Rudyard Kipling's Tales of Horror and Fantasy (22 page)

He fumbled in the mass of rags round his bent waist; brought out a black horse-hair bag embroidered with silver thread; and shook therefrom on to my table – the dried, withered head of Daniel Dravot! The morning sun that had long been paling the lamps struck the red beard and blind sunken eyes; struck, too, a heavy circlet of gold studded with raw turquoises that Carnehan placed tenderly on the battered temples.

‘You behold now,’ said Carnehan, ‘the Emperor in his habit as he lived – the King of Kafiristan with his crown upon his head. Poor old Daniel that was a real monarch once!’

I shuddered, for, in spite of defacements manifold, I recognised the head of the man of Marwar Junction.

Carnehan rose to go. I attempted to stop him. He was not fit to walk abroad. ‘Let me take away the whiskey, and give me a little money,’ he gasped. ‘I was a King once. I’ll go to the Deputy Commissioner and ask leave to set in the Poorhouse till I get my health. No, thank you, I can’t wait till you get a carriage for me. I’ve urgent private affairs – in the South – at Marwar. He has gone South for the week, you know.’

He shambled out of the office and departed in the direction of the Deputy Commissioner’s house. That day at noon I had occasion to go down the blinding hot Mall, and I saw a crooked man crawling along the white dust of the roadside, his hat in his hand, quavering dolorously after the fashion of street-singers at Home. There was not a soul in sight, and he was out of all possible earshot of the houses. And he sang through his nose, turning his head, tortoise fashion, from right to left: –

‘The Son of Man goes forth to war,

A golden crown to gain;

His blood-red banner streams afar—

Who follows in his train?’

I waited to hear no more but put the poor wretch into my carriage and drove him off to the nearest missionary for eventual transfer to the Asylum. He repeated the hymn twice while he was with me, whom he did not in the least recognise, and I left him singing it to the missionary.

Two days later I enquired after his welfare of the Superintendent of the Asylum.

‘He was admitted suffering from sunstroke. He died early yesterday morning,’ said the Superintendent. ‘Is it true that he was half an hour bareheaded in the sun at midday?’

‘Yes,’ said I, ‘but do you happen to know if he had anything upon him by any chance when he died?’

‘Not to my knowledge,’ said the Superintendent.

And there the matter rests.

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 wereshown,

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 a drawling tangle.

‘An’ soa Ah coot’s heead 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 – andflourished his heels in the air. ‘You’re a man, Learoyd,’ said he critically, ‘but you’ve only fought wid men, an’ that’s an ivryday expayrience; but I’ve stud up to a ghost, an’ that was
not
an ivryday exparience.’

‘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’ truth!’ 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 mego!’

‘Ye maraudhin’ haythen! ’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 throublin’ you? Av coorse I will. I mint to all along. I was only gettin’ at ut my own way, as Popp Doggie said t whin they found him thryin’ 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 anyone 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 rejuiced aftherwards – but, as I say,
whin
I was Corp’ril, I was the divil av 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; sinthry-go has disconceited me, an’ I’m married 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 betune Revelry 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 – 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 disreputation– an’ I was the Imperor av the Earth in me own mind, an’ wan or tu wimmen thought the same. Small blame to thim. Afther we had lain there a year, Bragin, the Colour-Sargint av EComp’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 – sivin – 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 me arrum,an’ a little sof button av a mouth I wud ha’ gone through allAsia bristlin’ wid bay’nits to get the kiss av. An’ her hair was aslong as the tail av the Colonel’s charger – forgive me mentionin’ that blundherin’ baste in the same mouthful wid Annie Bragin – but ’twas all shpun gowld, an’ time was whin 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 eye rollin’round as usual to see fwhat was to be seen. “You’re too good for Bragin, me love,” thinks I to mesilf, “but that’s a mistake I can put straight, or me name is not Terence Mulvaney.”

