The Man Who Would Be King Pages 1-13by Rudyard Kipling

Published by Brentano’s at31 Union Square New York“Brother to a Prince and fellow to a beggar if hebe found worthy.”The Law, as quoted, lays down a fair conductof life, and one not easy to follow. Ihave been fellow to a beggar again andagain under circumstances which preventedeither of us finding out whether the otherwas worthy. I have still to be brother to aPrince, though I once came near to kinshipwith what might have been a veritable Kingand was promised the reversion of a Kingdom—army, law-courts, revenue and policyall complete. But, to-day, I greatly fearthat my King is dead, and if I want a crownI must go and hunt it for myself.The beginning of everything was in a railwaytrain upon the road to Mhow fromAjmir. There had been a deficit in theBudget, which necessitated travelling, notSecond-class, which is only half as dear asFirst-class, but by Intermediate, which isvery awful indeed. There are no cushionsin the Intermediate class, and the populationare either Intermediate, which is Eurasian,or native, which for a long night journey isnasty; or Loafer, which is amusing thoughintoxicated. Intermediates do not patronizerefreshment-rooms. They carry their foodin bundles and pots, and buy sweets from thenative sweetmeat-sellers, and drink the roadsidewater. That is why in the hot weatherIntermediates are taken out of the carriagesdead, and in all weathers are most properlylooked down upon.

My particular Intermediate happened tobe empty till I reached Nasirabad, when ahuge gentleman in shirt-sleeves entered,and, following the custom of Intermediates,passed the time of day. He was a wandererand a vagabond like myself, but with aneducated taste for whiskey. He told talesof things he had seen and done, of out-of-the-waycorners of the Empire into which hehad penetrated, and of adventures in whichhe risked his life for a few days’ food.“If India was filled with men like you andme, not knowing more than the crows wherethey’d get their next day’s rations, it isn’tseventy millions of revenue the land wouldbe paying—it’s seven hundred million,” saidhe; and as I looked at his mouth and chin Iwas disposed to agree with him. We talkedpolitics—the politics of Loaferdom that seesthings from the underside where the lathand plaster is not smoothed off—and wetalked postal arrangements because myfriend wanted to send a telegram back fromthe next station to Ajmir, which is theturning-off place from the Bombay to theMhow line as you travel westward. Myfriend had no money beyond eight annaswhich he wanted for dinner, and I had nomoney at all, owing to the hitch in theBudget before mentioned. Further, I wasgoing into a wilderness where, though Ishould resume touch with the Treasury,there were no telegraph offices. I was,therefore, unable to help him in any way.“We might threaten a Station-master,and make him send a wire on tick,” saidmy friend, “but that’d mean inquiries foryou and for me, and I’ve got my hands fullthese days. Did you say you are travellingback along this line within any days?”“Within ten,” I said.

“Can’t you make it eight?” said he.“Mine is rather urgent business.”“I can send your telegram within tendays if that will serve you,” I said.“I couldn’t trust the wire to fetch himnow I think of it. It’s this way. He leavesDelhi on the 23d for Bombay. That meanshe’ll be running through Ajmir about thenight of the 23d.”“But I’m going into the Indian Desert,”I explained.“Well and good,” said he. “You’ll bechanging at Marwar Junction to get intoJodhpore territory—you must do that—andhe’ll be coming through Marwar Junctionin the early morning of the 24th by theBombay Mail. Can you be at MarwarJunction on that time? ’Twon’t be inconveniencingyou because I know that there’sprecious few pickings to be got out of theseCentral India States—even though you pretendto be correspondent of the Backwoodsman.”“Have you ever tried that trick?” Iasked.“Again and again, but the Residents findyou out, and then you get escorted to theBorder before you’ve time to get your knifeinto them. But about my friend here. Imust give him a word o’ mouth to tell himwhat’s come to me or else he won’t knowwhere to go. I would take it more thankind of you if you was to come out of CentralIndia in time to catch him at MarwarJunction, and say to him:—‘He has goneSouth for the week.’ He’ll know what thatmeans. He’s a big man with a red beard,and a great swell he is. You’ll find himsleeping like a gentleman with all his luggageround him in a second-class compartment.But don’t you be afraid. Slip downthe window, and say:—‘He has gone South

for the week,’ and he’ll tumble. It’s onlycutting your time of stay in those parts bytwo days. I ask you as a stranger—going tothe West,” he said with emphasis.“Where have you come from?” said I.

“From the East,” said he, “and I amhoping that you will give him the messageon the Square—for the sake of my Motheras well as your own.”Englishmen are not usually softened byappeals to the memory of their mothers, butfor certain reasons, which will be fully apparent, I saw fit to agree.“It’s more than a little matter,” said he,“and that’s why I ask you to do it—andnow I know that I can depend on you doingit. A second-class carriage at Marwar Junction,and a red-haired man asleep in it.You’ll be sure to remember. I get out atthe next station, and I must hold on theretill he comes or sends me what I want.”“I’ll give the message if I catch him,” Isaid, “and for the sake of your Mother aswell as mine I’ll give you a word of advice.Don’t try to run the Central India Statesjust now as the correspondent of the Backwoodsman.There’s a real one knockingabout here, and it might lead to trouble.”“Thank you,” said he simply, “and whenwill the swine be gone? I can’t starve becausehe’s ruining my work. I wanted toget hold of the Degumber Rajah down hereabout his father’s widow, and give him ajump.”“What did he do to his father’s widow,then?”“Filled her up with red pepper and slipperedher to death as she hung from a beam.I found that out myself and I’m the onlyman that would dare going into the State to

get hush-money for it. They’ll try to poisonme, same as they did in Chortumnawhen I went on the loot there. But you’llgive the man at Marwar Junction my message?”He got out at a little roadside station, andI reflected. I had heard, more than once, ofmen personating correspondents of newspapersand bleeding small Native States withthreats of exposure, but I had never met anyof the caste before. They lead a hard life,and generally die with great suddenness.The Native States have a wholesome horrorof English newspapers, which may throwlight on their peculiar methods of government,and do their best to choke correspondentswith champagne, or drive them out oftheir mind with four-in-hand barouches.They do not understand that nobody cares astraw for the internal administration of NativeStates so long as oppression and crimeare kept within decent limits, and the ruleris not drugged, drunk, or diseased from oneend of the year to the other. Native Stateswere created by Providence in order to supplypicturesque scenery, tigers and tall-writing.They are the dark places of the earth,full of unimaginable cruelty, touching theRailway and the Telegraph on one side, and,on the other, the days of Harun-al-Raschid.When I left the train I did business withdivers Kings, and in eight days passedthrough many changes of life. Sometimes Iwore dress-clothes and consorted with Princesand Politicals, drinking from crystal andeating from silver. Sometimes I lay outupon the ground and devoured what I couldget, from a plate made of a flapjack, anddrank the running water, and slept underthe same rug as my servant. It was all in aday’s work.

Then I headed for the Great Indian Desertupon the proper date, as I had promised, andthe night Mail set me down at Marwar Junction,where a funny little, happy-go-lucky,native managed railway runs to Jodhpore.The Bombay Mail from Delhi makes a shorthalt at Marwar. She arrived as I got in,and I had just time to hurry to her platformand go down the carriages. There was onlyone second-class on the train. I slipped thewindow and looked down upon a flamingred beard, half covered by a railway rug.That was my man, fast asleep, and I dug himgently in the ribs. He woke with a gruntand I saw his face in the light of the lamps.It was a great and shining face.“Tickets again?” said he.

