_RETRIBUTION_
Although, judged by the standard of such great battles as the King of
Prussia's, or the famous victories won by Marlborough over the French,
this affair of Plassy may seem to be but a trifling skirmish, yet the
country whose fate was decided upon that field, namely the
Subahdarship of Bengal, Orissa, and Behar, is equal in magnitude to
the whole of King Frederic's dominions. In fact the blow struck that
day resounded throughout the entire East Indies, procuring for the
English an authority in every Court of Indostan, and for Mr. Clive the
rank of Omrah, with many rich presents, from the Great Mogul himself.
For eight miles we kept up the pursuit of the flying Moors, and only
rested from sheer weariness. The next morning Meer Jaffier rode into
our camp at Daudpore, ill at ease. But Colonel Clive received him with
friendship, and caused him to be saluted as the Nabob of Bengal. From
him we learned the particulars of what had taken place on the previous
day in Surajah Dowlah's camp.
The night before the battle the young Nabob had some suspicions that
there was treachery going on round him. When the next morning he saw
his army halting at a distance from the English lines, and refusing to
come to close quarters, his suspicions were confirmed. One of his
generals on whom he most relied was slain soon after the artillery
combat commenced, and this further terrified him. Without quitting his
tent he sent for Meer Jaffier, whose division was posted on the
extreme right, and implored him to save the day. He even took off his
turban, than which there can be no greater humiliation for an
Oriental, and cast it at his uncle's feet, bidding him defend it. Meer
Jaffier left the tent, and at once despatched a message of
encouragement to Colonel Clive, which, however, never reached him.
Shortly afterwards the unhappy Surajah Dowlah, vanquished by his own
fears, or, it may be, by the stings of his remorseful conscience,
mounted a swift camel and fled, and this was the signal for that
general movement of retreat which had given us the victory.
After Colonel Clive and the new Nabob had discussed the situation for
a short time, it was agreed between them that Meer Jaffier should
proceed at once with his force to the capital to check any attempt at
rallying on the part of Surajah Dowlah. Colonel Clive, with the
English army, was to follow more slowly.
The moment I heard of these arrangements, I asked the Colonel for
permission to go forward in advance.
"Why, what do you desire to do?" he asked.
I showed him the written authority I had received from Meer Jaffier,
and then, in as few words as possible, told him the story of Rupert
and Marian, and of my resolution to deliver or avenge them.
"Go, my boy," he said when I had finished. "I will give you an order
in my own name, as well as that you have from the Meer Jaffier; and
God grant you may be in time to save your cousin and your sweetheart
from the fury of that young tiger we have driven into his lair."
It was late at night that I came for the last time, riding on an
elephant, into the city of Moorshedabad. Through the crowded streets I
urged my way, escorted by a handful of Meer Jaffier's horsemen, and
seeing on every hand the tokens of the anarchy which had followed upon
the news of Plassy. The people were abroad, lights gleamed in every
direction, men ran hither and thither, and doors stood open with no
one to guard the entrance.
As we drew near to the palace of the Nabob the confusion increased.
From the shouts of the crowd in answer to our questions we gathered
that Surajah Dowlah had entered the city secretly after his flight
from the field of battle, that he had called his parasites around him,
that there had been rumours of another levy and another battle, that
his heart had again failed him, that he was expected to fly once
more, that he might at that very moment be making his escape before
the approach of his successor.
As the palace came into view it was evident that if Surajah Dowlah
were not already gone, his presence had ceased to act as a restraint
on his former servants. The courtyard was crammed with a struggling
throng of palace menials and robbers out of the streets, all engaged
in the work of plunder. Some were staggering down the steps, entangled
in the folds of brocades and sumptuous shawls, others bore tulwars and
scymetars encrusted with gems, some were stripping the gold off robes,
others picking rubies and sapphires out of their sockets with the
points of daggers, and secreting them about their persons. The ground
was strewn with plunder thrown away in favour of something more
valuable, rich vessels of green jade lay broken in one place, and
silken garments were trodden underfoot in another. And all this was
merely the loot of the outer rooms of the palace, for the treasury was
not yet touched.
At our approach the work ceased. The rioters began to escape, and the
eunuchs and soldiers belonging to the palace shrank back to their
quarters. Leaving Meer Jaffier's officer to deal with them, I
dismounted from my elephant and pressed my way through into the
deserted palace, taking with me only two men as a protection. I did
not stay to explore the empty halls and dismantled chambers, but
hurried as fast as I could go into the garden, and on to the
well-remembered summer-house where I had caught my last glimpse of
Marian on that night a year ago. I ran up to the door at which we had
knocked the same night. It was standing open. I darted through, ran
into each room, climbed the stair, and searched every nook and cranny
above. Not a trace of her I sought was there.
Without lingering a moment I went on and explored the other buildings
in the garden. In some of them I found frightened women, left alone,
and expecting that I had come to slay them. But from none could I hear
anything of the English captive. Here and there a frightened eunuch,
dragged cowering from his hiding-place, recalled Marian's presence a
year before, but could or would tell me nothing of her fate. I raved
and stormed through the seraglio like one possessed, but it was all in
vain.
