Complete weird tales of.., p.1250
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 1250
Trouble began promptly; Bannon, colonel of the 1st Irish, met Fallbach of the 1st Jagers, and mispronounced his name with an emphasis unmistakable. An hour later the two regiments knew the war was on and made preparations accordingly. Hogan of the 10th company, crossing the street, hustled Franz Bummel of the Jagers and called him a “dootch puddy-fud!”
Quinn, listening to the Jagers’ band concert that afternoon, whistled “Doolan’s Wake,” and imitated Fritz Klein’s piccolo, aided and abetted by Phelan and McCue. That night there were three scuffles and a fight, and the provost-marshal had his work cut out for him.
Little by little the two regiments were installed in distant sections of the town. Cleland dealt justice untempered with mercy, and the rival regiments understood that their warfare would have to be carried on by stealth.
When Phelan, Quinn, Hogan, and McCue were released from the guard-house, they rejoiced with their comrades of the ioth company, and prepared future calamity for the Jagers. But Fate was against them. Their regimental fetish, a strong young goat, disappeared, and that night the Jagers were reported to have revelled in a strangely suggestive stew.
A day or two later, Quinn, fishing for suckers in the Sandy River, was assaulted by three Jagers, his fishpole and three fish confiscated, and he himself ducked amid grunts of universal satisfaction.
The fury of the 10th company passed all bounds when Quinn was relegated to the guard-house for conduct unbecoming a soldier; but the Teutons never strayed from their barracks except in force, and, as night leave was forbidden both regiments, the 10th company hesitated to inaugurate riot by daylight.
Quinn, squatting in the guard-house found plenty of leisure to hatch revenge. He did not waste thought on mere individual schemes for assault and battery; he meditated a master stroke, a blow at the entire regiment calculated to tear every Teuton bosom. The two objects most cherished by the Jagers were their cat and a disreputable negro who cooked for the colonel. How to combine damage to these centres of Teutonic affection occupied Quinn’s waking hours. To kidnap the cat; that was not enough, — the Teutons must be beguiled into eating their cat — and liking it too. How? Quinn sucked at an empty pipe and brooded. Bribe the negro Cassius, first to kidnap the cat, then to cook it? Quinn writhed maliciously at the prospect; he hated Tom, the black and white cat who sang every night on the Jagers’ barrack roof — sang to each individual star in the firmament to the indignation of every Irishman in Sandy Landing.
When Quinn emerged from the guard-house he took council with Phelan and McCue; and that evening Hogan was despatched to tempt Cassius with promises and a little cash.
The affair was easier than Hogan had dared hope; Cassius took the cash and promised to betray, and Hogan, lips compressed, to stifle all outward mirthful symptoms, went back to the barracks where Quinn, Phelan, and McCue sat waiting in pessimistic silence.
“He’ll not kill the cat,” said Hogan, “he’ll fetch ut in a bag to the shanty foreninst the hill, — d’ye mind the hut, McCue?”
“I do,” said McCue impressively.
“Thin be aisy,” continued Hogan; “we’ll skin ut an’ co-ook ut an’ the naygur can take the stew to thot Dootch runaway sodger, Fallback, bad cess to him an’ his! Pass th’ potheen, McCue.”
“Sure there’s not stew in wan cat for all!” objected Phelan.
“There is! There is,” said Quinn; “there’s cats in town to be had for the askin’, an’ nary a Dootchman will starve! Usha! but they’ll be crazy, th’ omadhouns!”
“‘Twill choke them,” said Phelan.
“Did they choke wid the goat they shtole?” demanded McCue angrily.
“I met Bummel an’ Klein,” continued Quinn: “Sure, T sez, ‘’tis dhirty thricks ye play on the Irish.’
‘Phwat’s that?’ sez Klein. ‘Ye ate our goat,’ sez I. Wid that they grinned an’ me phist hurrt wid the timptayshun of Bummel’s nose.”
“‘Sure,’ sez I, ‘’tis frinds we should be!’
‘Sorra th’ day!’ sez Klein. ‘Phvvy not?’ sez I. ‘Ye hate us an’ bate us,’ sez Klein; ‘I’ll not thrust ye, Mike Quinn.’
‘Take me hand,’ sez I, extindin’ me fingers; wan touch of nature, me lad. ’Tis a crool war entirely, an’ it’s frinds we’ll be, an’ no favor!’
‘Prove ut,’ sez he. ‘I wull,’ sez I, ‘an’ be th’ same token ’tis huntin’ we go this day week, so look fur a Christmas dinner to shame the Pope’s cook.’
