful to the Girl, he +put them aside and went away to look for his brothers, to remind them +that they too were Gods. + +He found the Bull goring the undergrowth in a ditch, for the Scorpion +had stung him, and he was dying, not slowly, as the Girl had died, but +quickly. + +‘I know all,’ the Bull groaned, as Leo came up. ‘I had forgotten +too, but I remember now. Go and look at the fields I ploughed. The +furrows are straight. I forgot that I was a God, but I drew the plough +perfectly straight, for all that. And you, brother?’ + +‘I am not at the end of the ploughing,’ said Leo. ‘Does Death hurt?’ + +‘No, but dying does,’ said the Bull, and he died. The cultivator who +then owned him was much annoyed, for there was a field still unploughed. + +It was after this that Leo made the Song of the Bull who had been a God +and forgotten the fact, and he sang it in such a manner that half the +young men in the world conceived that they too might be Gods without +knowing it. A half of that half grew impossibly conceited, and died +early. A half of the remainder strove to be Gods and failed, but the +other half accomplished four times more work than they would have done +under any other delusion. + +Later, years later, always wandering up and down and making the +children of men laugh, he found the Twins sitting on the bank of a +stream waiting for the Fishes to come and carry them away. They were +not in the least afraid, and they told Leo that the woman of the House +had a real baby of her own, and that when that baby grew old enough to +be mischievous he would find a well-educated cat waiting to have its +tail pulled. Then the Fishes came for them, but all that the people saw +was two children drowned in a brook; and though their foster-mother was +very sorry, she hugged her own real baby to her breast and was grateful +that it was only the foundlings. + +Then Leo made the Song of the Twins, who had forgotten that they were +Gods and had played in the dust to amuse a foster-mother. That song was +sung far and wide among the women. It caused them to laugh and cry and +hug their babies closer to their hearts all in one breath; and some of +the women who remembered the Girl said: ‘Surely that is the voice of +Virgo. Only she could know so much about ourselves.’ + +After those three songs were made, Leo sang them over and over again +till he was in danger of looking upon them as so many mere words, and +the people who listened grew tired, and there came back to Leo the old +temptation to stop singing once and for all. But he remembered the +Girl’s dying words and persisted. + +One of his listeners interrupted him as he was singing. ‘Leo,’ said he, +‘I have heard you telling us not to be afraid for the past forty years. +Can you not sing something new now?’ + +‘No,’ said Leo, ‘it is the only song that I am allowed to sing. You +must not be afraid of the Houses, even when they kill you.’ The man +turned to go, wearily, but there came a whistling through the air, and +the arrow of the Archer was seen skimming low above the earth, pointing +to the man’s heart. He drew himself up, and stood still waiting till +the arrow struck home. + +‘I die,’ he said quietly. ‘It is well for me, Leo, that you sang for +forty years.’ + +‘Are you afraid?’ said Leo, bending over him. + +‘I am a man, not a God,’ said the man. ‘I should have run away but for +your songs. My work is done, and I die without making a show of my +fear.’ + +‘I am very well paid,’ said Leo to himself. ‘Now that I see what my +songs are doing, I will sing better ones.’ + +He went down the road, collected his little knot of listeners, and +began the Song of the Girl. In the middle of his singing he felt the +cold touch of the Crab’s claw on the apple of his throat. He lifted his +hand, choked, and stopped for an instant. + +‘Sing on, Leo,’ said the crowd. ‘The old song runs as well as ever it +did.’ + +Leo went on steadily till the end with the cold fear at his heart. When +his song was ended, he felt the grip on his throat tighten. He was old, +he had lost the Girl, he knew that he was losing more than half his +power to sing, he could scarcely walk to the diminishing crowds that +waited for him, and could not see their faces when they stood about +him. None the less, he cried angrily to the Crab: + +‘Why have you come for me _now_?’ + +‘You were born under my care. How can I help coming for you?’ said the +Crab wearily. Every human being whom the Crab killed had asked that +same question. + +‘But I was just beginning to know what my songs were doing,’ said Leo. + +‘Perhaps that is why,’ said the Crab, and the grip tightened. + +‘You said you would not come till I had taken the world by the +shoulders,’ gasped Leo, falling back. + +‘I always keep my word. You have done that three times with three +songs. What more do you desire?’ + +‘Let me live to see the world know it,’ pleaded Leo. ‘Let me be sure +that my songs----’ + +‘Make men brave?’ said the Crab. ‘Even then there would be one man who +was afraid. The Girl was braver than you are. Come.’ + +Leo was standing close to the restless insatiable mouth. + +‘I forgot,’ said he simply. ‘The Girl was braver. But I am a God too, +and I am not afraid.’ + +‘What is that to me?’ said the Crab. + +Then Leo’s speech was taken from him and he lay still and dumb, +watching Death till he died. + +Leo was the last of the Children of the Zodiac. After his death there +sprang up a breed of little mean men, whimpering and flinching and +howling because the Houses killed them and theirs, who wished to live +for ever without any pain. They did not increase their lives but they +increased their own torments miserably, and there were no Children of +the Zodiac to guide them; and the greater part of Leo’s songs were lost. + +Only he had carved on the Girl’s tombstone the last verse of the Song +of the Girl, which stands at the head of this story. + +One of the children of men, coming thousands of years later, rubbed +away the lichen, read the lines, and applied them to a trouble other +than the one Leo meant. Being a man, men believed that he had made the +verses himself; but they belong to Leo, the Child of the Zodiac, and +teach, as he taught, that whatever comes or does not come we men must +not be afraid. + + + + + ENVOY. + + + Heh! Walk her round. Heave, ah heave her short again! + Over, snatch her over, there, and hold her on the pawl. + Loose all sail, and brace your yards aback and full-- + Ready jib to pay her off and heave short all! + Well, ah fare you well; we can stay no more with you, my love-- + Down, set down your liquor and your girl from off your knee; + For the wind has come to say: + ‘You must take me while you may, + If you’d go to Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!’ + + Heh! Walk her round. Break, ah break it out o’ that! + Break our starboard bower out, apeak, awash, aclear! + Port--port she casts, with the harbour-roil beneath her foot, + And that’s the last o’ bottom we shall see this year! + Well, ah fare you well, for we’ve got to take her out again-- + Take her out in ballast, riding light and cargo-free. + And it’s time to clear and quit + When the hawser grips the bitt, + So we’ll pay you with the foresheet and a promise from the sea! + + Heh! Tally on. Aft and walk away with her! + Handsome to the cathead, now; O tally on the fall! + Stop, seize and fish, and easy on the davit-guy. + Up, well up the fluke of her, and inboard haul! + Well, ah fare you well, for the Channel wind’s took hold of us, + Choking down our voices as we snatch the gaskets free. + And it’s blowing up for night, + And she’s dropping Light on Light, + And she’s snorting under bonnets for a breath of open sea. + + Wheel, full and by; but she’ll smell her road alone to-night. + Sick she is and harbour-sick--O sick to clear the land! + Roll down to Brest with the old Red Ensign over us-- + Carry on and thrash her out with all she’ll stand! + Well, ah