Herbert Strang - In Clive\'s Command

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IN CLIVE'S COMMAND

A Story of the Fight for India

by

HERBERT STRANG

Contents

Preface
Chapter 1: In which the Court Leet of Market Drayton entertains
Colonel Robert Clive; and our hero makes an acquaintance.
Chapter 2: In which our hero overhears a conversation; and, meeting
with the unexpected, is none the less surprised and offended.
Chapter 3: In which Mr. Marmaduke Diggle talks of the Golden East; and
our hero interrupts an interview, and dreams dreams.
Chapter 4: In which blows are exchanged; and our hero, setting forth
upon his travels, scents an adventure.
Chapter 5: In which Job Grinsell explains; and three visitors come by
night to the Four Alls.
Chapter 6: In which the reader becomes acquainted with William Bulger and
other sailor men; and our hero as a squire of dames acquits
himself with credit.
Chapter 7: In which Colonel Clive suffers an unrecorded defeat; and
our hero finds food for reflection.
Chapter 8: In which several weeks are supposed to elapse; and our hero
is discovered in the Doldrums.
Chapter 9: In which the Good Intent makes a running fight: Mr. Toley
makes a suggestion.
Chapter 10: In which our hero arrives in the Golden East, and Mr.
Diggle presents him to a native prince.
Chapter 11: In which the Babu tells the story of King Vikramaditya; and the
discerning reader may find more than appears on the surface.
Chapter 12: In which our hero is offered freedom at the price of honor;
and Mr. Diggle finds that others can quote Latin on occasion.
Chapter 13: In which Mr. Diggle illustrates his argument; and there
are strange doings in Gheria harbor.
Chapter 14: In which seven bold men light a big bonfire; and the
Pirate finds our hero a bad bargain.
Chapter 15: In which our hero weathers a storm; and prepares for squalls.
Chapter 16: In which a mutiny is quelled in a minute; and our Babu
proves himself a man of war.
Chapter 17: In which our hero finds himself among friends; and
Colonel Clive prepares to astonish Angria.
Chapter 18: In which Angria is astonished; and our hero begins to pay
off old scores.
Chapter 19: In which the scene changes; the dramatis personae
remaining the same.
Chapter 20: In which there are recognitions and explanations; and our
hero meets one Coja Solomon, of Cossimbazar.
Chapter 21: In which Coja Solomon finds dishonesty the worse policy;
and a journey down the Hugli little to his liking.
Chapter 22: In which is given a full, true, and particular account of
the Battle of the Carts.
Chapter 23: In which there are many moving events; and our hero finds
himself a cadet of John Company.
Chapter 24: In which the danger of judging by appearance is notably
exemplified.
Chapter 25: In which our hero embarks on a hazardous mission; and
Monsieur Sinfray's khansaman makes a confession.
Chapter 26: In which presence of mind is shown to be next best to
absence of body.
Chapter 27: In which an officer of the Nawab disappears; and Bulger
reappears.
Chapter 28: In which Captain Barker has cause to rue the day when he met
Mr. Diggle; and our hero continues to wipe off old scores.
Chapter 29: In which our hero does not win the Battle of Plassey:
but, where all do well, gains as much glory as the rest.
Chapter 30: In which Coja Solomon reappears: and gives our hero
valuable information.
Chapter 31: In which friends meet, and part: and our hero hints a proposal.
Chapter 32: In which the curtain falls to the sound of wedding bells:
and our hero comes to his own.

Preface

I have not attempted in this story to give a full account of the career
of Lord Clive. That has been done by my old friend, Mr. Henty, in "With
Clive in India." It has always seemed to me that a single book provides
too narrow a canvas for the display of a life so full and varied as
Clive's, and that a work of fiction is bound to suffer, structurally and
in detail, from the compression of the events of a lifetime within so
restricted a space. I have therefore chosen two outstanding events in the
history of India--the capture of Gheria and the battle of Plassey--and
have made them the pivot of a personal story of adventure. The whole
action of the present work is comprised in the years from 1754 to 1757.

