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

by Herbert Strang

  Chapter 2: In which our hero overhears a conversation; and, meetingwith the unexpected, is none the less surprised and offended.

  Desmond's pace became slower when, having crossed the valley, he beganthe long ascent that led past the site of Tyrley Castle. But when heagain reached a stretch of level road he stepped out more briskly, forthe darkness of the autumn night was moment by moment contracting thehorizon, and he had still several miles to go on the unlighted road. Evenas the thought of his dark walk crossed his mind he caught sight of theone light that served as a never-failing beacon to night travelers alongthat highway. It came from the windows of a wayside inn, a common placeof call for farmers wending to or from Drayton Market, and one whosecurious sign Desmond had many times studied with a small boy's interest.

  The inn was named the "Four Alls": its sign, a crude painting of a tableand four seated figures, a king, a parson, a soldier, and a farmer.Beneath the group, in a rough scrawl, were the words--

  Rule all: Pray all:Fight all: Pay all.

  As Desmond drew nearer to the inn, there came to him along the silentroad the sound of singing. This was somewhat unusual at such an hour, forfolk went early to bed, and the inn was too far from the town to haveattracted waifs and strays from the crowd. What was still more unusual,the tones were not the rough, forced, vagrant tones of tipsy farmers;they were of a single voice, light, musical, and true. Desmond'scuriosity was flicked, and he hastened his step, guessing from theclearness of the sound that the windows were open and the singer in fullview.

  The singing ceased abruptly just as he reached the inn. But the windowsstood indeed wide open, and from the safe darkness of the road he couldsee clearly, by the light of four candles on the high mantel shelf, thewhole interior of the inn parlor. It held four persons. One lay back in achair near the fire, his legs outstretched, his chin on his breast, hisopen lips shaking as he snored. It was Tummus Biles, the tranter, who haddriven a tall stranger from Chester to the present spot, and whoseindignation at being miscalled Jehu had only been appeased by a quart ofstrong ale. On the other side of the fireplace, curled up on a settle,and also asleep, lay the black boy, Scipio Africanus. Desmond noted thesetwo figures in passing; his gaze fastened upon the remaining two, who satat a corner of the table, a tankard in front of each.

  One of the two was Job Grinsell, landlord of the inn, a man with a rednose, loose mouth, and shifty eyes--not a pleasant fellow to look at, andregarded vaguely as a bad character. He had once been head gamekeeper toSir Willoughby Stokes, the squire, whose service he had left suddenly andin manifest disgrace. His companion was the stranger, the negro boy'smaster, the man whose odd appearance and manner of talk had already setDesmond's curiosity a-buzzing. It was clear that he must be the singer,for Job Grinsell had a voice like a saw, and Tummus Biles knew no musicsave the squeak of his cartwheels. It surprised Desmond to find thestranger already on the most friendly, to all appearance, indeed,confidential terms with the landlord.

  "Hale, did you say?" he heard Grinsell ask. "Ay, hale as you an' me, an'like to last another twenty year, rot him."

  "But the gout takes him, you said--nodosa podagra, as my friend Ovidwould say?"

  "Ay, but I've knowed a man live forty year win the gout. And he dunnabelieve in doctor's dosin'; he goes to Buxton to drink the weeters whenhe bin madded wi' the pain, an' comes back sound fur six month."

  "Restored to his dear neighbors and friends--caris propinquis--"

  "Hang me, but I wish you'd speak plain English an' not pepper your talkwin outlandish jabber."

  "Patience, Job; why, man, you belie your name. Come, you must humor anold friend; that's what comes of education, you see; my head is stuffedwith odds and ends that annoy my friends, while you can't read, norwrite, nor cipher beyond keeping your score. Lucky Job!"

  Desmond turned away. The two men's conversation was none of his business;and he suspected from the stranger's manner that he had been drinkingfreely. He had stepped barely a dozen paces when he heard the voice againbreak into song. He halted and wheeled about; the tune was catching, andnow he distinguished some of the words--

  Says Billy Norris, Masulipatam,To Governor Pitt: "D'ye know who I am,D'ye know who I am, I AM, I AM?Sir William Norris, Masulipatam."Says Governor Pitt, Fort George, Madras:"I know what you are--"

  Again the song broke off; the singer addressed a question to Grinsell.Desmond waited a moment; he felt an odd eagerness to know what GovernorPitt was; but hearing now only the drone of talking, he once more turnedhis face homeward. His curiosity was livelier than ever as to theidentity of this newcomer, who addressed the landlord as he might his ownfamiliar friend.

