The Last Dickens

sitting at a table on a platform before a dimly lit room crowded in every corner with impatient natives. Dressed in ornamental costume with gold and silver patterns, the magistrate walked around the table and took the police supervisor's hand warmly.

“Don't let me interrupt your proceedings, baboo,” Frank insisted.

“You don't disturb me at all, Mr. Dickens,” replied the magistrate jovially. “I am not very busy today. Will you take a glass of wine?”

Frank ran his gaze over the anxious men and women filling the cutcherry. “Please, go on with your proceedings.”

Despite Frank's demurral, the magistrate ordered glasses and wine to be brought from his bungalow. He brought out a case of fine cigars while his servants yelled, “Og laoul” and built a fire. The crowd in the cutcherry began to murmur among themselves and then grew louder until one of the court officials demanded silence. After the two gentlemen drank wine and brandy pawnee before their restless audience, Frank again anxiously insisted, “Please, baboo, proceed.”

The cases were tedious, and included the matter of a stolen cow, then an attempted extortion of a European traveler by a Bengalee. At two o'clock, the cutcherry emptied and the magistrate invited the police superintendent to his home for tiffin in the English style. First, however, he insisted on bringing the visitor on a full tour of the village. They began at the schoolhouse, called the Anglo-Vernacular Academy, where the master was leading a circle of potbellied pupils, covered only with threadbare sheets of muslin, in chants of the English alphabet. One of the students was unsuccessfully trying to stammer out the letter R. Frank grew pale watching this and indicated to his guide that he was ready to go.

After leaving the schoolhouse, the two officials walked across a new bridge and then visited several drains that had been installed along the streets under the magistrate's guidance. Wherever they walked, the magistrate boasted of the absence of beggars.

Back in the magistrate's bungalow at last, tiffin was ready. Wine was poured by the servants as quickly as the officials could drink.

“So your department is still hunting our escaped thief,” the magistrate commented.

“We believe he may be in the mountains-I have two of my men searching for him even now.”

“You know, Mr. Dickens, that my own villagers wish for the thief's arrest every bit as much as the white police. As you saw in the cutcherry, when a cow is stolen, it is my countrymen who suffer.”

“This is no cow,” Frank said, raising one eyebrow. “This is opium, baboo. The inspector generals shall be around about it if it is not resolved.”

“Yes, yes, the opium-important!” He raised his glass in tribute. “Let us drink to those who are paid to grow it to sell to China but also to those natives weak enough to ingest it before it is sold abroad. Young Bengal is still but a child growing too large for its first proper garments. Until my people understand to accept a life like the English, they benefit from a dulled sense of reality, a sluggish frame of mind, if I may say. No one desires another revolt, Superintendent.”

After further conversation, Frank removed his watch chain.

“Ah, one moment more, Superintendent,” said the magistrate at his visitor's restlessness. “You see?”

The magistrate was looking up at a row of books over the policeman's head. It was an expensive collection of Charles Dickens's novels.

“Illustrated editions. I am as much an admirer of your father's books as any of your own countrymen, I can assure you. I was deeply saddened to imagine his chair empty upon hearing the tidings. When will you travel back to England to pay respects?”

“You know as well as I the amount of work at the police department. I shall take a holiday month in England when things are quieter. Perhaps next year.”

The magistrate, for the first time, regarded his guest as a foreigner. “I suppose some of the English fashion is rather too cool for us Bengalees to make out,” he murmured.

Frank put the glass down, glancing up with a defensive pout emboldened by the wine. “Do you know what my father said when I told him I wished to go abroad, baboo? I had asked him to supply only a horse, a rifle, and fifteen pounds. My father laughed and then assured me that I would be robbed of the fifteen pounds, be thrown from my horse, and shoot my own head off with the rifle.” Frank paused, then added, “Bengal, in time, has become my home, and I have earned respect for my work among the Europeans and natives alike, respect never offered in England.”

“You have siblings, sir?”

“Five brothers and two sisters, yes.”

“I have seven sons and daughters myself, Mr. Dickens, and I fear fathers sometimes wish too much for their children,” the magistrate replied solicitously. “Especially, I would fancy, for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Go to that looking glass over my dresser, Mr. Dickens! The resemblance about the eyes and mouth to your father is remarkable. Every time he saw you, he surely saw himself.”

“My f-f-father,” Frank stopped. He began again, this time mastering his emotion, “My father never saw himself in me. Though the groundlings fancy him to have been the most tolerant of men, they did not ever have occasion to come under his lash. Having the world at your feet for thirty years gives you the idea that your nature is perfect. He told us that his name was our best capital and to remember that.”

The discussion was interrupted by a sudden commotion outside the bungalow. The men hurried outside and found an Indian man struggling against the hold of several of the native policemen.

“What is happening here?” demanded Frank.

“Superintendent Dickens! This is the missing opium dacoit!” cried out one of the dark-skinned policemen. After some questioning, it was revealed that it was indeed the thief who had eluded Turner and Mason in the jungle. He had been hiding in a mud cellar several villages away in the jungle. When a compatriot had seen Frank walking through the streets, he'd run through the woods to warn the thief the police were near. The compatriot had been followed and the thief had been apprehended as he attempted to sneak away.

Frank ordered the native policemen to secure the prisoner and place him in a cart to be brought to the station house.

“You see, Superintendent, that even now, in our intellectual infancy, my countrymen would not mock justice,” the magistrate said with a face-devouring grin. “I look forward to hearing his case before my cutcherry.”

Frank, after he watered his thirsty horse, climbed into his saddle and lowered his gaze at the baboo.

“Our tour through the footpaths, the bridges, the school… You wanted me to be seen by everyone in the village to be certain someone would alert the thief so that he would be captured. And in order to delay my exit until your plan was executed, you introduced the topic of my father.”

His host retained his wide smile. “We have our mutually desired result.”

“That teaches me, baboo, that the people in your jurisdiction fear the British, but they do not fear you. What does that mean for your promise to keep order? Remember that though you may be a native of this soil, you are a representative of Her Majesty the Queen.”

“I never forget it, Superintendent,” the magistrate replied, salaaming.

“Officers, mount up with your prisoner!” Frank now spoke loudly enough for the surrounding speculators of the village to hear. “Baboo, you may be assured of my deepest gratitude-I suggest you inform any family and friends of this scoundrel that assisting a villain, even if one's own blood, shall not be looked upon kindly by the British authority. This will be their warning.”

Chapter 8

Boston, the next morning, 1870

“IMAGINE IT,” FIELDS SAID, SHAKING HIS BEARD INTO A WILD mess. “Taking up the newspaper this morning with my coffee, I read that this pettifogger lawyer with whom you consulted-Sylvanus Bendall-is dead on