Soldiers Three - Part 2. Rudyard Kipling
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the gate av a little house that stud near the Edwardes’s Gate. There was two girls in the verandah, an’ they ran in whin they saw us. Faith, at long eye-range ut did not take me a wink to see fwhat kind av house ut was. The throops bein’ there an’ all, there was three or four such, but aftherwards the polis bade them go. At the verandah Love-o’-Women sez, catchin’ his breath, ‘Stop here,’ an’ thin, an’ thin, wid a grunt that must ha’ tore the heart up from his stomach, he swung himself out av the doolie, an’ my troth he stud up on his feet wid the sweat pourin’ down his face. If Mackie was to walk in here now I’d be less tuk back than I was thin. Where he’d dhrawn his power from, God knows or the divil — but ‘t was a dead man walkin’ in the sun wid the face av a dead man and the breath av a dead man held up by the Power, an’ the legs an’ the arms of the carpse obeyin’ ordhers!
“The woman stud in the verandah. She’d been a beauty too, though her eyes was sunk in her head, an’ she looked Love-o’-Women up an’ down terrible. ‘An’,’ she sez, kickin’ back the tail av her habit, — ‘An’,’ she sez, ‘fwhat are you doin’ here, married man?’
“Love-o’-Women said nothin’, but a little froth came to his lips, an’ he wiped ut off wid his hand an’ looked at her an’ the paint on her, an’ looked, an’ looked, an’ looked.
“‘An’ yet,’ she sez, wid a laugh. (Did you hear Mrs. Raines laugh whin Mackie died? Ye did not? Well for you.) ‘An’ yet,’ she sez, ‘who but you have betther right,’ sez she. ‘You taught me the road. You showed me the way,’ she sez. ‘Ay, look,’ she sez, ‘for ‘tis your work; you that tould me — d’you remimber it? — that a woman who was false to wan man cud be false to two. I have been that,’ she sez, ‘that an’ more, for you always said I was a quick learner, Ellis. Look well,’ she sez, ‘for it is me that you called your wife in the sight av God long since!’ An’ she laughed.
“Love-o’-Women stud still in the sun widout answerin’. Thin he groaned an’ coughed to wanst, an’ I thought ‘twas the death-rattle, but he niver tuk his eyes off her face not for a wink. Ye cud ha’ put her eyelashes through the flies av an E. P. tent, they were so long.
“‘Fwhat do you do here?’ she sez, word by word, ‘that have taken away my joy in my man this five years gone — that have broken my rest an’ killed my body an’ damned my soul for the sake av seem’ how ‘twas done? Did your expayrience aftherwards bring you acrost any woman that gave more than I did? Wud I not ha’ died for you an’ wid you, Ellis? Ye know that, man! If ever your lyin’ sowl saw truth in uts life ye know that.’
“An’ Love-o’-Women lifted up his head and said, ‘I knew,’ an’ that was all. While she was spakin’ the Power hild him up parade-set in the ‘sun, an the sweat dhropped undher his helmet. ‘Twas more an’ more throuble for him to talk, an’ his mouth was runnin’ twistways.
“Fwhat do you do here?’ she sez, an’ her voice whit up. ‘Twas like bells tollin’ before. ‘Time was whin you were quick enough wid your words, — you that talked me down to hell. Are ye dumb now?’ An’ Love-o’-W omen got his tongue, an’ sez simple, like a little child, ‘May I come in?’ he sez.
“The house is open day an’ night,’ she sez, wid a laugh; an’ Love-o’-Women ducked his head an’ hild up his hand as tho’ he was gyardin’. The Power was on him still — it hild him up still, for, by my sowl, as I’ll never save ut, he walked up the verandah steps that had been a livin’ corpse in hospital for a month!
“‘An’ now’?’ she sez, lookin’ at him; an’ the red paint stud lone on the white av her face like a bull’s-eye on a target.
