Tiny Histories

by Dixe Wills

  The fighting was concentrated in the Caribbean – principally attacks on ports in North America, Venezuela, Panama and New Granada (now part of Colombia) – with the two sides squaring up to one another rather inconclusively. Three years later, back in Europe, the War of the Austrian Succession broke out. This was a messy dispute that began with Prussia and Austria quarrelling over ownership of Silesia but widened as other European powers had inevitably piled in on either side. There was a good possibility that France might cement her own position as the pre-eminent power in Europe and there were even well-grounded fears in Britain that a Franco-Spanish invasion was imminent. The British, who were not keen that any of this should come to pass, had taken the side of Austria. Thus, the War of Jenkins’ Ear became subsumed into this broader conflict that was being fought much closer to home. The Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle (one of whose negotiators was the Earl of Sandwich, see A nobleman doesn’t have the time for a formal dinner) brought the latter to a conclusion in 1748. By extension, this ended the War of Jenkins’ Ear as well, though operations in the Americas had largely fizzled out a few years beforehand anyway.

  Another curious thing about this particular conflict is that its name was only coined a century or so after the event. The essayist Thomas Carlyle first used the term in 1858 in his History of Friedrich II of Prussia. Perhaps he had an eye on fixing this particular dispute – which had simply been known as one of the Anglo-Spanish wars – firmly in the mind of his readers. He had good reason to do so because there is a dazzling array of Anglo-Spanish wars given the name ‘The Anglo-Spanish War’ and differentiated merely by the dates of their occurrence. It is apt to confuse at the best of times and so at least Carlyle managed to pull one from the mire and make it memorable.

  Despite the fact that the War of Jenkins’ Ear proved to be little more than a disjointed series of indecisive military actions and an excuse for ‘privateers’ (that is, state-sponsored pirates) on both sides to prey on each other’s shipping, the conflict did have long-lasting repercussions. It set a precedent in that it involved a regiment formed of American colonists being incorporated into the British Army and then packed off to fight somewhere other than North America. This would become yet one more grievance to add to the pile of American resentments regarding British rule.

  Secondly, it drove Spain and France into an alliance that would last nearly a century and contribute to Britain’s loss of its North American colonies in 1783.

  Finally, as the historian Harold Temperley argued, the war had been the first that Britain had conducted in which ‘the trade interest absolutely predominated, in which the war was waged solely for balance of trade rather than for balance of power’. Over 250 years later, the accusation is repeatedly made that Prime Minister Tony Blair led Britain into the second Iraq War for economic not moral reasons. Certainly, it’s difficult to believe that quite so much enthusiasm for ‘regime change’ would have been generated had Iraq been a major producer of kale rather than oil. Perhaps, in a hundred years’ time, some historian will call the invasion of Iraq ‘The War of the Sexed-Up Dossier’ and it will stick.

  As for the two players in the drama that helped bring about the War of Jenkins’ Ear, Juan de León Fandiño was captured with his ship in 1742 and sent under guard to Portsmouth. Meanwhile Robert Jenkins went back to sea as captain of a ship in the East India Company, an organisation that was about to make its own devastating mark on history (see Robert Clive reaches for an unreliable pistol).

  Robert Clive reaches for an unreliable pistol

  It’s an irony that the world’s largest-ever empire owes so much to a weapon that failed to work rather than the countless ones used on its behalf that did. A recurring fault in a pistol owned by an obscure teenager not only helped kick-start the British Empire, it had a greater effect on the last 300 years of Indian history than any single event other than the birth of Mahatma Gandhi.

  Robert Clive, a tearaway lad packed off to India by his father, was only 18 or 19 when he attempted to commit suicide. Bored, homesick and often falling foul of his employers, he was gripped with a terrible depression. One day, unable to abide it any longer, he took out his pistol, aimed it at his head and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He steeled himself afresh, pressed the gun to his head and pulled the trigger again. Once more, the gun refused to fire. Seized with the notion that these two occurrences were a sign that the Fates had spared him – and that they would not have done so without reason – the young man put the gun away and resolved to achieve some great work with his life.

