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SOLDIER STORIES
SOLDIER STORIES
BY
RUDYARD KIPLING
AUTHOR OF "PLAIN TALES FROM THE HILLS," "UNDER THE
DEODARS," "THE PHANTOM RICKSHAW," "WEE
WILLIE WINKIE," ETC., ETC.
_WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS_
NEW YORK
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.
1896
_All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1896,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Norwood Press
J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith
Norwood Mass. U.S.A.
CONTENTS
PAGE
WITH THE MAIN GUARD 1
THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 25
THE MAN WHO WAS 78
THE COURTING OF DINAH SHADD 101
THE INCARNATION OF KRISHNA MULVANEY 139
THE TAKING OF LUNGTUNGPEN 182
THE MADNESS OF PRIVATE ORTHERIS 191
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
TO FACE PAGE
'PUT YER 'EAD BETWEEN YOUR LEGS. IT'LL GO ORF IN A
MINUTE' 2
'HE RAN FORWARD WID THE HAYMAKERS' LIFT ON HIS
BAY'NIT' 12
HE PICKED HER UP IN THE GROWING LIGHT, AND SET HER
ON HIS SHOULDER 23
'HEY! WHAT? ARE YOU GOING TO ARGUE WITH _ME_?'
SAID THE COLONEL 35
CRIS SLID AN ARM ROUND HIS NECK 47
THE MEN STROLLED ACROSS THE TRACKS TO INSPECT THE
AFGHAN PRISONERS 50
THE TUNE SETTLED INTO FULL SWING, AND THE BOYS KEPT
SHOULDER TO SHOULDER 69
'_RUNG HO_, HIRA SINGH!' 85
HE FOUND THE SPRING 91
IT IS NOT GOOD THAT A GENTLEMAN WHO CAN ANSWER TO
THE QUEEN'S TOAST SHOULD LIE AT THE FEET OF A
SUBALTERN OF COSSACKS 94
'THIN WHIN THE KETTLE WAS TO BE FILLED, DINAH CAME
IN--MY DINAH' 117
'"MY COLLAR-BONE'S BRUK," SEZ HE' 121
'"THE HALF AV THAT I'LL TAKE," SEZ SHE' 132
'"OUT OF THIS," SEZ HE. "I'M IN CHARGE AV THIS SECTION
AV CONSTRUCTION."--"I'M IN CHARGE AV MESILF," SEZ
I, "AN' IT'S LIKE I WILL STAY A WHILE"' 149
'NINE ROUN'S THEY WERE EVEN MATCHED, AN' AT THE
TENTH----' 157
THERE PRANCED A PORTENT IN THE FACE OF THE MOON 166
'I WAS KRISHNA TOOTLIN' ON THE FLUTE' 176
'"SHTRIP, BHOYS," SEZ I. "SHTRIP TO THE BUFF, AN'
SHWIM IN WHERE GLORY WAITS!"' 185
'THERE WAS A _MELLY_ AV A SUMPSHUS KIND FOR A WHOILE' 187
ORTHERIS HEAVED A BIG SIGH 192
WE SET OFF AT THE DOUBLE AND FOUND HIM PLUNGING ABOUT
WILDLY THROUGH THE GRASS 201
[Illustration]
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!'
[Illustration: 'Put yer 'ead between your legs. It'll go orf in
a minute.'--P. 2.]
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 quackin' hayrick, come an' dhrink.'
But Learoyd, half mad with the fear of death presaged in the swelling
veins of 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 in the banks of the Khemi River, and how it had been
exorcised by the skilful magician Mulvaney.
'Talk, Terence!' I said, 'or we shall have Learoyd slinging loose, and
he'll be worse than Ortheris was. Talk! He'll answer to your voice.'
Almost before Ortheris had deftly thrown all the rifles of the guard
on Mulvaney's bedstead, the Irishman's voice was uplifted as that of
one in the middle of a story, and, turning to me, he said:--
'In barricks or out of it, as _you_ say, Sorr, an Oirish rig'mint is
the divil an' more. 'Tis only fit for a young man wid eddicated
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 Ghuzni '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 natur'! Our Scotchies an' lashins av Gurkys
was poundin' into some Paythan rig'ments, I think 'twas. Scotchies and
Gurkys are twins bekaze they're so onlike, an' they get dhrunk
together when God plazes. As I was sayin', they sint wan comp'ny av
the Ould an' wan av the Tyrone to double up the hill an' clane out the
Paythan Reserve. Orf'cers was scarce in thim days, fwhat wid dysintry
an' not takin' care av thimselves, an' we was sint out wid only wan
orf'cer for the comp'ny; but he was a Man that had his feet beneath
him, an' all his teeth in their sockuts.'
'Who was he?' I asked.
'Captain O'Neil--Old Crook--Cruikna-bulleen--him that I tould ye that
tale av whin he was in Burma.[1] Hah! He was a Man. The Tyrone tuk a
little orf'cer bhoy, but divil a bit was he in command, as I'll
dimonstrate presintly. We an' they came over the brow av the hill, wan
on each side av the gut, an' there was that ondacint Reserve waitin'
down below like rats in a pit.
'"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' tak 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 know it, Mulvaney.' He threw up his arms, and
from the right arm-pit ran, diagonally through the fell of his chest,
a thin white line terminating near the fourth left rib.