“No,” said I. “I am to tell you that heis gone South for the week. He is goneSouth for the week!”The train had begun to move out. Thered man rubbed his eyes. “He has goneSouth for the week,” he repeated. “Nowthat’s just like his impudence. Did he saythat I was to give you anything?—’Cause Iwon’t.”“He didn’t,” I said and dropped away,and watched the red lights die out in thedark. It was horribly cold because the windwas blowing off the sands. I climbed intomy own train—not an Intermediate Carriagethis time—and went to sleep.If the man with the beard had given me arupee I should have kept it as a memento ofa rather curious affair. But the consciousnessof having done my duty was my onlyreward.Later on I reflected that two gentlemenlike my friends could not do any good ifthey foregathered and personated correspondents

of newspapers, and might, if they“stuck up” one of the little rat-trap states ofCentral India or Southern Rajputana, getthemselves into serious difficulties. I thereforetook some trouble to describe them asaccurately as I could remember to peoplewho would be interested in deporting them;and succeeded, so I was later informed, inhaving them headed back from the Degumberborders.Then I became respectable, and returnedto an Office where there were no Kings andno incidents except the daily manufacture ofa newspaper. A newspaper office seems toattract every conceivable sort of person, tothe prejudice of discipline. Zenana-missionladies arrive, and beg that the Editor will instantlyabandon all his duties to describe aChristian prize-giving in a back-slum of aperfectly inaccessible village; Colonels whohave been overpassed for commands sitdown and sketch the outline of a series often, twelve, or twenty-four leading articleson Seniority versus Selection; missionarieswish to know why they have not been permittedto escape from their regular vehiclesof abuse and swear at a brother-missionaryunder special patronage of the editorial We;stranded theatrical companies troop up to explainthat they cannot pay for their advertisements,but on their return from NewZealand or Tahiti will do so with interest;inventors of patent punkah-pulling machines,carriage couplings and unbreakableswords and axle-trees call with specificationsin their pockets and hours at their disposal;tea-companies enter and elaborate their prospectuseswith the office pens; secretaries ofball-committees clamor to have the gloriesof their last dance more fully expounded;strange ladies rustle in and say:—“I want a

hundred lady’s cards printed at once, please,”which is manifestly part of an Editor’s duty;and every dissolute ruffian that ever trampedthe Grand Trunk Road makes it his businessto ask for employment as a proof-reader.And, all the time, the telephone-bell is ringingmadly, and Kings are being killed on theContinent, and Empires are saying, “You’reanother,” and Mister Gladstone is callingdown brimstone upon the British Dominions,and the little black copy-boys are whining,“kaa-pi chayha-yeh” (copy wanted) liketired bees, and most of the paper is as blankas Modred’s shield.But that is the amusing part of the year.There are other six months wherein noneever come to call, and the thermometerwalks inch by inch up to the top of the glass,and the office is darkened to just above readinglight, and the press machines are red-hotof touch, and nobody writes anything butaccounts of amusements in the Hill-stationsor obituary notices. Then the telephone becomesa tinkling terror, because it tells youof the sudden deaths of men and womenthat you knew intimately, and the prickly-heatcovers you as with a garment, and yousit down and write:—“A slight increase ofsickness is reported from the Khuda JantaKhan District. The outbreak is purely sporadicin its nature, and, thanks to the energeticefforts of the District authorities, is nowalmost at an end. It is, however, with deepregret we record the death, etc.”Then the sickness really breaks out, andthe less recording and reporting the betterfor the peace of the subscribers. But theEmpires and the Kings continue to divertthemselves as selfishly as before, and theforeman thinks that a daily paper reallyought to come out once in twenty-four hours,

and all the people at the Hill-stations in themiddle of their amusements say:—“Goodgracious! Why can’t the paper be sparkling?I’m sure there’s plenty going on up here.”That is the dark half of the moon, and, asthe advertisements say, “must be experiencedto be appreciated.”It was in that season, and a remarkablyevil season, that the paper began runningthe last issue of the week on Saturday night,which is to say Sunday morning, after thecustom of a London paper. This was agreat convenience, for immediately after thepaper was put to bed, the dawn would lowerthe thermometer from 96° to almost 84° foralmost half an hour, and in that chill—youhave no idea how cold is 84° on the grassuntil you begin to pray for it—a very tiredman could set off to sleep ere the heatroused him.One Saturday night it was my pleasantduty to put the paper to bed alone. A Kingor courtier or a courtesan or a communitywas going to die or get a new Constitution,or do something that was important on theother side of the world, and the paper was tobe held open till the latest possible minutein order to catch the telegram. It was apitchy black night, as stifling as a June nightcan be, and the loo, the red-hot wind fromthe westward, was booming among the tinder-drytrees and pretending that the rainwas on its heels. Now and again a spot ofalmost boiling water would fall on the dustwith the flop of a frog, but all our wearyworld knew that was only pretence. It wasa shade cooler in the press-room than theoffice, so I sat there, while the type tickedand clicked, and the night-jars hooted at thewindows, and the all but naked compositorswiped the sweat from their foreheads

and called for water. The thing that waskeeping us back, whatever it was, would notcome off, though the loo dropped and thelast type was set, and the whole round earthstood still in the choking heat, with its fingeron its lip, to wait the event. I drowsed, andwondered whether the telegraph was a blessing,and whether this dying man, or strugglingpeople, was aware of the inconveniencethe delay was causing. There was no specialreason beyond the heat and worry to maketension, but, as the clock-hands crept up tothree o’clock and the machines spun theirfly-wheels two and three times to see that allwas in order, before I said the word thatwould set them off, I could have shriekedaloud.Then the roar and rattle of the wheelsshivered the quiet into little bits. I rose togo away, but two men in white clothes stoodin front of me. The first one said:—“It’shim!” The second said —“So it is!” Andthey both laughed almost as loudly as themachinery roared, and mopped their foreheads.“We see there was a light burningacross the road and we were sleeping inthat ditch there for coolness, and I said tomy friend here, the office is open. Let’scome along and speak to him as turned usback from the Degumber State,” said thesmaller of the two. He was the man I hadmet in the Mhow train, and his fellow wasthe red-bearded man of Marwar Junction.There was no mistaking the eyebrows of theone or the beard of the other.I was not pleased, because I wished to goto sleep, not to squabble with loafers.“What do you want?” I asked.“Half an hour’s talk with you cool andcomfortable, in the office,” said the red-beardedman. “We’d like some drink—the

Contrack doesn’t begin yet, Peachey, so youneedn’t look—but what we really want isadvice. We don’t want money. We askyou as a favor, because you did us a badturn about Degumber.”I led from the press-room to the stiflingoffice with the maps on the walls, and thered-haired man rubbed his hands. “That’ssomething like,” said he. “This was theproper shop to come to. Now, Sir, let meintroduce to you Brother Peachey Carnehan,that’s him, and Brother Daniel Dravot, thatis me, and the less said about our professionsthe better, for we have been most things inour time. Soldier, sailor, compositor, photographer,proof-reader, street-preacher, andcorrespondents of the Backwoodsman whenwe thought the paper wanted one. Carnehanis sober, and so am I. Look at us firstand see that’s sure. It will save you cuttinginto my talk. We’ll take one of your cigarsapiece, and you shall see us light.”I watched the test. The men were absolutelysober, so I gave them each a tepidpeg.“Well and good,” said Carnehan of theeyebrows, wiping the froth from his mustache.“Let me talk now, Dan. We havebeen all over India, mostly on foot. Wehave been boiler-fitters, engine-drivers, pettycontractors, and all that, and we have decidedthat India isn’t big enough for suchas us.”They certainly were too big for the office.Dravot’s beard seemed to fill half the roomand Carnehan’s shoulders the other half, asthey sat on the big table. Carnehan continued:—“The country isn’t half workedout because they that governs it won’t letyou touch it. They spend all their blessedtime in governing it, and you can’t lift a

spade, nor chip a rock, nor look for oil, noranything like that without all the Governmentsaying—‘Leave it alone and let usgovern.’ Therefore, such as it is, we will letit alone, and go away to some other placewhere a man isn’t crowded and can come tohis own. We are not little men, and thereis nothing that we are afraid of except Drink,and we have signed a Contrack on that.Therefore, we are going away to be Kings.”“Kings in our own right,” mutteredDravot.“Yes, of course,” I said. “You’ve beentramping in the sun, and it’s a very warmnight, and hadn’t you better sleep over thenotion? Come to-morrow.”“Neither drunk nor sunstruck,” saidDravot. “We have slept over the notionhalf a year, and require to see Books andAtlases, and we have decided that there isonly one place now in the world that twostrong men can Sar-a-whack. They call itKafiristan. By my reckoning its the topright-hand corner of Afghanistan, not morethan three hundred miles from Peshawar.They have two and thirty heathen idols there,and we’ll be the thirty-third. It’s a mountainouscountry, and the women of thoseparts are very beautiful.”“But that is provided against in the Contrack,”said Carnehan. “Neither Womennor Liquor, Daniel.”“And that’s all we know, except that noone has gone there, and they fight, and inany place where they fight a man whoknows how to drill men can always be aKing. We shall go to those parts and sayto any King we find—‘D’ you want to vanquishyour foes?’ and we will show himhow to drill men; for that we know betterthan anything else. Then we will subvert

that King and seize his Throne and establisha Dy-nasty.”“You’ll be cut to pieces before you’refifty miles across the Border,” I said.“You have to travel through Afghanistanto get to that country. It’s one mass ofmountains and peaks and glaciers, and noEnglishman has been through it. The peopleare utter brutes, and even if you reachedthem you couldn’t do anything.”“That’s more like,” said Carnehan. “Ifyou could think us a little more mad wewould be more pleased. We have come toyou to know about this country, to read abook about it, and to be shown maps. Wewant you to tell us that we are fools and toshow us your books.” He turned to thebook-cases.“Are you at all in earnest?” I said.

