One of Clive's Heroes: A Story of the Fight for India Read online

  CHAPTER THE FIRST

  *In which the Court Leet of Market Drayton entertains Colonel RobertClive; and our hero makes an acquaintance.*

  One fine autumn evening, in the year 1754, a country cart joggedeastwards into Market Drayton at the heels of a thicksetshaggy-fetlocked and broken-winded cob. The low tilt, worn andill-fitting, swayed widely with the motion, scarcely avoiding the hatsof the two men who sat side by side on the front seat, and who, to anyone watching their approach, would have appeared as dark figures in atottering archway, against a background of crimson sky.

  As the vehicle jolted through Shropshire Street, the creakings of itsunsteady wheels mingled with a deep humming, as of innumerable bees,proceeding from the heart of the town. Turning the corner by thebutchers' bulks into the High Street, the cart came to an abrupt stop.In front, from the corn-market, a large wooden structure in the centreof the street, to the _Talbot Inn_, stretched a dense mass of people,partly townsfolk, as might be discerned by their dress, partly countryfolk who, having come in from outlying villages to market, hadpresumably been kept in the town by their curiosity or the fair weather.

  "We'n better goo round about, measter," said the driver to the passengerat his side. "Summat's afoot down yander."

  "You're a wise man, to be sure. Something's afoot, as you truly say.And being troubled from my youth up with an inquiring nose, I'll e'enstep forward and smell out the occasion. Do you bide here, my Jehu,till I come back."

  "Why, I will then, measter, but my name binna Jehu. 'Tis plain Tummas."

  "You don't say so! Now I come to think of it, it suits you better thanJehu, for the Son of Nimshi drove furiously. Well, Tummas, I will notkeep you long; this troublesome nose of mine, I dare say, will soon besatisfied."

  By this time he had slipped down from his seat, and was walking towardsthe throng. Now that he was upon his feet, he showed himself to be morethan common tall, spare, and loose-jointed. His face was lean andswarthy, his eyes black and restless; his well-cut lips even now worethe same smile as when he mischievously misnamed his driver. Though hewore the usual dress of the Englishman of his day--frock, knee-breeches,and buckle-shoes, none of them in their first youth--there was asomething outlandish about him, in the bright yellow of his neckclothand the red feather stuck at a jaunty angle into the riband of his hat;and Tummas, as he looked curiously after his strange passenger, shookhis head, and bit the straw in his mouth, and muttered:

  "Ay, it binna on'y the nose, 't binna on'y the nose, with his Jehus an'such."

  Meanwhile the man strode rapidly along, reached the fringe of the crowd,and appeared to make his way through its mass without difficulty,perhaps by reason of his commanding height, possibly by the aforesaidquaintness of his aspect, and the smile which forbade any one to regardhim as an aggressor. He went steadily on until he came opposite to the_Talbot Inn_. At that moment a stillness fell upon the crowd; everyvoice was hushed; every head was craned towards the open windows of theinn's assembly-room.

  [Sidenote: Reminiscences]

  Gazing with the rest, the stranger saw a long table glittering under thesoft radiance of many candles and surrounded by a numerous company--fatand thin, old and young, red-faced and pale, gentle and simple. At theend farthest from the street one figure stood erect--a short, round,rubicund little man, wearing a gown of rusty black, one thumb stuck intohis vest, and a rosy benignity in the glance with which he scanned thetable. He threw back his head, cleared his tight throat sonorously, andbegan, in tones perhaps best described as treacly, to address the seatedcompany, with an intention also towards the larger audience without.

  "Now, neebours all, we be trim and cosy in our insides, and 'tis timefur me to say summat. I be proud, that I be, as it falls to me, bein'bailiff o' this town, to ax ya all to drink the good health of ourhonoured townsman an' guest. I ha' lived hereabout, boy an' man, fur amatter o' fifty year, an' if so be I lived fifty more I couldna be aprouder man than I bin this night. Boy an' man, says I. Ay, I knowedour guest when he were no more'n table high. Well I mind him, that Ido, comin' by this very street to school; ay, an' he minds me too, Iwarrant. I see him now, I do, skippin' along street fresh an'nimble-like, his eyne chock full o' mischief, lookin' round fur to seesome poor soul to play a prank on. It do feel strange-like to have hima-sittin' by my elbow to-day. Many's the tale I could tell o' his doin'an' our sufferin'. Why, I mind a poor lump of a prentice as I wunsthad, a loon as never could raise a keek: poor soul, he bin undergroundthis many year. Well, as I were sayin', this prentice o' mine wereallers bein' baited by the boys o' the grammar-school. I done my bestfor him, spoke them boys fair an' soft, but bless ya, 'twas no good;they baited him worse'n ever. So one day I used my stick to um. Nextmornin', I was down in my bake-hus, makin' my batch ready fur oven,when, oothout a word o' warnin', up comes my two feet behind, down Igoes head fust into my flour barrel, and them young----hem! the clergybe present--them youngsters dancin' round me like forty mad merryandrewsat a fair."