'My mind's goin',' said Mulvaney, the unabashed. 'Ye were there. Fwhat
was I thinkin' of? 'Twas another man, av coorse. Well, you'll remimber
thin, Jock, how we an' the Tyrone met wid a bang at the bottom an' got
jammed past all movin' among the Paythans?'
'Ow! It _was_ a tight 'ole. I was squeezed till I thought I'd bloomin'
well bust,' said Ortheris, rubbing his stomach meditatively.
''Twas no place for a little man, but _wan_ little man'--Mulvaney put
his hand on Ortheris's shoulder--'saved the life av me. There we
shtuck, for divil a bit did the Paythans flinch, an' divil a bit dare
we; our business bein' to clear 'em out. An' the most exthryordinar'
thing av all was that we an' they just rushed into each other's
arrums, an' there was no firing for a long time. Nothin' but knife an'
bay'nit when we cud get our hands free: an' that was not often. We was
breast-on to thim, an' the Tyrone was yelpin' behind av us in a way I
didn't see the lean av at first. But I knew later, an' so did the
Paythans.
'"Knee to knee!" sings out Crook, wid a laugh whin the rush av our
comin' into the gut shtopped, an' he was huggin' a hairy great
Paythan, neither bein' able to do anything to the other, tho' both was
wishful.
'"Breast to breast!" he sez, as the Tyrone was pushin' us forward
closer an' closer.
'"An' hand over back!" sez a Sargint that was behin'. I saw a sword
lick out past Crook's ear, an' the Paythan was tuck in the apple av
his throat like a pig at Dromeen Fair.
'"Thank ye, Brother Inner Guard," sez Crook, cool as a cucumber widout
salt. "I wanted that room." An' he wint forward by the thickness av a
man's body, havin' turned the Paythan undher him. The man bit the heel
off Crook's boot in his death-bite.
'"Push, men!" sez Crook. "Push, ye paper-backed beggars!" he sez. "Am
I to pull ye through?" So we pushed, an' we kicked, an' we swung, an'
we swore, an' the grass bein' slippery our heels wouldn't bite, an'
God help the front-rank man that wint down that day!'
''Ave you ever bin in the Pit hentrance o' the Vic. on a thick night?'
interrupted Ortheris. 'It was worse nor that, for they was goin' one
way, an' we wouldn't 'ave it. Leastaways, I 'adn't much to say.'
'Faith, me son, ye said ut, thin. I kep' the little man betune my
knees as long as I cud, but he was pokin' roun' wid his bay'nit,
blindin' and stiffin' feroshus. The devil of a man is Orth'ris in a
ruction--aren't ye?' said Mulvaney.
'Don't make game!' said the Cockney. 'I knowed I wasn't no good then,
but I guv 'em compot from the lef' flank when we opened out. No!' he
said, bringing down his hand with a thump on the bedstead, 'a bay'nit
ain't no good to a little man--might as well 'ave a bloomin'
fishin'-rod! I 'ate a clawin', maulin' mess, but gimme a breech that's
wore out a bit, an' hamminition one year in store, to let the powder
kiss the bullet, an' put me somewheres where I ain't trod on by 'ulkin
swine like you, an' s'elp me Gawd, I could bowl you over five times
outer seven at height 'undred. Would yer try, you lumberin'
Hirishman?'
'No, ye wasp. I've seen ye do ut. I say there's nothin' better than
the bay'nit, wid a long reach, a double twist av ye can, an' a slow
recover.'
'Dom the bay'nit,' said Learoyd, who had been listening intently.
'Look a-here!' He picked up a rifle an inch below the foresight with
an underhanded action, and used it exactly as a man would use a
dagger.
'Sitha,' said he softly, 'thot's better than owt, for a mon can bash
t' faace wi' thot, an', if he divn't, he can breeak t' forearm o' t'
gaard. 'Tis not i' t' books, though. Gie me t' butt.'
'Each does ut his own way, like makin' love,' said Mulvaney quietly;
'the butt or the bay'nit or the bullet accordin' to the natur' av the
man. Well, as I was sayin', we shtuck there breathin' in each other's
faces an' swearin' powerful; Orth'ris cursin' the mother that bore him
bekaze he was not three inches taller.
'Prisintly he sez:--"Duck, ye lump, an' I can get at a man over your
shouldher!"
'"You'll blow me head off," I sez, throwin' my arm clear; "go through
under my arm-pit, ye blood-thirsty little scutt," sez I, "but don't
shtick me or I'll wring your ears round."
'Fwhat was ut ye gave the Paythan man forninst me, him that cut at me
whin I cudn't move hand or foot? Hot or cowld was ut?'
'Cold,' said Ortheris, 'up an' under the rib-jint. 'E come down flat.
Best for you 'e did.'
'Thrue, my son! This jam thing that I'm talkin' about lasted for five
minutes good, an' thin we got our arms clear an' wint in. I
misremimber exactly fwhat I did, but I didn't want Dinah to be a widdy
at the Depot. Thin, after some promishkuous hackin' we shtuck again,
an' the Tyrone behin' was callin' us dogs an' cowards an' all manner
av names; we barrin' their way.
'"Fwhat ails the Tyrone?" thinks I; "they've the makin's av a most
convanient fight here."
'A man behind me sez beseechful an' in a whisper:--"Let me get at
thim! For the love av Mary give me room beside ye, ye tall man!"
