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’, an’
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 quittin’
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 bazar,
an’ huntin’ for you wid a pathrol at midnight. Nalson, for I know ut’s
you, come back to the verandah.’
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 Depôt 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?”
‘“Ye’re callin’ the wrong man,” he sez, wid his gentleman’s smile,
“Larry has been dead these three years. They call him ‘Love-o’-Women’
now,” he sez. By that I knew the ould divil was in him yet, but the ind
av a fight is no time for the beginnin’ av confession, so we sat down
an’ talked av times.
‘“They tell me you’re a married man,” he sez, puffin’ slow at his
poipe. “Are ye happy?”
‘“I will be whin I get back to Depôt,” I sez. “’Tis a
reconnaissance-honeymoon now.”
‘“I’m married too,” he sez, puffin’ slow an’ more slow, an’ stopperin’
wid his forefinger.
‘“Send you happiness,” I sez. “That’s the best hearin’ for a long time.”
‘“Are ye av that opinion?” he sez; an’ thin he began talkin’ av the
campaign. The sweat av Silver’s Theatre was not dhry upon him an’ he
was prayin’ for more work. I was well contint to lie and listen to the
cook-pot lids.
‘Whin he got up off the ground he shtaggered a little, an’ laned over
all twisted.
‘“Ye’ve got more than ye bargained for,” I sez. “Take an inventory,
Larry. ’Tis like you’re hurt.”
‘He turned round stiff as a ramrod an’ damned the eyes av me up an’
down for an impartinent Irish-faced ape. If that had been in barracks,
I’d ha’ stretched him an’ no more said; but ’twas at the Front, an’
afther such a fight as Silver’s Theatre I knew there was no callin’
a man to account for his tempers. He might as well ha’ kissed me.
Aftherwards I was well pleased I kept my fists home. Thin our Captain
Crook--Cruik-na-bulleen--came up. He’d been talkin’ to the little
orf’cer bhoy av the Tyrone. “We’re all cut to windystraws,” he sez,
“but the Tyrone are damned short for noncoms. Go you over there,
Mulvaney, an’ be Deputy-Sergeant, Corp’ral, Lance, an’ everything else
ye can lay hands on till I bid you stop.”
‘I wint over an’ tuk hould. There was wan sergeant left standin’, an’
they’d pay no heed to him. The remnint was me, an’ ’twas full time I
came. Some I talked to, an’ some I did not, but before night the bhoys
av the Tyrone stud to attention, by gad, if I sucked on my poipe above
a whishper. Betune you an’ me an’ Bobbs I was commandin’ the company,
an’ that was what Crook had thransferred me for; an’ the little orf’cer
bhoy knew ut, and I knew ut, but the comp’ny did not. And _there_, mark
you, is the vartue that no money an’ no dhrill can buy--the vartue av
the ould soldier that knows his orf’cer’s work an’ does ut for him at
the salute!
‘Thin the Tyrone, wid the Ould Rig’mint in touch, was sint maraudin’
an’ prowlin’ acrost the hills promishcuous an’ onsatisfactory. ’Tis my
privit opinion that a gin’ral does not know half his time fwhat to do
wid three-quarthers his command. So he shquats on his hunkers an’ bids
them run round an’ round forninst him while he considhers on it. Whin
by the process av nature they get sejuced into a big fight that was
none av their seekin’, he sez: “Obsarve my shuperior janius. I meant ut
to come so.” We ran round an’ about, an’ all we got was shootin’ into
the camp at night, an’ rushin’ empty _sungars_ wid the long bradawl,
an’ bein’ hit from behind rocks till we was wore out--all excipt
Love-o’-Women. That puppy-dog business was mate an’ dhrink to him.
