Stalky & Co. by Rudyard Kipling (young adult books to read .txt) 📖

the same old Coll. I should say ours was the only little affair on record where some one wasn’t jealous of some one else.”

“We weren’t,” Tertius broke in, “but there was another row between Gul Sher Khan and Rutton Singh. Our Jemadar said—he was quite right—that no Sikh living could stalk worth a damn; and that Koran Sahib had better take out the Pathans, who understood that kind of mountain work. Rutton Singh said that Koran Sahib jolly well knew every Pathan was a born deserter, and every Sikh was a gentleman, even if he couldn’t crawl on his belly. Stalky struck in with some woman’s proverb or other, that had the effect of doublin’ both men up with a grin. He said the Sikhs and the Pathans could settle their claims on the Khye-Kheens and Malo’ts later on, but he was going to take his Sikhs along for this mountain-climbing job, because Sikhs could shoot. They can, too. Give ‘em a mule-load of ammunition apiece, and they’re perfectly happy.”

“And out he gat,” said Dick Four. “As soon as it was dark, and he’d had a bit of a snooze, him and thirty Sikhs went down through the staircase in the tower, every mother’s son of ‘em salutin’ little Everett where It stood propped up against the wall. The last I heard him say was, ‘Kubbadar! tumbleinga! [Look out; you’ll fall!] and they tumbleingaed over the black edge of nothing. Close upon 9 p.m. the combined attack developed; Khye-Kheens across the valley, and Malo’ts in front of us, pluggin’ at long range and yellin’ to each other to come along and cut our infidel throats. Then they skirmished up to the gate, and began the old game of calling our Pathans renegades, and invitin’ ‘em to join the holy war. One of our men, a young fellow from Dera Ismail, jumped on the wall to slang ‘em back, and jumped down, blubbing like a child. He’d been hit smack in the middle of the hand. ‘Never saw a man yet who could stand a hit in the hand without weepin’ bitterly. It tickles up all the nerves. So Tertius took his rifle and smote the others on the head to keep them quiet at the loopholes. The dear children wanted to open the gate and go in at ‘em generally, but that didn’t suit our book.

“At last, near midnight, I heard the wop, wop, wop, of Stalky’s Martinis across the valley, and some general cursing among the Malo’ts, whose main body was hid from us by a fold in the hillside. Stalky was brownin’ ‘em at a great rate, and very naturally they turned half right and began to blaze at their faithless allies, the Khye-Kheens—regular volley firin’. In less than ten minutes after Stalky opened the diversion they were going it hammer and tongs, both sides the valley. When we could see, the valley was rather a mixed-up affair. The Khye-Kheens had streamed out of their sungars above the gorge to chastise the Malo’ts, and Stalky—I was watching him through my glasses—had slipped in behind ‘em. Very good. The Khye-Kheens had to leg it along the hillside up to where the gorge got shallow and they could cross over to the Malo’ts, who were awfully cheered to see the Khye-Kheens taken in the rear.

“Then it occurred to me to comfort the Khye-Kheens. So I turned out the whole command, and we advanced _a’lapas_de_charge_, doublin’ up what, for the sake of argument, we’ll call the Malo’ts’ left flank. Even then, if they’d sunk their differences, they could have eaten us alive; but they’d been firin’ at each other half the night, and they went on firin’. Queerest thing you ever saw in your born days! As soon as our men doubled up to the Malo’ts, they’d blaze at the Khye-Kheens more zealously than ever, to show they were on our side, run up the valley a few hundred yards, and halt to fire again. The moment Stalky saw our game he duplicated it his side the gorge; and, by Jove! the Khye-Kheens did just the same thing.”

“Yes, but,” said Tertius, “you’ve forgot him playin’ ‘Arrah, Patsy, mind the baby’ on the bugle to hurry us up.”

“Did he?” roared McTurk. Somehow we all began to sing it, and there was an interruption.

“Rather,” said Tertius, when we were quiet. No one of the Aladdin company could forget that tune. “Yes, he played ‘Patsy.’ Go on, Dick.”

“Finally,” said Dick Four, “we drove both mobs into each other’s arms on a bit of level ground at the head of the valley, and saw the whole crew whirl off, fightin’ and stabbin’ and swearin’ in a blindin’ snow-storm. They were a heavy, hairy lot, and we didn’t follow ‘em.

“Stalky had captured one prisoner—an old pensioned Sepoy of twenty-five years’ service, who produced his discharge—an awf’ly sportin’ old card. He had been tryin’ to make his men rush us early in the day. He was sulky—angry with his own side for their cowardice, and Rutton Singh wanted to bayonet him—Sikhs don’t understand fightin’ against the Government after you’ve served it honestly—but Stalky rescued him, and froze on to him tight—with ulterior motives, I believe. When we got back to the fort, we buried young Everett—Stalky wouldn’t hear of blowin’ up the place—and bunked. We’d only lost ten men, all told.”

“Only ten, out of seventy. How did you lose ‘em?” I asked.

