Clive

by Robert Harvey

  * * *

  Clive exulted as the 100,000 inhabitants of Arcot took to the streets to cheer the arrival of the young commander and his little army. He had taken Chanda Sahib’s capital without firing a shot. He raised Muhammad Ali’s flag of white and green over the Nawab’s palace while tom-toms proclaimed that the palace had been taken in the name of Muhammad Ali and the Great Mogul at Delhi. Wisely, he did not hoist the Union Jack.

  Saunders sensibly sent a message to him ‘not in any shape to molest or distress the inhabitants. If the merchants have a mind to make you a present, I say nothing to the contrary, but take care there be no compulsion.’ The governor restored a sense of proportion to the young man. ‘It is with pleasure I observe the reception you met with, but when you consider these people were entirely in your power, ’tis nothing extraordinary.’ Clive had benefited from his leadership during the march and from an extraordinary piece of good luck. He had not yet won a single skirmish.

  It took Clive little time to realise the precariousness of his position. The fort was in the middle of town, overlooked by densely packed housing, which made ideal cover for besiegers. One British sergeant commented that the townspeople’s ‘looks betrayed their traytours notwithstanding their pretended friendship and dirty presents’. At least 2,000 armed sympathisers of Chanda Sahib remained within the city ‘willing to cut our throats had not that their dastardly spirits hindered them’. Its walls were a mile in length – far too extensive for 700 men to defend. The towers were crumbling, and none were strong enough to support a cannon; large parts of the moat had been filled in.

  Clive doubted whether the fort could be defended at all, and considered moving to the smaller and more defensible one at Timiri nearby, dispersing his men among several forts, or even withdrawing to Madras. Prince advised him to pull out on hearing that Chanda Sahib was sending a force of 2,000 horsemen to Arcot. Pigot challengingly urged Clive to stand his ground. Saunders wrote advising him to hold the fort if at all possible. Clive set about trying to do up its defences and set fire to the nearby houses, without much success.

  First, though, he resolved – in the first in a series of characteristically bold decisions – to take the offensive and attack the garrison that was now camped a few miles away from the town. As he led his men towards the enemy camp, however, the garrison’s army moved away. A couple of days later a British advance party actually encountered the enemy and a handful of men were lost on both sides.

  After this, Clive devoted himself to strengthening the fort, bringing in provisions and trying to secure the water supply. For about ten days, the enemy was unmolested, and assumed that they had driven the British off. Now swollen to around 3,000 men, the garrison marched up to the outskirts of the capital. On the night of 15 September, after the usual babble of the camp had died down, they posted their sentries and went to sleep.

  At two o’clock in the morning, the camp was awoken by a fearful bedlam of noise: horse and men on foot rampaged through it, firing wildly in all directions. In the dark it was impossible to tell the size of the British force. Taken entirely by surprise, the men in the camp fled for their lives: most of Clive’s small army had stolen out of the fort without attracting attention from enemy spies.

  Wisely, Clive did not give chase. Screams and groans showed that many of the bullets had found their mark: when dawn came, it was apparent the camp had been abandoned. It had been a daring stroke, beautifully executed.

  * * *

  The following day, a new danger loomed. Clive learnt that the eighteen-pounders from Madras, with only a small escort of sepoys, were approaching Conjeveeram, and that a large contingent of Chanda Sahib’s forces was on its way to intercept them. Clive promptly ordered most of the garrison out to bring the guns safely in; if they fell into enemy hands they could be used to destroy the walls of the fort. He stayed behind with only a handful of British soldiers and 70 sepoys.

  It proved to be a disastrous miscalculation. Enemy scouts alerted the forces around Conjeveeram, which now hurriedly marched on Arcot. Taking a leaf out of Clive’s book, they attacked the main gates at two in the morning amid a great cacophony of shouts, blaring music and gunfire. Although Clive was unable to guard the whole length of the walls, the noise had given warning of the enemy’s approach, and his men tossed grenades into the throng, causing great injury and confusion.

