"Ah, well, meine liebe fraeulein, we must spread our borders! Who could expect the greatest nation in the world to remain cooped up in the North Sea? We demand and we will have space, power, and the sun. We understand patriotism and the love of country."

"The love of other people's countries," interposed Sophy sharply. "You Germans are everywhere—like the sparrows."

"To other nations we bring valuable lessons in industry and Kulture, prudence, thrift, and energy; other countries are only too fortunate to receive us. We have brains, bold hearts, and discipline—and know how to use them. Old Bluecher, who won Waterloo, may yet find his aspirations fulfilled."

"Ah, you mean the sack and plunder of London?"

He nodded an impressive assent, and then said:

"When I am there I shall call on you, and show you my loot!" As he spoke he lent towards her, his eyes exultant, his breath heavy with champagne. Sophy instinctively recoiled and said:

"Pray do not trouble."

Bernhard gave a loud, boisterous laugh.

"It will be 'Missy can't see.' By the way, talking of loot, do you know that Herr Krauss is dead?"

"Dead!" she repeated. "No; I heard he had gone to Java."

"He has gone to his grave. Last night I was told that his body was found floating near the landing-stage at Moulmein; there were no marks on it, no signs of a violent end; and yet he was the last man in the world to commit suicide."

"Yes," assented Sophy; "he had so many plans and schemes for the future."

"They say a little bunch of coarse black hair was found in his clutch; however, at the inquest they brought in a verdict of 'Found Drowned.' It saved trouble. I wonder who will get his money. He was enormously rich."

"With ill-gotten gains."

"Well, he must have some German kin to claim his fortune, and I'll make it my business to find out all I can when I return here."

"So you are coming back?"

"Why, of course—possibly in six months. I leave my house and belongings all standing. Business is but temporarily closed. Burma, as old Krauss used to say, is 'the land of opportunity.' When next I see the Golden Pagoda, the whole of this rich and fertile country will belong to us."

"You are sanguine!"

"Sanguine! I am certain; and why not? Look at our wonderful trade! And the Burmese themselves like us a million times better than you English."

"Simply because you bribe them with money and presents."

"But look at the crowds," waving his hand towards the masses, "who have come to say 'Auf Wiedersehen'; thousands and thousands." Then he turned his bold arrogant eyes on Sophy and said: "Your country has no chance against us, Miss Leigh; we shall crush you like pulp—your money, treasures and trade will all be ours. Hullo!" he exclaimed, "what are these police doing? Mounted police, too! Any escaped convicts on board?"

As he stood and watched, the swaying masses were parted with authority and a large force ranged up on the quay. Officers and officials came on board, armed with an order from the Lieutenant-Governor. Among the first strode FitzGerald in full uniform, not the everyday genial Patrick, but a smart stern guardian of the law. Approaching the bragging Bernhard, he said, with frigid severity: "Be good enough to go ashore, Herr Bernhard."

"What!" stammered his prisoner, who had become livid. "What the devil are you talking about! How dare you interfere with me? Or give me an order?"

"Official order," rejoined FitzGerald, entirely unmoved. "All men of German nationality to disembark immediately and be interned."

Sophy now made a forcible and frantic effort to effect her escape from this hateful situation, and struggling through the crowd eventually managed to join her own friends.

Disembark—to be interned! What a thunderbolt! All at once Bernhard's flushed countenance became livid, his eyes glared savagely, and there suddenly spread a choking, suffocating expression on his large handsome face. The noise and clamour of hoarse angry voices became almost stupefying, but in the end the Teutons were compelled to accept the inevitable, and gradually streamed ashore, carrying their hand baggage, parcels of delicatessen, and other comforts intended for the voyage. The heavy baggage was hastily landed, for the Blankshire had steam up and was bound to catch the tide.

A more than half-empty ship, she now slipped from her berth and turned her bows towards home. As she glided slowly by the wharf, Shafto and Sophy waved vigorous farewells to their numerous friends, Burmese and European. There was Roscoe, there were the Salters and Rosetta. Apart from all, a solitary little figure stood prominent on a heap of rice bags. It was Ma Chit, waving a pink silk handkerchief. For once she was not smiling, her piquant face was grave, and the eyes fixed upon Shafto conveyed an eloquent and heartbroken farewell; presently she cowered down and hid her face.

