FUZZY-WUZZY(Soudan Expeditionary Force)We've fought with many men acrost the seas,An' some of 'em was brave an' some was not:The Paythan an' the Zulu an' Burmese;But the Fuzzy was the finest o' the lot.We never got a ha'porth's change of 'im:'E squatted in the scrub an' 'ocked our 'orses,'E cut our sentries up at Suakim,An' 'e played the cat an' banjo with our forces.So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan;You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man;We gives you your certificate, an' if you want it signedWe'll come an' 'ave a romp with you whenever you're inclined.We took our chanst among the Khyber 'ills,The Boers knocked us silly at a mile,The Burman give us Irriwaddy chills,An' a Zulu impi dished us up in style:But all we ever got from such as theyWas pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller;We 'eld our bloomin' own, the papers say,But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us 'oller.Then 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' the missis and the kid;Our orders was to break you, an' of course we went an' did.We sloshed you with Martinis, an' it wasn't 'ardly fair;But for all the odds agin' you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you broke the square.'E 'asn't got no papers of 'is own,'E 'asn't got no medals nor rewards,So we must certify the skill 'e's shownIn usin' of 'is long two-'anded swords:When 'e's 'oppin' in an' out among the bushWith 'is coffin-'eaded shield an' shovel-spear,An 'appy day with Fuzzy on the rushWill last an 'ealthy Tommy for a year.So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' your friends which are no more,If we 'adn't lost some messmates we would 'elp you to deplore;But give an' take's the gospel, an' we'll call the bargain fair,For if you 'ave lost more than us, you crumpled up the square!'E rushes at the smoke when we let drive,An', before we know, 'e's 'ackin' at our 'ead;'E's all 'ot sand an' ginger when alive,An' 'e's generally shammin' when 'e's dead.'E's a daisy, 'e's a ducky, 'e's a lamb!'E's a injia-rubber idiot on the spree,'E's the on'y thing that doesn't give a damnFor a Regiment o' British Infantree!So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan;You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man;An' 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your 'ayrick 'ead of 'air—You big black boundin' beggar—for you broke a British square!
“Soldier, soldier come from the wars,Why don't you march with my true love?”“We're fresh from off the ship an' 'e's maybe give the slip,An' you'd best go look for a new love.”New love! True love!Best go look for a new love,The dead they cannot rise, an' you'd better dry your eyes,An' you'd best go look for a new love.“Soldier, soldier come from the wars,What did you see o' my true love?”“I seed 'im serve the Queen in a suit o' rifle-green,An' you'd best go look for a new love.”“Soldier, soldier come from the wars,Did ye see no more o' my true love?”“I seed 'im runnin' by when the shots begun to fly—But you'd best go look for a new love.”“Soldier, soldier come from the wars,Did aught take 'arm to my true love?”“I couldn't see the fight, for the smoke it lay so white—An' you'd best go look for a new love.”“Soldier, soldier come from the wars,I'll up an' tend to my true love!”“'E's lying on the dead with a bullet through 'is 'ead,An' you'd best go look for a new love.”“Soldier, soldier come from the wars,I'll down an' die with my true love!”“The pit we dug'll 'ide 'im an' the twenty men beside 'im—An' you'd best go look for a new love.”“Soldier, soldier come from the wars,Do you bring no sign from my true love?”“I bring a lock of 'air that 'e allus used to wear,An' you'd best go look for a new love.”“Soldier, soldier come from the wars,O then I know it's true I've lost my true love!”“An' I tell you truth again—when you've lost the feel o' painYou'd best take me for your true love.”True love! New love!Best take 'im for a new love,The dead they cannot rise, an' you'd better dry your eyes,An' you'd best take 'im for your true love.
Smokin' my pipe on the mountings,sniffin' the mornin' cool,I walks in my old brown gaitersalong o' my old brown mule,With seventy gunners be'ind me,an' never a beggar forgetsIt's only the pick of the Armythat handles the dear little pets—'Tss! 'Tss!For you all love the screw-guns—the screw-guns they all love you!So when we call round with a few guns,o' course you will know what to do—hoo! hoo!Jest send in your Chief an' surrender—it's worse if you fights or you runs:You can go where you please, you can skid up the trees,but you don't get away from the guns!They sends us along where the roads are, but mostly we goes where they ain't:We'd climb up the side of a sign-board an' trust to the stick o' the paint:We've chivied the Naga an' Looshai,we've give the Afreedeeman fits,For we fancies ourselves at two thousand,we guns that are built in two bits—'Tss! 'Tss!For you all love the screw-guns...If a man doesn't work, why, we drills 'iman' teaches 'im 'ow to behave;If a beggar can't march, why, we kills 'iman' rattles 'im into 'is grave.You've got to stand up to our businessan' spring without snatchin' or fuss.D'you say that you sweat with the field-guns?By God, you must lather with us—'Tss! 'Tss!For you all love the screw-guns...The eagles is screamin' around us,the river's a-moanin' below,We're clear o' the pine an' the oak-scrub,we're out on the rocks an' the snow,An' the wind is as thin as a whip-lashwhat carries away to the plainsThe rattle an' stamp o' the lead-mules—the jinglety-jink o' the chains—'Tss! 'Tss!For you all love the screw-guns...There's a wheel on the Horns o' the Mornin',an' a wheel on the edge o' the Pit,An' a drop into nothin' beneath you as straight as a beggar can spit:With the sweat runnin' out o' your shirt-sleeves,an' the sun off the snow in your face,An' 'arf o' the men on the drag-ropesto hold the old gun in 'er place—'Tss! 'Tss!For you all love the screw-guns...Smokin' my pipe on the mountings,sniffin' the mornin' cool,I climbs in my old brown gaitersalong o' my old brown mule.The monkey can say what our road was—the wild-goat 'e knows where we passed.Stand easy, you long-eared old darlin's!Out drag-ropes! With shrapnel! Hold fast—'Tss! 'Tss!For you all love the screw-guns—the screw-guns they all loveyou!So when we take tea with a few guns,o' course you will know what to do—hoo! hoo!Jest send in your Chief an' surrender—it's worse if you fights or you runs:You may hide in the caves, they'll be only your graves,but you can't get away from the guns!
