Plain Tales from the Hills Page 3

  THROWN AWAY.

  "And some are sulky, while some will plunge [So ho! Steady! Stand still, you!] Some you must gentle, and some you must lunge. [There! There! Who wants to kill you?] Some--there are losses in every trade-- Will break their hearts ere bitted and made, Will fight like fiends as the rope cuts hard, And die dumb-mad in the breaking-yard."

  Toolungala Stockyard Chorus.

  To rear a boy under what parents call the "sheltered life system" is, ifthe boy must go into the world and fend for himself, not wise. Unless hebe one in a thousand he has certainly to pass through many unnecessarytroubles; and may, possibly, come to extreme grief simply from ignoranceof the proper proportions of things.

  Let a puppy eat the soap in the bath-room or chew a newly-blacked boot.He chews and chuckles until, by and by, he finds out that blacking andOld Brown Windsor make him very sick; so he argues that soap and bootsare not wholesome. Any old dog about the house will soon show him theunwisdom of biting big dogs' ears. Being young, he remembers and goesabroad, at six months, a well-mannered little beast with a chastenedappetite. If he had been kept away from boots, and soap, and big dogstill he came to the trinity full-grown and with developed teeth, justconsider how fearfully sick and thrashed he would be! Apply that motionto the "sheltered life," and see how it works. It does not sound pretty,but it is the better of two evils.

  There was a Boy once who had been brought up under the "sheltered life"theory; and the theory killed him dead. He stayed with his people allhis days, from the hour he was born till the hour he went into Sandhurstnearly at the top of the list. He was beautifully taught in all thatwins marks by a private tutor, and carried the extra weight of "neverhaving given his parents an hour's anxiety in his life." What he learntat Sandhurst beyond the regular routine is of no great consequence.He looked about him, and he found soap and blacking, so to speak, verygood. He ate a little, and came out of Sandhurst not so high as he wentin. Then there was an interval and a scene with his people, who expectedmuch from him. Next a year of living "unspotted from the world" in athird-rate depot battalion where all the juniors were children, and allthe seniors old women; and lastly he came out to India, where he was cutoff from the support of his parents, and had no one to fall back on intime of trouble except himself.

  Now India is a place beyond all others where one must not take thingstoo seriously--the midday sun always excepted. Too much work and toomuch energy kill a man just as effectively as too much assorted vice ortoo much drink. Flirtation does not matter because every one is beingtransferred and either you or she leave the Station, and never return.Good work does not matter, because a man is judged by his worst outputand another man takes all the credit of his best as a rule. Bad workdoes not matter, because other men do worse, and incompetents hang onlonger in India than anywhere else. Amusements do not matter, becauseyou must repeat them as soon as you have accomplished them once, andmost amusements only mean trying to win another person's money. Sicknessdoes not matter, because it's all in the day's work, and if you dieanother man takes over your place and your office in the eight hoursbetween death and burial. Nothing matters except Home furlough andacting allowances, and these only because they are scarce. This is aslack, kutcha country where all men work with imperfect instruments; andthe wisest thing is to take no one and nothing in earnest, but to escapeas soon as ever you can to some place where amusement is amusement and areputation worth the having.

  But this Boy--the tale is as old as the Hills--came out, and took allthings seriously. He was pretty and was petted. He took the pettingsseriously, and fretted over women not worth saddling a pony to callupon. He found his new free life in India very good. It DOES lookattractive in the beginning, from a Subaltern's point of view--allponies, partners, dancing, and so on. He tasted it as the puppy tastesthe soap. Only he came late to the eating, with a growing set ofteeth. He had no sense of balance--just like the puppy--and could notunderstand why he was not treated with the consideration he receivedunder his father's roof. This hurt his feelings.

  He quarrelled with other boys, and, being sensitive to the marrow,remembered these quarrels, and they excited him. He found whist, andgymkhanas, and things of that kind (meant to amuse one after office)good; but he took them seriously too, just as he took the "head" thatfollowed after drink. He lost his money over whist and gymkhanas becausethey were new to him.

  He took his losses seriously, and wasted as much energy and interestover a two-goldmohur race for maiden ekka-ponies with their maneshogged, as if it had been the Derby. One-half of this came frominexperience--much as the puppy squabbles with the corner of thehearth-rug--and the other half from the dizziness bred by stumbling outof his quiet life into the glare and excitement of a livelier one. Noone told him about the soap and the blacking because an average mantakes it for granted that an average man is ordinarily careful in regardto them. It was pitiful to watch The Boy knocking himself to pieces, asan over-handled colt falls down and cuts himself when he gets away fromthe groom.