  An hour later, there was another noisy attack on the back gate, which was similarly driven off. This time darkness had worked against the attackers. They had no way of knowing how many men were in the fort. Sniping now continued for several hours. When Bulkley returned with the main force, having secured around 300 cattle as well as the two guns, Chanda Sahib’s men withdrew from the city.

  For most of the next week, peace returned, and Clive was able to continue strengthening his defences and to build up his supplies, although some of his men were picked off as they walked the narrow streets of the town. Soon, however, news reached him that a force of 4,000, including French troops, commanded by Chanda Sahib’s younger son, Raza Sahib, was approaching and that further reinforcements of some 3,000 men were on the way.

  At this stage any normal commander would have cut and run. It seemed virtually impossible to defend the sprawling fort against a large army. Clive was forced to send some 250 of his men back to Madras, in case Raza Sahib’s army changed direction and attacked the British settlement.

  This left Clive, excluding casualties, with just 120 Europeans and 200 Indians. The whole enterprise, suggested by Muhammad Ali, passionately espoused by Clive and agreed to by the usually cautious Saunders, now began to look like the madcap gamble it undoubtedly was: the British forces were split and inadequate for the defence not just of Arcot but Madras and Fort St George. Far from diverting a large part of the army besieging Trichinopoly, Chanda Sahib had sent the bulk of his men from Pondicherry to Arcot. Muhammad Ali remained under as close a siege as before.

  Dupleix was inclined to dismiss the whole affair as a joke and a feint, and believed the British posed no threat. Things seemed very different in Indian eyes: the seizure of Arcot, Chanda Sahib’s capital, had immensely damaged his prestige, as Muhammad Ali had foreseen. Against such overwhelming odds, Clive’s sole consolation was the thought that the Indian forces had so far proved less formidable than feared. Bolder than a more experienced commander might be, and encouraged by Saunders, who should have known better, he resolved to stay.

  * * *

  On the night of 23 September the siege turned serious. The enemy army arrived and entered the town of Arcot. Clive had withdrawn all his forces into the fort. Including the old garrison and local allies, Raza Sahib’s army numbered at least 10,000 to Clive’s 300 or so. Clive’s response was characteristically bold – and desperately reckless. With his tiny band, he decided to mount a raid to seize the French guns being drawn up opposite the fortress walls.

  The French had around 150 men under the control of du Saussay. Clive caught his opponents by surprise as most of his 300 men rushed out of the main gate, pushing his own artillery pieces and exchanging fire with the French guns, until they were abandoned and ceased fire. Clive and his men went forward to try and pull them into the fort.

  Snipers suddenly opened up with a deadly rattle of musket fire from the Nawab’s palace nearby and from several houses. Clive and his men desperately sought shelter, abandoning the attempt and seeking to haul their own guns back into the fort, using the windows of a nearby choultry – the ubiquitous shelter in Indian towns – from which to discharge a cannon shot, pulling the guns back a few yards on the recoil, and repeating the process through another window. As Clive urged his men back, Lieutenant Trenwith saw a sniper taking direct aim at him. The lieutenant pulled him aside, and was killed instead. The British finally reached the shelter of the fort.

  Clive lost fifteen men and fifteen seriously wounded from this reckless escapade. From now on, he stayed inside the fort – although the sheer effrontery of his sortie had impressed t
he enemy, who were uncertain just how many there were inside the citadel.

  It seemed only a matter of days before the fort would fall. Already the siege had lasted 23 days. Clive had three months’ supplies inside, and no concerns on that score. But his only water came from a brackish reservoir inside the compound, which an ingenious Indian mason secured by blocking the channel from which it could be drained from outside.

  Clive’s worst shortage was manpower. Patrolling walls a mile long with only 300 men was an enormous undertaking. The fort consisted of a handful of buildings, a dusty compound and a small plantation behind the ill-repaired walls. Clive had to make sure there were enough sentries constantly watching to warn of any attack at the most vulnerable points – in particular where the moat could be forded.

