 THE FIRST REAL TERROR, WHICH MADE MY HAIR STAND ON END AND MADE SHIVERS RUN ALL OVER ME, WAS CAUSED BY A TRIVILE BUT STRANGE PHENOMENON. It happened that having nothing to do one July evening, I drove to the station for the newspapers. It was a still warm, almost sultry evening, like all those monotonous evenings in July, which, when once they have settled in, go on for a week, a fortnight, or sometimes longer, in regular unbroken succession, and are suddenly cut short by a violent thunderstorm and a lavish downpour of rain that refreshes everything for a long time. The sun had set some time before, and an unbroken gray dust clay all over the land. The muckish sweet scents of the grass and flowers were heavy in the motionless stagnant air. I was driving in a rough trolley. In my back the gardener's son Pascha, a boy of eight years old whom I had taken with me to look after the horse in case of necessity, was gently snoring, with his head on a sack of oats. Our way lay along a narrow by-road, straight as a ruler, which lay hid like a great snake in the tall thick rye. There was a pale light from the afterglow of sunset, a streak of light cut its way through a narrow uncouth-looking cloud, which seemed sometimes like a boat, and sometimes like a man wrapped in a quilt. I had driven a mile and a half or two miles, when against the pale background of the evening glow there came into sight, one after another, some graceful tall poplars, a river glimmered beyond them, and a gorgeous picture suddenly, as though by magic, lay stretched before me. I had to stop the horse, for our straight road broke off abruptly and ran down a steep incline overgrown with bushes. We were standing on the hillside, and beneath us at the bottom lay a huge hole full of twilight, a fantastic shapes, and of space. At the bottom of this hole, in a wide plain guarded by the poplars and caressed by the gleaming river, nestled a village, who was now sleeping. Its huts, its church with the belfry, its trees, stood out against the gray twilight, and were reflected darkly in the smooth surface of the river. I waked posture for fear it would fall out, and began cautiously going down. Have we got to Lukova? asked Pashka, lifting his head lazily. Yes, hold the reins. I let the horse down the hill and looked at the village. At the first glance one strange circumstance caught my attention. At the very bottom of the belfry, in the tiny window between the cupola and the bells, a light was twinkling. The light was like that of a smoldering lamp, at one moment dying down, at another flickering up. What could it come from? Its source was beyond my comprehension. It could not be burning in the window, for there were neither icons nor lamps at the top torrent of the belfry. There was nothing there, as I knew, but beams, dust, and spider's webs. It was hard to climb up into that torrent, for the passage to it from the belfry was closely blocked up. It was more likely than anything else to be the reflection of some outside light, but, though I strained my eyes to the utmost, I could not see one speck of light in the vast expanse that lay before me. There was no moon. The pale and by now quite dim streak of the afterglow could not have been reflected, for the window looked not to the west, but to the east. These and other similar circumstances were straying through my mind all the while that I was going down the slope with the horse. At the bottom I sat down by the roadside, and looked again at the light, as before it was glimmering and flaring up. Strange, I thought, lost in conjecture, very strange. And little by little I was overcome by an unpleasant feeling. At first I thought that this was vexation at not being able to explain this simple phenomenon. But afterwards, when I suddenly turned away from the light and horror, and caught hold of Pashka with one hand, it became clear that I was overcome with terror. I was seized with a feeling of loneliness, misery and horror, as though I had been flung down against my will into this great hole full of shadows, where I was standing all alone with the belfry looking at me with its red eye. Pashka, I cried, closing my eyes in horror. Well? Pashka, what's that gleaming in the belfry? Pashka looked over my shoulder at the belfry and gave a yawn. Who can tell? Who can tell? This brief conversation with the boy reassured me for a little, but not for long. Pashka, seeing my uneasiness, fastened his big eyes upon the light, looked at me again, and then again at the light. I am frightened, he whispered. At this point, besides myself with terror, I clutched the boy with one hand, huddled up to him, and gave the horse a violent lash. It's stupid, I said to myself. That phenomenon is only terrible because I don't understand it. Everything else we don't understand is mysterious. I tried to persuade myself, but at the same time I did not leave off lashing the horse. When we reached the posting station I purposely stayed for a full hour chatting with the overseer, and read through two or three newspapers, but the feeling of uneasiness did not lead