  This unbridled license in amusements not worth the trouble of breakingline for, much less rioting over, endured for six months--all throughone cold weather--and then we thought that the heat and the knowledgeof having lost his money and health and lamed his horses would soberThe Boy down, and he would stand steady. In ninety-nine cases out of ahundred this would have happened. You can see the principle working inany Indian Station. But this particular case fell through because TheBoy was sensitive and took things seriously--as I may have said someseven times before. Of course, we couldn't tell how his excesses struckhim personally. They were nothing very heart-breaking or above theaverage. He might be crippled for life financially, and want a littlenursing. Still the memory of his performances would wither away inone hot weather, and the shroff would help him to tide over the moneytroubles. But he must have taken another view altogether and havebelieved himself ruined beyond redemption. His Colonel talked to himseverely when the cold weather ended. That made him more wretched thanever; and it was only an ordinary "Colonel's wigging!"

  What follows is a curious instance of the fashion in which we are alllinked together and made responsible for one another. THE thing thatkicked the beam in The Boy's mind was a remark that a woman made when hewas talking to her. There is no use in repeating it, for it was only acruel little sentence, rapped out before thinking, that made him flushto the roots of his hair. He kept himself to himself for three days, andthen put in for two days' leave to go shooting near a Canal Engineer'sRest House about thirty miles out. He got his leave, and that nightat Mess was noisier and more offensive than ever. He said that he was"going to shoot big game", and left at half-past ten o'clock in anekka. Partridge--which was the only thing a man could get near the RestHouse--is not big game; so every one laughed.

  Next morning one of the Majors came in from short leave, and heardthat The Boy had gone out to shoot "big game." The Major had taken aninterest in The Boy, and had, more than once, tried to check him inthe cold weather. The Major put up his eyebrows when he heard of theexpedition and went to The Boy's room, where he rummaged.

  Presently he came out and found me leaving cards on the Mess. There wasno one else in the ante-room.

  He said: "The Boy has gone out shooting. DOES a man shoot tetur with arevolver and a writing-case?"

  I said: "Nonsense, Major!" for I saw what was in his mind.

  He said: "Nonsense or nonsense, I'm going to the Canal now--at once. Idon't feel easy."

  Then he thought for a minute, and said: "Can you lie?"

  "You know best," I answered. "It's my profession."

  "Very well," said the Major; "you must come out with me now--atonce--in an ekka to the Canal to shoot black-buck. Go and put onshikar-kit--quick--and drive here with a gun."

  The Major was a masterful man; and I knew that he would not give ordersfor nothing. So I obeyed, and on return found the Major packed up in anekka--gun-cases and food slung below--al
l ready for a shooting-trip.

  He dismissed the driver and drove himself. We jogged along quietlywhile in the station; but as soon as we got to the dusty road across theplains, he made that pony fly. A country-bred can do nearly anything ata pinch. We covered the thirty miles in under three hours, but the poorbrute was nearly dead.

  Once I said: "What's the blazing hurry, Major?"

  He said, quietly: "The Boy has been alone, by himself, for--one, two,five--fourteen hours now! I tell you, I don't feel easy."

  This uneasiness spread itself to me, and I helped to beat the pony.

  When we came to the Canal Engineer's Rest House the Major called for TheBoy's servant; but there was no answer. Then we went up to the house,calling for The Boy by name; but there was no answer.

  "Oh, he's out shooting," said I.

  Just then I saw through one of the windows a little hurricane-lampburning. This was at four in the afternoon. We both stopped dead in theverandah, holding our breath to catch every sound; and we heard, insidethe room, the "brr--brr--brr" of a multitude of flies. The Major saidnothing, but he took off his helmet and we entered very softly.

  The Boy was dead on the charpoy in the centre of the bare, lime-washedroom. He had shot his head nearly to pieces with his revolver. Thegun-cases were still strapped, so was the bedding, and on the table layThe Boy's writing-case with photographs. He had gone away to die like apoisoned rat!

  The Major said to himself softly: "Poor Boy! Poor, POOR devil!" Then heturned away from the bed and said: "I want your help in this business."

  Knowing The Boy was dead by his own hand, I saw exactly what that helpwould be, so I passed over to the table, took a chair, lit a cheroot,and began to go through the writing-case; the Major looking over myshoulder and repeating to himself: "We came too late!--Like a rat in ahole!--Poor, POOR devil!"

  The Boy must have spent half the night in writing to his people, and tohis Colonel, and to a girl at Home; and as soon as he had finished, musthave shot himself, for he had been dead a long time when we came in.

  I read all that he had written, and passed over each sheet to the Majoras I finished it.

  We saw from his accounts how very seriously he had taken everything.He wrote about "disgrace which he was unable to bear"--"indelibleshame"--"criminal folly"--"wasted life," and so on; besides a lot ofprivate things to his Father and Mother too much too sacred to put intoprint. The letter to the girl at Home was the most pitiful of all; andI choked as I read it. The Major made no attempt to keep dry-eyed.I respected him for that. He read and rocked himself to and fro, andsimply cried like a woman without caring to hide it. The letters were sodreary and hopeless and touching. We forgot all about The Boy's follies,and only thought of the poor Thing on the charpoy and the scrawledsheets in our hands. It was utterly impossible to let the letters goHome. They would have broken his Father's heart and killed his Motherafter killing her belief in her son.

