“Gentlemen,” he cried, rushing into the water up to his knees, “wait a moment! Put back and take the lady on board. Mr President! Captain Grant! do you call yourselves men, sirs, and leave a woman to perish? Think of your own wives and daughters, and of the fate to which you are condemning Miss Freyne! May Heaven’s curse light upon you,” and he went on to call down the most fearful imprecations, such as it made me shudder to hear, for the rowers were rowing with all their might, and none of the persons in the boat had made so much as a motion to put back, nor even appeared to listen.
“We can do better than curse, Captain,” said one of the gentlemen standing on the steps, who had his piece in his hand, and he levelled it and fired. Several others followed his example, and the bullets went skipping into the water round the boat, but none of ’em took place, and these last and worst of our deserters arrived safely on board of the Doddalay, which had by now dropped down as far as Surmans. Many others, so we learned, were escaped before them, and among these were Padra Mapletoft and Mr Dash. Mr Hurstwood, who had not returned from the Doddalay, was carried off along with it, against the good gentleman’s will, I can’t doubt.
Captain Colquhoun led the way back into the Fort, walking with hanging head and his eyes cast down, and when all were inside, locked the west gate, to prevent any further desertions. Another council of war was hastily summoned, at which Mr Pearkes, the senior member of Council remaining in the factory, yielded his right in favour of Mr Holwell, who was welcomed without a dissenting voice as governor of the Fort and commander-in-chief. This having been determined, Captain Colquhoun remembered that he had been holding me fast by the wrist the entire time, and led me back to my papa without a word.
“We were too late, sir,” he said, in a broken voice, when we entered the chamber, and my poor father uttered a heart-rending groan.
“Unhappy girl!” he cried, looking sternly at me; “it had been better you had died with your mother than lived to see this day.”
I could only sob, and my distress melted the Captain.
“Come, sir,” he said; “we’ll hope things en’t so bad. From all quarters of the Fort they are hanging out signals to the ships to come back to their stations and take us off, and ’tis unpossible that those on board should be so flinty-hearted as to disregard us. Please Heaven, we shall all be took off orderly to-night, as Mr Holwell proposed at the council.”
“And if the Moors break in first,” says my papa, “why, you must do the last kindness to my girl if my hand fail me. See that my pistols are charged, and lay them here beside me, old friend. The dogs will give warning enough of their approach when it’s time to use ’em. Stop crying, miss, and come near and give me a kiss. You meant well, and it en’t your fault that you’re a fool, staying here to make your father’s end a miserable instead of a happy one.”
I entreated the dear gentleman’s forgiveness with tears, as I knelt on the floor beside him, and my grief so wrought upon his tenderness that he was moved to take a more cheerful view of our situation, encouraging me with hopes that the ships would return with the flood-tide, and take off the whole garrison. Presently there came in the Gentoo, Omy Chund’s servant, whom we now knew to be the person that had raised the alarm of the enemy’s breaking through the south-west pallisado, which was proved to be false, though not before it had frightened away Mr Drake and his friends; but asking the fellow why he spread such a report, he answered that he had believed it to be true. He brought with him a second small quantity of the salve, which he said was all he had, and, having promised that by his master’s order all his interest should be exerted in favour of our safety and honourable treatment should the Moors break into the Fort, departed again. About this time there fell on us the most cruel disappointment of all. The sloop Prince George, which had been ordered down from Perrins the night before, and was still lying opposite our south-west bastion, was signalled to approach closer, in the hope that she might be able to take us off. Mess. Pearkes and Lewis, going off to her in one of her boats that she sent on shore, carried instructions to her commander to bring his ship as near the Fort as possible, and this gentleman had sufficient courage and humanity to obey. But as the vessel approached us, and all watched her with tears in their eyes, thinking that safety was at last within reach, what was the general consternation when, owing either to the timid incompetency, or, as some said, the treachery, of her pilot, she run aground on one of those sand-banks that are everywhere lying in wait for unwary wretches in the course of the deceitful Hoogly! This destroyed our last hope of escape by water, for she could not be got off (those on board of the other ships making not the slightest offer of assistance), and her crew saved themselves at last in their boats, which durst not approach the shore.
But what shall I say of the conduct of the President and those with him on board the shipping, who took no step to save the wretches they had so basely abandoned? Either on Saturday or on Sunday they might have stood up the river with the flood, and with the aid of their crews and of the stores of munitions aboard of them, have turned the entire course of affairs, or at least have taken off the garrison and the Company’s papers and treasure without the loss of a single man; but in spite of all the urgent and affecting signals made to them, they did nothing. Nay, had they dropped down the river out of sight, for safety’s sake, one might forgive them better, but they lay off Surmans, in full view of us, for over four-and-twenty hours, as though to feast their eyes upon our dying agonies, and stood away only when they perceived that the worst had happened (though how fearful that worst was to be they could not have guessed).
As for those who were thus deserted, in spite of their natural resentment and despondency, they prepared to fight to the last under the new commanderie, and die as becomes Britons. Bales of broadcloth were got up from the warehouses, and built up into traverses along the eastern wall and its two bastions, which were swept by the enemy’s fire from the church, and with these, and the bags of cotton placed along the other ramparts, some shelter was obtained for our wearied garrison. Towards noon the enemy, being questionless disappointed that we had not offered to surrender the Fort to them in the panic at the President’s departure, drew off a little, and made no more attempts at storming our defences either that day or night, contenting themselves with keeping up their constant fire of cannon and musquetry, to which we were by now well accustomed. Will it surprise you, Amelia, to learn that your Sylvia passed that afternoon in sleep? I’ll assure you that I can hardly believe it of myself, and yet I had not slept all the night before, and even our dangerous situation, and the cruel anxiety I was in, could not keep me from drowsiness. Mr Bellamy coming in, fresh from the walls (where, good gentleman, he had fought as well as any lay person of them all), to see my papa, found me fallen asleep with my head on the sufferer’s pillow, and bade me go into the next room and rest, while he watched beside the dear gentleman. I was very reluctant to go, for my papa’s least movement made his wounds begin to burst out bleeding afresh; but on the Padra promising to call me the moment that there was any change, I obeyed him, and slept until it was dark, when I waked up to find the enemy still cannonading us, and fire-signals burning instead of flags to summon the ships. That night passed much as the last had done, the gentlemen coming in every now and then with the most agreeable punctuality to exhort me to keep up heart, for if we could only maintain ourselves until the following night, Mr Holwell was devising a scheme with Captain Colquhoun for cutting our way through the enemy, and retiring to Surmans, where we might get on board the ships. The enemy had fired all the European houses in the town, except those which gave them a footing from which to annoy us, and the dreadful glare and heat was most distressing, although the Moors remained tolerable quiet.
The morning of Sunday the 20th of June found our garrison divided between resolution and a desire to capitulate. The gentlemen of the Service and the officers, both those of the army and the ships, were resolved to preserve their honour by dying where they stood rather than yield, but there was a discontented spirit abroad in the lower ranks, which were full of Dutchmen, To-passes, and Armenians, few English being left. Among these men Mr Holwell divided three chests of treasure in the hope of pacifying them, and even went so far in yielding to their demands as to send to Omy Chund in his prison, requesting him to accept of his release and go to treat with the Nabob for us. This the vindictive Gentoo refused to do, but consented to write a letter from his cell to Raja Monickchund, the Phousdar of Hoogly, entreating him to intercede with the Soubah on our behalf, and this letter Mr Holwell threw over the wall when the enemy had opened their attack upon us again with the daylight, but the humiliating expedient had no effect, for there was a very determined attack made at noon on the north side of the Fort, which the enemy sought to escalade under cover of a prodigious fire from the ruins of Mr Cruttenden’s house. They were again beat off, but not without a dreadful struggle, in which five-and-twenty of our bravest remaining defenders were killed, and over seventy received wounds. So stubborn was the fighting that it seemed to me more than once that all must be lost, and I was like to cry out with joy when the news of the enemy’s repulse was brought me by that sergeant of Captain Colquhoun’s of whom I have told you before. This worthy fellow, who is named Jones, came to me running with all his might, and with one hand clapped to his face.
