Soldiers Three
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‘Faith, that rest-camp was a sight! The tent-ropes was all skew-nosed, an’ the pegs looked as dhrunk as the men – fifty av thim – the scourin’s, an’ rinsin’s, an’ Divil’s lavin’s av the Ould Rig’mint. I tell you, Sorr, they were dhrunker than any men you’ve ever seen in your mortial life. How does a draf’ get dhrunk? How does a frog get fat? They suk ut in through their shkins.
‘There was Peg Barney sittin’ on the groun’ in his shirt – wan shoe off an’ wan shoe on – whackin’ a tent-peg over the head wid his boot, an singin’ fit to wake the dead. ‘Twas no clane song that he sung, though. ‘Twas the Divil’s Mass.’
‘What’s that? ‘I asked.
‘Whin a bad egg is shut av the Arrmy, he sings the Divil’s Mass for a good riddance; an’ that manes swearin’ at ivrything from the Commandher-in-Chief down to the Room-Corp’ril, such as you niver in your days heard. Some men can swear so as to make green turf crack! Have you iver heard the Curse in an Orange Lodge? The Divil’s Mass is ten times worse, an’ Peg Barney was singin’ ut, whackin’ the tent-peg on the head wid his boot for each man that he cursed. A powerful big voice had Peg Barney, an’ a hard swearer he was whin sober. I stood forninst him, an’ ‘twas not me oi alone that cud tell Peg was dhrunk as a coot.
‘“Good mornin’ Peg,” I sez, whin he dhrew breath afther cursin’ the Adj’tint Gen’ral; “I’ve put on my best coat to see you, Peg Barney,” sez I.
‘“Thin take ut off again,” sez Peg Barney, latherin’ away wid the boot; “take ut off an’ dance, ye lousy civilian!”
‘Wid that he begins cursin’ ould Dhrumshticks, being so full he clean disremimbers the Brigade-Major an’ the Judge Advokit Gen’ral.
‘“Do you know me, Peg?” sez I, though me blood was hot in me wid being called a civilian.’
‘An’ him a decent married man!’ wailed Dinah Shadd.
‘“I do not,” sez Peg, “but dhrunk or sober I’ll tear the hide off your back wid a shovel whin I’ve stopped singin’.”
‘“Say you so, Peg Barney?” sez I. “‘Tis clear as mud you’ve forgotten me. I’ll assist your autobiography.” Wid that I stretched Peg Barney, boot an’ all, an’ wint into the camp. An awful sight ut was!
‘“Where’s the orf’cer in charge av the detachment?” sez I to Scrub Greene – the manest little worm that ever walked.
‘“There’s no orf’cer, ye ould cook,” sez Scrub; “we’re a bloomin’ Republic.”
‘“Are you that?” sez I; “thin I’m O’Connell the Dictator, an’ by this you will larn to kape a civil tongue in your rag-box.”
‘Wid that I stretched Scrub Greene an’ wint to the orf’cer’s tent. ‘Twas a new little bhoy – not wan I’d iver seen before. He was sittin’ in his tent, purtendin’ not to ‘ave ear av the racket.
‘I saluted – but for the life av me I mint to shake hands whin I went in. ‘Twas the sword hangin’ on the tentpole changed my will.
‘“Can’t I help, Sorr?” sez I; “‘tis a strong man’s job they’ve given you, an’ you’ll be wantin’ help by sundown.” He was a bhoy wid bowils, that child, an’ a rale gintleman.
‘“Sit down,” sez he.
‘“Not before my orf’cer,” sez I; an’ I tould him fwhat my service was.
‘“I’ve heard av you,” sez he. “You tuk the town av Lungtungpen nakid.”
‘“Faith,” thinks I, “that’s Honour an’ Glory”; for ‘twas Lift’nint Brazenose did that job. “I’m wid ye, Sorr,” sez I, “if I’m av use. They shud niver ha’ sent you down wid the draf’. Savin’ your presince, Sorr,” I sez, “‘tis only Lift’nint Hackerston in the Ould Rig’mint can manage a Home draf’.”
