‘One o’ them dommed gardeners o’ th’ Pickles,’ said he, fingering the rent. ‘Firin’ to th’ right flank, when he knowed I was there. If I knew who he was I’d ’a’ rippen the hide offan him. Look at ma tunic!’
‘That’s the spishil trustability av a marksman. Train him to hit a fly wid a stiddy rest at sivin hundher, an’ he’ll loose on anythin’ he sees or hears up to th’ mile. You’re well out av that fancy-firin’ gang, Jock. Stay here.’
‘Bin firin’ at the bloomin’ wind in the bloomin’ tree-tops,’ said Ortheris with a chuckle. ‘I’ll show you some firin’ later on.’
They wallowed in the pine-needles, and the sun warmed them where they lay. The Mixed Pickles ceased firing, and returned to camp, and left the wood to a few scared apes. The watercourse lifted up its voice in the silence, and talked foolishly to the rocks. Now and again the dull thump of a blasting charge three miles away told that the Aurangabadis were in difficulties with their road-making. The men smiled as they listened and lay still, soaking in the warm leisure. Presently, Learoyd, between the whiffs of his pipe: –
‘Seems queer – about ’im yonder – desertin’ at all.’
‘’E’ll be a bloomin’ side queerer when I’ve done with ’im,’ said Ortheris. They were talking in whispers, for the stillness of the wood and the desire of slaughter lay heavy upon them.
‘I make no doubt he had his reasons for desertin’; but, my faith! I make less doubt ivry man has good reason for killin’ him,’ said Mulvaney.
‘Happen there was a lass tewed up wi’ it. Men do more than more for t’ saake of a lass.’
‘They make most av us ’list.4 They’ve no manner av right to make us desert.’
‘Ah; they make us ’list, or their fathers do,’ said Learoyd softly, his helmet over his eyes.
Ortheris’s brows contracted savagely. He was watching the valley. ‘If it’s a girl I’ll shoot the beggar twice over, an’ second time for bein’ a fool. You’re blasted sentimental all of a sudden. Thinkin’ o’ your last near shave?’
‘Nay, lad. Ah was but thinkin’ o’ what has happened.’
‘An’ fwhat has happened, ye lumberin’ child av calamity, that you’re lowing like a cow-calf at the back av the pasture, an’ suggestin’ invijus excuses for the man Stanley’s goin’ to kill? Ye’ll have to wait another hour yet, little man. Spit it out, Jock, an’ bellow melojus to the moon. It takes an earthquake or a bullet-graze to fetch aught out av you. Discourse, Don Juan! The a-moors av Lotharius5 Learoyd! Stanley, kape a rowlin’ rig’mintal eye on the valley.’
‘It’s along o’ yon hill there,’ said Learoyd, watching the bare sub-Himalayan spur that reminded him of his Yorkshire moors. He was speaking more to himself than his fellows. ‘Ay,’ said he, ‘Rumbolds Moor stands up ovver Skipton town, an’ Greenhow Hill stands up ovver Pately Brig. I reckon yo’ve never heeard tell o’ Greenhow Hill, but yon bit o’ bare stuff if there was nobbut a white road windin’ is like it; strangely like. Moors an’ moors an’ moors, wi’ never a tree for shelter, an’ grey houses wi’ flagstone rooves, and peewits cryin’, an’ a windhover goin’ to and fro just like these kites. And cold! A wind that cuts you like a knife. You could tell Greenhow Hill folk by the red-apple colour o’ their cheeks an’ nose-tips, and their blue eyes, driven into pin-points by the wind. Miners mostly, burrowin’ for lead i’ th’ hillsides, followin’ the trail of th’ ore vein same as a field-rat. It was the roughest minin’ I ever seen. Yo’d come on a bit o’ creakin’ wood windlass like a well-head an’ you was let down i’ th’ bight6 of a rope, fendin’ yoursen off the side wi’ one hand, carryin’ a candle stuck in a lump o’ clay wi’ t’ other, an’ clickin’ hold of a rope wi’ t’ other hand.’
