In Clive's Command: A Story of the Fight for India

by Herbert Strang

  Chapter 1: In which the Court Leet of Market Drayton entertains ColonelRobert Clive; and our hero makes an acquaintance.

  One fine autumn evening, in the year 1754, a country cart joggedeastwards into Market Drayton at the heels of a thick-set,shaggy-fetlocked and broken-winded cob. The low tilt, worn and illfitting, swayed widely with the motion, scarcely avoiding the hats of thetwo men who sat side by side on the front seat, and who, to a personwatching their approach, would have appeared as dark figures in atottering archway, against a background of crimson sky.

  As the vehicle jolted through Shropshire Street, the creakings of itsunsteady wheels mingled with a deep humming, as of innumerable bees,proceeding from the heart of the town. Turning the corner by thebutchers' bulks into the High Street, the cart came to an abrupt stop. Infront, from the corn market, a large wooden structure in the center ofthe street, to the Talbot Inn, stretched a dense mass of people; partlytownfolk, as might be discerned by their dress, partly country folk who,having come in from outlying villages to market, had presumably been keptin the town by their curiosity or the fair weather.

  "We'n better goo round about, Measter," said the driver, to the passengerat his side. "Summat's afoot down yander."

  "You're a wise man, to be sure. Something's afoot, as you truly say. And,being troubled from my youth up with an inquiring nose, I'll e'en stepforward and smell out the occasion. Do you bide here, my Jehu, till Icome back."

  "Why, I will, then, Measter, but my name binna Jehu. 'Tis plain Tummus."

  "You don't say so! Now I come to think of it, it suits you better thanJehu, for the Son of Nimshi drove furiously. Well, Tummus, I will notkeep you long; this troublesome nose of mine, I dare say, will soon besatisfied."

  By this time he had slipped down from his seat, and was walking towardthe throng. Now that he was upon his feet, he showed himself to be morethan common tall, spare and loose jointed. His face was lean and swarthy,his eyes black and restless; his well-cut lips even now wore the samesmile as when he mischievously misnamed his driver. Though he wore theusual dress of the Englishman of his day--frock, knee breeches and buckleshoes, none of them in their first youth--there was a somethingoutlandish about him, in the bright yellow of his neckcloth and the redfeather stuck at a jaunty angle into the ribbon of his hat; and Tummus,as he looked curiously after his strange passenger, shook his head andbit the straw in his mouth, and muttered:

  "Ay, it binna on'y the nose, 't binna on'y the nose, with his Jehus an'such."

  Meanwhile the man strode rapidly along, reached the fringe of the crowd,and appeared to make his way through its mass without difficulty, perhapsby reason of his commanding height, possibly by the aforesaid quaintnessof his aspect, and the smile which forbade any one to regard him as anaggressor. He went steadily on until he came opposite to the Talbot Inn.At that moment a stillness fell upon the crowd; every voice was hushed;every head was craned towards the open windows of the inn's assemblyroom.

  Gazing with the rest, the stranger saw a long table glittering under thesoft radiance of many candles and surrounded by a numerous company--fatand thin, old and young, red-faced and pale, gentle and simple. At theend farthest from the street one figure stood erect--a short, round,rubicund little man, wearing a gown of rusty black, one thumb stuck intohis vest, and a rosy benignity in the glance with which he scanned thetable. He threw back his head, cleared his tight throat sonorously, andbegan, in tones perhaps best described as treacly, to address the seatedcompany, with an intention also towards the larger audience without.

  "Now, neebors all, we be trim and cozy in our insides, and 'tis time furme to say summat. I be proud, that I be, as it falls to me, bein' bailiffo' this town, to axe ya all to drink the good health of our honoredtownsman an guest. I ha' lived hereabout, boy an' man, fur a matter o'fifty year, an' if so be I lived fifty more I couldna be a prouder manthan I bin this night. Boy an' man, says I? Ay, I knowed our guest whenhe were no more'n table high. Well I mind him, that I do, comin' by thisvery street to school; ay, an' he minds me too, I warrant.

  "I see him now, I do, skippin' along street fresh an' nimblelike, hiseyne chock full o' mischief lookin' round fur to see some poor soul toplay a prank on. It do feel strange-like to have him a-sittin' by myelbow today. Many's the tale I could tell o' his doin' an' our sufferin'.Why, I mind a poor lump of a 'prentice as I wunst had, a loon as nevercould raise a keek: poor soul, he bin underground this many year. Well,as I were sayin', this 'prentice o' mine were allers bein' baited by theboys o' the grammar school. I done my best for him, spoke them boys fairan' soft, but, bless ya, 'twas no good; they baited him worse'n ever. Soone day I used my stick to um. Next mornin' I was down in my bake hus,makin' my batch ready fur oven, when, oothout a word o' warnin', up comesmy two feet behind, down I goes head fust into my flour barrel, and themyoung--hem! the clergy be present--them youngsters dancin' round me likeforty mad merry andrews at a fair."

