Life liveth but in life, and doth not roam
To other lands if all be well at home:
“Solid as ocean foam,” quoth ocean foam.
The room was blue with the smoke of three pipes and a cigar. The
leave-season had opened in India, and the first-fruits on this side of
the water were “Tick” Boileau, of the 45th Bengal Cavalry, who called
on me, after three years' absence, to discuss old things which had
happened. Fate, who always does her work handsomely, sent up the same
staircase within the same hour The Infant, fresh from Upper Burma, and
he and Boileau looking out of my window saw walking in the street one
Nevin, late in a Goorkha regiment which had been through the Black
Mountain Expedition. They yelled to him to come up, and the whole Street
was aware that they desired him to come up, and he came up, and there
followed Pandemonium in my room because we had foregathered from the
ends of the earth, and three of us were on a holiday, and none of us
were twenty-five, and all the delights of all London lay waiting our
pleasure.
Boileau took the only other chair, The Infant, by right of his bulk, the
sofa; and Nevin, being a little man, sat cross-legged on the top of the
revolving bookcase, and we all said, “Who'd ha' thought it!” and “What
are you doing here?” till speculation was exhausted and the talk went
over to inevitable “shop.” Boileau was full of a great scheme for
winning a military attache-ship at St. Petersburg; Nevin had hopes of
the Staff College, and The Infant had been moving heaven and earth and
the Horse Guards for a commission in the Egyptian army.
“What's the use o' that?” said Nevin, twirling round on the bookcase.
“Oh, heaps! 'Course if you get stuck with a Fellaheen regiment, you're
sold; but if you are appointed to a Soudanese lot, you're in clover.
They are first-class fighting-men--and just think of the eligible
central position of Egypt in the next row!”
This was putting the match to a magazine. We all began to explain the
Central Asian question off-hand, flinging army corps from the Helmund to
Kashmir with more than Russian recklessness. Each of the boys made for
himself a war to his own liking, and when we had settled all the details
of Armageddon, killed all our senior officers, handled a division
apiece, and nearly torn the atlas in two in attempts to explain our
theories, Boileau needs must lift up his voice above the clamour,
and cry, “Anyhow it'll be the hell of a row!” in tones that carried
conviction far down the staircase.
Entered, unperceived in the smoke, William the Silent. “Gen'elman to
see you, sir,” said he, and disappeared, leaving in his stead none other
than Mr. Eustace Cleever. William would have introduced the Dragon of
Wantley with equal disregard of present company.
“I--I beg your pardon. I didn't know that there was anybody--with
you.--”
But it was not seemly to allow Mr. Cleever to depart; he was a great
man. The boys remained where they were, for any movement would have
choked up the little room. Only when they saw his gray hairs they stood
on their feet, and when The Infant caught the name, he said:
“Are you--did you write that book called 'As it was in the Beginning'?”
Mr. Cleever admitted that he had written the book.
“Then--then I don't know how to thank you, sir,” said The Infant,
flushing pink. “I was brought up in the country you wrote about--all my
people live there; and I read the book in camp on the Hlinedatalone, and
I knew every stick and stone, and the dialect too; and, by Jove! it was
just like being at home and hearing the country people talk. Nevin, you
know 'As it was in the Beginning'? So does Ti--Boileau.”
Mr. Cleever has tasted as much praise, public and private, as one man
may safely swallow; but it seemed to me that the outspoken admiration in
The Infant's eyes and the little stir in the little company came home to
him very nearly indeed.
“Won't you take the sofa?” said The Infant. “I'll sit on Boileau's
chair, and--” here he looked at me to spur me to my duties as a host;
but I was watching the novelist's face. Cleever had not the least
intention of going away, but settled himself on the sofa.
Following the first great law of the Army, which says “all property is
common except money, and you've only got to ask the next man for that,”
The Infant offered tobacco and drink. It was the least he could do; but
not the most lavish praise in the world held half as much appreciation
and reverence as The Infant's simple “Say when, sir,” above the long
glass.
