Clive

by Robert Harvey

  Reluctantly, Siraj-ud-Daula ordered Mohan Lal, in charge of the Bengali front line, to order a retreat. He angrily refused to do this, and only under equally furious orders was he prevailed to withdraw in an orderly fashion from a position where he had the British on the defensive. Meanwhile Mir Jafar at last played his hand, sending a message to Clive advising him to attack; but the letter failed to get through until much later.

  * * *

  Instead, chance once again intervened. When Clive, depressed and soaked to the skin, saw to his astonishment that the enemy front line was beginning to pull back, he assumed this was a temporary lull in the fighting and went to change his clothes; as he was pulling them off, he was informed that some of his forward troops under Kilpatrick were going after the retreating enemy – and preparing to attack the French gunners’ strategic position on a piece of high ground.

  This was madness. Clive had no men to spare for a chase that could over-extend his forces and lead them into a trap. He was beside himself with rage, and went off in pursuit; he needed every man to defend the British position. He caught up with Kilpatrick just as the troops reached the now abandoned French position. The French had retreated, with their guns, to a nearby redoubt. Furious, he ordered Kilpatrick put under arrest, but the latter apologised, and was ordered back to the mango grove to take charge there, while Clive took command of the forward troops.

  He resolved that having once advanced, the British could not retreat, and ordered Coote to bring up reinforcements. Although Mohan Lal’s men poured musket fire into the exposed British position, it held with some difficulty. Then the Bengalis turned and advanced again, and were met with withering British fire. But the British were in trouble, under the fire of French guns, and potentially faced by a third of the Nawab’s forces.

  The Bengali cavalry now prepared to charge the British on open ground. Clive asked desperately for more reinforcements, only to be told that another cavalry attack was being prepared against the mango grove itself. Clive countermanded the order for reinforcements. The few British cannon blazed away at the oxen dragging the Indian cannon and forced them back. Although Bengali infantrymen attacked bravely and in waves, they were not reinforced. Under intense British fire, their elephants were rearing up and getting out of control.

  When Mohan Lal’s forces began to pull away, Clive ordered his soldiers forward to take the forward Bengali positions. Simultaneously, one of the enemy ammunition dumps blew up. Coote captured the little hill in front of Plassey House, while St Frais’s men fled the redoubt from which their guns had kept the British pinned down for so long.

  * * *

  Siraj-ud-Daula, hearing that the British were attacking, had jumped aboard a camel and fled back with 2,000 horsemen towards the capital. The Bengalis, after fighting so furiously, were faced with the flight of the Nawab, the death of two senior commanders and the near-desertion of three others. The huge army now also fled, their panic becoming a rout. As the English moved forward, hardly believing their luck, they found the stores and baggage of the encampment abandoned. Around 500 of the enemy had been killed compared to just 20 dead and 50 wounded on the British side.

  Clive urged his men forward in hot pursuit of the fleeing enemy for about six miles, capturing four more cannon before calling a halt in exhaustion. Kilpatrick eventually caught him up at Daudpur. It was around five o’clock, and only an hour of daylight remained.

  Clive sent a laconic, succinct despatch to Watson and the select committee:

  Gentlemen – this morning at one o’clock we arrived at Plassey grove and early in the morning the Nabob’s whole army appeared in sight and cannonaded us for several hours, and about noon returned to a very strong camp in sight, lately Rai Durlabh’s, upon which we advanced and stormed the Nabob’s camp, which we have taken with all his cannon, and pursued him six miles, being now at Daudpur and shall proceed to Murshidabad tomorrow. Mir Jafar, Rai Durlabh and Yar Latuf Khan gave us no other assistance than standing neutral. They are with me with a large force. Mir Madan and five hundred horse are killed and three elephants. Our loss is trifling, not above 20 Europeans killed and wounded.

  There were also some 16 sepoys killed and 36 wounded. The Battle of Plassey was over.

