Chapter 1

THE PHANTOM ‘RICKSHAW AND OTHER GHOST STORIES

By Rudyard Kipling

* * * * *

The Phantom ‘Rickshaw
My Own True Ghost Story
The Strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes
The Man Who Would Be King
“The Finest Story in The World”

* * * * *

THE PHANTOM ‘RICKSHAW

May no ill dreams disturb my rest,
Nor Powers of Darkness me molest.
--_Evening Hymn._

One of the few advantages that India has over England is a great
Knowability. After five years’ service a man is directly or indirectly
acquainted with the two or three hundred Civilians in his Province, all
the Messes of ten or twelve Regiments and Batteries, and some fifteen
hundred other people of the non-official caste. In ten years his
knowledge should be doubled, and at the end of twenty he knows, or knows
something about, every Englishman in the Empire, and may travel anywhere
and everywhere without paying hotel-bills.

Globe-trotters who expect entertainment as a right, have, even within my
memory, blunted this open-heartedness, but none the less to-day, if you
belong to the Inner Circle and are neither a Bear nor a Black Sheep,
all houses are open to you, and our small world is very, very kind and
helpful.

Rickett of Kamartha stayed with Polder of Kumaon some fifteen years ago.
He meant to stay two nights, but was knocked down by rheumatic fever,
and for six weeks disorganized Polder’s establishment, stopped Polder’s
work, and nearly died in Polder’s bedroom. Polder behaves as though he
had been placed under eternal obligation by Rickett, and yearly
sends the little Ricketts a box of presents and toys. It is the same
everywhere. The men who do not take the trouble to conceal from you
their opinion that you are an incompetent ass, and the women who blacken
your character and misunderstand your wife’s amusements, will work
themselves to the bone in your behalf if you fall sick or into serious
trouble.

Heatherlegh, the Doctor, kept, in addition to his regular practice,
a hospital on his private account--an arrangement of loose boxes for
Incurables, his friend called it--but it was really a sort of fitting-up
shed for craft that had been damaged by stress of weather. The weather
in India is often sultry, and since the tale of bricks is always a fixed
quantity, and the only liberty allowed is permission to work overtime
and get no thanks, men occasionally break down and become as mixed as
the metaphors in this sentence.

Heatherlegh is the dearest doctor that ever was, and his invariable
prescription to all his patients is, “lie low, go slow, and keep cool.”
He says that more men are killed by overwork than the importance of this
world justifies. He maintains that overwork slew Pansay, who died under
his hands about three years ago. He has, of course, the right to speak
authoritatively, and he laughs at my theory that there was a crack
in Pansay’s head and a little bit of the Dark World came through and
pressed him to death. “Pansay went off the handle,” says Heatherlegh,
“after the stimulus of long leave at Home. He may or he may not have
behaved like a blackguard to Mrs. Keith-Wessington. My notion is that
the work of the Katabundi Settlement ran him off his legs, and that he
took to brooding and making much of an ordinary P. & O. flirtation. He
certainly was engaged to Miss Mannering, and she certainly broke off the
engagement. Then he took a feverish chill and all that nonsense about
ghosts developed. Overwork started his illness, kept it alight, and
killed him poor devil. Write him off to the System--one man to take the
work of two and a half men.”

I do not believe this. I used to sit up with Pansay sometimes when
Heatherlegh was called out to patients, and I happened to be within
claim. The man would make me most unhappy by describing in a low, even
voice, the procession that was always passing at the bottom of his bed.
He had a sick man’s command of language. When he recovered I suggested
that he should write out the whole affair from beginning to end, knowing
that ink might assist him to ease his mind. When little boys have
learned a new bad word they are never happy till they have chalked it up
on a door. And this also is Literature.