Cleever said “when,” and more thereto, for he was a golden talker,
and he sat in the midst of hero-worship devoid of all taint of
self-interest. The boys asked him of the birth of his book, and whether
it was hard to write, and how his notions came to him; and he answered
with the same absolute simplicity as he was questioned. His big eyes
twinkled, he dug his long thin hands into his gray beard and tugged
it as he grew animated. He dropped little by little from the peculiar
pinching of the broader vowels--the indefinable “euh,” that runs through
the speech of the pundit caste--and the elaborate choice of words,
to freely-mouthed “ows” and “ois,” and, for him at least, unfettered
colloquialisms. He could not altogether understand the boys, who hung
upon his words so reverently. The line of the chin-strap, that still
showed white and untanned on cheekbone and jaw, the steadfast young eyes
puckered at the corners of the lids with much staring through red-hot
sunshine, the slow, untroubled breathing, and the curious, crisp, curt
speech seemed to puzzle him equally. He could create men and women,
and send them to the uttermost ends of the earth, to help, delight, and
comfort; he knew every mood of the fields, and could interpret them to
the cities, and he knew the hearts of many in city and country, but he
had hardly, in forty years, come into contact with the thing which is
called a Subaltern of the Line. He told the boys this in his own way.
“Well, how should you?” said The Infant. “You--you're quite different,
y' see, sir.”
The Infant expressed his ideas in his tone rather than his words, but
Cleever understood the compliment.
“We're only Subs,” said Nevin, “and we aren't exactly the sort of men
you'd meet much in your life, I s'pose.”
“That's true,” said Cleever. “I live chiefly among men who write,
and paint, and sculp, and so forth. We have our own talk and our own
interests, and the outer world doesn't trouble us much.”
“That must be awfully jolly,” said Boileau, at a venture. “We have our
own shop, too, but 'tisn't half as interesting as yours, of course. You
know all the men who've ever done anything; and we only knock about from
place to place, and we do nothing.”
“The Army's a very lazy profession if you choose to make it so,” said
Nevin. “When there's nothing going on, there is nothing going on, and
you lie up.”
“Or try to get a billet somewhere, to be ready for the next show,” said
The Infant with a chuckle.
“To me,” said Cleever softly, “the whole idea of warfare seems so
foreign and unnatural, so essentially vulgar, if I may say so, that I
can hardly appreciate your sensations. Of course, though, any change
from idling in garrison towns must be a godsend to you.”
Like many home-staying Englishmen, Cleever believed that the newspaper
phrase he quoted covered the whole duty of the Army whose toils enabled
him to enjoy his many-sided life in peace. The remark was not a happy
one, for Boileau had just come off the Frontier, The Infant had been on
the warpath for nearly eighteen months, and the little red man Nevin
two months before had been sleeping under the stars at the peril of his
life. But none of them tried to explain, till I ventured to point out
that they had all seen service and were not used to idling. Cleever took
in the idea slowly.
“Seen service?” said he. Then, as a child might ask, “Tell me. Tell me
everything about everything.”
“How do you mean?” said The Infant, delighted at being directly appealed
to by the great man.
“Good Heavens! How am I to make you understand, if you can't see. In the
first place, what is your age?”
“Twenty-three next July,” said The Infant promptly.
Cleever questioned the others with his eyes.
“I'm twenty-four,” said Nevin.
“And I'm twenty-two,” said Boileau.
“And you've all seen service?”
“We've all knocked about a little bit, sir, but The Infant's the
war-worn veteran. He's had two years' work in Upper Burma,” said Nevin.
“When you say work, what do you mean, you extraordinary creatures?”
“Explain it, Infant,” said Nevin.
“Oh, keeping things in order generally, and running about after little
dakus--that's dacoits--and so on. There's nothing to explain.”
“Make that young Leviathan speak,” said Cleever impatiently, above his
glass.
“How can he speak?” said I. “He's done the work. The two don't go
together. But, Infant, you're ordered to bukb.”
“What about? I'll try.”
“Bukb about a daur. You've been on heaps of 'em,” said Nevin.
“What in the world does that mean? Has the Army a language of its own?”
The Infant turned very red. He was afraid he was being laughed at, and
he detested talking before outsiders; but it was the author of “As it
was in the Beginning” who waited.
“It's all so new to me,” pleaded Cleever; “and--and you said you liked
my book.”
