The Works of Rudyard Kipling Part 18

Boh Da Thone was a warrior bold: His sword and his Snider were bossed with gold,

And the Peac.o.c.k Banner his henchmen bore Was stiff with bullion, but stiffer with gore.

He shot at the strong and he slashed at the weak From the Salween scrub to the Chindwin teak:

He crucified n.o.ble, he sacrificed mean, He filled old ladies with kerosene:

While over the water the papers cried, "The patriot fights for his countryside!"

But little they cared for the Native Press, The worn white soldiers in Khaki dress,

Who tramped through the jungle and camped in the byre, Who died in the swamp and were tombed in the mire,

Who gave up their lives, at the Queen's Command, For the Pride of their Race and the Peace of the Land.

Now, first of the foemen of Boh Da Thone Was Captain O'Neil of the "Black Tyrone", And his was a Company, seventy strong, Who hustled that dissolute Chief along.

There were lads from Galway and Louth and Meath Who went to their death with a joke in their teeth, And wors.h.i.+pped with fluency, fervour, and zeal The mud on the boot-heels of "Crook" O'Neil.

But ever a blight on their labours lay, And ever their quarry would vanish away, Till the sun-dried boys of the Black Tyrone Took a brotherly interest in Boh Da Thone: And, sooth, if pursuit in possession ends, The Boh and his trackers were best of friends.

The word of a scout--a march by night-- A rush through the mist--a scattering fight-- A volley from cover--a corpse in the clearing-- The glimpse of a loin-cloth and heavy jade earring-- The flare of a village--the tally of slain-- And...the Boh was abroad "on the raid" again!

They cursed their luck, as the Irish will, They gave him credit for cunning and skill, They buried their dead, they bolted their beef, And started anew on the track of the thief Till, in place of the "Kalends of Greece", men said, "When Crook and his darlings come back with the head."

They had hunted the Boh from the hills to the plain-- He doubled and broke for the hills again: They had crippled his power for rapine and raid, They had routed him out of his pet stockade, And at last, they came, when the Day Star tired, To a camp deserted--a village fired.

A black cross blistered the Morning-gold, And the body upon it was stark and cold.

The wind of the dawn went merrily past, The high gra.s.s bowed her plumes to the blast.

And out of the gra.s.s, on a sudden, broke A spirtle of fire, a whorl of smoke--

And Captain O'Neil of the Black Tyrone Was blessed with a slug in the ulnar-bone-- The gift of his enemy Boh Da Thone.

(Now a slug that is hammered from telegraph-wire Is a thorn in the flesh and a rankling fire.) * * * * *

The shot-wound festered--as shot-wounds may In a steaming barrack at Mandalay.

The left arm throbbed, and the Captain swore, "I'd like to be after the Boh once more!"

The fever held him--the Captain said, "I'd give a hundred to look at his head!"

The Hospital punkahs creaked and whirred, But Babu Harendra (Gomashta) heard.

He thought of the cane-brake, green and dank, That girdled his home by the Dacca tank.

He thought of his wife and his High School son, He thought--but abandoned the thought--of a gun.

His sleep was broken by visions dread Of a s.h.i.+ning Boh with a silver head.

He kept his counsel and went his way, And swindled the cartmen of half their pay.

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!