On Greenhow Hill by Rudyard Kipling
To Love's low voice she lent a careless ear;
Her hand within his rosy fingers lay,
A chilling weight. She would not turn or hear;
But with averted face went on her way.
But when pale Death, all featureless and grim,
Lifted his bony hand, and beckoning
Held out his cypress-wreath, she followed him,
And Love was left forlorn and wondering,
That she who for his bidding would not stay,
At Death's first whisper rose and went away.
"Ohè, Ahmed Din! Shafiz Ulla ahoo! Bahadur Khan, where
are you? Come out of the tents, as I have done, and fight against the
English. Don't kill your own kin! Come out to me!"
The deserter from a native corps was crawling round the outskirts of
the camp, firing at intervals, and shouting invitations to his old
comrades. Misled by the rain and the darkness, he came to the English wing
of the camp, and with his yelping and rifle-practice disturbed the men.
They had been making roads all day, and were tired.
Ortheris was sleeping at Learoyd's feet. "Wot's all that?" he said
thickly. Learoyd snored, and a Snider bullet ripped its way through the
tent wall. The men swore, "it's that bloomin' deserter from the
Aurangabadis," said Ortheris. "Git up, some one, an' tell 'im 'e's come to
the wrong shop,"
"Go to sleep, little man," said Mulvaney, who was steaming nearest the
door. "I can't arise and expaytiate with him. Tis rainin' entrenchin'
"'Tain't because you bloomin' can't. It's 'cause you bloomin' won't, ye
long, limp, lousy, lazy beggar, you. 'Ark to 'im 'owlin'!"
"Wot's the good of argifying? Put a bullet into the swine! 'E's keepin'
us awake!" said another voice.
A subaltern shouted angrily, and a dripping sentry whined from the
"'Tain't no good, sir. I can't see 'im. 'E's 'idin' somewhere down
Ortheris tumbled out of his blanket. "Shall I try to get 'im, sir?"
"No," was the answer. "Lie down. I won't have the whole camp shooting
all round the clock. Tell him to go and pot his friends."
Ortheris considered for a moment. Then, putting his head under the tent
wall, he called, as a 'bus conductor calls in a block, "'Igher up, there!
The men laughed, and the laughter was carried down wind to the
deserter, who, hearing that he had made a mistake, went off to worry his
own regiment half a mile away. He was received with shots; the
Aurangabadis were very angry with him for disgracing their colors.
"An' that's all right," said Ortheris, withdrawing his head as he heard
the hiccough of the Sniders in the distance. "S'elp me Gawd, tho', that
man's not fit to live—messin' with my beauty-sleep this way."
"Go out and shoot him in the morning, then," said the subaltern
incautiously. "Silence in the tents now. Get your rest, men."
Ortheris lay down with a happy little sigh, and in two minutes there
was no sound except the rain on the canvas and the all-embracing and
elemental snoring of Learoyd.
The camp lay on a bare ridge of the Himalayas, and for a week had been
waiting for a flying column to make connection. The nightly rounds of the
deserter and his friends had become a nuisance.
In the morning the men dried themselves in hot sunshine and cleaned
their grimy accoutrements. The native regiment was to take its turn of
road-making that day while the Old Regiment loafed.
"I'm goin' to lay for a shot at that man," said Ortheris, when he had
finished washing out his rifle, "'E comes up the watercourse every evenin'
about five o'clock. If we go and lie out on the north 'ill a bit this
afternoon we'll get 'im."
"You're a bloodthirsty little mosquito," said Mulvaney, blowing blue
clouds into the air. "But I suppose I will have to come wid you. Pwhere's
"Gone out with the Mixed Pickles, 'cause 'e thinks 'isself a bloomin'
marksman," said Ortheris, with scorn,
The "Mixed Pickles" were a detachment of picked shots, generally
employed in clearing spurs of hills when the enemy were too impertinent.
This taught the young officers how to handle men, and did not do the enemy
much harm. Mulvaney and Ortheris strolled out of camp, and passed the
Aurangabadis going to their road-making,
"You've got to sweat to-day," said Ortheris, genially. "We're going to
get your man. You didn't knock 'im out last night by any chance, any of
"No. The pig went away mocking us. I had one shot at him," said a
private, "He's my cousin, and I ought to have cleared our dishonor.
But good luck to you."
