In November 1774 – in a grand townhouse in the fashionable quarter of Mayfair in London – one of the richest and most powerful men in England is found dead with his throat cut. His name is Robert Clive – better known to the world as Lord Clive of Plassey and the founder of the British Empire in India. That very same afternoon, Clive’s body is rushed up north – to a remote corner of Shropshire where - in a secretive nighttime burial in an unmarked grave - he is laid to rest on the grounds of a small parish church where he was baptized. There is to be no post-mortem, no inquest, no investigation into the cause and manner of his death. Why?
The answer lies in the year 1757 and a battle that forever changed the course of world history. ARMS WIDE ASUNDER is an epic tale of treachery, lust and plunder at the birth of the British Empire in India, and the redemptive power of love, friendship and sisterhood of two extraordinary women in their fight for justice.
In November 1774 – in a grand townhouse in the fashionable quarter of Mayfair in London – one of the richest and most powerful men in England is found dead with his throat cut. His name is Robert Clive – better known to the world as Lord Clive of Plassey and the founder of the British Empire in India. That very same afternoon, Clive’s body is rushed up north – to a remote corner of Shropshire where - in a secretive nighttime burial in an unmarked grave - he is laid to rest on the grounds of a small parish church where he was baptized. There is to be no post-mortem, no inquest, no investigation into the cause and manner of his death. Why?
The answer lies in the year 1757 and a battle that forever changed the course of world history. ARMS WIDE ASUNDER is an epic tale of treachery, lust and plunder at the birth of the British Empire in India, and the redemptive power of love, friendship and sisterhood of two extraordinary women in their fight for justice.
A great prince was dependent on my pleasure, an opulent city lay at my mercy; its richest bankers bid against each other for my smiles; I walked through vaults which were thrown open to me alone, piled on either hand with gold and jewels!
By God, Mr. Chairman, at this moment I stand astonished at my own moderation!
— BARON ROBERT CLIVE AT HIS IMPEACHMENT TRIAL, 1773
Fort William, Bengal, May 27, 1757
“Ah, the oily brahmin,” thought General Robert Clive as Omichund was ushered into his tent by his aide-de-camp. A large, stout man, Omichund was dressed opulently in a white silk kurta and dhoti, with rings adorning each of his plump fingers. Clive rose and invited Omichund to take a seat, a shadow of revulsion crossing his face. He had little time for men like Omichund, fully aware that the merchant had asked for this meeting to impress him with his wealth and position as the principal banker and confidante of Siraj-ud-Daulah, the powerful Nawab of Bengal.
The tense standoff between the British East India Company and the Nawab of Bengal had precipitated Omichund’s secret meeting with Clive. Jockeying for position with the French to monopolize the lucrative trade with India, the English had sought trading concessions from the Nawab, but had been rebuffed. India was now the eastern outpost for the Continental power struggle for supremacy between the French and the English that had begun almost eight hundred years ago when the Norman Duke, William the Conqueror, had invaded England and defeated the Anglo-Saxons at the Battle of Hastings. Clive was determined to win the battle for India and welcomed any alliance with the likes of Omichund, insalubrious though it may be for his often espoused, and just as often neglected, sense of fair play.
The men sat down to tea and Omichund lost no time in getting to the point. “Tell me, Clive sahib,” he said, “what do you wish to gain in this great province of Bengal, the most fertile and wealthiest of India’s princely kingdoms?”
Clive considered the question carefully, knowing that his answer would determine the price he would need to pay for Omichund’s collaboration. Feigning disinterest, he said: “The East India Company seeks nothing more than a level-playing field with the French in Bengal and a mutually rewarding trading relationship with the Nabob. With English naval superiority over the French and our colonies in America, we can open up trade for the Nabob in Europe and our American colonies, which would enrich him even further.”
Omichund waved his ringed fingers. “The Nawab has no need of further riches or for new trade routes,” he grunted. “Have you not heard of his great wealth and his vaults piled high with gold and jewels? What the Nawab wants is to rid Bengal of the English. His Chief Minister, Diwan Mohan Roy, has him convinced that the East India Company is no more than a foil for your government to seize and colonize India as you have done with your colonies in America.”