  And what had the stranger to do with Sir Willoughby Stokes? For it wasSir Willoughby that suffered from the gout; he it was that went everyautumn and spring to Buxton; he was away at this present time, but wouldshortly return to receive his Michaelmas rents. The stranger had not theair of a husbandman; but there was a vacant farm on the estate; perhapshe had come to offer himself as a tenant.

  And why did he wear that half glove upon his right hand? Finger stalls,wrist straps, even mittens were common enough, useful, and necessary attimes; but the stranger's glove was not a mitten, and it had no fellowfor the left hand. Perhaps, thought Desmond, it was a freak of thewearer's, on a par with his red feather and his vivid neckcloth. Desmond,as he walked on, found himself hoping that the visitor at the Four Allswould remain for a day or two.

  After passing through the sleeping hamlet of Woods Eaves, he struck intoa road on his left hand. Twenty minutes' steady plodding uphill broughthim in sight of his home--a large, ancient, rambling grange house lyingback from the road. It was now nearly ten o'clock, an hour when thehousehold was usually abed; but the door of Wilcote Grange stood open,and a guarded candle in the hall threw a faint yellow light upon thepath. The gravel crunched under Desmond's boots, and, as if summoned bythe sound, a tall figure crossed the hall and stood in the entrance. Atthe sight Desmond's mouth set hard; his hands clenched; his breath camemore quickly as he went forward.

  "Where have you been, sirrah?" were the angry words that greeted him.

  "Into the town, sir," returned Desmond.

  He had perforce to halt, the doorway being barred by the man's broadform.

  "Into the town? You defy me, do you? Did I not bid you remain at home andmake up the stock book?"

  "I did that before I left."

  "You did, did you? I lay my life 'tis ill done. What did you in the townthis time o' night?"

  "I went to see General Clive."

  "Indeed! You! Hang me, what's Clive to you? Was you invited to theregale? You was one of that stinking crowd, I suppose, that bawled in thestreet. You go and herd with knaves and yokels, do you? and bring shameupon me, and set the countryside a-chattering of Richard Burke and hisidle young oaf of a brother! By gad, sir, I'll whip you for this; I'llgive you something to remember General Clive by!"

  He caught up a riding whip that stood in the angle of the doorway, andtook Desmond by the shoulder. The boy did not flinch.

  "Whip me if you must," he said quietly, "but don't you think we'd bettergo outside?"

  The elder, with an imprecation, thrust Desmond into the open, hauled himsome distance down the path, and then beat him heavily about theshoulders. He stood a foot higher, his arm was strong, his grip firm as avise; resistance would have been vain; but Desmond knew better than toresist. He bent to the cruel blows without a wince or a murmur. Only, hisface was very pale when, the bully's arm being tired and his breathspent, he was flung away and permitted to stagger to the house. Hecrawled painfully up the wainscoted staircase and into the dark corridorleading to his bedroom. Halfway down this he paused, felt with his handalong the wall, and, discovering by this means that a door was ajar,stood listening.

  "Is that you, Desmond?" said a low voice within.

  "Yes, mother," he replied, commanding his voice, and quietly entering. "Ihoped you were asleep."

  "I could not sleep
until you came in, dear. I heard Dick's voice. What isthe matter? Your hand is trembling, Desmond."

  "Nothing, mother, as usual."

  A mother's ears are quick; and Mrs. Burke detected the quiver thatDesmond tried to still. She tightened her clasp on his hot hand.

  "Did he strike you, dear?"

  "It was nothing, mother. I am used to that."

  "My poor boy! But what angered him? Why do you offend your brother?"

  "Offend him!" exclaimed the boy passionately, but still in a low tone."Everything I do offends him. I went to see General Clive; I wished to;that is enough for Dick. Mother, I am sick of it all."

  "Never mind, dear. A little patience. Dick doesn't understand you. Youshould humor him, Desmond."

  "Haven't I tried, mother? Haven't I? But what is the use? He treats meworse than any carter on the farm. I drudge for him, and he bullies me,miscalls me before the men, thrashes me--oh, mother! I can't endure itany longer. Let me go away, anywhere; anything would be better thanthis!"

  Desmond was quivering with pain and indignation; only with difficulty didhe keep back the tears.

