Bancharam hurried below to have an interview with Thakchacha and Bahulya. “You two are Bhima and Arjuna[65]”, said he to them; “have no fear; you may put full confidence in me, I am not a child you know.”
About twelve o’clock, a space was cleared down the middle of the verandah, and the people all stood on either side of it: the chuprassis of the court commanded silence: all were eagerly expecting the arrival of the judges; then the sergeant of police, the chuprassis and the mace-bearers, bearing in their hands staves, maces, swords, and the royal silver-crowned insignia, went outside the court: the sheriff and deputy sheriff appeared with rods, and then the three judges, clothed in scarlet, ascended the bench with dignified gait and grave faces, and, after saluting the counsel, took their seats on the bench, the counsel making profound obeisance as they stood up in their places. The moving of chairs, the whispering and chattering of people, made a great noise in the court, and the chuprassis of the court had repeatedly to call out: “Silence in the court!” The sergeants of police also tried to keep the people quiet, and then, as the town crier called out: “Oh yes! oh yes!” the sessions opened. The names of the grand jury were then called over, and they were duly empanelled. They then appointed their foreman, that is, their president. It happened to be Mr. Russell’s turn to sit as judge: turning to the grand jury he thus addressed them:— “Gentlemen of the jury, an inspection of the cases for trial shows me that forgery is on the increase in Calcutta: I see that there are five or six cases of that kind, and amongst them a case against the two men Thakchacha and Bahulya. It appears from the depositions in their case that they have for some years past been forging Company’s paper at Sialdah, and selling it in this city. Take this case first, please, and be good enough to inform me whether it is a true bill or not: it is superfluous for me to bid you do your duty in examining into the other cases for trial.”
The grand jury, having received this charge, withdrew. Bancharam looked very despondently at Mr. Butler. After about a quarter of an hour had elapsed, the indictment against Thakchacha and Bahulya was returned to the court as a true bill. Thereupon the jail sentry produced Thakchacha and Bahulya and made them stand within the railed enclosure before the judge. As the petty jury were being empanelled, the court interpreter called out loudly: “Prisoners at the bar! you have been charged with forging Company’s paper: have you committed this crime or not?” The accused replied: “We do not even know what is meant by forgery, or by Company’s paper: we are only simple cultivators: we do not concern ourselves with things of this kind: that is the concern of our English rulers.” The interpreter then said rather angrily to them: “Your language is all very fine: have you done this thing or have you not?” The only reply of the accused was: “Our fathers and our grandfathers never did such things.” The interpreter then, in a great rage struck the table with his fist and said: “Give an answer to my question: have you done this thing or not?” “No, we never did such a thing,” the accused at last replied. The reason for putting these questions was that, if the accused acknowledged his crime, his trial proceeded no further: he was at once sentenced. The interpreter then said: “Attention! These twelve men, all good and true, who are seated here, will try you: if you have any objection to raise against any of them, then speak at once: he will be removed, and another man substituted.” The accused, not understanding anything that was being said, remained silent, and the trial then commenced: by means of the depositions of the complainants, and the witnesses, the Crown prosecutor established a clear case of forgery. The counsel for the accused did not produce any witnesses, but did his best, by the ingenious twistings and turnings of cross-examination and by the chicanery of the law, to mislead the jury. When the speech for the defence was finished, Mr. Russell gave the jury a summary of the proofs of the case and explained the evidence of the forgery.
Having received their charge, the petty jury withdrew to consult. Unless the jury are unanimous, they are unable to record a verdict. Bancharam seized this opportunity to draw near the prisoners to encourage them. A few words had passed between them, when there was a sudden stir in the court, caused by the re-entry of the jury. When they had all entered and taken their seats, the foreman stood up: there was at once silence in the court: all craned their necks and strained their ears to catch what was said. The clerk of the Crown, the chief conductor of all criminal cases in the court, put the question:— “Gentlemen of the jury! Are Thakchacha and Bahulya guilty or not guilty?” “Guilty” was the reply of the foreman of the jury. As soon as the accused heard this, their hearts died within them. Bancharam then hurried up to them, and said: “Ha, ha! what, guilty? Put your trust in me, I am no child as you know: I will petition for a new trial, that is, for another verdict.” Thakchacha only shook his head, and said: “Ah, sir! what must be, must: we cannot afford any more expense.”
Bancharam then explained, with some irritation, “How much do you suppose I shall make by binding leaves in an empty vessel? In business like this, is clay to be moistened by tears only?” Mr. Russell then, examining his records very carefully, looked fixedly at the prisoners, as he passed this sentence upon them:— “Thakchacha and Bahulya, your guilt has been well established, and all who commit such crimes as yours should be heavily punished: I sentence you therefore to transportation for life.” No sooner was the sentence delivered then the guards seized the prisoners by their hands and took them below. Bancharam had slipped back and was standing to one side; some people remarked to him, “Is this your case that has been lost?” “You might have known that,” he replied; “let me never again have anything to do with so bad a one: I have never cared for cases like this.”
CHAPTER XXVIII.
A PHILANTHROPIST.
THE Vaidyabati house was enveloped in gloom: there was no one to superintend affairs or look after the maintenance of the household; the family was in a very bad way, and had great difficulty even in procuring food. The villagers began to say amongst themselves: “How long can an embankment of sand last? A virtuous household is as a building of stone.” Matilall was all this time an exile from home, and his companions had also vanished; nothing more was heard of all their display. Great was the delight of Premnarayan Mozoomdar. He was sitting one day in the verandah of Beni Babu’s house, snapping his fingers and singing a popular song:—
“The babul’s sweet flower doth its petals unfold,”
“While it swings in your ear with its colour of gold.”
“Your talk is of silver rupees and of rice,”
“Of sweetmeats delicious, and all that is nice.”