me. On the way back the light was not to be seen, but on the other hand the silhouettes of the huts, of the poplars, and of the hill up which I had to drive, seen to me as though animated, and why the light was there I don't know to this day. The second terror I experienced was excited by a circumstance no less trivial. I was returning from a romantic interview. It was one o'clock at night, the time when nature is buried in the soundest, sweetest sleep before the dawn. That time nature was not sleeping, and one could not call the night a still one. Windcracks, quails, nightingales, and woodchucks were calling. Crickets and grasshoppers were chirping. There was a light mist over the grass, and clouds were scurrying straight ahead across the sky near the moon. Nature was awake, as though afraid of missing the best moments of her life. I walked along a narrow path at the very edge of a railway embankment. The moonlight glided over the lines which were already covered with dew. Great shadows from the clouds kept flitting over the embankment. Far ahead a dim green light was glimmering peacefully. So, everything is well, I thought, looking at them. I had a quiet, peaceful, comfortable feeling in my heart. I was returning from a trist. I had no need to hurry. I was not sleepy, and I was conscious of youth and health in every sigh, every step I took, rousing a dull echo in the monotonous hum of the night. I don't know what I was feeling then, but I remember I was happy. Very happy. I had gone not more than three-quarters of a mile when I suddenly heard, behind me, a monotonous sound, a rumbling, rather like the roar of a great stream. It grew louder and louder every second, and sounded nearer and nearer. I looked round. A hundred paces from me was the dark cups from which I had only just come. Near the embankment turned to the right in a graceful curve, and vanished among the trees. I stood still in perplexity and waited. A huge black body appeared at once in the turn, noisily darted towards me, and with the swiftness of a bird flew past me along the rails. Less than half a minute passed, and the blur had vanished. The rumble melted away into the noise of the night. It was an ordinary good-struck. There was nothing peculiar about it in itself, but its appearance, without an engine, and in the night puzzled me. Where could it have come from, and what force sent it flying so rapidly along the rails? Where did it come, and from where was it flying to? If I had been superstitious, I should have made up my mind that it was a party of demons and witches journeying to a devil's sabbath, and should have gone on my way. But, as it was, the phenomenon was absolutely inexplicable to me. I did not believe my eyes, and was entangled in conjectures, like a fly in a spider's web. I suddenly realized that I was utterly alone on the whole vast plain, that the night which by now seemed inhospitable was peeping into my face and dogging my footsteps. All the sounds, the cries of the birds, the whispering of the trees seemed sinister, and existing simply to alarm my imagination. I dashed on like a madman, and without realizing what I was doing I ran, trying to run faster and faster, and at once I heard something to which I paid no attention before, that is, the plaintive whining of the telegraph wires. This is beyond everything, I said, trying to shame myself. It's cowardice! It's silly! But cowardice was stronger than common sense. I only slackened my pace when I reached the green light, where I saw a dark signal box, and near it, on the embankment, the figure of a man, probably the signal man. Did you see it? I asked breathlessly. See whom? What? Why, a truck ran by. I saw it, the peasants said reluctantly. It broke away from the good strain. There is an incline at the nineteenth mile. The train is dragged uphill. The coupling on the last truck gave way, so it broke off and ran back. There is no catching it now. The strange phenomenon was explained, and its fantastic character vanished. My panic was over, and I was able to go on my way. My third fright came upon me when I was going home from stand shooting in early spring. It was in the dusk of evening. The forest road was covered with pools from a recent shower of rain, and the earth squelched under one's feet. The crimson glow of sunset flooded the whole forest, coloring the white stems of the birches and the young leaves. I was exhausted and could hardly move. Four or five miles from home, walking along the forest road, I suddenly met a big black dog of the water-spaniel breed. As he ran by, the dog looked intently at me, straight in my face, and ran on. A nice dog, I thought. Whose is it? I looked around. The dog was standing ten paces off with his eyes fixed on me. For a minute we scanned each other in silence. Then the dog, probably flattered by my attention, came slowly up to me and wagged his tail. I walked on. The dog followed me. Whose dog can it be? I kept asking myself, where does he come from? I knew all the country gentry for twenty or thirty miles around, and knew all their dogs. Not one