What pot-bellied East Indiaman brought the ‘virtuous maid’ up the river, and did Lucia ‘make her bargain’ as the cant of those times went, on the first, second, or third day after her arrival? Or did she, with the others of the batch, give a spinsters’ ball as a last trial — following the custom of the country? No. She was a fair Kentish maiden, sent out, at a cost of five hundred pounds, English money, under the captain’s charge, to wed the man of her choice, and he knew Clive well, had had dealings with Omichand, and talked to men who had lived through the terrible night in the Black Hole. He was a rich man, Lucia’s battered tomb proves it, and he gave Lucia all that her heart could wish a green-painted boat to take the air in on the river of evenings, Coffree slave-boys who could play on the French horn, and even a very elegant, neat coach with a genteel rutlan roof ornamented with flowers very highly finished, ten best polished plate glasses, ornamented with a few elegant medallions enriched with mother-o’-pearl, that she might take her drive on the course as befitted a factor’s wife. All these things he gave her. And when the convoys came up the river, and the guns thundered, and the servants of the Honourable the East India Company drank to the king’s health, be sure that Lucia before all the other ladies in the Fort had her choice of the new stuffs from England and was cordially hated in consequence. Tilly Kettle painted her picture a little before she died, and the hot-blooded young writers did duel with smallswords in the Fort ditch for the honour of piloting her through a minuet at the Calcutta theatre or the Punch House. But Warren Hastings danced with her instead, and the writers were confounded — every man of them. She was a toast far up the river. And she walked in the evening on the bastions of Fort William, and said, ‘La! I protest!’ It was there that she exchanged congratulations with all her friends on the 20th of October, when those who were alive gathered together to felicitate themselves on having come. through another hot season; and the men — even the sober factor saw no wrong here — got most royally and Britishly drunk on Madeira that had twice rounded the Cape. But Lucia fell sick, and the doctor — he who went home after seven years with five lakhs and a half, and a corner of this vast graveyard to his account — said that it was a pukka or putrid fever, and the system required strengthening. So they fed Lucia on hot curries, and mulled wine worked up with spirits and fortified with spices, for nearly a week; at the end of which time she closed her eyes on the weary river and the Fort for ever, and a gallant, with a turn for belles-lettres, wept openly as men did then and had no shame of it, and composed the verses above set, and thought himself a neat hand at the pen — stap his vitals! But the factor was so grieved that he could write nothing at all — could only spend his money — and he counted his wealth by lakhs — on a sumptuous grave. A little later on he took comfort, and when the next batch came out —
But this has nothing whatever to do with the story of Lucia, the ‘virtuous maid, the faithful wife.’ Her ghost went to a big Calcutta powder ball that very night, and looked very beautiful. I met her.
