THE PONGYE
Late one warm afternoon in January, when Shafto was unusually busy on
the Pagoda wharf—consignments of paddy were coming in thick and
fast—suddenly, above the din of steam winches and donkey engines, there
arose a great shouting, and he beheld an immense cloud of white dust
rolling rapidly in his direction.
“Look out, it’s a runaway!” roared a neighbouring worker. “By George,
they’ll all be in the river!”
Sure enough, there came a rattle-trap hack _gharry_ at the heels of a
pair of galloping ponies. The reins were broken, a yelling soldier sat
helpless on the driver’s seat and several of his comrades were inside
the rocking vehicle. The animals, maddened with fear, were making
straight for the Irrawaddy and, as Shafto rushed forward with
outstretched arms to head them off, they swerved violently, came into
resounding contact with a huge crane, and upset the _gharry_ with a
shattering crash. Several men ran to the struggling ponies; Shafto and
another to the overturned _gharry_ and hauled out two privates; number
one, helplessly intoxicated; number two, not quite so helpless; the
third person to emerge was, to Shafto’s speechless amazement, no less a
personage than a shaven priest—a full-grown _pongye_ in his yellow
robe! He looked considerably dazed and a good deal cut about with
broken glass. Waving away assistance, he tottered over and sat down
behind a huge pile of rice stacks. Shafto immediately followed to
inquire how he could help him, but before he had uttered a word, the
_pongye_, who was much out of breath, gasped:
“Bedad! that was a near shave!”
Could Shafto believe his ears?
“Whist! now, and don’t let on!” he continued, staunching a cut with a
corner of his yellow robe—which he presently exchanged for Shafto’s
handkerchief—“the fright knocked it out of me!”
“So you’re not a Burman?”
“Faix, I am not; I’m a native of Cork and was born in Madras, and only
for yer honour we’d all be floating down the Irrawaddy this blessed
minute.”
His honour found it impossible to articulate; he merely stood and
gaped. The Irish _pongye_, born in Cork and Madras, was a tall, gaunt,
middle-aged man, with high cheek-bones, a closely-shorn head, and horn
spectacles.
“Might I ask yer name, sorr?” he inquired at last, “and where ye live?”
“My name is Shafto; I live in a chummery at the corner of Sandwith
Road.”
“Oh, an’ well I know it an’ its old compound. They say it’s full of
_nats_, because of a murder as was done there. My name is Mung Baw, at
yer service, and I’ll not forget what ye did for me this day, and I’ll
call round. Blessed hour! where’s my begging-bowl?”
As soon as Shafto had discovered and restored his _patta_, the _pongye_
arose, gave himself a shake and, without another word, stalked away, a
tall, erect, unspeakably majestic figure.
When Shafto met Roscoe he lost no time in recounting his extraordinary
adventure, and added triumphantly:
“So you see, Joe Roscoe, you are not the only man here who makes a
strange acquaintance.”
“I’m not surprised,” he rejoined; “I’ve heard more than once of these
white _pongyes_. I dare say the chap will be as good as his word and
will look you up; I foresee an interesting interview.”
In about three weeks Roscoe’s prediction was verified. Returning home
late one evening Shafto was struck by the unusually impressive
appearance and gestures of the fat Madrassi butler who, beckoning him
aside with an air of alarming mystery, informed him that “someone was
in his room waiting to see his honour.”
“In my room,” he repeated indignantly. “Why the mischief did you put
him in there? Couldn’t he sit in the veranda, like other people?”
“No, saar, he refused; he would not.”
Shafto flung open the door of his apartment with a gesture of annoyance
and, to his profound amazement, discovered the _pongye_ seated in easy
comfort upon his bed. He was surrounded by an odd medicinal aromatic
atmosphere, his sandals, begging-bowl and umbrella were carefully
disposed beside him and he appeared to be thoroughly at home.
“I thought I’d give ye a call, sorr, before I went up country. I’m off
to Mandalay to-morrow on a pilgrimage.”