He was in a high fever while he was writing, and the blood-and-thunder
Magazine diction he adopted did not calm him. Two months afterward
he was reported fit for duty, but, in spite of the fact that he was
urgently needed to help an undermanned Commission stagger through a
deficit, he preferred to die; vowing at the last that he was hag-ridden.
I got his manuscript before he died, and this is his version of the
affair, dated 1885:

My doctor tells me that I need rest and change of air. It is not
improbable that I shall get both ere long--rest that neither the
red-coated messenger nor the midday gun can break, and change of air
far beyond that which any homeward-bound steamer can give me. In the
meantime I am resolved to stay where I am; and, in flat defiance of my
doctor’s orders, to take all the world into my confidence. You shall
learn for yourselves the precise nature of my malady; and shall, too,
judge for yourselves whether any man born of woman on this weary earth
was ever so tormented as I.

Speaking now as a condemned criminal might speak ere the drop-bolts are
drawn, my story, wild and hideously improbable as it may appear,
demands at least attention. That it will ever receive credence I utterly
disbelieve. Two months ago I should have scouted as mad or drunk the man
who had dared tell me the like. Two months ago I was the happiest man in
India. Today, from Peshawur to the sea, there is no one more wretched.
My doctor and I are the only two who know this. His explanation is, that
my brain, digestion, and eyesight are all slightly affected; giving rise
to my frequent and persistent “delusions.” Delusions, indeed! I call him
a fool; but he attends me still with the same unwearied smile, the same
bland professional manner, the same neatly trimmed red whiskers, till I
begin to suspect that I am an ungrateful, evil-tempered invalid. But you
shall judge for your-selves.

Three years ago it was my fortune--my great misfortune--to sail
from Gravesend to Bombay, on return from long leave, with one Agnes
Keith-Wessington, wife of an officer on the Bombay side. It does not in
the least concern you to know what manner of woman she was. Be content
with the knowledge that, ere the voyage had ended, both she and I were
desperately and unreasoningly in love with one another. Heaven knows
that I can make the admission now without one particle of vanity. In
matters of this sort there is always one who gives and another who
accepts. From the first day of our ill-omened attachment, I was
conscious that Agnes’s passion was a stronger, a more dominant, and--if
I may use the expression--a purer sentiment than mine. Whether she
recognized the fact then, I do not know. Afterward it was bitterly plain
to both of us.

Arrived at Bombay in the spring of the year, we went our respective
ways, to meet no more for the next three or four months, when my leave
and her love took us both to Simla. There we spent the season together;
and there my fire of straw burned itself out to a pitiful end with the
closing year. I attempt no excuse. I make no apology. Mrs. Wessington
had given up much for my sake, and was prepared to give up all. From my
own lips, in August, 1882, she learned that I was sick of her presence,
tired of her company, and weary of the sound of her voice. Ninety-nine
women out of a hundred would have wearied of me as I wearied of them;
seventy-five of that number would have promptly avenged themselves by
active and obtrusive flirtation with other men. Mrs. Wessington was the
hundredth. On her neither my openly expressed aversion nor the cutting
brutalities with which I garnished our interviews had the least effect.

“Jack, darling!” was her one eternal cuckoo cry: “I’m sure it’s all a
mistake--a hideous mistake; and we’ll be good friends again some day.
_Please_ forgive me, Jack, dear.”

I was the offender, and I knew it. That knowledge transformed my pity
into passive endurance, and, eventually, into blind hate--the same
instinct, I suppose, which prompts a man to savagely stamp on the spider
he has but half killed. And with this hate in my bosom the season of
1882 came to an end.

Next year we met again at Simla--she with her monotonous face and timid
attempts at reconciliation, and I with loathing of her in every fibre of
my frame. Several times I could not avoid meeting her alone; and on each
occasion her words were identically the same. Still the unreasoning wail
that it was all a “mistake”; and still the hope of eventually “making
friends.” I might have seen had I cared to look, that that hope only was
keeping her alive. She grew more wan and thin month by month. You will
agree with me, at least, that such conduct would have driven any one to
despair. It was uncalled for; childish; unwomanly. I maintain that she
was much to blame. And again, sometimes, in the black, fever-stricken
night-watches, I have begun to think that I might have been a little
kinder to her. But that really is a “delusion.” I could not have
continued pretending to love her when I didn’t; could I? It would have
been unfair to us both.