‘“I’ve niver had charge of men like this before,” sez he, playin’ wid the pens on the table; “an’ I see by the Rig’lations – ”
‘“Shut your oi to the Rig’lations, Sorr,” I sez, “till the throoper’s into blue wather. By the Rig’lations you’ve got to tuck thim up for the night, or they’ll be runnin’ foul av my coolies an’ makin’ a shiverarium half through the country. Can you trust your non-coms, Sorr?”
‘“Yes,” sez he.
‘“Good,” sez I; “there’ll be throuble before the night. Are you marchin’, Sorr?”
‘“To the next station,” sez he.
‘“Better still,” sez I; “there’ll be big throuble.”
‘“Can’t be too hard on a Home draf’,” sez he; “the great thing is to get thim in-ship.”
‘“Faith you’ve larnt the half av your lesson, Sorr,” sez I, “but av you shtick to the Rig’lations you’ll niver get thim in-ship at all, at all. Or there won’t be a rag av kit betune thim whin you do.”
‘’Twas a dear little orf’cer bhoy, an’ by way av kapin’ his heart up, I tould him fwhat I saw wanst in a draf’ in Egypt.’
‘What was that, Mulvaney?’ said I.
‘Sivin an’ fifty men sittin’ on the bank av a canal, laughin’ at a poor little squidgereen av an orf’cer that they’d made wade into the slush an’ pitch the things out av the boats for their Lord High Mightinesses. That made me orf’cer bhoy woild with indignation.
‘“Soft an’ aisy, Sorr,” sez I; “you’ve niver had your draf’ in hand since you left cantonmints. Wait till the night, an’ your work will be ready to you. Wid your permission, Sorr, I will investigate the camp, an’ talk to my ould frinds. ‘Tis no manner av use thryin’ to shtop the divilment now.”
‘Wid that I wint out into the camp an’ inthrojuced mysilf to ivry man sober enough to remimber me. I was some wan in the ould days, an’ the bhoys was glad to see me – all excipt Peg Barney wid a eye like a tomata five days in the bazar, an’ a nose to match. They come round me an’ shuk me, an’ I tould thim I was in privit employ wid an income av me own, an’ a drrrawin’-room fit to bate the Quane’s; an’ wid me lies an’ me shtories an’ nonsinse gin’rally, I kept ‘em quiet in wan way an’ another, knockin’ roun’ the camp. ‘Twas bad even thin whin I was the Angil av Peace.
‘I talked to me ould non-coms —they was sober – an’ betune me an’ thim we wore the draf’ over into their tents at the proper time. The little orf’cer bhoy he comes round, decint an’ civil-spoken as might be.
‘“Rough quarters, men,” sez he, “but you can’t look to be as comfortable as in barricks. We must make the best av things. I’ve shut my eyes to a dale av dog’s tricks today, an’ now there must be no more av ut.”
‘“No more we will. Come an’ have a dhrink, me son,” sez Peg Barney, staggerin’ where he stud. Me little orf’cer bhoy kep’ his timper.
‘“You’re a sulky swine, you are,” sez Peg Barney, an’ at that the men in the tent began to laugh.
‘I tould you me orf’cer bhoy had bowils. He cut Peg Barney as near as might be on the oi that I’d squshed whin we first met. Peg wint spinnin’ acrost the tent.
‘“Peg him out, Sorr,” sez I, in a whishper.
‘“Peg him out!” sez me orf’cer bhoy, up loud, just as if ‘twas battalion-p’rade an’ he pickin’ his wurrds from the Sargint.
‘The non-coms tuk Peg Barney – a howlin’ handful he was – an’ in three minutes he was pegged out – chin down, tight-dhrawn – on his stummick, a tent-peg to each arm an’ leg, swearin’ fit to turn a naygur white.
‘I tuk a peg an’ jammed ut into his ugly jaw. – “Bite on that, Peg Barney,” I sez; “the night is settin’ frosty, an’ you’ll be wantin’ divarsion before the mornin’. But for the Rig’lations you’d be bitin’ on a bullet now at the thriangles, Peg Barney,” sez I.
‘All the draf’ was out av their tents watchin’ Barney bein’ pegged.
‘“‘Tis agin the Rig’lations! He strook him!” screeches out Scrub Greene, who was always a lawyer; an’ some of the men tuk up the shoutin’.
