“Will this do?” said Conyers, shortly after, entering the room with
a very brief note, but which, let it be owned, cost him fully as much
labor as more practised hands occasionally bestow on a more lengthy
despatch. “I suppose it's all that's civil and proper, and I don't
care to make any needless professions. Pray read it, and give me your
opinion.” It was so brief that I may quote it:--
“Dear Captain Stapylton,--Don't feel any apprehensions about me. I am in
better quarters than I ever fell into in my life, and my accident is not
worth speaking of. I wish you had told me more of our Colonel, of
whose movements I am entirely ignorant. I am sincerely grateful to your
friends for thinking of me, and hope, ere I leave the neighborhood, to
express to Sir Charles and Lady Cobham how sensible I am of their kind
intentions towards me.
“I am, most faithfully yours,
“F. CONYERS.”
“It is very well, and tolerably legible,” said Miss Barrington, dryly;
“at least I can make out everything but the name at the end.”
“I own I do not shine in penmanship; the strange characters at the foot
were meant to represent 'Conyers.'”
“Conyers! Conyers! How long is it since I heard that name last, and how
familiar I was with it once! My nephew's dearest friend was a Conyers.”
“He must have been a relative of mine in some degree; at least, we are
in the habit of saying that all of the name are of one family.”
Not heeding what he said, the old lady had fallen back in her
meditations to a very remote “long ago,” and was thinking of a time when
every letter from India bore the high-wrought interest of a romance, of
which her nephew was the hero,--times of intense anxiety, indeed, but
full of hope withal, and glowing with all the coloring with which love
and an exalted imagination can invest the incidents of an adventurous
life.
“It was a great heart he had, a splendidly generous nature, far too
high-souled and too exacting for common friendships, and so it was that
he had few friends. I am talking of my nephew,” said she, correcting
herself suddenly. “What a boon for a young man to have met him, and
formed an attachment to him. I wish you could have known him. George
would have been a noble example for you!” She paused for some minutes,
and then suddenly, as it were remembering herself, said, “Did you tell
me just now, or was I only dreaming, that you knew Ormsby Conyers?”
“Ormsby Conyers is my father's name,” said he, quickly.
“Captain in the 25th Dragoons?” asked she, eagerly.
“He was so, some eighteen or twenty years ago.”
“Oh, then, my heart did not deceive me,” cried she, taking his hand
with both her own, “when I felt towards you like an old friend. After
we parted last night, I asked myself, again and again, how was it that
I already felt an interest in you? What subtle instinct was it that
whispered this is the son of poor George's dearest friend,--this is the
son of that dear Ormsby Conyers of whom every letter is full? Oh, the
happiness of seeing you under this roof! And what a surprise for my
poor brother, who clings only the closer, with every year, to all that
reminds him of his boy!”
“And you knew my father, then?” asked Conyers, proudly.
“Never met him; but I believe I knew him better than many who were his
daily intimates: for years my nephew's letters were journals of their
joint lives--they seemed never separate. But you shall read them
yourself. They go back to the time when they both landed at Calcutta,
young and ardent spirits, eager for adventure, and urged by a bold
ambition to win distinction. From that day they were inseparable. They
hunted, travelled, lived together; and so attached had they become to
each other, that George writes in one letter: 'They have offered me an
appointment on the staff, but as this would separate me from Ormsby,
it is not to be thought of.' It was to me George always wrote, for
my brother never liked letter-writing, and thus I was my nephew's
confidante, and intrusted with all his secrets. Nor was there one in
which your father's name did not figure. It was, how Ormsby got him out
of this scrape, or took his duty for him, or made this explanation, or
raised that sum of money, that filled all these. At last--I never knew
why or how--George ceased to write to me, and addressed all his letters
to his father, marked 'Strictly private' too, so that I never saw
what they contained. My brother, I believe, suffered deeply from the
concealment, and there must have been what to him seemed a sufficient
reason for it, or he would never have excluded me from that share in his
confidence I had always possessed. At all events, it led to a sort of
estrangement between us,--the only one of our lives. He would tell me
at intervals that George was on leave; George was at the Hills; he was
expecting his troop; he had been sent here or there; but nothing more,
till one morning, as if unable to bear the burden longer, he said,
'George has made up his mind to leave his regiment and take service
with one of the native princes. It is an arrangement sanctioned by the
Government, but it is one I grieve over and regret greatly.' I asked
eagerly to hear further about this step, but he said he knew nothing
beyond the bare fact. I then said, 'What does his friend Conyers think
of it?' and my brother dryly replied, 'I am not aware that he has been
consulted.' Our own misfortunes were fast closing around us, so that
really we had little time to think of anything but the difficulties that
each day brought forth. George's letters grew rarer and rarer; rumors
of him reached us; stories of his gorgeous mode of living, his princely
state and splendid retinue, of the high favor he enjoyed with the Rajah,
and the influence he wielded over neighboring chiefs; and then we heard,
still only by rumor, that he had married a native princess, who had some
time before been converted to Christianity. The first intimation of the
fact from himself came, when, announcing that he had sent his daughter,
a child of about five years old, to Europe to be educated--” She paused
here, and seemed to have fallen into a revery over the past; when
Conyers suddenly asked,--
“And what of my father all this time? Was the old intercourse kept up
between them?”