“A little,” said Dravot, sweetly. “As biga map as you have got, even if it’s all blankwhere Kafiristan is, and any books you’vegot. We can read, though we aren’t veryeducated.”I uncased the big thirty-two-miles-to-the-inchmap of India, and two smaller Frontiermaps, hauled down volume INF-KAN ofthe Encyclopædia Britannica, and the menconsulted them.“See here!” said Dravot, his thumb onthe map. “Up to Jagdallak, Peachey andme know the road. We was there withRoberts’s Army. We’ll have to turn off tothe right at Jagdallak through Laghmannterritory. Then we get among the hills—fourteen thousand feet—fifteen thousand—it will be cold work there, but it don’t lookvery far on the map.”I handed him Wood on the Sources ofthe Oxus. Carnehan was deep in the Encyclopædia.

“They’re a mixed lot,” said Dravot, reflectively;“and it won’t help us to knowthe names of their tribes. The more tribesthe more they’ll fight, and the better for us.From Jagdallak to Ashang. H’mm!”“But all the information about the countryis as sketchy and inaccurate as can be,”I protested. “No one knows anythingabout it really. Here’s the file of theUnited Services’ Institute. Read what Bellewsays.”“Blow Bellew!” said Carnehan. “Dan,they’re an all-fired lot of heathens, but thisbook here says they think they’re related tous English.”I smoked while the men pored overRaverty, Wood, the maps and the Encyclopædia.“There is no use your waiting,” saidDravot, politely. “It’s about four o’clocknow. We’ll go before six o’clock if youwant to sleep, and we won’t steal any ofthe papers. Don’t you sit up. We’re twoharmless lunatics, and if you come, to-morrowevening, down to the Serai we’ll saygood-by to you.”“You are two fools,” I answered. “You’llbe turned back at the Frontier or cut up theminute you set foot in Afghanistan. Doyou want any money or a recommendationdown-country? I can help you to thechance of work next week.”“Next week we shall be hard at work ourselves,thank you,” said Dravot. “It isn’tso easy being a King as it looks. Whenwe’ve got our Kingdom in going order we’lllet you know, and you can come up and helpus to govern it.”“Would two lunatics make a Contracklike that!” said Carnehan, with subduedpride, showing me a greasy half-sheet of note-paper

on which was written the following.I copied it, then and there, as a curiosity:—This Contract between me and you persuing witnessethin the name of God—Amen and so forth.  (One) That me and you will settle this matter together:          i.e., to be Kings of Kafiristan.  (Two) That you and me will not while this matter is          being settled, look at any Liquor, nor any          Woman black, white or brown, so as to get          mixed up with one or the other harmful.  (Three) That we conduct ourselves with Dignity and          Discretion, and if one of us gets into trouble          the other will stay by him.  Signed by you and me this day.          Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan.          Daniel Dravot.          Both Gentlemen at Large.“There was no need for the last article,”said Carnehan, blushing modestly; “but itlooks regular. Now you know the sort ofmen that loafers are—we are loafers, Dan,until we get out of India—and do you thinkthat we could sign a Contrack like thatunless we was in earnest? We have keptaway from the two things that make lifeworth having.”“You won’t enjoy your lives much longerif you are going to try this idiotic adventure.Don’t set the office on fire,” I said, “and goaway before nine o’clock.”I left them still poring over the maps andmaking notes on the back of the “Contrack.”“Be sure to come down to the Serai to-morrow,”were their parting words. 

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The Man Who Would Be King Pages 13-25by Rudyard Kipling

The Kumharsen Serai is the great four-squaresink of humanity where the stringsof camels and horses from the North loadand unload. All the nationalities of CentralAsia may be found there, and most of thefolk of India proper. Balkh and Bokharathere meet Bengal and Bombay, and try todraw eye-teeth. You can buy ponies, turquoises,Persian pussy-cats, saddle-bags, fat-tailedsheep and musk in the KumharsenSerai, and get many strange things fornothing. In the afternoon I went downthere to see whether my friends intended tokeep their word or were lying about drunk.A priest attired in fragments of ribbonsand rags stalked up to me, gravely twistinga child’s paper whirligig. Behind him washis servant, bending under the load of acrate of mud toys. The two were loadingup two camels, and the inhabitants of theSerai watched them with shrieks of laughter.“The priest is mad,” said a horse-dealer tome. “He is going up to Kabul to sell toysto the Amir. He will either be raised tohonor or have his head cut off. He camein here this morning and has been behavingmadly ever since.”“The witless are under the protection ofGod,” stammered a flat-cheeked Usbeg inbroken Hindi. “They foretell future events.”“Would they could have foretold that mycaravan would have been cut up by theShinwaris almost within shadow of the

Pass!” grunted the Eusufzai agent of a Rajputanatrading-house whose goods had beenfeloniously diverted into the hands of otherrobbers just across the Border, and whosemisfortunes were the laughing-stock of thebazar. “Ohé, priest, whence come you andwhither do you go?”“From Roum have I come,” shouted thepriest, waving his whirligig; “from Roum,blown by the breath of a hundred devilsacross the sea! O thieves, robbers, liars,the blessing of Pir Khan on pigs, dogs, andperjurers! Who will take the Protected ofGod to the North to sell charms that arenever still to the Amir? The camels shallnot gall, the sons shall not fall sick, and thewives shall remain faithful while they areaway, of the men who give me place intheir caravan. Who will assist me to slipperthe King of the Roos with a golden slipperwith a silver heel? The protection of PirKahn be upon his labors!” He spread outthe skirts of his gaberdine and pirouetted betweenthe lines of tethered horses.“There starts a caravan from Peshawar toKabul in twenty days, Huzrut,” said theEusufzai trader. “My camels go therewith.Do thou also go and bring us good luck.”“I will go even now!” shouted the priest.“I will depart upon my winged camels,and be at Peshawar in a day! Ho! HazarMir Khan,” he yelled to his servant “driveout the camels, but let me first mount myown.”He leaped on the back of his beast as itknelt, and turning round to me, cried:—“Come thou also, Sahib, a little along theroad, and I will sell thee a charm—an amuletthat shall make thee King of Kafiristan.”

Then the light broke upon me, and I followedthe two camels out of the Serai till wereached open road and the priest halted.“What d’ you think o’ that?” said he inEnglish. “Carnehan can’t talk their patter,so I’ve made him my servant. He makes ahandsome servant. ’Tisn’t for nothing thatI’ve been knocking about the country forfourteen years. Didn’t I do that talk neat?We’ll hitch on to a caravan at Peshawar tillwe get to Jagdallak, and then we’ll see if wecan get donkeys for our camels, and strikeinto Kafiristan. Whirligigs for the Amir,O Lor! Put your hand under the camel-bagsand tell me what you feel.”I felt the butt of a Martini, and anotherand another.“Twenty of ’em,” said Dravot, placidly.

“Twenty of ’em, and ammunition to correspond,under the whirligigs and the muddolls.”“Heaven help you if you are caught withthose things!” I said. “A Martini is worthher weight in silver among the Pathans.”“Fifteen hundred rupees of capital—everyrupee we could beg, borrow, or steal—areinvested on these two camels,” said Dravot.“We won’t get caught. We’re going throughthe Khaiber with a regular caravan. Who’dtouch a poor mad priest?”“Have you got everything you want?”I asked, overcome with astonishment.“Not yet, but we shall soon. Give us amomento of your kindness, Brother. Youdid me a service yesterday, and that time inMarwar. Half my Kingdom shall you have,as the saying is.” I slipped a small charmcompass from my watch-chain and handedit up to the priest.

