“LOVE-O'-WOMEN”--from “Many Inventions”
THE BIG DRUNK DRAF'
THE MUTINY OF THE MAVERICKS
THE MAN WHO WAS
ONLY A SUBALTERN
IN THE MATTER OF A PRIVATE
THE LOST LEGION--from “Many Inventions”
THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT
JUDSON AND THE EMPIRE--from “Many Inventions”
A CONFERENCE OF THE POWERS--from “Many Inventions”
'LOVE-O'WOMEN'
A lamentable tale of things
Done long ago, and ill done.
The horror, the confusion, and the separation of the murderer from
his comrades were all over before I came. There remained only on the
barrack-square the blood of man calling from the ground. The hot sun had
dried it to a dusky gold-beater-skin film, cracked lozenge-wise by the
heat, and as the wind rose each lozenge, rising a little, curled up at
the edges as if it were a dumb tongue. Then a heavier gust blew all away
down wind in grains of dark-coloured dust. It was too hot to stand in
the sunshine before breakfast. The men were all in barracks talking the
matter over. A knot of soldiers' wives stood by one of the entrances
to the married quarters, while inside a woman shrieked and raved with
wicked filthy words.
A quiet and well-conducted sergeant had shot down in broad daylight
just after early parade one of his own corporals, had then returned
to barracks and sat on a cot till the guard came for him. He would,
therefore, in due time be handed over to the High Court for trial.
Further, but this he could hardly have considered in his scheme of
revenge, he would horribly upset my work; for the reporting of the trial
would fall on me without a relief. What that trial would be like I knew
even to weariness. There would be the rifle carefully uncleaned, with
the fouling marks about breech and muzzle, to be sworn to by half a
dozen superfluous privates; there would be heat, reeking heat, till the
wet pencil slipped sideways between the fingers; and the punkah would
swish and the pleaders would jabber in the verandahs, and his Commanding
Officer would put in certificates of the prisoner's moral character,
while the jury would pant and the summer uniforms of the witnesses would
smell of dye and soaps; and some abject barrack-sweeper would lose his
head in cross-examination, and the young barrister who always defended
soldiers' cases for the credit that they never brought him, would say
and do wonderful things, and would then quarrel with me because I had
not reported him correctly. At the last, for he surely would not be
hanged, I might meet the prisoner again, ruling blank account-forms in
the Central Jail, and cheer him with the hope of a wardership in the
Andamans.
The Indian Penal Code and its interpreters do not treat murder, under
any provocation whatever, in a spirit of jest. Sergeant Raines would
be very lucky indeed if he got off with seven years, I thought. He had
slept the night upon his wrongs, and had killed his man at twenty yards
before any talk was possible. That much I knew. Unless, therefore,
the case was doctored a little, seven years would be his least; and I
fancied it was exceedingly well for Sergeant Raines that he had been
liked by his Company.
That same evening--no day is so long as the day of a murder--I met
Ortheris with the dogs, and he plunged defiantly into the middle of the
matter. “I'll be one o' the witnesses,” said he. “I was in the verandah
when Mackie came along. 'E come from Mrs. Raines's quarters. Quigley,
Parsons, an' Trot, they was in the inside verandah, so they couldn't
'ave 'eard nothing. Sergeant Raines was in the verandah talkin' to me,
an' Mackie 'e come along acrost the square an' 'e sez, 'Well,' sez 'e,
''ave they pushed your 'elmet off yet, Sergeant?' 'e sez. An' at that
Raines 'e catches 'is breath an' 'e sez, 'My Gawd, I can't stand this!'
sez 'e, an' 'e picks up my rifle an' shoots Mackie. See?”
“But what were you doing with your rifle in the outer verandah an hour
after parade?”
“Cleanin' 'er,” said Ortheris, with the sullen brassy stare that always
went with his choice lies.
He might as well have said that he was dancing naked, for at no time did
his rifle need hand or rag on her twenty minutes after parade. Still the
High Court would not know his routine.
“Are you going to stick to that--on the Book?” I asked.
“Yes. Like a bloomin' leech.”
“All right, I don't want to know any more. Only remember that Quigley,
Parsons, and Trot couldn't have been where you say without hearing
something; and there's nearly certain to be a barrack-sweeper who was
knocking about the square at the time. There always is.”
“Twasn't the sweeper. It was the beastie. 'E's all right.”
Then I knew that there was going to be some spirited doctoring, and
I felt sorry for the Government Advocate who would conduct the
prosecution.
When the trial came on I pitied him more, for he was always quick to
lose his temper, and made a personal matter of each lost cause. Raines's
young barrister had for once put aside his unslaked and Welling passion
for alibis and insanity, had forsworn gymnastics and fireworks, and
worked soberly for his client. Mercifully the hot weather was yet young,
and there had been no flagrant cases of barrack-shootings up to the
time; and the jury was a good one, even for an Indian jury, where nine
men out of every twelve are accustomed to weighing evidence. Ortheris
stood firm and was not shaken by any cross-examination. The one weak
point in his tale--the presence of his rifle in the outer verandah--went
unchallenged by civilian wisdom, though some of the witnesses could not
help smiling. The Government Advocate called for the rope; contending
throughout that the murder had been a deliberate one. Time had passed,
he argued, for that reflection which comes so naturally to a man whose
honour is lost. There was also the Law, ever ready and anxious to right
the wrongs of the common soldier if, in deed, wrong had been done. But
he doubted much whether there had been any sufficient wrong. Causeless
suspicion over-long brooded upon had led, by his theory, to deliberate
crime. But his attempts to minimise the motive failed. The most
disconnected witness knew--had known for weeks--the causes of offence,
and the prisoner, who naturally was the last of all to know, groaned
in the dock while he listened. The one question that the trial circled
round was whether Raines had fired under sudden and blinding provocation
given that very morning, and in the summing up it was clear that
Ortheris's evidence told. He had contrived, most artistically, to
suggest that he personally hated the Sergeant, who had come into the
verandah to give him a talking to for insubordination. In a weak moment
the Government Advocate asked one question too many, “Beggin' your
pardon, sir,” Ortheris replied, “'e was callin' me a dam' impudent
little lawyer.” The Court shook. The jury brought it in a killing, but
with every provocation and extenuation known to God or man, and the
Judge put his hand to his brow before giving sentence, and the Adam's
apple in the prisoner's throat went up and down mercury-pumping before a
cyclone.
