Clive

by Robert Harvey

  Clive’s wit certainly earned him friends in the House, although it only whetted the appetite of his opponents on the scandal sheets, who wrote of his ‘low buffoonery’ and now whipped up a campaign to make him suffer ‘pains and penalties’.

  * * *

  Clive’s opponents began to gather in an ominous attempt to ruin him financially and bail out the East India Company with his jagir. The self-important and dim-witted Burgoyne now seems to have taken it upon himself personally to press the case against Clive – perhaps because he discerned a possible rival for an important command in dealing with the rebellious American colonies. Indeed, the whole object of the witchhunt against Clive may have been to discredit him and his high-minded colonial policies as a possible commander of British forces in America.

  Edward Thurlow, the attorney-general, a tough former enemy of Clive’s, became his chief parliamentary prosecutor. Wedderburn, the Scottish advocate, was his defender. The government, under Lord North, remained neutral, but was in fact hostile. The largest faction in the administration, the ‘king’s friends’, took against Clive. The king himself had criticised the ‘fleecing’ of India.

  Of the two main opposition groups, that supporting the Marquess of Rockingham, one which included Edmund Burke, was on Clive’s side, while the other, supporting the Earl of Shelburne, a friend of Sulivan’s, was hostile. Most of the radical leaders, led by Charles James Fox, were hostile to Clive. There seemed a clear majority against him.

  Burgoyne opened the parliamentary trial of Robert Clive on 10 May 1773, declaring powerfully, ‘We have had in India revolution upon revolution, extortion upon extortion. In the whole history of mankind, I defy mankind to produce such a continued history of oppression.’ His main attack centred round the Omichand affair and the forgery of Admiral Watson’s signature.

  He made three proposals: that all territorial acquisitions made by British subjects should belong to the Crown; that it had been illegal for the revenues from such possessions to be given to private individuals; and, third, that such revenues had in fact been stolen. If this resolution passed, Clive would lose all he had taken from India and, having acted illegally, would be subject to impeachment. If the motion were passed, he faced at the least financial ruin, at worst stiff penalties or even a sentence of death.

  Wedderburn replied for Clive with an eloquent and well-argued speech. Clive spoke only briefly and hesitantly. For once he appeared to have been caught off-balance by the ferocity of the attack. ‘I cannot but lament the abuse that has been made of the public press and the methods resorted to of slandering the character of all orders of men without distinction. For my own part, I have been called a villain, a thief, a forger, an assassin, and names without number; but I need not complain, as even Majesty itself has not escaped this implacable fury. What I regret is that the cause of virtue and public spirit must inevitably suffer if this abuse be permitted to go unpunished, since the greatest inducement to men of superior talent to stand forth and distinguish themselves in their country’s cause is the hope of fair fame and just applause.’

  Burgoyne replied pompously,

  The task of a public accuser is never a pleasing, but is sometimes a necessary one. Envy and malignity are the vices of little minds, and I disclaim them. The House, in its movements, have only followed the cry of the public. Instances of rapacity and injustice have occurred in our Eastern possessions, that are known to all the world. An inordinate desire of wealth has had full play, and has led to transactions which have stigmatised those immediately concerned in them and affected even Britain’s name. It is the duty of the House, as guardians of the nation’s honour, to apply a remedy; and as the vice has been general, so must the punishment.

  It is a case in which no partial or limited censure will suffice to remove the evil, or to wipe off the stain from the country … It is therefore necessary to point out who the persons are who have acquired property, and the particular circumstances under which it has been acquired … In the revolution of 1757, effected by Lord Clive, great stress has been laid on its necessity; but every succeeding revolution has been sustained on the same ground, a ground that will never be wanting … Let it be remembered, that the revolution of 1757 [in Bengal] was the foundation and the model of all the subsequent revolutions. Our vindictive justice must go back to the origin of the evil.

  The tiger was wounded at last. Thurlow launched a devastating attack on Clive, and the members who flocked to the ten o’clock vote, having listened to none of the speeches – the debate was unwhipped – voted for Burgoyne’s motion to get home in good time. Clive was now censured in principle and in extreme danger.

  Two days later, on 19 May, Burgoyne returned to a more specific attack. In a tedious and uninspiring speech he argued that Clive ‘had illegally acquired the sum of £234,000 to the dishonour and detriment of the state’. The debate was tiresome, but Clive defended himself effectively, if no longer with languid humour. ‘After the long and painful services which I have rendered the state … I did not conceive it possible that a motion could ever be brought into this House to deprive me of my honour and reputation. I am sure the House will not accuse me of vanity … they will not accuse me of presumption for stating to the House what those services are…’

  Over Omichand he showed no remorse. ‘Where the lives of so many people were concerned, and when the existence of the Company depended upon it, I would not have scrupled to put Mr Watson’s name to the treaty even without his consent. I said so in committee, I say so here.’ He appealed movingly and somewhat pathetically at the end.

  Do I stand condemned by an ex post facto resolution for approving deceipts in presents sixteen years ago? … I can never bring myself to believe that this House will ever adopt such a horrid idea as to punish a man for what he could not be guilty of … I may be distressed, I may be ruined, but as long as I have a conscience to defend me, I will always be happy.