of them had a spaniel like that. How did he come to be in the depths of the forest on a track used for nothing but carting timber? He could hardly have dropped behind someone passing through, for there was nowhere for the gentry to drive to along the road. I sat down on a stump to rest, and began scrutinizing my companion. He too sat down, raised his head, and fastened upon me an intense stare. He gazed at me without blinking. I don't know whether it was the influence of the stillness, the shadows and sounds of the forest, or perhaps a result of exhaustion, but I suddenly felt uneasy under the gaze of his ordinary doggy eyes. I thought of Faust and his bulldog, and of the fact that nervous people sometimes, when exhausted, have hallucinations. That was enough to get me up hurriedly and hurriedly walked on. The dog followed me. Go away! I shouted. The dog probably liked my voice, for he gave a gleeful jump and ran around in front of me. Go away! I shouted again. The dog looked around, stared at me intently, and wagged his tail good-humoredly. Evidently my threatening tone amused him. I ought to have patted him, but I could not get Faust's dog out of my head, and the feeling of panic grew more and more acute. Darkness was coming on, which completed my confusion, and every time the dog ran up to me and hit me with his tail like a coward I shut my eyes. The same thing happened as with the light in the belfry and the truck on the railway. I could not stand it and rushed away. At home I found a visitor, an old friend, who, after greeting me, began to complain that as he was driving to me he had lost his way in the forest, and a splendid, valuable dog of his had dropped behind. The Rout of the White Hazards by Rudyard Kipling, read by Beth Ann. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Rout of the White Hazards. It was not in the open fight we threw away the sword, but in the lonely watching in the darkness by the fjord. The waters lapped, the night wind blew, full-armed the fear was born and grew, and we were flying, ere we knew, from panic in the night, beyond the bar. Some people hold that an English cavalry regiment cannot run. This is a mistake. I have seen 437 sabers flying over the face of the country in abject terror, have seen the best regiment that ever drew bridle wiped off the army list for the space of two hours. If you repeat this tell to the White Hazards, they will in all probability treat you severely. They are not proud of the incident. You may know the White Hazards by their side, which is greater than that of all the cavalry regiments on the rooster. If this is not the sufficient mark, you may know them by their old brandy. It has been sixty years in the mess, and is worth going far to taste. Ask for the Magare old brandy, and see that you get it. If the mess sergeant thinks that you are uneducated, and that the genuine article will be lost on you, he will treat you accordingly. He is a good man. But when you are at mess, you must never talk to your hosts about forced marches or long-distance rides. The mess are very sensitive, and if they think that you are laughing at them, we'll tell you so. As the White Hazards say, it was all the colonels fault. He was a new man, and he ought never to have taken the command. He said that the regiment was not smart enough. This to the White Hazards who knew that they could walk round any horse, and through any guns, and over any foot on the face of the earth. That insult was the first cause of offense. Then the colonel cast the drum horse. The drum horse of the White Hazards. Perhaps you do not see what an unspeakable crime he had committed. I will try to make it clear. The soul of the regiment lives in the drum horse who carries his silver kettle drums. He is nearly always a big piebald whaler. That is a point of honor, and a regiment will spend anything you please on a piebald. He is beyond the ordinary laws of casting. His work is very light, and he only maneuvers at a foot pace. Wherefore, so long as he can step out and look handsome, his well-being is assured. He knows more about the regiment than the adjutant, and could not make a mistake if he tried. The drum horse of the White Hazards was only 18 years old, and perfectly equal to his duties. He had at least six years more work in him, and carried himself with all the pomp and dignity of a drum major of the guards. The regiment had paid 1,200 rupees for him. But the colonel said that he must go, and he was cast in due form and replaced by a washy bay beast as ugly as a mule with an ewe neck, rat tail, and cow hawks. The drummer detested that animal, and the best of the bandhorses put back their ears and showed the whites of their eyes at the very sight of him. They knew him for an upstart and no gentlemen. I found see that the colonel's ideas of smartness extended to the band, and that he wanted to make it take part in the regular parade movements. A cavalry band is a sacred thing. It only turns out for commanding officers' parades, and the bandmaster is one degree more important than the colonel. He is a high