The singing ceased abruptly just as he reached the inn. But

Produced by Al Haines.

[Illustration: Cover]

[Illustration: THE SUBAHDAR FALLS INTO THE TRAP.]

ONE OF CLIVE'S HEROES

A Story of the Fight for India

By

HERBERT STRANG

HUMPHREY MILFORD

OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS

LONDON, EDINBURGH, GLASGOW

TORONTO, MELBOURNE, CAPE TOWN, BOMBAY

Copyright, 1906, by the Bobbs Merrill Company, in

the United States of America

REPRINTED 1938 IN GREAT BRITAIN BY R. CLAY AND SONS, LTD.,

BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.

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; while a story is bound to suffer, structurally and in detail,

from the compression of the events of a life-time into so restricted a

space. I have therefore chosen two outstanding events in the history of

India and of Clive--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's

_History_, Ives' _Voyage_, Grose's _Voyage_, the lives of Clive by

Malcolm and by 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 in the present volume 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 Indian words and names the Hunterian spelling has been adopted in

the main.

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; I shall be satisfied if the reader gets from

these pages an idea, however imperfect, of the conditions of life in

which our empire-builders laboured in India a hundred and fifty years

ago.

HERBERT STRANG.

Contents

CHAPTER THE FIRST

In which the Court Leet of Market Drayton entertains Colonel Robert

Clive; and our hero makes an acquaintance

CHAPTER THE SECOND

In which our hero overhears a conversation; and, meeting with the

expected, is none the less surprised and offended

CHAPTER THE THIRD

In which Mr. Marmaduke Diggle talks of the Golden East; and our hero

interrupts an interview, and dreams dreams

CHAPTER THE FOURTH

In which blows are exchanged; and our hero, setting forth upon his

travels, scents an adventure

CHAPTER THE FIFTH

In which Job Grinsell explains; and three visitors come by night to the

_Four Alls_

CHAPTER THE SIXTH

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 THE SEVENTH

In which Colonel Clive suffers a defeat hitherto unrecorded; and our

hero finds food for reflection

CHAPTER THE EIGHTH

In which several weeks are supposed to elapse; and our hero is

discovered in the doldrums

CHAPTER THE NINTH

In which the _Good Intent_ makes a running fight; and Mr. Toley makes a

suggestion

CHAPTER THE TENTH

In which our hero arrives in the Golden East; and Mr. Diggle presents

him to a native prince

CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH

In which the Babu tells the story of King Vikramaditya; and the

discerning reader may find more than appears on the surface

CHAPTER THE TWELFTH

In which our hero is offered freedom at the price of honour; and Mr.

Diggle finds that he has no monopoly of quotations

CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH

In which Mr. Diggle illustrates his argument; and there are strange

doings in Gheria Harbour

CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH

In which seven bold men light a big bonfire; and the Pirate finds our

hero a bad bargain

CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH

In which our hero weathers a storm; and prepares for squalls

CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH

In which a mutiny is quelled in a minute; and our Babu proves himself a

man of war

CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH

In which our hero finds himself among friends; and Colonel Clive

prepares to astonish Angria

CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH

In which Angria is astonished; and our hero begins to pay off old scores

CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH

In which the scene changes; the dramatis personae remaining the same

CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH

In which there are recognitions and explanations; and our hero meets one

Coja Solomon, of Cossimbazar

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST

In which Coja Solomon finds dishonesty the worse policy; and a journey

down the Hugli little to his liking

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND

In which is given a full, true, and particular account Of the Battle of

the Carts

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD

In which there are many moving events; and our hero finds himself a

cadet of John Company

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH

In which the danger of judging by appearance is notably exemplified

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH

In which our hero embarks on a hazardous mission; and Monsieur Sinfray's

khansaman makes a confession

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH

In which presence of mind is shown to be next best to absence of body

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH

In which an officer of the Nawab disappears; and Bulger reappears

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-EIGHTH

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 THE TWENTY-NINTH

In which our hero does not win the Battle of Plassey; but, where all do

well, gains as much glory as the rest

CHAPTER THE THIRTIETH

In which Coja Solomon reappears; and gives our hero valuable information

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIRST

In which friends meet, and part; and our hero hints a proposal

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SECOND

In which the curtain falls, to the sound of bells; and our hero comes to

his own

CHAPTER THE FIRST

*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 thickset

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 any

one 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 centre

of the street, to the _Talbot Inn_, stretched a dense mass of people,

partly townsfolk, 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 Tummas."

