Chapter the Thirty-First In Which Friends Meet, and Part; and Our Hero Hints a Proposal
The fight was over. It was Diggle’s quarrel; neither the Frenchmen nor the natives had any concern in it, and when their leader was dead they had no more interest in continuing the struggle. They drew off; the weary defenders collected the dead and attended to the wounded; and Desmond went into the house.
“God bless you, Mr. Burke!” said Mrs. Merriman, tears streaming from her eyes as she met him and clasped his hands. “You are not hurt?”
“Just a scratch or two, ma’am; nothing to trouble about.”
But the ladies insisted on bathing the two slight wounds on head and arm which in the heat of the fight he had not noticed. And then Mrs. Merriman told him all that had happened since the day he left them in such merry spirits at Khulna. How they had been trapped by Diggle, pretending to be a Monsieur de Bonnefon: how he had conveyed them to the house of his friend Sinfray: how after many months their whereabouts had been revealed to Surendra Nath by one of his numerous relatives, a man who had a distant cousin among Sinfray’s servants: how the Babu, displaying unwonted energy, had come with a number of friends and fallen unawares upon their captors, afterwards taking them to a house of his father’s in this village: how the old man and his son had both been stricken with jungle fever and the father died, and when the Babu lay helpless and unconscious on his sick bed they had found no means of communicating with their friends. Mrs. Merriman shuddered as she spoke of the terrors of their captivity. They had been well treated, indeed; Monsieur de Bonnefon, or Diggle, as she afterwards learned to call him, had visited them several times and seen that their wants were supplied. But their enforced seclusion and inactivity, their dread of the unknown, their uncertainty as to what might have befallen Mr. Merriman, had told heavily upon their health and spirits. Rumour brought news of the tragedy of the Black Hole: they heard that the few survivors were prisoners of the Nawab, and they feared the worst. From Surendra Nath they learnt that they need not despair; and since then they had lived on in the hope that when the Babu had recovered from his illness, he would find some means of restoring them to the husband and father from whom they had so long been parted.
“Surendra Nath has a heart of gold, Mr. Burke,” said Mrs. Merriman in concluding her story. “Poor man! he has been very ill. We must do something to show our gratitude for his devotion when we get back to Calcutta.”
Desmond then in his turn told them all that had happened since their disappearance. When they learnt of the result of the battle of Plassey and that Clive was marching towards Murshidabad, they were eager to set off at once.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Desmond, “we will start as soon as we can. I will leave you to make your preparations. It may not be possible to start before night, the country being so disturbed, so that if you can sleep through the day you will be fitter for the journey.”
He left them, and going into the compound found Bulger and Toley looking with curiosity at the body of Diggle.
“Hi, sir!” said Bulger as Desmond came up to them; “this here bit o’ velvet is explained at last. Mr. Toley he slit it with his cutlass, sir, and never did I see a man so down in the mouth when he knowed what was under it. Ten’t nothing at all, sir; just three letters; and what for he went and burnt them three letters into the back of his hand ’twould beat a Daniel to explain. ‘Fur,’ sir, that’s what they spells; but whether ’tis rabbit-skin or fox I can’t say, though ’tis most likely fox, knowin’ the man.”
Desmond stooped and looked at the unclad right hand. The letters FUR were branded livid below the knuckles.
“He was always quoting Latin, Bulger,” he said. “Fur is a Latin word: it means ‘thief’.”
“Which I might have knowed it, sir, only I think as how the man what did the stampin’ might have done it in plain English. I don’t hold with these foreign lingos, sir; there allers seems something sly and deceivin’ about ’em. No right man ’ud ever think ‘fur’ meant ‘thief’! Thief an’ all, sir, he’s dead. Mr. Toley and me ’ll put him away decent like: and it won’t do him no harm if we just says ‘Our Father’ over the grave.”
Desmond was turning away when three of his men came into the compound, two grasping a Frenchman by the arms, the third a black boy. The former Desmond recognized as the man whom he had seen expostulating with Diggle; the latter was Scipio Africanus, looking scared and miserable. The men explained that, pursuing the fugitives, they had captured their prisoners in the grove. The Frenchman at once addressed Desmond in broken English. He said that he had tried in vain to dissuade Diggle from his attempt to capture the ladies. The party had been sent by Monsieur Law to announce his coming. He was advancing from Patna with a considerable body of French troops designed for the support of the Nawab. As he was speaking the Frenchman caught sight of Diggle’s exposed hand. He started, with an exclamation of surprise. Then in answer to Desmond’s question he revealed the secret that had so long perplexed him.