This was a direct appeal that The Infant could understand, and he began
rather flurriedly, with much slang bred of nervousness--
“Pull me up, sir, if I say anything you don't follow. About six months
before I took my leave out of Burma, I was on the Hlinedatalone, up near
the Shan States, with sixty Tommies--private soldiers, that is--and
another subaltern, a year senior to me. The Burmese business was a
subaltern's war, and our forces were split up into little detachments,
all running about the country and trying to keep the dacoits quiet. The
dacoits were having a first-class time, y' know--filling women up with
kerosene and setting 'em alight, and burning villages, and crucifying
people.”
The wonder in Eustace Cleever's eyes deepened. He could not quite
realise that the cross still existed in any form.
“Have you ever seen a crucifixion?” said he.
“Of course not. 'Shouldn't have allowed it if I had; but I've seen the
corpses. The dacoits had a trick of sending a crucified corpse down
the river on a raft, just to show they were keeping their tail up and
enjoying themselves. Well, that was the kind of people I had to deal
with.”
“Alone?” said Cleever. Solitude of the soul he could understand--none
better--but he had never in the body moved ten miles from his fellows.
“I had my men, but the rest of it was pretty much alone. The nearest
post that could give me orders was fifteen miles away, and we used to
heliograph to them, and they used to give us orders same way--too many
orders.”
“Who was your C. O.?” said Boileau.
“Bounderby--Major. Pukka Bounderby; more Bounder than pukka. He went out
up Bhamo way. Shot, or cut down, last year,” said The Infant.
“What are these interludes in a strange tongue?” said Cleever to me.
“Professional information--like the Mississippi pilots' talk,” said
I. “He did not approve of his major, who died a violent death. Go on,
Infant.”
“Far too many orders. You couldn't take the Tommies out for a two days'
daur--that's expedition--without being blown up for not asking leave.
And the whole country was humming with dacoits. I used to send out
spies, and act on their information. As soon as a man came in and told
me of a gang in hiding, I'd take thirty men with some grub, and go out
and look for them, while the other subaltern lay doggo in camp.”
“Lay! Pardon me, but how did he lie?” said Cleever.
“Lay doggo--lay quiet, with the other thirty men. When I came back, he'd
take out his half of the men, and have a good time of his own.”
“Who was he?” said Boileau.
“Carter-Deecey, of the Aurungabadis. Good chap, but too zubberdusty, and
went bokhar four days out of seven. He's gone out too. Don't interrupt a
man.”
Cleever looked helplessly at me.
“The other subaltern,” I translated swiftly, “came from a native
regiment, and was overbearing in his demeanour. He suffered much from
the fever of the country, and is now dead. Go on, Infant.”
“After a bit, we got into trouble for using the men on frivolous
occasions, and so I used to put my signaller under arrest to prevent him
reading the helio-orders. Then I'd go out and leave a message to be sent
an hour after I got clear of the camp, something like this: 'Received
important information; start in an hour, unless countermanded.' If I
was ordered back, it didn't much matter. I swore the C. O.'s watch was
wrong, or something, when I came back. The Tommies enjoyed the fun,
and--Oh, yes, there was one Tommy who was the bard of the detachment. He
used to make up verses on everything that happened.”
“What sort of verses?” said Cleever.
“Lovely verses; and the Tommies used to sing 'em. There was one song
with a chorus, and it said something like this.” The Infant dropped into
the true barrack-room twang:
“Theebaw, the Burma king, did a very foolish thing, When 'e mustered
'ostile forces in ar-rai, 'E little thought that we, from far across the
sea, Would send our armies up to Mandalai!”
“O gorgeous!” said Cleever. “And how magnificently direct! The notion of
a regimental bard is new to me, but of course it must be so.”
“He was awfly popular with the men,” said The Infant. “He had them all
down in rhyme as soon as ever they had done anything. He was a great
bard. He was always ready with an elegy when we picked up a Boh--that's
a leader of dacoits.”
“How did you pick him up?” said Cleever.
“Oh! shot him if he wouldn't surrender.”
“You! Have you shot a man?”
There was a subdued chuckle from all three boys, and it dawned on the
questioner that one experience in life which was denied to himself, and
he weighed the souls of men in a balance, had been shared by three very
young gentlemen of engaging appearance. He turned round on Nevin, who
had climbed to the top of the bookcase and was sitting cross-legged as
before.
“And have you, too?”
“Think so,” said Nevin, sweetly. “In the Black Mountain. He was rolling
cliffs on to my half-company, and spoiling our formation. I took a rifle
from a man, and brought him down at the second shot.”