  It is now believed by many historians that Clive suffered from bipolar disorder and that this attempt at suicide occurred at a time when his mental illness had thrown him into a deep depression. Certainly he had exhibited very chaotic behaviour up to that point and, as events 30 years later were to show, he remained susceptible to bouts of depression.

  The future 1st Baron Clive of Plassey was born to Rebecca and Richard Clive at Styche Hall, near Market Drayton, Shropshire, on 29 September 1725. The family lived on a small estate that had been passed down the generations since it had been granted to them by Henry VII. Several members of the family had gone on to secure a name for themselves in public office, with Robert’s father serving as MP for Montgomeryshire. Robert himself was one of 13 children, only seven of whom survived past infancy, and at no point in his childhood did he show any signs whatsoever that he might replicate the minor glories of his forebears.

  His parents, unable to afford the upkeep of Styche Hall and feed their many children, sent Robert away to Manchester at the age of three to be fostered by childless relatives. There he was so spoiled that when he returned to his parents six years later he was completely ungovernable. Indeed, it’s a wonder that he didn’t end up in prison. He progressed from bizarre anti-social behaviour such as climbing the tower of a local church to sit on a gargoyle and leer at anyone who passed by, to setting up and running a protection racket, terrorising the shopkeepers of Market Drayton into handing over money to his gang of teenage hoodlums. Along the way, he contrived to get himself expelled from three schools.

  It’s not entirely surprising, therefore, that his father despaired of the young Robert. He secured his wayward son a job as a clerk with the East India Company and sent him off to India in March 1743. Robert had only been at this posting for a year or so when his attempted suicide took place.

  Spurred by the belief that his life had been spared for a purpose, Robert wasted no time in putting himself in a situation where he might end the lives of others. He signed up for military service with the East India Company’s private army, received his commission as an ensign, and before long took part in various battles against the French, Britain’s arch-rival in the struggle for colonial supremacy in India. He soon gained a reputation for valour and by 1749 he was made captain of commissary. This put him in charge of the supply of provisions to British forces in India and he was not blind to the possibilities the position afforded him, quickly amassing a personal fortune. Clearly you can take the boy out of Market Drayton but you can’t take Market Drayton out of the boy.

  Two years later, he volunteered his services to help relieve Trichinopoly where Mohammed Ali, Britain’s preferred choice for nawab (local ruler), was being besieged by the French choice, Chanda Sahib. With just 500 men, Clive captured the latter’s capital, Arcot, forcing Chanda Sahib to send 10,000 of his troops back from Trichinopoly to attempt to retake it. Clive held out for 50 days in Arcot until reinforcements arrived, then started a guerrilla campaign against the French forces and their allies. Trichinopoly was eventually relieved and Mohammed Ali was confirmed as nawab, his status eventually being recognised twelve years later in the Treaty of Paris of 1763. This effectively gave Britain (in the guise of the East India Company) control of southern India.

  In 1753, Clive sailed back to Britain in triumph, fêted as a military hero whom future Prime Minister William Pitt the Elder would hail as a ‘heaven-born general’. His reputation and
riches (an estimated £234,000) made him quite the eligible young man – he was still only 27 on his return. He married a woman named Margaret Maskelyne and began to restore Styche Hall to its former glories. Running out of money by 1755, he went back to India, now elevated to the rank of lieutenant-colonel and deputy governor of Fort St David. His actions over the following five years were to leave their mark on both India and Britain for the next two centuries.

  His first move was to seize back Calcutta, which had been captured by the nawab of Bengal, Siraj ud Daula. The nawab’s soldiers had been responsible for the notorious Black Hole of Calcutta incident, in which 123 British troops died of heat stroke or suffocation in a vastly overcrowded cell. However, Clive’s greatest victory was yet to come.