Last year we met again--on the same terms as before. The same weary
appeal, and the same curt answers from my lips. At least I would make
her see how wholly wrong and hopeless were her attempts at resuming the
old relationship. As the season wore on, we fell apart--that is to say,
she found it difficult to meet me, for I had other and more absorbing
interests to attend to. When I think it over quietly in my sick-room,
the season of 1884 seems a confused nightmare wherein light and shade
were fantastically intermingled--my courtship of little Kitty Mannering;
my hopes, doubts, and fears; our long rides together; my trembling
avowal of attachment; her reply; and now and again a vision of a white
face flitting by in the ‘rickshaw with the black and white liveries
I once watched for so earnestly; the wave of Mrs. Wessington’s gloved
hand; and, when she met me alone, which was but seldom, the irksome
monotony of her appeal. I loved Kitty Mannering; honestly, heartily
loved her, and with my love for her grew my hatred for Agnes. In August
Kitty and I were engaged. The next day I met those accursed “magpie”
_jhampanies_ at the back of Jakko, and, moved by some passing sentiment
of pity, stopped to tell Mrs. Wessington everything. She knew it
already.

“So I hear you’re engaged, Jack dear.” Then, without a moment’s pause:
“I’m sure it’s all a mistake--a hideous mistake. We shall be as good
friends some day, Jack, as we ever were.”

My answer might have made even a man wince. It cut the dying woman
before me like the blow of a whip. “Please forgive me, Jack; I didn’t
mean to make you angry; but it’s true, it’s true!”

And Mrs. Wessington broke down completely. I turned away and left her to
finish her journey in peace, feeling, but only for a moment or two, that
I had been an unutterably mean hound. I looked back, and saw that she
had turned her ‘rickshaw with the idea, I suppose, of overtaking me.

The scene and its surroundings were photographed on my memory. The
rain-swept sky (we were at the end of the wet weather), the sodden,
dingy pines, the muddy road, and the black powder-riven cliffs formed
a gloomy background against which the black and white liveries of
the _jhampanies_, the yellow-paneled ‘rickshaw and Mrs. Wessington’s
down-bowed golden head stood out clearly. She was holding her
handkerchief in her left hand and was leaning hack exhausted against
the ‘rickshaw cushions. I turned my horse up a bypath near the Sanjowlie
Reservoir and literally ran away. Once I fancied I heard a faint call
of “Jack!” This may have been imagination. I never stopped to verify it.
Ten minutes later I came across Kitty on horseback; and, in the delight
of a long ride with her, forgot all about the interview.

A week later Mrs. Wessington died, and the inexpressible burden of her
existence was removed from my life. I went Plainsward perfectly happy.
Before three months were over I had forgotten all about her, except
that at times the discovery of some of her old letters reminded me
unpleasantly of our bygone relationship. By January I had disinterred
what was left of our correspondence from among my scattered belongings
and had burned it. At the beginning of April of this year, 1885, I was
at Simla--semi-deserted Simla--once more, and was deep in lover’s talks
and walks with Kitty. It was decided that we should be married at the
end of June. You will understand, therefore, that, loving Kitty as I
did, I am not saying too much when I pronounce myself to have been, at
that time, the happiest man in India.

Fourteen delightful days passed almost before I noticed their
flight. Then, aroused to the sense of what was proper among mortals
circumstanced as we were, I pointed out to Kitty that an engagement ring
was the outward and visible sign of her dignity as an engaged girl; and
that she must forthwith come to Hamilton’s to be measured for one. Up to
that moment, I give you my word, we had completely forgotten so trivial
a matter. To Hamilton’s we accordingly went on the 15th of April, 1885.
Remember that--whatever my doctor may say to the contrary--I was then in
perfect health, enjoying a well-balanced mind and an absolute tranquil
spirit. Kitty and I entered Hamilton’s shop together, and there,
regardless of the order of affairs, I measured Kitty for the ring in
the presence of the amused assistant. The ring was a sapphire with two
diamonds. We then rode out down the slope that leads to the Combermere
Bridge and Peliti’s shop.

