Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated), page 554
Slippers went-to-bone. I wented Labrador Kennel to speak Ravager, and opied door with my nose like I can.
Ravager said: ‘Who is?’ I said: ‘Boots.’ He said: ‘I know that, but Who Else came in with?’ I said: ‘Only Boots.’ He said ‘There is Some- one-else-more! Look!’ I said ‘Toby Dog has gone back to Im. Slippers has kennelled-up. It is only me-by-selfs. But I am looking.’ ‘Was only Ravager and me everywhere. Ravager said: ‘Sorry! I am getting blinder every day. Come and sit close, Stoopid.’ I jumped on sleepy-bench, like always, night-times. He said: ‘Sit closer. I am cold. Curl in between paws, so I can lay head-onback.’ So ‘was.
Presently whiles, he said: ‘If this black frost holds, good-bye hunting.’ I said: ‘It is warm leaves-on night, with Shiny plate and rabbits-in-grass.’ He said: ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ and put head on my back, long whiles all still. Then he said: ‘I know now what it was I meant to tell you, Stoopid. Never wrench a hound as heavy as yourself at my time of life. It plays the dickens with your head and neck.’ And he hickied. I said: ‘Sick-up, and be comfy.’ He said: ‘It is not tum-hickey. It is in throat and neck. Lie a bit closer.’ He dropped head and sleeped. Me too. Presently whiles, he said: ‘Give me my place on the Bench or I’ll have the throat out of you!’ I said: ‘Here is all own bench and all own place.’ He said: ‘Sorry! I were with the old lot.’ Then he dropped head-on-me and sleep-hunted with hounds which he knew when he came up from Walk. I heard and I were afraid. I hunched-up-back to wake him. He said, all small, ‘Don’t go away! I am old blind hound! I am afraid! I am afraid of kennel-that- moves! I cannot see where here is!’ I said: ‘Here is Boots.’ He said: ‘Sorry! You are always true friend of Ravager. Keep close, in case if I bump.’ He sleeped more, and Shiny Plate went on across over. Then he said: ‘I can see! ‘Member Bucket on my head? ‘Member Cow-pups we was whacked for chasing-pounds-off? ‘Member Bull-in-Park? I can see all those things, Stoopid. I am happy-hound! Sorry if I were a noosance!’
So he sleeped long whiles. Me too, next to chest between paws. When I unsleeped, Shiny Plate was going-to-ground, and hen-gents was saying at Walk, and fern-in-Park was all shiny. Ravager unsleeped slow. He yawned. He said, small: ‘Here is one happy hound, with ‘nother happy day ahead!’ He shaked himself and sat up. He said loud: ‘It is morning! Sing, all you Sons of Benches! Sing!’ Then he fell down all- one-piece, and did not say. I lay still because I were afraid, because he did not say any more. Presently whiles, Slippers came quiet. He said: ‘I have winded Something which makes me afraid. What is?’ I said: ‘It is Ravager which does not say any more. I am afraid, too.’ He said: ‘I are sorry, but Ravager is big strong dog. He will be all right soon.’ He wented away and sat under Smallest’s window, in case of Smallest singing-out at getting-up-time, like he always does. I waited till my Adar opened kitchen-curtains for brekker. I called. She came quick. She said: ‘Oh, my Bootles! Me poor little Bootles!’ Ravager did not say her anything. She wented away to tell. I sat with, in case if he might unsleep. Soonwhiles, all-Peoples came — Smallest, Master-Missus, and Harry-with-Spade. Slippers too, which stayed by his Smallest and kissed hands to make him happy-pup. They took up to Orchard. Harry digged and put under like bone. But it were my Ravager. Smallest said dretful loud, and they wented away — all — all — ’cept my Adar which sat on wheel-barrow and hickied. I tried to undig. She picked up, and carried to kitchen, and held me tight with apron over heads and hickied loud. They would not let me undig more. There was tie-up. After what whiles, I went for walk-abouts, in case if p’raps I could find him. I wented to his lie-down in fern. I wented to Walk and Wood Ride and Micefield, and all those old places which was. He were not there. So I came back and waited in Orchard, where he cast up blinded that night, which were my true friend Ravager, which were always good to me since we was almost pups, and never minded of my short legs or because I were stoopid. But he did not come...
Please, this is finish for always about Ravager and me and all those times.
Please, I am very little small mis’able dog!...I do not understand!...I do not understand!