"That was a wonderfully smart coup!" said a ship's officer to Mrs. Gregory and Sophy. "Those German fellows that were trampling all over the ship as if she was their own property were neatly caught. They will be shipped off to India out of harm's way, and within a week or two, I fancy, will find themselves at Ahmednuggur."

The interned passengers had left ample space and a grateful sense of relief and freedom. As the Blankshire throbbed down past "the Hastings" Shafto and Sophy stood side by side, taking their last look at the Great Pagoda, which gave an impression of being swathed in a mantle of dazzling gold, and dominated all its surroundings.

"It seems only the other day we were coming up the river in this very old boat," he said; "a year and ten months ago, and how much has happened in that time! Well, we have had strange experiences, seen many places, and made many friends. Here is one of them now," indicating Mrs. Gregory; "I expect she feels a bit down, after parting with old George, although he does follow in three months; so do you try to cheer her, while I go below and hurry up the tea."



CHAPTER XXXVII

THE TUG OF WAR

One evening, after they had been several days at sea, as Sophy and Shafto were gazing down at the steerage passengers, she said:

"I have noticed such an odd person watching you—he looks as if he knew you!"

"Knew me!" repeated Shafto. "What is he like?"

"A tall, broad-shouldered, lanky man—there he is, leaning over the side, wearing a blue serge suit and a soft felt hat."

Shafto stared for a moment, then he said:

"By George! I do know him—though I can hardly believe my eyes. I'll go and speak to him and find out what this means," and he hurried away below.

"Hullo, Mung Baw!" he exclaimed. "Say, this is something like a surprise! What are you doing here?"

"Much the same as yourself, sir. The Tug of War is drawing us all home. I have left Mung Baw and the yellow robe behind me, and I'm now Corporal Michael Ryan. I'm going into the Army again. Why, I'm only thirty-four when all's said and done. Of course, the shaven head ages a fellow, but I'll grow me hair on me passage home and, maybe, a moustache as well; someone told me that kerosene oil is a grand thing. And you are going to join up too, sir?"

"I hope so; I put in two terms at Sandhurst, so I shall have a try. I should like to get into the Flying Corps."

"And what will herself say," with a glance towards Sophy on the main deck, "to all this fighting and flying?"

"Oh, Miss Leigh won't stand in my way—she intends to look for a job, too. Tell me, Michael, do you really believe they will take you back into the Service after your adventure in Upper Burma—and seven years' absence without leave?"

"Well, since ye ask me, sir, in my opinion they might do worse; annyhow, I'll have a good try. I might get a sort of doctor's certificate—mental you know. I'm a first-class shot, though naturally a bit out of practice; and very hefty with the bayonet. I'd like well to stir them Germans up, ever since one great ugly brute went out of his way to give me a kick. I was black and blue for weeks. Did you hear them the day before they were took off—just screeching mad, shoutin' and drinkin', as if the world was their own. Well, annyhow, I can enlist as full private; I'm sound in wind and limb and, I tell ye, we want all the men we can get, for I heard them Germans talkin' very big in Rangoon, saying they'd eat us all up within the next three months—body, sleeves and trimmings!"

"Easier said than done," rejoined Shafto; "although they have a splendid army—and thousands of big guns."

"I'd like well to have a hand in real fighting—none of your autumn manoeuvres, but the proper thing; and after I put the war over, I'll go and see Ireland. It's strange, although I'm Irish, I've never put a toe in the country, and never been nearer it than a black native. My father's people were reared in the Galtees; it's my Irish blood that's uppermost now and driving me home. I've often heard the boys talkin' of the grand purple mountains, the wonderful greenery everywhere, and the lovely soft, moist air."

"Well, Michael, I hope you may see it all some day. What put it into your head to throw off the yellow robe and take this sudden start?"

"It was the barrack talk, sir; I heard them chaps cursin' and groanin' that they were stuck fast in Rangoon and had no chance of gettin' a look in, and says I to myself, what's to hinder you from goin'?"