But while this book is thus rather a romance with a background of history
than an historical biography with an admixture of fiction, the reader may
be assured that the information its pages contain is accurate. I have
drawn freely upon the standard authorities: Orme, Ives, Grose, the lives
of Clive by Malcolm and Colonel Malleson, and many other works; in
particular the monumental volumes by Mr. S.C. Hill recently published,
"Bengal in 1756-7," which give a very full, careful and clear account of
that notable year, with a mass of most useful and interesting documents.
The maps of Bengal, Fort William and Plassey are taken from Mr. Hill's
work by kind permission of the Secretary of State for India. I have to
thank also Mr. T. P. Marshall, of Newport, for some valuable notes on the
history and topography of Market Drayton.

For several years I myself lived within a stone's throw of the scene of
the tragedy of the Black Hole; and though at that time I had no intention
of writing a story for boys, I hope that the impressions of Indian life,
character and scenery then gained have helped to create an atmosphere and
to give reality to my picture. History is more than a mere record of
events; and I shall be satisfied if the reader gets from these pages an
idea, however imperfect, of the conditions of life under which all empire
builders labored in India a hundred and fifty years ago.

Herbert Strang

Chapter 1: In which the Court Leet of Market Drayton entertains Colonel
Robert Clive; and our hero makes an acquaintance.

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

As the vehicle jolted through Shropshire Street, the creakings of its
unsteady wheels mingled with a deep humming, as of innumerable bees,
proceeding from the heart of the town. Turning the corner by the
butchers' bulks into the High Street, the cart came to an abrupt stop. In
front, from the corn market, a large wooden structure in the center of
the street, to the Talbot Inn, stretched a dense mass of people; partly
townfolk, as might be discerned by their dress, partly country folk who,
having come in from outlying villages to market, had presumably been kept
in the town by their curiosity or the fair weather.

"We'n better goo round about, Measter," said the driver, to the passenger
at 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'en step
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 Tummus."

"You don't say so! Now I come to think of it, it suits you better than
Jehu, for the Son of Nimshi drove furiously. Well, Tummus, I will not
keep you long; this troublesome nose of mine, I dare say, will soon be
satisfied."

By this time he had slipped down from his seat, and was walking toward
the throng. Now that he was upon his feet, he showed himself to be more
than common tall, spare and loose jointed. His face was lean and swarthy,
his eyes black and restless; his well-cut lips even now wore the same
smile as when he mischievously misnamed his driver. Though he wore the
usual dress of the Englishman of his day--frock, knee breeches and buckle
shoes, none of them in their first youth--there was a something
outlandish about him, in the bright yellow of his neckcloth and the red
feather stuck at a jaunty angle into the ribbon of his hat; and Tummus,
as he looked curiously after his strange passenger, shook his 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 aforesaid quaintness
of his aspect, and the smile which forbade any one to regard him as an
aggressor. He went steadily on until he came opposite to the Talbot Inn.
At that moment a stillness fell upon the crowd; every voice was hushed;
every head was craned towards the open windows of the inn's assembly
room.

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

"Now, neebors all, we be trim and cozy in our insides, and 'tis time fur
me to say summat. I be proud, that I be, as it falls to me, bein' bailiff
o' this town, to axe ya all to drink the good health of our honored
townsman an guest. I ha' lived hereabout, boy an' man, fur a matter o'
fifty year, an' if so be I lived fifty more I couldna be a prouder man
than I bin this night. Boy an' man, says I? Ay, I knowed our guest when
he were no more'n table high. Well I mind him, that I do, comin' by this
very street to school; ay, an' he minds me too, I warrant.

"I see him now, I do, skippin' along street fresh an' nimblelike, his
eyne chock full o' mischief lookin' round fur to see some poor soul to
play a prank on. It do feel strange-like to have him a-sittin' by my
elbow today. Many's the tale I could tell o' his doin' an' our sufferin'.
Why, I mind a poor lump of a 'prentice as I wunst had, a loon as never
could raise a keek: poor soul, he bin underground this many year. Well,
as I were sayin', this 'prentice o' mine were allers bein' baited by the
boys o' the grammar school. I done my best for 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. Next mornin' 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 I goes head fust into my flour barrel, and them
young--hem! the clergy be present--them youngsters dancin' round me like
forty mad merry andrews at a fair."

A roar of laughter greeted the anecdote.

"Ay, neebors," resumed the bailiff, "we can laugh now, you an' me, but
theer's many on ya could tell o' your own mishappenin's if ya had a mind
to '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 glimmer of
a smile, crumbling one of Bailiff Malkin's rolls on the tablecloth.