They went cautiously to the north hill, Ortheris leading, because, as
he explained, "this is a long-range show, an' I've got to do it." His was
an almost passionate devotion to his rifle, which, by barrack-room report,
he was supposed to kiss every night before turning in. Charges and
scuffles he held in contempt, and, when they were inevitable, slipped
between Mulvaney and Learoyd, bidding them to fight for his skin as well
as their own. They never failed him. He trotted along, questing like a
hound on a broken trail, through the wood of the north hill. At last he
was satisfied, and threw himself down on the soft pine-needle slope that
commanded a clear view of the watercourse and a brown, bare hillside
beyond it. The trees made a scented darkness in which an army corps could
have hidden from the sun-glare without.
"'Ere's the tail o' the wood," said Ortheris. "'E's got to come up the
watercourse, 'cause it gives 'im cover. We'll lay 'ere. 'Tain't not arf so
bloomin' dusty neither."
He buried his nose in a clump of scentless white violets. No one had
come to tell the flowers that the season of their strength was long past,
and they had bloomed merrily in the twilight of the pines.
"This is something like," he said, luxuriously. "Wot a 'evinly clear
drop for a bullet acrost! How much d'you make it, Mulvaney?"
"Seven hunder. Maybe a trifle less, bekaze the air's so thin."
Wop! Wop! Wop! went a volley of musketry on the rear face of the
"Curse them Mixed Pickles firin' at nothin'! They'll scare arf the
"Thry a sightin' shot in the middle of the row," said Mulvaney, the man
of many wiles. "There's a red rock yonder he'll be sure to pass.
Ortheris ran his sight up to six hundred yards and fired. The bullet
threw up a feather of dust by a clump of gentians at the base of the
"Good enough!" said Ortheris, snapping the scale down. "You snick your
sights to mine or a little lower. You're always firin' high. But remember,
first shot to me, O Lordy! but it's a lovely afternoon."
The noise of the firing grew louder, and there was a tramping of men in
the wood. The two lay very quiet, for they knew that the British soldier
is desperately prone to fire at anything that moves or calls. Then Learoyd
appeared, his tunic ripped across the breast by a bullet, looking ashamed
of himself. He flung down on the pine-needles, breathing in snorts.
"One o' them damned gardeners o' th' Pickles," said he, fingering the
rent. "Firin' to th' right flank, when he knowed I was there. If I knew
who he was I'd 'a' rippen the hide offan him. Look at ma tunic!"
"That's the spishil trustability av a marksman. Train him to hit a fly
wid a stiddy rest at seven hunder, an' he loose on anythin' he sees or
hears up to th' mile. You're well out av that fancy-firin' gang, Jock.
"Bin firin' at the bloomin' wind in the bloomin' treetops," said
Ortheris, with a chuckle. "I'll show you some firin' later on."
They wallowed in the pine-needles, and the sun warmed them where they
lay. The Mixed Pickles ceased firing, and returned to camp, and left the
wood to a few scared apes. The watercourse lifted up its voice in the
silence, and talked foolishly to the rocks. Now and again the dull thump
of a blasting charge three miles away told that the Aurangabadis were in
difficulties with their road-making. The men smiled as they listened and
lay still, soaking in the warm leisure. Presently Learoyd, between the
whiffs of his pipe—
"Seems queer—about 'im yonder—desertin' at all."
"'E'll be a bloomin' side queerer when I've done with 'im," said
Ortheris. They were talking in whispers, for the stillness of the wood and
the desire of slaughter lay heavy upon them.
"I make no doubt he had his reasons for desertin'; but, my faith! I
make less doubt ivry man has good reason for killin' him," said
"Happen there was a lass tewed up wi'it. Men do more than more for th'
sake of a lass."
"They make most av us 'list. They've no manner av right to make us
"Ah; they make us 'list, or their fathers do," said Learoyd, softly,
his helmet over his eyes.
Ortheris's brows contracted savagely. He was watching the valley, "If
it's a girl I'll shoot the beggar twice over, an' second time for bein' a
fool. You're blasted sentimental all of a sudden, Thinkin' o' your last
"Nay, lad; ah was but thinkin' o' what had happened,"
"An' fwhat has happened, ye lumberin' child av calamity, that you're
lowing like a cow-calf at the back av the pasture, an' suggestin'
invidious excuses for the man Stanley's goin' to kill. Ye'll have to wait
another hour yet, little man. Spit it out, Jock, an' bellow melojus to the
moon. It takes an earthquake or a bullet graze to fetch aught out av you.
Discourse, Don Juan! The a-moors av Lotharius Learoyd! Stanley, kape a
rowlin' rig'mental eye on the valley."
"It's along o' yon hill there," said Learoyd, watching the bare
sub-Himalayan spur that reminded him of his Yorkshire moors. He was
speaking more to himself than his fellows.
