So many accounts have been written of the events which took place in Bengal about this time, that I shall omit as much as possible of the public transactions in which I was concerned, dealing rather with my own particular adventures in the midst of them.

Of Surajah Dowlah, at the time of his accession, I knew only what was reported about him by common rumour in the settlement, which was that he was a young man of cruel and vicious propensities, ill-disposed towards the English in his country, and greedy for plunder. This was enough to make me share the uneasiness about his intentions towards us, which I found to prevail in the minds of Mr. Holwell, Mr. Byng, and other prudent persons. On the evening of the day on which I heard this news, therefore, I went round to Mr. Rising’s house, to speak with Marian about her situation.

It was not quite dusk when I arrived, being the month of April. To my surprise I found the outer gate leading into the garden close shut, and it was not till after knocking and shouting for many minutes that the Indian porter condescended to come and open it. Being angry with the man for this unreasonable delay, I cuffed him as I passed in—for without some severities of this kind there is nothing to be done with the natives of Bengal. The fellow, instead of cringing before me as is the wont of these people, gave me a black look, and muttered sullenly—

“The lord is harsh to his servant, but another may be harsher to the lord.”

Not knowing at this time the wonderful intelligence which prevails among the Indians, so that news of all kinds travels about among them by underground channels of which Europeans are not permitted to know, I did not sufficiently understand the gravity of this threat. Dismissing it as a mere piece of insolence, however unusual, I walked up to the house and opening the door for myself, came into the room where Marian usually received me and which was the same I have already described.

I found her sitting alone by the open window, in the dusk, looking out into the river. As I walked in she turned with the uneasy start I had remarked on former occasions, and rising hurriedly, came to meet me.

“Good evening, Marian,” I said, taking her by the hand. “I should have been here sooner but for that surly gardener of yours, who kept me waiting at the gate.”

“I will speak to him about it,” she answered.

It was not light enough for me to see her face, but I observed that she spoke in a tone of indifference, as if scarcely heeding what she said. At the same time she took her seat on the divan, and asked me to sit by her.

“Is your father well?” I asked, putting the question out of courtesy, for by this time we both knew that the poor man was ruined by his dreadful habit, from which it was impossible he should ever be released.

“Yes, I think so. I have not seen him lately,” she said, still with the same distracted air.

I will confess, plainly, that I had begun to have fears for her, lest either the ravages of the climate, or the sufferings she had undergone, had wrought upon her mind.

“I come to bring you bad news,” I went on. “The Nabob has died.”

“So I have understood,” Marian replied in the same listless way. Then, seeming to recollect herself, she added quickly—“I learnt the news this afternoon from a friend.”

Since her arrival I knew that some of the ladies of the settlement had shown Marian some kindness, inviting her to their houses occasionally. One of these ladies, I concluded, had been beforehand with me in my intelligence.

“I am glad to see you so easy under the circumstances,” I said, feeling perhaps a little jealous. “I suppose you know that the new Nabob is no friend to the Company, and that we may have trouble with him before many months are past.”

“I suppose it may be so. But though Surajah Dowlah may have grounds for complaint against the Council here, I can’t think he will carry his resentment so far as to injure the peaceable inhabitants of Calcutta.”

I turned towards her, amazed.

“What do you say?” I cried. “You speak as though you were in the Nabob’s interests! Have you been listening to the talk of some Moor or other? If so, let me tell you that they are nothing but liars and traitors, every mother’s son of them!”

“You needn’t be so fierce!” she returned, more warmly than she had yet spoken. “I have had no conversation with any Moor, or Gentoo either, upon the subject. Surely I may have leave to think as I choose, without being bound to take my opinions from Mr. Athelstane Ford!”

“Oh Marian, Marian!” I exclaimed bitterly, wounded by these unkind words. “What have I done to forfeit your confidence? Have I not been faithful and true to you from the first hour of our acquaintance till now? You know that I am the best friend you have, and one who would die to serve you. Yet these several days past you have behaved to me as if you had plans which you wished to keep from me. Do you doubt of my being ready to do anything you should bid me, even if it were to go to Moorshedabad and enlist with Surajah Dowlah himself? Why are we not to be open with each other? You know I love you; I have told you so often enough before we ever came out to this dreadful land; and I think I have shown myself ready to prove it as well. Even now I have come here simply to provide for your safety. In a few days the unfavourable monsoon will set in, after which no ship can leave the coast, but this week there is a vessel sailing for Madras, on which I am able to secure a passage for you, and for Mr. Rising as well, if he will go. I have come to offer you this opportunity, and entreat you to accept of it. And if there are any who would persuade you to remain, depend upon it, they are your enemies and not your friends.”