“I cannot tell you. I do not remember that his name occurred till the
memorable case came on before the House of Commons--the inquiry, as it
was called, into Colonel Barrington's conduct in the case of Edwardes, a
British-born subject of his Majesty, serving in the army of the Rajah of
Luckerabad. You have, perhaps, heard of it?”
“Was that the celebrated charge of torturing a British subject?”
“The same; the vilest conspiracy that ever was hatched, and the
cruellest persecution that ever broke a noble heart. And yet there were
men of honor, men of purest fame and most unblemished character, who
harkened in to that infamous cry, and actually sent out emissaries to
India to collect evidence against my poor nephew. For a while the
whole country rang with the case. The low papers, which assailed the
Government, made it matter of attack on the nature of the British rule
in India, and the ministry only sought to make George the victim to
screen themselves from public indignation. It was Admiral Byng's case
once more. But I have no temper to speak of it, even after this lapse of
years; my blood boils now at the bare memory of that foul and perjured
association. If you would follow the story, I will send you the little
published narrative to your room, but, I beseech you, do not again
revert to it. How I have betrayed myself to speak of it I know not. For
many a long year I have prayed to be able to forgive one man, who has
been the bitterest enemy of our name and race. I have asked for strength
to bear the burden of our calamity, but more earnestly a hundred-fold
I have entreated that forgiveness might enter my heart, and that if
vengeance for this cruel wrong was at hand, I could be able to say, 'No,
the time for such feeling is gone by.' Let me not, then, be tempted
by any revival of this theme to recall all the sorrow and all the
indignation it once caused me. This infamous book contains the whole
story as the world then believed it. You will read it with interest, for
it concerned one whom your father dearly loved. But, again. I say, when
we meet again let us not return to it. These letters, too, will amuse
you; they are the diaries of your father's early life in India as much
as George's, but of them we can talk freely.”
It was so evident that she was speaking with a forced calm, and that all
her self-restraint might at any moment prove unequal to the effort
she was making, that Conyers, affecting to have a few words to say to
Stapylton's messenger, stole away, and hastened to his room to look over
the letters and the volume she had given him.
He had scarcely addressed himself to his task when a knock came to the
door, and at the same instant it was opened in a slow, half-hesitating
way, and Tom Dill stood before him. Though evidently dressed for the
occasion, and intending to present himself in a most favorable guise,
Tom looked far more vulgar and unprepossessing than in the worn
costume of his every-day life, his bright-buttoned blue coat and yellow
waistcoat being only aggravations of the low-bred air that unhappily
beset him. Worse even than this, however, was the fact that, being
somewhat nervous about the interview before him, Tom had taken what
his father would have called a diffusible stimulant, in the shape of “a
dandy of punch,” and bore the evidences of it in a heightened color and
a very lustrous but wandering eye.
[Illustration: 140]
“Here I am,” said he, entering with a sort of easy swagger, but far more
affected than real, notwithstanding the “dandy.”
“Well, and what then?” asked Conyers, haughtily, for the vulgar
presumption of his manner was but a sorry advocate in his favor. “I
don't remember, that I sent for you.”
“No; but my father told me what you said to him, and I was to come up
and thank you, and say, 'Done!' to it all.”
Conyers turned a look--not a very pleased or very flattering look--at
the loutish figure before him, and in his changing color might be seen
the conflict it cost him to keep down his rising temper. He was, indeed,
sorely tried, and his hand shook as he tossed over the books on his
table, and endeavored to seem occupied in other matters.
“Maybe you forget all about it,” began Tom. “Perhaps you don't remember
that you offered to fit me out for India, and send me over with a letter
to your father--”
“No, no, I forget nothing of it; I remember it all.” He had almost
said “only too well,” but he coughed down the cruel speech, and went
on hurriedly: “You have come, however, when I am engaged,--when I have
other things to attend to. These letters here--In fact, this is not a
moment when I can attend to you. Do you understand me?”
“I believe I do,” said Tom, growing very pale.
“To-morrow, then, or the day after, or next week, will be time enough
for all this. I must think over the matter again.”
“I see,” said Tom, moodily, as he changed from one foot to the other,
and cracked the joints of his fingers, till they seemed dislocated. “I
see it all.”
“What do you mean by that?--what do you see?” asked Conyers, angrily.
