hands, she crept back to the wide courtyard, where Veru still slept,
worn out by sorrow. She stood watching her asleep, wondering at her own
blindness. Then she touched her on the bosom.
"Wake!" she cried, in a loud voice. "Wake! Oh, Veru! And speak the
truth!"
The girl started up, and the eyes of the two women met.
* * * * *
The village was bitterly disappointed; but, of course, there was
nothing to be done but wait and see if the child was a son, for Mai
Sarsuti had stolen a march on them. She had gone straight to the
burra-sahib, straight to the head district official, and told him of
her hopes. What is more, she had petitioned for trustees to work the
land, seeing that she and her sister-in-law were poor widows; and she,
especially, unfit for work.
So three of the village elders had been convened to see to the land and
render account to the sahib, who would be sure to keep an eye on them
seeing that Mai Sarsuti was an upstanding, straightforward Jatni, just
the kind to whom the sahib-logue gave consideration. And, after all,
she and hers deserved it, for they came of a long line of virtuous,
loyal people.
So Sarsuti, with Vera, lived in the seclusion which befitted her recent
loss; though, according to custom, she still wore a wife's dress. But
she grew haggard as the months went by. Small wonder, said the village
matrons, when they returned from their occasional visits, seeing that
she awaited a fatherless child.
Then one morning, Veru, looking very worn and frightened, and ill, came
to tell the elders that a son had been born to Sarsuti. Perhaps it was
as well, they thought, since otherwise there might be disputes about
the headship. Now there could be none; and as there would be a very
long minority under the care of the sahibs, Prem's son would come in to
free land, and money laid up in the bank. A rich headman was always a
prop to the village. So their wives went to congratulate the new-made
mother.
She was looking haggard still, and scarcely seemed to rejoice in her
great gift; but that, perhaps, might come by and bye.
But it did not. Sometimes she would take the baby and look at it long
and earnestly. Then she would give it back to Veru, whose arms were
seldom empty of Prem's child, and return to the work of the house, or
sit watching them gravely from her spinning-wheel, her large dark eyes
full of wistful pain.
So the months sped by.
And still Sarsuti wore a wife's dress and smeared vermilion on her
forehead; and the mangala sutram, still unbroken, held the wife's medal
round her throat. It would be time, she answered proudly to the shocked
village women, to think of breaking it when Prem should have been dead
a year, and the child be able to suck cow's milk.
She prepared for the anniversary by purchasing a Maw's feeding bottle,
and an eagerness grew to her face as she watched little Prem take it,
and roll over contentedly to sleep, like the fat good-natured little
lump of a healthy child as he was. But Veru wept.
Still, Maw had supplanted Motherhood when the night came round again on
which Sarsuti had heard that faint whisper from her dying husband. The
child slept as a child should, and Veru, once more worn out by tears,
slept also.
But, as on that night a year ago, Sarsuti sat on the place where Prem's
bier had lain and thought, her dark eyes full of a great resolve.
Suddenly she rose, tall, straight, upstanding, and passed to where
the child lay. She stooped and kissed it--kissed it for the first
time--then, throwing her arms skywards, murmured to High Heaven, "Lo! I
have saved him--I, his wife"; and so, catching up a small bundle which
she had prepared, passed into the darkness of the night.
* * * * *
They found her charred body at dawn, face downwards, where the
footsteps of a dog had shown upon Prem's ashes.
She had saturated her clothes with paraffin, and set fire to herself
deliberately.
"Lo! how she loved him," said the village elders, behind their outward
and decorous disapproval. "See you, she is decked as a bride with all
her jewels. Now, with a son in his house, and suttee on his pyre, there
is no fear but what Prem hath found freedom."
"Ay!" assented the Lala-_jee_. "The footstep of a dog will not be seen
on his ashes."
