MORE MYRMIDONS.
The truly busy man cannot be actively and consciously unhappy. The
truly miserable and despondent person is never continuously and
actively employed. Fits of deep depression there may be for the worker
when work is impossible, but, unless there be mental and physical
illness, sleep is the other anaesthetic, refuge—and reward.
The Wise thank God for Work and for Sleep—and pay large premia of the
former as Insurance in the latter.
To Damocles de Warrenne—to whom the name “Trooper Matthewson” now
seemed the only one he had ever had—the craved necessity of life and
sanity was _work_, occupation, mental and physical labour. He would
have blessed the man who sentenced him to commence the digging of a
trench ten miles long and a yard deep for morning and evening labour,
and to take over all the accounts of each squadron, for employment in
the heat of the day. There was no man in the regiment so indefatigable,
so energetic, so persevering, so insatiable of “fatigues,” so willing
and anxious to do other people’s duty as well as his own, so restless,
so untiring as Trooper Matthewson of E Troop. For Damocles de Warrenne
was in the Land of the Serpent and lived in fear. He lived in fear and
feared to live; he thought of Fear and feared to think. He turned to
work as, but for the memory of Lucille, he would have turned to drink:
he laboured to earn deep dreamless sleep and he dreaded sleep. Awake,
he could drug himself with work; asleep, he was the prey—the bound,
gagged helpless, abject prey—of the Snake. The greediest glutton for
work in the best working regiment in the world was Trooper
Matthewson—but for him was no promotion. He was, alas, “unreliable”—apt
to be “drunk and disorderly,” drunk to the point of “seeing snakes” and
becoming a weeping, screaming lunatic—a disgusting spectacle. And, when
brought up for sentence, would solemnly assure the Colonel that he was
_a total abstainer_, and stick to it when “told-off” for adding
impudent lying to shameful indulgence and sickening behaviour. No
promotion for that type of waster while Colonel the Earl of A——
commanded the Queen’s Greys, nor while Captain Daunt commanded the
squadron the trooper occasionally disgraced.
But he had his points, mark you, and it was a thousand pities that so
fine a soldier was undeniably subject to attacks of _delirium tremens_
and unmistakeably a secret drinker who might at any time have a violent
outburst, finishing in screams, sobs, and tears. A _most_ remarkable
case! Who ever heard of a magnificent athlete—regimental champion boxer
and swordsman, admittedly as fine and bold a horseman and horse-master
as the Rough-Riding Sergeant-Major or the Riding-Master himself—being a
sufficiently industrious secret-drinker to get “goes” of “d.t.,” to
drink till he behaved like some God-and-man-forsaken wretch that lives
on cheap gin in a chronic state of alcoholism. He had his points, and
if the Brigadier had ever happened to say to the Colonel: “Send me your
smartest, most intelligent, and keenest man to gallop for me at the
manoeuvres,” or the Inspector of Army Gymnasia had asked for the
regiment’s finest specimen, or if one representative private soldier
had to be sent somewhere to uphold the credit and honour of the Queen’s
Greys, undoubtedly Trooper Matthewson would have been chosen.
What a splendid squadron-sergeant major, regimental sergeant-major,
yea, what a fine officer he would have made, had he been reliable. But
there, you can’t have an officer, nor a non-com., either, who lies
shrieking and blubbering on the floor _coram publico_, and screams to
God and man to save him from the snakes that exist only in his own
drink-deranged mind. For of course it can only be Drink that produces
“Snakes”! Yes, it is only through the ghastly alcohol-tinted glasses
that you can “see snakes”—any fool knows _that_.
And the fools of the Queen’s Greys knew it, and hoped to God that
Matthewson would “keep off it” till after the Divisional Boxing
Tournament and Assault-at-Arms, for, if he did, the Queen’s Greys would
certainly have the Best Man-at-Arms in the Division and have a mighty
good shot at having the Heavy-Weight All-India Champion, since
Matthewson had challenged the Holder and held an absolutely unbroken
record of victories in the various regimental and inter-regimental
boxing tournaments in which he had taken part since joining the
regiment. And he had been “up against some useful lads” as Captain
Chevalier, the president and Maecenas of the Queen’s Greys’
boxing-club, expressed it. Yes, Matthewson had his points and the man
who brought the Regiment the kudos of having best Man-at-Arms and
Heavy-Weight Champion of India would be forgiven a lot.
And Damocles de Warrenne blessed the Divisional Boxing Tournament,
Assault-at-Arms, and, particularly, the All-India Heavy-Weight
Championship.
Occupation, labour, anodyne…. Work and deep Sleep. Fighting to keep the
Snake at bay. No, fighting to get away from it—there was no keeping it
at bay—nothing but shrieking collapse when It came….
From parade ground to gymnasium, from gymnasium to swimming-bath, from
swimming-bath to running-track, from running-track to boxing-ring, from
boxing-ring to gymnasium again. Work, occupation, forgetfulness. Forget
the Snake for a little while—even though it is surely lurking
near—waiting, waiting, waiting; nay, even beneath his very foot and
_moving_….
Well, a man can struggle with himself until the Thing actually appears
in the concrete, and he goes mad—but Night! Oh, God grant deep sleep at
night—or wide wakefulness _and a light_. Neither Nightmare nor
wakefulness _in the dark_, oh, Merciful God.
Yes, things were getting worse. _He was going mad. MAD_. Desert—and get
out of India somehow?
Never! No gentleman “deserts” anything or anybody.
Suicide—and face God unafraid and unashamed?
Never! The worst and meanest form of “deserting”.
No. Stick it. And live to work—work to live. And strive and strive and
strive to obliterate the image of Lucille—that sorrow’s crown of
sorrow.
And so Trooper Matthewson’s course of training was a severe one and he
appeared to fear rest and relaxation as some people fear work and
employment.
His favourite occupation was to get the ten best boxers of the regiment
to jointly engage in a ten-round contest with him, one round each. He
would frequently finish fresher than the tenth man. Coming of notedly
powerful stock on both sides, and having been physically _educated_
from babyhood, Dam, with clean living and constant training, was a very
uncommon specimen. There may have been one or two other men in the
regiment as well developed, or nearly so; but when poise, rapidity, and
skill were taken into account there was no one near him. Captain
Chevalier said he was infinitely the quickest heavy-weight boxer he had
ever seen—and Captain Chevalier was a pillar of the National Sporting
Club and always knew the current professionals personally when he was
in England. In fact, with the enormous strength of the best
heavy-weight, Dam combined the lightning rapidity and mobility of the
best feather-weight.
His own doubt as to the result of his contest with the heavy-weight
Champion of India arose from the fact that the latter was a person of
much lower nervous development, a creature far less sensitive to shock,
a denser and more elementary organism altogether, and possessed of a
far thicker skull, shorter jaw, and thicker neck. Dam summed him up
thus with no sense of contemptuous superiority, but with a plain
recognition of the facts that the Champion was a fighting machine, a
dull, foreheadless, brutal gladiator who owed his championship very
largely to the fact that he was barely sensible to pain, and impervious
to padded blows. It was said that he had never been knocked out in all
his boxing-career, that the kick of a horse on his chin would not knock
him out, that his head was solid bone, and that the shortness of his
jaw and thickness of his neck absolutely prevented sufficient leverage
between the point of the jaw and the spinal cord for the administration
of the shock to the _medulla oblongata_ that causes the necessary
ten-seconds’ unconsciousness of the “knock-out”.
He was known as the Gorilla by reason of his long arms, incredible
strength, beauty, and pleasing habits, and he bore the reputation of a
merciless and unchivalrous opponent and one who needed the strictest
and most experienced refereeing. It would be a real terrific fight, and
that was the main thing to Dam, though he would do his very utmost to
win, for the credit of the Queen’s Greys, and would leave no stone
unturned to that end. He regretted that he could not get leave and go
to Pultanpur to see the Champion box, and learn something of his style
and methods when easily defending his title in the Pultanpur
tournament. And when the Tournament and Assault-at-Arms were over he
must find something else to occupy him by day and tire him before
night. Meanwhile life was bearable, with the fight to come—except for
sentry-go work. That was awful, unspeakable, and each time was worse
than the last. Sitting up all night in the guard-room under the big
lamp, and perhaps with some other wakeful wretch to talk to, was
nothing. That was well enough—but to be on a lonely post on a dark
night … well—he couldn’t do it much longer.
Darkness and the Snake that was always coming and never came! To prowl
round and round some magazine, store, or boundary-stone with his
carbine at the “support,” or to tramp up and down by the horse-lines,
armed only with his cutting-whip; to stand in a sentry-box while the
rain fell in sheets and there was no telling what the next flash of
lightning might reveal—that was what would send him to a lunatic’s
padded cell.