You may talk o' gin and beerWhen you're quartered safe out 'ere,An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;But when it comes to slaughterYou will do your work on water,An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.Now in Injia's sunny clime,Where I used to spend my timeA-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,Of all them blackfaced crewThe finest man I knewWas our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.He was “Din! Din! Din!You limpin' lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!Hi! slippy hitherao!Water, get it! Panee lao!1You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.”The uniform 'e woreWas nothin' much before,An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,For a piece o' twisty ragAn' a goatskin water-bagWas all the field-equipment 'e could find.When the sweatin' troop-train layIn a sidin' through the day,Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,We shouted “Harry By!” 2Till our throats were bricky-dry,Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.It was “Din! Din! Din!You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?You put some juldee 3 in itOr I'll marrow 4 you this minuteIf you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!”'E would dot an' carry oneTill the longest day was done;An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.If we charged or broke or cut,You could bet your bloomin' nut,'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.With 'is mussick 5 on 'is back,'E would skip with our attack,An' watch us till the bugles made “Retire”,An' for all 'is dirty 'ide'E was white, clear white, insideWhen 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!It was “Din! Din! Din!”With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.When the cartridges ran out,You could hear the front-files shout,“Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!”I shan't forgit the nightWhen I dropped be'ind the fightWith a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.I was chokin' mad with thirst,An' the man that spied me firstWas our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.'E lifted up my 'ead,An' he plugged me where I bled,An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water-green:It was crawlin' and it stunk,But of all the drinks I've drunk,I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.It was “Din! Din! Din!'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;'E's chawin' up the ground,An' 'e's kickin' all around:For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!”'E carried me awayTo where a dooli lay,An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.'E put me safe inside,An' just before 'e died,“I 'ope you liked your drink”, sez Gunga Din.So I'll meet 'im later onAt the place where 'e is gone—Where it's always double drill and no canteen;'E'll be squattin' on the coalsGivin' drink to poor damned souls,An' I'll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!Yes, Din! Din! Din!You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!Though I've belted you and flayed you,By the livin' Gawd that made you,You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!1 Bring water swiftly.2 Mr Atkins' equivalent for “O Brother.”3 Hit you.4 Be quick.5 Water skin.
OONTS(Northern India Transport Train)Wot makes the soldier's 'eart to @penk, wot makes 'im to perspire?It isn't standin' up to charge nor lyin' down to fire;But it's everlastin' waitin' on a everlastin' roadFor the commissariat camel an' 'is commissariat load.O the oont, 1 O the oont, O the commissariat oont!With 'is silly neck a-bobbin' like a basket full o' snakes;We packs 'im like an idol, an' you ought to 'ear 'im grunt,An' when we gets 'im loaded up 'is blessed girth-rope breaks.Wot makes the rear-guard swear so 'ard when night is drorin' in,An' every native follower is shiverin' for 'is skin?It ain't the chanst o' being rushed by Paythans from the 'ills,It's the commissariat camel puttin' on 'is bloomin' frills!O the oont, O the oont, O the hairy scary oont!A-trippin' over tent-ropes when we've got the night alarm!We socks 'im with a stretcher-pole an' 'eads 'im off in front,An' when we've saved 'is bloomin' life 'e chaws our bloomin' arm.The 'orse 'e knows above a bit, the bullock's but a fool,The elephant's a gentleman, the battery-mule's a mule;But the commissariat cam-u-el, when all is said an' done,'E's a devil an' a ostrich an' a orphan-child in one.O the oont, O the oont, O the Gawd-forsaken oont!The lumpy-'umpy 'ummin'-bird a-singin' where 'e lies,'E's blocked the whole division from the rear-guard to the front,An' when we get him up again—the beggar goes an' dies!'E'll gall an' chafe an' lame an' fight—'e smells most awful vile;'E'll lose 'isself for ever if you let 'im stray a mile;'E's game to graze the 'ole day long an' 'owl the 'ole night through,An' when 'e comes to greasy ground 'e splits 'isself in two.O the oont, O the oont, O the floppin', droppin' oont!When 'is long legs give from under an' 'is meltin' eye is dim,The tribes is up be'ind us, and the tribes is out in front—It ain't no jam for Tommy, but it's kites an' crows for 'im.So when the cruel march is done, an' when the roads is blind,An' when we sees the camp in front an' 'ears the shots be'ind,Ho! then we strips 'is saddle off, and all 'is woes is past:'E thinks on us that used 'im so, and gets revenge at last.O the oont, O the oont, O the floatin', bloatin' oont!The late lamented camel in the water-cut 'e lies;We keeps a mile be'ind 'im an' we keeps a mile in front,But 'e gets into the drinkin'-casks, and then o' course we dies.1 Camel—oo is pronounced like u in “bull,” but by Mr. Atkins torhyme with “front.”
If you've ever stole a pheasant-egg be'ind the keeper's back,If you've ever snigged the washin' from the line,If you've ever crammed a gander in your bloomin' 'aversack,You will understand this little song o' mine.But the service rules are 'ard, an' from such we are debarred,For the same with English morals does not suit.(Cornet: Toot! toot!)W'y, they call a man a robber if 'e stuffs 'is marchin' clobberWith the—(Chorus) Loo! loo! Lulu! lulu! Loo! loo! Loot! loot! loot!Ow the loot!Bloomin' loot!That's the thing to make the boys git up an' shoot!It's the same with dogs an' men,If you'd make 'em come againClap 'em forward with a Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot!(ff) Whoopee! Tear 'im, puppy! Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot!If you've knocked a nigger edgeways when 'e's thrustin' for your life,You must leave 'im very careful where 'e fell;An' may thank your stars an' gaiters if you didn't feel 'is knifeThat you ain't told off to bury 'im as well.Then the sweatin' Tommies wonder as they spade the beggars underWhy lootin' should be entered as a crime;So if my song you'll 'ear, I will learn you plain an' clear'Ow to pay yourself for fightin' overtime.(Chorus) With the loot,...Now remember when you're 'acking round a gilded Burma godThat 'is eyes is very often precious stones;An' if you treat a nigger to a dose o' cleanin'-rod'E's like to show you everything 'e owns.When 'e won't prodooce no more, pour some water on the floorWhere you 'ear it answer 'ollow to the boot(Cornet: Toot! toot!)—When the ground begins to sink, shove your baynick down the chink,An' you're sure to touch the—(Chorus) Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot!Ow the loot!...When from 'ouse to 'ouse you're 'unting, you must always work in pairs—It 'alves the gain, but safer you will find—For a single man gets bottled on them twisty-wisty stairs,An' a woman comes and clobs 'im from be'ind.When you've turned 'em inside out, an' it seems beyond a doubtAs if there weren't enough to dust a flute(Cornet: Toot! toot!)—Before you sling your 'ook, at the 'ousetops take a look,For it's underneath the tiles they 'ide the loot.(Chorus) Ow the loot!...You can mostly square a Sergint an' a Quartermaster too,If you only take the proper way to go;I could never keep my pickin's, but I've learned you all I knew—An' don't you never say I told you so.An' now I'll bid good-bye, for I'm gettin' rather dry,An' I see another tunin' up to toot(Cornet: Toot! toot!)—So 'ere's good-luck to those that wears the Widow's clo'es,An' the Devil send 'em all they want o' loot!(Chorus) Yes, the loot,Bloomin' loot!In the tunic an' the mess-tin an' the boot!It's the same with dogs an' men,If you'd make 'em come again(fff) Whoop 'em forward with a Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot!Heeya! Sick 'im, puppy! Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot!
