Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (164 page)

‘“Will ye hear reason?” sez I, whin his first wind was run out.

‘“Not whoile I can see,” sez he. Wid that I gave him both, one after the other, smash through the low gyard that he’d been taught whin he was a boy, an’ the eyebrow shut down on the cheek-bone like the wing av a sick crow.

‘“Will ye hear reason now, ye brave man?” sez I.

‘“Not whoile I can speak,” sez he, staggerin’ up blind as a stump. I was loath to do ut, but I wint round an’ swung into the jaw side-on an’ shifted ut a half pace to the lef’.

‘“Will ye hear reason now?” sez I; “I can’t keep my timper much longer, an’ ‘tis like I will hurt you.”

‘“Not whoile I can stand,” he mumbles out av one corner av his mouth. So I closed an’ threw him — blind, dumb, an’ sick, an’ jammed the jaw straight.

‘“You’re an ould fool,
Mister
Bragin,” sez I.

‘“You’re a young thief,” sez he, “an’ you’ve bruk my heart, you an’
Annie betune you!”

‘Thin he began cryin’ like a child as he lay. I was sorry as I had niver been before. ‘Tis an awful thing to see a strong man cry.

‘“I’ll swear on the Cross!” sez I.

‘“I care for none av your oaths,” sez he.

‘“Come back to your quarters,” sez I, “an’ if you don’t believe the livin’, begad, you shall listen to the dead,” I sez.

‘I hoisted him an’ tuk him back to his quarters. “Mrs. Bragin,” sez
I, “here’s a man that you can cure quicker than me.”

‘“You’ve shamed me before my wife,” he whimpers.

‘“Have I so?” sez I. “By the look on Mrs. Bragin’s face I think I’m for a dhressin’-down worse than I gave you.”

‘An’ I was! Annie Bragin was woild wid indignation. There was not a name that a dacint woman cud use that was not given my way. I’ve had my Colonel walk roun’ me like a cooper roun’ a cask for fifteen minutes in Ord’ly Room, bekaze I wint into the Corner Shop an’ unstrapped lewnatic; but all I iver tuk from his rasp av a tongue was ginger-pop to fwhat Annie tould me. An’ that, mark you, is the way av a woman.

‘Whin ut was done for want av breath, an’ Annie was bendin’ over her husband, I sez: “‘Tis all thrue, an’ I’m a blayguard an’ you’re an honest woman; but will you tell him of wan service that I did you?”

‘As I finished speakin’ the Corp’ril man came up to the veranda, an’
Annie Bragin shquealed. The moon was up, an’ we cud see his face.

‘“I can’t find her,” sez the Corp’ril man, an’ wint out like the puff av a candle.

‘“Saints stand betune us an’ evil!” sez Bragin, crossin’ himself; “that’s Flahy av the Tyrone.”

‘“Who was he?” I sez, “for he has given me a dale av fightin’ this day.”

‘Bragin tould us that Flahy was a Corp’ril who lost his wife av cholera in those quarters three years gone, an’ wint mad, an’
walked
afther they buried him, huntin’ for her.

‘“Well,” sez I to Bragin, “he’s been hookin’ out av Purgathory to kape company wid Mrs. Bragin ivry evenin’ for the last fortnight. You may tell Mrs. Quinn, wid my love, for I know that she’s been talkin’ to you, an’ you’ve been listenin’, that she ought to ondherstand the differ ‘twixt a man an’ a ghost. She’s had three husbands,” sez I, “an’
you
’ve got a wife too good for you. Instid av which you lave her to be boddered by ghosts an’ — an’ all manner av evil spirruts. I’ll niver go talkin’ in the way av politeness to a man’s wife again. Good-night to you both,” sez I; an’ wid that I wint away, havin’ fought wid woman, man and Divil all in the heart av an hour. By the same token I gave Father Victor wan rupee to say a mass for Flahy’s soul, me havin’ discommoded him by shticking my fist into his systim.’

‘Your ideas of politeness seem rather large, Mulvaney,’ I said.

‘That’s as you look at ut,’ said Mulvaney calmly; ‘Annie Bragin niver cared for me. For all that, I did not want to leave anything behin’ me that Bragin could take hould av to be angry wid her about — whin an honust wurrd cud ha’ cleared all up. There’s nothing like opin-speakin’. Orth’ris, ye scutt, let me put me oi to that bottle, for my throat’s as dhry as whin I thought I wud get a kiss from Annie Bragin. An’ that’s fourteen years gone! Eyah! Cork’s own city an’ the blue sky above ut — an’ the times that was — the times that was!’

WITH THE MAIN GUARD

       Der jungere Uhlanen
       Sit round mit open mouth
       While Breitmann tell dem stdories
       Of fightin’ in the South;
       Und gif dem moral lessons,
       How before der battle pops,
       Take a little prayer to Himmel
       Und a goot long drink of Schnapps.
            
Hans Breitmann’s Ballads.

‘Mary, Mother av Mercy, fwhat the divil possist us to take an’ kape this melancolious counthry? Answer me that, Sorr.’