priest, and the Kil'Rau is his holy song. The Kil'Rau is the calvary trot, and the man who has never heard that tune rising above the rattle of the regiment going past the saluting base has something yet to understand. When the colonel cast the drum horse to the white hizars, there was nearly a mutiny. The officers were angry, the regiment were furious, and the bandsmen swore like troopers. The drum horse was going to be put up to auction, public auction, to be bought perhaps by a parsey and put into a cart. It was worse than exposing the inner life of the regiment to the whole world or selling the mess plate to a Jew, a black Jew. The colonel was a mean man and a bully. He knew what the regiment thought about his action, and when the troopers offered to buy the drum horse, he said that their offer was mutinous and forbidden by the regulations. But one of the subalterns, Hobing Yale, an Irishman, bought the drum horse for 160 rupees at the sale, and the colonel was wroth. Yale professed repentance. He was a naturally submissive, and said that, since he had only made the purchase to save the horse from possible little treatment and service, he would now shoot him and end the business. This appeared to soothe the colonel, for he wanted the drum horse disposed of. He felt that he had made a mistake, and could not, of course, acknowledge it. Meantime, the presence of the drum horse was an annoyance to him. Yale took to himself a glass of the old brandy, three shiroots, and his friend Martin. And they all left the mess together. All in Martin conferred for two hours in Yale's quarters, but only the bull terrier who keeps watch over Yale's boot-trees knows what they said. A horse hooded and sheeded to his ears, left Yale's stables, and was taken, very unwillingly, into the civil lines. Yale's groom went with him. Two men broke into the regimental theater and took several paintpots and some large scenery brushes. Then night fell over the can-tunement, and there was a noise as of a horse kicking his loose box to pieces in Yale's stables. Yale had a big, old, white, whaler trap horse. The next day was a Thursday, and the men, hearing that Hogan Yale was going to shoot the drum horse in the evening, determined to give the beast a regular regimental funeral, a finer one than they would have given the colonel had he died just then. They got a bullock cart and some sacking and mounds and mounds of roses, and the body under the sacking was carried out to the place where the anthrax cases were cremated. Two-thirds of the regiment following. There was no band, but they all sang to place where the old horse died as something respectful and appropriate to the occasion. When the corpse was dumped into the grave and the men began throwing down armfuls of roses to cover it, the farrier sergeant ripped out an oath and said aloud, Why, it ain't the drum horse any more than it's made. The troop sergeant majors asked him whether he had left his head in the canteen. The farrier sergeant said that he knew the drum horse's feet as well as he knew his own, but he was silenced when he saw the regimental number burnt in on the poor, stiff, upturned near four. This was the drum horse of the white Hazzars buried, the farrier sergeant grumbling. The sacking that covered the corpse was smeared in places with black paint, and the farrier sergeant drew attention to this fact. But the troop sergeant major of E.E. Troop kicked him severely on the shin and told him that he was undoubtedly drunk. On the Monday following the burial, the Colonel sought revenge on the white Hazzars. Unfortunately, being at that time temporarily in command of the station, he ordered a brigade filled day. He said that he wished to make the regiment sweat for their damned insolence, and he carried out his notion thoroughly. That Monday was one of the hardest in the memory of the white Hazzars. They were thrown against the skeleton's enemy and pushed forward and withdrawn and dismounted and scientifically handled in every possible fashion over a dusty country till they sweated profusely. Their only amusement came late in the day when they fell upon a battery of horse archery and chased it for two miles. This was a personal question, and most of the troopers had money on the event. The gunners saying openly that they had the legs of the white Hazzars. They were wrong. A march pass concluded the campaign, and when the regiment got back to their lines, the men were coated with dirt from the spur to chin strap. The white Hazzars have one great and peculiar privilege. They won it at Fontenwright, I think. Many regiments possess special rights, such as wearing collars with undress uniform or a bow of ribbons between the shoulders, or red and white roses in their helmets on certain days of the year. Some rights are connected with regimental saints and some with regimental successes. All are valued highly, but none so highly as the right of the white Hazzars to have the band playing when their horses are being watered in the lines. Only one tune is played and that tune never varies. I don't know