Begad he cud niver get enough av ut. Me well knowin’ that it is just
this desultorial campaignin’ that kills the best men, an’ suspicionin’
that if I was cut, the little orf’cer bhoy wud expind all his men in
thryin’ to get out, I wud lie most powerful doggo whin I heard a shot,
an’ curl my long legs behind a bowlder, an’ run like blazes whin the
ground was clear. Faith, if I led the Tyrone in rethreat wanst I led
thim forty times! Love-o’-Women wud stay pottin’ an’ pottin’ from
behind a rock, and wait till the fire was heaviest, an’ thin stand
up an’ fire man-height clear. He wud lie out in camp too at night,
snipin’ at the shadows, for he never tuk a mouthful av slape. My
commandin’ orf’cer--save his little soul!--cud not see the beauty av my
strategims, an’ whin the Ould Rig’mint crossed us, an’ that was wanst
a week, he’d throt off to Crook, wid his big blue eyes as round as
saucers, an’ lay an information against me. I heard thim wanst talkin’
through the tent-wall, an’ I nearly laughed.
‘“He runs--runs like a hare,” sez the little orf’cer bhoy. “’Tis
demoralisin’ my men.”
‘“Ye damned little fool,” sez Crook laughin’. “He’s larnin’ you your
business. Have ye been rushed at night yet?”
‘“No,” sez that child; wishful he had been.
‘“Have you any wounded?” sez Crook.
‘“No,” he sez. “There was no chanst for that. They follow Mulvaney too
quick,” he sez.
‘“Fwhat more do you want, thin?” sez Crook. “Terence is bloodin’ you
neat an’ handy,” he sez. “He knows fwhat you do not, an’ that’s that
there’s a time for ivrything. He’ll not lead you wrong,” he sez, “but
I’d give a month’s pay to larn fwhat he thinks av you.”
‘That kept the babe quiet, but Love-o’-Women was pokin’ at me for
ivrything I did, an’ specially my manœuvres.
‘“Mr. Mulvaney,” he sez wan evenin’, very contempshus, “you’re growin’
very _jeldy_ on your feet. Among gentlemen,” he sez, “among gentlemen
that’s called no pretty name.”
‘“Among privits ’tis different,” I sez. “Get back to your tent. I’m
sergeant here,” I sez.
‘There was just enough in the voice av me to tell him he was playin’
wid his life betune his teeth. He wint off, an’ I noticed that this man
that was contempshus set off from the halt wid a shunt as tho’ he was
bein’ kicked behind. That same night there was a Paythan picnic in tha
hills about, an’ firin’ into our tents fit to wake the livin’ dead.
“Lie down all,” I sez. “Lie down an’ kape still. They’ll no more than
waste ammunition.”
‘I heard a man’s feet on the ground, an’ thin a ’Tini joinin’ in the
chorus. I’d been lyin’ warm, thinkin’ av Dinah an’ all, but I crup
out wid the bugle for to look round in case there was a rush; an’ the
’Tini was flashin’ at the fore-ind av the camp, an’ the hill near by
was fair flickerin’ wid long-range fire. Undher the starlight I behild
Love-o’-Women settin’ on a rock wid his belt and helmet off. He shouted
wanst or twice, an’ thin I heard him say: “They shud ha’ got the range
long ago. Maybe they’ll fire at the flash.” Thin he fired again, an’
that dhrew a fresh volley, and the long slugs that they chew in their
teeth came floppin’ among the rocks like tree-toads av a hot night.
“That’s better,” sez Love-o’-Women. “Oh Lord, how long, how long!” he
sez, an’ at that he lit a match an’ held ut above his head.
‘“Mad,” thinks I, “mad as a coot,” an’ I tuk wan stip forward, an’
the nixt I knew was the sole av my boot flappin’ like a cavalry gydon
an’ the funny-bone av my toes tinglin’. ’Twas a clane-cut shot--a
slug--that niver touched sock or hide, but set me bare-fut on the
rocks. At that I tuk Love-o’-Women by the scruff an’ threw him under a
bowlder, an’ whin I sat down I heard the bullets patterin’ on that same
good stone.
‘“Ye may dhraw your own wicked fire,” I sez, shakin’ him, “but I’m not
goin’ to be kilt too.”
‘“Ye’ve come too soon,” he sez. “Ye’ve come too soon. In another minute
they cudn’t ha’ missed me. Mother av’ God,” he sez, “fwhy did ye not
lave me be? Now ’tis all to do again,” an’ he hides his face in his
hands.