“He lifted up his eyes, slow an’ very slow, an’ he looked at her long an’ very long, an’ he tuk his spache betune his teeth wid a wrench that shuk him.
“‘I’m dyin’, Aigypt — dyin’,’ he sez; ay, those were his words, for I remimber the name he called her. He was turnin’ the death-colour, but his eyes niver rowled. They were set — set on her. Widout word or warnin’ she opened her arms full stretch, an’ ‘Here!’ she sez. (Oh, fwhat a golden mericle av a voice ut was!) ‘Die here,’ she sez; an’ Love-o’-Women dhropped forward, an’ she hild him up, for she was a fine big woman.
“I had no time to turn, bekaze that minut I heard the sowl quit him — tore out in the death-rattle — an’ she laid him back in a long chair, an’ she sez to me, ‘Misther soldier,’ she sez, ‘will ye not go in an’ talk to wan av the girls. This sun’s too much for him.’
“Well I knew there was no sun he’d iver see, but I cud not spake, so I wint away wid the empty doolie to find the docthor. He’d been breakfastin’ an’ lunchin’ ever since we’d come in, an’ he was as full as a tick.
“Faith ye’ve got dhrunk mighty soon,’ he sez, whin I’d tould him, ‘to see that man walk. Barrin’ a puff or two av life, he was a corpse before we left Jumrood. I’ve a great mind,’ he sez, ‘to confine you.’
“There’s a dale av liquor runnin’ about, docthor,’ I sez, solemn as a hard-boiled egg. ‘Maybe ‘tis so, but will ye not come an’ see the corpse at the house?’
“Tis dishgraceful,’ he sez, ‘that I would be expected to go to a place like that. Was she a pretty woman?’’ he sez, an’ at that he set off double quick.
“I cud see that the two was in the verandah were I’d left them, an’ I knew by the hang av her head an’ the noise av the crows fwhat had happened. ‘Twas the first and the last time that I’d ever known woman to use the pistol. They dread the shot as a rule, but Di’monds-an’-Pearls she did not — she did not.
“The docthor touched the long black hair av her head (‘twas all loose upon Love-o’-Women’s chest), an’ that cleared the liquor out av him. He stud considherin’ a long time, his hands in his pockets, an’ at last he sez to me, ‘Here’s a double death from naturil causes, most naturil causes; an’ in the presint state av affairs the rig’mint will be thankful for wan grave the less to dig. Issiwasti,’ he sez, ‘Issiwasti, Privit Mulvaney, these two will be buried together in the Civil Cemet’ry at my expinse, an’ may the good God,’ he sez, ‘make it SO much for me whin my time comes. Go to your wife,’ he sez; ‘go an’ be happy. I’ll see to this all.’
“I left him still considherin’. They was buried in the Civil Cemet’ry together, wid a Church of England service. There was too many buryin’s thin to ask questions, an’ the docthor — he ran away wid Major — Major Van Dyce’s lady that year — he saw to ut all. Fwhat the right an’ the wrong av Love-o’-Women an’ Di’monds-an’-Pearls was I niver knew, an’ I will niver know; but I’ve tould ut as I came acrost ut — here an’ there in little pieces. So, being fwhat I am, an’ knowin’ fwhat I know, that’s fwhy I say in this shootin’-case here, Mackie that’s dead an’ in hell is the lucky man. There are times, Sorr, whin ‘tis betther for the man to die than to live, an’ by consequince forty million times betther for the woman.”
“H’up there!” said Ortheris. “It’s time to go.” The witnesses and guard formed up in the thick white dust of the parched twilight and swung off, marching easy and whistling. Down the road to the green by the church I could hear Ortheris, the black Book-lie still uncleansed on his lips, setting, with a fine sense of the fitness of things, the shrill quick-step that runs —
“Oh, do not despise the advice of the wise,
Learn wisdom from those that are older,
And don’t try for things that are out of your reach —
An’ that’s what the Girl told the Soldier
Soldier! Soldier!
Oh, that’s what the Girl told the Soldier!”