‘An’ that’s three av thim,’ said Mulvaney. ‘Must be a good climate in those parts.’
Learoyd took no heed.
‘An’ then yo’ came to a level, where you crept on your hands and knees through a mile o’ windin’ drift,7 an’ you come out into a cave-place as big as Leeds Town Hall, wi’ a engine pumpin’ water from workin’s ’at went deeper still. It’s a queer country, let alone minin’, for the hill is full of those natural caves, an’ the rivers an’ the becks drops into what they call potholes, an’ come out again miles away.’
‘Wot was you doin’ there?’ said Ortheris.
‘I was a young chap then, an’ mostly went wi’ ’osses, leadin’ coal and lead ore; but at the time I’m tellin’ on I was drivin’ the wagon-team i’ th’ big sumph.8 I didn’t belong to that countryside by rights. I went there because of a little difference at home, an’ at fost I took up wi’ a rough lot. One night we’d been drinkin’, an’ I must ha’ hed more than I could stand, or happen th’ ale was none so good. Though i’ them days, By for God, I niver seed bad ale.’ He flung his arms over his head, and gripped a vast handful of white violets. ‘Nah,’ said he, ‘I niver seed th’ ale I could not drink, the bacca I could not smoke, nor the lass I could not kiss. Well, we mun have a race home, the lot on us. I lost all t’ others, an’ when I was climbin’ ovver one of them walls built o’ loose stones, I comes down into the ditch, stones and all, an’ broke my arm. Not as I knawed much about it, for I fell on t’ back of my head, an’ was knocked stupid like. An’ when I come to mysen it were mornin’, an’ I were lyin’ on the settle i’ Jesse Roantree’s house-place, an’ ’Liza Roantree was settin’ sewin’. I ached all ovver, and my mouth were like a lime-kiln. She gave me a drink out of a china mug wi’ gold letters – “A Present from Leeds” – as I looked at many and many a time at after. “Yo’re to lie still while Dr Warbottom comes, because your arm’s broken, and father has sent a lad to fetch him. He found yo’ when he was goin’ to work, an’ carried yo’ here on his back,” sez she. “Oa!” sez I; an’ I shet my eyes, for I felt ashamed o’ mysen. “Father’s gone to his work these three hours, an’ he said he’d tell ’em to get somebody to drive the tram.” The clock ticked, an’ a bee comed in the house, an’ they rung i’ my head like mill-wheels. An’ she give me another drink an’ settled the pillow. “Eh, but yo’re young to be getten drunk an’ suchlike, but yo’ won’t do it again, will yo’?” – Noa, sez I, I wouldn’t if she’d nobbut stop they mill-wheels clatterin’.’
‘Faith, ut’s a good thing to be nursed by a woman whin you’re sick!’ said Mulvaney. ‘Dir’ chape at the price av twinty broken heads.’
Ortheris turned to frown across the valley. He had not been nursed by many women in his life.
‘An’ then Dr Warbottom comes ridin’ up, an’ Jesse Roantree along wi’ ’im. He was a high-larned doctor, but he talked wi’ poor folk same as theirsens. “What’s ta bin agaate9 on naa?” he sings out. “Brekkin’ tha thick head?” An’ he felt me all ovver. “That’s none broken. Tha’s nobbut knocked a bit sillier than ordinary, an’ that’s daaft eneaf.” An’ soa he went on, callin’ me all the naames he could think on, but settin’ my arm, wi’ Jesse’s help, as careful as could be. “Yo’ mun let the big oaf bide here a bit, Jesse,” he says, when he hed strapped me up an’ given me a dose o’ physic; “an’ you an’ ’Liza will tend him, though he’s scarcelins worth the trouble. An’ tha’ll lose tha work,” sez he, “an’ tha’ll be upon th’ Sick Club for a couple o’ months an’ more. Doesn’t tha think tha’s a fool?” ’
‘But whin was a young man, high or low, the other av a fool, I’d like to know?’ said Mulvaney. ‘Sure, folly’s the only safe way to wisdom, for I’ve thried ut.’