"Ay," said he, "Rumbolds Moor stands up ower Skipton town, an' Greenhow
Hill stands up ower Pately Brig. I reckon you've never heeard tell o'
Greenhow Hill, but yon bit o' bare stuff if there was nobbut a white road
windin' is like ut; strangely like. Moors an' moors an' moors, wi' never a
tree for shelter, an' grey houses wi' flagstone rooves, and pewits cryin',
an' a windhover goin' to and fro just like these kites. And cold! A wind
that cuts you like a knife. You could tell Greenhow Hill folk by the
red-apple color o' their cheeks an' nose tips, and their blue eyes, driven
into pin-points by the wind. Miners mostly, burrowin' for lead i' th'
hillsides, followin' the trail of th' ore vein same as a field-rat. It was
the roughest minin' I ever seen. Yo'd come on a bit o' creakin' wood
windlass like a well-head, an' you was let down i' th' bight of a rope,
fendin' yoursen off the side wi' one hand, carryin' a candle stuck in a
lump o' clay with t'other, an' clickin' hold of a rope with t'other
"An' that's three of them," said Mulvaney. "Must be a good climate in
Learoyd took no heed.
"An' then yo' came to a level, where you crept on your hands and knees
through a mile o' windin' drift, 'an' you come out into a cave-place as
big as Leeds Townhall, with a engine pumpin' water from workin's 'at went
deeper still. It's a queer country, let alone minin', for the hill is full
of those natural caves, an' the rivers an' the becks drops into what they
call pot-holes, an' come out again miles away."
"Wot was you doin' there?" said Ortheris.
"I was a young chap then, an' mostly went wi' 'osses, leadin' coal and
lead ore; but at th' time I'm tellin' on I was drivin' the waggon-team i'
th' big sumph. I didn't belong to that countryside by rights. I went there
because of a little difference at home, an' at fust I took up wi' a rough
lot. One night we'd been drinkin', an' I must ha' hed more than I could
stand, or happen th' ale was none so good. Though i' them days, By for
God, I never seed bad ale." He flung his arms over his head, and gripped a
vast handful of white violets. "Nah," said he, "I never seed the ale I
could not drink, the bacca I could not smoke, nor the lass I could not
kiss. Well, we mun have a race home, the lot on us. I lost all th' others,
an' when I was climbin' ower one of them walls built o' loose stones, I
comes down into the ditch, stones and all, an' broke my arm. Not as I
knawed much about it, for I fell on th' back of my head, an' was knocked
stupid like. An' when I come to mysen it were mornin', an' I were lyin' on
the settle i' Jesse Roantree's house-place, an' 'Liza Roantree was settin'
sewin'. I ached all ower, and my mouth were like a limekiln. She gave me a
drink out of a china mug wi' gold letters—'A Present from
Leeds'—as I looked at many and many a time at after. 'Yo're to lie
still while Dr. Warbottom comes, because your arm's broken, and father has
sent a lad to fetch him. He found yo' when he was goin' to work, an'
carried you here on his back,' sez she. 'Oa!' sez I; an' I shet my eyes,
for I felt ashamed o' mysen. 'Father's gone to his work these three hours,
an' he said he' tell 'em to get somebody to drive the tram.' The clock
ticked, an' a bee comed in the house, an' they rung i' my head like
mill-wheels. An' she give me another drink an' settled the pillow. 'Eh,
but yo're young to be getten drunk an' such like, but yo' won't do it
again, will yo'?'—'Noa,' sez I, 'I wouldn't if she'd not but stop
they mill-wheels clatterin'.'"
"Faith, it's a good thing to be nursed by a woman when you're sick!"
said Mulvaney. "Dir' cheap at the price av twenty broken heads."
Ortheris turned to frown across the valley. He had not been nursed by
many women in his life.
"An' then Dr. Warbottom comes ridin' up, an' Jesse Roantree along with
'im. He was a high-larned doctor, but he talked wi' poor folk same as
theirsens. 'What's ta bin agaate on naa?' he sings out. 'Brekkin' tha
thick head?' An' he felt me all ovver. 'That's none broken. Tha' nobbut
knocked a bit sillier than ordinary, an' that's daaft eneaf.' An' soa he
went on, callin' me all the names he could think on, but settin' my arm,
wi' Jesse's help, as careful as could be. 'Yo' mun let the big oaf bide
here a bit, Jesse,' he says, when he hed strapped me up an' given me a
dose o' physic; 'an' you an' 'Liza will tend him, though he's scarcelins
worth the trouble. An' tha'll lose tha work,' sez he, 'an' tha'll be upon
th' Sick Club for a couple o' months an' more. Doesn't tha think tha's a
"But whin was a young man, high or low, the other av a fool, I'd like
to know?" said Mulvaney, "Sure, folly's the only safe way to wisdom, for
I've thried it."
