Snake and Sword Part 31

"I've got to kill _the Snake_," hissed Dam, and his seconds glanced at each other anxiously.

He felt that nothing could keep him from victory. He was regaining his faith in a just Heaven, now that the Snake had been compelled to face him in the puny form of a wretched pugilist. Some one had said something about an axe. It would be but fair if he had an axe, seeing that hitherto the Snake had had him utterly defenceless while exercising its own immeasurable and supernatural powers, when torturing him to its heart's content for endless aeons. But--no--since it was here in human form and without weapons, _he_ would use none, and would observe the strictest fairness in fight, just as he would to a real human enemy.

"Abaht that there little bet, 'Enery," observed Seaman Jones, "I fink we'll alter of it. I don't wish to give no moral support to this 'ere Griller. T'other bloke's only jus' fresh from the Novice Cla.s.s, I reckon, jedgin' by 'is innercent young faice, an' e's aputtin' up the werry best fight as ever I see. We'll chainge it like this 'ere. We backs the 'orse-soldier to win, and, if he _do_, we drinks a gallon between us. If 'e don't, we drinks _two_ fer to console 'im, an' drahn sorrer, wot?"

"So it are, Will'm," agreed Henery. "Then we wins _either_ way! _You_ got a 'ead fer logger-rhythms. Oughter been a bloomin' bookie. They 'as to be big an' ugly----"

"Seconds out of the Ring," called the referee, and a hush fell upon the excited throng.

Bear and Goate dropped to the ground, Hawker splashed water all over Dam's body and, as he rose on the word "_Time_" s.n.a.t.c.hed away the chair and joined his colleagues, who crouched with faces on a level with the boards.

"Oh, buck him up, good Lord, and put ginger in his short-arm work, and O Lord, take care of his chin and mark," prayed Trooper Bear, with deep and serious devoutness.

No need to shake hands this bout--not again till the fifteenth, noted Dam, as he arose and literally leapt at his opponent with a smas.h.i.+ng drive of his right and a feint of his left which drew the Gorilla's guard and left his face exposed. The Gorilla received Dam's full weight and full strength, and, but for the ropes, would have been knocked among the spectators.

A tremendous yell went up, led by the Queen's Greys.

As the tautening of the ropes swayed the Gorilla inward again, Dam delivered a brace of lightning strokes that, though they did not find the chin, staggered and partly stunned him, and, ere he could pull himself together, Dam was inside his guard, almost breast to breast with him, and raining terrific blows, just above the belt. Left, right, left, right, and no chance for the Gorilla to get his own hands up for a couple of seconds, and, when he could, and drove an appalling blow at Dam's chin, it was dodged and he received a cross-counter that shook him. He must sham weariness and demoralization, lead the tippy rookie on to over-confidence and then land him clean over the ropes. A sullen rage grew in the Gorilla's heart. He wasn't doing himself justice. He wasn't having a fair show. This blasted half-set pink and white recruit hadn't given him time to settle down. A fifteen-round contest shouldn't be bustled like _this!_ The bloke was more like a wild-cat than a sober heavyweight boxer.

He received a heavy blow in the face and, as he shook his head with an evil grin, according to his custom when well struck, he found it followed practically instantaneously by another. The swab was about the quickest thing that ever got into a ring. He was like one of these bloomin', tricky, jack-in-the-box featherweights, instead of a steady lumbering "heavy". And the Gorilla allowed himself to be driven to a corner again, and let his head sink forward, that the incautious youth might again put all his strength into an upper-cut, miss as the other dodged, and be at the mercy of the Gorilla as the errant fist completed its over-driven swing.

But Damocles de Warrenne fought with his brain as well as his strength and skill. He had learnt a lesson, and no dull-witted oaf of a Gorilla was going to have him like that twice. As the Gorilla cowered and crouched in simulated defeat and placed his face to tempt the _coup de grace_ which he would see swinging up, and easily dodge, Dam swiftly side-stepped and summoning every ounce of strength, rage, and mad protesting frenzy against the life-long torturing tyrant, he delivered a Homeric blow at the champion's head, beside and behind the ear.

