Читать книгу Private Spud Tamson - R. W. Campbell - Страница 9

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The unwritten laws of the Glesca Mileeshy were as rigid as the etiquette of the Brigade of Guards. The most important was that which compelled recruits to "stand their hand," or, in plain English, give free drinks all round. This to the cultured instinct may seem a somewhat coarse enactment, but to an old Militia hand, possessed of an Indian thirst, it was all-important and always demanded. The recruit's first pay-day was usually selected for this purpose. Pay-day in the Militia, I may say, is just a sort of Dante's Inferno in miniature. And in the times of Spud Tamson the weekly pay amounted to one shilling per day. This would not keep a millionaire in matches, but it was sufficient to lure to the barracks' gate the official and unofficial wives of this [pg 40] regiment, as well as to rouse in the breasts of their noble lovers dreams of foaming ale and nights of song and story.

Just as German students have their beer clubs and drinking bouts, so did this regiment possess its boosing schools and captains. This was a weird system. Each company had a school, and on pay-day every man paid so much to the captain. The captain divided this money over the days of the week, and thus ensured that all had liquid refreshment till the next pay-day came round. The captain, of course, had other duties. He chaired all meetings in the canteen, maintained law and order, and, more important, he secured patrons possessed of unlimited cash and willing hearts. The recruit, of course, was the most important. A youngster deemed it an honour to sup with those veterans of "Models" and wars, and for the privilege was content to disgorge. Spud was therefore inveigled into one of these schools, and in true Tamson style called for "pints o' the best." For this act he was made the guest of the evening, and so long as his pay lasted the old guard were content to listen to his blethers with all the deference born of thirst and cunning.

[pg 41] The canteen was, of course, under discipline and regulations. A corporal stood at the door to officially measure the pints of ale that trickled down the Militiamen's necks. As soon as a man's head wobbled, and his eyes rolled in a stupid and vacant style, he was seized by the scruff of the neck and given the order of the boot. If he objected, he was marched to the "clink" under escort. This was religiously adhered to in the Glesca Mileeshy for the first hour, but as the clock went round, the very thirsty corporals of this regiment sent duty and regulations to Hong-Kong, and sat down to partake of the feast given free because of their superior rank.

Picture the scene, then,—a long, low room, packed with boozing schools, and badly lit with evil-smelling oil-lamps. Round the tables were seated some of the biggest rogues and many of the biggest-hearted souls in creation. In one corner, the corporal sat blind to all the world; while in the opposite part of the canteen Spud Tamson was seated amidst his new-found friends listening to the tales of woe and war.

"Speakin' aboot funny things," said Rab [pg 42] M'Ginty, "I mind when we were oot at the War on ootpost duty. It wis a rotten job—naethin' but hard chuck an' bully beef. An' every nicht the enemy used tae open fire. We got fed up wi' this, an' thocht oot a scheme tae save us bother. D'ye ken what we did?'

"Na," said the others.

"Weel, we got a' the auld tin cans an' auld dugs we could get oor haunds on. We tied the tin cans tae the barbed wire and every ten yerds we fixed a dug up on a chain."

"Whut fur?" asked Tamson.

"Tae rattle an' bark when the enemy wis comin'. Man, it wis a great thing! And when on duty we could get tae sleep; for the dugs barked when they heard the least soond. But wan nicht we got a terrible fricht. Ye see it wis gey daurk and aboot midnicht, a' the tin cans an' dugs commenced tae rattle an' bark. Then I heard something cherging up and doon the wires. So I let bang! That started it. In five meenits the hale army o' ten thoosan' men were firing. But the cans kept rattlin' an' the dugs barkin'. I wis shiverin' wi' fricht. [pg 43] Tae mak' things worse, there was a terrible braying—an eerie noise in front o' us. We couldnae stop it. Some said it wis auld Kruger's ghost, others said it wis the Deevil himsel'; but, man, it wis awfu'. For twa hoors we fired ten thoosand roonds o' ammuneeshin but that didnae end it."

"Whut wis it?" queried the anxious and interested Spud.

"Wait," said Rab. "We kept on firing till the dawn came. An' then we saw them—dizens o' them lyin' deid."

"The enemy?" some one asked.

"Na! Donkeys."

"Donkeys! Hoo wis that?"

"Ye see, a' the transport cuddies got loose an' wandered. They got mixed up wi' the wires an' that wis the cause o' the bother. Jist fancy, ten thoosan' roonds tae kill three dizen cuddies."

"Did ye get the V.C.?" queried Tamson.

"V.C.! Nae fear. I got ten days in the nick for openin' fire on His Majesty's cuddies."

"Ach, sure an' I've a better yarn than that," said Paddy Doolan.