‘“Peg out that man!” sez my orf’cer bhoy, niver losin’ his timper; an’ the non-coms wint in and pegged out Scrub Greene by the side av Peg Barney.
‘I cud see that the draf’ was comin’ roun’. The men stud not knowin’ fwhat to do.
‘“Get to your tents!” sez me orf’cer bhoy. “Sargint, put a sintry over these two men.”
‘The men wint back into the tents like jackals, an’ the rest av the night there was no noise at all excipt the stip av the sintry over the two, an’ Scrub Greene blubberin’ like a child. ‘Twas a chilly night, an’ faith, ut sobered Peg Barney.
‘Just before Revelly, my orf’cer bhoy comes out an’ sez: “Loose those men an’ send thim to their tents!” Scrub Greene wint away widout a word, but Peg Barney, stiff wid the cowld, stud like a sheep, thryin’ to make his orf’cer understhand he was sorry for playin’ the goat.
‘There was no tucker in the draf’ whin ut fell in for the march, an’ divil a wurrd about “illegality” cud I hear.
‘I wint to the ould Colour Sargint and I sez: – “Let me die in glory,” sez I. “I’ve seen a man this day!”
‘“A man he is,” sez ould Hother; “the draf’s as sick as a herrin’. They’ll all go down to the sea like lambs. That bhoy has the bowils av a cantonmint av Gin’rals.”
‘“Amin,” sez I, “an’ good luck go wid him, wheriver he be, by land or by sea. Let me know how the draf gets clear.”
‘An’ do you know how they did? That bhoy, so I was tould by letter from Bombay, bullydamned ‘em down to the dock, till they cudn’t call their sowls their own. From the time they left me oi till they was ‘tween decks, not wan av thim was more than dacintly dhrunk. An’, by the Holy Articles av War, whin they wint aboard they cheered him till they cudn’t spake, an’ that, mark you, has not come about wid a draf in the mim’ry av livin’ man! You look to that little orf’cer bhoy. He has bowils. ‘Tis not ivry child that wud chuck the Rig’lations to Flanders an’ stretch Peg Barney on a wink from a brokin an’ dilapidated ould carkiss like mesilf. I’d be proud to serve – ’
‘Terence, you’re a civilian,’ said Dinah Shadd warningly.
‘So I am – so I am. Is ut likely I wud forget ut? But he was a gran’ bhoy all the same, an’ I’m only a mud-tipper wid a hod on my shoulthers. The whiskey’s in the heel av your hand, Sorr. Wid your good lave we’ll dhrink to the Ould Rig’mint – three fingers – standin’ up!’
And we drank.
THE WRECK OF THE VISIGOTH
[Footnote: 1895] ‘Eternal Father, strong to save, Whose arm hath bound the restless wave, Who bidst the mighty ocean keep Its own appointed limits deep.’The lady passengers were trying the wheezy old harmonium in front of the cuddy, because it was Sunday night. In the patch of darkness near the wheel-grating sat the Captain, and the end of his cheroot burned like a head-lamp. There was neither breath nor motion upon the waters through which the screw was thudding. They spread, dull silver, under the haze of the moonlight till they joined the low coast of Malacca away to the eastward. The voices of the singers at the harmonium were held down by the awnings, and came to us with force.
‘Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee, For those in peril on the sea.’It was as though the little congregation were afraid of the vastness of the sea. But a laugh followed, and some one said, ‘Shall we take it through again a little quicker?’ Then the Captain told the story of just such a night, lowering his voice for fear of disturbing the music and the minds of the passengers.
‘She was the Visigoth, – five hundred tons, or it may have been six, – in the coasting trade; one of the best steamers and best found on the Kutch-Kasauli line. She wasn’t six years old when the thing happened: on just such a night as this, with an oily smooth sea, under brilliant starlight, about a hundred miles from land. To this day no one knows really what the matter was. She was so small that she could not have struck even a log in the water without every soul on board feeling the jar; and even if she had struck something, it wouldn’t have made her go down as she did. I was fourth officer then; we had about seven saloon passengers, including the Captain’s wife and another woman, and perhaps five hundred deck-passengers going up the coast to a shrine, on just such a night as this, when she was ripping through the level sea at a level nine knots an hour. The man on the bridge, whoever it was, saw that she was sinking at the head. Sinking by the head as she went along. That was the only warning we got. She began to sink as she went along. Of course the Captain was told, and he sent me to wake up the saloon passengers and tell them to come on deck. ‘Sounds a curious sort of message that to deliver on a dead still night. The people tumbled up in their dressing-gowns and pyjamas, and wouldn’t believe me. We were just sinking as fast as we could, and I had to tell ‘em that. Then the deck-passengers got wind of it, and all Hell woke up along the decks.