fare you well, and it’s Ushant gives the door to us, + Whirling like a windmill on the dirty sand to lea: + Till the last, last flicker goes + From the tumbling water-rows, + And we’re off to Mother Carey + (Walk her down to Mother Carey!) + Oh, we’re bound for Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at + sea! + + + THE END + + + _Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_ + + + + + MESSRS. MACMILLAN AND CO.’S POPULAR NOVELS. + + _BY THE SAME AUTHOR._ + + Crown 8vo. 6s. each. + + +THE LIGHT THAT FAILED. Re-written and considerably enlarged. + + _ACADEMY._--“Whatever else be true of Mr. Kipling; it is the first + truth about him that he has power, real intrinsic power.... Mr. + Kipling’s work has innumerable good qualities.” + + _GLASGOW HERALD._--“The power and interest are sustained throughout, + and there is nowhere any indication of flagging or of a second + breath.... It carries on the tradition of the author’s picturesque + freshness and inexhaustible resources.” + + _MANCHESTER COURIER._--“The story is a brilliant one and full of + vivid interest.” + + +PLAIN TALES FROM THE HILLS. + + _SATURDAY REVIEW._--“Mr. Kipling knows and appreciates the English + in India, and is a born story-teller and a man of humour into the + bargain.... It would be hard to find better reading.” + + _DUBLIN EVENING MAIL._--“This is a delightful book.... Mr. Kipling is + a man of genius, and prefers quality to quantity. Many of his stories + are profoundly pathetic. We think the dominant note of his genius is + pathos, but there is humour, rich and racy humour, in all of them.” + + _GLASGOW HERALD._--“That the book will at least be as popular here + as it has been and is in India we have no doubt. Possibly even a + greater success is in store for it, seeing that for us it possesses + rare qualities of freshness, of strange and brilliant colouring, + of curious characterisation, and of unusual incident, which to the + Anglo-Indian were probably familiar enough, though even in that case + the genius of the writer must have lifted them out of the region + of everyday life. One of the first things that strikes the reader + is the exceptional excellence of the tales.... The man who wrote + these tales has manifestly numberless others to tell.... Character, + situation, incident, humour, pathos, tragic force, are all in + abundance; words alone are at a minimum. Of course these are ‘plain’ + tales,--lightning-flash tales. A gleam, and there the whole tragedy + or comedy is before you--elaborate it for yourself afterwards.” + + _SCOTTISH REVIEW._--“... Whatever may be Mr. Kipling’s ability in + the higher walks of fiction, his ability as a story-teller or for + narrating such incidents, whether real or fictitious, as are here + put together is beyond question. They are told with ease, force, + and directness. The humorous stories are probably the best, but + whether humorous or grave--and there are both in the volume--they + throw considerable light upon certain phases of European society in + India and on numerous aspects of native Indian life. There is not an + uninteresting story in the volume, and one closes the book with the + desire to read the ‘other stories’ Mr. Kipling so often alludes to, + and somewhat tantalisingly passes over.” + + _BROAD ARROW._--“Mr. Kipling is accomplished beyond all recent + standards of comparison, and his forty stories are all readable + and clever. There is a freshness about them rare in such delicious + morsels of satire and sentiment ... and there is not a dull page in + the three hundred and ten.” + + +LIFE’S HANDICAP. Stories of Mine own People. + + _BLACK AND WHITE._--“‘Life’s Handicap’ contains much of the best + work hitherto accomplished by the author, and taken as a whole is a + complete advance upon its predecessors....” + + _OBSERVER._--“The stories are as good as ever, and are quite as well + told.... ‘Life’s Handicap’ is a volume that can be read with pleasure + and interest under almost any circumstances.” + + + BY ROLF BOLDREWOOD. + + New and Uniform Edition. Crown 8vo. Cloth. 