SHORT STORIES.

Otago Witness, Issue 2935, 15 June 1910, Page 93

SHORT STORIES.

When a man has paralysed a whole parade, not to speak of a carriageful of ladies and three or four distinguished officers —and lost his lass and got threemonths by court-martial —all over a pot of plum jam, he may be pardoned if he objects to having that special preserve referred to any oftener than he can help. Such, at least, was the opinion of Private Henry Swiven, a reckless young Londoner, serving in the ranks of a certain Highland regiment located, at the time of which I am writing, in the hill frontier of India. In to far as character was concerned, Swiven was just about as bad as they. make them, even in London; but even at that, he argued, his reputation was not nearly bad enough to justify fortune in sending him among a Jot of men depraved enough to call another man Ploom Jam. Ploom Jam! The name was certainly striking, and its effect upon anyone hearing it for the first time was distinctly exhilarating; but our Londoner could not be brought 'to look at it hi that way. To him it was an outrage, pure and simple, and he never failed to resent it with an eloquence not far short of the sublime. “Splatter me pink,” he would shout, “if ever I ’eard ov sick a hilin’ of savidges! Slickin’ ov a name like that on a bloke. Blimy, but it ’ud make the w’iskers curl on a dead oat, it ’ud; let alone a white man as is civilised. Dot me blue, if it ain’t enough to* —wot’s that? Sweet ploom jam, is it? All right, you bloomin’ ’aggis bag; just you wait there for a minit. I’ll sweeten your ’Eelan’ ear’ole for you. Stroks me green, but I’ll spile you for singin’ ‘Scots w’a Ve’; see if I don’t, you ’eather-’eaded apology for a rat’s breakfast!” At this point the proceedings either took the form of a. flight or a fight, which was a result depending very much on whether Swiven’s tormentor could run faster than, he. But, fights and fury notwithstanding, the name adhered; perhaps all the more firmly on that very account. The story of how ho got it was simple enough. Once, at a station that shall be nameless, he made love to the buxom cook of an official highly placed in the Civil Service. Coming away from his divinity one night with his heart full of love and a pot full of plum jam, he was chased and nearly caught by a picket of his own regiment, on the prowl for those who, like himself, were absent from their quarters without the knowledge of their superiors. Being hard pressed, and desiring at all hazards to get rid of the incriminating evidence furnished by the jam pot, he thrust it into the first hole that came handy, which hole happened to be the gaping muzzle of an old howitzer with which the aforesaid official’s grounds were decorated. Then, not having the safety of the pot to look after, he was able to get up full speed and, giving his pursuers the slip, return.to barracks. That was all right, and neither Swiven nor the nymph of the kitchen would have been anything the worse had the matter stopped there. But it chanced that the birthday of one of the official’s youngsters fell on the following day, that the imp and his brother determined to celebrate the occasion by firing the old howitzer, and that, by way of making sore that no one should steal their powder, they had loaded the gun overnight. When that is known, the reader will understand that the road running under the bank upon which the howitzer stood was not quite the safest along which to lead next day a marching regiment, still less a spot at which it was desirable that a party of gaily-dressed ladies should stop their carriage to look at the soldiers. Yet so it all fell out next morning. With pipes and drums making noise enough to waken the dead, the Highlanders swung round, the bend of the road and came down under the bank. With gaming of scarlet and glancing of brass, with tosYny of plumes and rhythmic tread of white-gaitered feet, they made a gallant show, and quite dt*?rved the admiration they excited in the carriage. And it was while every man of them, from the stately. - colonel down to the grinning drummer, was trying to feel his biggest, that the birthday imp on the bank above applied the red-hot poker to the howitzer. When the smoke had cleared away a little it was seen that the first company, the carriage, and the colonel were all more or less the worse for the pot of jam. The coachman and footman were struggling with the frightened horses, while the ladies, their gay dresses spattered with alarming red stains, were shrieking frantically, in spite of the efforts of a number of the nearer officers to reassure them. In the first company a number of the men had their faces cut by the flying plum stones, and fragments of the scattered jar ; while the colonel, with a face of wrath and horror unspeakable, was sitting on his hor.se and raking jam out of his ear with his fingers. From the way in which he looked at it he seemed to he in doubt whether it was not a portion of his brains. Yes, it was a good joke—hut not for Swiven. As an issue of the subsequent investigation a good many people suffered, but he most. The Civil Service man’s imps had their little butt-ends attended to, the lady of the ladle got the sack, but Swiven got 84 days’ hard, and a nickname that stuck to him as long as he lived. No wonder he didn’t like jam: he was a soldier, not an angel. Bad as was the business altogether, it might not have landed him in anything like so severe a punishment if he had had fewer entries on his defaulter sheet.

