Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (29 page)
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Authors: Rudyard Kipling
‘But where, in God’s name, are the troops?’
‘Unless thou knowest let another man ride. Dost thou know? Remember it will be life or death to thee.’
‘I know,’ said the driver, sullenly. ‘Stand back from my beast. I am going to slip him.’
‘Not so swiftly. George, hold the camel’s head a moment. I want to feel his cheek.’ The hands wandered over the hide till they found the branded half-circle that is the mark of the Biharin, the light-built riding-camel.
‘That is well. Cut this one loose. Remember no blessing of God comes on those who try to cheat the blind.’
The men chuckled by the fires at the camel-driver’s discomfiture. He had intended to substitute a slow, saddle-galled baggage-colt.
‘Stand back!’ one shouted, lashing the Biharin under the belly with a quirt. Dick obeyed as soon as he felt the nose-string tighten in his hand, — and a cry went up, ‘Illaha! Aho! He is loose.’
With a roar and a grunt the Biharin rose to his feet and plunged forward toward the desert, his driver following with shouts and lamentation.
George caught Dick’s arm and hurried him stumbling and tripping past a disgusted sentry who was used to stampeding camels.
‘What’s the row now?’ he cried.
‘Every stitch of my kit on that blasted dromedary,’ Dick answered, after the manner of a common soldier.
‘Go on, and take care your throat’s not cut out side — you and your dromedary’s.’
The outcries ceased when the camel had disappeared behind a hillock, and his driver had called him back and made him kneel down.
‘Mount first,’ said Dick. Then climbing into the second seat and gently screwing the pistol muzzle into the small of his companion’s back, ‘Go on in God’s name, and swiftly. Good-bye, George. Remember me to Madame, and have a good time with your girl. Get forward, child of the Pit!’
A few minutes later he was shut up in a great silence, hardly broken by the creaking of the saddle and the soft pad of the tireless feet. Dick adjusted himself comfortably to the rock and pitch of the pace, girthed his belt tighter, and felt the darkness slide past. For an hour he was conscious only of the sense of rapid progress.
‘A good camel,’ he said at last.
‘He was never underfed. He is my own and clean bred,’ the driver replied.
‘Go on.’
His head dropped on his chest and he tried to think, but the tenor of his thoughts was broken because he was very sleepy. In the half doze in seemed that he was learning a punishment hymn at Mrs. Jennett’s. He had committed some crime as bad as Sabbath-breaking, and she had locked him up in his bedroom. But he could never repeat more than the first two lines of the hymn —
When Israel of the Lord believed Out of the land of bondage came.
He said them over and over thousands of times. The driver turned in the saddle to see if there were any chance of capturing the revolver and ending the ride. Dick roused, struck him over the head with the butt, and stormed himself wide awake. Somebody hidden in a clump of camel-thorn shouted as the camel toiled up rising ground. A shot was fired, and the silence shut down again, bringing the desire to sleep. Dick could think no longer. He was too tired and stiff and cramped to do more than nod uneasily from time to time, waking with a start and punching the driver with the pistol.
‘Is there a moon?’ he asked drowsily.
‘She is near her setting.’
‘I wish that I could see her. Halt the camel. At least let me hear the desert talk.’
The man obeyed. Out of the utter stillness came one breath of wind. It rattled the dead leaves of a shrub some distance away and ceased. A handful of dry earth detached itself from the edge of a rail trench and crumbled softly to the bottom.
‘Go on. The night is very cold.’
Those who have watched till the morning know how the last hour before the light lengthens itself into many eternities. It seemed to Dick that he had never since the beginning of original darkness done anything at all save jolt through the air. Once in a thousand years he would finger the nailheads on the saddle-front and count them all carefully. Centuries later he would shift his revolver from his right hand to his left and allow the eased arm to drop down at his side. From the safe distance of London he was watching himself thus employed, — watching critically. Yet whenever he put out his hand to the canvas that he might paint the tawny yellow desert under the glare of the sinking moon, the black shadow of a camel and the two bowed figures atop, that hand held a revolver and the arm was numbed from wrist to collar-bone. Moreover, he was in the dark, and could see no canvas of any kind whatever.
The driver grunted, and Dick was conscious of a change in the air.
‘I smell the dawn,’ he whispered.
‘It is here, and yonder are the troops. Have I done well?’
The camel stretched out its neck and roared as there came down wind the pungent reek of camels in the square.
‘Go on. We must get there swiftly. Go on.’
‘They are moving in their camp. There is so much dust that I cannot see what they do.’
‘Am I in better case? Go forward.’
They could hear the hum of voices ahead, the howling and the bubbling of the beasts and the hoarse cries of the soldiers girthing up for the day.
Two or three shots were fired.
‘Is that at us? Surely they can see that I am English,’ Dick spoke angrily.
‘Nay, it is from the desert,’ the driver answered, cowering in his saddle.
‘Go forward, my child! Well it is that the dawn did not uncover us an hour ago.’
The camel headed straight for the column and the shots behind multiplied. The children of the desert had arranged that most uncomfortable of surprises, a dawn attack for the English troops, and were getting their distance by snap-shots at the only moving object without the square.