“Oh, are you?” said Shafto, taking a seat and feeling at a complete
loss what he was to say and how he was to handle this novel situation.
“I thought,” resumed the _pongye_, “that I’d like to offer ye an
explanation of the way I happened to be in that ’ere accident.”
“Yes,” assented his host; “I suppose this,” pointing to his yellow gown
with his stick, “is a fancy dress, for, of course, you are not a real
_pongye_?”
“Troth, I am so,” he rejoined with indignant emphasis; “I’ve been
properly initiated—I know Burmese and the Pali language, and can intone
a chant with anyone.”
“All the same, you’re an Irishman and your speech bewrayeth you. I
wonder you are not kicked out.”
“Is it kick me out? No fear! For besides being well respected and well
liked, I’m a magician.”
“Oh, come, that’s all rot!” exclaimed Shafto impatiently.
“’Tis not,” he rejoined in a vigorously defensive tone; “and ’tis
little ye know. This is a queer country; the people are terribly
superstitious and weak in themselves, on account of _nats_ and bad
spirits.”
“Oh, that I can believe,” replied Shafto; “your pals in the _gharry_
could tell you something about bad spirits.”
“Wait now and I’ll explain,” said the _pongye_, with an intimate
gesture of his great bony hand.
“Sometimes I’ve a sort of ache to be mixing up with European
soldiers—even if it’s only for a couple of hours.” After a pause he
added in a thoughtful tone, “For ye see I was wance a soldier meself.”
“What!”
“It’s the pure truth I’m tellin’ ye—a corporal, with two good-conduct
stripes; the other week Paddy Nolan had drink taken, and nothin’ would
please him but that he must drive, so he turned off the _garriwan_ and
made a cruel bad hand of it—as you saw for yourself! They were a couple
of raw new ponies, come down out of last drove, and unused to trams and
motors, and frightened dancing mad; only for you heading them off, we
were all as dead as mutton.”
“But how did you get into the Burmese priesthood?” inquired Shafto with
abrupt irrelevance.
“It was like this, sorr, I’m country-born; me father was a sergeant in
the Irish Rifles, me mother was a half-caste—an Anglo-Indian from
Ceylon—so I’m half Irish, quarter Cingalese. I was left an orphan when
I was seven years old and educated at the Lawrence Asylum. I always had
a wonderful twist for languages; it came as easy as breathing to me to
talk Tamil or Telugu. Well, when I was close on eighteen I enlisted and
put in seven years with the Colours, mostly in Bengal; then we come
over here and lay in Mandalay and, after a bit, I—somehow got lost.”
“That is, you deserted,” sternly amended Shafto.
“Oh well, have it whatever way ye like, sorr. I was shootin’ in the
jungles and was took terribly bad with fever and nearly died. The
natives are good-natured, kind, soft people—none better; they took me
in and nursed me, and one of the _pongyes_ doctored me. You see, I was
entirely out of touch with Europeans, and when I got cured was just a
walking skeleton. Some thief had made away with my boots and breeches,
so I stopped among the natives and never laid eyes on a white face for
two years. I soon picked up the Burmese lingo, which some say is
difficult; but to me it was aisy as kiss me hand. Then I was received
into the priesthood; that was over seven years ago, and here I am
still. Of course, as ye know, I can go or stay as I please; but I stick
to the yellow robe as if it was me skin. Still and all, I won’t deny
that the sight of a soldier draws me, and that,” he concluded modestly,
“is my only wakeness.”
“I say, you don’t mean to tell me that you are a _real_ Buddhist?”
“Why, of course I am; what else would I be? The religion is pure and
good and friendly; the other priests know that I’m from India—and
that’s enough for _them_. In this country no questions is asked—and
that’s what makes livin’ so nice and aisy. And, sure, aren’t we
Buddhists all over the world? Our doctrines are wise and ancient; we
pray and keep fasts and live to ourselves, and there’s little differ,
in my mind, between us and the Catholic religion—in which I was born
and reared. Haven’t we the mass, and vespers, and beads, and
monasteries, and Lent,—all complate?”
