Rudyard Kipling: 440+ Short Stories in One Edition (Illustrated). Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг

in you av a great man; but, av you’ll let an ould sodger spake, you’re too fond of the-ourisin’.;” He shuk hands wid me and sez, “Hit high, hit low, there's no plasin’ you, Mulvaney. You’ve seen me waltzin’ through Luntungpen like a Red Injin widout the war-paint, any you say I’m too fond of the-ourisin’?”—“Sorr,” sez I, for I loved the bhoy, “I wud waltz wid you in that condishin through Hell, an’ so wud the rest av the men!” Thin I wint downshtrame in the flat an’ left him my blessin’. May the Saints carry ut where ut shud go, for he was a fine upstandin’ young orficer.

      ‘To reshume. Fwhat I’ve said jist shows the use av three-year-olds. Wud fifty seasoned sodgers have taken Lungtungpen in the dhark that way? No! They’d know the risk av fever and chill; let alone the shootin’. Two hundher’ might have done ut. But the three-year-olds know little an’ care less; an’ where there’s no fear there’s no danger. Catch thim young, feed thim high, an’ by the honour av that great, little man Bobs, behind a good orficer, ’tisn’t only dacoits they’d smash wid their clo’es off—’tis Continental Ar-r-r-mies! They tuk Lungtungpen nakid; an’ they'd take St. Pethersburg in their dhrawers! Begad, they would that!

      ‘Here’s your pipe, Sorr. Shmoke her tinderly wid honey-dew, afther letting the reek av the Canteen plug die away. But ’tis no good, thanks to you all the same, fillin’ my pouch wid your chopped hay. Canteen baccy’s like the Army; it shpoils a man’s taste for moilder things.’

      So saying, Mulvaney took up his butterfly-net, and returned to barracks.

The Daughter of the Regiment

       Table of Contents

      Jain ’Ardin’ was a Sarjint’s wife,

       A Sarjint’s wife wus she.

       She married of ’im in Orldershort

       An’ comed acrost the sea.

       (Chorus) ’Ave you never ’eard tell o’ Jain ’Ardin’?

      Jain ’Ardin’?

       Jain ’Ardin’?

      ’Ave you never ’card tell o’ Jain ’Ardin’?

       The pride o’ the Companee?

       —Old Barrack-Room Ballad.

      ‘A gentleman who doesn’t know the Circassian Circle ought not to stand up for it—puttin’ everybody out.’ That was what Miss McKenna said, and the Sergeant who was my vis-à-vis looked the same thing. I was afraid of Miss McKenna. She was six feet high, all yellow freckles and red hair, and was simply clad in white satin shoes, a pink muslin dress, an apple-green stuff sash, and black silk gloves, with yellow roses in her hair. Wherefore I fled from Miss McKenna and sought my friend Private Mulvaney, who was at the cant—refreshment-table.

      ‘So you’ve been dancin’ with little Jhansi McKenna, Sorr—she that’s goin’ to marry Corp’ril Slane? Whin you next conversh wid your lorruds an’ your ladies, tell thim you’ve danced wid little Jhansi. ’Tis a thing to be proud av.’

      But I wasn’t proud. I was humble. I saw a story in Private Mulvaney’s eye; and besides, if he stayed too long at the bar, he would, I knew, qualify for more pack-drill. Now to meet an esteemed friend doing pack-drill outside the guardroom is embarrassing, especially if you happen to be walking with his Commanding Officer.

      ‘Come on to the parade-ground, Mulvaney, it’s cooler there, and tell me about Miss McKenna. What is she, and who is she, and why is she called “Jhansi”?’

      ‘D’ye mane to say you’ve niver heard av Ould Pummeloe’s daughter? An’ you thinkin’ you know things! I’m wid ye in a minut’ whin me poipe’s lit.’

