ADVENTURE OF CHEVALIER BURKE IN INDIA.
_Extracted from his Memoirs_.
. . . Here was I, therefore, on the streets of that city, the name of
which I cannot call to mind, while even then I was so ill-acquainted
with its situation that I knew not whether to go south or north. The
alert being sudden, I had run forth without shoes or stockings; my hat
had been struck from my head in the mellay; my kit was in the hands of
the English; I had no companion but the cipaye, no weapon but my sword,
and the devil a coin in my pocket. In short, I was for all the world
like one of those calendars with whom Mr. Galland has made us
acquainted in his elegant tales. These gentlemen, you will remember,
were for ever falling in with extraordinary incidents; and I was myself
upon the brink of one so astonishing that I protest I cannot explain it
to this day.
The cipaye was a very honest man; he had served many years with the
French colours, and would have let himself be cut to pieces for any of
the brave countrymen of Mr. Lally. It is the same fellow (his name has
quite escaped me) of whom I have narrated already a surprising instance
of generosity of mind—when he found Mr. de Fessac and myself upon the
ramparts, entirely overcome with liquor, and covered us with straw
while the commandant was passing by. I consulted him, therefore, with
perfect freedom. It was a fine question what to do; but we decided at
last to escalade a garden wall, where we could certainly sleep in the
shadow of the trees, and might perhaps find an occasion to get hold of
a pair of slippers and a turban. In that part of the city we had only
the difficulty of the choice, for it was a quarter consisting entirely
of walled gardens, and the lanes which divided them were at that hour
of the night deserted. I gave the cipaye a back, and we had soon
dropped into a large enclosure full of trees. The place was soaking
with the dew, which, in that country, is exceedingly unwholesome, above
all to whites; yet my fatigue was so extreme that I was already half
asleep, when the cipaye recalled me to my senses. In the far end of the
enclosure a bright light had suddenly shone out, and continued to burn
steadily among the leaves. It was a circumstance highly unusual in such
a place and hour; and, in our situation, it behoved us to proceed with
some timidity. The cipaye was sent to reconnoitre, and pretty soon
returned with the intelligence that we had fallen extremely amiss, for
the house belonged to a white man, who was in all likelihood English.
“Faith,” says I, “if there is a white man to be seen, I will have a
look at him; for, the Lord be praised! there are more sorts than the
one!”
The cipaye led me forward accordingly to a place from which I had a
clear view upon the house. It was surrounded with a wide verandah; a
lamp, very well trimmed, stood upon the floor of it, and on either side
of the lamp there sat a man, cross-legged, after the Oriental manner.
Both, besides, were bundled up in muslin like two natives; and yet one
of them was not only a white man, but a man very well known to me and
the reader, being indeed that very Master of Ballantrae of whose
gallantry and genius I have had to speak so often. Word had reached me
that he was come to the Indies, though we had never met at least, and I
heard little of his occupations. But, sure, I had no sooner recognised
him, and found myself in the arms of so old a comrade, than I supposed
my tribulations were quite done. I stepped plainly forth into the light
of the moon, which shone exceeding strong, and hailing Ballantrae by
name, made him in a few words master of my grievous situation. He
turned, started the least thing in the world, looked me fair in the
face while I was speaking, and when I had done addressed himself to his
companion in the barbarous native dialect. The second person, who was
of an extraordinary delicate appearance, with legs like walking canes
and fingers like the stalk of a tobacco pipe, [6] now rose to his feet.
“The Sahib,” says he, “understands no English language. I understand it
myself, and I see you make some small mistake—oh! which may happen very
often. But the Sahib would be glad to know how you come in a garden.”
“Ballantrae!” I cried, “have you the damned impudence to deny me to my
face?”
Ballantrae never moved a muscle, staring at me like an image in a
pagoda.
“The Sahib understands no English language,” says the native, as glib
as before. “He be glad to know how you come in a garden.”
“Oh! the divil fetch him,” says I. “He would be glad to know how I come
in a garden, would he? Well, now, my dear man, just have the civility
to tell the Sahib, with my kind love, that we are two soldiers here
whom he never met and never heard of, but the cipaye is a broth of a
boy, and I am a broth of a boy myself; and if we don’t get a full meal
of meat, and a turban, and slippers, and the value of a gold mohur in
small change as a matter of convenience, bedad, my friend, I could lay
my finger on a garden where there is going to be trouble.”
They carried their comedy so far as to converse awhile in Hindustanee;
and then says the Hindu, with the same smile, but sighing as if he were
tired of the repetition, “The Sahib would be glad to know how you come
in a garden.”
“Is that the way of it?” says I, and laying my hand on my sword-hilt I
bade the cipaye draw.
Ballantrae’s Hindu, still smiling, pulled out a pistol from his bosom,
and though Ballantrae himself never moved a muscle I knew him well
enough to be sure he was prepared.
“The Sahib thinks you better go away,” says the Hindu.
Well, to be plain, it was what I was thinking myself; for the report of
a pistol would have been, under Providence, the means of hanging the
pair of us.
“Tell the Sahib I consider him no gentleman,” says I, and turned away
with a gesture of contempt.
I was not gone three steps when the voice of the Hindu called me back.
“The Sahib would be glad to know if you are a dam low Irishman,” says
he; and at the words Ballantrae smiled and bowed very low.
“What is that?” says I.
“The Sahib say you ask your friend Mackellar,” says the Hindu. “The
Sahib he cry quits.”
“Tell the Sahib I will give him a cure for the Scots fiddle when next
we meet,” cried I.
The pair were still smiling as I left.
There is little doubt some flaws may be picked in my own behaviour; and
when a man, however gallant, appeals to posterity with an account of
his exploits, he must almost certainly expect to share the fate of
Cæsar and Alexander, and to meet with some detractors. But there is one
thing that can never be laid at the door of Francis Burke: he never
turned his back on a friend. . . .
(Here follows a passage which the Chevalier Burke has been at the pains
to delete before sending me his manuscript. Doubtless it was some very
natural complaint of what he supposed to be an indiscretion on my part;
though, indeed, I can call none to mind. Perhaps Mr. Henry was less
guarded; or it is just possible the Master found the means to examine
my correspondence, and himself read the letter from Troyes: in revenge
for which this cruel jest was perpetrated on Mr. Burke in his extreme
necessity. The Master, for all his wickedness, was not without some
natural affection; I believe he was sincerely attached to Mr. Burke in
the beginning; but the thought of treachery dried up the springs of his
very shallow friendship, and his detestable nature appeared naked.—E.
McK.)