Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (307 page)

        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 of 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 the 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 bareheaded 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 rufed 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!), and whin I got up I was facin’ t’other way about an’ the elephint was huntin’ for the gunnerorf’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 back door; 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’ and 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, and 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 and 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 began to think scornful av elephints. “Take the upper ground in manoe’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.’