'"An' who are you that's so anxious to be kilt?" sez I, widout turnin'
my head, for the long knives was dancin' in front like the sun on
Donegal Bay when ut's rough.
'"We've seen our dead," he sez, squeezin' into me; "our dead that was
men two days gone! An' me that was his cousin by blood could not bring
Tim Coulan off? Let me get on," he sez, "let me get to thim or I'll
run ye through the back!"
'"My troth," thinks I, "if the Tyrone have seen their dead, God help
the Paythans this day!" An' thin I knew why the Oirish was ragin'
behind us as they was.
'I gave room to the man, an' he ran forward wid the Haymakers' Lift on
his bay'nit an' swung a Paythan clear off his feet by the belly-band
av the brute, an' the iron bruk at the lockin'-ring.
'"Tim Coulan'll slape easy to-night," sez he wid a grin; an' the next
minut his head was in two halves and he wint down grinnin' by
sections.
'The Tyrone was pushin' an' pushin' in, an' our men were swearin' at
thim, an' Crook was workin' away in front av us all, his sword-arm
swingin' like a pump-handle; an' his revolver spittin' like a cat.
But the strange thing av ut was the quiet that lay upon. 'Twas like a
fight in a drame--except for thim that was dead.
[Illustration: 'He ran forward wid the Haymakers' Lift on his
bay'nit.'--P. 12.]
'Whin I gave room to the Oirishman I was expinded an' forlorn in my
inside. 'Tis a way I have, savin' your presince, Sorr, in action. "Let
me out, bhoys," sez I, backin' in among thim. "I'm goin' to be
onwell!" Faith they gave me room at the wurrd, though they would not
ha' given room for all Hell wid the chill off. When I got clear, I
was, savin' your presince, Sorr, outragis sick bekaze I had dhrunk
heavy that day.
'Well an' far out av harm was a Sargint av the Tyrone sittin' on the
little orf'cer bhoy who had stopped Crook from rowlin' the rocks. Oh,
he was a beautiful bhoy, an' the long black curses was sliding out av
his innocint mouth like morning-jew from a rose!
'"Fwhat have you got there?" sez I to the Sargint.
'"Wan av Her Majesty's bantams wid his spurs up," sez he. "He's goin'
to Coort-Martial me."
'"Let me go!" sez the little orf'cer bhoy. "Let me go and command my
men!" manin' thereby the Black Tyrone which was beyond any
command--ay, even av they had made the Divil a Field-Orf'cer.
'"His father howlds my mother's cow-feed in Clonmel," sez the man that
was sittin' on him. "Will I go back to _his_ mother an' tell her that
I've let him throw himself away? Lie still, ye little pinch av
dynamite, an' Coort-Martial me aftherwards."
'"Good," sez I; "'tis the likes av him makes the likes av the
Commandher-in-Chief, but we must presarve thim. Fwhat d'you want to
do, Sorr?" sez I, very politeful.
'"Kill the beggars--kill the beggars!" he shqueaks, his big blue eyes
brimmin' wid tears.
'"An' how'll ye do that?" sez I. "You've shquibbed off your revolver
like a child wid a cracker; you can make no play wid that fine large
sword av yours; an' your hand's shakin' like an asp on a leaf. Lie
still and grow," sez I.
'"Get back to your comp'ny," sez he; "you're insolint!"
'"All in good time," sez I, "but I'll have a dhrink first."
'Just thin Crook comes up, blue an' white all over where he wasn't
red.
'"Wather!" sez he; "I'm dead wid drouth! Oh, but it's a gran' day!"
'He dhrank half a skinful, and the rest he tilts into his chest, an'
it fair hissed on the hairy hide av him. He sees the little orf'cer
bhoy undher the Sargint.
'"Fwhat's yonder?" sez he.
'"Mutiny, Sorr," sez the Sargint, an' the orf'cer bhoy begins pleadin'
pitiful to Crook to be let go, but divil a bit wud Crook budge.
'"Kape him there," he sez, "'tis no child's work this day. By the same
token," sez he, "I'll confishcate that iligant nickel-plated
scent-sprinkler av yours, for my own has been vomitin' dishgraceful!"
'The fork av his hand was black wid the back-spit av the machine. So
he tuk the orf'cer bhoy's revolver. Ye may look, Sorr, but, by my
faith, _there's a dale more done in the field than iver gets into
Field Ordhers!_
'"Come on, Mulvaney," sez Crook; "is this a Coort-Martial?" The two av
us wint back together into the mess an' the Paythans were still
standin' up. They was not _too_ impart'nint though, for the Tyrone was
callin' wan to another to remimber Tim Coulan.
'Crook stopped outside av the strife an' looked anxious, his eyes
rowlin' roun'.
'"Fwhat is ut, Sorr?" sez I; "can I get ye anything?"
'"Where's a bugler?" sez he.
'I wint into the crowd--our men was dhrawin' breath behin' the Tyrone
who was fightin' like sowls in tormint--an' prisintly I came acrost
little Frehan, our bugler bhoy, pokin' roun' among the best wid a
rifle an' bay'nit.
'"Is amusin' yoursilf fwhat you're paid for, ye limb?" sez I, catchin'
him by the scruff. "Come out av that an' attind to your duty," I sez;
but the bhoy was not pleased.
'"I've got wan," sez he, grinnin', "big as you, Mulvaney, an' fair
half as ugly. Let me go get another."