“I see that Polly, my sister, was right; that she knew you better than
any of us,” said Tom, boldly, for a sudden rush of courage had now
filled his heart. “She said, 'Don't let him turn your head, Tom, with
his fine promises. He was in good humor and good spirits when he made
them, and perhaps meant to keep them too; but he little knows what
misery disappointment brings, and he'll never fret himself over the
heavy heart he's giving you, when he wakes in the morning with a change
of mind.' And then, she said another thing,” added he, after a pause.
“And what was the other thing?”
“She said, 'If you go up there, Tom,' says she, 'dressed out like a
shopboy in his Sunday suit, he'll be actually shocked at his having
taken an interest in you. He 'll forget all about your hard lot and
your struggling fortune, and only see your vulgarity.' 'Your
vulgarity,'--that was the word.” As he said this, his lip trembled, and
the chair he leaned on shook under his grasp.
“Go back, and tell her, then, that she was mistaken,” said Conyers,
whose own voice now quavered. “Tell her that when I give my word I keep
it; that I will maintain everything I said to you or to your father;
and that when she imputed to me an indifference as to the feelings of
others, she might have remembered whether she was not unjust to mine.
Tell her that also.”
[Illustration: 140]
“I will,” said Tom, gravely. “Is there anything more?” “No, nothing
more,” said Conyers, who with difficulty suppressed a smile at the words
and the manner of his questioner. “Good-bye, then. You 'll send for me
when you want me,” said Tom; and he was out of the room, and half-way
across the lawn, ere Conyers could recover himself to reply.
Conyers, however, flung open the window, and cried to him to come back.
“I was nigh forgetting a most important part of the matter, Tom,” said
he, as the other entered, somewhat pale and anxious-looking. “You told
me, t' other day, that there was some payment to be made,--some sum to
be lodged before you could present yourself for examination. What about
this? When must it be done?”
“A month before I go in,” said Tom, to whom the very thought of the
ordeal seemed full of terror and heart-sinking.
“And how soon do you reckon that may be?”
“Polly says not before eight weeks at the earliest. She says we 'll
have to go over Bell on the Bones all again, and brush up the Ligaments,
besides. If it was the Navy, they 'd not mind the nerves; but they tell
me the Army fellows often take a man on the fifth pair, and I know if
they do me, it's mighty little of India I 'll see.”
“Plucked, eh?”
“I don't know what you mean by 'plucked,' but I 'd be turned back, which
is, perhaps, the same. And no great disgrace, either,” added he, with
more of courage in his voice; “Polly herself says there's days she could
n't remember all the branches of the fifth, and the third is almost as
bad.”
“I suppose if your sister could go up in your place, Tom, you 'd be
quite sure of your diploma?”
“It's many and many a day I wished that same,” sighed he, heavily. “If
you heard her going over the 'Subclavian,' you 'd swear she had the book
in her hand.”
Conyers could not repress a smile at this strange piece of feminine
accomplishment, but he was careful not to let Tom perceive it. Not,
indeed, that the poor fellow was in a very observant mood; Polly's
perfections, her memory, and her quickness were the themes that filled
up his mind.
“What a rare piece of luck for you to have had such a sister, Tom!”
“Don't I say it to myself?--don't I repeat the very same words every
morning when I awake? Maybe I 'll never come to any good; maybe my
father is right, and that I 'll only be a disgrace as long as I live;
but I hope one thing, at least, I 'll never be so bad that I 'll forget
Polly, and all she done for me. And I'll tell you more,” said he, with a
choking fulness in his throat; “if they turn me back at my examination,
my heart will be heavier for _her_ than for myself.”
“Come, cheer up, Tom; don't look on the gloomy side. You 'll pass, I 'm
certain, and with credit too. Here 's the thirty pounds you 'll have to
lodge--”
“It is only twenty they require. And, besides, I could n't take it; it's
my father must pay.” He stammered, and hesitated, and grew pale and then
crimson, while his lips trembled and his chest heaved and fell almost
convulsively.
“Nothing of the kind, Tom,” said Conyers, who had to subdue his own
emotion by an assumed sternness. “The plan is all my own, and I
will stand no interference with it. I mean that you should pass your
examination without your father knowing one word about it. You shall
come back to him with your diploma, or whatever it is, in your hand,
and say, 'There, sir, the men who have signed their names to that do not
think so meanly of me as you do.'”
“And he'd say, the more fools they!” said Tom, with a grim smile.
“At all events,” resumed Conyers, “I 'll have my own way. Put that
note in your pocket, and whenever you are gazetted Surgeon-Major to the
Guards, or Inspector-General of all the Hospitals in Great Britain, you
can repay me, and with interest, besides, if you like it.”
“You 've given me a good long day to be in your debt,” said Tom; and
he hurried out of the room before his overfull heart should betray his
emotion.