3s. 6d. each. + + +ROBBERY UNDER ARMS. + + A STORY OF LIFE AND ADVENTURE IN THE BUSH + AND IN THE GOLD-FIELDS OF AUSTRALIA. + + _GUARDIAN._--“A singularly spirited and stirring tale of Australian + life, chiefly in the remoter settlements.... Altogether it is a + capital story, full of wild adventure, and startling incidents, and + told with a genuine simplicity and quiet appearance of truth, as + if the writer were really drawing upon his memory rather than his + imagination.” + + _SPECTATOR._--“We have nothing but praise for this story. Of + adventure of the most stirring kind there is, as we have said, + abundance. But there is more than this. The characters are drawn + with great skill. Every one of the gang of bush-rangers is strongly + individualised. This is a book of no common literary force.” + + _WORLD._--“An uncommonly good thing.... The book, in short, has the + natural touch, both of place and person, on every page.” + + _MORNING POST._--“As a picture of the earlier days of our Australian + Colonies and as an absorbing story ‘Robbery at Arms’ has few equals.” + + _GRAPHIC._--“That Mr. Boldrewood knows his subject through and + through is as certain as his picture of the breaking-out of the first + gold fever in Australia is the best ever written.” + + +THE SQUATTER’S DREAM. + + +THE MINER’S RIGHT. + + A TALE OF THE AUSTRALIAN GOLD-FIELDS. + + _WORLD._--“Full of good passages, passages abounding in vivacity, + in the colour and play of life.... The pith of the book lies in + its singularly fresh and vivid pictures of the humours of the + gold-fields,--tragic humours enough they are, too, here and again....” + + _MANCHESTER EXAMINER._--“The characters are sketched with real life + and picturesqueness. The book is lively and readable from first to + last.” + + +A COLONIAL REFORMER. + + _ATHENÆUM._--“A series of natural and entertaining pictures of + Australian life, which are, above all things, readable.” + + _GLASGOW HERALD._--“One of the most interesting books about Australia + we have ever read.” + + _SATURDAY REVIEW._--“Mr. Boldrewood can tell what he knows with great + point and vigour, and there is no better reading than the adventurous + parts of his books.” + + +A SYDNEY-SIDE SAXON. + + _GLASGOW HERALD._--“The interest never flags, and altogether ‘A + Sydney-Side Saxon’ is a really refreshing book.” + + _ANTI-JACOBIN._--“Thoroughly well worth reading.... A clever book, + admirably written.... Brisk in incident, truthful and life-like in + character.... Beyond and above all it has that stimulating hygienic + quality, that cheerful, unconscious healthfulness, which makes + a story like ‘Robinson Crusoe,’ or ‘The Vicar of Wakefield,’ so + unspeakably refreshing after a course of even good contemporary + fiction.” + + +NEVERMORE. + + _ACADEMY._--“Is perhaps the best story of the Rolf Boldrewood Series. + Must be allowed to be one of the best works of the period.” + + + BY MRS. OLIPHANT. + + Crown 8vo. Cloth. 3s. 6d. each. + + +NEIGHBOURS ON THE GREEN. + +KIRSTEEN. + + _SCOTSMAN._--“One of the most powerful stories Mrs. Oliphant has ever + written.” + + _MURRAY’S MAGAZINE._--“One of the best books which Mrs. Oliphant’s + fertile pen has within recent years produced.” + + _WORLD._--“Mrs. Oliphant has written many novels, and many good ones; + but if she has hitherto written one so good as _Kirsteen_, we have + not read it.... It is the highest praise we can give, when we say + that there are passages in it which, as pictures of Scottish life and + character, it would be difficult, perhaps impossible, to match out of + Sir Walter’s pages.” + + _NATIONAL OBSERVER._--“Seldom, if ever, has Mrs. Oliphant done better + than in _Kirsteen_.... There is humour, there is pathos, there is + tragedy, there is even crime--in short, there is human life.” + + +JOYCE. + + _GUARDIAN._--“It has seldom been