The morning drew on. Admiral Watson began to fear that when the tide fell
his big guns would be at too low a level to do further execution. There
was always considerable rivalry between himself and Clive, fed by the
stupid jealousy of some of the Calcutta Council. While Clive, foreseeing
even more serious work later, was anxious to spare his men, Watson was
equally eager to reap all possible credit for a victory over the French.
As it happened, neither had to go to the last extremity, for about
half-past nine a white flag was seen flying from the fort. Lieutenant
Brereton of the Kent and Captain Eyre Coote from the land force were sent
to arrange the surrender, and a little later the articles of capitulation
were signed by Admirals Watson and Pocock, and by Clive.
Desmond was by no means satisfied with the part he played in the fight.
In command of a company of Sepoys he was one of the first to rush the
shore battery and take post under the walls of the barracks in readiness
to lead a storming party. But, as he complained afterward to his friend
Captain Latham of the Tyger, the fleet had the honors of the day.
"After all, you're better off than I am," grumbled the captain. "How
would you like to have your laurels snatched away? Admiral Pocock ought
to have remained on the Cumberland down the river and left the Tyger to
me. But he didn't see the fun of being out of the fighting; and up he
came posthaste and hoisted his flag on my ship, putting my nose badly out
of joint, I can tell you.
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