  After certificates such as these, am I to be brought here like a criminal, and the very best parts of my conduct construed into crimes against the State? [He had only a paternal inheritance of £500 a year.] On this I am content to live; and perhaps I shall find more real content of mind and happiness than in the trembling affluence of an unsettled fortune. But, Sir, I must make one more observation. If the definition of the Hon Gentleman [Colonel Burgoyne] and of this House, that the state, as expressed in these resolutions, is quoad hoc, the Company, then, Sir, every farthing I enjoy is granted to me.

  But to be called upon, after sixteen years have elapsed, to account for my conduct in this manner, and after an uninterrupted enjoyment of my property, to be questioned, and considered as obtaining it unwarrantably, is hard indeed; it is a treatment I should not think the British Senate capable of. But if such should be the case, I have a conscious innocence within me that tells me my conduct is irreproachable.

  Frangus non flectes [you may break, but you shall not bend, me]. My enemies may take from me what I have; they may, as they think, make me poor, but I shall be happy. I mean this not as my defence, though I have done for the present. My defence will be heard at that bar, but before I sit down I have one humble request to make to this House: that when they come to decide upon my honour, they will not forget their own.

  The same night, Clive wound up his defence with the famous declamation, ‘leave me my honour, take away my fortune’. Cries of ‘Hear! Hear!’ resounded in his ears as he left in tears, the first time he had ever been seen in such a state in public. He took his carriage from Westminster to Berkeley Square.

  Many members were also crying. Burgoyne, sensing the mood of the House was going against him, watered down his motion. It now suggested that Clive had not obtained his £234,000 illegally but that he had ‘abused the powers with which he was entrusted, to the evil example of the servants of the public’. A supporter of Clive proposed that the motion should be reworded so that it should simply record that he had received £234,000.

  The eloquent Charles Jam
es Fox, who had lost £150,000 gambling by the age of 23, made a ferocious and sanctimonious attack on Clive, calling him ‘the origin of all plunder, the source of all robbery’. Lord North, the prime minister, in Burke’s caustic comment, ‘blew hot and cold, and veered round the whole thirty-two points of the compass of uncertainty and indecision’. Burke himself spoke movingly in favour of Clive, as did a bluff old soldier, Admiral Sir Charles Saunders, who said that Clive was being abused as badly as Sir Walter Raleigh.

  Although the Rockingham faction was now solidly backing Clive, the previous motion had still passed the House, and he remained probably in a minority. But the ranks of the shires, the country gentry, which had viewed Clive as a hero, and one hard done by at that, had made its views felt in the ten days between the two debates. Clive’s own defence had swayed many MPs: could they really do down a man who had achieved so much for his country? The official inquiry had exonerated Clive on almost all points.

  His real crime – like that of all the nabobs – was to have secured enormous wealth through conquest. At the time such conduct had been regarded not just as acceptable but admirable. Many of his accusers were themselves men who made their fortunes in India far more blatantly and viciously – and had turned on Clive because during his last tour of duty he had sought to control them.

  With remarkable coolness, Clive had supper with a coterie of friends at Berkeley Square and went to bed at midnight, asking to be woken if he had won, and to be allowed to sleep on if he had not. His supporters decided to sit up all night until dawn fingered the elegant, wide, tree-lined square. Margaret, with them, did not know whether she would wake up a pauper in the morning, or indeed whether Clive might be arraigned as a common criminal. The former emperor of India faced ruin, humiliation and punishment.

  * * *

  In the empty square, in the cold light of the early morning on 22 May, a carriage could be heard approaching. Strachey, Clive’s secretary, emerged. The amendment by Clive’s friends rendering Burgoyne’s resolution harmless had been carried solidly by 155 votes to 95. At the last moment the ‘king’s friends’, the bulk of government supporters, had shifted to Clive, rather than running one of Britain’s greatest heroes into the ground. Wedderburn had then moved that ‘Robert, Lord Clive, did at the same time, render great and meritorious service to this country’. This motion was overwhelmingly passed.

  The magnetic Burke remarked, ‘Lord Clive has thus come out of the fiery trial much brighter than he went into it. His gains are now recorded, and not only not condemned, but actually approved by Parliament. His reputation, too, for ability, stands higher than ever.’

  Macaulay’s verdict on the judgement of the Commons is fair:

  The result of this memorable inquiry appears to us, on the whole, honourable to the justice, moderation and discernment of the Commons. They had indeed no great temptation to do wrong. They would have been very bad judges of an accusation against Jenkinson or against Wilkes. But the question respecting Clive was not a party question; and the House accordingly acted with the good sense and good feeling which may always be expected from an assembly of English gentlemen, not blinded by faction … The Commons of England … treated their living captain with that discriminating justice which is seldom shown except to the dead. They laid down sound general principles; they delicately pointed out where he had deviated from those principles; and they tempered the gentle censure with liberal eulogy.

