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Updated: June 1, 2025
The signature, "Your Justine," brought a grim smile to Alan Hawke's face, the next night, when on the arrival of General Abercromby, he stationed Hugh Johnstone's secret spies on duty with the redoubtable Calcutta warrior. "By God! She is both game and true!" cried Hawke. "Here is my fortune, and Justine shall share my spoils yet!"
Its preparations and Hawke's dispositions to counteract them, have been described in the life of that admiral, as have Rodney's bombardment of Havre and interception of coastwise communications; all directed to the same general end of confounding designs against England, but no longer as mere diversions in favor of Frederick.
Before the morning dawned on the sea-girt coast of La Manche, Marie Victor had duly telegraphed Major Hawke's impending departure for India to the beautiful recluse who now cheered the lonely bride of "the Moonshee," at the old Norman chateau, embowered in its splendid gardens, within a league of the Banker's Folly.
But neither that night, nor two days later, at Major Hawke's superb dinner at the Delhi Club, did the jeunesse doree of the old capital extract an admission from that mysterious "secret service" man, Major Alan Hawke. "You cannot deny, Hawke, that you dined at the marble house with the beauty whom we are all toasting," said a rallying roisterer.
She sank under the broadside of the Royal George, Hawke's flag-ship. "The Royal George's people gave a cheer," wrote an eye witness, "but it was a faint one; the honest sailors were touched at the miserable state of so many hundreds of poor creatures."
Of the British, one ship went on a shoal during the action, and on the following day another coming to her assistance also grounded. Both were lost, but most of their people were saved. Beyond this Hawke's fleet suffered little. "As to the loss we have sustained," wrote he, "let it be placed to the account of the necessity I was under of running all risks to break this strong force of the enemy."
I dare not!" cried Ram Lal, dropping on the floor and trying to bow his head at Hawke's feet. "Get up! You old beast!" commanded Hawke. "By God! I'll shoot and disable you now and then arrest you! Tell me! Do you know that dagger?"
"It is for rank, wealth, and the hand of Miss Million, the rose of Delhi." Alan Hawke was practically received with open arms by the fluttering-hearted Euphrosyne, who nobly resigned herself to Justine's victory over Alan Hawke's heart. For the younger sister's letters had filled the elder's mind with rosy dreams of enhanced family prosperity. "Only this telegram.
"Stay and lend me a hand, Denzil, if you've nothing else to do." "I'll come back in a moment," I replied. "I've got a little matter to attend to. I may want you to help me. If I shout for you, close the grating and run out." Griffith Hawke's eyes dilated, and in a tone of astonishment he demanded to know what I meant. But I did not wait to answer him.
Recent precedent that of Anson demanded such recognition; and popular enthusiasm would have applauded, although the full military merit of the man could scarcely be appreciated by the standards of his generation. That no such reward was bestowed is most probably attributable to Hawke's own indifference to self-advancement.
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