our hero comes to his own.
It was a mellow day in October 1760, a little more than six years since
the day when Market Drayton gave rein to its enthusiasm in honor of
Clive. From a flagstaff newly erected on the roof of the Four Alls on the
Newport Road, a square of bunting flapped in the breeze. Inside the inn
the innkeeper was drawing a pint of ale for his one solitary customer, a
shambling countryman with a shock of very red hair, and eyes of innocent
blue.
"There, that makes a quart, Tummus Biles, and 'tis as much as your turnip
head can safely carry."
He passed the can across the bar on a hook that projected from a wooden
socket in his sleeve.
"Why, now, Mr. Bulger," said Tummus, the tranter, "what fur do you go fur
to miscall me like other fowk? I've been miscalled ever since that day I
drove a stranger into Market Drayton six year ago. I mind me he had a red
feather in his cap, and not knowing my name was plain Tummus, he called
me Jehu, he did, and I never forgot it. Ay, and I tell ya what, Mr.
Bulger: it took me two year to find out why he give me such an uncommon
name. I mind I was sittin' by a hayrick of Mr. Burke's--that was long
afore he was lamed by that terrible horse o' his--and ponderin' on that
heathen name, when all at once it comed to me like a flash o' lightnin'.
"'Jehu!' says I to myself. 'I've got ya at last.' Ya see, when that
stranger saw me, I were drivin' a horse. Well, I says to my horse,
'Gee-ho!' says I. Not knowing my true chrisom name, the stranger takes up
my words an' fits 'em to me. 'Gee-ho!' says I; 'Gee-ho!' says he; only
bein' a kind o' furriner he turns it into 'Jehu'; an' the name fits me
uncommon. Hee hee!"
"I may be wrong," said Bulger, "but 'tis my belief 'Hee haw!' would fit
you a big sight better. But hark! en't them the bells a-ringin'?"
The two hastened to the door, and stood looking down the road toward
Market Drayton. From the distance came the faint sounds of a merry peal.
By and by a four-horsed open carriage with outriders appeared on the
crest of the hill. Amid the dust it raised another could be seen, and
behind this a long line of vehicles. Every coachman's whip was decorated
with a wedding favor. The cavalcade approached rapidly. As the first
carriage drew nearer Bulger became more and more excited, and when it
dashed past the inn he raised his hook and shouted "Hurray! hurray!" with
the full force of his lungs.
"Give 'em a cheer, Tummus," he cried. "Hee haw will do if you knows no
better. Hurray for Major Desmond Burke and his madam--the purtiest gal I
ever did see, east or west. Hurray for her father and mother: there they
are, with old squire an' the major's mother. And there's Mr. Clive, all
alone by himself 'cos his leg's stiff wi' rheumatics; but he would come
to see the deed done, which I may be wrong, but the new King George'll
make him a live lord afore he's much older.
"Open your mouth, Tummus, an' if you hee haw loud enough, I'll draw you
another pint for nothing."
Desmond, now a major, had returned home in company with Clive. During the
three years that had passed since he witnessed the sailing of the Jane he
had seen much service. He had been with Colonel Forde when that fine
soldier expelled the French from the northern Sirkars. He was with the
same officer when he thrashed the Dutch at Biderra. He had been in close
touch with Clive when these successful operations were planned, and the
nearer he saw him, the more he admired the great man's courage in taking
risks, promptitude in dealing with sudden emergencies, sagacity in seeing
to the heart of a difficult situation. Thus, during those three years, he
gained much knowledge of the science of war, and much experience in
dealing with men. He became rich also, not by questionable means, but by
reaping the legitimate rewards of good and faithful service.
Before leaving India, Desmond learned of changes that had happened at
home. His brother had been thrown by a young and mettlesome horse, and so
badly trampled that he must remain a helpless invalid for the rest of his
life. Sir Willoughby Stokes, even before he heard of the death of his
nephew Peloti, had made Desmond his heir. Mr. Merriman had bought an
estate near his father's old friend, and settled down to the life of a
country gentleman. A year after his return, Job Grinsell, the landlord of
the Four Alls, had been sentenced to a long term of imprisonment for
poaching, and Mr. Merriman had no difficulty in persuading Sir Philip
Chetwode to let his inn to Bulger.
After an interview with Mr. Merriman, Desmond found the courage to put to
Phyllis the question which he had not ventured to ask before she left
India. What the answer was may be inferred from the fact that Sir
Willoughby insisted on the wedding taking place at once. It was time for
the return of his old enemy the gout, he said; he was going to Buxton to
end his days, and wished to see the Hall in the hands of his heir before
he left.
Mr. Burslem, Desmond's old schoolmaster, performed the ceremony, and
Clive, though suffering from rheumatism, came down for the occasion. The
only familiar form that Desmond missed was that of old Dickon, who had
died a few months after Desmond's departure from home.
Desmond settled down for a time at the Hall, cheering his mother's
declining years, repaying good for ill to his invalid brother, and
winning golden opinions from all his neighbors high and low. He eagerly
watched the further career of his old hero, now Lord Clive; learned to
admire him as statesman as well as soldier; sympathized with him through
all the attacks made upon him; and mourned him sincerely when, in 1774,
the great man, preyed upon by an insidious disease, died by his own hand.
Five years later he felt the East calling, bought a commission, and
sailed with General Sir Eyre Coote, to take part in the "frantic military
exploits," as some one called them, of Warren Hastings against Haidar Ali
and Tippu in Mysore. He came home a colonel, and was made a baronet for
his services in the war. Finally retiring from public life, he lived for
thirty years longer on his estate, happy in the careers of his two sons,
who became soldiers like himself. He died, an old man, in the year after
Waterloo, at which his eldest grandson, a lieutenant in the guards,
behaved with a gallantry that attracted the notice of the Iron Duke.
Visitors to Sir Desmond Burke's house were amused and interested to see a
battered wooden stump with an iron hook hanging in a conspicuous place in
the hall amid tigers' heads, Indian weapons, and other trophies from the
East.
"That?" Sir Desmond would say, in answer to their question. "That
belonged to one of the best friends I ever had, a fine old salt named
William Bulger. I met him when I was sixteen, and buried him when I was
forty: and my wife and I have felt ever since a blank in our lives. If
you can put up with an old man's stories, I'll tell you something of what
Bulger and I went through together, when I was a youngster with Clive in
India."