It was Mulvaney who was speaking. The time was one o’clock of a stifling June night, and the place was the main gate of Fort Amara, most desolate and least desirable of all fortresses in India. What I was doing there at that hour is a question which only concerns M’Grath, the Sergeant of the Guard, and the men on the gate.

‘Slape,’ said Mulvaney, ‘is a shuparfluous necessity. This gyard’ll shtay lively till relieved.’ He himself was stripped to the waist; Learoyd on the next bedstead was dripping from the skinful of water which Ortheris, clad only in white trousers, had just sluiced over his shoulders; and a fourth private was muttering uneasily as he dozed open-mouthed in the glare of the great guard-lantern. The heat under the bricked archway was terrifying.

‘The worrst night that iver I remimber. Eyah! Is all Hell loose this tide?’ said Mulvaney. A puff of burning wind lashed through the wicket-gate like a wave of the sea, and Ortheris swore.

‘Are ye more heasy, Jock?’ he said to Learoyd. ‘Put yer ‘ead between your legs. It’ll go orf in a minute.’

‘Ah don’t care. Ah would not care, but ma heart is plaayin’ tivvy-tivvy on ma ribs. Let me die! Oh, leave me die!’ groaned the huge Yorkshireman, who was feeling the heat acutely, being of fleshly build.

The sleeper under the lantern roused for a moment and raised himself on his elbow. — ’Die and be damned then!’ he said. ‘
I
’m damned and I can’t die!’

‘Who’s that?’ I whispered, for the voice was new to me.

‘Gentleman born,’ said Mulvaney; ‘Corp’ril wan year, Sargint nex’. Red-hot on his C’mission, but dhrinks like a fish. He’ll be gone before the cowld weather’s here. So!’

He slipped his boot, and with the naked toe just touched the trigger of his Martini. Ortheris misunderstood the movement, and the next instant the Irishman’s rifle was dashed aside, while Ortheris stood before him, his eyes blazing with reproof.

‘You!’ said Ortheris. ‘My Gawd,
you!
If it was you wot would
we
do?’

‘Kape quiet, little man,’ said Mulvaney, putting him aside, but very gently; ‘tis not me, nor will ut be me whoile Dinah Shadd’s here. I was but showin’ something.’

Learoyd, bowed on his bedstead, groaned, and the gentleman-ranker sighed in his sleep. Ortheris took Mulvaney’s tendered pouch and we three smoked gravely for a space while the dust-devils danced on the glacis and scoured the red-hot plain.

‘Pop?’ said Ortheris, wiping his forehead.

‘Don’t tantalise wid talkin’ av dhrink, or I’ll shtuff you into your own breech-block an’ — fire you off!’ grunted Mulvaney.

Ortheris chuckled, and from a niche in the veranda produced six bottles of gingerade.

‘Where did ye get ut, ye Machiavel?’ said Mulvaney. ‘‘Tis no bazar pop.’

‘‘Ow do
Hi
know wot the Orf’cers drink?’ answered Ortheris. ‘Arst the mess-man.’

‘Ye’ll have a Disthrict Coort-martial settin’ on ye yet, me son,’ said Mulvaney, ‘but’ — he opened a bottle — ’I will not report ye this time. Fwhat’s in the mess-kid is mint for the belly, as they say, ‘specially whin that mate is dhrink. Here’s luck! A bloody war or a — no, we’ve got the sickly season. War, thin!’ — he waved the innocent ‘pop’ to the four quarters of Heaven. ‘Bloody war! North, East, South, an’ West! Jock, ye quakin’ hayrick, come an’ dhrink.’

But Learoyd, half mad with the fear of death presaged in the swelling veins in his neck, was begging his Maker to strike him dead, and fighting for more air between his prayers. A second time Ortheris drenched the quivering body with water, and the giant revived.

‘An’ Ah divn’t see thot a mon is i’ fettle for gooin’ on to live; an’
Ah divn’t see thot there is owt for t’ livin’ for. Hear now, lads!
Ah’m tired — tired. There’s nobbut watter i’ ma bones. Let me die!’

The hollow of the arch gave back Learoyd’s broken whisper in a bass boom. Mulvaney looked at me hopelessly, but I remembered how the madness of despair had once fallen upon Ortheris, that weary, weary afternoon on the banks of the Khemi River, and how it had been exorcised by the skilful magician Mulvaney.

‘Talk, Terence!’ I said, ‘or we shall have Learoyd slinging loose, and he’ll be worse than Ortheris was. Talk! He’ll answer to your voice.’

Almost before Ortheris had deftly thrown all the rifles of the Guard on Mulvaney’s bedstead, the Irishman’s voice was uplifted as that of one in the middle of a story, and, turning to me, he said —

‘In barricks or out of it, as
you
say, Sorr, an Oirish rig’mint is the divil an’ more. ‘Tis only fit for a young man wid eddicated fisteses. Oh the crame av disruption is an Oirish rig’mint, an’ rippin’, tearin’, ragin’ scattherers in the field av war! My first rig’mint was Oirish — Faynians an’ rebils to the heart av their marrow was they, an’
so
they fought for the Widdy betther than most, bein’ contrairy — Oirish. They was the Black Tyrone. You’ve heard av thim, Sorr?’

