The Wish House and Other Stories

by Rudyard Kipling

  ‘Ay, an’ before that an’ before that – scores av thim,’ he answered with a worn smile. “Tis better to die than to live for them, though. Whin Raines comes out – he’ll be changin’ his kit at the jail now – he’ll think that too. He shud ha’ shot hemself an’ the woman by rights an’ made a clean bill av all. Now he’s left the woman – she tuk tay wid Dinah Sunday gone last – an’ he’s left himself. Mackie’s the lucky man.’

  ‘He’s probably getting it hot where he is,’ I ventured, for I knew something of the dead corporal’s record.

  ‘Be sure av that,’ said Terence, spitting over the edge of the veranda. ‘But fwhat he’ll get there is light marchin’-ordher to fwhat he’d ha’ got here if he’d lived.’

  ‘Surely not. He’d have gone on and forgotten – like the others.’

  ‘Did you know Mackie well, sorr?’ said Terence.

  ‘He was on the Pattiala guard of honour last winter, and I went out shooting with him in an ekka for the day, and I found him rather an amusing man.’

  ‘Well, he’ll ha’ got shut av amusemints, excipt turnin’ from wan side to the other, these few years to come. I knew Mackie, an’ I’ve seen too many to be mistuk in the muster av wan man. He might ha’ gone an’ forgot as you say, sorr, but he was a man wid an educashin, an’ he used ut for his schames; an’ the same educashin, an’ talkin’, an’ all that made him able to do fwhat he had a mind to wid a woman, that same wud turn back again in the long-run an’ tear him alive. I can’t say fwhat that I mane to say bekaze I don’t know how, but Mackie was the spit an’ livin’ image of a man that I saw march the same march all but; an’ ’twas worse for him that he did not come by Mackie’s ind. Wait while I remember now. ’twas whin I was in the Black Tyrone, an’ he was drafted us from Portsmouth; an’ fwhat was his misbegotten name? Larry – Larry Tighe ut was; an’ wan of the draft said he was a gentleman-ranker, an’ Larry tuk an’ three-parts killed him for saying so. an’ he was a big man, an’ a strong man, an’ a handsome man, an’ that tells heavy in practice wid some women, but, takin’ ’em by an’ large, not wid all. Yet ’twas wid all that Larry dealt – all – for he cud put the comether on any woman that trod the green earth av God, an’ he knew ut. Like Mackie that’s roastin’ now, he knew ut, an’ niver did he put the comether on any woman save an’ excipt for the black shame. ’Tis not me that shud be talkin’, dear knows, dear knows, but the most av my mis-misallinces was for pure devilry, an’ mighty sorry I have been whin harm came; an’ time an’ time again wid a girl, ay, an’ a woman too, for the matter av that, whin I have seen by the eyes av her that I was makin’ more throuble than I talked, I have hild off an’ let be for the sake av the mother that bore me. But Larry, I’m thinkin’, he was suckled by a she-divil, for he never let wan go that came nigh to listen to him. ’twas his business, as if it might ha’ ben sinthry-go. He was a good soldier too. Now there was the Colonel’s governess-an’ he a privit too! – that was never known in barricks; an’ wan av the Major’s maids, and she was promised to a man; an’ some more outside; an’ fwhat ut was amongst us we’ll never know till Judgment Day. ’twas the nature av the baste to put the comether on the best av thim – not the prettiest by any manner av manes – but the like av such women as you cud lay your hand on the Book an’ swear there was niver thought av foolishness in. an’ for that very reason, mark you, he was niver caught. He came close to ut wanst or twice, but caught he niver was, an’ that cost him more at the ind than the beginnin’. He talked to me more than most, bekaze he tould me, barrin’ the accident av my educashin, I’d av been the same kind av divil as he was. “An’ is ut like,” he wud say, houldin’ his head high – “is ut like that I’d iver be thrapped? For fwhat am I when all’s said an’ done?’ he sez. “A damned privit,” sez he. “An’ is ut like, think you, that thim I know wud be connect wid a privit like me? Number tin thousand four hundred an’ sivin,” he sez grinnin’. I knew by the turn av his spache when he was not takin’ care to talk rough-shod that he was a gentleman-ranker.

  “‘I do not undherstan’ ut at all,” I sez; “but I know,” sez I, “that the divil looks out av your eyes, an’ I’ll have no share wid you. A little fun by way av amusemint where ‘twill do no harm, Larry, is right and fair, but I am mistook if ’tis any amusemint to you,” I sez.

  ‘“You are much mistook,” he sez. “An’ I counsel you not to judge your betters.”

  ‘“My betthers!” I sez. “God help you, Larry. There’s no betther in this; ’tis all bad, as ye will find for yoursilf.”

  ‘“You’re not like me,” he says, tossin’ his head.

