Catwah, where he halted; the Nabob lay with a mighty host a few miles off at Plassey: but still Meer Jaffier delayed to fulfil his engagements, and returned evasive answers to the earnest remonstrances of the English general.

Clive was then in a most distressing situation; he had no faith in the sincerity of his confederate ; and whatever confidence he might place in his own military talents or the valour and discipline of the British troops, it was no light thing to engage an army twenty times as numerous as his own, and on which the future of the British Empire in India might be said with truth to have then rested. On this occasion, for the first and last time in his career, he called a council of war. The majority pronounced against fighting, and Clive declared his concurrence with the majority. In after years he said he never called but one council of war, and that if he had followed its advice the British would never have been masters of Hindostan. The meeting had no sooner broken up, than he retired alone, under the shade of sɔme trees, and passed an hour in deep and anxious thought. Before long his mind recovered its wonted firmness, and he came back determined to risk everything, and gave instant orders for passing the river at early dawn.

In many wonderful scenes have British troops been engaged during the last two centuries in every part of the known world, but it may be doubted, considering the daring nature of the service, the contrast in point of numbers between the two armies, its importance, both in the history of the world and that of the British Empire in India, whether anything

The Battle of Plassey.

79

equals (not even Wellington's crossing the Douro near Oporto) the crossing of the Ganges by Clive's gallant little army on the memorable morn of June 22nd, 1757. The same evening that small force, dragging its eight pieces of cannon by hand, had reached a grove of mango trees near Plassey, within a mile of the foe. Clive was unable to sleep; he heard throughout the night the clang of the cymbals and the beating of drums from the Nabob's numerous host. It is not strange that Clive's stout heart should have sunk within him when he reflected against what odds, and for what a prize, he was in a few hours to contend.

The day broke, that memorable day which was to I decide the fate of the British in India. At sunrise Suráj-ood-Dowlah's vast army-consisting of forty thousand infantry, with nearly twenty thousand cavalry, infinitely superior to those drawn from the effeminate population of Bengal, and accompanied by fifty pieces of cannon of the largest size, together with some smaller guns under the direction of a few French auxiliaries-began to move towards the grove wherein the English army lay. The battle commenced with a cannonade, in which Dowlah's artillery did scarcely any execution, while the answer from the small field-pieces of the British produced a great effect. Several of the Nabob's chief officers fell. Disorder began to spread through his ranks. His own terror increased every moment. One of the conspirators recommended a retreat. Such insidious advice was only too readily received. He ordered his army to fall back, and this order decided his fate. Clive snatched the decisive moment, like Wellington

at Salamanca in after years, and ordered his troops to advance. No mob attacked by regular soldiers was ever more completely routed. The little band of French auxiliaries, who alone endeavoured to make a stand, were swept down the stream of fugitives. In one hour Suráj-ood-Dowlah's vast host was dispersed to the winds, though only five hundred of the vanquished were slain. Everything in the camp had fallen into Clive's hands, their guns and their baggage, with numberless head of cattle, remained in the power of the conquerors. With the loss of twenty-two killed and fifty wounded, Clive had scattered an army of nigh sixty thousand men, and subdued an empire larger and more populous than the United Kingdom itself; and Clive's own modest and graphic account of the battle, which is fully given in Sir John Malcolm's "Memoirs," possesses even more interest now that the results of the great victory can be fully estimated, than it did when it first excited the wonder and admiration of the people of England. Thus was laid, as it was commonly said, and subsequent events proved the truth of the saying, the foundation of the British Empire in Hindostan.

CHAPTER XI.

THE RESULTS OF THE VICTORY AT PLASSEY.

A.D. 1757-8.

THE

HE victors pursued Dowlah's scattered hosts for about six miles, and then halted for the night at Daudpore, where Clive received a letter of congratulation on his success from Meer Jaffier, who came with his division, and encamped hard by during the night. The following morning he repaired to the English quarters, not a little uneasy at the reception which awaited him, as he was conscious that his conduct during the battle must have appeared to his English allies most strange. He gave evident signs of alarm when he found the troops drawn out to receive him with the military honours due to his rank, thinking they intended to kill him or take him prisoner. But his apprehensions were speedily removed; Clive came forward to meet him, embraced him, and saluted him as Nabob of the three great provinces of Bengal, Bahar, and Orissa. His fears were then sufficiently removed to allow of an hour's consultation with the British nabob-maker. Clive listened graciously to his apologies, and advised him to march without delay on Moorshedabad, in order to secure the palace and the treasury of the fugitive tyrant.

Suráj-ood-Dowlah fled from the battle-field with all the speed which a fleet camel could carry him, and arrived at his capital in a little more than twentyfour hours, quickly followed by Meer Jaffier, who reached Moorshedabad the same evening. Before his arrival, however, Dowlah, after consultation with his chief officers, and rejecting their advice to place himself in the hands of the English, as his conscience must have told him that the tragedy of the "Black Hole" could never be forgotten or forgiven, and pretending to agree with those who advised him to try again the fate of arms, he gave orders for the assembling of his forces. Hearing, however, of the arrival of his commander-in-chief, Meer Jaffier, like James II. under similar circumstances, when William of Orange was approaching Whitehall, he decided on instant and secret flight. Disguised in a mean dress, with a casket of jewels in his hand, he let himself down at night from a window of his palace, accompanied by his favourite wife and a single attendant, threw himself into a boat, and ascended the river towards Patna, where he hoped to find Mr. Law with the French forces under his command.

No sooner was his flight discovered, a few hours later, than Meer Jaffier despatched parties of horsemen in various directions to scour the country in pursuit. The tyrant in the meanwhile had reached within twenty miles of the place where the French lay on their march to meet him; but having landed in order to have a meal cooked, in a lonely fakeer's hut by the river-side, he suddenly found himself confronted by a man whose ears he had caused to be cut off only a year before. Escape was impossible, for