Surprise of Futtyghur
When I awoke from the trance into which I had fallen, I found myself in
a bath, surrounded by innumerable black faces; and a Hindoo pothukoor
(whence our word apothecary) feeling my pulse and looking at me with an
air of sagacity.
“Where am I?” I exclaimed, looking round and examining the strange
faces, and the strange apartment which met my view. “Bekhusm!” said the
apothecary. “Silence! Gahagan Sahib is in the hands of those who know
his valour, and will save his life.”
“Know my valour, slave? Of course you do,” said I; “but the fort— the
garrison—the elephant—Belinda, my love—my darling— Macgillicuddy—the
scoundrelly mutineers—the deal bo- “
I could say no more; the painful recollections pressed so heavily upon
my poor shattered mind and frame, that both failed once more. I fainted
again, and I know not how long I lay insensible.
Again, however, I came to my senses: the pothukoor applied
restoratives, and after a slumber of some hours I awoke, much
refreshed. I had no wound; my repeated swoons had been brought on (as
indeed well they might) by my gigantic efforts in carrying the elephant
up a steep hill a quarter of a mile in length. Walking, the task is bad
enough: but running, it is the deuce; and I would recommend any of my
readers who may be disposed to try and carry a dead elephant, never, on
any account, to go a pace of more than five miles an hour.
Scarcely was I awake, when I heard the clash of arms at my door
(plainly indicating that sentinels were posted there), and a single old
gentleman, richly habited, entered the room. Did my eyes deceive me? I
had surely seen him before. No—yes—no—yes—it _was_ he: the snowy white
beard, the mild eyes, the nose flattened to a jelly, and level with the
rest of the venerable face, proclaimed him at once to be—Saadut Alee
Beg Bimbukchee, Holkar’s Prime Vizier; whose nose, as the reader may
recollect, his Highness had flattened with his kaleawn during my
interview with him in the Pitan’s disguise. I now knew my fate but too
well—I was in the hands of Holkar.
Saadut Alee Beg Bimbukchee slowly advanced towards me, and with a mild
air of benevolence which distinguished that excellent man (he was torn
to pieces by wild horses the year after, on account of a difference
with Holkar), he came to my bedside and, taking gently my hand, said,
“Life and death, my son, are not ours. Strength is deceitful, valour is
unavailing, fame is only wind—the nightingale sings of the rose all
night—where is the rose in the morning? Booch, booch! it is withered by
a frost. The rose makes remarks regarding the nightingale, and where is
that delightful song-bird? Pena-bekhoda, he is netted, plucked,
spitted, and roasted! Who knows how misfortune comes? It has come to
Gahagan Gujputi!”
“It is well,” said I, stoutly, and in the Malay language. “Gahagan
Gujputi will bear it like a man.”
“No doubt—like a wise man and a brave one; but there is no lane so long
to which there is not a turning, no night so black to which there comes
not a morning. Icy winter is followed by merry springtime—grief is
often succeeded by joy.”
“Interpret, O riddler!” said I; “Gahagan Khan is no reader of
puzzles—no prating mollah. Gujputi loves not words, but swords.”
“Listen then, O Gujputi: you are in Holkar’s power.”
“I know it.”
“You will die by the most horrible tortures to-morrow morning.”
“I dare say.”
“They will tear your teeth from your jaws, your nails from your
fingers, and your eyes from your head.”
“Very possibly.”
“They will flay you alive, and then burn you.”
“Well; they can’t do any more.”
“They will seize upon every man and woman in yonder fort”—it was not
then taken!—“and repeat upon them the same tortures.”
“Ha! Belinda! Speak—how can all this be avoided?”
“Listen. Gahagan loves the moon-face called Belinda.”
“He does, Vizier, to distraction.”
“Of what rank is he in the Koompani’s army?”
“A captain.”
“A miserable captain—oh, shame! Of what creed is he?”
“I am an Irishman, and a Catholic.”
“But he has not been very particular about his religious duties?”
“Alas, no!”
“He has not been to his mosque for these twelve years?”
“’Tis too true.”
“Hearken now, Gahagan Khan. His Highness Prince Holkar has sent me to
thee. You shall have the moon-face for your wife—your second wife, that
is;—the first shall be the incomparable Puttee Rooge, who loves you to
madness;—with Puttee Rooge, who is the wife, you shall have the wealth
and rank of Bobbachy Bahawder, of whom his Highness intends to get rid.
You shall be second in command of his Highness’s forces. Look, here is
his commission signed with the celestial seal, and attested by the
sacred names of the forty-nine Imaums. You have but to renounce your
religion and your service, and all these rewards are yours.”
He produced a parchment, signed as he said, and gave it to me (it was
beautifully written in Indian ink: I had it for fourteen years, but a
rascally valet, seeing it very dirty, _washed_ it, forsooth, and washed
off every bit of the writing). I took it calmly, and said, “This is a
tempting offer. O Vizier, how long wilt thou give me to consider of
it?”
