‘No biting,’ said the Maltese Cat warningly, for once or twice in his career Who’s Who had been known to forget himself in that way.
‘Who said anything about biting? I’m not playing tiddlywinks. I’m playing the game.’
The Archangels came down like a wolf on the fold, for they were tired of football and they wanted polo. They got it and much more. Just after the game began, Lutyens hit a ball that was coming towards him rapidly, and it rose in the air, as a ball sometimes will, with the whirr of a frightened partridge. Shikast heard, but could not see it for the minute, though he looked everywhere and up into the air as the Maltese Cat had taught him. When he saw it ahead and overhead, he went forward with Powell as fast as he could put foot to ground. It was then that Powell, a quiet and level-headed man as a rule, became inspired and played a stroke which sometimes comes off successfully on a quiet afternoon of long practice. He took his stick in both hands, and standing up in his stirrups, swiped at the ball in the air, Manipur fashion. There was one second of paralysed astonishment, and then all four sides of the ground went up in a yell of applause and delight as the ball flew true (you could see the amazed Archangels ducking in their saddles to get out of the line of flight, and looking at it with open mouths), and the regimental pipes of the Skidars squealed from the railings as long as the pipers had breath.
Shikast heard the stroke; but he heard the head of the stick fly off at the same time. Nine hundred and ninety-nine ponies out of a thousand would have gone tearing on after the ball with a useless player pulling at their heads, but Powell knew him, and he knew Powell; and the instant he felt Powell’s right leg shift a trifle on the saddle-flap he headed for the boundary, where a native officer was frantically waving a new stick. Before the shouts had ended Powell was armed again.
Once before in his life the Maltese Cat had heard that very same stroke played off his own back, and had profited by the confusion it made. This time he acted on experience, and leaving Bamboo to guard the goal in case of accidents, came through the others like a flash, head and tail low, Lutyens standing up to ease him – swept on and on before the other side knew what was the matter, and nearly pitched on his head between the Archangels’ goal-posts as Lutyens tipped the ball in after a straight scurry of a hundred and fifty yards. If there was one thing more than another upon which the Maltese Cat prided himself it was on this quick, streaking kind of run half across the ground. He did not believe in taking balls round the field unless you were clearly over-matched. After this they gave the Archangels five minutes’ football, and an expensive fast pony hates football because it rumples his temper.
Who’s Who showed himself even better than Polaris in this game. He did not permit any wriggling away, but bored joyfully into the scrimmage as if he had his nose in a feed-box, and were looking for something nice. Little Shikast jumped on the ball the minute it got clear, and every time an Archangel pony followed it he found Shikast standing over it asking what was the matter.
‘If we can live through this quarter,’ said the Maltese Cat, ‘I shan’t care. Don’t take it out of yourselves. Let them do the lathering.’
So the ponies, as their riders explained afterwards, ‘shut up’. The Archangels kept them tied fast in front of their goal, but it cost the Archangels’ ponies all that was left of their tempers; and ponies began to kick, and men began to repeat compliments, and they chopped at the legs of Who’s Who, and he set his teeth and stayed where he was, and the dust stood up like a tree over the scrimmage till that hot quarter ended.
They found the ponies very excited and confident when they went to their saises; and the Maltese Cat had to warn them that the worst of the game was coming.
‘Now we are all going in for the second time,’ said he, ‘and they are trotting out fresh ponies. You’ll think you can gallop, but you’ll find you can’t; and then you’ll be sorry.’
‘But two goals to nothing is a halter-long lead,’ said Kittiwynk, prancing.
‘How long does it take to get a goal?’ the Maltese Cat answered. ‘For pity’s sake, don’t run away with the notion that the game is half-won just because we happen to be in luck now. They’ll ride you into the grand-stand if they can. You mustn’t give ’em a chance. Follow the ball.’
‘Football, as usual?’ said Polaris. ‘My hock’s half as big as a nosebag.’
‘Don’t let them have a look at the ball if you can help it. Now leave me alone. I must get all the rest I can before the last quarter.’
He hung down his head and let all his muscles go slack; Shikast, Bamboo, and Who’s Who copying his example.
‘Better not watch the game,’ he said. ‘We aren’t playing, and we shall only take it out of ourselves if we grow anxious. Look at the ground and pretend it’s fly-time.’