"Wisdom!" grinned Ortheris, scanning his comrades with uplifted chin.
"You're bloomin' Solomons, you two, ain't you?"
Learoyd went calmly on, with a steady eye like an ox chewing the
"And that was how I come to know 'Liza Roantree. There's some tunes as
she used to sing—aw, she were always singin'—that fetches
Greenhow Hill before my eyes as fair as yon brow across there. And she
would learn me to sing bass, an' I was to go to th' chapel wi' 'em where
Jesse and she led the singin', th' old man playin' the fiddle. He was a
strange chap, old Jesse, fair mad wi' music, an' he made me promise to
learn the big fiddle when my arm was better. It belonged to him, and it
stood up in a big case alongside o' th' eight-day clock, but Willie
Satterthwaite, as played it in the chapel, had getten deaf as a door-post,
and it vexed Jesse, as he had to rap him ower his head wi' th'
fiddle-stick to make him give ower sawin' at th' right time.
"But there was a black drop in it all, an' it was a man in a black coat
that brought it. When th' primitive Methodist preacher came to Greenhow,
he would always stop wi' Jesse Roantree, an' he laid hold of me from th'
beginning. It seemed I wor a soul to be saved, and he meaned to do it. At
th' same time I jealoused 'at he were keen o' savin' 'Liza Roantree's soul
as well, and I could ha' killed him many a time. An' this went on till one
day I broke out, an' borrowed th' brass for a drink from 'Liza. After
fower days I come back, wi' my tail between my legs, just to see 'Liza
again. But Jesse were at home an' th' preacher—th' Reverend Amos
Barraclough. 'Liza said naught, but a bit o' red come into her face as
were white of a regular thing. Says Jesse, tryin' his best to be civil,
'Nay, lad, it's like this. You've getten to choose which way it's goin' to
be. I'll ha' nobody across ma doorstep as goes a-drinkin', an' borrows my
lass's money to spend i' their drink. Ho'd tha tongue, 'Liza,' sez he,
when she wanted to put in a word 'at I were welcome to th' brass, and she
were none afraid that I wouldn't pay it back. Then the Reverend cuts in,
seein' as Jesse were losin' his temper, an' they fair beat me among them.
But it were 'Liza, as looked an' said naught, as did more than either o'
their tongues, an' soa I concluded to get converted."
"Fwhat?" shouted Mulvaney. Then, checking himself, he said softly, "Let
be! Let be! Sure the Blessed Virgin is the mother of all religion an' most
women; an' there's a dale av piety in a girl if the men would only let ut
stay there. I'd ha' been converted myself under the circumstances."
"Nay, but," pursued Learoyd with a blush, "I meaned it."
Ortheris laughed as loudly as he dared, having regard to his business
at the time.
"Ay, Ortheris, you may laugh, but you didn't know yon preacher
Barraclough—a little white-faced chap, wi' a voice as 'ud wile a
bird off an a bush, and a way o' layin' hold of folks as made them think
they'd never had a live man for a friend before. You never saw him,
an'—an'—you never seed 'Liza Roantree—never seed 'Liza
Roantree.... Happen it was as much 'Liza as th' preacher and her father,
but anyways they all meaned it, an' I was fair shamed o' mysen, an' so I
become what they call a changed character. And when I think on, it's hard
to believe as yon chap going to prayermeetin's, chapel, and class-meetin's
were me. But I never had naught to say for mysen, though there was a deal
o' shoutin', and old Sammy Strother, as were almost clemmed to death and
doubled up with the rheumatics, would sing out, 'Joyful! Joyful!' and 'at
it were better to go up to heaven in a coal-basket than down to hell i' a
coach an' six. And he would put his poor old claw on my shoulder, sayin',
'Doesn't tha feel it, tha great lump? Doesn't tha feel it?' An' sometimes
I thought I did, and then again I thought I didn't, an' how was that?"
"The iverlastin' nature av mankind," said Mulvaney. "An', furthermore,
I misdoubt you were built for the Primitive Methodians. They're a new
corps anyways. I hold by the Ould Church, for she's the mother of them
all—ay, an' the father, too. I like her bekase she's most remarkable
regimental in her fittings. I may die in Honolulu, Nova Zambra, or Cape
Cayenne, but wherever I die, me bein' fwhat I am, an' a priest handy, I go
under the same orders an' the same words an' the same unction as tho' the
Pope himself come down from the roof av St. Peter's to see me off. There's
neither high nor low, nor broad nor deep, nor betwixt nor between wid her,
an' that's what I like. But mark you, she's no manner av Church for a wake
man, bekaze she takes the body and the soul av him, onless he has his
proper work to do. I remember when my father died that was three months
comin' to his grave; begad he'd ha' sold the shebeen above our heads for
ten minutes' quittance of purgathory. An' he did all he could. That's why
I say ut takes a strong man to deal with the Ould Church, an' for that
reason you'll find so many women go there. An' that same's a
"Wot's the use o' worritin' 'bout these things?" said Ortheris. "You're
bound to find all out quicker nor you want to, any'ow." He jerked the
cartridge out of the breech-block into the palm of his hand. "Ere's my
chaplain," he said, and made the venomous black-headed bullet bow like a
marionette. "'E's goin' to teach a man all about which is which, an' wot's
true, after all, before sundown. But wot 'appened after that, Jock?"
