number instead of a decent name. Wot's the good o' me? If I 'ad a
stayed at 'Ome, I might a married that gal and a kep' a little shorp
in the 'Ammersmith 'Igh.--"S. Orth'ris, Prac-ti-cal Taxi-der-mist."
With a stuff' fox, like they 'as in the Haylesbury Dairies, in the
winder, an' a little case of blue and yaller glass-heyes, an' a little
wife to call "shorp!" "shorp!" when the door-bell rung. As it _his_,
I'm on'y a Tommy--a Bloomin' Gawd-forsaken Beer-swillin' Tommy. "Rest
on your harms--_'versed_. Stan' at--_hease_; _'shun_. 'Verse--_harms_.
Right an' lef'--_tarrn_. Slow--_march_. 'Alt--_front_. Rest on your
harms--_'versed_. With blank-cartridge--_load_." An' that's the end o'
me.' He was quoting fragments from Funeral Parties' Orders.
'Stop ut!' shouted Mulvaney. 'Whin you've fired into nothin' as often
as me, over a better man than yoursilf, you will not make a mock av
thim orders. 'Tis worse than whistlin' the _Dead March_ in barricks.
An' you full as a tick, an' the sun cool, an' all an' all! I take
shame for you. You're no better than a Pagin--you an' your
firin'-parties an' your glass-eyes. Won't _you_ stop ut, Sorr?'
What could I do? Could I tell Ortheris anything that he did not know
of the pleasures of his life? I was not a Chaplain nor a Subaltern,
and Ortheris had a right to speak as he thought fit.
'Let him run, Mulvaney,' I said. 'It's the beer.'
'No! 'Tisn't the beer,' said Mulvaney. 'I know fwhat's comin'. He's
tuk this way now an' agin, an' it's bad--it's bad--for I'm fond av the
bhoy.'
Indeed, Mulvaney seemed needlessly anxious; but I knew that he looked
after Ortheris in a fatherly way.
'Let me talk, let me talk,' said Ortheris dreamily. 'D'you stop your
parrit screamin' of a 'ot day when the cage is a-cookin' 'is pore
little pink toes orf, Mulvaney?'
'Pink toes! D'ye mane to say you've pink toes undher your bullswools,
ye blandanderin','--Mulvaney gathered himself together for a terrific
denunciation--'school-misthress! Pink toes! How much Bass wid the
label did that ravin' child dhrink?'
''Tain't Bass,' said Ortheris. 'It's a bitterer beer nor that. It's
'ome-sickness!'
'Hark to him! An' he goin' Home in the _Sherapis_ in the inside av
four months!'
'I don't care. It's all one to me. 'Ow d'you know I ain't 'fraid o'
dyin' 'fore I gets my discharge paipers?' He recommenced, in a
sing-song voice, the Orders.
I had never seen this side of Ortheris's character before, but
evidently Mulvaney had, and attached serious importance to it. While
Ortheris babbled, with his head on his arms, Mulvaney whispered to
me:--
'He's always tuk this way whin he's been checked overmuch by the
childher they make Sarjints nowadays. That an' havin' nothin' to do. I
can't make ut out anyways.'
'Well, what does it matter? Let him talk himself through.'
Ortheris began singing a parody of _The Ramrod Corps_, full of
cheerful allusions to battle, murder, and sudden death. He looked out
across the river as he sang; and his face was quite strange to me.
Mulvaney caught me by the elbow to ensure attention.
'Matther? It matthers everything! 'Tis some sort av fit that's on him.
I've seen ut. 'Twill hould him all this night, an' in the middle av it
he'll get out av his cot an' go rakin' in the rack for his
'courtremints. Thin he'll come over to me an' say, "I'm goin' to
Bombay. Answer for me in the mornin'." Thin me an' him will fight as
we've done before--him to go an' me to hould him--an' so we'll both
come on the books for disturbin' in barricks. I've belted him, an'
I've bruk his head, an' I've talked to him, but 'tis no manner av use
whin the fit's on him. He's as good a bhoy as ever stepped whin his
mind's clear. I know fwhat's comin', though, this night in barricks.
Lord send he doesn't loose on me whin I rise to knock him down. 'Tis
that that's in my mind day an' night.'