  In 1757, he persuaded Siraj ud Daula’s military commander, Mir Jafar, to switch allegiances – promising to make him nawab if he did so. On 23 June, after a couple of days of hesitation, Clive’s 3,000 troops – two-thirds of whom were sepoys – attacked Siraj ud Daula’s roughly 70,000-strong army, a force that was backed by French artillery. Mir Jafar duly betrayed his master, leading away a very large proportion of the nawab’s soldiers, and Clive’s humble outfit won the day, suffering fewer than 100 casualties. Mir Jafar was rewarded with the nawabship of Bengal. The Mughal emperor of India, Shah Alam, was forced to sign a document that handed over the task of collecting taxes in Bengal to the East India Company. Mir Jafar rewarded – or was coerced into rewarding – his English co-conspirator, filling Clive’s coffers to bursting point (when he returned to Britain in 1760 his fortune had grown to around £2.5m – worth £23m today). Britain, or the East India Company – the distinction was often blurred – had become the supreme power in India and had begun the process of sucking it dry of its wealth and resources, starting by emptying the contents of the treasury of Bengal into 100 boats and sailing off with it.

  Clive went on to further successes, both in India and Britain, becoming governor of Bengal (twice), an Irish peer, a knight, a member of parliament for Shrewsbury and later its mayor, and the 1st Baron Clive of Plassey. He bade farewell to India for the final time in 1767.

  His vast wealth and the morally ambiguous means – to say the least – by which he had acquired it led to him becoming embroiled in a protracted trial in Britain on corruption charges. He was eventually acquitted, but questions concerning his integrity were raised right up until the end of his life.

  It may have been a combination of his physical and mental health problems that led to Clive’s death in 1774 at the age of 49. He suffered with stomach pains – for which he took opium in ever-larger doses – and appears to have been afflicted by the depression that had been his unwelcome companion for much of his adult life.

  On 22 November 1774, his body was discovered at his Berkeley Square home in London. It is more than likely that he took his own life (though his family strongly denied it at the time). If that was the case, the suicide was hushed up, in part to avoid a scandal but also to allow a burial in consecrated ground. Robert Clive lies today in the churchyard of St Margaret’s at Moreton Say, Shropshire, his last resting place unmarked but for a plaque nearby that bears the legend Primus in Indis (‘First in India’).

  We therefore cannot be absolutely certain about how Clive came to die – it is variously rumoured that he took an overdose; slit his throat with a paperknife; or shot himself, the Fates failing to intervene a second time. Had Clive’s first attempt been as successful, the course of British, Indian and French history would almost certainly have taken a very different turn. India might have avoided the wholesale pillaging of her wealth, the devastating famines caused by Clive’s agricultural policies, and the legacy he left: two centuries of the Raj. France might well have seen her own influence in India flourish rather than being unceremoniously snuffed out. And as for Clive’s influence on Britain, the former troubled tearaway is credited not only with securing India as a vassal state for the nation but also with providing the impetus for the creation of the British Empire. This in turn gave Britain the wherewithal to finance the Industrial Revolution and maintain its place as a major power into the 20th century.

  According to historian William Dalrymple, Clive’s activities in India would also inadvertently furnish the English language with a new word. A Hindustani slang term was popularised in Britain in the late 18th century and lives on today: ‘loot’.

  The freighter Vigilancia sinks off the coast of Cornwall

  It is a truth universally acknowledged that the attack by Japan on Pearl Harbor triggered the United States’ entry into the Second World War. It is a truth almost as universally acknowledged that the event that caused the US to make its equally belated appearance in the First World War was the sinking of the RMS Lusitania. The Cunard liner was torpedoed by a German submarine off the south coast of Ireland, causing the death of nearly 1,200 passengers and crew. If evidence of the influence of this atrocity were required, one need only point to the famous American recruitment poster of the time, which bore the legend ‘REMEMBER THE LUSITANIA,’ and ended with the stern injunction: ‘It is your duty to take up the sword of justice to avenge this devil’s work. ENLIST TO-DAY.’