'I was dishpleased at the personability av that remark, so I tucks him
under my arm an' carries him to Crook who was watchin' how the fight
wint. Crook cuffs him till the bhoy cries, an' thin sez nothin' for a
whoile.
'The Paythans began to flicker onaisy, an' our men roared. "Opin
ordher! Double!" sez Crook. "Blow, child, blow for the honour av the
British Arrmy!"
'That bhoy blew like a typhoon, an' the Tyrone an' we opined out as
the Paythans broke, an' I saw that fwhat had gone before wud be
kissin' an' huggin' to fwhat was to come. We'd dhruv them into a broad
part av the gut whin they gave, an' thin we opined out an' fair danced
down the valley, dhrivin' thim before us. Oh, 'twas lovely, an'
stiddy, too! There was the Sargints on the flanks av what was left av
us, kapin' touch, an' the fire was runnin' from flank to flank, an'
the Paythans was dhroppin'. We opined out wid the widenin' av the
valley, an' whin the valley narrowed we closed again like the shticks
on a lady's fan, an' at the far ind av the gut where they thried to
stand, we fair blew them off their feet, for we had expinded very
little ammunition by reason av the knife work.'
'Hi used thirty rounds goin' down that valley,' said Ortheris, 'an' it
was gentleman's work. Might 'a' done it in a white 'andkerchief an'
pink silk stockin's, that part. Hi was on in that piece.'
'You could ha' heard the Tyrone yellin' a mile away,' said Mulvaney,
'an' 'twas all their Sargints cud do to get thim off. They was
mad--mad--mad! Crook sits down in the quiet that fell when we had gone
down the valley, an' covers his face wid his hands. Prisintly we all
came back again accordin' to our natures and disposishins, for they,
mark you, show through the hide av a man in that hour.
'"Bhoys! bhoys!" sez Crook to himself. "I misdoubt we could ha'
engaged at long range an' saved betther men than me." He looked at our
dead an' said no more.
'"Captain dear," sez a man av the Tyrone, comin' up wid his mouth
bigger than iver his mother kissed ut, spittin' blood like a whale;
"Captain dear," sez he, "if wan or two in the shtalls have been
discommoded, the gallery have enjoyed the performinces av a Roshus."
'Thin I knew that man for the Dublin dock-rat he was--wan av the bhoys
that made the lessee av Silver's Theatre gray before his time wid
tearin' out the bowils av the benches an' t'rowin' thim into the pit.
So I passed the wurrud that I knew when I was in the Tyrone an' we lay
in Dublin. "I don't know who 'twas," I whispers, "an' I don't care,
but anyways I'll knock the face av you, Tim Kelly."
'"Eyah!" sez the man, "was you there too? We'll call ut Silver's
Theatre." Half the Tyrone, knowin' the ould place, tuk ut up: so we
called ut Silver's Theatre.
'The little orf'cer bhoy av the Tyrone was thremblin' an' cryin'. He
had no heart for the Coort-Martials that he talked so big upon. "Ye'll
do well later," sez Crook very quiet, "for not bein' allowed to kill
yourself for amusemint."
'"I'm a dishgraced man!" sez the little orf'cer bhoy.
'"Put me undher arrest, Sorr, if you will, but, by my sowl, I'd do ut
again sooner than face your mother wid you dead," sez the Sargint that
had sat on his head, standin' to attention an' salutin'. But the young
wan only cried as tho' his little heart was breakin'.
'Thin another man av the Tyrone came up, wid the fog av fightin' on
him.'
'The what, Mulvaney?'
'Fog av fightin'. You know, Sorr, that, like makin' love, ut takes
each man diff'rint. Now I can't help bein' powerful sick whin I'm in
action. Orth'ris, here, niver stops swearin' from ind to ind, an' the
only time that Learoyd opins his mouth to sing is whin he is messin'
wid other people's heads; for he's a dhirty fighter is Jock.
Recruities sometime cry, an' sometime they don't know fwhat they do,
an' sometime they are all for cuttin' throats an' such-like dirtiness;
but some men get heavy-dead-dhrunk on the fightin'. This man was. He
was staggerin', an' his eyes were half-shut, an' we cud hear him dhraw
breath twinty yards away. He sees the little orf'cer bhoy, an' comes
up, talkin' thick an' drowsy to himsilf. "Blood the young whelp!" he
sez; "blood the young whelp;" an' wid that he threw up his arms, shpun
roun', an' dropped at our feet, dead as a Paythan, an' there was niver
sign or scratch on him. They said 'twas his heart was rotten, but oh,
'twas a quare thing to see!
'Thin we went to bury our dead, for we wud not lave thim to the
Paythans, an' in movin' among the haythen we nearly lost that little
orf'cer bhoy. He was for givin' wan divil wather and layin' him aisy
against a rock. "Be careful, Sorr," sez I; "a wounded Paythan's worse
than a live wan." My troth, before the words was out of my mouth, the
man on the ground fires at the orf'cer bhoy lanin' over him, an' I saw
the helmit fly. I dropped the butt on the face av the man an' tuk his
pistol. The little orf'cer bhoy turned very white, for the hair av
half his head was singed away.