"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, Tummas, 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 towards

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 riband of his hat;

and Tummas, 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.

[Sidenote: Reminiscences]

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, neebours all, we be trim and cosy 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 ax ya all to drink the good health of our

honoured 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'

nimble-like, 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 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 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 merryandrews

at a fair."

A roar of laughter greeted the anecdote.

"Ay, neebours," 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 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 young

limb 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 thought

as 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, 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 ax 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, neebours, 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 ax ya all to lift yer glasses, neebours, an' drink the good

health o' General Clive. So theer!"

[Sidenote: "General Clive!"

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 vigour 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 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 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 clamour 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, red now 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 honour 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 demeanour 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 towards the outskirts of

the crowd, heaving, hurling, his long arms sweeping obstacles aside.

His eyes flashed fire upon the yokels scurrying 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 round 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

good will. 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!"

[Sidenote: A Gloved Hand]

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

neighbouring 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 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 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 a

nelder son, that's true, an' dunna ya 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, there'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."

[Sidenote: To Cheswardine]

And Desmond Burke passed on alone, out of the silent town, into the now

darkening road that led to his home towards Cheswardine.

CHAPTER THE SECOND

*In which our hero overhears a conversation; and, meeting with the

expected, 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 travellers

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; it was a single voice, light, musical, and true. Desmond's

curiosity was nicked, 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 mantelshelf, the

whole interior of the inn parlour. 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 Tummas 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 abuzzing. It was clear that he must

be the singer, for Job Grinsell had a voice like a saw, and Tummas Biles

knew no music save the squeak of his cart-wheels. 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."

"But the gout takes him, you said--nodosa podagra, as my friend Ovid

would say?"

"Ay, but I've knowed a man live forty year win the gout. And he dunna

believe in doctor's dosin'; he goes to Buxton to drink the weeters when

he bin madded wi' the pain, an' comes back sound fur six month."

"Restored to his dear neighbours and friends--caris propinquis----"

"Hang me, but I wish you'd speak plain English an' not pepper yer talk

win outlandish jabber."

"Patience, Job; why, man, you belie your name. Come, you must humour an

old friend; that's what comes of education, you see; my head is stuffed

with odds and ends that annoy my friends, while you can't read, nor

write, nor cipher beyond keeping your score. Lucky Job!"

Desmond turned away. The two men's conversation was none of his

business; and he suspected from the stranger's manner that he had been

drinking freely. He had stepped barely a dozen paces when he heard the

voice again break into song. He halted and wheeled about; the tune was

catching, and now he distinguished some of the words--

Says Billy Morris, Masulipatam,

To Governor Pitt: "D'ye know who I am.

D'ye know who I am, I AM, I AM?

Sir William Norris, Masulipatam."

Says Governor Pitt, Fort George Madras;

"I know what you are----"

Again the song broke off; the singer addressed a question to Grinsell.

Desmond waited a moment; he felt an odd eagerness to know what Governor

Pitt was; but hearing now only the drone of talking, he once more turned

his face homewards. His curiosity was livelier than ever as to the

identity of this newcomer, who addressed the landlord as he might his

own familiar friend. And what had the stranger to do with Sir

Willoughby Stokes? For it was Sir Willoughby that suffered from the

gout; he it was that went every autumn and spring to Buxton; he was away

at this present time, but would shortly return to receive his Michaelmas

rents. The stranger had not the air of a husbandman; but there was a

vacant farm on the estate; perhaps he had come to offer himself as a

tenant. And why did he wear that half-glove upon his right hand?

Finger-stalls, wrist-straps, even mittens were common enough, useful,

and necessary at times; but the stranger's glove was not a mitten, and

it had no fellow for the left hand. Perhaps, thought Desmond, it was a

freak of the wearer's, like his red feather and his vivid neckcloth.

Desmond, as he walked on, found himself hoping that the visitor at the

_Four Alls_ would remain for a day or two.

After passing through the sleeping hamlet of Woods-eaves, he struck into

a road on his left hand. Twenty minutes' steady plodding uphill brought

him in sight of his home, a large, ancient, rambling grange house lying

back from the road. It was now nearly ten o'clock, an hour when the

household was usually abed; but the door of Wilcote Grange stood open,

and a guarded candle in the hall threw a faint yellow light upon the

path. The gravel crunched under Desmond's boots, and, as if summoned by

the sound, a tall figure crossed the hall and stood in the entrance. At

the sight Desmond's mouth set hard; his hands clenched, his breath came

more quickly as he went forward.