To see the Snake by day would give him a cruel, terrible fit—but to be
aware of it in the dark would be final—and fatal to his reason (which
was none too firmly enthroned). No, he had the dreadful feeling that
his reason was none too solidly based and fixed. He had horrible
experiences, apart from the snake-nightmares, nowadays. One night when
he awoke and lay staring up at his mosquito-curtain in the blessed
light of the big room-lamp (always provided in India on account of
rifle thieves) he had suddenly felt an overwhelming surge of fear. He
sat up. God!—he was in a marble box! These white walls and roof were
not mosquito-netting, they were solid marble! He was in a tomb. He was
buried alive. The air was growing foul. His screams would be absolutely
inaudible. He screamed, and struck wildly at the cold cruel marble, and
found it was soft, yielding netting after all. But it was a worse
horror to find that he had thought it marble than if he had found it to
be marble. He sprang from his cot.
“I am going mad,” he cried.
“Goin’?… _Gorn_, more like,” observed the disrobing room-corporal. “Why
donchew keep orf the booze, Maffewson? You silly gapin’ goat. Git inter
bed and shut yer ’ead—or I’ll get yew a night in clink, me lad—and
wiv’out a light, see?”
Corporal Prag knew his victim’s little weakness and grinned maliciously
as Dam sprang into bed without a word.
The Stone Jug without a gleam of light! Could a man choke himself with
his own fingers if the worst came to the worst? The Digger and Stygian
darkness—now—_when he was going mad_! Men could not be so cruel…. But
they’d say he was drunk. He would lie still and cling with all his
strength and heart and soul to sanity. He would think of That Evening
with Lucille—and of her kisses. He would recite the Odes of Horace, the
Aeneid, the Odyssey as far as he could remember them, and then fall
back on Shakespeare and other English poets. Probably he knew a lot
more Greek and Latin poetry (little as it was) than he did of English….
Corporal Prag improved the occasion as he unlaced his boots. “Bloomin’
biby! Afraid o’ the dark! See wot boozin’ brings yer to. Look at yer!
An’ look at _me_. Non-c’misshn’d orficer in free an’ a ’arf years from
j’inin’. Never tasted alc’ol in me life, an’ if any man offud me a
glarse, d’ye know what I’d _dew_?”
“No, Corporal, I’d like to hear,” replied Dam. (Must keep the animal
talking as long as possible for the sake of human company. He’d go mad
at once, perhaps, when the Corporal went to bed.)
“I’d frow it strite in ’is faice, I would,” announced the virtuous
youth. A big boot flopped heavily on the floor.
“I daresay you come of good old teetotal stock,” observed Dam, to make
conversation. Perhaps the fellow would pause in his assault upon the
other boot and reply—so lengthening out the precious minutes of
diversion. Every minute was a minute nearer dawn….
“_Do_ yer? Well, you’re bloomin’ well wrong, Maffewson, me lad. My
farver ’ad a bout every Saturday arternoon and kep’ it up all day a
Sund’y, ’e did—an’ in the werry las’ bout ’e ever ’ad ’e bashed ’is ole
woman’s ’ead in wiv’ a bottle.”
“And was hanged?” inquired Dam politely and innocently, but most
tactlessly.
“Mind yer own b—— business,” roared Corporal Prag. “Other people’s
farvers wasn’t gallows-birds if yourn was. ’Ow’d you look if I come and
punched you on the nose, eh? Wot ’ud you do if I come an’ set abaht
yer, eh?”
“Break your neck,” replied Dam tersely.
“Ho, yus. _And_ wot ’ud yew say when I calls the guard and they frows
you into clink? Without no light, Trooper Maffewson!”
Dam shuddered.
Corporal Prag yet further improved the occasion, earning Dam’s
heartfelt blessing.
“Don’t you fergit it, Trooper Maffewson. I’m yore sooperier orficer.
You _may_ be better’n me in the Ring, praps, or with the sword (Dam
could have killed him in five minutes, with or without weapons), but if
I ’olds up my little finger _you_ comes to ’eel—or other’ow you goes
ter clink. ’Ung indeed! You look after yer own farver an’ don’ pass
remarks on yer betters. Why! You boozin’ waster, I shall be Regimental
Sargen’ Majer when you’re a bloomin’ discharged private wiv an ’undred
‘_drunks_’ in red on yer Defaulter’s Sheet. Regimental Sarjen’ Majer! I
shall be an Orficer more like, and walk acrost the crossin’ wot
_you’re_ asweepin’, to me Club in bloomin’ well Pickerdilly! Yus. This
is the days o’ _? Demockerycy_, me lad. ‘Good Lloyd George’s golden
days’ as they sing—and steady fellers like me is goin’ to ave
C’missh’ns—an’ don’ you fergit it! Farver ’ung indeed!”
“I’m awf’ly sorry, Corporal, really,” apologized Dam. “I didn’t
think….”
“No, me lad,” returned the unmollified superior, as he stooped to the
other boot, “if you was to think more an’ booze less you’d do better….
’Ow an’ where you gets ’old of it, beats me. I’ve seed you in delirium
trimmings but I ain’t never seed you drinkin’ nor yet smelt it on yer.
You’re a cunnin’ ’ound in yer way. One o’ them beastly secret-drinkin’
swine wots never suspected till they falls down ’owlin’ blue ’orrors
an’ seem’ pink toadses. Leastways it’s snakes _you_ sees. See ’em oncte
too orfen, you will…. See ’em on p’rade one day in front o’ the
Colonel. Fall orf yer long-face an get trampled—an’ serve yer glad….
An’ now shut yer silly ’ed an’ don’t chew the mop so much. Let me get
some sleep. _I_ ’as respontsibillaties _I_ do….”
A crossing outside a Club! More likely a padded cell in a troopship and
hospital until an asylum claimed him.
In the finals, “Sword versus Sword Dismounted,” Dam had a foeman worthy
of his steel.
A glorious chilly morning, sunrise on a wide high open _maidan_, rows
of tents for the spectators at the great evening final, and crowds of
officers and men in uniform or gymnasium kit. On a group of chairs sat
the Divisional General, his Colonel on the Staff, and Aide-de-Camp; the
Brigadier-General, his Brigade-Major, and a few ladies, wives of
regimental colonels, officers, and leading Civilians.
Semi-finals of Tent-pegging, Sword v. Sword Mounted, Bayonet-fighting,
Tug-of-War, Fencing, and other officers’ and men’s events had been, or
were being, contested.
The finals of the British Troops’ Sword _v._ Sword Dismounted, was
being reserved for the last, as of supreme interest to the experts
present, but not sufficiently spectacular to be kept for the evening
final “show,” when the whole of Society would assemble to be thrilled
by the final Jumping, Driving, Tent-pegging, Sword _v._ Sword Mounted,
Bayonet-fighting, Sword _v._ Lance, Tug-of-War, and other events for
British and Indian officers and men of all arms.
It was rumoured that there was a Sergeant of Hussars who would give
Trooper Matthewson a warm time with the sabre. As the crowd of
competitors and spectators gathered round the sabres-ring, and chairs
were carried up for the Generals, ladies, and staff, to witness the
last and most exciting contest of the morning’s meeting, a
Corporal-official of the Assault-at-Arms Executive Committee called
aloud, “Sergeant O’Malley, 14th Hussars, get ready,” and another
fastened a red band to the Sergeant’s arm as he stepped forward, clad
in leather jacket and leg-guards and carrying the heavy
iron-and-leather head-guard necessary in sabre combats, and the
blunt-edged, blunt-pointed sabre.
Dam approached him.
“Don’t let my point rest on your hilt, Sergeant,” he said.
“What’s the game?” inquired the surprised and suspicious Sergeant.
“My little trick. I thrust rather than cut, you know,” said Dam.
“I’ll watch it, me lad,” returned Sergeant O’Malley, wondering whether
Dam were fool or knave.
“Trooper Matthewson, get ready,” called the Corporal, and Dam stepped
into the ring, saluted, and faced the Sergeant.
A brief direction and caution, the usual preliminary, and the word—
“On guard—_Play_” and Dam was parrying a series of the quickest cuts he
had ever met. The Sergeant’s sword flickered like the tongue of
a—_Snake_. Yes—of a _Snake_! and even as Dam’s hand dropped limp and
nerveless, the Sergeant’s sword fell with a dull heavy thud on his
head-guard. The stroke would have split Dam’s head right neatly, in
actual fighting.
“Stop,” shouted the referee. “Point to Red.”
“On guard—_Play_”
But if the Sergeant’s sword flickered like the tongue of a snake—why
then Dam must be fighting the Snake. _Fighting the Snake_ and in
another second the referee again cried “Stop!” And added, “Don’t fight
savage, White, or I’ll disqualify you”.
