Part 18 (2/2)

And the months went on, as the worst must do, And the Boh returned to the raid anew.

But the Captain had quitted the long-drawn strife, And in far Simoorie had taken a wife.

And she was a damsel of delicate mould, With hair like the suns.h.i.+ne and heart of gold,

And little she knew the arms that embraced Had cloven a man from the brow to the waist: And little she knew that the loving lips Had ordered a quivering life's eclipse,

And the eye that lit at her lightest breath Had glared unawed in the Gates of Death.

(For these be matters a man would hide, As a general rule, from an innocent Bride.)

And little the Captain thought of the past, And, of all men, Babu Harendra last.

But slow, in the sludge of the Kathun road, The Government Bullock Train toted its load.

Speckless and spotless and s.h.i.+ning with ghee, In the rearmost cart sat the Babu-jee.

And ever a phantom before him fled Of a scowling Boh with a silver head.

Then the lead-cart stuck, though the coolies slaved, And the cartmen flogged and the escort raved; And out of the jungle, with yells and squeals, Pranced Boh Da Thone, and his gang at his heels!

Then belching blunderbuss answered back The Snider's snarl and the carbine's crack, And the blithe revolver began to sing To the blade that tw.a.n.ged on the locking-ring, And the brown flesh blued where the bay'net kissed, As the steel shot back with a wrench and a twist, And the great white bullocks with onyx eyes Watched the souls of the dead arise, And over the smoke of the fusillade The Peac.o.c.k Banner staggered and swayed.

Oh, gayest of scrimmages man may see Is a well-worked rush on the G.B.T.!

The Babu shook at the horrible sight, And girded his ponderous loins for flight, But Fate had ordained that the Boh should start On a lone-hand raid of the rearmost cart, And out of that cart, with a bellow of woe, The Babu fell--flat on the top of the Boh!

For years had Harendra served the State, To the growth of his purse and the girth of his _pet_.

There were twenty stone, as the tally-man knows, On the broad of the chest of this best of Bohs.

And twenty stone from a height discharged Are bad for a Boh with a spleen enlarged.

Oh, short was the struggle--severe was the shock-- He dropped like a bullock--he lay like a block; And the Babu above him, convulsed with fear, Heard the labouring life-breath hissed out in his ear.

And thus in a fas.h.i.+on undignified The princely pest of the Chindwin died.

Turn now to Simoorie where, lapped in his ease, The Captain is petting the Bride on his knees, Where the whit of the bullet, the wounded man's scream Are mixed as the mist of some devilish dream-- Forgotten, forgotten the sweat of the shambles Where the hill-daisy blooms and the gray monkey gambols, From the sword-belt set free and released from the steel, The Peace of the Lord is with Captain O'Neil.

Up the hill to Simoorie--most patient of drudges-- The bags on his shoulder, the mail-runner trudges.

”For Captain O'Neil, Sahib. One hundred and ten Rupees to collect on delivery.”

Then

(Their breakfast was stopped while the screw-jack and hammer Tore waxcloth, split teak-wood, and chipped out the dammer;)

Open-eyed, open-mouthed, on the napery's snow, With a crash and a thud, rolled--the Head of the Boh!

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