  It had been an astonishing victory, in its nature, achievement and consequences. The battle had been decided by a number of factors. Clive’s choice of ground had been masterful, in that it was to provide an almost impenetrable cover for his small force, not just against well-directed French artillery but – because of the thickness of the trees – against cavalry attack. His worst mistake early on in the fight was nearly to throw this advantage away by exposing his men and cannon on the ground in front during the first fighting; but he had shown the courage and quickness of mind to reverse himself. What the Nawab had needed was a speedy victory, and this was unforthcoming.

  Clive had been absolutely correct in his caution in sticking to the hunting lodge and the grove thereafter. When Kilpatrick staged his pursuit, he very nearly caused his men to be cut off and lose the battle. Clive’s superb leadership skills and rapid reinforcement held the position. Had the Nawab not demoralised his forces by ordering a retreat and fleeing from the scene of battle, Clive might have been beaten back.

  It was not Kilpatrick’s reckless attack that caused the Bengalis to withdraw; it was the collapse of confidence within the enemy camp. But the sortie may have had the effect of turning an orderly retreat into a rout; and for this Kilpatrick deserves some credit against the more cautious instincts of Clive – even if the assault could have led to disaster.

  Clive’s and Watson’s scheming was in the end vindicated. Three-quarters of the Nawab’s forces – about 38,000 out of the 50,000 present – failed to attack. Mir Jafar and his colleagues certainly behaved treacherously in keeping their options open and waiting to join the winning side; but at least they failed to join the Nawab. Had they done so, Clive would certainly have been overwhelmed.

  The rains helped to even the overwhelming superiority of the French-manned guns against the British at a crucial moment. In addition, the Nawab made singularly poor use of his cavalry, which was well trained and bold. In spite of the difficulty of attacking well-entrenched soldiers behind a mudbank in a thick plantation of trees, a major attack on the British position by an overwhelming cavalry force might have stood a chance of success.

  Finally, Clive had luck on his side, in the death of two of the enemy’s best commanders at an early stage, and in the Nawab’s premature decision that, without the support of Mir Jafar, he had to flee to Murshidabad, thus demoralising his forces. Clive had won through good choice of ground, boldness tempered by caution, relentless intriguing, steadiness under fire and, when required, excellent and cool-headed leadership of men in battle. Above all, his courage in ordering the march across the river to a position where the British would have no choice but to fight and the Bengalis, impressed, had none but to oppose him, was a colossal military gamble of the highest order – and one borne out by success.

  * * *

  Almost as soon as the dust had died down, his detractors were at work. Clive, it was said, had opposed the march across the river. This was demonstrably untrue: after the initial hesitation he had changed his mind and ordered the march. Clive had slept through the battle; even if it were remotely in character for this brilliant, nervous man to have done so, this was exposed later as a falsehood spread by a personal enemy, William Belchier, who was not present at the battle.

  It was said that the ‘skirmish’ had been a ‘walkover’. The battle had in fact lasted ten hours, from just after dawn to nearly dusk; the British position initially seemed hopeless, and was very nearly lost by Kilpatrick’s sortie. It was alleged that the real bravery and leadership had been displayed by Kilpatrick in his attack, which routed the Bengali forces. In fact their withdrawal began before Kilpatrick’s attack, and his move in response, while certainly brave, very nearly lost the British advantage by exposing them to a witherin
g counterattack which was only just rescued by Clive’s cool command. Certainly, though, Kilpatrick’s attack contributed to the panic in the Nawab’s camp and to the Nawab’s flight.

  It was said that Clive had won because of the divisions of his enemies and the Nawab’s escape. In fact, Clive had worked tirelessly in the preceding weeks to promote those divisions, and the Nawab’s flight was at least partly the direct result of the conspiracy. It was said that, with so few casualties, Plassey was not a real battle. Yet a general who achieves victory at very little cost through cunning and statecraft is surely greater than one who triumphs amidst massive carnage.

  Conventional military tactics played little part in Plassey, although Clive was unusually cautious during the battle; but then Clive throughout his career achieved extraordinary results by flouting conventional tactics through his remarkable and almost unerring judgement of acceptable risk. At Plassey he took breathtaking risks. His 3,000 men without cavalry support and only a handful of light field guns put to flight an army fifteen or sixteen times greater, furnished with around 15,000 cavalry and four times as much artillery manned by Europeans and a relatively disciplined native army.