"Where have you been, sirrah?" were the angry words that greeted him.

"Into the town, sir."

He had perforce to halt, the doorway being barred by the man's broad

form.

"Into the town! You defy me, do you? Did I not bid you remain at home

and make up the stock-book?"

"I did that before I left."

"You did, did you? I lay my life 'tis ill done. What did you in the

town at this time o' night?"

"I went to see General Clive."

"Indeed! You! Hang me, what's Clive to you? Was you invited to the

regale? You was one of that stinking crowd, I suppose, that bawled in

the street. You go and herd with knaves and yokels, do you? and bring

shame upon me, and set the countryside a-chattering of Richard Burke and

his idle young oaf of a brother! By gad, sir, I'll whip you for this;

I'll give you something to remember General Clive by!"

He caught up a riding-whip that stood in the angle of the doorway, and

took Desmond by the shoulder. The boy did not flinch.

"Whip me if you must," he said quietly, "but don't you think we'd better

go outside?"

The elder, with an imprecation, thrust Desmond into the open, hauled him

some distance down the path, and then beat him heavily about the

shoulders. He stood a foot higher, his arm was strong, his grip firm as

a vice; resistance would have been vain; but Desmond knew better than to

resist. He bent to the cruel blows without a wince or a murmur. Only,

his face was very pale when, the bully's arm being tired and his breath

spent, he was flung away and permitted to stagger to the house. He

crawled painfully up the wainscoted staircase and into the dark corridor

leading to his bedroom. Halfway down this he paused, felt with his hand

along the wall, and discovering by this means that a door was ajar,

stood listening.

"Is that you, Desmond?" said a low voice within.

"Yes, mother," he replied, commanding his voice, and quietly entering.

"I hoped you were asleep."

"I could not sleep until you came in, dear. I heard Dick's voice. What

is the matter? Your hand is trembling, Desmond."

"Nothing, mother, as usual."

A mother's ears are quick; and Mrs. Burke detected the quiver that

Desmond tried to still. She tightened her clasp on his hot hand.

"Did he strike you, dear?"

"It was nothing, mother. I am used to that."

"My poor boy! But what angered him? Why do you offend your brother?"

"Offend him!" exclaimed the boy passionately, but still in a low tone.

"Everything I do offends him. I went to see General Clive; I wished to;

that is enough for Dick. Mother, I am sick of it all."

"Never mind, dear. A little patience. Dick doesn't understand you.

You should humour him, Desmond."

"Haven't I tried, mother? Haven't I? But what is the use? He treats

me worse than any carter on the farm. I drudge for him, and he bullies

me, miscalls me before the men, thrashes me--oh, mother! I can't endure

it any longer. Let me go away, anywhere; anything would be better than

this!"

Desmond was quivering with pain and indignation; only with difficulty

did he keep back the tears.

"Hush, Desmond!" said his mother. "Dick will hear you. You are tired

out, dear boy; go to bed; things will look brighter in the morning.

Only have patience. Good-night, my son."

Desmond kissed his mother and went to his room. But it was long before

he slept. His bruised body found no comfort; his head throbbed; his

soul was filled with resentment and the passionate longing for release.

His life had not been very happy. He barely remembered his father--a

big, keen-eyed, loud-voiced old man--who died when his younger son was

four years old. Richard Burke had run away from his Irish home to sea.

He served on Admiral Rooke's flagship at the battle of La Hogue, and,

rising in the navy to the rank of warrant-officer, bought a ship with

the savings of twenty years and fitted it out for unauthorized trade

with the East Indies. His daring, skill, and success attracted the

attention of the officers of the Company. He was invited to enter the

Company's service. As captain of an Indiaman he sailed backwards and

forwards for ten years; then at the age of fifty retired with a

considerable fortune and married the daughter of a Shropshire farmer.

The death of his wife's relatives led him to settle on the farm their

family had tenanted for generations, and it was at Wilcote Grange that

his three children were born.

Fifteen years separated the elder son from the younger; between them

came a daughter, who married early and left the neighbourhood. Four

years after Desmond's birth the old man died, leaving the boy to the

guardianship of his brother.