"There was one thing they boggled at, and almost shut th' gate i' my
face for, and that were my dog Blast, th' only one saved out o' a litter
o' pups as was blowed up when a keg o' minin' powder loosed off in th'
storekeeper's hut. They liked his name no better than his business, which
were fightin' every dog he comed across; a rare good dog, wi' spots o'
black and pink on his face, one ear gone, and lame o' one side wi' being
driven in a basket through an iron roof, a matter of half a mile.
"They said I mun give him up 'cause he were worldly and low; and would
I let mysen be shut out of heaven for the sake on a dog? 'Nay,' says I,
'if th' door isn't wide enough for th' pair on us, we'll stop outside, for
we'll none be parted.' And th' preacher spoke up for Blast, as had a
likin' for him from th' first—I reckon that was why I come to like
th' preacher—and wouldn't hear o' changin' his name to Bless, as
some o' them wanted. So th' pair on us became reg'lar chapel-members. But
it's hard for a young chap o' my build to cut traces from the world, th'
flesh, an' the devil all uv a heap. Yet I stuck to it for a long time,
while th' lads as used to stand about th' town-end an' lean ower th'
bridge, spittin' into th' beck o' a Sunday, would call after me, 'Sitha,
Learoyd, when's ta bean to preach, 'cause we're comin' to hear
tha.'—'Ho'd tha jaw. He hasn't getten th' white choaker on ta morn,'
another lad would say, and I had to double my fists hard i' th' bottom of
my Sunday coat, and say to mysen, 'If 'twere Monday and I warn't a member
o' the Primitive Methodists, I'd leather all th' lot of yond'.' That was
th' hardest of all—to know that I could fight and I mustn't
Sympathetic grunts from Mulvaney.
"So what wi' singin', practicin', and class-meetin's, and th' big
fiddle, as he made me take between my knees, I spent a deal o' time i'
Jesse Roantree's house-place. But often as I was there, th' preacher fared
to me to go oftener, and both th' old man an' th' young woman were pleased
to have him. He lived i' Pately Brig, as were a goodish step off, but he
come. He come all the same. I liked him as well or better as any man I'd
ever seen i' one way, and yet I hated him wi' all my heart i' t'other, and
we watched each other like cat and mouse, but civil as you please, for I
was on my best behavior, and he was that fair and open that I was bound to
be fair with him. Rare good company he was, if I hadn't wanted to wring
his cliver little neck half of the time. Often and often when he was goin'
from Jesse's I'd set him a bit on the road."
"See 'im 'ome, you mean?" said Ortheris,
"Ay. It's a way we have i' Yorkshire o' seein' friends off. You was a
friend as I didn't want to come back, and he didn't want me to come back
neither, and so we'd walk together toward Pately, and then he'd set me
back again, and there we'd be wal two o'clock i' the mornin' settin' each
other to an' fro like a blasted pair o' pendulums twixt hill and valley,
long after th' light had gone out i' 'Liza's window, as both on us had
been looking at, pretending to watch the moon."
"Ah!" broke in Mulvaney, "ye'd no chanst against the maraudin'
psalm-singer. They'll take the airs an' the graces instid av the man nine
times out av ten, an' they only find the blunder later—the
"That's just where yo're wrong," said Learoyd, reddening under the
freckled tan of his cheeks. "I was th' first wi' 'Liza, an' yo'd think
that were enough. But th' parson were a steady-gaited sort o' chap, and
Jesse were strong o' his side, and all th' women i' the congregation
dinned it to 'Liza 'at she were fair fond to take up wi' a wastrel
ne'er-do-weel like me, as was scarcelins respectable an' a fighting dog at
his heels. It was all very well for her to be doing me good and saving my
soul, but she must mind as she didn't do herself harm. They talk o' rich
folk bein' stuck up an' genteel, but for cast-iron pride o' respectability
there's naught like poor chapel folk. It's as cold as th' wind o' Greenhow
Hill—ay, and colder, for 'twill never change. And now I come to
think on it, one at strangest things I know is 'at they couldn't abide th'
thought o' soldiering. There's a vast o' fightin' i' th' Bible, and
there's a deal of Methodists i' th' army; but to hear chapel folk talk
yo'd think that soldierin' were next door, an' t'other side, to hangin'.
