An End to Mystery
The moon was up and the stars out in their thousands as Owen and the
small band of troopers, native and white, who had ridden at his knee
during the pursuit, turned their weary horses towards Laswaree. The
enemy was routed. Far and wide the plain was scattered with the fallen,
and on every hand knots and sections of the cavalry force which had
helped in that great day were straggling back to the division. Owen rode
at the head of his men, his sabre sheathed, his head sunk deep between
his shoulders, and his eyes almost closed. Every now and again he
actually fell asleep in the saddle, till a snort from one of the jaded
horses or a touch from Mulha's hand awakened him. Suddenly the native
servant leaned across and took him by the elbow.
"Sahib," he said, "there is more work, I think, for yonder there is a
collection of the enemy. But mayhap you would leave them now to pass to
their own homes peacefully. They are utterly crushed and beaten."
He pointed to a low tope of pepul-trees some distance away, where, in
the full light of the moon, a number of men were gathered, their dress
showing them to be Mahrattas. Owen roused himself with an effort and
stared at the enemy.
"My orders were precise," he said. "I was to break up all gatherings and
scatter the enemy. We must ride against those men. Wheel to the left.
Now trot!"
It was as much as the horses could do to increase their pace, but the
willing animals responded to the appeal and hurried their riders towards
the tope. And presently, when within some two hundred yards, a horseman
was seen to break from the group gathered there and advance towards
Owen. He unsheathed his tulwar, and when within some twenty paces
lowered the point.
"We surrender," he said. "Let the white lord take my word that there are
none there who will offer further opposition. The British have won a
magnificent victory and Scindia is conquered. Will the sahib accept my
tulwar?"
"Replace it and wear it till I reach your comrades," answered Owen.
"Return to them and bid them lay their arms on the ground at once. They
will dismount and rein their horses together. Warn them that I will
charge if there is a sign of treachery."
The soldier salaamed humbly and turned to obey, when our hero again
called to him.
"What is your regiment? And how many are there of you?"
"There are forty, my lord, and we were not of Scindia's force. We have
ridden from Indore."
The mention of that city roused Owen still more, and he sat up in his
saddle, wide awake and fully alert now.
"From Indore? What brought you here?"
"We came as escort to the white officer who commanded Holkar's forces,
the Colonel sahib, Le Pourton. He lies yonder, my lord."
Then the tables were turned, and the very man who had so nearly brought
death to Owen was a prisoner, humbled, fallen from his high position,
the sport of a cruel fate. He who had threatened assassination was
helpless.
"Lead me to him," commanded our hero, "and, Mulha, bring some of the
troopers close to me. I do not forget this officer or his threats. A
desperate man may attempt anything, and I will neglect no precaution. We
will advance."
They followed the Mahratta horseman, and, having reached the group,
surrounded them. Then, at the order of the messenger, those of the enemy
who were still mounted threw themselves from their saddles and tossed
their arms to the ground. But Owen took little notice of them, for in
their midst, unseen till this moment, was the figure of their leader,
dressed in his Mahratta finery, ghastly pale, and stretched on the
ground, with his head supported on the flank of a fallen horse. His eyes
were closed, and that, with the deathly pallor of his face and the
bandage about his head, gave him such a ghastly appearance that all
thought he was dead. But he opened his eyes feebly as Owen and Mulha
advanced on foot, and smiled at them. Then, with an obvious effort, he
lifted a hand and signalled to them to come quite close.
"Have no fear," he said faintly. "The man who sent a threatening note is
past performing violence. His course is run, and even a bitter enemy
would not care to triumph over him. Come closer, Owen Marshall."
Owen Marshall! The name startled our hero, and he stood for more than a
minute staring at the figure of the fallen Colonel. Then pity for the
unfortunate officer took the place of the dislike he had formerly felt,
and he kneeled beside him, taking his hand and looking into his face.
"Bring some spirit, Mulha," he said. "There is a flask in my holster,
and it may do some good. Get it quickly."
"It will give me strength, but not life," was the answer, as the Colonel
again smiled at him. "That is for ever forfeited, for no man can suffer
such a wound as I have and live. Listen, Owen Marshall; yes, that is
your name, Owen Marshall, son of Captain Marshall, once of the Company's
service. Listen. I will speak in Mahratti, for I know little English.