“I’m awf’ly sorry,” said Dam, “I thought I was fighting the Sn——”
“Hold your tongue, and don’t argue,” replied the referee sternly.
“On Guard—_Play_.”
Ere the Sergeant could move his sword from its upward-inclined position
Dam’s blade dropped to its hilt, shot in over it, and as the Sergeant
raised his forearm in guard, flashed beneath it and bent on his breast.
“Stop,” cried the referee. “Point to White. Double”—two marks being
then awarded for the thrust hit, and one for the cut.
“On guard—_Play_.”
Absolutely the same thing happened again within the next half-second,
and Dam had won the British Troops’ Sword _v_. Sword Dismounted, in
addition to being in for the finals in Tent-pegging, Sword _v_. Sword
Mounted, Jumping (Individual and By Sections), Sword _v_. Lance, and
Tug-of-War.
“Now jest keep orf it, Matthewson, and sweep the bloomin’ board,” urged
Troop-Sergeant-Major Scoles as Dam removed his fencing-jacket,
preparatory to returning to barracks. “You be Best Man-at-arms in the
Division and win everythink that’s open to British Troops Mounted, and
git the ’Eavy-Weight Championship from the Gorilla—an’ there’ll be some
talk about promotion for yer, me lad.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” replied Dam. “I am a total abstainer.”
“Yah! _Chuck_ it,” observed the Sergeant-Major.
_Of no interest to Women nor modern civilized Men_.
The long-anticipated hour had struck, the great moment had arrived, and
(literally) thousands of British soldiers sat in a state of expectant
thrill and excited interest, awaiting the appearance of the Gorilla
(Corporal Dowdall of the 111th Battery, Royal Garrison
Artillery—fourteen stone twelve) and Trooper Matthewson (Queen’s
Greys—fourteen stone) who were to fight for the Elliott Belt, the
Motipur Cup, and the Heavy-Weight Championship of India.
The Boxing Tournament had lasted for a week and had been a huge
success. Now came the _pièce de resistance, the_ fight of the Meeting,
the event for which special trains had brought hundreds of civilians
and soldiers from neighbouring and distant cantonments. Bombay herself
sent a crowded train-load, and it was said that a, by no means small,
contingent had come from Madras. Certainly more than one sporting
patron of the Great Sport, the Noble Art, the Manly Game, had travelled
from far Calcutta. So well-established was the fame of the great
Gorilla, and so widely published the rumour that the Queen’s Greys had
a prodigy who’d lower his flag in ten rounds—or less.
A great square of the grassy plain above Motipur had been enclosed by a
high canvas wall, and around a twenty-four foot raised “ring” (which
was square) seating accommodation for four thousand spectators had been
provided. The front rows consisted of arm-chairs, sofas, and
drawing-room settees (from the wonderful stock of Mr. Dadabhoy Pochajee
Furniturewallah of the Sudder Bazaar) for the officers and leading
civilians of Motipur, and such other visitors as chose to purchase the
highly priced reserved-seat tickets.
Not only was every seat in the vast enclosure occupied, but every
square inch of standing-room, by the time the combatants entered the
arena.
A few dark faces were to be seen (Native Officers of the pultans[23]
and rissal[24] of the Motipur Brigade), and the idea occurred to not a
few that it was a pity the proceedings could not be witnessed by every
Indian in India. It would do them good in more ways than one.
[23] Infantry Regiments.
[24] Cavalry Regiment.
Although a large number of the enormously preponderating military
spectators were in the khaki kit so admirable for work (and so
depressing, unswanksome and anti-enlistment for play, or rather for
walking-out and leisure), the experienced eye could see that almost
every corps in India furnished contingents to the gathering. Lancers,
dragoons, hussars, artillery, riflemen, Highlanders, supply and
transport, infantry of a score of regiments, and, rare sight away from
the Ports, a small party of Man-o’-War’s-men in white duck, blue
collars, and straw hats (huge, solemn-faced men who jested with
grimmest seriousness of mien and insulted each other outrageously).
Officers in scarlet, in dark blue, in black and cherry colour, in fawn
and cherry colour, in pale blue and silver, in almost every combination
of colours, showed that the commissioned ranks of the British and
Indian Services were well represented, horse, foot, guns, engineers,
doctors, and veterinary surgeons—every rank and every branch. On two
sides of the roped ring, with its padded posts, sat the judges, boxing
Captains both, who had won distinction at Aldershot and in many a local
tournament. On another side sat the referee, _ex_-Public-Schools
Champion, Aldershot Light-Weight Champion, and, admittedly, the best
boxer of his weight among the officers of the British Army. Beside him
sat the time-keeper. Overhead a circle of large incandescent lamps made
the scene as bright as day.
“Well, d’you take it?” asked Seaman Jones of Seaman Smith. “Better
strike while the grog’s ’ot. A double-prick o’ baccy and a gallon o’
four-’arf, evens, on the Griller. I ain’t never ’eard o’ the Griller
till we come ’ere, and I never ’eard o’ t’other bloke neether—but I
’olds by the Griller, cos of ’is name and I backs me fancy afore I sees
’em.—Loser to ’elp the winner with the gallon.”
“Done, Bill,” replied the challenged promptly, on hearing the last
condition. (He could drink as fast as Bill if he lost, and he could
borrer on the baccy till it was wore out.) “Got that bloomin’
’igh-falutin’ lar-de-dar giddy baccy-pouch and yaller baccy you
inwested in at Bombay?” he asked. “Yus, ’Enery,” replied William,
diving deeply for it.
“Then push it ’ere, an’ likewise them bloomin’ ’igh-falutin’ lar-de-dar
giddy fag-papers you fumble wiv’. Blimey! ain’t a honest clay good
enough for yer now? I knows wots the matter wiv _you_, Billy Jones!
You’ve got a weather-heye on the Quarter Deck you ’ave. You fink you’re
agoin’ to be a blighted perishin’ orficer you do! Yus, you flat-footed
matlot—not even a blasted tiffy you ain’t, and you buys a blighted
baccy-pouch and yaller baccy and fag-pipers, like a Snottie, an’
reckons you’s on the ’igh road to be a bloomin’ Winnie Lloyd Gorgeous
Orficer. ’And ’em ’ere—fore I’m sick. Lootenant,—Gunnery Jack,—Number
One,—Commerdore!”
“Parding me, ’Enery Smiff,” returned William Jones with quiet dignity.
“In consequents o’ wot you said, an’ more in consequents o’ yore clumsy
fat fingers not been used to ’andlin’ dellikit objex, and most in
consequents o’ yore been a most ontrustable thief, I will perceed to
roll you a fag meself, me been ’ighly competent so fer to do. Not but
wot a fag’ll look most outer place in _your_ silly great ugly faice.”
The other sailor watched the speaker in cold contempt as he prepared a
distinctly exiguous, ill-fed cigarette.
“Harthur Handrews,” he said, turning to his other neighbour, “’Ave yew
’appened to see the Master Sail-maker or any of ’is mermydiuns
’ere-abahts, by any chawnst?”
“Nope. ’An don’ want. Don’ wan’ see nothink to remind me o’
Ther blue, ther fresh, ther _hever_ free,
Ther blarsted, beastly, boundin’ sea.
Not even your distressin’ face and dirty norticle apparile. Why do you
arksk sich silly questchings?”
“Willyerm Jones is amakin’ a needle for ’im.”
“As ’ow?”
“Wiv a fag-paper an’ a thread o’ yaller baccy. ’E’s makin’ a bloomin’
needle,” and with a sudden grab he possessed himself of the pouch,
papers, and finished product of Seaman Jones’s labours and generosity.
Having pricked himself severely and painfully with the alleged
cigarette, he howled with pain, cast it from him, proceeded to stick
two papers together and to make an uncommonly stout, well-nourished,
and bounteous cigarette.
“I ’fought I offered you to make yourself a cigarette, ’Enery,”
observed the astounded owner of the _materia nicotina_.
“I grabbed for to make myself a cigarette, Willyerm,” was the
pedantically correct restatement of Henry.
“Then why go for to try an’ mannyfacter a bloomin’ banana?” asked the
indignant victim, whose further remarks were drowned in the roars of
applause which greeted the appearance from the dressing-tents of the
Champion and the Challenger.
Dam and Corporal Dowdall entered the ring from opposite corners, seated
themselves in the chairs provided for them, and submitted themselves to
the ministrations of their respective seconds.
Trooper Herbert Hawker violently chafed Dam’s legs, Trooper Bear his
arms and chest, while Trooper Goate struggled to force a pair of new
boxing-gloves upon his hands, which were scientifically bandaged around
knuckles, back, and wrist, against untimely dislocations and sprains.
