Fix Bay'nets: The Regiment in the Hills. Fenn George Manville

Here’s yer real ’apenny ices laid on free gratis for nothing. Here yer are, sir; which ’ll yer ’ave, strorbry or rarsbry? The real oridgenal ’stablishment, kep’ by Billi Sneakino Pianni Organni. Who says hoky-poky?”

      “Why, ’tis real ice, Bill,” said one of the men.

      “Snow,” said another.

      “Gahn!” cried Private Gedge, scooping up a couple of handfuls. “It’s hailstones, that’s what it is. You on’y get snow atop o’ the high mountains.”

      “But it is snow, my lad,” said a voice from behind, and the party started round, to see that a couple of their officers had followed to look at the glittering rift which ran right up hundreds of feet. “We’re pretty high now.”

      “How high, sir?” said Gedge, saluting.

      “We’re at the top of the pass now,” said the young officer who had spoken; “ten thousand feet above the sea.”

      “Why, that’s higher than the top of Saint Paul’s, sir,” said one of the men.

      “Top o’ Saint Paul’s,” cried Gedge scornfully. “Why, it’s higher than the Monniment atop o’ that. Higher than ’Amstead, ain’t it, sir?”

      “Yes,” said the young officer, smiling. – “Don’t straggle away, my lads. Keep close in.”

      The speaker strolled away back with his companion towards where the native servants were busily preparing the mess meal, and their men looked after them.

      “Ain’t them two chummy?” said one.

      “They jest are,” said Gedge. “That Captain Roberts aren’t a bad sort; but Mr Bracy’s the chap for my money. He looks as if he could fight, too, if we had a row with the niggers.”

      “Oh, I don’t know,” said another superciliously; “you can’t never tell. Some o’ them nice-looking dossy chaps ain’t up to much. They can talk, but they talk too fast. How could he know we were ten thousand foot high? Why, that must be miles, and that’s all stuff.”

      “What do you know about it, stoopid?” cried Gedge fiercely. “Miles. Why, of course it is. Ain’t we come miles this morning?”

      “Longwise, but not uppards.”

      “Not uppards? Why, it’s been sich a gettin’ upstairs ever since we started this morning. Don’t you be so jolly ready to kick again’ your orficers. Mr Bracy’s a reg’lar good sort; and if we comes to a set-to with the niggers he’ll let some of yer see. I say, though, think we shall have a row?”

      “You bet! I heered Sergeant Gee say we should be at it ’fore long, and that these here – what do they call ’em?”

      “Dwats,” said one of the men.

      “Yes, that’s it,” cried Gedge. “That’s right. I remember, because I said to myself if we did we’d jolly soon give ’em Dwat for.”

      Just then a bugle rang out, and the men doubled back for the lines, where, thanks to the clever native cooks, a hastily prepared meal was ready and made short work of, the keen mountain air and the long march having given the men a ravenous appetite.

      Chapter Two

      The Colonel

      “Well, Colonel,” said Dr Morton as the officers sat enjoying their lunch, breathing in the crisp mountain air and feasting their eyes at the same time upon the grand mountain scenery, “I must confess to being a bit lazy. You may be all athirst for glory, but after our ride this morning pale ale’s good enough for me. I’m not a fighting man, and I hope when we get to the station we shall find that the what you may call ’em – Dwats – have dissolved into thin air like the cloud yonder fading away on that snow-peak. If, however, it does come to a set-to, here I am, my dear boys, at your service, and I’ll do the best I can.”

      “Thank ye, Doctor,” came in chorus from the officers; “but the less the better.”

      “We shall have something to do, for certain,” said the Colonel, a keen-looking, deeply bronzed man of fifty, “for these hill-tribes will never believe in England’s strength till they have been well thrashed; but a fight does not mean for certain that we shall want the doctor’s help afterwards.”

      “So much the better,” said that gentleman, laughing. “But, as I said, here I am if you want me, and I’ve got as well-arranged an ambulance as – ”

      “Oh, I say, Doctor, don’t talk shop,” cried the young officer spoken of as Captain Roberts, a handsome, carefully dressed young fellow of seven or eight and twenty. “They’re regular curs, are they not, sir – these Dwats?” he added, turning to the Colonel.

      “Certainly not,” replied the latter gravely. “They are decidedly a brave, bold, fighting race. Tall, dark, big-bearded, just such fellows as hill-tribes are; restless, pugnacious fighting-men, always engaged in petty warfare with the neighbouring chiefs, and making plundering expeditions.”

      “I see, sir,” said the Captain; “like our old Border chieftains used to be at home.”

      “Exactly,” said the Colonel; “and each chief thinks he is one of the greatest monarchs under the sun. England is to them, in their ignorance, only a similar nation to their own, and the Empress a lady-chief.”

      “We shall have to teach them better,” said the Major, a gentleman with an eyeglass and a disposition to become stout. “We shall soon do it. A good sharp lesson is all that’s wanted. The only difficulty is that, though they are as a rule always busy cutting one another’s throats, as soon as one of the tribes is attacked they all become friends and help one another.”

      “Save us trouble.”

      “What’s that, Bracy?” said the Colonel.

      “Save us trouble, sir,” said the young man, laughing; “we can thrash half-a-dozen of the tribes together.”

      “With a regiment of raw boys?” said the Major, frowning so fiercely that he shot his glass out of his eye and replaced it angrily.

      “Look here, Graham, you and I are going to quarrel.”

      “What about, sir?”

      “Your bad habit of depreciating our lads.”

      “Yes,” said the Doctor, nodding his head sharply. “You do, Major, and it isn’t good form to cry bad fish.”

      “But it’s true,” said the Major sharply. “The War Office ought to be ashamed of itself for sending such a regiment of boys upon so arduous a task.”

      “The boys are right enough,” said the Colonel. “What do you say, Bracy?”

      “I say of course they are, sir.”

      “Yes, because you’re a boy yourself,” said the Major in a tone which made the young man flush.

      “I wish I had some more boys like you, Bracy, my lad,” said the Colonel warmly. “Graham’s a bit touched in the liver with the change from warm weather to cold. He doesn’t mean what he says – eh, Morton?”

      “That’s right, Colonel,” said the Doctor. “I have my eye upon him. He’ll be asking for an interview with me to-morrow, re, as the lawyers say, B.P. and B.D.”

      “Hang your B.P.s and B.D.s!” said the Major hotly. “I mean what I say, Colonel. These boys ought to have had three or four years in England before they were sent out here.”

      “But they are sent up into the hills here where the climate is glorious, sir,” cried the Doctor, “and I’ll answer for it that in a year’s time they will have put on muscle in a wonderful way, while in a couple of years you’ll be proud of them.”

      “I’m proud of the lads now,” said the Colonel quietly.

      “I’m not,” said the Major. “I feel like old Jack Falstaff sometimes, ready to say, ‘If I be not ashamed of my soldiers, I’m a soused gurnet.’ They’re boys,