'"I tould you so, Sorr," sez I; an', afther that, when he wanted to
help a Paythan I stud wid the muzzle contagious to the ear. They dare
not do anythin' but curse. The Tyrone was growlin' like dogs over a
bone that has been taken away too soon, for they had seen their dead
an' they wanted to kill ivry sowl on the ground. Crook tould thim that
he'd blow the hide off any man that misconducted himself; but, seeing
that ut was the first time the Tyrone had iver seen their dead, I do
not wondher they were on the sharp. 'Tis a shameful sight! Whin I
first saw ut I wud niver ha' given quarter to any man not of the
Khaibar--no, nor woman either, for the women used to come out afther
dhark--Auggrh!
'Well, evenshually we buried our dead an' tuk away our wounded, an'
come over the brow av the hills to see the Scotchies an' the Gurkys
taking tay with the Paythans in bucketsfuls. We were a gang av
dissolute ruffians, for the blood had caked the dust, an' the sweat
had cut the cake, an' our bay'nits was hangin' like butchers' steels
betune ur legs, an' most av us were marked one way or another.
'A Staff Orf'cer man, clean as a new rifle, rides up an' sez: "What
damned scarecrows are you?"
'"A comp'ny av Her Majesty's Black Tyrone an' wan av the Ould
Rig'mint," sez Crook very quiet, givin' our visitors the flure as
'twas.
'"Oh!" sez the Staff Orf'cer; "did you dislodge that Reserve?"
'"No!" sez Crook, an' the Tyrone laughed.
'"Thin fwhat the divil have ye done?"
'"Disthroyed ut," sez Crook, an' he took us on, but not before Toomey
that was in the Tyrone sez aloud, his voice somewhere in his stummick:
"Fwhat in the name av misfortune does this parrit widout a tail mane
by shtoppin' the road av his betthers?"
'The Staff Orf'cer wint blue, an' Toomey makes him pink by changin' to
the voice av a minowderin' woman an' sayin': "Come an' kiss me, Major
dear, for me husband's at the wars an' I'm all alone at the Depot."
'The Staff Orf'cer wint away, an' I cud see Crook's shoulthers
shakin'.
'His Corp'ril checks Toomey. "Lave me alone," sez Toomey, widout a
wink. "I was his bâtman before he was married an' he knows fwhat I
mane, av you don't. There's nothin' like livin' in the hoight av
society." D'you remimber that, Orth'ris!'
'Hi do. Toomey, 'e died in 'orspital, next week it was, 'cause I
bought 'arf his kit; an' I remember after that----'
'GUARRD, TURN OUT!'
The Relief had come; it was four o'clock. 'I'll catch a kyart for you,
Sorr,' said Mulvaney, diving hastily into his accoutrements. 'Come up
to the top av the Fort an' we'll pershue our invistigations into
M'Grath's shtable.' The relieved guard strolled round the main bastion
on its way to the swimming-bath, and Learoyd grew almost talkative.
Ortheris looked into the Fort ditch and across the plain. 'Ho! it's
weary waitin' for Ma-ary!' he hummed; 'but I'd like to kill some more
bloomin' Paythans before my time's up. War! Bloody war! North, East,
South, and West.'
'Amen,' said Learoyd slowly.
'Fwhat's here?' said Mulvaney, checking at a blur of white by the foot
of the old sentry-box. He stooped and touched it. 'It's Norah--Norah
M'Taggart! Why, Nonie darlin', fwhat are ye doin' out av your mother's
bed at this time?'
The two-year-old child of Sergeant M'Taggart must have wandered for a
breath of cool air to the very verge of the parapet of the Fort ditch.
Her tiny night-shift was gathered into a wisp round her neck and she
moaned in her sleep. 'See there!' said Mulvaney; 'poor lamb! Look at
the heat-rash on the innocint skin av her. 'Tis hard--crool hard
even for us. Fwhat must it be for these? Wake up, Nonie, your mother
will be woild about you. Begad, the child might ha' fallen into the
ditch!'
[Illustration: He picked her up in the growing light, and set
her on his shoulder.--P. 23.]
He picked her up in the growing light, and set her on his shoulder,
and her fair curls touched the grizzled stubble of his temples.
Ortheris and Learoyd followed snapping their fingers, while Norah
smiled at them a sleepy smile. Then carolled Mulvaney, clear as a
lark, dancing the baby on his arm:--
'If any young man should marry you,
Say nothin' about the joke;
That iver ye slep' in a sinthry-box,
Wrapped up in a soldier's cloak.
'Though, on my sowl, Nonie,' he said gravely, 'there was not much
cloak about you. Niver mind, you won't dhress like this ten years to
come. Kiss your friends an' run along to your mother.'
Nonie, set down close to the Married Quarters, nodded with the quiet
obedience of the soldier's child, but, ere she pattered off over the
flagged path, held up her lips to be kissed by the Three Musketeers.
Ortheris wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and swore
sentimentally; Learoyd turned pink; and the two walked away together.
The Yorkshireman lifted up his voice and gave in thunder the chorus of
_The Sentry Box_, while Ortheris piped at his side.
''Bin to a bloomin' sing-song, you two?' said the Artilleryman, who
was taking his cartridge down to the Morning Gun. 'You're over merry
for these dashed days.'
'I bid ye take care o' the brat, said he,
For it comes of a noble race,'
Learoyd bellowed. The voices died out in the swimming-bath.
'Oh, Terence!' I said, dropping into Mulvaney's speech, when we were
alone, 'it's you that have the Tongue!'