“So please you, madam, the Moors is drove off again,” says he, and would have hasted away at once, but thinking he must have received some wound, I asked him why he ran in so odd a style.
“Why, madam,” says he, “you’ve heard as how I’ve promised the Captain to touch no spirits until he gives me leave, and I’ve kept it, too. But when the other men broke into the arrack storehouse just now, where they’re making themselves as drunk as fiddlers, I knew as how the devil was setting a trap for me, and I says to myself as I’d not linger a moment before getting back to the Captain, nor give myself the chance of so much as smelling the stuff.”
And away he went, holding his nose as before. It pleased me that he should be so anxious to keep his promise to his Captain, and I told my papa of it, but to my grief the tale threw him into a great melancholy, for he began to lament that in all his life he had never done so much kindness to any fellow-creature as to help him to withstand his temptations. I sought to comfort him with the recollection that at least he had never led any astray, but he refused to listen to me.
“All my life,” he said, “I have been satisfied to be of the breed of Democritus, smiling at what was evil, and admiring what was good—and staying there. My natural easiness of temper has made me believe that I was right so long as I did no wrong, nor interfered with others’ doing it if they pleased. I thought that if I did no good, at least I did no harm, and now I am reaping the fruits of my foolishness. My wife has taken advantage of my slackness—nay, let me rather say that I in my slackness have suffered her to bring disgrace on herself and destruction on the factory. My daughter is here exposed to the worst of perils instead of finding herself safe under the protection of a husband, and my business here—how shall I answer for it to the Company, to the women that are left homeless, or to the brave men that are foredoomed to perish within these walls? ’Twas in my power to have spoke and voted in the Council for wise and prudent measures, perhaps to have restrained the extravagancies of the President and his two friends, but I did it not, I loved my ease too well. And this is the end of it all. Truly I have left undone those things which I ought to have done.”
I was beyond measure affected to hear such words from my papa’s lips, and seeing Mr Bellamy crossing the court, all blackened with powder and stained with blood, I ran out in the sun to him, and prayed him to come to the dear sufferer. Such was the kindness of this good man that he robbed himself of the rest which he so much needed, and gave up the time for it to Mr Freyne, sitting beside him and reading passages from the Scriptures, bidding him also look away from the life of which he was now ashamed to that of Christ who had died for him, and not add to the sins which he deplored that of unbelief and of the rejection of God’s mercy. Nay, he was even so thoughtful as to comfort him concerning the poor girl that he was leaving, as he feared, to the most extreme peril, saying that when man’s power was utterly at an end, then was the time for the manifestation of the power of God. And how often the good Padra’s words have served to comfort me since that day, I could not tell you, Amelia.
About two o’clock, the attack being renewed, Mr Bellamy was compelled to leave us to take his place on the walls, and my papa fell into a kind of slumber, with his hand clasped in mine. After a while Lieutenant Bellamy came to tell me that the enemy had desisted from their efforts and betaken themselves to places of shelter out of the reach of our fire, where, said he, ’twas to be hoped they would stay, for nearly all our common soldiers were so drunk with the arrack they had stole as to be lost to all sense of duty. After this all was quiet until a little after four, when the Gentoo, Omy Chund’s servant, came running, and with a naked scymitar in his hand took up his post before our doorway. On my asking him what was the matter (for I had learnt to speak Moors well enough to understand the servants and they me, though but in a broken manner), he told me that the enemy having shown a flag of truce, Mr Holwell had replied with another, throwing over the wall also a letter addressed to Raja Doolubram, the Nabob’sduan, asking for terms. While our people’s attention was engaged by this parley, the enemy all flocked out of their hiding-places, and made fierce attacks both on the eastern gate of the Fort and the pallisadoes on the south-west, wounding Mr Baillie with a musquet-ball as he stood by Mr Holwell’s side. On Mr Holwell running down to the parade to summon our common men, he found the few that were not drunk asleep, and those that were drunk, hearing of the danger, broke open the western gate, headed by a Dutchman of the Train, seeking to escape along the slime of the river, and so admitted the enemy. Hurrying to the south-east bastion Mr Holwell met with Captain Colquhoun, and the two gentlemen agreed that no further resistance was possible, since the Moors had also, by using bamboos for scaling-ladders, succeeded in great numbers in escalading the south wall, by means of the roofs of the godowns built against it, and were pouring into the Fort. The Gentoo added that he had seen the two gentlemen give up their swords to a Jemmautdar of the Nabob’s, and that he had hastened hither to defend us with his life, as his master’s orders were.
Resolved to second to the best of my power the efforts of this human pagan, I catched up Mr Freyne’s pistols, and stood with one of them in each hand, while the shouts and cries of the victorious Moguls approached nearer, although none had as yet penetrated to our neighbourhood. I thought I had passed through the bitterness of death, Amelia, and ’twas like a new life when I saw Captain Colquhoun and his sergeant come hurrying across the courtyard, in company with one of the Moorish Jemmautdars and ten or twelve of his men, while the poor Gentoo that guarded us was so confused by their sudden appearance that he fetched a great blow at the Captain with his scymitar, but the sergeant warded it off, and no harm was done, though I cried out aloud in my fright.
“Madam,” says the Captain, brushing the Gentoo aside, and coming into the chamber, “this Jemmautdar here en’t so vile as the most of them, and has promised, in return for receiving all our valuables, to save us from the ill-treatment of his fellows. Pray give him any jewellery you may happen to have about you, and he’ll conduct us to our friends, the rest of the prisoners.”
My dear girl will guess that I did not delay to give the Captain my brooch and rings, my silver-framed tablets, and even the coral pins that fastened my handkerchief, to present to the Moor, observing that the poor gentleman himself had been robbed not only of his watch and shoe-buckles, but of the very buttons from his coat. My papa’s pistols, which were mounted in silver, next excited the covetousness of the Jemmautdar, and Captain Colquhoun bade me give them up to him, making a sign to me that he himself had still a weapon concealed on his person. Since we were now robbed of everything, the Captain bade me pull the frills of my cap over my face as far as I could, and he and Sergeant Jones took up the two ends of the bedstead on which Mr Freyne lay, to carry it out. But to this the most strenuous objection was offered by Omy Chund’s servant, who declared himself fully equal to protecting us if we remained where we were, and brought the Jemmautdar over to his side by means of signs which we could not comprehend. I was in terror lest the Captain and his man should be dragged away, and my papa and I left to the poor protection of this one Gentoo with his scymitar, but Mr Freyne settled the matter for himself.
“I don’t desire to be separated from my friends,” he said, awaking, as it seemed, from sleep. “My daughter and I will share the lot of the other prisoners.”
