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

by Herbert Strang

  Chapter 4: In which blows are exchanged; and our hero, setting forth uponhis travels, scents an adventure.

  That same day, at supper, seeing that Richard was apparently in goodhumor, Desmond ventured to make a suggestion.

  "Dick," he said frankly, "don't you think it would be better for all ofus if I went away? You and I don't get along very well, and perhaps I wasnot cut out for a farmer."

  Richard grunted, and Mrs. Burke looked apprehensively from one to theother.

  "What's your idea?" asked Richard.

  "Well, I had thought of a writership in the East India Company's service,or better still, a cadetship in the Company's forces."

  "Hark to him!" exclaimed Richard, with a scornful laugh. "A second Clive,sink me! And where do you suppose the money is to come from?"

  "Couldn't you advance me a part of what is to come to me when I amtwenty-one?"

  "Not a penny, I tell you at once, not a penny. 'Tis enough to be saddledwith you all these years. You may think yourself lucky if I can scrapetogether a tenth of the money that'll be due to you when you'retwenty-one. That's the dead hand, if you like; why father put thatprovision in his will it passes common sense to understand. No, you'llhave to stay and earn part of it, though in truth you'll never be worthyour keep."

  "That depends on the keeper," retorted Desmond, rather warmly.

  "No insolence, now. I repeat, I will not advance one penny! Go and getsome money out of the squire, that is so precious fond of you."

  "Richard, Richard!" said his mother anxiously.

  "Mother, I'm the boy's guardian. I know what it is. He has been crammedwith nonsense by that idle knave at the Four Alls. Look'ee, my man, if Icatch you speaking to him again, I'll flay your skin for you."

  "Why shouldn't I?" replied Desmond. "I saw you speaking to him."

  "Hold your tongue, sir. The dog accosted me. I answered his question andpassed on. Heed what I say: I'm a man of my word."

  Desmond said no more. But before he fell asleep that night he hadadvanced one step further towards freedom. His request had met with therefusal he had anticipated. He could hope for no pecuniary assistance; itremained to take the first opportunity of consulting Diggle. It wasDiggle who had suggested India as the field for his ambition; and thesuggestion would hardly have been made if there were great obstacles inthe way of its being acted on. Desmond made light of his brother'scommand that he should cut Diggle's acquaintance; it seemed to him onlyanother act of tyranny, and his relations with Richard were such that toforbid a thing was to provoke him to do it.

  His opportunity came next day. Late in the afternoon he met Diggle, as hehad done many times before, walking in the fields, remote from houses.When Desmond caught sight of him, he was sauntering along, his eyes bentupon the ground, his face troubled. But he smiled on seeing Desmond.

  "Well met, friend," he said; "leni perfruor otio--which is as much as tosay--I bask in idleness. Well, now, I perceive in your eye that you havebeen meditating my counsel. 'Tis well, friend Desmond, and whereto hasyour meditation arrived?"

  "I have thought over what you said. I do wish to get away from here; Ishould like to go to India; indeed, I asked my brother to advance a partof some money that is to come to me, so that I might obtain service withthe Company; but he refused."

  "And you come to me for counsel. 'Tis well done, though I trow yourbrother would scarce be pleased to hear of it."

  "He forbade me to speak to you."

  "Egad, he did! Haec summa est! What has he against me?--a question to beasked. I am a stranger in these parts: that is ill; and buffeted byfortune: that is worse; and somewhat versed in humane letters: that, tothe rustic intelligence, is a crime. Well, my lad, you have come to theright man at the right time. You are acquainted with my design shortly toreturn to the Indies--a rare field for a lad of mettle. You shall comewith me."

  "But are you connected with the Company? None other, I believed, has aright to trade."

  "The Company! Sure, my lad, I am no friend to the Company, a set ofstiff-necked, ignorant, grasping, paunchy peddlers who fatten at home onthe toil of better men. No, I am an adventurer, I own it; I am aninterloper; and we interlopers, despite the Company's monopoly, yetcontrive to keep body and soul together."

  "Then I should not sail to India on a Company's ship?"

