“Some five minutes since, my life lay—as you all saw, gentlemen—
At the mercy of your friend there. Not a single voice was raised
In arrest of judgment, not one tongue—before my powder blazed—
Ventured “Can it be the youngster plundered, really seemed to mark
Some irregular proceeding? We conjecture in the dark,
Guess at random,—still, for sake of fair play—what if for a freak,
In a fit of absence,—such things have been!—if our friend proved weak
—What’s the phrase?—corrected fortune! Look into the case, at least!”
Who dared interpose between the altar’s victim and the priest?
Yet he spared me! You eleven! Whosoever, all or each,
To the disadvantage of the man who spared me, utters speech
—To his face, behind his back,—that speaker has to do with me:
Me who promise, if positions change, and mine the chance should be,
Not to imitate your friend and waive advantage!’
“Twenty-five
Years ago this matter happened: and ’tis certain,” added Clive,
“Never, to my knowledge, did Sir Cocky have a single breath
Breathed against him: lips were closed throughout his life, or since his death,
For if he be dead or living I can tell no more than you.
All I know is—Cocky had one chance more; how he used it,—grew
Out of such unlucky habits, or relapsed, and back again
Brought the late-ejected devil with a score more in his train,—
That’s for you to judge. Reprieval I procured, at any rate.
Ugh—the memory of that minute’s fear makes gooseflesh rise! Why prate
Longer? You’ve my story, there’s your instance: fear I did, you see!”
“Well”—I hardly kept from laughing—“if I see it, thanks must be
Wholly to your Lordship’s candour. Not that—in a common case—
When a bully caught at cheating thrusts a pistol in one’s face,
I should under-rate, believe me, such a trial to the nerve!
’Tis no joke, at one-and-twenty, for a youth to stand nor swerve.
Fear I naturally look for—unless, of all men alive,
I am forced to make exception when I come to Robert Clive.
Since at Arcot, Plassy, elsewhere, he and death—the whole world knows—
Came to somewhat closer quarters.”
Quarters? Had we come to blows,
Clive and I, you had not wondered—up he sprang so, out he rapped
Such a round of oaths—no matter! I’ll endeavour to adapt
To our modern usage words he—well, ’twas friendly license—flung
At me like so many fire-balls, fast as he could wag his tongue.
“You—a soldier? You—at Plassy? Yours the faculty to nick
Instantaneously occasion when your foe, if lightning-quick,
—At his mercy, at his malice,—has you, through some stupid inch
Undefended in your bulwark? Thus laid open,—not to flinch
—That needs courage, you’ll concede me. Then, look here! Suppose the man,
Checking his advance, his weapon still extended, not a span
Distant from my temple,—curse him!—quietly had bade me, ‘There!
Keep your life, calumniator!—worthless life I freely spare:
Mine you freely would have taken—murdered me and my good fame
Both at once—and all the better! Go, and thank your own bad aim
Which permits me to forgive you!’ What if, with such words as these,
He had cast away his weapon? How should I have borne me, please?
Nay, I’ll spare you pains and tell you. This, and only this, remained—
Pick his weapon up and use it on myself. If so had gained
Sleep the earlier, leaving England probably to pay on still
Rent and taxes for half India, tenant at the Frenchman’s will.”
“Such the turn,” said I, “the matter takes with you? Then I abate
—No, by not one jot nor tittle,—of your act my estimate.
Fear—I wish I could detect there: courage fronts me, plain enough—
Call it desperation, madness—never mind! for here’s in rough
Why, had mine been such a trial, fear had overcome disgrace.
True, disgrace were hard to bear: but such a rush against God’s face
—None of that for me, Lord Plassy, since I go to church at times,
Say the creed my mother taught me! Many years in foreign climes
Rub some marks away—not all, though! We poor sinners reach life’s brink,
Overlook what rolls beneath it, recklessly enough, but think
There’s advantage in what’s left us—ground to stand on, time to call
‘Lord, have mercy!’ ere we topple over—do not leap, that’s all!”
Oh, he made no answer, re-absorbed into his cloud. I caught
Something like “Yes—courage; only fools will call it fear.”
If aught
Comfort you, my great unhappy hero Clive, in that I heard,
Next week, how your own hand dealt you doom, and uttered just the word
“Fearfully courageous!”—this, be sure, and nothing else I groaned.
I’m no Clive, nor parson either: Clive’s worst deed—we’ll hope condoned.