The servant offering no further opposition, we quitted the chamber, I keeping close to Captain Colquhoun, and the Jemmautdar and his men acting as our guard. Not knowing what sights of horror might meet my eyes, I durst not look around me, but we passed unmolested—the Moors, as I learnt, being so busy with the spoil they had found, such as bales of broadcloth, chests of coral, plate, and treasure, in the private rooms of the gentlemen in the factory, that they had no time to observe us, and we arrived safely in the arched varanda in front of the barracks that extended from the great gate of the Fort to the south-east bastion, inside our eastern wall. Here were gradually gathered all that had escaped the perils of the day, including, besides ourselves, Mr Holwell, Mr Secretary Cooke, Mr Bellamy and his son the Lieutenant, Mr Eyre, Mr Baillie and several other members of Council, Captains Clayton and Witherington, a number of young gentlemen of the Service and the army (among them that gallant officer Mr Ensign Piccard, who was almost disabled by his wounds), several masters and mates of ships who had chose to remain with us when their fellows abandoned their duty, and some common soldiers and militia, both white and black. Oh, my dear, all these brave gentlemen! Sure I could weep tears of blood, to think of the awful fate of the best and noblest of our people in this factory, while the cowards and deserters stood aloof in safety.
About five o’clock the Nabob and his brother entered the Fort in state, being borne in ornamented litters, and Surajah Dowlah, having ordered a guard to be placed over the treasury, proceeded to the principal apartments of the factory, where he set up his throne and held his Court, receiving the compliments of Meer Jaffier the Buckshy, and the rest of his attendants. Having indulged himself in this fanfaronade, the victor sent for Mr Holwell to attend him, whom we saw depart with great grief and apprehension, but had presently the delight of welcoming him back unhurt, though with a countenance expressive of the utmost concern. After telling us that the Nabob had declared himself exceeding dissatisfied with the small quantity of money in the treasury, and had loudly expressed his resentment at our presumption in defending the place so stubbornly with such a small garrison, demanding also why Mr Holwell had not had the prudence to make his escape with the President, but ending with a promise that no harm should befall the prisoners, the good gentleman admitted us into the secret of his dejection.
“One of the first acts of the Soubah on entering,” he said, “was to have Omy Chund and Kissendass fetched out of prison, whom he received with the greatest imaginable civility, and presented ’em both withseerpaws.”[03](These, Amelia, are vests of honour, given by a ruler to those he most affects.) “You may well look astonished, gentlemen, knowing that the shelter given to Kissendass was our chief alleged crime in the Nabob’s eyes, but there’s worse yet. Have you forgot that in the same prison with the two Gentoos was a European, suspected, like them, of trafficking with the enemy? I understand that when the prison was broke open the unhappy man had almost secured his freedom by promising to show the Moors that discovered him where he had buried a prodigious treasure, but, as you are sensible, Omy Chund never forgives, and sure Mr Menotti made him his deadly enemy when he sought to save himself by casting suspicion on him. Not that Omy Chund appeared in the matter, save by preventing Menotti’s escape, for there was another ready to do the business. When the wretched man was brought before the Soubah, there stood out to accuse him a person somewhat of a European aspect, but dressed like the Moors, and this I discovered to be the renegade Frenchman, Sinzaun, the master of the Nabob’s artillery. From all I could learn (for the apostate spoke very vehemently and with an almost incredible swiftness in Moors), Menotti, who had for years supplied the old Soubah with information respecting us and our designs, suddenly demanded from Surajah Dowlah that in the event of this place being captured a certain female should be allotted to him as a part of his reward. Finding the Muxadavad Durbar disinclined to increase their offers, he supported his request with threats, declaring that he would otherwise betray the Nabob’s designs to our Presidency. On this Sinzaun visited Calcutta in disguise, as I understood, and arrived at the determination to carry off the lady himself, whereupon, so he alleged, Menotti sought to betray both him and their common design to us, trusting to obtain the object of his pursuit through the gratitude of the chiefs of our factory. At this point of his discourse the accuser directed at Menotti a gross taunt that appeared to sting him to the highest pitch of indignation, for drawing a stiletto that he had contrived to conceal about him, he flung himself upon Sinzaun with such fury, despite his chains, that it seemed impossible to part ’em. But the renegade wearing a shirt of mail under his Moorish vest, the blow was fruitless, and Menotti was dragged from his prey, when the Soubah, who was prodigiously incensed that such an attempt should be made on his officer in his presence, cried out to the guards to fall upon him, and he was cut to pieces in the twinkling of an eye. Can you wonder at my seriousness, gentlemen, after beholding so shocking a spectacle?”
The gentlemen vied with each other in expressions of horror, but what does my Amelia think was the state of mind of the three persons that knew who was the unhappy creature alluded to as the object of the rivalry of these two traitors? My poor father groaned aloud, while I sank down by his side overcome with terror, and Captain Colquhoun opened his vest and showed me the butt of a pistol, which, indeed, was the greatest comfort that he could have offered me at that moment. But the next there came an even greater alarm to rouse us from our stupor of fright, for Lieutenant Bellamy pushed his way through the crowd to us with—
“There’s several Moors of high rank crossing the parade, gentlemen, and they say that one of ’em is Sinzaun.”
“Crouch down where you are, madam,” says Captain Colquhoun, “but get a glimpse of the fellow if you can. It may be that our alarm en’t needed. And, gentlemen, not a word of Miss if your lives be the forfeit.”
There was five hundredbercundauzes, or gun-men, drawn up on the parade facing us, with their matches ready lighted, and a strong guard placed over us, with another on the stairs leading to the bastion, and some of these men brought torches, which they lighted from the matches of thebercundauzes, for it was dark under the varanda where we were, the sun being near its setting. Presently the party of Moors of whom the Lieutenant had spoken came to the front of the varanda, feasting their eyes, I suppose, on the wounded and worn-out men that had opposed them so long. But one of them suffered his eyes to rove keenly over the whole body of prisoners and their surroundings, and although I had never before seen him but in a masque, I knew him at once. Then he spoke in French to the only other female that was escaped, the wife of one of the sea-officers named Carey, and a fine handsome young woman, though country-born, and his voice was that which I had last heard from King Lewis at the Masquerade.
“And are you, madam, the only lady that has the honour of having taken part in this resolute defence?” he asked her.
“Why, indeed, sir, there was another,” she said, “but I han’t seen her for some time now.”
Once again did the wretch’s eyes search the place, while I crouched behind the gentlemen, half-dead with fear, but he went away disappointed. It was now dark, and the Musslemen, by which is meant all the Moors and Moguls among the enemy, sung a thanksgiving toAlla, which is their name for the Deity. Seeing them thus occupied, Captain Colquhoun turned round to me.
“Was that man he whom you feared, madam?”
“Alas, sir, he was!”
“Then he won’t be satisfied with his search, and if the prisoners are marched out on the parade, he must find you. If only we had any disguise at hand——”
“Oh, dear sir, pray kill me, or if that be wicked, disfigure me in any way you will, sooner than I should fall into his hands.”
“Hush, child; I had sooner save you from him and death both. Would it be possible, I wonder——? Do me the favour to take down your hair, madam.”
I could not guess what he intended to do, but I obeyed, wondering, and the Captain combed my hair back with a pocket-comb, and tied it with one of the ribbons I had taken off, like that of a youth.
“The lack of powder will excite no remark, after our five days’ uneasiness,” he muttered to himself. “Put your cap and fallals into your pocket, madam, lest they would be picked up and excite suspicion. Pray will one of you young gentlemen oblige Miss with a hat? Mine is hugely too large.”
Lieutenant Bellamy at once lent me his own hat, and tied a red silk handkerchief round his head, to give himself, as he said, a piratical air, such as might strike terror into our gaolers.
“Now has any of the seafaring gentlemen a watch-coat, or anything of the kind, with him?” asked the Captain.
“Why, look ye, sir,” says one of them, “we are fair roasted already with the heat. What should we want with watch-coats?”
“Will this serve your turn, Captain?” cries Mr Eyre, bringing forward a great travelling-cloak. “I thought it might be of use if we were forced to lie to-night in the open, or on a stone floor, but pray consider it your own if it’s to advantage Miss in any way.”