‘Wisdom!’ grinned Ortheris, scanning his comrades with uplifted chin. ‘You’re bloomin’ Solomons, you two, ain’t you?’
Learoyd went calmly on, with a steady eye like an ox chewing the cud.
‘And that was how I comed to know ’Liza Roantree. There’s some tunes as she used to sing – aw, she were always singin’ – that fetches Greenhow Hill before my eyes as fair as yon brow across there. And she would learn me to sing bass, an’ I was to go to the chapel wi’ ’em, where Jesse and she led
the singin’, th’ owd man playin’ the fiddle. He was a strange chap, old Jesse, fair mad wi’ music, an’ he med me promise to learn the big fiddle when my arm was better. It belonged to him, and it stood up in a big case alongside o’ th’ eight-day clock, but Willie Satterthwaite, as played it in the chapel, had getten deaf as a doorpost, and it vexed Jesse, as he had to rap him ovver his head wi’ th’ fiddle-stick to make him give ovver sawin’ at th’ right time.
‘But there was a black drop in it all, an’ it was a man in a black coat that brought it. When th’ Primitive Methodist preacher came to Greenhow, he would always stop wi’ Jesse Roantree, an’ he laid hold of me from th’ beginning. It seemed I wor a soul to be saved, and he meaned to do it. At th’ same time I jealoused10 ’at he were keen o’ savin’ ’Liza Roantree’s soul as well, and I could ha’ killed him many a time. An’ this went on till one day I broke out, an’ borrowed th’ brass for a drink from ’Liza. After fower days I come back, wi’ my tail between my legs, just to see ’Liza again. But Jesse were at home an’ th’ preacher – th’ Reverend Amos Barraclough. ’Liza said naught, but a bit o’ red come into her face as were white of a regular thing. Says Jesse, tryin’ his best to be civil, “Nay, lad, it’s like this. Yo’ve getten to choose which way it’s goin’ to be. I’ll ha’ nobody across ma doorstep as goes a-drinkin’, an’ borrows my lass’s money to spend i’ their drink. Ho’d tha tongue, ’Liza,” sez he, when she wanted to put in a word ’at I were welcome to th’ brass, and she were none afraid that I wouldn’t pay it back. Then the Reverend cuts in, seein’ as Jesse were losin’ his temper, an’ they fair beat me among them. But it were ’Liza, as looked an’ said nowt, as did more than either o’ their tongues, an’ soa I concluded to get converted.’
‘Fwhat!’ shouted Mulvaney. Then, checking himself, he said softly, ‘Let be! Let be! Sure the Blessed Virgin is the mother av all religion an’ most women; an’ there’s a dale av piety in a girl if the men wud only let ut stay there. I’d ha’ been convarted mesilf undher the circumstances.’
‘Nay, but,’ pursued Learoyd with a blush, ‘I meaned it.’
Ortheris laughed as loudly as he dared, having regard to his business at the time.
‘Ay, Ortheris, you may laugh, but you didn’t know yon preacher Barraclough – a little white-faced chap, wi’ a voice as ’ud wile a bird offan a bush, and a way o’ layin’ hold of folks as med them think they’d never had a live man for a friend before. You never saw him, an’ – an’ – you never seed ’Liza Roantree – never seed ’Liza Roantree … Happen it was as much ’Liza as th’ preacher and her father, but anyways they all meaned it, an’ I was fair shamed o’ mysen, an’ soa I become what they called a changed character. And when I think on, it’s hard to believe as yon chap going to prayer-meetin’s, chapel, and class-meetin’s11 were me. But I niver had nowt to say for mysen, though there was a deal o’ shoutin’, and old Sammy Strother, as were almost clemmed to death and doubled up with the rheumatics, would sing out, “Joyful! Joyful!” and ’at it were better to go up to heaven in a coal-basket than down to hell i’ a coach an’ six. And he would put his poor old claw on my shoulder, sayin’, “Doesn’t tha feel it, tha great lump? Doesn’t tha feel it?” An’ sometimes I thought I did, and then again I thought I didn’t, an’ how was that?’
