Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (294 page)

On the evening of the same day, Mulcahy, an unconsidered corporal — yet great in conspiracy — returned to cantonments, and heard sounds of strife and howlings from afar off. The mutiny had broken out and the barracks of the Mavericks were one white-washed pandemonium. A private tearing through the barrack-square, gasped in his ear, ‘Service! Active service. It’s a burnin’ shame.’ Oh joy, the Mavericks had risen on the eve of battle! They would not — noble and loyal sons of Ireland — serve the Queen longer. The news would flash through the country side and over to England, and he — Mulcahy — the trusted of the Third Three, had brought about the crash. The private stood in the middle of the square and cursed colonel, regiment, officers, and doctor, particularly the doctor, by his gods. An orderly of the native cavalry regiment clattered through the mob of soldiers. He was half lifted, half dragged from his horse, beaten on the back with mighty hand-claps till his eyes watered, and called all manner of endearing names. Yes, the Mavericks had fraternised with the native troops. Who then was the agent among the latter that had blindly wrought with Mulcahy so well?

An officer slunk, almost ran, from the mess to a barrack. He was mobbed by the infuriated soldiery, who closed round but did not kill him, for he fought his way to shelter, flying for the life. Mulcahy could have wept with pure joy and thankfulness. The very prisoners in the guard- room were shaking the bars of their cells and howling like wild beasts, and from every barrack poured the booming as of a big war-drum.

Mulcahy hastened to his own barrack. He could hardly hear himself speak. Eighty men were pounding with fist and heel the tables and trestles — eighty men, flushed with mutiny, stripped to their shirt sleeves, their knapsacks half-packed for the march to the sea, made the two-inch boards thunder again as they chanted to a tune that Mulcahy knew well, the Sacred War Song of the Mavericks —

     Listen in the north, my boys, there’s trouble on the wind;
     Tramp o’ Cossack hooves in front, gray great-coats behind,
     Trouble on the Frontier of a most amazin’ kind,
       Trouble on the waters o’ the Oxus!

Then, as a table broke under the furious accompaniment —

     Hurrah! hurrah! it’s north by west we go;
     Hurrah! hurrah! the chance we wanted so;
     Let ‘em hear the chorus from Umballa to MosCOW,
     As we go marchin’ to the Kremling.

‘Mother of all the saints in bliss and all the devils in cinders, where’s my fine new sock widout the heel?’ howled Horse Egan, ransacking everybody’s valise but his own. He was engaged in making up deficiencies of kit preparatory to a campaign, and in that work he steals best who steals last. ‘Ah, Mulcahy, you’re in good time,’ he shouted. ‘We’ve got the route, and we’re off on Thursday for a pic-nic wid the Lancers next door.’

An ambulance orderly appeared with a huge basket full of lint rolls, provided by the forethought of the Queen for such as might need them later on. Horse Egan unrolled his bandage, and flicked it under Mulcahy’s nose, chanting —

    ’Sheepskin an’ bees’ wax, thunder, pitch, and plaster,
     The more you try to pull it off, the more it sticks the faster.
     As I was goin’ to New Orleans —

‘You know the rest of it, my Irish American-Jew boy. By gad, ye have to fight for the Queen in the inside av a fortnight, my darlin’.’

A roar of laughter interrupted. Mulcahy looked vacantly down the room. Bid a boy defy his father when the pantomime-cab is at the door; or a girl develop a will of her own when her mother is putting the last touches to the first ball-dress; but do not ask an Irish regiment to embark upon mutiny on the eve of a campaign; when it has fraternised with the native regiment that accompanies it, and driven its officers into retirement with ten thousand clamorous questions, and the prisoners dance for joy, and the sick men stand in the open, calling down all known diseases on the head of the doctor, who has certified that they are “medically unfit for active service.” At even the Mavericks might have been mistaken for mutineers by one so unversed in their natures as Mulcahy. At dawn a girls’ school might have learned deportment from them. They knew that their colonel’s hand had closed, and that he who broke that iron discipline would not go to the front: nothing in the world will persuade one of our soldiers when he is ordered to the north on the smallest of affairs that he is not immediately going gloriously to slay Cossacks and cook his kettles in the palace of the Czar. A few of the younger men mourned for Mulcahy’s beer, because the campaign was to be conducted on strict temperance principles, but as Dan and Horse Egan said sternly, ‘We’ve got the beer-man with us. He shall drink now on his own hook.’

