Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated), page 214
‘Dom t’ coolies. Has’t gotten t’ cheer, man?’ said Learoyd.
‘Hould on. Havin’ onearthed this amazin’ an’ stupenjus fraud committed by the man Dearsley, I hild a council av war; he thryin’ all the time to sejuce me into a fight with opprobrious language. That sedan-chair niver belonged by right to any foreman av coolies. ‘Tis a king’s chair or a quane’s. There’s gold on ut an’ silk an’ all manner av trapesemints. Bhoys, ‘tis not for me to countenance any sort av wrong-doin’ — me bein’ the ould man — but — anyway he has had ut nine months, an’ he dare not make throuble av ut was taken from him. Five miles away, or ut may be six — ’
There was a long pause, and the jackals howled merrily. Learoyd bared one arm, and contemplated it in the moonlight. Then he nodded partly to himself and partly to his friends. Ortheris wriggled with suppressed emotion.
‘I thought ye wud see the reasonableness av ut,’ said Mulvaney. ‘I made bould to say as much to the man before. He was for a direct front attack — fut, horse, an’ guns — an’ all for nothin’, seein’ that I had no thransport to convey the machine away. “I will not argue wid you,” sez I, “this day, but subsequently, Mister Dearsley, me rafflin’ jool, we talk ut out lengthways. ‘Tis no good policy to swindle the naygur av his hard-earned emolumints, an’ by presint informashin’” — ’twas the kyart man that tould me — ”ye’ve been perpethrating that same for nine months. But I’m a just man,” sez I, “an’ overlookin’ the presumpshin that yondher settee wid the gilt top was not come by honust” — at that he turned sky-green, so I knew things was more thrue than tellable — ”not come by honust, I’m willin’ to compound the felony for this month’s winnin’s.”‘
‘Ah! Ho!’ from Learoyd and Ortheris.
‘That man Dearsley’s rushin’ on his fate,’ continued Mulvaney, solemnly wagging his head. ‘All Hell had no name bad enough for me that tide. Faith, he called me a robber! Me! that was savin’ him from continuin’ in his evil ways widout a remonstrince — an’ to a man av conscience a remonstrince may change the chune av his life. “‘Tis not for me to argue,” sez I, “fwhatever ye are, Mister Dearsley, but, by my hand, I’ll take away the temptation for you that lies in that sedan-chair.” — ”You will have to fight me for ut,” sez he, “for well I know you will never dare make report to any one.” — ”Fight I will,” sez I, “but not this day, for I’m rejuced for want av nourishment.” — ”Ye’re an ould bould hand,” sez he, sizin’ me up an’ down; “an’ a jool av a fight we will have. Eat now an’ dhrink, an’ go your way.” Wid that he gave me some hump an’ whisky — good whisky — an’ we talked av this an’ that the while. “It goes hard on me now,” sez I, wipin’ my mouth, “to confiscate that piece av furniture, but justice is justice.” — ”Ye’ve not got ut yet,” sez he; “there’s the fight between.” — ”There is,” sez I, “an’ a good fight. Ye shall have the pick av the best quality in my rigimint for the dinner you have given this day.” Thin I came hot-foot to you two. Hould your tongue, the both. ‘Tis this way. To-morrow we three will go there an’ he shall have his pick betune me an’ Jock. Jock’s a deceivin’ fighter, for he is all fat to the eye, an’ he moves slow. Now, I’m all beef to the look, an’ I move quick. By my reckonin’ the Dearsley man won’t take me; so me an’ Orth’ris ‘ll see fair play. Jock, I tell you,’twill be big fightin’ — whipped, wid the cream above the jam. Afther the business ‘twill take a good three av us — Jock ‘ll be very hurt — to haul away that sedan-chair.’
‘Palanquin.’ This from Ortheris.
‘Fwhatever ut is, we must have ut. ‘Tis the only sellin’ piece av property widin reach that we can get so cheap. An’ fwhat’s a fight afther all? He has robbed the naygur-man, dishonust. We rob him honust for the sake av the whisky he gave me.’