‘The iverlastin’ natur’ av mankind,’ said Mulvaney. ‘An’, furthermore, I misdoubt you were built for the Primitive Methodians. They’re a new corps anyways. I hold by the Ould Church, for she’s the mother av them all – ay, an’ the father, too. I like her bekaze she’s most remarkable rig’mintal in her fittings. I may die in Honolulu, Nova Zambra, or Cape Cayenne, but wherever I die, me bein’ fwhat I am, an’ a priest handy, I go under the same ordhers an’ the same wurruds an’ the same unction as tho’ the Pope himsilf come down from the roof av St Peter’s to see me off. There’s neither high nor low, nor broad nor deep, nor betwixt nor between wid her, an’ that’s fwhat I like. But mark you, she’s no manner av Church for a wake man, bekaze she takes the body and the sowl av him, onless he has his proper work to do. I remimber when my father died that was three months comin’ to his grave; begad, he’d ha’ sold the shebeen12 above our heads for ten minut’s’ quittance av purgathory. An’ he did all he cud. That’s why I say ut takes a strong man to dale with the Ould Church, an’ for that reason you’ll find so many women go there. An’ that same’s a conundrum.’
‘Wot’s the use o’ worrittin’ ’bout these things?’ said Ortheris. ‘You’re bound to find all out quicker nor you want to, any’ow.’ He jerked the cartridge out of the breech-block into the palm of his hand. ‘’Ere’s my chaplain,’ he said, and made the venomous black-headed bullet bow like a marionette. ‘’E’s goin’ to teach a man all about which is which, an’ wot’s true, after all, before sundown. But wot ’appened after that, Jock?’
‘There was one thing they boggled at, and almost shut th’ gate i’ my face for, and that were my dog Blast, th’ only one saved out o’ a litter o’ pups as was blowed up when a keg o’ minin’ powder loosed off in th’ store-keeper’s hut. They liked his name no better than his business, which were fightin’ every dog he comed across; a rare good dog, wi’ spots o’ black and pink on his face, one ear gone, and lame o’ one side wi’ being driven in a basket through an iron roof, a matter of half a mile.
‘They said I mun give him up ’cause he were worldly and low; and would I let mysen be shut out of heaven for the sake on a dog? “Nay,” says I, “if th’ door isn’t wide enough for th’ pair on us, we’ll stop outside, for we’ll none be parted.” And th’ preacher spoke up for Blast, as had a likin’ for him from the fost – I reckon that was why I come to like th’ preacher – and wouldn’t hear o’ changin’ his naame to Bless, as some o’ them wanted. Soa th’ pair on us became reg’lar chapel-members. But it’s hard for a young chap o’ my build to cut traces from the world, th’ flesh, an’ the devil all iv a heap. Yet I stuck to it for a long time, while th’ lads as used to stand about th’ town-end an’ lean ovver th’ bridge, spittin’ into th’ beck o’ a Sunday, would call after me, “Sitha,13 Learoyd, when’s ta beean to preach, ’cause we’re comin’ to hear tha?” – “Ho’d tha jaw. He hasn’t getten th’ white choaker14 on ta morn,” another lad would say, and I had to double my fists hard i’ th’ bottom of my Sunday coat, and say to mysen, “If ’twere Monday and I warn’t a member o’ the Primitive Methodists, I’d leather all th’ lot of yond’.” That was th’ hardest of all – to know that I could fight and I mustn’t fight.’