(Since he was indestructible by the ordinary point-of-the-chin knock-out, let him make the best of that fearful blow upon the base of the brain and spinal cord, direct.)

Experienced men said it was the heaviest blow they had ever seen struck with the human fist. It was delivered slightly downward, coolly, at measured distance, with change from left foot to right in the act of delivery, and with the uttermost strength of a most powerful athlete in perfect training--and Hate Incarnate lent the strength of madness to the strength of training and skill.

THUD!--and the Gorilla dropped like a log.

_"One--two--three--four--five--six--seven--"_ counted the time-keeper, as men scarcely breathed in the dead silence into which the voice cut sharply--_"eight--"_ and, in perfect silence, every man of those thousands slowly rose to his feet--_"nine--OUT!"_ and such a roar arose as bade fair to rend the skies. _"Outed" in two rounds!_ Men howled like lunatics, and the Queen's Greys behaved like very dangerous lunatics. Hawker flung his arms round Dam and endeavoured to raise him on his shoulders and chair him unaided. Bear and Goate got each a hand and proceeded to do their best to crush it.

Seamen Jones and Smith exchanged a chaste kiss.

Damocles de Warrenne was the hero of the Queen's Greys. Best Man-at-Arms in the Division, winner in Sword v. Sword Mounted and Dismounted, Tent-pegging, Sword v. Lance, and Individual Jumping, and in the winning teams for Tug-of-War, Section Jumping, and Section Tent-pegging!

"Give him a trial as Corporal then, from the first of next month, sir, if there's no sign of anything wrong during the week," agreed Captain Daunt, talking him over with the Colonel, after receiving through Troop-Sergeant-Major Scoles a pet.i.tion to promote the man.

Within twenty-four hours of his fight with the Gorilla, Dam found himself on sentry-go over what was known in the Regiment as "the Dead 'Ole"--which was the mortuary, situated in a lonely, isolated spot beyond a nullah some half-furlong from the Hospital, and cut off from view of human habitation by a belt of trees.

On mounting guard that evening, the Sergeant of the Guard had been informed that a corpse lay in the mortuary, a young soldier having been taken ill and having died within a few hours, of some disease of a distinctly choleraic nature.

"I'll tell _you_ orf for that post, Matthewson," said the Sergeant.

"P'raps you'll see ghosties there, for a change," for it was customary to mount a sentry over "the Dead 'Ole" when it contained an occupant, and one of the sentry's pleasing duties was to rap loudly and frequently upon the door throughout the night to scare away those vermin which are no respecters of persons when the persons happen to be dead and the vermin ravenous.

"I'm not afraid of ghosts, Sergeant," replied Dam--though his heart sank within him at the thought of the long lonely vigil in the dark, when he would be so utterly at the mercy of the Snake--the Snake over whom he had just won a signal victory, and who would be all the more vindictive and terrible in consequence. Could he keep sane through the lonely darkness of those dreadful hours? Perhaps--if he kept himself in some severe physical agony. He would put a spur beneath his tight-drawn belt and next to his skin, he would strike his knee frequently with the "toe of the b.u.t.t" of his carbine, he would put pebbles in his boots, and he would cause cramp in his limbs, one after the other. Any kind of pain would help.

It must be quarter of an hour since he had rapped on the mortuary door and sent his messages of prohibition to mouse, rat, bandicoot, civet-cat, wild-cat or other vermin intruder through the roof-ventilation holes. He would knock again. A strange thing this--knocking at a dead man's door in the middle of the night.

Suppose the dead man called "Come in!" It would be intensely interesting, but in no wise terrifying or horrible. Presumably poor young Trooper Priddell was no more dangerous or dreadful in the spirit than he had been in the flesh.... Fortunate young man! Were he only on sentry-go outside the peaceful mortuary and Damocles de Warrenne stretched on the bier within, to await the morrow and its pomp and ceremony, when the carca.s.s of the dead soldier would receive honours never paid to the living, sentient man, be he never so worthy, heroic, virtuous and deserving. Oh, to be lying in there at rest, to be on the other side of that closed door at peace!...