‘A dinner,’ sez he, ‘wid th’ town betchune us!’
‘Ye’ll dine wid us, yet,’ sez I. ‘An’ how,’ sez he, a lickin’ the chops av him. ‘Whin ye dine wid the Irish ye should have a long spoon,’ sez I, laughin’ friendly like. ‘We’ll sind ye a shtew, me b’y, if God sinds us the rabbits.’ Thin,’ continued Quinn, “we parrted genteel; an’ they’ll hear we have lave to hunt on Christmas day — musha, bad luck to th’ Dootch scuts!— ’tis cats they’ll be eatin’ this blessed hour come Christmas, an’ may the howly saints sind them the black cramp of Drumgoole!”
II.
Christmas eve, while Hogan and Phelan lay slumbering, and Quinn and McCue walked their rounds, gloating over revenge, Cassius the disreputable sat in the kitchen of the Jager barracks counting the advanced payment of cash received from Hogan, and leering at the black and white tom-cat who dozed peacefully by the dying fire.
“Pore ole Tom,” muttered Cassius guiltily, “hit’s gwinter ‘sprise dishyere kitty.’Spec ole Tom gwinter git riled.”
The cat opened its yellow eyes.
“Gwinter ‘sprise ole Tom,” repeated Cassius, compassionately pursing up his lips.
The cat began to purr.
“Pore ole Tom,” sighed the darkey, tremulous with remorse.
The cat rose and began to march around, purring and hoisting an interrogative tail.
Cassius continued to bemoan Tom’s fate and recount the money until he had hardened his heart sufficiently. Finally he pocketed the coins, wiped his eyes, and approached the cat with seductive caution. Tom permitted caresses, courted further endearments, and suffered himself to be seized and dropped into a potato sack. But, once imprisoned, he scrambled and squalled and clawed until Cassius, unable to bear the sight and sound of Thomas’s distress, deposited the sack in the pantry and fled from the barracks to the street.
Guilt weighed heavily on the darkey’s soul; he shuffled along, battling with conscience, trying to think of some compromise to save the cat and his money at the same time. Moonlight flooded hill and valley; he heard the sentries calling from post to post, the stir of the horses in the artillery stables across the square, the creaking of leafless branches overhead. He went around to the chicken coop; he often went there to enjoy the thrill of a temptation that he dared not succumb to, also to keep stray cats from doing murder on their own account. For, though he dared not steal a single chicken, he could at least have the bitter pleasure of foiling the feline marauders of Sandy Landing. This he was accustomed to do with a tin box, placed on its side, a trip-stick, a string, and a bit of bone for bait. Cat after cat he had trapped and committed to the depths of Sandy River, highly commended by his colonel and the rank and file of the Jagers. Now, as he stepped softly around the corner, his eyes fell on a black and white object, stealing toward the window where the long tin box stood temptingly baited. The next instant the trip-stick clicked, the weighted box-lid fell and snapped, and Cassius seized the box with a chuckle of triumph.
“Cat! Cat!” he repeated, addressing the frantic inmate of the box, “doan’ yoh count yoh chickens fore dey’s hatched!—”
Cassius stopped short, pulsating with a new idea. Why sacrifice Tom when here was a victim ready at hand, doubtless provided by Providence in the nick of time to save a poor darkey from treachery? And it was a kind of treachery that even Cassius found uncongenial.
“Pit-a-pat! Pit-a-pat!” mocked Cassius derisively listening to the manœuvres of the imprisoned victim; “Stop dat scratchin’ on de box! He! He! He! I’se gwineter let ole Tom outen de bag, — pore ole Tom! Dishyere nigger ain’t no Judas! Lan’s sakes! — dat ole cat smell kinder funny!”
He wrinkled his nose, sniffed, turned a pair of startled eyes on the big box under his arm, then a sickly smile of intelligence spread over his face and he placed the box gently on the ground.
“Had mah s’picions ‘bout dat black an’ white kitty-cat,” he muttered.
The animal inside scratched and writhed and scrambled.
“Lan’s sake!” chuckled Cassius, grinning from ear to ear, “‘spec dat ole pole-cat gwine twiss he tail off’n ‘bout two-free minutes! Yah! yah! — he! he! yiah — ho!”
And, as he entered the servant’s quarters he smote his knees and shook his head, and laughed and laughed and laughed.
About midnight he took his banjo from the nail, thumbed it, and began to croon to himself:
Bob-cat he caynt wag he tail —
Ain got no tail foh to wag!