its real name, but the white Hazzars call it Take Me to London again. It sounds very pretty. The regiment would sooner be struck off the roaster than forgo their distinction. After the dismiss was sounded, the officers rode off home to prepare for stables, and the men filed into the lines writing easy. That is to say, they opened their tight buttons, shifted their helmets and began to joke or to swear as the humor took them. The more careful slipping off and easing girths and curbs. A good trooper values his mount exactly as much as he values himself and believes, or should believe, that the two together are irresistible where women or men, girls or guns are concerned. Then the orderly officer gave the order Water Horses. And the regiment loafed off to the squadron troughs which were in rear of the stables and between these and the barracks. There were four huge troughs, one for each squadron, arranged an echelon so that the whole regiment could water in ten minutes if it liked. But it lingered for seventeen as a rule while the band played. The band struck up as the squadrons filed off to the troughs, and the men slipped their feet out of the stirrups and chafed each other. The sun was just setting in a big, hot bed of red cloud, and the road to the civil line seemed to run straight into the sun's eye. There was a little dot on the road. It grew and grew till it showed as a horse with a sort of gird-iron thing on his back. The red cloud glared through the bars of the gird-iron. Some of the troopers shaded their eyes with their hands and said, What a mischief! I thought they almost got on him! In another minute they heard a neigh. But every soul, horse, and man in the regiment knew, and saw heading straight towards the band, the dead drum-horse of the white hazzars. On his withers banged and bumped the kettle-drum strapped in crepe, and on his back very stiff and shoulder-leaf set a bare- headed skeleton. The band stopped playing. For a moment there was a hush. Then someone in e-troop, men said it was the sergeant major, swung his horse round and yelled. No one can account exactly for what happened afterwards, but it seemed that at least one man in e-troop set an example of panic, and the rest followed like sheep. The horses that had barely put their muzzles into the troughs reared and capered. But as soon as the band broke, which it did when the ghost of the drum-horse was about a fur-long distant, all hooves followed suit, and the clatter of the stampede, quite different from the orderly throb and roar of a movement on parade, where the rough horse-play of watering and camp made them only more terrified. They felt that the men on their backs were afraid of something. When horses once know that, all is over except the butchery. Troop after troop turned from the troughs and ran anywhere and everywhere like spilt quicksilver. It was the most extraordinary spectacle for men and horses were in all stages of easiness and the carbine buckets flopping against their sides urged the horses on. Men were shouting and cursing and trying to pull clear of the band which was being chased by the drum-horse whose rider had fallen forward and seemed to be spurring for a wager. The Colonel had gone over to the mess for a drink. Most of the officers were with him and the sub-altern of the day was preparing to go down to the lines and receive the watering reports from the troop sergeant-majors. When Take Me to London again stopped after twenty bars everyone in the mess said, what on earth has happened? A minute later they heard unmilitary noises and saw far across the plain the white azar scattered and broken and flying. The Colonel was speechless with rage for he thought that the regiment had risen against him or was unanimously drunk. The band, a disorganized mob, tore past and at its heels labored the drum-horse, the dead and buried drum-horse with the jolting clattering skeleton. Hogan Yale whispered softly to Martin, new weather will storm that treatment. And the band, which had doubled like a hair, came back again. But the rest of the regiment was gone, was riding all over the province. For the dusk had shut in and each man was howling to his neighbor that the drum-horse was on his flank. Troop horses are far too tenderly treated as a rule. They can, on emergencies, do a great deal, even with 17 stone on their backs as the troopers found out. How long this panic lasted, I cannot say. I believe that when the moon rose and the men saw they had nothing to fear and, by two and three and half troops, crept back into can-tunements very much ashamed of themselves. Meantime, the drum-horse disgusted at his treatment by old friends, pulled up, wheeled around and trotted up to the mess around as steps for bread. No one liked to run, but no one cared to go or forward till the Colonel had made some movement and laid hold of the skeleton's foot. The band had halted some distance away and now came back slowly. The Colonel called it individually and collectively every evil name that occurred to him at the time, for he had set his hand on the bosom of the