“Good-by,” said Dravot, giving me hishand cautiously. “It’s the last time we’llshake hands with an Englishman these manydays. Shake hands with him, Carnehan,”he cried, as the second camel passed me.Carnehan leaned down and shook hands.Then the camels passed away along the dustyroad, and I was left alone to wonder. Myeye could detect no failure in the disguises.The scene in the Serai attested that theywere complete to the native mind. Therewas just the chance, therefore, that Carnehanand Dravot would be able to wanderthrough Afghanistan without detection.But, beyond, they would find death, certainand awful death.Ten days later a native friend of mine,giving me the news of the day from Peshawar,wound up his letter with:—“There hasbeen much laughter here on account of acertain mad priest who is going in his estimationto sell petty gauds and insignificanttrinkets which he ascribes as great charmsto H. H. the Amir of Bokhara. He passedthrough Peshawar and associated himself tothe Second Summer caravan that goes toKabul. The merchants are pleased becausethrough superstition they imagine that suchmad fellows bring good-fortune.”The two then, were beyond the Border.I would have prayed for them, but, thatnight, a real King died in Europe, and demandedan obituary notice.     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *The wheel of the world swings throughthe same phases again and again. Summerpassed and winter thereafter, and came andpassed again. The daily paper continuedand I with it, and upon the third summerthere fell a hot night, a night-issue, and astrained waiting for something to be telegraphed

from the other side of the world,exactly as had happened before. A few greatmen had died in the past two years, the machinesworked with more clatter, and someof the trees in the Office garden were a fewfeet taller. But that was all the difference.I passed over to the press-room, and wentthrough just such a scene as I have alreadydescribed. The nervous tension was strongerthan it had been two years before, and I feltthe heat more acutely. At three o’clock Icried, “Print off,” and turned to go, whenthere crept to my chair what was left of aman. He was bent into a circle, his headwas sunk between his shoulders, and hemoved his feet one over the other like a bear.I could hardly see whether he walked orcrawled—this rag-wrapped, whining cripplewho addressed me by name, crying that hewas come back. “Can you give me adrink?” he whimpered. “For the Lord’ssake, give me a drink!”I went back to the office, the man followingwith groans of pain, and I turned up thelamp.“Don’t you know me?” he gasped, droppinginto a chair, and he turned his drawnface, surmounted by a shock of gray hair, tothe light.I looked at him intently. Once before hadI seen eyebrows that met over the nose in aninch-broad black band, but for the life of meI could not tell where.“I don’t know you,” I said, handing himthe whiskey. “What can I do for you?”He took a gulp of the spirit raw, and shiveredin spite of the suffocating heat.“I’ve come back,” he repeated; “and Iwas the King of Kafiristan—me and Dravot—crowned Kings we was! In this office wesettled it—you setting there and giving us

the books. I am Peachey—Peachey TaliaferroCarnehan, and you’ve been setting hereever since—O Lord!”I was more than a little astonished, andexpressed my feelings accordingly.“It’s true,” said Carnehan, with a drycackle, nursing his feet which were wrappedin rags. “True as gospel. Kings we were,with crowns upon our heads—me and Dravot—poor Dan—oh, poor, poor Dan, that wouldnever take advice, not though I begged ofhim!”“Take the whiskey,” I said, “and takeyour own time. Tell me all you can recollectof everything from beginning to end.You got across the border on your camels,Dravot dressed as a mad priest and you hisservant. Do you remember that?”“I ain’t mad—yet, but I will be that waysoon. Of course I remember. Keep lookingat me, or maybe my words will go all topieces. Keep looking at me in my eyes anddon’t say anything.”I leaned forward and looked into his faceas steadily as I could. He dropped one handupon the table and I grasped it by the wrist.It was twisted like a bird’s claw, and uponthe back was a ragged, red, diamond-shapedscar.“No, don’t look there. Look at me,” saidCarnehan.“That comes afterwards, but for the Lord’ssake don’t distrack me. We left with thatcaravan, me and Dravot, playing all sorts ofantics to amuse the people we were with.Dravot used to make us laugh in the eveningswhen all the people was cooking theirdinners—cooking their dinners, and … whatdid they do then? They lit little fireswith sparks that went into Dravot’s beard,and we all laughed—fit to die. Little red

fires they was, going into Dravot’s big redbeard—so funny.” His eyes left mine andhe smiled foolishly.“You went as far as Jagdallak with thatcaravan,” I said at a venture, “after youhad lit those fires. To Jagdallak, whereyou turned off to try to get into Kafiristan.”“No, we didn’t neither. What are youtalking about? We turned off before Jagdallak,because we heard the roads was good.But they wasn’t good enough for our twocamels—mine and Dravot’s. When we leftthe caravan, Dravot took off all his clothesand mine too, and said we would be heathen,because the Kafirs didn’t allow Mohammedansto talk to them. So we dressed betwixtand between, and such a sight as DanielDravot I never saw yet nor expect to seeagain. He burned half his beard, and slunga sheep-skin over his shoulder, and shavedhis head into patterns. He shaved mine,too, and made me wear outrageous things tolook like a heathen. That was in a mostmountaineous country, and our camelscouldn’t go along any more because of themountains. They were tall and black, andcoming home I saw them fight like wildgoats—there are lots of goats in Kafiristan.And these mountains, they never keep still,no more than the goats. Always fightingthey are, and don’t let you sleep at night.”“Take some more whiskey,” I said, veryslowly. “What did you and Daniel Dravotdo when the camels could go no further becauseof the rough roads that led into Kafiristan?”“What did which do? There was a partycalled Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan that waswith Dravot. Shall I tell you about him?He died out there in the cold. Slap fromthe bridge fell old Peachey, turning andtwisting in the air like a penny whirligig

that you can sell to the Amir—No; theywas two for three ha’pence, those whirligigs,or I am much mistaken and woful sore.And then these camels were no use, andPeachey said to Dravot—‘For the Lord’ssake, let’s get out of this before our heads arechopped off,’ and with that they killed thecamels all among the mountains, not havinganything in particular to eat, but first theytook off the boxes with the guns and theammunition, till two men came along drivingfour mules. Dravot up and dances in frontof them, singing,—‘Sell me four mules.’Says the first man,—‘If you are rich enoughto buy, you are rich enough to rob;’ but beforeever he could put his hand to his knife,Dravot breaks his neck over his knee, andthe other party runs away. So Carnehanloaded the mules with the rifles that wastaken off the camels, and together we startsforward into those bitter cold mountainousparts, and never a road broader than theback of your hand.”He paused for a moment, while I askedhim if he could remember the nature of thecountry through which he had journeyed.“I am telling you as straight as I can, butmy head isn’t as good as it might be. Theydrove nails through it to make me hearbetter how Dravot died. The country wasmountainous and the mules were most contrary,and the inhabitants was dispersed andsolitary. They went up and up, and downand down, and that other party Carnehan,was imploring of Dravot not to sing andwhistle so loud, for fear of bringing down thetremenjus avalanches. But Dravot says thatif a King couldn’t sing it wasn’t worth beingKing, and whacked the mules over the rump,and never took no heed for ten cold days.We came to a big level valley all among the

mountains, and the mules were near dead,so we killed them, not having anything inspecial for them or us to eat. We sat uponthe boxes, and played odd and even withthe cartridges that was jolted out.“Then ten men with bows and arrowsran down that valley, chasing twenty menwith bows and arrows, and the row wastremenjus. They was fair men—fairer thanyou or me—with yellow hair and remarkablewell built. Says Dravot, unpacking theguns—‘This is the beginning of the business.We’ll fight for the ten men,’ and with that hefires two rifles at the twenty men and dropsone of them at two hundred yards from therock where we was sitting. The other menbegan to run, but Carnehan and Dravot sitson the boxes picking them off at all ranges, upand down the valley. Then we goes up to theten men that had run across the snow too,and they fires a footy little arrow at us.Dravot he shoots above their heads and theyall falls down flat. Then he walks overthem and kicks them, and then he lifts themup and shakes hands all around to makethem friendly like. He calls them and givesthem the boxes to carry, and waves his handfor all the world as though he was Kingalready. They takes the boxes and himacross the valley and up the hill into a pinewood on the top, where there was half adozen big stone idols. Dravot he goes to thebiggest—a fellow they call Imbra—and laysa rifle and a cartridge at his feet, rubbing hisnose respectful with his own nose, pattinghim on the head, and saluting in front of it.He turns round to the men and nods hishead, and says,—‘That’s all right. I’m inthe know too, and these old jim-jams are myfriends.’ Then he opens his mouth andpoints down it, and when the first man

brings him food, he says—‘No;’ and whenthe second man brings him food, he says—‘No;’ but when one of the old priests andthe boss of the village brings him food, hesays—‘Yes;’ very haughty, and eats it slow.That was how we came to our first village,without any trouble, just as though we hadtumbled from the skies. But we tumbledfrom one of those damned rope-bridges, yousee, and you couldn’t expect a man to laughmuch after that.”“Take some more whiskey and go on,” Isaid. “That was the first village you cameinto. How did you get to be King?”“I wasn’t King,” said Carnehan. “Dravothe was the King, and a handsome manhe looked with the gold crown on his headand all. Him and the other party stayed inthat village, and every morning Dravot satby the side of old Imbra, and the people cameand worshipped. That was Dravot’s order.Then a lot of men came into the valley, andCarnehan and Dravot picks them off withthe rifles before they knew where they was,and runs down into the valley and up againthe other side, and finds another village,same as the first one, and the people all fallsdown flat on their faces, and Dravot says,—‘Now what is the trouble between you twovillages?’ and the people points to a woman,as fair as you or me, that was carried off,and Dravot takes her back to the first villageand counts up the dead—eight there was.For each dead man Dravot pours a little milkon the ground and waves his arms like awhirligig and, ‘That’s all right,’ says he.Then he and Carnehan takes the big boss ofeach village by the arm and walks themdown into the valley, and shows them howto scratch a line with a spear right downthe valley, and gives each a sod of turf

