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 Published by TreeShade Books (VB Performance LLP) in 2019
Copyright © Vineet Bajpai, 2019
All Rights Reserved

Vineet Bajpai asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this book.

This is a work of pure fiction. Names, characters, places, institutions and events are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance of any
kind to any actual person living or dead, events and places is entirely coincidental.

The publisher and the author will not be responsible for any action taken by a reader
based on the content of this book. This work does not aim to hurt the sentiment of any
religion, class, sect, region, nationality or gender.

MASTAAN
The Fallen Patriot of Delhi

ISBN: 978-93-89237-04-7

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise be
lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any
form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar
condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser and
without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this public tion may
be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieva system, or transmitted in any form
or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, physical, scanned, recording or
otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case
of brief quotations (not exceeding 200 words) embodied in critical articles or reviews
with appropriate citations.

Published by
TreeShade Books (VB Performance LLP)
Ansal Corporate Park, Sector142, Noida
Uttar Pradesh - 201305, India
Email - [email protected]
www.TreeShadeBooks.com

Printed and Bound in India by

Excel Printer Pvt. Ltd.
A-45, Naraina Industrial Area Phase 1, New Delhi, 110028

Cover Design by
Munisha Nanda
To my seven twinkling stars - Vedika,
Seher, Aditi, Samaya, Vandita,
Arshiya & Mira
 Disclaimer
This is a novel, a work of pure imagination and fiction, written
with the sole intention of entertaining the reader. While the content
has several references to religion, history, institutions, historical
characters, beliefs, myths and structures, it has been presented with
the singular purpose of making the story richer and more
intriguing. The author and the publisher are admirers of all faiths,
religions and nationalities, and respect them equally and deeply.
They make no claim to the correctness of the historical or
mythological references and facts used in this novel. Names of
some well-known historical characters have not been changed with
the only objective of giving the tale a real-life flavor, and those
characters have been given a strong fictional makeover for the
purpose of story-telling only. The author and the publisher have no
intention of offering any opinion on any individual either from the
past or from the present. This book has been developed and
produced by a vibrant multicultural team richly representing
various faiths, beliefs, languages, regions, genders and ethnicities.
 This book is dedicated to the
forgotten heroes of 1857 India’s First
War for Independence.

To the nameless, faceless thousands

who embraced martyrdom & scripted
the genesis of a Nation called India
with their blood.
 TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgements
Prologue

PART 1
Phaansi-gar
The Wounded Timurid
‘Leftinant Saahab...!’
The Old Fox
Mastaan
Nausha Mian
The East India Company
Mohalla Ballimaran
The Half-Faced Dervish
A Letter from Meerut
Laughs and laughs... the Tiger of Mysore!
Enfield Rifles
The Lion of Peshawar
Fay
Nikhaal-bhagwaan!
A Midnight Meeting
An Immortal Brahmin
Mutiny
‘Everything we hold dear...’
The Eternal Spell of Mahbub-e-Ilahi
‘He will avenge me!’
Bandookbaaz!
Jogi
Manikarnika Tambe
Ilahi Bakhsh
Ilahi Bakhsh
Love Against Hate
Meer Taqi Meer

PART 2
Eye of the Blood-Storm
The Murder at Barrackpore
The Last Laugh
The Riders from Meerut
‘Tilange aur Purabiye’
Curse of the Writhing Tiger
The Seventh Burning of Delhi
Gaddaar!
The Armies of Timur
The One-Eyed Horseman
Kashmiri Gate
‘God help the people of Delhi...’
The Tiger’s Lair
Never forgets. Never forgives.
The Powder Magazine
The Flagstaff Tower
SOS
The Black Shadow
‘You just changed the destiny of Hindustan, my friend...’

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

 Acknowledgements
As I wait nervously for the release of Mastaan, it is the most
opportune time for me to express my heartfelt gratitude to the
readers of the Harappa Trilogy, my first three fiction novels.

Whatever I am as an author today is because of the lacs of readers

who not only loved Harappa, Pralay and Kashi boundlessly, but
elevated the books to a cult status. Books of the Harappa Trilogy
remain bestsellers till the date of the writing of this section, and
every week I receive hundreds of emails, tweets and messages
from my readers who shower me with their love. As further
gratification, screen-rights of the books have been picked-up by
none other than Reliance Entertainment, one of the most respected
names in India’s entertainment ecosystem. We hope to see the
books on the big screen of cinema soon. My readers have
embraced the books not only in the English language, but also in
Hindi, Gujarati and Marathi. My indebtedness to them cannot be
described in words.

Coming to Mastaan. My first big ‘thank you’ would be to the

excellent team of my publisher, TreeShade Books. Thank you,
Ruchika, Shobhit, Navin, Pawan, Devaraja, Vikram, Sharat and
everyone else in the TreeShade team for your exceptionally
professional and committed partnership. You supported me not just
during the creative, editorial and print production of the book, but
also in the pre-release marketing campaigns. You guys rock. Like
totally.

A very special mention to the distribution partners of this title,

Gaurav Sabharwal and team Prakash Books, for being an enormous
strength and for being partners in progress. A big shout out to the
teams of my advertising and digital-marketing agencies, Magnon
eg+ and Magnon\TBWA, for offering world-class digital,
advertising and social marketing solutions for the promotions of all
my titles. You guys are, beyond doubt, the best in the business.
Thank you, team Talentrack – your content-strategy and
influencer-marketing campaigns have delivered exceptional results.
Harini Srinivasan, my classy and fantastic Editor, please accept my
gratitude for all the value you have added to this book. Thanks a
million for making the manuscript better than what it was when it
reached you.

My friend and superstar, Sid Jain from The Story Ink – a warm hug
to you for taking my books to their true potential on the big
glamorous screen of cinema. And for being the golden guy you are.
The inimitable Namita Gokhale, thank you for your ever-brutal
critiques but your ever-affectionate generosity. You are a treasure
for India’s scholarly canvas. Lipika Bhushan, Vivek Merani,
Ayushi Srivastava, Iti Khurana, Munisha Nanda, Varun Bajpai...
all of you are the sparkling planets of my literary solar system.

Coming to the glowing inspirations and the research sources that

guided me during the writing of Mastaan. William Dalrymple, you
are my all-time favorite and your magnificent books, The Last
Mughal and White Mughals, were my principal research treasures.
Delhi: A Novel by late Khushwant Singh was a priceless body of
work that not only offered profound insights into the history of
Delhi but also a romantic inventiveness to produce more literature
around the great city. Thank you, Rana Safvi, for your enchanting
book City of My Heart. It helped me understand the softer elements
of the life and times of the splendid Mughal Capital of 1857. I
cannot help but mention some timeless classics that gave me the
overall research underpinning for Mastaan – the novel Kim by the
great Rudyard Kipling; the unforgettable Doordarshan TV serial
Mirza Ghalib, starring the brilliant Naseeruddin Shah and the
immortal Jagjit Singh; and last but never the least, the ever-
supreme Amar Chitra Kathas.

My literary initiatives would not have been a reality without the

undying support of my colleagues and leaders from the iconic eg+
Worldwide, TBWA and Omnicom networks. Paul Hosea, Simon
Toaldo, Alain Rhone, Paul Fothergill, Troy Ruhanen, Denis Streiff
and Neeraj Puri – thanks a million for your affectionate
encouragement. It means the world to me.

Finally, coming to my management team and my family – I am

what I am today because of all of you. The names are too many to
write here, but I think you know who you are. You give me the
strength, the belief, the opportunity and the ambition to reach for
the stars.

Utthishtha!

Rise!

Vineet Bajpai
 Prologue
4th May, 1799 AD
‘His body is still warm.

He… he is refusing to die… John saahab!’

As John McGowen struck the seemingly impregnable stoned floor

yet again with his pickaxe, Muntasir Bakhsh shivered in the
manner of a man possessed. His eyes were rolled up like those of
an entranced dervish of yore, and his body trembled as if it were in
the grip of a primordial djinn – clawing out from the dark depths of
hell.

The nearly deranged young British officer of the East India

Company did not flinch. Not anymore. He could die here tonight,
in this ghostly dungeon, for all he cared.

My spirit will haunt this castle forever. If I don’t acquire this

cursed treasure tonight, no one ever will!

The Englishman had no idea how fateful this thought was going to
turn out.

The cannons continued to roar in a devastating barrage, their iron

slug-balls bouncing off the indestructible praacheer or fort-walls
of Seringapatam, the stronghold of the Tiger of Mysore.

Such a coldblooded war had never been witnessed on earth before.

Never had such a mammoth siege been laid around a castle.

‘Sher-e-Mysoor is a living corpse... saahab,’ Bakhsh persisted.

The profusely sweating John McGowen feigned nonchalance

towards the words of his native accomplice and continued to
feverishly slam the stubborn floor with his pickaxe. But deep down
he was not immune to the horror those words carried. Not even
remotely.

‘It has been three hours since they stabbed him multiple times. You
even shot him under his ear. And yet his body burns like embers...
he... he... he is a ghost, John saahab...’

‘Oh, just shut up, will you, Bakhsh? Shut up! Shut up! SHUT
UP...!’ screamed McGowen, pointing his finger ominously towards
the bearded Mohammedan from the walled city of Delhi.

Convinced that he had silenced the foreteller of their inexplicable

yet imminent doom, McGowen turned back to the arduous task of
breaking further deep into the secret underground vault. What lay
hidden below this last barrier was the known world’s most
priceless, unfathomable treasure.

The treasure of the Tiger.

The Tiger of Mysore.

The treasure of Tipu Sultan!

‘He knows we are here... sneaking... stealing... defiling the treasure

he so loved and nurtured all his life...’ continued Muntasir Bakhsh
in the hissing manner of an unscrupulous thief, now regretting the
day he had agreed to embark upon the riskiest heist of all time.
Only a mad man would dare to tread upon the Tiger’s gold.

Just then the stoned floor gave way. Cracks appeared. John
McGowen raised his excited, terrified eyes to look at his lone
accomplice of this horrifying night. Despite the chilling fear
Muntasir Bakhsh felt, at this moment even his face convoluted,
overcome all over again by the insane lust that gold instils in the
hearts and souls of men.