our lot to fall in with so + engrossing a story.” + + +A BELEAGUERED CITY. + + _TIMES._--“The story is a powerful one and very original to boot.” + + +HESTER. + + _ACADEMY._--“At her best, she is, with one or two exceptions, the + best of living English novelists. She is at her best in _Hester_.” + + +HE THAT WILL NOT WHEN HE MAY. + + _SCOTSMAN._--“The workmanship of the book is simply admirable.” + + +THE RAILWAY MAN AND HIS CHILDREN. + + _ANTI-JACOBIN._--“An extremely interesting story, and a perfectly + satisfactory achievement of literary art.” + + _MORNING POST._--“Mrs. Oliphant has never written a simpler, and at + the same time a better conceived story. An excellent example of pure + and simple fiction, which is also of the deepest interest.” + + +THE MARRIAGE OF ELINOR. + + _NATIONAL OBSERVER._--“In spite of yourself and of them, you become + interested in uninteresting people, annoyed at their follies, and + sympathetic with their trifling sorrows and joys. This is Mrs. + Oliphant’s secret.” + + +SIR TOM. + + _SATURDAY REVIEW._--“Has the charm of style, the literary quality and + flavour that never fail to please.” + + + Globe 8vo. 2s. each. + +A SON OF THE SOIL. + +THE CURATE IN CHARGE. + +YOUNG MUSGRAVE. + +THE WIZARD’S SON. + + _SPECTATOR._--“We have read it twice, once in snippets, and once as a + whole, and our interest has never flagged.” + + +A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN AND HIS FAMILY. + + _ACADEMY._--“Never has her workmanship been surer, steadier, or more + masterly.” + + +THE SECOND SON. + + _MORNING POST._--“Mrs. Oliphant has never shown herself more + completely mistress of her art.... The entire story is clever and + powerful.” + + + Crown 8vo. Cloth. 3s. 6d. each. + +BY J. H. SHORTHOUSE. + + _ANTI-JACOBIN._--“Powerful, striking, and fascinating romances.” + + JOHN INGLESANT. + + SIR PERCIVAL. + + THE LITTLE SCHOOLMASTER MARK. + + A TEACHER OF THE VIOLIN. + + THE COUNTESS EVE. + + +BY MRS. CRAIK. + + (The Author of “JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.”) + + OLIVE. With Illustrations by G. BOWERS. + + THE OGILVIES. With Illustrations by J. MCL. RALSTON. + + AGATHA’S HUSBAND. With Illustrations by WALTER CRANE. + + HEAD OF THE FAMILY. With Illustrations by WALTER CRANE. + + TWO MARRIAGES. + + THE LAUREL BUSH. + + MY MOTHER AND I. With Illustrations by J. MCL. RALSTON. + + MISS TOMMY: A Mediæval Romance. With Illustrations by FREDERICK NOEL + PATON. + + KING ARTHUR: Not a Love Story. + + +BY CHARLES KINGSLEY. + + WESTWARD HO! + + HYPATIA; or, New Foes with an Old Face. + + YEAST. A Problem. + + ALTON LOCKE; Tailor and Poet. + + TWO YEARS AGO. + + HEREWARD THE WAKE. + + + =By HUGH CONWAY.= + + _MORNING POST._--“Life-like and full of individuality.” + + _DAILY NEWS._--“Throughout written with spirit, good feeling, and + ability and a certain dash of humour.” + + LIVING OR DEAD? + A FAMILY AFFAIR. + + + =By SIR HENRY CUNNINGHAM, K.C.I.E.= + + _ST. JAMES’S GAZETTE._--“Interesting as specimens of romance, the + style of writing is so excellent--scholarly and at the same time + easy and natural--that the volumes are worth reading on that account + alone. But there is also a masterly description of persons, places, + and things; skilful analysis of character; a constant play of wit and + humour; and a happy gift of instantaneous portraiture.” + + THE CŒRULEANS. + THE HERIOTS. + WHEAT AND TARES. + + + =By THOMAS HARDY.= + + _TIMES._--“There is hardly a novelist, dead or living, who so + skilfully harmonises the poetry of rural life with its penury. Just + as Millet could in the figure of a solitary peasant toiling on a + plain, convey a world of pathetic meaning, so Mr. Hardy with his + yeomen and villagers. Their occupations in his hands wear a pathetic + dignity, which not even the encomiums of a Ruskin could heighten.” + + THE WOODLANDERS. + WESSEX TALES. + + + =By W. CLARK RUSSELL.