In consideration of all considerations, from his Commanding Officer's
certificate of good conduct to the sure loss of pension, service,
and honour, the prisoner would get two years, to be served in India,
and--there need be no demonstration in Court. The Government Advocate
scowled and picked up his papers; the guard wheeled with a clash, and
the prisoner was relaxed to the Secular Arm, and driven to the jail in a
broken-down ticca-gharri.
His guard and some ten or twelve military witnesses, being less
important, were ordered to wait till what was officially called the
cool of the evening before marching back to cantonments. They gathered
together in one of the deep red brick verandahs of a disused lock-up and
congratulated Ortheris, who bore his honours modestly. I sent my
work into the office and joined them. Ortheris watched the Government
Advocate driving off lunch.
“That's a nasty little bald-'eaded little butcher, that is,” he said.
“'E don't please me. 'E's got a colley dog wot do, though. I'm goin' up
to Murree in a week. That dawg'll bring fifteen rupees anywheres.”
“You had better spend it in Masses,” said Terence, unbuckling his belt,
for he had been on the prisoner's guard, standing helmeted and bolt up
right for three long hours.
“Not me,” said Ortheris cheerfully. “Gawd'll put it down to B Comp'ny's
barrick damages one o' these days. You look strapped, Terence.”
“Faith, I'm not so young as I was. That guard-mountin' wears on the
sole av the fut, and this”--he sniffed contemptuously at the brick
verandah--“is as hard setting as standin'!”
“Wait a minute. I'll get the cushions out of my cart,” I said.
“Strewth--sofies! We're going it gay,” said Ortheris, as Terence dropped
himself section by section on the leather cushions, saying prettily,
“May you niver want a soft place wheriver you go, an' power to share
utt wid a frind. Another for yourself? That's good. It lets me sit long
ways. Stanley, pass me a poipe. Augrrh! An' that's another man gone
all to pieces bekaze av a woman. I must ha' been on forty or fifty
prisoners' gyards, first an' last, an' I hate ut new ivry time.”
“Let's see. You were on Losson's, Lancey's, Dugard's, and Stebbins's,
that I can remember,” I said.
“Ay, an' before that an' before that--scores av thim,” he answered with
a worn smile. “Tis betther to die than to live for thim, though. Whin
Raines comes out--he'll be changin' his kit at the jail now--he'll think
that too. He shud ha' shot himself an' the woman by rights, an' made a
clean bill av all. Now he's left the woman--she tuk tay wid Dinah Sunday
gone last--an' he's left himself. Mackie's the lucky man.”
“He's probably getting it hot where he is,” I ventured, for I knew
something of the dead Corporal's record.
“Be sure av that,” said Terence, spitting over the edge of the verandah.
“But fwhat he'll get there is light marchin'-ordher to fwhat he'd ha'
got here if he'd lived.”
“Surely not. He'd have gone on and forgotten like the others.”
“Did ye know Mackie well, Sorr?” said Terence.
“He was on the Pattiala guard of honour last winter, and I went out
shooting with him in an ekka for the day, and I found him rather an
amusing man.”
“Well, he'll ha' got shut av amusemints, excipt turnin' from wan side to
the other, these few years come. I knew Mackie, an' I've seen too many
to be mistuk in the muster av wan man. He might ha' gone on an' forgot,
as you say, Sorr, but was a man wid an educashin, an' he used ut for his
schames, an' the same educashin, an' talk an' all that made him able to
do fwhat he had a mind to wid a woman, that same wud turn back again in
the long run an' tear him alive. I can't say fwhat that I mane to say
bekaze I don't know how, but Mackie was the spit an' livin' image av
a man that I saw march the same march all but; an' 'twas worse for him
that he did not come by Mackie's ind. Wait while I remimber now. 'Twas
fwhin I was in the Black Tyrone, an' he was drafted us from Portsmouth;
an' fwhat was his misbegotten name? Larry--Larry Tighe ut was; an' wan
of the draft said he was a gentleman ranker, an' Larry tuk an' three
parts killed him for saying so. An' he was a big man, an' a strong man,
an' a handsome man, an' that tells heavy in practice wid some women,
but, takin' thim by an' large, not wid all. Yet 'twas wid all that Larry
dealt--all--for he 'ud put the comether on any woman that trod the green
earth av God, an' he knew ut. Like Mackie that's roastin' now, he knew
ut; an' niver did he put the comether on any woman save an' excipt for
the black shame. 'Tis not me that shud be talkin', dear knows, dear
knows, but the most av my mis--misalli'nces was for pure devilry, an'
mighty sorry I have been whin harm came; an' time an' again wid a girl,
ay, an' a woman too, for the matter av that, whin I have seen by the
eyes av her that I was makin' more throuble than I talked, I have hild
off an' let be for the sake av the mother that bore me. But Larry, I'm
thinkin', he was suckled by a she-devil, for he niver let wan go that
came nigh to listen to him. 'Twas his business, as if it might ha'
bin sinthry-go. He was a good soldier too. Now there was the Colonel's
governess--an' he a privit too!--that was never known in barricks; an'
wan av the Major's maids, and she was promised to a man; an' some more
outside; an' fwhat ut was amongst us we'll never know till Judgment
Day! 'Twas the nature av the baste to put the comether on the best av
thim--not the prettiest by any manner av manes--but the like av such
woman as you cud lay your band on the Book an' swear there was niver
thought av foolishness in. An' for that very reason, mark you, he was
niver caught. He came close to ut wanst or twice, but caught he niver
was, an' that cost him more at the ind than the beginnin'. He talked
to me more than most, bekaze he tould me, barrin' the accident av my
educashin, I'd ha' been the same kind av divil he was. 'An' is ut
like,' he wud say, houldin' his head high--'is ut like that I'd iver be
thrapped? For fwhat am I when all's said an' done?' he sez. 'A damned
privit,' sez he. 'An' is ut like, think you, that thim I know wud be
connect wid a privit like me? Number tin thousand four hundred an'
sivin,' he sez, grinnin'. I knew by the turn av his spache whin he was
not takin' care to talk rough that he was a gentleman ranker.