While my Waler was cautiously feeling his way over the loose shale, and
Kitty was laughing and chattering at my side--while all Simla, that is
to say as much of it as had then come from the Plains, was grouped
round the Reading-room and Peliti’s veranda,--I was aware that some one,
apparently at a vast distance, was calling me by my Christian name. It
struck me that I had heard the voice before, but when and where I could
not at once determine. In the short space it took to cover the road
between the path from Hamilton’s shop and the first plank of the
Combermere Bridge I had thought over half a dozen people who might have
committed such a solecism, and had eventually decided that it must have
been singing in my ears. Immediately opposite Peliti’s shop my eye was
arrested by the sight of four _jhampanies_ in “magpie” livery, pulling a
yellow-paneled, cheap, bazar ‘rickshaw. In a moment my mind flew back to
the previous season and Mrs. Wessington with a sense of irritation
and disgust. Was it not enough that the woman was dead and done with,
without her black and white servitors reappearing to spoil the day’s
happiness? Whoever employed them now I thought I would call upon, and
ask as a personal favor to change her _jhampanies’_ livery. I would hire
the men myself, and, if necessary, buy their coats from off their backs.
It is impossible to say here what a flood of undesirable memories their
presence evoked.

“Kitty,” I cried, “there are poor Mrs. Wessington’s _jhampanies_ turned
up again! I wonder who has them now?”

Kitty had known Mrs. Wessington slightly last season, and had always
been interested in the sickly woman.

“What? Where?” she asked. “I can’t see them anywhere.”

Even as she spoke her horse, swerving from a laden mule, threw himself
directly in front of the advancing ‘rickshaw. I had scarcely time to
utter a word of warning when, to my unutterable horror, horse and rider
passed through men and carriage as if they had been thin air.

“What’s the matter?” cried Kitty; “what made you call out so foolishly,
Jack? If I _am_ engaged I don’t want all creation to know about it.
There was lots of space between the mule and the veranda; and, if you
think I can’t ride--There!”

Whereupon wilful Kitty set off, her dainty little head in the air, at a
hand-gallop in the direction of the Bandstand; fully expecting, as
she herself afterward told me, that I should follow her. What was the
matter? Nothing indeed. Either that I was mad or drunk, or that Simla
was haunted with devils. I reined in my impatient cob, and turned round.
The ‘rickshaw had turned too, and now stood immediately facing me, near
the left railing of the Combermere Bridge.

“Jack! Jack, darling!” (There was no mistake about the words this time:
they rang through my brain as if they had been shouted in my ear.) “It’s
some hideous mistake, I’m sure. _Please_ forgive me, Jack, and let’s be
friends again.”

The ‘rickshaw-hood had fallen back, and inside, as I hope and pray daily
for the death I dread by night, sat Mrs. Keith-Wessington, handkerchief
in hand, and golden head bowed on her breast.

How long I stared motionless I do not know. Finally, I was aroused by
my syce taking the Waler’s bridle and asking whether I was ill. From the
horrible to the commonplace is but a step. I tumbled off my horse and
dashed, half fainting, into Peliti’s for a glass of cherry-brandy. There
two or three couples were gathered round the coffee-tables discussing
the gossip of the day. Their trivialities were more comforting to me
just then than the consolations of religion could have been. I plunged
into the midst of the conversation at once; chatted, laughed, and jested
with a face (when I caught a glimpse of it in a mirror) as white and
drawn as that of a corpse. Three or four men noticed my condition; and,
evidently setting it down to the results of over-many pegs, charitably
endeavoured to draw me apart from the rest of the loungers. But I
refused to be led away. I wanted the company of my kind--as a child
rushes into the midst of the dinner-party after a fright in the dark.
I must have talked for about ten minutes or so, though it seemed an
eternity to me, when I heard Kitty’s clear voice outside inquiring for
me. In another minute she had entered the shop, prepared to roundly
upbraid me for failing so signally in my duties. Something in my face
stopped her.

“Why, Jack,” she cried, “what _have_ you been doing? What has happened?
Are you ill?” Thus driven into a direct lie, I said that the sun had
been a little too much for me. It was close upon five o’clock of a
cloudy April afternoon, and the sun had been hidden all day. I saw my
mistake as soon as the words were out of my mouth: attempted to recover
it; blundered hopelessly and followed Kitty in a regal rage, out of
doors, amid the smiles of my acquaintances. I made some excuse (I have
forgotten what) on the score of my feeling faint; and cantered away to
my hotel, leaving Kitty to finish the ride by herself.