To-morrow that poor dead yokel's body would receive a "Present Arms"

(as though he were an armed party commanded by an Officer) from the Guard, which the sentry would turn out as the coffin pa.s.sed the Guard-room. For the first and last time in his life, he would get a "_Present Arms_". It wouldn't be in his _life_ though. For the first and last time in his death? That didn't sound right either. Anyhow he would get it, and lots of strange, inexplicable, origin-forgotten rites would be observed over this piece of clay--hitherto so cheaply held and roughly treated.

Queer! As "Trooper Priddell" he was of no account. As a piece of fast-decaying carrion he would be the centre of a piece of elaborate ceremonial! His troop would parade in full dress and (save for a firing-party of twelve who would carry carbines) without arms. A special black horse would be decked out with a pall of black velvet and black plumes. Across this horse the spurred jackboots of the dead man would be slung with toes pointing to the rear. Two men, wearing black cloaks, would lead the horse by means of new handkerchiefs pa.s.sed through the bridoon rings of its bridle, handkerchiefs which would become their perquisites and _memento mori_.

With c.r.a.pe-draped drums, the band, in silence, would lead the troop to the mortuary where would await it a gun-carriage with its six horses and coffin-supporting attachment. Here the troop would break ranks, file into the mortuary and bare-headed take, each man, his last look at the face of the dead as he lay in his coffin. The lid would then be screwed on, the troop would form a double line, facing inward, the firing-party would "present arms," and six of the dead man's more particular pals, or of his "townies," would bear the coffin out and place it upon the gun-carriage. It would then be covered with a Union Jack and on it would be placed the helmet, sword, and carbine of the deceased trooper, the firing-party standing meanwhile, leaning on their reversed carbines, with bowed heads.

As the melancholy procession formed up for its march to the graveyard, the smallest and junior men would take front place, the bigger and senior men behind them, non-commissioned officers would follow, and subalterns and captain last of all. In stepping off from the halt, all would step off with the right foot instead of with the left.

Apparently the object was to reverse ordinary procedure to the uttermost--which would but be in keeping with the great reversal of showing honour to such an unhonoured thing as a private soldier--one of the despised and rejected band that enable the respectable, wealthy, and smug to remain so; one of the "licentious soldiery" that have made, and that keep, the Empire of which the respectable wealthy and smug are so proud.

At the "slow march," and in perfect silence until beyond hearing by the inmates of the Hospital, the cortege would proceed. Anon the band would call heaven and earth to mourn with the sonorous dreadful strains of the Dead March; whereafter the ordinary "quick march" would bring the funeral party to the cemetery, in sight of which the "slow march" would be resumed, and the Chaplain, surpliced, book-bearing, come forth to put himself at its head, leading the way to the grave-side where, with uncovered heads, the mourners would listen to the impressive words with feelings varying as their education, religion, temperament, and--digestion--impelled.

At the close of the service, the firing-party in their places, six on either side of the grave, would fire three volleys into the air, while the band breathed a solemn dirge.

And--perhaps most impressively tragic touch of all--the party would march briskly off to the strains of the liveliest air in the whole repertoire of the band.

_Why_ should John Humphreyville Priddell--doubtless scion of the great Norman houses of Humphreyville and Paradelle, who shared much of Dorsets.h.i.+re between them from Domesday Book to Stuart downfall--have been born in a tiny village of the Vale of Froom in "Dorset Dear," to die of cholera in vile Motipur? Was some maid, in barton, byre, or dairy, thinking of him but now--with an ill-writ letter in her bosom, a letter beginning with "_I now take up my pen to right you these few lines hopping they find you the same which they now leave me at present_" according to right tradition and proper custom, and continuing to speak of homesick longings, dreams of furlough, promotion, marrying "on the strength," and retirement to green fair Dorset Dear on a Sergeant-Major's pension?

What was the meaning of it all? Was it pure chance and accident--or had a Living, Scheming, Purposeful Deity a great wise object in this that John Humphreyville Priddell should have been born and bred and nurtured in the Vale of Froom to be struck from l.u.s.ty life to a death of agony in a few hours at Motipur in the cruel accursed blighted land of Ind?