“You’re a friend in need, sir,” says the Captain, taking the cloak and wrapping it round me from the chin to the feet, so that not an inch of my white gown was anywhere visible. It happened most fortunately that I was not wearing a hoop, having laid it aside because it incommoded me in my care of my papa, so that I might very well pass for a boy in the dim light. The heat of the cloak was stifling, of course, but think, my dear, what was at stake!
“The prettiest young fellow in Calcutta!” says Mr Fisherton, who had been watching the transformation.
“Young gentleman,” says Captain Colquhoun sternly, seeing me shrink back, “is this the time for jests? Sure respect for the lady’s feelings should withhold you from such a freedom, if your own sense of fitness won’t do it.”
“On my honour, sir,” cried the young gentleman, “I sought but to cheer Miss with an assurance of the completeness of her disguise, so pray pardon me, madam, if I caused you pain.”
“You must stand here, madam, among these gentlemen and away from your papa,” says the Captain, leading me out of the corner. “Gentlemen, I need not ask you, I’m sure, to stand close round Miss.”
There was no time to answer, for the Moors having finished their devotions, there came a Jemmautdar to summon Mr Holwell to another audience of the Nabob, and as soon as he was gone some one standing in the front of the varanda called out that Omy Chund was coming. Presently the wicked old man, his usual sleek and spotless aspect somewhat marred by his week in prison, but wearing the Nabob’sseerpaw, a rich dress of gold gingham, over his Gentoo garments, mounted the steps of the varanda, attended by two or three Moors.
“Gentlemen,” he said in his own tongue, his cunning little eyes wandering over the mass of prisoners, “I am come on an errand of compassion. They tell me that the daughter of my good friend and patron, Fahrein Saeb, is among you, without any female attendance, and I have obtained leave from his Highness the Soubah to carry her to my own house and entrust her to the care of my family. I need not assure you that this offer springs solely from my respect and affection for Fahrein Saeb’s memory, and that the lady will enjoy perfect safety and honourable treatment at my house until it be possible to restore her to her friends.”
No one made any answer to this humane and affecting declaration, and Omy Chund walked along the varanda looking at the prisoners, and tarrying so long before Mrs Carey that her spouse, persuaded there was designs abroad against his wife, bade him go on quickly or he would knock him down the steps. Still not finding the unhappy creature he sought, Omy Chund told the chief Moor that was with him to desire the prisoners to sit down, which we did, I in the midst of the knot of gentlemen who shielded me. I could not be thankful enough that I had never met Omy Chund face to face before this day, for although his eyes rested upon me, he failed to recognise me in my disguise, and his aspect grew more and more sour.
“Who’s that on the bedstead in the corner?” he says at last suspiciously.
“Why, Omy Chund,” says my papa, raising himself up with Captain Colquhoun’s help, and speaking in an agreeable rallying voice, “I fear you’ve forgot your friend. Don’t you recognise Fahrein Saeb?”
“Pardon, gracious sir,” says the Gentoo, quite confused. “I had understood you was dead. You won’t take it amiss if I say that for your sake I had even hoped it, since I could not look to save you in the same manner as your daughter. Pray, sir, where’s the young lady?”
“Why, in a place of safety by this time, I hope,” says Mr Freyne. “You should bid your friends the Moors keep better watch, Omy Chund.”
The rest of the gentlemen laughed to see Omy Chund so confounded, and he, muttering angrily to himself, went down the steps again after one more inquisitive search among us. But when he was gone, the remembrance of the menacing language he had used provoked many enquiries and surmisings, which were only allayed by the return of Mr Holwell from his third interview with our conqueror, who, said the good gentleman, had pledged to him his word as a soldier that no harm should come to any of us. I was now seated again at the side of my papa, who appeared strangely drowsy, saying two or three times over that he was fatigued and would rest, and finally falling into a doze, undisturbed by the conversation going on around him. I remember that the good Padra recalled to our memories that it was the Sabbath evening, and that Mr Fisherton entered into an ingenious calculation to prove that, allowing for the difference of time, the afternoon church service was just about beginning at Whitcliffe in the county of Sussex, where his honoured father is the Rector. One of the other gentlemen objected to some error that he imagined in Mr Fisherton’s reckoning, and they were disputing the matter very pleasantly, when some one called attention to the alarming progress of the flames in which the greater part of the factory was now wrapped, and which, though they had been kindled upon the first entrance of the Moors, seemed to have gained fresh strength with sunset. The buildings both to right and left of us were now burning, and the horrid notion was suggested that our captors designed to suffocate us in the flames, which was supported by the sudden appearance of several Jemmautdars and fellows with lighted torches, who went about examining all the rooms under the varanda where we were. The young gentlemen immediately declared for rushing upon the guard and seizing their scymitars, so fighting to the last, rather than submit to such a fate, but Mr Holwell, who went to question the Moormen, returned quickly to assure us that they had no such inhuman intentions, but were only seeking a place to confine us in for the night.
It appeared that their search was successful, for the Jemmautdars returning and joining our guard, which advanced towards us from the parade, ordered us to go into the barracks, which opened upon the varanda where we stood. This was better than we had expected, for these apartments had been specially built with a view to coolness, and the gentlemen began talking and laughing over their good fortune and the oddity of the situation, while I stooped over my papa to awaken him gently, lest he should be startled by finding himself moved, but I could not succeed in rousing him.
“Pray, sir,” I cried, catching Captain Colquhoun’s arm in a great anxiety, “come here a moment. I can’t wake my papa.”
“Why, what’s this, madam?” says the Captain, turning round quickly; and he laid his hand on Mr Freyne’s heart and brow, then stood up and looked at me with a countenance so full of pity that I found myself raising my hands as though to ward off a blow. “Dear madam, your father will suffer no more,” he said. I stood with my hands upraised, staring stupidly at him.
“Your father has passed away in his sleep, madam,” he said, with great gentleness.
“My papa dead?” I cried. “Then I’ll die with him!” and I threw myself down beside the bed; but the Captain raised me instantly.
“Madam, your papa employed his last strength in seeking to secure your safety. Will you suffer that sacrifice to be in vain? If you remain here alone, you’re lost. Sergeant, give Miss your arm on t’other side.”
I had no power to resist, though I could read in the Captain’s words that my papa’s efforts to divert Omy Chund from his search for me had so exceeded his strength as to cost him his life, and I felt myself half-dragged, half-carried away by the two men. I remember that the Captain’s sleeve was stiff, and that he winced when I first catched his arm. It did not then occur to me what this signified, but now I know that he must have been wounded, and that the blood was dried on his clothes.
We were now inside the barracks, where we had thought we were intended to remain; but the guard still pressed upon us, some presenting their pieces, others with their scymitars drawn, all forcing us on towards a door that stood open at the end of the place nearest the bastion. Seeing this, the sergeant who was supporting me on the left gave a great laugh.
“Why, ’tis naught but the black hole!” he cried, “and that’s none so dreadful. I ought to know, for many a night I’ve passed there, though not many on ’em sober, I must say. So keep up your heart, madam.”
