Читать книгу Trapped by Malays: A Tale of Bayonet and Kris - George Manville Fenn - Страница 18

About an hour after the last conversation Sergeant Ripsy was giving a few final words of command to the little squad of men whom, to use his own words, he was about to plant, as if they were so many vegetables, at different points about the cantonments, in accordance with the strict military rule kept up, just as though they were in an enemy’s country and it was a time of war.

Arms were shouldered, and there was a halt made here, and a halt made there; and this was repeated until a sentry had been stationed at six different points, where the guard could have full command of so many muddy elephant-paths leading away into the black jungle, as well as of two well-beaten tracks which commanded the river.

It was at the latter of these that the Sergeant, whose task was ended until the hour came for rounds, paused to say a few words to the sentry, a well-built fellow who looked as upright as the rifle he carried; and before speaking Sergeant Ripsy glanced through the clear, transparent darkness of the night to right and left, up and down what seemed to be a brilliant river of black ink, which rippled as it ran swiftly, and sparkled as if sprinkled with diamonds, from the reflections of the stars; for, strangely enough, the fire-flies, which had been so frequent amongst the overhanging vegetation, had now ceased to scintillate.

“Here, you, Corporal Dart, hold up that lantern. A little higher. Now left; now right. That will do.”

The non-com, who knew his Sergeant’s motive, had opened the door of the swinging lantern, and flashed it to and fro so that its light fell athwart the stolid countenance of the sentry, who stood up—as rigid as if he had been an effigy cast in bronze.

“You have been drinking again, sir.”

“Not a drop, Sergeant,” said the man gruffly.

“What’s that?” came fiercely.

“Not a drop, Sergeant; nor yesterday nayther.”

“Smell him, Corporal.”

Sniff, sniff, from the Corporal, accompanied by a mild chuckle from the remains of the strong squad.

“Silence in the ranks!” roared the Sergeant.—“Well, Corporal Dart? Report.”

“Onions, Sergeant; not drink.”

“Faugh! Lucky for you, Private Smithers, for there’s going to be no mercy next time you are caught.”

“Well, but, Sergeant, this is now, and it aren’t next time.”

“Silence! A man who is going on duty must keep his tongue still. Now then, you know the word and what’s your duty. Sentry-go until you are relieved. Strict watch up and down the river, for no boat is to land. If the enemy come, take him prisoner; but you are not to fire without cause.”

“Without what, Sergeant?”

“Cause, idiot. Don’t you know your own language?”

Plosh!

“Oh, there’s one of them big scrawlers. Keep your eyes open, and don’t go to sleep.”

“All right, Sergeant.”

“Don’t be so handy with that tongue of yours, sir. Listen, and don’t talk. Do you know what will happen if you do go to sleep?”

Private Smithers thought of the many scoldings—tongue-thrashings he would have called them—which he had had from his wife, and in answer to the Sergeant’s question he drew himself up more stiffly and sighed.

“I said, sir, do you know what would happen if you went to sleep?”

Private Smithers sighed again, deeply, and thought more.

“Do you hear what I said, sir?” roared the Sergeant.

“Yes, Sergeant; but you said I wasn’t to speak.”

“On duty, sir.”

“Am on duty,” growled the private.

“Well, I said speak, but I meant chatter,” cried the Sergeant. “You may speak now, and answer my question. I said do you know what would happen if you went to sleep?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Well, what?”

“Snore,” growled the man.

“Yah! You are turning into a fool. Don’t you think you would fall down if you went to sleep?”

“No, Sergeant. When I go off on duty I always stand stiff as a ramrod.”

“Oh! Then you confess, sir, you do go to sleep on sentry?”

“Think I did once, Sergeant, but I warn’t sure.”

“Well, now then, look here. You are the most troublesome man in your company, and you are not worth your salt, but your commanding officer doesn’t want to put the War Office to the expense of sending you home; and I don’t want to have to put a fatigue party to the trouble of digging a hole for you in this nasty, swampy jungle earth, with more expense caused by the waste of ammunition in firing three volleys over your grave.”

“No, Sergeant; that would be ’ard.”

“Bah! Of course not,” growled the Sergeant. “I made a mistake. You wouldn’t be there to bury, because as sure as you stand there, and go to sleep, one of them twelve-foot long lizardly crocs as you have seen hundreds of times lying on the top will be watching you, with his eyes just out of the water, and as soon as ever you are fast he will crawl out and have you by the leg and into the river before you know where you are. So if that happens, be careful and leave your rifle ashore.”