“Good Heavens! And how did you feel afterwards?”
“Thirsty. I wanted a smoke, too.”
Cleever looked at Boileau--the youngest. Surely his hands were guiltless
of blood.
Boileau shook his head and laughed. “Go on, Infant,” said he.
“And you too?” said Cleever.
“Fancy so. It was a case of cut, cut or be cut, with me; so I cut--one.
I couldn't do any more, sir.”
Cleever looked as though he would like to ask many questions, but The
Infant swept on in the full tide of his tale.
“Well, we were called insubordinate young whelps at last, and strictly
forbidden to take the Tommies out any more without orders. I wasn't
sorry, because Tommy is such an exacting sort of creature. He wants to
live as though he were in barracks all the time. I was grubbing on fowls
and boiled corn, but the Tommies wanted their pound of fresh meat, and
their half ounce of this, and their two ounces of t'other thing, and
they used to come to me and badger me for plug tobacco when we were four
days in jungle. I said: 'I can get you Burma tobacco, but I don't keep
a canteen up my sleeve.' They couldn't see it. They wanted all the
luxuries of the season, confound 'em!”
“You were alone when you were dealing with these men?” said Cleever,
watching The Infant's face under the palm of his hand. He was receiving
new ideas, and they seemed to trouble him.
“Of course, unless you count the mosquitoes. They were nearly as big as
the men. After I had to lie doggo I began to look for something to do,
and I was great pals with a man called Hicksey in the Police, the best
man that ever stepped on earth; a first-class man.”
Cleever nodded applause. He knew how to appreciate enthusiasm.
“Hicksey and I were as thick as thieves. He had some Burma mounted
police--rummy chaps, armed with sword and Snider carbine. They rode
punchy Burma ponies, with string stirrups, red cloth saddles, and red
bell-rope headstalls. Hicksey used to lend me six or eight of them when
I asked him--nippy little devils, keen as mustard. But they told their
wives too much, and all my plans got known, till I learned to give false
marching orders overnight, and take the men to quite a different village
in the morning. Then we used to catch the simple daku before breakfast,
and made him very sick. It's a ghastly country on the Hlinedatalone; all
bamboo jungle, with paths about four feet wide winding through it. The
daku knew all the paths, and potted at us as we came round a corner; but
the mounted police knew the paths as well as the daku, and we used to go
stalking 'em in and out. Once we flushed 'em, the men on the ponies had
the advantage of the men on foot. We held all the country absolutely
quiet for ten miles round, in about a month. Then we took Boh Na-ghee,
Hicksey and I and the civil officer. That was a lark!”
“I think I am beginning to understand a little,” said Cleever. “It was a
pleasure to you to administer and fight?”
“Rather! There's nothing nicer than a satisfactory little expedition,
when you find your plans fit together, and your information's
teek--correct, you know, and the whole sub-chiz--I mean, when everything
works out like formulae on a blackboard. Hicksey had all the information
about the Boh. He had been burning villages and murdering people right
and left, and cutting up Government convoys, and all that. He was lying
doggo in a village about fifteen miles off, waiting to get a fresh gang
together. So we arranged to take thirty mounted police, and turn him
out before he could plunder into our newly-settled villages. At the last
minute, the civil officer in our part of the world thought he'd assist
at the performance.”
“Who was he?” said Nevin.
“His name was Dennis,” said The Infant slowly. “And we'll let it stay
so. He's a better man now than he was then.”
“But how old was the civil power?” said Cleever. “The situation is
developing itself.”
“He was about six-and-twenty, and he was awf'ly clever. He knew a lot of
things, but I don't think he was quite steady enough for dacoit-hunting.
We started overnight for Boh Na-ghee's village, and we got there just
before morning, without raising an alarm. Dennis had turned out armed
to his teeth--two revolvers, a carbine, and all sorts of things. I was
talking to Hicksey about posting the men, and Dennis edged his pony in
between us, and said, 'What shall I do? What shall I do? Tell me what to
do, you fellows.' We didn't take much notice; but his pony tried to bite
me in the leg, and I said, 'Pull out a bit, old man, till we've settled
the attack.' He kept edging in, and fiddling with his reins and his
revolvers, and saying, 'Dear me! Dear me! Oh, dear me! What do you
think I'd better do?' The man was in a deadly funk, and his teeth were
chattering.”