THE FINDING OF PRIVATE
FLANIGAN
We were quartered up in the hills making a military road when Private
Flanigan was lost. It was to be a big road, cutting clean into the
heart of the Himalayas, so various detachments were set to work upon
its long length. Ours was the last but one, and we were lucky in
getting by far the best pitch on the whole line. It would be difficult,
indeed, to exaggerate its beauty, and as summer came on the advantages
of shade-shelter which it afforded made us feel blessed above our
fellows. It was a green oasis about half-a-mile long by some quarter
broad, of fine emerald sward not to be beaten by any English lawn. And
it was irregularly fringed by the most magnificent deodar cedars I have
ever seen. When we arrived in early autumn these were wreathed with
virginia creeper already russet, which, as winter advanced, flamed like
fire among the dark spines. Now, in spring the trees were hung to their
very tops with a rambling white rose, faintly double, faintly yet
penetratingly scented, which festooned the whole forest, making it look
as if it were garlanded for some festival, and turning the oval
greensward into a veritable _stadium_ fit for the sport of a King; for
an amphitheatre of blue hills rose behind the forest, with here and
there a peak of eternal snow.
It was simply a ripping place, and when on Saturday evenings, the
detachment further south, and the detachment further north, used to
come over to play football, the fellows were always full of envy. Our
men--there were but two officers with each detachment--were little
Ghurkas, but they played an uncommonly good game, thanks partly to the
fact that my captain was an old Rugby man, and gave his countenance to
practice. But our chief asset was Private Flanigan of the small party
of Sappers and Miners who acted as overseers on the works. He was not,
perhaps, a shining example to the men in other ways, but so far as
football went, he was the best possible coach.
The result was, that, despite their small size, our Ghurkas could hold
their own with the detachment of Tommies further south. They never
actually won a match, but they made a stubborn fight, and accepted
honourable defeat good humouredly, treating their adversaries right
royally at the canteen afterwards in the manner of Ghurkas when they
get chummy with British regiments. It was a quaint sight to see them
hob-nobbing together at the further end of the _stadium_, where there
was a duck-pond sort of lake half filled with sacred lotus, blossoming
white and pink. A wood-slab little temple dedicated to Kâli stood
beside this lake with steps leading down to the water; but nobody
seemed to notice its presence, and the very brahman in charge used to
come and watch the games with interest; perhaps he thought it
sufficiently savage to please the terrific goddess who sat enshrined in
a little dark hole, where nothing was to be seen of Her but crimson
arms and hands, one of them apparently holding a football. It certainly
was bloodthirsty enough one day when the detachment further north came
down to try their luck. They were the biggest, tallest, lankiest lot of
Sikhs I ever saw, but, perhaps because they had such long shins, they
simply knuckled under before a rush of our little beggars. It was
almost pitiable to see them; the more so because they were furious, and
would not accept consolation, even at the hands of Private Flanigan,
who with unblushing kindness of heart, took all the credit to himself
in the curious dialect he used as a means of communication with his
pupils; for being a Manchester Irishman, his English had to contend
with a town accent, a Lancashire accent and an Irish accent, while his
Hindustani was of the lowest type to be picked up in a barrack square.
"'Taint your _kussoor_ (fault), sonnies, at all, at all! be jabers!
_nahin_ (no). Don'tcher fret. _Dil khoosh_ (heart happy). Kape yer 'air
on. _Dekko you soors_--beg pardon, gintlemen, it was a mistake
entoirely!--You 'aven't a _Nadmi_ (man) like Tim Flanigan to _purwarish
karo_ (nourish) _you_." So in his garbled language he went on to boast
of what he had done for the little Gherkins, as he was wont to call
them, making them, indeed, rhyme to jerkins and firkins in a football
song he had composed; for Private Flanigan was great at singing, also
at clog dancing. In fact, he was good at anything and everything he
chose to take in hand thoroughly; but that was not much, for a more
idle, able, devil-may-care fellow did not exist. He was, however, a
general favourite, and I noticed that even my regulationarily correct
captain dealt leniently with his not infrequent lapses from good
behaviour. Flanigan was in tremendous form at a sing-song held the
night of the football match, and literally brought down the house with
his clog accompaniment to a patter song in which he parodied the
feelings of victor and vanquished. Even the priest of Kâli, who, as
usual, viewed the performance from a distance, was reported to have
observed that the energetic and active Goddess herself could not have
danced with greater vigour upon the prostrate body of Shiv-_jee_!
As for the Sikhs, they positively bellowed with delight, although
Private Flanigan had not paltered with such obvious rhymes as kicks and
licks. In fact, the whole audience was so happy and hilarious that we
hoped the slight difference of the afternoon was forgotten; but we were
mistaken. About midnight Sunt Singh, havildar, began to attribute Jye
Kush _naick's_ flat nose to a provision of the All-wise Creator in view
of football squashes, and assert magniloquently that God never made an
ugly Sikh, whereat strife arose, and _kukries_ and _bichwas_ might have
drawn blood had not my captain shown discreet firmness, and sent an
exactly equal number of Sikhs and Gurkhas to the guard room.
