Rudyard Kipling: 440+ Short Stories in One Edition (Illustrated). Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг
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“Be damned av I do,” tu. Thin Ould Pummeloe turns to the women an’ she sez,“ Are ye goin’ to let the bhoys die while you're picnickin’, ye sluts?” sez she. “’Tis wather they want. Come on an’ help.”
‘Wid that, she turns up her sleeves an’ steps out for a well behind the rest-camp—little Jhansi trottin’ behind wid a lotah an’ string, an’ the other women followin’ like lambs, wid horse-buckets and cookin’ pots. Whin all the things was full, Ould Pummeloe marches back into camp—’twas like a battlefield wid all the glory missin’—at the hid av the rigimint av women.
‘“McKenna, me man!” she sez, wid a voice on her like grand-roun’s challenge, “tell the bhoys to be quiet. Ould Pummeloe’s comin’ to look afther thim—wid free dhrinks.”
‘Thin we cheered, an’ the cheerin’ in the lines was louder than the noise av the poor divils wid the sickness on thim. But not much.’
‘You see, we was a new an’ raw rigimint in those days, an’ we cud make neither head nor tail av the sickness; an’ so we was useless. The men was goin’ roun’ an’ about like dumb sheep, waitin’ for the nex’ man to fall over, an’ sayin’ undher their spache, “Fwhat is ut? In the name av God, fwhat is ut?” ’Twas horrible. But through ut all, up an’ down, an’ down an’ up, wint Ould Pummeloe an’ little Jhansi—all we cud see av the baby, undher a dead man’s helmut wid the chinstrap swingin’ about her little stummick—up an’ down wid the wather an’ fwhat brandy there was.
‘Now an’ thin Ould Pummeloe, the tears runnin’ down her fat, red face, sez, “Me bhoys, me poor, dead, darlin’ bhoys!” But, for the most, she was thryin’ to put heart into the men an’ kape thim stiddy; and little Jhansi was tellin’ thim all they wud be “betther in the mornin’.” ’Twas a thrick she’d picked up from hearin’ Ould Pummeloe whin Muttra was burnin’ out wid fever. In the mornin’! ’Twas the iverlastin’ mornin’ at St. Pether’s Gate was the mornin’ for seven-an’-twenty good men; and twenty more was sick to the death in that bitter, burnin’ sun. But the women worked like angils as I’ve said, an’ the men like divils, till two doctors come down from above, and we was rescued.
‘But, just before that, Ould Pummeloe, on her knees over a bhoy in my squad—right-cot man to me he was in the barrick—tellin’ him the worrud av the Church that niver failed a man yet, sez, “Hould me up, bhoys! I'm feelin’ bloody sick!” ’Twas the sun, not the cholera, did ut. She misremembered she was only wearin’ her ould black bonnet, an’ she died wid “McKenna, me man,” houldin’ her up, an’ the bhoys howled whin they buried her.
‘That night a big wind blew, an’ blew, an’ blew, an’ blew the tents flat. But it blew the cholera away, an’ niver another case there was all the while we was waitin’—ten days in quarintin’. Av you will belave me, the thrack av the sickness in the camp was for all the wurruld the thrack av a man walkin’ four times in a figur-av-eight through the tents. They say ’tis the Wandherin’ Jew takes the cholera wid him. I believe ut.’
‘An’ that,’ said Mulvaney illogically, ‘is the cause why little Jhansi McKenna is fwhat she is. She was brought up by the Quartermaster Sergeant’s wife whin McKenna died, but she b’longs to B Comp’ny; and this tale I'm tellin’ you—wid a proper appreciashin av Jhansi McKenna — I’ve belted into ivry recruity av the Comp’ny as he was drafted. ’Faith, ’twas me belted Corp’ril Slane into askin’ the girl!’
‘Not really?’