He looked at me wearily; his eyes were sunk in his head, and his face
was drawn and white. 'Eyah!' said he; 'I've blandandhered thim through
the night somehow, but can thim that helps others help thimselves?
Answer me that, Sorr!'
And over the bastions of Fort Amara broke the pitiless day.
FOOTNOTES:
[1]
Now first of the foemen of Boh Da Thone
Was Captain O'Neil of the Black Tyrone.
_The Ballad of Boh Da Thone._
[Illustration]
THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT
In the Army List they still stand as 'The Fore and Fit Princess
Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen-Auspach's Merthyr-Tydfilshire Own Royal Loyal
Light Infantry, Regimental District 329A,' but the Army through all
its barracks and canteens knows them now as the 'Fore and Aft.' They
may in time do something that shall make their new title honourable,
but at present they are bitterly ashamed, and the man who calls them
'Fore and Aft' does so at the risk of the head which is on his
shoulders.
Two words breathed into the stables of a certain Cavalry Regiment will
bring the men out into the streets with belts and mops and bad
language; but a whisper of 'Fore and Aft' will bring out this regiment
with rifles.
Their one excuse is that they came again and did their best to finish
the job in style. But for a time all their world knows that they were
openly beaten, whipped, dumb-cowed, shaking, and afraid. The men know
it; their officers know it; the Horse Guards know it, and when the
next war comes the enemy will know it also. There are two or three
regiments of the Line that have a black mark against their names which
they will then wipe out; and it will be excessively inconvenient for
the troops upon whom they do their wiping.
The courage of the British soldier is officially supposed to be above
proof, and, as a general rule, it is so. The exceptions are decently
shovelled out of sight, only to be referred to in the freshest of
unguarded talk that occasionally swamps a Mess-table at midnight. Then
one hears strange and horrible stories of men not following their
officers, of orders being given by those who had no right to give
them, and of disgrace that, but for the standing luck of the British
Army, might have ended in brilliant disaster. These are unpleasant
stories to listen to, and the Messes tell them under their breath,
sitting by the big wood fires; and the young officer bows his head and
thinks to himself, please God, his men shall never behave unhandily.
The British soldier is not altogether to be blamed for occasional
lapses; but this verdict he should not know. A moderately intelligent
General will waste six months in mastering the craft of the particular
war that he may be waging; a Colonel may utterly misunderstand the
capacity of his regiment for three months after it has taken the
field; and even a Company Commander may err and be deceived as to the
temper and temperament of his own handful: wherefore the soldier, and
the soldier of to-day more particularly, should not be blamed for
falling back. He should be shot or hanged afterwards--to encourage the
others; but he should not be vilified in newspapers, for that is want
of tact and waste of space.
He has, let us say, been in the service of the Empress for, perhaps,
four years. He will leave in another two years. He has no inherited
morals, and four years are not sufficient to drive toughness into his
fibre, or to teach him how holy a thing is his Regiment. He wants to
drink, he wants to enjoy himself--in India he wants to save money--and
he does not in the least like getting hurt. He has received just
sufficient education to make him understand half the purport of the
orders he receives, and to speculate on the nature of clean, incised,
and shattering wounds. Thus, if he is told to deploy under fire
preparatory to an attack, he knows that he runs a very great risk of
being killed while he is deploying, and suspects that he is being
thrown away to gain ten minutes' time. He may either deploy with
desperate swiftness, or he may shuffle, or bunch, or break, according
to the discipline under which he has lain for four years.
Armed with imperfect knowledge, cursed with the rudiments of an
imagination, hampered by the intense selfishness of the lower classes,
and unsupported by any regimental associations, this young man is
suddenly introduced to an enemy who in eastern lands is always ugly,
generally tall and hairy, and frequently noisy. If he looks to the
right and the left and sees old soldiers--men of twelve years'
service, who, he knows, know what they are about--taking a charge,
rush, or demonstration without embarrassment, he is consoled and
applies his shoulder to the butt of his rifle with a stout heart. His
peace is the greater if he hears a senior, who has taught him his
soldiering and broken his head on occasion, whispering: 'They'll shout
and carry on like this for five minutes. Then they'll rush in, and
then we've got 'em by the short hairs!'
But, on the other hand, if he sees only men of his own term of
service, turning white and playing with their triggers and saying:
'What the Hell's up now?' while the Company Commanders are sweating
into their sword-hilts and shouting: 'Front-rank, fix bayonets. Steady
there--steady! Sight for three hundred--no, for five! Lie down, all!
Steady! Front-rank kneel!' and so forth, he becomes unhappy; and grows
acutely miserable when he hears a comrade turn over with the rattle of
fire-irons falling into the fender, and the grunt of a pole-axed ox.
If he can be moved about a little and allowed to watch the effect of
his own fire on the enemy he feels merrier, and may be then worked up
to the blind passion of fighting, which is, contrary to general
belief, controlled by a chilly Devil and shakes men like ague. If he
is not moved about, and begins to feel cold at the pit of the stomach,
and in that crisis is badly mauled and hears orders that were never
given, he will break, and he will break badly; and of all things under
the light of the Sun there is nothing more terrible than a broken
British regiment. When the worst comes to the worst and the panic is
really epidemic, the men must be e'en let go, and the Company
Commanders had better escape to the enemy and stay there for safety's
sake. If they can be made to come again they are not pleasant men to
meet; because they will not break twice.
