“Jemmautdar Saeb,” says Mr Cooke, giving the fellow a polite title of respect, “let the poor creature die in peace. You see there’s scarce breath in her.”
“Nay,” says the Jemmautdar, with a horrid leer, “she shan’t die in peace, nor shall you carry her off to the ships under pretence of caring for her body. She shall live and come to Muxadabad, and bring me a fine reward from the Nabob.” And turning to some of his company, he bade them fetch a palanqueen, while Mr Secretary and I looked on with anguish depicted in our countenances, and the rest of the gentlemen that survived added their earnest supplications to ours. But the wretch in whose hands lay the unhappy lady’s fate proved as callous as he had before shown himself avaricious, and we were about turning away with heavy hearts, that we might not look on the carrying away into a detestable slavery of a young creature for whom we all entertained such high esteem, when we saw Omychund entering at the gate, accompanied with a moderate but genteel retinue of servants. I leave you to imagine, sir, what were our feelings when we saw ourselves forced to supplicate this treacherous Gentoo, to whose resentment and chicanery it is now a common belief among us that we owe all our sufferings, and who had lain in our prison until the day before, but it appeared to all of us that in him we beheld our only hope of securing Miss Freyne’s release from the most dreadful of fates. Omychund advancing towards us with his sewaury,[03] we rose at his approach, and this low-cast shroff, who had never before approached a European without the most abject tokens of respect, nor ventured into the presence of one without removing his shoes, had the gratification to see six Britons greet him with the lowest bows they could bring themselves to offer. He greeted us with an air of unassuming benevolence, and testified by his countenance and gestures that he at once compassionated our sufferings and deprecated our respect.
“Pray, gentlemen,” he said in his own tongue, waving his hands in a gracious manner, “don’t do me so much honour. ’Tis only by the favour of his Highness that he who was the dust under your feet yesterday is now raised over your heads. I know what it is to be a prisoner, gentlemen, and my intercessions, joined with his Highness’s merciful disposition, have been happily successful in ameliorating your situation. You have been already released from custody, but I’m happy to inform you that ’tis permitted you to remain in the place and attend to your occasions, and that you’ll do me a favour if you’ll all draw on me for clothes and provisions, as well as your lodging charges, for I can’t forget in this day of prosperity how much I owe to the obliging good nature of your nation in the past.”
If Omychund’s debt to the British nation was to be measured by the depth of the humiliation he was now inflicting on us, it goes to show that the impression shared by Mr Holwell and the late Captain Colquhoun and others of our gentlemen, that for years he was only waiting his chance to revenge himself for being turned out of his employment under the Company, was justified, but now his tones altered, and his countenance assumed an air of the greatest horror.
“What!” he cried, “do I indeed behold Fahrein Saeb’s daughter? Is it possible that the unhappy young lady contrived to elude my well-meant search last evening, and has paid for her lack of confidence with her life? Alas! alas! that an effort so kindly intended should have been received with such suspicion!”
“Omychund,” says Mr Cooke, approaching him, “now is the time to show your friendship. Miss en’t dead, but the Jemmautdar yonder swears that he’ll carry her off to Muxadabad. Pray use your best efforts to change his mind. Offer him any sum you choose—even up to a lack of rupees. I’m sure there en’t a lady or gentleman left of the inhabitants of Calcutta but would gladly join to pay it.”
“Jemmautdar Saeb,” says Omychund, when the fellow, on his beckoning, came swaggering up, “is it true that you’re taking the woman there to Muxadabad?”
“Quite true,” says the other, “and I shall give her to his Highness. The other woman will do for the Buxey.”[04]
“But this is a great lady. She’s Fahrein Saeb’s daughter.”
“So much the better,” with another leer.