  "Far from it, indeed. But let not that disturb you, there are othervessels. And for the passage--why, sure I could find you a place assupercargo or some such thing; you would thus keep the little money youhave and add to it, forming a nest egg which, I say it without boasting,I could help you to hatch into a fine brood. I am not without friends inthe Indies, my dear boy; there are princes in that land whom I haveassisted to their thrones; and if, on behalf of a friend, I ask of themsome slight thing, provided it be honest--'tis the first law offriendship, says Tully, as you will remember, to seek honest things forour friends--if, I say, on your behalf, I proffer some slight request,sure the nawabs will vie to pleasure me, and the foundation of yourfortune will be laid."

  Desmond had not observed that, during this eloquent passage, Diggle hadmore than once glanced beyond him, as though his mind were not whollyoccupied with his oratorical efforts. It was therefore something of ashock that he heard him say in the same level tone:

  "But I perceive your brother approaching. I am not the man to causedifferences between persons near akin; I will therefore leave you; wewill have further speech on the subject of our discourse."

  He moved away. A moment after, Richard Burke came up in a toweringpassion.

  "You brave me, do you?" he cried. "Did I not forbid you to converse withthat vagabond?"

  "You have no right to dictate to me on such matters," said Desmond hotly,facing his brother.

  "I've no right, haven't I?" shouted Richard. "I've a guardian's right tothrash you if you disobey me, and by George! I'll keep my promise."

  He lifted the riding whip, without which he seldom went abroad, andstruck at Desmond. But the boy's blood was up. He sprang aside as thethong fell; it missed him, and before the whip could be raised again hehad leaped towards his brother. Wrenching the stock from his grasp,Desmond flung the whip over the hedge into a green-mantled pool, andstood, his cheeks pale, his fists clenched, his eyes flaming, before theastonished man.

  "Coward!" he cried, "'tis the last time you lay hands on me."

  Recovered from his amazement at Desmond's resistance, Richard, purplewith wrath, advanced to seize the boy. But Desmond, nimbly evading hisclutch, slipped his foot within his brother's, and with a dexterousmovement tripped him up, so that he fell sprawling, with many an oath, onthe miry road. Before he could regain his feet, Desmond had vaulted thehedge and set off at a run towards home. Diggle was nowhere in sight.

  The die was now cast. Never before had Desmond actively retaliated uponhis brother, and he knew him well enough to be sure that such an affrontwas unforgivable. The farm would no longer be safe for him. Withstartling suddenness his vague notions of leaving home were crystallizedinto a resolve. No definite plan formed itself in his mind as he racedover the fields. He only knew that the moment for departure had come, andhe was hastening now to secure the little money he possessed and to makea bundle of his clothes and the few things he valued before Richard couldreturn.

  Reaching the Grange, he slipped quietly upstairs, not daring to face hismother, lest her grief should weaken his resolution, and in five minuteshe returned with his bundle. He stole out through the garden, skirted thecopse that bounded the farm inclosure, and ran for half a mile up thelane until he felt that he was out of reach. Then, breathless with haste,quivering with the shock of this sudden plunge into independence, he satdown on the grassy bank to reflect.

  What had he done? It was no light thing for a boy of his years, ignorantof life and the world, to cut himself adrift from old ties and voyageinto the unknown. Had he been wise? He had no trade as a standby; hiswhole endowment was his youth and his wits. Would they suffice? Diggle'stalk had
opened up an immense prospect, full of color and mystery andromance, chiming well with his daydreams. Was it possible that, sailingto India, he might find some of his dreams come true?

  Could he trust Diggle, a stranger, by his own admission an adventurer, aman who had run through two fortunes already? He had no reason fordistrust; Diggle was well educated, a gentleman, frank, amiable. Whatmotive could he have for leading a boy astray?

  Mingled with Desmond's Irish impulsiveness there was a strain of cautionderived from the stolid English yeomen, his forebears on the maternalside. He felt the need, before crossing his Rubicon, of taking counselwith someone older and wiser--with a tried friend. Sir Willoughby Stokes,the squire, had always been kind to him. Would it not be well to put hiscase to the squire and follow his advice? But he durst not venture to theHall yet. His brother might suspect that he had gone there and seize him,or intercept him on the way. He would wait. It was the squire's custom tospend a quiet hour in his own room long after the time when other folk inthat rural neighborhood were abed. Desmond sometimes sat with him there,reading or playing chess. If he went up to the Hall at nine o'clock hewould be sure of a welcome.