Clive regarded Omichund with new interest. If, indeed, Siraj-ud-Daulah was unwaveringly opposed to the English, then this information from Omichund was going to be very useful. “Tell me, Shri Omichund,” he asked, “who is this Mohan Roy and why is it that he has taken it upon himself to convince the Nabob falsely that the East India Company has ulterior motives in seeking to establish trading relationships with Bengal?”
“Mohan Roy is a great landowner from an old and aristocratic Hindu family,” Omichund replied. “I dislike the man heartily for his unwarranted pride and arrogance, but I will readily admit that there is no man in Bengal that the Nawab trusts more.”
“But why should Mohan Roy be so opposed to the English?” Clive persisted.
“Mohan Roy considers himself a great patriot. He has convinced the Nawab that it is in Bengal’s best interests to keep the French and English at each other’s throats by playing them against each other. If you want to succeed in Bengal, you will have to deal with Mohan Roy first.”
“And what do you suggest, Omichund?” Clive asked. “Can Mohan Roy be influenced? Can he be prevailed upon, in some fashion, that his interests lie with the English and not with the Nabob? If, as you say, he is a great Hindu aristocrat, perhaps he would like to rid Bengal of a Moslem overlord? Perhaps, he would like to reinstate a Hindu kingdom in Bengal, and in this venture, we can be of assistance to him?”
Omichund shook his head. “You are mistaken. Mohan Roy is not a religious zealot and will remain loyal to the Nawab even if you offer him the throne of Bengal. But there is something else you should also know,” he offered. “There is a young French nobleman in Mohan Roy’s employ – a Jules St Clair – an artillery officer who has been deputed by the French Governor-General Dupleix to modernize the Nawab’s troops and lead a contingent of French soldiers against the English in case of war. There is a rumor that this St Clair is betrothed to Mohan Roy’s only daughter and the Diwan, despite his outward ‘patriotism’, has accepted this foreigner into his family for the sake of his daughter’s happiness.”
Clive absorbed this piece of information and understood he was being played by Omichund. He had come across many men like Omichund in his career – men who would sell their liege lords for a mere thirty pieces of silver. He wondered what it would take for this man to betray the Nawab and hand over his country to the English.
Omichund did not keep Clive waiting long to find out. “Sahib,” he said, “I am in a position to help you. I am in contact with Mir Jafar – the Nawab’s general – and I believe I can persuade him to see the merits of being allied to the English instead of the French, and the great value and benefits to him and to Bengal of establishing a preferential trading relationship with the East India Company.”
“And what would this Mir Jafar want in exchange?” Clive asked, a smile lurking on the corner of his mouth. “I imagine he would want me to make him the new ruler of Bengal, eh?”
“Precisely,” Omichund replied, waggling his large head. “Mir Jafar is covertly ambitious and jealous of Mohan Roy’s influence over the Nawab. He commands twenty thousand troops – which is two-thirds of the Nawab’s army – and, I believe, can be persuaded to change sides like the Stanley’s at the famous Battle of Bosworth that brought the pretender Henry Tudor to the English throne!”
“Ah, so you know your English history, do you?” Clive laughed. “And what would it take you, Shri Omichund, to convince Mir Jafar to change sides, as you say?”
Omichund shrugged. “Nothing more than should be my due,” he replied. “You see, English control over Bengal through a puppet like Mir Jafar will yield great riches for you and for the East India Company and eventually, who knows, English control over all of India. I’m able to hand you Bengal, nay India, on a platter, and I ask for very little in return – five percent of the Nawab’s wealth stored in his treasury – an insignificant amount when you consider what you will gain.”
“Five percent of the Nawab’s wealth!” Clive looked incredulous. “Have you gone mad?” Clive stared at Omichund, who returned his gaze, his jowls quivering like jelly as his lips curled into a smile.
Clive looked away in distaste. “You ask for a lot, Omichund, but I can see your value. If you are able to deliver Mir Jafar and Bengal, as you claim, then I shall abide by your terms.” He stood up, abruptly ending the meeting, and ushered Omichund out of his tent.