There lay the seed of trouble. No brothers could have been more unlike

than the two sons of Captain Burke. Richard was made on a large and

powerful scale; he was hard-working, methodical, grasping, wholly

unimaginative, and in temper violent and domineering. Slighter and less

robust, though not less healthy, Desmond was a boy of vivid imagination,

high-strung, high-spirited, his feelings easily moved, his pride easily

wounded. His brother was too dull and stolid to understand him, taking

for deliberate malice what was but boyish mischief, and regarding him as

sullen when he was only dreamily thoughtful.

As a young boy Desmond kept as much as possible out of his brother's

way. But as he grew older he came more directly under Richard's

control, with the result that they were now in a constant state of feud.

Their mother, a woman of sweet temper but weak will, favoured her

younger son in secret; she learnt by experience that open intervention

on his behalf did more harm than good.

Desmond had two habits which especially moved his brother to anger. He

was fond of roaming the country alone for hours together; he was fond of

reading. To Richard each was a waste of time. He never opened a book,

save a manual of husbandry, or a ready reckoner; he could conceive of no

reason for walking, unless it were the business of the farm. Nothing

irritated him more than to see Desmond stretched at length with his nose

in Mr. Defoe's _Robinson Crusoe_, or a volume of Hakluyt's _Voyages_, or

perhaps Mr. Oldys's _Life of Sir Walter Raleigh_. And as he himself

never dreamed by day or by night, there was no chance of his divining

the fact that Desmond, on those long solitary walks of his, was engaged

chiefly in dreaming, not idly, for in his dreams he was always the

centre of activity, greedy for doing.

These day-dreams constituted almost the sole joy of Desmond's life.

When he was quite a little fellow he would sprawl on the bank near

Tyrley Castle and weave romances about the Norman barons whose home it

had been--romances in which he bore a strenuous part. He knew every

interesting spot in the neighbourhood: Salisbury Hill, where the Yorkist

leader pitched his camp before the battle of Blore Heath; Audley Brow,

where Audley the Lancastrian lay watching his foe; above all Styche

Hall, whence a former Clive had ridden forth to battle against the king,

and where his namesake, the present Robert Clive, had been born. He

imagined himself each of those bold warriors in turn, and saw himself,

now a knight in mail, now a gay cavalier of Rupert's, now a bewigged

Georgian gentleman in frock and pantaloons, but always with sword in

hand.

No name sang a merrier tune in Desmond's imagination than the name of

Robert Clive. Three years before, when he was imbibing Latin, Greek,

and Hebrew under Mr. Burslem at the grammar school on the hill, the

amazing news came one day that Bob Clive, the wild boy who had

terrorized the tradespeople, plagued his master, led the school in

tremendous fights with the town boys, and suffered more birchings than

any scholar of his time--Bob Clive, the scapegrace who had been packed

off to India as a last resource, had turned out, as his father said,

"not such a booby after all,"--had indeed proved himself to be a

military genius. How Desmond thrilled when the old schoolmaster read

out the glorious news of Clive's defence of Arcot with a handful of men

against an overwhelming host! How he glowed when the schoolroom rang

with the cheers of the boys, and when, a half-holiday being granted, he

rushed forth with the rest to do battle in the churchyard with the town

boys, and helped to lick them thoroughly in honour of Clive!

From that moment there was for Desmond but one man in the world, and

that man was Robert Clive. In the twinkling of an eye he became the

devoutest of hero-worshippers. He coaxed Mr. Burslem to let him occupy

Clive's old desk, and with his fists maintained the privilege against

all comers. The initials "R.C." roughly cut in the oak never lost their

fascination for him. He walked out day after day to Styche Hall, two

miles away, and pleased himself with the thought that his feet trod the

very spots once trodden by Bob Clive. Not an inch of the route from Hall

to school--the meadow-path into Longslow, the lane from Longslow to

Shropshire Street, Little Street, Church Street, the churchyard--was

unknown to him: Bob Clive had known them all. He feasted on the

oft-told stories of Clive's boyish escapades: how he had bundled a

watchman into the bulks and made him prisoner there by closing down and

fastening the shutters; how he had thrown himself across the current of

a torrential gutter to divert the stream into the cellar shop of a

tradesman who had offended him; above all, that feat of his when,

ascending the spiral turret-stair of the church, he had lowered himself

down from the parapet, and, astride upon a gargoyle, had worked his way

along it until he could secure a stone that lay in its mouth, the

perilous and dizzy adventure watched by a breathless throng in the

churchyard below. The Bob Clive who had done these things was now doing

greater deeds in India; and Desmond Burke sat day after day at his desk,

gazing at the entrancing "R.C." and doing over again in his own person

the exploits of which all Market Drayton was proud, and he the proudest.