Brown-bear clam’ de ole fence rail,
Rabbit holler; “Whar yoh tail?”
Bob-cat larf like he gwinter bus’;
Pole-cat stop for to see de fuss,
De bob-cat scoot, de bear turn pale,
An’ de rabbit he skip froo de ole fence rail.
“Ef yoh wanter see a tail,” sez de pole-cat; “see!
“Mah tail’s long ‘nuff foh mah folks an’ me!”
III.
About three o’clock on Christmas afternoon, Hogan’s rifle exploded prematurely and killed a rabbit. The intense astonishment of McCue, Quinn and Phelan nerved Hogan for more glory, and he fired at every tuft of hill-weed until his cartridges were gone, and his temper too.
“Bad cess to me goon!” he shouted, “’tis twisted it do be, an’ I’ll thank ye for th’ loan av yere piece, McCue.”
“G’wan,” said McCue, “‘till I show ye a thrick!” — and he blazed away at a rapidly vanishing cottontail and missed. Occasionally, firing by volleys, they scored a rabbit to four rifles, and, at sunset, McCue spread out a dozen or so cotton-tails on the newly fallen snow before the door of the hill shanty.’ Phelan wiped his brow with the back of his fist.
“Phwere’s th’ naygur?” he demanded.
Hogan looked at his watch and began to swear, just as Cassius appeared over the hilltop, a tin box under his arm, and on his face a smile of confidence.
“Have ye th’ould Tom!” demanded Quinn, as Cassius shuffled up and, depositing the tin box on the doorstep, looked cheerfully around.
“Evenin’, gemmen, evenin’,” said Cassius, licking his lips and leaning down to pinch the fat rabbits lying in a row; “Kinder cold dishyere Chris’mus, gemmen.’Spec we gwinter ‘sperience moh snow—”
“Have ye the cat?” repeated Quinn sternly.
“‘Cose I has” said Cassius indignantly, “an’ I’se come foh de cash—”
“Phwat’s that!” snarled Hogan.
“Hould a bit!” interposed Quinn; “is the tom in the box now?”
“‘Cose he is,” repeated Cassius; “yaas, sah, dasser mighty fine kitty, dat is! Hit ain’t no or’nary cat, hit ain’t, — no sah. Dasser pole-cat, sah, dat is!”
“’Tis a Dootch cat!” said Phelan.
“Sure Poles is Dootch, too,” observed McCue; “Phwat are ye waitin’ for I dunno?” he added, scowling at the darkey.
“I’se lingerin’ foh mah cash,” said Cassius.
“G’wan!” said Phelan briefly.
Cassius turned an injured face from one to the other. There was a hostile silence. Phelan produced a flour sack and threw the rabbits into it, one by one.
“‘Scuse me, gemmen,” began Cassius, — when an exclamation from Quinn silenced him and drew the attention of all to a black-and-white object advancing across the snow toward the shanty.
“Lan’s sake!” muttered Cassius, “pole-cat in de box gwineter draw all de pole-cats in dishyere county!”
“’Tis a rabbit!” said McCue, seizing his gun.
“It’s a cat!” said Hogan, “d’yez mind th’ tail of ut!”
“Dat ain’t no cat,” said Cassius contemptuously, “dasser skunk.”
“Skoonk is it? An phwat’s a skoonk, ye black mutt?” demanded McCue. At the same instant Phelan fired and missed; Quinn, paralysed with buck-fever, clutched his rifle, mouth agape, while Hogan, in an access of excitement, began shouting and kicking the darkey from snowdrift to snowdrift.
“Now will ye grin!” he yelled; “G’wan home ye omadhoun!—”
“Leggo mah wool!” retorted the darkey, and rose from the snow with sullen alacrity: “Wha’ foh yoh yank mah kinks?”
“Faith then, fur luck an’ bad-luck,” said Hogan and followed McCue into the deserted shanty.
A moment later, Quinn and Phelan came back after an eager but fortunately fruitless quest for the game, and McCue and Hogan issued from the shanty, bearing the tin box, ready to return to the barracks.
“Me heavy hand on th’ naygur!” growled McCue: “he’s gone, where? — I dunno, but he’ll carry the bag o’ rabbits or me name’s not McCue! Call him, Hogan.”
“Come out, ye bat-o’-th’-bog, ye! Where are ye now! — the Red Witch o’ Drumgoole follow ye!” shouted Hogan, tramping around the shanty and poking under the steps.
“Lave th’ black scut,” said McCue with dignity, “I’ll carry the sack. Have ye th’ sack?” he added, turning to Phelan.