It is marvellous how quickly a kind action done to another reconciles a
man to himself. Doubtless conscience at such times condescends to play
the courtier, and whispers, “What a good fellow you are! and how unjust
the world is when it calls you cold and haughty and ungenial!” Not that
I would assert higher and better thoughts than these do not reward him
who, Samaritan-like, binds up the wounds of misery; but I fear me much
that few of us resist self-flattery, or those little delicate adulations
one can offer to his own heart when nobody overhears him.
At all events, Conyers was not averse to this pleasure, and grew
actually to feel a strong interest for Tom Dill, all because that poor
fellow had been the recipient of his bounty; for so is it the waters
of our nature must be stirred by some act of charity or kindness, else
their healing virtues have small efficacy, and cure not.
And then he wondered and questioned himself whether Polly might not
possibly be right, and that his “governor” would maryel where and how he
had picked up so strange a specimen as Tom. That poor fellow, too, like
many an humble flower, seen not disadvantageously in its native wilds,
would look strangely out of place when transplanted and treated as an
exotic. Still he could trust to the wide and generous nature of his
father to overlook small defects of manner and breeding, and take the
humble fellow kindly.
Must I own that a considerable share of his hopefulness was derived from
thinking that the odious blue coat and brass buttons could scarcely
make part of Tom's kit for India, and that in no other costume known to
civilized man could his _protégé_ look so unprepossessingly?
CHAPTER XIII. A FEW LEAVES FROM A BLUE-BOOK
The journal which Miss Barrington had placed in Conyers's hands was
little else than the record of the sporting adventures of two young and
very dashing fellows. There were lion and tiger hunts, so little varied
in detail that one might serve for all, though doubtless to the narrator
each was marked with its own especial interest. There were travelling
incidents and accidents, and straits for money, and mishaps and arrests,
and stories of steeple-chases and balls all mixed up together, and
recounted so very much in the same spirit as to show how very little
shadow mere misadventure could throw across the sunshine of their
every-day life. But every now and then Conyers came upon some entry
which closely touched his heart. It was how nobly Ormsby behaved. What a
splendid fellow he was! so frank, so generous, such a horseman! “I wish
you saw the astonishment of the Mahratta fellows as Ormsby lifted
the tent-pegs in full career; he never missed one. Ormsby won the
rifle-match; we all knew he would. Sir Peregrine invited Ormsby to go
with him to the Hills, but he refused, mainly because I was not asked.”
Ormsby has been offered this, that, or t'other; in fact, that one name
recurred in every second sentence, and always with the same marks of
affection. How proud, too, did Barrington seem of his friend. “They have
found out that no country-house is perfect without Ormsby, and he is
positively persecuted with invitations. I hear the 'G.-G.' is provoked
at Ormsby's refusal of a staff appointment. I'm in rare luck; the old
Rajah of Tannanoohr has asked Ormsby to a grand elephant-hunt next week,
and I 'm to go with him. I 'm to have a leave in October. Ormsby managed
it somehow; he never fails, whatever he takes in hand. Such a fright
as I got yesterday! There was a report in the camp Ormsby was going
to England with despatches; it's all a mistake, however, he says. He
believes he might have had the opportunity, had he cared for it.”
If there was not much in these passing notices of his father, there was
quite enough to impart to them an intense degree of interest. There is
a wondrous charm, besides, in reading of the young days of those we have
only known in maturer life, in hearing of them when they were fresh,
ardent, and impetuous; in knowing, besides, how they were regarded by
contemporaries, how loved and valued. It was not merely that Ormsby
recurred in almost every page of this journal, but the record bore
testimony to his superiority and the undisputed sway he exercised over
his companions. This same power of dominating and directing had been
the distinguishing feature of his after-life, and many an unruly and
turbulent spirit had been reclaimed under Ormsby Conyers's hands.
As he read on, he grew also to feel a strong interest for the writer
himself; the very heartiness of the affection he bestowed on his father,
and the noble generosity with which he welcomed every success of that
“dear fellow Ormsby,” were more than enough to secure his interest for
him. There was a bold, almost reckless dash, too, about Barrington which
has a great charm occasionally for very young men. He adventured upon
life pretty much as he would try to cross a river; he never looked for
a shallow nor inquired for a ford, but plunged boldly in, and trusted
to his brave heart and his strong arms for the rest. No one, indeed,
reading even these rough notes, could hesitate to pronounce which of the
two would “make the spoon,” and which “spoil the horn.” Young Conyers
was eager to find some mention of the incident to which Miss Barrington
had vaguely alluded. He wanted to read George Barrington's own account
before he opened the little pamphlet she gave him, but the journal
closed years before this event; and although some of the letters came
down to a later date, none approached the period he wanted.
It was not till after some time that he remarked how much more
unfrequently his father's name occurred in the latter portion of the
correspondence. Entire pages would contain no reference to him, and in
the last letter of all there was this towards the end: “After all, I am
almost sorry that I am first for purchase, for I believe Ormsby is most
anxious for his troop. I say 'I believe,' for he has not told me so, and
when I offered to give way to him, he seemed half offended with me.