Well, well!--high time to rap again upon the door, the last door, of John Humphreyville Priddell, Trooper, ex-dairyhand, decaying carrion,--and scare from his carca.s.s such over-early visitants as antic.i.p.ated....

How hollowly the blows re-echoed. Did they strike m.u.f.fled but murderous upon the heart of the thousand-league distant dairymaid, or of the old cottage-mother whose evenings were spent in spelling out her boy's loving letters--that so oft covered a portion of his exiguous pay?...

Was that a scuttling within? Quite probably. It might be--rats, it might be a bandicoot; it could hardly be a jackal; it might be a SNAKE,--and Trooper Matthewson's carbine clattered to the ground and his knees smote together as he thought the word. Pulling himself together he hastily s.n.a.t.c.hed up his carbine with a flush of shame at the slovenly unsoldierly "crime" of dropping it. He'd be dropping his arms on parade next! But it _might be a snake_--for he had certainly heard the sound of a movement of some sort. The strong man felt faint and leant against the mortuary wall for a moment.

Oh, that the wretched carbine were a sword! A man could feel a _man_ with a sword in his hand. He could almost face the Snake, even in Snake form, if he had a sword ... but what is a carbine, even a loaded Martini-Henry carbine with its good soft man-stopping slug?

There are no traditions to a carbine--nothing of the Spirit of one's Ancestors in one--a vile mechanic thing of villainous saltpetre. How should the Snake fear that? Now a sword was different. It stood for human war and human courage and human deeds from the mistiest past, and behind it must be a weight of human wrath, feats, and tradition that must make even the Snake pause. Oh, for his sword--if the Snake came upon him when he had but this wretched carbine he would probably desert his post, fling the useless toy from him, and flee till he fell blind and fainting on the ground.... And what would the Trooper of the Queen get who deserted his sentry-post, threw away his arms and fled--and explained in defence that he had seen a snake? Probably a court-martial would give him a spell of Military Prison.

Yes--_Jail_.... What proportion of truth could there be in the firmly-held belief of the men that "crimes" are made so numerous and so inevitable, to the best-meaning and most careful, because there exist a great Military Prison System and a great Military Prison personnel--and that "criminals" are essential to the respective proper inhabitation and _raison d'etre_ thereof--that unless a good supply of military "criminals" were forthcoming there might have to be reductions and curtailments--loss of snug billets.... Certainly soldiers got years of imprisonment for "crimes" for which civilians would get reprimands or nominal fines, and, moreover, when a man became a soldier he certainly lost the elementary fundamental rights guaranteed to Englishmen by Magna Charta--among them the right of trial by his peers....

Would poor Priddell mind if he did not knock again? If it were the Snake it could do Priddell no harm now--he being happily dead--whereas, if disturbed, it might emerge to the utter undoing--mind, body, and soul--of Trooper Matthewson. It would certainly send him to Jail or Lunatic Asylum--probably to both in due succession, for he was daily getting worse in the matter of the Snake.

No--it was part of his orders, on this sentry-post, to knock at the door, and he would do his duty, Snake or not. He had always tried to do his duty faithfully and he would continue....

Once more to knock at a dead man's door....

_b.u.mp, b.u.mp: b.u.mp, b.u.mp: b.u.mp, b.u.mp_.

"You'll soon be at rest, Priddell, old chap--and I wish I could join you," called Dam, and it seemed to his excited brain that _a deep hollow groan replied_.

"By Jove! He's not dead," coolly remarked the man who would have fled shrieking from a harmless blind-worm, and, going round to the back of the building, he placed his carbine against the wall and sprang up at a kind of window-ledge that formed the base of a grated aperture made for purposes of ventilation. Slowly raising his body till his face was above the ledge, he peered into the dimly moonlit cell and then dropped to the ground and, catching up his carbine, sprinted in the direction of the Hospital Guard-room.

There arrived, he shouted for the Corporal of the Guard and was quickly confronted by Corporal Prag.

"Wot the devil you deserted yore".... he began.

"Get the key of the mortuary, send for the Surgeon, and come at once,"

gasped Dam as soon as he could speak. "_Priddell's not dead_. Must be some kind of catalepsy. Quick, man"....