“I have not,” said Phelan, “’twas there foreninst the shanty.”
“Now the red itch o’ Drumgoole on him!” shouted McCue. “Usha, musha, he’s gone wid the sack, an’ divil a bit or a sup av a shtew ye’ll eat the night! Sorra the rabbit he’s left! — me heavy hand on him an’ his! — may the saints sind him sorrow this blessed night!”
“We have th’ ould tom in th’ box,” said Quinn, with a significant flourish of his rifle.
“There’s no luck in it — Care killed a cat, an’ worrit the kittens. Begorra! — I’ll kill no cat at all, at all!” replied McCue superstitiously.
“May the Dootch robbers choke whin they sup this night!” shouted Phelan; “Wirra the day I set eye on the naygur an’ his Dootch whippets!”
“They’ll have no luck, mark that! — McCue!” said Hogan: “We’ve their Tom in a box an’ they’ll have no luck!”
They gathered up their rifles in silence; McCue carried the box; one by one they filed down the darkening hillside toward the village where already a lantern or two glimmered along the stockade and the bugles were sounding the evening call.
When the sportsmen reached the barracks, and it became known that the Jagers’ tom-cat had been captured, the regiment went wild with enthusiasm. It was decided not to open the box at once, because the cat might hastily migrate toward the familiar barracks of the Jagers; but Quinn, the prime mover in the capture of Thomas, was selected a delegate of one to present the box to Colonel Bannon as a surprise and a Christmas gift from the whole regiment.
So, that night, the regiment ate their Christmas dinner in eager anticipation, and their hilarity was scarcely marred by Hogan’s report that the Jagers’ barracks resounded with a joyous din of feasting and song.
“May th’ banshee worrit thim! Let them be wid their futther — an’ — mutther! May the red banshee sup with them in hell!” said Quinn as he rose in obedience to the orderly who said the Colonel would receive him.
He took the tin box gingerly, for the animal inside was very lively, and he followed the orderly to the door of the messroom in the officer’s quarters.
Here the orderly left him a moment but returned directly and whispered:
“The colonel knows it’s the Dootch cat ye have, — but ye’ll say ye bought it. Sure he’s a dacent man, is Colonel Bannon, an’ no love lost betwixt him an’ Fallback. Are ye ready now?”
“Yis,” said Quinn firmly, forage cap in one hand, box in the other: “is the rigiment outside on the parade?”
“It is, an’ ready to cheer.”
“Then in I go,” said Quinn.
The colonel sat at the head of the table, flanked by his staff and line officers. His face, a little red with Christmas cheer, was gravely composed for the occasion. His officers, to a man, beamed with anticipation.
“Quinn,” said the Colonel.
“Sorr,” said Quinn, standing at attention.
“This is a very pleasant occasion,” said the Colonel, “and I am gratified that my men have remembered their colonel upon this blessed day. I am told you have a surprise for me, Quinn.”.
“Yis sorr, — a cat, sorr.”
A cat!” said the Colonel in affected surprise. “We’ve lost our goat, sorr, but we’ll conshole our sorrow wid a cat, sorr — Colonel Bannon’s cat if you plaze, sorr.”
The Colonel’s eyes twinkled.
“’Tis a dacent kitty, sorr,” said Quinn, undoing the rope that held the lid; “a Dootch Kitty they do say from Poland, sorr, where we sint for a dozen an’ this is the pick o’ them.”
The Colonel suppressed a smile; the officers gurgled.
“I have the spachless honor, sorr,” said Quinn, placing the box on the table before the Colonel,—” I have the unmintionable deloight inpresinting to our beloved Colonel in the name av his beloved rigiment, this illegant kitty!”
And he took off the lid.
There was a silence. Suddenly a long slender black and white creature sprang from the box to the table, flourishing a beautiful bushy tail; there came a yell, a frightful stampede, a crash of glass, a piteous shriek from the Colonel under the sofa: “Quinn! Quinn! Ye murtherin’ scut. ’Tis a skoonk! Usha, but I’ll have yer life fur this night’s work!”
And Quinn, taking his nose firmly in both hands, pranced away like one demented — fled for his life through the falling snow of that blessed Christmas night.
* * * * *
In the barracks of the Jagers was song and jest and Christmas cheer: — shouting and feasting and heart-friendships, and the intermittent din of trombones.
Cassius, feeding to repletion in the kitchen with a bowl of rabbit stew between his knees, paused to hold his aching sides because it hurt him to laugh when he ate. Beside him on the floor, Thomas licked his whiskers, and yawned and stared into the dying fire.