Clean water was poured into the bowls which stood behind each chair,
and fresh resin was sprinkled over the canvas-covered boards of the
Ring.
Men whose favourite “carried their money” (and each carried a good
deal) anxiously studied that favourite’s opponent.
The Queen’s Greys beheld a gorilla indeed, a vast, square, long-armed
hairy monster, with the true pugilist face and head.
“Wot a werry ugly bloke,” observed Seaman Arthur Andrews to Seaman
Henry Smith. “’E reminds me o’ Hadmiral Sir Percy ’Opkinton, so ’e do.
P’raps ’e’s a pore relation.”
“Yus,” agreed Seaman Smith. “A crost between our beloved ’Oppy an’ ole
Bill Jones ’ere. Bill was reported to ’ave ’ad a twin brother—but it
was allus serposed Bill ate ’im when ’e wasn’ lookin’.”
The backers of Corporal Dowdall were encouraged at seeing a man who
looked like a gentleman and bore none of the traditional marks of the
prize-fighter. His head was not cropped to the point of bristly
baldness, his nose was unbroken, his eyes well opened and unblackened,
his ears unthickened, his body untattooed. He had the white skin, small
trim moustache, high-bred features, small extremities, and general
appearance and bearing of an officer.
Ho, G’rilla Dowdall would make short work of _that_ tippy young toff.
Why, look at him!
And indeed it made you shudder to think of that enormous ferocity, that
dynamic truculence, doing its best to destroy you in a space
twenty-four feet square.
Let the challenger wait till G’rilla put his fighting face on—fair
terrifyin’.
Not an Artilleryman but felt sure that the garrison-gunner would
successfully defend the title and “give the swankin’ Queen’s Greys
something to keep them _choop_[25] for a bit. Gettin’ above ’emselves
they was, becos’ this bloke of theirs had won Best Man-at-Arms and had
the nerve to challenge G’rilla Dowdall, R.G.A.”
[25] Silent.
Even the R.H.A. admitted the R.G.A. to terms of perfect equality on
that great occasion.
But a few observant and experienced officers, gymnasium instructors,
and ancient followers of the Noble Art were not so sure.
“Put steel-and-whalebone against granite and I back the former,” said
Major Decoulis to Colonel Hanking; “other things being equal of
course—skill and ring-craft. And I hear that No. 2—the Queen’s Greys’
man—is unusually fast for a heavy-weight.”
“I’d like to see him win,” admitted the Colonel. “The man looks a
gentleman. _Doesn’t_ the other look a Bill Sykes, by Jove!”
The Staff Sergeant Instructor of the Motipur Gymnasium stepped into the
ring.
“Silence, please,” he bawled. “Fifteen-round contest between Corporal
Dowdall, 111th Battery, Royal Garrison Artillery, Heavy-Weight Champion
of Hindia, fourteen twelve (Number 1—on my right ’and) and Trooper
Matthewson, Queen’s Greys, fourteen stun (Number 2—on my left ’and).
Please keep silence durin’ the rounds. The winner is Heavy-Weight
Champion of Hindia, winner of the Motipur Cup and ’older of the Elliott
Belt. All ready there?”
Both combatants were ready.
“Come here, both of you,” said the referee.
As he arose to obey, Dam was irresistibly reminded of his fight with
Bully Harberth and smiled.
“Nervous sort o’ grin on the figger-’ead o’ the smaller wessel, don’t
it,” observed Seaman Smith.
“There wouldn’t be no grin on _your_ fat face at all,” returned Seaman
Jones. “It wouldn’t be there. You’d be full-steam-ahead, bearings
’eated, and showin’ no lights, for them tents—when you see wot you was
up against.”
The referee felt Dam’s gloves to see that they contained no foreign
bodies in the shape of plummets of lead or other illegal
gratifications. (He had known a man fill the stuffing-compartments of
his gloves with plaster of Paris, that by the third or fourth round he
might be striking with a kind of stone cestus as the plaster moulded
with sweat and water, and hardened to the shape of the fist.)
As he stepped back, Dam looked for the first time at his opponent,
conned his bruiser face and Herculean body, and, with a gasp and
shudder, was aware that a huge tattooed serpent reared its head in the
centre of his vast chest while smaller ones encircled the mighty biceps
of his arms. He clutched the rope and leant trembling against the post
as the referee satisfied himself (with very great care in this case) of
the innocence of the Gorilla’s gloves.
“I know you of old, Dowdall,” he said, “and I shall only caution you
once mind. Second offence—and out you go.”
Corporal Dowdall grinned sheepishly. He appeared to think that a
delicate and gentlemanly compliment had been paid to his general
downiness, flyness, and ring-craft,—the last of which, for Corporal
Dowdall, included every form of foul that a weak referee would pass, an
inexperienced one misunderstand, or a lazy one miss. Major O’Halloran,
first-class bruiser himself, was in the habit of doing his refereeing
inside the ring and within a foot or two of the principals, where he
expected foul play.
As the Major cautioned the Gorilla, Dam passed his hand wearily across
his face, swallowed once or twice and groaned aloud.
It was _not_ fair. Why should the Snake be allowed to humiliate him
before thousands of spectators? Why should It be brought here to shame
him in the utmost publicity, to make him fail his comrades, disgrace
his regiment, make the Queen’s Greys a laughing-stock?
But—he had fought an emissary of the Snake before—and he had won. This
villainous-looking pugilist was perhaps _the Snake Itself in human
form_—and, see, he was free, he was in God’s open air, no chains bound
him, he was not gagged, this place was not a pit dug beneath the Pit
itself! This was all tangible and real. He would have fair play and be
able to defend himself. This was not a blue room with a mud floor. Nay,
he would be able to attack—to fight, fight like a wounded pantheress
for her cubs. This accursed Snake in Human Form would only be able to
use puny fists. Mere trivial human fists and human strength. Everything
would be on the human plane. It would be unable to wrap him in its
awful coils and crush and crush the soul and life and manhood out of
him, as it did at night before burrowing its way ten million miles
below the floor of Hell with him, and immuring him in a molten
incandescent tomb where he could not even scream or writhe.
“Get to your corners,” said the referee, and Dam returned to his place
with a cruel smile upon his compressed lips. By the Merciful Living God
he had the Snake Itself delivered unto him in human form—to do with as
he could. Oh, that It might last out the fifteen times of facing him in
his wrath, his pent-up vengeful wrath at a ruined life, a dishonoured
name and _a lost Lucille!_
When would they give the word for him to spring upon it and batter it
lifeless to the ground?
“Don’t grind yer silly teeth like that,” whispered Hawker, his grim
ugly face white with anxiety and suspense (for he loved Damocles de
Warrenne as the faithfullest of hounds loves the best of masters).
“You’re awastin’ henergy all the time.”
“God! if they don’t give the word in a minute I shall be unable to hold
off It,” replied Dam wildly.
“That’s the sperrit, Cocky,” approved Hawker, “but donchew fergit you
gotter larst fifteen bloomin’ rahnds. ’Taint no kindergarters. ’_E_’ll
stick it orlrite, an’ you’ll avter win on _points_——”
“Seconds out of the Ring,” cried the time-keeper, staring at his watch.
“Don’t get knocked out, dear boy,” implored Trooper Bear. “Fight to win
on points. You _can’t_ knock him out. I’m going to pray like hell
through the rounds——”
_“Time”_ barked the time-keeper, and, catching up the chair as Dam
rose, Trooper Bear dropped down from the boards of the ring to the
turf, where already crouched Hawker and Goate, looking like men about
to be hanged.
The large assembly drew a deep breath as the combatants approached each
other with extended right hands—Dam clad in a pair of blue silk shorts,
silk socks and high, thin, rubber-soled boots, the Gorilla in an
exiguous bathing-garment and a pair of gymnasium shoes.
Dam a picture of the Perfect Man, was the taller, and the Gorilla, a
perfect Caliban, was the broader and had the longer reach. Their right
hands touched in perfunctory shake, Dam drew back to allow the Snake to
assume sparring attitude, and, as he saw the huge shoulders hunch, the
great biceps rise, and the clenched gloves come to position, he assumed
the American “crouch” attitude and sprang like a tiger upon the
incarnation of the utter Damnation and Ruin that had cursed his life to
living death.
The Gorilla was shocked and pained! The tippy pink-and-white blasted
rookie was “all over him” and he was sent staggering with such a rain
of smashing blows as he had never, never felt, nor seen others receive.
