Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (617 page)

‘Everybody laughed except him. “Oh, General, you mistake us entirely!” they says. “I trust so,” he says. “But I know my duty. We must have peace with England.”

‘“At any price?” says the man with the rook’s voice.

‘“At any price,” says he, word by word. “Our ships will be searched — our citizens will be pressed, but — ”

‘“Then what about the Declaration of Independence?” says one.

‘“Deal with facts, not fancies,” says Big Hand. “The United States are in no position to fight England.”

‘“But think of public opinion,” another one starts up. “The feeling in Philadelphia alone is at fever heat.”

‘He held up one of his big hands. “Gentlemen,” he says — slow he spoke, but his voice carried far — ”I have to think of our country. Let me assure you that the treaty with Great Britain will be made though every city in the Union burn me in effigy.”

‘“At any price?” the actor-like chap keeps on croaking.

‘“The treaty must be made on Great Britain’s own terms. What else can I do?” ‘He turns his back on ‘em and they looked at each other and slinked off to the horses, leaving him alone: and then I saw he was an old man. Then Red Jacket and Cornplanter rode down the clearing from the far end as though they had just chanced along. Back went Big Hand’s shoulders, up went his head, and he stepped forward one single pace with a great deep Hough! so pleased he was. That was a statelified meeting to behold — three big men, and two of ‘em looking like jewelled images among the spattle of gay-coloured leaves. I saw my chiefs’ war-bonnets sinking together, down and down. Then they made the sign which no Indian makes outside of the Medicine Lodges — a sweep of the right hand just clear of the dust and an inbend of the left knee at the same time, and those proud eagle feathers almost touched his boot-top.’

‘What did it mean?’ said Dan.

‘Mean!’ Pharaoh cried. ‘Why it’s what you — what we — it’s the Sachems’ way of sprinkling the sacred corn-meal in front of — oh! it’s a piece of Indian compliment really, and it signifies that you are a very big chief.

‘Big Hand looked down on ‘em. First he says quite softly, “My brothers know it is not easy to be a chief.” Then his voice grew. “My children,” says he, “what is in your minds?”

‘Says Cornplanter, “We came to ask whether there will be war with King George’s men, but we have heard what our Father has said to his chiefs. We will carry away that talk in our hearts to tell to our people.”

‘“No,” says Big Hand. “Leave all that talk behind — it was between white men only — but take this message from me to your people — ’There will be no war.’”

‘His gentlemen were waiting, so they didn’t delay him-, only Cornplanter says, using his old side-name, “Big Hand, did you see us among the timber just now?”

‘“Surely,” says he. “You taught me to look behind trees when we were both young.” And with that he cantered off.

‘Neither of my chiefs spoke till we were back on our ponies again and a half-hour along the home-trail. Then Cornplanter says to Red Jacket, “We will have the Corn-dance this year. There will be no war.” And that was all there was to it.’

Pharaoh stood up as though he had finished.

‘Yes,’ said Puck, rising too. ‘And what came out of it in the long run?’

‘Let me get at my story my own way,’was the answer. ‘Look! it’s later than I thought. That Shoreham smack’s thinking of her supper.’ The children looked across the darkening Channel. A smack had hoisted a lantern and slowly moved west where Brighton pier lights ran out in a twinkling line. When they turned round The Gap was empty behind them.

‘I expect they’ve packed our trunks by now,’ said Dan. ‘This time tomorrow we’ll be home.’

IF —

     If you can keep your head when all about you

     Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

     If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

     But make allowance for their doubting too;

     If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

     Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

     Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

     And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

     If you can dream — and not make dreams your master;

     If you can think — and not make thoughts your aim,

     If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

     And treat those two impostors just the same;

     If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

     Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

     Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

     And stoop and build ‘em up with worn-out tools;

     If you can make one heap of all your winnings

     And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

     And lose, and start again at your beginnings

     And never breathe a word about your loss;

     If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

     To serve your turn long after they are gone,

     And so hold on when there is nothing in you

     Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

     If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

     Or walk with Kings — nor lose the common touch,

     If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

     If all men count with you, but none too much;

     If you can fill the unforgiving minute

     With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,

     Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

     And — which is more — you’ll be a Man, my son!

‘A PRIEST IN SPITE OF HIMSELF’

A St Helena Lullaby

   How far is St Helena from a little child at play?

     What makes you want to wander there with all the world between?

   Oh, Mother, call your son again or else he’ll run away.

     (No one thinks of winter when the grass is green!)

   How far is St Helena from a fight in Paris street?

     I haven’t time to answer now — the men are falling fast.

   The guns begin to thunder, and the drums begin to beat

     (If you take the first step you will take the last!)

   How far is St Helena from the field at Austerlitz?

     You couldn’t hear me if I told — so loud the cannons roar.

   But not so far for people who are living by their wits.

     (‘Gay go up’ means ‘gay go down’ the wide world o’er!)

   How far is St Helena from an Emperor of France?

     I cannot see — I cannot tell — the crowns they dazzle so.

   The Kings sit down to dinner, and the Queens stand up to dance.

     (After open weather you may look for snow!)

   How far is St Helena from the Capes of Trafalgar?

     A longish way — a longish way — with ten year more to run.

   It’s South across the water underneath a setting star.

     (What you cannot finish you must leave undone!)

   How far is St Helena from the Beresina ice?

     An ill way — a chill way — the ice begins to crack.

   But not so far for gentlemen who never took advice.

     (When you can’t go forward you must e’en come back!)

   How far is St Helena from the field of Waterloo?

     A near way — a clear way — the ship will take you soon.

   A pleasant place for gentlemen with little left to do.

     (Morning never tries you till the afternoon!)

   How far from St Helena to the Gate of Heaven’s Grace?

     That no one knows — that no one knows — and no one ever will.

