With The Main Guard
by
Der jungere Uhlanen
Sit round mit open mouth
While Breitmann tell dem stories
Of fightin’ in the South;
Und gif dem moral lessons,
How before der battle pops,
Take a little prayer to Himmel
Und a goot long drink of Schnapps.
Hans Breitmann’s Ballads.
“Mary, Mother av Mercy, fwhat the divil possist us to take an’ kepe this melancolius counthry? Answer me that, sorr.”
It was Mulvaney who was speaking. The time was one o’clock of a stifling June night, and the place was the main gate of Fort Amara, most desolate and least desirable of all fortresses in India. What I was doing there at that hour is a question which only concerns M’Grath the Sergeant of the Guard, and the men on the gate.
“Slape,” said Mulvaney, “is a shuparfluous necessity. This gyard’ll shtay lively till relieved.” He himself was stripped to the waist; Learoyd on the next bedstead was dripping from the skinful of water which Ortheris, clad only in white trousers, had just sluiced over his shoulders; and a fourth private was muttering uneasily as he dozed open-mouthed in the glare of the great guard-lantern. The heat under the bricked archway was terrifying.
“The worrst night that iver I remimber. Eyah! Is all Hell loose this tide?” said Mulvaney. A puff of burning wind lashed through the wicket-gate like a wave of the sea, and Ortheris swore.
“Are ye more heasy, Jock?” he said to Learoyd. “Put yer ‘ead between your legs. It’ll go orf in a minute.”
“Ah don’t care. Ah would not care, but ma heart is plaayin’ tivvy-tivvy on ma ribs. Let me die! Oh, leave me die!” groaned the huge Yorkshireman, who was feeling the heat acutely, being of fleshly build.
The sleeper under the lantern roused for a moment and raised himself on his elbow,–“Die and be damned then!” he said. “I‘m damned and I can’t die!”
“Who’s that?” I whispered, for the voice was new to me.
“Gentleman born,” said Mulvaney; “Corp’ril wan year, Sargint nex’. Red-hot on his C’mission, but dhrinks like a fish. He’ll be gone before the cowld weather’s here. So!”
He slipped his boot, and with the naked toe just touched the trigger of his Martini. Ortheris misunderstood the movement, and the next instant the Irishman’s rifle was dashed aside, while Ortheris stood before him, his eyes blazing with reproof.
“You!” said Ortheris. “My Gawd, you! If it was you, wot would we do?”
“Kape quiet, little man,” said Mulvaney, putting him aside, but very gently; “’tis not me, nor will ut be me whoile Dina Shadd’s here. I was but showin’ something.”
Learoyd, bowed on his bedstead, groaned, and the gentleman-ranker sighed in his sleep. Ortheris took Mulvaney’s tendered pouch, and we three smoked gravely for a space while the dust-devils danced on the glacis and scoured the red-hot plain.
“Pop?” said Ortheris, wiping his forehead.
“Don’t tantalize wid talkin’ av dhrink, or I’ll shtuff you into your own breech-block an’–fire you off!” grunted Mulvaney.
Ortheris chuckled, and from a niche in the veranda produced six bottles of ginger ale.
“Where did ye get ut, ye Machiavel?” said Mulvaney. “‘Tis no bazar pop.”
“‘Ow do Hi know wot the Orf’cers drink?” answered Ortheris. “Arst the mess-man.”
“Ye’ll have a Disthrict Coort-martial settin’ on ye yet, me son,” said Mulvaney, “but”–he opened a bottle–“I will not report ye this time. Fwhat’s in the mess-kid is mint for the belly, as they say, ‘specially whin that mate is dhrink, Here’s luck! A bloody war or a–no, we’ve got the sickly season. War, thin!”–he waved the innocent “pop” to the four quarters of Heaven. “Bloody war! North, East, South, an’ West! Jock, ye quakin’ hayrick, come an’ dhrink.”
But Learoyd, half mad with the fear of death presaged in the swelling veins of his neck, was pegging his Maker to strike him dead, and fighting for more air between his prayers. A second time Ortheris drenched the quivering body with water, and the giant revived.