After a long parley, he allowed me six hours, when I promised to give
him an answer. My mind, however, was made up—as soon as he was gone, I
threw myself on the sofa and fell asleep.
At the end of the six hours the Vizier came back: two people were with
him; one, by his martial appearance, I knew to be Holkar, the other I
did not recognise. It was about midnight.
“Have you considered?” said the Vizier, as he came to my couch.
“I have,” said I, sitting up,—I could not stand, for my legs were tied,
and my arms fixed in a neat pair of steel handcuffs. “I have,” said I,
“unbelieving dogs! I have. Do you think to pervert a Christian
gentleman from his faith and honour? Ruffian blackamoors! do your
worst; heap tortures on this body, they cannot last long. Tear me to
pieces: after you have torn me into a certain number of pieces, I shall
not feel it; and if I did, if each torture could last a life, if each
limb were to feel the agonies of a whole body, what then? I would bear
all—all—all— all—all—ALL!” My breast heaved—my form dilated—my eye
flashed as I spoke these words. “Tyrants!” said I, “dulce et decorum
est pro patria mori.” Having thus clinched the argument, I was silent.
The venerable. Grand Vizier turned away; I saw a tear trickling down
his cheeks.
“What a constancy!” said he. “Oh, that such beauty and such bravery
should be doomed so soon to quit the earth!”
His tall companion only sneered and said, “_And Belinda_”—
“Ha!” said I, “ruffian, be still!—Heaven will protect her spotless
innocence. Holkar, I know thee, and thou knowest _me_ too! Who, with
his single sword, destroyed thy armies? Who, with his pistol, cleft in
twain thy nose-ring? Who slew thy generals? Who slew thy elephants?
Three hundred mighty beasts went forth to battle: of these _I_ slew one
hundred and thirty-five! Dog, coward, ruffian, tyrant, unbeliever!
Gahagan hates thee, spurns thee, spits on thee!”
Holkar, as I made these uncomplimentary remarks, gave a scream of rage,
and, drawing his scimitar, rushed on to despatch me at once (it was the
very thing I wished for), when the third person sprang forward and,
seizing his arm, cried -
“Papa! oh, save him!” It was Puttee Rooge! “Remember,” continued she,
“his misfortunes—remember, oh, remember my—love!”—and here she blushed,
and putting one finger into her mouth, and hanging down her head,
looked the very picture of modest affection.
Holkar sulkily sheathed his scimitar, and muttered, “’Tis better as it
is; had I killed him now, I had spared him the torture. None of this
shameless fooling, Puttee Rooge,” continued the tyrant, dragging her
away. “Captain Gahagan dies three hours from hence.” Puttee Rooge gave
one scream and fainted—her father and the Vizier carried her off
between them; nor was I loth to part with her, for, with all her love,
she was as ugly as the deuce.
They were gone—my fate was decided. I had but three hours more of life:
so I flung myself again on the sofa, and fell profoundly asleep. As it
may happen to any of my readers to be in the same situation, and to be
hanged themselves, let me earnestly entreat them to adopt this plan of
going to sleep, which I for my part have repeatedly found to be
successful. It saves unnecessary annoyance, it passes away a great deal
of unpleasant time, and it prepares one to meet like a man the coming
catastrophe.
Three o’clock came: the sun was at this time making his appearance in
the heavens, and with it came the guards, who were appointed to conduct
me to the torture. I woke, rose, was carried out, and was set on the
very white donkey on which Loll Mahommed was conducted through the camp
after he was bastinadoed. Bobbachy Bahawder rode behind me, restored to
his rank and state; troops of cavalry hemmed us in on all sides; my ass
was conducted by the common executioner: a crier went forward, shouting
out, “Make way for the destroyer of the faithful—he goes to bear the
punishment of his crimes.” We came to the fatal plain: it was the very
spot whence I had borne away the elephant, and in full sight of the
fort. I looked towards it. Thank Heaven! King George’s banner waved on
it still—a crowd were gathered on the walls—the men, the dastards who
had deserted me—and women, too. Among the latter I thought I
distinguished _one_ who—O gods! the thought turned me sick—I trembled
and looked pale for the first time.
“He trembles! he turns pale,” shouted out Bobbachy Bahawder,
ferociously exulting over his conquered enemy.
“Dog!” shouted I—(I was sitting with my head to the donkey’s tail, and
so looked the Bobbachy full in the face)—“not so pale as you looked
when I felled you with this arm—not so pale as your women looked when I
entered your harem!” Completely chop-fallen, the Indian ruffian was
silent: at any rate, I had done for _him_.
We arrived at the place of execution. A stake, a couple of feet thick
and eight high, was driven in the grass: round the stake, about seven
feet from the ground, was an iron ring, to which were attached two
fetters; in these my wrists were placed. Two or three executioners
stood near, with strange-looking instruments: others were blowing at a
fire, over which was a cauldron, and in the embers were stuck prongs
and other instruments of iron.
The crier came forward and read my sentence. It was the same in effect
as that which had been hinted to me the day previous by the Grand
Vizier. I confess I was too agitated to catch every word that was
spoken.