***
The Plains of Plassey, Bengal, June 23, 1757
Jules St Clair galloped across the dusty field of Plassey to reach Diwan Mohan Roy’s tent. Exhausted, he jumped down from the saddle and entered the Diwan’s tent unannounced.
“Diwan ji,” he exclaimed, “the battle is lost. You must leave the field at once!”
Mohan Roy looked up from the map he was studying with his officers and examined St Clair. “Slow down, young man, and explain yourself,” he said. “We have near to thirty thousand troops against six thousand of the English, so it does not seem possible to me the battle can be lost so soon!”
“I beg your pardon, but what I say is true!” St Clair insisted. “Mir Jafar has betrayed the Nawab and changed sides. His twenty thousand troops will not fight the English. The Nawab is surrounded by the enemy on all sides and is being pounded by artillery fire. My troops will fight a rearguard action while you leave the field.”
“Nonsense – Mir Jafar will not betray his liege lord. And there is no question of my retreating!” Mohan Roy snapped. Turning to his officers, Mohan Roy ordered: “leave me alone with St Clair for a few minutes and prepare your troops for battle. We will take to the field immediately.”
Mohan Roy turned to St Clair when they were alone. “Jules, I did not want to alarm my officers, but I know you well enough to trust your judgement. But can it be true? I find it hard to believe that Mir Jafar will betray us.”
“I wish the news were otherwise, but I saw with my own eyes Mir Jafar refusing to engage the enemy. With the English artillery pounding the Nawab’s remaining forces and Mir Jafar’s troops surrounding them to close off any avenue of escape, the battle is lost. I do not believe the Nawab can hold off much longer, so I beg you, retreat while there is still time.”
“You know very well I cannot leave the Nawab and, besides, my daughter would never forgive me if I sacrificed you to save my skin.” Mohan Roy smiled. “No, if one of us must leave the field it must be you. This is not your battle.”
“There is something, however, I want you to do and a promise I want you to keep,” Mohan Roy continued. “If Mir Jafar has betrayed the Nawab, it is because Clive has promised him the throne. The English are no fools – they will ransack the treasury at Murshidabad and seize the wealth and treasures of Bengal for themselves. You must go to Murshidabad directly and inform the Treasurer, Madan Lal, that I have sent you and that my instructions are to empty the vaults and hide the treasure until the Nawab has been reinstated on the throne.”
St Clair nodded. “I will do as you ask.”
“Good.” Mohan Roy clapped St Clair on his shoulder. “Now, there is another, more sacred, promise I want you to keep: you are betrothed to my daughter, Anjolie, and while I have come to love you as a son, I have had serious doubts of whether your love for each other can compensate for the many difficulties and prejudices you will face together when you are married, perhaps even from your own family. God knows, I could have protected you both from such misfortune in India because of my position, but if you have to leave India and return to France because all is lost here, you must promise me to care for her and my future grandchildren. Now, go – there is no time to waste!”
***
Murshidabad, Bengal, June 23, 1757
Clouds of red dust swirled into the evening sky as the horse streaked across the undulating plateau south of Murshidabad. St Clair bent low over the saddle, urging his wearied mount forward.
Dusk had fallen on Murshidabad, and a feeling of normalcy blanketed the city, belying the chaos and destruction that St Clair had left behind on the dusty plains of Plassey earlier that day. News of Mir Jafar’s treachery and the Nawab’s improbable defeat still had not reached the capital and the muezzin’s call to prayer from the ramparts of the Katra Masjid trilled tranquilly above the jangle of temple bells reverberating from the Char Bangla Mandir in the Hindu quarter, each enticing their faithful to prayer.
Reaching the city gates, St Clair slowed his horse to a walk, pulling his cloak tightly around him to appear inconspicuous. A mile to the east loomed the Diwan’s haveli and St Clair considered going there directly to see Anjolie, changing his mind when he realized he had no more than a few hours before Clive and Mir Jafar reached the capital.