‘But wot’ll we do with the bloomin’ article when we’ve got it? Them palanquins are as big as ‘ouses, an’ uncommon ‘ard to sell, as McCleary said when ye stole the sentry-box from the Curragh.’
‘Who’s goin’ to do t’ fightin’?’ said Learoyd, and Ortheris subsided. The three returned to barracks without a word. Mulvaney’s last argument clinched the matter. This palanquin was property, vendible, and to be attained in the simplest and least embarrassing fashion. It would eventually become beer. Great was Mulvaney.
Next afternoon a procession of three formed itself and disappeared into the scrub in the direction of the new railway line. Learoyd alone was without care, for Mulvaney dived darkly into the future, and little Ortheris feared the unknown. What befell at that interview in the lonely pay-shed by the side of the half-built embankment, only a few hundred coolies know, and their tale is confusing one, running thus —
‘We were at work. Three men in red coats came. They saw the Sahib — Dearsley Sahib. They made oration; and noticeably the small man among the red-coats. Dearsley Sahib also made oration, and used many very strong words. Upon this talk they departed together to an open space, and there the fat man in the red coat fought with Dearsley Sahib after the custom of white men — with his hands, making no noise, and never at all pulling Dearsley Sahib’s hair. Such of us as were not afraid beheld these things for just so long a time as a man needs to cook the mid-day meal. The small man in the red coat had possessed himself of Dearsley Sahib’s watch. No, he did not steal that watch. He held it in his hand, and at certain seasons made outcry, and the twain ceased their combat, which was like the combat of young bulls in spring. Both men were soon all red, but Dearsley Sahib was much more red than the other. Seeing this, and fearing for his life — because we greatly loved him — some fifty of us made shift to rush upon the red-coats. But a certain man — very black as to the hair, and in no way to be confused with the small man, or the fat man who fought — that man, we affirm, ran upon us, and of us he embraced some ten or fifty in both arms, and beat our heads together, so that our livers turned to water, and we ran away. It is not good to interfere in the fightings of white men. After that Dearsley Sahib fell and did not rise, these men jumped upon his stomach and despoiled him of all his money, and attempted to fire the pay-shed, and departed. Is it true that Dearsley Sahib makes no complaint of these latter things having been done? We were senseless with fear, and do not at all remember. There was no palanquin near the pay-shed. What do we know about palanquins? Is it true that Dearsley Sahib does not return to this place, on account of his sickness, for ten days? This is the fault of those bad men in the red coats, who should be severely punished; for Dearsley Sahib is both our father and mother, and we love him much. Yet, if Dearsley Sahib does not return to this place at all, we will speak the truth. There was a palanquin, for the up-keep of which we were forced to pay nine-tenths of our monthly wage. On such mulctings Dearsley Sahib allowed us to make obeisance to him before the palanquin. What could we do? We were poor men. He took a full half of our wages. Will the Government repay us those moneys? Those three men in red coats bore the palanquin upon their shoulders and departed. All the money that Dearsley Sahib had taken from us was in the cushions of that palanquin. Therefore they stole it. Thousands of rupees were there — all our money. It was our bank-box, to fill which we cheerfully contributed to Dearsley Sahib three-sevenths of our monthly wage. Why does the white man look upon us with the eye of disfavour? Before God, there was a palanquin, and now there is no palanquin; and if they send the police here to make inquisition, we can only say that there never has been any palanquin. Why should a palanquin be near these works? We are poor men, and we know nothing.’
Such is the simplest version of the simplest story connected with the descent upon Dearsley. From the lips of the coolies I received it. Dearsley himself was in no condition to say anything, and Mulvaney preserved a massive silence, broken only by the occasional licking of the lips. He had seen a fight so gorgeous that even his power of speech was taken from him. I respected that reserve until, three days after the affair, I discovered in a disused stable in my quarters a palanquin of unchastened splendour — evidently in past days the litter of a queen. The pole whereby it swung between the shoulders of the bearers was rich with the painted papier-mache of Cashmere. The shoulder-pads were of yellow silk. The panels of the litter itself were ablaze with the loves of all the gods and goddesses of the Hindu Pantheon — lacquer on cedar. The cedar sliding doors were fitted with hasps of translucent Jaipur enamel and ran in grooves shod with silver. The cushions were of brocaded Delhi silk, and the curtains which once hid any glimpse of the beauty of the king’s palace were stiff with gold. Closer investigation showed that the entire fabric was everywhere rubbed and discoloured by time and wear; but even thus it was sufficiently gorgeous to deserve housing on the threshold of a royal zenana. I found no fault with it, except that it was in my stable. Then, trying to lift it by the silver-shod shoulder- pole, I laughed. The road from Dearsley’s pay-shed to the cantonment was a narrow and uneven one, and, traversed by three very inexperienced palanquin-bearers, one of whom was sorely battered about the head, must have been a path of torment. Still I did not quite recognise the right of the three musketeers to turn me into a ‘fence’ for stolen property.