You know what a bungler I am where a matter of any delicacy is to be
treated, and you may easily fancy either that _I_ mismanage the affair
grossly, or that I am as grossly mistaken. One thing is certain, I 'd
see promotion far enough, rather than let it make a coldness beween us,
which could never occur if he were as frank as he used to be. My dear
aunt, I wish I had your wise head to counsel me, for I have a scheme in
my mind which I have scarcely courage for without some advice, and for
many reasons I cannot ask O.'s opinion. Between this and the next mail I
'll think it over carefully, and tell you what I intend.
“I told you that Ormsby was going to marry one of the Gpvernor-General's
daughters. It is all off,--at least, I hear so,--and O. has asked for
leave to go home. I suspect he is sorely cut up about this, but he
is too proud a fellow to let the world see it. Report says that Sir
Peregrine heard that he played. So he does, because he does everything,
and everything well. If he does go to England, he will certainly pay you
a visit. Make much of him for my sake; you could not make too much for
his own.”
This was the last mention of his father, and he pondered long and
thoughtfully over it. He saw, or fancied he saw, the first faint
glimmerings of a coldness between them, and he hastily turned to the
printed report of the House of Commons inquiry, to see what part his
father had taken. His name occurred but once; it was appended to an
extract of a letter, addressed to him by the Governor-General. It was
a confidential report, and much of it omitted in publication. It was
throughout, however, a warm and generous testimony to Barrington's
character. “I never knew a man,” said he, “less capable of anything mean
or unworthy; nor am I able to imagine any temptation strong enough to
warp him from what he believed to be right. That on a question of policy
his judgment might be wrong, I am quite ready to admit, but I will
maintain that, on a point of honor, he would, and must, be infallible.”
Underneath this passage there was written, in Miss Barrington's hand,
“Poor George never saw this; it was not published till after his death.”
So interested did young Conyers feel as to the friendship between
these two men, and what it could have been that made a breach between
them,--if breach there were,--that he sat a long time without opening
the little volume that related to the charge against Colonel Barrington.
He had but to open it, however, to guess the spirit in which it was
written. Its title was, “The Story of Samuel Ed-wardes, with an Account
of the Persecutions and Tortures inflicted on him by Colonel George
Barrington, when serving in command of the Forces of the Meer Nagheer
Assahr, Rajah of Luckerabad, based on the documents produced before the
Committee of the House, and private authentic information.” Opposite to
this lengthy title was an ill-executed wood-cut of a young fellow
tied up to a tree, and being flogged by two native Indians, with the
inscription at foot: “Mode of celebrating His Majesty's Birthday, 4th of
June, 18--, at the Residence of Luckerabad.”
In the writhing figure of the youth, and the ferocious glee of his
executioners, the artist had displayed all his skill in expression, and
very unmistakably shown, besides, the spirit of the publication. I have
no intention to inflict this upon my reader. I will simply give him--and
as briefly as I am able--its substance.
The Rajah of Luckerabad, an independent sovereign, living on the best
of terms with the Government of the Company, had obtained permission to
employ an English officer in the chief command of his army, a force of
some twenty-odd thousand, of all arms. It was essential that he should
be one not only well acquainted with the details of command, but fully
equal to the charge of organization of a force; a man of energy and
decision, well versed in Hindostanee, and not altogether ignorant of
Persian, in which, occasionally, correspondence was carried on. Amongst
the many candidates for an employment so certain to insure the fortune
of its possessor, Major Barrington, then a brevet Lieutenant-Colonel,
was chosen.
It is not improbable that, in mere technical details of his art, he
might have had many equal and some superior to him; it was well known
that his personal requisites were above all rivalry. He was a man of
great size and strength, of a most commanding presence, an accomplished
linguist in the various dialects of Central India and a great master of
all manly exercises. To these qualities he added an Oriental taste for
splendor and pomp. It had always been his habit to live in a style of
costly extravagance, with the retinue of a petty prince, and when he
travelled it was with the following of a native chief.
Though, naturally enough, such a station as a separate command gave
might be regarded as a great object of ambition by many, there was a
good deal of surprise felt at the time that Barrington, reputedly a man
of large fortune, should have accepted it; the more so since, by his
contract, he bound himself for ten years to the Rajah, and thus forever
extinguished all prospect of advancement in his own service. There were
all manner of guesses afloat as to his reasons. Some said that he was
already so embarrassed by his extravagance that it was his only exit out
of difficulty; others pretended that he was captivated by the gorgeous
splendor of that Eastern life he loved so well; that pomp, display, and
magnificence were bribes he could not resist; and a few, who affected
to see more nearly, whispered that he was unhappy of late, had grown
peevish and uncompanionable, and sought any change, so that it took him
out of his regiment. Whatever the cause, he bade his brother-officers
farewell without revealing it, and set out for his new destination. He
had never anticipated a life of ease or inaction, but he was equally
far from imagining anything like what now awaited him. Corruption,
falsehood, robbery, on every hand! The army was little else than a
brigand establishment, living on the peasants, and exacting, at the
sword point, whatever they wanted. There was no obedience to discipline.
