The Man Who Would Be King

by Rudyard Kipling

  ‘Fwhy is ut?’ said Mulvaney, bringing down his hand on his thigh with a crack. ‘In the name av God, fwhy is ut? I’ve seen ut, tu. They chate an’ they swindle an’ they lie an’ they slander, an’ fifty things fifty times worse; but the last an’ the worst by their reckonin’ is to serve the Widdy honust. Ut’s like the talk av childher – seein’ things all round.’

  ‘Plucky lot of fightin’ good fights of whatsername they’d do if we didn’t see they had a quiet place to fight in. And such fightin’ as theirs is! Cats on the tiles. T’other callin’ to which to come on. I’d give a month’s pay to get some o’ them broad-backed beggars in London sweatin’ through a day’s road-makin’ an’ a night’s rain. They’d carry on a deal afterwards – same as we’re supposed to carry on. I’ve bin turned out of a measly ’arf-licence pub down Lambeth way, full o’ greasy kebmen, ’fore now,’ said Ortheris with an oath.

  ‘Maybe you were dhrunk,’ said Mulvaney soothingly.

  ‘Worse nor that. The Forders18 were drunk. I was wearin’ the Queen’s uniform.’

  ‘I’d no particular thought to be a soldier i’ them days,’ said Learoyd, still keeping his eye on the bare hill opposite, ‘but this sort o’ talk put it i’ my head. They was so good, th’ chapel folk, that they tumbled ovver t’other side. But I stuck to it for ’Liza’s sake, ’specially as she was learning me to sing the bass part in a horotorio as Jesse were gettin’ up. She sung like a throstle hersen, and we had practisin’s night after night for a matter of three months.’

  ‘I know what a horotorio is,’ said Ortheris pertly. ‘It’s a sort of chaplain’s sing-song – words all out of the Bible, and hullabaloojah choruses.’

  ‘Most Greenhow Hill folks played some instrument or t’other, an’ they all sung so you might have heard them miles away, and they were so pleased wi’ the noise they made they didn’t fare to want anybody to listen. The preacher sung high seconds when he wasn’t playin’ the flute, an’ they set me, as hadn’t got far wi’t’ big fiddle, again’ Willie Satterthwaite, to jog his elbow when he had to get agate playin’. Old Jesse was happy if ever a man was, for he were th’ conductor an’ th’ fost fiddle an’ th’ leadin’ singer, beatin’ time wi’ his fiddle-stick, till at times he’d rap wi’ it on the table, and cry out, “Now, you mun all stop; it’s my turn.” And he’d face round to his front, fair sweatin’ wi’ pride, to sing th’ tenor solos. But he were grandest i’ th’ choruses, waggin’ his head, flinging his arms round like a windmill, and singin’ hissen black in the face. A rare singer were Jesse.

  ‘Yo’ see, I was not o’ much account wi’ ’em all exceptin’ to ’Liza Roantree, and I had a deal o’ time settin’ quiet at meetin’s and horotorio practices to hearken their talk, and if it were strange to me at beginnin’, it got stranger still at after, when I was shut on it, and could study what it meaned.

  ‘Just after th’ horotorios came off, ’Liza, as had allus been weakly like, was took very bad. I walked Dr Warbottom’s horse up and down a deal of times while he were inside, where they wouldn’t let me go, though I fair ached to see her.