Instantly forgetting his terror and his laments, he grinned madly at

John. Before long Muntasir joined him in bludgeoning through the
last barrier between them and the world’s most spectacular riches.
In less than thirty minutes, the two men smashed the final
roadblock open and were clambering down the flight of stairs that
lay revealed as the fruit of their courageous labor. The stairway
seemed to lead into the darkest belly of the earth.

As they arrived at their ill-fated destination, what the two nearly

lunatic men saw in the amber light of their flickering wicker-
torches, was beyond their wildest imagination.

What they beheld in front of their dazzled eyes was the world’s
most immeasurable, unimaginable and blinding spectacle of
wealth!

They laughed and laughed.

Hysterical with the breathtaking exhibition of diamonds, rubies,

gold bars, coins, jewelry, statues made of solid gold, chests full of
sapphire, gem-studded vases brimming with precious stones, ropes
made of gold wire, gems of the size of pigeon-eggs, ancient
artefacts, diamond studded swords... all spread over what looked
like a hall with no boundaries, the Englishman from London and
the Hindustani from Delhi went completely insane.

‘You see... you see, you ol’ blighter... this is what I have been
telling you about! From this moment on, you and I will be the
world’s richest men!’ yelled John in uncontrollable ecstasy.

What the young Brit had forgotten was that Tipu, the Emperor of
Mysore, was still not gone. The Tiger’s body had been disfigured
by English swords and cartridges several hours ago. Any human
corpse would have gone stone cold in a few minutes. But not Tipu.
Even after four hours of the collapse of his mutilated body, Tipu’s
cadaver still scorched like a cauldron of hellfire.

He was watching them. From his afterlife.

Tipu’s tortured, enraged soul was now seeking a blood-sacrifice!

In the midst of what was a deathly silence, something stirred. It

was like the rasping sound of rough stone grinding against a hard
surface.

The two treasure-hunters exchanged petrified glances, before

looking in the direction of the unnerving sound.

In their unhinged and premature celebration, John and Muntasir

had missed a very important detail. The staircase that had led them
to this treasure vault had ended in a stone-cut doorway. Almost ten
feet in height and about four feet in its girth, this doorway was
guarded by a sliding obelisk of a gate

– precariously held up above a slippery channel. Stone floor-tiles

of the cellar had been engineered to trigger the closure of this
behemoth of a door when walked upon by unwelcome footsteps.

This massive door had begun to slide down, dropping several feet
in one go. In an instant, the two men realized that a shutter of sorts,
made of a single cut stone-block weighing several tonnes, was
going to seal the vault for good. As dust blew from the groove and
a more unnerving rumble announced the final drop of the stone
colossus, the only two men to have ever entered the Tiger’s
treasure-vault uninvited, felt cold sweat all over their bodies.

This was Tipu’s final trap for anyone who dared to enter his
forbidden lair.

It was only now that they realized, to their cold horror, why Tipu
was not leaving.

The Tiger of Mysore was lingering on for a purpose. Deep down in

the dark, haunting cellars of his beloved Seringapatam Fort,
alongside his fabulous wealth, the ghost of Tipu Sultan was going
to entomb these two wretched men - alive.

For their yaksha or guardian-spirits to protect his cursed yet

priceless treasure.

Forever.
 Phaansi-gar
Delhi-Mathura Highway, December 1856
Their teeth chattered as they pressed on further into the dense
forest, lush green with freshly washed foliage and enveloped by a
foggy, icy mist.

The freezing cold of the outskirts of Delhi had worsened as an

outcome of harsh, unseasonal rains in the month of December.
Shivering under the onslaught of the extreme chill and the
incessant downpour, sipahi or sepoys of the East India Company
could barely keep a grip on their lances, rifles and muskets. The
whiteness of their cold knuckles matched the anxious paleness of
their tense faces, as they inched further into bandit country.

Straining his eyes against the sharp raindrops, as he led his

company of Hindustani sepoys on foot, Subedaar-Major Chhagan
Dubey tightened his grip on his service Brown Bess musket.

DHABBAAAAAAMM...!!

His powerful firearm roared, ripping through the eerie silence of

the winter forest.

DHABBAAAAAAMM...!!

The very next moment he opened fire again into a distant thicket
with his second musket, screaming a caution command so loud that
his neck veins appeared ready to explode.

‘PHAANSI-GAAAA...R!’ he yelled, pointing in the direction of

the undergrowth where he had spotted enemy movement.

Almost instantaneously, Lieutenant Robert D’Cruze, the Regiment

Commander, pulled out his newly commissioned Colt revolver,
and emptied all six of the gun’s chambers in the direction that
Chhagan had pointed towards. His trust on Subedaar-Major
Chhagan was second only to his unquestioned faith on his force’s
most legendary warrior – who was currently leading a parallel
pursuit, not far from where the D’Cruze Regiment was.

The sepoys also followed suit, opening fire a hundred rifles, and
then charging with their bayonets and scimitars.

Hunt for the Phaansi-gar or the dreaded Hangmen had begun.

Phaansi-gar was another name for the notorious and cruel bands of
dacoits and murderers who ravaged Northern India for hundreds of
years – the Thugs!

Looting, robbing and killing unsuspecting traders, travelers and

caravans since the 14th century, the Thugs were the most feared
and despised bands of highway robbers and slaughterers. They had
also wickedly earned the title of Phaansi-gar, because they were
known to befriend travelers, drug them during meals and then
‘hang’ or strangle them to death using a roomal or a noose. A
phaansi.

It was only as late as the 1830s that the then Governor General of
the East India Company, Lord Willian Bentinck, decided to
eradicate the malaise of Thugee. He deployed a massive army of
soldiers and spies to outmaneuver the dacoits. But it was easier
planned than executed. The Thugs were not just robbers murdering
innocent travelers. They were large bands of organized and armed
brigands, fully prepared to take on the might of the East India
Company head-on.

It was an ambush.

Unaware that they were being lured into a bandit-stronghold deep

inside the dense forest, Lieutenant D’Cruze, Subedaar-Major
Chhagan Dubey and their soldiers charged into the depths of the
jungle.

The Thugs were everywhere. Behind bushes, hidden in the thick of

shrubbery, on tree-tops and perched atop hidden machaans. A hail
of poison-tipped arrows, iron-grape crude bombs and country-
made musket-shots greeted the sepoy company in what appeared to
be an inescapable massacre. Twenty of the Hindustani soldiers fell
in a matter of a minute or less.

Even though stunned momentarily at the brutal intensity of the

Thug assault, the well-trained company of the D’Cruze Regiment
soon regained its composure and scrambled for cover. The soldiers
shot back at the bandits with the precision of the able marksmen
that they were, inflicting some losses.

The ever-gallant Lieutenant D’Cruze had by now reloaded his

revolver, even as his horse neighed in panic at the fiery chaos all
around. He took the gun in his left hand and drew the sword
strapped to his saddle with his right. He charged towards the
enemy ranks fearlessly, shooting and slashing at the same time.
Chhagan followed as well, closely on the heels of the young,
decorated British officer.

But despite their renowned valor, today the D’Cruze Regiment was
hopelessly outnumbered. The Thugs were in hundreds.

In the bloodbath and imminent death that surrounded them, every

single sepoy of the company was now hoping for a miracle.

Their very own miracle.

 The Wounded Timurid
Delhi, December 1856
The Badshah of Hindustan was old and angry.

He was a king with no kingdom. A ruler with no subjects. A

monarch with no army.

And he was completely bankrupt.

The meeting appointment of the Badshah with the British Resident

of Delhi was just an hour away.

More humiliation.

The Khalifa – theoretically God’s appointed Regent and the

supposed religious leader of all the Muslims of the entire planet,
the Caliph - felt incapable of even getting out from his decaying
bed of the once-opulent khwaabgaah (sleeping chambers) of the
Great Mughals.

The octogenarian knew very well that the time for his mighty
dynasty’s demise had come.

But the shriveled Timurid – a direct descendant of the fearsome

Taimur Lang or Timur the Lame - harbored a gnawing desire in his
aging heart that only he knew of.

In vicious contrast to his soft and poetic exterior, the heart of the
son of Akbar Shah the second still beat in the manner suited to the
bloodline of Timur himself.

Bahadur Shah hated the British. Deep in the black recesses of his
burning soul, he dreamed of beheading them and hanging their
thrashing bodies publicly at the famous Gates of the walled city of
Delhi.
‘Shukriya, Tanzeem,’ whispered the gentle old emperor to the
kaneez (concubine) who served him his morning laxative prepared
specially by Hakeem Ahsanullah Khan, the Badshah’s trusted
friend, physician and strategist.

There was no escaping the impending meeting. The British

Resident of Delhi was a hard man – respectful in his words but
scathingly insulting in his actions. Every meeting with him meant
more and more concessions being snatched away from the Mughal
grasp. Lower pension for the Badshah and his already poverty-
stricken princes, fewer concubines, restricted palace access, lesser
servants... and more unexpected penalties. The Resident doffed his
hat and stood up from his seat in the presence of Bahadur Shah no
doubt, but those acts of courtesy only added insult to injury.

Bahadur Shah appeared to be a frail, religious man. A poet. A

gardener. A soft soul, incapable of even peaceful conflict, let alone
war.

But underestimating the old king would be an enormous mistake.

I have never needlessly harmed even a fly in my life. But these

firangis are the devil incarnate. The heathen ought to be punished
for their deeds. If only I enjoyed the youth of my great ancestor
Aurangzeb when he ascended the throne... if only I commanded the
formidable armies of Taimur... every British soul in Dilli would
burn in the fires of jahannum (hell).

Setting his far-fetched thoughts aside with a sigh, the tired king
began to dress for the meeting.

Bahadur Shah was, above everything else, a wounded Timurid.

Never for a moment did he forget what his title truly meant.

He was Zafar - the Victorious.

He was Bahadur Shah Zafar!

 ‘Leftinant Saahab...!’
Delhi-Mathura Highway, December 1856
Surrounded on all sides by the deafening explosion of crude bombs
and the cracking of blazing muskets, drenched in sweat, blood and
the freezing downpour, Lieutenant Robert D’Cruze was sorely
regretting his decision.

Grossly undermining the strength of the Thugs, he had sent away

his ablest warrior, his finest sepoy-commander to another territory,
along with a legion of D’Cruze Regiment’s most elite cavalry. The
Lieutenant had sent away the one man who, over the years, had
brought both fame and glory to the D’Cruze Regiment. The one
man who could have changed the face of this increasingly hopeless
battle... singlehandedly.

