"Clive it was gave England India."
I T was not likely that the spirited little army should be left in undisputed possession of Arcot, and Clive now prepared for an inevitable siege. Soon 10,000 men had swarmed into the place, hemming in the garrison on every side. Days grew to weeks, and the ready resource of Clive alone saved the situation. The handful of men—European and native—caught the spirit of their leader, and each became a hero. History contains no more touching instance of native fidelity than that related of the men who came to Clive, not to complain of their own scanty fare, but to propose "that all the grain should be given to Europeans, who required more nourishment than the natives of Asia. The thin gruel, strained away from the rice, would do for them," they said. With such as these Clive held the fort for fifty days.
At last the French resolved to storm the town. Clive busied himself with preparations. In the evening he threw himself down to sleep, utterly tired out; but he was soon awakened, and at his post in a moment. The French attacked in strong force. They had brought with them huge elephants, with great pieces of iron fixed on their foreheads, to try and break down the gates. The English fired on them; and the unhappy creatures, unused to firearms, turned round and fled in their fright into the midst of the French, trampling many under foot. Night fell, and Clive, with his little band of weary men, passed an anxious time. Morning dawned to find the enemy had melted away. The siege of Arcot was ended. The growing power of the French in India was arrested. Robert Clive was the hero of the hour.
Indeed, not long after this Dupleix was recalled from the East by Louis XV., his dream of empire ended, to die in France heart-broken.
But India's troubles were by no means at an end. English trade in the East was growing, and the English had long ago established a trading station at Calcutta on the river Hoogly, one of the mouths of the Ganges. They had had no water-way at Madras; but here, at Calcutta, they had been able to penetrate inland and annex some of the surrounding country, known as Bengal.
Now the Nawab of Bengal hated the English. His imagination was fired with fabulous stories of the vast wealth
stored up in the treasury at Calcutta. So he collected a huge army, and in the year 1756 he appeared on the
outskirts of the town. The English were taken by surprise,—they had no Clive to lead them to victory,—and the
Nawab took Calcutta with ease, making 146 prisoners. But the treasury did not yield the vast riches he had been
led to expect, and he wreaked his revenge on the luckless prisoners. It was a hot night in June when the 146
English captives were driven by clubs and swords into a little room some twenty feet square, with only two
small gratings at the entrance to let in air. The "Black Hole" had been built to shut up troublesome soldiers:
it was intended to hold four or five at a time. To cram in 146 human beings was to court slow but certain
death. The day had been fiercely hot, the night was sultry and stifling. Not a breath of air could enter to
relieve the sufferings of the Europeans, too tightly packed into the small space to move. In vain they cried
for mercy; in vain they appealed to the guards in their agony. The guards only replied from outside that the
Nawab was asleep, and none dared wake him or remove a single prisoner without his leave. Then
followed cries for water. A few water-skins were brought to the gratings, but in the mad struggle to reach it
many were trampled to death. The heartless guards only held burning torches to the gratings and mocked at their
frantic struggles. As the long night passed away the struggles ceased, the screams died away, and a few low
moans were the only sounds audible. Morning dawned at last. The Nawab awoke and ordered the doors to be opened.
Twenty-three fainting people alone staggered forth: the rest lay dead in heaps upon the floor. And even
The tale of horror thrilled through the British Empire. All eyes turned to the young hero of Arcot to avenge the wrongs done to his countrymen, and Robert Clive was soon hurrying to the scene of action.
Early in January he arrived at Calcutta, and soon the British flag was waving above the town. Meanwhile the Nawab was waiting for him at Plassey, some ninety-six miles to the north of Calcutta, with a tremendous army, at least twenty times the size of Clive's. Clive was marching north, hoping for help to be sent, but he reached the banks of the Hoogly with a force wholly inadequate for the work before him. He was in a painfully anxious dilemma. Before him lay a wide river, across which, if things went ill, not one would ever return. For the first time in his life he shrank from the fearful responsibility of making up his mind. He was but thirty-two at the time. He called a council of war. Should they attack the mighty force before them with their little band of men, or wait for help?
"Wait for help," said the officers; and Clive himself agreed with them.
But still he was not satisfied. He retired alone under the shade of a tree near by, and spent an hour in the
deepest thought. Then he returned to the camp. He knew his mind now: he was determined to risk everything. "Be
in readiness to attack
The river was soon crossed, and Clive with his army took up his quarters in a grove of mango-trees, within a mile of the enemy. He could not sleep. All night long he heard the sound of drums and cymbals from the vast camp of the Nawab. He knew but too well the fearful odds against which he would fight on the morrow.
The day broke—"the day which was to decide the fate of India."
An hour after the battle began, all was over. The Nawab had mounted a camel and was in full flight, and the great native army was retreating in wild disorder. Clive stood triumphant on the battlefield of Plassey. With a loss of twenty-two men he had scattered an army of nearly 60,000, and subdued an empire larger than Great Britain. The "heaven-born general" was conqueror not only of the battlefield of Plassey, but of the British Empire in India.