It was very shortly after this incident that Private Flanigan found
himself there also; as usual for patronising the canteen too liberally.
But this time he was profusely indignant, and assured me on his Bible
oath--as a rule he professed Roman Catholicism--that it was a gross
case of mistaken diagnosis. He had not been drunk; still less,
disorderly. When the sergeant put him under arrest he was merely giving
a realistic and spirited representation of last year's All England
match _as it had appeared to him_. And this he was doing solely for the
benefit of his pupils, the little Gherkins; shirkin', lurkin' little
Gherkins, who had basely failed to speak up for him when he was
comatose from fatigue.
That was about the last time I ever spoke to poor Flanigan; for about a
week after he was mysteriously lost. I say mysteriously, because though
all sorts of theories were put forward to explain his disappearance,
none of them were entirely satisfactory. I myself, inclined to the
explanation that, being, according to the Ghurkas' testimony, a little
bit on at the time, he lost his life in a sudden spate of the river
caused by the melting of the snows in the higher hills. It was a very
sudden spate, and caught the working party as they were clearing the
southern end of a deep cutting--a tunnel, indeed, for twenty yards or
so--which lay just at the end of our section. The Sikhs, however, who
were working at the northern end, escaped the flood altogether, and
rather jeered at our men who had to scramble for dear life, some
regaining the camp and others spending the night in the open; so, each
party thinking Flanigan must be with the other, he was not missed till
next morning, when it was too late to find his body.
We dragged the river pools to no purpose, then, as the spate had ruined
half our work, gave up the search and duly reported his death at
headquarters.
With the prospect of the advancing hot weather before us, when we must
knock off, there was not much time for amusement, and we were kept
pretty close at it. But a Himalaya spring in the uplands was a
perpetual temptation to me, and I used to start off at dawn time for a
long tramp on the higher _murgs_ or alps, taking my gun with me in case
I came across an old cock _minawul_ pheasant. There was a perfect
mosaic of flowers beneath one's feet; forget--menots, pansies, white
anemones, yellow gillyflowers, scarlet potentilla and half-a-hundred
others whose names I did not know. You could not set your foot down
without crushing some beautiful thing; you felt that you were ramping
through a veritable garden.
Then it was marvellous to see the snow peaks flush red with sunrise
while the shadow of night--the shadow of the earth itself!--still lay
immovable in the valleys, and you had to bend close over the mosaic to
distinguish one flower from another. Even the cock _minawul_, despite
their dazzling metallic lustre, looked shadowy and dark as they rose;
rose swiftly to flash out suddenly into copper and green, and silvery
goldeny blue as they met the higher sunlight.
One morning, thinking I had hit a splendid specimen of these rocketting
fireworks, and being anxious to secure such a perfectly plumaged bird,
I followed one over keenly. The result being that I lost my way, and
found myself under a blazing hot sun, still seeking for my particular
valley. At long last I caught a glimpse of deodar trees below me and
began to descend confidently; but half way down a certain strangeness
of contour made me pull up and question my judgment.
No! it was not our valley. It was too narrow, too small; besides, there
was no lakelet in it. Indeed, there seemed no way out of it; it lay
like an extinct crater, absolutely shut in by the high hills, tucked
away--right away--No! by Jove! there were people or things in it. I
could see a steady white spot of something on the greensward, and a
sort of dancing circle of black specks.
Were they men or animals? I was too short-sighted to distinguish; so I
started downwards again, impelled by curiosity and a vague feeling that
I knew what was coming, to find a point of vantage whence I could see
clearly.
I don't think I was in the least surprised at what I _did_ see. I am
sure my inner consciousness was aware of it before _I_ was.
The dazzling white speck was Private Flanigan. He was standing in a
dignified attitude in the very middle of the field, naked as the day he
was born, save for a waistcloth and the biggest pair of boots I ever
saw. At his feet lay a football, and in his right hand was a glass of
something to drink, which, between his sips, he used to beckon on his
adversaries.
I crept further till I could hear his voice.