“The black hole?” says Captain Colquhoun, in a voice of great apprehension. “Sure they won’t attempt to confine us all there? The place en’t but 15 feet square.”[04]
But the prodigious efforts he made to turn back were fruitless, for those behind pressed us on, being themselves drove forward by the guards, and ignorant of the nature or extent of the place they were entering, jesting as they came, until all were inside, when the door was immediately shut, condemning a good hundred and fifty[05]unfortunate wretches to the most dreadful of deaths, for, so far as I know, I alone among the victims am escaped to tell the tale (and who knows whether this writing of mine may ever come into the hands of any that will make known our fate? since for very shame’s sake the Moors must surely conceal the frightful truth). The chief thought of the unhappy beings who were the last forced into the room was to get the door opened again, but having no tools, they laboured in vain. Meanwhile, my two supporters dragged me through the crowd towards the two small barred windows opening on the varanda, the gentlemen making way with the most engaging politeness in answer to Captain Colquhoun’s cry of “Room for the lady, if you please, gentlemen!” In the window nearest to the door Mr Holwell and two other gentlemen, both badly wounded, were already seated, clinging to the bars; but at the second, although the sill was occupied, my protectors succeeded in finding a place for me close underneath, where they guarded me with their own persons from those who would have sought to drag me away. Close beside me was poor Mrs Carey, whose spouse was supporting her with an equal resolution, and she addressed herself to me with a pitiful laugh.
“La, miss! so you was there after all? En’t it monstrous uncivil of the Moors to confine us in such a place? I vow I shall swoon in a minute.”
I had no chance to answer her; for at this point Mr Holwell began to speak to the prisoners, exhorting them by all they held dear, and by the ready obedience they had shown him in so many perils that day, to behave with calmness and moderation, and not make their situation worse by giving way to frenzy. Having succeeded in obtaining some semblance of quietness, the good gentleman, from the window where he sat, called to the guards outside, offering them huge sums of money if they would remove half the prisoners to some other chamber, and so wrought upon them that one of them, I believe, departed to consult the Nabob’s pleasure in the matter. After this, different plans were suggested for lessening the closeness of the room. The gentlemen stripped off their coats and waistcoats (such of them as had ’em on), and sitting down upon the floor, used their hats for fans, being so closely wedged together that they could scarcely rise, and many that were weak with their wounds dying in that position through sheer want of strength.
But to the closeness of the atmosphere and the suffocating heat was now added a new torment, for all were seized with the most frightful thirst imaginable, crying out for “Water! water!” in a heart-rending manner. The Jemmautdar who had gone away was now returned, saying that the Nabob was asleep, and he durst not wake him; but being of a more humane temper than his fellows, this man ordered several skins of water (these serve as bottles) to be brought to the bars of the window where Mr Holwell sat, and the sight of this relief appeared to turn all the sufferers into maniacs, fighting with each other for the very smallest portion. The gentlemen on the window-sill, passing their hats through the bars, and bringing them back filled with water, did their utmost to supply every one; but the quantity thus obtained was so small, and so much was spilt, that few received as much as a drop. Nevertheless, the mere thought of water had so great an effect on me that I entreated Captain Colquhoun with tears to suffer me to leave my place and struggle towards the other window; but he refused me with the greatest sternness, saying that my only chance of life was here, and held me fast when I would have slipped away from him and the sergeant. And all this time the malicious wretches outside were holding lights close to the bars, that they might the more conveniently watch the fighting that took place over the meagre pittance of water, and gloat upon our agonies. Just at this moment, as I remember, poor Mr Eyre came staggering out of the struggling throng at the other window, and seeing us, paused in his design of seeking some quiet corner in which to expire.
“Why, Captain, how d’ye do?” he cried, with his usual good humour, “and Miss too, as I live! Good evening to you, good evening, madam!”
Such a greeting in such a situation seemed to me so comical that as the unfortunate gentleman went on his way I began to laugh, in a wild sort of style, and with no mirth in it, as you’ll guess, Amelia, but stopped short when the Captain clapped his hand upon my mouth.
“For Heaven’s sake, madam, be quiet!” he shouted in my ear, “or we shall have ’em all yelling like fiends in another minute, and en’t we yet sufficiently humiliated in the eyes of the Moors?”
I had no strength to answer, and stood leaning against the wall, held up only by the efforts of the Captain and Sergeant Jones from falling among the bodies that were heaped upon the floor, when I should never have risen again. Mr Holwell was gone now from his place at the other window, but whether sunk down through weakness or dragged away by force I don’t know, and most of the gentlemen and the wounded officers were dead, leaving only the common men, whose superior strength (and, I fear I must add, their hardness of heart in striking down those that stood before them) enabled them to hold by main force the points from which they could obtain a little air. I saw the crowd of struggling wretches in the light of the lamps held by the guards, I heard the cries, shouts, groans, prayers, imprecations, which ascended in a horrible confusion, but ’twas all as if I was in a dream. The only thing I could think of was that if I did not have water to cure my raging thirst I should die, but by this time I was beyond the power of calling for it. Presently I found the Captain shaking me and bidding me keep up heart, and learned that I had swooned on his shoulder, but the only answer I could make to his exhortations was to form with my lips the word “Water!”
“And you shall have it, madam!” he cried, with the only oath I ever heard him utter, and snatching the hat from my head (I had dropped the stifling cloak long before), he bade the sergeant support me, and plunged into the shrieking, striving throng. How he succeeded in obtaining the water I don’t know, but presently I saw him returning, holding the hat high above his head, while on every side were frantic hands stretched out to tear it from him, and dying men grovelled at his feet, imploring him for the love of Heaven to spare them a little drop, but he fought his way through the press without heeding them. He had almost reached us, when several desperate creatures flung themselves upon him and tore him down, but not before he had hurled the hat towards me. The sergeant seized it, and dashed a few precious drops into my mouth, then relinquished it perforce to the frenzied crowd that rushed upon us. Of the Captain I saw no more. Alas, my dear! unlike King David of old, your Sylvia was base enough to drink the water that had cost the blood of the noble gentleman that brought it to her, and she owes to it, questionless, the preservation of her unhappy life.
The next thing I remember is a struggle for the possession of our window, in which the sergeant raised me in his arms and set me for a moment upon the sill, but only for a moment, for I was torn down in an instant, my clothes in ribbons, while a huge black man, a corporal of our garrison, planted himself in my place. With an extraordinary agility and strength the sergeant saved me from being trampled to death on the floor, and assisted me to stand up. But I was weary of the struggle, and death was the only thing I desired.
“Let me die!” I cried to the sergeant, “let me die quietly,” and the worthy man, seeing the whole window now blocked so that no air could come through it, dragged me along by the side wall towards the platform at the back of the prison. On reaching it, we found the corpses piled there in heaps, and among them (oh, Amelia, I can scarcely write it) was good Mr Bellamy lying dead, his hand clasped fast in that of his dead son. Sure you’ll think that I, who had that night been bereaved of the best of fathers, and had seen my esteemed protector struck down in trying to succour me, could have no sorrow left, but the sight of the venerable divine, by whose wise counsels I had so often benefited, and the gallant young gentleman with whom I had danced and talked and laughed, lying there dead hand in hand, overcame me all at once. Something seemed to break in my head, a great cry burst from me, and I fell forward upon that dreadful heap, and knew no more.
(Part of a letter from Robert Fisherton, Esq., to the Rev. Dr Fisherton, at the Rectory, Whitcliffe, in the county of Sussex, taken from the Fisherton papers, by the kind permission of the present head of the family. From his monument in Whitcliffe Old Church, we learn that Robert Fisherton was only eighteen years old at this time.)
On board the Bombay frigate, offFultah,July ye5th.
Ever-honoured and dear Sir,— ... As I have already related to you the course of the late melancholy events by which our flourishing factory was destroyed, and so many of the most considerable among the Company’s servants there doomed to a frightful death, I will in this present letter go on to speak of the scarcely less mournful circumstances that followed upon that crowning point of the Moors’ infamy. Sure, dear sir, when the full horrors attending the capture of Calcutta shall be commonly known, in every civilised region the tear of sensibility will bedew the cheek of virtue in pity for our miserable fate. I believe, sir, that ’twas from your lips your son once heard that affecting anecdote of the great Tuscan poet, that when he walked abroad, his fellow-citizens, noting his gaunt air and the horror dwelling in his eyes, shrank away from him, whispering, “There goes the man that has been in hell!” Ah, dear sir, your son has also been in hell, and like the famous Florentine, will surely bear in his countenance for the remainder of his days the shadow of the awfulness of that night.