The Rajah troubled himself about nothing but his pleasures, and, indeed,
passed his days so drugged with opium as to be almost insensible to
all around him. In the tribunals there was nothing but bribery, and
the object of every one seemed to be to amass fortunes as rapidly as
possible, and then hasten away from a country so insecure and dangerous.
For some days after his arrival, Barrington hesitated whether he would
accept a charge so apparently hopeless; his bold heart, however, decided
the doubt, and he resolved to remain. His first care was to look about
him for one or two more trustworthy than the masses, if such there
should be, to assist him, and the Rajah referred him to his secretary
for that purpose. It was with sincere pleasure Barring-ton discovered
that this man was English,--that is, his father had been an Englishman,
and his mother was a Malabar slave in the Rajah's household: his name
was Edwardes, but called by the natives Ali Edwardes. He looked about
sixty, but his real age was about forty-six when Barrington came to the
Residence. He was a man of considerable ability, uniting all the craft
and subtlety of the Oriental with the dogged perseverance of the Briton.
He had enjoyed the full favor of the Rajah for nigh twenty years, and
was strongly averse to the appointment of an English officer to the
command of the army, knowing full well the influence it would have over
his own fortunes. He represented to the Rajah that the Company was
only intriguing to absorb his dominions with their own; that the new
Commander-in-chief would be their servant and not his; that it was
by such machinery as this they secretly possessed themselves of all
knowledge of the native sovereigns, learned their weakness and their
strength, and through such agencies hatched those plots and schemes by
which many a chief had been despoiled of his state.
The Rajah, however, saw that if he had a grasping Government on one
side, he had an insolent and rebellious army on the other. There was not
much to choose between them, but he took the side that he thought the
least bad, and left the rest to Fate.
Having failed with the Rajah, Edwardes tried what he could do with
Barrington; and certainly, if but a tithe of what he told him were true,
the most natural thing in the world would have been that he should give
up his appointment, and quit forever a land so hopelessly sunk in vice
and corruption. Cunning and crafty as he was, however, he made
one mistake, and that an irreparable one. When dilating on the
insubordination of the army, its lawless ways and libertine habits, he
declared that nothing short of a superior force in the field could have
any chance of enforcing discipline. “As to a command,” said he, “it is
simply ludicrous. Let any man try it and they will cut him down in the
very midst of his staff.”
That unlucky speech decided the question; and Barring-ton simply said,--
“I have heard plenty of this sort of thing in India; I never saw it,--I
'll stay.”
Stay he did; and he did more: he reformed that rabble, and made of them
a splendid force, able, disciplined, and obedient. With the influence of
his success, added to that derived from the confidence reposed in him
by the Rajah, he introduced many and beneficial changes into the
administration; he punished peculators by military law, and brought
knavish sutlers to the drum-head. In fact, by the exercise of a salutary
despotism, he rescued the state from an impending bankruptcy and ruin,
placed its finances in a healthy condition, and rendered the country
a model of prosperity and contentment. The Rajah had, like most of his
rank and class, been in litigation, occasionally in armed contention,
with some of his neighbors,--one especially, an uncle, whom he accused
of having robbed him, when his guardian, of a large share of his
heritage. This suit had gone on for years, varied at times by little
raids into each other's territories, to burn villages and carry away
cattle. Though with a force more than sufficient to have carried the
question with a strong hand, Barrington preferred the more civilized
mode of leaving the matter in dispute to others, and suggested the
Company as arbitrator. The negotiations led to a lengthy correspondence,
in which Edwardes and his son, a youth of seventeen or eighteen, were
actively occupied; and although Barrington was not without certain
misgivings as to their trustworthiness and honesty, he knew their
capacity, and had not, besides, any one at all capable of replacing
them. While these affairs were yet pending, Barrington married the
daughter of the Meer, a young girl whose mother had been a convert
to Christianity, and who had herself been educated by a Catholic
missionary. She died in the second year of her marriage, giving birth
to a daughter; but Barrington had now become so completely the centre of
all action in the state, that the Rajah interfered in nothing, leaving
in his hands the undisputed control of the Government; nay, more, he
made him his son by adoption, leaving to him not alone all his immense
personal property, but the inheritance to his throne. Though Barrington
was advised by all the great legal authorities he consulted in England
that such a bequest could not be good in law, nor a British subject
be permitted to succeed to the rights of an Eastern sovereignty, he
obstinately declared that the point was yet untried; that, however
theoretically the opinion might be correct, practically the question
had not been determined, nor had any case yet occurred to rule as a
precedent on it. If he was not much of a lawyer, he was of a temperament
that could not brook opposition. In fact, to make him take any
particular road in life, you had only to erect a barricade on it. When,
therefore, he was told the matter could not be, his answer was, “It
shall!” Calcutta lawyers, men deep in knowledge of Oriental law and
custom, learned Moonshees and Pundits, were despatched by him at
enormous cost, to England, to confer with the great authorities at home.