They did their best, but it was hard advice to follow. The hoofs were drumming and the sticks were rattling all up and down the ground, and yells of applause from the English troops told that the Archangels were pressing the Skidars hard. The native soldiers behind the ponies groaned and grunted, and said things in undertones, and presently they heard a long-drawn shout and a clatter of hurrahs!
‘One to the Archangels,’ said Shikast, without raising his head. ‘Time’s nearly up. Oh, my sire and – dam!’
‘Faiz Ullah,’ said the Maltese Cat, ‘if you don’t play to the last nail in your shoes this time, I’ll kick you on the ground before all the other ponies.’
‘I’ll do my best when my time comes,’ said the little Arab sturdily.
The saises looked at each other gravely as they rubbed their ponies’ legs. This was the first time when long purses began to tell, and everybody knew it. Kittiwynk and the others came back with the sweat dripping over their hoofs and their tails telling sad stories.
‘They’re better than we are,’ said Shiraz. ‘I knew how it would be.’
‘Shut your big head,’ said the Maltese Cat; ‘we’ve one goal to the good yet.’
‘Yes, but it’s two Arabs and two countrybreds to play now,’ said Corks. ‘Faiz Ullah, remember!’ He spoke in a biting voice.
As Lutyens mounted Grey Dawn he looked at his men, and they did not look pretty. They were covered with dust and sweat in streaks. Their yellow boots were almost black, their wrists were red and lumpy, and their eyes seemed two inches deep in their heads, but the expression in their eyes was satisfactory.
‘Did you take anything at tiffin?’ said Lutyens, and the team shook their heads. They were too dry to talk.
‘All right. The Archangels did. They are worse pumped than we are.’
‘They’ve got the better ponies,’ said Powell. ‘I shan’t be sorry when this business is over.’
That fifth quarter was a sad one in every way. Faiz Ullah played like a little red demon; and the Rabbit seemed to be everywhere at once, and Benami rode straight at anything and everything that came in his way, while the umpires on their ponies wheeled like gulls outside the shifting game. But the Archangels had the better mounts – they had kept their racers till late in the game – and never allowed the Skidars to play football. They hit the ball up and down the width of the ground till Benami and the rest were outpaced. Then they went forward, and time and again Lutyens and Grey Dawn were just, and only just, able to send the ball away with a long splitting backhander. Grey Dawn forgot that he was an Arab; and turned from grey to blue as he galloped. Indeed, he forgot too well, for he did not keep his eyes on the ground as an Arab should, but stuck out his nose and scuttled for the dear honour of the game. They had watered the ground once or twice between the quarters, and a careless waterman had emptied the last of his skinful all in one place near the Skidars’ goal. It was close to the end of play, and for the tenth time Grey Dawn was bolting after a ball when his near hind foot slipped on the greasy mud and he rolled over and over, pitching Lutyens just clear of the goal-post; and the triumphant Archangels made their goal. Then time was called – two goals all; but Lutyens had to be helped up, and Grey Dawn ro
se with his near hind leg strained somewhere.
‘What’s the damage?’ said Powell, his arm round Lutyens.
‘Collar-bone, of course,’ said Lutyens between his teeth. It was the third time he had broken it in two years, and it hurt him.
Powell and the others whistled. ‘Game’s up,’ said Hughes.
‘Hold on. We’ve five good minutes yet, and it isn’t my right hand,’ said Lutyens. ‘We’ll stick it out.’
‘I say,’ said the captain of the Archangels, trotting up. ‘Are you hurt, Lutyens? We’ll wait if you care to put in a substitute. I wish – I mean – the fact is, you fellows deserve this game if any team does. Wish we could give you a man or some of our ponies – or something.’
‘You’re awfully good, but we’ll play it to a finish, I think.’
The captain of the Archangels stared for a little. ‘That’s not half bad,’ he said, and went back to his own side, while Lutyens borrowed a scarf from one of his native officers and made a sling of it. Then an Archangel galloped up with a big bath-sponge and advised Lutyens to put it under his arm-pit to ease his shoulder, and between them they tied up his left arm scientifically, and one of the native officers leaped forward with four long glasses that fizzed and bubbled.