  ‘“Praise the Saints, I am not,” I sez. “Fwhat I have done I have done an’ been crool sorry for. Fwhin your time comes,” sez I, “ye’ll remimber fwhat I say.”

  ‘“An’ whin that time comes,” sez he, “I’ll come to you for ghostly consolation, Father Terence,” an’ at that he wint off afther some more divil’s business – for to get expayrience, he tould me. He was wicked – rank wicked – wicked as all Hell! I’m not construct by nature to go in fear av any man, but, begad, I was afraid av Larry. He’d come in to barricks wid his cap on three hairs, an’ lie on his cot and stare at the ceilin’, and now an’ again he’d fetch a little laugh, the like av a splash in the bottom av a well, an’ by that I knew-he was schamin’ new wickedness, an’ I’d be afraid. All this was long an’ long ago, but ut hild me straight – for a while.

  ‘I tould you, did I not, sorr, that I was caressed an’ pershuaded to lave the Tyrone on account av a throuble?’

  ‘Something to do with a belt and a man’s head wasn’t it?’ Terence had never given the tale in full.

  ‘It was. Faith, ivry time I go on prisoner’s gyard in coort I wondher fwhy I was not where the pris’ner is. But the man I struk tuk it in fair fight an’ he had the good sinse not to die. Considher now, fwhat wud ha’ come to the Arrmy if he had! I was enthreated to exchange, an’ my commandin’ orf’cer pled wid me. I wint, not to be disobligin’, and Larry tould me he was powerful sorry to lose me, though fwhat I’d done to make him sorry I do not know. So to the Ould Reg’mint I came, lavin’ Larry to go to the divil his own way, an’ niver expectin’ to see him again excipt as a shootin’-case in barracks…Who’s that quitrin’ the compound?’ Terence’s quick eye had caught sight of a white uniform skulking behind the hedge.

  ‘The Sergeant’s gone visiting,’ said a voice.

  ‘Thin I command here, an’ I will have no sneakin’ away to the bazaar, an’ huntin’ for you wid a pathrol at midnight. Nalson, for I know ut’s you, come back to the veranda.’

  Nalson, detected, slunk back to his fellows. There was a grumble that died away in a minute or two, and Terence turning on the other side went on:

  ‘That was the last I saw av Larry for a while. Exchange is the same as death for not thinkin’ an’ by token I married Dinah, an’ that kept me from remimberin’ ould times. Thin we went up to the Front, an’ ut tore my heart in tu to lave Dinah at the Depot in Pindi. Consequint, whin I was at the Front I fought circumspectuous till I warrmed up, an’ thin I fought double tides. You remember fwhat I tould you in the gyard-gate av the fight at Silver’s Theatre?’

  ‘Wot’s that about Silver’s Theayter?’ said Ortheris quickly, over his shoulder.

  ‘Nothin’, little man. A tale that ye know. As I was sayin’, afther that fight, us av the Ould Rig’mint an’ the Tyrone was all mixed together takin’ shtock av the dead, an’ av coorse I wint about to find if there was any man that remembered me. The second man I came acrost – an’ how I’d missed him in the fight I do not know – was Larry, an’ a fine man he looked, but oulder, by reason that he had fair call to be. “Larry,” sez I, “how is ut wid you?”

  ‘“Ye’re callin’ the wrong man,” he sez, wid his gentleman’s smile, “Larry has been dead these three years. They call him ‘Love-o’-Women’ now,” he sez. By that I knew the ould divil was in him yet, but the ind av a fight is no time for the beginnin�
�� av confession, so we sat down an’ talked av times.

  ‘“They tell me you’re a married man,” he sez, puffin’ slow at his poipe. “Are ye happy?”

  “‘I will be whin I get back to Depot,” I sez. ‘“Tis a reconnaissance-honeymoon now.”

  ‘“I’m married too,” he sez, puffin’ slow an’ more slow, an’ stopperin’ wid his forefinger.

  ‘“Send you happiness,” I sez. “That’s the best hearin’ for a long time.”

  ‘“Are ye av that opinion?” he sez; an’ thin he began talkin’ av the campaign. The sweat av Silver’s Theatre was not dhry upon him an’ he was prayin’ for more work. I was well contint to lie and listen to the cook-pot lids.

  ‘Whin he got up off the ground he shtaggered a little, an’ laned over all twisted.

  ‘“Ye’ve got more than ye bargained for,” I sez. “Take an inventory, Larry. ’Tis like you’re hurt.”