= + + _TIMES._--“Mr. Clark Russell is one of those writers who have set + themselves to revive the British sea story in all its glorious + excitement. Mr. Russell has made a considerable reputation in this + line. His plots are well conceived, and that of _Marooned_ is no + exception to this rule.” + + MAROONED. + A STRANGE ELOPEMENT. + + + =By VARIOUS WRITERS.= + + LOUISIANA; and THAT LASS O’ LOWRIE’S. By FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT. + + CECILIA DE NOEL. By LANOE FALCONER. + + FAITHFUL AND UNFAITHFUL. By MARGARET LEE. + + REUBEN SACHS. By AMY LEVY. + + THE RING OF AMASIS. By Lord LYTTON. + + MRS. LORIMER. By LUCAS MALET. + + MISS BRETHERTON. By Mrs. HUMPHRY WARD. + + MUCKLE JOCK AND OTHER STORIES. By M. M‘LENNAN. + + + Crown 8vo. Cloth. 3s. 6d. each. + + =By CHARLES DICKENS.= + + THE PICKWICK PAPERS. With 50 Illustrations. + + OLIVER TWIST. 27 Illustrations. + + NICHOLAS NICKELBY. 44 Illustrations. + + MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 41 Illustrations. + + THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 97 Illustrations. + + BARNABY RUDGE. 76 Illustrations. + + DOMBEY AND SON. 40 Illustrations. + + CHRISTMAS BOOKS. 65 Illustrations. + + SKETCHES BY BOZ. 44 Illustrations. + + DAVID COPPERFIELD. 41 Illustrations. + + AMERICAN NOTES AND PICTURES FROM ITALY. 4 Illustrations. + + THE LETTERS OF CHARLES DICKENS. + + + =By BRET HARTE.= + + _SPEAKER._--“The best work of Mr. Bret Harte stands entirely alone + ... marked on every page by distinction and quality.... Strength and + delicacy, spirit and tenderness, go together in his best work.” + + CRESSY. + THE HERITAGE OF DEDLOW MARSH. + A FIRST FAMILY OF TASAJARA. + + + =By HENRY JAMES.= + + _SATURDAY REVIEW._--“He has the power of seeing with the artistic + perception of the few, and of writing about what he has seen, so that + the many can understand and feel with him.” + + _WORLD._--“His touch is so light, and his humour, while shrewd and + keen, so free from bitterness.” + + A LONDON LIFE. + THE ASPERN PAPERS. + THE TRAGIC MUSE. + + + =By ANNIE KEARY.= + + _SPECTATOR._--“In our opinion there have not been many novels + published better worth reading. The literary workmanship is + excellent, and all the windings of the stories are worked with + patient fulness and a skill not often found.” + + CASTLE DALY. + A YORK AND A LANCASTER ROSE. + JANET’S HOME. + OLDBURY. + A DOUBTING HEART. + + + =By D. CHRISTIE MURRAY.= + + _SPECTATOR._--“Mr. Christie Murray has more power and genius for + the delineation of English rustic life than any half-dozen of our + surviving novelists put together.” + + _SATURDAY REVIEW._--“Few modern novelists can tell a story of English + country life better than Mr. D. Christie Murray.” + + AUNT RACHEL. + JOHN VALE’S GUARDIAN. + SCHWARTZ. + THE WEAKER VESSEL. + HE FELL AMONG THIEVES. By D. C. MURRAY and H. HERMAN. + + + MACMILLAN AND CO., LONDON. + + + + +Transcriber’s Note: + + + Obvious errors in spelling, hyphenation and punctuation have been +silently corrected in this version, but minor inconsistencies and +archaic forms have been retained as printed. + + The footnotes have been relocated to the end of their respective +stories and renumbered to better fit the ebook format. + + In addition, the following changes have been made: + + On page 43: harnassed _to_ harnessed, in the phrase: Three elephants +harnessed tandem go to each gun. + + On page 250: Welling _to_ welling, in the phrase: Raines’s young +barrister had for once put aside his unslaked and welling passion for +alibis and insanity,(...) + + On page 315: _Mungoose_ _to_ _Mongoose_, in the phrase: (...)said the +Lieutenant of the _Mongoose_, a real white-painted ram-bow gunboat(...) + + On page 348: come _to_ came, in the phrase: A woman came out of the +doorway (...) + + On page 365: sand to lea _to_ scud to lee, in the line[4]: +Whirling like a windmill on the dirty scud to lee + +[4] This change is found in most other editions of this poem. + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78240 *** |