‘Man, I did! She’s no beauty to look at, but she’s Ould Pummeloe’s daughter, an’ ’tis my juty to provide for her. Just before Slane got his promotion I sez to him, “Slane," sez I,” tomorrow ’twill be insubordinashin av me to chastise you; but, by the sowl av Ould Pummeloe, who is now in glory, av you don’t give me your wurrud to ask Jhansi McKenna at wanst, I’ll peel the flesh off yer bones wid a brass huk to-night. Tis a dishgrace to B Comp’ny she’s been single so long!” sez I. Was I goin’ to let a three-year-ould preshume to discoorse wid me—my will bein’ set? No! Slane wint an’ asked her. He’s a good bhoy is Slane. Wan av these days he’ll get into the Com’ssariat an’ dhrive a buggy wid his—savin’s. So I provided for Ould Pummeloe’s daughter; an’ now you go along an’ dance agin wid her.’
And I did.
I felt a respect for Miss Jhansi McKenna; and I went to her wedding later on.
Perhaps I will tell you about that one of these days.
A Friend’s Friend
Wherefore slew you the stranger? He brought me dishonour.
I saddled my mare Bijli. I set him upon her.
I gave him rice and goat’s flesh. He bared me to laughter;
When he was gone from my tent, swift I followed after,
Taking a sword in my hand. The hot wine had filled him
Under the stars he mocked me. Therefore I killed him.
—Hadramauti.
This tale must be told in the first person for many reasons. The man whom I want to expose is Tranter of the Bombay side. I want Tranter black-balled at his Club, divorced from his wife, turned out of the Service, and cast into prison, until I get an apology from him in writing. I wish to warn the world against Tranter of the Bombay side.
You know the casual way in which men pass on acquaintances in India? It is a great convenience, because you can get rid of a man you don’t like by writing a letter of introduction and putting him, with it, into the train. Globe-trotters are best treated thus. If you keep them moving, they have no time to say insulting and offensive things about ‘Anglo-Indian Society.’
One day, late in the cold weather, I got a letter of preparation from Tranter of the Bombay side, advising me of the advent of a G.T., a man called Jevon; and saying, as usual, that any kindness shown to Jevon would be a kindness to Tranter. Every one knows the regular form of these communications.
Two days afterwards Jevon turned up with his letter of introduction, and I did what I could for him. He was lint-haired, fresh-coloured, and very English. But he held no views about the Government of India. Nor did he insist on shooting tigers on the Station Mall, as some G.T.’s do. Nor did he call us ‘colonists,’ and dine in a flannel-shirt and tweeds, under that delusion as other G.T.’s do. He was well behaved and very grateful for the little I won for him—most grateful of all when I secured him an invitation for the Afghan Ball, and introduced him to a Mrs. Deemes, a lady for whom I had a great respect and admiration, who danced like the shadow of a leaf in a light wind. I set great store by the friendship of Mrs. Deemes; but, had I known what was coming, I would have broken Jevon’s neck with a curtain-pole before getting him that invitation.
But I did not know, and he dined at the Club, I think, on the night of the ball. I dined at home. When I went to the dance, the first man I met asked me whether I had seen Jevon. ‘No,’ said I. ‘He’s at the Club. Hasn’t he come?’—‘Come!’ said the man. ‘Yes, he’s very much come. You’d better look at him.’
I sought for Jevon. I found him sitting on a bench and smiling to himself and a programme. Half a look was enough for me. On that one night, of all others, he had begun a long and thirsty evening by taking too much! He was breathing heavily through his nose, his eyes were rather red, and he appeared very satisfied with all the earth. I put up a little prayer that the waltzing would work off the wine, and went about programme-filling, feeling uncomfortable. But I saw Jevon walk up to Mrs. Deemes for the first dance, and I knew that all the waltzing on the card was not enough to keep Jevon’s rebellious legs steady. That couple went round six times. I counted. Mrs. Deemes dropped Jevon’s arm and came across to me.
I