  At last the Major dried his eyes openly, and said: "Nice sort of thingto spring on an English family! What shall we do?"

  I said, knowing what the Major had brought me but for: "The Boy diedof cholera. We were with him at the time. We can't commit ourselves tohalf-measures. Come along."

  Then began one of the most grimy comic scenes I have ever taken partin--the concoction of a big, written lie, bolstered with evidence, tosoothe The Boy's people at Home. I began the rough draft of a letter,the Major throwing in hints here and there while he gathered up all thestuff that The Boy had written and burnt it in the fireplace. It was ahot, still evening when we began, and the lamp burned very badly. In duecourse I got the draft to my satisfaction, setting forth how The Boy wasthe pattern of all virtues, beloved by his regiment, with every promiseof a great career before him, and so on; how we had helped him throughthe sickness--it was no time for little lies, you will understand--andhow he had died without pain. I choked while I was putting down thesethings and thinking of the poor people who would read them. Then Ilaughed at the grotesqueness of the affair, and the laughter mixeditself up with the choke--and the Major said that we both wanted drinks.

  I am afraid to say how much whiskey we drank before the letter wasfinished. It had not the least effect on us. Then we took off The Boy'swatch, locket, and rings.

  Lastly, the Major said: "We must send a lock of hair too. A woman valuesthat."

  But there were reasons why we could not find a lock fit to send. The Boywas black-haired, and so was the Major, luckily. I cut off a piece ofthe Major's hair above the temple with a knife, and put it into thepacket we were making. The laughing-fit and the chokes got hold of meagain, and I had to stop. The Major was nearly as bad; and we both knewthat the worst part of the work was to come.

  We sealed up the packet, photographs, locket, seals, ring, letter, andlock of hair with The Boy's sealing-wax and The Boy's seal.

  Then the Major said: "For God's sake let's get outside--away from theroom--and think!"

  We went outside, and walked on the banks of the Canal for an hour,eating and drinking what we had with us, until the moon rose. I know nowexactly how a murderer feels. Finally, we forced ourselves back to theroom with the lamp and the Other Thing in it, and began to take upthe next piece of work. I am not going to write about this. It was toohorrible. We burned the bedstead and dropped the ashes into the Canal;we took up the matting of the room and treated that in the same way.I went off to a village and borrowed two big hoes--I did not want thevillagers to help--while the Major arranged--the other matters. It tookus four hours' hard work to make the grave. As we worked, we argued outwhether it was right to say as much as we remembered of the Burialof the Dead. We compromised things by saying the Lord's Prayer with aprivate unofficial prayer for the peace of the soul of The Boy. Then wefilled in the grave and went into the verandah--not the house--to liedown to sleep. We were dead-tired.

  When we woke the Major said, wearily: "We can't go back till to-morrow.We must give him a decent time to die in. He died early THIS morning,remember. That seems more natural." So the Major must have been lyingawake all the time, thinking.

  I said: "Then why didn't we bring the body back to the cantonments?"

  The Major thought for a minute:--"Because the people bolted when theyheard of the cholera. And the ekka has gone!"

  That was strictly true. We had forgotten all about the ekka-pony, and hehad gone home.

  So, we were left there alone, all that stifling day, in the Canal RestHouse, testing and re-testing our story of The Boy's death to see if itwas weak at any point. A native turned up in the afternoon, but we saidthat a Sahib was dead of cholera, and he ran away. As the dusk gathered,the Major told me all his fears about The Boy, and awful stories ofsuicide or nearly-carried-out suicide--tales that made one's hair crisp.He said that he himself had once gone into the same Valley of the Shadowas the Boy, when he was young and new to the country; so he understoodhow things fought together in The Boy's poor jumbled head. He also saidthat youngsters, in their repentant moments, consider their sins muchmore serious and ineffaceable than they really are. We talked togetherall through the evening, and rehearsed the story of the death of TheBoy. As soon as the moon was up, and The Boy, theoretically, justburied, we struck across country for the Station. We walked from eighttill six o'clock in the morning; but though we were dead-tired, we didnot forget to go to The Boy's room and put away his revolver with theproper amount of cartridges in the pouch. Also to set his writing-caseon the table. We found the Colonel and reported the death, feeling morelike murderers than ever. Then we went to bed and slept the clock round;for there was no more in us.

  The tale had credence as long as was necessary, for every one forgotabout The Boy before a fortnight was over. Many people, however, foundtime to say that the Major had behaved scandalously in not bringing inthe body for a regimental funeral. The saddest thing of all was a letterfrom The Boy's mother to the Major and me--with big inky blisters allover the sheet. She wrote the sweetest possible things about our greatkindness, and the ob
ligation she would be under to us as long as shelived.

  All things considered, she WAS under an obligation; but not exactly asshe meant.