The whole assembly of soldiers, saving the Garrison Artillerymen,
raised a wild yell, regardless of the referee’s ferocious
expostulations (in dumb-show) and even the ranks of the Horse-Gunners
could scarce forbear to cheer. The Queen’s Greys howled like fiends and
Hawker, unknown to himself, punched the boards before him with terrific
violence. Never had anything like it been seen. Matthewson was a human
whirlwind, and Dowdall had not had a chance to return a blow. More than
half the tremendous punches, hooks and in-fighting jabs delivered by
his opponent had got home, and he was “rattled”. A fair hook to the
chin might send him down and out at any moment.
Surely never had human being aimed such an unceasing, unending, rain of
blows in the space of two minutes as had Trooper Matthewson. His arms
had worked like the piston rods of an express engine—as fast and as
untiringly. He had taken the Gorilla by surprise, had rushed him, and
had never given him a fraction of time in which to attack. Beneath the
rain of sledge-hammer blows the Gorilla had shrunk, guarding for dear
life. Driven into a corner, he cowered down, crouched beneath his
raised arms, and allowed his face to sink forward. Like a whirling
piece of machinery Dam’s arm flew round to administer the
_coup-de-grace_, the upper cut, that would lay the Snake twitching and
unconscious on the boards.
The Gorilla was expecting it.
As it came, his bullet head was jerked aside, and as the first swung
harmlessly up, he arose like a flash, and, as he did so, his mighty
right shot up, took Dam on the chin and laid him flat and senseless in
the middle of the ring.
The Gorilla breathed heavily and made the most of the respite. He knew
it must be about “Time,” and that he had not won. If it wasn’t “Time,”
and the cub arose he’d knock him to glory as he did so. Yes, the moment
the most liberal-minded critic could say he was just about on his feet,
he’d give him a finisher that he’d bear the mark of. The bloomin’ young
swine had nearly “had” him—him, the great G’rilla Dowdall, about to buy
himself out with his prize-money, and take to pugilism as a profession.
“_One—two—three—four,_” counted the timekeeper amid the most deathly
silence, and, as he added, _“five—six—Time,”_ a shout arose that was
heard for miles.
Trooper Matthewson was saved—if his seconds could pull him round in
time.
At sound of the word “Time,” the seconds leapt into the ring. Hawker
and Bear rushed to the prostrate Dam, hauled him to his feet, and
dragged him to the chair which Goate had placed ready. As he was
dropped into it, a spongeful of icy water from Goate’s big sponge
brought Dam to consciousness.
“Breave for all y’r worf,” grunted Hawker, as he mightily swung a big
bath-towel in swift eddies, to drive refreshing air upon the heaving,
panting body of his principal.
Bear and Goate applied massaging hands with skilled violence.
“By Jove, I thought you had him,” panted Goate as he kneaded triceps
and biceps. “And then I thought he had you. It’s anybody’s fight,
Matty—but _don’t_ try and knock him out. You couldn’t do it with an
axe.”
“No,” agreed Bear. “You’ve got to keep on your feet and win on points.”
“I’ve got to kill _the Snake_,” hissed Dam, and his seconds glanced at
each other anxiously.
He felt that nothing could keep him from victory. He was regaining his
faith in a just Heaven, now that the Snake had been compelled to face
him in the puny form of a wretched pugilist. Some one had said
something about an axe. It would be but fair if he had an axe, seeing
that hitherto the Snake had had him utterly defenceless while
exercising its own immeasurable and supernatural powers, when torturing
him to its heart’s content for endless aeons. But—no—since it was here
in human form and without weapons, _he_ would use none, and would
observe the strictest fairness in fight, just as he would to a real
human enemy.
“Abaht that there little bet, ’Enery,” observed Seaman Jones, “I fink
we’ll alter of it. I don’t wish to give no moral support to this ’ere
Griller. T’other bloke’s only jus’ fresh from the Novice Class, I
reckon, jedgin’ by ’is innercent young faice, an’ e’s aputtin’ up the
werry best fight as ever I see. We’ll chainge it like this ’ere. We
backs the ’orse-soldier to win, and, if he _do_, we drinks a gallon
between us. If ’e don’t, we drinks _two_ fer to console ’im, an’ drahn
sorrer, wot?”
“So it are, Will’m,” agreed Henery. “Then we wins _either_ way! _You_
got a ’ead fer logger-rhythms. Oughter been a bloomin’ bookie. They ’as
to be big an’ ugly——”
“Seconds out of the Ring,” called the referee, and a hush fell upon the
excited throng.
Bear and Goate dropped to the ground, Hawker splashed water all over
Dam’s body and, as he rose on the word “_Time_” snatched away the chair
and joined his colleagues, who crouched with faces on a level with the
boards.
“Oh, buck him up, good Lord, and put ginger in his short-arm work, and
O Lord, take care of his chin and mark,” prayed Trooper Bear, with deep
and serious devoutness.
No need to shake hands this bout—not again till the fifteenth, noted
Dam, as he arose and literally leapt at his opponent with a smashing
drive of his right and a feint of his left which drew the Gorilla’s
guard and left his face exposed. The Gorilla received Dam’s full weight
and full strength, and, but for the ropes, would have been knocked
among the spectators.
A tremendous yell went up, led by the Queen’s Greys.
As the tautening of the ropes swayed the Gorilla inward again, Dam
delivered a brace of lightning strokes that, though they did not find
the chin, staggered and partly stunned him, and, ere he could pull
himself together, Dam was inside his guard, almost breast to breast
with him, and raining terrific blows, just above the belt. Left, right,
left, right, and no chance for the Gorilla to get his own hands up for
a couple of seconds, and, when he could, and drove an appalling blow at
Dam’s chin, it was dodged and he received a cross-counter that shook
him. He must sham weariness and demoralization, lead the tippy rookie
on to over-confidence and then land him clean over the ropes. A sullen
rage grew in the Gorilla’s heart. He wasn’t doing himself justice. He
wasn’t having a fair show. This blasted half-set pink and white recruit
hadn’t given him time to settle down. A fifteen-round contest shouldn’t
be bustled like _this!_ The bloke was more like a wild-cat than a sober
heavyweight boxer.
He received a heavy blow in the face and, as he shook his head with an
evil grin, according to his custom when well struck, he found it
followed practically instantaneously by another. The swab was about the
quickest thing that ever got into a ring. He was like one of these
bloomin’, tricky, jack-in-the-box featherweights, instead of a steady
lumbering “heavy”. And the Gorilla allowed himself to be driven to a
corner again, and let his head sink forward, that the incautious youth
might again put all his strength into an upper-cut, miss as the other
dodged, and be at the mercy of the Gorilla as the errant fist completed
its over-driven swing.
But Damocles de Warrenne fought with his brain as well as his strength
and skill. He had learnt a lesson, and no dull-witted oaf of a Gorilla
was going to have him like that twice. As the Gorilla cowered and
crouched in simulated defeat and placed his face to tempt the _coup de
grace_ which he would see swinging up, and easily dodge, Dam swiftly
side-stepped and summoning every ounce of strength, rage, and mad
protesting frenzy against the life-long torturing tyrant, he delivered
a Homeric blow at the champion’s head, beside and behind the ear.
(Since he was indestructible by the ordinary point-of-the-chin
knock-out, let him make the best of that fearful blow upon the base of
the brain and spinal cord, direct.)
Experienced men said it was the heaviest blow they had ever seen struck
with the human fist. It was delivered slightly downward, coolly, at
measured distance, with change from left foot to right in the act of
delivery, and with the uttermost strength of a most powerful athlete in
perfect training—and Hate Incarnate lent the strength of madness to the
strength of training and skill.
THUD!—and the Gorilla dropped like a log.
_“One—two—three—four—five—six—seven—”_ counted the time-keeper, as men
scarcely breathed in the dead silence into which the voice cut
sharply—_“eight—”_ and, in perfect silence, every man of those
thousands slowly rose to his feet—_“nine—OUT!”_ and such a roar arose
as bade fair to rend the skies. _“Outed” in two rounds!_ Men howled
like lunatics, and the Queen’s Greys behaved like very dangerous
lunatics. Hawker flung his arms round Dam and endeavoured to raise him
on his shoulders and chair him unaided. Bear and Goate got each a hand
and proceeded to do their best to crush it.
Seamen Jones and Smith exchanged a chaste kiss.
Damocles de Warrenne was the hero of the Queen’s Greys. Best
Man-at-Arms in the Division, winner in Sword v. Sword Mounted and
Dismounted, Tent-pegging, Sword v. Lance, and Individual Jumping, and
in the winning teams for Tug-of-War, Section Jumping, and Section
Tent-pegging!
“Give him a trial as Corporal then, from the first of next month, sir,
if there’s no sign of anything wrong during the week,” agreed Captain
Daunt, talking him over with the Colonel, after receiving through
Troop-Sergeant-Major Scoles a petition to promote the man.