‘I’m askin’ you to warehouse ut,’ said Mulvaney when he was brought to consider the question. ‘There’s no steal in ut. Dearsley tould us we cud have ut if we fought. Jock fought — an’, oh, sorr, when the throuble was at uts finest an’ Jock was bleedin’ like a stuck pig, an’ little Orth’ris was shquealin’ on one leg chewin’ big bites out av Dearsley’s watch, I wud ha’ given my place at the fight to have had you see wan round. He tuk Jock, as I suspicioned he would, an’ Jock was deceptive. Nine roun’s they were even matched, an’ at the tenth — About that palanquin now. There’s not the least throuble in the world, or we wud not ha’ brought ut here. You will ondherstand that the Queen — God bless her! — does not reckon for a privit soldier to kape elephints an’ palanquins an’ sich in barricks. Afther we had dhragged ut down from Dearsley’s through that cruel scrub that near broke Orth’ris’s heart, we set ut in the ravine for a night; an’ a thief av a porcupine an’ a civet-cat av a jackal roosted in ut, as well we knew in the mornin’. I put ut to you, sorr, is an elegint palanquin, fit for the princess, the natural abidin’ place av all the vermin in cantonmints? We brought ut to you, afther dhark, and put ut in your shtable. Do not let your conscience prick. Think av the rejoicin’ men in the pay-shed yonder — lookin’ at Dearsley wid his head tied up in a towel — an’ well knowin’ that they can dhraw their pay ivry month widout stoppages for riffles. Indirectly, sorr, you have rescued from an onprincipled son av a night- hawk the peasanthry av a numerous village. An’ besides, will I let that sedan-chair rot on our hands? Not I. ‘Tis not every day a piece av pure joolry comes into the market. There’s not a king widin these forty miles’ — he waved his hand round the dusty horizon — ’not a king wud not be glad to buy ut. Some day meself, whin I have leisure, I’ll take ut up along the road an’ dishpose av ut.’
‘How?’ said I, for I knew the man was capable of anything.
‘Get into ut, av coorse, and keep wan eye open through the curtains. Whin I see a likely man av the native persuasion, I will descind blushin’ from my canopy and say, “Buy a palanquin, ye black scutt?” I will have to hire four men to carry me first, though; and that’s impossible till next pay-day.’
Curiously enough, Learoyd, who had fought for the prize, and in the winning secured the highest pleasure life had to offer him, was altogether disposed to undervalue it, while Ortheris openly said it would be better to break the thing up. Dearsley, he argued, might be a many-sided man, capable, despite his magnificent fighting qualities, of setting in motion the machinery of the civil law — a thing much abhorred by the soldier. Under any circumstances their fun had come and passed; the next pay-day was close at hand, when there would be beer for all. Wherefore longer conserve the painted palanquin?
‘A first-class rifle-shot an’ a good little man av your inches you are,’ said Mulvaney. ‘But you niver had a head worth a soft-boiled egg. ‘Tis me has to lie awake av nights schamin’ an’ plottin’ for the three av us. Orth’ris, me son, ‘tis no matther av a few gallons av beer — no, nor twenty gallons — but tubs an’ vats an’ firkins in that sedan-chair. Who ut was, an’ what ut was, an’ how ut got there, we do not know; but I know in my bones that you an’ me an’ Jock wid his sprained thumb will get a fortune thereby. Lave me alone, an’ let me think.’
