33 THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES iSS ster. " THE SHOCK DROVE HIS HORSE BACK ON ITS HAUNCHES The Last of the Peshwas A Tale of the Third Maratha War BY MICHAEL MACMILLAN " " Author of Tales of Indian Chivalry" In Wild Maratha Battle" " " The Princess of Balkh ILLUSTRATED BY PAUL HARDY BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED LONDON GLASGOW DUBLIN BOMBAY 1907 PR 015 TO THE MEMORY OF J. D. 1994201 THE EXILE'S DREAM Our ship, as swift as the lightning flash, Clove with her prow the waves that dash Tumultuously with thunderous roar At midnight on an Indian shore, And those whereunder buried lie 1 Busiris Memphian chivalry. Then o'er the midland wavelets blue To Calpe's cannoned steep we flew, And in a moment southward far St. Vincent left and Trafalgar. Ah ! joy to feel the northern blast That on our brows the snowflake cast, Till loomed a land of hodden gray Half-hidden by the Atlantic spray, Behind whose misty canopy Was heard the peewit's eerie cry. What magic ship thus bore my soul Like flash of lightning to her goal Across the seas that lay between? A dream of days that once had been. And what that land of hodden gray? The bonnie hills of Galloway, On which my steps no more may stray, For ever and aye. 7 CONTENTS CHAP. Page I. IN THE VALLEY OF THK FLEET 13 II. JEALOUSY AWAKES LOVB 20 III. ON THE WHITE TAP OF CULKEOCH 25 IV. WITH ALICE IN THE FAIRY GLEN 31 V. I BECOME A CADET IN THE OLD TOUGHS ... 39 VI. A CANARY'S OBSEQUIES 46 VII. MY UNCLE IN BOMBAY 50 VIII. I VISIT A HINDU BANKER 57 IX. DECOYED INTO THE PESHWA'S PALACE .... 67 X. BEFORE THE PESHWA 71 XI. I ESCAPE OUT OF THE CLUTCHES OF TRIMBAKJI. 79 XII. AFFRAY IN THE STREETS OF POONA .... 85 XIII. MY INTERVIEW WITH MR. ELPHINSTOXE ... 93 XIV. HAIBATI'S INFORMATION 100 XV. THE HIRWA BUNGALOW 110 XVI. HIRA'S STORY 120 XVII. BEFORE THE BATTLE 135 XVIII. BATTLE OF KIRKI 143 XIX. HAIBATI SUMMONS ME TO BHOSARI 148 XX. A CAPTIVE IN THE HANDS OF THE PINDARRIES. 155 XXI. MY CAPTORS BECOME MY FOLLOWERS .... 162 9 X CONTENTS CHAP. Page XXII. BHIMASHANKAB TO PRABUL 171 XXIII. ASCENT OF PRABUL 177 XXIV. JOHN HANNAY'S PRISON 182 XXV. MY LOST FRIEND FOUND 188 XXVI. JOHN HANNAT'S STORY 193 XXVII. JOHN HANNAY'S STORY CONTINUED 205 XXVIII. A CHIVALROUS FOE 218 XXIX. CONCLUSION. 228 ILLUSTRATIONS Pago " "THE SHOCK DROVE HIS HORSE BACK ON ITS HAUNCHES . 221 Frontispiece "SHE WAS WALKING UP AND DOWN IN EARNEST CONVERSATION " WITH A YOONG MAN 20 " " I POUND MY DEPARTURE OBSTRUCTED BT THREE MEN . 69 " " I KEPT THEM AT BAY FOR SOME TIME 112 A CAPTIVE 156 "AT LAST WE SAW ABOVE US THE WALL OF THE FORTRESS". 178 11 THE LAST OF THE PESHWAS CHAPTER I IN THE VALLEY OF THE FLEET of the most beautiful valleys in Scot- ONEland is that formed by the River Fleet, as it flows from the Highlands of Gal- loway to the little bay that bears its name. Nowhere in the world is there a finer contrast between the barren grandeur of the granite mountains and the fertile beauty of the valley watered by the river, when at last, after descending one cataract after another, it approaches within two or three miles of the sea, and flows along in a more level stream. Nowhere in the world can be found a richer profusion of all manner of wild flowers than there adorns the river -banks and meadows. The surrounding mountains are purple with heather, and the moorland breezes waft fresh perfumes from beds of bog myrtle, while the 13 14 THE LAST OF THE PESHWAS air of the valley is fragrant through the sum- mer months and the shortening days of early autumn with the scent of honeysuckle, wild thyme, clover, and meadow-sweet. All the beauty of the scene may be taken in at a glance from the summit of the wooded hill of Castramont, which derives its name either from an ancient British camp that was once pitched on the hill, or from an old Celtic word meaning a forest of elder-trees. The name Castramont was also given to a small mansion not far from Castramont Hill. My father, who succeeded to the house and estate seventy years ago, belonged to the old Galloway family of MacCulloch. His small property included the wood between the house and Castramont Hill, as well as a few farms on the left bank of the river. Half a mile from the house, by crossing a ford, you would come to the old castle of Eusko, where dwelt another laird, Sir John Hannay, who