Selected Stories (17 page)

‘“Fwhat is ut!” sez O'Hara, shakin' Tim. “Well an' good do you know fwhat ut is, ye skulkin' ditch-lurkin' dogs! Get a
dooli
,
¹⁴
an' take this whimperin' scutt away. There will be more heard av ut than any av you will care for.”

‘Vulmea sat up rockin' his head in his hand an' moanin' for Father Constant.

‘“Be done!” sez O'Hara, dhraggin' him up by the hair. “You're none so dead that you cannot go fifteen years for thryin' to shoot me.”

‘“I did not,” sez Vulmea; “I was shootin' mesilf.”

‘“That's quare,” sez O'Hara, “for the front av my jackut is black wid your powther.” He tuk up the rifle that was still warm an' began to laugh. “I'll make your life Hell to you,” sez he, “for attempted murther an' kapin' your rifle onproperly. You'll be hanged first an' thin put undher stoppages
¹⁵
for four fifteen. The rifle's done for,” sez he.

‘“Why, 'tis
my
rifl!e” sez I, comin' up to look. “Vulmea, ye divil, fwhat were you doin' wid her – answer me that?”

‘“Lave me alone,” sez Vulmea; “I'm dyin'!”

‘“I'll wait till you're betther,” sez I, “an' thin we two will talk ut out umbrageous.”

‘O'Hara pitched Tim into the
dooli
, none too tinder, but all the bhoys kep' by their cots, which was not the sign av innocint men. I was huntin' ivrywhere for my fallin'-block, but not findin' ut at all. I niver found ut.

‘“
Now
fwhat will I do?” sez O'Hara, swinging the verandah light in his hand an' lookin' down the room. I had hate and contimpt av O'Hara an' I have now, dead tho' he is, but for all that will I say he was a brave man. He is baskin' in Purgathory this tide, but I wish he cud hear that, whin he stud lookin' down the room an' the bhoys shivered before the eye av him, I knew him for a brave man an' I liked him
so
.

‘“Fwhat will I do?” sez O'Hara agin, an' we heard the voice av a woman low an' sof' in the verandah. 'Twas Slimmy's wife, come over at the shot, sittin on wan av the benches an' scarce able to walk.

‘“O Denny! – Denny, dear,” sez she, “have they kilt you?”

‘O'Hara looked down the room again an' showed his teeth to the gum. Thin he spat on the flure.

‘“You're not worth ut,” sez he. “Light that lamp, ye dogs,” an' wid that he turned away, an' I saw him walkin' off wid Slimmy's wife; she thryin' to wipe off the powther-black on the front av his jackut wid her handkerchief. “A brave man you are,” thinks I – “a brave man an' a bad woman.”

‘No wan said a wurrud for a time. They was all ashamed, past spache.

‘“Fwhat d'you think he will do?” sez wan av thim at last. “He knows we're all in ut.”

‘“Are we so?” sez I from my cot. “The man that sez that to me will be hurt. I do not know,” sez I, “fwhat ondherhand divilmint you have conthrived, but by fwhat I've seen I know that you cannot commit
murther wid another man's rifle – such shakin' cowards you are. I'm goin' to slape,” I sez, “an' you can blow my head off whoile I lay.” I did not slape, though, for a long time. Can ye wonder?

‘Next morn the news was through all the Rig'mint, an' there was nothin' that the men did not tell. O'Hara reports, fair an' aisy, that Vulmea was come to grief through tamperin' wid his rifle in barricks, all for to show the mechanism. An', by my sowl, he had the impart'nince to say that he was on the shpot at the time an' cud certify that ut was an accidint! You might ha' knocked my roomful down wid a straw whin they heard that. 'Twas lucky for thim that the bhoys were always thryin' to find out how the new rifle was made, an' a lot av thim had come up for aisin' the pull by shtickin' bits av grass an' such in the part av the lock that showed near the thrigger. The first issues of the ‘Tinis was not covered in, an' I mesilf have aised the pull av mine time an' agin. A light pull is ten points on the range to me.

‘“I will not have this foolishness!” sez the Colonel. “I will twist the tail off Vulmea!” sez he; but whin he saw him, all tied up an' groanin' in hospital, he changed his will. “Make him an early convalescint,” sez he to the Doctor, an' Vulmea was made so for a warnin'. His big bloody bandages an' face puckered up to wan side did more to kape the bhoys from messin' wid the insides av their rifles than any punishmint.

‘O'Hara gave no reason for fhwat he'd said, an' all my roomful were too glad to ask, tho' he put his spite upon thim more wearin' than before. Wan day, howiver, he tuk me apart very polite, for he cud be that at his choosin'.

‘“You're a good sodger, tho' you're a damned insolint man,” sez he.

‘“Fair wurruds, Sargint,” sez I, “or I may be insolint agin.”

‘“'Tis not like you,” sez he, “to lave your rifle in the rack widout the breech-pin, for widout the breech-pin she was whin Vulmea fired. I shud ha' found the break av ut in the eyes av the holes, else,” he sez.

‘“Sargint,” sez I, “fwhat wud your life ha' been worth av the breech-pin had been in place, for, on my sowl, my life wud be worth just as much to me av I tould you whether ut was or was not? Be thankful the bullet was not there,” I sez.

‘“That's thrue,” sez he, pulling his moustache; “but I do not believe that you, for all your lip, were in that business.”

‘“Sargint,” sez I, “I cud hammer the life out av a man in ten minut's wid my fistes if that man dishplazed me; for I am a good sodger, an' I will be threated as such, an' whoile my fistes are my own they're strong enough for all the work I have to do.
They
do not fly back towards me!” sez I, lookin' him betune the eyes.