   But fold your hands across your heart and cover up your face,

     And after all your trapesings, child, lie still!

‘A Priest in Spite of Himself’

The day after they came home from the sea-side they set out on a tour of inspection to make sure everything was as they had left it. Soon they discovered that old Hobden had blocked their best hedge-gaps with stakes and thorn-bundles, and had trimmed up the hedges where the blackberries were setting.

‘It can’t be time for the gipsies to come along,’ said Una. ‘Why, it was summer only the other day!’

‘There’s smoke in Low Shaw!’ said Dan, sniffing. ‘Let’s make sure!’

They crossed the fields towards the thin line of blue smoke that leaned above the hollow of Low Shaw which lies beside the King’s Hill road. It used to be an old quarry till somebody planted it, and you can look straight down into it from the edge of Banky Meadow.

‘I thought so,’ Dan whispered, as they came up to the fence at the edge of the larches. A gipsy-van — not the show-man’s sort, but the old black kind, with little windows high up and a baby-gate across the door — was getting ready to leave. A man was harnessing the horses; an old woman crouched over the ashes of a fire made out of broken fence-rails; and a girl sat on the van-steps singing to a baby on her lap. A wise-looking, thin dog snuffed at a patch of fur on the ground till the old woman put it carefully in the middle of the fire. The girl reached back inside the van and tossed her a paper parcel. This was laid on the fire too, and they smelt singed feathers.

‘Chicken feathers!’ said Dan. ‘I wonder if they are old Hobden’s.’

Una sneezed. The dog growled and crawled to the girl’s feet, the old woman fanned the fire with her hat, while the man led the horses up to the shafts, They all moved as quickly and quietly as snakes over moss.

‘Ah!’ said the girl. ‘I’ll teach you!’ She beat the dog, who seemed to expect it.

‘Don’t do that,’ Una called down. ‘It wasn’t his fault.’

‘How do you know what I’m beating him for?’ she answered.

‘For not seeing us,’ said Dan. ‘He was standing right in the smoke, and the wind was wrong for his nose, anyhow.’

The girl stopped beating the dog, and the old woman fanned faster than ever.

‘You’ve fanned some of your feathers out of the fire,’ said Una. ‘There’s a tail-feather by that chestnut-tot.’

‘What of it?’ said the old woman, as she grabbed it.

‘Oh, nothing!’ said Dan. ‘Only I’ve heard say that tail-feathers are as bad as the whole bird, sometimes.’

That was a saying of Hobden’s about pheasants. Old Hobden always burned all feather and fur before he sat down to eat.

‘Come on, mother,’ the man whispered. The old woman climbed into the van, and the horses drew it out of the deep-rutted shaw on to the hard road.

The girl waved her hands and shouted something they could not catch.

‘That was gipsy for “Thank you kindly, Brother and Sister,”‘ said Pharaoh Lee.

He was standing behind them, his fiddle under his arm. ‘Gracious, you startled me!’ said Una.

‘You startled old Priscilla Savile,’ Puck called from below them. ‘Come and sit by their fire. She ought to have put it out before they left.’

They dropped down the ferny side of the shaw. Una raked the ashes together, Dan found a dead wormy oak branch that burns without flame, and they watched the smoke while Pharaoh played a curious wavery air.

‘That’s what the girl was humming to the baby,’ said Una.

‘I know it,’he nodded, and went on:

     ‘Ai Lumai, Lumai, Lumai!  Luludia!

     Ai Luludia!’

He passed from one odd tune to another, and quite forgot the children. At last Puck asked him to go on with his adventures in Philadelphia and among the Seneca Indians.

‘I’m telling it,’ he said, staring straight in front of him as he played. ‘Can’t you hear?’

‘Maybe, but they can’t. Tell it aloud,’ said Puck.

Pharaoh shook himself, laid his fiddle beside him, and began:

‘I’d left Red Jacket and Cornplanter riding home with me after Big Hand had said that there wouldn’t be any war. That’s all there was to it. We believed Big Hand and we went home again — we three braves. When we reached Lebanon we found Toby at the cottage with his waistcoat a foot too big for him — so hard he had worked amongst the yellow-fever people. He beat me for running off with the Indians, but ‘twas worth it — I was glad to see him, — and when we went back to Philadelphia for the winter, and I was told how he’d sacrificed himself over sick people in the yellow fever, I thought the world and all of him. No, I didn’t neither. I’d thought that all along. That yellow fever must have been something dreadful. Even in December people had no more than begun to trinkle back to town. Whole houses stood empty and the niggers was robbing them out. But I can’t call to mind that any of the Moravian Brethren had died. It seemed like they had just kept on with their own concerns, and the good Lord He’d just looked after ‘em. That was the winter — yes, winter of ‘Ninety-three — the Brethren bought a stove for the church. Toby spoke in favour of it because the cold spoiled his fiddle hand, but many thought stove-heat not in the Bible, and there was yet a third party which always brought hickory coal foot-warmers to service and wouldn’t speak either way. They ended by casting the Lot for it, which is like pitch-and-toss. After my summer with the Senecas, church-stoves didn’t highly interest me, so I took to haunting round among the French emigres which Philadelphia was full of. My French and my fiddling helped me there, d’ye see. They come over in shiploads from France, where, by what I made out, every one was killing every one else by any means, and they spread ‘emselves about the city — mostly in Drinker’s Alley and Elfrith’s Alley — and they did odd jobs till times should mend. But whatever they stooped to, they were gentry and kept a cheerful countenance, and after an evening’s fiddling at one of their poor little proud parties, the Brethren seemed old-fashioned. Pastor Meder and Brother Adam Goos didn’t like my fiddling for hire, but Toby said it was lawful in me to earn my living by exercising my talents. He never let me be put upon.