‘The rule in these little affairs is to get your saloon passengers off first, then to fill the boats with the balance, and afterwards – God help the extras, that’s all. I was getting the starboard stern boat – the mail-boat – away. It hung as it might be over yonder, and as I came along from the cuddy, the deck-passengers hung round me, shoving their money-belts into my hand, taking off their nose-rings and earrings, and thrusting ‘em upon me to buy just one chance for life. If I hadn’t been so desperately busy, I should have thought it horrible. I put biscuits and water into the boat, and got the two ladies in. One of ‘em was the Captain’s wife. She had to be put in by main force. You’ve no notion how women can struggle. The other woman was the wife of an officer going to meet her husband; and there were a couple of passengers beside the lascars. The Captain said he was going to stay with the ship. You see the rule in these affairs, I believe, is that the Captain has to bow gracefully from the bridge and go down. I haven’t had a ship under my charge wrecked yet. When that comes, I’ll have to do like the others. After the boats were away, and I saw that there was nothing to be got by waiting, I jumped overboard exactly as I might have vaulted over into a flat green field, and struck out for the mail-boat. Another officer did the same thing, but he went for a boat full of natives, and they whacked him on the chest with oars, so he had some difficulty in climbing in.
‘It was as well that I reached the mail-boat. There was a compass in it, but the idiots had managed to fill the boat half full of water somehow or another, and none of the crew seemed to know what was required of them. Then the Visigoth went down and took every one with her – ships generally do that; the corpses don’t cumber the sea for some time.
‘What did I do? I kept all the boats together, and headed into the track of the coasting steamers. The aggravating thing was the thought that we were close to land as far as a big steamer was concerned, and in the middle of eternity as far as regarded a little boat. The sea looks hugeous big from a boat at night.’
‘Oh, Christ, whose voice the waters heard And hushed their ravings at Thy word, Who walkedst on the foaming deep And calm amidst its rage did keep, — Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee, For those in peril on the sea!’sang the passengers cheerily.
‘That harmonium is disgracefully out of tune,’ said the Captain. ‘The sea air affects their insides. Well, as I was saying, we settled down in the boat. The Captain’s wife was unconscious; she lay in the bottom of the boat and moaned. I was glad she wasn’t threshing about the boat: but what I did think was wrong, was the way the two men passengers behaved. They were useless with funk – out and out fear. They lay in the boat and did nothing. Fetched a groan now and again to show they were alive; but that was all. But the other woman was a jewel. Damn it, it was worth being shipwrecked to have that woman in the boat; she was awfully handsome, and as brave as she was lovely. She helped me bail out the boat, and she worked like a man.
‘So we kicked about the sea from midnight till seven the next evening, and then we saw a steamer. “I’ll – I’ll give you anything I’m wearing to hoist as a signal of distress,” said the woman; but I had no need to ask her, for the steamer picked us up and took us back to Bombay. I forgot to tell you that, when the day broke, I couldn’t recognise the Captain’s wife – widow, I mean. She had changed in the night as if fire had gone over her. I met her a long time afterwards, and even then she hadn’t forgiven me for putting her into the boat and obeying the Captain’s orders. But the husband of the other woman – he’s in the Army – wrote me no end of a letter of thanks. I don’t suppose he considered that the way his wife behaved was enough to make any decent man do all he could. The other fellows, who lay in the bottom of the boat and groaned, I’ve never met. Don’t want to. Shouldn’t be civil to ‘em if I did. And that’s how the Visigoth went down, for no assignable reason, with eighty bags of mail, five hundred souls, and not a single packet insured, on just such a night as this.’