  A roar of laughter greeted the anecdote.

  "Ay, neebours," resumed the bailiff, "we can laugh now, you an' me, buttheer's many on ya could tell o your own mishappenin's if ya had a mindto 't. As fur me, I bided my time. One day I cotched the leader o'them boys nigh corn-market, an' I laid him across the badgerin' stone,and walloped him nineteen-twenty--hee! hee! D'ya mind that, General?"

  He turned to the guest at his right hand, who sat with but the glimmerof a smile, crumbling one of Bailiff Malkin's rolls on the table-cloth.

  "But theer," continued the speaker, "that be nigh twenty year ago, an'the shape o' my strap binna theer now, I warrant. Three skins ha'growed since then--hee! hee! Who'd ha' thought, neebours, as that younglimb as plagued our very lives out 'ud ha' bin here to-day, a general,an' a great man, an' a credit to his town an' country? Us all thoughtas he'd bring his poor feyther's grey hairs in sorrow to the grave. An'when I heerd as he'd bin shipped off to the Injies--well, thinks I, thatbin the last we'll hear o' Bob Clive. But bless ya! all eggs binnaaddled. General Clive here--'twere the Injun sun what hatched he, an'binna he, I ax ya, a rare young fightin' cock? Ay, and a good breedtoo. A hunnerd year ago theer was a Bob Clive as med all ourgrandfeythers quake in mortal fear, a terrible man o' war was he. Theywanted to put 'n into po'try an' the church sarvice.

  From Wem and from Wyche An' from Clive o' the Styche, Good Lord, deliver us.

  That's what they thought o' the Bob Clive o' long ago. Well, this BobClive now a-sittin' at my elbow be just as desp'rate a fighter, an'thankful let us all be, neebours, as he does his fightin' wi' theblack-faced Injuns an' the black-hearted French, an' not the peacefulbide-at-homes o' Market Drayton."

  The little bailiff paused to moisten his lips. From his audience arosefeeling murmurs of approval.

  "Ya known what General Clive ha' done," he resumed. "'Twas all read outo' prent by the crier in corn-market. An' the grand folks in Lun'on ha'give him a gowd sword, an' he bin hob-a-nob wi' King Jarge hisself. An'us folks o' Market Drayton take it proud, we do, as he be come to see usafore he goes back to his duty. Theer's a' example fur you boys. Theerbe limbs o' mischief in Market Drayton yet. Ay, I see tha, 'LijahNotcutt, a-hangin' on to winder theer. I know who wringed the neck o'Widder Peplow's turkey. An' I see tha too, 'Zekiel Podmore; I know whobroke the handle o' town pump. If I cotch ya at your tricks I'llleather ya fust an' clap ya in the stocks afterwards, sure as my name beRandle Malkin. But as I wan sayin', if ya foller th' example o' GeneralClive, an' turn yer young sperits into the lawful way--why, mebbe therebe gowd swords an' mints o' money somewheers fur ya too. Well now, Ibin talkin' long enough, an' to tell ya the truth I be dry as a whistle,so I'll ax ya all to lift yer glasses, neebours, an' drink the goodhealth o' General Clive. So theer!"

  [Sidenote: "General Clive!"

  As the worthy bailiff concluded his speech, the company primed theirglasses, rose, and drank the toast with enthusiasm. Lusty cheers br
okefrom the drier throats outside; caps were waved, rattles whirled,kettles beaten, with a vigour that could not have been exceeded if thegeneral loyalty had been stirred by the presence of King George himself.Only one man in the crowd held his peace. The stranger remainedopposite to the window, silent, motionless, looking now into the room,now round upon the throng, with the same smile of whimsical amusement.Only once did his manner change; the smile faded, his lips met in astraight line, and he made a slight rearward movement, seeming at thesame moment to lose something of his height. It was when the guest ofthe evening stood up to reply: a young man, looking somewhat older thanhis twenty-nine years, his powdered hair crowning a strong face, withkeen, deep-set eyes, full lips and masterful chin. He wore a belacedpurple coat; a crimson sash crossed his embroidered vest; a diamondflashed upon his finger. Letting his eyes range slowly over the flushedfaces of the diners, he waited until the bailiff had waved down theuntiring applauders without; then, in a clear voice, began:

  "Bailiff Malkin, my old friends----"

  But his speech was broken in upon by a sudden commotion in the street.Loud cries of a different tenor arose at various points; the boys whohad been hanging upon the window-ledge dropped to the ground; the crowdsurged this way and that, and above the mingled clamour sounded a wildand fearful squeal that drew many of the company to their feet andseveral in alarm to the window. Among these the bailiff, red now withanger, shook his fist at the people and demanded the meaning of thedisturbance. A small boy, his eyes round with excitement, piped up:

  "An't please yer worship, 'tis a wild Injun come from nowheer an' doin'all manner o' wickedness."

