had placed, concealed from view, their battery of nine guns and a portion of their best men. About a hundred yards to the right of the road, also looking eastwards, was a dry watercourse, along the bed of which troops could march, sheltered, to a great extent, from hostile fire. In this were massed the rest of the infantry, native and European. The cavalry was in the rear, hidden by the grove, ready to be launched on the enemy when they should reach the ground between the watercourse and the grove. The men were on the alert, expecting Clive.
The space at my disposal will not permit me to give the details of the remarkable battle[1] which followed. It must suffice to say that no battle that was ever fought brought into greater prominence the character of its commander. In the fight before Káveripák we see Clive at his best. He had marched straight into the trap, and, humanly speaking, was lost. It was his cool courage, his calmness in danger, his clearness of mind in circumstances of extraordinary difficulty, his wonderful accuracy of vision, the power he possessed of taking in every point of a position, and of at once utilizing his knowledge, that saved him. He was, I repeat, lost. He had entered the trap, and its doors were fast closing upon him. Bravely did his men fight to extricate him from the danger. Their efforts were unavailing. Soon it came about that the necessity to retreat
- ↑ The reader who would care to read such a detailed account will find it in the writer's Decisive Battles of India, ch. ii.