This 'appened in a battle to a batt'ry of the corpsWhich is first among the women an' amazin' first in war;An' what the bloomin' battle was I don't remember now,But Two's off-lead 'e answered to the name o' Snarleyow.Down in the Infantry, nobody cares;Down in the Cavalry, Colonel 'e swears;But down in the lead with the wheel at the flogTurns the bold Bombardier to a little whipped dog!They was movin' into action, they was needed very sore,To learn a little schoolin' to a native army corps,They 'ad nipped against an uphill, they was tuckin' down the brow,When a tricky, trundlin' roundshot give the knock to Snarleyow.They cut 'im loose an' left 'im—'e was almost tore in two—But he tried to follow after as a well-trained 'orse should do;'E went an' fouled the limber, an' the Driver's Brother squeals:“Pull up, pull up for Snarleyow—'is head's between 'is 'eels!”The Driver 'umped 'is shoulder, for the wheels was goin' round,An' there ain't no “Stop, conductor!” when a batt'ry's changin' ground;Sez 'e: “I broke the beggar in, an' very sad I feels,But I couldn't pull up, not for you—your 'ead between your 'eels!”'E 'adn't 'ardly spoke the word, before a droppin' shellA little right the batt'ry an' between the sections fell;An' when the smoke 'ad cleared away, before the limber wheels,There lay the Driver's Brother with 'is 'ead between 'is 'eels.Then sez the Driver's Brother, an' 'is words was very plain,“For Gawd's own sake get over me, an' put me out o' pain.”They saw 'is wounds was mortial, an' they judged that it was best,So they took an' drove the limber straight across 'is back an' chest.The Driver 'e give nothin' 'cept a little coughin' grunt,But 'e swung 'is 'orses 'andsome when it came to “Action Front!”An' if one wheel was juicy, you may lay your Monday head'Twas juicier for the niggers when the case begun to spread.The moril of this story, it is plainly to be seen:You 'avn't got no families when servin' of the Queen—You 'avn't got no brothers, fathers, sisters, wives, or sons—If you want to win your battles take an' work your bloomin' guns!Down in the Infantry, nobody cares;Down in the Cavalry, Colonel 'e swears;But down in the lead with the wheel at the flogTurns the bold Bombardier to a little whipped dog!
'Ave you 'eard o' the Widow at WindsorWith a hairy gold crown on 'er 'ead?She 'as ships on the foam—she 'as millions at 'ome,An' she pays us poor beggars in red.(Ow, poor beggars in red!)There's 'er nick on the cavalry 'orses,There's 'er mark on the medical stores—An' 'er troopers you'll find with a fair wind be'indThat takes us to various wars.(Poor beggars!—barbarious wars!)Then 'ere's to the Widow at Windsor,An' 'ere's to the stores an' the guns,The men an' the 'orses what makes up the forcesO' Missis Victorier's sons.(Poor beggars! Victorier's sons!)Walk wide o' the Widow at Windsor,For 'alf o' Creation she owns:We 'ave bought 'er the same with the sword an' the flame,An' we've salted it down with our bones.(Poor beggars!—it's blue with our bones!)Hands off o' the sons o' the Widow,Hands off o' the goods in 'er shop,For the Kings must come down an' the Emperors frownWhen the Widow at Windsor says “Stop”!(Poor beggars!—we're sent to say “Stop”!)Then 'ere's to the Lodge o' the Widow,From the Pole to the Tropics it runs—To the Lodge that we tile with the rank an' the file,An' open in form with the guns.(Poor beggars!—it's always they guns!)We 'ave 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor,It's safest to let 'er alone:For 'er sentries we stand by the sea an' the landWherever the bugles are blown.(Poor beggars!—an' don't we get blown!)Take 'old o' the Wings o' the Mornin',An' flop round the earth till you're dead;But you won't get away from the tune that they playTo the bloomin' old rag over'ead.(Poor beggars!—it's 'ot over'ead!)Then 'ere's to the sons o' the Widow,Wherever, 'owever they roam.'Ere's all they desire, an' if they requireA speedy return to their 'ome.(Poor beggars!—they'll never see 'ome!)
There was a row in Silver Street that's near to Dublin Quay,Between an Irish regiment an' English cavalree;It started at Revelly an' it lasted on till dark:The first man dropped at Harrison's, the last forninst the Park.For it was:—“Belts, belts, belts, an' that's one for you!”An' it was “Belts, belts, belts, an' that's done for you!”O buckle an' tongueWas the song that we sungFrom Harrison's down to the Park!There was a row in Silver Street—the regiments was out,They called us “Delhi Rebels”, an' we answered “Threes about!”That drew them like a hornet's nest—we met them good an' large,The English at the double an' the Irish at the charge.Then it was:—“Belts...There was a row in Silver Street—an' I was in it too;We passed the time o' day, an' then the belts went whirraru!I misremember what occurred, but subsequint the stormA Freeman's Journal Supplemint was all my uniform.O it was:—“Belts...