"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, neebors, as that young limb as
plagued our very lives out 'ud ha' bin here today, a general, an' a great
man, an' a credit to his town an' country? Us all thought as he'd bring
his poor feyther's gray hairs in sorrow to the grave. An' when I heerd as
he'd bin shipped off to the Injies--well, thinks I, that bin the last
we'll hear o' Bob Clive.

"But, bless ya! all eggs binna addled. General Clive here--'twere the
Injun sun what hatched he, an' binna he, I axe ya, a rare young fightin'
cock? Ay, and a good breed, too. A hunnerd year ago theer was a Bob Clive
as med all our grandfeythers quake in mortal fear, a terrible man o' war
was he. They wanted 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 Bob
Clive now a-sittin' at my elbow be just as desp'rate a fighter, an'
thankful let us all be, neebors, as he does his fightin' wi' the
black-faced Injuns an' the black-hearted French, an' not the peaceful
bide-at-homes o' Market Drayton."

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

"Ya known what General Clive ha' done," he resumed. "'Twas all read out
o' 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 us
afore he goes back to his duty.

"Theer's a example fur you boys. Theer be limbs o' mischief in Market
Drayton yet.

"Ay, I see tha' 'Lijah Notcutt, 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 who broke the handle o' town
pump. If I cotch ya at your tricks I'll leather ya fust an' clap ya in
the stocks afterwards, sure as my name be Randle Malkin.

"But as I wan sayin', if ya foller th' example o' General Clive, an' turn
yer young sperits into the lawful way--why, mebbe there be gowd swords
an' mints o' money somewheers fur ya too.

"Well now, I bin talkin' long enough, an' to tell ya the truth, I be dry
as a whistle, so I'll axe ya all to lift yer glasses, neebors, an' drink
the good health o' General Clive. So theer!"

As the worthy bailiff concluded his speech, the company primed their
glasses, rose and drank the toast with enthusiasm. Lusty cheers broke
from the drier throats outside; caps were waved, rattles whirled, kettles
beaten with a vigor that could not have been exceeded if the general
loyalty had been stirred by the presence of King George himself.

Only one man in the crowd held his peace. The stranger remained opposite
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 a straight line, and he
made a slight rearward movement, seeming at the same moment to lose
something of his height.

It was when the guest of the evening stood up to reply: a young man,
looking somewhat older than his twenty-nine years, his powdered hair
crowning a strong face; with keen, deep-set eyes, full lips and masterful
chin. He wore a belaced purple coat; a crimson sash crossed his
embroidered vest; a diamond flashed upon his finger. Letting his eyes
range slowly over the flushed faces of the diners, he waited until the
bailiff had waved down the untiring 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 who had
been hanging upon the window ledge dropped to the ground; the crowd
surged this way and that, and above the mingled clamor sounded a wild and
fearful squeal that drew many of the company to their feet and several in
alarm to the window.

Among these the bailiff, now red with anger, shook his fist at the people
and demanded the meaning of the disturbance. 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 the stocks!"

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

A curious change had come over the demeanor of the stranger, who hitherto
had been so silent, so detached in manner, so unmoved. He was now to be
seen energetically forcing his way toward the outskirts of the crowd,
heaving, hurling, his long arms sweeping obstacles aside. His eyes
flashed fire upon the yokels skurrying before him, a vitriolic stream of
abuse scorched their faces as he bore them down.

At length he stopped suddenly, caught a hulking farmer by the shoulder,
and, with a violent twist and jerk, flung him headlong among his fellows.
Released from the man's grasp, a small negro boy, his eyes starting, his
breast heaving with terror, sprang to the side of his deliverer, who
soothingly patted his woolly head, and turned at bay upon the crowd, now
again pressing near.

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

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

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

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

"Your question is pat, my excellent friend, and I thank you for your
goodwill. As you perceive, my withers are not wrung."

He waved his right hand airily, and the boy noticed that it was covered
from wrist to knuckles with what appeared to be a fingerless glove of
black velvet.

"The boy has taken no harm. Hic niger est, as Horace somewhere hath it;
and black spells Indian to your too hasty friends yonder. Scipio is his
praenomen, bestowed on him by me to match the cognomen his already by
nature--Africanus, to wit. You take me, kind sir? But I detain you; your
ears doubtless itch for the eloquence of our condescending friend yonder;
without more ado then, good night!"