“I sympathise with the civil power,” said Cleever. “Continue, young
Clive.”
“The fun of it was, that he was supposed to be our superior officer.
Hicksey took a good look at him, and told him to attach himself to my
party. Beastly mean of Hicksey, that. The chap kept on edging in
and bothering, instead of asking for some men and taking up his own
position, till I got angry, and the carbines began popping on the other
side of the village. Then I said, 'For God's sake be quiet, and sit
down where you are! If you see anybody come out of the village, shoot
at him.' I knew he couldn't hit a hayrick at a yard. Then I took my men
over the garden wall--over the palisades, y' know--somehow or
other, and the fun began. Hicksey had found the Boh in bed under a
mosquito-curtain, and he had taken a flying jump on to him.”
“A flying jump!” said Cleever. “Is that also war?”
“Yes,” said The Infant, now thoroughly warmed. “Don't you know how you
take a flying jump on to a fellow's head at school, when he snores in
the dormitory? The Boh was sleeping in a bedful of swords and pistols,
and Hicksey came down like Zazel through the netting, and the net got
mixed up with the pistols and the Boh and Hicksey, and they all rolled
on the floor together. I laughed till I couldn't stand, and Hicksey was
cursing me for not helping him; so I left him to fight it out and went
into the village. Our men were slashing about and firing, and so were
the dacoits, and in the thick of the mess some ass set fire to a house,
and we all had to clear out. I froze on to the nearest daku and ran to
the palisade, shoving him in front of me. He wriggled loose and bounded
over the other side. I came after him; but when I had one leg one side
and one leg the other of the palisade, I saw that the daku had fallen
flat on Dennis's head. That man had never moved from where I left him.
They rolled on the ground together, and Dennis's carbine went off and
nearly shot me. The daku picked himself up and ran, and Dennis buzzed
his carbine after him, and it caught him on the back of his head and
knocked him silly. You never saw anything so funny in your life. I
doubled up on the top of the palisade and hung there, yelling with
laughter. But Dennis began to weep like anything. 'Oh, I've killed
a man,' he said. 'I've killed a man, and I shall never know another
peaceful hour in my life. Is he dead? Oh, is he dead? Good Lord, I've
killed a man!' I came down and said, 'Don't be a fool;' but he kept on
shouting, 'Is he dead?' till I could have kicked him. The daku was only
knocked out of time with the carbine. He came to after a bit, and I
said, 'Are you hurt much?' He groaned and said, 'No.' His chest was all
cut with scrambling over the palisade. 'The white man's gun didn't do
that,' he said; 'I did that, and I knocked the white man over.' Just
like a Burman, wasn't it? But Dennis wouldn't be happy at any price.
He said: 'Tie up his wounds. He'll bleed to death. Oh, he'll bleed to
death!' 'Tie 'em up yourself,' I said, 'if you're so anxious.' 'I can't
touch him,' said Dennis, 'but here's my shirt.' He took off his shirt,
and fixed the braces again over his bare shoulders. I ripped the shirt
up, and bandaged the dacoit quite professionally. He was grinning at
Dennis all the time; and Dennis's haversack was lying on the ground,
bursting full of sandwiches. Greedy hog! I took some, and offered some
to Dennis. 'How can I eat?' he said. 'How can you ask me to eat? His
very blood is on your hands now, and you're eating my sandwiches!' 'All
right,' I said; 'I'll give 'em to the daku.' So I did, and the little
chap was quite pleased, and wolfed 'em down like one o'clock.”
Cleever brought his hand down on the table with a thump that made the
empty glasses dance. “That's Art!” he said. “Flat, flagrant mechanism!
Don't tell me that happened on the spot!”
The pupils of The Infant's eyes contracted to two pin-points. “I beg
your pardon,” he said slowly and stiffly, “but I am telling this thing
as it happened.”
Cleever looked at him a moment. “My fault entirely,” said he; “I should
have known. Please go on.”