There was a row in Silver Street—they sent the Polis there,The English were too drunk to know, the Irish didn't care;But when they grew impertinint we simultaneous rose,Till half o' them was Liffey mud an' half was tatthered clo'es.For it was:—“Belts...There was a row in Silver Street—it might ha' raged till now,But some one drew his side-arm clear, an' nobody knew how;'Twas Hogan took the point an' dropped; we saw the red blood run:An' so we all was murderers that started out in fun.While it was:—“Belts...There was a row in Silver Street—but that put down the shine,Wid each man whisperin' to his next: “'Twas never work o' mine!”We went away like beaten dogs, an' down the street we bore him,The poor dumb corpse that couldn't tell the bhoys were sorry for him.When it was:—“Belts...There was a row in Silver Street—it isn't over yet,For half of us are under guard wid punishments to get;'Tis all a merricle to me as in the Clink I lie:There was a row in Silver Street—begod, I wonder why!But it was:—“Belts, belts, belts, an' that's one for you!”An' it was “Belts, belts, belts, an' that's done for you!”O buckle an' tongueWas the song that we sungFrom Harrison's down to the Park!
When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceasedEre 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,So-oldier of the Queen!Now all you recruities what's drafted today,You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:A soldier what's fit for a soldier.Fit, fit, fit for a soldier...First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts—Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts—An' it's bad for the young British soldier.Bad, bad, bad for the soldier...When the cholera comes—as it will past a doubt—Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,An' it crumples the young British soldier.Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier...But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said:If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.Fool, fool, fool of a soldier...If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;Be handy and civil, and then you will findThat it's beer for the young British soldier.Beer, beer, beer for the soldier...Now, if you must marry, take care she is old—A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier...If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loathTo shoot when you catch 'em—you'll swing, on my oath!—Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both,An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.Curse, curse, curse of a soldier...When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luckAnd march to your front like a soldier.Front, front, front like a soldier...When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;She's human as you are—you treat her as sich,An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.Fight, fight, fight for the soldier...When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine,The guns o' the enemy wheel into line,Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,For noise never startles the soldier.Start-, start-, startles the soldier...If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,And wait for supports like a soldier.Wait, wait, wait like a soldier...When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,And the women come out to cut up what remains,Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brainsAn' go to your Gawd like a soldier.Go, go, go like a soldier,Go, go, go like a soldier,Go, go, go like a soldier,So-oldier of the Queen!
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea,There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:“Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!”Come you back to Mandalay,Where the old Flotilla lay:Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay?On the road to Mandalay,Where the flyin'-fishes play,An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat—jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:Bloomin' idol made o'mud—Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd—Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud!On the road to Mandalay...When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow,She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing “Kulla-lo-lo!”With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin' my cheekWe useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak.Elephints a-pilin' teakIn the sludgy, squdgy creek,Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak!On the road to Mandalay...But that's all shove be'ind me—long ago an' fur away,An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay;An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:“If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else.”No! you won't 'eed nothin' elseBut them spicy garlic smells,An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells;On the road to Mandalay...I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones,An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?Beefy face an' grubby 'and—Law! wot do they understand?I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!On the road to Mandalay...Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst;For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be—By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;On the road to Mandalay,Where the old Flotilla lay,With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!On the road to Mandalay,Where the flyin'-fishes play,An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
TROOPIN'(Our Army in the East)Troopin', troopin', troopin' to the sea:'Ere's September come again—the six-year men are free.O leave the dead be'ind us, for they cannot come awayTo where the ship's a-coalin' up that takes us 'ome today.We're goin' 'ome, we're goin' 'ome,Our ship is at the shore,An' you must pack your 'aversack,For we won't come back no more.Ho, don't you grieve for me,My lovely Mary-Ann,For I'll marry you yit on a fourp'ny bitAs a time-expired man.The Malabar's in 'arbour with the Jumner at 'er tail,An' the time-expired's waitin' of 'is orders for to sail.Ho! the weary waitin' when on Khyber 'ills we lay,But the time-expired's waitin' of 'is orders 'ome today.They'll turn us out at Portsmouth wharf in cold an' wet an' rain,All wearin' Injian cotton kit, but we will not complain;They'll kill us of pneumonia—for that's their little way—But damn the chills and fever, men, we're goin' 'ome today!Troopin', troopin', winter's round again!See the new draf's pourin' in for the old campaign;Ho, you poor recruities, but you've got to earn your pay—What's the last from Lunnon, lads? We're goin' there today.Troopin', troopin', give another cheer—'Ere's to English women an' a quart of English beer.The Colonel an' the regiment an' all who've got to stay,Gawd's mercy strike 'em gentle—Whoop! we're goin' 'ome today.We're goin' 'ome, we're goin' 'ome,Our ship is at the shore,An' you must pack your 'aversack,For we won't come back no more.Ho, don't you grieve for me,My lovely Mary-Ann,For I'll marry you yit on a fourp'ny bitAs a time-expired man.
Kabul town's by Kabul river—Blow the bugle, draw the sword—There I lef' my mate for ever,Wet an' drippin' by the ford.Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!There's the river up and brimmin', an' there's 'arf a squadron swimmin''Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.Kabul town's a blasted place—Blow the bugle, draw the sword—'Strewth I sha'n't forget 'is faceWet an' drippin' by the ford!Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!Keep the crossing-stakes beside you, an' they will surely guide you'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.Kabul town is sun and dust—Blow the bugle, draw the sword—I'd ha' sooner drownded fust'Stead of 'im beside the ford.Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!You can 'ear the 'orses threshin', you can 'ear the men a-splashin','Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.Kabul town was ours to take—Blow the bugle, draw the sword—I'd ha' left it for 'is sake—'Im that left me by the ford.Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!It's none so bloomin' dry there; ain't you never comin' nigh there,'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark?Kabul town'll go to hell—Blow the bugle, draw the sword—'Fore I see him 'live an' well—'Im the best beside the ford.Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!Gawd 'elp 'em if they blunder, for their boots'll pull 'em under,By the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.Turn your 'orse from Kabul town—Blow the bugle, draw the sword—'Im an' 'arf my troop is down,Down an' drownded by the ford.Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!There's the river low an' fallin', but it ain't no use o' callin''Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.