"But how about the passage money?" inquired Shafto. "I thought you were vowed to poverty and had nothing in your wooden bowl?"

"I had the ruby that you gave back to me. I believe it was a rare fine stone. I had it in me mind to offer it to the Pagoda; it was well I waited, as things turned out; a friend sold it for me in the bazaar—he got four hundred pounds of English money. He says it was worth some thousands; it was bought for a Pagoda, annyhow, and I have a nice big sum lodged in a London bank, and when the war is over, please God, it will help to settle me in a small place in Ireland. I took me passage and bought some kit, and I have a few pounds in hand—so that I won't be stranded. At first I felt the clothes terrible awkward, especially the trousers, after living in a petticoat so long; and I did not know what to be doin' with a knife and fork—and leadin' such a quiet, cramped sort of life I lost the use of meself; but I tramped up and down the decks for a couple of hours of a morning, and a nice young fellow in the pantry has lent me a pair of dumb-bells. By the time I get to England I'll be well set up with a black moustache—and mabbe, ye'll hardly know me!"

"How did you get rid of the yellow robe?"

"Oh, easy enough, and without any ceremony of disgrace whatever. Shure, half the Burmans you meet have worn it for, p'r'aps, a year or two—but it's not everyone who has the vocation."

"I can't understand your ever taking to it."

"Can ye not, sir?" rejoined the ex-pongye, laying a muscular hand on the bulwark and fixing a far away, abstracted gaze upon the lazy green sea. "I may as well tell ye that the first story I made out to ye was not altogether the truth. I had in me mind a mental reservation. I just slipped out of Army life and hid meself in the forests—all along of a little girlie." His lower lip trembled as he added: "She died, sir—and I was just broke over it."

"Oh!" exclaimed Shafto. "Well, such things have happened before."

"It was like this, sir," now turning and fixing a pair of tragic dark eyes on his companion, "I was engaged to be married—same as yourself. She was the daughter of a sergeant in the arsenal in Madras; her father and mine were old friends, and when mine was killed in Afghanistan, me mother just dwindled away and broke her heart. Sergeant Fairon and his wife was real good to me and took me home; she mothered me and he 'belted' me, and they helped to start me for the Lawrence Asylum Orphanage. I was about eight years of age then, and this little girl was two. After a good spell I come back to St. George's Fort, a grown-up man and a corporal. Polly, she was grown up, too—and the prettiest girl you could see in a thousand miles; we fell in love with one another, and Sergeant Fairon had a sort of wish for me, being, they said, the very spit of me own father, and though I knew in me heart Polly was a million times too good for me and I was not fit to wipe her shoes, still, I made bold to ask him for her and he said 'Yes.' I knew I'd get permission to marry, for my name was never in the defaulters' book, and Polly was fair as a lily—not one of your yellow 'Cranies' the Colonel was so dead set agin. Well, I was just too happy to be lucky, saving up me pay and Mrs. Fairon buying a few bits of house linen for us, and Polly making her trousseau, when the regiment was shifted all of a sudden from Madras to Mandalay and our plans were knocked on the head."

"Yes, that was bad luck," said Shafto sympathetically.

"Still and all, I was full of hope, expecting my stripes and hearing every mail from Polly, when one day the letter corporal handed me an envelope with a deep black edge; it was from Sergeant Fairon telling me Polly was dead; taken off in three hours with cholera. He enclosed half a letter she was writing to me when she was called. Well, sir, I would not believe it! No; I held out agin it for days; but of course I had to give in. At first the grief was just a little scratch; but every day the pain went deeper and deeper, as if some one was turning a knife in my heart. To think I'd never look upon her again or hear her voice, and her gay laugh, it seemed impossible—but, in the end, I believed, and I felt as if I was groping about in black darkness! What had I to live for? What was the good of going on?