Fighting seven or eight Thugs simultaneously, the veteran

Subedaar-Major Chhagan Dubey was convinced.

This is it.

He knew he was going to die this cold, rainy morning... at the

hands of the cruel Phaansigar. The odds were insurmountable.

Each of the remaining sepoys was now surrounded by half a dozen

bandits, the latter viciously attacking the men in red tunics with
blades and knives, determined to kill every last one of the soldiers
who had dared to enter their widely feared stronghold.

By now, even Chhagan was missing his best friend dearly

– the man whom Robert D’Cruze had sent away. Fighting fiercely
with a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other, the Subedaar-
Major nurtured one last flicker of hope in his pounding heart.
He must have heard it by now. The guns... the crude bombs.

He must have heard it!

The Colt revolver fell from his hand as a bandit dagger tore
through Robert D’Cruze’s forearm. Despite the mayhem all around
him, this young British officer was not one to retreat or to
surrender easily. Nor was he a stranger to ambushes. He slashed
furiously at the attacking Thug with his sword, instantly inflicting a
mortal wound on the bandit.

But the sepoys were despairingly outnumbered.

Even as one brigand fell, around twenty Phaansigar appeared

menacingly, and began to slowly encircle D’Cruze’s horse. In no
time, the officer of the East India Company was completely
surrounded.

‘Come on, you scoundrels... show me what you’ve got!’ yelled the
gritty Robert, as he prepared for what evidently seemed to be his
last battle.

Just as he was deciding whether he should jump off from his mount
and fight the Thugs on foot or not, something unexpected
happened. In what appeared to be a storm of expertly fired rifle
shots, almost all of the attackers were pushed back stumbling in
different directions by a hail of streaking lead, each of them
crashing on to the wet slush of the ground.

Lieutenant D’Cruze looked around in bewilderment, only to find

his trusted Subedaar-Major staring at him from a distance, with
wide, relieved and jubilant eyes.

‘Leftinant Saahab...!’ Chhagan Dubey yelled, his voice hoarse with

excitement.

His finger was pointing towards someone far away, as he screamed

again – this time his face flush with obvious glee and the rush of
sudden, arrogant confidence.
‘Leftinant Saahab... MASTAAAAAAAAAN...!!!’
 The Old Fox
Delhi, December 1856
‘Good morning, Jahanpanaah,’ said Simon Fraser, as he stood up
from his seat to welcome the old Mughal.

The Resident Commissioner of Delhi had to silently admit that

even at his near-senile age, the Badshah of Hindustan looked
strikingly regal. He lumbered in to the still-lavish Diwan-e-Khaas
– the supremely regal meeting room reserved for the Emperor’s
select visitors, senior courtiers and choicest noblemen. Weighed
down under his fabulous gold-brocaded gown and his royal pearls
and jewels, Zafar was a painful ruin of what his ancestors had once
been.

One could view Bahadur Shah as a dark-skinned, aging, frail and

powerless old poet, surviving only on the crumbs that fell off the
creaking relic of his dynastical table.

And yet, another could see him as who he really was - an ambitious
monarch, a proud emperor, a seething heart and a ravaged soul. An
old fox waiting patiently for his turn to pounce on the juiciest game
ever hunted in world-history.

The wealth and populace of Hindustan!

‘As-salaamu Alaikum, Badshah salaamat. You look healthy and

well.’

‘Alhamdulillah. Wa-Alaikum-Assalaam, Resident saahab’ said the

Mughal, smiling gently at the man he hated more than his blue soul
could bear.

Just like his cold and surgical predecessor, Thomas Metcalfe,

Fraser played along with the usual, farcical cycle of pleasantries.
He knew who was in full and absolute control of this meeting. In
control of Delhi. And in control of entire Hindustan.

‘The East India Company submits its salutations and its allegiance,
your royal Highness,’ began the plump, wily old British officer.

‘Shukriya...’ mumbled Bahadur Shah, waving his bead-twirling

fingers mystically like a sufi saint, trying desperately to hide his
loathing and his disgust.

‘Your Highness, there is something of concern that I need to

discuss with you, with your permission, of course, Sire.’

‘Go on, Resident saahab...’

Fraser now straightened his ornate tunic, kept his white busby on
the ivory-clad table in front of him and came straight to the point.

‘Your Highness, the young royal prince, Mirza Jawan Bakht, needs
to be counseled. Much as he has inherited your divine grace and
your boundless poise, his unbridled youth gets the better of him at
times. We have been receiving several complaints and escalations,
your Highness.’

For a moment, the Resident felt that Zafar had not even heard what
he had said. But then he remembered all his previous audiences
with the old Timurid.

The old scoundrel hears everything.

Several minutes passed as Fraser informed the old Mughal about

the inappropriate conduct of the Badshah’s favorite son – someone
the king had wanted declared as his heir-apparent and had been
canvassing for with the East India Company for years. But much to
Zafar’s now almost gangrenous consternation, first Thomas
Metcalfe and now his successor Simon Fraser, both had
persistently and steadfastly refused the Emperor this request.

After everything that they had slowly yet systematically snatched

away from the wounded Timurid, this was the last straw on the old
king’s stooping back.

Ever since Bahadur Shah had ascended the cold and thorny throne
of Delhi in 1837, not a week had passed without his authority and
his stature being ruthlessly stripped away by the then Resident of
Delhi, Thomas Metcalfe. After the demise of the icy and
calculative Metcalfe, whispered by many in Delhi as nothing but a
murder by slow-poisoning – handiwork of the Palace – the policy
of undermining the throne of Delhi continued unabated under
Metcalfe’s successor, Simon Fraser.

Coins were no longer being minted in the Mughal’s name. He was

prohibited from bestowing titles and honors upon visiting Rajas
and Nawabs of the princely states of Hindustan. His pension was
being squeezed and he was not permitted to take decisions about
his own crown jewels. Hailing from a dynasty that was once
undoubtedly the master of the world’s most fabulous riches, Zafar
had been reduced to borrowing money from the money-lenders of
Delhi. And with the East India Company’s refusal to place his
chosen son on the throne, the old Mughal’s humiliation was
complete.

His heart was now brimming over with scorching hate.

Bahadur Shah Zafar prayed every morning and every night for a
chance at retribution.

Unbeknownst to him, his prayers were being heard.

Far-far away from Delhi, on the outskirts of the port of Calcutta, a

rifle-cartridge manufacturing factory was forging bullets with the
name of the East India Company written on them.
 Mastaan
Delhi-Mathura Highway, December 1856
Robert D’Cruze turned to look in the direction that Chhagan Dubey
was pointing towards.

The very next instant, the Lieutenant’s ash and blood-stained face
broke into a broad grin of reprieve and gratitude. What he beheld
was a familiar sight – one that promised him a sure-shot gift,
despite the day’s horrible odds.

Yet again.

They were going to win the battle today.

In their typically impressive rifle-swirling move practiced over

months and years, the riders of the incoming legion reloaded their
guns with dazzling speed. Each of them used only one hand and
their teeth to refill the smoking gun-barrels with black powder and
round lead bullets. Even before the enemy could dive for cover,
another volley of cartridges was fired by the incoming riders,
almost each iron-pellet finding its mark.

Robert looked at these splendid men from his very own D’Cruze
Regiment. In a flash, he remembered all the battles, that no one had
believed were winnable, being won by this brilliant troop of
warriors. Whether it was a fierce skirmish with the violent tribes of
the eastern forests or a night-battle with the soldiers of powerful
nawabs of the central provinces, the D’Cruze Regiment had built a
reputation of being invincible.

Even though he was a full-blooded and fearless commander of his

men himself, deep inside his heart Robert D’Cruze knew it was not
his British leadership that had made his Regiment shine. Tales of
the D’Cruze troops had travelled far and wide because of the man
who was leading the incoming party of fifty formidable rifle-men.

The party was being led by the man every single one of them
worshipped. These unafraid men were being led by who they
believed was an unstoppable force of nature.

They were being led by the boisterous, flamboyant, loud-mouthed

and magnificent...

Mastaan!

The Phaansigar felt as if they had been struck by a typhoon of

whizzing bullets and scathing blades.

As the fifty riders of Mastaan’s cavalry split into five columns,

each devastating column charging into a different direction of the
battlefield, they tore into the Thug formations. The first one to
benefit from the dazzling onslaught of Mastaan himself was
Subedaar-Major Chhagan.

As always, Chhagan was mesmerized when he saw Mastaan ride

like the wind towards the manic Thugs that had surrounded his
own tired Subedaar-Major self. Dressed in his typical flowing grey
mufti outfit, galloping through the torrential rain atop a gleaming
black stallion and twirling a menacing blade with his wrist, the
approaching rider looked like a misty ethereal warrior from the
fantasy tales. Moments before he pounced onto the horde of
attackers surrounding Chhagan, Mastaan’s feet were up on his
saddle, as he rode his beauty of a mount without any grip on the
reigns.

It was short work for the dreaded, brown-eyed, masterful fighter.

Wielding two short axes, one in each hand, Mastaan moved in,
what could best be described as, a mingled blur of his long flowing
hair, the gleam of his axe blades and the crimson shower from the
gashed bodies of the Thugs. What was going to take Chhagan, if at
all, forever, was accomplished by his inseparable friend Mastaan in
a matter of a few seconds. Dead or dying Thugs now lay writhing
all around Subedaar-Major Chhagan Dubey, with his friend
kneeling in the center, in a battle stance, his arms outstretched and
his axes dripping with Phaansigar blood.

In the midst of all the surrounding gunfire and slaughter, Chhagan

could not help but quietly admire his childhood friend.

He was indeed magnificent.

Mastaan – the magnificent.

‘Excuse me, Mastaan, you lout... why on earth are you interfering
in my affairs?’ shouted Chhagan at his friend. The Subedaar-Major
was now panting with unhidden fatigue and respite.

Mastaan turned to look at Chhagan, with eyes sparkling like the

north star, his handsome features accentuated under his youthful
stubble and a thin film of sweat all over his face.

‘I will deal with your blabbering a little later, Subedaar-Major

saahab. For now, would you care to join me in rushing to Robert
saab’s aid?’