"Come on, sonnies! come on, boys!" it came persuasively. "_Idder
'h'ow!_ I won't 'urt much--not to spake of--_Kooch nay_--Come on, I
says." Then, as his invitation was reluctantly accepted, he lunged out
a wild kick, an awful howl followed, and yet another lanky Sikh retired
rapidly, rubbing his shin. Whereat Private Flanigan laughed and took
another sip triumphantly.
"_Bahoot utcha!_"--the rollicking tones were a trifle thick--"Now
you're learning, I tell yer--yer 'ardening like a hegg in 'ot water.
And you'll soon get useter it. You won't remember it when yer sees the
leather a-sailing through the uprights. No, yer won't! No more nor a
woman for joy as a man is born into the wurrld. Hello! ye divvle--ye
would, would ye?"
This was to an enterprising youth who thought to take advantage of a
prolonged drink to sniggle the ball.
I lay and laughed. I couldn't help it. Flanigan wasn't a big man, but
he was brawny, and the Sikhs, twice his height, had such temptingly
long shins!
I watched the lesson of how to defend the globe until, after several
replenishings of the glass he held, Private Flanigan's dignity became
portentous, and his lunge a little wide.
Evidently, however, he was not too far gone to recognise the fact, for
suddenly he sat down, still guarding the ball with his wide-spread
legs, and called for a pipe, a pillow, and a punkah.
All three were instantly forthcoming, and as I cautiously re-climbed
the hill, I saw Private Flanigan enjoying his ease in the centre of an
admiring circle of pupils.
As I made my way home, I puzzled over what I had best do. Of course, it
was easy to report to my captain, but, by so doing, I should get a lot
of men into trouble over what was, in reality, a huge joke. Anyhow,
before I did so report, I determined to find out whether Private
Flanigan had absconded _himself_, or had been stolen.
So the next evening, having carefully taken the bearings of our valley
in miniature the day before, I went over after work hours. When I came
on the level at the bottom, I found that quite a large wood slab shed
had been erected at one end of the little bit of greensward. As I
crossed towards it the familiar sound of really good clog dancing met
my ears accompanying a rollicking baritone voice that was singing the
refrain of a patter song:
"Kick an' 'ammer away at their shins,
Silly old dribblers as cole' cream their skins,
Barkin', lurkin', shirkin' Gher_kins_,
Give 'em a crush and a rush for their sins,
Yoicks! hey forward!!!--the Sicki wins."
A perfect bellow of applause was following as I opened the slab door
and walked in. There was a regular stage at the end of the shed, and on
it stood Tim Flanigan, bowing his acknowledgments to an audience of
squatting Sikhs with much dignity. A flimsy muslin overcoat partially
hid his massive muscles and he was garlanded with flowers like a prize
ox at a show. He did not notice me at first, and began a speech in true
music hall style, his hand on his heart:
"My kyind patrons, an' you Gintlemen of the Press, it is with the
hutmost diffidence that I roise to drink me own 'elth, you, gintlemen,
bein' by birth and descent tay totallers, which is better by a long
chalk than being answered for by godfathers an' godmothers at your
baptism. Gintlemen, I have but a few wurrds to say, so I will not
detain you. Since I come 'ere--I mean since the woise decrays of a
koindly Providence brought me to the wilderness, I 'ave endeavoured to
do my dooty by you, an' I done it. Gintlemen! you are a credit to me.
There ain't a 'ole skin amongst the lot of your shins. Gintlemen! it is
a thing to be proud of. It makes the tear come to my watery heyes an'
sends the life blood to the tip of my nose. I tell you, gintlemen, that
if any of thim officer chaps were to step in this moment----" Here his
eye caught mine. The change was instantaneous, and he brought himself
up to the salute smartly.
"Beg pardon, sir," he went on, without the least sign of embarrassment.
"Havin' bin h'absent without leave, sir, this fortnight past through
being kidnapped outrageous, I 'as to report myself."
I mustered up what gravity I could, for his attitude of respectful and
disciplined attention was excruciatingly funny in contrast with his
costume--or rather the lack of it.
"Private Flanigan," I said. "Have done with tomfoolery. How the devil
do you come here?"
"I didn't come, sir," he replied volubly. "I was brought, s'help me
Moses. I was kidnapped outrageous, as I said, by them Sickies, same as
seethin' it in its mother's milk. I was, entirely, sir--sure the
bla'gards won't deny it."