Heard of them! I knew the Black Tyrone for the choicest collection of unmitigated blackguards, dog-stealers, robbers of hen-roosts, assaulters of innocent citizens, and recklessly daring heroes in the Army List. Half Europe and half Asia has had cause to know the Black Tyrone — good luck be with their tattered Colours as Glory has ever been!

‘They
was
hot pickils an’ ginger! I cut a man’s head tu deep wid my belt in the days av my youth, an’, afther some circumstances which I will oblitherate, I came to the Ould Rig’mint, bearin’ the character av a man wid hands an’ feet. But, as I was goin’ to tell you, I fell acrost the Black Tyrone agin wan day whin we wanted thim powerful bad. Orth’ris, me son, fwhat was the name av that place where they sint wan comp’ny av us an’ wan av the Tyrone roun’ a hill an’ down again, all for to tache the Paythans something they’d niver learned before? Afther Ghunzi ‘twas.’

‘Don’t know what the bloomin’ Paythans called it. We called it Silver’s
Theayter. You know that, sure!’

‘Silver’s Theatre — so ‘twas. A gut betune two hills, as black as a bucket, an’ as thin as a girl’s waist. There was over-many Paythans for our convaynience in the gut, an’ begad they called thimselves a Reserve — bein’ impident by nature! Our Scotchies an’ lashins av Gurkeys was poundin’ into some Paythan rig’mints, I think ‘twas. Scotchies an’ Gurkeys are twins bekaze they’re so onlike an’ they get dhrunk together whin God plazes. As I was sayin’, they sint wan comp’ny av the Ould an’ wan of the Tyrone to double up the hill an’ clane out the Paythan Reserve. Orf’cers was scarce in thim days, fwhat with dysintry an’ not takin’ care av thimselves, an’ we was sint out wid only wan orf’cer for the comp’ny; but he was a Man that had his feet beneath him, an’ all his teeth in their sockuts.’

‘Who was he?’ I asked.

‘Captain O’Neil — Old Crook — Cruikna-bulleen — him that I tould ye that tale av whin he was in Burma. [Footnote: Now first of the foemen of Boh Da Thone Was Captain O’Neil of the Black Tyrone.
The Ballad of Boh Da Thone.
] Hah! He was a Man! The Tyrone tuk a little orf’cer bhoy, but divil a bit was he in command, as I’ll dimonstrate presintly. We an’ they came over the brow av the hill, wan on each side av the gut, an’ there was that ondacint Reserve waitin’ down below like rats in a pit.

‘“Howld on, men,” sez Crook, who tuk a mother’s care av us always. “Rowl some rocks on thim by way av visitin’ kyards.” We hadn’t rowled more than twinty bowlders, an’ the Paythans was beginnin’ to swear tremenjus, whin the little orf’cer bhoy av the Tyrone shqueaks out acrost the valley: — ”Fwhat the devil an’ all are you doin’, shpoilin’ the fun for my men? Do ye not see they’ll stand?”

‘“Faith, that’s a rare pluckt wan!” sez Crook. “Niver mind the rocks, men. Come along down an’ take tay wid thim!”

‘“There’s damned little sugar in ut!” sez my rear-rank man; but Crook heard.

‘“Have ye not all got spoons?” he sez, laughin’, an’ down we wint as fast as we cud. Learoyd bein’ sick at the Base, he, av coorse, was not there.

‘Thot’s a lie!’ said Learoyd, dragging his bedstead nearer. ‘Ah gotten
thot
theer, an’ you knaw it, Mulvaney.’ He threw up his arms, and from the right armpit ran, diagonally through the fell of his chest, a thin white line terminating near the fourth left rib.

‘My mind’s goin’,’ said Mulvaney, the unabashed. ‘Ye were there. Fwhat I was thinkin’ of! ‘Twas another man, av coorse. Will, you’ll remember thin, Jack, how we an’ the Tyrone met wid a bang at the bottom an’ got jammed past all movin’ among the Paythans.’

‘Ow! It
was
a tight ‘ole. I was squeezed till I thought I’d bloomin’ well bust,’ said Ortheris, rubbing his stomach meditatively.

‘‘Twas no place for a little man, but
wan
little man’ — Mulvaney put his hand on Ortheris’s shoulder — ’saved the life av me. There we shtuck, for divil a bit did the Paythans flinch, an’ divil a bit dare we; our business bein’ to clear ‘em out. An’ the most exthryordinar’ thing av all was that we an’ they just rushed into each other’s arrums, an’ there was no firing for a long time. Nothin’ but knife an’ bay’nit when we cud get our hands free: an’ that was not often. We was breast-on to thim, an’ the Tyrone was yelpin’ behind av us in a way I didn’t see the lean av at first. But I knew later, an’ so did the Paythans.

‘“Knee to knee!” sings out Crook, wid a laugh whin the rush av our comin’ into the gut shtopped, an’ he was huggin’ a hairy great Paythan, neither bein’ able to do anything to the other, tho’ both was wishful.