But at the age of fourteen his brother took him from school, though Mr.

Burslem had pleaded that he might remain longer and afterwards proceed

to the university. He was set to do odd jobs about the farm. To farming

itself he had no objection; he was fond of animals and would willingly

have spent his life with them. But he did object to drudging for a hard

and inconsiderate taskmaster such as his brother was, and the work he

was compelled to do became loathsome to him, and bred a spirit of

discontent and rebellion. The further news of Clive's exploits in

India, coming at long intervals, set wild notions beating in Desmond's

head, and made him long passionately for a change. At times he thought

of running away: his father had run away and carved out a successful

career, why should not he do the same? But he had never quite made up

his mind to cut the knot.

Meanwhile it became known in Market Drayton that Clive had returned to

England. Rumour credited him with fabulous wealth. It was said that he

drove through London in a gold coach, and outshone the King himself in

the splendour of his attire. No report was too highly coloured to find

easy credence among the simple country folk. Clive was indeed rich: he

had a taste for ornate dress, and though neither so wealthy nor so gaily

apparelled as rumour said, he was for a season the lion of London

society. The directors of the East India Company toasted him as

"General" Clive, and presented him with a jewelled sword as a token of

their sense of his services on the Coromandel coast. No one suspected

at the time that his work was of more than local importance and would

have more far-reaching consequences than the success of a trading

company. Clive had, in fact, without knowing it, laid the foundations

of a vast empire.

At intervals during two years scraps of news about Clive filtered

through to his birthplace. His father had left the neighbourhood, and

Styche Hall was now in the hands of a stranger, so that Desmond hardly

dared to hope that he would have an opportunity of seeing his idol.

But, information having reached the court of directors that all was not

going well in India, their eyes turned at once to Clive as the man to

set things right. They requested him to return to India as Governor of

Fort St. David, and, since a good deal of the trouble was caused by

quarrels as to precedence between the King's and the Company's officers,

they strengthened his hands by obtaining for him a lieutenant-colonel's

commission from King George. Clive was nothing loth to take up his work

again. He had been somewhat extravagant since his arrival in England;

great holes had been made in the fortune he had brought back; and he was

still a young man, full of energy and ambition. What was Desmond's

ecstasy, then, to learn that his hero, on the eve of his departure, had

accepted an invitation to the town of his birth, there to be entertained

by the court leet. From the bailiff and the steward of the manor down

to the javelin men and the ale-taster, official Market Drayton was all

agog to do him honour. Desmond looked forward eagerly to this red-letter

day. His brother, as a yeoman of standing, was invited to the banquet,

and it seemed to Desmond that Richard took a delight in taunting him,

throwing cold water on his young enthusiasm, ironically commenting on

the mistake some one had made in not including him among the guests.

His crowning stroke of cruelty was to forbid the boy to leave the house

on the great evening, so that he might not even obtain a glimpse of

Clive. But this was too much: Desmond for the first time deliberately

defied his guardian, and though he suffered the inevitable penalty, he

had seen and heard his hero, and was content.

CHAPTER THE THIRD

*In which Mr. Marmaduke Diggle talks of the Golden East; and our hero

interrupts an interview, and dreams dreams.*

Sore from his flogging, Desmond, when he slept at last, slept heavily.

Richard Burke was a stickler for early rising, and admitted no excuses.

When his brother did not appear at the usual hour Richard went to his

room, and, smiting with his rough hand the boy's bruised shoulders,

startled him to wakefulness and pain.

"Now, slug-a-bed," he said, "you have ten minutes for your breakfast,

then you will foot it to the Hall and see whether Sir Willoughby has

returned or is expected."

Turning on his heel he went out to harry his labourers.

Desmond, when he came downstairs, felt too sick to eat. He gulped a

pitcher of milk, then set off for his two-mile walk to the Hall. He was

glad of the errand. Sir Willoughby Stokes, the lord of the manor, was an

old gentleman of near seventy years, a good landlord, a persistent

Jacobite, and a confirmed bachelor. By nature genial, he was subject to

periodical attacks of the gout, which made him terrible. At these times

he betook himself to Buxton, or Bath, or some other spa, and so timed

his return that he was always good-tempered on rent-day, much to the

relief of his tenants. He disliked Richard Burke as a man as much as he

admired him as a tenant; but he had taken a fancy to Desmond, lent him

books from his library, took him out shooting when the weather and

Richard permitted, and played chess with him sometimes of a rainy

afternoon. His housekeeper said that Master Desmond was the only human

being whose presence the squire could endure when the gout was on him.