Here, _havildar_ Sunt Singh, who understood English, broke in rapidly
in Hindustani. "He speaks truth, Huzoor. He did not come of himself. He
was brought hither when he was without consciousness."
"From drink, I suppose?" I asked severely.
_Havildar_ Sunt Singh paused a moment. "Huzoor," he said at last,
solemnly. "In a world of illusion it is difficult to reach truth; but
one thing is certain, by the blessing of God he was extremely without
consciousness. Was it not so, brothers?" he continued, appealing to two
_naicks_ and another _havildar_ who were also standing to attention.
Their corroborative "_Be-shakks_" rang out smartly, like a rifle shot.
"That is all very well," I continued, sternly addressing the
culprit-in-chief. "If they kidnapped you, they'll have to answer for
it; but that is no excuse for you stopping here. You can't pretend
you're a prisoner, you know."
I glanced round as I spoke, and Flanigan's eyes followed mine. There
was a bed in one corner, a chair, a washhandstand, an assortment of
Europe tins, a box of cigars in a rough set of shelves, while on one
side of the stage stood a table, elaborately laid for dinner, with a
tablenapkin folded into the form of a peacock!
There was a pause. Then candour came to Private Flanigan's aid--almost
pathetic candour.
"Well! it weren't exactly uncomfortable, you see, sir," he said, with a
deprecating smile; and I had to admit the justice of his plea. It was
more comfortable than being packed like a herring in a barrel in a bell
tent. I had, moreover, thought the matter out, and had come to the
conclusion that the less said about it the better. So I gave Private
Flanigan the option of taking the pledge, and returning to duty, making
the best excuse he could for his absence, or being sent for officially.
He chose the former, to the great delight of the Sikhs, who, as he had
said, were teetotallers to a man, and who naturally did not want to get
into trouble over the business.
Next morning Private Flanigan reported himself to my captain. He was
bare-foot, travel-stained, weary, and he had the most cock-and-bull
story I ever heard of how he had spent the last ten days.
"If there had been any liquor shop within two hundred miles I wouldn't
believe him," said my captain in an injured tone, "but there isn't--and
no man is such a fool as to stop out in this wild country for nothing."
So the tale passed muster. Had I known, however, of the richness of the
culprit's imagination, I doubt whether I should have given him such a
field for it; for the story of the "loss of Private Flanigan" became a
recognised entertainment, even for the Gherkins, and night after night
he gave a different version of it to delighted admirers. I ventured
once to remonstrate with him, and hint that capture by cannibals was
hardly correct; but his unconsciousness was supreme.
"S'elp me Moses, sir," he said. "You don' know wot I bin through.
They'd have eat me, sure enuff, if I 'adn't happen to 'ave my big boots
on."
A fortnight afterwards we finished the work, but before we left our
jolly little camp we had a football Saturday. The Sikhs came down in
force, and licked the little Ghurkas all to smithereens.
"They must a 'ad some un to teach 'em 'ow to charge, sir," said Private
Flanigan sorrowfully to the captain.
The captain looked at me, and I looked at the captain. But I said
nothing, for Flanigan had been as sober as a judge since I found him.
REX ET IMP:
I
"Rex will get on all right," said Muriel Alexander pettishly, "you know
quite well, Horace, that so long as he has old Bisvâs he wants nothing
else. Look at him now! He is quite happy, and the old man would die
rather than let any harm happen to the child."
Horace Alexander frowned slightly as he looked through the wide set
door of his office room to the verandah beyond. It was a very neat,
natty, office room, severely correct and Western in its pigeon-holes,
its files, its elegant upholstered chair at the further side of the
writing table ready for the confidential visitor. No guns defiled it;
no tennis bats, no half-used box of cigars, no general litter of
unofficial male humanity such as most Indian office rooms in the past
have permitted, was to be seen within the precincts sacred to duty, for
Horace Alexander was that curious product of modern times, a clever and
advanced man, bent upon progress, who stickles for the commonplace
conventional etiquette in all things. So he stirred uneasily at the
sight he saw beyond his office doors, dropped his eye-glasses and put
them on again petulantly.
Yet it was rather a pretty sight.
A red-haired, fuzzy-headed child of four or five, small, but strong and
sturdy, seated with the utmost dignity oh a red velvet cushion, his
broad freckled face wearing an expression of conscious majesty, part of
which was doubtless due to the insecurity of a gilt paper band which
was perched on his goldy-red curls.