In my room I sat down and tried calmly to reason out the matter. Here
was I, Theobald Jack Pansay, a well-educated Bengal Civilian in the year
of grace, 1885, presumably sane, certainly healthy, driven in terror
from my sweetheart’s side by the apparition of a woman who had been dead
and buried eight months ago. These were facts that I could not blink.
Nothing was further from my thought than any memory of Mrs. Wessington
when Kitty and I left Hamilton’s shop. Nothing was more utterly
commonplace than the stretch of wall opposite Peliti’s. It was broad
daylight. The road was full of people; and yet here, look you, in
defiance of every law of probability, in direct outrage of Nature’s
ordinance, there had appeared to me a face from the grave.

Kitty’s Arab had gone _through_ the ‘rickshaw: so that my first hope
that some woman marvelously like Mrs. Wessington had hired the carriage
and the coolies with their old livery was lost. Again and again I went
round this treadmill of thought; and again and again gave up baffled
and in despair. The voice was as inexplicable as the apparition. I had
originally some wild notion of confiding it all to Kitty; of begging her
to marry me at once; and in her arms defying the ghostly occupant of the
‘rickshaw. “After all,” I argued, “the presence of the ‘rickshaw is in
itself enough to prove the existence of a spectral illusion. One may see
ghosts of men and women, but surely never of coolies and carriages. The
whole thing is absurd. Fancy the ghost of a hillman!”

Next morning I sent a penitent note to Kitty, imploring her to overlook
my strange conduct of the previous afternoon. My Divinity was still very
wroth, and a personal apology was necessary. I explained, with a fluency
born of night-long pondering over a falsehood, that I had been attacked
with sudden palpitation of the heart--the result of indigestion. This
eminently practical solution had its effect; and Kitty and I rode out
that afternoon with the shadow of my first lie dividing us.

Nothing would please her save a canter round Jakko. With my nerves still
unstrung from the previous night I feebly protested against the notion,
suggesting Observatory Hill, Jutogh, the Boileaugunge road--anything
rather than the Jakko round. Kitty was angry and a little hurt: so I
yielded from fear of provoking further misunderstanding, and we set out
together toward Chota Simla. We walked a greater part of the way, and,
according to our custom, cantered from a mile or so below the Convent
to the stretch of level road by the Sanjowlie Reservoir. The wretched
horses appeared to fly, and my heart beat quicker and quicker as we
neared the crest of the ascent. My mind had been full of Mrs. Wessington
all the afternoon; and every inch of the Jakko road bore witness to our
oldtime walks and talks. The bowlders were full of it; the pines sang it
aloud overhead; the rain-fed torrents giggled and chuckled unseen over
the shameful story; and the wind in my ears chanted the iniquity aloud.

As a fitting climax, in the middle of the level men call the Ladies’
Mile the Horror was awaiting me. No other ‘rickshaw was in sight--only
the four black and white _jhampanies_, the yellow-paneled carriage, and
the golden head of the woman within--all apparently just as I had left
them eight months and one fortnight ago! For an instant I fancied that
Kitty _must_ see what I saw--we were so marvelously sympathetic in all
things. Her next words undeceived me--“Not a soul in sight! Come along,
Jack, and I’ll race you to the Reservoir buildings!” Her wiry little
Arab was off like a bird, my Waler following close behind, and in this
order we dashed under the cliffs. Half a minute brought us within fifty
yards of the ‘rickshaw. I pulled my Waler and fell back a little. The
‘rickshaw was directly in the middle of the road; and once more the
Arab passed through it, my horse following. “Jack! Jack dear! _Please_
forgive me,” rang with a wail in my ears, and, after an interval:--“It’s
a mistake, a hideous mistake!”

I spurred my horse like a man possessed. When I turned my head at
the Reservoir works, the black and white liveries were still
waiting--patiently waiting--under the grey hillside, and the wind
brought me a mocking echo of the words I had just heard. Kitty bantered
me a good deal on my silence throughout the remainder of the ride. I had
been talking up till then wildly and at random. To save my life I could
not speak afterward naturally, and from Sanjowlie to the Church wisely
held my tongue.