  ‘He turned round stiff as a ramrod an’ damned the eyes av me up an’ down for an impartinent Irish-faced ape. If that had been in barracks, I’d ha’ stretched him an’ no more said; but ’twas at the Front, an’ afther such a fight as Silver’s Theatre I knew there was no callin’ a man to account for his tempers. He might as well ha’ kissed me. Aftherwards I was well pleased I kept my fists home. Thin our Captain Crook – Cruik-na-bulleen – came up. He’d been talkin’ to the little orf’cer bhoy av the Tyrone. “We’re all cut to windystraws,” he sez, “but the Tyrone are damned short for noncoms. Go you over there, Mulvaney, an’ be deputy-sergeant, corp’ral, lance, an’ everything else ye can lay hands on till I bid you stop.”

  ‘I wint over an’ tuk hould. There was wan sergeant left standin’, an’ they’d pay no heed to him. The remnint was me, an’ ’twas full time I came. Some I talked to, an’ some I did not, but before night the bhoys av the Tyrone stud to attention, by gad, if I sucked on my poipe above a whishper. Betune you an’ me an’ Bobbs I was commandin’ the company, an’ that was what Crook had thransferred me for; an’ the little orf’cer bhoy knew ut, and I knew ut, but the comp’ny did not. And there, mark you, is the vartue that no money an’ no dhrill can buy – the vartue av the ould soldier that knows his orf’cer’s work an’ does ut for him at the salute!

  ‘Thin the Tyrone, wid the Ould Rig’mint in touch, was sint maraudin’ an’ prowlin’ acrost the hills promishcuous an’ on-satisfactory. ’Tis my privit opinion that a gin’ral does not know half his time fwhat to do with three-quarthers his command. So he shquats on his hunkers an’ bids them run round an’ round forninst him while he considhers on it. Whin by the process av nature, they get sejuced into a big fight that was none av their seekin’, he sez: “Obsarve my shuperior janius. I meant ut to come so.” We ran round an’ about, an’ all we got was shootin’ into the camp at night, an’ rushin’ empty sungars wid the long bradawl, an’ bein’ hit from behind rocks till we was wore out – all excipt Love-o’-Women. That puppy-dog business was mate an’ dhrink to him. Begad he cud niver get enough av ut. Me well knowin’ that it is just this desultorial campaignin’ that kills the best men, an’ suspicionin’ that if I was cut, the little orf’cer bhoy wud expind all his men in thryin’ to get out, I would lie most powerful doggo whin I heard a shot, an’ curl my long legs behind a bowlder, an’ run like blazes whin the ground was clear. Faith, if I led the Tyrone in rethreat wanst I led thim forty times! Love-o’-Women wud stay pottin’ an’ pottin’ from behind a rock, and wait till the fire was heaviest, an’ thin stand up an’ fire man-height clear. He wud lie out in camp too at night, snipin’ at the shadows, for he never tuk a mouthful av slape. My commandin’ orf’cer – save his little soul! – cud not see the beauty av my strategims, an’ whin the Ould Rig’mint crossed us, an’ that was wanst a week, he’d throt off to Crook, wid his big blue eyes as round as saucers, an’ lay an information against me. I heard thim wanst talkin’ through the tent-wall, an’ I nearly laughed.

  ‘“He runs – runs like a hare,” sez the little orf’cer bhoy. “Tis demoralizin’ my men.”

  ‘“Ye damned little fool,” sez Crook laughin’. “He’s larnin’ you your business. Have ye been rushed at night yet?”

  ‘“No,” sez that child; wishful he had been.

  ‘“Have you any wounded?” sez Crook.

  ‘“No,” he sez. “There was no chanst for that. They follow Mulvaney too quick,” he sez.

  ‘“Fwhat more do you want, thin?” sez Crook. “Terence is bloodin’ you neat an’ handy,” he sez. “He knows fwhat you do not, an’ that’s that there’s a time for ivrything. He’ll not lead you wrong,” he sez, “but I’d give a month’s pay to larn fwhat he thinks av you.”

  ‘That kept the babe quiet, but Love-o’-Women was pokin’ at me for ivrything I did, an’ specially my manoeuvres.

  “‘Mr Mulvaney,” he sez wan evenin’, very contempshus, “you’re growin’ very jeldy on your feet. Among gentlemen,” he sez, “among gentlemen that’s called no pretty name.”

  ‘“Among privits ’tis different,” I sez. “Get back to your tent. I’m sergeant here,” I sez.

  ‘There was just enough in the voice av me to tell him he was playin’ wid his life betune his teeth. He wint off, an’ I noticed that this man that was contempshus set off from the halt wid a shunt as tho’ he was bein’ kicked behind. That same night there was a Paythan picnic in the hills about, an’ firin’ into our tents fit to wake the livin’ dead. “Lie down all,” I sez. “Lie down an’ kape still. They’ll no more than waste ammunition.”