Words would fail me were I to attempt to trace the passing of the horrid hours, which those only lived through who were prompt to avail themselves of the deaths of those around them to seize upon the points of vantage thus left vacant. My own escape I attribute to my having succeeded, in spite of all attempts to dislodge me, in maintaining a position at one of the windows, close to Mr Holwell. When this excellent man finally gave up all hope of life, and resigned his place, I still held to mine, and had the great happiness, in the morning, of finding our worthy governor still alive under the heaps of dead on the platform, and with the assistance of Mr Ensign Walcot, of conveying him once more to the window, where his deathly appearance was effectual either in touching the hearts or in alarming the cupidity of our guards, for they sent word of his plight to the Nabob, who returned an instant order for our release from that charnel-house in which we were confined.
Oh, dear sir, how can I paint to you the pitiable situation of the twenty-three unhappy creatures that crawled forth from the cave of death? and that by a path that it needed full twenty minutes’ labour on the part of the guards to clear for us through the thickly piled bodies of our friends. My reverend father won’t, I am sure, think the worse of me when I confess that on finding myself restored to the air and the light of heaven I gave way to a flood of grateful tears, able only for the moment to realise the blessings of release. But this tribute to the weakness of nature once paid, I became sensible that the most affecting scenes were taking place all around me. Sure it must have raised even the most hardened cynic’s opinion of human nature, to behold the eagerness with which ghastly wretches, themselves scarce able to crawl, made their way back into the den from which they were but just escaped, in search of some friend in whom the vital spark might not yet be quite extinct. One incident of this kind, the beholding of which affected me most sensibly, I must relate for the admiration and approval of the dear circle at the Rectory.
Lying where I had thrown myself on the wet grass below the varanda, I saw a man staggering feebly forth from the dreadful chamber, supporting in his arms a female form, which he part dragged, part carried into the air with him. Laying the woman on the grass, he felt her heart and wrist with a kind of clumsy respect and tenderness, and shaking his head, murmured: “Dead, poor young lady, quite dead! Poor lass! poor lass!” but instead of remaining beside the body, turned back, to my surprise, in the direction of our dungeon. A horrid suspicion here seized me, and I dragged myself painfully to the side of the female. Oh, my father, conceive my feelings! The body was that of Miss Freyne, the daughter of one of our most respectable public servants, who himself had escaped the torments of the night only by expiring from the severity of his wounds shortly before we were forced into our prison. What! (I hear my sisters cry) is this the Miss Freyne of whom your every letter has spoke for near a year, the beauty, the toast, the admired of all Calcutta no less for the high qualities of her mind than for the charms of her person? Such is, alas! the case, and no philosopher could ask a more moving example of the fleeting nature of earthly prosperity. The unfortunate lady lay stretched upon the ground, her arms extended in front of her, her face fixed in an expression of horror such as I have never seen equalled, and approaching nearer, I sought to throw over her a coat that I had catched up, designing to cover that once exquisite countenance from the rude assaults of the sun and the insulting gaze of the Moors. What was my delight and astonishment to remark a slight, a very slight, movement in the supposed corpse, the merest flutter of a breath, nothing more. Filled with pleased amazement that a being so delicate should have contrived to support the hardships of the night, I called out in much agitation to Mr Secretary Cooke (Mr Holwell having been dragged away to attend the Nabob)—
“Pray, sir,” I cried, “lend me your aid. There’s a spark of life yet in our esteemed Miss Freyne, I’m convinced.”
“Then suffer it to become extinct, sir,” was the dreadful answer I received. “The unfortunate lady’s cruellest foe could do no worse for her than recall her to life now.”
I took his meaning. Pray, pray, dear sir, never allow any of my sisters to come to India, nor suffer yourself to be persuaded to marry one of them to any gentleman that has his occasions in this accursed country! Sure you would be of my mind, had you beheld, as I did, the unhappy case of this charming young lady, who was to find that very beauty of face, and elegancy of shape and air, which had brought all Calcutta to her feet, suddenly turned traitors to her, and become her most dangerous foes.
“I see as how you’re right, sir,” said a voice behind us, and I found there, on turning, the same man that had brought Miss Freyne out of the prison, dragging another corpse with him. “When I heard Mr Fisherton call out as Miss was alive, I was fair dazed with joy for the Captain’s sake, thinking as how he’d not given his life for naught, but ’tis better for the poor maid to die than to be carried off by the Moors. There’s one poor creature they’ve got already.”
He inclined his head in the direction of an unhappy woman, the wife of a ship’s officer whose dead body we had discovered in the early morning when searching for Mr Holwell, who was in the act of being dragged away, more dead than alive, towards the quarters in which were imprisoned the Indian women that had been captured in the pillage of the Black houses. “If I had a pistol handy,” went on the worthy fellow, “it should go hard with me but I would rob those fiends of their prey.”
Alas! we had not a weapon among us, and the man turned again to the body he had brought out last, which I now saw to be that of Captain Colquhoun of the garrison, a most excellent upright person, and the only one of our senior military officers that had or showed any the least warlike capacity, and began composing the limbs as decently as he could, covering the countenance with his own handkerchief. The deep sighs that broke from him during this operation, and the tears that rolled down his cheeks, helped me to recognise him, which the changes wrought by the night’s suffering had prevented me from doing hitherto.
“Sure you’re the sergeant to whom the Captain was so partial?” I said.
“That am I, sir, the unhappy reprobate as has lost the best friend and the kindest commander ever a man had. Three times I was broke for drunkenness, and three times the Captain kept me from going to the devil, and helped me to work my way up again, and now he can’t look after me no more.”
The poor fellow’s complaint was interrupted by the passing of a sad procession. Coming from the Governor’s apartments in the Fort, which the Nabob had appropriated to himself, and taking the way to the gate, where a commonhackerydrawn by oxen awaited them, we beheld our dear and respected Mr Holwell, and with him Mess. Walcot, Court, and Burdet, all surrounded by a guard drawn from the command of Meer Mudden,[01]the Soubah’s general of the Household Troops, and before them an Indian that carried a huge Marrato[02]battle-axe, with the edge turned towards the prisoners. Mr Cooke sat watching them like one stunned.
“Sure we have seen the last of Mr Holwell!” he said, heavily.
“You think he and the other gentlemen will be put to death, sir?” I asked him.
“Who can doubt it, sir? Han’t you seen the axe?”
This fresh misfortune kept us sad and silent for some time after we had waved our mournful farewells to our unfortunate companions, but then our own guards began to call out to us contemptuously to be gone, for we that were left might betake ourselves wherever we would. But where were we to go? Our ships were dropped down the river, and in all Calcutta, where we had reigned like princes a week before, who was now so poor to do us reverence? Such were the questions that, with blank countenances, we asked one another, almost ready to confess that our dead friends, whose bodies were now being carried from that frightful prison to be flung promiscuously into the ditch of our unfinished ravelin before the east gate, had found a happier fate than ours. But our sad speculations were quickly forgotten in an event that revived our worst fears. The Jemmautdar in charge of our guard (a depraved wretch like most of his fellows) was examining the dead bodies before they were carried out, with the view of discovering such poor remains of personal property as had escaped the plunderers of the evening before and the struggles of the night, and securing them for his own use. Unhappily there catched his eye the glitter of a silver buckle on Miss Freyne’s shoe, which was exposed by her torn gown, and he fetched out a knife to cut it away from the leather. So clumsily did the brutal mercenary do his sacrilegious work that the knife cut deep into the lady’s foot, when, to my horror and that of Mr Cooke, a faint groan escaped her lips, while a convulsive shudder ran through her entire frame.