Chhagan nodded almost imperceptibly. Without a moment’s delay

he had picked up his sword and his dagger back in his firm grip.
After this quick exchange, both men scrambled towards the spot
where Robert D’Cruze still fought valiantly against five
bloodthirsty Thugs.

The remaining Phaansigar clambered frantically for cover.

Clawing their way through the wet mud in a failing endeavor to

find some shelter behind bushes or tree trunks, by now, they had
accepted the swift turn of fortunes.

But despite their desperate attempts to flee, each one of them was
now being dragged back onto the battlefield, kicked with heavy
service boots and hacked to pieces.

Mercilessly.

Under the righteous command of Lieutenant Robert D’Cruze,

Subedaar-Major Chhagan Dubey and Subedaar Mastaan, the
D’Cruze Regiment fought with great honor. Never was an unarmed
adversary assaulted. Never did they harm a surrendering prisoner
of war. Not once did the Regiment inflict damage on women and
children. They never looted. Never raped. Never plundered. Never
attacked a religious building. Never burnt homes or poisoned wells.

And it was for this distinguished service that his Company

superiors had granted young Robert D’Cruze the exceptional honor
of leading an entire Regiment ensigned under his own family
name.

However, the Regiment charred all books of honor to ashes and

buried all traces of humanity when confronted with those who
ambushed and butchered their comrades in a cowardly fashion.
Attacking from hidden rat-holes and murdering their brothers of
the Regiment by surrounding them like the hyena, the Phaansigar
had done themselves great disservice.

They were now paying the price for it.

The forest lair of the Thugs was being rinsed with Thug-blood.
It had taken Mastaan and Chhagan less than a few seconds to
overpower the bandits besieging their Lieutenant.

‘Ask your men to stop this massacre now, Mastaan,’ said Robert.
‘Arrest these dogs. Stop the killing! We are not them.’

‘Yes, leftinant saahab,’ replied Mastaan, as he threw his shoulder-

length hair back, tying it into a loose pony-tail and blew a loud and
sharp whistle that his men were fully familiar with. The killing
stopped that very instant.

‘But with your permission, janaab, may I ask the men to kill this
Subedaar-Major Chhagnu? He is a liability...’

The three splendid men laughed out wholeheartedly, as Chhagan

made a half-hearted attempt to land a kick on Mastaan’s backside.
Robert thoroughly enjoyed the endless banter between his two
ablest men. He knew they were like blood-brothers, even though
Chhagan was Mastaan’s superior in rank. The two men could die
for each other.

Little did this remarkable trio know then.

That the history of Delhi awaited them... and that they were fated
to write it with their blood.
 Nausha Mian
Darya Ganj, Delhi, December 1856
‘Don’t be an idiot, Mastaan... we cannot afford this place,’
protested Chhagan.

It was payday. Tens of thousands of sepoys of the East India

Company were in an upbeat mood. Unlike the ragtag, irregular and
almost perpetually unpaid armies that the princes and nawabs of
Hindustan maintained, the soldiers of the East India Company
enjoyed a significantly more organized employment. Wages were
paid regularly, allowances for uniforms were provided, rations
were wholesome and dark rum was not a rarity.

And yet, something was not right.

There was anger seething as an undercurrent. The bond of trust that

once knit the British officers and the Hindustani sepoys of the
Company together into a formidable military behemoth, one that
had conquered the entire sub-continent, had rapidly corroded with
the passage of time and the rising might of the trading company.

‘Don’t be a miser, Chhagnu. Your beloved beauty from the haveli

on the hill is not going to wait for you. Very soon she will marry a
fat, bald Muslim merchant. So, no point saving money for her. We
deserve the good life, my friend!’ replied Mastaan, dragging his
friend into Sherbet, the most expensive of Delhi taverns located in
the elite streets of Darya Ganj – the residential area of the rich and
powerful of the Mughal capital.

On this cold and foggy winter evening, Delhi sparkled like a

queen’s jewel. While it was well past its golden prime in the
aftermath of Nadir Shah’s bloodstained invasion and infamous
qatl-e-aam or genocide in 1739, the relics of Delhi’s glory were
still unmatched by any other city in the world.
Even though the Mughal Badshah was caged in his own crumbling
palace, the streets of Delhi teased the beholder like the timeless
beauty of an aging harlot. The fragrance of the spices, the glitter of
the chudi stalls, the street-side mushairas or poet congregations,
the jingling of paayal from the courtesans’ quarters, the aroma of
roasting kebabs over slow fires... all of this blended exquisitely
with Delhi’s rich and intricate dialect. Every word spoken in the
by-lanes of the greatest city of Hindustan was laced with the
finesse of its unique Ganga-Jamuni tehzeeb. Delhi was beyond
question what its residents believed it to be.

Dilli was firdaus.

It was paradise.

‘But Mastaan, every pitcher of beer here is worth four paisa,

brother. The way we drink, we will end up burning away a week’s
wages! This place is for the nobles, bhai. Let us go to Sitara’s
tavern like we always do. I know you love the way she looks at
you!’

Chhagan Dubey was trying his best to persuade his friend away
from the sophisticated watering hole. He knew he was himself
going to glug down two pitchers... at the very least. Mastaan would
not stop before downing three or four! This ridiculous plan meant
lighting several days’ hard-earned salary with a match.

‘One more pitcher!’ screamed Chhagan, as he slammed his glass

down on the polished wooden table of Sherbet, by now raising a
few noblemen’s eyebrows with his somewhat uncouth conduct. Its
air fragranced with the expensive ittra of its patrons, Sherbet was a
place that otherwise boasted of the most refined gentlemen from
the famous high-streets and mansions of Delhi.

As the gorgeous waitress served Chhagan his fifth pitcher, she

winked at the ruggedly handsome Mastaan. To her delight, he
winked back. With all his masculine confidence bordering
shamelessly on arrogance, this young man from Oudh (Awadh or
modern-day Lucknow) thoroughly enjoyed his own magnetic
charm when it came to the ladies. He was impudently flirtatious.
And yet, somehow, he turned endearingly shy when at the
receiving end of a bold woman’s direct glare.

‘Look, Mastaan... we all love Robert saahab. He is a gem of a man,

no doubt. But things are changing, my friend. Something horrible
seems to be lurking towards all of us... towards all of Dilli.’

Even in his drunk state, Subedaar-Major Chhagan Dubey was

trying to say something to his closest friend.

‘Chhagnu... don’t scramble my brain and make...’ Even before

Mastaan could complete his sentence, a loud table of aging
noblemen erupted in praise for the gilded words of someone who
appeared to be an audaciously conceited shaayar (poet).

‘Baazicha-e-atfaal hai, duniya mere aagey;

Hota hai shab-o-roz tamasha mere aagey.’

‘The world is nothing more than a playground of children for me;

Each day is all but a new theatrical drama played out for me.’

Both Mastaan and Chhagan turned to the table that seemed to be

crowded with admirers of the aging poet.

The bearded, aged yet unconventionally striking shaayar continued.

‘Matt poochh ke kya haal hai, mera tere peechhe;

Tu dekh ke kya rang hai, tera mere aagey.’

‘Don’t ask me what state I am in when you are not with me;

Observe what you become when you present yourself to be

beholden by me.’

‘Waah! Waah, Nausha Mian...! Mashallah!’ the tavern erupted

with thundering applause.This poet from Delhi was indeed
extraordinary.

Mastaan, who understood and appreciated a good Urdu couplet

when he heard one, was instantly impressed. Such condescension,
such unabashed immodesty in words... it was rare, brilliant! The
poet’s boldness directly matched the pride that the D’Cruze
Regiment’s most legendary warrior took in himself. He connected
and identified with the old shaayar’s kalaam immediately.

But Chhagan did not allow Mastaan to focus any further on the
poetry.

He had something to warn his friend about. Something that was

going to give an ominous new meaning to the name of the
spectacular Mughal castle, in and around which the splendid city of
Delhi was spread out.

Laal Qila.

The Red Fort.

 The East India Company
Darya Ganj, Delhi, December 1856
‘The sipahi are angry, Mastaan. All of them. You are blind if you
cannot see it all around you!’

By now Chhagan was nearly completely inebriated. It was, in fact,

the liquor that was giving him the courage to speak against the East
India Company in front of his dearest friend – who was
undoubtedly among the most loyal servants to the imperialistic
trading giant.

Over barely a couple of centuries, the British East India Company

had metamorphosed from being a humble trading outfit that paid
taxes and homage to the Mughal court, into a mammoth political
monster that dominated large swathes of Hindustan. With the
defeat and cruel killing of someone widely believed to be
invincible, the Tiger of Mysore Tipu Sultan, on 4th May, 1799, the
Company became unstoppable. With this unquestioned military
supremacy came the series of events that were to script the violent
history of Hindustan over the next few decades – and lead to the
bloodiest military uprising against British imperialism anywhere in
the world.

The first few generations of English officers, clerks and soldiers

who boarded creaking ships and arrived on the busy ports of
Bombay and Calcutta during the early years of the trading
company, fell in love with the Hindustan they discovered. The
drastic change from the cold moors of the English countryside to
the inviting, sunny plains of the Central Provinces – India was a
welcome paradise.

From the lavishly embroidered native clothing to the dusky,

beautiful Indian women, these Englishmen embraced the country
with open arms. Exemplified by senior officers of the Company
like Sir David Ochterlony, who began to dress like a Mughal
nobleman and took thirteen Indian wives, the Englishmen
unabashedly colored themselves in the rich palate of Indian culture.
Several British officers took deep interest in the religious epics,
philosophies and scriptures of Hindustan. Many of them enjoyed
the hospitality of native friends and reciprocated in the same
manner, relishing steaming kebabs and smoking the hukkah with
great merriment. Innumerable British officers and soldiers settled
down with their beloved Indian wives and nurtured offspring and
happy households.

But then things changed, like they always do when one friend
prospers orbits beyond the other. Unlike the strapping,
impressionable young men that the Company sent to India in its
early years, the new wave of Company officers came in at older
ages, and with the conceited air of rulers, brimming with disdain
for everything native.

Indians were not friends anymore. They were merely subjects.

Hindustan was no more a land of wonder, soul-seeking and
fantasy. It was a market ready to be exploited, offering fragmented
kingdoms ready to be ruled. An aging Badshah, presiding over a
dying dynasty, ripe to be thrown into the dustbins of history.
Hindustani sepoys, once the greatest military asset of the
Company, were now being taken for granted. A Company that was
for long respected as an institution of enterprise, fairness and
industry, had an entire continent rudely disillusioned when the
nefarious Opium War was imposed upon China in the year 1839
and won.