  ‘I heard a man’s feet on the ground, an’ thin a ‘Tini joinin’ in the chorus. I’d been lyin’ warm, thinkin’ av Dinah an’ all, but I crup out wid the bugle for to look round in case there was a rush; an’ the ‘Tini was flashin’ at the fore-ind av the camp, an’ the hill near by was fair flickerin’ wid long-range fire. Undher the starlight I behild Love-o’-Women settin’ on a rock wid his belt and helmet off. He shouted wanst or twice, an’ thin I heard him say: “They shud ha’ got the range long ago. Maybe they’ll fire at the flash.” Thin he fired again, an’ that dhrew a fresh volley, and the long slugs that they chew in their teeth came floppin’ among the rocks like tree-toads av a hot night. “That’s better,” sez Love-o’-Women. “Oh Lord, how long, how long!” he sez, an’ at that he lit a match an’ held ut above his head.

  ‘“Mad,” thinks I, “mad as a coot,” an’ I tuk wan stip forward, an’ the nixt I knew was the sole av my boot flappin’ like a cavalry gydon an’ the funny-bone av my toes tinglin’. ’twas a clane-cut shot – a slug – that niver touched sock or hide, but set me bare-fut on the rocks. At that I tuk Love-o’-Women by the scruff an’ threw him under a bowlder, an’ whin I sat down I heard the bullets patterin’ on that same good stone.

  ‘“Ye may dhraw your own wicked fire,” I sez, shakin’ him, “but I’m not goin’ to be kilt too.”

  ‘“Ye’ve come too soon,” he sez. “Ye’ve come too soon. In another minute they cudn’t ha’ missed me. Mother av’ God,” he sez, “fwhy did ye not lave me be? Now ’tis all to do again,” an’ he hides his face in his hands.

  ‘“So that’s it,” I sez, shakin’ him again. “That’s the manin’ av your disobeyin’ ordhers.”

  “‘I dare not kill meself,” he sez, rockin’ to and fro. “My own hand wud not let me die, and there’s not a bullet this month past wud touch me. I’m to die slow,” he sez. “I’m to die slow. But I’m in Hell now,” he sez, shriekin’ like a woman. “I’m in Hell now!”

  ‘“God be good to us all,” I sez, for I saw his face. “Will ye tell a man the throuble? If ’tis not murder, maybe we’ll mend it yet.”

  ‘At that he laughed. “D’you remember fwhat I said in the Tyrone barricks about comin’ to you for ghostly consolation. I have not forgot,” he sez. “That came back, and the rest av my time is on me now, Terence. I’ve fought ut off for months an’ months, but the liquor will not bite any more. Terence,” he sez, “I can’t get dhrunk!”

  ‘Thin I knew
he spoke the truth about bein’ in Hell, for whin liquor does not take hould the sowl av a man is rotten in him. But me bein’ such as I was, fwhat could I say to him?

  ‘“Di’monds an’ pearls,” he begins again. “Di’monds an’ pearls I have thrown away wid both hands – an’ fwhat have I left?”

  ‘He was shakin’ an’ thremblin’ up against my shouldher, an’ the slugs were singin’ overhead, an’ I was wonderin’ whether my little bhoy wud have sinse enough to kape his men quiet through all this firin’.

  ‘“So long as I did not think,” sez Love-o’-Women, “so long I did not see-I wud not see, but I can now, what I’ve lost. The time an’ the place,” he sez, “an’ the very words I said whin ut pleased me to go off alone to Hell. But thin, even thin,” he sez, wrigglin’ tremenjous, “I wud not ha’ been happy. There was too much behind av me. How cud I ha’ believed her sworn oath – me that have bruk mine again an’ again for the sport av seein’ thim cry? an’ there are the others,” he sez. “Oh, what will I do – what will I do?” He rocked back an’ forward again, an’ I think he was cryin’ like wan av the women he talked av.

  ‘The full half of fwhat he said was Brigade Ordhers to me, but from the rest an’ the remnint I suspicioned somethin’ av his throuble. ’twas the judgmint av God had grup the heel av him, as I tould him ‘twould in the Tyrone barricks. The slugs was singin’ over our rock more an’ more, an’ I sez for to divart him: “Let bad alone,” I sez. “They’ll be tryin’ to rush the camp in a minut’.”

  ‘I had no more than said that whin a Paythan man crep’ up on his belly wid a knife betune his teeth, not twinty yards from us. Love-’o-Women jumped up an’ fetched a yell, an’ the man saw him an’ ran at him (he’d left his rifle under the rock) wid the knife. Love-o’-Women niver turned a hair, but by the Living Power, for I saw ut, a stone twisted under the Paythan man’s feet an’ he came down full sprawl, an’ his knife wint tinkling acrost the rocks! “I tould you I was Cain,” sez Love-o’-Women. “Fwhat’s the use av killin’ him? He’s an honust man – by compare.”