I' their meetin's all their talk is o' fightin'. When Sammy Strother were
stuck for summat to say in his prayers, he'd sing out, 'Th' sword o' th'
Lord and o' Gideon. They were allus at it about puttin' on th' whole armor
o' righteousness, an' fightin' the good fight o' faith. And then, atop o'
't all, they held a prayer-meetin' ower a young chap as wanted to 'list,
and nearly deafened him, till he picked up his hat and fair ran away. And
they'd tell tales in th' Sunday-school o' bad lads as had been thumped and
brayed for bird-nesting o' Sundays and playin' truant o' week days, and
how they took to wrestlin', dog-fightin', rabbit-runnin', and drinkin',
till at last, as if 'twere a hepitaph on a gravestone, they damned him
across th' moors wi', 'an' then he went and 'listed for a soldier,' an'
they'd all fetch a deep breath, and throw up their eyes like a hen
"Fwhy is ut?" said Mulvaney, bringing down his hand on his thigh with a
crack, "In the name av God, fwhy is ut? I've seen ut, tu. They cheat an'
they swindle an' they lie an' they slander, an' fifty things fifty times
worse; but the last an' the worst by their reckonin' is to serve the Widdy
honest. It's like the talk av childer—seein' things all round."
"Plucky lot of fightin' good fights of whatsername they'd do if we
didn't see they had a quiet place to fight in. And such fightin' as theirs
is! Cats on the tiles. T'other callin' to which to come on. I'd give a
month's pay to get some o' them broad-backed beggars in London sweatin'
through a day's road-makin' an' a night's rain. They'd carry on a deal
afterward—same as we're supposed to carry on. I've bin turned out of
a measly arf-license pub down Lambeth way, full o' greasy kebmen, 'fore
now," said Ortheris with an oath.
"Maybe you were dhrunk," said Mulvaney, soothingly.
"Worse nor that. The Forders were drunk. I was wearin' the
"I'd no particular thought to be a soldier i' them days," said Learoyd,
still keeping his eye on the bare hill opposite, "but this sort o' talk
put it i' my head. They was so good, th' chapel folk, that they tumbled
ower t'other side. But I stuck to it for 'Liza's sake, specially as she
was learning me to sing the bass part in a horotorio as Jesse were gettin'
up. She sung like a throstle hersen, and we had practicin's night after
night for a matter of three months."
"I know what a horotorio is," said Ortheris, pertly. "It's a sort of
chaplain's sing-song—words all out of the Bible, and hullabaloojah
"Most Greenhow Hill folks played some instrument or t'other, an' they
all sung so you mignt have heard them miles away, and they were so pleased
wi' the noise they made they didn't fair to want anybody to listen. The
preacher sung high seconds when he wasn't playin' the flute, an' they set
me, as hadn't got far with big fiddle, again Willie Satterthwaite, to jog
his elbow when he had to get a' gate playin'. Old Jesse was happy if ever
a man was, for he were th' conductor an' th' first fiddle an' th' leadin'
singer, beatin' time wi' his fiddle-stick, till at times he'd rap with it
on the table, and cry out, 'Now, you mun all stop; it's my turn,' And he'd
face round to his front, fair sweating wi' pride, to sing th' tenor solos.
But he were grandest i' th' choruses, waggin' his head, flinging his arms
round like a windmill, and singin' hisself black in the face. A rare
singer were Jesse.
"Yo' see, I was not o' much account wi' 'em all exceptin' to 'Liza
Roantree, and I had a deal o' time settin' quiet at meetings and horotorio
practices to hearken their talk, and if it were strange to me at
beginnin', it got stranger still at after, when I was shut on it, and
could study what it meaned.
"Just after th' horotorios come off, 'Liza, as had allus been weakly
like, was took very bad. I walked Dr. Warbottom's horse up and down a deal
of times while he were inside, where they wouldn't let me go, though I
fair ached to see her.
"'She'll be better i' noo, lad—better i' noo,' he used to say.