This Captain Marshall----"
A violent fit of coughing arrested his words and shook his frame so much
that Owen thought that life itself would have departed. Blood flecked
his lips and cheek, while his pallor became even more pronounced.
Beneath the sickly beams cast by the moon Colonel Le Pourton looked as
if he had breathed his last, as if his troubles, his hatreds, and his
intrigues were ended for ever. But Mulha arrived at that instant, and
Owen contrived to force a few drops of spirit between the dying man's
lips.
"No man can suffer such a hurt and live," repeated the Colonel with a
sigh, and a sad smile, as he placed his feeble hand against his side.
"Your British horses are magnificent. Their lances are terrible! Truly
there is little wonder that you conquer. But I must not waste time, for
my hours are few and my breath comes shorter. Closer! Closer, so that
you can hear my whisper."
"Stand on the far side," said Owen to Mulha in English. "The Colonel is
dying, and I think is about to confess something which has to do with my
earlier life. Listen and remember what you hear. It is important that
there should be a witness. Now, Colonel," he went on, taking the fallen
officer's hand gently in his own, "speak. Tell me all you know. Tell me
everything that may concern my early life."
There was a long pause while the unfortunate man gathered strength and
breath, lying there with closed eyes and one hand resting on his breast.
Then he slowly looked up at Owen, gently returned the pressure of his
hand, and smiled.
"I have done an evil thing and am repaid with bitterness," he whispered.
"Mon dieu! What misery I have caused! What suffering to that good man.
And to you--what a bar I have been to progress. But for me and this
wicked scheme you would have been wealthy, titled perhaps, and brought
up amongst those who would have cared for and loved you. Yes, for when
you lay in that poorhouse there were those living in England who would
have given all their wealth, even their right hands, to have discovered
you. My scheme was terribly successful."
Once more he paused for breath, while Owen leaned over him and gave him
another sip of the spirit.
"Tell me about the scheme and about these relatives of mine," he said
gently. "I can forgive you for all that you may have done, if you will
make amends now while you are able. You say that my name is Owen
Marshall. Speak of my father, of my mother, and of others whom you may
have known."
"Listen, then. Fifteen years ago, more or less, I came to this country,
and was quartered with the native troops at Pondicherry, where the
French are settled. We fought the English constantly, and when two years
had passed it happened that I was taken prisoner and carried to
Calcutta, where I was placed on my parole. The English are good. Their
soldiers are brave and jovial, and their officers the best of fellows.
They fight an enemy with courage and dash. They make friends with equal
readiness. They were good to me. They fed me, housed me, invited me to
their homes, and made the hours pass as a pleasant dream to a poor
captive Frenchman. I came to like them, to forget all the old hatred and
prejudice, and--ah, there was another reason--your father was there,
Captain Thomas Marshall of the 22nd regiment, temporarily in the
service of the Company, and he it was who made Calcutta what it was for
me; for listen, Owen----"
Silence fell over the group once more, our hero holding his breath as he
waited for the next words, while Mulha stood like a statue over the
dying man. Above them the moon stared down upon a scene as strange and
as tragic as could be imagined, for here was a man who had erred,
stricken to his death and with little of life remaining, while kneeling
beside him was a youth whose future fortunes depended largely upon the
information which was locked in the Colonel's breast. No wonder that
Owen trembled, no wonder that he stared at the mute lips of Colonel Le
Pourton with a longing which he could not express. But this Frenchman
had the courage of despair and the tenacity of purpose which helps a man
to carry out a task, however arduous. Talking was difficult. His breath
came shorter and quicker, and a thin stream of blood trickled from the
corner of his mouth. But still he forced himself to complete the tale,
and, gathering all his strength, once more proceeded with it.