I was to dine with the Mannerings that night, and had barely time to
canter home to dress. On the road to Elysium Hill I overheard two men
talking together in the dusk.--“It’s a curious thing,” said one, “how
completely all trace of it disappeared. You know my wife was insanely
fond of the woman [‘never could see anything in her myself), and wanted
me to pick up her old ‘rickshaw and coolies if they were to be got for
love or money. Morbid sort of fancy I call it; but I’ve got to do what
the _Memsahib_ tells me. Would you believe that the man she hired it
from tells me that all four of the men--they were brothers--died of
cholera on the way to Hardwar, poor devils, and the ‘rickshaw has been
broken up by the man himself. ‘Told me he never used a dead _Memsahib’s_
‘rickshaw. ‘Spoiled his luck. Queer notion, wasn’t it? Fancy poor little
Mrs. Wessington spoiling any one’s luck except her own!” I laughed
aloud at this point; and my laugh jarred on me as I uttered it. So there
_were_ ghosts of ‘rickshaws after all, and ghostly employments in the
other world! How much did Mrs. Wessington give her men? What were their
hours? Where did they go?

And for visible answer to my last question I saw the infernal Thing
blocking my path in the twilight. The dead travel fast, and by short
cuts unknown to ordinary coolies. I laughed aloud a second time and
checked my laughter suddenly, for I was afraid I was going mad. Mad to
a certain extent I must have been, for I recollect that I reined in my
horse at the head of the ‘rickshaw, and politely wished Mrs. Wessington
“Good-evening.” Her answer was one I knew only too well. I listened
to the end; and replied that I had heard it all before, but should
be delighted if she had anything further to say. Some malignant devil
stronger than I must have entered into me that evening, for I have a dim
recollection of talking the commonplaces of the day for five minutes to
the Thing in front of me.

“Mad as a hatter, poor devil--or drunk. Max, try and get him to come
home.”

Surely _that_ was not Mrs. Wessington’s voice! The two men had overheard
me speaking to the empty air, and had returned to look after me. They
were very kind and considerate, and from their words evidently gathered
that I was extremely drunk. I thanked them confusedly and cantered away
to my hotel, there changed, and arrived at the Mannerings’ ten minutes
late. I pleaded the darkness of the night as an excuse; was rebuked by
Kitty for my unlover-like tardiness; and sat down.

The conversation had already become general; and under cover of it, I
was addressing some tender small talk to my sweetheart when I was aware
that at the further end of the table a short red-whiskered man was
describing, with much broidery, his encounter with a mad unknown that
evening.

A few sentences convinced me that he was repeating the incident of half
an hour ago. In the middle of the story he looked round for applause, as
professional story-tellers do, caught my eye, and straightway collapsed.
There was a moment’s awkward silence, and the red-whiskered man muttered
something to the effect that he had “forgotten the rest,” thereby
sacrificing a reputation as a good story-teller which he had built
up for six seasons past. I blessed him from the bottom of my heart,
and--went on with my fish.

In the fulness of time that dinner came to an end; and with genuine
regret I tore myself away from Kitty--as certain as I was of my
own existence that It would be waiting for me outside the door. The
red-whiskered man, who had been introduced to me as Doctor Heatherlegh,
of Simla, volunteered to bear me company as far as our roads lay
together. I accepted his offer with gratitude.

My instinct had not deceived me. It lay in readiness in the Mall, and,
in what seemed devilish mockery of our ways, with a lighted head-lamp.
The red-whiskered man went to the point at once, in a manner that showed
he had been thinking over it all dinner time.

“I say, Pansay, what the deuce was the matter with you this evening on
the Elysium road?” The suddenness of the question wrenched an answer
from me before I was aware.

“That!” said I, pointing to It.

“_That_ may be either D. T. or Eyes for aught I know. Now you don’t
liquor. I saw as much at dinner, so it can’t be D. T. There’s nothing
whatever where you’re pointing, though you’re sweating and trembling
with fright like a scared pony. Therefore, I conclude that it’s Eyes.