Holkar himself, on a tall dromedary, was at a little distance. The
Grand Vizier came up to me—it was his duty to stand by, and see the
punishment performed. “It is yet time!” said he.
I nodded my head, but did not answer.
The Vizier cast up to heaven a look of inexpressible anguish, and with
a voice choking with emotion, said, “_Executioner—do—your—duty!_”
The horrid man advanced—he whispered sulkily in the ears of the Grand
Vizier, “_Guggly ka ghee, hum khedgeree_,” said he, “_the oil does not
boil yet_—wait one minute.” The assistants blew, the fire blazed, the
oil was heated. The Vizier drew a few feet aside: taking a large ladle
full of the boiling liquid, he advanced -
“Whish! bang, bang! pop!” the executioner was dead at my feet, shot
through the head; the ladle of scalding oil had been dashed in the face
of the unhappy Grand Vizier, who lay on the plain, howling. “Whish!
bang! pop! Hurrah!—charge!—forwards!—cut them down!—no quarter!”
I saw—yes, no, yes, no, yes!—I saw regiment upon regiment of galloping
British horsemen riding over the ranks of the flying natives. First of
the host, I recognised, O Heaven! my AHMEDNUGGAR IRREGULARS! On came
the gallant line of black steeds and horsemen; swift swift before them
rode my officers in yellow—Glogger, Pappendick, and Stuffle; their
sabres gleamed in the sun, their voices rung in the air. “D— them!”
they cried, “give it them, boys!” A strength supernatural thrilled
through my veins at that delicious music: by one tremendous effort, I
wrested the post from its foundation, five feet in the ground. I could
not release my hands from the fetters, it is true; but, grasping the
beam tightly, I sprung forward—with one blow I levelled the five
executioners in the midst of the fire, their fall upsetting the
scalding oil-can; with the next, I swept the bearers of Bobbachy’s
palanquin off their legs; with the third, I caught that chief himself
in the small of the back, and sent him flying on to the sabres of my
advancing soldiers!
The next minute, Glogger and Stuffle were in my arms, Pappendick
leading on the Irregulars. Friend and foe in that wild chase had swept
far away. We were alone: I was freed from my immense bar; and ten
minutes afterwards, when Lord Lake trotted up with his staff, he found
me sitting on it.
“Look at Gahagan,” said his Lordship. “Gentlemen, did I not tell you we
should be sure to find him _at his post?_”
The gallant old nobleman rode on: and this was the famous BATTLE OF
FURRUCKABAD, or SURPRISE OF FUTTYGHUR, fought on the 17th of November,
1804.
About a month afterwards, the following announcement appeared in the
_Boggleywollah Hurkaru_ and other Indian papers:-
“Married, on the 25th of December, at Futtyghur, by the Rev. Dr.
Snorter, Captain Goliah O’Grady Gahagan, Commanding Irregular Horse,
Ahmednuggar, to Belinda, second daughter of Major-General Bulcher, C.B.
His Excellency the Commander-in-Chief gave away the bride; and, after a
splendid _déjeuner_, the happy pair set off to pass the Mango season at
Hurrygurrybang. Venus must recollect, however, that Mars must not
_always_ be at her side. The Irregulars are nothing without their
leader.”
Such was the paragraph—such the event—the happiest in the existence of
G. O’G. G., M.H.E.I.C.S., C.I.H.A.
Footnotes:
[1] So admirable are the performances of these watches, which will
stand in any climate, that I repeatedly heard poor Macgillicuddy
relate the following fact. The hours, as it is known, count in Italy
from one to twenty-four: _The day Mac landed at Naples his repeater
rung the Italian hours, from one to twenty-four;_ as soon as he
crossed the Alps it only sounded as usual.—G. O’G. G.
[2] In my affair with Macgillicuddy, I was fool enough to go out with
small swords:- miserable weapons, only fit for tailors.—G. O’G. G.
[3] The Major certainly offered to leave an old snuff-box at Mr.
Cunningham’s office; but it contained no extract from a newspaper, and
does not _quite_ prove that he killed a rhinoceros and stormed
fourteen entrenchments at the siege of Allyghur.
[4] The double-jointed camel of Bactria, which the classic reader may
recollect is mentioned by Suidas (in his Commentary on the Flight of
Darius), is so called by the Mahrattas.
[5] There is some trifling inconsistency on the Major’s part. Shah
Allum was notoriously blind: how, then, could he have seen Gahagan?
The thing is manifestly impossible.
[6] I do not wish to brag of my style of writing, or to pretend that
my genius as a writer has not been equalled in former times; but if,
in the works of Byron, Scott, Goethe, or Victor Hugo, the reader can
find a more beautiful sentence than the above, I will be obliged to
him, that is all—I simply say, _I will be obliged to him_.—G. O’G. G.,
M.H.E.I.C.S., C.I.H.A.
[7] The Major has put the most approved language into the mouths of
his Indian characters. Bismillah, Barikallah, and so on, according to
the novelists, form the very essence of Eastern conversation.