"At times I thought of my rifle, but I put that idea aside because of the regiment and the scandal in the newspapers—still, I was always meditating some way out. I think now, if I'd opened my mind to one of my pals, it would have been easier, and I'd not have felt it so cruel hard; but somehow I'd never breathed the name of Polly to one of them—I held her like a holy thing apart. I could not stand the talk and the coarse chaff of the barrack-room, so I kept my trouble sealed up, till at last it grew too big for me, and I made up my mind to do away with myself, where no one would be a penny the wiser. I got a couple of days' leave—by way of seeing a pal at Tonghoo—and I went up the river and away into the Jungles, and wandered about looking for some venomous reptile to put an end to me in a natural way! But, if you'll believe me, sir, divil a bite could I get—not after searching for half a day; and, av coorse, had I been looking without intention, I'd have found dozens.

"What with walking miles in the blazing sun and nothing to eat, I believe I fell down with a stroke, and some wood-cutters found me and carried me into their village—a big place with a great thorn hedge and gates to keep off the Dacoits. The head man they call a Thugyi took me over, and his women nursed me; he was a rich fellow with four yoke of oxen, and so no expense was spared; and there I lived for many a long day, very strange and out of myself. I could not remember who I was, nor where I came from; all the clothes I had to me name was a shirt and a pair of drawers. By degrees, thanks to great charity and kindness, I come round, I remembered everything only too well, and then I buried Mick Ryan in the jungle and became a pongye. The peace and quiet ate into me very bones, and I took on the yellow robe. The rest and the holy life tamed me and did y soul good; and many an evening when I'd be roaming in the forests, among the splendid tall trees and beautiful flowers, with the birds and animals around me so tame and at their ease, I'd have a feelin' that Polly was walkin' alongside of me, the face on her shining with the light of heaven! But," drawing himself erect, "excuse me, sir, for bothering you with all this foolish, crazy sort of talk."

"Not at all," said Shafto. "Thank you so much for telling me your story. I am truly sorry for you, Ryan; it was hard lines losing your Polly. Do you mind telling me some more? After you had recovered your memory and become a pongye, what happened next?"

"Well, after a while, I chanced to see English papers and hear outside news, an' I got a cast in a cargo boat down the river. I had a sort o' longin' to see the soldiers, the love of the Service is in me blood, so now and then I was drawn to Rangoon to get a sight of the khaki and to hear the barrack yarns. Ye see, one quarter of me is Cingalese—I suppose me grandfather on one side was a Buddhist, and that is how pongye life came so pleasant and aisy to me. The three quarters of me is an Irish soldier, an' every day the soldier within me grows an' the pongye dies away."

"And you will never return to Burma?"

"Never, no. I have laid out to go to Ireland and spend the rest of my time there when the war is over."

"Ah—I wonder when the war will be over?" said Shafto.

"God alone knows!" exclaimed the pongye. "They were talking in the bazaar of the end coming about Christmas. I think meself it will be a long business and an awkward business, too."

"So do I," agreed Shafto, recalling the sage remarks of George Gregory.

"Yes, it's like a light stuck in an old thatch! We'll have half the world in it before long, an' the greatest blaze as ever was known."

"I see that Australia and Canada and South Africa are all coming to lend a hand."

"Well, we want every hand we can get—and every foot, too! I've heard plenty of big talk in the bazaar, where the Germans have laid out a mint of money. By all accounts they are going to take Persia, India, Burma, the whole of our trade, money and fleet. Well, if that comes off, it'll be a cold world! By the way, sir," he continued in another tone, "did ye see Ma Chit the day we were leavin' Rangoon, signin' and wavin' to ye as we cast off?"

Shafto nodded curtly.

"An' ye never tuk no notice! Ye might have given her just a small sign to ease her heart—but I'm thinkin' ye have a hard drop in ye."

"I dare say I have," assented Shafto, "and I'm glad of it, for now and then it has prevented me from making an awful fool of myself."

"Ah, well, sometimes the fools have the best of it; not that I'm sayin' a word in favour of Ma Chit—only that if ye'd waved yer hand she'd a gone away with a small bit of consolation and comfort."

"By the way, Ryan, what did you mean by saying you were a magician?"