  The sentries had constantly to peer over the edge. From the nearby houses, a continuous musket fire was kept up to deter the sentries. ‘A man could not show a nose over the parapet without being shot,’ remarked Dr Wilson. So the siege settled into its fourth, and much more critical week. The steady crackle of sniper fire and the dangerous business of ensuring that no surprise attack was mounted took its toll on the men’s morale and alertness.

  Clive tirelessly walked the battlements exposing himself to danger, as much to encourage his troops as to check for himself that no attack was being prepared. Three men were shot down beside him on different days. He appeared to lead a charmed life. His unflagging determination gave heart to his men – both British and Indian – for whom the odds might otherwise have seemed entirely hopeless. Always he assured them that relief was at hand; always he spurred them to fight on.

  One motivating factor was that Clive’s men were under siege from the army of an Indian prince; the French were not in command. If he was defeated, there was no telling what the Indians would do: their frequent practice was to give no quarter. In the intense heat of the day, Clive’s men, with their grimy, dusty, heavy red uniforms, racked by dysentery, soldiered on, patrolling the battlements, dodging musket fire, sharing out provisions, strengthening the defences, and, where they could, sleeping. The constant patrolling was wearing them down to breaking point.

  * * *

  The stalemate continued. The Indians made no attempt to storm the fort, fearing British firepower. Clive, emboldened, began to resort to minor morale-boosting sorties. He sent one of his lieutenants and a couple of others down the outer wall in a bid to blow up the house which contained the most merciless Indian marksmen. They could not get near, and Lieutenant Glass was injured when the rope pulling him back up the wall of the fort broke.

  In mid-October Clive, after a formidable feat of military engineering, had a huge old cannon he had found in the fort hoisted on an earthwork built on top of the only solid tower in the fort. This blasted a 72-pound cannonball into the Nawab’s palace, which Raza Sahib had made his headquarters, for three days running. On the fourth day the cannon exploded.

  Raza Sahib countered by placing several cannon on top of a nearby house which had been filled with earth. This was ludicrously exposed, however, and once its crew was in place, the British blasted the earthwork with one of their eighteen-pounders, knocking it over and immobilising the guns and dispersing the 50-strong crew.

  Clive’s only hope lay in reinforcements, and that was a slender one indeed. Muhammad Ali and de Guingens at Trichinopoly refused to send support for fear it would prejudice their own chances of survival. The Regent of Mysore, supposedly hostile to Raza Sahib, was frightened of French retaliation and appeared to be waiting to join the winner.

  Some of Raza Sahib’s supporters went to Clive saying they were prepared to join him – but he did not trust them. There were rumours that the Marathas might come to his help, but they were no more than rumours. No faith could be placed in their loyalties, which were usually decided by the prospect of plunder.

  Saunders meanwhile scratched together a tiny relief force of 130 Britons and 100 Indians, the most he could spare from the settlements. The report greatly heartened Clive and his men: relief was just days away. Bitter disappointment followed: the news soon reached him that this tiny column had been intercepted by an overwhelming enemy force and had had to return to Madras.

  The siege went relentlessly on, day after day, Clive’s men continually patrolling the parapets while musket fire crackled ceaselessly away. By 21 October Saunders, who still retained a channel of communication with Clive through intrepid Indian couriers, reported that Clive ‘thinks himself able to defend a breach should the enemy make one; his only apprehensions therefore are his people’s falling down through fatigue; that he thinks no less a force than 1,000 blacks and 200 Europeans can attempt to relieve him, as the enemy’s situation is strong and their numbers increase daily’.

  However, the position had deteriorated further. French heavy artillery had arrived from Pondicherry. One of Clive’s two eighteen-pounders was disabled. For six days on end, the French guns blasted the north-west wall of the fort, reducing it to rubble, while Clive and his officers spurred and cursed their men into building up a new defence from the rubble, complete with a trench. Another French battery was set up on the south-west side, demolishing an even larger section of the wall. Again, improvised defences were thrown up.