Things worsened thereafter. The savage, unjustified annexation of

Oudh earlier that year in February of 1856 made matters worse.
Just like the kingdoms of Satara and Jhansi before it, the
prosperous and culturally splendid kingdom of Oudh was wrested
away from Nawab Wajid Ali Shah under Lord Dalhousie’s
draconian Doctrine of Lapse, and the pretext that the king of Oudh
was a sexual debauch. All of Hindustan was stunned into anger at
this ruthless injustice and glaring misuse of military supremacy.

Drunk with power, the East India Company had made more
enemies than it could have ever envisaged.

And by far the most dangerous among these invisible enemies

resided in the Company’s own chhaavanis or cantonments. Hate
had begun to simmer within the ranks of the Indian sepoys. Silent
nods and glances among them were a telling sign of an impending,
brutal uprising.

A great mutiny.

A battle to overthrow the yoke of a foreign oppressor.

A war for the unification and independence of all of Hindustan.

‘Soch-samajh ke bol, Chhagnu...’ warned an alarmed Mastaan.

‘Think well before you speak, Chhagnu...’

For Mastaan the Company meant everything. It was not just his
employer. It was his family. It was all he had.

His father, the late sipahi Ram Narayan Pandey, had been killed in
service for the East India Company. Without hesitating for a
moment, sipahi Pandey had covered the mouth of a flaming enemy
cannon with his own body – in order to protect his British masters.
They never found even a pound of his flesh to cremate as per
Hindu rites.

As a conscientious repayment of this great debt, none other than

the legendary William Fraser had taken in an orphaned Mastaan.
Sipahi Pandey’s boy had been raised by the formidable Englishman
like his own son.

William Fraser, Agent to the Governor General of India and also

the Commissioner of the Delhi Region, was a phenomenally
domineering personality. A man who enjoyed hunting tigers armed
with nothing but a spear, Fraser had embraced Mastaan and had
personally taught the beautiful lad everything – shooting, hunting,
riding, fighting with swords and spears, politics, Indian scriptures,
appreciation for Urdu, for English and for art. He had leveraged the
boy’s unusual penchant for physical training and unarmed combat
and had turned Mastaan into a fighting machine. It was not long
before Fraser had realized that he was mentoring a child
extraordinaire, a rare prodigy.

But once again destiny had a very different plan for Mastaan. As he
turned barely ten years of age, following the footsteps of sipahi
Ram Narayan Pandey, Fraser also left the young boy in an
untimely fashion. On 22nd March 1835, the Commissioner of Delhi
fell to an assassin’s bullet on the hill of the Delhi Ridge. Orphaned
again, Mastaan soon found himself lodged in the sweaty barracks
of the Company’s cantonments. But by this time Fraser had
ensured two things. One, that loyalty to the East India Company
ran in the very bloodstream of Mastaan’s body.

And two, that sipahi Pandey’s son was set to emerge as all of
Hindustan’s greatest combat soldier.
 Mohalla Ballimaran
Darya Ganj, Delhi, December 1856
Mastaan bundled his drunk friend into a hired palanquin. His dear
Chhagnu had passed out, mumbling something that was disturbing
Mastaan deeply. His words against the Company Bahadur, as the
East India Company was commonly referred to in India, were
ringing in the ears of William Fraser’s protégé.

‘Everyone is angry, Mastaan...’ Chhagan had said in his slurring

yet well-meaning gabble.

‘The Company Bahadur now treats us like animals. It is not the

same as it was in the days of Fraser saahab or the other benevolent
officers of the good old times. Mark my words, Mastaan... a revolt
is going to raise its ugly head against the Company any day now.
You know the officers well, Mastaan... they respect you more than
any of us... you speak their language. Talk to them... warn them...
my friend...’

As Chhagan’s palanquin disappeared into a narrow lane of the

Mughal city, Mastaan turned to walk towards the Company
chhaavani all by himself. Worried as he was, he enjoyed these solo,
long walks in the constricted by-lanes of the city - that eventually
merged into the sparkling high-streets of Chandni Chowk or into
the windy banks of the Jumna (Yamuna) river on the far side.

While it was well past midnight, the vibrant city of Delhi had not
turned-in for the night. Many a maikhaana or wine-bar was open
even now, catering to the revelers for whom the evening had just
begun. The air of the glowing city was rich with the aromas of
scented wines, charcoal grilled spiced meats and the fragrance of
jasmine emanating from the gajra of the intoxicating Delhi
courtesans, or from the wrists of their most intimate guests.

The night was far from quiet. The melodious jingling of dancers’
paayals blended with the sound of soul-searching ghazal recitals,
or the distant rhythmic percussion of the tabla. Mastaan smiled to
himself.

This city is blessed by the Gods.

As he crossed the imposing Jama Masjid from a distance and the

Kabutar Bazaar (pigeon market) to his left, Mastaan saw an old
man in a big gown and a tall Turkish cap doubled-up over an open
drain, holding on to a wall’s edge to maintain his precarious
balance. Mastaan figured that the senile nobleman was totally
drunk.

Mastaan was not one to leave an old man unattended, even if the
timeworn gentleman had inflicted his current state upon himself by
excessive consumption of what was, as Mastaan’s olfactory senses
could tell, rose-scented wine.

How many drunk men do I need to tend to tonight?!

‘May I help you, Sir...?’ asked Mastaan, bending a little to enable

the old drunk to see him.

In a flash, the Subedaar of D’Cruze Regiment recognized the

intoxicated man’s face.

The conceited shaayar from the tavern!

‘Thank you... but no thank you, young man! Go on... go on along

your path. Let none among us pretend as if we live anymore in the
gracious Delhi of yore,’ replied the old poet, laughing cynically
and coughing at the same time.

Mastaan did not flinch, even as he empathized with the painful plea
in the aging poet’s words. All of Delhi’s old timers today shared
this common lament. Without hesitating Mastaan took hold of the
shaayar’s elbow and gently raised the man’s arm around his own
shoulder. He wrapped his other arm around the poet’s waist and
assisted him to stand straight and start walking.
‘I will drop you home, Sir. Where do you live?’

Even in his drunk state, the arrogant shaayar from Sherbet turned
to look at Mastaan. He had the most intelligent and piercing eyes
Mastaan had ever seen in a man so advanced in age.

‘Drop me to Ballimaran, if you must...’ the old man stuttered, still

showing absolutely no sign of reduced smugness.

‘Ballimaran?’ exclaimed an excited Mastaan. ‘That is the mohalla

(neighborhood) where even the great Mirza Asadullah Baig Khan
also lives! You must be knowing him...?’

‘Hah! You know of him...?’

‘Yes, of course! Who doesn’t know of the greatest shaayar of

modern times? I have never seen him, but I follow his work. He is
absolutely brilliant... don’t you think?’

The old poet in the Turkish hat laughed out loud, once again his
laughter ending with a violent bout of coughing.

‘Hmmm... he is just about okay.’

‘Why did you say let us not pretend that we live in the Delhi of
yore, Sir?’ asked Mastaan, as the two of them trudged along the
now dimming streets towards the colony of Ballimaran. ‘And why
was everyone at Sherbet addressing you as Nausha Mian? As I
understand, Nausha means a groom or a son-in-law...’

The poet grinned and nodded. There was definitely something

extraordinary about this man, Mastaan thought.

‘Let me answer your second question first, young man... what did
you say your name was?’

‘They call me Mastaan, bade mian.’

‘Mastaan? But you don’t seem to be a Mussalmaan, my friend.

Mastaan is a Persian name, meaning one who is intoxicated in the
elixir of God. So, what is your story?’

William Fraser’s protégé smiled and replied, keeping his answer as

brief as possible.

‘I was named by a very generous Englishman. He named me after

the scimitar of a great Persian king. Apparently, the legendary
sword called Mastaan never lost a battle.’

‘Hmm... a sword? Impressive. And true to your name, with your

long tresses, those deep eyes and your lean muscular built, you
must be quite the slayer among the incomparable beauties of
Delhi!’ exclaimed the drunk old man laughing, suddenly sounding
a lot less drunk.

‘You know, Mastaan,’ the aging shaayar continued, ‘the Delhi your
young eyes witness today is just a bleak patch on the paradise city
it once was. When I got married and came here to live with my in-
laws from my hometown of Agra, hence the name Nausha Mian by
the way, I felt as if I had entered the doors of heaven, the gates of
jannat. But just like the most divine and pious among beauties
draw vile stares of the most decadent of men, the fragrance of this
city of cities became irresistible for the men who were overcome
with lust – for wealth, for conquest and for overlord-ship. They
came and tore this beauty to shreds, murdered her lovers and burnt
down the homes and temples that held her in boundless adoration.
And look what we have become today. The noblemen of this day
have the manners and courtesies like those of the cup-bearers of
Delhi in its golden age. The poets that adorn the tired court of the
Great Mughals today are equal in talent to that of the palanquin-
bearers of the Delhi of yore!’

With these grieving words of evident dejection, the old shaayar

raised his arm to indicate that they had arrived at his destination.

The mohalla of Ballimaran.

‘You can stop here, young man. We have reached the

gareebkhana, the humble abode of yours truly.’
Something magnetic about the inebriated shaayar set him apart
from all the other noblemen and poets of Delhi that Mastaan had
had the opportunity of meeting.

As the tired old man tapped the young warrior’s shoulder in a

subtle yet affectionate expression of gratitude and turned to leave,
Mastaan felt the urge to meet this unusually intelligent, strangely
inspiring man again.

‘Nausha Mian... you did not tell me your name. My friend and I
heard your verses at the tavern in Darya Ganj. They were out of
this world! What is your name, bade mian, and what is your pen-
name?’ Mastaan called out.

The shaayar wrapped his flowing robe tightly around himself to

fight off the biting cold. He turned and smiled at Mastaan, raised
his hand in slow farewell, as he uttered another sher before
disappearing behind the purdah that guarded the pride of his
dilapidated haveli.

‘Haiin aur bhi zamaane mein sukhanvar bahaut achhe;

Kehte haiin ke Ghalib ka hai, andaaz-e-bayaan aur.’

‘While there are several other excellent poets in the world;

They say that Ghalib has a class of expression altogether

superior.’