About thirty years from this date, when we have succeeded in
half-educating everything that wears trousers, our Army will be a
beautifully unreliable machine. It will know too much and it will do
too little. Later still, when all men are at the mental level of the
officer of to-day, it will sweep the earth. Speaking roughly, you must
employ either blackguards or gentlemen, or, best of all, blackguards
commanded by gentlemen, to do butcher's work with efficiency and
despatch. The ideal soldier should, of course, think for himself--the
_Pocket-book_ says so. Unfortunately, to attain this virtue he has to
pass through the phase of thinking of himself, and that is misdirected
genius. A blackguard may be slow to think for himself, but he is
genuinely anxious to kill, and a little punishment teaches him how to
guard his own skin and perforate another's. A powerfully prayerful
Highland Regiment, officered by rank Presbyterians, is, perhaps, one
degree more terrible in action than a hard-bitten thousand of
irresponsible Irish ruffians led by most improper young unbelievers.
But these things prove the rule--which is that the midway men are not
to be trusted alone. They have ideas about the value of life and an
upbringing that has not taught them to go on and take the chances.
They are carefully unprovided with a backing of comrades who have been
shot over, and until that backing is re-introduced, as a great many
Regimental Commanders intend it shall be, they are more liable to
disgrace themselves than the size of the Empire or the dignity of the
Army allows. Their officers are as good as good can be, because their
training begins early, and God has arranged that a clean-run youth of
the British middle classes shall, in the matter of backbone, brains,
and bowels, surpass all other youths. For this reason a child of
eighteen will stand up, doing nothing, with a tin sword in his hand
and joy in his heart until he is dropped. If he dies, he dies like a
gentleman. If he lives, he writes Home that he has been 'potted,'
'sniped,' 'chipped,' or 'cut over,' and sits down to besiege
Government for a wound-gratuity until the next little war breaks out,
when he perjures himself before a Medical Board, blarneys his Colonel,
burns incense round his Adjutant, and is allowed to go to the Front
once more.
Which homily brings me directly to a brace of the most finished little
fiends that ever banged drum or tootled fife in the Band of a British
Regiment. They ended their sinful career by open and flagrant mutiny
and were shot for it. Their names were Jakin and Lew--Piggy Lew--and
they were bold, bad drummer-boys, both of them frequently birched by
the Drum-Major of the Fore and Aft.
Jakin was a stunted child of fourteen, and Lew was about the same age.
When not looked after, they smoked and drank. They swore habitually
after the manner of the Barrack-room, which is cold-swearing and comes
from between clinched teeth; and they fought religiously once a week.
Jakin had sprung from some London gutter, and may or may not have
passed through Dr. Barnardo's hands ere he arrived at the dignity of
drummer-boy. Lew could remember nothing except the Regiment and the
delight of listening to the Band from his earliest years. He hid
somewhere in his grimy little soul a genuine love for music, and was
most mistakenly furnished with the head of a cherub: insomuch that
beautiful ladies who watched the Regiment in church were wont to speak
of him as a 'darling.' They never heard his vitriolic comments on
their manners and morals, as he walked back to barracks with the Band
and matured fresh causes of offence against Jakin.
The other drummer-boys hated both lads on account of their illogical
conduct. Jakin might be pounding Lew, or Lew might be rubbing Jakin's
head in the dirt, but any attempt at aggression on the part of an
outsider was met by the combined forces of Lew and Jakin; and the
consequences were painful. The boys were the Ishmaels of the corps,
but wealthy Ishmaels, for they sold battles in alternate weeks for the
sport of the barracks when they were not pitted against other boys;
and thus amassed money.
On this particular day there was dissension in the camp. They had just
been convicted afresh of smoking, which is bad for little boys who use
plug-tobacco, and Lew's contention was that Jakin had 'stunk so 'orrid
bad from keepin' the pipe in pocket,' that he and he alone was
responsible for the birching they were both tingling under.
'I tell you I 'id the pipe back o' barracks,' said Jakin pacifically.
'You're a bloomin' liar,' said Lew without heat.
'You're a bloomin' little barstard,' said Jakin, strong in the
knowledge that his own ancestry was unknown.
Now there is one word in the extended vocabulary of barrack-room abuse
that cannot pass without comment. You may call a man a thief and risk
nothing. You may even call him a coward without finding more than a
boot whiz past your ear, but you must not call a man a bastard unless
you are prepared to prove it on his front teeth.
'You might ha' kep' that till I wasn't so sore,' said Lew sorrowfully,
dodging round Jakin's guard.
'I'll make you sorer,' said Jakin genially, and got home on Lew's
alabaster forehead. All would have gone well and this story, as the
books say, would never have been written, had not his evil fate
prompted the Bazar-Sergeant's son, a long, employless man of
five-and-twenty, to put in an appearance after the first round. He was
eternally in need of money, and knew that the boys had silver.
'Fighting again,' said he. 'I'll report you to my father, and he'll
report you to the Colour-Sergeant.'
'What's that to you?' said Jakin with an unpleasant dilation of the
nostrils.
'Oh! nothing to _me_. You'll get into trouble, and you've been up too
often to afford that.'
'What the Hell do you know about what we've done?' asked Lew the
Seraph. '_You_ aren't in the Army, you lousy, cadging civilian.'
He closed in on the man's left flank.