"Listen carefully, for now I come to your parents. Your father, this
Captain Marshall, a fine and gallant officer, had by some strange
fortune met and married my cousin when in London. She, poor girl, had
gone to England with her father, who was a wealthy merchant, and who
died about the time of my imprisonment, leaving this girl a fine
fortune. You were there, Owen, the apple of a proud father and mother's
eyes, and fortune smiled on you and on them. Mon dieu! What a tale of
ignominy for a dying man to tell! Would that I had never thought of this
ghastly scheme. But gold, with all the useful purposes to which it may
be put, is a fatal magnet which draws many to ill-doing. This cousin,
your dear mother, had in earlier days been my dear friend, and at one
time it seemed that we might be married. She had cared for me, and now
she felt pity for my condition. She made a will. I saw it, Owen. All was
left to your father, and then to you. If those two lives failed, the
fortune she had inherited was to go to me. Yes, for the wealth was
entrusted to others for her benefit, and was administered by relatives
in England. Otherwise, from all I know of the English law, it would have
gone to your father on the marriage. But no matter. Facts were as I have
stated, and I found myself poor and a captive with those three lives
between me and a fortune. Your mother died, and your miserable father
went up country on some military expedition, leaving me to send you
home. You sailed on an Indiaman, and with you, in addition to an ayah,
went one who was my agent. He it was who abducted you, and then, fearing
to go to extremes, left you on the roadside. Your father was slain in
that expedition, and I was left, as I thought, sole survivor."
"And my relatives? How is it that they did not discover me?"
Owen asked the question eagerly as he bent over the Colonel.
"They had no word of your coming. They thought you safe in India, and
it was not till a year later that they learned that your mother was dead
and your father slain. Also that you had been sent to England and had
landed there. The ayah was able to report how you had been abducted, and
afterwards--there is little marvel in the fact that search failed to
reveal you. More than a year had passed, and you were lost."
"And you were the heir?"
"I thought so, but was disappointed. Your English courts are precise and
particular. The trustees of this fortune handed the money over to these
courts, and though I tried to prove your death I was unable to do so. My
scheme had succeeded too well where you were concerned, but had failed
to better my fortunes. I took service with Holkar, and a month ago, when
you arrived at the palace and I recognised you by your likeness to my
one-time friend, I thought still to retrieve this fortune, to obtain
that for which I had so long intrigued. But there is a God above us, and
surely it is true that He watches over the widow and the orphan. You
escaped where another would have remained, fearful of discovery and of
the difficulties which had to be faced. That British dash and daring,
that promptness in great danger for which your race is so justly famed,
took you safely from Indore, and left me with rage and disappointment in
my heart, and with every intention of pursuing you. I left Indore mainly
for that purpose, for our spies learned that you had ridden to Agra, and
that you had joined General Lake's division. I had you watched, and--ah,
how cruel is the thought to me now!--there were those in your camp who
were hired to slay you. But you were guarded. Those faithful natives who
look up to you as if they were children watched over you, so that my men
were helpless. The armies met, and----"
"The day went with us," said Owen gently.
"Scindia's hosts were broken, as will be those of Holkar, for who can
strive against such men as yours are? I fell, pierced by a lance, and I
am now your prisoner, and very near the grave. Forgive me! Let a dying
man who has wronged you hear that you can forgive and forget."
The unhappy Colonel sat up on his elbow with a huge effort and stared at
Owen with bloodshot eyes. There was a look of desperate earnestness on
his pallid features. Deep lines of pain marked his face, while his
cheeks were pale and sunken.
"Forgive and forget!"
"I do. I forgive freely, and will forget. Calm yourself, and tell me
what little there is left. There, lie down again and be calm. You have
had your punishment. It is not for me to add to it. We are none of us
perfect, and if you have made a sad mistake, so may I on some future
occasion. There! Lie down!"
Very gently and tenderly Owen lowered him back into his position, and
seeing that he was extremely weak pressed more spirit upon him, causing
a little colour to return to his wan cheeks. Then he took the poor
fellow's hand again and pressed it.
"Who were these relatives to whom I was sent?" he asked, placing his
lips to the Colonel's ear, for the wounded man seemed to be almost
unconscious. "One more effort I beg of you. Who were these people?"
At the sound of his voice the Colonel turned his eyes in his direction
and groped with his hand.
"It is dark, and I cannot see you. Get a light, and I will speak. Quick!
There is little time left to me."
A minute later a smoking torch was brought and placed in Mulha's hand,
whereupon the officer opened his eyes again and smiled at Owen.
"May blessings for ever rest on you," he said, gently returning the
pressure of his hand. "I am forgiven, and though that does not excuse
the act, yet I can die the easier for it. And now I will end the matter
by speaking of the others. Sail for England as soon as you can and
present yourself to Sir Owen Marshall, your grandfather, who still
lives. You will find him in the county of Cheshire, though I forget the
town in which he resides. But he is one of those trustees who
administered the funds bequeathed to your dear mother, and he will
welcome you. That is all. Let me lie quietly here till the end, and
Owen--bury me beneath the tope of trees which lies behind us."