For several moments Mastaan stood dumbstruck at the entrance of

this ill-maintained haveli. It was only now that it struck him.

How could I have been such a fool?

I have just dropped home a legendary shaayar – the most immortal

of them all!

Mastaan turned around, slapped his head in joyous rebuke and

laughed as he walked away from the small haveli in Ballimaran.

Good night, Mirza Nausha, he thought to himself.

Good night, Mirza Ghalib.
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Title: Ravenshoe

Author: Henry Kingsley

Illustrator: Richard Caton Woodville

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RAVENSHOE
CHARLES IN THE BALACLAVA CHARGE.
Drawn by R. Caton Woodville.
Ravenshoe. Page 355.

RAVENSHOE
BY
 HENRY KINGSLEY
NEW EDITION—THIRD THOUSAND

WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY R. CATON

WOODVILLE

LONDON
WARD, LOCK AND BOWDEN, LIMITED
WARWICK HOUSE, SALISBURY SQUARE, E.C.
NEW YORK AND MELBOURNE
1894

[All rights reserved]

To

MY BROTHER,

CHARLES KINGSLEY,

I DEDICATE THIS TALE,

IN TOKEN OF A LOVE WHICH ONLY GROWS STRONGER
AS WE BOTH GET OLDER.
 PREFACE.
The language used in telling the following story is not (as I hope the
reader will soon perceive) the Author's, but Mr. William Marston's.
The Author's intention was, while telling the story, to develop, in the
person of an imaginary narrator, the character of a thoroughly good-
hearted and tolerably clever man, who has his fingers (as he would
say himself) in every one's pie, and who, for the life of him, cannot
keep his own counsel—that is to say, the only person who, by any
possibility, could have collected the mass of family gossip which
makes up this tale.
Had the Author told it in his own person, it would have been told
with less familiarity, and, as he thinks, you would not have laughed
quite so often.
 CONTENTS.
PAGE

CHAPTER I
AN ACCOUNT OF THE FAMILY OF RAVENSHOE 1

CHAPTER II.
SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE FOREGOING 10

CHAPTER III.
IN WHICH OUR HERO'S TROUBLES BEGIN 14

CHAPTER IV.
FATHER MACKWORTH 20

CHAPTER V.
RANFORD 23

CHAPTER VI.
THE "WARREN HASTINGS" 34

CHAPTER VII.
IN WHICH CHARLES AND LORD WELTER DISTINGUISH
THEMSELVES AT THE UNIVERSITY 44

CHAPTER VIII.
JOHN MARSTON 50

CHAPTER IX.
ADELAIDE 57
CHAPTER X.
LADY ASCOT'S LITTLE NAP 63

CHAPTER XI.
GIVES US AN INSIGHT INTO CHARLES'S DOMESTIC RELATIONS,
AND SHOWS HOW THE GREAT CONSPIRATOR
SOLILOQUISED TO THE GRAND CHANDELIER 69

CHAPTER XII.
CONTAINING A SONG BY CHARLES RAVENSHOE, AND ALSO
FATHER TIERNAY'S OPINION ABOUT THE FAMILY 79

CHAPTER XIII.
THE BLACK HARE 86

CHAPTER XIV.
LORD SALTIRE'S VISIT, AND SOME OF HIS OPINIONS 92

CHAPTER XV.
CHARLES'S "LIDDELL AND SCOTT" 99

CHAPTER XVI.
MARSTON'S ARRIVAL 104

CHAPTER XVII.
IN WHICH THERE IS ANOTHER SHIPWRECK 107

CHAPTER XVIII.
MARSTON'S DISAPPOINTMENT 114

CHAPTER XIX.
ELLEN'S FLIGHT 121

CHAPTER XX.
RANFORD AGAIN 124
CHAPTER XXI.
CLOTHO, LACHESIS, AND ATROPOS 131

CHAPTER XXII.
THE LAST GLIMPSE OF OXFORD 139

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE LAST GLIMPSE OF THE OLD WORLD 142

