e plot to the Nawab and have Mr.
Watts put to death, unless he were guaranteed in the treaty the payment
of a sum of money equivalent to nearly four hundred thousand pounds.

Clive was so much disgusted with Omichand's double dealing that, though
he was ready to make him fair compensation for his losses in Calcutta, he
was not inclined to accede to his impudent demand. Yet it would be
dangerous to refuse him point blank. He therefore descended to a trick
which, whatever may be urged in its defense--the proved treachery of
Omichand, the customs of the country, the utter want of scruple shown by
the natives in their dealings--must ever remain a blot on a great man's
fame.

Two treaties with Mir Jafar were drawn up; one on red paper, known as lal
kagaz, containing a clause embodying Omichand's demand; the other on
white, containing no such clause. Admiral Watson, with bluff honesty,
refused to have anything to do with the sham treaty; it was dishonorable,
he said, and to ask his signature was an affront. But his signature was
necessary to satisfy Omichand. At Clive's request, it was forged by Mr.
Lushington, a young writer of the Company's. The red treaty was shown to
Omichand; it bought his silence; he suspected nothing.

The plot was now ripe. Omichand left Murshidabad; Mr. Watts slipped away;
and the Nawab, on being informed of his flight, wrote to Clive and
Watson, upbraiding them with breaking their treaty with him, and set out
to join his army.

Clive left Chandernagore on June thirteenth, his guns, stores and
European soldiers being towed up the river in two hundred boats, the
Sepoys marching along the highway parallel with the right bank. Palti and
Katwa were successively occupied by his advance guard under Eyre Coote.
But a terrible rain storm on the eighteenth delayed his march, and next
day he received from Mir Jafar a letter that gave him no little
uneasiness.

Mir Jafar announced that he had pretended to patch up his quarrel with
the Nawab and sworn to be loyal to him; but he added that the measures
arranged with Clive were still to be carried out. This strange message
suggested that Mir Jafar was playing off one against the other, or at
best sitting on the fence until he was sure of the victor. It was serious
enough to give pause to Clive. He was one hundred and fifty miles from
his base at Calcutta; before him was an unfordable river watched by a
vast hostile force. If Mir Jafar should elect to