  Even Clive did not have much hope of holding out any longer. Disease, casualties and fatigue had taken their toll. According to one sergeant, only 80 of the Europeans and 120 Indians were fit for duty. If the fort was taken, Clive was conscious that whatever hope the British had of resisting the French domination of southern India would vanish. The French and their Indian allies, having won a victory of immense prestige, would be able to bring their full forces to bear on Trichinopoly. After that it would be an easy matter to mop up the undermanned garrisons at Madras and Fort St David.

  Clive had been instrumental in persuading the council at Fort St David to adopt the reckless plan to seize Arcot. If it fell, he would be the man held responsible for having divided British forces and rendered Madras and Fort St David so vulnerable. Personal pride forced him to redouble his efforts. He was only 26 and desperate to see his gamble pay off.

  Besides, he believed that, having lasted out so long, luck might just turn his way again. If he was wrong, the small British presence in southern India would be snuffed out. He did not waver in his outward determination; he could not afford to.

  Early in November came the news that the Regent of Mysore had, at last, been able to bribe a force of Marathas under one of their most fearsome leaders, Morari Rao, to come to Clive’s help. They had originally been engaged to assist Muhammad Ali at Trichinopoly, but the regent had been vastly impressed by Clive’s seizure of Arcot and continued resistance there, and they were camped to the west of the city. However, Morari Rao refused to lead his 6,000 troops into battle until he had received payment from Muhammad Ali.

  Still, the news was a psychological boost for Clive’s desperate force – and a source of deep anxiety for the besiegers. In addition, a new relief force from Madras, under the command of Captain James Kilpatrick, was said to be on its way. Clive, with the bright, fevered eyes of the exhausted and numbed by the continuous crackle of rifle fire around the fort for so many weeks, was astonished one afternoon to see an emissary of Raza Sahib under a white flag. He was there to offer terms. Clive could surrender and he personally would be well treated and his men spared. Otherwise he would be attacked at once and all his men killed.

  Clive immediately rejected the offer, guessing correctly that it had been prompted by Raza Sahib’s alarm at the prospect of reinforcements reaching the garrison. Clive insultingly told the emissary that Raza Sahib’s father was a usurper, his army a rabble, and he should pause to think before sending his men into a gap defended by British soldiers. Now, nearly 70 days after the seizure of the fort, and after nearly 50 of close siege, the endgame was in sight. The huge army outside was about to attack. Clive and his shrunken band faced only slaughter if they lost.

  * * *

 
On the evening of 13 November Clive learnt from a spy that the attack would be mounted next day. He hardly slept that night and was up before dawn. It was the last day of Muharram, the great Shia Moslem festival commemorating the martyrdom of the grandsons of the Prophet, Hassan and Hussein. The latter was butchered after all around him had been slain. His head was carried to the enemy leader, who struck at it with a stick, and, it was said, his lips were then seen pressed to the lips of the Prophet in a vision. If a Shia Moslem died on this holy day, he would go straight to heaven.

  Shia is the most zealous branch of Islam, and Raza Sahib had no trouble working his men into the religious frenzy characteristic even when such a community is at peace. Clive and his soldiers could hear the wailing ululations and shrieking outside, the drum-banging and trumpet-blowing of an army drunk on liquor and high on drugs, as they worked themselves into a fever of vengeance.

  Even for Clive, the terrifying sounds outside the fort that still late autumn evening must have been chilling. The fort had withstood two ham-handed attacks, a series of bombardments and relentless musket fire. But could just 200 battle-fit soldiers stand up to a whole religious-crazed army of more than 15,000?

  Just before dawn a large number of men carrying ladders were seen running forward. Behind them elephants with huge protective iron plates on their foreheads charged forward to batter down the gates. Further behind, a huge torrent of enemy soldiers with muskets and spears surged as far as the eye could see.

  Clive, entirely cool in a crisis and apparently fearless, promptly gave orders for his men to shoot at the unprotected flanks of the elephants. They stopped and reared up under the intense pain; and then turned and stampeded into the soldiers following them. The gates remained secure. However, simultaneous attacks were being mounted in the two major breaches caused by the French guns, the enemy spurred on by their religious frenzy ‘with a mad kind of intrepidity’.