An' when the war began, we chased the bold Afghan,
An' we made the bloomin' Ghazi for to flee, boys O!
An' we marched into Kabul, an' we tuk the Balar 'Issar
An' we taught 'em to respec' the British Soldier.
_Barrack Room Ballad._
Mulvaney, Ortheris and Learoyd are Privates in B Company of a Line
Regiment, and personal friends of mine. Collectively I think, but am not
certain, they are the worst men in the regiment so far as genial
blackguardism goes.
They told me this story, in the Umballa Refreshment Room while we were
waiting for an up-train. I supplied the beer. The tale was cheap at a
gallon and a half.
All men know Lord Benira Trig. He Is a Duke, or an Earl, or something
unofficial; also a Peer; also a Globe-trotter. On all three counts, as
Ortheris says, "'e didn't deserve no consideration." He was out in India
for three months collecting materials for a book on "Our Eastern
Impedimenta," and quartering himself upon everybody, like a Cossack in
evening-dress.
His particular vice--because he was a Radical, men said--was having
garrisons turned out for his inspection. He would then dine with the
Officer Commanding, and insult him, across the Mess table, about the
appearance of the troops. That was Benira's way.
He turned out troops once too often. He came to Helanthami Cantonment on a
Tuesday. He wished to go shopping in the bazars on Wednesday, and he
"desired" the troops to be turned out on a Thursday. _On--a--Thursday._
The Officer Commanding could not well refuse; for Benira was a Lord. There
was an indignation-meeting of subalterns in the Mess Room, to call the
Colonel pet names.
"But the rale dimonstrashin," said Mulvaney, "was in B Comp'ny barrick; we
three headin' it."
Mulvaney climbed on to the refreshment-bar, settled himself comfortably by
the beer, and went on, "Whin the row was at ut's foinest an' B Comp'ny was
fur goin' out to murther this man Thrigg on the p'rade-groun', Learoyd
here takes up his helmut an' sez--fwhat was ut ye said?"
"Ah said," said Learoyd, "gie us t' brass. Tak oop a subscripshun, lads,
for to put off t' p'rade, an' if t' p'rade's not put off, ah'll gie t'
brass back agean. Thot's wot ah said. All B Coomp'ny knawed me. Ah took
oop a big subscripshun--fower rupees eight annas 'twas--an' ah went oot to
turn t' job over. Mulvaney an' Orth'ris coom with me."
"We three raises the Divil In couples gin'rally," explained Mulvaney.
Here Ortheris interrupted. "'Ave you read the papers?" said he.
"Sometimes," I said,
"We 'ad read the papers, an' we put hup a faked decoity, a--a sedukshun."
"_Ab_dukshin, ye cockney," said Mulvaney.
"_Ab_dukshin or _se_dukshun--no great odds. Any'ow, we arranged to taik
an' put Mister Benhira out o' the way till Thursday was hover, or 'e too
busy to rux 'isself about p'raids. _Hi_ was the man wot said, 'We'll make
a few rupees off o' the business.'"
"We hild a Council av War," continued Mulvaney, "walkin' roun' by the
Artill'ry Lines. I was Prisidint, Learoyd was Minister av Finance, an'
little Orth'ris here was"--
"A bloomin' Bismarck! _Hi_ made the 'ole show pay."
"This interferin' bit av a Benira man," said Mulvaney, "did the thrick for
us himself; for, on me sowl, we hadn't a notion av what was to come afther
the next minut. He was shoppin' in the bazar on fut. Twas dhrawin' dusk
thin, an' we stud watchin' the little man hoppin' in an' out av the shops,
thryin' to injuce the naygurs to _mallum_ his _bat_. Prisintly, he sthrols
up, his arrums full av thruck, an' he sez in a consiquinshal way,
shticking out his little belly, 'Me good men,' sez he, 'have ye seen the
Kernel's b'roosh?'--'B'roosh?' says Learoyd. 'There's no b'roosh
here--nobbut a _hekka_.'--'Fwhat's that?' sez Thrigg. Learoyd shows him
wan down the sthreet, an' he sez, 'How thruly Orientil! I will ride on a
_hekka_.' I saw thin that our Rigimintal Saint was for givin' Thrigg over
to us neck an' brisket. I purshued a _hekka_, an' I sez to the
dhriver-divil, I sez, 'Ye black limb, there's a _Sahib_ comin' for this
_hekka_. He wants to go _jildi_ to the Padsahi Jhil'--'twas about tu
moiles away--'to shoot snipe--_chirria_. You dhrive _Jehannum ke marfik,
mallum_--like Hell? 'Tis no manner av use _bukkin'_ to the _Sahib_, bekaze
he doesn't _samjao_ your talk. Av he _bolos_ anything, just you _choop_
and _chel_. _Dekker?_ Go _arsty_ for the first _arder_-mile from
cantonmints. Thin _chel, Shaitan ke marfik_, an' the _chooper_ you
_choops_ an' the _jildier_ you _chels_ the better _kooshy_ will that
_Sahib_ be; an' here's a rupee for ye?'
"The _hekka_-man knew there was somethin' out av the common in the air. He
grinned an' sez, '_Bote achee!_ I goin' damn fast.' I prayed that the
Kernel's b'roosh wudn't arrive till me darlin' Benira by the grace av God
was undher weigh. The little man puts his thruck into the _hekka_ an'
scuttles in like a fat guinea-pig; niver offerin' us the price av a dhrink
for our services in helpin' him home, 'He's off to the Padsahi _jhil_,'
sez I to the others."