‘What luck! What stupendous and imperial luck!’ said Dick. ‘It’s “just before the battle, mother.” Oh, God has been most good to me!
Only’ — the agony of the thought made him screw up his eyes for an instant — ’Maisie...’
‘Allahu! We are in,’ said the man, as he drove into the rearguard and the camel knelt.
‘Who the deuce are you? Despatches or what? What’s the strength of the enemy behind that ridge? How did you get through?’ asked a dozen voices. For all answer Dick took a long breath, unbuckled his belt, and shouted from the saddle at the top of a wearied and dusty voice, ‘Torpenhow! Ohe, Torp! Coo-ee, Tor-pen-how.’
A bearded man raking in the ashes of a fire for a light to his pipe moved very swiftly towards that cry, as the rearguard, facing about, began to fire at the puffs of smoke from the hillocks around. Gradually the scattered white cloudlets drew out into the long lines of banked white that hung heavily in the stillness of the dawn before they turned over wave-like and glided into the valleys. The soldiers in the square were coughing and swearing as their own smoke obstructed their view, and they edged forward to get beyond it. A wounded camel leaped to its feet and roared aloud, the cry ending in a bubbling grunt. Some one had cut its throat to prevent confusion. Then came the thick sob of a man receiving his death-wound from a bullet; then a yell of agony and redoubled firing.
There was no time to ask any questions.
‘Get down, man! Get down behind the camel!’
‘No. Put me, I pray, in the forefront of the battle.’ Dick turned his face to Torpenhow and raised his hand to set his helmet straight, but, miscalculating the distance, knocked it off. Torpenhow saw that his hair was gray on the temples, and that his face was the face of an old man.
‘Come down, you damned fool! Dickie, come off!’
And Dick came obediently, but as a tree falls, pitching sideways from the Bisharin’s saddle at Torpenhow’s feet. His luck had held to the last, even to the crowning mercy of a kindly bullet through his head.
Torpenhow knelt under the lee of the camel, with Dick’s body in his arms.
THE NAULAHKA, A STORY OF WEST AND EAST
By Rudyard Kipling and Wolcott Balestier
This adventure novel was written in collaboration with Wolcott Balestier and serialised in the
Century Magazine
from November 1891 to July 1892. However, after two instalments, Wolcott suddenly died from typhoid in Dresden on 5th December 1891, and Kipling was left with the task of revising and supervising the first English and American book editions.
Wolcott Balestier – an American novelist with a promising career, who died tragically young in 1891. His sister Carrie married Kipling that same year.
CONTENTS
The Naulahka: A Story of West and East
I
There was a strife ‘twixt man and maid —
Oh that was at the birth o’ time!
But what befell ‘twixt man and maid,
Oh that’s beyond the grip o’ rhyme.
‘Twas: ‘Sweet, I must not bide wi’ you,’
And: ‘Love, I canna bide alone’;
For baith were young, and baith were true,
And baith were hard as the nether stone.
Auchinleck’s Ride.
Nicholas Tarvin sat in the moonlight on the unrailed bridge that crossed the irrigating ditch above Topaz, dangling his feet over the stream. A brown, sad-eyed little woman sat beside him, staring quietly at the moon. She was tanned with the tan of the girl who does not mind wind and rain and sun, and her eyes were sad with the settled melancholy of eyes that know big mountains, and seas of plain, and care, and life. The women of the West shade such eyes under their hands at sunset in their cabin-doors, scanning those hills or those grassless, treeless plains for the homecoming of their men. A hard life is always hardest for the woman.
Kate Sheriff had lived with her face to the West and with her smouldering eyes fixed upon the wilderness since she could walk. She had advanced into the wilderness with the railroad. Until she had gone away to school, she had never lived where the railroad ran both ways. She had often stayed long enough at the end of a section with her family to see the first glimmering streaks of the raw dawn of civilisation, usually helped out by the electric light; but in the new and still newer lands to which her father’s civil engineering orders called them from year to year there were not even arc lamps. There was a saloon under a tent, and there was the section-house, where they lived, and where her mother had sometimes taken to board the men employed by her husband. But it was not these influences alone that had produced the young woman of twenty-three who sat near Tarvin, and who had just told him gently that she liked him, but that she had a duty elsewhere.
This duty, as she conceived it, was, briefly, to spend her life in the East in the effort to better the condition of the women of India. It had come to her as an inspiration and a command two years before, toward the end of her second year at the St. Louis school, where she went to tie up the loose ends of the education she had given herself in lonely camps.
Kate’s mission had been laid on her one April afternoon, warmed and sunned with the first breath of spring. The green trees, the swelling buds, and the sunlight outside had tempted her from the prospect of a lecture on India by a Hindu woman; and it was finally because it was a school duty not to be escaped that she listened to Pundita Ramabai’s account of the sad case of her sisters at home. It was a heart-breaking story, and the girls, making the offerings begged of them in strange accents, went from it stilled and awed to the measure of their natures, and talked it over in the corridors in whispers, until a nervous giggle broke the tension, and they began chattering again.