Randi and the big choppers

Ah, Captain Quincy Sahib,

Greetings from Randi Ram,
Once your houseboy, now a Britisher soldier!

The exceedingly good Mr Kipling has written down my words, with a device known as a pen. I was thinking that this pen was a place to keep goats, but no, no, it is a device for marking ink.

My tale is a dark one, darker than that of the Gunga Din, who was only a water carrier and not a soldier like the Randi Ram.
You will recall my tale of the fort at Pornomallee, such a small town, such an enticing name. We were penned there indeed, like goats, by the Bhuna of Dahl and his dogs. The first we spotted was the Bhuna himself, sat in his howdah smoking his hookah. Such a nasty man. Such an attractive elephant. But he hung back on the battlefield. Haidar Sikh, our brave Jemadar, called this Bhuna a skulking rat. He had Cavalry with him, but these were only tribal horse, similar to Badmashes, and he dared not approach a Britisher Fort. His turban is small as they say in Madras!

The Bhuna playing with his hookah in his howdah

The Fort

Then we saw the approach of others. None were clearly seen until they were quite close to our walls. Then came a sight that loosened the Randi Ram's bowels. It was the green turbans of the Typhoo Sultan's Regulars. These were granted Shiva's blessing (two cards - "stand fast" and the "Din Din" national characteristic card) and armed with this they charged the gate where Haidar Sikh lined our first group. The gate was reinforced with barrels of water, but this did not hold them. They say these Typhoos are trained by a Frenchman, and so it seemed for they screamed "Din, Din, Oooh La La!" at us, and the gate gave way. They also appeared at the wall, having used stacked barrels to scale it (a trick from the mutiny by the way) and gave us a volley in the flank.

That vile goat chaser, the Tante Tooh, was running his three groups of badmashes up to the opposite wall (he has been promoted), and the figure of the Randi Ram, struck by a dice of fate, slipped from the firestep into a hidden recess behind a crate. (This seemed very odd, but clearly Randi was meant to survive. See the picture!)   Mr Lieutenant Gloria was wounded and placed in a Dhoolie, the brave Jemadar (Big Man lvl III) formed a last line but was cut down. The men of the 2nd Madras Coastal Sepoys threw down their weapons and began to shout "Din, Din!"

The Jemadar of the Typhoos massacred my cowardly friends. They had neglected the "Oooh La La!"  Shameful it is to relate, but the vile Bhuna and his son then did a deed so nasty that it will live in the Randi Ram's memory forever.  They shot Mr Gloria as he lay wounded, right in his Dhoolie.

The end.  Randi poses as a water carrying lady while Mr Gloria lies in his dhoolie.

In the darkness I, the Randi Ram, quickly put on Mr Gloria's Sari and pretended to be a village water carrying woman.  With the help of Nookie Nooh, the local merchant, I fled back towards Fort George.

The worst of it is that carrying that water pot seriously chafes the scalp, but I am glad for my escape!
I will ask Mr Kipling for one of his exceedingly good poems!
Ah Mr Quilp sir, a dark day for us Britishers! We have been strained and poured, mashed and bagged by these Typhoos.
Will the Carnatic coast really be all green turbans before the year is out?
We need a hero. Please come back to us Sir, back to India where the true spirit of the Quincy Sahib is well remembered!
Yours, in desperation, the Randi Ram

PS: Annotation from Mr Kipling. One of his exceedingly good poems.
If you can keep your head,
When all the turbans are green,
If you can stand on the rampart,
When the Typhoos guards are seen,
If you can hide in a corner
When the gates of the fort break in,
And listen to the fighting,
and the savage cries of "Din!".
If you can strip yourself to a Sari,
and put a pot atop your head,
If you can pretend to be a lady-man
when all your friends are dead,
If you can sneak right back to Fort George,
Your heart still full of joy,
Your probably in the 2nd Madras,
And your the Randi Ram my Boy!