“Are you willing to undertake a service of risk, for a big reward, Karim?” he asked.

The man hesitated.

“It will be worth a hundred rupees to you.”

Karim’s eyes sparkled; a hundred rupees represented a fortune to a man of his class; but he still hesitated.

“Am I to be alone?” he asked at length.

“No,” said Desmond; “we shall be with you.”

“Hai!  If the sahib”—­the word slipped out unawares—­“is to be there it is fixed.  He is my father and mother:  did he not save me from the river?  I would serve him without reward.”

“That is very well.  All the same the reward shall be yours—­to be paid to you if we succeed, to your family if we fail.  For if we fail it will be our last day:  they will certainly shoot us.  There is time to draw back.”

“If the sahib is to be there I am not afraid.”

“Good.  You can go aft.  We shall tell you later what is to be done.  And remember, on this boat I am no sahib.  I am a khalasi from Gujarat.”

“I shall remember—­sahib.”

Desmond told the serang that the help of the man was assured, and discussed with him the enterprise upon which he was bent.  He had given his word to Clive that the blocking of the river should be prevented, and though the task bade fair to be difficult he was resolved not to fail.  The vessels that were to be sunk in the fairway were moored opposite the fort at a distance of about a ship’s length from one another.  The subahdar was on the sloop farthest down the river, Hubbo on the next.  With the subahdar there were three men.  The signal for the scuttling of the vessels was to be the waving of a green flag by the subahdar; this was to be repeated by Hubbo, then by the serang on the sloop above him, and so on to the end.  The vessels were in echelon, the one highest up the river lying well over to the left bank and nearest to the fort, the rest studding the fairway so that if they sank at their moorings it would be impossible for a ship of any size to thread its way between them.  It did not appear that anything had been done to insure their sinking broadside to the current, the reason being probably that, whatever might be attempted with this design, the river would have its will with the vessels as soon as they sank.

“Our only chance,” said Desmond, “is to get hold of the subahdar.  If we can only capture him the rest should be easy—­especially as Hubbo is on the next sloop, which screens the subahdar’s from the rest.  It is out of speaking distance from the fort, too—­another piece of luck for us.  I shall think things over in the night, Hossain; be sure to wake me, if I am not awake, at least a gharri {half an hour} before dawn.”

It was the first of January, 1757.  At half-past seven in the morning a heavily-laden petala was making its way slowly against the tide down the Hugli.  Four men were on board; two were rowing, one was at the helm, the fourth stood looking intently before him.  The boat had passed several vessels lying opposite Tanna Fort, at various distances from the bank, and came abreast of the last but one.  There the rowers ceased pulling at an order from the man standing, who put his hand to his mouth and hailed the sloop.