'Jes' 'cause you find two gentlemen settlin' their diff'rences with
their fistes you stick in your ugly nose where you aren't wanted. Run
'ome to your 'arf-caste slut of a Ma--or we'll give you what-for,'
said Jakin.
The man attempted reprisals by knocking the boys' heads together. The
scheme would have succeeded had not Jakin punched him vehemently in
the stomach, or had Lew refrained from kicking his shins. They fought
together, bleeding and breathless, for half an hour, and, after heavy
punishment, triumphantly pulled down their opponent as terriers pull
down a jackal.
'Now,' gasped Jakin, 'I'll give you what-for.' He proceeded to pound
the man's features while Lew stamped on the outlying portions of his
anatomy. Chivalry is not a strong point in the composition of the
average drummer-boy. He fights, as do his betters, to make his mark.
Ghastly was the ruin that escaped, and awful was the wrath of the
Bazar-Sergeant. Awful, too, was the scene in Orderly-room when the two
reprobates appeared to answer the charge of half-murdering a
'civilian.' The Bazar-Sergeant thirsted for a criminal action, and his
son lied. The boys stood to attention while the black clouds of
evidence accumulated.
[Illustration: 'Hey! What? Are you going to argue with _me_?'
said the Colonel.--P. 35.]
'You little devils are more trouble than the rest of the Regiment put
together,' said the Colonel angrily. 'One might as well admonish
thistledown, and I can't well put you in cells or under stoppages. You
must be birched again.'
'Beg y' pardon, Sir. Can't we say nothin' in our own defence, Sir?'
shrilled Jakin.
'Hey! What? Are you going to argue with _me_?' said the Colonel.
'No, Sir,' said Lew. 'But if a man come to you, Sir, and said he was
going to report you, Sir, for 'aving a bit of a turn-up with a friend,
Sir, an' wanted to get money out o' _you_, Sir--'
The Orderly-room exploded in a roar of laughter. 'Well?' said the
Colonel.
'That was what that measly _jarnwar_ there did, Sir, and 'e'd 'a'
_done_ it, Sir, if we 'adn't prevented 'im. We didn't 'it 'im much,
Sir. 'E 'adn't no manner o' right to interfere with us, Sir. I don't
mind bein' birched by the Drum-Major, Sir, nor yet reported by _any_
Corp'ral, but I'm--but I don't think it's fair, Sir, for a civilian to
come an' talk over a man in the Army.'
A second shout of laughter shook the Orderly-room, but the Colonel was
grave.
'What sort of characters have these boys?' he asked of the Regimental
Sergeant-Major.
'Accordin' to the Bandmaster, Sir,' returned that revered
official--the only soul in the regiment whom the boys feared--'they do
everything _but_ lie, Sir.'
'Is it like we'd go for that man for fun, Sir?' said Lew, pointing to
the plaintiff.
'Oh, admonished--admonished!' said the Colonel testily, and when the
boys had gone he read the Bazar-Sergeant's son a lecture on the sin of
unprofitable meddling, and gave orders that the Bandmaster should keep
the Drums in better discipline.
'If either of you comes to practice again with so much as a scratch on
your two ugly little faces,' thundered the Bandmaster, 'I'll tell the
Drum-Major to take the skin off your backs. Understand that, you young
devils.'
Then he repented of his speech for just the length of time that Lew,
looking like a Seraph in red worsted embellishments, took the place of
one of the trumpets--in hospital--and rendered the echo of a
battle-piece. Lew certainly was a musician, and had often in his more
exalted moments expressed a yearning to master every instrument of the
Band.
'There's nothing to prevent your becoming a Bandmaster, Lew,' said
the Bandmaster, who had composed waltzes of his own, and worked day
and night in the interests of the Band.
'What did he say?' demanded Jakin after practice.
''Said I might be a bloomin' Bandmaster, an' be asked in to 'ave a
glass o' sherry-wine on Mess-nights.'
'Ho! 'Said you might be a bloomin' non-combatant, did 'e! That's just
about wot 'e would say. When I've put in my boy's service--it's a
bloomin' shame that doesn't count for pension--I'll take on as a
privit. Then I'll be a Lance in a year--knowin' what I know about the
ins an' outs o' things. In three years I'll be a bloomin' Sergeant. I
won't marry then, not I! I'll 'old on and learn the orf'cers' ways an'
apply for exchange into a reg'ment that doesn't know all about me.
Then I'll be a bloomin' orf'cer. Then I'll ask you to 'ave a glass o'
sherry-wine, _Mister_ Lew, an' you'll bloomin' well 'ave to stay in
the hanty-room while the Mess-Sergeant brings it to your dirty 'ands.'
''S'pose I'm going to be a Bandmaster? Not I, quite. I'll be a orf'cer
too. There's nothin' like takin' to a thing an' stickin' to it, the
Schoolmaster says. The reg'ment don't go 'ome for another seven years.
I'll be a Lance then or near to.'
Thus the boys discussed their futures, and conducted themselves
piously for a week. That is to say, Lew started a flirtation with the
Colour-Sergeant's daughter, aged thirteen--'not,' as he explained to
Jakin, 'with any intention o' matrimony, but by way o' keepin' my 'and
in.' And the black-haired Cris Delighan enjoyed that flirtation more
than previous ones, and the other drummer-boys raged furiously
together, and Jakin preached sermons on the dangers of 'bein' tangled
along o' petticoats.'