The team looked at Lutyens piteously, and he nodded. It was the last quarter, and nothing would matter after that. They drank out the dark golden drink, and wiped their moustaches, and things looked more hopeful.
The Maltese Cat had pushed his nose into the front of Lutyens’ shirt, and was trying to say how sorry he was.
‘He knows,’ said Lutyens proudly. ‘The little beggar knows. I’ve played him without a bridle before now – for fun.’
‘It’s no fun now,’ said Powell. ‘But we haven’t a decent substitute.’
‘No,’ said Lutyens. ‘It’s the last quarter, and we’ve got to make our goal and win. I’ll trust the Cat.’
‘If you fall this time you’ll suffer a little,’ said Macnamara.
‘I’ll trust the Cat,’ said Lutyens.
‘You hear that?’ said the Maltese Cat proudly to the others. ‘It’s worth while playing polo for ten years to have that said of you. Now then, my sons, come along. We’ll kick up a little bit, just to show the Archangels this team haven’t suffered.’
And, sure enough, as they went on to the ground the Maltese Cat, after satisfying himself that Lutyens was home in the saddle, kicked out three or four times, and Lutyens laughed. The reins were caught up anyhow in the tips of his strapped fingers, and he never pretended to rely on them. He knew the Cat would answer to the least pressure of the leg, and by way of showing off – for his shoulder hurt him very much – he bent the little fellow in a close figure-of-eight in and out between the goal-posts. There was a roar from the native officers and men, who dearly loved a piece of dugabashi [horse-trick work], as they called it, and the pipes very quietly and scornfully droned out the first bars of a common bazar-tune called ‘Freshly Fresh and Newly New’, just as a warning to the other regiments that the Skidars were fit. All the natives laughed.
‘And now,’ said the Cat, as they took their place, ‘remember that this is the last quarter, and follow the ball!’
‘Don’t need to be told,’ said Who’s Who.
‘Let me go on. All those people on all four sides will begin to crowd in – just as they did at Malta. You’ll hear people calling out, and moving forward and being pushed back, and that is going to make the Archangel ponies very unhappy. But if a ball is struck to the boundary, you go after it, and let the people get out of your way. I hopped over the pole of a four-in-hand once, and picked a game out of the dust by it. Back me up when I run, and follow the ball.’
There was a sort of an all-round sound of sympathy and wonder as the last quarter opened, and then there began exactly what the Maltese Cat had foreseen. People crowded in close to the boundaries, and the Archangels’ ponies kept looking sideways at the narrowing space. If you know how a man feels to be cramped at tennis – not because he wants to run out of the court, but because he likes to know that he can at a pinch – you will guess how ponies must feel when they are playing in a box of human beings.
‘I’ll bend some of those men if I can get away,’ said Who’s Who, as he rocketed behind the ball; and Bamboo nodded without speaking. They were playing the last ounce in them, and the Maltese Cat had left the goal undefended to join them. Lutyens gave him every order that he could to bring him back, but this was the first time in his career that the little wise grey had ever played polo on his own responsibility, and he was going to make the most of it.
‘What are you doing here?’ said Hughes, as the Cat crossed in front of him and rode off an Archangel.
‘The Cat’s in charge – mind the goal!’ shouted Lutyens, and bowing forward hit the ball full, and followed on, forcing the Archangels towards their own goal.
‘No football,’ said the Cat. ‘Keep the ball by the boundaries and cramp ’em. Play open order and drive ’em to the boundaries.’
Across and across the ground in big diagonals flew the ball, and whenever it came to a flying rush and a stroke close to the boundaries the Archangel ponies moved stiffly. They did not care to go headlong at a wall of men and carriages, though if the ground had been open they could have turned on a sixpence.
‘Wriggle her up the sides,’ said the Cat. ‘Keep her close to the crowd. They hate the carriages. Shikast, keep her up this side.’
Shikast with Powell lay left and right behind the uneasy scuffle of an open scrimmage, and every time the ball was hit away Shikast galloped on it at such an angle that Powell was forced to hit it towards the boundary; and when the crowd had been driven away from that side, Lutyens would send the ball over to the other, and Shikast would slide desperately after it till his friends came down to help. It was billiards, and no football, this time – billiards in a corner pocket; and the cues were not well chalked.
