Read Online Selected Stories by Rudyard Kipling - Free Book Online

all the glory missin’ – at the hid av the rigimint av women.
    â€˜â€œMcKenna, me man!” she sez, wid a voice on her like grand-roun’s challenge, “tell the bhoys to be quiet. Ould Pummeloe’s comin’ to look afther thim – wid free dhrinks.”
    â€˜Thin we cheered, an’ the cheerin’ in the lines was louder than the noise av the poor divils wid the sickness on thim. But not much.
    â€˜You see, we was a new an’ raw rigimint in those days, an’ we cud make neither head nor tail av the sickness; an’ so we was useless. The men was goin’ roun’ an’ about like dumb sheep, waitin’ for the nex’ man to fall over, an’ sayin’ undher their spache, “Fwhat is ut? In the name av God,
fwhat
is ut?” ’Twas horrible. But through ut all, up an’ down, an’ down an’ up, wint Ould Pummeloe an’ little Jhansi – all we cud see av the baby, undher a dead man’s helmut wid the chin-strap swingin’ about her little stummick – up an’ down wid the wather an’ fwhat brandy there was.
    â€˜Now an’ thin Ould Pummeloe, the tears runnin’ down her fat, red face, sez, “Me bhoys, me poor, dead, darlin’ bhoys!” But, for the most, she was thryin’ to put heart into the men an’ kape thim stiddy; and little Jhansi was tellin’ thim all they wud be “betther in the mornin’”. ’Twas a thrick she’d picked up from hearin’ Ould Pummeloe whin Muttra was burnin’ out wid fever. In the mornin’! ’Twas the iverlastin’ mornin’ at St Pether’s Gate was the mornin’ for seven-an’-twenty good men; and twenty more was sick to the death in that bitter, burnin’ sun. But the women worked like angils as I’ve said, an’ the men like divils, till two doctors come down from above, and we was rescued.
    â€˜But, just before that, Ould Pummeloe, on her knees over a bhoy in my squad – right-cot man to me he was in the barrick – tellin’ him the worrud av the Church that niver failed a man yet, sez, “Hould me up, bhoys! I’m feelin’ bloody sick!” ’Twas the sun, not the cholera, did ut. She misremembered she was only wearin’ her ould black bonnet, an’ she died wid “McKenna, me man,” houldin’ her up, an’ the bhoys howled whin they buried her.
    â€˜That night, a big wind blew, an’ blew, an’ blew, an’ blew the tents flat. But it blew the cholera away an’ niver another case there was all the while we was waitin’ – ten days in quarintin’. Av you will belave me, the thrack av the sickness in the camp was for all the wurruld the thrack av a man walkin’ four times in a figur-av-eight through the tents. They say ’tis the Wandherin’ Jew takes the cholera wid him. I believe ut.
    â€˜An’
that
,’ said Mulvaney illogically, ‘is the cause why little Jhansi McKenna is fwhat she is. She was brought up by the Quartermaster Sergeant’s wife whin McKenna died, but she b’longs to B Comp’ny; and this tale I’m tellin’ you –
wid
a proper appreciashin av Jhansi McKenna – I’ve belted into ivry recruity av the Comp’ny as he was drafted. ’Faith, ’twas me belted Corp’ril Slane into askin’ the girl!’
    â€˜Not really?’
    â€˜Man, I did! She’s no beauty to look at, but she’s Ould Pummeloe’s daughter, an’ ’tis my juty to provide for her. Just before Slane got his promotion I sez to him, “Slane,” sez I, “tomorrow ’twill be insubordinashin av me to chastise you; but, by the sowl av Ould Pummeloe, who is now in glory, av you don’t give me your wurrud to ask Jhansi McKenna at wanst, I’ll peel the flesh off yer bones wid a brass huk tonight. ’Tis a dishgrace to B Comp’ny