“Is that you, St Clair?” A voice rang out from the curtained palanquin that had drawn-up alongside him. St Clair glanced sideways and saw a fleshy, jowled face examining him. He recognized Omichund, the corpulent banker of the Nawab, but said nothing.
"Ah, but it is you! I would recognize you anywhere, the handsome young French chevalier who has succeeded – where others have so valiantly tried and failed – in winning the affections of the beautiful Anjolie! But what are you doing here?” Omichund asked.
“I’m on my way to see the Treasurer on a matter of some urgency.”
“But I’m on my way there myself! Let me accompany you St Clair. I’m sure Madan Lal would be delighted to see us both. Do you bring news from Plassey?”
“No Omichund,” St Clair lied. He did not like the fat man and felt it would be wise not to confide in him, not least because of the animosity that existed between the Diwan and Omichund.
Omichund was not to be put off. “You were with the Diwan this morning, no? Were you not leading his cavalry?”
“You are mistaken Omichund. The Diwan instructed me to remain with his family and, as you see, I am here in Murshidabad.”
St Clair shivered involuntarily. He was a full head taller than Omichund and his lean, muscular physique could fend off any physical harm from Omichund, but he sensed an undercurrent of violence and malevolence emanating from the man that made him shudder. He was saved from further interrogation as they had reached the Treasurer’s house. Dismounting quickly at the imposing wrought-iron gate, St Clair asked the chowkidar to inform Madan Lal that he had been sent by the Diwan and requested an audience. As the sentry retreated into the house to inform his master, Omichund clambered out heavily from the palanquin, his ample frame being supported by his servants as they lowered him to the ground next to St Clair.
The sentry reappeared and ushered St Clair and Omichund into the darbar. As St Clair paced the room anxiously, Omichund watched him with sly amusement, a smile spreading across his face. He was about to say something, when he was interrupted by the Treasurer who strode into the room.
“St Clair, I am pleased to see you! Do you have news from the Diwan? What is it you would speak to me about? Come man, tell me everything! Quickly!”
St Clair shook Madan Lal’s outstretched hand. “I must speak to you alone,” he murmured. “Is there somewhere we can be private?”
The Treasurer glanced around and saw Omichund reclining on an armchair watching them with interest. “Ah, Omichund, do we have business today? I was not expecting you.”
“No, Madan Lal. I just happened to be passing and met St Clair, who said he was on his way to see you. I thought he would have news of the Nawab and the Diwan and so I accompanied him here. As the Nawab’s principal banker, I would like to know what has happened at Plassey.”
“Please excuse us for a moment Omichund, I will be back with you as soon as possible.”
Turning to St Clair, he beckoned, “follow me, young man. We can speak in my office.”
“Why the secrecy, St Clair? Do you not trust Omichund?” Madan Lal demanded as they crossed the marble anteroom to his office.
“I don’t trust him, but it’s not that,” St. Clair sighed. “I have been sent here on an urgent mission by the Diwan. I bring grave tidings: Mir Jafar has betrayed the Nawab and defected to the English. When I left Plassey this morning, the English forces had already taken control of the field. I fear that by now the Nawab is dead or in captivity and Clive and Mir Jafar are on their way here to seize the capital. The Diwan is convinced that the English will ransack the treasury and seize Bengal’s wealth and treasures for themselves. He instructed me to come to you and seek your help.”
“It’s not possible!” exclaimed Madan Lal, quickly shutting the door to his office. “What you say cannot be true, with our superior numbers! Come man, tell me everything and where is the Diwan? Is he on his way to the capital?”
St Clair recited the events of the day and the carnage he had witnessed on the battlefield. Overcome with fatigue and sadness, he concluded: “I fear the Diwan is dead. I begged him to retreat but he refused and would join the battle. I have no other news. Now, I must go and inform his daughter.”
“You did well to come here young man and I share in your grief,” Madan Lal said. “Go now and see Anjolie and meet me at the Treasury within the hour. I will be there with my men.”
***
A woman stood at the edge of the balcony on the upper floor of the haveli, straining to see out into the darkness. Her slight, lithe figure and youthful countenance belied the determination in her dark brown eyes. Strangely for this time of the evening, she sported an ankle-length English riding habit with a tight fitting churidar beneath. Far down below in the large courtyard, a chestnut mare stood saddled, pawing impatiently at the cobblestones.