  The evening passed slowly for Desmond in his enforced idleness. At nineo'clock, leaving his bundle in a hollow tree, he set off toward the Hall,taking a short cut across the fields. It was a dark night, and he stoppedwith a start as, on descending a stile overhung by a spreading sycamore,he almost struck against a person who had just preceded him.

  "Who's that?" he asked quickly, stepping back a little: it was unusual tomeet anyone in the fields at so late an hour.

  "Be that you, Measter Desmond?"

  "Oh, 'tis you, Dickon. What are you doing this way at such an hour? Youought to have been abed long ago."

  "Ay, sure, Measter Desmond; but I be goin' to see squire," said the oldman, apparently with some hesitation.

  "That's odd. So am I. We may as well walk together, then--for fear of theghosts, eh, Dickon?"

  "I binna afeard o' ghosts, not I. True, 'tis odd I be goin' to seesquire. I feel it so. Squire be a high man, and I ha' never dared lift upmy voice to him oothout axen. But 'tis to be. I ha' summat to tell him,low born as I be; ay, I mun tell him, cost what it may."

  "Well, he's not a dragon. I have something to tell him too--cost what itmay."

  There was silence for a space. Then Dickon said tremulously:

  "Bin it a great matter, yourn, sir, I make bold to axe?"

  "That's as it turns out, Dickon. But what is it with you, old man? Isaught amiss?"

  "Not wi' me, sir, not wi' me, thank the Lord above. But I seed ya,Measter Desmond, t'other day, in speech win that--that Diggle as he docall hisself, and--and I tell ya true, sir, I dunna like the looks onhim; no, he binna a right man; an' I were afeard as he med ha' binfillin' yer head wi' fine tales about the wonders o' the world an' all."

  "Is that all, Dickon? You fear my head may be turned, eh? Don't worryabout me."

  "Why, sir, ya may think me bold, but I do say this. If so be ya getsnotions in yer head--notions o' goin' out along an' seein' the world an'all, go up an' axe squire about it. Squire he done have a wise head;he'll advise ya for the best; an' sure I bin he'd warn ya not to have nodealin's win that Diggle, as he do call hissen."

  "Why, does the squire know him, then?"

  "'Tis my belief squire do know everything an' everybody. Diggle he mednot know, to be sure, but if so be ya say 'tis a lean man, wi' sharpnose, an' black eyes like live coals, an' a smilin' mouth--why, squireknows them sort, he done, and wouldna trust him not a ell. But maybe ya'dbetter go on, sir: my old shanks be slow fur one so young an' nimble."

  "No hurry, Dickon. Lucky the squire was used to London hours in hisyouth, or we'd find him abed. See, there's a light in the Hall; 'tis inthe strong room next to the library; Sir Willoughby is reckoning up hisrents maybe, though 'tis late for that."

  "Ay, ya knows the Hall, true. Theer be a terrible deal o gowd an' silverup in that room, fur sure, more 'n a aged man like me could tell in aweek."

  "The light is moving; it seems Sir Willoughby is finishing up for thenight. I hope we shall not be too late."

  But at this moment a winding of the path brought another face of the Hallinto view.

  "Why, Dickon," exclaimed Desmond, "there's another light; 'tis thesquire's own room. He cannot be in two places at once; 'tis odd at thistime of night. Come, stir your stumps, old man."

  They hurried along, scrambling through the hedge that bounded the field,Desmond leaping, Dickon wading the brook that ran alongside the road.Turning to the left, they came to the front entrance to the Hall, andpassed through the wicket gate into the grounds. They could see thesquire's shadow on the blind of the parlor; but the lighted window of thestrong room was now hidden from them.

  Stepping in that direction, to satisfy a strange curiosity he felt,Desmond halted in amazement as he saw, faintly silhouetted against thesky, a ladder placed against the wall, resting on the sill of the strongroom. His surprise at seeing lights in two rooms, in different wings ofthe house, so late at night, changed to misgiving and suspicion. Hehastened back to Dickon.

  "I fear some mischief is afoot," he said. Drawing the old man into theshade of the shrubbery, he added: "Remain here; do not stir until I comefor you, or unless you hear me call."

  Leaving Dickon in trembling perplexity and alarm, he stole forward ontiptoe towards the house.