Agents were sent over to procure the influence of great Parliamentary
speakers and the leaders in the press to the cause. For a matter which,
in the beginning, he cared scarcely anything, if at all, he had now
grown to feel the most intense and absorbing interest. Half persuading
himself that the personal question was less to him than the great
privilege and right of an Englishman, he declared that he would rather
die a beggar in the defence of the cause than abandon it. So possessed
was he, indeed, of his rights, and so resolved to maintain them,
supported by a firm belief that they would and must be ultimately
conceded to him, that in the correspondence with the other chiefs every
reference which spoke of the future sovereignty of Luckerabad included
his own name and title, and this with an ostentation quite Oriental.
Whether Edwardes had been less warm and energetic in the cause than
Barrington expected, or whether his counsels were less palatable,
certain it is he grew daily more and more distrustful of him; but an
event soon occurred to make this suspicion a certainty.
The negotiations between the Meer and his uncle had been so successfully
conducted by Barrington, that the latter agreed to give up three
“Pegunnahs,” or villages he had unrightfully seized upon, and to pay a
heavy mulct, besides, for the unjust occupation of them. This settlement
had been, as may be imagined, a work of much time and labor, and
requiring not only immense forbearance and patience, but intense
watchfulness and unceasing skill and craft. Edwardes, of course, was
constantly engaged in the affair, with the details of which he had been
for years familiar. Now, although Barrington was satisfied with the
zeal he displayed, he was less so with his counsels, Edwardes always
insisting that in every dealing with an Oriental you must inevitably be
beaten if you would not make use of all the stratagem and deceit he
is sure to employ against you. There was not a day on which the wily
secretary did not suggest some cunning expedient, some clever trick; and
Barrington's abrupt rejection of them only impressed him with a notion
of his weakness and deficiency.
One morning--it was after many defeats--Edwardes appeared with the draft
of a document he had been ordered to draw out, and in which, of his own
accord, he had made a large use of threats to the neighboring chief,
should he continue to protract these proceedings. These threats very
unmistakably pointed to the dire consequences of opposing the great
Government of the Company; for, as the writer argued, the succession to
the Ameer being already vested in an Englishman, it is perfectly clear
the powerful nation he belongs to will take a very summary mode of
dealing with this question, if not settled before he comes to the
throne. He pressed, therefore, for an immediate settlement, as the best
possible escape from difficulty.
Barrington scouted the suggestion indignantly; he would not hear of it.
“What,” said he, “is it while these very rights are in litigation that
I am to employ them as a menace? Who is to secure me being one day Rajah
of Luckerabad? Not you, certainly, who have never ceased to speak coldly
of my claims. Throw that draft into the fire, and never propose a like
one to me again!”
The rebuke was not forgotten. Another draft was, however, prepared, and
in due time the long-pending negotiations were concluded, the Meer's
uncle having himself come to Luckerabad to ratify the contract, which,
being engrossed on a leaf of the Rajah's Koran, was duly signed and
sealed by both.
It was during the festivities incidental to this visit that
Edwardes, who had of late made a display of wealth and splendor quite
unaccountable, made a proposal to the Rajah for the hand of his only
unmarried daughter, sister to Barrington's wife. The Rajah, long
enervated by excess and opium, probably cared little about the matter;
there were, indeed, but a few moments in each day when he could be
fairly pronounced awake. He referred the question to Barrington. Not
satisfied with an insulting rejection of the proposal, Barrington, whose
passionate moments were almost madness, tauntingly asked by what means
Edwardes had so suddenly acquired the wealth which had prompted this
demand. He hinted that the sources of his fortune were more than
suspected, and at last, carried away by anger, for the discussion grew
violent, he drew from his desk a slip of paper, and held it up. “When
your father was drummed out of the 4th Bengal Fusiliers for theft, of
which this is the record, the family was scarcely so ambitious.” For
an instant Edwardes seemed overcome almost to fainting; but he rallied,
and, with a menace of his clenched hand, but without one word, he
hurried away before Barrington could resent the insult. It was said that
he did not return to his house, but, taking the horse of an orderly that
he found at the door, rode away from the palace, and on the same night
crossed the frontier into a neighboring state.
It was on the following morning, as Barrington was passing a cavalry
regiment in review, that young Edwardes, forcing his way through the
staff, insolently asked, “What had become of his father?” and at the
same instant levelling a pistol, he fired. The ball passed through
Barrington's shako, and so close to the head that it grazed it. It was
only with a loud shout to abstain that Barrington arrested the gleaming
sabres that now flourished over his head. “Your father has fled,
youngster!” cried he. “When you show him _that_,”--and he struck him
across the face with his horsewhip,--“tell him how near you were to have
been an assassin!” With this savage taunt, he gave orders that the young
fellow should be conducted to the nearest frontier, and turned adrift.