“Bravo!” cried the wretch, “the woman’s alive, then! She shall go to Muxadabad. Sure his Highness will pay handsomely for a European female to add to his seraglio.”
“Jemmautdar Saeb,” says Mr Cooke, giving the fellow a polite title of respect, “let the poor creature die in peace. You see there’s scarce breath in her.”
“Nay,” says the Jemmautdar, with a horrid leer, “she shan’t die in peace, nor shall you carry her off to the ships under pretence of caring for her body. She shall live and come to Muxadabad, and bring me a fine reward from the Nabob.” And turning to some of his company, he bade them fetch a palanqueen, while Mr Secretary and I looked on with anguish depicted in our countenances, and the rest of the gentlemen that survived added their earnest supplications to ours. But the wretch in whose hands lay the unhappy lady’s fate proved as callous as he had before shown himself avaricious, and we were about turning away with heavy hearts, that we might not look on the carrying away into a detestable slavery of a young creature for whom we all entertained such high esteem, when we saw Omychund entering at the gate, accompanied with a moderate but genteel retinue of servants. I leave you to imagine, sir, what were our feelings when we saw ourselves forced to supplicate this treacherous Gentoo, to whose resentment and chicanery it is now a common belief among us that we owe all our sufferings, and who had lain in our prison until the day before, but it appeared to all of us that in him we beheld our only hope of securing Miss Freyne’s release from the most dreadful of fates. Omychund advancing towards us with hissewaury,[03]we rose at his approach, and this low-castshroff, who had never before approached a European without the most abject tokens of respect, nor ventured into the presence of one without removing his shoes, had the gratification to see six Britons greet him with the lowest bows they could bring themselves to offer. He greeted us with an air of unassuming benevolence, and testified by his countenance and gestures that he at once compassionated our sufferings and deprecated our respect.
“Pray, gentlemen,” he said in his own tongue, waving his hands in a gracious manner, “don’t do me so much honour. ’Tis only by the favour of his Highness that he who was the dust under your feet yesterday is now raised over your heads. I know what it is to be a prisoner, gentlemen, and my intercessions, joined with his Highness’s merciful disposition, have been happily successful in ameliorating your situation. You have been already released from custody, but I’m happy to inform you that ’tis permitted you to remain in the place and attend to your occasions, and that you’ll do me a favour if you’ll all draw on me for clothes and provisions, as well as your lodging charges, for I can’t forget in this day of prosperity how much I owe to the obliging good nature of your nation in the past.”
If Omychund’s debt to the British nation was to be measured by the depth of the humiliation he was now inflicting on us, it goes to show that the impression shared by Mr Holwell and the late Captain Colquhoun and others of our gentlemen, that for years he was only waiting his chance to revenge himself for being turned out of his employment under the Company, was justified, but now his tones altered, and his countenance assumed an air of the greatest horror.
“What!” he cried, “do I indeed behold Fahrein Saeb’s daughter? Is it possible that the unhappy young lady contrived to elude my well-meant search last evening, and has paid for her lack of confidence with her life? Alas! alas! that an effort so kindly intended should have been received with such suspicion!”
“Omychund,” says Mr Cooke, approaching him, “now is the time to show your friendship. Miss en’t dead, but the Jemmautdar yonder swears that he’ll carry her off to Muxadabad. Pray use your best efforts to change his mind. Offer him any sum you choose—even up to alackof rupees. I’m sure there en’t a lady or gentleman left of the inhabitants of Calcutta but would gladly join to pay it.”
“Jemmautdar Saeb,” says Omychund, when the fellow, on his beckoning, came swaggering up, “is it true that you’re taking the woman there to Muxadabad?”
“Quite true,” says the other, “and I shall give her to his Highness. The other woman will do for the Buxey.”[04]
“But this is a great lady. She’s Fahrein Saeb’s daughter.”
“So much the better,” with another leer.
“I am told to offer you many thousands of rupees to let her go.”
“His Highness will give me more for keeping her.”
“Then will nothing tempt you?”
“Not tencororesof rupees. Not all the treasure that the accursed Holwell has buried and won’t give up. The woman goes to Muxadabad.”
“I feared it was useless, Saeb,” says Omychund aside to Mr Cooke. “This is an extraordinary resolved villain. If only the chance of last night had not been lost!”
“But sure they won’t have the inhumanity to carry the poor lady away without one of her own sex to attend upon her?”
“Ah, in that I can help you, Saeb. As it chanced, there met me in coming hither a worthy woman that asked alms of me, whom I had known in more prosperous days. She had served several European ladies as a waiting-woman, and saved enough to set up a small shop in the Great Buzar. This was plundered and burnt last week, and she is reduced to penury. I will send one of my servants to call her, and she shall wait on the lady to Muxadabad.”
“But sure she won’t adventure herself into the enemy’s stronghold?”
“Indeed, Saeb, the prospect of gaining a position in his Highness’s household will transport her with joy.”
“Well, I hope she’s to be trusted. Pray, Omychund, present her with ten rupees from me, and bid her be good to her mistress.”
“And the same from me,” said I. “And from me,” “And from me,” added the other gentlemen, and Omychund called his cash-bearer from among his attendance, and bade him count out the money. By this time the other servant was returned with the iya, an elderly Moorwoman well muffled in a blue cloth, and to her Omychund gave the rupees, with many good counsels, which she promised faithfully to observe, while all the time she was assisting to lift Miss Freyne, who was still insensible, though faintly moaning, into the palanqueen, and place her as easily as she might. When this was done, and thechecksdrawn, she followed behind the bearers, and they passed out of our sight. Dear sir, I am sensible that we seem to have played but a sorry part in this affair, and yet, what could we do? There wasn’t a man of us but would have given his life cheerfully to save Miss Freyne, but all our lives together would not have been accepted in exchange for hers, although, as you shall see, there was one worthy fellow did actually sacrifice himself for her.
“See,” cried Mr Cooke, as the Jemmautdar and his men left the Fort after the palanqueen, “the rascal is taking one of ourselves with him. Who is it? This is contrary to the Nabob’s message of clemency, Omychund.”
“Not so, Saeb,” says the Gentoo. “His Highness desires European gunners, and this person has offered himself as one of ’em. I fear he has the notion that he will be permitted to attend on the young lady, but he’ll soon be undeceived in this.”