  However, while America declared war against Japan the day after the pummelling of Pearl Harbor, a cursory glance at the date on which the Lusitania was sunk – 7 May 1915 – and the date the US declared war on Germany – 6 April 1917 – gives pause for thought. The sinking of the Lusitania certainly caused uproar and revulsion in the United States, particularly when it emerged that 128 Americans had lost their lives, but it clearly did not propel the nation into the Great War.

  Rather it was a much smaller and now all-but-forgotten tragedy 150 miles off the coast of Cornwall that pushed the US into siding with Britain and her Allies. On the morning of 16 March 1917, a US-registered freighter called the Vigilancia, carrying goods from New York to Le Havre, was torpedoed and sunk by a German submarine. Fifteen mariners lost their lives. Unlike the outrage perpetrated in 1915 on the Lusitania (and several other American vessels) by Germany, the sinking of the Vigilancia was deemed an act of war and President Woodrow Wilson acted accordingly.

  Oberleutnant Otto Wünsche, commander of the German submarine U-70, was patrolling the Atlantic that Friday morning in search of enemy shipping. Roughly six weeks beforehand, the orders he received regarding the rules of engagement had changed. In the aftermath of the sinking of the Lusitania and another liner called the Arabic, the imperial German government had come to an accommodation with the United States that restricted the activities of German submarines with regard to American shipping. However, from 1 February 1917, Germany announced a radical change from that policy. It ordered its submarines to attack and destroy, without warning, every vessel in the ‘war zone’ that it had declared around both Britain and France, and in the Mediterranean.

  In response, President Wilson broke off relations with Germany two days later but stated that he would take no stronger measures unless American shipping was attacked. That same day, the submarine U-53 sank the American-owned merchant ship Housatonic (by a grim twist of fate, the same name as the first ever ship to have been sunk by a submarine – in 1864 during the American Civil War). The U-boat commander involved, Leutnant Hans Rose, was famous for his chivalry, and had not only allowed the crew to disembark before he torpedoed their ship but had towed their lifeboats towards land and drawn the attention of a British naval patrol boat to their plight before heading off. No lives were lost. Given these circumstances, it was difficult to categorise the attack as an act of war, particularly as the Housatonic was carrying grain to Germany’s enemy, Britain.

  Two other American-owned vessels, the Lyman M. Law and the Algonquin, were subsequently attacked by German submarines, but again their crews had been allowed to board lifeboats before their ships were sunk and there was no loss of life. An intercepted telegram from the German foreign minister to the German ambassador in the US – the so-called Zimmermann Note – was not interpreted as a
n act of war either, even though it revealed German plans to help Mexico regain Texas, Arizona and New Mexico from the United States (all of which had been lost in the Mexican American War of 1846–48).

  It took the actions of Oberleutnant Wünsche to push the United States over the edge and into war. It was cold that morning in the Atlantic and the Vigilancia was making heavy weather of it in rough seas when she came to the attention of U-boat U-70. The first that Captain Frank A. Middleton and the crew of the 4,000-tonne merchantman knew of the submarine’s presence was when a lookout reported an unmistakable straight slash cutting through the water – the trace of a torpedo. It missed the ship, passing aft of her. However, 60 seconds later a second torpedo struck the Vigilancia amidships, holing her below the waterline.

  Four lifeboats were lowered, into which the entire crew of 45 threw themselves. Unfortunately, two boats capsized almost immediately. The members of the other two saved most of those from the nearer of the stricken lifeboats – including the captain. From the further boat, only Assistant Engineer Walter Scott managed the exhausting mile-long swim through heaving seas to safety. In all, 15 men drowned. Nine came from Spain, South America and Greece, while the remaining six were Americans, the first ever to die since the US-German accord following the sinkings of the Lusitania and Arabic.

  The 30 survivors rowed and sailed 150 miles east over the next two days. For some of the first night they were followed by a submarine. This was probably U-70 lying in wait to attack whatever ship came to the rescue. As it was, both lifeboats eventually made it to Cornwall unaided on Sunday, 18 March. All on board were alive but, understandably, were suffering badly from the effects of their ordeal. The news of the sinking reached the United States the following day.