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1888 ( Burma War, 1883–85) | | This is the ballad of Boh Da Thone, |
| Erst a Pretender to Theebaw’s throne, |
| Who harried the District of Alalone: |
| How he met with his fate and the V. P. P. 1 |
| At the hand of Harendra Mukerji, |
| Senior Gomashta, G. B. T. 2 |
BOH DA THONE was a warrior bold: | |
| His sword and his rifle were bossed with gold, | |
| |
| And the Peacock Banner his henchmen bore | |
| Was stiff with bullion, but stiffer with gore. | |
| |
| He shot at the strong and he slashed at the weak | 5 |
| From the Salween scrub to the Chindwin teak: | |
| |
| He crucified noble, he scarified mean, | |
| He filled old ladies with kerosene: | |
| |
| While over the water the papers cried, | |
| “The patriot fights for his countryside!” | 10 |
| |
| 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, | 15 |
| 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. | 20 |
| |
| There were lads from Galway and Louth and Meath | |
| Who went to their death with a joke in their teeth, | |
| |
| And worshipped with fluency, fervour, and zeal | |
| The mud on the boot-heels of “Crook” O’Neil. | |
| |
| But ever a blight on their labours lay, | 25 |
| 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. | 30 |
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| 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— | |
| A glimpse of a loin-cloth and heavy jade earring— | |
| |
| The flare of a village—the tally of slain— | 35 |
| 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, | 40 |
| |
| 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, | 45 |
| They had routed him out of his pet stockade, | |
| |
| And at last, they came, when the Daystar tired, | |
| To a camp deserted—a village fired. | |
| |
| A black cross blistered the Morning-gold, | |
| But the body upon it was stark and cold. | 50 |
| |
| The wind of the dawn went merrily past, | |
| The high grass bowed her plumes to the blast. | |
| |
| And out of the grass, on a sudden, broke | |
| A spirtle of fire, a whorl of smoke— | |
| |
| And Captain O’Neil of the Black Tyrone | 55 |
| 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 | 60 |
| 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!” | 65 |
| |
| 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, | 70 |
| He thought—but abandoned the thought—of a gun. | |
| |
| His sleep was broken by visions dread | |
| Of a shining Boh with a silver head. | |
| |
| He kept his counsel and went his way, | |
| And swindled the cartmen of half their pay. * * * * * | 75 |
| 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, | 80 |
| With hair like the sunshine 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, | 85 |
| |
| Or 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, | 90 |
| 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 shining with ghee, 3 | |
| In the rearmost cart sat the Babu-jee; | 95 |
| |
| 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, | 100 |
| 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 twanged on the locking-ring, | 105 |
| |
| And the brown flesh blued where the bayonet 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 | 110 |
| The Peacock Banner staggered and swayed. | |
| |
| 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, | 115 |
| |
| 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 pêt. 4 | |
| |
| There were twenty stone, as the tally-man knows, | 120 |
| 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; | 125 |
| |
| And the Babu above him, convulsed with fear, | |
| Heard the labouring life-breath hissed out in his ear. | |
| |
| And thus in a fashion undignified | |
| The princely pest of the Chindwin died. * * * * * | |
| Turn now to Simoorie, where, all at his ease, | 130 |
| 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 grey monkey gambols, | 135 |
| |
| From the sword-belt set free and released from the steel, | |
| The Peace of the Lord is on 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 | 140 |
“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;) 5 | |
| |
| Open-eyed, open-mouthed, on the napery’s snow, | |
| With a crash and a thud, rolled—the Head of the Boh! | 145 |
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And gummed to the scalp was a letter which ran:—
“IN FIELDING FORCE SERVICE.
“Encampment,
“10th Jan. | |
| |
| “Dear Sir,—I have honour to send, as you said, | |
| “For final approval (see under) Boh’s Head; | |
| |
| “Was took by myself in most bloody affair. | |
| “By High Education brought pressure to bear. | 150 |
| |
| “Now violate Liberty, time being bad, | |
| “To mail V. P. P. (rupees hundred) Please add | |
| |
| “Whatever Your Honour can pass. Price of Blood | |
| “Much cheap at one hundred, and children want food; | |
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| “So trusting Your Honour will somewhat retain | 155 |
| “True love and affection for Govt. Bullock Train, | |
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“And show awful kindness to satisfy me,
“I am,
“Graceful Master,
“Your
“H. MUKERJI.”* * * * * | |
| As the rabbit is drawn to the rattlesnake’s power, | |
| As the smoker’s eye fills at the opium hour, | |
| |
| As a horse reaches up to the manger above, | 160 |
| As the waiting ear yearns for the whisper of love, | |
| |
| From the arms of the Bride, iron-visaged and slow, | |
| The Captain bent down to the Head of the Boh. | |
| |
| And e’en as he looked on the Thing where It lay | |
| ’Twixt the winking new spoons and the napkins’ array, | 165 |
| |
| The freed mind fled back to the long-ago days— | |
| The hand-to-hand scuffle—the smoke and the blaze— | |
| |
| The forced march at night and the quick rush at dawn— | |
| The banjo at twilight, the burial ere morn— | |
| |
| The stench of the marshes—the raw, piercing smell | 170 |
| When the overhand stabbing-cut silenced the yell— | |
| |
| The oaths of his Irish that surged when they stood | |
| Where the black crosses hung o’er the Kuttamow flood. | |
| |
| As a derelict ship drifts away with the tide | |
| The Captain went out on the Past from his Bride, | 175 |
| |
| Back, back, through the springs to the chill of the year, | |
| When he hunted the Boh from Maloon to Tsaleer. | |
| |
| As the shape of a corpse dimmers up through deep water, | |
| In his eye lit the passionless passion of slaughter, | |
| |
| And men who had fought with O’Neil for the life | 180 |
| Had gazed on his face with less dread than his wife. | |
| |
| For she who had held him so long could not hold him— | |
| Though a four-month Eternity should have controlled him!— | |
| |
| But watched the twin Terror—the head turned to head— | |
| The scowling, scarred Black, and the flushed savage Red— | 185 |
| |
| The spirit that changed from her knowing and flew to | |
| Some grim hidden Past she had never a clue to. | |
| |
| But It knew as It grinned, for he touched it unfearing, | |
| And muttered aloud, “So you kept that jade earring!” | |
| |
| Then nodded, and kindly, as friend nods to friend, | 190 |
| “Old man, you fought well, but you lost in the end.” * * * * * | |
| The visions departed, and Shame followed Passion:— | |
| “He took what I said in this horrible fashion? | |
| |
| “I’ll write to Harendra!” With language unsainted | |
| The Captain came back to the Bride … who had fainted. * * * * * | 195 |
| And this is a fiction? No. Go to Simoorie | |
| And look at their baby, a twelve-month old Houri, | |
| |
| A pert little, Irish-eyed Kathleen Mavournin— | |
| She’s always about on the Mall of a mornin’— | |
| |
| And you’ll see, if her right shoulder-strap is displaced, | 200 |
| This: Gules upon argent, a Boh’s Head, erased! | |