from both sides o’ the line. Then all thepeople comes down and shouts like the deviland all, and Dravot says,—‘Go and dig theland, and be fruitful and multiply,’ whichthey did, though they didn’t understand.Then we asks the names of things in theirlingo—bread and water and fire and idolsand such, and Dravot leads the priest of eachvillage up to the idol, and says he must sitthere and judge the people, and if anythinggoes wrong he is to be shot.“Next week they was all turning up theland in the valley as quiet as bees and muchprettier, and the priests heard all the complaintsand told Dravot in dumb show whatit was about. ‘That’s just the beginning,’says Dravot. ‘They think we’re gods.’ Heand Carnehan picks out twenty good menand shows them how to click off a rifle, andform fours, and advance in line, and theywas very pleased to do so, and clever to seethe hang of it. Then he takes out his pipeand his baccy-pouch and leaves one at onevillage, and one at the other, and off we twogoes to see what was to be done in the nextvalley. That was all rock, and there was alittle village there, and Carnehan says,—‘Send ’em to the old valley to plant,’ andtakes ’em there and gives ’em some land thatwasn’t took before. They were a poor lot,and we blooded ’em with a kid before letting’em into the new Kingdom. That was toimpress the people, and then they settleddown quiet, and Carnehan went back toDravot who had got into another valley, allsnow and ice and most mountainous. Therewas no people there and the Army got afraid,so Dravot shoots one of them, and goes ontill he finds some people in a village, andthe Army explains that unless the peoplewants to be killed they had better not shoot

their little matchlocks; for they had matchlocks.We makes friends with the priestand I stays there alone with two of theArmy, teaching the men how to drill, and athundering big Chief comes across the snowwith kettledrums and horns twanging, becausehe heard there was a new god kickingabout. Carnehan sights for the brown ofthe men half a mile across the snow andwings one of them. Then he sends a messageto the Chief that, unless he wished tobe killed, he must come and shake handswith me and leave his arms behind. TheChief comes alone first, and Carnehan shakeshands with him and whirls his arms about,same as Dravot used, and very much surprisedthat Chief was, and strokes my eyebrows.Then Carnehan goes alone to theChief, and asks him in dumb show if hehad an enemy he hated. ‘I have,’ says theChief. So Carnehan weeds out the pick ofhis men, and sets the two of the Army toshow them drill and at the end of two weeksthe men can manœuvre about as well asVolunteers. So he marches with the Chiefto a great big plain on the top of a mountain,and the Chiefs men rushes into a villageand takes it; we three Martinis firing intothe brown of the enemy. So we took thatvillage too, and I gives the Chief a rag frommy coat and says, ‘Occupy till I come’:which was scriptural. By way of a reminder,when me and the Army was eighteen hundredyards away, I drops a bullet near himstanding on the snow, and all the peoplefalls flat on their faces. Then I sends a letterto Dravot, wherever he be by land or bysea.”At the risk of throwing the creature out oftrain I interrupted,—“How could you writea letter up yonder?”

“The letter?—Oh! — The letter! Keeplooking at me between the eyes, please. Itwas a string-talk letter, that we’d learnedthe way of it from a blind beggar in thePunjab.”I remember that there had once come tothe office a blind man with a knotted twigand a piece of string which he wound roundthe twig according to some cypher of hisown. He could, after the lapse of days orhours, repeat the sentence which he hadreeled up. He had reduced the alphabet toeleven primitive sounds; and tried to teachme his method, but failed.“I sent that letter to Dravot,” said Carnehan;“and told him to come back becausethis Kingdom was growing too big for me tohandle, and then I struck for the first valley,to see how the priests were working. Theycalled the village we took along with theChief, Bashkai, and the first village we took,Er-Heb. The priest at Er-Heb was doing allright, but they had a lot of pending casesabout land to show me, and some men fromanother village had been firing arrows atnight. I went out and looked for that villageand fired four rounds at it from a thousandyards. That used all the cartridges Icared to spend, and I waited for Dravot, whohad been away two or three months, and Ikept my people quiet.“One morning I heard the devil’s ownnoise of drums and horns, and Dan Dravotmarches down the hill with his Army and atail of hundreds of men, and, which was themost amazing—a great gold crown on hishead. ‘My Gord, Carnehan,’ says Daniel,‘this is a tremenjus business, and we’ve gotthe whole country as far as it’s worth having.I am the son of Alexander by Queen Semiramis,and you’re my younger brother and

a god too! It’s the biggest thing we’ve everseen. I’ve been marching and fighting forsix weeks with the Army, and every footylittle village for fifty miles has come in rejoiceful;and more than that, I’ve got thekey of the whole show, as you’ll see, andI’ve got a crown for you! I told ’em tomake two of ’em at a place called Shu, wherethe gold lies in the rock like suet in mutton.Gold I’ve seen, and turquoise I’ve kicked outof the cliffs, and there’s garnets in the sandsof the river, and here’s a chunk of amberthat a man brought me. Call up all thepriests and, here, take your crown.’“One of the men opens a black hair bagand I slips the crown on. It was too smalland too heavy, but I wore it for the glory.Hammered gold it was—five pound weight,like a hoop of a barrel.“‘Peachey,’ says Dravot, ‘we don’t want tofight no more. The Craft’s the trick so helpme!’ and he brings forward that same Chiefthat I left at Bashkai—Billy Fish we calledhim afterwards, because he was so like BillyFish that drove the big tank-engine at Machon the Bolan in the old days. ‘Shake handswith him,’ says Dravot, and I shook handsand nearly dropped, for Billy Fish gave methe Grip. I said nothing, but tried himwith the Fellow Craft Grip. He answers,all right, and I tried the Master’s Grip, butthat was a slip. ‘A Fellow Craft he is!’I says to Dan. ‘Does he know the word?’‘He does,’ says Dan, ‘and all the priestsknow. It’s a miracle! The Chiefs andthe priest can work a Fellow Craft Lodgein a way that’s very like ours, and they’vecut the marks on the rocks, but theydon’t know the Third Degree, and they’vecome to find out. It’s Gord’s Truth.I’ve known these long years that the

Afghans knew up to the Fellow CraftDegree, but this is a miracle. A god and aGrand-Master of the Craft am I, and aLodge in the Third Degree I will open, andwe’ll raise the head priests and the Chiefs ofthe villages.’“‘It’s against all the law,’ I says, ‘holdinga Lodge without warrant from any one;and we never held office in any Lodge.’“‘It’s a master-stroke of policy,’ saysDravot. ‘It means running the country aseasy as a four-wheeled bogy on a downgrade. We can’t stop to inquire now, orthey’ll turn against us. I’ve forty Chiefs atmy heel, and passed and raised accordingto their merit they shall be. Billet thesemen on the villages and see that we run upa Lodge of some kind. The temple of Imbrawill do for the Lodge-room. The womenmust make aprons as you show them. I’llhold a levee of Chiefs tonight and Lodge to-morrow.’“I was fair rim off my legs, but I wasn’tsuch a fool as not to see what a pull thisCraft business gave us. I showed thepriests’ families how to make aprons ofthe degrees, but for Dravot’s apron the blueborder and marks was made of turquoiselumps on white hide, not cloth. We took agreat square stone in the temple for theMaster’s chair, and little stones for the officers’chairs, and painted the black pavementwith white squares, and did what wecould to make things regular.“At the levee which was held that nighton the hillside with big bonfires, Dravotgives out that him and me were gods andsons of Alexander, and Past Grand-Mastersin the Craft, and was come to make Kafiristana country where every man should eatin peace and drink in quiet, and speciallyobey us. Then the Chiefs come round to

shake hands, and they was so hairy andwhite and fair it was just shaking handswith old friends. We gave them names accordingas they was like men we had knownin India—Billy Fish, Holly Dilworth, PikkyKergan that was Bazar-master when I wasat Mhow, and so on, and so on.“The most amazing miracle was at Lodgenext night. One of the old priests waswatching us continuous, and I felt uneasy,for I knew we’d have to fudge the Ritual,and I didn’t know what the men knew. Theold priest was a stranger come in from beyondthe village of Bashkai. The minuteDravot puts on the Master’s apron that thegirls had made for him, the priest fetches awhoop and a howl, and tries to overturn thestone that Dravot was sitting on. ‘It’s allup now,’ I says. ‘That comes of meddlingwith the Craft without warrant!’ Dravotnever winked an eye, not when ten prieststook and tilted over the Grand-Master’s chair—which was to say the stone of Imbra. Thepriest begins rubbing the bottom end of itto clear away the black dirt, and presentlyhe shows all the other priests the Master’sMark, same as was on Dravot’s apron, cutinto the stone. Not even the priests ofthe temple of Imbra knew it was there. Theold chap falls flat on his face at Dravot’s feetand kisses ’em. ‘Luck again,’ says Dravot,across the Lodge to me, ‘they say it’s themissing Mark that no one could understandthe why of. We’re more than safe now.’Then he bangs the butt of his gun for agavel and says:—‘By virtue of the authorityvested in me by my own right hand andthe help of Peachey, I declare myself Grand-Masterof all Freemasonry in Kafiristan inthis the Mother Lodge o’ the country, andKing of Kafiristan equally with Peachey!’