Within twenty-four hours of his fight with the Gorilla, Dam found
himself on sentry-go over what was known in the Regiment as “the Dead
’Ole”—which was the mortuary, situated in a lonely, isolated spot
beyond a nullah some half-furlong from the Hospital, and cut off from
view of human habitation by a belt of trees.
On mounting guard that evening, the Sergeant of the Guard had been
informed that a corpse lay in the mortuary, a young soldier having been
taken ill and having died within a few hours, of some disease of a
distinctly choleraic nature.
“I’ll tell _you_ orf for that post, Matthewson,” said the Sergeant.
“P’raps you’ll see ghosties there, for a change,” for it was customary
to mount a sentry over “the Dead ’Ole” when it contained an occupant,
and one of the sentry’s pleasing duties was to rap loudly and
frequently upon the door throughout the night to scare away those
vermin which are no respecters of persons when the persons happen to be
dead and the vermin ravenous.
“I’m not afraid of ghosts, Sergeant,” replied Dam—though his heart sank
within him at the thought of the long lonely vigil in the dark, when he
would be so utterly at the mercy of the Snake—the Snake over whom he
had just won a signal victory, and who would be all the more vindictive
and terrible in consequence. Could he keep sane through the lonely
darkness of those dreadful hours? Perhaps—if he kept himself in some
severe physical agony. He would put a spur beneath his tight-drawn belt
and next to his skin, he would strike his knee frequently with the “toe
of the butt” of his carbine, he would put pebbles in his boots, and he
would cause cramp in his limbs, one after the other. Any kind of pain
would help.
It must be quarter of an hour since he had rapped on the mortuary door
and sent his messages of prohibition to mouse, rat, bandicoot,
civet-cat, wild-cat or other vermin intruder through the
roof-ventilation holes. He would knock again. A strange thing
this—knocking at a dead man’s door in the middle of the night. Suppose
the dead man called “Come in!” It would be intensely interesting, but
in no wise terrifying or horrible. Presumably poor young Trooper
Priddell was no more dangerous or dreadful in the spirit than he had
been in the flesh…. Fortunate young man! Were he only on sentry-go
outside the peaceful mortuary and Damocles de Warrenne stretched on the
bier within, to await the morrow and its pomp and ceremony, when the
carcass of the dead soldier would receive honours never paid to the
living, sentient man, be he never so worthy, heroic, virtuous and
deserving. Oh, to be lying in there at rest, to be on the other side of
that closed door at peace!…
To-morrow that poor dead yokel’s body would receive a “Present Arms”
(as though he were an armed party commanded by an Officer) from the
Guard, which the sentry would turn out as the coffin passed the
Guard-room. For the first and last time in his life, he would get a
“_Present Arms_”. It wouldn’t be in his _life_ though. For the first
and last time in his death? That didn’t sound right either. Anyhow he
would get it, and lots of strange, inexplicable, origin-forgotten rites
would be observed over this piece of clay—hitherto so cheaply held and
roughly treated.
Queer! As “Trooper Priddell” he was of no account. As a piece of
fast-decaying carrion he would be the centre of a piece of elaborate
ceremonial! His troop would parade in full dress and (save for a
firing-party of twelve who would carry carbines) without arms. A
special black horse would be decked out with a pall of black velvet and
black plumes. Across this horse the spurred jackboots of the dead man
would be slung with toes pointing to the rear. Two men, wearing black
cloaks, would lead the horse by means of new handkerchiefs passed
through the bridoon rings of its bridle, handkerchiefs which would
become their perquisites and _memento mori_.
With crape-draped drums, the band, in silence, would lead the troop to
the mortuary where would await it a gun-carriage with its six horses
and coffin-supporting attachment. Here the troop would break ranks,
file into the mortuary and bare-headed take, each man, his last look at
the face of the dead as he lay in his coffin. The lid would then be
screwed on, the troop would form a double line, facing inward, the
firing-party would “present arms,” and six of the dead man’s more
particular pals, or of his “townies,” would bear the coffin out and
place it upon the gun-carriage. It would then be covered with a Union
Jack and on it would be placed the helmet, sword, and carbine of the
deceased trooper, the firing-party standing meanwhile, leaning on their
reversed carbines, with bowed heads.
As the melancholy procession formed up for its march to the graveyard,
the smallest and junior men would take front place, the bigger and
senior men behind them, non-commissioned officers would follow, and
subalterns and captain last of all. In stepping off from the halt, all
would step off with the right foot instead of with the left. Apparently
the object was to reverse ordinary procedure to the uttermost—which
would but be in keeping with the great reversal of showing honour to
such an unhonoured thing as a private soldier—one of the despised and
rejected band that enable the respectable, wealthy, and smug to remain
so; one of the “licentious soldiery” that have made, and that keep, the
Empire of which the respectable wealthy and smug are so proud.
At the “slow march,” and in perfect silence until beyond hearing by the
inmates of the Hospital, the cortege would proceed. Anon the band would
call heaven and earth to mourn with the sonorous dreadful strains of
the Dead March; whereafter the ordinary “quick march” would bring the
funeral party to the cemetery, in sight of which the “slow march” would
be resumed, and the Chaplain, surpliced, book-bearing, come forth to
put himself at its head, leading the way to the grave-side where, with
uncovered heads, the mourners would listen to the impressive words with
feelings varying as their education, religion, temperament,
and—digestion—impelled.
At the close of the service, the firing-party in their places, six on
either side of the grave, would fire three volleys into the air, while
the band breathed a solemn dirge.
And—perhaps most impressively tragic touch of all—the party would march
briskly off to the strains of the liveliest air in the whole repertoire
of the band.
_Why_ should John Humphreyville Priddell—doubtless scion of the great
Norman houses of Humphreyville and Paradelle, who shared much of
Dorsetshire between them from Domesday Book to Stuart downfall—have
been born in a tiny village of the Vale of Froom in “Dorset Dear,” to
die of cholera in vile Motipur? Was some maid, in barton, byre, or
dairy, thinking of him but now—with an ill-writ letter in her bosom, a
letter beginning with “_I now take up my pen to right you these few
lines hopping they find you the same which they now leave me at
present_” according to right tradition and proper custom, and
continuing to speak of homesick longings, dreams of furlough,
promotion, marrying “on the strength,” and retirement to green fair
Dorset Dear on a Sergeant-Major’s pension?
What was the meaning of it all? Was it pure chance and accident—or had
a Living, Scheming, Purposeful Deity a great wise object in this that
John Humphreyville Priddell should have been born and bred and nurtured
in the Vale of Froom to be struck from lusty life to a death of agony
in a few hours at Motipur in the cruel accursed blighted land of Ind?
Well, well!—high time to rap again upon the door, the last door, of
John Humphreyville Priddell, Trooper, ex-dairyhand, decaying
carrion,—and scare from his carcass such over-early visitants as
anticipated….
How hollowly the blows re-echoed. Did they strike muffled but murderous
upon the heart of the thousand-league distant dairymaid, or of the old
cottage-mother whose evenings were spent in spelling out her boy’s
loving letters—that so oft covered a portion of his exiguous pay?…
Was that a scuttling within? Quite probably. It might be—rats, it might
be a bandicoot; it could hardly be a jackal; it might be a SNAKE,—and
Trooper Matthewson’s carbine clattered to the ground and his knees
smote together as he thought the word. Pulling himself together he
hastily snatched up his carbine with a flush of shame at the slovenly
unsoldierly “crime” of dropping it. He’d be dropping his arms on parade
next! But it _might be a snake_—for he had certainly heard the sound of
a movement of some sort. The strong man felt faint and leant against
the mortuary wall for a moment.
Oh, that the wretched carbine were a sword! A man could feel a _man_
with a sword in his hand. He could almost face the Snake, even in Snake
form, if he had a sword … but what is a carbine, even a loaded
Martini-Henry carbine with its good soft man-stopping slug? There are
no traditions to a carbine—nothing of the Spirit of one’s Ancestors in
one—a vile mechanic thing of villainous saltpetre. How should the Snake
fear that? Now a sword was different. It stood for human war and human
courage and human deeds from the mistiest past, and behind it must be a
weight of human wrath, feats, and tradition that must make even the
Snake pause. Oh, for his sword—if the Snake came upon him when he had
but this wretched carbine he would probably desert his post, fling the
useless toy from him, and flee till he fell blind and fainting on the
ground…. And what would the Trooper of the Queen get who deserted his
sentry-post, threw away his arms and fled—and explained in defence that
he had seen a snake? Probably a court-martial would give him a spell of
Military Prison. Yes—_Jail_…. What proportion of truth could there be
in the firmly-held belief of the men that “crimes” are made so numerous
and so inevitable, to the best-meaning and most careful, because there
exist a great Military Prison System and a great Military Prison
personnel—and that “criminals” are essential to the respective proper
inhabitation and _raison d’être_ thereof—that unless a good supply of
military “criminals” were forthcoming there might have to be reductions
and curtailments—loss of snug billets…. Certainly soldiers got years of
imprisonment for “crimes” for which civilians would get reprimands or
nominal fines, and, moreover, when a man became a soldier he certainly
lost the elementary fundamental rights guaranteed to Englishmen by
Magna Charta—among them the right of trial by his peers….