“Yes, Sergeant, I’ll mind,” said the man coolly.

“Silence in the ranks!” cried the Sergeant again, for there was the beginning of a chuckle.—“Now then,” he continued, “that’s all. Don’t forget the word—Aldershot; and—oh, keep a very sharp lookout for boats, for that’s the only way an enemy can approach the campong—Eh, what?” said the Sergeant, in response to a growl.

“What shall I do, Sergeant, if one of them big evats comes at me? Am I to fire?”

“Fire? No! What for? Want to alarm the camp?”

“No, Sergeant. I don’t mind tackling a real enemy, but if it was one of them scaly varmints he would alarm me.”

“Never mind; you are not to fire.”

“Well, what am I to do, then, sir?”

“Fix bayonets and let him have it. Tenderest place is underneath.”

“Well, but, Sergeant, how am I to get at him underneath?”

“Silence, sir! You, a British soldier who has had the bayonet exercise drilled into him solid for years, ask your officer how you are to use your weapon if it comes to an engagement! You will be wanting to know how to pull your trigger next.—Right about face! March! Left incline. Forward!”

Tramp, tramp, tramp, growing fainter and fainter till it died out; and then Private Smithers said, “Hah!” making a great deal of it, and then sighed and smacked his lips as if thirsty, for the water was rippling pleasantly in his ears. Then, grounding arms, he began to feel in his pocket, and dragged out a soda-water-bottle, which felt soft, for it had been carefully stitched up in very thick flannel to guard it from the consequences of casual blows. On his twisting the cork, the neck emitted a peculiar squeak, followed by a gurgling sound, which lasted till the bottle was half-empty, by which time the thirsty private had become fully conscious of its contents.

“Yah!” he ejaculated as he snatched the bottle from his lips. “Cold tea! Weak—no milk, of course; but you might have put in a bit of sugar.” Then replacing the cork, he gave the yielding stopper so vicious a twist that the neck emitted a screech which sounded strangely loud in the black silence of the night, and was followed by a heavy splash and the sound of wallowing about a dozen yards away. Then, apparently from just below the bank of the river a little higher up, there was a horrible barking sound such as might have been uttered by a boar-hound with a bad sore throat, and then whop, as of a tremendous blow being struck on the surface of the water, followed by the hissing plash, as of a small shower of rain.

“Murder!” muttered Private Smithers in a hoarse whisper, as he finished corking the bottle by giving the neck a slap, stuffed it quickly into the pocket of his tunic, and then brought his piece up to the ready and began to back slowly from where he had been stationed.

“This is nice!” he growled, as he released his right hand to draw the back across his reeking brow. “Glad the missus ain’t here. He warn’t gammoning me, then. My, how thirsty I do feel! It’s the perspiration, I suppose. Here, how plaguy dark it is! Course I’ve seen these ’ere things before, but it never seemed so bad as this.—Not fire? Won’t I? Why, if I made out one of them things coming on up the bank, it ’ud be enough to make a decent piece go off of itself. Anyhow, it’s fixed bay’nets, my lad; but I wonder whether the tool would go in. Phew! What does that mean? This is a blessed unked place, and it’s getting darker and darker. It aren’t fair to a British soldier to put him on a job like this.”

As the man spoke he looked sharply to right and left and out into the river, fixing his bayonet the while.

“Do you hear that, you beggars? You come on, and you will get the bullet, and a dig as well. A-mussy me, I do wish it was relieve guard! And I have got to stop here facing this till daybreak almost. It’s enough to make a fellow feel ill. I wonder what the missus would say if she knew. Hates—bless her!—hates me to touch the least taste of rum, but if she’d have knowed what I’d got to go through to-night she wouldn’t have left out the sugar, and she would have put in a double lashing of something strong to keep the heart in her old man, as she calls me—when she’s in a good temper,” he added after a pause, during which he stood breathing hard and trying to make out whence came each splash or lash of a reptile’s tail.