We're marchin' on relief over Injia's sunny plains,A little front o' Christmas-time an' just be'ind the Rains;Ho! get away you bullock-man, you've 'eard the bugle blowed,There's a regiment a-comin' down the Grand Trunk Road;With its best foot firstAnd the road a-sliding past,An' every bloomin' campin'-ground exactly like the last;While the Big Drum says,With 'is “rowdy-dowdy-dow!”—“Kiko kissywarsti don't you hamsher argy jow?” 2Oh, there's them Injian temples to admire when you see,There's the peacock round the corner an' the monkey up the tree,An' there's that rummy silver grass a-wavin' in the wind,An' the old Grand Trunk a-trailin' like a rifle-sling be'ind.While it's best foot first,...At half-past five's Revelly, an' our tents they down must come,Like a lot of button mushrooms when you pick 'em up at 'ome.But it's over in a minute, an' at six the column starts,While the women and the kiddies sit an' shiver in the carts.An' it's best foot first,...Oh, then it's open order, an' we lights our pipes an' sings,An' we talks about our rations an' a lot of other things,An' we thinks o' friends in England, an' we wonders what they're at,An' 'ow they would admire for to hear us sling the bat.1An' it's best foot first,...It's none so bad o' Sunday, when you're lyin' at your ease,To watch the kites a-wheelin' round them feather-'eaded trees,For although there ain't no women, yet there ain't no barrick-yards,So the orficers goes shootin' an' the men they plays at cards.Till it's best foot first,...So 'ark an' 'eed, you rookies, which is always grumblin' sore,There's worser things than marchin' from Umballa to Cawnpore;An' if your 'eels are blistered an' they feels to 'urt like 'ell,You drop some tallow in your socks an' that will make 'em well.For it's best foot first,...We're marchin' on relief over Injia's coral strand,Eight 'undred fightin' Englishmen, the Colonel, and the Band;Ho! get away you bullock-man, you've 'eard the bugle blowed,There's a regiment a-comin' down the Grand Trunk Road;With its best foot firstAnd the road a-sliding past,An' every bloomin' campin'-ground exactly like the last;While the Big Drum says,With 'is “rowdy-dowdy-dow!”—“Kiko kissywarsti don't you hamsher argy jow?” 21 Thomas's first and firmest conviction is that he is a profound Orientalistand a fluent speaker of Hindustani. As a matter of fact, he depends largelyon the sign-language.2 Why don't you get onThe end* * * * * *
May no ill dreams disturb my rest,Nor Powers of Darkness me molest.—Evening Hymn.
ONE of the few advantages that India has over England is a great Knowability. After five years' service a man is directly or indirectly acquainted with the two or three hundred Civilians in his Province, all the Messes of ten or twelve Regiments and Batteries, and some fifteen hundred other people of the non-official caste. In ten years his knowledge should be doubled, and at the end of twenty he knows, or knows something about, every Englishman in the Empire, and may travel anywhere and everywhere without paying hotel-bills.
Globe-trotters who expect entertainment as a right, have, even within my memory, blunted this open-heartedness, but none the less today, if you belong to the Inner Circle and are neither a Bear nor a Black Sheep, all houses are open to you, and our small world is very, very kind and helpful.
Rickett of Kamartha stayed with Polder of Kumaon some fifteen years ago. He meant to stay two nights, but was knocked down by rheumatic fever, and for six weeks disorganized Polder's establishment, stopped Polder's work, and nearly died in Polder's bedroom. Polder behaves as though he had been placed under eternal obligation by Rickett, and yearly sends the little Ricketts a box of presents and toys. It is the same everywhere. The men who do not take the trouble to conceal from you their opinion that you are an incompetent ass, and the women who blacken your character and misunderstand your wife's amusements, will work themselves to the bone in your behalf if you fall sick or into serious trouble.
Heatherlegh, the Doctor, kept, in addition to his regular practice, a hospital on his private account—an arrangement of loose boxes for Incurables, his friend called it—but it was really a sort of fitting-up shed for craft that had been damaged by stress of weather. The weather in India is often sultry, and since the tale of bricks is always a fixed quantity, and the only liberty allowed is permission to work overtime and get no thanks, men occasionally break down and become as mixed as the metaphors in this sentence.
Heatherlegh is the dearest doctor that ever was, and his invariable prescription to all his patients is, “lie low, go slow, and keep cool.” He says that more men are killed by overwork than the importance of this world justifies. He maintains that overwork slew Pansay, who died under his hands about three years ago. He has, of course, the right to speak authoritatively, and he laughs at my theory that there was a crack in Pansay's head and a little bit of the Dark World came through and pressed him to death. “Pansay went off the handle,” says Heatherlegh, “after the stimulus of long leave at Home. He may or he may not have behaved like a blackguard to Mrs. Keith-Wessington. My notion is that the work of the Katabundi Settlement ran him off his legs, and that he took to brooding and making much of an ordinary P. & 0. flirtation. He certainly was engaged to Miss Mannering, and she certainly broke off the engagement. Then he took a feverish chill and all that nonsense about ghosts developed. Overwork started his illness, kept it alight, and killed him poor devil. Write him off to the System—one man to take the work of two and a half men.”
I do not believe this. I used to sit up with Pansay sometimes when Heatherlegh was called out to patients, and I happened to be within claim. The man would make me most unhappy by describing in a low, even voice, the procession that was always passing at the bottom of his bed. He had a sick man's command of language.
When he recovered I suggested that he should write out the whole affair from beginning to end, knowing that ink might assist him to ease his mind. When little boys have learned a new bad word they are never happy till they have chalked it up on a door. And this also is Literature.
He was in a high fever while he was writing, and the blood-and-thunder Magazine diction he adopted did not calm him. Two months afterward he was reported fit for duty, but, in spite of the fact that he was urgently needed to help an undermanned Commission stagger through a deficit, he preferred to die; vowing at the last that he was hag-ridden. I got his manuscript before he died, and this is his version of the affair, dated 1885:
My doctor tells me that I need rest and change of air. It is not improbable that I shall get both ere long—rest that neither the red-coated messenger nor the midday gun can break, and change of air far beyond that which any homeward-bound steamer can give me. In the meantime I am resolved to stay where I am; and, in flat defiance of my doctor's orders, to take all the world into my confidence. You shall learn for yourselves the precise nature of my malady; and shall, too, judge for yourselves whether any man born of woman on this weary earth was ever so tormented as I.
