Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (329 page)

‘“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 ‘twill 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 ye 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 the tale in full.

‘It was. Faith, ivry time I go on prisoner’s gyard in coort I wondher fwhy I was 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 Reg’mint I came, lavin’ Larry to go to the divil his own way, an’ niver expectin’ to see him again excipt as a shootin’-case in barracks...Who’s that quittin’ the compound?’ Terence’s quick eye had caught sight of a white uniform skulking behind the 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 went up to the Front, an’ ut tore my heart in tu to lave Dinah at the Depôt in Pindi. Consequint, whin I was at the Front I fought circumspectuous till I warrmed up, an’ thin I fought double tides. You remember 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 taken’ shtock av the dead, an’ av coorse I went about to find if there was any man that remembered 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 reason that he had fair call to be. “Larry,” sez I, “how is ut wed you?”‘

‘“Ye’re callin’ the wrong man,” he sez, wed 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 end 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, puffin’ 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’ wed his forefinger.

‘“Send 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 barracks, 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 tempers. He might as well ha’ kissed me. Aftherwards I was well pleased I kept my fists home. Thin our Captain Crook — Cruik-na-bulleen — 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 full 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’ Bobbs I was commandin’ the Company, an’ that was what Crook 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 for him at the salute!

‘Thin the Tyrone, wid the Ould Rig’mint in touch, was sint maraudin’ an’ prowlin’ acrost the hills promishcuous an’ onsatisfactory. ‘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 them run round an’ round forninst him while he considhers on it. Whin by the process av nature they get sejuced into a big fight that was none av their seekin’, he sez: “Obsarve my shuperior 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 excipt 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 thim 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 never tuk a mouthful av slape. My commandin’ orf’cer — save his little soul! — cud not see the beauty av my strategims, an’ whin the Ould Rig’mint crossed us, an’ that was wanst a week, he’d throt off to Crook, 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 Crook, laughin’, “he’s larnin’ you your business. Have ye been rushed at night yet?”

‘“No,” sez that child; wishful he had been.

‘“Have you any wounded?” sez Crook.

‘“No,” he sez. “There was no chanst for that. They follow Mulvaney too quick,” he sez.

‘“Fwhat more do you want, thin?” sez Crook. “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 on 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 behild 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 shud 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 barefut 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 same 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 cudn’t 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 the 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 remember fwhat I said in the Tyrone barricks about comin’ to you for ghostly consolation. I have not forgot,” he sez. “That came back, and 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 an’ peals I have thrown away wid both hands — an’ fwhat have I left? Oh, fwhat have I left?”

‘He was shakin’ an’ tremblin’ up against my shouldher, an’ the slugs were 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’ tremenjous, “I wud not ha’ been happy. There was too much behind av one. 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 talked av.

‘The full half of 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 tryin’ 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’- Womenjumped 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 tinkling acrost the rocks! “I tould you I was Cain,” sez Love-o’-Women. “Fwhat’s the use av killin’ him? He’s an honust man — by compare.”

‘I was not dishputin’ about the morils av Paythans that tide, so I dhropped Love-o’-Women’s butt acrost the man’s face, an’ “Hurry into camp,” I sez, “for this may be the first av a rush.”

‘There was no rush after all, though we waited undher arms to give them 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 understand. 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’tinant, an’ my thoughts was not good to me.’

‘Ye can ondersthand 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’ divilments 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, and 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 nature 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 drivin’ 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 and round, to considher (him that was beyond all touch av bein’ 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 anyway.