This put the case in a much less pleasant light, and fully accounted
for Mulvaney's anxiety. He seemed to be trying to coax Ortheris out of
the fit; for he shouted down the bank where the boy was lying:--
'Listen now, you wid the "pore pink toes" an' the glass-eyes! Did you
shwim the Irriwaddy at night, behin' me, as a bhoy shud; or were you
hidin' under a bed, as you was at Ahmid Kheyl?'
This was at once a gross insult and a direct lie, and Mulvaney meant
it to bring on a fight. But Ortheris seemed shut up in some sort of
trance. He answered slowly, without a sign of irritation, in the same
cadenced voice as he had used for his firing-party orders:--
'_Hi_ swum the Irriwaddy in the night, as you know, for to take the
town of Lungtungpen, nakid an' without fear. _Hand_ where I was at
Ahmed Kheyl you know, and four bloomin' Paythans know too. But that
was summat to do, an' I didn't think o' dyin'. Now I'm sick to go
'Ome--go 'Ome--go 'Ome! No, I ain't mammysick, because my uncle brung
me up, but I'm sick for London again; sick for the sounds of 'er, an'
the sights of 'er, and the stinks of 'er; orange-peel and hasphalte
an' gas comin' in over Vaux'all Bridge. Sick for the rail goin' down
to Box 'Ill, with your gal on your knee an' a new clay pipe in your
face. That, an' the Stran' lights where you knows ev'ry one, an' the
Copper that takes you up is a old friend that tuk you up before, when
you was a little, smitchy boy lying loose 'tween the Temple an' the
Dark Harches. No bloomin' guard-mountin', no bloomin' rotten-stone,
nor khaki, an' yourself your own master with a gal to take an' see the
Humaners practisin' a-hookin' dead corpses out of the Serpentine o'
Sundays. An' I lef' all that for to serve the Widder beyond the seas,
where there ain't no women and there ain't no liquor worth 'avin', and
there ain't nothin' to see, nor do, nor say, nor feel, nor think. Lord
love you, Stanley Orth'ris, but you're a bigger bloomin' fool than the
rest o' the reg'ment and Mulvaney wired together! There's the Widder
sittin' at 'Ome with a gold crownd on 'er 'ead; and 'ere am Hi,
Stanley Orth'ris, the Widder's property, a rottin' FOOL!'
His voice rose at the end of the sentence, and he wound up with a
six-shot Anglo-Vernacular oath. Mulvaney said nothing, but looked at
me as if he expected that I could bring peace to poor Ortheris's
troubled brain.
I remembered once at Rawal Pindi having seen a man, nearly mad with
drink, sobered by being made a fool of. Some regiments may know what I
mean. I hoped that we might slake off Ortheris in the same way, though
he was perfectly sober. So I said:--
'What's the use of grousing there, and speaking against The Widow?'
'I didn't!' said Ortheris. 'S'elp me, Gawd, I never said a word agin
'er, an' I wouldn't--not if I was to desert this minute!'
Here was my opening. 'Well, you meant to, anyhow. What's the use of
cracking-on for nothing? Would you slip it now if you got the chance?'
'On'y try me!' said Ortheris, jumping to his feet as if he had been
stung.
Mulvaney jumped too. 'Fwhat are you going to do?' said he.
'Help Ortheris down to Bombay or Karachi, whichever he likes. You can
report that he separated from you before tiffin, and left his gun on
the bank here!'
'I'm to report that--am I?' said Mulvaney slowly. 'Very well. If
Orth'ris manes to desert now, and will desert now, an' you, Sorr, who
have been a frind to me an' to him, will help him to ut, I, Terence
Mulvaney, on my oath which I've never bruk yet, will report as you
say. But----' here he stepped up to Ortheris, and shook the stock of
the fowling-piece in his face--'your fistes help you, Stanley
Orth'ris, if ever I come across you agin!'
'I don't care!' said Ortheris. 'I'm sick o' this dorg's life. Give me
a chanst. Don't play with me. Le' me go!'
'Strip,' said I, 'and change with me, and then I'll tell you what to
do.'
I hoped that the absurdity of this would check Ortheris; but he had
kicked off his ammunition-boots and got rid of his tunic almost before
I had loosed my shirt-collar. Mulvaney gripped me by the arm:--
'The fit's on him: the fit's workin' on him still! By my Honour and
Sowl, we shall be accessiry to a desartion yet. Only twenty-eight
days, as you say, Sorr, or fifty-six, but think o' the shame--the
black shame to him an' me!' I had never seen Mulvaney so excited.