Speaking now as a condemned criminal might speak ere the drop-bolts are drawn, my story, wild and hideously improbable as it may appear, demands at least attention. That it will ever receive credence I utterly disbelieve. Two months ago I should have scouted as mad or drunk the man who had dared tell me the like. Two months ago I was the happiest man in India. Today, from Peshawur to the sea, there is no one more wretched. My doctor and I are the only two who know this. His explanation is, that my brain, digestion, and eyesight are all slightly affected; giving rise to my frequent and persistent “delusions.” Delusions, indeed! I call him a fool; but he attends me still with the same unwearied smile, the same bland professional manner, the same neatly trimmed red whiskers, till I begin to suspect that I am an ungrateful, evil-tempered invalid. But you shall judge for yourselves.
Three years ago it was my fortune—my great misfortune—to sail from Gravesend to Bombay, on return from long leave, with one Agnes Keith-Wessington, wife of an officer on the Bombay side. It does not in the least concern you to know what manner of woman she was. Be content with the knowledge that, ere the voyage had ended, both she and I were desperately and unreasoningly in love with one another. Heaven knows that I can make the admission now without one particle of vanity. In matters of this sort there is always one who gives and another who accepts. From the first day of our ill-omened attachment, I was conscious that Agnes's passion was a stronger, a more dominant, and—if I may use the expression—a purer sentiment than mine. Whether she recognized the fact then, I do not know. Afterward it was bitterly plain to both of us.
Arrived at Bombay in the spring of the year, we went our respective ways, to meet no more for the next three or four months, when my leave and her love took us both to Simla. There we spent the season together; and there my fire of straw burned itself out to a pitiful end with the closing year. I attempt no excuse. I make no apology. Mrs. Wessington had given up much for my sake, and was prepared to give up all. From my own lips, in August, 1882, she learned that I was sick of her presence, tired of her company, and weary of the sound of her voice. Ninety-nine women out of a hundred would have wearied of me as I wearied of them; seventy-five of that number would have promptly avenged themselves by active and obtrusive flirtation with other men. Mrs. Wessington was the hundredth. On her neither my openly expressed aversion nor the cutting brutalities with which I garnished our interviews had the least effect. “Jack, darling!” was her one eternal cuckoo cry: “I'm sure it's all a mistake—a hideous mistake; and we'll be good friends again some day. Please forgive me, Jack, dear.”
I was the offender, and I knew it. That knowledge transformed my pity into passive endurance, and, eventually, into blind hate—the same instinct, I suppose, which prompts a man to savagely stamp on the spider he has but half killed. And with this hate in my bosom the season of 1882 came to an end.
Next year we met again at Simla—she with her monotonous face and timid attempts at reconciliation, and I with loathing of her in every fibre of my frame. Several times I could not avoid meeting her alone; and on each occasion her words were identically the same. Still the unreasoning wail that it was all a “mistake”; and still the hope of eventually “making friends.” I might have seen had I cared to look, that that hope only was keeping her alive. She grew more wan and thin month by month. You will agree with me, at least, that such conduct would have driven any one to despair. It was uncalled for; childish; unwomanly. I maintain that she was much to blame. And again, sometimes, in the black, fever-stricken night-watches, I have begun to think that I might have been a little kinder to her. But that really is a “delusion.” I could not have continued pretending to love her when I didn't; could I? It would have been unfair to us both.
Last year we met again—on the same terms as before. The same weary appeal, and the same curt answers from my lips. At least I would make her see how wholly wrong and hopeless were her attempts at resuming the old relationship. As the season wore on, we fell apart—that is to say, she found it difficult to meet me, for I had other and more absorbing interests to attend to. When I think it over quietly in my sick-room, the season of 1884 seems a confused nightmare wherein light and shade were fantastically intermingled—my courtship of little Kitty Mannering; my hopes, doubts, and fears; our long rides together; my trembling avowal of attachment; her reply; and now and again a vision of a white face flitting by in the 'rickshaw with the black and white liveries I once watched for so earnestly; the wave of Mrs. Wessington's gloved hand; and, when she met me alone, which was but seldom, the irksome monotony of her appeal. I loved Kitty Mannering; honestly, heartily loved her, and with my love for her grew my hatred for Agnes. In August Kitty and I were engaged. The next day I met those accursed “magpie” jhampanies at the back of Jakko, and, moved by some passing sentiment of pity, stopped to tell Mrs. Wessington everything. She knew it already.
“So I hear you're engaged, Jack dear.” Then, without a moment's pause—“I'm sure it's all a mistake—a hideous mistake. We shall be as good friends some day, Jack, as we ever were.”
My answer might have made even a man wince. It cut the dying woman before me like the blow of a whip. “Please forgive me, Jack; I didn't mean to make you angry; but it's true, it's true!”
And Mrs. Wessington broke down completely. I turned away and left her to finish her journey in peace, feeling, but only for a moment or two, that I had been an unutterably mean hound. I looked back, and saw that she had turned her 'rickshaw with the idea, I suppose, of overtaking me.
The scene and its surroundings were photographed on my memory.
The rain-swept sky (we were at the end of the wet weather), the sodden, dingy pines, the muddy road, and the black powder-riven cliffs formed a gloomy background against which the black and white liveries of the jhampanies, the yellow-paneled 'rickshaw and Mrs. Wessington's down-bowed golden head stood out clearly. She was holding her handkerchief in her left hand and was leaning back exhausted against the 'rickshaw cushions. I turned my horse up a bypath near the Sanjowlie Reservoir and literally ran away. Once I fancied I heard a faint call of “Jack!” This may have been imagination. I never stopped to verify it. Ten minutes later I came across Kitty on horseback; and, in the delight of a long ride with her, forgot all about the interview.
A week later Mrs. Wessington died, and the inexpressible burden of her existence was removed from my life. I went Plainsward perfectly happy. Before three months were over I had forgotten all about her, except that at times the discovery of some of her old letters reminded me unpleasantly of our bygone relationship. By January I had disinterred what was left of our correspondence from among my scattered belongings and had burned it. At the beginning of April of this year, 1885, I was at Simla—semi-deserted Simla—once more, and was deep in lover's talks and walks with Kitty. It was decided that we should be married at the end of June. You will understand, therefore, that, loving Kitty as I did, I am not saying too much when I pronounce myself to have been, at that time, the happiest man in India.
