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!'
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
quakin' hayrick, come an' dhrink.'
But Learoyd, half mad with the fear of death presaged in the swelling
veins in 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
on 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
Ghunzi '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 nature! Our Scotchies an' lashins av Gurkeys
was poundin' into some Paythan rig'mints, I think 'twas. Scotchies an'
Gurkeys are twins bekaze they're so onlike an' they get dhrunk together
whin God plazes. As I was sayin', they sint wan comp'ny av the Ould
an' wan of the Tyrone to double up the hill an' clane out the Paythan
Reserve. Orf'cers was scarce in thim days, fwhat with 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.
[Footnote:
Now first of the foemen of Boh Da Thone
Was Captain O'Neil of the Black Tyrone.
_The Ballad of Boh Da Thone._] 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' take 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 knaw it, Mulvaney.' He threw up his arms, and from
the right armpit 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
I was thinkin' of! 'Twas another man, av coorse. Will, you'll remember
thin, Jack, 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 tuk 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. Leastways, 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' an'
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
underhand 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 and 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 bloodthirsty 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 whin 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 Haymaker's 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 was 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.
'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 going to be onwell!”
Faith they gave me room at the wurrud, though they would not ha' givin
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 slidin' out av his
innocint mouth like mornin'-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
an' 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 backspit av the machine. So
he tuk the orf'cer bhoy's revolver. Ye may look, Sorr, 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 dishplease dat 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 of 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 thim 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 whin 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 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 it 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 wint 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, whin 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
had 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 north 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 Gurkeys 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 batman 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!'
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.