(All Rights Reserved.] A QUEEN’S BAD BARGAIN. ' A STORY OF THE HIGHLAND BRIGADE.

By J. D. Reid.

But as that useful document was, in nis case, nearly all entries —a black mass of dates, charges, crimes, and punishments, with only a speck of white showing here and l there through t, there was no attempt made in the direction of extenuating circumstances, and he got all the grief that was going. So bad indeed had his character become that after the jam business the colonel made up his mind to have him discharged from the regiment. Before his term of imprisonment had expired, however, the battalion was under orders for India—a circumstance that led the colonel to give the ne’er-ciae-weel another chance. It was just possible that the change of country and surroundings might turn the reprobate’s feet into a better way of walking; but even if they dir! not his opportunities for getting into trouble would be fewer. So Swiven -ante out of prison and went with the regiment to India, finally coming to a halt, as I already said, at a station, on the hill frontier. The change semed to suit him, as also the climate, for before he was a month in the place he was on speaking terms with all the native riffraff within two miles of the station, and knew the exact location of every grog-hop within ten. Among his other misused abilities he possessed a really abnormal faculty for acquiring languages, and while the rest of the beginners in the Battalion, officers included, were still struggling with the difficulites of the Hindustani alphabet, Bw'ven was holding sweet converse with native ruffianism in a “ baat ” that -would have made a “ munshi’s ” hair stand on end, but that served its purpose perfectly. The result was that he soon became the informal, but none the less valued, agent of all the topers in the regiment in procuring barrack, “ billy stink,” and the rest of the alcoholic horrors which Tommy Atkins affects in India—mainly because they are forbidden. And as his exertions in this line of business Avent hath" against those of the orderly room little differences of opinion became frequent, not seldom ending in the temporary retirement of ■Swiven to the seclusion of the regiment cells. In this Avay matters had gone on for a year, when something happened that brought out Swiven’s character in a new light, and made Colonel Fnllarton do what he was never knoAvn to do before—modify an opinion. The thing began over the stealing of a bottle of brandy and elided in—but I’m going too fast. It chanced that a bottle of the finest French brandy bad disappeared from the chaplain’s bungaloAv under conditions pointing directly to some member or members of a fatigue party that had been employed there for some hours. Whether it was the principle of the thing, or the fact that French brandy avos a scarce commodity in that quarter that influenced the chaplain or not cannot be known, hut he certainly made a fearful i’oav about it. He was a narrow-minded and somewhat dictatorial man, none too Avell liked by the officers, and regarded Avith positiA r e aversion by the rank and file; Avhence it came that his outcry over the miraculous disappearance of that brandy irritated the whole regiment. “ But how can you be certain that it was stolen by any of our men?” asked the colonel Avhen, invading the orderly room, the bereaved proceeded to sboAV that the fatigue party must be lineal descendants of the Forty Thieves. ‘‘lt might jus‘ as readily have been a native —indeed, to my thinking, even more I’eadily.” “How do you make that out, Colonel Fullerton ?” ‘‘Because, Avhile the fatigue party were there they Avere almost constantly under the eye of the non-commissioned officer; Avhereas the natiA r es have access to the bungalow at any hour of the day. At least, the one theory is as probable as the other, Mr Flint, and pending the production of proof, I’d rather not hear such charges against even a section of the -regiment.” The colonel spoke shortly enough, but the owner of the invisible brandy was in no way affected by his irritation. “I am afraid that it will be impossible for us to agree in this matter, colonel,” he said. ‘‘As I regard it, the very fact that the article was stolen Avhile the fatigue party was there points to someone of its numbers. Besides, nothing else was touched, although several other articles of value were lying about. That, you will admit, was not like natiA T es.” ‘ ‘Well, no ; or like thieves of any colour, for that matter,” replied the colonel. “However, the business is in the hands of the provost-sergeant. If he discovers anything you shall know.” “Confound Ilim and his bottle of brandy !” growled the senior maior, when Mr Flint had quitted the orderly room. “I’d have made him a present of a whole case rather than have him raise such a demmed howling, giving the regiment a bad name before all the station !” “Did be pay the men of the fatigue party anything?” asked the colonel, turning to the adjutant. “No, sir.” “ That ’s it,” said the major, Avith a snort ; “he gets the lads to save him some ten rupees, in the way of giving him gratis work, and then turns round and calls them thieves! Demme, colonel, he ought to be shot!” “He certainly deserves something, major, although shooting might be just a bit over,” said the cpkme! Avith a smile; and then the business of the morning being finished, the officers left the room in a body. Noav, among those who Avere in the neighbourhood of the orderly room that morning, and heard the story of the vanishing bottle, was Swiven. He had been doing astonishingly Avell lately ini the line of good behaAnour. He had not been in the guard room for a month, had not been more than half drunk at any one time for a Avhole week, and, most astonishing of all, had no black eyes. Nobody bad ever seen him without at least one black eye before. It was to this wholly unheard of absence of black