THE SUPPLICATION OF THE BLACK ABERDEEN
I PRAY! My little body and whole span
Of years is Thine, my Owner and my Man.
For Thou hast made me — unto Thee I owe
This dim, distressed half-soul that hurts me so,
Compact of every crime, but, none the less,
Broken by knowledge of its naughtiness.
Put me not from Thy Life — ’tis all I know.
If Thou forsake me, whither shall I go?
Thine is the Voice with which my Day begins:
Thy Foot my refuge, even in my sins.
Thine Honour hurls me forth to testify
Against the Unclean and Wicked passing by.
(But when Thou callest they are of Thy Friends,
Who readier than I to make amends?)
I was Thy Deputy with high and low —
If Thou dismiss me, whither shall I go?
I have been driven forth on gross offence
That took no reckoning of my penitence,
And, in my desolation — faithless me! —
Have crept for comfort to a woman’s knee!
Now I return, self-drawn, to meet the just
Reward of Riot, Theft and Breach of Trust.
Put me not from Thy Life — though this is so.
If Thou forsake me, whither shall I go?
Into The Presence, flattening while I crawl —
From head to tail, I do confess it all.
Mine was the fault — deal me the stripes — but spare
The Pointed Finger which I cannot bear!
The Dreadful Tone in which my Name is named,
That sends me ‘neath the sofa-frill ashamed!
(Yet, to be near Thee, I would face that woe.)
If Thou reject me, whither shall I go?
Can a gift turn Thee? I will bring mine all —
My Secret Bone, my Throwing-Stick, my Ball.
Or wouldst Thou sport? Then watch me hunt awhile,
Chasing, not after conies, but Thy Smile,
Content, as breathless on the turf I sit,
Thou shouldst deride my little legs and wit —
Ah! Keep me in Thy Life for a fool’s show!
If Thou deny me, whither shall I go!...
Is the Dark gone? The Light of Eyes restored?
The Countenance turned meward, O my Lord?
The Paw accepted, and — for all to see —
The Abject Sinner throned upon the Knee?
The Ears bewrung, and Muzzle scratched because
He is forgiven, and All is as It was?
Now am I in Thy Life, and since ‘tis so —
That Cat awaits the Judgment. May I go?
A SEA DOG
WHEN that sloop known to have been in the West Indies trade for a century had been repaired by Mr. Randolph of Stephano’s Island, there arose between him and her owner, Mr. Gladstone Gallop, a deep-draught pilot, Admiral (retired) Lord Heatleigh, and Mr. Winter Vergil, R.N. (also retired), the question how she would best sail. This could only be settled on trial trips of the above Committee, ably assisted by Lil, Mr. Randolph’s mongrel fox-terrier, and, sometimes, the Commander of the H.M.S. Bulleana, who was the Admiral’s nephew.
* * *
Lil had been slid into a locker to keep dry till they reached easier water. The others lay aft watching the breadths of the all-coloured seas. Mr. Gallop at the tiller, which had replaced the wheel, said as little as possible, but condescended, before that company, to make his boat show off among the reefs and passages of coral where his business and delight lay.
Mr. Vergil, not for the first time, justified himself to the Commander for his handling of the great Parrot Problem, which has been told elsewhere. The Commander tactfully agreed with the main principle that — man, beast, or bird — discipline must be preserved in the Service; and that, so far, Mr. Vergil had done right in disrating, by cutting off her tail-feathers, Josephine, alias Jemmy Reader, the West African parrot...
He himself had known a dog — his own dog, in fact — almost born, and altogether brought up, in a destroyer, who had not only been rated and disrated, but also re-rated and promoted, completely understanding the while what had happened, and why.
‘Come out and listen,’ said Mr. Randolph, reaching into the locker. ‘This’ll do you good.’ Lil came out, limp over his hand, and braced herself against the snap and jerk of a sudden rip which Mr. Gallop was cutting across. He had stood in to show the Admiral Gallop’s Island whose original grantees had freed their Carib slaves more than a hundred years ago. These had naturally taken their owners’ family name; so that now there were many Gallops — gentle, straight-haired men of substance and ancestry, with manners to match, and instinct, beyond all knowledge, of their home waters — from Panama, that is, to Pernambuco.
