Critical, Historical, and Miscellaneous Essays; Vol. 4: With a Memoir and IndexMacaulay, Thomas Babington Macaulay, Baron
History
Critical, Historical, and Miscellaneous Essays; Vol. 4: With a Memoir and Index
Macaulay, Thomas Babington Macaulay, Baron
English literature -- History and criticism; Great Britain -- History
Clive was in a painfully anxious situation. He could place no confidence
in the sincerity or in the courage of his confederate: and whatever
confidence he might place in his own military talents, and in the valour
and discipline of his troops, it was no light thing to engage an army
twenty times as numerous as his own. Before him lay a river over which
it was easy to advance, but over which, if things went ill, not one of
his little hand would ever return. On this occasion, for the first and
for the last time, his dauntless spirit, during a few hours, shrank from
the fearful responsibility of making a decision. He called a council of
war. The majority pronounced against fighting; and Clive declared his
concurrence with the majority. Long afterwards, he said that he had
never called but one council of war, and that, if he had taken the
advice of that council, the British would never have been masters of
Bengal. But scarcely had the meeting broke up when he was himself again.
He retired alone under the shade of some trees, and passed near an hour
there in thought. He came back determined to put every thing to the
hazard, and gave orders that all should be in readiness for passing the
river on the morrow.
The river was passed; and, at the close of a toilsome day’s march, the
army, long after sunset, took up its quarters in a grove of mango
trees near Plassey, within a mile of the enemy. Clive was unable to
{244}sleep; he heard, through the whole night, the sound of drums and
cymbals from the vast camp of the Nabob. It is not strange that even
his stout heart should now and then have sunk, when he reflected against
what odds, and for what a prize, he was in a few hours to contend.
Nor was the rest of Surajah Dowlah more peaceful.
His mind, at once weak and stormy, was distracted by wild and horrible
apprehensions. Appalled by the greatness and nearness of the crisis,
distrusting his captains, dreading every one who approached him,
dreading to be left alone, he sat gloomily in his tent, haunted, a Greek
poet would have said, by the furies of those who had cursed him with
their last breath in the Black Hole.
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