“Sure ’tis that sergeant of Captain Colquhoun’s!” said I, and on a sudden impulse, started to run after the poor man and warn him of his mistake, but so weak and sick was I that I could not even reach the gate before I fell down helplessly. And thus, sir, was this poor faithful fellow trapped into entering the Nabob’s service, in the vain belief that he would be suffered to watch over the safety of the lady of whom his late beloved commander was enamoured. That very day, as we learned, was he put on board the same boat as Miss Freyne and her attendant, which started for Muxadabad under the charge of the Jemmautdar and a strong guard. Of the other unfortunate lady we have heard nothing, but we know sufficient to wish that Miss Freyne had, like her, been consigned to the Buxey, Meer Jaffier. It seems that as our ships dropped down the river from Surmans, on beholding the fall of the Fort, they were hotly cannonaded by the Nabob’s fortresses of Tannah and Buzbudgia, and under this fire the snow Diligence, on board of which were Mrs Drake and Mrs Mapletoft and two other ladies, besides Mr Labaume, a French officer of ours, who was badly wounded, and Mr Holwell’s goods and money, in charge of his clerk, Mr Weston, run ashore. The four ladies were handed over by their captors to Meer Jaffier, who treated them with the greatest humanity, and ordering his secretary, Mirza Omar-beg, to take a swift boat, put the ladies and Mr Labaume into it, and despatched them, under the secretary’s care, to the ships, where husbands and wives were happily reunited. It may be that the Buxey has used Mrs Carey in the like handsome and delicate fashion, but of this we have no news.[05]
And meanwhile, what of ourselves? my good father will ask. Indeed, dear sir, the sojourn in Allynagore (as the Soubah has renamed Calcutta, building a mosque or Mussleman temple in the very Fort itself), which was granted us through Omychund’s intercession, was but short. For ten days we all lay sick of frightful fevers and the most painful imposthumes or boils, which broke out all over us owing to the foul atmosphere we had been in. I’ll assure the dear circle that it afforded us little consolation as we lay abed to hear the rain pattering on the roofs and terrasses, rain which began on the night of our sufferings,[06]and which, had it come one day nearer its usual date, might have availed to save Calcutta. As soon as any of us were able to be about again, our troubles began anew, for the Nabob made Monickchund the Phousdar of Houghley governor of Allynagore. This man affects to rule with an iron hand (the Soubah being returned to Muxadabad), and on one of the sergeants that survived with us the horrors of our imprisonment celebrating his recovery by getting drunk and killing a Moorman, Monickchund turned all of us Europeans out of the place, under penalty of cutting off the nose and ears of any one he found there after sunset of that day, so that we were forced to make our way painfully to Fultah, a settlement of the Dutch on the Houghley River, where our ships were lying. This place is at all times very unhealthy, but the great number of persons now crowded together on board the vessels, and sleeping on deck without any shelter, exposed to the rains without so much as a change of clothes, has caused an extraordinary great prevalence of disease. The wisest course for the unhappy persons in this deplorable situation would questionless be to make the best of their way by slow stages to Madrass, in spite of the opposing winds, but Mr Manningham, who has good reason to dread the true history of his pusillanimous behaviour becoming known at that place, pointed out so forcibly to the President and Mr Frankland the inexpediency of such a proceeding, that they, being themselves in the like case with him, put an end immediately to the notion. This apart, I know my dear friends will rejoice to hear that the greatest kindness is shown by all on board the ships to us unhappy sufferers, and that many who have saved but little of their property share the scanty remnants with us.
The full history of the capture of the Fort was unknown until our arrival, although some partial reports had been brought in by blackfellows, and the utmost horror and amazement was excited by what we had to tell. Mrs Freyne has taken her stepdaughter’s melancholy fate so much to heart that she has requested Miss Freyne’s name may never again be mentioned in her hearing, but the young lady’s chief female friend, Mrs Hurstwood, looks at the matter in an entirely different light. Repairing, at her request, on board the Dodley, where she is lying sick, I related the whole mournful affair to Mrs Hurstwood, when the lady astonished me by crying out to know whether there was none of us man enough to snatch a scymitar from the guards and slay her unfortunate friend. To this I could only reply, quite confounded, that I could not have ventured upon so terrible and resolved a measure but upon the lady’s own urgent request, upon which Mrs Hurstwood mocked at me for preferring my punctilio to Miss Freyne’s honour and happiness, and bade me depart and never enter her presence again. Happening to meet Mr Hurstwood this morning, he told me that my news had so grievously affected his lady that she had been seized with a fresh access of her disorder, in so much that the physicians despaired of her life, a moving incident that shows the falseness of those who contend that no true friendship can exist between persons of the female sex. But as to that which the lady found fault with me for not doing, I can’t discern, even now, that I ought to have done it. I do entreat my dear father to unite his supplications to Heaven with mine, that my hesitation may be over-ruled by Omnipotence for good, even for that of the unhappy lady herself, and so assist to calm the troubled mind of, sir, your obedient son and servant,
Robert Fisherton.
From Mrs Hurstwood to Colvin Fraser, Esq.
On board the Hon. Co.’s Ship Doddaly, offFulta,July ye6th.
Sir,—I send you these lines by the hand of Mess. Manningham and La Beaume, to whom is committed the melancholy task of announcing at Madrass the deplorable ruin that has lately fell upon our Calcutta factory. I make no excuse for addressing a letter to a gentleman that I know so slightly, and with whom my relations in the past have not been so friendly as I should have desired, seeing he had succeeded in inspiring such a tender interest in the bosom of my dearest friend. Mr Fraser don’t need me to tell him that I was always of opinion Miss Freyne might do vastly better than marry him, and that in aspiring even to the honour of her friendship he was pretending to a favour much above his deserts. True, sir, and even at this present time I can’t bring myself to feign otherwise, but I don’t think so ill of Mr Fraser as to imagine he will let my whimsies prejudice him against the lovely and innocent creature in whose behalf I now demand his help. What (you’ll say), I have changed my tune? Indeed, sir, I’ll assure you that the change springs only from the need of the moment, and ’twill require a very exceptional behaviour on your part to induce it to become permanent. But I do need your help,—nay, I demand it, and this because there’s no one else to whom I can confidently apply, and to whom Miss Freyne’s fate is a matter of such proper concern. My spouse knows that if there’s any question of attacking Muxadavad when reinforcements reach us, he must march with the troops to Miss Freyne’s rescue (if he be forced to do no more than carry a fire-rock in the ranks), or he shall never again call Charlotte Hamlin his wife, but the unreasonable creature persists in considering me before my dearest Sylvia, and won’t consent to take any present step that might interfere with his protecting me. Our excellent Mr Freyne is no more, and his lady is too much relieved to find herself suddenly liberated from the scandal that was beginning to threaten her name, and to believe herself the heir to all that her spouse has left behind him, to feign any interest in the recovery of her stepdaughter. Your cousin Colquhoun, the worthiest person of my acquaintance (you are aware of my opinion, that if you, sir, had possessed the Captain’s disposition, or he your youth and prospects, I need have sought no further for a spouse for my Sylvia), is also dead, and the only person left to watch over the dear creature’s fate is myself. The fearful news that my dearest girl had been carried into the most frightful and revolting slavery imaginable threw me at first into such a sickness that both Dr Knox and a Dutch physician from the factory here predicted my immediate dissolution, but, sir, I can’t, I won’t die, while my Sylvia needs a disinterested friend. If I can do no more than incite you to attempt her deliverance, I shan’t have lived in vain, but I fear that I don’t trust Mr Fraser sufficiently to die happy until I have seen him actually successful. Come, sir, I challenge you to undertake the task. You have declared that you love my incomparable Miss Freyne—or at least, at the end of a monstrous fine and flowery epistle of yours there was a postscriptum that the dear creature would not read to me, but to which her eyes returned ever and anon with a smile of sweet satisfaction when she thought I wasn’t looking at her—what, pray, is your love good for? Hitherto it has been fertile in producing the most fantastical letter ever wrote out of a romance, and the most unhappy expedient for sparing your punctilio and testing your mistress’s affection that ever set a gentleman and lady at cross purposes, but is it capable of anything more? You have confused and muddled your affairs in a style worthy only of a poet; is it possible to you to go to work like a man of sense to set ’em right? If so, let me see you throwing, for once, your prudence and calculation and worldly wisdom to the winds, and setting out to rescue Miss Freyne, if living, to avenge her, if dead. You’ll observe that I don’t condition with you to marry her if she be rescued. Your sentiments may have altered, and no man shall marry my Sylvia Freyne that would make a condescension of doing so. My house and my heart are always open to her; your part is only to restore her to the arms of, sir, your obedient servant,