  ‘ “She’ll be better i’ noo, lad – better i’ noo,” he used to say. “Tha mun ha’ patience.” Then they said if I was quiet I might go in, and th’ Reverend Amos Barraclough used to read to her lyin’ propped up among th’ pillows. Then she began to mend a bit, and they let me carry her on to th’ settle, and when it got warm again she went about same as afore. Th’ preacher and me and Blast was a deal together i’ them days, and i’ one way we was rare good comrades. But I could ha’ stretched him time and again wi’ a good will. I mind one day he said he would like to go down into th’ bowels o’ th’ earth, and see how th’ Lord had builded th’ framework o’ th’ everlastin’ hills. He were one of them chaps as had a gift o’ sayin’ things. They rolled off the tip of his cliver tongue, same as Mulvaney here, as would ha’ made a rare good preacher if he had nobbut given his mind to it. I lent him a suit o’ miner’s kit as almost buried th’ little man, and his white face down i’ th’ coat-collar and hat-flap looked like the face of a boggart,19 and he cowered down i’ th’ bottom o’ the wagon. I was drivin’ a tram as led up a bit of an incline, up to th’ cave where the engine was pumpin’, and where th’ ore was brought up and put into th’ wagons as went down o’ theirsen, me puttin’ th’ brake on and th’ horses a-trottin’ after. Long as it was daylight we were good friends, but when we got fair into th’ dark, and could nobbut see th’ day shinin’ at the hole like a lamp at a street-end, I feeled downright wicked. Ma religion dropped all away from me when I looked back at him as were always comin’ between me and ’Liza. The talk was ’at they were to be wed when she got better, an’ I couldn’t get her to say yes or nay to it. He began to sing a hymn in his thin voice, and I came out wi’ a chorus that was all cussin’ an’ swearin’ at my horses, an’ I began to know how I hated him. He were such a little chap, too. I could drop him wi’ one hand down Garstang’s Copper-hole – a place where th’ beck slithered ovver th’ edge on a rock, and fell wi’ a bit of a whisper into a pit as no rope i’ Greenhow could plump.’

  Again Learoyd rooted up the innocent violets. ‘Ay, he should see th’ bowels o’ th’ earth an’ never nowt else. I could take him a mile or two along th’ drift, and leave him wi’ his candle doused to cry hallelujah, wi’ none to hear him and say amen. I was to lead him down th’ ladder-way to th’ drift where Jesse Roantree was workin’, and why shouldn’t he slip on th’ ladder, wi’ my feet on his fingers till they loosed grip, and put him down wi’ my heel? If I went fost down th’ ladder I could click hold on him and chuck him ovver my head, so as he should go squushin’ down the shaft breakin’ his bones at ev’ry timberin’ as Bill Appleton did when he was fresh, and hadn’t a bone left when he wrought to th’ bottom. Niver a blasted leg to walk from Pately. Niver an arm to put round ’Liza Roantree’s waist. Niver no more – niver no more.’

  The thick lips curled back over the yellow teeth, and that flushed face was not pretty to look upon. Mulvaney nodded sympathy, and Ortheris, moved by his comrade’s passion, brought up the rifle to his shoulder, and searched the hillside for his quarry, muttering ribaldry about a sparrow, a spout, and a thunderstorm. The voice of the watercourse supplied the necessary small-talk till Learoyd picked up his story.

  ‘But it’s none so easy to kill a man like yon. When I’d given up my horses to th’ lad as took my place and I was showin’ th’ preacher th’ workin’s, shoutin’ into his ear across th’ clang o’ th’ pumpin’ engines, I saw he were afraid o’ nowt; and when the lamplight showed his black eyes, I could feel as he was masterin’ me again. I were no better nor Blast chained up short and growlin’ i’ the depths of him while a strange dog went safe past.

  ‘ “Th’art a coward and a fool,” I said to mysen; an’ I wrestled i’ my mind again’ him till, when we come to Garstang’s Copper-hole, I laid hold o’ the preacher and lifted him up ovver my head and held him into the darkest on it. “Now, lad,” I says, “it’s to be one or t’other on us – thee or me – for ’Liza Roantree. Why, isn’t thee afraid for thysen?” I says, for he were still i’ my arms as a sack. “Nay; I’m but afraid for thee, my poor lad, as knows nowt,” says he. I set him down on th’ edge, an’ th’ beck run stiller, an’ there was no more buzzin’ in my head like when th’ bee comed through th’ window o’ Jesse’s house. “What dost tha mean?” says I.

  ‘ “I’ve often thought as thou ought to know,” says he, “but ’twas hard to tell thee. ’Liza Roantree’s for neither on us, nor for nobody o’ this earth. Dr Warbottom says – and he knows her, and her mother before her – that she is in a decline, and she cannot live six months longer. He’s known it for many a day. Steady, John! Steady!” says he. And that weak little man pulled me further back and set me again’ him, and talked it all ovver quiet and still, me turnin’ a bunch o’ candles in my hand, and countin’ them ovver and ovver again as I listened. A deal on it were th’ regular preachin’ talk, bu
t there were a vast lot as med me begin to think as he were more of a man than I’d ever given him credit for, till I were cut as deep for him as I were for mysen.

