This is the story of Mr. King,
American citizen--Phineas K.,
Whom I met in Orkhanié, far away
From freshening cocktail and genial sling.
A little man with twinkling eyes,
And a nose like a hawk's, and lips drawn thin,
And a little imperial stuck on his chin,
And about him always a cheerful grin,
Dashed with a comic and quaint surprise.
That very night a loot of wine
Made correspondents and doctors glad,
And the little man, unask'd to dine,
Sat down and shar'd in all we had.
For none said nay, this ready hand
Reach'd after pillau, and fowl, and drink,
And he toss'd off his liquor without a wink,
And wielded a knife like a warrior's brand.
With a buccaneering, swaggering look
He sang his song, and he crack'd his jest,
And he bullied the waiter and curs'd the cook
With a charming self-approving zest.
We wanted doctors: he was a doctor;
Had we wanted a prince it had been the same.
Admiral, general, cobbler, proctor--
A man may be anything. What's in a name?
The wounded were dying, the dead lay thick
In the hospital beds beside the quick.
Any man with a steady nerve
And a ready hand, who knew how to obey,
In those stern times might well deserve
His fifty piastres daily pay.
So Mr. King, as assistant surgeon,
Bandaged, and dosed, and nursed, and dressed,
And worked, as he ate and drank, with zest,
Until he began to blossom and burgeon
To redness of features and fulness of cheek,
And his starven hands grew plump and sleek.
But for all sign of wealth he wore
He swaggered neither less nor more.
He talked the stuff he talked before,
And bragged as he had bragged of yore,
With his Yankee chaff and his Yankee slang,
And his Yankee bounce and his Yankee twang.
And, to tell the truth, we all held clear
Of the impudent little adventurer;
And any man with an eye might see
That, though he bore it merrily,
He recognised the tacit scorn
Which dwelt about him night and morn.
The Turks fought well, as most men fight
For life and faith, and hearth and home.
But, from Teliche and Etrepol, left and right,
The Muscov swirled, like the swirling foam
On the rack of a tempest driven sea.
And foot by foot staunch Mehemit Ali
Was driven along the Lojan valley,
Till he sat his battered forces down
Just northward of the little town,
And waited on war's destiny.
War's destiny came, and line by line
His forces broke and fled.
And for three days in Orkhanié town
The arabas went up and down
With loads of dying and dead;
Till at last in a rush of panic fear,
The hardest bitten warriors there
Turn'd with the cowardly Bazouk
And the vile Tchircasse and forsook
The final fort, in headlong flight,
For near Kamirli's sheltering height;
While through the darkness of the night
The cannon belched their hate
Against the flying crowd; and far
And near the soldiers of the Tsar
Pour'd onward towards the spoil of war
In haste precipitate.
And the little adventurer sat in a shed
With one woman dying, and one woman dead.
Nothing he knew of the late defeat,
Nothing of Mehemit's enforced retreat;
For he spoke no word of the Turkish tongue,
And had seen no Englishman all day long.
So he sat there, calm, with a flask of rum,
And a cigarette 'twixt finger and thumb,
Tranquilly smoking, and watching the smoke,
And probably hatching some stupid joke,
When in at the door, without a word,
Burst a Circassian, hand on sword.
And the sword leapt out of its sheath, as a flame
Breaks from the coals when the fire is stirred.
And Mr. King, with a "What's _your_ game?"
Faced the Tchircasse with the wild-beast eyes.
"Naow, what do you want?" said Mr. King.
Quoth the savage, in English, "The woman dies!"
"Waat," said the impostor, "you'll take your fling,
At least in the first case, along of a son
Of Columbia, daughter of Albion."
The Tchircasse moved to the side of the bed.
A distaff was leaning against the wall,
And Mr. King, with arms at length,
Gave it a swing, with all his strength,
And crashed it full at the villain's head,
And dropped him, pistols and daggers and all.
Then sword in hand, he raged through the door,
And there were three hundred savages more,
All hungry for murder, and loot, and worse!
Mr. King bore down with an oath and a curse,
Bore down on the chief with the slain man's sword
He saw at a glance the state of the case;
He knew without need of a single word
That the Turk had flown and the Russ was near,
And the Tchircasse held _his_ midday revel;
So he laid himself out to curse and swear,
And he raged like an eloquent devil.
They listen'd, in a mute surprise,
Amaz'd that any single man should dare
Harangue an armed crowd with such an air,
And such commanding anger in his eyes;
Till, thinking him at least an English lord,
The Tchircasse leader lower'd his sword,
Spoke a few words in his own tongue, and bow'd,
And slowly rode away with all his men.
Then Mr. King turn'd to his task again:
Sought a rough araba with bullocks twain;
Haled up the unwilling brutes with might and main,
Laid the poor wounded woman gently down,
And calmly drove her from the rescued town!
And Mr. King, when we heard the story,
Was a little abash'd by the hero's glory;
And, "Look you here, you boys; you may laff
But I ain't the man to start at chaff.
I know without any jaw from you,
'Twas a darned nonsensical thing to do;
But I tell you plain--and I mean it, too--
For all it was such a ridiculous thing,
I should do it again!" said Mr. King.