Like Another Helen

by Sydney C. Grier

I opened the billet he presented to me, and regarded it incredulously, unable to believe that after such a day of fighting, in the interval between deposing one prince and setting up another, Colonel Clive should have found opportunity to write to me.

“The Colonel gave it to me in the evening, when he came to visit the wounded,” said Mr Fraser, “saying that he knew you would not regret my losing a share in the plunder of Muxadavad provided you had me again.”

“Sure the Colonel’s a discerning person,” said I, and read the billet aloud:—

“Madam,—I am fully sensible that by this time Mrs Fraser is heartily repenting her heroic conduct of t’other night, and wishing that she had carried her spouse in her train to an ignominious safety at Calcutta, but will she permit the horrid wretch that has led him into danger one word of excuse? Our victory, madam, I don’t hesitate to say, we owe chiefly to the excellent working of our artillery, in which Mr Fraser took a principal part. Without Mr Fraser our fire could not have been so effective; with a less effective fire we could not have won the battle, ergo, Mr Fraser’s presence with us was necessary to the victory. If Mrs Fraser declare she would have sacrificed her country’s interest to her spouse’s safety, such a sentiment from her lips will surprise none more than her most obedient, humble servant,

Robt. Clive.”

Do you wonder that this letter will be preserved among my most precious treasures, Amelia? Sure I perceive now how it is that Colonel Clive’s soldiers cherish so great an affection for him, since he can write with such affable condescension to a silly girl who was playing at being heroical without knowing what the part demanded of her. That he should have cheered my dear Mr Fraser’s weakness with kind words of praise for his services is no cause for surprise, but how few persons in his high situation would have cared to dry the tears of an anxious wife!

Cutwah, July ye 5th.

It is now near a fortnight since the battle of Placis, Amelia, and my dear Mr Fraser, I am thankful to say, continues to make good progress. By the way, in looking over these papers of mine, my spouse insists that I have spelt the name of the battle wrong, since the Indians, who should surely know their own language, call it Palassy. But I tell him that Colonel Clive, in dating his billet wrote to me, spelt it Plassy, while Mr Watts, than whom no man knows more of this country, writes it Plaissy, so who shall decide? You’ll wonder, perhaps, that I should submit my correspondence with my Amelia even to my husband’s eyes, but I think my dear girl won’t grudge him the entertainment he is pleased to find in what I write, for which he has made me to-day the prettiest return in the world. Going to fetch out my papers but now, I found among them a copy of verses addressed to myself, and soon perceived that they were of Mr Fraser’s own composing. You know, my dear, that in the old days at Calcutta there was many such tributes offered me, but none of them, be sure, ever gave me one-tenth of the pleasure of this one. Not even for my Amelia can I bring myself to copy out this charming piece. Perhaps Mr Fraser may favour me in the future with some verses of a less intimate nature, but these must remain sacred to her for whom they were wrote; happy, thrice happy creature that she is! Will it surprise you, Amelia, to learn that your Sylvia’s only fear is lest she be too happy? You must not fancy she can ever forget the horrors of the past year, nor the frightful deaths of the persons she honoured and revered the most; but in her marriage there’s nothing wanting to render her felicity absolute. Indeed (I fear you’ll laugh at this), all this past fortnight my dear Mr Fraser has shown himself so patient, so uncomplaining, that coupling this behaviour of his with the extraordinary consideration he has displayed towards me since our wedding, I have been terrified lest he should be about to be torn from me, and it gave me the greatest pleasure imaginable when he began to grow restless and irritable, and to chafe at the inaction made necessary by his wound. True, the verses he writ were designed as an atonement for this impatience, but I can’t tell you how vastly glad it made me to find my spouse still the Colvin Fraser of old days.

But how I am running on, when I purposed only to tell you of Mr Fisherton’s visit last night. Despatched by Colonel Clive from Muxadavad to this place, in order to arrange certain matters, of which more hereafter, he was so obliging as to sup with Mr Fraser and myself, and describe to us the concluding scenes of that tragedy of retribution which the Colonel has just brought to a close. Meeting Meer Jaffier at Doudpaur on the morning after the battle, our victorious commander accepted with the utmost complaisance the halting excuses of his ally for his equivocal behaviour of the day before, and having saluted him as Soubah of Bengall, despatched him at once to secure Muxadavad, whence the wretched Surajah Dowlah succeeded in escaping on his arrival. Meer Jaffier having established himself in the possession of the city, Colonel Clive followed him thither, and attended with a numerous train took up his quarters at the palace of Moraudbaug.[05] The next day he proceeded to the Killa, the whole population of Muxadavad assembling in the streets to gaze upon him with awful respect, and there placed Meer Jaffier upon the musnet, complimenting him with a nuzzer,[06] or friendly tribute, of a hundred gold mohrs, an example which was followed by all the nobles that stood round, in token that they acknowledged him to be the Nabob of the province. The grateful barbarian, desiring to acquit himself of his obligations to the English, waited the next day upon Colonel Clive, and entered into engagements for the punctual payment of the sums which he had already promised in relief of the distressed inhabitants of Calcutta, and as a compliment to the gentlemen of the Council and others, and this scene Mr Fisherton described to us very particularly, saying—

“And now, madam, I am come to a point that can’t but be especially grateful to you, since it concerns the punishment of a villain at whose hands you have suffered not a little in time past. On the Colonel’s entering the apartment where he designed to receive the Soubah’s visit, old Omy Chund, with his usual bustle, pushed forward among his attendants, but not finding himself received with any distinction, withdrew in something of a pet to another part of the hall. You may not be sensible, madam, that this white-haired traitor was expecting to pocket the monstrous sum of twenty lacks, which he imagined himself to have secured as the price of his not betraying to Surajah Dowlah our confederacy with Meer Jaffier. The Soubah having entered and been received with the usual courtesies, the business on which he was come went forward, the treaty signed between us and him being produced. When various matters had been arranged, Omy Chund, who had again joined with the party in his eagerness to lay hands on his imagined wealth, cried out with an air of stupefaction, ‘But it was a red treaty I saw!’ ‘Yes, Omy Chund, but this is a white treaty,’ says Colonel Clive; then to Mr Scrafton, ‘’Twill be as well to undeceive the fellow.’ Upon this Mr Scrafton, approaching the deluded Gentoo with no particular tenderness, and having in his hand the treaty wrote on red paper, which he supposed secured his claims, said, ‘Omy Chund, you have been deceived. This loll coggedge is a forgery.’ It took some time before Omy Chund could be brought to believe that in the genuine treaty his name did not so much as appear, and that he stood to gain no more by our victory than the other Gentoos of Calcutta; but being at last persuaded of his misfortune (when the resentment and indignation expressed in his countenance bars all description), he appeared suddenly bereft of his intellects, and was assisted out of the room by his attendants, remaining still, as we understand, in the same deplorable situation.”