      We came out under the stars. Mulvaney sat down on one of the artillery bridges, and began in the usual way: his pipe between his teeth, his big hands clasped and dropped between his knees, and his cap well on the back of his head—

      ‘Whin Mrs. Mulvaney, that is, was Miss Shad that was, you were a dale younger than you are now, an’ the Army was dif’rint in sev’ril e-sen-shuls. Bhoys have no call for to marry nowadays, an’ that’s why the Army has so few rale, good, honust, swearin’, strapagin’, tinder-hearted, heavy-futted wives as ut used to have whin I was a Corp’ril. I was rejuced aftherwards—but no matther—I was a Corp’ril wanst. In thim times a man lived an’ died wid his regiment; an’ by natur’, he married whin he was a man. Whin I was Corp’ril—Mother av Hivin, how the rigimint has died an’ been borrun since that day!—my Colour-Sar’jint was Ould McKenna, an’ a married man tu. An’ his woife—his first woife, for he married three times did McKenna—was Bridget McKenna, from Portarlington, like mesilf. I’ve misremembered fwhat her first name was; but in B Comp’ny we called her “Ould Pummeloe,” by reason av her figure, which was entirely cir-cum-fe-renshill. Like the big dhrum! Now that woman—God rock her sowl to rest in glory!—was for everlastin’ havin’ childher; an’ McKenna, whin the fifth or sixth come squallin’ on to the musther-roll, swore he wud number thim off in future. But Ould Pummeloe she prayed av him to christen them after the names av the stations they was borrun in. So there was Colaba McKenna, an’ Muttra McKenna, an’ a whole Presidincy av other McKennas, an’ little Jhansi, dancin’ over yonder. Whin the childher wasn’t bornin’, they was dying; for, av our childher die like sheep in these days, they died like flies thin. I lost me own little Shad—but no matther. ’Tis long ago, and Mrs. Mulvaney niver had another.

      ‘I’m digresshin. Wan divil’s hot summer there come an order from some mad ijjit, whose name I misremember, for the rigimint to go upcountry. Maybe they wanted to know how the new rail carried throops. They knew! On me sowl, they knew before they was done! Old Pummeloe had just buried Muttra McKenna; an’, the season bein’ onwholesim, only little Jhansi McKenna, who was four year ould thin, was left on hand.

      ‘Five children gone in fourteen months. ’Twas harrd, wasn’t ut?’

      So we wint up to our new station in that blazin’ heat—may the curse av Saint Lawrence conshume the man who gave the ordher! Will I iver forget that move? They gave us two wake thrains to the rigimint; an’ we was eight hundher’ and sivinty strong. There was A, B, C, an’ D Companies in the secon’ thrain, wid twelve women, no orficers’ ladies, an’ thirteen childher. We was to go six hundher’ miles, an’ railways was new in thim days. Whin we had been a night in the belly av the thrain—the men ragin’ in their shirts an’ dhrinkin’ anything they cud find, an’ eatin’ bad fruit-stuff whin they cud, for we cudn’t stop ’em—I was a Corp’ril thin—the cholera bruk out wid the dawnin’ av the day.

      ‘Pray to the Saints you may niver see cholera in a throop-thrain! ’Tis like the judgmint av God hittin’ down from the nakid sky! We run into a rest-camp—as ut might have been Ludianny, but not by any means so comfortable. The Orficer Commandin’ sent a telegrapt up the line, three hundher’ mile up, askin’ for help. Faith, we wanted ut, for ivry sowl av the followers ran for the dear life as soon as the thrain stopped; an’ by the time that telegrapt was writ, there wasn’t a naygur in the station exceptin’ the telegrapt-clerk—an’ he only bekaze he was held down to his chair by the scruff av his sneakin’ black neck. Thin the day began wid the noise in the carr’ges, an’ the rattle av the men on the platform fallin’ over, arms an’ all, as they stud for to answer the Comp’ny muster-roll before goin’ over to the camp. ’Tisn’t for me to say what like the cholera was like. May be the Doctor cud ha’ tould, av he hadn’t dropped on to the platform from the door av a carriage where we was takin’ out the dead. He died wid the rest. Some bhoys had died in the night. We tuk out siven, and twenty more was sickenin’ as we tuk thim. The women was huddled up anyways, screamin’ wid fear.

      ‘Sez the Commandin’ Orficer whose name I misremember, “Take the women over to that tope av trees yonder. Get thim out av the camp. ’Tis