  A roar of laughter greeted the anecdote.

  "Ay, neebors," resumed the bailiff, "we can laugh now, you an' me, buttheer's many on ya could tell o' your own mishappenin's if ya had a mindto 't. As fur me, I bided my time. One day I cotched the leader o' themboys nigh corn market, an' I laid him across the badgerin' stone andwalloped him nineteen--twenty--hee! hee! D'ya mind that, General?"

  He turned to the guest at his right hand, who sat with but the glimmer ofa smile, crumbling one of Bailiff Malkin's rolls on the tablecloth.

  "But theer," continued the speaker, "that be nigh twenty year ago, an'the shape o' my strap binna theer now, I warrant. Three skins ha' growedsince then--hee! hee! Who'd ha' thought, neebors, as that young limb asplagued our very lives out 'ud ha' bin here today, a general, an' a greatman, an' a credit to his town an' country? Us all thought as he'd bringhis poor feyther's gray hairs in sorrow to the grave. An' when I heerd ashe'd bin shipped off to the Injies--well, thinks I, that bin the lastwe'll hear o' Bob Clive.

  "But, bless ya! all eggs binna addled. General Clive here--'twere theInjun sun what hatched he, an' binna he, I axe ya, a rare young fightin'cock? Ay, and a good breed, too. A hunnerd year ago theer was a Bob Cliveas med all our grandfeythers quake in mortal fear, a terrible man o' warwas he. They wanted to put 'n into po'try an' the church sarvice.

  "'From Wem and from WycheAn' from Clive o' the Styche,Good Lord, deliver us.'

  "That's what they thought o' the Bob Clive o' long ago. Well, this BobClive now a-sittin' at my elbow be just as desp'rate a fighter, an'thankful let us all be, neebors, as he does his fightin' wi' theblack-faced Injuns an' the black-hearted French, an' not the peacefulbide-at-homes o' Market Drayton."

  The little bailiff paused to moisten his lips. From his audience arosefeeling murmurs of approval.

  "Ya known what General Clive ha' done," he resumed. "'Twas all read outo' prent by the crier in corn market. An' the grand folks in Lun'on ha'give him a gowd sword, an' he bin hob-a-nob wi' King Jarge hisself. An'us folks o' Market Drayton take it proud, we do, as he be come to see usafore he goes back to his duty.

  "Theer's a example fur you boys. Theer be limbs o' mischief in MarketDrayton yet.

  "Ay, I see tha' 'Lijah Notcutt, a-hangin' on to winder theer. I know whowringed the neck o' Widder Peplow's turkey.

  "An' I see tha' too, 'Zekiel Podmore; I know who broke the handle o' townpump. If I cotch ya at your tricks I'll leather ya fust an' clap ya inthe stocks afterwards, sure as my name be Randle Malkin.

  "But as I wan sayin', if ya foller th' example o' General Clive, an' turnyer young sperits into the lawful way--why, mebbe there be gowd swordsan' mints o' money somewheers fur ya too.

  "Well now, I bin talkin' long enough, an' to tell ya the truth, I be dryas a whistle, so I'll axe ya all to lift yer glasses, neebors, an' drinkthe good health o' General Clive. So theer!"

  As the worthy bailiff concluded his speech, the company primed theirglasses, rose and drank the toast with enthusiasm. Lusty cheers brokefrom the drier throats outside; caps w
ere waved, rattles whirled, kettlesbeaten with a vigor that could not have been exceeded if the generalloyalty had been stirred by the presence of King George himself.

  Only one man in the crowd held his peace. The stranger remained oppositethe window, silent, motionless, looking now into the room, now round uponthe throng, with the same smile of whimsical amusement. Only once did hismanner change; the smile faded, his lips met in a straight line, and hemade a slight rearward movement, seeming at the same moment to losesomething of his height.

  It was when the guest of the evening stood up to reply: a young man,looking somewhat older than his twenty-nine years, his powdered haircrowning a strong face; with keen, deep-set eyes, full lips and masterfulchin. He wore a belaced purple coat; a crimson sash crossed hisembroidered vest; a diamond flashed upon his finger. Letting his eyesrange slowly over the flushed faces of the diners, he waited until thebailiff had waved down the untiring applauders without; then, in a clearvoice, began:

  "Bailiff Malkin, my old friends--"

  But his speech was broken in upon by a sudden commotion in the street.Loud cries of a different tenor arose at various points; the boys who hadbeen hanging upon the window ledge dropped to the ground; the crowdsurged this way and that, and above the mingled clamor sounded a wild andfearful squeal that drew many of the company to their feet and several inalarm to the window.

  Among these the bailiff, now red with anger, shook his fist at the peopleand demanded the meaning of the disturbance. A small boy, his eyes roundwith excitement, piped up:

  "An't please yer worship, 'tis a wild Injun come from nowheer an' doin'all manner o' wickedness."

