“Questionless the poor wretch is my cousin Colquhoun’s sergeant, who was forced to enter the Nabob’s service,” said I, and attended the Captain into Colonel Clive’s presence. No sooner had I entered than the unfortunate prisoner, who was standing loaded with chains while the Colonel interrogated him, sprang forward and cast himself at my feet.
“Thank God, sir, that you’re come!” he cried. “I’ve thought every moment as how the General was going to order me out to be shot, but I don’t care how soon he do it now. There’s one thing been on my mind, and that’s to give you this,” and he pulled a small shred of paper from some hiding-place in his clothes. “Not being no scholar, I can’t read all the words, but ever since I had it I’ve feared as how I’d led you and the other gentlemen into a horrid mistake, and perhaps ruined the poor young lady as I’d wished to give my life for.”
I tore the paper from his hand, but the mist before my eyes forbade me to read it for a moment. Then I saw that on one side ’twas covered with my own handwriting. Madam, ’twas a part of the letter I writ to my dear Miss Freyne near a year ago from Vizagapatnam, that letter on which you have been pleased to rally me more than once. But on the other side—oh, madam, figure to yourself my sensations at the moment—were a few words scratched in a brownish sort of ink with some blunt instrument, scratched, as I could not doubt, by my charmer’s own hand.
“I am not dead, but in the power of the wretch S ...” (this name is illegible, owing to the folding of the paper) “at Muxadavad. Help me, any Christian that may read this, for the l ... God, or at least tell those escaped from Calcutta where they may ... the unhappy Sylvia Freyne.”
Was ever such an affecting billet handed to a lover before, madam? I am not ashamed to say that I found myself incapable of speech as, after pressing the message to my lips, I handed it to Colonel Clive, who demanded it with an impatient gesture, nor did it surprise me that the Colonel’s face was moved when he read it.
“Wrote with the poor woman’s own blood!” he said, as though to account for his emotion, and I started forward to reclaim the paper with a cry, for the notion had not occurred to me. To what alarms, madam, must the dear creature have been exposed before resorting to so dreadful an expedient for revealing her situation! “Wait a moment, sir,” says the Colonel; “what’s this? Something wrote in broken Moors—‘Take this to any hat-wearer, and he will give you ten rupees,’ but in the English character! How did the poor soul expect it to be read? Where and how did you get hold of this, fellow?” he asked of the prisoner, who was risen again to his feet.
“I had it of a Moorman, your honour, who said as how he had lighted on it in a street of Muxidavad, but he could not, or maybe would not, tell me the place. He kept it for a charm, but I chanced to have a leaf out of a printed song-book about me, that I had picked up among the spoils, which I gave him in exchange for it, telling him as how ’twas a more powerful charm than his. And when I had it, I did naught but look out for a chance of escape, that I might bring it to Miss’s friends, but they watched me so as I couldn’t nohow get away before to-day.”
“Do you believe the man worthy of credit, Mr Fraser?” says the Colonel aside to me.
“Why, sir, how would I do otherwise?” I asked.
“You’re a prejudiced witness, sir, I see. But since Mr Fisherton has testified to the man’s motives in entering the Soubah’s service, and Mr Hastings speaks of seeing him conducted by force to Muxidavad after the lady’s supposed death, I think we need scarce doubt him. What do you say to returning to the Company’s service, my man?”