eyes, indeed, that he owed his being on escort duty that morning, and so hearing the tale ot the chaplain’s abducted bottle. It might have been better for him, poor lad, if he had had two black eyes—ay, or a dozen, if only they had kept him away. And yet, I don’t know. He died ■a man’s death, and the eyes were dim enough with which his comrades looked upon him in his grave. When the escort was dismissed, 3wiven went away across the common towards his bungalow, thinking profoundly. Apart altogether from the lact that a brandy bottle was in itself a pleasing subject for meditation, there were one or two things connected with this special one, and still more with the time and place of its disappearance, that seemed to him to merit attention. He had nothing of the detective about him, and Sherlock Holmes had not been heard of in his time; but he was keen-witted, and in the art of putting two and two together he had long been a pastmaster. In the present instance the fragments which he had to put together were three in number. The first was hi? knowledge, acquired during his alcohol-hunting travels, of the existence in the neighbourhood of a small band of irreconcilable fanatics, who had sworn war to the death against the Briton and all his works. They were said to be about a dozen strong, to be Afghans for the most part, and their reputed leader was a Swat with an unpronounceable name—unpronounceable, that is, by Western tongues. It was a big name enough as to syllables, but the only one of them in use on the British side of the fence was Djeek, and even, that Ts users were by no means sure about. That was one fragment. The next was that one of the chaplain’s native servants was more than suspected in native quarters to belong to Djeek’s gang This man, Hani Goom, was a recent addition to the chaplain’s household, and had gained that position by allowing it to be thought that the chaplain had converted him. Well, on the very morning of the day on which Mr Flint was made, so far, a total abstainer, Hani Goom' had been making very particular, very prolonged, and, till now, very unaccountable inquiries as to the composition and general working of the magazine guard. And, what is still more singular, these inquiries had been repeated on the morning after the bottle was stolen—that was, to-day—and in the immediate neighbour-