  True, Clive had luck on his side: the downpour, the death of the Nawab’s generals, and the Nawab’s own panic. But Plassey must stand as a triumph of British arms, generalship, statecraft and intelligence second to none, alongside Agincourt, Blenheim and, later, Trafalgar and Waterloo.

  * * *

  The consequences both for the British in India and Clive personally were momentous. The East India Company and Britain had acquired, at a stroke, effective control of the largest and wealthiest part of the subcontinent. Taken together with their superiority in the south, they now held nearly a third of its land area. Only the central belt, divided between the Marathas and the French, the north, controlled by the Nawab of Oudh, and the wild north-west eluded them. Clive had effectively doubled the British area of occupation. The Company was now indisputably the major power in India. The foundations had been laid for a British rule that was to endure for two centuries.

  Clive himself was in a position of unparalleled power for any British national in history, before or since. He had a kingdom of 40 million people at his feet, more than six times the subjects of the British monarch. There was no effective control over his personal rule from the civilian authorities in Madras or Calcutta. His rivals – Watson, Coote – although acquitting themselves well in the campaign, had shrunk to insignificance.

  The gamble he had taken in crossing the Kasimbazar river had been his, and his alone, supported only by Coote, disavowed by Watson and the Calcutta councillors. Just as he would have had to face the consequences if he had failed and his force been surrounded and defeated, now he took the credit, fully vindicated. He had reached his finest hour, his crowning moment of glory. Drake and Raleigh had achieved extraordinary feats, but had never ruled over an empire. His was larger than those of Cortés or Pizarro.

  He was the new Nawab of Bengal – king, emperor and effective dictator rolled into one. In Macaulay’s words, ‘great provinces [were] dependent on his pleasure, an opulent city afraid of being given up to plunder; wealthy bankers bidding against each other for his smile; vaults piled with gold and jewels thrown open to him alone’. He also now faced ultimate temptation, the possession of absolute power over a country much more populous than Britain, unchecked by the rule of constitutional law.

  Yet it would be wrong to say that Clive ruled as a conqueror through force of arms alone. The Emperor of Delhi, the nominal source of authority, had refused to recognise Siraj-ud-Daula as Nawab of Bengal, preferring his cousin, Shaukut Jang. The Nawab’s other senior courtiers had turned against him, also making use of the argument that he lacked imperial recognition. Clive from the first ruled through Mir Jafar as the legitimate Nawab; and Clive was not to assume legal responsibility for governing Bengal until he was granted the diwani (management of the revenue) in perpetuity by the emperor in 1765. Clive was always scrupulous to observe the legal proprieties, whatever the realities of power might be; and in deposing the Nawab he had a strong case for arguing he was acting with legal sanction in the interests of the Bengalis themselves.

  He had been adventurer, soldier, governor of a small province, expeditionary commander. Now he was absolute ruler. Could even his strong, though neurotic, character cope with the awesome temptations of oriental despotism that so often corrupted their wielder, and had turned his immediate predecessor in Bengal into a sadistic, giggling, pleasure-seeking predator against his neighbours’ lands? The first signs were not encouraging.

  CHAPTER 17

  The Nawab’s Baubles

  Events now unfolded as in some fairy tale, some fabulous yarn out of the Arabian Nights or, to a later generation, a story out of Rudyard Kipling or Rider Haggard. At 5 p.m., with the battle over, Mir Jafar, who had played so ambivalent a role, arrived, seeking to apologise to Clive for not coming to his help because to do so would have been to violate an oath he had given on the Koran to the Nawab. After resting, Clive said he would welcome Mir Jafar and his son Miran.

  As the two reached his headquarters, a troop of guards turned out to salute the Bengali general; Mir Jafar was visibly alarmed, fearing they would arrest him. Instead, to his astonishment, Clive came out and embraced the new Nawab of the three provinces of Bengal. To this day, a person who betrays a promise in India is decried as a Mir Jafar. This was unfair: the Bengali commander had served Aliverdi Khan loyally. Only mistreatment had driven Mir Jafar against the Nawab; and the young king had made it clear that, if given the chance, he would have killed his uncle.