CHAPTER XXIV.
THE FIRST GLIMPSE OF THE NEW WORLD 146

CHAPTER XXV.
FATHER MACKWORTH BRINGS LORD SALTIRE TO BAY, AND WHAT
CAME OF IT 152

CHAPTER XXVI.
THE GRAND CRASH 160

CHAPTER XXVII.
THE COUP DE GRACE 167

CHAPTER XXVIII.
FLIGHT 176

CHAPTER XXIX.
CHARLES'S RETREAT UPON LONDON 180

CHAPTER XXX.
MR. SLOANE 185

CHAPTER XXXI.
LIEUTENANT HORNBY 190
CHAPTER XXXII.
SOME OF THE HUMOURS OF A LONDON MEWS. 194

CHAPTER XXXIII.
A GLIMPSE OF SOME OLD FRIENDS 200

CHAPTER XXXIV.
IN WHICH FRESH MISCHIEF IS BREWED 203

CHAPTER XXXV.
IN WHICH AN ENTIRELY NEW, AND, AS WILL BE SEEN
HEREAFTER, A MOST IMPORTANT CHARACTER IS
INTRODUCED 211

CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE DERBY 219

CHAPTER XXXVII.
LORD WELTER'S MÉNAGE 227

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE HOUSE FULL OF GHOSTS 235

CHAPTER XXXIX.
CHARLES'S EXPLANATION WITH LORD WELTER 242

CHAPTER XL.
A DINNER PARTY AMONG SOME OLD FRIENDS 246

CHAPTER XLI.
CHARLES'S SECOND EXPEDITION TO ST. JOHN'S WOOD 252

CHAPTER XLII.
RAVENSHOE HALL, DURING ALL THIS 261

CHAPTER XLIII.
THE MEETING 270

CHAPTER XLIV.
ANOTHER MEETING 275

CHAPTER XLV.
HALF A MILLION 285

CHAPTER XLVI.
TO LUNCH WITH LORD ASCOT 288

CHAPTER XLVII.
LORD HAINAULT'S BLOTTING-BOOK 302

CHAPTER XLVIII.
IN WHICH CUTHBERT BEGINS TO SEE THINGS IN A NEW LIGHT
309

CHAPTER XLIX.
THE SECOND COLUMN OF "THE TIMES" OF THIS DATE, WITH
OTHER MATTERS 317

CHAPTER L.
SHREDS AND PATCHES 320

CHAPTER LI.
IN WHICH CHARLES COMES TO LIFE AGAIN 327

CHAPTER LII.
WHAT LORD SALTIRE AND FATHER MACKWORTH SAID
WHEN THEY LOOKED OUT OF THE WINDOW 335

CHAPTER LIII.
CAPTAIN ARCHER TURNS UP 343

CHAPTER LIV.
CHARLES MEETS HORNBY AT LAST 349

CHAPTER LV.
ARCHER'S PROPOSAL 358

CHAPTER LVI.
SCUTARI 369

CHAPTER LVII.
WHAT CHARLES DID WITH HIS LAST EIGHTEEN SHILLINGS 374

CHAPTER LVIII.
THE NORTH SIDE OF GROSVENOR SQUARE 379

CHAPTER LIX.
LORD ASCOT'S CROWNING ACT OF FOLLY 391

CHAPTER LX.
THE BRIDGE AT LAST 400

CHAPTER LXI.
SAVED 411

CHAPTER LXII.
MR. JACKSON'S BIG TROUT 415

CHAPTER LXIII.
IN WHICH GUS CUTS FLORA'S DOLL'S CORNS 420

CHAPTER LXIV.
THE ALLIED ARMIES ADVANCE ON RAVENSHOE 423

CHAPTER LXV.
FATHER MACKWORTH PUTS THE FINISHING TOUCH ON
HIS GREAT PIECE OF EMBROIDERY 427
CHAPTER LXVI.
GUS AND FLORA ARE NAUGHTY IN CHURCH, AND THE
WHOLE BUSINESS COMES TO AN END 438
RAVENSHOE.
 CHAPTER I.
AN ACCOUNT OF THE FAMILY OF RAVENSHOE.
I had intended to have gone into a family history of the Ravenshoes,
from the time of Canute to that of her present Majesty, following it
down through every change and revolution, both secular and
religious; which would have been deeply interesting, but which
would have taken more hard reading than one cares to undertake
for nothing. I had meant, I say, to have been quite diffuse on the
annals of one of our oldest commoner families; but, on going into
the subject, I found I must either chronicle little affairs which ought
to have been forgotten long ago, or do my work in a very patchy
and inefficient way. When I say that the Ravenshoes have been
engaged in every plot, rebellion, and civil war, from about a century
or so before the Conquest to 1745, and that the history of the house
was marked by cruelty and rapacity in old times, and in those more
modern by political tergiversation of the blackest dye, the reader will
understand why I hesitate to say too much in reference to a name
which I especially honour. In order, however, that I may give some
idea of what the hereditary character of the family is, I must just
lead the reader's eye lightly over some of the principal events of
their history.
The great Irish families have, as is well known, a banshee, or
familiar spirit, who, previous to misfortune or death, flits moaning
round the ancestral castle. Now although the Ravenshoes, like all
respectable houses, have an hereditary lawsuit; a feud (with the
Humbys of Hele); a ghost (which the present Ravenshoe claims to
have repeatedly seen in early youth); and a buried treasure: yet I
have never heard that they had a banshee. Had such been the case,
that unfortunate spirit would have had no sinecure of it, but rather
must have kept howling night and day for nine hundred years or so,
in order to have got through her work at all. For the Ravenshoes
were almost always in trouble, and yet had a facility of getting out
again, which, to one not aware of the cause, was sufficiently
inexplicable. Like the Stuarts, they had always taken the losing side,
and yet, unlike the Stuarts, have always kept their heads on their
shoulders, and their house over their heads. Lady Ascot says that, if
Ambrose Ravenshoe had been attainted in 1745, he'd have been
hung as sure as fate: there was evidence enough against him to
hang a dozen men. I myself, too, have heard Squire Densil declare,
with great pride, that the Ravenshoe of King John's time was the
only Baron who did not sign Magna Charta; and if there were a
Ravenshoe at Runnymede, I have not the slightest doubt that such
was the case. Through the Rose wars, again, they were always on
the wrong side, whichever that might have been, because your
Ravenshoe, mind you, was not bound to either side in those times,
but changed as he fancied fortune was going. As your Ravenshoe
was the sort of man who generally joined a party just when their
success was indubitable—that is to say, just when the reaction
against them was about to set in—he generally found himself among
the party which was going down hill, who despised him for not
joining them before, and opposed to the rising party, who hated him
because he had declared against them. Which little game is common
enough in this present century among some men of the world, who
seem, as a general rule, to make as little by it as ever did the
Ravenshoes.
Well, whatever your trimmers make by their motion nowadays, the
Ravenshoes were not successful either at liberal conservatism or
conservative liberalism. At the end of the reign of Henry VII. they
were as poor as Job, or poorer. But, before you have time to think of
it, behold, in 1530, there comes you to court a Sir Alured
Ravenshoe, who incontinently begins cutting in at the top of the
tune, swaggering, swearing, dressing, fighting, dicing, and all that
sort of thing, and, what is more, paying his way in a manner which
suggests successful burglary as the only solution. Sir Alured,
however, as I find, had done no worse than marry an old maid (Miss
Hincksey, one of the Staffordshire Hinckseys) with a splendid
fortune; which fortune set the family on its legs again for some
generations. This Sir Alured seems to have been an audacious
rogue. He made great interest with the king, who was so far pleased
with his activity in athletic sports that he gave him a post in Ireland.
There our Ravenshoe was so fascinated by the charming manners of
the Earl of Kildare that he even accompanied that nobleman on a
visit to Desmond; and, after a twelvemonth's unauthorised residence
in the interior of Ireland, on his return to England he was put into
the Tower for six months to "consider himself."
This Alured seems to have been a deuce of a fellow, a very good
type of the family. When British Harry had that difference we wot of
with the Bishop of Rome, I find Alured to have been engaged in
some five or six Romish plots, such as had the king been in
possession of facts, would have consigned him to a rather speedy
execution. However, the king seems to have looked on this
gentleman with a suspicious eye, and to have been pretty well aware
what sort of man he was, for I find him writing to his wife, on the
occasion of his going to court—"The King's Grace looked but sourly
upon me, and said it should go hard, but that the pitcher which went
so oft to the well should be broke at last. Thereto I making answer,
'that that should depend on the pitcher, whether it were iron or
clomb,' he turned on his heel, and presently departed from me."
He must have been possessed of his full share of family audacity to
sharpen his wits on the terrible Harry, with such an unpardonable
amount of treason hanging over him. I have dwelt thus long on him,
as he seems to have possessed a fair share of the virtues and vices
of his family—a family always generous and brave, yet always led
astray by bad advisers. This Alured built Ravenshoe House, as it
stands to this day, and in which much of the scene of this story is
laid.
They seem to have got through the Gunpowder Plot pretty well,
though I can show you the closet where one of the minor
conspirators, one Watson, lay perdu for a week or so after that
gallant attempt, more I suspect from the effect of a guilty
conscience than anything else, for I never heard of any distinct
charge being brought against him. The Forty-five, however, did not
pass quite so easily, and Ambrose Ravenshoe went as near to lose
his head as any one of the family since the Conquest. When the
news came from the north about the alarming advance of the
Highlanders, it immediately struck Ambrose that this was the best
opportunity for making a fool of himself that could possibly occur. He
accordingly, without hesitation or consultation with any mortal soul,
rang the bell for his butler, sent for his stud-groom, mounted every
man about the place (twenty or so), armed them, grooms,
gardeners, and all, with crossbows and partisans from the armoury,
and rode into the cross, at Stonnington, on a market-day, and boldly
proclaimed the Pretender king. It soon got about that "the squire"
was making a fool of himself, and that there was some fun going; so
he shortly found himself surrounded by a large and somewhat dirty
rabble, who, with cries of "Well done, old rebel!" and "Hurrah for the
Pope!" escorted him, his terror-stricken butler and his shame-
stricken grooms, to the Crown and Sceptre. As good luck would have
it, there happened to be in the town that day no less a person than
Lord Segur, the leading Roman Catholic nobleman of the county. He,
accompanied by several of the leading gentlemen of the same
persuasion, burst into the room where the Squire sat, overpowered
him, and, putting him bound into a coach, carried him off to Segur
Castle, and locked him up. It took all the strength of the Popish
party to save him from attainder. The Church rallied right bravely
round the old house, which had always assisted her with sword and
purse, and never once had wavered in its allegiance. So while nobler
heads went down, Ambrose Ravenshoe's remained on his shoulders.
Ambrose died in 1759.
John (Monseigneur) in 1771.
Howard in 1800. He first took the Claycomb hounds.
Petre in 1820. He married Alicia, only daughter of Charles, third Earl
of Ascot, and was succeeded by Densil, the first of our dramatis
personæ—the first of all this shadowy line that we shall see in the
flesh. He was born in the year 1783, and married, first in 1812, at
his father's desire, a Miss Winkleigh, of whom I know nothing; and
second, at his own desire, in 1823, Susan, fourth daughter of
Lawrence Petersham, Esq., of Fairford Grange, county Worcester, by
whom he had issue—
Cuthbert, born 1826;
Charles, born 1831.
Densil was an only son. His father, a handsome, careless, good-
humoured, but weak and superstitious man, was entirely in the
hands of the priests, who during his life were undisputed masters of
Ravenshoe. Lady Alicia was, as I have said, a daughter of Lord
Ascot, a Staunton, as staunchly a Protestant a house as any in
England. She, however, managed to fall in love with the handsome
young Popish Squire, and to elope with him, changing not only her
name, but, to the dismay of her family, her faith also, and becoming,
pervert-like, more actively bigoted than her easy-going husband. She
brought little or no money into the family; and, from her portrait,
appears to have been exceedingly pretty, and monstrously silly.
To this strong-minded couple was born, two years after their
marriage, a son who was called Densil.
This young gentleman seems to have got on much like other young
gentlemen till the age of twenty-one, when it was determined by the
higher powers in conclave assembled that he should go to London,
and see the world; and so, having been cautioned duly how to avoid
the flesh and the devil, to see the world he went. In a short time
intelligence came to the confessor of the family, and through him to
the father and mother, that Densil was seeing the world with a
vengeance; that he was the constant companion of the Right
Honourable Viscount Saltire, the great dandy of the Radical Atheist
set, with whom no man might play picquet and live; that he had
been upset in a tilbury with Mademoiselle Vaurien of Drury-lane at
Kensington turnpike; that he had fought the French émigré, a Comte
de Hautenbas, apropos of the Vaurien aforementioned—in short,
that he was going on at a deuce of a rate: and so a hurried council
was called to deliberate what was to be done.
"He will lose his immortal soul," said the priest.
"He will dissipate his property," said his mother.
"He will go to the devil," said his father.
So Father Clifford, good man, was despatched to London, with post
horses, and ordered to bring back the lost sheep vi et armis.
Accordingly, at ten o'clock one night, Densil's lad was astounded by
having to admit Father Clifford, who demanded immediately to be
led to his master.
Now this was awkward, for James well knew what was going on
upstairs; but he knew also what would happen, sooner or later, to a
Ravenshoe servant who trifled with a priest, and so he led the way.
The lost sheep which the good father had come to find was not
exactly sober this evening, and certainly not in a very good temper.
He was playing écarté with a singularly handsome, though
supercilious-looking man, dressed in the height of fashion, who,
judging from the heap of gold beside him, had been winning heavily.
The priest trembled and crossed himself—this man was the terrible,
handsome, wicked, witty, Atheistical, radical Lord Saltire, whose
tongue no woman could withstand, and whose pistol no man dared
face; who was currently believed to have sold himself to the deuce,
or, indeed, as some said, to be the deuce himself.
A more cunning man than poor simple Father Clifford would have
made some common-place remark and withdrawn, after a short
greeting, taking warning by the impatient scowl that settled on
Densil's handsome face. Not so he. To be defied by a boy whose law
had been his word for ten years past never entered into his head,
and he sternly advanced towards the pair.
Densil inquired if anything were the matter at home. And Lord
Saltire, anticipating a scene, threw himself back in his chair,
stretched out his elegant legs, and looked on with the air of a man
who knows he is going to be amused, and composes himself