Neither father nor son ever were seen there again.
Little did George Barrington suspect what was to come of that morning's
work. Through what channel Edwardes worked at first was not known,
but that he succeeded in raising up for himself friends in England
is certain; by their means the very gravest charges were made against
Barrington. One allegation was that by a forged document, claiming to be
the assent of the English Government to his succession, he had obtained
the submission of several native chiefs to his rule and a cession of
territory to the Rajah of Luckerabad; and another charged him with
having cruelly tortured a British subject named Samuel Edwardes,--an
investigation entered into by a Committee of the House, and becoming,
while it lasted, one of the most exciting subjects of public interest.
Nor was the anxiety lessened by the death of the elder Edwardes, which
occurred during the inquiry, and which Barrington's enemies declared to
be caused by a broken heart; and the martyred or murdered Edwardes was
no uncommon heading to a paragraph of the time.
Conyers turned to the massive Blue-book that contained the proceedings
“in Committee,” but only to glance at the examination of witnesses,
whose very names were unfamiliar to him. He could perceive, however,
that the inquiry was a long one, and, from the tone of the member at
whose motion it was instituted, angry and vindictive.
Edwardes appeared to have preferred charges of long continued
persecution and oppression, and there was native testimony in abundance
to sustain the allegation; while the British Commissioner sent to
Luckerabad came back so prejudiced against Barrington, from his proud
and haughty bearing, that his report was unfavorable to him in all
respects. There was, it is true, letters from various high quarters,
all speaking of Barrington's early career as both honorable and
distinguished; and, lastly, there was one signed Ormsby Conyers, a
warm-hearted testimony “to the most straightforward gentleman and truest
friend I have ever known.” These were words the young man read and
re-read a dozen times.
Conyers turned eagerly to read what decision had been come to by the
Committee, but the proceedings had come abruptly to an end by George
Barrington's death. A few lines at the close of the pamphlet mentioned
that, being summoned to appear before the Governor-General in Council
at Calcutta, Barrington refused. An armed force was despatched to occupy
Luckerabad, on the approach of which Barrington rode forth to meet them,
attended by a brilliant staff,--with what precise object none knew; but
the sight of a considerable force, drawn up at a distance in what seemed
order of battle, implied at least an intention to resist. Coming on
towards the advanced pickets at a fast gallop, and not slackening
speed when challenged, the men, who were Bengal infantry, fired, and
Barrington fell, pierced by four bullets. He never uttered a word
after, though he lingered on till evening. The force was commanded by
Lieutenant-General Conyers.
There was little more to tell. The Rajah, implicated in the charges
brought against Barrington, and totally unable to defend himself,
despatched a confidential minister, Meer Mozarjah, to Europe to do what
he might by bribery. This unhappy blunder filled the measure of his
ruin, and after a very brief inquiry the Rajah was declared to have
forfeited his throne and all his rights of succession. The Company took
possession of Luckerabad, as a portion of British India, but from a
generous compassion towards the deposed chief, graciously accorded him a
pension of ten thousand rupees a month during his life.
My reader will bear in mind that I have given him this recital, not
as it came before Conyers, distorted by falsehood and disfigured by
misstatements, but have presented the facts as nearly as they might be
derived from a candid examination of all the testimony adduced. Ere I
return to my own tale, I ought to add that Edwardes, discredited and
despised by some, upheld and maintained by others, left Calcutta with
the proceeds of a handsome subscription raised in his behalf. Whether he
went to reside in Europe, or retired to some other part of India, is not
known. He was heard of no more.
As for the Rajah, his efforts still continued to obtain a revision of
the sentence pronounced upon him, and his case was one of those which
newspapers slur over and privy councils try to escape from, leaving to
Time to solve what Justice has no taste for.
But every now and then a Blue-book would appear, headed “East India (the
deposed Rajah of Luckerabad),” while a line in an evening paper would
intimate that the Envoy of Meer Nagheer Assahr had arrived at a certain
West-end hotel to prosecute the suit of his Highness before the Judicial
Committee of the Lords. How pleasantly does a paragraph dispose of a
whole life-load of sorrows and of wrongs that, perhaps, are breaking the
hearts that carry them!
While I once more apologize to my reader for the length to which this
narrative has run, I owe it to myself to state that, had I presented it
in the garbled and incorrect version which came before Conyers, and had
I interpolated all the misconceptions he incurred, the mistakes he first
fell into and then corrected, I should have been far more tedious and
intolerable still; and now I am again under weigh, with easy canvas, but
over a calm sea, and under a sky but slightly clouded.