Meantime the palanquin stayed in my stall, the key of which was in
Mulvaney’s hands.
Pay-day came, and with it beer. It was not in experience to hope that Mulvaney, dried by four weeks’ drought, would avoid excess. Next morning he and the palanquin had disappeared. He had taken the precaution of getting three days’ leave ‘to see a friend on the railway,’ and the colonel, well knowing that the seasonal outburst was near, and hoping it would spend its force beyond the limits of his jurisdiction, cheerfully gave him all he demanded. At this point Mulvaney’s history, as recorded in the mess-room, stopped.
Ortheris carried it not much further. ‘No, ‘e wasn’t drunk,’ said the little man loyally, ‘the liquor was no more than feelin’ its way round inside of ‘im; but ‘e went an’ filled that ‘ole bloomin’ palanquin with bottles ‘fore ‘e went off. ‘E’s gone an’ ‘ired six men to carry ‘im, an’ I ‘ad to ‘elp ‘im into ‘is nupshal couch, ‘cause ‘e wouldn’t ‘ear reason. ‘E’s gone off in ‘is shirt an’ trousies, swearin’ tremenjus — gone down the road in the palanquin, wavin’ ‘is legs out o’ windy.’
‘Yes,’ said I, ‘but where?’
‘Now you arx me a question. ‘E said ‘e was goin’ to sell that palanquin, but from observations what happened when I was stuffin’ ‘im through the door, I fancy ‘e’s gone to the new embankment to mock at Dearsley. ‘Soon as Jock’s off duty I’m goin’ there to see if ‘e’s safe — not Mulvaney, but t’other man. My saints, but I pity ‘im as ‘elps Terence out o’ the palanquin when ‘e’s once fair drunk!’
‘He’ll come back without harm,’ I said.
‘‘Corse ‘e will. On’y question is, what ‘ll ‘e be doin’ on the road?
Killing Dearsley, like as not. ‘E shouldn’t ‘a gone without Jock or me.’
Reinforced by Learoyd, Ortheris sought the foreman of the coolie-gang. Dearsley’s head was still embellished with towels. Mulvaney, drunk or sober, would have struck no man in that condition, and Dearsley indignantly denied that he would have taken advantage of the intoxicated brave.
‘I had my pick o’ you two,’ he explained to Learoyd, ‘and you got my palanquin — not before I’d made my profit on it. Why’d I do harm when everything’s settled? Your man DID come here — drunk as Davy’s sow on a frosty night — came a-purpose to mock me — stuck his head out of the door an’ called me a crucified hodman. I made him drunker, an’ sent him along. But I never touched him.’
To these things, Learoyd, slow to perceive the evidences of sincerity, answered only, ‘If owt comes to Mulvaaney ‘long o’ you, I’ll gripple you, clouts or no clouts on your ugly head, an’ I’ll draw t’ throat twistyways, man. See there now.’
The embassy removed itself, and Dearsley, the battered, laughed alone over his supper that evening.
Three days passed — a fourth and a fifth. The week drew to a close and Mulvaney did not return. He, his royal palanquin, and his six attendants, had vanished into air. A very large and very tipsy soldier, his feet sticking out of the litter of a reigning princess, is not a thing to travel along the ways without comment. Yet no man of all the country round had seen any such wonder. He was, and he was not; and Learoyd suggested the immediate smashment of Dearsley as a sacrifice to his ghost. Ortheris insisted that all was well, and in the light of past experience his hopes seemed reasonable.
‘When Mulvaney goes up the road,’ said he, ‘‘e’s like to go a very long ways up, specially when ‘e’s so blue drunk as ‘e is now. But what gits me is ‘is not bein’ ‘eard of pullin’ wool off the niggers somewheres about. That don’t look good. The drink must ha’ died out in ‘im by this, unless ‘e’s broke a bank, an’ then — Why don’t ‘e come back? ‘E didn’t ought to ha’ gone off without us.’
Even Ortheris’s heart sank at the end of the seventh day, for half the regiment were out scouring the country-side, and Learoyd had been forced to fight two men who hinted openly that Mulvaney had deserted. To do him justice, the colonel laughed at the notion, even when it was put forward by his much-trusted adjutant.