was master of a larger property, stretching for two or three miles along the right bank of the river to the little country town of Gate- house-on -Fleet, built where the fresh water of the river first mingles with the tide of the sea and flows into Fleet Bay. IN THE VALLEY OF THE FLEET 15 Sir John's family consisted of a son and a daughter, but at the time when my story begins the son was no longer in the castle of Rusko. Much against his father's will, he had gone into the army, and about a year before the commencement of my story had sailed with his regiment, the 18th Hussars, to India. He had distinguished himself in active ser- vice against the Pindarries, whose ruffian bands were then devastating India. Then the startling intelligence came that John Hannay had mysteriously disappeared. During a short period of leave he had gone into the Maratha country near Mahableshwar to hunt tigers and panthers. One day he left his tent quite alone, gun in hand, and never returned. The strictest search revealed no sign that gave a clue to the mystery of his disappearance. He might have been killed and devoured by a tiger, or murdered by robbers, or perhaps he had been made pri- soner and was languishing in one of the many fortresses with which the Maratha country is studded, for, although the Marathas were nominally at peace with us, it was well known that their monarch, the Peshwa, and many of his nobles, were bitterly hostile. His fate was 16 THE LAST OF THE PESHWAS left in painful uncertainty that was evidently bringing down the gray hairs of his father in sorrow to the ground, and extinguished the gaiety that had once been not the least attrac- tive of the charms of his only sister, Alice. At this time my father was still strong and active, although he was approaching his fiftieth year. My mother was about five years younger. She was still very beautiful more beautiful, perhaps, than she had been in the first bloom of youth for her delicate features had be- come still more refined by years of happy life divided between her duties as the mistress of the house and the cultivation of the artistic and intellectual tastes that she had inherited from her father. With her skilful paint-brush she reproduced on the canvas the many pic- turesque scenes that beautify the valley of the Fleet, and in the cold winter months de- lighted to read the poetry of France, Italy, and her own country. It was my great good fortune that I heartily sympathized with her literary tastes and shared her artistic sus- ceptibility. From childhood it was my chief delight to sit by her as she transferred to her glowing canvas the beauties of wood, moor- land, and river -bank, or to hear her read (SMS) IN THE VALLEY OP THE FLEET 17 aloud her favourite poems, as I sat on the floor with my head leaning against her knee. When I was old enough to learn French and Italian, she found in me an eager pupil in these languages. Nor was the knowledge of the dead languages of Greece and Rome denied me. Every day, in summer or in winter, in sunshine or in storm, I rode over to Gatehouse to study theology and the ancient classics under the guidance of the old minister of Girthon parish, who had gained high honours as a scholar at Edinburgh University. At first my brother rode with me to the manse to share in the benefits of old Mr. M'Gill's teach- ing. But it very soon became apparent that he had no taste for literary study. Indeed he was entirely his father's son, and never cared to read a book unless it treated of agriculture or the diseases of horses, cattle, and pigs, and the means of curing them. His mind was severely practical, and his chief talent was an intuitive knowledge of husbandry, which made him an invaluable assistant to my father in the management of the small estate and home farm. This was as it should be. He, as the eldest son, was to succeed my father as laird of Castramont, while my love of books natu- (B602) B 18 THE LAST OF THE PESHWAS rally pointed to the conclusion that I was born to be a minister, and, as my old nurse expressed " it, to wag my pow in a pu'pit ". As was to be expected, there was close intimacy between the two lairds and their respective families. In childhood we played together, and were continually exchanging visits or going in company to gather wild flowers, blackberries, or hazel-nuts.