Seven years before, he said, in December, 1750, there was a brilliant foreigner named Peloti among the officers of Major de la Touche, a young soldier who had been singled out by Dupleix, the French Governor of Pondicherry, as a military genius of the first order. Peloti was with the French army when, less than 4,000 in number, it fell upon the vast hordes of Nadir Jang near Gingi, and won the battle that set Muzaffar Jang on the throne of the Dekkan and marked the zenith of Dupleix’s success. The new Nawab, in gratitude to the French for the services rendered him, sent to Dupleix a present of a million rupees, and a casket of jewels worth half as much again. This casket was given to Peloti to deliver: he had abused his trust by abstracting the gem of the collection, a beautiful diamond; and the theft being accidently discovered, Dupleix in his rage ordered the thief to be branded on the right hand with the word ‘fur,’ and drummed him out of the French employment. For some years nothing more had been seen of Peloti; but he had recently returned, and offered his services to Bussy, the French commander in the Dekkan. He brought with him valuable information, gained in London, of the East India Company’s intentions; and this, together with his evident knowledge of Clive’s movements and of affairs in Calcutta, had caused his former offence to be overlooked, and his offer was accepted.
Desmond thanked the Frenchman for his information. “I am sorry to keep you a prisoner, monsieur,” he said; “but I must trouble you to return with me to Murshidabad. I can promise you good treatment from Colonel Clive.”
The Frenchman smiled, shrugged, and exclaimed: “Eh bien! À la guerre comme à la guerre!”
Remembering Coja Solomon, Desmond asked Toley to search Diggle’s body before burying it. But nothing was found, except a little money. The Armenian’s property had evidently been left under guard in the grove, and was doubtless by this time far away, in the possession of one or other of Diggle’s runagate followers.
Desmond was collecting his party, preparatory to starting for Murshidabad, when a native horseman rode into the village at full speed, dismounted, and, humbly salaaming, announced that he had a message from Law Sahib. It was clear that, seeing Europeans, he supposed them to be Frenchmen. Desmond did not undeceive him. The man said that Law Sahib had received news of Clive Sahib’s victory at Plassey, and, seeing that his promised assistance to the Nawab was too late, had at once retired to Patna and wished Diggle Sahib to rejoin him there. Dismissing the messenger, Desmond rejoiced that there was no reason now to delay his departure; his mission for Clive was fulfilled.
At nightfall the party set off. Closed chairs had been provided for the ladies, and these were carried in the midst, Bulger on one side, Toley on the other, and Desmond behind. One person whom Desmond had expected to take with him was absent: Scipio Africanus, on seeing the dead body of his master, had uttered one heart-rending howl and fled. No attempt was made to pursue him; and Desmond never saw him again. He reflected that, villainous as Diggle had proved to be, he had at least been able to win the affection of his servant.
On the way they met Coja Solomon, who, on learning of the disappearance of his valuables, heaped abuse upon Desmond and went away wringing his hands.
Travelling slowly, by easy stages, and only in the cooler hours, it took the party three days to reach Murshidabad. Desmond found that Clive had entered the city two days before and taken up his abode at the Murad Bagh. Mir Jafar had been accepted as Nawab, and nothing had been heard of Siraj-uddaula. Desmond first sought out Major Coote.
“By George, Burke!” said that officer, “Colonel Clive is in a towering rage at your long absence; he expected your return long ago. And you ought to know that Colonel Clive in a rage is not quite as mild as milk.”
“I’m afraid I must brave his anger,” said Desmond. “I’ve found Mr. Merriman’s ladies.”
“You have?”
“Yes, and brought them back with me. And Peloti will trouble us no more: we had to fight for the ladies, and Bulger killed him. Won’t Mr. Clive forgive me?”
“I can’t answer for Mr. Clive; no one can say what he will do. But I tell you one thing: you’ll put Warren Hastings’ nose out of joint. You knew he was sweet on Merriman’s daughter?”
“No, I didn’t know it. I don’t see what that has to do with me.”
“Don’t you, egad!” said Coote with a laugh. “Sure, my boy, you’ll see it before long. Well, I won’t keep you to hear your story. Go to Mr. Clive at once, and let me know what happens.”
Desmond found Clive in company with Mr. Watts and Rai Durlabh, Mr. Scrafton and Omichand. He had some difficulty in obtaining admittance; only his representation that he bore important news prevailed with the darwan. He learnt afterwards that the great bankers, the Seths, had just left the meeting, after it had been proved that, owing to the depletion of the treasury, only one half of the immense sums promised to Clive and the English in Mir Jafar’s treaty could be paid at once, the remainder to follow in three years. Desmond entered the room just in time to hear Clive say to Scrafton:
“It is now time to undeceive Omichand.”
Mr. Scrafton went up to the Sikh, and said quietly in Hindustani:
“Omichand, the red paper is a trick; you are to have nothing.”