"Tell it," ordered the captain.

[pg 44] "It was out in India when I was in the ould Dublin Fusiliers. We were at a place nicknamed 'Holipore,' that's where the Holy Fathers pour medicine down the niggers' necks, an' beer down the sodgers'. The affair happened at night. I was on sentry-go, and about twelve I was startled to see a mad fakir wid fire in his eyes and a sword in his fingers advancing on me.

"'Halt!' ses I, shiverin' in my pants. But he never stopped. On he marched.

"'Be jabers, if yes don't halt I'll riddle ye,' I roared. That didn't halt him. I rammed a cartridge in and tried to fire, but divil a bit could I fire. It was jammed, or I was drammed. And then he stopped.

"'Great Sahib,' he said.

"'Yis,' ses I, all shakin'.

"'I am the Chief Priest of the Temple of Skulls. I bless you and annoint you one of my beloved and a son of the faithful. And I command you to ground your arms.'

"'I can't—I'll get the "nick" from the sargint.'

"'Great Sahib, obey, or I shall cut out thy heart and eyes.'

[pg 45] "I dropped my gun like a hot Connemara spud.

"'Sahib, double march and follow me.' Off went the mad fellow into the jungle. I galloped after him. The tigers were roarin', elephants trumpeting and hyenas crying like ould cats. But they fled from the sight of the ould fakir. I was puffin' an' blowin' like a roarin' race-horse, and sweatin' like a pig, when he cried, 'Halt, O Sahib of the great white race.'

"'Not so much of the Sahib,' ses I, 'but give me a drink.'

"'There is no refreshment in the Temple of Skulls. Your blood shall be the refreshment for our Gods. Watch, O Sahib.' And before I could cough the ground opened up before me showing a stair made out of bones.

"'Enter,' said he, like a bloomin' ould butler. Down I went into the devil's hole. It was a temple lit up with oil. The walls were made of skulls, and the floors had carpets made out of Highlanders' kilts, fusiliers' trousers, artillerymen's pants, and cavalrymen's dongarees. Holy Moses! I shivered like a cat on the tiles. As I got in, [pg 46] a dozen mad fellows commenced to play their pumpkin drums, and sing—"

"'Death to the Sahib,

His blood for our Gods,

Death to the Sahib,

His bones for our rods;

Death to the Sahib,

And then he shall know

The secrets of Rahib

The High Priest below.'

"'Ye dirty ould spalpeen,' ses I, knockin' daylight out of the fellow who'd introduced me to this Madame Tussaud's. But he dodged, and pulling a string, I was enveloped in blue flames, and then tied to an altar in front of the Holy Water."

"Have a drink, Paddy." interjected the captain at this point, to the disgust of the fascinated Spud and spell-bound Militiamen.

Paddy quaffed a pint from the foaming tankard, then resumed: "Yes, they got out their scimitors—knives like the master-cook cuts the rations up with. But before slicing the beef-steaks off me the High Priest offered up a prayer 'for the soul of Sahib Paddy Doolan, of the Dublin Fusiliers, who was to be sliced, fried, and eaten on the altar of Rahib, the High Priest of the Twopenny Tube in the Jungle of Tigers and Panthers.' [pg 47] Next, they did a can-can—a sort of Highland fling—round me.

"'Stop,' ses I, 'I'll never get drunk again,' but they just sung—"

"'Death to the Sahib,

His blood for our Gods.'

"Finally, they sharpened their ould ham knives, and with a wild, wild yell, stuck every one into my ould hairy chest. And then I woke up—in hospital."

"In hospital?" queried the amazed Spud.

"Yes, I was in the D.T.'s (delirium tremens)."

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the crowd in a rollicking way, for Paddy Doolan was the champion liar in the corps. But his story was sufficient to drag another drink out of the green-eyed Spud, and that was the main point so far as Doolan and his pals were concerned.

"It's your turn now, 'Dominie,'" said the captain to a grizzled old red-nosed warrior, who had seen better days.

"What do you want?"

"Tell us about Algy—some of them haven't heard that yarn."

"Well," said the Dominie, lighting up his [pg 48] old cutty-pipe, "Algy was a gent who listed in my first 'crush'—the Perthshire Kilties. He arrived one night at Fort George with a cabful of luggage, a bicycle, a box of sardines and prunes, and a big printed roll showing how he descended from Willie the Conqueror—that's the chap who led the Normans."

"D'ye mean the Mormons?" interjected Spud.

"No, you fathead. However, Algy rang the bell. When the sergeant opened the gate he saluted, for he thought this was some new officer.

"'I'm a recruit, sergeant,' said Algy.

"'What's yer name?' asked the sergeant.