  "Hush, Desmond!" said his mother. "Dick will hear you. You are tired out,dear boy; go to bed; things will look brighter in the morning. Only havepatience. Good night, my son."

  Desmond kissed his mother and went to his room. But it was long before heslept. His bruised body found no comfort; his head throbbed; his soul wasfilled with resentment and the passionate longing for release.

  His life had not been very happy. He barely remembered his father--a big,keen-eyed, loud-voiced old man--who died when his younger son was fouryears old. Richard Burke had run away from his Irish home to sea. Heserved on Admiral Rooke's flagship at the battle of La Hogue, and, risingin the navy to the rank of warrant officer, bought a ship with thesavings of twenty years and fitted it out for unauthorized trade with theEast Indies. His daring, skill, and success attracted the attention ofthe officers of the Company. He was invited to enter the Company'sservice. As captain of an Indiaman he sailed backwards and forwards forten years; then at the age of fifty retired with a considerable fortuneand married the daughter of a Shropshire farmer. The death of his wife'srelatives led him to settle on the farm their family had tenanted forgenerations, and it was at Wilcote Grange that his three children wereborn.

  Fifteen years separated the elder son from the younger; between them camea daughter, who married early and left the neighborhood. Four years afterDesmond's birth the old man died, leaving the boy to the guardianship ofhis brother.

  There lay the seed of trouble. No brothers could have been more unlikethan the two sons of Captain Burke. Richard was made on a large andpowerful scale; he was hard working, methodical, grasping, whollyunimaginative, and in temper violent and domineering. Slighter and lessrobust, though not less healthy, Desmond was a boy of vivid imagination,high strung, high spirited, his feelings easily moved, his pride easilywounded. His brother was too dull and stolid to understand him, takingfor deliberate malice what was but boyish mischief, and regarding him assullen when he was only dreamily thoughtful.

  As a young boy Desmond kept as much as possible out of his brother's way.But as he grew older he came more directly under Richard's control, withthe result that they were now in a constant state of feud. Their mother,a woman of sweet temper but weak will, favored her younger son in secret;she learned by experience that open intervention on his behalf did moreharm than good.

  Desmond had two habits which especially moved his brother to anger. Hewas fond of roaming the country alone for hours together; he was fond ofreading. To Richard each was a waste of time. He never opened a book,save a manual of husbandry or a ready reckoner; he could conceive of noreason for walking, unless it were the business of the farm. Nothingirritated him more than to see Desmond stretched at length with his nosein Mr. Defoe's Robinson Crusoe, or a volume of Hakluyt's Voyages, orperhaps Mr. Oldys's Life of Sir Walter Raleigh. And as he himself neverdreamed by day or by night, there was no chance of his divining the factthat Desmond, on those long solitary walks of his, was engaged chiefly indreaming, not idly, for in his dreams he was always the center ofactivity, greedy for doing.

  These daydreams constituted almost the sole joy of Desmond's life. Whenhe was only a little fellow he would sprawl on the bank near TyrleyCastle and weave romances about the Norman barons whose home it hadbeen--romances in which he bore a strenuous part. He knew everyinteresting spot in the neighborhood: Salisbury Hill, where the Yorkistleader pitched his camp before the battle of Blore Heath; Audley Brow,where Audley the Lancastrian lay watching his foe; above all Styche Hall,whence a former Clive had ridden forth to battle against the king, andwhere his namesake, the present Robert Clive, had been born. He imaginedhimself each of those bold warriors in turn, and saw himself, now aknight in mail, now a gay cavalier of Rupert's, now a bewigged Georgiangentleman in frock and pantaloons, but always with sword in hand.

  No name sang a merrier tune in Desmond's imagination than the name ofRobert Clive. Three years before, when he was imbibing Latin, Greek, andHebrew under Mr. Burslem at the grammar school on the hill, the amazingnews came one day that Bob Clive, the wild boy who had terrorized thetradespeople, plagued his master, led the school in tremendous fightswith the town boys, and suffered more birchings than any scholar of histime--Bob Clive, the scapegrace who had been packed off to India as alast resource, had turned out, as his father said, "not such a boobyafter all"--had indeed proved himself to be a military genius. HowDesmond thrilled when the old schoolmaster read out the glorious news ofClive's defense of Arcot with a handful of men against an overwhelminghost! How he glowed when the schoolroom rang with the cheers of the boys,and when, a half holiday being granted, he rushed forth with the rest todo battle in the church yard with the town boys, and helped to lick themthoroughly in honor of Clive!