‘Oh, Trinity of love and power, Our brethren shield in that dread hour, From rock and tempest, fire and foe, Protect them whereso’er they go. Thus evermore shall rise to Thee Glad hymns of praise by land and sea.’‘Strikes me they’ll go on singing that hymn all night. Imperfect sort of doctrine in the last lines, don’t you think? They might have run in an extra verse specifying sudden collapse – like the Visigoth’s. I’m going on to the bridge, now. Good-night,’ said the Captain.
And I was left alone with the steady thud, thud, of the screw and the gentle creaking of the boats at the davits.
That made me shudder.
THE SOLID MULDOON
Did ye see John Malone, wid his shinin’, brand-new hat?Did ye see how he walked like a grand aristocrat?There was flags an’ banners wavin’ high, an’ dhress and shtyle were shown,But the best av all the company was Misther John Malone.John Malone.There had been a royal dog-fight in the ravine at the back of the rifle-butts, between Learoyd’s Jock and Ortheris’s Blue Rot– both mongrel Rampur hounds, chiefly ribs and teeth. It lasted for twenty happy, howling minutes, and then Blue Rot collapsed and Ortheris paid Learoyd three rupees, and we were all very thirsty. A dog-fight is a most heating entertainment, quite apart from the shouting, because Rampurs fight over a couple of acres of ground. Later, when the sound of belt-badges clicking against the necks of beer-bottles had died away, conversation drifted from dog to man-fights of all kinds. Humans resemble red-deer in some respects. Any talk of fighting seems to wake up a sort of imp in their breasts, and they bell one to the other, exactly like challenging bucks. This is noticeable even in men who consider themselves superior to Privates of the Line: it shows the Refining Influence of Civilisation and the March of Progress.
Tale provoked tale, and each tale more beer. Even dreamy Learoyd’s eyes began to brighten, and he unburdened himself of a long history in which a trip to Malham Cove, a girl at Pateley Brigg, a ganger, himself and a pair of clogs were mixed in drawling tangle.
‘An’ so Ah coot’s yead oppen from t’ chin to t’ hair, an’ he was abed for t’ matter o’ a month,’ concluded Learoyd pensively.
Mulvaney came out of a reverie – he was lying down – and flourished his heels in the air. ‘You’re a man, Learoyd,’ said he critically, ‘but you’ve only fought wid men, an’ that’s an ivry-day expayrience; but I’ve stud up to a ghost, an’ that was not an ivry-day expayrience.’
‘No?’ said Ortheris, throwing a cork at him. ‘You git up an’ address the ‘ouse – you an’ yer expayriences. Is it a bigger one nor usual?’
‘’Twas the livin’ trut’!’ answered Mulvaney, stretching out a huge arm and catching Ortheris by the collar. ‘Now where are ye, me son? Will ye take the wurrud av the Lorrd out av my mouth another time?’ He shook him to emphasise the question.
‘No, somethin’ else, though,’ said Ortheris, making a dash at Mulvaney’s pipe, capturing it and holding it at arm’s length; ‘I’ll chuck it acrost the ditch if you don’t let me go!’
‘You maraudin’ hathen! ‘Tis the only cutty I iver loved. Handle her tinder, or I’ll chuck you acrost the nullah. If that poipe was bruk – Ah! Give her back to me, Sorr!’
Ortheris had passed the treasure to my hand. It was an absolutely perfect clay, as shiny as the black ball at Pool. I took it reverently, but I was firm.
‘Will you tell us about the ghost-fight if I do?’ I said.
‘Is ut the shtory that’s troublin’ you? Av course I will. I mint to all along. I was only gettin’ at ut my own way, as Popp Doggle said whin they found him thrying to ram a cartridge down the muzzle. Orth’ris, fall away!’
He released the little Londoner, took back his pipe, filled it, and his eyes twinkled. He has the most eloquent eyes of any one that I know.
‘Did I iver tell you,’ he began, ‘that I was wanst the divil av a man?’
‘You did,’ said Learoyd with a childish gravity that made Ortheris yell with laughter, for Mulvaney was always impressing upon us his great merits in the old days.
‘Did I iver tell you,’ Mulvaney continued calmly, ‘that I was wanst more av a divil than I am now?’