Omichand stood for a moment dazed: then he fell back in a faint and was carried by his attendants from the room. The shock had unhinged the poor man’s reason: he lingered insane for eighteen months and died.
At the time Desmond knew nothing of the deceit that had been practised on him; but in the light of his after knowledge he understood the strange expression that clouded Clive’s face as the old man was carried away: a look of pity mingled with contempt. Catching sight of Desmond, the great soldier flashed out:
“What do you mean, sir, by absenting yourself so long? I sent you in advance because I thought you would be speedy. A snail would have gone more quickly.”
“I am sorry, sir,” said Desmond. “I was unexpectedly delayed. I had got nearly as far as Rajmahal when I learnt the whereabouts of Mrs. Merriman. She was in hiding with Surendra Nath, one of Mr. Merriman’s men. I heard that Diggle—Peloti, sir—was about to attempt her recapture, and I felt that you yourself, had you been in my place, would have tried to save the ladies.”
Clive grunted. “Go on, sir,” he said.
“We found the place, just in time, sir. Diggle came up with a couple of Frenchmen and a troop of native horse. We beat them off, and I have brought the ladies here.”
“And forgotten your instructions?”
“No, sir. Monsieur Law was advancing from Patna: Peloti was coming ahead to inform the Nawab of his approach. But the whole country knows of your victory; the news reached Monsieur Law, and he at once turned back. The messenger he sent to inform Peloti of his change of plan came too late.”
“Indeed! What was Peloti about?”
“He was killed in the fight, sir.”
“A good riddance!” exclaimed Clive impetuously. Then a far-away look came into his eyes; his expression softened. “Poor wretch!” he said in an undertone. “How many did his men muster, Burke?”
“Nearly sixty, sir.”
“And yours?”
“A score of sepoys, sir; but I had two seamen with me: Bulger, whom you know; and Mr. Toley, an American, mate of one of Mr. Merriman’s ships. They were worth a dozen others.”
Clive grunted again.
“Well, go and tell Mrs. Merriman I’ll be glad to wait on her. And look here, Burke: you may consider yourself a captain in the Company’s service from this day. Come now, I’m very busy: go and give Mrs. Merriman my message, and take care that next time you are sent on special service you are not drawn off on any such mad expedition. Come to me to-morrow.”
Desmond trod on air as he left the house. Clive’s impulsiveness had never before seemed to him such an admirable quality.
As he went into the street he became aware from the excited state of the crowd that something had happened. Meeting a sepoy he inquired, and learnt that Siraj-uddaula had just been brought into the city. The luckless Nawab had arrived in his boat close to Rajmahal, and, with the recklessness that characterized him, he had gone ashore while his servants prepared a meal. Though disguised in mean clothes he had been recognized by a fakir who happened to be at the very spot where he landed. The man had a grudge against him; his ears and nose had been cut off some time before by the Nawab’s orders. Hastening into Rajmahal he had informed the governor, who sent a guard at once to seize the unhappy prince and bring him to Murshidabad.
Before the next morning dawned Siraj-uddaula was dead. Mir Jafar handed him to his son Miran with strict orders to guard him carefully. Acting on a mocking suggestion of Miran, a courtier named Muhammad Beg took a band of armed men to the Nawab’s room, and hacked him to death. Next morning his mutilated body was borne on an elephant’s back through the streets, and it was known to his former subjects that the prince who had ruled them so evilly was no more. Such was the piteous end, in his twenty-sixth year, of Siraj-uddaula.
Immediately on arriving in Murshidabad, Desmond had sent a kasid to Calcutta to inform Mr. Merriman that his wife and daughter had been found and were safe. The merchant set off at once on horseback and arrived in the midst of preparations for the return of the army to Calcutta. Desmond was present at his meeting with the ladies; the scene brought a lump into his throat, and his embarrassment was complete when one and all overwhelmed him with praise and thanks.
Nor was Surendra Nath forgotten. His readiness and courage at the critical moment had undoubtedly saved the ladies; Mr. Merriman declared that he would henceforth have a higher opinion of the Bengali character. The Babu beamed with joy when his employer announced that he would give him the Hormuzzeer and a considerable part of his business.
“I change the name to Merriman, sir,” he said, “and my family will hold that name in veneration and esteem unto third and fourth generations.”
A few days later a long procession of three hundred boats, laden with the money, plate and jewels that had been handed over to the British, set off with colours flying, amid strains of martial music, down the river to Calcutta. Every man who had taken part in the expedition had a share of the vast treasure. Desmond found himself richer by £3,000.
