Jones of the 64th: A Tale of the Battles of Assaye and Laswaree

"Forgive and forget!"

"I do. I forgive freely, and will forget. Calm yourself, and tell me what little there is left. There, lie down again and be calm. You have had your punishment. It is not for me to add to it. We are none of us perfect, and if you have made a sad mistake, so may I on some future occasion. There! Lie down!"

Very gently and tenderly Owen lowered him back into his position, and seeing that he was extremely weak pressed more spirit upon him, causing a little colour to return to his wan cheeks. Then he took the poor fellow's hand again and pressed it.

"Who were these relatives to whom I was sent?" he asked, placing his lips to the Colonel's ear, for the wounded man seemed to be almost unconscious. "One more effort I beg of you. Who were these people?"

At the sound of his voice the Colonel turned his eyes in his direction and groped with his hand.

"It is dark, and I cannot see you. Get a light, and I will speak. Quick! There is little time left to me."

A minute later a smoking torch was brought and placed in Mulha's hand, whereupon the officer opened his eyes again and smiled at Owen.

"May blessings for ever rest on you," he said, gently returning the pressure of his hand. "I am forgiven, and though that does not excuse the act, yet I can die the easier for it. And now I will end the matter by speaking of the others. Sail for England as soon as you can and present yourself to Sir Owen Marshall, your grandfather, who still lives. You will find him in the county of Cheshire, though I forget the town in which he resides. But he is one of those trustees who administered the funds bequeathed to your dear mother, and he will welcome you. That is all. Let me lie quietly here till the end, and Owen – bury me beneath the tope of trees which lies behind us."

It was a sad, sad scene, and Owen's eyes were filled with tears before the interview was over. All thought of his parentage, of his dead father and mother, were banished for the time, and he thought of this unhappy man, alone, steeped to the eyes in infamy, and yet repentant and forgiven at the last. He lowered the Colonel's head on to a cushion of soft grass covered with a cloth, and sat down beside him to wait for help, for one of the troopers had ridden for a surgeon. And within an hour one arrived and bent over the patient.

"He will live an hour, two perhaps," he said sadly. "I can do nothing for him. Keep him as he is, and he will be quite easy."

"Then there is more for me to do," whispered the Colonel, when he had heard what had been said. "Send for an officer, for two if possible, and let them bring paper and writing materials. I will make the fullest amends I can, and will repeat my tale to witnesses, and will sign what is written. Hasten, Owen, or it will be too late."

That night, ere the moon went down, the spirit of this unfortunate French colonel departed, and his body was buried close beneath the tope of pepul-trees, a couple of flaming torches lighting the workers. Then Owen mounted and returned sadly to camp, his mind filled with the scene through which he had passed. But it was long before he had an opportunity of returning home to meet his long-lost relatives, for ere the Mahratta war ended Bundelcund was conquered, the important battle of Argaun fought and won, and Gwalighur stormed. In four months an amazing amount of fighting had been accomplished: four general battles had been fought and won in brilliant manner, while eight fortresses had been stormed and captured. In addition, large provinces had been added to the possessions of the Government; and, more important than all, the French-trained force which had for so long been a menace to our existence in India had been utterly crushed, while some 250,000 troops of all arms had been swept from the different fields by a British force numbering under 60,000 – a feat of arms of which we may well be proud.

But there still remained Holkar, and the following year found us at war with him. The evil advice he had had, his own ambitions, and a hatred of the British led him to try his fortunes against us, and had he not made the first move in this matter we ourselves should have done so, for this miscreant treacherously murdered those three officers whom Owen had met at Indore, thus making it imperative that we should attack him. There is no need to tell how a disastrous affair at first marred our fortunes, and how in the end our troops were victorious. Holkar was completely humbled, though it cost us much to bring that end about. Indeed, our troops made four glorious but unsuccessful assaults on the fortress of Bhurtpore, and were still without the walls when a truce was come to. But they were not disheartened, and it was their persistence, their determination to continue the siege that finally brought Holkar to reason.

In this last campaign Owen lost his right arm, and was at once despatched to England. He had already written home to Mr. Halbut and the Sergeant, and had communicated with his grandfather, Sir Owen Marshall, so that on his arrival he had friends and relatives to meet him. He was received with open arms, and when all legal formalities had been completed found himself the possessor of a very fine fortune. His grandfather died in the following year, and Captain Marshall became Sir Owen. Badly maimed by his wounds, he decided to retire from the service, and took up his residence in Cheshire, where he married.

For many a long year after there was a gathering of friends at his mansion to celebrate the anniversary of that eventful day when the Sergeant had fought the farmer for him. Trim and well dressed as of yore, Mr. Halbut was always a prominent figure at the table; while at Owen's right hand would be seen the Sergeant, getting somewhat stout and unwieldy now, no figure for a military tunic; the same Sergeant, however, with his kind heart, his steady strength, and his courtesy. And at the far end of the table sat as comely a lady as could well be found, nodding her dancing curls at our hero.

"To my dear friends, Mr. Halbut and the Sergeant," Owen would say as he lifted his glass. "My dear, join me in this toast."

And when they were seated Mr. Halbut would rise up, stately, and with that frank smile on his lips by which all knew him. "My dear Sergeant, my old friend and helper," he would say in smooth, courtly tones, "on this day of days we lift our glasses to that lad whom we met many years ago. Fill up, my friend. I drink good health, long life, and prosperity to Owen – to Jones of the 64th."