“'I do not undherstan' ut at all,' I sez; 'but I know,' sez I, 'that the
divil looks out av your eyes, an' I'll have no share wid you. A little
fun by way av amusemint where 't will do no harm, Larry, is right and
fair, but I am mistook if 'tis any amusemint to you,' I sez.
“'You are much mistook,' he sez. 'An' I counsel you not to judge your
betters.'
“'My betthers!' I sez. 'God help you, Larry. There's no betther in this.
'Tis all bad, as you will find for yoursilf.'
“You're not like me,' he says, tossin' his head.
“'Praise the Saints, I am not,' I sez. 'Fwhat I have done I have done
an' been crool sorry for. Fwhin your time comes,' sez I, 'ye'll remimber
fwhat I say.'
“'An' whin that time comes,' sez he, 'I'll come to you for ghostly
consolation, Father Terence,' an' at that he wint off afther some
more divil's business--for to get expayrience, he tould me. He was
wicked--rank wicked--wicked as all Hell! I'm not construct by nature to
go in fear av any man, but, begad, I was afraid av Larry. He'd come in
to barricks wid his cap on three hairs, an' lie on his cot and stare at
the ceilin', and now an' again he'd fetch a little laugh, the like av a
splash in the bottom av a well, an' by that I knew he was schamin' new
wickedness, an' I'd be afraid. All this was long an' long ago, but ut
hild me straight--for a while.
“I tould you, did I not, Sorr, that I was caressed an' pershuaded to
lave the Tyrone on account av a throuble?”
“Something to do with a belt and a man's head, wasn't it?” Terence had
never given me the exact facts.
“It was. Faith, ivry time I go on prisoner's gyard in coort I wondher
fwhy I am not where the pris'ner is. But the man I struk tuk it in fair
fight, an' he had the good sinse not to die. Considher now, fwhat wud
ha' come to the Arrmy if he had! I was enthreated to exchange, an' my
Commandin' Orf'cer pled wid me. I wint, not to be disobligin', an' Larry
tould me he was powerful sorry to lose me, though fwhat I'd done to make
him sorry I do not know. So to the Ould Rig'mint I came, lavin' Larry to
go to the divil his own way, an' niver expectin' to see him again except
as a shootin'-case in barricks.... Who's that lavin' the compound?”
Terence's quick eye had caught sight of a white uniform skulking behind
hedge.
“The Sergeant's gone visiting,” said a voice.
“Thin I command here, an' I will have no sneakin' away to the bazar, an'
huntin' for you wid a pathrol at midnight. Nalson, for I know ut's you,
come back to the verandah.”
Nalson, detected, slunk back to his fellows. There was a grumble that
died away in a minute or two, and Terence, turning on the other side,
went on:--
“That was the last I saw av Larry for a while. Exchange is the same as
death for not thinkin', an' by token I married Dinah, an' that kept me
from remimberin' ould times. Thin we wint up to the Front, an' ut tore
my heart in tu to lave Dinah at the Depot in Pindi. Consequint whin
was at the Front I fought circumspectuous till I warrmed up, an thin I
fought double tides. You remimber fwhat I tould you in the gyard-gate av
the fight at Silver's Theatre.”
“Wot's that about Silver's Theayter!” said Ortheris quickly, over his
shoulder.
“Nothin', little man. A tale that ye know. As I was sayin', afther that
fight us av the Ould Rig'mint an' the Tyrone was all mixed together
takin' shtock ay the dead, an' av coorse I wint about to find if there
was any man that remimbered me. The second man I came acrost--an' how
I'd missed him in the fight I do not know--was Larry, an' a fine man he
looked, but oulder, by token that he had a call to be. 'Larry,' sez I,
'how is ut wid you?'
“'Ye're callin' the wrong man,' he sez, wid his gentleman's smile;
'Larry has been dead these three years. They call him “Love-o'-Women”
now,' he sez. By that I knew the ould divil was in him yet, but the ind
av a fight is no time for the beginnin' av confession, so we sat down
an' talked av times.'
“'They tell me you're a married man,' he sez, puffing slow at his poipe.
'Are ye happy?'
“'I will be whin I get back to Depot,' I sez. ''Tis a reconnaissance
honeymoon now.'
“'I'm married too,' he sez, puffin' slow an' more slow, an' stopperin'
wid his forefinger.
“'Sind you happiness,' I sez. 'That's the best hearin' for a long time.'
“'Are ye av that opinion?' he sez; an' thin he began talkin' av the
campaign. The sweat av Silver's Theatre was not dhry upon him, an' he
was prayin' for more work. I was well contint to lie and listen to the
cook-pot lids.
“Whin he got up off the ground he shtaggered a little, an' laned over
all twisted.
“'Ye've got more than ye bargained for,' I sez. 'Take an inventory,
Larry. 'Tis like you're hurt.'
“He turned round stiff as a ramrod an' damned the eyes av me up an' down
for an impartinent Irish-faced ape. If that had been in barricks, I'd
ha' stretched him an' no more said; but 'twas at the Front, an' afther
such a fight as Silver's Theatre I knew there was no callin' a man to
account for his timpers. He might as well ha' kissed me. Aftherwards
I was well pleased I kept my fistes home. Then our Captain
Crook--Cruik-na-bul-leen--came up. He'd been talkin' to the little
orf'cer bhoy av the Tyrone. 'We're all cut to windystraws,' he sez, 'but
the Tyrone are damned short for noncoms. Go you over there, Mulvaney,
an' be Deputy-Sergeant, Corp'ral, Lance, an' everything else ye can lay
hands on till I bid you stop.'
“'I wint over an' tuk hould. There was wan sergeant left standin', an'
they'd pay no heed to him. The remnint was me, an' 'twas high time I
came. Some I talked to, an' some I did not, but before night the bhoys
av the Tyrone stud to attention, begad, if I sucked on my poipe above a
whishper. Betune you an' me an' Bobs, I was commandin' the company, an'
that was what Cruik had thransferred me for, an' the little orf'cer bhoy
knew ut, and I knew ut, but the comp'ny did not. And there, mark you, is
the vartue that no money an' no dhrill can buy--the vartue av the ould
soldier that knows his orf'cer's work an' does ut--at the salute!