It was a sad, sad scene, and Owen's eyes were filled with tears before
the interview was over. All thought of his parentage, of his dead father
and mother, were banished for the time, and he thought of this unhappy
man, alone, steeped to the eyes in infamy, and yet repentant and
forgiven at the last. He lowered the Colonel's head on to a cushion of
soft grass covered with a cloth, and sat down beside him to wait for
help, for one of the troopers had ridden for a surgeon. And within an
hour one arrived and bent over the patient.
"He will live an hour, two perhaps," he said sadly. "I can do nothing
for him. Keep him as he is, and he will be quite easy."
"Then there is more for me to do," whispered the Colonel, when he had
heard what had been said. "Send for an officer, for two if possible, and
let them bring paper and writing materials. I will make the fullest
amends I can, and will repeat my tale to witnesses, and will sign what
is written. Hasten, Owen, or it will be too late."
That night, ere the moon went down, the spirit of this unfortunate
French colonel departed, and his body was buried close beneath the tope
of pepul-trees, a couple of flaming torches lighting the workers. Then
Owen mounted and returned sadly to camp, his mind filled with the scene
through which he had passed. But it was long before he had an
opportunity of returning home to meet his long-lost relatives, for ere
the Mahratta war ended Bundelcund was conquered, the important battle of
Argaun fought and won, and Gwalighur stormed. In four months an amazing
amount of fighting had been accomplished: four general battles had been
fought and won in brilliant manner, while eight fortresses had been
stormed and captured. In addition, large provinces had been added to the
possessions of the Government; and, more important than all, the
French-trained force which had for so long been a menace to our
existence in India had been utterly crushed, while some 250,000 troops
of all arms had been swept from the different fields by a British force
numbering under 60,000--a feat of arms of which we may well be proud.
But there still remained Holkar, and the following year found us at war
with him. The evil advice he had had, his own ambitions, and a hatred of
the British led him to try his fortunes against us, and had he not made
the first move in this matter we ourselves should have done so, for this
miscreant treacherously murdered those three officers whom Owen had met
at Indore, thus making it imperative that we should attack him. There is
no need to tell how a disastrous affair at first marred our fortunes,
and how in the end our troops were victorious. Holkar was completely
humbled, though it cost us much to bring that end about. Indeed, our
troops made four glorious but unsuccessful assaults on the fortress of
Bhurtpore, and were still without the walls when a truce was come to.
But they were not disheartened, and it was their persistence, their
determination to continue the siege that finally brought Holkar to
reason.
In this last campaign Owen lost his right arm, and was at once
despatched to England. He had already written home to Mr. Halbut and the
Sergeant, and had communicated with his grandfather, Sir Owen Marshall,
so that on his arrival he had friends and relatives to meet him. He was
received with open arms, and when all legal formalities had been
completed found himself the possessor of a very fine fortune. His
grandfather died in the following year, and Captain Marshall became Sir
Owen. Badly maimed by his wounds, he decided to retire from the service,
and took up his residence in Cheshire, where he married.
For many a long year after there was a gathering of friends at his
mansion to celebrate the anniversary of that eventful day when the
Sergeant had fought the farmer for him. Trim and well dressed as of
yore, Mr. Halbut was always a prominent figure at the table; while at
Owen's right hand would be seen the Sergeant, getting somewhat stout and
unwieldy now, no figure for a military tunic; the same Sergeant,
however, with his kind heart, his steady strength, and his courtesy. And
at the far end of the table sat as comely a lady as could well be found,
nodding her dancing curls at our hero.
"To my dear friends, Mr. Halbut and the Sergeant," Owen would say as he
lifted his glass. "My dear, join me in this toast."
And when they were seated Mr. Halbut would rise up, stately, and with
that frank smile on his lips by which all knew him. "My dear Sergeant,
my old friend and helper," he would say in smooth, courtly tones, "on
this day of days we lift our glasses to that lad whom we met many years
ago. Fill up, my friend. I drink good health, long life, and prosperity
to Owen--to Jones of the 64th."
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Punctuation has been corrected.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.