‘“You're a good man,” sez he, lookin' me betune the eyes – an' oh, he was a gran'-built man to see! – “you're a good man,” he sez, “an' I cud wish, for the pure frolic av ut, that I was not a Sargint, or that you were not a Privit; an' you will think me no coward whin I say this thing.”

‘“I do not,” sez I. “I saw you whin Vulmea mishandled the rifle. But, Sargint,” I sez, “take the wurrud from me now, spakin' as man to man wid the shtripes off, tho' 'tis little right I have to talk, me bein' fwhat I am by natur'. This time ye tuk no harm, an' next time ye may not, but, in the ind, so sure as Slimmy's wife came into the verandah, so sure will ye take harm – an' bad harm. Have thought, Sargint,” sez I. “Is ut worth ut?”

‘“Ye're a bould man,” sez he, breathin' harrd. “A very bould man. But I am a bould man tu. Do you go your ways, Privit Mulvaney, an' I will go mine.”

‘We had no further spache thin or afther, but, wan by another, he drafted the twelve av my room out into other rooms an' got thim spread among the Comp'nies, for they was not a good breed to live together, an' the Comp'ny Orf'cers saw ut. They wud ha' shot me in the night av they had known fwhat I knew; but that they did not.

‘An', in the ind, as I said, O'Hara met his death from Rafferty for foolin' wid his wife. He wint his own way too well – Eyah, too well! Shtraight to that affair, widout turnin' to the right or to the lef', he wint, an' may the Lord have mercy on his sowl. Amin!'

‘'Ear! 'ear!' said Ortheris, pointing the moral with a wave of his pipe. ‘An' this is 'im 'oo would be a bloomin' Vulmea all for the sake of Mullins an' a bloomin' button! Mullins never went after a woman in his life. Mrs Mullins, she saw 'im one day –'

‘Ortheris,' I said hastily, for the romances of Private Ortheris are all too daring for publication, ‘look at the sun. It's a quarter past six!'

‘Oh, Lord! Three-quarters of an hour for five an' a ‘arf miles! We'll 'ave to run like Jimmy O.'

The Three Musketeers clambered on to the bridge, and departed hastily in the direction of the cantonment road. When I overtook them I offered them two stirrups and a tail, which they accepted enthusiastically. Ortheris held the tail, and in this manner we trotted steadily through the shadows by an unfrequented road.

At the turn into the cantonments we heard carriage wheels. It was the Colonel's barouche, and in it sat the Colonel's wife and daughter. I caught a suppressed chuckle, and my beast sprang forward with a lighter step.

The Three Musketeers had vanished into the night.

On the City Wall
¹

Then she let them down by a cord through the window; for her house was upon the town wall, and she dwelt upon the wall.

Joshua
ii: 15.

Lalun is a member of the most ancient profession in the world. Lilith
²
was her very-great-grand-mamma, and that was before the days of Eve, as everyone knows. In the West, people say rude things about Lalun's profession, and write lectures about it, and distribute the lectures to young persons in order that Morality may be preserved. In the East, where the profession is hereditary, descending from mother to daughter, nobody writes lectures or takes any notice; and that is a distinct proof of the inability of the East to manage its own affairs.

Lalun's real husband, for even ladies of Lalun's profession in the East must have husbands, was a big jujube-tree.
³
Her Mamma, who had married a fig-tree, spent ten thousand rupees on Lalun's wedding, which was blessed by forty-seven clergymen of Mamma's Church, and distributed five thousand rupees in charity to the poor. And that was the custom of the land. The advantages of having a jujube-tree for a husband are obvious. You cannot hurt his feelings, and he looks imposing.

Lalun's husband stood on the plain outside the City walls, and Lalun's house was upon the east wall facing the river. If you fell from the broad window-seat you dropped thirty feet sheer into the City Ditch. But if you stayed where you should and looked forth, you saw all the cattle of the City being driven down to water, the students of the Government College playing cricket, the high grass and trees that fringed the river-bank, the great sand-bars that ribbed the river, the red tombs of dead Emperors beyond the river, and very far away through the blue heat-haze a glint of the snows of the Himalayas.

Wali Dad used to lie in the window-seat for hours at a time watching this view. He was a young Mohammedan who was suffering acutely from education of the English variety and knew it. His father had sent him to a Mission-school to get wisdom, and Wali Dad had absorbed more than ever his father or the Missionaries intended he should. When his father died, Wali Dad was independent and spent two years experimenting
with the creeds of the Earth and reading books that are of no use to anybody.

After he had made an unsuccessful attempt to enter the Roman Catholic Church and the Presbyterian fold at the same time (the Missionaries found him out and called him names; but they did not understand his trouble), he discovered Lalun on the City wall and became the most constant of her few admirers. He possessed a head that English artists at home would rave over and paint amid impossible surroundings – a face that female novelists would use with delight through nine hundred pages. In reality he was only a clean-bred young Mohammedan, with pencilled eyebrows, small-cut nostrils, little feet and hands, and a very tired look in his eyes. By virtue of his twenty-two years he had grown a neat black beard which he stroked with pride and kept delicately scented. His life seemed to be divided between borrowing books from me and making love to Lalun in the window-seat. He composed songs about her, and some of the songs are sung to this day in the City from the Street of the Mutton-Butchers to the Copper-Smiths' ward.

One song, the prettiest of all, says that the beauty of Lalun was so great that it troubled the hearts of the British Government and caused them to lose their peace of mind. That is the way the song is sung in the streets; but, if you examine it carefully and know the key to the explanation, you will find that there are three puns in it – on ‘beauty', ‘heart', and ‘peace of mind' – so that it runs: ‘By the subtlety of Lalun the administration of the Government was troubled and it lost such-and-such a man.' When Wali Dad sings that song his eyes glow like hot coals, and Lalun leans back among the cushions and throws bunches of jasmine-buds at Wali Dad.