‘Now take me wurrud 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 playin’ the fifes on the tread av another man’s doorstep. ’Twas so we found O’Hara, he that Rafferty killed six years gone, whin 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 jooty an’Bragin wasn’t, but niver a swate word beyon’ ordinar’ did I get from Annie Bragin. “’Tis the pervarsity av the sect,” sez I to mesilf, an’ gave me cap another cock on me head an’ straightened me back – ’twas the back av a Dhrum-Major in those days – an’ wint off as tho’ I did not care, wid all the wimmen in the Married Quarters laughin’. I was pershuaded – most bhoys
are
, I’m thinkin’ – that no woman born av woman cud stand agin’ me av I hild up me little finger. I had good cause for to think that way – till I met Annie Bragin.

‘Time an’ agin whin I was blandandherin’ in the dusk a man wud go past me as quiet as a cat. “That’s quare,” thinks I, “for I am, or I shud be, the only man in these parts. Now what divilmint can Annie be up to?” Thin I called myself a blay-guard for thinkin’ such things; but I thought thim all the same. An’ that, mark you, is the way av a man.

‘Wan evenin’ I said: “Mrs Bragin, manin’ no disrespect toyou, who
is
that Corp’ril man”– I had seen the shtripes though Icud niver get sight av his face – “
who
is that Corp’ril man that comes in always whin I’m goin’ away?”

‘ “Mother av God!” sez she, turnin’ as white as my belt; “have
you
seen him too?”

‘“Seen him!” sez I; “av coorse I have. Did ye wish me not to see him, for” – we were standin’ talkin’ in the dhark, outside the verandah av Bragin’s quarters – “you’d betther tell me to shut me eyes. Onless I’m mistaken, he’s come now.”

‘An’, sure enough, the Corp’ril man was walkin’ to us, hangin’ his head down as though he was ashamed av himsilf.

‘“Good night, Mrs Bragin,” sez I, very cool. “’Tis not for me to interfere wid your
a-moors;
but you might manage some things wid more dacincy. I’m off to Canteen,” I sez.

‘I turned on my heel an’ wint away, swearin’ I wud give that man a dhressin’ that wud shtop him messin’ about the Married Quarters for a month an’ a week. I had not tuk ten paces before Annie Bragin was hangin’ on to my arrum, an’ I cud feel that she was shakin’ all over.

‘“Shtay wid me, Mister Mulvaney,” sez she. “You’re flesh and blood, at the least – are ye not?”

‘“I’m
all
that,” sez I, an’ my anger wint in a flash. “Will I want to be asked twice, Annie?”

‘Wid that I slipped my arrum round her waist, for, begad, I fancied she had surrindered at discretion, an’ the honours av war were mine.

‘“Fwhat nonsinse is this?” sez she, dhrawin’ hersilf up on the tips av her dear little toes. “Wid the mother’s milk not dhry on your impident mouth! Let go!” she sez.

‘“Did ye not say just now that I was flesh and blood?” sez I. “I have not changed since,” I sez; and I kep’ my arrum where utwas.

‘“Your arrums to yoursilf!” sez she, an’ her eyes sparkild.

‘“Sure, ’tis only human natur’.” sez I; an’ I kep’ my arrum where utwas.

‘“Natur’ or no natur’,” says she, “you take your arrum away or I’ll tell Bragin, an’ he’ll alter the natur’ av your head. Fwhat d’you take me for?” she sez.

‘“A woman,” sez I; “the prettiest in the barricks.”

‘“A
wife
,”sez she. “The straightest in cantonmints!”

‘Wid that I dropped my arrum, fell back tu paces, an’ saluted, for I saw that she mint fwhat she said.’

‘Then you know something that some men would give a good deal to be certain of. How could you tell?’ I demanded in the interests of Science.