Fourteen delightful days passed almost before I noticed their flight.
Then, aroused to the sense of what was proper among mortals circumstanced as we were, I pointed out to Kitty that an engagement ring was the outward and visible sign of her dignity as an engaged girl; and that she must forthwith come to Hamilton's to be measured for one. Up to that moment, I give you my word, we had completely forgotten so trivial a matter. To Hamilton's we accordingly went on the 15th of April, 1885. Remember that—whatever my doctor may say to the contrary—I was then in perfect health, enjoying a well-balanced mind and an absolute tranquil spirit. Kitty and I entered Hamilton's shop together, and there, regardless of the order of affairs, I measured Kitty for the ring in the presence of the amused assistant. The ring was a sapphire with two diamonds. We then rode out down the slope that leads to the Combermere Bridge and Peliti's shop.
While my Waler was cautiously feeling his way over the loose shale, and Kitty was laughing and chattering at my side—while all Simla, that is to say as much of it as had then come from the Plains, was grouped round the Reading-room and Peliti's veranda,—I was aware that some one, apparently at a vast distance, was calling me by my Christian name. It struck me that I had heard the voice before, but when and where I could not at once determine. In the short space it took to cover the road between the path from Hamilton's shop and the first plank of the Combermere Bridge I had thought over half a dozen people who might have committed such a solecism, and had eventually decided that it must have been singing in my ears. Immediately opposite Peliti's shop my eye was arrested by the sight of four jharnpanies in “magpie” livery, pulling a yellow-paneled, cheap, bazar 'rickshaw. In a moment my mind flew back to the previous season and Mrs. Wessington with a sense of irritation and disgust. Was it not enough that the woman was dead and done with, without her black and white servitors reappearing to spoil the day's happiness? Whoever employed them now I thought I would call upon, and ask as a personal favor to change her jhampanies' livery. I would hire the men myself, and, if necessary, buy their coats from off their backs. It is impossible to say here what a flood of undesirable memories their presence evoked.
“Kitty,” I cried, “there are poor Mrs. Wessington's jhampanies turned up again! I wonder who has them now?”
Kitty had known Mrs. Wessington slightly last season, and had always been interested in the sickly woman. “What? Where?” she asked. “I can't see them anywhere.”
Even as she spoke her horse, swerving from a laden mule, threw himself directly in front of the advancing 'rickshaw. I had scarcely time to utter a word of warning when, to my unutterable horror, horse and rider passed through men and carriage as if they had been thin air.
“What's the matter?” cried Kitty; “what made you call out so foolishly, Jack? If I am engaged I don't want all creation to know about it. There was lots of space between the mule and the veranda; and, if you think I can't ride—
“—There!”
Whereupon wilful Kitty set off, her dainty little head in the air, at a hand-gallop in the direction of the Bandstand; fully expecting, as she herself afterward told me, that I should follow her. What was the matter? Nothing indeed. Either that I was mad or drunk, or that Simla was haunted with devils. I reined in my impatient cob, and turned round. The 'rickshaw had turned too, and now stood immediately facing me, near the left railing of the Combermere Bridge.
“Jack! Jack, darling!” (There was no mistake about the words this time: they rang through my brain as if they had been shouted in my ear.) “It's some hideous mistake, I'm sure. Please forgive me, jack, and let's be friends again.”
The 'rickshaw-hood had fallen back, and inside, as I hope and pray daily for the death I dread by night, sat Mrs. Keith-Wessington, handkerchief in hand, and golden head bowed on her breast.
How long I stared motionless I do not know. Finally, I was aroused by my syce taking the Waler's bridle and asking whether I was ill. From the horrible to the commonplace is but a step. I tumbled off my horse and dashed, half fainting, into Peliti's for a glass of cherry-brandy. There two or three couples were gathered round the coffee-tables discussing the gossip of the day. Their trivialities were more comforting to me just then than the consolations of religion could have been. I plunged into the midst of the conversation at once; chatted, laughed, and jested with a face (when I caught a glimpse of it in a mirror) as white and drawn as that of a corpse. Three or four men noticed my condition; and, evidently setting it down to the results of over-many pegs, charitably endeavoured to draw me apart from the rest of the loungers. But I refused to be led away. I wanted the company of my kind—as a child rushes into the midst of the dinner-party after a fright in the dark. I must have talked for about ten minutes or so, though it seemed an eternity to me, when I heard Kitty's clear voice outside inquiring for me. In another minute she had entered the shop, prepared to roundly upbraid me for failing so signally in my duties. Something in my face stopped her.
“Why, Jack,” she cried, “what have you been doing? What has happened? Are you ill?” Thus driven into a direct lie, I said that the sun had been a little too much for me. It was close upon five o'clock of a cloudy April afternoon, and the sun had been hidden all day. I saw my mistake as soon as the words were out of my mouth: attempted to recover it; blundered hopelessly and followed Kitty in a regal rage, out of doors, amid the smiles of my acquaintances. I made some excuse (I have forgotten what) on the score of my feeling faint; and cantered away to my hotel, leaving Kitty to finish the ride by herself.
In my room I sat down and tried calmly to reason out the matter.
Here was I, Theobald Jack Pansay, a well-educated Bengal Civilian in the year of grace, 1885, presumably sane, certainly healthy, driven in terror from my sweetheart's side by the apparition of a woman who had been dead and buried eight months ago. These were facts that I could not blink. Nothing was further from my thought than any memory of Mrs. Wessington when Kitty and I left Hamilton's shop. Nothing was more utterly commonplace than the stretch of wall opposite Peliti's. It was broad daylight. The road was full of people; and yet here, look you, in defiance of every law of probability, in direct outrage of Nature's ordinance, there had appeared to me a face from the grave.
Kitty's Arab had gone through the 'rickshaw: so that my first hope that some woman marvelously like Mrs. Wessington had hired the carriage and the coolies with their old livery was lost. Again and again I went round this treadmill of thought; and again and again gave up baffled and in despair. The voice was as inexplicable as the apparition. I had originally some wild notion of confiding it all to Kitty; of begging her to marry me at once; and in her arms defying the ghostly occupant of the 'rickshaw. “After all,” I argued, “the presence of the 'rickshaw is in itself enough to prove the existence of a spectral illusion. One may see ghosts of men and women, but surely never of coolies and carriages. The whole thing is absurd. Fancy the ghost of a hill-man!”