hood of the magazine guard itself. The native sweeper from whom Sw.'.ven derived this information added, _ too, that the guileless Hani was especially curious regarding the sentries detailed for No. 2 post, and seemed highly pleased on learning that the man who would hold that post, and with it the lives of two-thirds of the Highlanders, from midnight until 2 in the morning, was ‘‘Bradford Blue Anes.” That was the second fragment. The third was that ‘‘Bradford Blue Anes,” or Private Zeke Garrett, was one of the most confirmed drunkards in, not only the Highlanders, but the garrison. He did not drink as -Swiven and the bulk of the black sheep did, in bursts; if be had, there would have been a chance of him mending sometime. He soaked— cioaked right on like a sponge, and spent the most of his time doing a balance trick on the ' inner edge of a delirium tremens; whence his nickname. And having an iron con■stution, and, as a rule, very little money, he always managed to keep out of trouble, for the simple reason that he was seldom or never able to procure enough liquor to make him thoroughly drunk. His only chance of obtaining such felicity, indeed, lay in finding in his path treasure trove of some sort —a bag of rupees, say, or a bottle of brandy. Swiven stopped, his sinews growing tense, his grey eyes kindling like fire. The thing was becoming clear, as it seemed to him; clear, that was, to the extent of making him resolve to be on hand when ‘‘Bradford Blue Anes’ took over No. 2 post at midnight. He misfit be alaborating a mare’s nest; there might be nothing in it, but it was as well to be sure. “Yes, I’ll do it,” be thought, nodding his bead as he walked on again. “I’ll sneak up there a bit after 12 and warn Garrett, so’s they can’t take ’ini on the ’op. If ’e dropped on that bottle unawares, ’e’d never stop to think wot ’e wos adorn’ on, but just swig like a bloomin’ camel after a fifty-mile march. Streak me yellow, but wouldn’t ’e go it!—a reg’lar burst-my-tunic ! That ’ud be a general court-martial for ’im, leavin’ out risk to the magazine altogether. Risk—why, there ain’t no risk about it. Djeek an’ his ’ole damned crowd couldn’t get through these doors if they kep’ tryin’ for a week, let alone two hours. But, after all, I may be makin’ ov a mistake about the ’ole thing, though it looks so queer. Anyway, I’ll go up, as I said, an’ I won’t tell anybody, either. I don’t want them Scotch beggars laughin’ at me any more than I can ’elp.” Having thus made up his mind, and having further determined to keep an eye on Garrett by giving an occasional look in at the magazine guard room during the day, he dismissed the matter till the hour of action should arrive. ' He bad no intention of telling Garrett any more than he could help, or one moment sooner than he" could help it. He knew that worthy’s blethering proclivities too well. The hour of midnight, came at last, and, as he heard the sonorous toll of the great gong at the quarter guard, Swiven rose noiselessly from his cot and stole out of the bungalow. He was fully dressed 1 , and in the belt round his waist he carried a great crooked knife, the gift of a Gurkha chum. The distance to the magazine guard was considerable, and was in this case increased by the fact that he had to take a roundaboiit way in order to avoid being seen by the sentry on No. 1, who would of a certainty have asked some inconvenient questions. No. 2 post was situated at the back of the magazine, and was shut off from with the front by a long and high wall, so necessitating a wide detour. To add to the risk of discovery, the moon was up and at the full, the light was almost as- that of day. But he was in no hurry, and went forward in very leisurely fashion, fully determined to carry out his programme, although now more than half inclined to ridicule the whole thing. He had nearly reached the end of the wall when a faint sound—the unmistakable noise of breaking glass it was —fell on his . car. He stopped and listened for a moment, then with his hand on the hilt of his “kurkhri,” glided round the corner of the wall and disappeared. “Sergeant of the guard!” The voice was that of the sentry on No. 1, and as be heard it the sergeant commanding the magazine guard rose and went out. “What’s up, sentry?” “ I’m thinkin’ thfere’s something wrang 'Oll No. 2. I’ve called the hauf oor twice, an’ he’s never answered.” “Fall in the guard. Two files on the right—right turn. Quick —march.” As the patrol moved swiftly off the corporal dismissed the remainder of the guard and approached the sentry. “ Did you hear onything ” “No.” “Or see onything?” “No, only that he didna answer.” “ Aweel, if he’s fa’en asleep on his post it’l run a genera] court-martial for him; the eedit.” But there was something more serious than neglect of duty to be reckoned with. Just within the covered way leading to the inner verandah of the magazine the patrol found Garrett lying insensible, with the blood flowing from a- deep wound in his head. He had been struck down from behind. Then while they stood staring at him in the first shock of stupefied surprise one of the men uttered a loud exclamation, and pointed to the cleared space around the magazine door at the other end of the passage. The sergeant caught up his lantern, and with a simultaneous rush they reached the spot—to stand looking down with whitening faces at the gashed and bloody corpses of three men, whose dead hands yet grasped the knives with which they had slain each other, whose fierce faces were yet stamped with the ferocity of the death struggle. Two

were powerfully built Afghans, the third was Ploom Jam. “ My God ! —men, 100k —look here,” said the sergeant, hoarsely, and as the others pressed forward a cry in which horror, admiration, and savage fury were all present broke from them. There was cause. Resting against the door of the magazine was a large keg with a fuse attached. The fuse had been lit and had burned down to within a couple c i inches of the keg, when it had become drowned out in blood —blood drawn from an opened vein -in the wrist of the dying Swiven. Cut almost to pieces, yet with the sense of duty rising superior even in the face of death, the glorious soldier had dragged himself close enough to frustrate with the last blood in his nearly empty veins the plans and purpose of his enemies. And if death found him in the act what did it matter? He had saved the magazine. They gave him a grand funeral; but after "it was over three men stayed at the grave till all the others had gone, and they stayed to swear an oath of vengeance on Djeek and his gang. These were Garrett, a Scot, and a Gurkha. And they kept the oath —ay, to the very last man.