The Wish House and Other Stories (35 page)

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 veranda when Mackie come along. ’E come from Mrs Raines’s quarters. Quigley, Parsons, an’ Trot, they was in the inside veranda, so
they
couldn’t ‘ave ’eard nothing. Sergeant Raines was in the veranda 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 and shoots Mackie. See?’

‘But what were you doing with your rifle in the outer veranda 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 they were 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 veranda – 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 minimize the motive failed. The most disconnected witnesses 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 veranda 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 verandas 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 veranda – ‘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 veranda. ‘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 you 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 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 of 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’ ’em 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’ time 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 as 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’, and 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
quitrin’ 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 bazaar, an’ huntin’ for you wid a pathrol at midnight. Nalson, for I know ut’s you, come back to the veranda.’

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 Depot 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?”