“Thin the Tyrone, wid the Ould Rig'mint in touch, was sint maraudin'
and prowlin' acrost the hills promishcuous an' unsatisfactory. 'Tis my
privit opinion that a gin'ral does not know half his time fwhat to do
wid three-quarthers his command. So he shquats on his hunkers an' bids
thim run round an' round forninst him while he considhers on ut. Whin by
the process av nature they get sejuced into a big fight that was none av
their seekin', he sez: 'Obsarve my shuparior janius! I meant ut to come
so.' We ran round an' about, an' all we got was shootin' into the camp
at night, an' rushin' empty sungars wid the long bradawl, an' bein' hit
from behind rocks till we was wore out--all except Love-o'-Women. That
puppy-dog business was mate an' dhrink to him. Begad, he cud niver
get enough av ut. Me well knowin' that it is just this desultorial
campaignin' that kills the best men, an' suspicionin' that if I was cut
the little orf'cer bhoy wud expind all his men in thryin' to get out, I
wud lie most powerful doggo whin I heard a shot, an' curl my long legs
behind a bowlder, an' run like blazes whin the ground was clear.
Faith, if I led the Tyrone in rethreat wanst I led them forty times.
Love-o'-Women wud stay pottin' an' pottin' from behind a rock, and wait
till the fire was heaviest, an' thin stand up an' fire man-height clear.
He wud lie out in camp too at night snipin' at the shadows, for he
niver tuk a mouthful av slape. My commandin' orf'cer--save his little
soul!--cud not see the beauty av of my strategims, an' whin the Ould
Rig'mint crossed us, an' that was wanst a week, he'd throt off to
Cruik, wid his big blue eyes as round as saucers, an' lay an information
against me. I heard thim wanst talkin' through the tent-wall, an' I
nearly laughed.
“'He runs--runs like a hare,' sez the little orf'cer bhoy. ''Tis
demoralisin' my men.'
“'Ye damned little fool,' sez Cruik, laughin'. 'He's larnin' you your
business. Have ye been rushed at night yet?'
“'No,' sez the child, wishful that he had been.
“'Have you any wounded?' sez Cruik.
“'No,' he sez. 'There was no chanst for that. They follow Mulvaney too
quick,' he sez.
“'Fwhat more do you want, thin?' sez Cruik. 'Terence is bloodin' you
neat an' handy,' he sez. 'He knows fwhat you do not, an' that's that
there's a time for ivrything. He'll not lead you wrong,' he sez, 'but
I'd give a month's pay to larn fwhat he thinks av you.'
“That kept the babe quiet, but Love-o'-Women was pokin' at me for
ivrything I did, an' specially my manoeuvres.
“'Mr. Mulvaney,' he sez wan evenin', very contempshus, 'you're growin'
very jeldy wid your feet. Among gentlemen,' he sez, 'among gentlemen
that's called no pretty name.'
“'Among privits 'tis different,' I sez. 'Get back to your tent. I'm
sergeant here,' I sez.
“There was just enough in the voice av me to tell him he was playin' wid
his life betune his teeth. He wint off, an' I noticed that this man that
was contempshus set off from the halt wid a shunt as tho' he was bein'
kicked behind. That same night there was a Paythan picnic in the hills
about, an' firin' into our tents fit to wake the livin' dead. 'Lie
down all,' I sez. 'Lie down an' kape still. They'll no more than waste
ammunition.'
“I heard a man's feet on the ground, an' thin a 'Tini joinin' in the
chorus. I'd been lyin' warm, thinkin' av Dinah an' all, but I crup out
wid the bugle for to look round in case there was a rush, an' the 'Tini
was flashin' at the fore-ind av the camp, an' the hill near by was
fair flickerin' wid long-range fire. Undher the starlight I beheld
Love-o'-Women settin' on a rock wid his belt and helmet off. He shouted
wanst or twice, an' thin I heard him say: 'They should ha' got the range
long ago. Maybe they'll fire at the flash.' Thin he fired again, an'
that dhrew a fresh volley, and the long slugs that they chew in their
teeth came floppin' among the rocks like tree-toads av a hot night.
'That's better,' sez Love-o'-Women. 'Oh Lord, how long, how long!' he
sez, an' at that he lit a match an' held ut above his head.
“'Mad,' thinks I, 'mad as a coot,' an' I tuk wan stip forward, an' the
nixt I knew was the sole av my boot flappin' like a cavalry gydon an'
the funny-bone av my toes tinglin'. 'Twas a clane-cut shot--a slug--that
niver touched sock or hide, but set me bare-fut on the rocks. At that I
tuk Love-o'-Women by the scruff an' threw him under a bowlder, an' whin
I sat down I heard the bullets patterin' on that good stone.
“'Ye may dhraw your own wicked fire,' I sez, shakin' him, 'but I'm not
goin' to be kilt too.'
“Ye've come too soon,' he sez. 'Ye've come too soon. In another minute
they cud not ha' missed me. Mother av God,' he sez, 'fwhy did ye not
lave me be? Now 'tis all to do again,' an' he hides his face in his
hands.
“'So that's it,' I sez, shakin' him again. 'That's th manin' av your
disobeyin' ordhers.'
“'I dare not kill meself,' he sez, rockin' to and fro. 'My own hand wud
not let me die, and there's not a bullet this month past wud touch me.
I'm to die slow,' he sez. 'I'm to die slow. But I'm in hell now,' he
sez, shriekin' like a woman. 'I'm in hell now!'
“'God be good to us all,' I sez, for I saw his face. 'Will ye tell a man
the throuble. If 'tis not murder, maybe we'll mend it yet.'
“At that he laughed. 'D'you remimber fwhat I said in the Tyrone barricks
about comin' to you for ghostly consolation. I have not forgot,' he sez.
'That came back, an' the rest av my time is on me now, Terence. I've
fought ut off for months an' months, but the liquor will not bite any
more, Terence,' he sez. 'I can't get dhrunk.'