Mulcahy had not taken into account the possibility of being sent on active service. He had made up his mind that he would not go under any circumstances, but fortune was against him.

‘Sick — you?’ said the doctor, who had served an unholy apprenticeship to his trade in Tralee poorhouses. ‘You’re only home-sick, and what you call varicose veins come from over-eating. A little gentle exercise will cure that.’ And later, ‘Mulcahy, my man, everybody is allowed to apply for a sick-certificate ONCE. If he tries it twice we call him by an ugly name. Go back to your duty, and let’s hear no more of your diseases.’

I am ashamed to say that Horse Egan enjoyed the study of Mulcahy’s soul in those days, and Dan took an equal interest. Together they would communicate to their corporal all the dark lore of death which is the portion of those who have seen men die. Egan had the larger experience, but Dan the finer imagination. Mulcahy shivered when the former spoke of the knife as an intimate acquaintance, or the latter dwelt with loving particularity on the fate of those who, wounded and helpless, had been overlooked by the ambulances, and had fallen into the hands of the Afghan women-folk.

Mulcahy knew that the mutiny, for the present at least, was dead; knew, too, that a change had come over Dan’s usually respectful attitude towards him, and Horse Egan’s laughter and frequent allusions to abortive conspiracies emphasised all that the conspirator had guessed. The horrible fascination of the death-stories, however, made him seek the men’s society. He learnt much more than he had bargained for; and in this manner: It was on the last night before the regiment entrained to the front. The barracks were stripped of everything movable, and the men were too excited to sleep. The bare walls gave out a heavy hospital smell of chloride of lime.

‘And what,’ said Mulcahy in an awe-stricken whisper, after some conversation on the eternal subject, ‘are you going to do to me, Dan?’ This might have been the language of an able conspirator conciliating a weak spirit.

‘You’ll see,’ said Dan grimly, turning over in his cot, ‘or I rather shud say you’ll not see.’

This was hardly the language of a weak spirit. Mulcahy shook under the bed-clothes.

‘Be easy with him,’ put in Egan from the next cot. ‘He has got his chanst o’ goin’ clean. Listen, Mulcahy; all we want is for the good sake of the regiment that you take your death standing up, as a man shud. There be heaps an’ heaps of enemy — plenshus heaps. Go there an’ do all you can and die decent. You’ll die with a good name THERE. ‘Tis not a hard thing considerin’.’

Again Mulcahy shivered.

‘An’ how could a man wish to die better than fightin’?’ added Dan consolingly.

‘And if I won’t?’ said the corporal in a dry whisper.

‘There’ll be a dale of smoke,’ returned Dan, sitting up and ticking off the situation on his fingers, ‘sure to be, an’ the noise of the firin’ ‘ll be tremenjus, an’ we’ll be running about up and down, the regiment will. But WE, Horse and I — we’ll stay by you, Mulcahy, and never let you go. Maybe there’ll be an accident.’

‘It’s playing it low on me. Let me go. For pity’s sake let me go. I never did you harm, and — and I stood you as much beer as I could. Oh, don’t be hard on me, Dan! You are — you were in it too. You won’t kill me up there, will you?’

‘I’m not thinkin’ of the treason; though you shud be glad any honest boys drank with you. It’s for the regiment. We can’t have the shame o’ you bringin’ shame on us. You went to the doctor quiet as a sick cat to get and stay behind an’ live with the women at the depot — you that wanted us to run to the sea in wolf-packs like the rebels none of your black blood dared to be! But WE knew about your goin’ to the doctor, for he told in mess, and it’s all over the regiment. Bein’, as we are, your best friends, we didn’t allow any one to molest you YET. We will see to you ourselves. Fight which you will — us or the enemy — you’ll never lie in that cot again, and there’s more glory and maybe less kicks from fightin’ the enemy. That’s fair speakin’.’

‘And he told us by word of mouth to go and join with the niggers — you’ve forgotten that, Dan,’ said Horse Egan, to justify sentence.

‘What’s the use of plaguin’ the man? One shot pays for all. Sleep ye sound, Mulcahy. But you onderstand, do ye not?’