At that he puts on his crown and I puts onmine—I was doing Senior Warden—and weopens the Lodge in most ample form. Itwas a amazing miracle! The priests movedin Lodge through the first two degrees almostwithout telling, as if the memory wascoming back to them. After that, Peacheyand Dravot raised such as was worthy—high priests and Chiefs of far-off villages.Billy Fish was the first, and I can tell youwe scared the soul out of him. It was notin any way according to Ritual, but it servedour turn. We didn’t raise more than ten ofthe biggest men because we didn’t want tomake the Degree common. And they wasclamoring to be raised.“‘In another six months,’ says Dravot,‘we’ll hold another Communication and seehow you are working.’ Then he asks themabout their villages, and learns that theywas fighting one against the other and werefair sick and tired of it. And when theywasn’t doing that they was fighting withthe Mohammedans. ‘You can fight thosewhen they come into our country,’ saysDravot. ‘Tell off every tenth man of yourtribes for a Frontier guard, and send twohundred at a time to this valley to be drilled.Nobody is going to be shot or speared anymore so long as he does well, and I knowthat you won’t cheat me because you’rewhite people—sons of Alexander—and notlike common, black Mohammedans. You aremy people and by God,’ says he, runningoff into English at the end—‘I’ll make adamned fine Nation of you, or I’ll die in the making!’

The Man Who Would Be King Pages 25-37by Rudyard Kipling

“I can’t tell all we did for the next sixmonths because Dravot did a lot I couldn’tsee the hang of, and he learned their lingoin a way I never could. My work was tohelp the people plough, and now and againto go out with some of the Army and seewhat the other villages were doing, andmake ’em throw rope-bridges across theravines which cut up the country horrid.Dravot was very kind to me, but when hewalked up and down in the pine wood pullingthat bloody red beard of his with bothfists I knew he was thinking plans I couldnot advise him about, and I just waited fororders.“But Dravot never showed me disrespectbefore the people. They were afraid of meand the Army, but they loved Dan. Hewas the best of friends with the priests andthe Chiefs; but any one could come acrossthe hills with a complaint and Dravot wouldhear him out fair, and call four priests togetherand say what was to be done. Heused to call in Billy Fish from Bashkai, andPikky Kergan from Shu, and an old Chiefwe called Kafuzelum—it was like enough tohis real name—and hold councils with ’emwhen there was any fighting to be done insmall villages. That was his Council ofWar, and the four priests of Bashkai, Shu,Khawak, and Madora was his Privy Council.Between the lot of ’em they sent me, withforty men and twenty rifles, and sixty mencarrying turquoises, into the Ghorbandcountry to buy those hand-made Martinirifles, that come out of the Amir’s workshops

at Kabul, from one of the Amir’s Herati regimentsthat would have sold the very teethout of their mouths for turquoises.“I stayed in Ghorband a month, and gavethe Governor the pick of my baskets forhush-money, and bribed the colonel of theregiment some more, and, between the twoand the tribes-people, we got more than ahundred hand-made Martinis, a hundredgood Kohat Jezails that’ll throw to six hundredyards, and forty manloads of very badammunition for the rifles. I came back withwhat I had, and distributed ’em among themen that the Chiefs sent in to me to drill.Dravot was too busy to attend to thosethings, but the old Army that we first madehelped me, and we turned out five hundredmen that could drill, and two hundred thatknew how to hold arms pretty straight.Even those cork-screwed, hand-made gunswas a miracle to them. Dravot talked bigabout powder-shops and factories, walkingup and down in the pine wood when thewinter was coming on.“‘I won’t make a Nation,’ says he. ‘I’llmake an Empire! These men aren’t niggers;they’re English! Look at their eyes—look at their mouths. Look at the way theystand up. They sit on chairs in their ownhouses. They’re the Lost Tribes, or somethinglike it, and they’ve grown to be English.I’ll take a census in the spring if thepriests don’t get frightened. There must bea fair two million of ’em in these hills. Thevillages are full o’ little children. Two millionpeople—two hundred and fifty thousandfighting men—and all English!  They onlywant the rifles and a little drilling. Twohundred and fifty thousand men, ready tocut in on Russia’s right flank when she triesfor India! Peachey, man,’ he says, chewing

his beard in great hunks, ‘we shall be Emperors—Emperors of the Earth!  RajahBrooke will be a suckling to us. I’ll treatwith the Viceroy on equal terms. I’ll askhim to send me twelve picked English—twelve that I know of—to help us govern abit. There’s Mackray, Sergeant-pensioner atSegowli—many’s the good dinner he’s givenme, and his wife a pair of trousers. There’sDonkin, the Warder of Tounghoo Jail;there’s hundreds that I could lay my handon if I was in India. The Viceroy shall doit for me. I’ll send a man through in thespring for those men, and I’ll write for adispensation from the Grand Lodge for whatI’ve done as Grand-Master. That—and allthe Sniders that’ll be thrown out when thenative troops in India take up the Martini.They’ll be worn smooth, but they’ll do forfighting in these hills. Twelve English, ahundred thousand Sniders run through theAmir’s country in driblets—I’d be contentwith twenty thousand in one year—and we’dbe an Empire. When everything was ship-shape,I’d hand over the crown—this crownI’m wearing now—to Queen Victoria on myknees, and she’d say:—“Rise up, Sir DanielDravot.” Oh, its big! It’s big, I tell you!But there’s so much to be done in everyplace—Bashkai, Khawak, Shu, and everywhereelse.’“‘What is it?’ I says. ‘There are nomore men coming in to be drilled thisautumn. Look at those fat, black clouds.They’re bringing the snow.’“‘It isn’t that,’ says Daniel, putting hishand very hard on my shoulder; ‘and Idon’t wish to say anything that’s againstyou, for no other living man would havefollowed me and made me what I am as youhave done. You’re a first-class Commander-in-Chief,

and the people know you; but—it’sa big country, and somehow you can’t helpme, Peachey, in the way I want to be helped.’“‘Go to your blasted priests, then!’ I said,and I was sorry when I made that remark,but it did hurt me sore to find Daniel talkingso superior when I’d drilled all the men, anddone all he told me.“‘Don’t let’s quarrel, Peachey,’ says Danielwithout cursing. ‘You’re a King too,and the half of this Kingdom is yours; butcan’t you see, Peachey, we want cleverermen than us now—three or four of ‘em thatwe can scatter about for our Deputies? It’sa hugeous great State, and I can’t always tellthe right thing to do, and I haven’t time forall I want to do, and here’s the winter comingon and all.’ He put half his beard intohis mouth, and it was as red as the gold ofhis crown.“‘I’m sorry, Daniel,’ says I. ‘I’ve doneall I could. I’ve drilled the men and shownthe people how to stack their oats better, andI’ve brought in those tinware rifles fromGhorband—but I know what you’re drivingat. I take it Kings always feel oppressedthat way.’“‘There’s another thing too,’ says Dravot,walking up and down. ‘The winter’s comingand these people won’t be giving muchtrouble, and if they do we can’t move about.I want a wife.’“‘For Gord’s sake leave the women alone!’I says. ‘We’ve both got all the work wecan, though I am a fool. Remember theContrack, and keep clear o’ women.’“‘The Contrack only lasted till such timeas we was Kings; and Kings we have beenthese months past,’ says Dravot, weighinghis crown in his hand. ‘You go get a wifetoo, Peachey—a nice, strappin’, plump girl