thoroughly to appreciate the entertainment.
"Thus much, my son," said the priest; "your mother is wearing out
the stones of the oratory with her knees, praying for her first-born,
while he is wasting his substance, and perilling his soul, with
debauched Atheistic companions, the enemies of God and man."
Lord Saltire smiled sweetly, bowed elegantly, and took snuff.
"Why do you intrude into my room, and insult my guest?" said
Densil, casting an angry glance at the priest, who stood calmly like a
black pillar, with his hands before him. "It is unendurable."
"Quem Deus vult," &c. Father Clifford had seen that scowl once or
twice before, but he would not take warning. He said—
"I am ordered not to go westward without you. I command you to
come."
"Command me! command a Ravenshoe!" said Densil, furiously.
Father Clifford, by way of mending matters, now began to lose his
temper.
"You would not be the first Ravenshoe who has been commanded by
a priest; ay, and has had to obey too," said he.
"And you will not be the first jack-priest who has felt the weight of a
Ravenshoe's wrath," replied Densil, brutally.
Lord Saltire leant back, and said to the ambient air, "I'll back the
priest, five twenties to one."
This was too much. Densil would have liked to quarrel with Saltire,
but that was death—he was the deadest shot in Europe. He grew
furious, and beyond all control. He told the priest to go (further than
purgatory); grew blasphemous, emphatically renouncing the creed
of his forefathers, and, in fact, all other creeds. The priest grew hot
and furious too, retaliated in no measured terms, and finally left the
room with his ears stopped, shaking the dust off his feet as he went.
Then Lord Saltire drew up to the table again, laughing.
"Your estates are entailed, Ravenshoe, I suppose?" said he.
"No."
"Oh! It's your deal, my dear fellow."
Densil got an angry letter from his father in a few days, demanding
full apologies and recantations, and an immediate return home.
Densil had no apologies to make, and did not intend to return till the
end of the season. His father wrote declining the honour of his
further acquaintance, and sending him a draft for fifty pounds to pay
outstanding bills, which he very well knew amounted to several
thousands. In a short time the great Catholic tradesmen, with whom
he had been dealing, began to press for money in a somewhat
insolent way; and now Densil began to see that, by defying and
insulting the faith and the party to which he belonged, he had
merely cut himself off from rank, wealth, and position. He had defied
the partie prêtre, and had yet to feel their power. In two months he
was in the Fleet prison.
His servant (the title "tiger" came in long after this), a half groom,
half valet, such as men kept in those days—a simple lad from
Ravenshoe, James Horton by name—for the first time in his life
disobeyed orders; for, on being told to return home by Densil, he
firmly declined doing so, and carried his top boots and white
neckcloth triumphantly into the Fleet, there pursuing his usual
avocations with the utmost nonchalance.
"A very distinguished fellow that of yours, Curly" (they all had
nicknames for one another in those days), said Lord Saltire. "If I
were not Saltire, I think I would be Jim. To own the only clean face
among six hundred fellow-creatures is a pre-eminence, a decided
pre-eminence. I'll buy him of you."
For Lord Saltire came to see him, snuff-box and all. That morning
Densil was sitting brooding in the dirty room with the barred
windows, and thinking what a wild free wind would be sweeping
across the Downs this fine November day, when the door was
opened, and in walks me my lord, with a sweet smile on his face.
He was dressed in the extreme of fashion—a long-tailed blue coat
with gold buttons, a frill to his shirt, a white cravat, a wonderful
short waistcoat, loose short nankeen trousers, low shoes, no gaiters,
and a low-crowned hat. I am pretty correct, for I have seen his
picture, dated 1804. But you must please to remember that his
lordship was in the very van of the fashion, and that probably such a
dress was not universal for two or three years afterwards. I wonder
if his well-known audacity would be sufficient to make him walk
along one of the public thoroughfares in such a dress, to-morrow,
for a heavy bet—I fancy not.
He smiled sardonically—"My dear fellow," he said, "when a man
comes on a visit of condolence, I know it is the most wretched taste
to say, 'I told you so;' but do me the justice to allow that I offered to
back the priest five to one. I had been coming to you all the week,
but Tuesday and Wednesday I was at Newmarket; Thursday I was
shooting at your cousin Ascot's: yesterday I did not care about
boring myself with you; so I have come to-day because I was at
leisure and had nothing better to do."
Densil looked up savagely, thinking he had come to insult him: but
the kindly compassionate look in the piercing grey eye belied the
cynical curl of the mouth, and disarmed him. He leant his head upon
the table and sobbed.
Lord Saltire laid his hand kindly on his shoulder, and said—
"You have been a fool, Ravenshoe; you have denied the faith of your
forefathers. Pardieu, if I had such an article I would not have thrown
it so lightly away."
"You talk like this? Who next? It was your conversation led me to it.
Am I worse than you? What faith have you, in God's name?"
"The faith of a French Lycée, my friend; the only one I ever had. I
have been sufficiently consistent to that, I think."
"Consistent indeed," groaned poor Densil.
"Now, look here," said Saltire; "I may have been to blame in this.
But I give you my honour, I had no more idea that you would be
obstinate enough to bring matters to this pass, than I had that you
would burn down Ravenshoe House because I laughed at it for being
old-fashioned. Go home, my poor little Catholic pipkin, and don't try
to swim with iron pots like Wrekin and me. Make submission to that
singularly distingué-looking old turkey-cock of a priest, kiss your
mother, and get your usual autumn's hunting and shooting."
"Too late! too late, now!" sobbed Densil.
"Not at all, my dear fellow," said Saltire, taking a pinch of snuff; "the
partridges will be a little wild of course—that you must expect; but
you ought to get some very pretty pheasant and cock-shooting.
Come, say yes. Have your debts paid, and get out of this infernal
hole. A week of this would tame the devil, I should think."
"If you think you could do anything for me, Saltire."
Lord Saltire immediately retired, and re-appeared, leading in a lady
by her hand. She raised the veil from her head, and he saw his
mother. In a moment she was crying on his neck; and, as he looked
over her shoulder, he saw a blue coat passing out of the door, and
that was the last of Lord Saltire for the present.
It was no part of the game of the priests to give Densil a cold
welcome home. Twenty smiling faces were grouped in the porch to
welcome him back; and among them all none smiled more brightly
than the old priest and his father. The dogs went wild with joy, and
his favourite peregrine scolded on the falconer's wrist, and struggled
with her jesses, shrilly reminding him of the merry old days by the
dreary salt marsh, or the lonely lake.
The past was never once alluded to in any way by any one in the
house. Old Squire Petre shook hands with faithful James, and gave
him a watch, ordering him to ride a certain colt next day, and see
how well forward he could get him. So next day they drew the home
covers, and the fox, brave fellow, ran out to Parkside, making for the
granite walls of Hessitor. And, when Densil felt his nostrils filled once
more by the free rushing mountain air, he shouted aloud for joy, and
James's voice alongside of him said—
"This is better than the Fleet, sir."
And so Densil played a single-wicket match with the Holy Church,
and, like a great many other people, got bowled out in the first
innings. He returned to his allegiance in the most exemplary manner,
and settled down to the most humdrum of young country
gentlemen. He did exactly what every one else about him did. He
was not naturally a profligate or vicious man; but there was a wild
devil of animal passion in him, which had broken out in London, and
which was now quieted by dread of consequences, but which he felt
and knew was there, and might break out again. He was a changed
man. There was a gulf between him and the life he had led before
he went to London. He had tasted of liberty (or rather, not to
profane that Divine word, of licentiousness), and yet not drunk long
enough to make him weary of the draught. He had heard the
dogmas he was brought up to believe infallible turned to unutterable
ridicule by men like Saltire and Wrekin; men who, as he had the wit
to see, were a thousand times cleverer and better informed than
Father Clifford or Father Dennis. In short, he had found out, as a
great many others have, that Popery won't hold water, and so, as a
pis aller, he adopted Saltire's creed—that religion was necessary for
the government of States, that one religion was as good as another,
and that, cæteris paribus, the best religion was the one which
secured the possessor £10,000 a year, and therefore Densil was a
devout Catholic.
It was thought by the allied powers that he ought to marry. He had
no objection and so he married a young lady, a Miss Winkleigh—
Catholic, of course—about whom I can get no information whatever.
Lady Ascot says that she was a pale girl, with about as much air as a
milkmaid; on which two facts I can build no theory as to her
personal character. She died in 1816, childless; and in 1820 Densil
lost both his father and mother, and found himself, at the age of
thirty-seven, master of Ravenshoe and master of himself.
He felt the loss of the old folks most keenly, more keenly than that
of his wife. He seemed without a stay or holdfast in the world, for he
was a poorly educated man, without resources; and so he went on
moping and brooding until good old Father Clifford, who loved him
dearly, got alarmed, and recommended travels. He recommended
Rome, the cradle of the faith, and to Rome he went.
He stayed at Rome a year; at the end of which time he appeared
suddenly at home with a beautiful young wife on his arm. As Father
Clifford, trembling and astonished, advanced to lay his hand upon
her head, she drew up, laughed, and said, "Spare yourself the
trouble, my dear sir; I am a Protestant."
I have had to tell you all this, in order to show you how it came
about that Densil, though a Papist, bethought of marrying a
Protestant wife to keep up a balance of power in his house. For, if he
had not married this lady, the hero of this book would never have
been born; and this greater proposition contains the less, "that if he
had never been born, his history would never have been written,
and so this book would have had no existence."
 CHAPTER II.
SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE FOREGOING.
The second Mrs. Ravenshoe was the handsome dowerless daughter
of a Worcester squire, of good standing, who, being blessed with an
extravagant son, and six handsome daughters, had lived for several
years abroad, finding society more accessible, and consequently, the
matrimonial chances of the "Petersham girls" proportionately greater
than in England. She was a handsome proud woman, not particularly
clever, or particularly agreeable, or particularly anything, except
particularly self-possessed. She had been long enough looking after
an establishment to know thoroughly the value of one, and had seen
quite enough of good houses to know that a house without a
mistress is no house at all. Accordingly, in a very few days the house
felt her presence, submitted with the best grace to her not unkindly
rule, and in a week they all felt as if she had been there for years.
Father Clifford, who longed only for peace, and was getting very old,
got very fond of her, heretic as she was. She, too, liked the
handsome, gentlemanly old man, and made herself agreeable to
him, as a woman of the world knows so well how to do. Father
Mackworth, on the other hand, his young coadjutor since Father
Dennis's death, an importation of Lady Alicia's from Rome, very soon
fell under her displeasure. The first Sunday after her arrival, she
drove to church, and occupied the great old family pew, to the
immense astonishment of the rustics, and, after afternoon service,
caught up the old vicar in her imperious off-hand way, and will he nil
he, carried him off to dinner—at which meal he was horrified to find
himself sitting with two shaven priests, who talked Latin and crossed
themselves. His embarrassment was greatly increased by the
behaviour of Mrs. Ravenshoe, who admired his sermon, and spoke
on doctrinal points with him as though there were not a priest within
a mile. Father Mackworth was imprudent enough to begin talking at
him, and at last said something unmistakably impertinent; upon
which Mrs. Ravenshoe put her glass in her eye, and favoured him
with such a glance of haughty astonishment as silenced him at once.
This was the beginning of hostilities between them, if one can give
the name of hostilities to a series of infinitesimal annoyances on the
one side, and to immeasurable and barely concealed contempt on
the other. Mackworth, on the one hand, knew that she understood
and despised him, and he hated her. She on the other hand knew
that he knew it, but thought him too much below her notice, save
now and then that she might put down with a high hand any, even
the most distant, approach to a tangible impertinence. But she was
no match for him in the arts of petty, delicate, galling annoyances.
There he was her master; he had been brought up in a good school
for that, and had learnt his lesson kindly. He found that she disliked
his presence, and shrunk from his smooth, lean face with
unutterable dislike. From that moment he was always in her way,
overwhelming her with oily politeness, rushing across the room to
pick up anything she had dropped, or to open the door, till it
required the greatest restraint to avoid breaking through all forms of
politeness, and bidding him begone. But why should we go on
detailing trifles like these, which in themselves are nothing, but
accumulated are unbearable?
So it went on, till one morning, about two years after the marriage,
Mackworth appeared in Clifford's room, and, yawning, threw himself
into a chair.
"Benedicite," said Father Clifford, who never neglected religious
etiquette on any occasion.
Mackworth stretched out his legs and yawned, rather rudely, and
then relapsed into silence. Father Clifford went on reading. At last
Mackworth spoke.
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