Begumbagh: A Tale of the Indian Mutiny Read online

  Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

  Begumbagh; A Tale of the Indian Mutiny, and three other short stories,by George Manville Fenn.

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  This book of short stories is an excellent read in the usual Fenn styleof suspense. "How does he get out of this one?" is always in thereader's mind.

  Most of the book is taken up with a story about the plight of theBritish members of a small garrison, during the Indian Mutiny.

  The second story is about half as long, and is a well-written andextremely plausible story about a house owned by an old gentleman ofancient lineage, where there is a collection of gold plate which wassaid to be an "incubus", that is, the subject of a curse. As indeedthere turns out to be.

  The third story is about a couple of smugglers who get trapped in a"gowt", which is the exit to the sea of one of the great land-drains ofEastern England, constructed by that great Dutch engineer, Vandermuyden,in the seventeenth century.

  And the last story is about a new and well-found ship, that nearlydoesn't weather a severe storm in the Atlantic. The captain has takento the bottle, and command is taken by a junior officer: the shipsurvives.

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  BEGUMBAGH, A TALE OF THE INDIAN MUTINY, AND THREE OTHER SHORT STORIESBY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN.

  INTRODUCTION.

  BEGUMBAGH.

  I've waited all these years, expecting some one or another would give afull and true account of it all; but little thinking it would ever cometo be my task. For it's not in my way; but seeing how much has beensaid about other parts and other people's sufferings; while ours neverso much as came in for a line of newspaper, I can't think it's fair; andas fairness is what I always did like, I set to, very much against mywill; while, on account of my empty sleeve, the paper keeps slipping andsliding about, so that I can only hold it quiet by putting the leadinkstand on one corner, and my tobacco-jar on the other. You see, I'mnot much at home at this sort of thing; and though, if you put a pipeand a glass of something before me, I could tell you all about it,taking my time, like, it seems that won't do. I said, "Why don't youwrite it down as I tell it, so as other people could read all about it?"But "No," he says; "I could do it in my fashion, but I want it to be inyour simple unadorned style; so set to and do it."

  I daresay a good many of you know me--seen me often in Bond Street, atFacet's door--Facet's, you know, the great jeweller, where I stand andopen carriages, or take messages, or small parcels with no end ofvaluables in them, for I'm trusted. Smith, my name is, Isaac Smith; andI'm that tallish, grisly fellow with the seam down one side of my face,my left sleeve looped up to my button, and not a speck to be seen onthat "commissionaire's" uniform, upon whose breast I've got threemedals.

  I was standing one day, waiting patiently for something to do, when atallish gentleman came up, nodded as if he knew me well, and I saluted.

  "Lose that limb in the Crimea, my man?"

  "No, sir. Mutiny," I said, standing as stiff as use had made naturewith me.

  And then he asked me a lot more questions, and I answered him; and theend of it was that one evening I went to his house, and he had me in,and did what was wanted to set me off. I'd had a little bit of anitching to try something of the kind, I must own, for long enough, buthis words started me; and in consequence I got a quire of the bestfoolscap paper, and a pen'orth of pens, and here's my story.