‘Mer – ria! You don’t mean it?’ said Ortheris.
‘Whin I was Corp’ril – I was rejuced aftherwards – but, as I say, whin I was Corp’ril, I was a divil of a man.’
He was silent for nearly a minute, while his mind rummaged among old memories and his eye glowed. He bit upon the pipe-stem and charged into his tale.
‘Eyah! They was great times. I’m ould now; me hide’s wore off in patches; sinthrygo has disconceited me, an’ I’m a married man tu. But I’ve had my day – I’ve had my day, an’ nothin’ can take away the taste av that! Oh my time past, whin I put me fut through ivry livin’ wan av the Tin Commandmints between Revelly and Lights Out, blew the froth off a pewter, wiped me moustache wid the back av me hand, an’ slept on ut all as quiet as a little child! But ut’s over – ut’s over, an’ ‘twill niver come back to me; not though I prayed for a week av Sundays. Was there any wan in the Ould Rig’mint to touch Corp’ril Terence Mulvaney whin that same was turned out for sedukshin? I niver met him. Ivry woman that was not a witch was worth the runnin’ afther in those days, an’ ivry man was my dearest frind or – I had stripped to him an’ we knew which was the betther av the tu.
‘Whin I was Corp’ril I wud not ha’ changed wid the Colonel – no, nor yet the Commandher-in-Chief. I wud be a Sargint. There was nothin’ I wud not be! Mother av Hivin, look at me! Fwhat am I now?
‘We was quartered in a big cantonmint – ‘tis no manner av use namin’ names, for ut might give the barricks disrepitation – an’ I was the Imperor av the Earth to my own mind, an’ wan or tu women thought the same. Small blame to thim. Afther we had lain there a year, Bragin, the Colour Sargint av E Comp’ny, wint an’ took a wife that was lady’s maid to some big lady in the Station. She’s dead now is Annie Bragin – died in child-bed at Kirpa Tal, or ut may ha’ been Almorah – seven – nine years gone, an’ Bragin he married agin. But she was a pretty woman whin Bragin inthrojuced her to cantonmint society. She had eyes like the brown av a buttherfly’s wing whin the sun catches ut, an’ a waist no thicker than my arm, an’ a little sof’ button av a mouth I would ha’ gone through all Asia bristlin’ wid bay’nits to get the kiss av. An’ her hair was as long as the tail av the Colonel’s charger – forgive me mentionin’ that blunderin’ baste in the same mouthful with Annie Bragin – but’twas all shpun gold, an’ time was when a lock av ut was more than di’monds to me. There was niver pretty woman yet, an’ I’ve had thruck wid a few, cud open the door to Annie Bragin.
‘’Twas in the Cath’lic Chapel I saw her first, me oi rolling round as usual to see fwhat was to be seen.
“You’re too good for Bragin, my love,” thinks I to mesilf, “but that’s a mistake I can put straight, or my name is not Terence Mulvaney.”
‘Now take my wurrd for ut, you Orth’ris there an’ Learoyd, an’ kape out av the Married Quarters – as I did not. No good iver comes av ut, an’ there’s always the chance av your bein’ found wid your face in the dirt, a long picket in the back av your head, an’ your hands playing the fifes on the tread av another man’s doorstep. ‘Twas so we found O’Hara, he that Rafferty killed six years gone, when he wint to his death wid his hair oiled, whistlin’ Larry O’Rourke betune his teeth. Kape out av the Married Quarters, I say, as I did not. ‘Tis onwholesim, ‘tis dangerous, an’ ‘tis ivrything else that’s bad, but – O my sowl, ‘tis swate while ut lasts!
‘I was always hangin’ about there whin I was off duty an’ Bragin wasn’t, but niver a sweet word beyon’ ordinar’ did I get from Annie Bragin. “‘Tis the pervarsity av the sect,” sez I to mesilf, an’ gave my cap another cock on my head an’ straightened my back – ‘twas the back av a Dhrum Major in those days – an’ wint off as tho’ I did not care, wid all the women in the Married Quarters laughin’, I was pershuaded – most bhoys are I’m thinkin’ – that no woman born av woman cud stand against me av I hild up my little finger. I had reason fer thinkin’ that way – till I met Annie Bragin.