“Thin I knew he spoke the truth about bein' in hell, for whin liquor
does not take hould, the sowl av a man is rotten in him. But me bein'
such as I was, fwhat could I say to him?
“'Di'monds an' pearls,' he begins again. 'Di'monds and pearls I have
thrown away wid both hands--an' fwhat have I left? Oh, fwhat have I
left?'
“He was shakin' an' thremblin' up against my shouldher, an' the slugs
was singin' overhead, an' I was wonderin' whether my little bhoy wud
have sinse enough to kape his men quiet through all this firin'.
“'So long as I did not think,' sez Love-o'-Women, 'so long I did not
see--I wud not see--but I can now, what I've lost. The time an' the
place,' he sez, 'an' the very words I said whin ut pleased me to go off
alone to hell. But thin, even thin,' he sez, wrigglin' tremenjus, 'I
wud not ha' been happy. There was too much behind av me. How cud I ha'
believed her sworn oath--me that have bruk mine again an' again for the
sport av seein' thim cry. An' there are the others,' he sez. 'Oh, what
will I do--what will I do'?' He rocked back an' forward again, an' I
think he was cryin' like wan av the women he dealt wid.
“The full half av fwhat he said was Brigade Ordhers to me, but from the
rest an' the remnint I suspicioned somethin' av his throuble. 'Twas the
judgmint av God had grup the heel av him, as I tould him 'twould in the
Tyrone barricks. The slugs was singin' over our rock more an' more, an'
I sez for to divart him: 'Let bad alone,' I sez. 'They'll be thryin' to
rush the camp in a minut'.'
“I had no more than said that whin a Paythan man crep' up on his belly
wid his knife betune his teeth, not twinty yards from us. Love-o'-Women
jumped up an' fetched a yell, an' the man saw him an' ran at him (he'd
left his rifle under the rock) wid the knife. Love-o'-Women niver turned
a hair, but by the Living Power, for I saw ut, a stone twisted under
the Paythan man's feet an' he came down full sprawl, an' his knife wint
tinklin' acrost the rocks! 'I tould you I was Cain,' sez Love-o'-Women.'
'Fwhat's the use av killin' him? He's an honest man--by compare.'
“I was not dishputin' about the morils av Paythans that tide, so I
dhropped Love-o'-Women's burt acrost the man's face, an' 'Hurry into
camp,' I sez, 'for this may be the first av a rush.'
“There was no rush afther all, though we waited undher arms to give
thim a chanst. The Paythan man must ha' come alone for the mischief,
an' afther a while Love-o'-Women wint back to his tint wid that quare
lurchin' sind-off in his walk that I cud niver undherstand. Begad, I
pitied him, an' the more bekaze he made me think for the rest av the
night av the day whin I was confirmed Corp'ril, not actin' Lef'tenant,
an' my thoughts was not good.
“Ye can undherstand that afther that night we came to talkin' a dale
together, an' bit by bit ut came out fwhat I'd suspicioned. The whole
av his carr'in's on an' divilmints had come back on him hard as liquor
comes back whin you've been on the dhrink for a wake. All he'd said an'
all he'd done, an' only he cud tell how much that was, come back, an'
there was niver a minut's peace in his sowl. 'Twas the Horrors widout
any cause to see, an' yet, an' yet--fwhat am I talkin' av? He'd ha'
taken the Horrors wid thankfulness. Beyon' the repentince av the man,
an' that was beyon' the natur av man--awful, awful, to behould!--there
was more that was worst than any repentince. Av the scores an' scores
that he called over in his mind (an' they were dhrivin' him mad), there
was, mark you, wan woman av all, an' she was not his wife, that cut him
to the quick av his marrow. 'Twas there he said that he'd thrown away
di'monds an' pearls past count, an' thin he'd begin again like a blind
byle in an oil-mill, walkin' round an' round, to considher (him that was
beyond all touch av being happy this side hell!) how happy he wud ha'
been wid her. The more he considhered, the more he'd consate himself
that he'd lost mighty happiness, an' thin he wud work ut all backwards,
an' cry that he niver cud ha' been happy anyways.
“Time an' time an' again in camp, on p'rade, ay, an' in action, I've
seen that man shut his eyes an' duck his head as you wud duck to the
flicker av a bay'nit. For 'twas thin he tould me that the thought av all
he'd missed came an' stud forninst him like red-hot irons. For what
he'd done wid the others he was sorry, but he did not care; but this wan
woman that I've tould of, by the Hilts av God she made him pay for
all the others twice over! Niver did I know that a man cud enjure such
tormint widout his heart crackin' in his ribs, an' I have been”--Terence
turned the pipe-stem slowly between his teeth--“I have been in some
black cells. All I iver suffered tho' was not to be talked of alongside
av him... an' what could I do? Paternosters was no more than peas for
his sorrow.
“Evenshually we finished our prom'nade acrost the hills, and thanks to
me for the same, there was no casualties an' no glory. The campaign was
comin' to an ind, an' all the rig'mints was bein' drawn together for to
be sint back home. Love-o'-Women was mighty sorry bekaze he had no work
to do, an' all his time to think in. I've heard that man talkin' to
his belt-plate an' his side-arms while he was soldierin' thim, all to
prevint himself from thinkin', an' ivry time he got up afther he had
been settin' down or wint on from the halt, he'd start wid that kick an'
traverse that I tould you of--his legs sprawlin' all ways to wanst. He
wud niver go see the docthor, tho' I tould him to be wise. He'd curse
me up an' down for my advice; but I knew he was no more a man to be
reckoned wid than the little bhoy was a commandin' orf'cer, so I let his
tongue run if it aised him.
“Wan day--'twas on the way back--I was walkin' round camp wid him,
an' he stopped an' struck ground wid his right fut three or four times
doubtful. 'Fwhat is ut?' I sez. 'Is that ground?' sez he; an' while
I was thinkin' his mind was goin', up comes the docthor, who'd been
anatomisin' a dead bullock. Love-o'-Women starts to go on quick, an'
lands me a kick on the knee while his legs was gettin' into marchin'
ordher.