  "A wild Injun! Cotch him! Ring the 'larum bell! Put him in thestocks!"

  But the bailiff's commands passed unheeded. The people were throngingup the street, elbowing each other, treading on each other's toes,yelling, booing, forgetful of all save the strange coincidence that, onthis evening of all others, the banquet in honour of Clive, the Indianhero, had been interrupted by the sudden appearance of a live Indian intheir very midst.

  A curious change had come over the demeanour of the stranger whohitherto had been so silent, so detached in manner, so unmoved. He wasnow to be seen energetically forcing his way towards the outskirts ofthe crowd, heaving, hurling, his long arms sweeping obstacles aside.His eyes flashed fire upon the yokels scurrying before him, a vitriolicstream of abuse scorched their faces as he bore them down. At length hestopped suddenly, caught a hulking farmer by the shoulder, and with aviolent twist and jerk flung him headlong among his fellows. Releasedfrom the man's grasp, a small negro boy, his eyes starting, his breastheaving with terror, sprang to the side of his deliverer, who soothinglypatted his woolly head, and turned at bay upon the crowd, now againpressing near.

  "Back, you boobies!" he shouted. "'Tis my boy! If a man of you followsme, I'll break his head for him."

  He turned and, clasping the black boy's hand close in his, strode awaytowards the waiting cart. The crowd stood in hesitation, daunted by thetall stranger's fierce mien. But one came out from among them, a slimboy of some fifteen years, who had followed at the heels of the strangerand had indeed assisted his progress. The rest, disappointed of theirIndian hunt, were now moving back towards the inn; but the boy hastenedon. Hearing his quick footsteps the man swung round with a snarl.

  "I hope the boy isn't hurt," said the lad quietly. "Can I do anythingfor you?"

  The stranger looked keenly at him; then, recognizing by his mien andvoice that this at least was no booby, he smiled; the truculence of hismanner vanished, and he said:

  "Your question is pat, my excellent friend, and I thank you for yourgood will. As you perceive, my withers are not wrung." He waved hisright hand airily, and the boy noticed that it was covered from wrist toknuckles with what appeared to be a fingerless glove of black velvet."The boy has taken no harm. 'Hic niger est,' as Horace somewhere hathit; and black spells Indian to your too hasty friends yonder. Scipio ishis praenomen, bestowed on him by me to match the cognomen his alreadyby nature--Africanus, to wit. You take me, kind sir? But I detain you;your ears doubtless itch for the eloquence of our condescending friendyonder; without more ado then, good night!"

  [Sidenote: A Gloved Hand]

  And turning on his heel, waving his gloved hand in salutation, thestranger went his way. The lad watched him wonderingly. For all hisshabbiness he appeared a gentleman. His speech was clean cut, hisaccent pure; yet in his tone, as in his dress, there was somethingunusual, a touch of the theatrical, strange to that old sleepy town.

  He hoisted the negro into the cart, then mounted to his place beside thedriver, and the vehicle rumbled away.

  Retracing his steps, the boy once more joined the crowd, and wormed hisway through its now silent ranks until he came within sight of theassembly-room. But if he had wished to hear Clive's speech of thanks,he was too late. As he arrived, applause greeted the hero's final words,and he resumed his seat. To the speeches that followed no heed was paidby the populace; words from the vicar and the local attorney had nonovelty for them. But they waited, gossiping among themselves, untilthe festivity was over and the party broke up. More shouts arose as thegreat man appeared at the inn door. Horses were there in waiting; ahundred hands were ready to hold the stirrup for Clive; but he mountedunassisted and rode off in company with Sir Philip Chetwode, aneighbouring squire, whose guest he was. When the principal figure hadgone, the throng rapidly melted away, and soon the street had resumedits normal quiet.

  The boy was among the last to quit the scene. Walking slowly down theroad, he overtook a bent old man in the smock of a farm labourer,trudging along alone.

  "Hey, measter Desmond," said the old man, "I feels for tha, that I do.I seed yer brother theer, eatin' an' drinkin' along wi' the noblegeneral, an' thinks I, 'tis hard on them as ha' to look on, wi' mouthsa-waterin' fur the vittles an' drink. But theer, I'd be afeard to setlips to some o' them kickshawses as goes down into the nattlens o' highfolk; an', all said an' done, a man canna be more'n full, even so it binwi' nowt but turmuts an' Cheshire cheese. Well, sir, 'tis fine to be anelder son, that's true, an' dunna ya take on about it. You bin on'y alad, after all, pardon my bold way o' speakin', an' mebbe when you cometo man's estate, why, there'll be a knife an' fork fur you too, though Idoubt we'll never see General Clive in these parts no moore. Here be myturnin'; good night to ya, sir."

  "Good-night, Dickon."

  [Sidenote: To Cheswardine]

  And Desmond Burke passed on alone, out of the silent town, into the nowdarkening road that led to his home towards Cheswardine.