Calcutta was en fête when the expedition returned. Desmond was surprised to see how much had already been done to repair the ruin wrought by the Nawab. A new city was rising from the ruins. Congratulations were poured on the victors; and though now, as always, Clive had to contend with the jealousies of lesser men, there was none but had to admit that he was a great man who deserved well of his country.
Mr. Merriman at once completed the winding up of his affairs, begun months before. His recent troubles had much aged him; India was to him now a hateful country, and he decided to return to England immediately with his wife and daughter. He tried to persuade Desmond to accompany him, but in vain.
“’Tis very good of you, sir,” said Desmond warmly; “you have done so much for me. But Mr. Clive has made me a captain: his work is not yet done, and I do not feel that I can leave him until I have done something to justify his confidence in me.”
“Well, boys will be boys. I have made a fortune here: I suppose you want to do the same. ’Tis natural. But don’t stay in India as long as I have. I don’t want to lose sight of you. You have done me the best service man ever did: you have avenged my brother and restored to me all that I held dearest in the world. I love you as a son, Desmond; I wish you were my son indeed, my boy.”
Desmond looked a little uncomfortable.
“May I venture——” he began hesitatingly; “do you think, in some years time, if I get on here, I might——”
“Well?”
“Do you think I might—in short, that I might have a chance of becoming your son, sir?”
“Eh? Is that it? Mr. Warren Hastings asked me the same question the other day, Desmond. You can’t both have her, you know. What does Phyllis say?”
“I—I haven’t asked her, sir.”
“Quite right. You’re only a boy. Well, Hastings is to remain as assistant to Mr. Scrafton, our new agent at Murshidabad. You remain as assistant—or is it rival, eh?—to Mr. Clive. You’re both out of the way. Phyllis may prefer Bulger.”
“Bulger!”
“Yes. Didn’t you know? Phyllis has taken a fancy to him; that hook of his appears to be a most fascinating feature; and he will accompany us home.”
Desmond laughed a little awkwardly.
“I hope——” he began.
“He won’t hook her? But there, I mustn’t make sport of such a serious matter. Go on as you have begun, my dear lad, and I promise you, when you come home, that if Phyllis hasn’t found some one already to her liking, you shall have all the influence I can exert with the minx.”
“Thank you, sir: I couldn’t ask for more. There’s another thing: do you think you could do anything for Mr. Toley? He’s a capital fellow.”
“I know it. I have anticipated you. Toley is appointed captain of the Jane, an Indiaman that arrived the other day; her captain died of scurvy on the way out. She’ll sail for England next week; we go with her, and so does that villain Barker, who’ll get his deserts when he reaches London. The Good Intent is broken up; her interloping is over for good and all. But come, my boy, sure ’tis time we dressed: Admiral Watson likes punctuality, and I promise you he’ll give us a capital dinner. A word in your ear: Phyllis is to sit between you and Hastings. You can’t eat him, at any rate.”
A week later Desmond went down to the Company’s ghat to see the Jane sail. Mr. Toley, in his brand new uniform, looked more melancholy than ever, and Phyllis Merriman made a little grimace when she saw for the first time the captain under whose charge she was to sail for home.
“Don’t be alarmed,” said Desmond, laughing. “The sadder he looks, I believe the happier he is. Silas Toley is a fine seaman and a true gentleman.—I wonder if we shall ever meet again, Miss Merriman?”
“I wonder, Mr. Burke.”
“I shall hear about you, I hope.”
“Dear me! ’tis very unlikely. Father hates putting pen to paper. ’Tis far more likely I shall hear of you, Mr. Burke, doing terrible things among these poor Indians—and tigers: I am sure you must want to shoot a tiger.”
“You shall have my first skin—if I may send it.”
“Mamma will be charmed, I am sure; though, indeed, she may have too many of them, for we have the same promise from—let me see—Mr. Lushington, Mr. Picard, Mr. Hastings, and——”
“All aboard!” sang out a voice from the deck of the vessel.
Phyllis gave Desmond her hand, and looked at last into his eyes. What he read in hers filled him with contentment. She ran across the plank and joined her father and mother, to whom Desmond had already said his adieus. At the last moment Bulger came up puffing, a miscellaneous collection of curiosities dangling from his hook.
“Good-bye, sir,” he said, giving Desmond a hearty grip. Then he shut one eye and jerked his head in the direction of the vessel. “Never you fear, sir: I’ll keep my weather eye open. Missy have took an uncommon fancy to this here little fish-hook o’ mine, and ’tis my belief I’ll keep her hangin’ on to it, sir, nevertheless and notwithstandin’ and all that, till you comes home covered with gore and glory. I may be wrong.”
He tumbled on deck. Then amid cheers, with flags flying and handkerchiefs waving, the good ship moved from the ghat into the swelling river.