The Commander told a tale of an ancient destroyer on the China station which, with three others of equal seniority, had been hurried over to the East Coast of England when the Navy called up her veterans for the War. How Malachi — Michael, Mike, or Mickey — throve aboard the old Makee-do, on whose books he was rated as ‘Pup,’ and learned to climb oily steel ladders by hooking his fore-feet over the rungs. How he was used as a tippet round his master’s neck on the bridge of cold nights. How he had his own special area, on deck by the raft, sacred to his private concerns, and never did anything one hair’s-breadth outside it. How he possessed an officers’ steward of the name of Furze, his devoted champion and trumpeter through the little flotilla which worked together on convoy and escort duties in the North Sea. Then the wastage of war began to tell and...The Commander turned to the Admiral.
‘They dished me out a new Volunteer sub for First Lieutenant — a youngster of nineteen — with a hand on him like a ham and a voice like a pneumatic riveter, though he couldn’t pronounce “r” to save himself. I found him sitting on the wardroom table with his cap on, scratching his leg. He said to me, “Well, old top, and what’s the big idea for to-mowwow’s agony?” I told him — and a bit more. He wasn’t upset. He was really grateful for a hint how things were run on “big ships” as he called ‘em. (Makee-do was three hundred ton, I think.) He’d served in Coastal Motor Boats retrieving corpses off the Cornish coast. He told me his skipper was a vet who called the swells “fuwwows” and thought he ought to keep between ‘em. His name was Eustace Cyril Chidden; and his papa was a sugar-refiner...’
Surprise was here expressed in various quarters; Mr. Winter Vergil adding a few remarks on the decadence of the New Navy.
‘No,’ said the Commander. ‘The “old top” business had nothing to do with it. He just didn’t know — that was all. But Mike took to him at once.
‘Well, we were booted out, one night later, on special duty. No marks or lights of course — raining, and confused seas. As soon as I’d made an offing, I ordered him to take the bridge. Cyril trots up, his boots greased, the complete N.O. Mike and I stood by in the chart-room. Pretty soon, he told off old Shide, our Torpedo Coxswain, for being a quarter-point off his course. (He was, too; but he wasn’t pleased.) A bit later, Cyril ships his steam-riveter voice and tells him he’s all over the card, and if he does it again he’ll be “welieved.” It went on like this the whole trick; Michael and me waiting for Shide to mutiny. When Shide came off, I asked him what he thought we’d drawn. “Either a dud or a diamond,” says Shide. “There’s no middle way with that muster.” That gave me the notion that Cyril might be worth kicking. So we all had a hack at him. He liked it. He did, indeed! He said it was so “intewesting” because Makee-do “steered like a witch,” and no one ever dreamed of trying to steer C.M.B.’s. They must have been bloody pirates in that trade, too. He was used to knocking men about to make ‘em attend. He threatened a stay-maker’s apprentice (they were pushing all sorts of shore-muckings at us) for imitating his lisp. It was smoothed over, but the man made the most of it. He was a Bolshie before we knew what to call ‘em. He kicked Michael once when he thought no one was looking, but Furze saw, and the blighter got his head cut on a hatch-coaming. That didn’t make him any sweeter.’
A twenty-thousand-ton liner, full of thirsty passengers, passed them on the horizon. Mr. Gallop gave her name and that of the pilot in charge, with some scandal as to her weakness at certain speeds and turns.
‘Not so good a sea-boat as her!’ He pointed at a square-faced tug — or but little larger — punching dazzle-white wedges out of indigo-blue. The Admiral stood up and pronounced her a North Sea mine-sweeper.
‘‘Was. ‘Ferry-boat now,’ said Mr. Gallop. ‘‘Never been stopped by weather since ten years.’
The Commander shuddered aloud, as the old thing shovelled her way along. ‘But she sleeps dry,’ he said. ‘We lived in a foot of water. Our decks leaked like anything. We had to shore our bulkheads with broomsticks practically every other trip. Most of our people weren’t broke to the life, and it made ‘em sticky. I had to tighten things up.’
The Admiral and Mr. Vergil nodded.
‘Then, one day, Chidden came to me and said there was some feeling on the lower deck because Mike was still rated as “Pup” after all his sea-time. He thought our people would like him being promoted to Dog. I asked who’d given ‘em the notion. “Me,” says Cyril. “I think it’ll help de-louse ‘em mowally.” Of course I instructed him to go to Hell and mind his own job. Then I notified that Mike was to be borne on the ship’s books as Able Dog Malachi. I was on the bridge when the watches were told of it. They cheered. Fo’c’sle afloat; galley-fire missing as usual; but they cheered. That’s the Lower Deck.’