  ‘Six candles we had, and we crawled and climbed all that day while they lasted, and I said to mysen, “’Liza Roantree hasn’t six months to live.” And when we came into th’ daylight again we were like dead men to look at, an’ Blast come behind us without so much as waggin’ his tail. When I saw ’Liza again she looked at me a minute and says, “Who’s telled tha? For I see tha knows.” And she tried to smile as she kissed me, and I fair broke down.

  ‘Yo’ see, I was a young chap i’ them days, and had seen nowt o’ life, let alone death, as is allus a-waitin’. She telled me as Dr Warbottom said as Greenhow air was too keen, an’ they were goin’ to Bradford, to Jesse’s brother David, as worked i’ a mill, and I mun hold up like a man and a Christian, an’ she’d pray for me. Well, an’ they went away, and the preacher that same back end o’ th’ year were appointed to another circuit, as they call it, and I were left alone on Greenhow Hill.

  ‘I tried, and I tried hard, to stick to th’ chapel, but ’tweren’t th’ same thing at after. I hadn’t ’Liza’s voice to follow i’ th’ singin’, nor her eyes a-shinin’ acrost their heads. And i’ th’ class-meetings they said as I mun have some experiences to tell, and I hadn’t a word to say for mysen.

  ‘Blast an’ me moped a good deal, an’ happen we didn’t behave ourselves ovver well, for they dropped us an’ wondered however they’d come to take us up. I can’t tell how we got through th’ time, while i’ th’ winter I gave up my job and went to Bradford. Old Jesse were at th’ door o’ th’ house, in a long street o’ little houses. He’d been sendin’ th’ children ’way as were clatterin’ their clogs in th’ causeway, for she were asleep.

  ‘ “Is it thee?” he says; “but yo’re not to see her. I’ll none have her wakened for a nowt like thee. She’s goin’ fast, and she mun go in peace. Tha’lt never be good for nowt i’ th’ world, and as long as thou lives thou’ll never play the big fiddle. Get away, lad, get away!” So he shut the door softly i’ my face.

  ‘Nobody never made Jesse my master, but it seemed to me he was about right, and I went away into the town an’ knocked up against a recruitin’-sergeant. The old tales o’ th’ chapel folk came buzzin’ into my head. I was to get away, and this were th’ regular road for the likes o’ me. I ’listed there an’ then, took th’ Widow’s shillin’, an’ had a bunch o’ ribbons pinned i’ my hat.

  ‘But next day I found my way to David Roantree’s door, and Jesse came to open it. Says he, “Tha’s come back again wi’ th’ Devil’s colours flyin’ – thy true colours, as I always telled thee.”

  ‘But I begged an’ prayed of him to let me see her nobbut to say good-bye, till a woman calls down th’ stairway, “She says John Learoyd’s to come up.” Th’ old man shifts aside in a flash, and lays his hand on my arm, quite gentle-like. “But tha’lt be quiet, John,” says he, “for she’s rare and weak. Tha was allus a good lad.”

  ‘Her eyes were all alive wi’ light, and her hair was thick on the pillow round her, but her cheeks were thin – thin to frighten a man that’s strong. “Nay, father, yo’ mayn’t say th’ Devil’s colours. Them ribbons is pretty.” An’ she held out her hands for th’ hat, an’ she put all straight as a woman will wi’ ribbons. “Nay, but what they’re pretty,” she says. “Eh, but I’d ha’ liked to see thee i’ thy red coat, John, for thou was allus my own lad – my very own lad, and none else.”

  ‘She lifted up her arms, an’ they come round my neck i’ a gentle grip, an’ they slacked away, an’ she seemed fainting. “Now yo’ mun get away, lad,” says Jesse, and I picked up my hat and I came downstairs.

  ‘Th’ recruitin’-sergeant were waitin’ for me at th’ corner public-house. “Yo’ve seen your sweetheart?” says he. “Yes, I’ve seen her,” says I. “Well, we’ll have a quart now, an’ yo’ll do your best to forget her,” says he, bein’ one o’ them smart, bustlin’ chaps. “Ay, Sergeant,” says I. “Forget her.” And I’ve been forgettin’ her ever since.’