But Ortheris was quite calm, and, as soon as he had exchanged clothes
with me, and I stood up a Private of the Line, he said shortly, 'Now!
Come on. What nex'? D'ye mean fair. What must I do to get out o' this
'ere a-Hell?'
I told him that, if he would wait for two or three hours near the
river, I would ride into the Station and come back with one hundred
rupees. He would, with that money in his pocket, walk to the nearest
side-station on the line, about five miles away, and would there take
a first-class ticket for Karachi. Knowing that he had no money on him
when he went out shooting, his regiment would not immediately wire to
the seaports, but would hunt for him in the native villages near the
river. Further, no one would think of seeking a deserter in a
first-class carriage. At Karachi, he was to buy white clothes and
ship, if he could, on a cargo-steamer.
Here he broke in. If I helped him to Karachi, he would arrange all the
rest. Then I ordered him to wait where he was until it was dark enough
for me to ride into the station without my dress being noticed. Now
God in His wisdom has made the heart of the British Soldier, who is
very often an unlicked ruffian, as soft as the heart of a little
child, in order that he may believe in and follow his officers into
tight and nasty places. He does not so readily come to believe in a
'civilian,' but, when he does, he believes implicitly and like a dog.
I had had the honour of the friendship of Private Ortheris, at
intervals, for more than three years, and we had dealt with each other
as man by man. Consequently, he considered that all my words were
true, and not spoken lightly.
Mulvaney and I left him in the high grass near the river-bank, and
went away, still keeping to the high grass, towards my horse. The
shirt scratched me horribly.
[Illustration: We set off at the double and found him plunging
about wildly through the grass.--P. 201.]
We waited nearly two hours for the dusk to fall and allow me to ride
off. We spoke of Ortheris in whispers, and strained our ears to catch
any sound from the spot where we had left him. But we heard nothing
except the wind in the plume-grass.
'I've bruk his head,' said Mulvaney earnestly, 'time an' agin. I've
nearly kilt him wid the belt, an' _yet_ I can't knock thim fits out av
his soft head. No! An' he's not soft, for he's reasonable an' likely
by natur'. Fwhat is ut? Is ut his breedin' which is nothin', or his
edukashin which he niver got? You that think ye know things, answer me
that.'
But I found no answer. I was wondering how long Ortheris, in the bank
of the river, would hold out, and whether I should be forced to help
him to desert, as I had given my word.
Just as the dusk shut down and, with a very heavy heart, I was
beginning to saddle up my horse, we heard wild shouts from the river.
The devils had departed from Private Stanley Ortheris, No. 22639, B
company. The loneliness, the dusk, and the waiting had driven them out
as I had hoped. We set off at the double and found him plunging about
wildly through the grass, with his coat off--my coat off, I mean. He
was calling for us like a madman.
When we reached him he was dripping with perspiration, and trembling
like a startled horse. We had great difficulty in soothing him. He
complained that he was in civilian kit, and wanted to tear my clothes
off his body. I ordered him to strip, and we made a second exchange as
quickly as possible.
The rasp of his own 'grayback' shirt and the squeak of his boots
seemed to bring him to himself. He put his hands before his eyes and
said:--
'Wot was it? I ain't mad, I ain't sunstrook, an' I've bin an' gone an'
said, an' bin an' gone an' done---- _Wot_ 'ave I bin an' done!'
'Fwhat have you done?' said Mulvaney. 'You've dishgraced
yourself--though that's no matter. You've dishgraced B comp'ny, an'
worst av all, you've dishgraced _Me_! Me that taught you how for to
walk abroad like a man--whin you was a dhirty little, fish-backed
little, whimperin' little recruity. As you are now, Stanley Orth'ris!'
Ortheris said nothing for a while. Then he unslung his belt, heavy
with the badges of half-a-dozen regiments that his own had lain with,
and handed it over to Mulvaney.
'I'm too little for to mill you, Mulvaney,' said he, 'an' you've
strook me before; but you can take an' cut me in two with this 'ere if
you like.'
Mulvaney turned to me.
'Lave me to talk to him, Sorr,' said Mulvaney.
I left, and on my way home thought a good deal over Ortheris in
particular, and my friend Private Thomas Atkins, whom I love, in
general.
But I could not come to any conclusion of any kind whatever.
THE END
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