Would poor Priddell mind if he did not knock again? If it were the
Snake it could do Priddell no harm now—he being happily dead—whereas,
if disturbed, it might emerge to the utter undoing—mind, body, and
soul—of Trooper Matthewson. It would certainly send him to Jail or
Lunatic Asylum—probably to both in due succession, for he was daily
getting worse in the matter of the Snake.
No—it was part of his orders, on this sentry-post, to knock at the
door, and he would do his duty, Snake or not. He had always tried to do
his duty faithfully and he would continue….
Once more to knock at a dead man’s door….
_Bump, Bump: Bump, Bump: Bump, Bump_.
“You’ll soon be at rest, Priddell, old chap—and I wish I could join
you,” called Dam, and it seemed to his excited brain that _a deep
hollow groan replied_.
“By Jove! He’s not dead,” coolly remarked the man who would have fled
shrieking from a harmless blind-worm, and, going round to the back of
the building, he placed his carbine against the wall and sprang up at a
kind of window-ledge that formed the base of a grated aperture made for
purposes of ventilation. Slowly raising his body till his face was
above the ledge, he peered into the dimly moonlit cell and then dropped
to the ground and, catching up his carbine, sprinted in the direction
of the Hospital Guard-room.
There arrived, he shouted for the Corporal of the Guard and was quickly
confronted by Corporal Prag.
“Wot the devil you deserted yore”…. he began.
“Get the key of the mortuary, send for the Surgeon, and come at once,”
gasped Dam as soon as he could speak. “_Priddell’s not dead_. Must be
some kind of catalepsy. Quick, man”….
“Catter wot? You drunken ’og,” drawled the Corporal. “Catter_waulin’_
more like it. Under arrest you goes, my lad. Now you _’ave_ done it.
’Ere, ’Awker, run down an’ call up the Sergeant o’ the Guard an’ tell
’im Maffewson’s left ’is post. ’E’ll ’ave to plant annuvver sentry.
Maffewson goes ter clink.”
“Yes—but send for the Surgeon and the key of the mortuary too,” begged
Dam. “I give you fair warning that Priddell is alive and groaning and
off the bier—”
“Pity _you_ ain’t ‘off the beer’ too,” said the Corporal with a yawn.
“Well—there are witnesses that I brought the report to you. If Priddell
is found dead on the ground to-morrow you’ll have to answer for
manslaughter.”
“’Ere, _chuck_ it you snaike-seeing delirying trimmer, _will_ yer! Give
anyone the ’orrers to listen to yer! When Priddell is wrote off as
‘Dead’ ’e _is_ dead, whether ’e likes it or no,” and he turned to give
orders to the listening guard to arrest Trooper Matthewson.
The Sergeant of the Guard arrived at the “double,” followed by Trooper
Bear carrying a hurricane-lamp.
“What’s the row?” panted the Sergeant. “Matthewson on the booze agin?”
“I report that there is a living man in the mortuary, Sergeant,”
replied Dam. “Priddell is not dead. I heard him groan, and I scrambled
up to the grating and saw him lying on the ground by the door.”
“Well, you’ll see yerself groanin’ an’ lyin’ on the ground in the
Digger, now,” replied the Sergeant, and, as much in sorrow as in anger,
he added, “An’ _you_’re the bloke I signed a petition for his permotion
are yer? At it agin a’ready!”
“But, good Heavens, man, can’t you see I’m as sober as you are, and
much less excited? Can’t you send for the key of the mortuary and call
the doctor? The poor chap may die for your stupidity.”
“You call _me_ a ‘man’ again, my lad, an’ I’ll show you what a Sergeant
can do fer them as ’e don’t like! As fer ‘sober’—I’ve ’ad enough o’ you
‘sober’. W’y, in two ticks you may be on the ground ’owlin’ and
bellerin’ and squealin’ like a Berkshire pig over the blood-tub.
_Sober_! Yus—I seen you at it.”
“Why on earth can’t you come and _prove_ I’m drunk or mad,” besought
Dam. “Open the mortuary and prove I’m wrong—and then put me under
arrest. Call the Surgeon and say the sentry over the mortuary reports
the inmate to be alive—_he_ has heard of catalepsy and comatose
collapse simulating death if _you_ haven’t.”
“Don’ use sech ’orrible languidge,” besought the respectable Corporal
Prag.
“Ho, yus! _I_’m agoin’ to see meself whipt on the peg fer turnin’ out
the Surgin from ’is little bed in the middle o’ the night—to come an’
’ave a look at the dead corpse ’e put in orders fer the Dead ’Ole,
ain’t I? Jest becos the champion snaike-seer o’ E Troop’s got ’em agin,
wot?”
Corporal Prag laughed merrily at the wit of his superior.
Turning to Bear, whom he knew to be as well educated as himself, Dam
remarked:—
“Poor chap has rallied from the cholera collapse and could probably be
saved by stimulants and warmth. This suspended animation is common
enough in cholera. Why, the Brahmins have a regular ritual for dealing
with cases of recovery on the funeral pyre—purification after
defilement by the corpse-washers or something of the sort. These stupid
oafs are letting poor Priddell die—”
“What! you drunken talkin’ parrot,” roared the incensed Sergeant.
“’Ere, sling ’is drunken rotten carkis—”
“What’s the row here?” cut in a quiet curt voice. “Noise enough for a
gang of crows——”
Surgeon-Captain Blake of the Royal Army Medical Corps had just left the
Hospital, having been sent for by the night Nursing Sister. The men
sprang to attention and the Sergeant saluted.
“Drunk sentry left ’is post, Sir,” he gabbled. “’Spose the Dead
’Ole—er—Morshuerry, that is, Sir, got on ’is nerves. ’E’s given to
secret boozin’, Sir——”
“Excuse me, Sir,” broke in Dam, daring to address an Officer unbidden,
since a life was at stake, “I am a total abstainer and Trooper Priddell
is not dead. It must have been cataleptic trance. I heard him groan and
I climbed up and saw him lying on the ground.”
“This man’s not drunk,” said Captain Blake, and added to himself, “and
he’s an educated man, and a cultured, poor devil.”
“Oh, that’s how ’e goes on, Sir, sober as a judge you’d say, an’ then
nex’ minnit ’e’s on the floor aseein’ blue devils an’ pink serpients——”
“The man’s dying while we talk, Sir,” put in Dam, whose wrath was
rising. (If these dull-witted ignorant louts could not tell a drunken
man from a sober, nor realize that a certified dead man may _not_ be
dead, surely the doctor could.)
The Sergeant and the Corporal ventured on a respectful snigger.
“Bring me that lamp,” said Captain Blake, and Trooper Bear raised it to
his extended hand. Lifting it so that its light shone straight in Dam’s
face the doctor scanned the latter and examined his eyes. This was not
the face of a drunkard nor was the man in any way under the influence
of liquor now. Absurd! Had he fever? Was he of deranged intellect? But,
alas, the light that shone upon Dam’s face also shone upon Captain
Blake’s collar and upon the badge of his Corps which adorned it—and
that badge is a serpent entwining a rod.
It was the last straw! Dam had passed through a most disturbing night;
he had kept guard in the lonely Snake-haunted darkness, guard over a
mortuary in which lay a corpse; he had had to keep knocking at the
corpse’s door, his mind had run on funerals, he had thought he heard
the dead man groan, he believed he had seen the dead man moving, he had
wrestled with thick intelligences who held him drunk or mad while
precious moments passed, and he had had the Snake before his mental
vision throughout this terrible time—and here was another of its
emissaries _wearing its badge_, an emissary of high rank, an
Officer-Emissary!… Well, he was in the open air, thank God, and could
put up a fight as before.
Like a panther he sprang upon the unfortunate officer and bore him to
the ground, with his powerful hands enclosing the astounded gentleman’s
neck, and upon the couple sprang the Sergeant, the Corporal, and the
Hospital Guard, all save the sentry, who (disciplined, well-drilled
man!) brought his carbine to the “order” and stood stiffly at
“attention” in a position favourable for a good view of the proceedings
though strictly on his beat.