drum-horse and found flesh and blood. Then he beat the kettle-drums with his clenched fist and discovered that they were but made of silvered paper and bamboo. Next, still swearing, he tried to drag the skeleton out of the saddle, but found that it had been wired into the candle. The sight of the Colonel, with his arms around the skeleton's pelvis and his knee in the old drum-horse's stomach, was striking. Not to say amusing. He worried the thing off in a minute or two and threw it down on the ground, saying to the band, Here you cause, that's what you're afraid of. The skeleton did not look pretty in the twilight. The band sergeant seemed to recognize it, for he began to chuckle and choke. Shall I take it away, sir? said the band sergeant. Yes, said the Colonel. Take it to hell and rod there yourselves. The band sergeant saluted, hoisted the skeleton across the saddle-bow and led off to the stables. Then the Colonel began to make inquiries for the rest of the regiment and the language he used was wonderful. He would disband the regiment. He would court-martial every soul in it. He would not command such a set of rabble and so on and so on. As the men dropped in, his language grew wilder until, at last, it exceeded the utmost limits of free speech allowed even to a Colonel of horse. Martin took Yale aside and suggested compulsory retirement from the service as a necessity when all was discovered. Martin was the weaker man of the two. Hoban Yale put up his eyebrows and remarked, firstly, that he was the son of a Lord and, secondly, that he was as innocent as the babe unborn of the theatrical resurrection of the drum horse. My instructions, said Yale, with a singularly sweet smile, where that recant Bach as expressively as possible, I ask you, am I responsible if a mule-hitted friend sends some Bach in such a manner as to disturb the peace of mind of a regiment of Her Majesty's Calvary? Martin said, you are a great man and will in time become a general, but I give my trance of a troop to be surfed out to this affair. Providence saved and led the Colonel away to the little curtain alcove wherein the subalterns of the White Hazards were accustomed to play poker of knights and there, after many oaths on the Colonel's part, they talked together in low tones. I fancy that the second in command must have represented the scare as the work of some trooper whom it would call us, said the second in command who had a fine imagination, they will call us the fly by knights, they will call us the ghost hunters, they will nickname us from one end of the army list to the other. All the explanation the world won't make the outsiders understand that the officers were away when the panic began. For the honour of the regiment and for your own made to see gently and by degrees that it was obviously impossible to court-martial the whole regiment and equally impossible to proceed against any subaltern who in his belief had any concern in the hoax. But the base alive, it's never been short at all, shouted the Colonel. It's flat, flagrant disobedience. I've not a man broke for this dumb sightless, they're the Colonel and wrestled with him for half an hour. At the end of that time regimental sergeant major reported himself. The situation was a rather novel one to him but he was not a man to be put out by circumstances. He saluted and said regiment will come back sir. Then to propitiate the Colonel on none of the horses and he was crying the night. The sergeant withdrew. His little stroke of humor pleased the Colonel and further he felt slightly ashamed of the language he had been using. The second in command worried him again and the two sat talking far into the night. Next day but one there was a commanding officer's parade and the Colonel who rang the White Hosars vigorously. The pitch of his speech made people of cutting up the whole regiment he should return to his post of pride at the head of the band but the regiment were set of ruffians with bad consciences. The White Hosars shouted and threw everything movable about them into the air and when the parade was over they cheered the Colonel till they couldn't speak. No these little things would share popularity and do not in the least affect discipline but I went bark on my word said the Colonel Never mind said the second in command the White Hosars would follow you anywhere from today regiments are just like women they will do anything for trinketry. A week later Hogan Yell received an extraordinary letter and asked for the return of our skeleton which we have reason to believe is in your possession Who with a deuce is this lunatic who threads and bones said Hogan Yell beg your pardon sir to the band children for the skeleton is with me and I will turn it if you'll pay the carriage to the civil lines if you doubt the story and know where to go you can see the date on the skeleton but don't mention the matter to the White Hosars I happen to know something about it because I prepared the drum horse for his resurrection he did not take kindly to the skeleton at all end of the route of the White Hosars by