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

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

Retracing his steps, the boy once more joined the crowd, and wormed his
way through its now silent ranks until he came within sight of the
assembly 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 paid by
the populace; words from the vicar and the local attorney had no novelty
for them. But they waited, gossiping among themselves, until the
festivity was over and the party broke up.

More shouts arose as the great man appeared at the inn door. Horses were
there in waiting; a hundred hands were ready to hold the stirrup for
Clive; but he mounted unassisted and rode off in company with Sir Philip
Chetwode, a neighboring squire whose guest he was. When the principal
figure had gone, the throng rapidly melted away, and soon the street had
resumed its normal quiet.

The boy was among the last to quit the scene. Walking slowly down the
road, he overtook a bent old man in the smock of a farm laborer, 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 noble general,
an' thinks I, 'tis hard on them as ha' to look on, wi' mouths a-waterin'
fur the vittles an' drink. But theer, I'd be afeard to set lips to some
o' them kickshawses as goes down into the nattlens o' high folk, an', all
said an' done, a man canna be more'n full, even so it bin wi' nowt but
turmuts an' Cheshire cheese.

"Well, sir, 'tis fine to be an elder son, that's true, an' dunna ye take
on about it. You bin on'y a lad, after all, pardon my bold way o'
speakin', an' mebbe when you come to man's estate, why, theer'll be a
knife an' fork fur you too, though I doubt we'll never see General Clive
in these parts no moore. Here be my turnin'; good night to ya, sir."

"Good night, Dickon."

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

Chapter 2: In which our hero overhears a conversation; and, meeting
with the unexpected, is none the less surprised and offended.

Desmond's pace became slower when, having crossed the valley, he began
the long ascent that led past the site of Tyrley Castle. But when he
again reached a stretch of level road he stepped out more briskly, for
the darkness of the autumn night was moment by moment contracting the
horizon, and he had still several miles to go on the unlighted road. Even
as the thought of his dark walk crossed his mind he caught sight of the
one light that served as a never-failing beacon to night travelers along
that highway. It came from the windows of a wayside inn, a common place
of call for farmers wending to or from Drayton Market, and one whose
curious sign Desmond had many times studied with a small boy's interest.

The inn was named the "Four Alls": its sign, a crude painting of a table
and four seated figures, a king, a parson, a soldier, and a farmer.
Beneath the group, in a rough scrawl, were the words--

Rule all: Pray all:
Fight all: Pay all.

As Desmond drew nearer to the inn, there came to him along the silent
road the sound of singing. This was somewhat unusual at such an hour, for
folk went early to bed, and the inn was too far from the town to have
attracted waifs and strays from the crowd. What was still more unusual,
the tones were not the rough, forced, vagrant tones of tipsy farmers;
they were of a single voice, light, musical, and true. Desmond's
curiosity was flicked, and he hastened his step, guessing from the
clearness of the sound that the windows were open and the singer in full
view.

The singing ceased abruptly just as he reached the inn. But the windows
stood indeed wide open, and from the safe darkness of the road he could
see clearly, by the light of four candles on the high mantel shelf, the
whole interior of the inn parlor. It held four persons. One lay back in a
chair near the fire, his legs outstretched, his chin on his breast, his
open lips shaking as he snored. It was Tummus Biles, the tranter, who had
driven a tall stranger from Chester to the present spot, and whose
indignation at being miscalled Jehu had only been appeased by a quart of
strong ale. On the other side of the fireplace, curled up on a settle,
and also asleep, lay the black boy, Scipio Africanus. Desmond noted these
two figures in passing; his gaze fastened upon the remaining two, who sat
at a corner of the table, a tankard in front of each.

One of the two was Job Grinsell, landlord of the inn, a man with a red
nose, loose mouth, and shifty eyes--not a pleasant fellow to look at, and
regarded vaguely as a bad character. He had once been head gamekeeper to
Sir Willoughby Stokes, the squire, whose service he had left suddenly and
in manifest disgrace. His companion was the stranger, the negro boy's
master, the man whose odd appearance and manner of talk had already set
Desmond's curiosity a-buzzing. It was clear that he must be the singer,
for Job Grinsell had a voice like a saw, and Tummus Biles knew no music
save the squeak of his cartwheels. It surprised Desmond to find the
stranger already on the most friendly, to all appearance, indeed,
confidential terms with the landlord.

"Hale, did you say?" he heard Grinsell ask. "Ay, hale as you an' me, an'
like to last another twenty year, rot him."

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