CHAPTER VII.—ADVENTURE OF CHEVALIER BURKE IN INDIA.
_Extracted from his Memoirs_.
. . . Here was I, therefore, on the streets of that city, the name ofwhich I cannot call to mind, while even then I was so ill-acquainted withits situation that I knew not whether to go south or north. The alertbeing sudden, I had run forth without shoes or stockings; my hat had beenstruck from my head in the mellay; my kit was in the hands of theEnglish; I had no companion but the cipaye, no weapon but my sword, andthe devil a coin in my pocket. In short, I was for all the world likeone of those calendars with whom Mr. Galland has made us acquainted inhis elegant tales. These gentlemen, you will remember, were for everfalling in with extraordinary incidents; and I was myself upon the brinkof 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 theFrench colours, and would have let himself be cut to pieces for any ofthe brave countrymen of Mr. Lally. It is the same fellow (his name hasquite escaped me) of whom I have narrated already a surprising instanceof generosity of mind—when he found Mr. de Fessac and myself upon theramparts, entirely overcome with liquor, and covered us with straw whilethe commandant was passing by. I consulted him, therefore, with perfectfreedom. It was a fine question what to do; but we decided at last toescalade a garden wall, where we could certainly sleep in the shadow ofthe trees, and might perhaps find an occasion to get hold of a pair ofslippers and a turban. In that part of the city we had only thedifficulty of the choice, for it was a quarter consisting entirely ofwalled gardens, and the lanes which divided them were at that hour of thenight deserted. I gave the cipaye a back, and we had soon dropped into alarge 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 thecipaye recalled me to my senses. In the far end of the enclosure abright light had suddenly shone out, and continued to burn steadily amongthe leaves. It was a circumstance highly unusual in such a place andhour; and, in our situation, it behoved us to proceed with some timidity.The cipaye was sent to reconnoitre, and pretty soon returned with theintelligence that we had fallen extremely amiss, for the house belongedto 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 lookat 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 clearview 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 thelamp there sat a man, cross-legged, after the Oriental manner. Both,besides, were bundled up in muslin like two natives; and yet one of themwas 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 geniusI have had to speak so often. Word had reached me that he was come tothe Indies, though we had never met at least, and I heard little of hisoccupations. But, sure, I had no sooner recognised him, and found myselfin the arms of so old a comrade, than I supposed my tribulations werequite done. I stepped plainly forth into the light of the moon, whichshone exceeding strong, and hailing Ballantrae by name, made him in a fewwords master of my grievous situation. He turned, started the leastthing in the world, looked me fair in the face while I was speaking, andwhen I had done addressed himself to his companion in the barbarousnative dialect. The second person, who was of an extraordinary delicateappearance, with legs like walking canes and fingers like the stalk of atobacco pipe, {6} now rose to his feet.
“The Sahib,” says he, “understands no English language. I understand itmyself, and I see you make some small mistake—oh! which may happen veryoften. 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 myface?”
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 asbefore. “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 comein a garden, would he? Well, now, my dear man, just have the civility totell the Sahib, with my kind love, that we are two soldiers here whom henever met and never heard of, but the cipaye is a broth of a boy, and Iam a broth of a boy myself; and if we don’t get a full meal of meat, anda turban, and slippers, and the value of a gold mohur in small change asa matter of convenience, bedad, my friend, I could lay my finger on agarden 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 weretired of the repetition, “The Sahib would be glad to know how you come ina garden.”
“Is that the way of it?” says I, and laying my hand on my sword-hilt Ibade 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 enoughto 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 apistol would have been, under Providence, the means of hanging the pairof us.
“Tell the Sahib I consider him no gentleman,” says I, and turned awaywith 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. “TheSahib he cry quits.”
“Tell the Sahib I will give him a cure for the Scots fiddle when next wemeet,” cried I.
The pair were still smiling as I left.
There is little doubt some flaws may be picked in my own behaviour; andwhen a man, however gallant, appeals to posterity with an account of hisexploits, he must almost certainly expect to share the fate of Cæsar andAlexander, and to meet with some detractors. But there is one thing thatcan never be laid at the door of Francis Burke: he never turned his backon a friend. . . .
(Here follows a passage which the Chevalier Burke has been at the painsto delete before sending me his manuscript. Doubtless it was some verynatural complaint of what he supposed to be an indiscretion on my part;though, indeed, I can call none to mind. Perhaps Mr. Henry was lessguarded; or it is just possible the Master found the means to examine mycorrespondence, and himself read the letter from Troyes: in revenge forwhich this cruel jest was perpetrated on Mr. Burke in his extremenecessity. The Master, for all his wickedness, was not without somenatural affection; I believe he was sincerely attached to Mr. Burke inthe beginning; but the thought of treachery dried up the springs of hisvery shallow friendship, and his detestable nature appeared naked.—E.McK.)