I turned back to the main building, by this time in the hands of the
new Nabob's servants, who were restoring it to some sort of order.
They told me that Surajah Dowlah had got away an hour previously,
having let himself down by a rope from a lattice into a boat on the
river, with only two attendants. When I showed them the papers I had
received from their master and also from Colonel Clive, they offered
me every assistance, and even joined in the search. During several
hours we ransacked every part of the palace, but found no signs of
either of the English prisoners. The principal eunuchs were called and
questioned. At first they declined to speak, but when one of the Moors
with me threatened them with torture they became more communicative,
and finally one of them asked if we had gone down into the secret
dungeons.
This hint sent a cold shiver through my veins. I bade the eunuch lead
the way, and he conducted us through a secret door, down a narrow
winding stair into a horrible basement, constructed under the bed of
the Ganges, where no light could come by day or night, except that
brought by the torches of the gaolers. The place was like a maze, with
branching passages and cells, almost every one of which held some
victim of Oriental tyranny. But I had neither eyes nor thoughts for
what was around me, as we hurried down passage after passage and
opened door after door in the search for those two whom I had come to
save. Finally the eunuch stopped at a certain door at the very end of
the darkest passage we had yet traversed. It was opened, and I looked
in.
I could not at first believe that what I beheld was a human being.
Stretched out on the damp soil of the den lay a miserable, shrunken
object, a thing like a skeleton wrapped in parchment, with the faint
outlines of a man. On our entrance it moved and just raised its head.
"What do you want?" it asked in Indostanee. And then in English it
breathed, "Is this the end?"
It was the voice of my cousin Rupert!
With a cry, I was on my knees by his side, lifting his woeful head in
my arms.
"Rupert! Look! It is your cousin Athelstane!"
He moved slowly and sat up. Then a shudder went through his attenuated
frame.
"Don't you see what they have done to me?" he groaned. "The devils
have put out my eyes!"
And the devils had. Rupert Gurney, the bold, handsome, careless,
wicked, swaggering Rupert, whom I had loved and feared and hated all
my life, would never be bold nor handsome nor swaggering any more, and
I should never need to fear or hate him again. His wickedness had been
rewarded; his crimes had met a heavier retribution than any I had ever
thought to inflict. He had fallen into the hands of one compared to
whom he had been but a beginner in iniquity; one fit of Surajah
Dowlah's cruel frenzy had struck upon him, and had left him branded
for life.
Of Marian's fate he knew nothing. As soon as I had given directions to
have him carried up out of the dungeon I renewed my search for her
with a heart ready to burst at the thought of what I might find.
When we did find her I was almost relieved. After the frightful
apprehensions I had entertained, it seemed to be good fortune that
she should be merely wasted away, without any outward disfigurement of
that face that had been my beacon in dreams and raptures for those
vain years. In my own arms I bore her out of that doleful place and up
into the open air, through the palace now swarming with the stir and
bustle of the newly arrived Nabob's Court, into the garden where the
day was breaking and the birds were beginning to sing, and laid her
down, at her own desire, on a bed in that very summer-house where I
had tried--ah, why had I failed?--to rescue her on the night that
seemed so long ago.
There for two days I never left her. Some of the eunuchs first, and
afterwards some Indian women, came and waited on us, and brought us
all the food we needed--and that was not much for either of us. She
lay still, saying little, and sometimes holding my hand while she
slept, and then waking up to shed tears upon it, and to murmur the
gratitude which I had done so little to deserve. On the second day I
had Rupert brought to her. He was better by this time, though still
very weak, and just able to walk across the room with his arm resting
in mine. I guided him to a seat beside her, and placed their hands in
one another's, and then I came out quickly. I left them together; for
if I had loved Marian, he had loved her too, and if my love for her
had been the stronger, so had been hers for him. And I could not feel
jealousy any longer now that Marian was dying.
For this was the end of it all, the end of my stormy love and rivalry
and my adventures in the Indian realms. Marian, the beautiful Marian,
the woman whose fascination had led me so far, and involved me among
such strange events in such unwonted scenes, was dying. I had come too
late to save her, and all I had done or attempted for her sake had
been in vain. And when I knew this, when I looked back over those
three troubled years and saw the outcome, there came borne in upon my
mind a great resignation; I beheld myself as if I had been another
person, and the folly and wickedness that was in my heart stood
revealed to me as they had never been even in those dreadful hours in
the Calcutta dungeon, when I sank down, as I believed, to die.
Standing beside that bedside of the woman I had loved and sinned for,
watching the grey stain of mortality creep out upon those glorious
features, the world and all its prizes and possessions became to me a
mockery, and all that remained to comfort me was the memory of words I
had read in that old Book at home: there, in that heathen palace,
surrounded by the temples and trophies of false gods, was vouchsafed
to me the light which I had refused to receive when I dwelt among
Christians in a Christian land, and the Divine mercy which had
followed me through so many wanderings overtook me at the last.
On the morning of the third day one of the Indian servants who waited
upon us took me aside and whispered something in my ear--something
which made my heart beat fiercely and sent a tingle through my veins.