Mulcahy for some weeks understood very little of anything at all save that ever at his elbow, in camp, or at parade, stood two big men with soft voices adjuring him to commit hari-kari lest a worse thing should happen — to die for the honour of the regiment in decency among the nearest knives. But Mulcahy dreaded death. He remembered certain things that priests had said in his infancy, and his mother — not the one at New York — starting from her sleep with shrieks to pray for a husband’s soul in torment. It is well to be of a cultured intelligence, but in time of trouble the weak human mind returns to the creed it sucked in at the breast, and if that creed be not a pretty one trouble follows. Also, the death he would have to face would be physically painful. Most conspirators have large imaginations. Mulcahy could see himself, as he lay on the earth in the night, dying by various causes. They were all horrible; the mother in New York was very far away, and the Regiment, the engine that, once you fall in its grip, moves you forward whether you will or won’t, was daily coming closer to the enemy!

They were brought to the field of Marzun-Katai, and with the Black Boneens to aid, they fought a fight that has never been set down in the newspapers. In response, many believe, to the fervent prayers of Father Dennis, the enemy not only elected to fight in the open, but made a beautiful fight, as many weeping Irish mothers knew later. They gathered behind walls or flickered across the open in shouting masses, and were pot-valiant in artillery. It was expedient to hold a large reserve and wait for the psychological moment that was being prepared by the shrieking shrapnel. Therefore the Mavericks lay down in open order on the brow of a hill to watch the play till their call should come. Father Dennis, whose duty was in the rear, to smooth the trouble of the wounded, had naturally managed to make his way to the foremost of his boys and lay like a black porpoise, at length on the grass. To him crawled Mulcahy, ashen-gray, demanding absolution.

‘Wait till you’re shot,’ said Father Dennis sweetly. ‘There’s a time for everything.’

Dan Grady chuckled as he blew for the fiftieth time into the breech of his speckless rifle. Mulcahy groaned and buried his head in his arms till a stray shot spoke like a snipe immediately above his head, and a general heave and tremour rippled the line. Other shots followed and a few took effect, as a shriek or a grunt attested. The officers, who had been lying down with the men, rose and began to walk steadily up and down the front of their companies.

This manoeuvre, executed, not for publication, but as a guarantee of good faith, to soothe men, demands nerve. You must not hurry, you must not look nervous, though you know that you are a mark for every rifle within extreme range, and above all if you are smitten you must make as little noise as possible and roll inwards through the files. It is at this hour, when the breeze brings the first salt whiff of the powder to noses rather cold at the tip, and the eye can quietly take in the appearance of each red casualty, that the strain on the nerves is strongest. Scotch regiments can endure for half a day and abate no whit of their zeal at the end; English regiments sometimes sulk under punishment, while the Irish, like the French, are apt to run forward by ones and twos, which is just as bad as running back. The truly wise commandant of highly strung troops allows them, in seasons of waiting, to hear the sound of their own voices uplifted in song. There is a legend of an English regiment that lay by its arms under fire chaunting ‘Sam Hall,’ to the horror of its newly appointed and pious colonel. The Black Boneens, who were suffering more than the Mavericks, on a hill half a mile away, began presently to explain to all who cared to listen —

We’ll sound the jubilee, from the centre to the sea, And Ireland shall be free, says the Shan-van Vogh.

‘Sing, boys,’ said Father Dennis softly. ‘It looks as if we cared for their Afghan peas.’

Dan Grady raised himself to his knees and opened his mouth in a song imparted to him, as to most of his comrades, in the strictest confidence by Mulcahy — -the Mulcahy then lying limp and fainting on the grass, the chill fear of death upon him.

Company after company caught up the words which, the I. A. A. say, are to herald the general rising of Erin, and to breathe which, except to those duly appointed to hear, is death. Wherefore they are printed in this place.

     The Saxon in Heaven’s just balance is weighed,
       His doom like Belshazzar’s in death has been cast,
     And the hand of the venger shall never be stayed
       Till his race, faith, and speech are a dream of the past.

They were heart-filling lines and they ran with a swirl; the I. A. A. are better served by their pens than their petards. Dan clapped Mulcahy merrily on the back, asking him to sing up. The officers lay down again. There was no need to walk any more. Their men were soothing themselves thunderously, thus —

     St. Mary in Heaven has written the vow
       That the land shall not rest till the heretic blood,
     From the babe at the breast to the hand at the plough,
       Has rolled to the ocean like Shannon in flood!