‘“So that’s it,” I sez, shakin’ him again. “That’s the manin’ av your
disobeyin’ ordhers.”
‘“I dare not kill meself,” he sez, rockin’ to and fro. “My own hand wud
not let me die, and there’s not a bullet this month past wud touch me.
I’m to die slow,” he sez. “I’m to die slow. But I’m in hell now,” he
sez, shriekin’ like a woman. “I’m in hell now!”
‘“God be good to us all,” I sez, for I saw his face. “Will ye tell a
man the throuble? If ’tis not murder, maybe we’ll mend it yet.”
‘At that he laughed. “D’you remember fwhat I said in the Tyrone
barricks about comin’ to you for ghostly consolation. I have not
forgot,” he sez. “That came back, and the rest av my time is on me now,
Terence. I’ve fought ut off for months an’ months, but the liquor will
not bite any more. Terence,” he sez, “I can’t get dhrunk!”
‘Thin I knew he spoke the truth about bein’ in hell, for whin liquor
does not take hould the sowl av a man is rotten in him. But me bein’
such as I was, fwhat could I say to him?
‘“Di’monds an’ pearls,” he begins again. “Di’monds an’ pearls I have
thrown away wid both hands--an’ fwhat have I left? Oh, fwhat have I
left?”
‘He was shakin’ an’ thremblin’ up against my shouldher, an’ the slugs
were singin’ overhead, an’ I was wonderin’ whether my little bhoy wud
have sinse enough to kape his men quiet through all this firin’.
‘“So long as I did not think,” sez Love-o’-Women, “so long I did not
see--I wud not see, but I can now, what I’ve lost. The time an’ the
place,” he sez, “an’ the very words I said whin ut pleased me to go off
alone to hell. But thin, even thin,” he sez, wrigglin’ tremenjous, “I
wud not ha’ been happy. There was too much behind av me. How cud I ha’
believed her sworn oath--me that have bruk mine again an’ again for the
sport av seein’ thim cry? An’ there are the others,” he sez. “Oh, what
will I do--what will I do?” He rocked back an’ forward again, an’ I
think he was cryin’ like wan av the women he talked av.
‘The full half of fwhat he said was Brigade Ordhers to me, but from the
rest an’ the remnint I suspicioned somethin’ av his throuble. ’Twas the
judgmint av God had grup the heel av him, as I tould him ’twould in the
Tyrone barricks. The slugs was singin’ over our rock more an’ more, an’
I sez for to divart him: “Let bad alone,” I sez. “They’ll be tryin’ to
rush the camp in a minut’.”
‘I had no more than said that whin a Paythan man crep’ up on his belly
wid his knife betune his teeth, not twinty yards from us. Love-o’-Women
jumped up an’ fetched a yell, an’ the man saw him an’ ran at him (he’d
left his rifle under the rock) wid the knife. Love-o’-Women niver
turned a hair, but by the Living Power, for I saw ut, a stone twisted
under the Paythan man’s feet an’ he came down full sprawl, an’ his
knife wint tinkling acrost the rocks! “I tould you I was Cain,” sez
Love-o’-Women. “Fwhat’s the use av killin’ him? He’s an honust man--by
compare.”
‘I was not dishputin’ about the morils av Paythans that tide, so I
dhropped Love-o’-Women’s butt acrost the man’s face, an’ “Hurry into
camp,” I sez, “for this may be the first av a rush.”
‘There was no rush after all, though we waited undher arms to give
them a chanst. The Paythan man must ha’ come alone for the mischief,
an’ afther a while Love-o’-Women wint back to his tint wid that quare
lurchin’ sind-off in his walk that I cud niver understand. Begad, I
pitied him, an’ the more bekase he made me think for the rest av the
night av the day whin I was confirmed Corp’ril, not actin’ Lef’tinant,
an’ my thoughts was not good to me.’