Mr. Vergil rubbed hands in assent.
‘Did Mike know, Mr. Randolph? He did. He used to sniff forrard to see what the men’s dinners were going to be. If he approved, he went and patronised ‘em. If he didn’t, he came to the wardroom for sharks and Worcester sauce. He was a great free-fooder. But — the day he was promoted Dog — he trotted round all messes and threw his little weight about like an Admiral’s inspection — Uncle. (He wasn’t larger than Lil, there.) Next time we were in for boiler-clean, I got him a brass collar engraved with his name and rating. I swear it was the only bit of bright work in the North Sea all the War. They fought to polish it. Oh, Malachi was a great Able Dog, those days, but he never forgot his decencies...’
Mr. Randolph here drew Lil’s attention to this.
‘Well, and then our Bolshie-bird oozed about saying that a ship where men were treated like dogs and vice versa was no catch. Quite true, if correct; but it spreads despondency and attracts the baser elements. You see?’
‘Anything’s an excuse when they are hanging in the wind,’ said Mr. Vergil. ‘And what might you have had for the standing-part of your tackle?’
‘You know as well as I do, Vergil. The old crowd — Gunner, Chief Engineer, Cook, Chief Stoker, and Torpedo Cox. But, no denyin’, we were hellish uncomfy. Those old thirty-knotters had no bows or freeboard to speak of, and no officers’ quarters. (Sleep with your Gunner’s socks in your mouth, and so on.) You remember ‘em, sir?’ The Admiral did — when the century was young — and some pirate-hunting behind muddy islands. Mr. Gallop drank it in. His war experiences had ranged no further than the Falklands, which he had visited as one of the prize-crew of a German sailing-ship picked up Patagonia-way and sent south under charge of a modern sub-lieutenant who had not the haziest notion how to get the canvas off a barque in full career for vertical cliffs. He told the tale. Mr. Randolph, who had heard it before, brought out a meal sent by Mrs. Vergil. Mr. Gallop laid the sloop on a slant where she could look after herself while they ate. Lil earned her share by showing off her few small tricks.
‘Mongrels are always smartest,’ said Mr. Randolph half defiantly.
‘Don’t call ‘em mongrels.’ The Commander tweaked Lil’s impudent little ear. ‘Mike was a bit that way. Call ‘em “mixed.” There’s a difference.’
The tiger-lily flush inherited from his ancestors on the mainland flared a little through the brown of Mr. Gallop’s cheek. ‘Right,’ said he. ‘There’s a heap differ ‘twixt mongrel and mixed.’
And in due time, so far as Time was on those beryl floors, they came back to the Commander’s tale.
It covered increasing discomforts and disgusts, varied by escapes from being blown out of water by their own side in fog; affairs with submarines; arguments with pig-headed convoy-captains, and endless toil to maintain Makee-do abreast of her work which the growing ignorance and lowering morale of the new drafts made harder.
‘The only one of us who kept his tail up was Able Dog Malachi. He was an asset, let alone being my tippet on watch. I used to button his front and hind legs into my coat, with two turns of my comforter over all. Did he like it? He had to. It was his station in action. But he had his enemies. I’ve told you what a refined person he was. Well, one day, a buzz went round that he had defiled His Majesty’s quarterdeck. Furze reported it to me, and, as he said, “Beggin’ your pardon, it might as well have been any of us, sir, as him.” I asked the little fellow what he had to say for himself; confronting him with the circumstantial evidence of course. He was very offended. I knew it by the way he stiffened next time I took him for tippet. Chidden was sure there had been some dirty work somewhere; but he thought a Court of Inquiry might do good and settle one or two other things that were loose in the ship. One party wanted Mike disrated on the evidence. They were the — ’
‘I know ‘em,’ sighed Mr. Vergil; his eyes piercing the years behind him. ‘The other lot wanted to find out the man who had tampered with the — the circumstantial evidence and pitch him into the ditch. At that particular time, we were escorting mine-sweepers — every one a bit jumpy. I saw what Chidden was driving at, but I wasn’t sure our crowd here were mariners enough to take the inquiry seriously. Chidden swore they were. He’d been through the Crystal Palace training himself. Then I said, “Make it so. I waive my rights as the dog’s owner. Discipline’s discipline, tell ‘em; and it may be a counter-irritant.”