Trooper Bear, ejaculating “Why do the heathen rage furiously together,”
took a running jump and landed in sitting posture on the heap, rolled
off, and proceeded to seize every opportunity of violently smiting his
superior officers, in his apparent zeal to help to secure the dangerous
criminal-lunatic. Thoughts of having just _one_ punch at a real Officer
(if only a non-combatant still a genuine Commissioned Officer) flashed
across his depraved mind.
It was a Homeric struggle. Captain Blake was himself an old Guy’s
Rugger three-quarter and no mean boxer, and the Sergeant, Corporal, and
Guard, were all powerful men, while Dam was a Samson further endowed
with the strength of undeniable madness. When at length he was dragged
from Captain Blake’s recumbent form, his hands torn from that officer’s
throat, and the group stood for a second panting, Dam suddenly felled
Corporal Prag with such a blow as had been the undoing of the Gorilla,
sent Sergeant Wotting head over heels and, ere the Guard could again
close with him, drove his fist into the face of the supposed myrmidon
of the Snake and sprang upon his body once more….
It was some time before seven strong men could pinion him and carry him
on a stretcher to the Guard-room, and, of those seven strong men, only
Trooper Bear bore no mark of serious damage. (Trooper Bear had struck
two non-commissioned officers with great violence, in his misdirected
zeal, and one Commissioned Officer—though only playfully and for the
satisfaction of being able to say that he had done so.) That night,
half dead, wholly mad, bruised and bleeding, Damocles de Warrenne lay
in the dark cell awaiting trial on a charge of assaulting an Officer,
striking his superior officers, resisting the Guard, deserting his
sentry-post, and being drunk and disorderly.
“What’ll he get, d’you think?” sadly asked Trooper Goate of Trooper
Hawker.
“Two stretch ’ard laiber and discharged from the Army wiv’
iggernerminny,” groaned Trooper Hawker. “Lucky fer ’im floggin’s
erbolished in the British Army.”
When the mortuary door was unlocked next morning a little force was
required to open it, some obstacle apparently retarding its inward
movement. The obstacle proved to be the body, now certainly the dead
body, of Trooper Priddell who had died with his fingers thrust under
the said door.[26]
[26] This actually happened some years ago at Bangalore.—AUTHOR.
PART III.
THE SAVING OF A SOUL
CHAPTER XII.
VULTURES AND LUCK—GOOD AND BAD.
To the strongest and sanest mind there is something a small trifle
disturbing, perhaps, in riding silently hour after hour on a
soft-footed camel over soft sand in a silent empty land through the
moonlit silent night, beside an overland-telegraph wire on every
individual post of which sits a huge vulture!… Just as the sun set, a
fiery red ball, behind the distant mountains, Damocles de Warrenne,
gentleman-at-large, had caught sight of what he had sought in the
desert for some days, the said overland telegraph, and thereby saved
himself from the highly unpleasant death that follows prolonged
deprivation of water. He had also saved his camel from a little earlier
death, inasmuch as he had decided to probe for the faithful creature’s
jugular vein and carotid artery during the torturing heats of the
morrow and prolong his life at its expense. (Had he not promised
Lucille to do his best for himself?)
The overland telegraph pointed absolutely straight to the border city
of Kot Ghazi and, better still, to a river-bed which would contain
pools of water, thirty miles this side of it, at a spot a few miles
from which stood a lost lone dak-bungalow on Indian soil—a dak-bungalow
whereat would be waiting a _shikarri_ retainer, and such things as tea,
fuel, potted foods, possibly fresh meat, and luxury of luxuries, a hot
bath….
And, with a sigh of relief, he had wheeled his camel under the
telegraph wires after a glance at the stars and brief calculation as to
whether he should turn to left or right. (He did not want to proceed
until he collapsed under the realization that he was making for the
troubled land of Persia.)
Anyhow, without knowing where he was, he knew he was on the road to
water, food, human companionship (imagine Abdul Ghani a human
companion!—but he had not seen a human face for three weeks, nor heard
nor uttered a word), and safety, after suffering the unpleasant
experience of wandering in circles, lost in the most inhospitable
desert on the earth. Vultures! He had not realized there were so many
in the world. Hour after hour, a post at every few yards, and on every
post a vulture—a vulture that opened its eyes as he approached,
regarded him from its own point of view—that of the Eater whose life is
an unending search for Meat—calculatingly, and closed them again with a
sigh at his remaining vigorousness.
He must have passed hundreds, thousands,—had he died of thirst in
actual fact and was he doomed to follow this line through this desert
for evermore as a punishment for his sins? No—much too mild a
punishment for the God of Love to inflict, according to the Chaplain.
This would be Eternal Bliss compared with the Eternal Fire. He must be
still alive … Was he mad, then, and _imagining_ these unending
bird-capped posts? If not mad, he soon would be. Why couldn’t they say
something—mannerless brutes! Should he swerve off and leave the
telegraph line? No, he had starved and suffered the agonies of thirst
for nearly a week—and, if he could hang on all night, he might reach
water tomorrow and be saved. Food was a minor consideration and if he
could drink a few gallons of water, soak his clothes in it, lie in
it,—he could carry on for another day or two. Nearly as easy to sprawl
face-downward on a camel-saddle as on the ground—and he had tied
himself on. The camel would rub along all right for days with
camel-thorn and similar dainties…. No, better not leave the line. Halt
and camp within sight of it till the morning, when the brutes would fly
away in search of food? No … might find it impossible to get going
again, if once man and beast lay down now … Ride as far as possible
from the line, keeping it in sight? No … if he fell asleep the camel
would go round in a circle again, and he’d wake up a dozen miles from
the line, with no idea of direction and position. Best to carry
straight on. The camel would stick to the line so long as he was left
exactly on it … think it a road … He could sleep without danger thus.
He would shut his eyes and not see the vultures, for if he saw a dozen
more he knew that he would go raving mad, halt the camel and address an
impassioned appeal to them to _say_ something—for God’s sake to _say
something_. Didn’t they know that he had been in solitary confinement
in a desert for three weeks or three centuries (what is time?) without
hearing a sound or seeing a living thing—expecting the SNAKE night and
day, and, moreover, that he was starving, dying of thirst, and
light-headed, and that he was in the awful position of choosing between
murdering the camel that had stood by him—no, under him—all that
fearful time, and breaking his word to Lucille—cheating and deceiving
Lucille. Then why couldn’t they _say_ something instead of sitting
there in their endless millions, mile after billions of miles, post
after billions of trillions of posts—menacing, watchful, silent, silent
as the awful desert, silent as the SNAKE…. This would not do … he must
think hard of Lucille, of the Sword, of his Dream, his Dream that came
so seldom now. He would repeat Lucille’s last letter, word for word:—
“MY DARLING,
“It is over, thank God—Oh, thank God—and you can leave the army at once
and become a ‘gentleman’ in position as well as in fact. Poor old
Grumper died on Saturday (as I cabled) and before he died he became
quite another man—weak, gentle and anxious to make any amends he could
to anybody. For nearly a week he was like this, and it was a most
wonderful and pathetic thing. He spent most of the time in telling me,
General Harringport, Auntie Yvette or the Vicar, about wicked things he
had done, cruelties, meannesses, follies—it was most distressing, for
really he has been simply a strong character with all the faults of
one—including, as we know too well, lack of sympathy, hardness, and
sometimes savage cruelty, which, after all, was only the natural result
of the lack of sympathy and understanding.
“As he grew weaker he grew more sympathetic with illness and suffering,
I suppose, for he sent for me in the middle of the night to say that he
had suddenly remembered Major Decies’ story about your probably being
subject to fits and seizures in certain circumstances, and that he was
coming to the conclusion that he had been hasty and unjust and had
unmercifully punished you for no fault whatever. He said ‘I have
punished him for being punished. I have added my injustice to that of
Fate. Write to him that I ask his pardon and confess my fault. Tell him
I’ll make such reparation as I can,’ and oh, Dam—he leaves _you_
Monksmead, and _me_ his money, on the understanding that we marry as
soon as any physician, now living in Harley Street, says that you are
fit to marry (I must write it I suppose) without fear of our children
being epileptic, insane, or in any way tainted. If none of them will do
this, I am to inherit Monksmead and part of the money and you are to
have a part of the money. If we marry _then_, we lose everything and it
goes to Haddon Berners. Mr. Wyllis, who has been his lawyer and agent
for thirty years, is to take you to Harley Street (presumably to
prevent your bribing and corrupting the whole of the profession there
residing).
“Come at once, Darling. If the silly old physicians won’t certify,
why—what _does_ it matter? I am going to let lodgings at Monksmead to a
Respectable Single Man (with board) and Auntie Yvette will see that he
behaves himself.