‘Ye can ondersthand that afther that night we came to talkin’ a dale
together, an’ bit by bit ut came out fwhat I’d suspicioned. The whole
av his carr’in’s on an’ divilments had come back on him hard, as liquor
comes back whin you’ve been on the dhrink for a wake. All he’d said an’
all he’d done, an’ only he cud tell how much that was, come back, and
there was niver a minut’s peace in his sowl. ’Twas the Horrors widout
any cause to see, an’ yet, an’ yet--fwhat am I talkin’ av? He’d ha’
taken the Horrors wid thankfulness. Beyon’ the repentince av the man,
an’ that was beyon’ the nature av man--awful, awful, to behould!--there
was more that was worst than any repentince. Av the scores an’ scores
that he called over in his mind (an’ they were drivin’ him mad), there
was, mark you, wan woman av all an’ she was not his wife, that cut him
to the quick av his marrow. ’Twas there he said that he’d thrown away
di’monds an’ pearls past count, an’ thin he’d begin again like a blind
_byle_ in an oil-mill, walkin’ round and round, to considher (him that
was beyond all touch av bein’ happy this side hell!) how happy he wud
ha’ been wid _her_. The more he considhered, the more he’d consate
himself that he’d lost mighty happiness, an’ thin he wud work ut all
backwards, an’ cry that he niver cud ha’ been happy anyway.
‘Time an’ time an’ again in camp, on p’rade, ay, an’ in action, I’ve
seen that man shut his eyes an’ duck his head as ye wud duck to the
flicker av a bay’nit. For ’twas thin, he tould me, that the thought
av all he’d missed came an’ stud forninst him like red-hot irons. For
what he’d done wid the others he was sorry, but he did not care; but
this wan woman that I’ve tould of, by the Hilts av God, she made him
pay for all the others twice over! Niver did I know that a man cud
enjure such tormint widout his heart crackin’ in his ribs, an’ I have
been’--Terence turned the pipe-stem slowly between his teeth--‘I have
been in some black cells. All I iver suffered tho’ was not to be talked
of alongside av _him_ ... an’ what could I do? Paternosters was no more
than peas on plates for his sorrows.
‘Evenshually we finished our prom’nade acrost the hills, and, thanks to
me for the same, there was no casualties an’ no glory. The campaign was
comin’ to an ind, an’ all the rig’mints was being drawn together for
to be sint back home. Love-o’-Women was mighty sorry bekaze he had no
work to do, an’ all his time to think in. I’ve heard that man talkin’
to his belt-plate an’ his side-arms while he was soldierin’ thim, all
to prevent himself from thinkin’, an’ ivry time he got up afther he had
been settin’ down or wint on from the halt, he’d start wid that kick
an’ traverse that I tould you of--his legs sprawlin’ all ways to wanst.
He wud niver go see the docthor, tho’ I tould him to be wise. He’d
curse me up an’ down for my advice; but I knew he was no more a man to
be reckoned wid than the little bhoy was a commandin’ orf’cer, so I let
his tongue run if it aised him.
‘Wan day--’twas on the way back--I was walkin’ round camp wid him, an’
he stopped an’ struck ground wid his right fut three or four times
doubtful. “Fwhat is ut?” I sez. “Is that ground?” sez he; an’ while
I was thinkin’ his mind was goin’, up comes the docthor, who’d been
anatomisin’ a dead bullock. Love-o’-Women starts to go on quick, an’
lands me a kick on the knee while his legs was gettin’ into marchin’
ordher.
‘“Hould on there,” sez the docthor; an’ Love-o’-Women’s face, that was
lined like a gridiron, turns red as brick.
‘“’Tention,” says the docthor; an’ Love-o’-Women stud so. “Now shut
your eyes,” sez the docthor. “No, ye must not hould by your comrade.”
‘“Tis all up,” sez Love-o’-Women, thrying to smile. “I’d fall, docthor,
an’ you know ut.”
“Fall?” I sez. “Fall at attention wid your eyes shut! Fwhat do you
mane?”
‘“The docthor knows,” he sez. “I’ve hild up as long as I can, but
begad I’m glad ’tis all done. But I will die slow,” he sez, “I will die
very slow.”