‘If they get us out in the middle of the ground they’ll walk away from us. Dribble her along the sides,’ cried the Cat.
So they dribbled all along the boundary, where a pony could not come on their right-hand side; and the Archangels were furious, and the umpires had to neglect the game to shout at the people to get back, and several blundering mounted policemen tried to restore order, all close to the scrimmage, and the nerves of the Archangels’ ponies stretched and broke like cobwebs.
Five or six times an Archangel hit the ball up into the middle of the ground, and each time the watchful Shikast gave Powell his chance to send it back, and after each return, when the dust had settled, men could see that the Skidars had gained a few yards.
Every now and again there were shouts of ‘’Side! Off side!’ from the spectators; but the teams were too busy to care, and the umpires had all they could do to keep their maddened ponies clear of the scuffle.
At last Lutyens missed a short easy stroke, and the Skidars had to fly back helter-skelter to protect their own goal, Shikast leading. Powell stopped the ball with a backhander when it was not fifty yards from the goal-posts, and Shikast spun round with a wrench that nearly hoisted Powell out of his saddle.
‘Now’s our last chance,’ said the Cat, wheeling like a cockchafer on a pin. ‘We’ve got to ride it out. Come along.’
Lutyens felt the little chap take a deep breath, and, as it were, crouch under his rider. The ball was hopping towards the right-hand boundary, an Archangel riding for it with both spurs and a whip; but neither spur nor whip would make his pony stretch himself as he neared the crowd. The Maltese Cat glided under his very nose, picking up his hind legs sharp, for there was not a foot to spare between his quarters and the other pony’s bit. It was as neat an exhibition as fancy figure-skating. Lutyens hit with all the strength he had left, but the stick slipped a little in his hand, and the ball flew off to the left instead of keeping close to the boundary. Who’s Who was far across the ground, thinking hard as he galloped. He repeated, stride for stride, the Cat’s man
oeuvres with another Archangel pony, nipping the ball away from under his bridle, and clearing his opponent by half a fraction of an inch, for Who’s Who was clumsy behind. Then he drove away towards the right as the Maltese Cat came up from the left; and Bamboo held a middle course exactly between them. The three were making a sort of Government-broad-arrow-shaped attack; and there was only the Archangels’ back to guard the goal; but immediately behind them were three Archangels racing all they knew, and mixed up with them was Powell, sending Shikast along on what he felt was their last hope. It takes a very good man to stand up to the rush of seven crazy ponies in the last quarter of a Cup game, when men are riding with their necks for sale, and the ponies are delirious. The Archangels’ back missed his stroke, and pulled aside just in time to let the rush go by. Bamboo and Who’s Who shortened stride to give the Maltese Cat room, and Lutyens got the goal with a clean, smooth, smacking stroke that was heard all over the field. But there was no stopping the ponies. They poured through the goal-posts in one mixed mob, winners and losers together, for the pace had been terrific. The Maltese Cat knew by experience what would happen, and, to save Lutyens, turned to the right with one last effort that strained a back-sinew beyond hope of repair. As he did so he heard the right-hand goal-post crack as a pony cannoned into it – crack, splinter, and fall like a mast. It had been sawed three parts through in case of accidents, but it upset the pony nevertheless, and he blundered into another, who blundered into the left-hand post, and then there was confusion and dust and wood. Bamboo was lying on the ground, seeing stars; an Archangel pony rolled beside him, breathless and angry; Shikast had sat down dog-fashion to avoid falling over the others, and was sliding along on his little bob-tail in a cloud of dust; and Powell was sitting on the ground, hammering with his stick and trying to cheer. All the others were shouting at the top of what was left of their voices, and the men who had been spilt were shouting too. As soon as the people saw no one was hurt, ten thousand native and English shouted and clapped and yelled, and before any one could stop them the pipers of the Skidars broke on to the ground, with all the native officers and men behind them, and marched up and down, playing a wild northern tune called ‘Zakhme Bagān’, and through the insolent blaring of the pipes and the high-pitched native yells you could hear the Archangels’ band hammering ‘For they are all jolly good fellows’, and then reproachfully to the losing team, ‘Ooh, Kafoozalum! Kafoozalum! Kafoozalum!’
The Man Who Would Be King: Selected Stories of Rudyard Kipling Page 42