In short, Sir Willoughby and Desmond were very good friends.

Desmond had almost reached the gate of the Hall when, at a sudden turn

of the road, he came upon a man seated upon a low hillock by the

roadside, idly swishing at the long ripe grass with a cane. At the

first glance Desmond noticed the strangely-clad right hand of his

overnight acquaintance, the shabby clothes, the red feather, the flaming

neckcloth. The man looked up at his approach; the winning smile settled

upon his swarthy face, which daylight now revealed as seamed and

scarred; and, without stirring from his seat or desisting from his

occupation, he looked in the boy's face and said softly:

"You are early afoot, like the son of Anchises, my young friend. If I

mistake not, when Aeneas met the son of Evander they joined their right

hands. We have met--let us also join hands and bid each other a very

good morning."

Desmond shook hands; he did not know what to make of this remarkable

fellow who must always be quoting from his school-books; but there was

no harm in shaking hands. He could not in politeness ask the question

that rose to his lips--why the stranger wore a mitten on one hand; and

if the man observed his curiosity he let it pass.

"You are on business bent, I wot," continued the stranger. "Not for the

world would I delay you. But since the hand-clasp is but a part of the

ceremony of introduction, might we not complete it by exchanging names?"

"My name is Desmond Burke," said the boy.

"A good name, a pleasant name, a name that I know." Desmond was

conscious that the man was looking keenly at him. "There is a gentleman

of the same name--I chanced to meet him in London--cultivating

literature in the Temple; his praenomen, I bethink me, is Edmund. And I

bethink me, too, that in the course of my peregrinations on this planet

I have more than once heard the name of one Captain Richard Burke, a

notable seaman, in the service of our great Company. I repeat, my young

friend, your name is a good one; may you live to add lustre to it!"

"Captain Burke was my father."

"My prophetic soul!" exclaimed the stranger. "But surely you are

somewhat late in following the craft paternal; you do not learn

seamanship in this sylvan sphere?"

"True," responded Desmond with a smile. "My father turned farmer; he

died when I was a little fellow, and I live with my mother. But you

will excuse me, sir; I have an errand to the Hall beyond us there."

"I am rebuked. 'Nam garrulus idem est,' as our friend Horace would say.

Yet one moment. Ere we part let us complete our interrupted ceremony.

Marmaduke Diggle, sir--plain Marmaduke Diggle, at your service."

He swept off his hat with a smile. But as soon as Desmond had passed on

the smile faded. Marmaduke Diggle's mouth became hard, and he looked

after the retreating form with a gaze in which curiosity, suspicion, and

dislike were blended.

He was still seated by the roadside when Desmond returned some minutes

later.

"A pleasant surprise, Mr. Burke," he said. "Your business is most

briefly, and let us hope happily, despatched."

"Briefly, at any rate. I only went up to the Hall to see if the Squire

was returned; it is near rent-day, and he is not usually so late in

returning."

"Ah, your squires!" said Diggle with a sigh. "A fine thing to have

lands--oliveyards and vineyards, as the Scripture saith.--You are

returning? The Squire is not at home? Permit me to accompany you some

steps on your road.--Yes, it is a fine thing to be a landlord. It is a

state of life much to be envied by poor landless men like me. I confess

I am poor--none the pleasanter because 'tis my own fault. You behold in

me, Mr. Burke, one of the luckless. I sought fame and fortune years ago

in the fabulous East Indies----"

"The Indies, sir?"

"You are interested? In me also, when I was your age, the name stirred

my blood and haunted my imagination. Yes, 'tis nigh ten years since I

first sailed from these shores for the marvellous East. 'Multum et

terris jactatus et alto.' Twice have I made my fortune--got me enough

of the wealth of Ormus and of Ind to buy up half your county. Twice,

alas! has an unkind Fate robbed me of my all! But, as I said, 'tis my

own fault. 'Nemo contentus,' sir--you know the passage? I was not

satisfied: I must have a little more; and yet a little more. I put my

wealth forth in hazardous enterprises--presto! it is swept away. But I

was born, sir, after all, under a merry star. Nothing discourages me.

After a brief sojourn for recuperation in this salubrious spot I shall

return; and this time, mark you, I shall run no risks. Five years to

make my fortune; then I shall come home, content with a round ten

lakhs."

"What is a lakh?"