(Part of a letter from Robert Fisherton, Esq., to the Rev. Dr Fisherton, at the Rectory, Whitcliffe, in the county of Sussex, taken from the Fisherton papers, by the kind permission of the present head of the family. From his monument in Whitcliffe Old Church, we learn that Robert Fisherton was only eighteen years old at this time.)
On board the Bombay frigate, off Fultah, July ye 5th.
Ever-honoured and dear Sir,— ... As I have already related to you the course of the late melancholy events by which our flourishing factory was destroyed, and so many of the most considerable among the Company’s servants there doomed to a frightful death, I will in this present letter go on to speak of the scarcely less mournful circumstances that followed upon that crowning point of the Moors’ infamy. Sure, dear sir, when the full horrors attending the capture of Calcutta shall be commonly known, in every civilised region the tear of sensibility will bedew the cheek of virtue in pity for our miserable fate. I believe, sir, that ’twas from your lips your son once heard that affecting anecdote of the great Tuscan poet, that when he walked abroad, his fellow-citizens, noting his gaunt air and the horror dwelling in his eyes, shrank away from him, whispering, “There goes the man that has been in hell!” Ah, dear sir, your son has also been in hell, and like the famous Florentine, will surely bear in his countenance for the remainder of his days the shadow of the awfulness of that night.
Words would fail me were I to attempt to trace the passing of the horrid hours, which those only lived through who were prompt to avail themselves of the deaths of those around them to seize upon the points of vantage thus left vacant. My own escape I attribute to my having succeeded, in spite of all attempts to dislodge me, in maintaining a position at one of the windows, close to Mr Holwell. When this excellent man finally gave up all hope of life, and resigned his place, I still held to mine, and had the great happiness, in the morning, of finding our worthy governor still alive under the heaps of dead on the platform, and with the assistance of Mr Ensign Walcot, of conveying him once more to the window, where his deathly appearance was effectual either in touching the hearts or in alarming the cupidity of our guards, for they sent word of his plight to the Nabob, who returned an instant order for our release from that charnel-house in which we were confined.
Oh, dear sir, how can I paint to you the pitiable situation of the twenty-three unhappy creatures that crawled forth from the cave of death? and that by a path that it needed full twenty minutes’ labour on the part of the guards to clear for us through the thickly piled bodies of our friends. My reverend father won’t, I am sure, think the worse of me when I confess that on finding myself restored to the air and the light of heaven I gave way to a flood of grateful tears, able only for the moment to realise the blessings of release. But this tribute to the weakness of nature once paid, I became sensible that the most affecting scenes were taking place all around me. Sure it must have raised even the most hardened cynic’s opinion of human nature, to behold the eagerness with which ghastly wretches, themselves scarce able to crawl, made their way back into the den from which they were but just escaped, in search of some friend in whom the vital spark might not yet be quite extinct. One incident of this kind, the beholding of which affected me most sensibly, I must relate for the admiration and approval of the dear circle at the Rectory.
Lying where I had thrown myself on the wet grass below the varanda, I saw a man staggering feebly forth from the dreadful chamber, supporting in his arms a female form, which he part dragged, part carried into the air with him. Laying the woman on the grass, he felt her heart and wrist with a kind of clumsy respect and tenderness, and shaking his head, murmured: “Dead, poor young lady, quite dead! Poor lass! poor lass!” but instead of remaining beside the body, turned back, to my surprise, in the direction of our dungeon. A horrid suspicion here seized me, and I dragged myself painfully to the side of the female. Oh, my father, conceive my feelings! The body was that of Miss Freyne, the daughter of one of our most respectable public servants, who himself had escaped the torments of the night only by expiring from the severity of his wounds shortly before we were forced into our prison. What! (I hear my sisters cry) is this the Miss Freyne of whom your every letter has spoke for near a year, the beauty, the toast, the admired of all Calcutta no less for the high qualities of her mind than for the charms of her person? Such is, alas! the case, and no philosopher could ask a more moving example of the fleeting nature of earthly prosperity. The unfortunate lady lay stretched upon the ground, her arms extended in front of her, her face fixed in an expression of horror such as I have never seen equalled, and approaching nearer, I sought to throw over her a coat that I had catched up, designing to cover that once exquisite countenance from the rude assaults of the sun and the insulting gaze of the Moors. What was my delight and astonishment to remark a slight, a very slight, movement in the supposed corpse, the merest flutter of a breath, nothing more. Filled with pleased amazement that a being so delicate should have contrived to support the hardships of the night, I called out in much agitation to Mr Secretary Cooke (Mr Holwell having been dragged away to attend the Nabob)—
“Pray, sir,” I cried, “lend me your aid. There’s a spark of life yet in our esteemed Miss Freyne, I’m convinced.”
“Then suffer it to become extinct, sir,” was the dreadful answer I received. “The unfortunate lady’s cruellest foe could do no worse for her than recall her to life now.”
I took his meaning. Pray, pray, dear sir, never allow any of my sisters to come to India, nor suffer yourself to be persuaded to marry one of them to any gentleman that has his occasions in this accursed country! Sure you would be of my mind, had you beheld, as I did, the unhappy case of this charming young lady, who was to find that very beauty of face, and elegancy of shape and air, which had brought all Calcutta to her feet, suddenly turned traitors to her, and become her most dangerous foes.
“I see as how you’re right, sir,” said a voice behind us, and I found there, on turning, the same man that had brought Miss Freyne out of the prison, dragging another corpse with him. “When I heard Mr Fisherton call out as Miss was alive, I was fair dazed with joy for the Captain’s sake, thinking as how he’d not given his life for naught, but ’tis better for the poor maid to die than to be carried off by the Moors. There’s one poor creature they’ve got already.”