“Hicksey came out of what was left of the village with his prisoners
and captives, all neatly tied up. Boh Na-ghee was first, and one of the
villagers, as soon as he found the old ruffian helpless, began kicking
him quietly. The Boh stood it as long as he could, and then groaned, and
we saw what was going on. Hicksey tied the villager up and gave him a
half a dozen, good, with a bamboo, to remind him to leave a prisoner
alone. You should have seen the old Boh grin. Oh! but Hicksey was in
a furious rage with everybody. He'd got a wipe over the elbow that
had tickled up his funny-bone, and he was rabid with me for not having
helped him with the Boh and the mosquito-net. I had to explain that I
couldn't do anything. If you'd seen 'em both tangled up together on
the floor in one kicking cocoon, you'd have laughed for a week. Hicksey
swore that the only decent man of his acquaintance was the Boh, and
all the way to camp Hicksey was talking to the Boh, and the Boh was
complaining about the soreness of his bones. When we got back, and
had had a bath, the Boh wanted to know when he was going to be hanged.
Hicksey said he couldn't oblige him on the spot, but had to send him to
Rangoon. The Boh went down on his knees, and reeled off a catalogue of
his crimes--he ought to have been hanged seventeen times over, by his
own confession--and implored Hicksey to settle the business out of hand.
'If I'm sent to Rangoon,' said he, 'they'll keep me in jail all my life,
and that is a death every time the sun gets up or the wind blows.'
But we had to send him to Rangoon, and, of course, he was let off down
there, and given penal servitude for life. When I came to Rangoon I went
over the jail--I had helped to fill it, y' know--and the old Boh was
there, and he spotted me at once. He begged for some opium first, and I
tried to get him some, but that was against the rules. Then he asked me
to have his Sentence changed to death, because he was afraid of being
sent to the Andamans. I couldn't do that either, but I tried to cheer
him, and told him how things were going up-country, and the last thing
he said was--'Give my compliments to the fat white man who jumped on
me. If I'd been awake I'd have killed him.' I wrote that to Hicksey next
mail, and--and that's all. I'm 'fraid I've been gassing awf'ly, sir.”
Cleever said nothing for a long time. The Infant looked uncomfortable.
He feared that, misled by enthusiasm, he had filled up the novelist's
time with unprofitable recital of trivial anecdotes.
Then said Cleever, “I can't understand. Why should you have seen and
done all these things before you have cut your wisdom-teeth?”
“Don't know,” said The Infant apologetically. “I haven't seen much--only
Burmese jungle.”
“And dead men, and war, and power, and responsibility,” said Cleever,
under his breath. “You won't have any sensations left at thirty, if you
go on as you have done. But I want to hear more tales--more tales!” He
seemed to forget that even subalterns might have engagements of their
own.
“We're thinking of dining out somewhere--the lot of us--and going on to
the Empire afterwards,” said Nevin, with hesitation. He did not like to
ask Cleever to come too. The invitation might be regarded as perilously
near to “cheek.” And Cleever, anxious not to wag a gray beard unbidden
among boys at large, said nothing on his side.
Boileau solved the little difficulty by blurting out: “Won't you come
too, sir?”
Cleever almost shouted “Yes,” and while he was being helped into his
coat continued to murmur “Good Heavens!” at intervals in a way that the
boys could not understand.
“I don't think I've been to the Empire in my life,” said he; “but--what
is my life after all? Let us go.”
They went out with Eustace Cleever, and I sulked at home because they
had come to see me, but had gone over to the better man; which was
humiliating. They packed him into a cab with utmost reverence, for was
he not the author of “As it was in the Beginning,” and a person in whose
company it was an honour to go abroad? From all I gathered later, he
had taken less interest in the performance before him than in their
conversations, and they protested with emphasis that he was “as good a
man as they make; knew what a man was driving at almost before he said
it; and yet he's so damned simple about things any man knows.” That was
one of many comments.
At midnight they returned, announcing that they were “highly respectable
gondoliers,” and that oysters and stout were what they chiefly needed.
The eminent novelist was still with them, and I think he was calling
them by their shorter names. I am certain that he said he had been
moving in worlds not realised, and that they had shown him the Empire in
a new light.
Still sore at recent neglect, I answered shortly, “Thank Heaven we have
within the land ten thousand as good as they,” and when he departed,
asked him what he thought of things generally.
He replied with another quotation, to the effect that though singing
was a remarkably fine performance, I was to be quite sure that few lips
would be moved to song if they could find a sufficiency of kissing.
Whereby I understood that Eustace Cleever, decorator and colourman in
words, was blaspheming his own Art, and would be sorry for this in the
morning.