An older woman stepped out onto the balcony and said gently: “Anjolie, you had better come in – there is nothing to be gained staring out into the darkness. You know your father – as soon as there is news, he will send word to us”. “Pishi-ma,” replied the younger woman calmly, “I’ve had word, well sort of. Jules is at the Treasurer’s house and sent a servant to inform me he will be here shortly and that I should be ready to leave. I can only imagine it’s not good news.”
Rani Devi looked at Anjolie and, not for the first time, was reminded of her brother. Other than inheriting her mother’s delicate features and slight build, Anjolie resembled her father in temperament and character. She was unlike any other young woman in Murshidabad. Perhaps this had to do with losing her mother at a young age and being raised as the only child of the Diwan, who cared nothing for societal norms and tradition when it came to his daughter, thought Rani Devi wryly. Wherever he was, her brother would be proud of his little girl. Not so little anymore, Rani Devi corrected herself. Now twenty, Anjolie had grown into a poised and confident young woman – her father’s confidant and heir.
She was pulled out of her reverie by a shout from the courtyard below. The sentry had seen someone approaching on horseback and called out a warning. It was St Clair. He dismounted at the gate and, flinging the reins of his horse to the sentry, ran up the wide stone staircase to the front door of the haveli and disappeared. A few minutes later St Clair reappeared, entering the room where Anjolie and Rani Devi waited. He went straight to Anjolie and embraced her tightly. Rani Devi looked away, offended by the young couple’s public intimacy.
“Where’s my father?” Anjolie murmured, breaking away.
“My love, I do not know but I fear the worst. When I left him, it did not look good.”
“What do you mean? Is he injured?” St Clair took a deep breath. “I know this will sound impossible, but the Nawab has been defeated. Mir Jafar betrayed him and went over to the English when the battle was barely underway. It was a rout, and I begged your father to retreat, but he would not. You know him too well not to understand the rest.”
Anjolie crossed the room to her aunt and took her arm, bidding her to sit down.
“Jules, I know you would not leave my father, so what brings you here?” Anjolie asked quietly.
“The Diwan sent me on a mission. That’s why I was at the Treasurer’s house. I am to stop the Nawab’s treasures from falling into Mir Jafar’s and Clive’s hands. It may already be too late, but I gave him my word. Which is why we need to leave at once.”
Turning to Rani Devi, St Clair said: “Forgive me Pishi-ma for being the bearer of such bad news. Anjolie and I must leave now, but I swear on my honor ….”
Rani Devi interrupted, “but where will you go and what is to become of us?”
“I wish I knew the answer,” Jules sighed. “I do not know what tomorrow will bring. All I have is the Diwan’s instruction – I must take Anjolie with me, and I must carry out my mission. Whether I succeed is another matter.”
St Clair hesitated for a moment then said to Rani Devi: “This evening I ran into Omichund while on my way to see Madan Lal. It may be a coincidence, but I think not. Mir Jafar must have planned his betrayal and I think his spies are everywhere, lying low until he gets here with the English. I do not even know if I can trust the Treasurer, but I have no choice. Anjolie and I must leave at once, to save what can be saved and to escape the English. As a French officer and the Diwan’s aide-de-camp, I am a marked man. The English and Mir Jafar’s men will be in the capital within a few days at the very latest, so I advise you to leave for your family’s estate in Roybari and be away from Murshidabad, at least until the dust settles.”
***
Plassey, Bengal, June 23, 1757
Mohan Roy raised his telescope and scanned the battlefield. St Clair was right – it was a rout. The Nawab sat atop a howdah perched on a magnificent, caparisoned war elephant, towering high above the medley of foot soldiers and horsemen surging around him. A cannonball sliced through the air and cut a deep, wide swath in the left flank of the Nawab’s royal guard, flinging bodies high into the air. Already faltering under the constant barrage of artillery fire from the English cannons, the royal guard broke and scattered.
