Indian Tales

Just as the dusk shut down and, with a very heavy heart, I was beginning to saddle up my horse, we heard wild shouts from the river.

The devils had departed from Private Stanley Ortheris, No. 22639, B Company. The loneliness, the dusk, and the waiting had driven them out as I had hoped. We set off at the double and found him plunging about wildly through the grass, with his coat off – my coat off, I mean. He was calling for us like a madman.

When we reached him he was dripping with perspiration, and trembling like a startled horse. We had great difficulty in soothing him. He complained that he was in civilian kit, and wanted to tear my clothes off his body. I ordered him to strip, and we made a second exchange as quickly as possible.

The rasp of his own "greyback" shirt and the squeak of his boots seemed to bring him to himself. He put his hands before his eyes and said —

"Wot was it? I ain't mad, I ain't sunstrook, an' I've bin an' gone an' said, an' bin an' gone an' done… Wot 'ave I bin an' done!"

"Fwhat have you done?" said Mulvaney. "You've dishgraced yourself – though that's no matter. You've dishgraced B Comp'ny, an' worst av all, you've dishgraced Me! Me that taught you how for to walk abroad like a man – whin you was a dhirty little, fish-backed little, whimperin' little recruity. As you are now, Stanley Orth'ris!"

Ortheris said nothing for a while, Then he unslung his belt, heavy with the badges of half a dozen regiments that his own had lain with, and handed it over to Mulvaney.

"I'm too little for to mill you, Mulvaney," he, "an' you've strook me before; but you can take an' cut me in two with this 'ere if you like."

Mulvaney turned to me.

"Lave me to talk to him, sorr," said Mulvaney.

I left, and on my way home thought a good deal over Ortheris in particular, and my friend Private Thomas Atkins whom I love, in general.

But I could not come to any conclusion of any kind whatever.

L'ENVOI

And they were stronger hands than mineThat digged the Ruby from the earth —More cunning brains that made it worthThe large desire of a King;And bolder hearts that through the brineWent down the Perfect Pearl to bring.Lo, I have wrought in common clayRude figures of a rough-hewn race;For Pearls strew not the market-placeIn this my town of banishment,Where with the shifting dust I playAnd eat the bread of Discontent.Yet is there life in that I make, —Oh, Thou who knowest, turn and see.As Thou hast power over me,So have I power over these,Because I wrought them for Thy sake,And breathe in them mine agonies.Small mirth was in the making. NowI lift the cloth that cloaks the clay,And, wearied, at Thy feet I layMy wares ere I go forth to sell.The long bazar will praise – but Thou —Heart of my heart, have I done well?

1

Now first of the foemen of Boh Da ThoneWas Captain O'Neil of the Black Tyrone.The Ballad of Boh Da Thone.

2

Confined to barracks.

3

I grieve to say that the Warden of Barhwi ford is responsible here for two very bad puns in the vernacular. —R.K.