‘I cud see by the docthor’s face that he was mortial sorry for the
man, an’ he ordered him to hospital. We wint back together, an’ I was
dumb-struck. Love-o’-Women was cripplin’ and crumblin’ at ivry step.
He walked wid a hand on my shoulder all slued sideways, an’ his right
leg swingin’ like a lame camel. Me not knowin’ more than the dead fwhat
ailed him, ’twas just as though the docthor’s word had done ut all--as
if Love-o’-Women had but been waitin’ for the word to let go.
‘In hospital he sez somethin’ to the docthor that I could not catch.
‘“Holy Shmoke!” sez the docthor, “an’ who are you, to be givin’ names
to your diseases? ’Tis agin all the reg’lations.”
‘“I’ll not be a privit much longer,” sez Love-o’-Women in his
gentleman’s voice, an’ the docthor jumped.
“Thrate me as a study, Doctor Lowndes,” he sez; an’ that was the first
time I’d iver heard a docthor called his name.
‘“Good-bye, Terence,” sez Love-o’-Women. “’Tis a dead man I am widout
the pleasure av dyin’. You’ll come an’ set wid me sometimes for the
peace av my sowl.”
‘Now I had been minded for to ask Crook to take me back to the Ould
Rig’mint; the fightin’ was over, an’ I was wore out wid the ways av the
bhoys in the Tyrone; but I shifted my will, an’ hild on, and wint to
set wid Love-o’-Women in the hospital. As I have said, sorr, the man
bruk all to little pieces under my hand. How long he had hild up an’
forced himself fit to march I cannot tell, but in hospital but two days
later he was such as I hardly knew. I shuk hands wid him, an’ his grip
was fair strong, but his hands wint all ways to wanst, an’ he cud not
button his tunic.
‘“I’ll take long an’ long to die yet,” he sez, “for the wages av sin
they’re like interest in the rig’mintal savin’s-bank--sure, but a
damned long time bein’ paid.”
‘The docthor sez to me, quiet one day, “Has Tighe there anythin’ on his
mind?” he sez. “He’s burnin’ himself out.”
‘“How shud I know, sorr?” I sez, as innocint as putty.
‘“They call him Love-o’-Women in the Tyrone, do they not?” he sez. “I
was a fool to ask. Be wid him all you can. He’s houldin’ on to your
strength.”
‘“But fwhat ails him, docthor?” I sez.
‘“They call ut Locomotus attacks us,” he sez, “bekaze,” sez he,
“ut attacks us like a locomotive, if ye know fwhat that manes.
An’ ut comes,” sez he, lookin’ at me, “ut comes from bein’ called
Love-o’-Women.”
‘“You’re jokin’, docthor,” I sez.
‘“Jokin’!” sez he. “If iver you feel that you’ve got a felt sole in
your boot instid av a Government bull’s-wool, come to me,” he sez, “an’
I’ll show you whether ’tis a joke.”
‘You would not belave ut, sorr, but that, an’ seein’ Love-o’-Women
overtuk widout warnin’, put the cowld fear av Attacks us on me so
strong that for a week an’ more I was kickin’ my toes against stones
an’ stumps for the pleasure av feelin’ thim hurt.
‘An’ Love-o’-Women lay in the cot (he might have gone down wid the
wounded before an’ before, but he asked to stay wid me), and fwhat
there was in his mind had full swing at him night an’ day an’ ivry hour
av the day an’ the night, and he shrivelled like beef-rations in a hot
sun, an’ his eyes was like owls’ eyes, an’ his hands was mut’nous.
‘They was gettin’ the rig’mints away wan by wan, the campaign bein’
inded, but as ushuil they was behavin’ as if niver a rig’mint had been
moved before in the mem’ry av man. Now, fwhy is that, sorr? There’s
fightin’, in an’ out, nine months av the twelve somewhere in the army.
