The battle, however, was not won without grave treachery. Prior to the battle Clive learned that Mir Jaffier, Suraj-ud-Dowlah’s chief commander, had formed a plot against his master. He managed to get into communication with the disaffected general through the agency of one Omichand, a wily, unscrupulous Bengali merchant. This man held the thread of the whole plot in his hands; one word whispered by him in the ear of Suraj-ud-Dowlah would have meant the lives of all the conspirators. Omichand claimed £300,000 sterling as the price of his secrecy and assistance, and insisted that an article regarding his claims should be inserted in the treaty between Clive and Mir Jaffier. Clive now descended to conduct for which he cannot be defended, though excuses may be made. He knew he had to do with a villain, and he determined to defeat him by his own knavish acts. Two treaties were drawn up—the one, on white paper, was real; the other, on red paper, was a sham. The red paper contained the promise to pay Omichand’s demand; there was no mention of it in the white paper. Clive now added his signature, and forged that of Admiral Watson to the red paper, which was handed to Omichand. The treaty to which Mir Jaffier agreed was on the white paper.
When Suraj-ud-Dowlah was overcome, Mir Jaffier received the throne of Bengal as his reward. According to the terms of the treaty, he granted territorial and other rights to the East India Company, and gave Clive a gift of £200,000. “It is now time,” said Clive, “to undeceive Omichand.” Turning to the man, Clive’s interpreter said, “Omichand, the red treaty is a trick. You are to have nothing.” Omichand fell back insensible, and afterwards relapsed into a state of idiocy. Soon after, Mir Jaffier was besieged by the eldest son of the Great Mogul; but Clive marched to his relief, and the besiegers melted away. Then Mir Jaffier in gratitude made over to Clive the yearly rent, amounting to £30,000, which the British paid for the lands which they occupied about Calcutta. Probably Clive was justified in accepting this present, but it gave his enemies a powerful handle against him. In 1760 Clive returned to England, and was everywhere greeted as a “heaven-born general.” He became member of Parliament for Shrewsbury, and received an Irish peerage. His fortune, acquired by spoils, presents, and grants, actually yielded him £40,000 a year.
In 1765 he returned to India as governor-general, and set himself the task of purifying the administration of the Company. The officials and military commanders received very small salaries; but these they turned into fortunes by “shaking the pagoda tree”—that is, by blackmail, extortion, and corruption of all kinds. Clive attempted to stop these practices, and though his reforms were bitterly opposed, he left the Company’s service much purer than he found it. In the process he raised up a host of enemies, who in 1767, when he finally returned to England in shattered health, brought about his impeachment for corrupt practices, especially with reference to the Omichand affair and the present from Mir Jaffier. During the Parliamentary inquiry, Clive, when confronted by hostile evidence, remarked, “Mr. Chairman, at this moment I stand astonished at my own moderation!” The House of Commons evaded a decision on his conduct by passing a resolution that Lord Clive “had rendered great and meritorious services to his country.” He was acquitted, but the acquittal was really a vote of censure. Clive, broken in health, keenly sensitive to the disgrace of the verdict, and enfeebled in mind by the use of opium, felt the disgrace keenly. During one of the fits of deep depression to which he was subject, he ended his life by his own hand (November 1774).
Thus perished, in his forty-ninth year, the great Clive. His faults were many, but his merits outweighed them, and he must always stand high in the roll of British empire-makers. “Our island has scarcely ever produced a man more truly great either in arms or in council.” Let this be his epitaph.
Clive at Bay.
The natives of India believed that Clive bore a charmed life. On one occasion, when he was resting along with several of his men, a party of Frenchmen fired into the room which he occupied, killing the man next to him. Clive rushed out, and finding himself confronted by six Frenchmen, loudly ordered them to lay down their arms as they were surrounded. The native allies of the French fled, and the assailants themselves took refuge in a temple. Next day they surrendered.