  "A wild Injun! Cotch him! Ring the 'larum bell! Put him in the stocks!"

  But the bailiff's commands passed unheeded. The people were thronging upthe street, elbowing each other, treading on each other's toes, yelling,booing, forgetful of all save the strange coincidence that, on thisevening of all others, the banquet in honor of Clive, the Indian hero,had been interrupted by the sudden appearance of a live Indian in theirvery midst.

  A curious change had come over the demeanor of the stranger, who hithertohad been so silent, so detached in manner, so unmoved. He was now to beseen energetically forcing his way toward the outskirts of the crowd,heaving, hurling, his long arms sweeping obstacles aside. His eyesflashed fire upon the yokels skurrying before him, a vitriolic stream ofabuse scorched their faces as he bore them down.

  At length he stopped suddenly, caught a hulking farmer by the shoulder,and, with a violent twist and jerk, flung him headlong among his fellows.Released from the man's grasp, a small negro boy, his eyes starting, hisbreast heaving with terror, sprang to the side of his deliverer, whosoothingly patted his woolly head, and turned at bay upon the crowd, nowagain pressing near.

  "Back, you boobies!" he shouted. "'Tis my boy! If a man of you followsme, I'll break his head for him."

  He turned and, clasping the black boy's hand close in his, strode awaytowards the waiting cart. The crowd stood in hesitation, daunted by thetall stranger's fierce mien. But one came out from among them, a slim boyof some fifteen years, who had followed at the heels of the stranger andhad indeed assisted his progress. The rest, disappointed of their Indianhunt, were now moving back towards the inn; but the boy hastened on.Hearing his quick footsteps, the man swung around with a snarl.

  "I hope the boy isn't hurt," said the lad quietly. "Can I do anything foryou?"

  The stranger looked keenly at him; then, recognizing by his mien andvoice that this at least was no booby, he smiled; the truculence of hismanner vanished, and he said:

  "Your question is pat, my excellent friend, and I thank you for yourgoodwill. As you perceive, my withers are not wrung."

  He waved his right hand airily, and the boy noticed that it was coveredfrom wrist to knuckles with what appeared to be a fingerless glove ofblack velvet.

  "The boy has taken no harm. Hic niger est, as Horace somewhere hath it;and black spells Indian to your too hasty friends yonder. Scipio is hispraenomen, bestowed on him by me to match the cognomen his already bynature--Africanus, to wit. You take me, kind sir? But I detain you; yourears doubtless itch for the eloquence of our condescending friend yonder;without more ado then, good night!"

  And turning on his heel, waving his gloved hand in salutation, thestranger went his way. The lad watched him wonderingly. For all hisshabbiness he appeared a gentleman. His speech was clean cut, his accentpure; yet in his tone, as in his dress, there was something unusual, atouch of the theatrical, strange to that old sleepy town.

  He hoisted the negro into the cart, then mounted to his place beside thedriver, and the vehicle rumbled away.

  Retracing his steps, the boy once more joined the crowd, and wormed hisway through its now silent ranks until he came within sight of theassembly room. But if he had wished to hear Clive's speech of thanks, hewas too late. As he arrived, applause greeted the hero's final words, andhe resumed his seat. To the speeches that followed, no heed was paid bythe populace; words from the vicar and the local attorney had no noveltyfor them. But they waited, gossiping among themselves, until thefestivity was over and the party broke up.

  More shouts arose as the great man appeared at the inn door. Horses werethere in waiting; a hundred hands were ready to hold the stirrup forClive; but he mounted unassisted and rode off in company with Sir PhilipChetwode, a neighboring squire whose guest he was. When the principalfigure had gone, the throng rapidly melted away, and soon the street hadresumed its normal quiet.

  The boy was among the last to quit the scene. Walking slowly down theroad, he overtook a bent old man in the smock of a farm laborer, trudgingalong alone.

  "Hey, Measter Desmond," said the old man, "I feels for tha, that I do. Iseed yer brother theer, eatin' an' drinkin' along wi' the noble general,an' thinks I, 'tis hard on them as ha' to look on, wi' mouths a-waterin'fur the vittles an' drink. But theer, I'd be afeard to set lips to someo' them kickshawses as goes down into the nattlens o' high folk, an', allsaid an' done, a man canna be more'n full, even so it bin wi' nowt butturmuts an' Cheshire cheese.

  "Well, sir, 'tis fine to be an elder son, that's true, an' dunna ye takeon about it. You bin on'y a lad, after all, pardon my bold way o'speakin', an' mebbe when you come to man's estate, why, theer'll be aknife an' fork fur you too, though I doubt we'll never see General Clivein these parts no moore. Here be my turnin'; good night to ya, sir."

  "Good night, Dickon."

  And Desmond Burke passed on alone, out of the silent town, into the nowdarkening road that led to his home towards Cheswardine.