Sympathetic grunts from Mulvaney.
‘Soa what wi’ singin’, practisin’, and class-meetin’s, and th’ big fiddle, as he med me take between my knees, I spent a deal o’ time i’ Jesse Roantree’s house-place. But often as I was there, th’ preacher fared to me to go oftener, and both th’ old man an’ th’ young woman were pleased to have him. He lived i’ Pately Brig, as were a goodish step off, but he come. He come all the same. I liked him as well or better as any man I’d ever seen i’ one way, and yet I hated him wi’ all my heart i’ t’ other, and we watched each other like cat and mouse, but civil as you please, for I was on my best behaviour, and he was that fair and oppen that I was bound to be fair wi’ him. Rare good company he was, if I hadn’t wanted to wring his cliver little neck half of the time. Often and often when he was goin’ from Jesse’s I’d set him a bit on the road.’
‘See ’im ’ome, you mean?’ said Ortheris.
‘Ay. It’s a way we have i’ Yorkshire o’ seein’ friends off. Yon was a friend as I didn’t want to come back, and he didn’t want me to come back neither, and so we’d walk together towards Pately, and then he’d set me back again, and there we’d be wal two o’clock i’ the mornin’ settin’ each other to an’ fro like a blasted pair o’ pendulums ’twixt hill and valley, long after th’ light had gone out i’ ’Liza’s window, as both on us had been looking at, pretending to watch the moon.’
‘Ah!’ broke in Mulvaney, �
��ye’d no chanst against the maraudhin’ psalm-singer. They’ll take the airs an’ the graces instid av the man nine times out av tin, an’ they only find the blunder later – the women.’
‘That’s just where yo’re wrong,’ said Learoyd, reddening under the freckled tan of his cheeks. ‘I was th’ fost wi ’Liza, an’ yo’d think that were enough. But th’ parson were a steady-gaited sort o’ chap, and Jesse were strong o’ his side, and all th’ women i’ the congregation dinned it to ’Liza ’at she were fair fond to take up wi’ a wastrel ne’er-do-weel like me, as was scarcelins respectable an’ a fighting dog at his heels. It was all very well for her to be doing me good and saving my soul, but she must mind as she didn’t do hersen harm. They talk o’ rich folk bein’ stuck-up an’ genteel, but for cast-iron pride o’ respectability there’s nowt like poor chapel folk. It’s as cold as th’ wind o’ Greenhow Hill – ay, and colder, for ’twill never change. And now I come to think on’t, one o’t’ strangest things I know is ’at they couldn’t abide th’ thought o’ soldiering. There’s a vast o’ fightin’ i’ th’ Bible, and there’s a deal of Methodists i’ th’ Army; but to hear chapel folk talk yo’d think that soldierin’ were next door, an’ t’other side, to hangin’. I’ their meetin’s all their talk is o’ fightin’. When Sammy Strother were stuck for summat to say in his prayers, he’d sing out, “Th’ sword o’ th’ Lord and o’ Gideon.”15 They were allus at it about puttin’ on th’ whole armour o’ righteousness,16 an’ fightin’ the good fight17 o’ faith. And then, atop o’ ’t all, they held a prayer-meetin’ ovver a young chap as wanted to ’list, and nearly deafened him, till he picked up his hat and fair ran away. And they’d tell tales in th’ Sunday-school o’ bad lads as had been thumped and brayed for bird-nestin’ o’ Sundays and playin’ truant o’ week-days, and how they took to wrestlin’, dog-fightin’, rabbit-runnin’, an’ drinkin’, till at last, as if ’twere a hepitaph on a gravestone, they dommed him across th’ moors wi’, “an’ then he went and ’listed for a soldier,” an’ they’d all fetch a deep breath, and throw up their eyes like a hen drinkin’.’
The Man Who Would Be King: Selected Stories of Rudyard Kipling Page 33