“Hould on there,' sez the docthor; an' Love-o'-Women's face, that was
lined like a gridiron, turns red as brick.
“'Tention,' says the docthor; an' Love-o'-Women stud so. 'Now shut your
eyes,' sez the docthor. 'No, ye must not hould by your comrade.'
“'Tis all up,' sez Love-o'-Women, trying to smile. 'I'd fall, docthor,
an' you know ut.'
“'Fall?' I sez. 'Fall at attention wid your eyes shut! Fwhat do you
mane?'
“The docthor knows,' he sez. 'I've hild up as long as I can, but begad
I'm glad 'tis all done. But I will die slow,' he sez, 'I will die very
slow.'
“I cud see by the docthor's face that he was mortial sorry for the
man, an' he ordhered him to hospital. We wint back together, an' I was
dumbstruck; Love-o'-Women was cripplin' and crumblin' at ivry step. He
walked wid a hand on my shoulder all slued sideways, an' his right leg
swingin' like a lame camel. Me not knowin' more than the dead fwhat
ailed him, 'twas just as though the docthor's word had done ut all--as
if Love-o'-Women had but been waitin' for the ordher to let go.
“In hospital he sez somethin' to the docthor that I could not catch.
“'Holy shmoke!' sez the docthor, 'an' who are you to be givin' names to
your diseases? 'Tis ag'in' all the regulations.'
“'I'll not be a privit much longer,' sez Love-o'-Women in his
gentleman's voice, an' the docthor jumped.
“'Thrate me as a study, Docthor Lowndes,' he sez; an' that was the first
time I'd iver heard a docthor called his name.
“'Good-bye, Terence,' sez Love-o'-Women. ''Tis a dead man I am widout the
pleasure av dyin'. You'll come an' set wid me sometimes for the peace av
my soul.'
“Now I had been minded to ask Cruik to take me back to the Ould
Rig'mint, for the fightin' was over, an' I was wore out wid the ways av
the bhoys in the Tyrone; but I shifted my will, an' hild on, an' wint
to set wid Love-o'-Women in the hospital. As I have said, Sorr, the man
bruk all to little pieces undher my hand. How long he had hild up an'
forced himself fit to march I cannot tell, but in hospital but two days
later he was such as I hardly knew. I shuk hands wid him, an' his grip
was fair strong, but his hands wint all ways to wanst, an' he cud not
button his tunic.
“'I'll take long an' long to die yet,' he sez, 'for the ways av sin
they're like interest in the rig'mintal savin's-bank--sure, but a damned
long time bein' paid.'
“The docthor sez to me quiet one day, 'Has Tighe there anythin' on his
mind?' he sez. 'He's burnin' himself out.'
“'How shud I know, Sorr?' I sez, as innocent as putty.
“They call him Love-o'-Women in the Tyrone, do they not?' he sez. 'I
was a fool to ask. Be wid him all you can. He's houldin' on to your
strength.'
“'But what ails him, docthor,' I sez.
“'They call ut Locomotus attacks us,' he sez, 'bekaze,' sez he, 'ut
attacks us like a locomotive, if ye know fwhat that manes. An'
ut comes,' sez he, lookin' at me, 'ut comes from bein' called
Love-o'-Women.'
“'You're jokin', docthor,' I sez.
“'Jokin'!' sez he. 'If iver you feel that you've got a felt sole in your
boot instead av a Government bull's-wool, come to me,' he sez, 'an' I'll
show you whether 'tis a joke.'
“You would not belave ut, Sorr, but that an' seein' Love-o'-Women
overtuk widout warnin' put the cowld fear av attacks us on me so strong
that for a week an' more I was kickin' my toes against stones an' stumps
for the pleasure av feelin' them hurt.
“An' Love-o'-Women lay in the cot (he might have gone down wid the
wounded before an' before, but he asked to stay wid me), and fwhat there
was in his mind had full swing at him night an' day an' ivry hour av the
day an' the night, an' he withered like beef rations in a hot sun, an'
his eyes was like owls' eyes, an' his hands was mut'nous.
“They was gettin' the rig'mints away wan by wan, the campaign bein'
inded, but as ushuil they was behavin' as if niver a rig'mint had been
moved before in the mem'ry av man. Now, fwhy is that, Sorr? There's
fightin' in an' out nine months av the twelve somewhere in the Army.
There has been--for years an' years an' years, an' I wud ha' thought
they'd begin to get the hang av providin' for throops. But no! Ivry time
it's like a girls' school meetin' a big red bull whin they're goin' to
church; an' 'Mother av God,' sez the Commissariat an' the railways an'
the Barrick-masters, 'fwhat will we do now?' The ordhers came to us av
the Tyrone an' the Ould Rig'mint an' half a dozen more to go down, and
there the ordhers stopped dumb. We wint down, by the special grace av
God--down the Khaiber anyways. There was sick wid us, an' I'm thinkin'
that some av them was jolted to death in the doolies, but they was
anxious to be kilt so if they cud get to Peshawur alive the sooner. I
walked by Love-o'-Women--there was no marchin', an' Love-o'-Women was
not in a stew to get on. 'If I'd only ha' died up there!' sez he through
the doolie-curtains, an' then he'd twist up his eyes an' duck his head
for the thoughts that came to him.
“Dinah was in Depot at Pindi, but I wint circumspectuous, for well I
knew 'tis just at the rump-ind av all things that his luck turns on
a man. By token I ad seen a dhriver of a batthery goin' by at a trot
singin' 'Home, swate home' at the top av his shout, and takin' no heed
o his bridle-hand--I had seen that man dhrop under the gun in the middle
of a word, and come out by the limber like--like a frog on a pave-stone.
No. I wud not hurry, though, God knows, my heart was all in Pindi.
Love-o'-Women saw fwhat was in my mind, an' 'Go on, Terence,' h sez, 'I
know fwhat's waitin' for you.' 'I will not,' I sez. ''Twill kape a little
yet.'
“Ye know the turn of the pass forninst Jumrood and the nine mile road
on the flat to Peshawur? All Peshawur was along that road day and night
waitin' for frinds--men, women, childer, and bands. Some av the throops
was camped round Jumrood, an' some went on to Peshawur to get away down
to their cantonmints. We came through in the early mornin', havin' been
awake the night through, and we dhruv sheer into the middle av the mess.