She heard me out, sitting quite still and showing no sign of impatience. But when I had finished she said—

“I thank you, Athelstane, for your kind intentions, and for your goodness in the past, of which I do not need to be reminded. As for what you say about your love for me, since you have spoken so plainly, I must needs tell you that I am not able to return it. I have tried, both on the voyage hither and since; and I have failed. Your loving friend I am, and hope to remain always, no matter what may happen to part us for a time. Nevertheless, I don’t share your fears of what the Moors may do against us, and I will not leave Calcutta, though I thank you for your offers.”

She seemed as if about to say more, but stopped abruptly. Of the deep distress which I felt to hear her declare that my love for her was hopeless, I say nothing, for what can be said? There are some to whom that great prize, the chief that life affords, namely the love of the woman they have chosen, is granted, but to most men, I suppose, it is denied; and I but shared the common lot. These things are the most important in our lives, they leave bruises whose marks are never quite effaced; yet all passes secretly; the business of life goes on, the world sees our actions, our outward triumphs and losses, and knows of nothing else. There was not a soul in Calcutta who ever knew what had passed between Marian and me on this occasion, and yet those few words were a worse grief to me than all the other sufferings I had to endure; and in that single hour I was changed from a boy into a man.

After this I dared not press her again on the subject of leaving Calcutta. With a heavy heart I watched the last ship go down the Hooghley on the way to England, and the very day after it had gone I received a message in writing from Mr. Holwell, in these words—

Not a little agitated, I thrust the letter into my pocket, and hastened round to Mr. Drake’s, the Governor’s house, where the Council was assembled, he being confined indoors by an illness. I sent in my name to Mr. Holwell, who immediately came out and fetched me into the room where they were met.

Mr. Drake lay on a couch against one of the windows, while the other gentlemen were seated around in a circle, facing him. He was a stout man with a red face, who had spent many years in the East Indies, and by dint of an important manner and never having been placed in any situation of real difficulty, had passed down to this time for a very prudent and capable person. On my entrance he spoke to me rather peremptorily—

“You are Mr. Ford, are you not?”

I nodded.

“I am told that you speak the Indostanee language. Is that so?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Mr. Holwell and Mr. Byng are aware of it.”

“Very good.” He nodded his head once or twice. “Those gentlemen have recommended you to the Council as a discreet, intelligent young man, which I do not doubt you are. There is an employment which I have to propose to you, one which calls for those qualities, and also for courage. The question is, young man”—he fixed his eyes on me very sternly—“do you think you possess courage?”

“I don’t know,” I answered bluntly, not much liking his manner of questioning me.

“Ha!” He gave a sort of sniff, and looked about him scornfully.

“But I have fought one duel, and am ready to fight another with any one who doubts me,” I said, speaking in a modest voice. And some of the gentlemen laughed and clapped their hands.

The Governor frowned severely.

“I believe, Mr. Ford, that you intend no disrespect to this Council by your answer?” To this challenge I made no response. “Very good, I daresay you may be equal to the commission we have to offer you. You must know that we have received letters from the newly proclaimed Nabob of Bengal, complaining of certain improvements we have made in our defences. Those improvements were made in the prospect of the French war, but the Nabob chooses to regard them as directed against him. Now the point is this, that we believe information has been supplied to Surajah Dowlah by some person in this town, not one of the Indians, but a European, who must have some means unknown to us of coming to and fro. We have set a watch, but are unable to detect him. Mr. Holwell has suggested that you might undertake this task, and by reason of your ability to communicate with the Gentoos in their own language, succeed in discovering this person; in which case we are prepared to pay you a very handsome reward.”

I did not feel much inclined to this proposal at the first blush, considering that it carried little honour with it. But Mr. Holwell, who no doubt divined my objections, set himself to remove them.

“You will render the Company and the whole settlement a great service if you are able to effect this, Ford,” he said. “The fact is that the presence of a European spy, most probably a Frenchman, is a source of very great danger. There are many weak points in the fort, for instance, which would be overlooked by a Moor, but of which fatal advantage may be taken if they are communicated to an enemy by an intelligent observer. I think it is your plain duty to assist the Council if you can.”

