We went over to see the mule lines. I detest the whole generation of
these parrot-mouthed hybrids, American, Egyptian, Andalusian, or
up-country: so it gave me particular pleasure to hear a Pathan telling
one chestnut beast who objected to having its mane hogged any more, what
sort of lady-horse his mamma had been. But _qua_ animals, they were a
lovely lot, and had long since given up blowing and finicking over
English fodder.
‘Is there any sickness? Why is yonder mule lying down?’ I demanded, as
though all the lines could not see I was a shuddering amateur.
‘There is no sickness, sahib. That mule lies down for his own pleasure.
Also, to get out of the wind. He is very clever. He is from Hindustan,’
said the man with the horse-clippers.
‘And thou?’
‘_I_ am a Pathan,’ said he with impudent grin and true border cock of
the turban, and he did me the honour to let me infer.
The lines were full of talk as the men went over their animals. They
were not worrying themselves over this new country of Belait. It was the
regular gossip of food and water and firewood, and where So-and-So had
hid the curry-comb.
Talking of cookery, the orthodox men have been rather put out by English
visitors who come to the cook-houses and stare directly _at_ the food
while it is being prepared. Sensible men do not object to this, because
they know that these Englishmen have no evil intention nor any evil eye;
but sometimes a narrow-souled purist (toothache or liver makes a man
painfully religious) will ‘spy strangers,’ and insist on the strict
letter of the law, and then every one who wishes to be orthodox must
agree with him—on an empty stomach, too—and wait till a fresh mess has
been cooked. This is _taklif_—a burden—for where the intention is good
and war is afoot much can and should be overlooked. Moreover, this war
is not like any other war. It is a war of _our_ Raj—‘everybody’s war,’
as they say in the bazaars. And that is another reason why it does not
matter if an Englishman stares at one’s food. This I gathered in small
pieces after watering time when the mules had filed up to the troughs in
the twilight, hundreds of them, and the drivers grew discursive on the
way to the lines.
The last I saw of them was in the early cold morning, all in marching
order, jinking and jingling down a road through woods.
‘Where are you going?’
‘God knows!’