that’ll keep you warm in the winter. They’reprettier than English girls, and we can takethe pick of ’em. Boil ’em once or twice inhot water, and they’ll come as fair as chickenand ham.’“‘Don’t tempt me!’ I says. ‘I will nothave any dealings with a woman not till weare a dam’ side more settled than we are now.I’ve been doing the work o’ two men, andyou’ve been doing the work o’ three. Let’slie off a bit, and see if we can get somebetter tobacco from Afghan country and runin some good liquor; but no women.’“‘Who’s talking o’ women?’ says Dravot.‘I said wife—a Queen to breed a King’s sonfor the King. A Queen out of the strongesttribe, that’ll make them your blood-brothers,and that’ll lie by your side and tell you allthe people thinks about you and their ownaffairs. That’s what I want.’“‘Do you remember that Bengali womanI kept at Mogul Serai when I was plate-layer?’says I. ‘A fat lot o’ good she wasto me. She taught me the lingo and one ortwo other things; but what happened? Sheran away with the Station Master’s servantand half my month’s pay. Then she turnedup at Dadur Junction in tow of a half-caste,and had the impidence to say I was her husband—all among the drivers of the running-shed!’“‘We’ve done with that,’ says Dravot.‘These women are whiter than you or me, anda Queen I will have for the winter months.’“‘For the last time o’ asking, Dan, donot,’ I says. ‘It’ll only bring us harm. TheBible says that Kings ain’t to waste theirstrength on women, ’specially when they’vegot a new raw Kingdom to work over.’“‘For the last time of answering, I will,’said Dravot, and he went away through thepine-trees looking like a big red devil. The

low sun hit his crown and beard on one side,and the two blazed like hot coals.“But getting a wife was not as easy asDan thought. He put it before the Council,and there was no answer till Billy Fish saidthat he’d better ask the girls. Dravotdamned them all round. ‘What’s wrongwith me?’ he shouts, standing by the idolImbra. ‘Am I a dog or am I not enoughof a man for your wenches? Haven’t I putthe shadow of my hand over this country?Who stopped the last Afghan raid?’ It wasme really, but Dravot was too angry to remember.‘Who bought your guns? Whorepaired the bridges? Who’s the Grand-Masterof the sign cut in the stone?’ and hethumped his hand on the block that he usedto sit on in Lodge, and at Council, whichopened like Lodge always. Billy Fish saidnothing and no more did the others. ‘Keepyour hair on, Dan,’ said I; ‘and ask thegirls. That’s how it’s done at home, andthese people are quite English.’“‘The marriage of a King is a matter ofState,’ says Dan, in a white-hot rage, for hecould feel, I hope, that he was going againsthis better mind. He walked out of theCouncil-room, and the others sat still, lookingat the ground.“‘Billy Fish,’ says I to the Chief of Bashkai,‘what’s the difficulty here? A straightanswer to a true friend.’ ‘You know,’ saysBilly Fish. ‘How should a man tell youwho know everything? How can daughtersof men marry gods or devils? It’s notproper.’“I remembered something like that in theBible; but if, after seeing us as long as theyhad, they still believed we were gods itwasn’t for me to undeceive them.

“‘A god can do anything,’ says I. ‘Ifthe King is fond of a girl he’ll not let herdie.’ ‘She’ll have to,’ said Billy Fish.‘There are all sorts of gods and devils inthese mountains, and now and again a girlmarries one of them and isn’t seen any more.Besides, you two know the Mark cut in thestone. Only the gods know that. Wethought you were men till you showed thesign of the Master.’“‘I wished then that we had explainedabout the loss of the genuine secrets of aMaster-Mason at the first go-off; but I saidnothing. All that night there was a blowingof horns in a little dark temple half-waydown the hill, and I heard a girl crying fitto die. One of the priests told us that shewas being prepared to marry the King.“‘I’ll have no nonsense of that kind,’says Dan. ‘I don’t want to interfere withyour customs, but I’ll take my own wife.‘The girl’s a little bit afraid,’ says the priest.‘She thinks she’s going to die, and they area-heartening of her up down in the temple.’“‘Hearten her very tender, then,’ saysDravot, ‘or I’ll hearten you with the buttof a gun so that you’ll never want to beheartened again.’ He licked his lips, didDan, and stayed up walking about morethan half the night, thinking of the wifethat he was going to get in the morning. Iwasn’t any means comfortable, for I knewthat dealings with a woman in foreign parts,though you was a crowned King twentytimes over, could not but be risky. I got upvery early in the morning while Dravot wasasleep, and I saw the priests talking togetherin whispers, and the Chiefs talking togethertoo, and they looked at me out of the cornersof their eyes.

“‘What is up, Fish?’ I says to the Bashkaiman, who was wrapped up in his fursand looking splendid to behold.“‘I can’t rightly say,’ says he; ‘but if youcan induce the King to drop all this nonsenseabout marriage, you’ll be doing him and meand yourself a great service.’“‘That I do believe,’ says I. ‘But sure,you know, Billy, as well as me, havingfought against and for us, that the Kingand me are nothing more than two of thefinest men that God Almighty ever made.Nothing more, I do assure you.’“‘That may be,’ says Billy Fish, ‘and yetI should be sorry if it was.’ He sinks hishead upon his great fur cloak for a minuteand thinks. ‘King,’ says he, ‘be you manor god or devil, I’ll stick by you to-day. Ihave twenty of my men with me, and theywill follow me. We’ll go to Bashkai untilthe storm blows over.’“A little snow had fallen in the night, andeverything was white except the greasy fatclouds that blew down and down from thenorth. Dravot came out with his crownon his head, swinging his arms and stampinghis feet, and looking more pleased thanPunch.“‘For the last time, drop it, Dan,’ says Iin a whisper. ‘Billy Fish here says thatthere will be a row.’“‘A row among my people!’ says Dravot.‘Not much. Peachy, you’re a fool not toget a wife too. Where’s the girl?’ says hewith a voice as loud as the braying of ajackass. ‘Call up all the Chiefs and priests,and let the Emperor see if his wife suits him.’“There was no need to call any one. Theywere all there leaning on their guns andspears round the clearing in the centre ofthe pine wood. A deputation of priests went

down to the little temple to bring up thegirl, and the horns blew up fit to wake thedead. Billy Fish saunters round and getsas close to Daniel as he could, and behindhim stood his twenty men with matchlocks.Not a man of them under six feet. I wasnext to Dravot, and behind me was twentymen of the regular Army. Up comes thegirl, and a strapping wench she was, coveredwith silver and turquoises but white as death,and looking back every minute at the priests.“‘She’ll do,’ said Dan, looking her over.‘What’s to be afraid of, lass? Come andkiss me.’ He puts his arm round her. Sheshuts her eyes, gives a bit of a squeak, anddown goes her face in the side of Dan’s flamingred beard.“‘The slut’s bitten me!’ says he, clappinghis hand to his neck, and, sure enough, hishand was red with blood. Billy Fish andtwo of his matchlock-men catches hold ofDan by the shoulders and drags him into theBashkai lot, while the priests howls in theirlingo,—‘Neither god nor devil but a man!’I was all taken aback, for a priest cut at mein front, and the Army behind began firinginto the Bashkai men.“‘God A-mighty!’ says Dan. ‘What isthe meaning o’ this?’“‘Come back! Come away!’ says BillyFish. ‘Ruin and Mutiny is the matter.We’ll break for Bashkai if we can.’“I tried to give some sort of orders to mymen—the men o’ the regular Army—but itwas no use, so I fired into the brown of ’emwith an English Martini and drilled threebeggars in a line. The valley was full ofshouting, howling creatures, and every soulwas shrieking, ‘Not a god nor a devil butonly a man!’ The Bashkai troops stuck toBilly Fish all they were worth, but their

matchlocks wasn’t half as good as the Kabulbreech-loaders, and four of them dropped.Dan was bellowing like a bull, for he wasvery wrathy; and Billy Fish had a hard jobto prevent him running out at the crowd.“‘We can’t stand,’ says Billy Fish.‘Make a run for it down the valley! Thewhole place is against us.’ The matchlock-menran, and we went down the valleyin spite of Dravot’s protestations. He wasswearing horribly and crying out that hewas a King. The priests rolled great stoneson us, and the regular Army fired hard, andthere wasn’t more than six men, not countingDan, Billy Fish, and Me, that camedown to the bottom of the valley alive.“‘Then they stopped firing and the hornsin the temple blew again. ‘Come away—for Gord’s sake come away!’ says BillyFish. ‘They’ll send runners out to all thevillages before ever we get to Bashkai. Ican protect you there, but I can’t do anythingnow.’“My own notion is that Dan began to gomad in his head from that hour. He staredup and down like a stuck pig. Then he wasall for walking back alone and killing thepriests with his bare hands; which he couldhave done. ‘An Emperor am I,’ says Daniel,‘and next year I shall be a Knight of theQueen.“‘All right, Dan,’ says I; ‘but comealong now while there’s time.’“‘It’s your fault,’ says he, ‘for not lookingafter your Army better. There wasmutiny in the midst, and you didn’t know—you damned engine-driving, plate-laying,missionary’s-pass-hunting hound!’ He satupon a rock and called me every foul namehe could lay tongue to. I was too heart-sick