'Tha mun ha' patience.' Then they said if I was quiet I might go in, and
th' Reverend Amos Barraclough used to read to her lyin' propped up among
th' pillows. Then she began to mend a bit, and they let me carry her on to
th' settle, and when it got warm again she went about same as afore. Th'
preacher and me and Blast was a deal together i' them days, and i' one way
we was rare good comrades. But I could ha' stretched him time and again
with a good will. I mind one day he said he would like to go down into th'
bowels o' th' earth, and see how th' Lord had builded th' framework o' th'
everlastin' hills. He were one of them chaps as had a gift o' sayin'
things. They rolled off the tip of his clever tongue, same as Mulvaney
here, as would ha' made a rare good preacher if he had nobbut given his
mind to it. I lent him a suit o' miner's kit as almost buried th' little
man, and his white face down i' th' coat-collar and hat-flap looked like
the face of a boggart, and he cowered down i' th' bottom o' the waggon. I
was drivin' a tram as led up a bit of an incline up to th' cave where the
engine was pumpin', and where th' ore was brought up and put into th'
waggons as went down o' themselves, me puttin' th' brake on and th' horses
a-trottin' after. Long as it was daylight we were good friends, but when
we got fair into th' dark, and could nobbut see th' day shinin' at the
hole like a lamp at a street-end, I feeled downright wicked. Ma religion
dropped all away from me when I looked back at him as were always comin'
between me and 'Liza. The talk was 'at they were to be wed when she got
better, an' I couldn't get her to say yes or nay to it. He began to sing a
hymn in his thin voice, and I came out wi' a chorus that was all cussin'
an' swearin' at my horses, an' I began to know how I hated him. He were
such a little chap, too. I could drop him wi' one hand down Garstang's
Copper-hole—a place where th' beck slithered ower th' edge on a
rock, and fell wi' a bit of a whisper into a pit as no rope i' Greenhow
Again Learoyd rooted up the innocent violets. "Ay, he should see th'
bowels o' th' earth an' never naught else. I could take him a mile or two
along th' drift, and leave him wi' his candle doused to cry hallelujah,
wi' none to hear him and say amen. I was to lead him down th' ladder-way
to th' drift where Jesse Roantree was workin', and why shouldn't he slip
on th' ladder, wi' my feet on his fingers till they loosed grip, and I put
him down wi' my heel? If I went fust down th' ladder I could click hold on
him and chuck him over my head, so as he should go squshin' down the shaft
breakin' his bones at ev'ry timberin' as Bill Appleton did when he was
fresh, and hadn't a bone left when he wrought to th' bottom. Niver a
blasted leg to walk from Pately. Niver an arm to put round 'Liza
Roantree's waist. Niver no more—niver no more."
The thick lips curled back over the yellow teeth, and that flushed face
was not pretty to look upon. Mulvaney nodded sympathy, and Ortheris, moved
by his comrade's passion, brought up the rifle to his shoulder, and
searched the hillside for his quarry, muttering ribaldry about a sparrow,
a spout, and a thunderstorm. The voice of the watercourse supplied the
necessary small talk till Learoyd picked up his story,
"But it's none so easy to kill a man like yon. When I'd given up my
horses to th' lad as took my place and I was showin' th' preacher th'
workin's, shoutin' into his ear across th' clang o' th' pumpin' engines, I
saw he were afraid o' naught; and when the lamplight showed his black
eyes, I could feel as he was masterin' me again. I were no better nor
Blast chained up short and growlin' i' the depths of him while a strange
dog went safe past.
"'Th' art a coward and a fool,' I said to mysen; an' I wrestled i' my
mind again' him till, when we come to Garstang's Copper-hole, I laid hold
o' the preacher and lifted him up over my head and held him into the
darkest on it. 'Now, lad,' I says, 'it's to be one or t'other on
us—thee or me—for 'Liza Roantree. Why, isn't thee afraid for
thysen?' I says, for he were still i' my arms as a sack. 'Nay; I'm but
afraid for thee, my poor lad, as knows naught,' says he. I set him down on
th' edge, an' th' beck run stiller, an' there was no more buzzin' in my
head like when th' bee come through th' window o' Jesse's house. 'What
dost tha mean?' says I.
"'I've often thought as thou ought to know,' says he, 'but 'twas hard
to tell thee. 'Liza Roantree's for neither on us, nor for nobody o' this
earth, Dr. Warbottom says—and he knows her, and her mother before
her—that she is in a decline, and she cannot live six months longer.
He's known it for many a day. Steady, John! Steady!' says he. And that
weak little man pulled me further back and set me again' him, and talked
it all over quiet and still, me turnin' a bunch o' candles in my hand, and
counting them ower and ower again as I listened. A deal on it were th'
regular preachin' talk, but there were a vast lot as made me begin to
think as he were more of a man than I'd ever given him credit for, till I
were cut as deep for him as I were for mysen.
"Six candles we had, and we crawled and climbed all that day while they
lasted, and I said to mysen, ''Liza Roantree hasn't six months to live.'