In the distance, Mohan Roy saw Clive marshalling his cavalry for an attack on the Nawab. He shook his head in disbelief – less than two hours earlier, the Nawab’s thirty thousand troops outnumbered the English by more than three to one; now, less than a third remained, demoralized by Mir Jafar’s betrayal and no match for the superior weaponry and tactics of the English troops.
The outcome of the battle was not in doubt, Mohan Roy knew that. The English colonialists had won the day. He turned and looked at the troops arrayed behind him – his loyal cavalry of three hundred horsemen – hardly sufficient to change the outcome, but enough to delay the inevitable and give St Clair time to complete his mission.
Mohan Roy swung his horse around to face his men, standing tall in his stirrups, his horse quivering in excitement beneath him.
“My men,” he bellowed, “you see before you the Nawab, brought low by the treachery of that coward, Mir Jafar! But all is not lost! Today, we will show the English imperialists the courage of true patriots! Today, we will show the traitor Mir Jafar that honor, duty and love of country is more precious than all the misbegotten treasures in the world! You know me well enough to know that I will not turn my back on any of you. Yes, some of us will die today in the battle to save our country from the English imperialists who would seize our land from us. But I say to you – if death comes to me, I will embrace it gladly for there is no greater glory for a warrior than to die honorably for his country on the battlefield!”
“Long live the Diwan!” An officer shouted. “Long Live the Diwan!” chorused a hundred other voices in unison.
Mohan Roy held up his hand. “My men, I cannot guarantee you that victory will be ours today, but I can promise you that if we fight with honor and valor, we will not leave the field as lackeys of the English imperialists! Will you fight alongside me?!”
“Jai Maa Kali!” The ancient battle cry of the Bengal cavalry swelled to a crescendo, as the horsemen drew their sabers.
Mohan Roy swung his horse around and pointing his sword in the direction of the massed English troops spurred his horse forward. The ground shook with the thunder of hooves as three hundred horsemen followed close behind, quickly closing the gap to the waiting enemy.
***
Arms Wide Asunder is a work of historical fiction based on true events. The bulk of the story takes place in the mid-18th century, during the birth of the British Empire in India. Told through the eyes of multiple characters, the book depicts the violence, betrayals, and woes of love that are experienced in the face of the British threat to India. While Lord Robert Clive of Plassey lives his days as one of the richest and most powerful men in all of England and India, others fight to thwart his greedy quest for ultimate rule over India. Anjolie, daughter of the late Diwan, Mohan Roy, and her husband, Jules St. Clair, strive to do what they can to fight against the British. Annabel, Clive’s wife, seeks to free herself from an unhappy marriage and fight bak against her husband’s cruel aspirations. Alongside long-time friends and seemingly unlikely new allies, they will learn how powerful love and loyalty go in the fight for justice.
Arms Wide Asunder sucked me in from the very beginning. This started before the story proper even began. One of my favorite things about the book is the Forward by the author. The British colonization of India is something I remember learning about in my global history classes in high school, but it was not a subject that we spent much time on. When I can read books that tell of historical periods and events I am not as familiar with, I am excited about what new things I will be able to learn. In this book, readers are given the opportunity to read some background information on the characters of the book, and the real historical actors that inspired them. We are also given a brief summary and timeline of the events that constituted the British defeat of the French at Plassey, and the fights to come (both on and off the battlefield). It made diving into an unfamiliar setting feel less disorienting and, as a result, I was better able to connect to the story right away and get a feel for the environment.
Arms Wide Asunder did have some spots where it seemed like the passing of time was inconsistent. Sometimes the timeline seemed to go day-by-day, and other times multiple months had passed. As a result, it felt like sometimes details got glossed over, or certain events, such as the second French defeat by Clive’s forces after Jules returns to Bengal to muster men to join the French cause. Then, later, references would be made to events that we did not see first-hand and it was slightly confusing.
Overall, Arms Wide Asunder was a thrilling work of historical fiction that captured the horrors of war and colonization, the sweet touches of blossoming romance and the strength in humanity when individuals come together for a common cause. I would definitely recommend it to fans of historical fiction.