  He threw away the wilted clump of white violets as he spoke. Ortheris suddenly rose to his knees, his rifle at his shoulder, and peered across the valley in the clear afternoon light. His chin cuddled the stock, and there was a twitching of the muscles of the right cheek as he sighted; Private Stanley Ortheris was engaged on his business. A speck of white crawled up the watercourse.

  ‘See that beggar? … Got ’im.’

  Seven hundred yards away, and a full two hundred down the hillside, the deserter of the Aurangabadis pitched forward, rolled down a red rock, and lay very still, with his face in a clump of blue gentians, while a big raven flapped out of the pine-wood to make investigation.

  ‘That’s a clane shot, little man,’ said Mulvaney.

  Learoyd thoughtfully watched the smoke clear away. ‘Happen there was a lass tewed up wi’ him, too,’ said he.

  Ortheris did not reply. He was staring across the valley, with the smile of the artist who looks on the completed work.

  WITHOUT BENEFIT OF CLERGY

  Before my Spring I garnered Autumn’s gain,

  Out of her time my field was white with grain,

  The year gave up her secrets to my woe.

  Forced and deflowered each sick season lay,

  In mystery of increase and decay;

  I saw the sunset ere men saw the day,

  Who am too wise in that I should not know.

  Bitter Waters1

  I

  ‘But if it be a girl?’

  ‘Lord of my life, it cannot be. I have prayed for so many nights, and sent gifts to Sheikh Badl’s shrine so often, that I know God will give us a son – a man-child that shall grow into a man. Think of this and be glad. My mother shall be his mother till I can take him again, and the mullah of the Pattan mosque shall cast his nativity – God send he be born in an auspicious hour! – and then, and then thou wilt never weary of me, thy slave.’

  ‘Since when hast thou been a slave, my queen?’

  ‘Since the beginning – till this mercy came to me. How could I be sure of thy love when I knew that I had been bought with silver?’

  ‘Nay, that was the dowry. I paid it to thy mother.’

  ‘And she has buried it, and sits upon it all day long like a hen. What talk is yours of dower! I was bought as though I had been a Lucknow dancing-girl instead of a child.’

  ‘Art thou sorry for the sale?’

  ‘I have sorrowed; but to-day I am glad. Thou wilt never cease to love me now? – answer, my king.’

  ‘Never – never. No.’

  ‘Not even though the mem-log – the white women of thine own blood – love thee? And remember, I have watched them driving in the evening; they are very fair.’

  ‘I have seen fire-balloons by the hundred. I have seen the moon, and – then I saw no more fire-balloons.’

  Ameera clapped her hands and laughed. ‘Very good talk,’ she said. Then with an assumption of great stateliness, ‘It is enough. Thou hast my permission to depart, – if thou wilt.’

  The man did not move. He was sitting on a low red-lacquered couch in a room furnished only with a blue-and-white floor-cloth, some rugs, and a very complete collection of native cushions. At his feet sat a woman of sixteen, and she was all but all the world in his eyes. By every rule and law she should have been otherwise, for he was an Englishman, and she a Mussulman’s daughter bought two years before from her mother, who, being left without money, would have sold Ameera shrieking to the Prince of Darkness if the price had been sufficient.

  It was a contract entered into with a light heart; but even before the girl had reached her bloom she came to fill the greater portion of John Holden’s life. For her, and the withered hag her mother, he had taken a little house overlooking the great red-walled city, and found, – when the marigolds had sprung up by the well in the courtyard, and Ameera had established herself according to
her own ideas of comfort, and her mother had ceased grumbling at the inadequacy of the cooking-places, the distance from the daily market, and at matters of house-keeping in general, – that the house was to him his home. Anyone could enter his bachelor’s bungalow by day or night, and the life that he led there was an unlovely one. In the house in the city his feet only could pass beyond the outer courtyard to the women’s rooms; and when the big wooden gate was bolted behind him he was king in his own territory, with Ameera for queen. And there was going to be added to this kingdom a third person whose arrival Holden felt inclined to resent. It interfered with his perfect happiness. It disarranged the orderly peace of the house that was his own. But Ameera was wild with delight at the thought of it, and her mother not less so. The love of a man, and particularly a white man, was at the best an inconstant affair, but it might, both women argued, be held fast by a baby’s hands. ‘And then,’ Ameera would always say, ‘then he will never care for the white mem-log. I hate them all – I hate them all.’