Next morning I sent a penitent note to Kitty, imploring her to overlook my strange conduct of the previous afternoon. My Divinity was still very wroth, and a personal apology was necessary. I explained, with a fluency born of night-long pondering over a falsehood, that I had been attacked with sudden palpitation of the heart—the result of indigestion. This eminently practical solution had its effect; and Kitty and I rode out that afternoon with the shadow of my first lie dividing us.
Nothing would please her save a canter round Jakko. With my nerves still unstrung from the previous night I feebly protested against the notion, suggesting Observatory Hill, Jutogh, the Boileaugunge road—anything rather than the Jakko round. Kitty was angry and a little hurt: so I yielded from fear of provoking further misunderstanding, and we set out together toward Chota Simla. We walked a greater part of the way, and, according to our custom, cantered from a mile or so below the Convent to the stretch of level road by the Sanjowlie Reservoir. The wretched horses appeared to fly, and my heart beat quicker and quicker as we neared the crest of the ascent. My mind had been full of Mrs. Wessington all the afternoon; and every inch of the Jakko road bore witness to our oldtime walks and talks. The bowlders were full of it; the pines sang it aloud overhead; the rain-fed torrents giggled and chuckled unseen over the shameful story; and the wind in my ears chanted the iniquity aloud.
As a fitting climax, in the middle of the level men call the Ladies' Mile the Horror was awaiting me. No other 'rickshaw was in sight—only the four black and white jhampanies, the yellow-paneled carriage, and the golden head of the woman within—all apparently just as I had left them eight months and one fortnight ago! For an instant I fancied that Kitty must see what I saw—we were so marvelously sympathetic in all things. Her next words undeceived me—“Not a soul in sight! Come along, Jack, and I'll race you to the Reservoir buildings!” Her wiry little Arab was off like a bird, my Waler following close behind, and in this order we dashed under the cliffs. Half a minute brought us within fifty yards of the 'rickshaw. I pulled my Waler and fell back a little. The 'rickshaw was directly in the middle of the road; and once more the Arab passed through it, my horse following. “Jack! Jack dear! Please forgive me,” rang with a wail in my ears, and, after an interval:—“It's a mistake, a hideous mistake!”
I spurred my horse like a man possessed. When I turned my head at the Reservoir works, the black and white liveries were still waiting—patiently waiting—under the grey hillside, and the wind brought me a mocking echo of the words I had just heard. Kitty bantered me a good deal on my silence throughout the remainder of the ride. I had been talking up till then wildly and at random.
To save my life I could not speak afterward naturally, and from Sanjowlie to the Church wisely held my tongue.
I was to dine with the Mannerings that night, and had barely time to canter home to dress. On the road to Elysium Hill I overheard two men talking together in the dusk.—“It's a curious thing,” said one, “how completely all trace of it disappeared. You know my wife was insanely fond of the woman ('never could see anything in her myself), and wanted me to pick up her old 'rickshaw and coolies if they were to be got for love or money. Morbid sort of fancy I call it; but I've got to do what the Memsahib tells me.
“Would you believe that the man she hired it from tells me that all four of the men—they were brothers—died of cholera on the way to Hardwar, poor devils, and the 'rickshaw has been broken up by the man himself. 'Told me he never used a dead Memsahib's 'rickshaw. 'Spoiled his luck.' Queer notion, wasn't it? Fancy poor little Mrs. Wessington spoiling any one's luck except her own!” I laughed aloud at this point; and my laugh jarred on me as I uttered it. So there were ghosts of 'rickshaws after all, and ghostly employments in the other world! How much did Mrs. Wessington give her men? What were their hours? Where did they go?
And for visible answer to my last question I saw the infernal Thing blocking my path in the twilight. The dead travel fast, and by short cuts unknown to ordinary coolies. I laughed aloud a second time and checked my laughter suddenly, for I was afraid I was going mad. Mad to a certain extent I must have been, for I recollect that I reined in my horse at the head of the 'rickshaw, and politely wished Mrs. Wessington “Good evening.” Her answer was one I knew only too well. I listened to the end; and replied that I had heard it all before, but should be delighted if she had anything further to say. Some malignant devil stronger than I must have entered into me that evening, for I have a dim recollection of talking the commonplaces of the day for five minutes to the Thing in front of me.
“Mad as a hatter, poor devil—or drunk. Max, try and get him to come home.”
Surely that was not Mrs. Wessington's voice! The two men had overheard me speaking to the empty air, and had returned to look after me. They were very kind and considerate, and from their words evidently gathered that I was extremely drunk. I thanked them confusedly and cantered away to my hotel, there changed, and arrived at the Mannerings' ten minutes late. I pleaded the darkness of the night as an excuse; was rebuked by Kitty for my unlover-like tardiness; and sat down.
The conversation had already become general; and under cover of it, I was addressing some tender small talk to my sweetheart when I was aware that at the further end of the table a short red-whiskered man was describing, with much broidery, his encounter with a mad unknown that evening.
A few sentences convinced me that he was repeating the incident of half an hour ago. In the middle of the story he looked round for applause, as professional story-tellers do, caught my eye, and straightway collapsed. There was a moment's awkward silence, and the red-whiskered man muttered something to the effect that he had “forgotten the rest,” thereby sacrificing a reputation as a good story-teller which he had built up for six seasons past. I blessed him from the bottom of my heart, and—went on with my fish.
In the fulness of time that dinner came to an end; and with genuine regret I tore myself away from Kitty—as certain as I was of my own existence that It would be waiting for me outside the door. The red-whiskered man, who had been introduced to me as Doctor Heatherlegh, of Simla, volunteered to bear me company as far as our roads lay together. I accepted his offer with gratitude.
My instinct had not deceived me. It lay in readiness in the Mall, and, in what seemed devilish mockery of our ways, with a lighted head-lamp. The red-whiskered man went to the point at once, in a manner that showed he bad been thinking over it all dinner time.
“I say, Pansay, what the deuce was the matter with you this evening on the Elysium road?” The suddenness of the question wrenched an answer from me before I was aware.
“That!” said I, pointing to It.