  They went inside Clive’s tent for talks. A tough old soldier with a shrewd, cunning expression and a tidy white beard, Mir Jafar was advised by Clive to take up his throne at Murshidabad at once for fear that the city might degenerate into chaos or Siraj-ud-Daula would yet rally his forces. Watts and Walsh were despatched to ensure that British interests were protected and the treasury was not plundered before Clive got there. When Mir Jafar arrived, he found that the deposed Nawab had indeed been plundering the treasury and trying to raise a new army to fight his opponents.

  Mir Jafar cautiously took up residence in his own palace. In the Mansurgans, the enormous and splendid Nawab’s palace across the river, Siraj-ud-Daula realised that he could muster little support. He put his favourite wife, Luft un-Nisa, his three-year-old daughter, a loyal eunuch and several of his concubines ‘into covered coaches and covered chairs, loaded them with as much gold and as many jewels as they could contain, and taking with him a number of elephants, with his best baggage and furniture he quitted his palace about three in the morning and fled’.

  * * *

  Clive himself moved slowly to Mandipur. He had rested there a couple of days when the Seths informed him that there was a plot to assassinate him as he rode into Murshidabad. At last, on 29 June, the 32-year-old ruler of Bengal, the man who would be emperor, arrived to take up his capital.

  The scene of his entry into Murshidabad was at once exotic and dangerous. The city was an immense one, stretching four miles along the riverside and half again as wide, teeming with people, a massive area of impoverished shacks and slums cheek-by-jowl with prosperous merchants’ houses and a fabulous central waterfront of palaces and mosques.

  Tens of thousands turned out to greet Clive as he passed. He was accompanied by a formidable force of 200 British soldiers, resplendent in their red uniforms, and a disciplined posse of 300 sepoys, as well as two cannon, a band, and streaming colours. He rode impressively towards the front of his retinue, still an astonishingly young man with a gravitas and command well beyond his years, tall, imposing, slightly portly already.

  Murshidabad impressed Clive: ‘The city of Murshidabad is as extensive, populous and rich as the city of London with this difference, that there are individuals in the first possessing infinitely greater property than any in the last city.’ He was taken across by boat to a splendid palace on the o
pposite bank, close to the Nawab’s palace, the Morad-Bagh. He was taking no chances: his large escort camped on the grounds, as much to protect him against surprise attack as to impress.

  There, in the spacious coolness of an Indian prince’s palace, after a long rest he went to the state quarters to receive the great men of the city. ‘Jagat Seth and several of the great men, anxious for their fate, sent their submission, with offers of large presents … the Indian millionaires, as well as other men of property, made me the greatest offers (which nevertheless are usual upon such occasions, and what they expected would have been required), and had I accepted these offers I might have been in possession of millions … but preferring the reputation of the English nation, the interest of the Nawab and the advantage of the Company to all pecuniary considerations, I refused all offers that were made to me.’

  The same afternoon, Clive went to the Nawab’s palace, the real ruler of Bengal paying acknowledgement to the nominal one. The teenage Miran, who had allegedly been in on the plot to assassinate Clive, accompanied him. A huge throng of rajahs and other rulers, bearing a dazzling display of swords and jewels, were assembled to greet him in the great hall of the palace.

  At the other end was Mir Jafar, gravely standing by the carpet of state, the Masnud, upon which he refused to take his place in submission to Clive. Graciously, Clive led him up to it and bowed in submission to the new Nawab, offering him a few token pieces of gold as tribute. All the other princes then gave him their own offerings.

  * * *

  The real business began the following day: Mir Jafar called on Clive in his palace, and the two of them rode in state to the house of the Seths, the ‘bankers to the world’. Clive was informed that the treasury had been found to contain only 140 lakhs (£2.1 million), not enough even to pay the obligations under Mir Jafar’s treaty to the British, and only around a tenth of previous estimates. Although much had been plundered by Siraj-ud-Daula, almost certainly there existed a secret strongroom elsewhere in the city to which the new ruler had had much of the money transferred.