Part 16

Turn now to Simoorie where, lapped in his ease, 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 gray monkey gambols,

From the sword-belt set free and released from the steel, The Peace of the Lord is with 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 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;)

Open-eyed, open-mouthed, on the napery's snow, With a crash and a thud, rolled -- the Head of the Boh!

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.

“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;

“So trusting Your Honour will somewhat retain True love and affection for Govt. Bullock Train,

“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, 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,

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 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,

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,