"Oh, that was only a bit of a boast, sir. I know a few tricks I learnt in the regiment; one of the privates was a professional conjurer and mighty clever when sober. When I showed off one or two little tricks with stones, or buttons, or bits of string, the Burmans were sure I was a real wizard, and looked up to me, so they did, and then the birds and animals being so friendly—I was always so much at my ease with them, and the childher—they said I cast spells!"

The steerage passengers were not a little surprised to note the forgathering of a first-class passenger with this odd reserved person (whose shaven head was associated in their opinion with the interior of Rangoon jail). Nor was this all; now and then a remarkably pretty young lady accompanied the said first-class passenger and brought fruit, and books, and cakes, and the three appeared to be on the best of terms. The pongye and Shafto had many long talks together; they discussed life among the Burmese, the prospects of war, the changes that might awake and shake the world, and, appropriate supplement to the topic of war, more than once they spoke of death.

"I've been so long with the Buddhists that the fear of the grave is wore out of me," said Ryan; "I'd a'most as soon be dead as not—it's only another new life—ye just step in, an' meet yer old friends. I suppose, sir, you do not go along with me there."

"No," replied Shafto, who had all an Englishman's shrinking reluctance to discuss his belief, or his inner life; "yours is a nice easy path—too good to be true, I'm afraid. My creed is, to do our best, to help other people, and to take what comes."

"Goodness knows you have helped me, Mr. Shafto"—and the pongye drew back a step and looked at him queerly—"what with saving me life and then makin' sort o' friends with me—as man to man—your kindness will stand in me memory till the clay is over me!"

Shafto and the pongye separated at Marseilles; the latter went round by the Bay, whilst Mrs. Gregory and her party travelled overland, and they did not meet again for nearly two years.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

SERGEANT-MAJOR RYAN

Many months later, on a clear February night, Shafto and Tremenheere stood together outside Headquarters, "somewhere in France," anxiously observing the signs in the sky. Shafto, a machine-gun officer attached to the Blanks, had been granted twenty-four hours' leave, and made a muddy and dangerous journey of fifteen miles to visit his old schoolfellow, now on the staff of a General commanding a division. He was challenged and so was his companion; their faces expressed the long strain of a terrible war; both looked years older than their actual age, for, like the sons and daughters of the worshippers of Moloch, "they had passed through the fire."

Shafto was fine-drawn to leanness, heavy lines were scored on his forehead, he had twice been wounded, had taken part in desperate fighting, witnessed many harrowing sights, and lost many friends.

The chill air was full of sounds; a continuous rolling of wheels, rumbling of guns, and the distant scream of a shell.

"There goes a signal to lengthen the German range," remarked Shafto.

"That's right, for they often show up lights that mean nothing."

"Look at that aeroplane of ours dropping red stars over the Boches' first line of trenches. I suppose the lines are fairly close?"

"By Jove, you may say so! The men can shout across at one another, but the trenches are a good four miles from where we stand."

As he concluded, a star shell broke and lit up a vast expanse of gleaming mud.

To the rolling and rumbling was now added a far-away sound of tramping feet and song.

"Here they come!" exclaimed Tremenheere; "back to billets; they changed at six o'clock, but it's heavy going—mostly wading in slosh."

The marching came nearer and nearer, also the sound of singing and mouth-organs.

"'Michigan,'" said Shafto, "is a favourite; poor old 'Tipperary' is down and out."

Presently the force which had been relieved, muddy to the waist, but splendidly cheerful, splashed into the great courtyard.

"Irish," explained Tremenheere; "magnificent fellows, born fighters."

They watched the men as they fell out and scattered to their quarters in outhouses, barns and offices; and then Shafto and his friends made their way into the battered old chateau, and temporary Orderly room—once a lady's boudoir. It still exhibited strips of artistic wall-paper, a cracked mirror, a beautiful Louis XIV. cabinet stacked with papers, a few rude chairs, a couple of wooden tables.

Presently a sergeant-major came in to report, a fine stalwart fellow with a heavy black moustache and, in spite of his muddy waders, an air of complete self-possession. Having saluted and handed over his papers, his quick blue eyes rested on Shafto. He started, saluted, and said:

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Shafto, sir, but I see you don't know me."

"Well, no, I can't say that I do," replied Shafto, casting his mind over the last eighteen months.