“Talk about facing the enemy,” he muttered; “I don’t wish old Tipsy any harm, but I should like him to have this job. It ’ud take some of the starch out of him, I know. Well, what’s to be done? There ain’t so much as a tree to get behind. The Red Book says you ain’t to expose yourself unnecessarily to the enemy; but what’s a fellow to do? if I go padding up and down there, it’s like saying to them, ‘Here I am; come on.’ And they can see one so—them right down in the water and me high up on the bank. Let’s see; what did the missus say? Out of two evils choose the least. Well, I know what it is for desarting your post, and that must be leaster than having one of them beggars getting hold of a fellow by the leg and pulling him under water. So hook it, I say; and I might manage to sneak back before rounds.”

Private Smithers stood thinking and watching, hearing many a startling sound of the reptiles with which the river swarmed, evidently fishing after their fashion; and over and over again he took aim and nearly fired at some imaginary monster that appeared to be crawling out of the water to mount the bank. But after straining his eyes till they seemed to ache, he always ended by lowering his piece again and forcing himself to walk up and down his measured beat.

“I never knowed a hotter night than this,” he muttered, as he took off his cap and wiped his dripping forehead; “and I do call it hard. I can’t sneak off, because as soon as I was out of the way, as sure as I am alive somebody would be making extra rounds, so as to drop upon a fellow and ketch him when he ain’t there. I can feel it in me to-night as old Tipsy would know it and drop upon me as soon as I had gone; and ’tain’t being a soldier neither,” the poor fellow half-whimpered. “I suppose it’s cowardly; but who can help it, hearing them ugly, slimy things chopping the water and gnashing their teeth at you? I want to know what such things as them was made for. Talk about Malays and pisoned krises! Why, I would rather meet hundreds of them. You could bay’net a few of them, for they are soft, plump sort of chaps; but these ’ere things is as hard as lobsters or crabs, and would turn the point of a regulation bay’net as if it was made of a bit of iron hoop. I sha’n’t never forget that, Mr. Sergeant Tipsy,” he continued, addressing the jungle behind him as he looked in the direction of the cantonments. “The underneath’s the tenderest part, is it? Just you come and try it, old ’un. Savage old tyrant—that’s what you are. Only just wish I was Sergeant Smithers and you was Private Ripsy. I’d make you Private Tipsy with sheer fright, that I would, and so I tell you. No, I wouldn’t,” he grumbled, as he cooled down a little. “I wouldn’t be such a brute, for the sake of your poor missus. Ugh!” he growled, as he seemed to turn savage; and he went through the business of shouldering arms, with a good deal of unnecessary energy, slapping his piece loudly, and then stamping his feet as he marched up and down the marked-out portion of the bank, a little inward from the landing-place.

“I don’t care,” he muttered recklessly. “I can’t see you, but I can hear you, you beauties! Come on if you like. My monkey’s up now. Fire! I just will! It will only be once, though, and then s’elp me, I’ll let whichever of you it is have it with a straight-down dig right between the shoulders—one as will pin you into the soft earth. I’ll do for one of you at any rate, and then let them come and relieve guard. Relieve guard, indeed, when there won’t be no guard to relieve! And old Tipsy won’t have any more trouble with poor old Joe Smithers. Nay, my lad, put it down decent, as perhaps it’s for the last time. Private Joseph Smithers, 3874, and good-bye, mates and comrades, and bless the lot of you! Poor old missus! She’ll miss me, though, when she wants the water fetched, but it will only be larky Peter Pegg doing it twice as often; and she will be independent-like, for she always washes his shirt for him every week—a cheeky beggar! But somehow I always liked Peter, in spite of his larks as Mr. Maine put him up to—chaffing and teasing a fellow. But he never meant no harm. You see, it seemed to make us good mates running in company like, for when the Sergeant wasn’t dropping on to him he was letting me have it, to keep his tongue sharp. Yes, Peter Pegg will miss me, for they won’t find Joe Smithers when they come; and if I desart my post, how can I help it if I am pulled under? But I won’t desart it till I am. There,” he cried, stopping suddenly in his angry soliloquy; and pulling up short, he stood ready, looking inward, forgetting the splashings of the reptiles, which were repeated from time to time. “What did I say? ’Tarn’t rounds yet, and I should have been ketched, for here’s some one coming. Out of regular time, too. One of the officers, for that spot of light’s a cigar. Well, glad to see him. Company’s good, even if you’re going to be pulled under by a croc. Wonder who it is.”