And when we came into th' daylight again we were like dead men to look at,
an' Blast come behind us without so much as waggin' his tail. When I saw
'Liza again she looked at me a minute and says, 'Who's telled tha? For I
see tha knows.' And she tried to smile as she kissed me, and I fair broke
"Yo' see, I was a young chap i' them days, and had seen naught o' life,
let alone death, as is allus a-waitin'. She telled me as Dr. Warbottom
said as Greenhow air was too keen, and they were goin' to Bradford, to
Jesse's brother David, as worked i' a mill, and I mun hold up like a man
and a Christian, and she'd pray for me. Well, and they went away, and the
preacher that same back end o' th' year were appointed to another circuit,
as they call it, and I were left alone on Greenhow Hill.
"I tried, and I tried hard, to stick to th' chapel, but 'tweren't th'
same thing at after. I hadn't 'Liza's voice to follow i' th' singin', nor
her eyes a-shinin' acrost their heads. And i' th' class-meetings they said
as I mun have some experiences to tell, and I hadn't a word to say for
"Blast and me moped a good deal, and happen we didn't behave ourselves
over well, for they dropped us and wondered however they'd come to take us
up. I can't tell how we got through th' time, while i' th' winter I gave
up my job and went to Bradford. Old Jesse were at th' door o' th' house,
in a long street o' little houses. He'd been sendin' th' children 'way as
were clatterin' their clogs in th' causeway, for she were asleep.
"'Is it thee?' he says; 'but you're not to see her. I'll none have her
wakened for a nowt like thee. She's goin' fast, and she mun go in peace.
Thou 'lt never be good for naught i' th' world, and as long as thou lives
thou'll never play the big fiddle. Get away, lad, get away!' So he shut
the door softly i' my face.
"Nobody never made Jesse my master, but it seemed to me he was about
right, and I went away into the town and knocked up against a recruiting
sergeant. The old tales o' th' chapel folk came buzzin' into my head. I
was to get away, and this were th' regular road for the likes o' me, I
listed there and then, took th' Widow's shillin', and had a bunch o'
ribbons pinned i' my hat.
"But next day I found my way to David Roantree's door, and Jesse came
to open it. Says he, 'Thou's come back again wi' th' devil's colors
flyin'—thy true colors, as I always telled thee.'
"But I begged and prayed of him to let me see her nobbut to say
good-bye, till a woman calls down th' stairway, 'She says John Learoyd's
to come up.' Th' old man shifts aside in a flash, and lays his hand on my
arm, quite gentle like. 'But thou'lt be quiet, John,' says he, 'for she's
rare and weak. Thou was allus a good lad.'
"Her eyes were all alive wi' light, and her hair was thick on the
pillow round her, but her cheeks were thin—thin to frighten a man
that's strong. 'Nay, father, yo mayn't say th' devil's colors. Them
ribbons is pretty.' An' she held out her hands for th' hat, an' she put
all straight as a woman will wi' ribbons. 'Nay, but what they're pretty,'
she says. 'Eh, but I'd ha' liked to see thee i' thy red coat, John, for
thou was allus my own lad—my very own lad, and none else.'
"She lifted up her arms, and they come round my neck i' a gentle grip,
and they slacked away, and she seemed fainting. 'Now yo' mun get away,
lad,' says Jesse, and I picked up my hat and I came downstairs.
"Th' recruiting sergeant were waitin' for me at th' corner
public-house. 'You've seen your sweetheart?' says he. 'Yes, I've seen
her,' says I. 'Well, we'll have a quart now, and you'll do your best to
forget her,' says he, bein' one o' them smart, bustlin' chaps. 'Ay,
sergeant,' says I. 'Forget her.' And I've been forgettin' her ever
He threw away the wilted clump of white violets as he spoke. Ortheris
suddenly rose to his knees, his rifle at his shoulder, and peered across
the valley in the clear afternoon light. His chin cuddled the stock, and
there was a twitching of the muscles of the right cheek as he sighted:
Private Stanley Ortheris was engaged on his business, A speck of white
crawled up the watercourse.
"See that beggar? ... Got 'im,"
Seven hundred yards away, and a full two hundred down the hillside, the
deserter of the Aurangabadis pitched forward, rolled down a red rock, and
lay very still, with his face in a clump of blue gentians, while a big
raven flapped out of the pine wood to make investigation.
"That's a clean shot, little man," said Mulvaney.
Learoyd thoughtfully watched the smoke clear away. "Happen there was a
lass tewed up wi' him, too," said he.
Ortheris did not reply. He was staring across the valley, with the
smile of the artist who looks on the completed work.