"Well, of course, sir, I'm entirely different to what ye may remember in Rangoon."

"What?—you don't mean to say——"

The late pongye nodded with emphasis..

"I'm now Sergeant-Major Ryan, in the second battalion of the old regiment."

Then suddenly stepping back and lowering his voice, he added, "They think I'm me brother. Shure, I never had one. And how is yourself, sir?"

"All right; I'm a machine-gun officer attached to the Blanks."

"And the young lady?"

"She's a Red Cross nurse at Rouen—I saw her three months ago."

"When next you meet will you give her my humble respects and tell her I've not forgotten her invitation, an' I'm coming to the wedding?"

"And no one will be more welcome; you have our address. I'm told you've been in some heavy fighting?"

"Well, yes, sir, at Ypres we lost eighteen of our officers; oh, it was a cruel bad mix-up. Still and all, the Boches were given their tea in a mug! After our last charge ye'd see thim going every way—like crows in a storm! Our guns are grand; as for them aeroplanes they do all but speak; and the Tanks are wonders, God bless them!"

"You have been wounded?"

"Only just a cat's scratch—the German wire is mighty stiff; and there's six-inch spikes. Well, since we were last together, sir, you and I have been through a strange time and seen sights as we can't talk about. One thing is sure, we'll worry through all right."

"Oh, yes, we shall, and give the Boches something to think about."

The sudden opening of a distant door released a roar of voices singing, "Take me back to Blighty!" a rousing demand which instantly recalled the sergeant-major to his duty.

"Well, sir," he said, "I must be moving; so I'll wish you good-bye, and the best of luck."

"The same to you, Ryan. You'll let us have a line to say how you get on, won't you?"

Shafto held out his hand; Ryan gave it a hard, convulsive squeeze, and in another moment the stalwart Irishman had saluted and tramped forth.

"An old friend, I see," remarked Tremenheere.

"Yes, I knew him in Burma."

"He is a tip-top non-com., and has the D.C.M. and the French Cross; he worked miracles when his officers were killed at Ypres. They offered him a commission, but he wouldn't take it. The men love him; though he has some funny fads, never touches meat, and sings queer outlandish chants; but he's the splendid sort of fellow who was born for this war; full of heroic qualities and as hard as a bag of nails. I suppose his regiment was in Rangoon."

"Not in my time," replied Shafto. He hesitated for a moment, and then added, "If I were to tell you how I came across that Irish sergeant-major you'd say I was pulling your leg."

"Oh, go on, then—pull away."

"When I first met him he was a Burmese priest, with a shorn head, yellow robe, and begging-bowl."

"Come, I say, Douglas, this is a bit too much!"

"But it's a fact. He had been a soldier for six or seven years, got a bad stroke in the jungle, was taken in by Burmans, and was for seven years a pongye. When the war broke out he flung off his yellow robe, paid his passage to England, and is here, as you see, in his element."

"It's amazing—incredible—but incredible things come off nowadays."

Shafto nodded.

"If he gets through this, do you suppose he will return to his monastry?"

"Never! It is his fixed intention to go to Ireland; he has some money, and hopes to settle down on his own little farm."

"I'm afraid he's some way off that yet; in the meanwhile, he is seeing a good bit of life."

"And death," mentally added Shafto.

"I say," exclaimed Tremenheere, glancing at his wrist-watch, "it's time for our dinner—come on!"

* * * * * *

In the autumn of the same year, Shafto, who had again been severely wounded, was granted a month's leave, and he and Sophy were married. It was the usual war wedding, no bridesmaids and no reception. Among the friends, "welcome at the church," were the Gregorys, Tebbs, Larchers, MacNabs, Mrs. Malone, Mr. Hutton, and the Tremenheeres. Captain Tremenheere supported his friend as best man.

One specially bidden guest was absent from the gathering. He lay beneath a black wooden cross, near by to Guinchy, where gallant Irish regiments had immortalised their colours. Alas! Sergeant-Major Michael Ryan was among the missing. To the unspeakable grief of his comrades, he had gone West—but not to Ireland.

THE END