“So then you’re a celibate—a monk?”
“And to be shure I am; ye don’t think I look like a nun, do ye?”
“A water drinker?”
“Well, sorr, I’m tell ye no lie—not altogether; I am not a teetotaller
all out, I’m a sober man, and I mostly drink cocoanut water and tea.
It’s a fine, free life, I can tell ye.”
“Fine and idle, eh?”
“I’m not more idle than the rest of them; it’s true that I don’t teach,
and, of course, it’s only the young fellows that do the sweeping,
water-carrying and filtering, and the work at the _kyoung_. I see a
heap of the country and have many friends, who give me small presents,
and smokes and food; I have a far better time—a thousand times a better
time—than sweating in route marches and carrying round Orderly books in
Rangoon or Calcutta; and many’s the quare tale I could tell ye—tales
about animals and elephant dances and big snakes, ay, and spirit tales
that would open your eyes.”
“Well, if it’s any comfort to know it, you’ve opened my eyes about as
wide as they will go. What is your real name?”
“Michael Ryan. Me father came from Cork—a real fine country for
fighting men, and I understand that, once upon a time, my ancestors had
a great kingdom beyond the Shannon. Well, sorr,” now beginning to
unfold himself and rise from the bed, “I thought I’d just drop in and
explain matters a bit before I go up country.”
“That was very thoughtful of you, Mung Baw.”
“I’ll be back in a while, and I needn’t tell ye, Mr. Shafto, that as
long as I draw breath I’ll never forget how I’m beholden to ye. I’m
vowed to poverty, of course, but I’m a rover and go about a lot, and
some day I may be able to put a good thing in your way, and I can tell
ye one thing—ye have a lucky face!”
“I’m glad to hear it; and now, before you depart, will you tell me
something else? How do you contrive to get so much liberty—careering
round the town with Tommies and coming to look me up? It’s past seven
o’clock—and I understand your Roll Call is at six.”
“That’s true,” assented the _pongye_, “but there are exceptions, and
I’m one of them,” suddenly sliding off the bed and drawing himself up
to his full height—about six feet two. “I don’t enjoy very good health
being, as ye understand, no native of the country; so I’m allowed a
certain margin and liberty. Well now, I’ll be takin’ leave of ye; but
before I go, I want you to accept something I brought you—just a small
trifle of a talisman.”
And from some mysterious receptacle he produced a good-sized dark
stone, about the size of a pigeon’s egg. “Now, whatever ye do, put this
carefully away and keep it safe and secure.”
Shafto took it in his hand, examined the gift and murmured his thanks.
“No harm of any sort can come next or nigh ye,” continued the _pongye_,
“as long as that stone’s in your possession—and that’s as shure as me
name’s Mung Baw.”
And hastily collecting his umbrella and bowl, before Shafto could
realise the intended move the stranger was gone. Nothing remained of
his visit but the curious aromatic odour and the so-called “talisman.”
The stone was round, dark and by no means beautiful, and at first
Shafto was inclined to throw it into the compound, but, on second
thoughts, he thrust it into his dispatch box and locked it away.
“Evil spirits, a magician, a talisman,” he said to himself. “I suppose
the poor fellow was discharged from the Service as a hopeless lunatic.”
Having arrived at this conclusion, Shafto changed his clothes and went
to dinner in the veranda, where he was well chaffed about his recent
visitor.
“Been stealing something up at the Pagoda and they sent a _Bo_ after
you,” suggested FitzGerald; “I must say your new friend is a
rum-looking customer; a powerful, strapping _pongye_. He’d make a grand
constable! What did he want?”
“Oh, he merely came to pay a visit of ceremony,” replied Shafto. “He
was in a _gharry_ accident a few weeks ago, and I happened to come to
his rescue and pick up the pieces; he called to express his thanks and
drop a P.P.C.”