“That is enough, sir; I will do my best,” I replied.

The Governor then dismissed me, and the Council broke up. I believe letters were sent to Surajah Dowlah, to explain the circumstances which had awaked his suspicions, but without any good effect. Meanwhile Mr. Holwell carried me to his house, where we laid our plans for the detection of the spy.

It was settled that I should assume the dress of a Moor, and in that character should pass my time about the fort and adjacent grounds, that being the place to which a person seeking information would be most likely to repair. Mr. Holwell provided me with a turban, jacket, and blue trousers, and I stained my face with a pigment which he assured me would not easily come off. At the same time I wore a scymetar in my belt, and put a pair of pistols in my bosom. Thus disguised I went out for a walk through the bazaars, and had the satisfaction to observe that I was everywhere taken for a Moor. But when I spoke I was not so successful, my practise in the language not being sufficient to impose upon the Indians.

As soon as I had satisfied myself by this experiment that my disguise was accurate, I returned towards the fort, and commenced walking about it, observing the persons who came in and out on their business. But though my suspicions were once or twice attracted to different ones, yet I found nothing to go upon. In this way not only one day passed, but several others, and I began to despair of success.

On the fourth day of my watch, however, about seven o’clock in the evening, as I happened to be looking abroad of the river, which is here pretty wide, and contained a good deal of small shipping, I noticed a man in a boat, which he rowed himself, who appeared to be lurking about for no very honest purpose. Instead of either landing or going off in some fixed direction, this man plied to and fro, close under the wall of the fort, which he seemed to examine very closely from time to time. As well as I could make out he was a Moor, and my instructions were to watch for a Frenchman, yet I was rendered so uneasy by the movements of this individual that I resolved to go out on the water, and examine him more closely. Accordingly I left the place where I was, near the north gate of the fort, and strolled down to a small flight of stairs on the river bank, where some boats lay for hire. Stepping into one of these, I cast off, and taking the oars, which I had learned to handle during my term of service on board the Talisman, rowed slowly out towards the spy, as I believed him to be.

When he saw me coming towards him, he at first pulled a few strokes as if to make away, but being, as I suppose, reassured by the sight of my costume, he ceased rowing and waited for me to come up alongside. Glancing round from time to time as I drew near, I soon perceived that I had no Frenchman to deal with, or at least that, if I had, he had taken the same precaution as myself in assuming the dress of the country. Feeling desirous to test him, I hailed as soon as I came up, in the native tongue.

“Does my lord seek for anything that his servant may procure him?” I said, using their fulsome style.

He at once replied, in what was evidently a phrase learnt by rote—

“I cannot speak your language, but I am a friend of Omichund.”

Now this Omichund was a great, rich Gentoo, a banker and merchant who, having made huge profits as a broker in the matter of the Company’s investment for many years, had recently had his services dispensed with, and was believed to be disaffected on that account, and in correspondence with the Moorish Court. I needed no more to convince me that this was most likely the man whom I had been employed to apprehend. Not daring to speak English, and it being useless to address him in the Indostanee, I made signs that he should follow me, and commenced to row to the shore.

But here I was disappointed, for the fellow, instead of following me, at once began to move off in the opposite direction. Seeing this I at once turned, shouting after him, and pointing where I would have him go. He merely grinned and rowed further off, nor was it any better when I showed him one of my pistols, for he then merely increased his speed, so that I was obliged to pick up my oars again pretty quickly in order to pursue him.

Seeing that it was become a race between us, he bent to his oars, and I did the same, so that the two boats flew down the river, one about twelve lengths behind the other. But taking advantage of a string of barges which lay anchored out in the stream, he presently dodged me, running in round the tail of the line, and so altering his course up the stream. If I had not turned my head constantly to watch him, I should soon have lost him among the shipping, and these frequent turnings hindered my rowing, so that I could not gain on the other boat so fast as I should otherwise have done. For I soon perceived that I was the better rower of the two, or else had the quicker boat; and the spy seemed to perceive it too, for after taking me some distance up the middle of the river, he suddenly struck off towards the bank, rowing hard for a house which had come in sight, standing on the river’s edge.