  Clive could now afford to shrug off such missives as the one written by his embittered military opponent, Sir Robert Fletcher, after his exoneration by parliament:

  Though you have escaped the punishment of deeds the very report of which could not be made by Colonel Burgoyne without the strongest marks of abhorrence and indignation, you will remain a blasted monument of the legislature’s clemency instead of having been made an example of its justice. This great inquest of the nation, though not productive of the satisfaction the injured and oppressed had a right to expect, has however, opened the eyes of the public and brought down the mighty conqueror of Plassey and his confederates on the level with a gang of freebooters and lawless speculators.

  Clive’s reputation, although not wholly vindicated, had been allowed to return to that on his return from India, before the persecution began. He had secured the approval and even the accolade of his peers; he could be proud. His enemies had been confounded. He had fought his corner vigorously and with unexpected oratorical brilliance. To those in Britain like Walpole who saw him as some primitive conquistador and colonial plunderer, it became apparent how sophisticated and complex a man he was. The reasons for his success in India became more obvious.

  He was an extraordinarily gifted man. In parliament he had shown himself capable of eloquence and statesmanlike common sense; had his qualities emerged at Westminster earlier, he might indeed have enjoyed the meteoric political career he craved in his youth. Arrogance, idleness and his obsession with wealth had blighted his political career.

  * * *

  He was still only 47, far from retirement age for a general. Because of his wealth, though, he had no need to seek an active career again. As Britain’s greatest living general, he might have responded to a call to lead Britain’s forces in America. He was the natural choice. However, for the moment, the prospect was one of great luxury, the vigorous development of country estates, ceremonial occasions, intrigue within the East India Company – and no more. It was a gilded anti-climax for the man who had conquered and ruled a continent.

  His health was less of an obsession these days. ‘I am so well acquainted with my own constitution at present that I think I may venture to say with care and attention that I may make the rest of my days tolerably easy,’ he remarked in April 1774. He had come through his final and greatest ordeal with controversy, but also with honour. He was hardly one to feel crippled by the attack upon him; he had faced much greater military challenges.

  Yet he was affected by the general snobbishness towards his nouveau riche status, the continuing sense that people regarded his wealth as ill-gotten, the failure to recognise his staggering achievement for the country. Both king and country seemed strangely indifferent to the empire he had created. The main reason, he knew, was that the immense wealth he had accumulated made people sceptical as to his motives. Yet to Clive wealth was the other side of the coin to conquering India for the British. They were far from irreconcilable.

  There is no sign that, following his acquittal in parliament, Clive was unusually depressed. He was invited to stand for election in Liverpool, where he was popular. He went to the Portsmouth naval review in June. He took an active part in the debate on the Regulating Bill, and he tried to see that his influence in the Company was perpetuated through a bright young protégé, Philip Francis.

  The bill set up the disastrous system by which the governor-general – Hastings – was controlled by a three-man council, which was to institutionalise conflict at the top in India. Two of the three, General Sir John Clavering and Philip Francis himself, a brilliant, cynical, tough young man, were friends of Clive, and influenced by his view of India. They set themselves against Hastings.

  Clive openly sought to influence Francis, inviting him to Walcot and Oakly for a fortnight, where he made a hit with Margaret, she once again delighting in the company of a young man, he enjoying the contrast from his modest house in Margate. Firm friends now, he brought his wife on his next visit, and they became constant visitors to the Clive houses. Clive became a mentor to the young man, seeking to influence him on all Indian matters, handing down his views to a new generation and criticising Hastings. Clive was also now dominant on the board of the East India Company.

  * * *

  Clive departed on a ‘grand tour’ of Italy, where he met the Pope in Rome, visited Naples briefly, and bought pictures, including a Tintoretto. Although he suffered a bout of depression in Naples, he stayed another three months in Italy, visiting Bologna and Venice. He went on to Geneva, arriving in England i
n ‘high health and spirits’.

  Margaret had not accompanied him, ostensibly because of the children, or perhaps because she preferred the company of the Francises. Philip in fact left for India just before Clive’s return, leaving Margaret distraught. When she proposed a toast to the absent Francis, she burst into tears. Clive was reportedly furious.

  At the end of June, Clive went up to Shropshire and took part in a general election campaign that increased the number of seats he controlled to seven – an almost ducal figure. He was now supporting the government and had a substantial following in parliament, although he seemed curiously indolent in making himself felt there, except in his own defence. His only ambition was, according to Strachey, ‘a British peerage’.

  None of these were the actions of a morbid or suicidal man. There was nothing to indicate that he had been unbalanced by his near-escape in parliament. However, at the end of October, he caught a bad cold standing by the river at Oakly, and within a week was visibly ill, full of catarrh and finding it difficult to swallow. He travelled to Bath, where he stayed a fortnight, his condition deteriorating, so that he could not eat or swallow.

  After a hellish journey to Berkeley Square, he lamented to the distraught Margaret and the family that he was dying. He arrived on the night of 20 November, suffering acutely and taking large doses of opium. His old abdominal pains had returned with a vengeance. He must have been a terrible and trying patient, by turns weeping, hysterical, shouting, morose and despondent. Within two days he was dead.