  From that moment there was for Desmond but one man in the world, and thatman was Robert Clive. In the twinkling of an eye he became the devoutestof hero worshipers. He coaxed Mr. Burslem to let him occupy Clive's olddesk, and with his fists maintained the privilege against all comers. Theinitials R. C. roughly cut in the oak never lost their fascination forhim. He walked out day after day to Styche Hall, two miles away, andpleased himself with the thought that his feet trod the very spots oncetrodden by Bob Clive. Not an inch of the route from Hall to school--themeadow path into Longslow, the lane from Longslow to Shropshire Street,Little Street, Church Street, the church yard--was unknown to him: BobClive had known them all. He feasted on the oft-told stories of Clive'sboyish escapades: how he had bundled a watchman into the bulks and madehim prisoner there by closing down and fastening the shutters; how he hadthrown himself across the current of a torrential gutter to divert thestream into the cellar shop of a tradesman who had offended him; aboveall, that feat of his when, ascending the spiral turret stair of thechurch, he had lowered himself down from the parapet, and, astride upon agargoyle, had worked his way along it until he could secure a stone thatlay in its mouth, the perilous and dizzy adventure watched by abreathless throng in the churchyard below. The Bob Clive who had donethese things was now doing greater deeds in India; and Desmond Burke satday after day at his desk, gazing at the entrancing R. C., and doing overagain in his own person the exploits of which all Market Drayton wasproud, and he the proudest.

  But at the age of fourteen his brother took him from school, though Mr.Burslem had pleaded that he might remain longer and afterwards proceed tothe university. He was set to do odd jobs about the farm. To farmingitself he had no objection; he was fond of animals and would willinglyhave spent his life with them. But he did object to drudging for a hardand inconsiderate taskmaster such as his brother was, and the work he wascompelled to do became loathsome to him, and bred a spirit of discontentand rebellion. The further news of Clive's exploits in India, coming atlong intervals, set wild notions beating in Desmond's head, and made himlong passionately for a change. At times he thought of running away: hisfather h
ad run away and carved out a successful career, why should not hedo the same? But he had never quite made up his mind to cut the knot.

  Meanwhile it became known in Market Drayton that Clive had returned toEngland. Rumor credited him with fabulous wealth. It was said that hedrove through London in a gold coach, and outshone the king himself inthe splendor of his attire. No report was too highly colored to find easycredence among the simple country folk. Clive was indeed rich: he had ataste for ornate dress, and though neither so wealthy nor so gailyappareled as rumor said, he was for a season the lion of London society.The directors of the East India Company toasted him as "General" Clive,and presented him with a jeweled sword as a token of their sense of hisservices on the Coromandel coast.

  No one suspected at the time that his work was of more than localimportance and would have more far-reaching consequences than the successof a trading company. Clive had, in fact, without knowing it, laid thefoundations of a vast empire.

  At intervals during the two years, scraps of news about Clive filteredthrough to his birthplace. His father had left the neighborhood, andStyche Hall was now in the hands of a stranger, so that Desmond hardlydared to hope that he would have an opportunity of seeing his idol. But,information having reached the court of directors that all was not goingwell in India, their eyes turned at once to Clive as the man to setthings right. They requested him to return to India as Governor of FortSt. David, and, since a good deal of the trouble was caused by quarrelsas to precedence between the king's and the Company's officers, theystrengthened his hands by obtaining for him a lieutenant colonel'scommission from King George.

  Clive was nothing loath to take up his work again. He had been somewhatextravagant since his arrival in England; great holes had been made inthe fortune he had brought back; and he was still a young man, full ofenergy and ambition. What was Desmond's ecstasy, then, to learn that hishero, on the eve of his departure, had accepted an invitation to the townof his birth, there to be entertained by the court leet. From the bailiffand the steward of the manor down to the javelin men and the ale taster,official Market Drayton was all agog to do him honor. Desmond lookedforward eagerly to this red letter day.

  His brother, as a yeoman of standing, was invited to the banquet, and itseemed to Desmond that Richard took a delight in taunting him, throwingcold water on his young enthusiasm, ironically commenting on the mistakesomeone had made in not including him among the guests. His crowningstroke of cruelty was to forbid the boy to leave the house on the greatevening, so that he might not even obtain a glimpse of Clive. But thiswas too much: Desmond for the first time deliberately defied hisguardian, and though he suffered the inevitable penalty, he had seen andheard his hero, and was content.