As we approached this house I could just see (for it was growing dark) a large window standing open, not above a man’s height from the water. To this my fellow rowed, and having brought his boat beneath it, threw down his oars, stood up on the gunwale, and with a desperate leap which nearly sunk the boat, gained the sill of the window and disappeared inside.

But I was close behind, running up against the side of his boat at the moment when he passed in at the window, so that by imitating his tactics I was able to leap through immediately after him. I stumbled in alighting, picked myself up, and glanced round, to perceive the man I had been pursuing standing over against me with a pistol in his hand. The next moment I had recognised the room, and there was Marian standing up with a distressed face, one hand on her bosom and the other stretched out between us.

“Stand back!” shouted the spy to her in English, in a voice that I could have recognised anywhere in the world. “This is a damned Indian spy, whom I will kill as soon as I have questioned him.”

“You lie, Rupert Gurney,” says I, quite calm and cold, as I drew out my own pistols and stood facing him. “’Tis you are the spy, in the service of a vile, treacherous, Moorish tyrant, to whom you would betray your countrymen.”

I do not think I have ever seen a man so overwhelmed as was Rupert by those words, though the surprise of this encounter must in reality have been less to him than it was to me, since Marian had of course told him of my being in Calcutta. His jaw dropped, and he ceased to present his pistol at me, no doubt being well aware that I would not take him at a disadvantage.

“Yes,” I continued, “not satisfied with your piracies and murders, for which you are justly afraid to show your face in any English community, you are now become a traitor and a public enemy. You have hired yourself out to that bad man, Surajah Dowlah, and go about to deliver your fellow Christians into the hands of Mussalmans and heathen.”

“Not so fast, young man,” says Rupert, resuming his natural insolence. “Your reproaches are unfair in one particular at least. I am no longer a Christian, having exchanged that religion for the more convenient and profitable one of the Alcoran.”

He added a coarse jest which I am ashamed to write down, and which a year or two before I believe he would have been ashamed to utter. I have heard that residence in the East Indies has this effect upon some men, to change their characters to evil, so that when they return to Europe they are no longer fit for the decent society of their own country. And though my cousin Gurney was an unscrupulous and daring young man before ever he left Norfolk, yet I believe he was altered for the worse after his visiting those parts.

Marian, standing terrified between us, now interfered to say—

“Be silent, Rupert, if you please. And you, Athelstane, since you perceive your cousin is here under my father’s roof, I entreat you to retire as you came.”

“I cannot, Marian,” says I, very firm. “I am charged to take that traitor and villain, and I will do it, dead or alive.”

In spite of his bravado I could see Gurney wince under these words, though he affected to make light of them.

“Leave us together, girl,” he said to Marian. “I will tame this young cockerel, as I would have done before if he had fought me fairly, with the weapons agreed to be used by us.”

My blood boiled to hear this shameful taunt.

“You coward!” I cried, “I spared your life once, as you well know, and then you would have murdered me in cold blood because the cutlass broke that I had of a Jew! But I will fight you now with sword, pistol, or both, and this time I swear that you shall not escape with your life.”

But Marian would not consent to this.

“You are not to fight,” she exclaimed. “Do you hear me, Athelstane Ford? Your cousin wants nothing but to be allowed to go away in safety; and would you be the one to deliver your own blood up to justice? For shame!”

“Shame, indeed!” I retorted bitterly, all the anguish that was pent up in my heart breaking out. “Shame that I who have loved and served you, and delivered you out of the prison where this very man had put you, should be asked to spare him now by you, whom he has never truly loved, whom he has betrayed and slighted, and is ready to betray again. I know not, though I can guess, by what wheedling tale he has cozened you to forgive him, and to lend him shelter and protection in his base designs; but do you think, Marian, that that villain standing there will care for you one moment longer than you can be of use to him, and that he will not leave you to a worse fate than before when he has done with you, and that without the least compunction? I have loved you a long time, Marian, but I have never understood you, and if this is your intention then I think you cannot be in your true mind.”

I looked to see her break out and weep, but she did not. She cast her eyes to the ground, and said, when I had finished, speaking low—

“I think you are right, and that perhaps I am not in my true mind. For there are times when I know and see all the falsehood and wickedness of this man’s heart as well as ever you can tell it me, and yet I tell you, to my own bitter shame, that I love him so that if he bids me follow him into any disgrace or crime, God help me, I cannot refuse!”