to care, though it was all his foolishnessthat brought the smash.“‘I’m sorry, Dan,’ says I, ‘but there’s noaccounting for natives. This business is ourFifty-Seven. Maybe we’ll make somethingout of it yet, when we’ve got to Bashkai.’“‘Let’s get to Bashkai, then,’ says Dan,‘and, by God, when I come back here againI’ll sweep the valley so there isn’t a bug ina blanket left!’“‘We walked all that day, and all thatnight Dan was stumping up and down onthe snow, chewing his beard and mutteringto himself.“‘There’s no hope o’ getting clear,’ saidBilly Fish. ‘The priests will have sentrunners to the villages to say that you areonly men. Why didn’t you stick on as godstill things was more settled? I’m a deadman,’ says Billy Fish, and he throws himselfdown on the snow and begins to prayto his gods.“Next morning we was in a cruel badcountry—all up and down, no level groundat all, and no food either. The six Bashkaimen looked at Billy Fish hungry-wise as ifthey wanted to ask something, but they saidnever a word. At noon we came to the topof a flat mountain all covered with snow,and when we climbed up into it, behold,there was an army in position waiting inthe middle!“‘The runners have been very quick,’says Billy Fish, with a little bit of a laugh.‘They are waiting for us.’“Three or four men began to fire from theenemy’s side, and a chance shot took Danielin the calf of the leg. That brought him tohis senses. He looks across the snow at theArmy, and sees the rifles that we hadbrought into the country.

“‘We’re done for,’ says he. ‘They areEnglishmen, these people,—and it’s myblasted nonsense that has brought you tothis. Get back, Billy Fish, and take yourmen away; you’ve done what you could,and now cut for it. Carnehan,’ says he,‘shake hands with me and go along withBilly. Maybe they won’t kill you. I’ll goand meet ’em alone. It’s me that did it.Me, the King!’“‘Go!’ says I. ‘Go to Hell, Dan. I’mwith you here. Billy Fish, you clear out,and we two will meet those folk.’“‘I’m a Chief,’ says Billy Fish, quitequiet. ‘I stay with you. My men can go.’“The Bashkai fellows didn’t wait for asecond word but ran off, and Dan and Meand Billy Fish walked across to where thedrums were drumming and the horns werehorning. It was cold-awful cold. I’vegot that cold in the back of my head now.There’s a lump of it there.”The punkah-coolies had gone to sleep.Two kerosene lamps were blazing in theoffice, and the perspiration poured down myface and splashed on the blotter as I leanedforward. Carnehan was shivering, and Ifeared that his mind might go. I wipedmy face, took a fresh grip of the piteouslymangled hands, and said:—“What happenedafter that?”The momentary shift of my eyes hadbroken the clear current.“What was you pleased to say?” whinedCarnehan. “They took them without anysound. Not a little whisper all along the snow,not though the King knocked down the firstman that set hand on him—not though oldPeachey fired his last cartridge into thebrown of ’em. Not a single solitary sounddid those swines make. They just closed up,

tight, and I tell you their furs stunk. Therewas a man called Billy Fish, a good friendof us all, and they cut his throat, Sir, thenand there, like a pig; and the King kicksup the bloody snow and says:—‘We’ve had adashed fine run for our money. What’scoming next?’ But Peachey, PeacheyTaliaferro, I tell you, Sir, in confidence as betwixttwo friends, he lost his head, Sir. No,he didn’t neither. The King lost his head,so he did, all along o’ one of those cunningrope-bridges. Kindly let me have thepaper-cutter, Sir. It tilted this way. Theymarched him a mile across that snow to arope-bridge over a ravine with a river at thebottom. You may have seen such.  Theyprodded him behind like an ox. ‘Damnyour eyes!’ says the King. ‘D’yousuppose I can’t die like a gentleman?’ Heturns to Peachey—Peachey that was cryinglike a child. ‘I’ve brought you to this,Peachey,’ says he. ‘Brought you out ofyour happy life to be killed in Kafiristan,where you was late Commander-in-Chief ofthe Emperor’s forces. Say you forgive me,Peachey.’ ‘I do,’ says Peachey. ‘Fully andfreely do I forgive you, Dan.’ ‘Shakehands, Peachey,’ says he. ‘I’m going now.’Out he goes, looking neither right nor left,and when he was plumb in the middle of thosedizzy dancing ropes, ‘Cut, you beggars,’ heshouts; and they cut, and old Dan fell,turning round and round and round, twentythousand miles, for he took half an hour tofall till he struck the water, and I could seehis body caught on a rock with the goldcrown close beside.“But do you know what they did toPeachey between two pine-trees? Theycrucified him, sir, as Peachey’s hands willshow. They used wooden pegs for his hands

and his feet; and he didn’t die. He hungthere and screamed, and they took himdown next day, and said it was a miraclethat he wasn’t dead. They took him down—poor old Peachey that hadn’t done themany harm—that hadn’t done them any…”He rocked to and fro and wept bitterly,wiping his eyes with the back of his scarredhands and moaning like a child for someten minutes.“They was cruel enough to feed him upin the temple, because they said he was moreof a god than old Daniel that was a man.Then they turned him out on the snow, andtold him to go home, and Peachey camehome in about a year, begging along theroads quite safe; for Daniel Dravot he walkedbefore and said:—‘Come along, Peachey.It’s a big thing we’re doing.’ The mountainsthey danced at night, and the mountainsthey tried to fall on Peachey’s head,but Dan he held up his hand, and Peacheycame along bent double. He never let goof Dan’s hand, and he never let go of Dan’shead. They gave it to him as a present inthe temple, to remind him not to come again,and though the crown was pure gold, andPeachey was starving, never would Peacheysell the same. You knew Dravot, sir! Youknew Right Worshipful Brother Dravot!Look at him now!”He fumbled in the mass of rags round hisbent waist; brought out a black horsehairbag embroidered with silver thread; andshook therefrom on to my table—the dried,withered head of Daniel Dravot! The morningsun that had long been paling the lampsstruck the red beard and blind sunken eyes;struck, too, a heavy circlet of gold studdedwith raw turquoises, that Carnehan placedtenderly on the battered temples.

“You behold now,” said Carnehan, “theEmperor in his habit as he lived—the Kingof Kafiristan with his crown upon hishead. Poor old Daniel that was a monarchonce!”I shuddered, for, in spite of defacementsmanifold, I recognized the head of the manof Marwar Junction. Carnehan rose to go.I attempted to stop him. He was not fit towalk abroad. “Let me take away the whiskey,and give me a little money,” he gasped.“I was a King once. I’ll go to the DeputyCommissioner and ask to set in the Poor-housetill I get my health. No, thank you,I can’t wait till you get a carriage for me.I’ve urgent private affairs—in the south—atMarwar.”He shambled out of the office and departedin the direction of the Deputy Commissioner’shouse. That day at noon I hadoccasion to go down the blinding hot Mall,and I saw a crooked man crawling along thewhite dust of the roadside, his hat in hishand, quavering dolorously after the fashionof street-singers at Home. There was not asoul in sight, and he was out of all possibleearshot of the houses. And he sang throughhis nose, turning his head from right to left:—   “The Son of Man goes forth to war,      A golden crown to gain;    His blood-red banner streams afar—      Who follows in his train?”I waited to hear no more, but put the poorwretch into my carriage and drove him off tothe nearest missionary for eventual transferto the Asylum. He repeated the hymn twicewhile he was with me whom he did not inthe least recognize, and I left him singing tothe missionary.Two days later I inquired after his welfareof the Superintendent of the Asylum.

“He was admitted suffering from sun-stroke.He died early yesterday morning,”said the Superintendent. “Is it true that hewas half an hour bareheaded in the sun atmidday?”“Yes,” said I, “but do you happen toknow if he had anything upon him by anychance when he died?”“Not to my knowledge,” said the Superintendent.

And there the matter rests.

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