"'Algy de Verepot—I've been "plucked" at Sandhurst, and I want to get a commission through the ranks.'"

"'You'll be lucky if you get your dinner; but come tae the sergeant-major,' said he, pointing out the sergeant-major's quarters. The sergeant-major gave Algy a welcome, and told his colour-sergeant to coddle and be kind to him.

"In his room he hung up his pedigree, threw around his public-school blazers and badges, and dropped here and there some [pg 49] family notepaper with a handsome crest on it. Every soldier loves a real live toff, so all the boys gave him a hand with his kit, and acted generally as his lackeys.

"'Don't bother about paying me, colour-sergeant,' he said one day. 'I've plenty of money. Keep it and give the boys a drink.' This charmed the company, and he was made a hero. He also ordered superfine clothing, and many other odds and ends, from the Master Tailor and outside tradesmen. 'Just send on the bills,' was his aristocratic command. They were delighted, for the whole garrison was full of the romance of this peer's nephew in the ranks. And the girls—didn't they rush him! Even the officers' daughters went crazy about him. In his private's uniform he used to walk them out to tea. You see they pitied him, and thought he was getting thin on bully beef, toad-in-the-hole, and dead-cat stew. And then the colonel's wife met him. He used to tell her of his fiancée, Lady Gwendoline, and the great times he had with Lord Noddy at his Highland shootings. The dear lady became interested, and even got the length of walking round the ramparts arm-in-arm. Didn't we envy him, for she was [pg 50] a beauty. And they say she kissed the old colonel one night and said, 'Now, dear, you must be kind to that boy and get him his commission.'

"'Certainly! Certainly!' answered the old chap.

"In this way, you see, he got into the hearts of all. And he was as keen as mustard. He used to slope arms and salute in front of the mirror, and 'paid' a man well to clean his kit. At night, too, he used to go to the adjutant's room and get books on drill. The adjutant told him everything.—How the regiment was worked; the keeping of the books, the filing of records, and the recording of the cash in the orderly-room safe.

"'Then the adjutant keeps all the regimental pay in the safe?' he asked of him one night.

"'Oh yes, there are the keys,' replied the captain casually.

"Shortly after this Algy received a wire saying, 'Can you come for grouse-shooting on the Twelfth.—Lord Noddy.' He rushed to the colonel and presented it, at the same time asking for leave.

"'Well, it's unusual, my lad, but seeing [pg 51] who you are, you can go for seven days.' And away went Algy with all his luggage. He got a cheer from the boys as he went through the gate, for he was the idol of all. The seven days passed, but on the eighth no Algy appeared.

"'Private Algy de Verepot absent, sir,' was the report on the morning parade. It startled everybody. It was the talk of the garrison, and caused grief among the ladies in town. Had he been killed! Had he deserted! What had happened! These were the topics of the day. Algy's disappearance caused more commotion than the coronation of a king. And then some strange things were discovered.

"£300 had been stolen from the adjutant's safe.

"A sergeant had lost his false teeth.

"Algy's servant missed all his furlough money.

"The colonel's wife had given Algy a cheque for £50.

"Five officers had lent him a fiver.

"And a barmaid from the town was missing. 'It can't be Algy who has done this!' said the regiment.

"'It was Algy,' telegraphed the police [pg 52] from London, for he was arrested there, and got five years' penal servitude.

"Now, who do you think Algy was?"

"Tell us," cried Spud.

"Algy was the biggest crook in London. He was proved to be the man who stole King Edward's dressing-bag at Euston Station."

Just as Dominie had completed this yarn, the whole canteen was startled with the shout, "Who's a liar?"

"You are—you stole ma pint o' beer—ye thocht I wis drunk."

"Awa' an' bile yer heid," said the aggressor, a tramp piper, whose doublet was well soaked with ale.

Bang! went the fist of the aggrieved private on the piper's nose. In a second the place was turned topsy-turvy. All joined in the fight. Lamps were smashed, tables crashed on the floor, glasses hurled across the room, and all the windows cracked. For ten minutes a deadly battle was waged in the inky darkness. And then some one shouted, "Scoot, boys, scoot—here's the picket coming." And they did scoot. Some jumped through the windows, others hustled through the doors, and then half-staggering [pg 53] and running they reached their barrack-rooms, where, like true Militiamen, they tumbled quietly into bed.

Next morning the Glesca Mileeshy paraded with black eyes and battered noses. As this was the usual thing after pay-day, the colonel simply smiled, and gave the order, "Form fours—right—double march." While they were galloping round the square, this commander remarked, "D—— rascals, but d—— good soldiers."

"Yes, sir," replied the adjutant.

[pg 54]