Mother av Glory, will I ever forget that comin' back? The light was not
fair lifted, and the furst we heard was 'For 'tis my delight av a shiny
night,' frum a band that thought we was the second four comp'nies av the
Lincolnshire. At that we was forced to sind them a yell to say who we
was, an' thin up wint 'The wearin' av the Green.' It made me crawl all
up my backbone, not havin' taken my brequist. Thin, right smash into our
rear, came fwhat was left av the Jock Elliotts--wid four pipers an' not
half a kilt among thim, playin' for the dear life, an' swingin' their
rumps like buck rabbits, an' a native rig'mint shrieking blue murther.
Ye niver heard the like. There was men cryin' like women that did--an'
faith I do not blame thim. Fwhat bruk me down was the Lancers'
Band--shinin' an' spick like angels, wid the ould dhrum-horse at the
head an' the silver kettle-dhrums an' all an' all, waitin' for their
men that was behind us. They shtruck up the Cavalry Canter, an', begad,
those poor ghosts that had not a sound fut in a throop they answered to
ut, the men rockin' in their saddles. We thried to cheer them as they
wint by, but ut came out like a big gruntin' cough, so there must have
been many that was feelin' like me. Oh, but I'm forgettin'! The
Fly-by-Nights was waitin' for their second battalion, an' whin ut came
out, there was the Colonel's horse led at the head--saddle-empty. The
men fair worshipped him, an' he'd died at Au Musjid on the road down.
They waited till the remnint av the battalion was up, and thin--clane
against ordhers, for who wanted that chune that day?--they wint back to
Peshawur slow-time an' tearin' the bowils out av ivry man that heard,
wid 'The Dead March.' Right across our line they wint, an' ye know their
uniforms are as black as the Sweeps, crawlin' past like the dead, an'
the other bands damnin' them to let be.
“Little they cared. The carpse was wid them, an' they'd ha' taken ut so
through a Coronation. Our ordhers was to go into Peshawur, an' we wint
hot-fut past the Fly-by-Nights, not singin', to lave that chune behind
us. That was how we tuk the road of the other corps.
“'Twas ringin' in my ears still whin I felt in the bones of me that
Dinah was comin', an' I heard a shout, an' thin I saw a horse an' a
tattoo latherin' down the road, hell to shplit, under women. I knew--I
knew! Wan was the Tyrone Colonel's wife--ould Beeker's lady--her gray
hair flyin' an' her fat round carkiss rowlin' in the saddle, an' the
other was Dinah, that shud ha' been at Pindi. The Colonel's lady she
charged at the head av our column like a stone wall, an' she all but
knocked Beeker off his horse throwin' her arms round his neck an'
blubberin', 'Me bhoy! Me bhoy!' an' Dinah wheeled left an' came down
our flank, an' I let a yell that had suffered inside av me for months,
and--Dinah came. Will I iver forget that while I live! She'd come on
pass from Pindi, an' the Colonel's lady had lint her the tattoo. They'd
been huggin' an' cryin' in each other's arms all the long night.
“So she walked along wid her hand in mine, askin' forty questions to
wanst, an' beggin' me on the Virgin to make oath that there was not
a bullet consaled in me, unbeknownst somewhere, an' thin I remimbered
Love-o'-Women. He was watchin' us, an' his face was like the face av a
divil that has been cooked too long. I did not wish Dinah to see ut, for
whin a woman's runnin' over wid happiness she's like to be touched,
for harm aftherwards, by the laste little thing in life. So I dhrew the
curtain, an' Love-o'-Women lay back and groaned.
“Whin we marched into Peshawur, Dinah wint to barracks to wait for me,
an' me feelin' so rich that tide, I wint on to take Love-o'-Women to
hospital. It was the last I cud do, an' to save him the dust an' the
smother I turned the doolie-men down a road well clear av the rest av
the throops, an we wint along, me talkin' through the curtains. Av a
sudden I heard him say:--
“'Let me look. For the Mercy av Hiven, let me look!' I had been so tuk
up wid gettin' him out av the dust and thinkin' of Dinah that I had not
kept my eyes about me. There was a woman ridin' a little behind av us,
an', talkin' ut over wid Dinah aftherwards, that same woman must ha' rid
not far on the Jumrood road. Dinah said that she had been hoverin' like
a kite on the left flank av the column.
“I halted the doolie to set the curtains, an' she rode by walkin'-pace,
an' Love-o'-Women's eyes wint afther her as if he would fair haul her
down from the saddle.
“'Follow there,' was all he sez, but I niver heard a man spake in that
voice before or since, an' I knew by those two wan words an' the look
in his face that she was Di'monds-an'-Pearls that he'd talked av in his
disthresses.
“We followed till she turned into the gate av a little house that stud
near the Edwardes's Gate. There was two girls in the verandah, an' they
ran in whin they saw us. Faith, at long eye-range ut did not take me a
wink to see fwhat kind av house ut was. The throops bein' there an' all,
there was three or four such, but aftherwards the polis bade them go.
At the verandah Love-o'-Women sez, catchin' his breath, 'Stop here,'
an' thin, an' thin, wid a grunt that must ha' tore the heart up from his
stomach, he swung himself out av the doolie, an' my troth he stud up on
his feet wid the sweat pourin' down his face. If Mackie was to walk in
here now I'd be less tuk back than I was thin. Where he'd dhrawn his
power from, God knows or the divil--but 't was a dead man walkin' in the
sun wid the face av a dead man and the breath av a dead man held up by
the Power, an' the legs an' the arms of the carpse obeyin' ordhers!
“The woman stud in the verandah. She'd been a beauty too, though her
eyes was sunk in her head, an' she looked Love-o'-Women up an' down
terrible. 'An',' she sez, kickin' back the tail av her habit,--'An','
she sez, 'fwhat are you doin' here, married man?'
“Love-o'-Women said nothin', but a little froth came to his lips, an'
he wiped ut off wid his hand an' looked at her an' the paint on her, an'
looked, an' looked, an' looked.