I left the summer-house and took my way into the palace. Through the
stately halls and along the marble pavements, amid the servile crowd
that swarmed to pay homage to Meer Jaffier, I passed, and on till I
came to that hideous stair up which I had brought two of Surajah
Dowlah's victims such a short time before. On the way I gathered
something of what had taken place.
One of Surajah Dowlah's former subjects, a man whose ears the young
Nabob had barbarously cut off for some offence, had recognised him in
his flight, and had betrayed him to the agents of his successor. He
was brought back in chains to Moorshedabad and carried before Meer
Jaffier, at whose feet he flung himself, sobbing, and beseeching that
his miserable life might be spared. Meer Jaffier, partly moved by his
entreaties, partly restrained by regard for Colonel Clive, had shown a
wish to spare him. But in Meer Jaffier's son, young Meeram, the fallen
tyrant had found a spirit as ferocious and ungovernable as his own.
This boy--for he was scarcely sixteen--thirsted for his cousin's
blood, and even attempted to stab him in Meer Jaffier's presence. Meer
Jaffier, afraid of his son, had ordered the prisoner to be removed
into the dungeons under a guard, and this was done. But the fury of
Meeram was not to be appeased. In the dark hours of the night, unknown
to his father, he had descended into the dungeon, bribed or overawed
the guards, and----
They threw open the door. They held up their torches over a dark
object lying on the ground. There, with a dozen red rents in the bosom
of his tunic, with blood thickly soaked into the dye of his silk robe,
with blood caked upon the rubies and emeralds in his turban, I saw
Surajah Dowlah, dead!
For some minutes I stood still in the presence of this impressive
retribution, recalling the brief but terrible career which had thus
tragically ended. There lay the cruellest despot of his age, the
practitioner of horrible debaucheries, the sworn enemy of the English
name, who had driven us out of Bengal, and perpetrated the
never-to-be-forgotten massacre in which I had been so nearly included.
I was but newly come out of the presence of two of his victims, and
here I beheld him cut off from light more surely than the man he had
blinded, dead while the woman he had murdered still breathed. I gazed,
and was satisfied. The evil desires of vengeance which had tormented
me for so long were utterly extinguished. I beheld before me the
justice of high Heaven, and I came away, not exulting, but awed and
subdued.
I returned to Marian's bedside, and from that time I did not leave
her till the end. Occasionally she would talk to me in a low, sweet
voice, calling back memories of the old town of Yarmouth and the
pleasant scenes of her youth. Once she spoke to me of myself.
"I have treated you very ill, Athelstane. I knew that I could never
repay you for your love, but it made me proud to have it; I liked to
count upon your devotion to me, and I deceived and tempted you."
I tried to protest, but she would have it so.
"I have been wrong in everything I did to you," she said. "I ought
never to have treated you as a friend, but as a stranger. Then you
would have grown out of your foolish passion, and have forgotten me;
for, believe me, Athelstane, I was not fit for you, nor you for me.
Beneath your hot temper and adventurous spirit, in which you resemble
your cousin, you are a very different nature. You are a Puritan at
bottom, and your conscience will not let you rest except in sober,
honest ways of life. It is better that you should take a wife from
among your own people, one whose nature is in accord with what is
deepest and best in you, and not with what is worst. Forgive me,
Athelstane, and forget me, as one that crossed your life by an evil
chance and wrought you only harm."
But that, as I told her with tears, I never could do, nor would
believe. And even now, when I look back across the years with calmer
vision and a wiser judgment, I am still glad that I knew and loved
Marian Rising, and never wish to root the memory of that wild romance
out of my heart.
She spoke to me also of my cousin Rupert, saying that she had long ago
forgiven--indeed, I think she never was really able to resent--his
wrongs done towards her, and asking me to do the same. I assured her
that I had long ago buried all remains of ill-will between us, and I
promised her that I would take him back to England with me, and
endeavour to make his peace with his father at Lynn.
Soon afterwards she became very weak, and, seeing that the last moment
was approaching, I fetched Rupert in to her. He stood with his head
bowed above the bed, his hair streaked with grey and the marks of the
agony he had suffered on his face, while Marian caught hold of his
hand, and, with the feeble remains of her strength, carried it to her
lips and kissed it. In the doorway stood an Indian, gazing at the
sight with solemn, unmoved visage. Outside we could hear the distant
clash of the temple gongs in honour of some sacrifice, and through the
lattices there was a glimpse of high white walls, with narrow slits of
windows, shaded over by the dark-green foliage of a teak tree. Was it
all real? I asked myself, or some vision which had come to me in the
night, and from which I should awake to find myself abed in my own
little room at home in Brandon?
So the hour passed, and the last minute came.
"Pray for me, Athelstane," Marian whispered to me, "for I have been a
great sinner, and for myself I hardly dare to pray."
So I knelt down upon the floor, and the blind man opposite me did the
same; and as I used the familiar phrases which I had learned
unconsciously in my youth from many repetitions, a peace stole over
the room, and Rupert's great sobs ceased to shake him, and the hand I
held in my own grew very still and cold. And presently I looked up,
and saw that Marian was dead.