“Oh, there was a rush on the fort early in the night, and a few Malo’ts got over the gate. It was rather a tight thing for a minute or two, but the recruits took it beautifully. Lucky job we hadn’t any badly wounded men to carry, because we had forty miles to Macnamara’s camp. By Jove, how we legged it! Half way in, old Rutton Singh collapsed, so we slung him across four rifles and Stalky’s overcoat; and Stalky, his prisoner, and a couple of Sikhs were his bearers. After that I went to sleep. You can, you know, on the march, when your legs get properly numbed. Mac swears we all marched into his camp snoring and dropped where we halted. His men lugged us into the tents like gram-bags. I remember wakin’ up and seeing Stalky asleep with his head on old Rutton Singh’s chest. He slept twenty-four hours. I only slept seventeen, but then I was coming down with dysentery.”

“Coming down? What rot! He had it on him before we joined Stalky in the fort,” said Tertius.

“Well, you needn’t talk! You hove your sword at Macnamara and demanded a drumhead court-martial every time you saw him. The only thing that soothed you was putting you under arrest every half hour. You were off your head for three days.”

“Don’t remember a word of it,” said Tertius, placidly. “I remember my orderly giving me milk, though.”

“How did Stalky come out?” McTurk demanded, purling hard over his pipe.

“Stalky? Like a serene Brahmini bull. Poor old Mac was at his Royal Engineers’ wits’ end to know what to do. You see I was putrid with dysentery, Tertius was ravin’, half the men had frost-bite, and Macnamara’s orders were to break camp and come in before winter. So Stalky, who hadn’t turned a hair, took half his supplies to save him the bother o’ luggin’ ‘em back to the plains, and all the ammunition he could get at, and, consilioet_auxilio_ Rutton Singhi, tramped back to his fort with all his Sikhs and his precious prisoners, and a lot of dissolute hangers-on that he and the prisoner had seduced into service. He had sixty men of sorts—and his brazen cheek. Mac nearly wept with joy when he went. You see there weren’t any explicit orders to Stalky to come in before the passes were blocked: Mac is a great man for orders, and Stalky’s a great man for orders—when they suit his book.”

“He told me he was goin’ to the Engadine,” said Tertius. “Sat on my cot smokin’ a cigarette, and makin’ me laugh till I cried. Macnamara bundled the whole lot of us down to the plains next day. We were a walkin’ hospital.”

“Stalky told me that Macnamara was a simple godsend to him,” said Dick Four. “I used to see him in Mac’s tent listenin’ to Mac playin’ the fiddle, and, between the pieces, wheedlin’ Mac out of picks and shovels and dynamite cartridges hand-over-fist. Well, that was the last we saw of Stalky. A week or so later the passes were shut with snow, and I don’t think Stalky wanted to be found particularly just then.”

“He didn’t,” said the fair and fat Abanazar. “He didn’t. Ho, ho!”

Dick Four threw up his thin, dry hand with the blue veins at the back of it. “Hold on a minute, Pussy; I’ll let you in at the proper time. I went down to my regiment, and that spring, five mouths later, I got off with a couple of companies on detachment: nominally to look after some friends of ours across the border; actually, of course, to recruit. It was a bit unfortunate, because an ass of a young Naick carried a frivolous blood-feud he’d inherited from his aunt into those hills, and the local gentry wouldn’t volunteer into my corps. Of course, the Naick had taken short leave to manage the business; that was all regular enough; but he’d stalked my pet orderly’s uncle. It was an infernal shame, because I knew Harris of the Ghuznees would be covering that ground three months later, and he’d snaffle all the chaps I had my eyes on. Everybody was down on the Naick, because they felt he ought to have had the decency to postpone his—his disgustful amours till our companies were full strength.

“Still the beast had a certain amount of professional feeling left. He sent one of his aunt’s clan by night to tell me that, if I’d take safeguard, he’d put me on to a batch of beauties. I nipped over the border like a shot, and about ten miles the other side, in a nullah, my rapparee-in-charge showed me about seventy men variously armed, but standing up like a Queen’s company. Then one of ‘em stepped out and lugged round an old bugle, just like—who’s the man?—Bancroft, ain’t it?—feeling for his eye-glass in a farce, and played ‘Arrah, Patsy, mind the baby. Arrah, Patsy, mind’—that was as for as he could get.”

That, also, was as far as Dick Four could get, because we had to sing the old song through twice, again and once more, and subsequently, in order to repeat it.

“He explained that if I knew the rest of the song he had a note for me from the man the song belonged to. Whereupon, my children, I finished that old tune on that bugle, and this is what I got. I knew you’d like to look at it. Don’t grab.” (We were all struggling for a sight of the well-known unformed handwriting.) “I’ll read it aloud.

“‘Fort Everett, February 19.

“‘Dear Dick, or Tertius: The bearer of this is in charge of seventy-five recruits, all pukka devils, but desirous of leading new lives. They have been slightly polished, and after being boiled may shape well. I want you to give thirty of them to my adjutant, who, though God’s own ass, will need men this spring. The rest you can keep. You will be interested to learn that I have extended my road to the end of the Malo’t country. All headmen and priests concerned in last September’s affair worked one month each, supplying road metal from their own houses. Everett’s grave is covered by a forty-foot mound, which should serve well as a base for future triangulations. Rutton Singh sends his best salaams. I am making some treaties, and have given my prisoner—who also