“I turned Tertius out with twenty Pathans, and they bucked about in the snow for a bit till they came on to a sort of camp about eight hundred yards away, with only a few men in charge and half a dozen sheep by the fire. They finished off the men, and snaffled the sheep and as much grain as they could carry, and came back. No one fired a shot at ‘em. There didn’t seem to be anybody about, but the snow was falling pretty thick.
“‘That’s good enough,’ said Stalky when we got dinner ready and he was chewin’ mutton-kababs off a cleanin’ rod. ‘There’s no sense riskin’ men. They’re holding a pow-wow between the Khye-Kheens and the Malo’ts at the head of the gorge. I don’t think these so-called coalitions are much good.’
“Do you know what that maniac had done? Tertius and I shook it out of him by instalments. There was an underground granary cellar-room below the watch-tower, and in blasting the road Stalky had blown a hole into one side of it. Being no one else but Stalky, he’d kept the hole open for his own ends; and laid poor Everett’s body slap over the well of the stairs that led down to it from the watch-tower. He’d had to move and replace the corpse every time he used the passage. The Sikhs wouldn’t go near the place, of course. Well, he’d got out of this hole, and dropped on to the road. Then, in the night and a howling snow-storm, he’d dropped over the edge of the khud, made his way down to the bottom of the gorge, forded the nullah, which was half frozen, climbed up on the other side along a track he’d discovered, and come out on the right flank of the Khye-Kheens. He had then — listen to this! — crossed over a ridge that paralleled their rear, walked half a mile behind that, and come out on the left of their line where the gorge gets shallow and where there was a regular track between the Malo’t and the Khye-Kheen camps. That was about two in the morning, and, as it turned out, a man spotted him — a Khye-Kheen. So Stalky abolished him quietly, and left him — with the Malo’t mark on his chest, same as Everett had.
“‘I was just as economical as I could be,’ Stalky said to us. ‘If he’d shouted I should have been slain. I’d never had to do that kind of thing but once before, and that was the first time I tried that path. It’s perfectly practicable for infantry, you know.’
“‘What about your first man?’ I said.
“‘Oh, that was the night after they killed Everett, and I went out lookin’ for a line of retreat for my men. A man found me. I abolished him — privatim — scragged him. But on thinkin’ it over it occurred to me that if I could find the body (I’d hove it down some rocks) I might decorate it with the Malo’t mark and leave it to the Khye-Kheens to draw inferences. So I went out again the next night and did. The Khye-Kheens are shocked at the Malo’ts perpetratin’ these two dastardly outrages after they’d sworn to sink all bleed feuds. I lay up behind their sungars early this morning and watched ‘em. They all went to confer about it at the head of the gorge. Awf’ly annoyed they are. Don’t wonder.’ You know the way Stalky drops out his words, one by one.”
“My God!” said the Infant, explosively, as the full depth of the strategy dawned on him.
“Dear-r man!” said McTurk, purring rapturously.
“Stalky stalked,” said Tertius. “That’s all there is to it.”
“No, he didn’t,” said Dick Four. “Don’t you remember how he insisted that he had only applied his luck? Don’t you remember how Rutton Singh grabbed his boots and grovelled in the snow, and how our men shouted?”
“None of our Pathans believed that was luck,” said Tertius. “They swore Stalky ought to have been born a Pathan, and — ’member we nearly had a row in the fort when Rutton Singh said Stalky was a Pathan? Gad, how furious the old chap was with my Jemadar! But Stalky just waggled his finger and they shut up.
“Old Rutton Singh’s sword was half out, though, and he swore he’d cremate every Khye-Kheen and Malo’t he killed. That made the Jemadar pretty wild, because he didn’t mind fighting against his own creed, but he wasn’t going to crab a fellow Mussulman’s chances of Paradise. Then Stalky jabbered Pushtu and Punjabi in alternate streaks. Where the deuce did he pick up his Pushtu from, Beetle?”
“Never mind his language, Dick,” said I. “Give us the gist of it.”
“I flatter myself I can address the wily Pathan on occasion, but, hang it all, I can’t make puns in Pushtu, or top off my arguments with a smutty story, as he did. He played on those two old dogs o’ war like a — like a concertina. Stalky said — and the other two backed up his knowledge of Oriental nature — that the Khye-Kheens and the Malo’ts between ‘em would organize a combined attack on us that night, as a proof of good faith. They wouldn’t drive it home, though, because neither side would trust the other on account, as Rutton Singh put it, of the little accidents. Stalky’s notion was to crawl out at dusk with his Sikhs, manoeuvre ‘em along this ungodly goat-track that he’d found, to the back of the Khye-Kheen position, and then lob in a few long shots at the Malo’ts when the attack was well on. ‘That’ll divert their minds and help to agitate ‘em,’ he said. ‘Then you chaps can come out and sweep up the pieces, and we’ll rendezvous at the head of the gorge. After that, I move we get back to Mac’s camp and have something to eat.”
“You were commandin’?” the Infant suggested.
“I was about three months senior to Stalky, and two months Tertius’s senior,” Dick Four replied. “But we were all from 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’ la pas 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 drum-head 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, consilio et 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 sends his salaams — local rank of Khan Bahadur. “‘A. L. Cockran.�
�
“Well, that was all,” said Dick Four, when the roaring, the shouting, the laughter, and, I think, the tears, had subsided. “I chaperoned the gang across the border as quick as I could. They were rather homesick, but they cheered up when they recognized some of my chaps, who had been in the Khye-Kheen row, and they made a rippin’ good lot. It’s rather more than three hundred miles from Fort Everett to where I picked ‘em up. Now, Pussy, tell ‘em the latter end o’ Stalky as you saw it.”
Abanazar laughed a little nervous, misleading, official laugh.
“Oh, it wasn’t much. I was at Simla in the spring, when our Stalky, out of his snows, began corresponding direct with the Government.”
“After the manner of a king,” suggested Dick Four. “My turn now, Dick. He’d done a whole let of things he shouldn’t have done, and constructively pledged the Government to all sorts of action.”
“‘Pledged the State’s ticker, eh?” said McTurk, with a nod to me.
“About that; but the embarrassin’ part was that it was all so thunderin’ convenient, so well reasoned, don’t you know? Came in as pat as if he’d had access to all sorts of information — which he couldn’t, of course.”
“Pooh!” said Tertius, “I back Stalky against the Foreign Office any day.”
“He’d done pretty nearly everything he could think of, except strikin’ coins in his own image and superscription, all under cover of buildin’ this infernal road and bein’ blocked by the snow. His report was simply amazin’. Von Lennaert tore his hair over it at first, and then he gasped, ‘Who the dooce is this unknown Warren Hastings? He must be slain. He must be slain officially! The Viceroy’ll never stand it. It’s unheard of. He must be slain by his Excellency in person. Order him up here and pitch in a stinger.’ Well, I sent him no end of an official stinger, and I pitched in an unofficial telegram at the same time.”
“You!” This with amazement from the Infant, for Abanazar resembled nothing so much as a fluffy Persian cat.
Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) Page 646