“'An' yet,' she sez, wid a laugh. (Did you hear Mrs. Raines laugh whin
Mackie died? Ye did not? Well for you.) 'An' yet,' she sez, 'who but you
have betther right,' sez she. 'You taught me the road. You showed me the
way,' she sez. 'Ay, look,' she sez, 'for 'tis your work; you that tould
me--d'you remimber it?--that a woman who was false to wan man cud be
false to two. I have been that,' she sez, 'that an' more, for you always
said I was a quick learner, Ellis. Look well,' she sez, 'for it is
me that you called your wife in the sight av God long since!' An' she
laughed.
“Love-o'-Women stud still in the sun widout answerin'. Thin he groaned
an' coughed to wanst, an' I thought 'twas the death-rattle, but he
niver tuk his eyes off her face not for a wink. Ye cud ha' put her
eyelashes through the flies av an E. P. tent, they were so long.
“'Fwhat do you do here?' she sez, word by word, 'that have taken away my
joy in my man this five years gone--that have broken my rest an' killed
my body an' damned my soul for the sake av seem' how 'twas done? Did
your expayrience aftherwards bring you acrost any woman that gave more
than I did? Wud I not ha' died for you an' wid you, Ellis? Ye know that,
man! If ever your lyin' sowl saw truth in uts life ye know that.'
“An' Love-o'-Women lifted up his head and said, 'I knew,' an' that was
all. While she was spakin' the Power hild him up parade-set in the 'sun,
an the sweat dhropped undher his helmet. 'Twas more an' more throuble
for him to talk, an' his mouth was runnin' twistways.
“Fwhat do you do here?' she sez, an' her voice whit up. 'Twas like
bells tollin' before. 'Time was whin you were quick enough wid your
words,--you that talked me down to hell. Are ye dumb now?' An' Love-o'-W
omen got his tongue, an' sez simple, like a little child, 'May I come
in?' he sez.
“The house is open day an' night,' she sez, wid a laugh; an'
Love-o'-Women ducked his head an' hild up his hand as tho' he was
gyardin'. The Power was on him still--it hild him up still, for, by my
sowl, as I'll never save ut, he walked up the verandah steps that had
been a livin' corpse in hospital for a month!
“'An' now'?' she sez, lookin' at him; an' the red paint stud lone on the
white av her face like a bull's-eye on a target.
“He lifted up his eyes, slow an' very slow, an' he looked at her long
an' very long, an' he tuk his spache betune his teeth wid a wrench that
shuk him.
“'I'm dyin', Aigypt--dyin',' he sez; ay, those were his words, for I
remimber the name he called her. He was turnin' the death-colour, but
his eyes niver rowled. They were set--set on her. Widout word or warnin'
she opened her arms full stretch, an' 'Here!' she sez. (Oh, fwhat
a golden mericle av a voice ut was!) 'Die here,' she sez; an'
Love-o'-Women dhropped forward, an' she hild him up, for she was a fine
big woman.
“I had no time to turn, bekaze that minut I heard the sowl quit
him--tore out in the death-rattle--an' she laid him back in a long
chair, an' she sez to me, 'Misther soldier,' she sez, 'will ye not go in
an' talk to wan av the girls. This sun's too much for him.'
“Well I knew there was no sun he'd iver see, but I cud not spake, so
I wint away wid the empty doolie to find the docthor. He'd been
breakfastin' an' lunchin' ever since we'd come in, an' he was as full as
a tick.
“Faith ye've got dhrunk mighty soon,' he sez, whin I'd tould him, 'to
see that man walk. Barrin' a puff or two av life, he was a corpse before
we left Jumrood. I've a great mind,' he sez, 'to confine you.'
“There's a dale av liquor runnin' about, docthor,' I sez, solemn as a
hard-boiled egg. 'Maybe 'tis so, but will ye not come an' see the corpse
at the house?'
“Tis dishgraceful,' he sez, 'that I would be expected to go to a place
like that. Was she a pretty woman?'' he sez, an' at that he set off
double quick.
“I cud see that the two was in the verandah were I'd left them, an'
I knew by the hang av her head an' the noise av the crows fwhat had
happened. 'Twas the first and the last time that I'd ever known woman to
use the pistol. They dread the shot as a rule, but Di'monds-an'-Pearls
she did not--she did not.
“The docthor touched the long black hair av her head ['twas all loose
upon Love-o'-Women's chest), an' that cleared the liquor out av him. He
stud considherin' a long time, his hands in his pockets, an' at last
he sez to me, 'Here's a double death from naturil causes, most naturil
causes; an' in the presint state av affairs the rig'mint will be
thankful for wan grave the less to dig. Issiwasti,' he sez, 'Issiwasti,
Privit Mulvaney, these two will be buried together in the Civil Cemet'ry
at my expinse, an' may the good God,' he sez, 'make it SO much for me
whin my time comes. Go to your wife,' he sez; 'go an' be happy. I'll see
to this all.'
“I left him still considherin'. They was buried in the Civil Cemet'ry
together, wid a Church of England service. There was too many buryin's
thin to ask questions, an' the docthor--he ran away wid Major--Major Van
Dyce's lady that year--he saw to ut all. Fwhat the right an' the wrong
av Love-o'-Women an' Di'monds-an'-Pearls was I niver knew, an' I will
niver know; but I've tould ut as I came acrost ut--here an' there in
little pieces. So, being fwhat I am, an' knowin' fwhat I know, that's
fwhy I say in this shootin'-case here, Mackie that's dead an' in hell is
the lucky man. There are times, Sorr, whin 'tis betther for the man to
die than to live, an' by consequince forty million times betther for the
woman.”
“H'up there!” said Ortheris. “It's time to go.” The witnesses and guard
formed up in the thick white dust of the parched twilight and swung off,
marching easy and whistling. Down the road to the green by the church
I could hear Ortheris, the black Book-lie still uncleansed on his
lips, setting, with a fine sense of the fitness of things, the shrill
quick-step that runs--
“Oh, do not despise the advice of the wise,
Learn wisdom from those that are older,
And don't try for things that are out of your reach--
An' that's what the Girl told the Soldier
Soldier! Soldier!
Oh, that's what the Girl told the Soldier!”