There has been--for years an’ years an’ years; an’ I wud ha’ thought
they’d begin to get the hang av providin’ for throops. But no! Ivry
time ’tis like a girls’ school meetin’ a big red bull whin they’re
goin’ to church; an’ “Mother av God,” sez the Commissariat an’ the
Railways an’ the Barrick-masters, “fwhat will we do now?” The ordhers
came to us av the Tyrone an’ the Ould Rig’mint an’ half a dozen more
to go down, an’ there the ordhers stopped dumb. We wint down, by the
special grace av God--down the Khaiber anyways. There was sick wid us,
an’ I’m thinkin’ that some av thim was jolted to death in the doolies,
but they was anxious to be kilt so if they cud get to Peshawur alive
the sooner. I walked by Love-o’-Women--there was no marchin’, an’
Love-o’-Women was not in a stew to get on. “If I’d only ha’ died up
there,” sez he through the dooli-curtains, an’ thin he’d twist up his
eyes an’ duck his head for the thoughts that come an’ raked him.
‘Dinah was in Depôt at Pindi, but I wint circumspectuous, for well I
knew ’tis just at the rump-ind av all things that his luck turns on a
man. By token I had seen a dhriver of a batthery goin’ by at a trot
singin’ “Home, swate home” at the top av his shout, and takin’ no heed
to his bridle-hand--I had seen that man dhrop under the gun in the
middle of a word, and come out by the limber like--like a frog on a
pavestone. No. I wud _not_ hurry, though, God knows, my heart was all
in Pindi. Love-o’-Women saw fwhat was in my mind, an’ “Go on, Terence,”
he sez, “I know fwhat’s waitin’ for you.” “I will not,” I sez. “’Twill
kape a little yet.”
‘Ye know the turn of the pass forninst Jumrood and the nine-mile road
on the flat to Peshawur? All Peshawur was along that road day and
night waitin’ for frinds--men, women, childer, and bands. Some av the
throops was camped round Jumrood, an’ some wint on to Peshawur to get
away down to their cantonmints. We came through in the early mornin’,
havin’ been awake the night through, and we dhruv sheer into the middle
av the mess. Mother av Glory, will I iver forget that comin’ back? The
light was not fair lifted, and the first we heard was “For ’tis my
delight av a shiny night,” frum a band that thought we was the second
four comp’nies av the Lincolnshire. At that we was forced to sind them
a yell to say who we was, an’ thin up wint “The wearin’ av the Green.”
It made me crawl all up my backbone, not havin’ taken my brequist.
Then right smash into our rear came fwhat was left av the Jock
Elliott’s--wid four pipers an’ not half a kilt among thim, playing’ for
the dear life, an’ swingin’ their rumps like buck-rabbits, an’ a native
rig’mint shriekin’ blue murther. Ye niver heard the like! There was
men cryin’ like women that did--an’ faith I do not blame them! Fwhat
bruk me down was the Lancers’ Band--shinin’ an’ spick like angils, wid
the ould dhrum-horse at the head an’ the silver kettle-dhrums an’ all
an’ all, waitin’ for their men that was behind us. They shtruck up the
Cavalry Canter; an’ begad those poor ghosts that had not a sound fut
in a throop they answered to ut; the men rockin’ in their saddles.
We thried to cheer them as they wint by, but ut came out like a big
gruntin’ cough, so there must have been many that was feelin’ like
me. Oh, but I’m forgettin’! The Fly-by-Nights was waitin’ for their
second battalion, an’ whin ut came out, there was the Colonel’s horse
led at the head--saddle-empty. The men fair worshipped him, an’ he’d
died at Ali Musjid on the road down. They waited till the remnint av
the battalion was up, and thin--clane against ordhers, for who wanted
_that_ chune that day?--they wint back to Peshawur slow-time an’
tearin’ the bowils out av ivry man that heard, wid “The Dead March.”
Right acrost our line they wint, an’ ye know their uniforms are as
black as the Sweeps, crawlin’ past like the dead, an’ the other bands
damnin’ them to let be.
‘Little they cared. The carpse was wid them, an’ they’d ha taken ut so
through a Coronation. Our ordhers was to go into Peshawur, an’ we wint
hot-fut past The Fly-by-Nights, not singin’, to lave that chune behind
us. That was how we tuk the road of the other corps.