On receipt of this news Clive adopted a
course unusual with him. He called a Council of War, for the first and
last time in his career. Desmond was in Major Killpatrick's tent when the
summons to attend the Council reached that officer.
"Burke, my boy," he said, "'tis a mighty odd thing. Mr. Clive is not
partial to Councils; has had enough of 'em at Madras first, and lately at
Calcutta. D'you know, I don't understand Mr. Clive; I don't believe any
one does. In the field he is as bold as a lion, fearless, quick to see
what to do at the moment, never losing a chance. Yet more than once I've
noticed, beforehand, a strange hesitation. He gets fits of the dumps,
broods, wonders whether he is doing the right thing, and is as touchy as
a bear with a sore head. Well, 'tis almost noon; I must be off; we'll see
what the Council has to say."
Desmond watched the major almost with envy as he went off to this
momentous meeting. How he wished he was a little older, a little higher
in rank, so that he too might have the right to attend! He lay back in
the tent wondering what the result of the Council would be.
"If they asked for my vote," he thought, "I'd say fight;" and then he
laughed at himself for venturing to have an opinion.
By and by Major Killpatrick returned.
"Well, my boy," he said, "we've carried our point, twelve against seven."
"For fighting?"
"No, my young firebrand; against fighting. You needn't look so chop
fallen. There'll be a fight before long; but we're going to run no risks.
Pages:
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459