‘Watch the hand,’ said Mulvaney. ‘Av she shuts her hand tight, thumb down over the knuckle, take up your hat an’ go. You’ll only make a fool av yoursilf av you shtay. But av the hand lies opin on the lap, or av you see her thryin’ to shut ut, an’ she can’t, – go on! She’s not past reasonin’ wid.

‘Well, as I was sayin’, I fell back, saluted, an’ was goin’ away.

‘“Shtay wid me,” she sez. “Look! He’s comin’ agin.”

‘She pointed to the veranda, an’ by the Height av Impart’nince, the Corp’ril man was comin’ out av Bragin’s quarters.

‘“He’s done that these five evenin’s past,” sez Annie Bragin. “Oh, fwhat will I do!”

‘“He’ll not do ut agin,” sez I, for I was fightin’ mad.

‘Kape away from a man that has been a thrifle crossed in love till the fever’s died down. He rages like a brute baste.

‘I wint up to the man in the verandah, manin’, as sure as I sit, to knock the life out av him. He slipped into the open. “Fwhat are you doin’ philadherin’ about here, ye scum av the gutter?” sez I polite, to give him his warnin’, for I wanted him ready.

‘He niver lifted hs head, but sez, all mournful an’ melancolious, as if he thought I wud be sorry for him: “I can’t find her,” sez he.

‘“My troth,” sez I, “you’ve lived too long – you an’ your seekin’s an’ findin’s in a dacint married woman’s quarters! Hould up your head, ye frozen thief av Genesis,” sez I, “an’ you’ll find all you want an’more!”

‘But he niver hild up, an’ I let go from the shoulther to where the hair is short over the eyebrows.

‘“That’ll do your business,” sez I, but it nearly did mine instid. I put me bodyweight behind the blow, but I hit nothing at all, an’ near put me shoulther out. The Corp’ril man was notthere, an’ Annie Bragin, who had been watchin’ from the veranda, throws up her heels, an’ carries on like a cock whin his neck’s wrung by the dhrummer-bhoy. I wint back to her, for a livin’ woman, an’ a woman like Annie Bragin, is more than a p’rade-groun’ full av ghosts. I’d niver seen a woman faint before, an’ I stud like a shtuck calf, askin’ her whether she was dead, an’ prayin’ her for the love av me, an’ the love av her husband, an’ the love av the Virgin to opin her blessed eyes agin, an’ callin’ mesilf all the names undher the canopy av Hivin for plaguin’ her wid my miserable
a-moors
whin I ought to ha’ stud betune her an’ this Corp’ril man that had lost the number av his mess.

‘I misremimber fwhat nonsince I said, but I was not so far gone that I cud not hear a fut on the dirt outside. ’Twas Bragin comin’ in, an’ by the same token Annie was comin’ to. I jumped to the far end av the verandah an’ looked as if butther wudn’t melt in my mouth. But Mrs Quinn, the Quartermaster’s wife that was, had tould Bragin about my hangin’round Annie.

‘“I’m not plazed wid you, Mulvaney,” sez Bragin, unbucklin’ his sword, for he had been on jooty.

‘“That’s bad hearin’,” I sez, an’ I knew that me pickets were dhriven in. “What for, Sargint?” sez I.

‘“Come outside,” sez he, “an I’ll show you why.”

‘“I’m willin’,” I sez; “but my shtripes are none so ould that I can afford to lose thim. Tell me now,
who
do I go out wid?” sez I.

‘He was a quick man an’ a just, an’ saw fwhat I wud be afther. “Wid Mrs Bragin’s husband,” sez he. He might ha’known by me askin’ that favour that I had done him no wrong.

‘We wint to the back av the arsenal an’ I stripped to him, an’ for ten minut’s ’twas all I cud do to prevent him killin’ himsilf agin’ my fistes. He was mad as a dumb dog – just frothin’ wid rage; but he had no chanst wid me in reach, or learnin’, or anything else.

‘“Will ye hear reason?” sez I, whin his first wind was run out.