All language subtitles for 11 - The Wrong Empire - FClaw.eng

If there was one thing
18th-century British gentlemen

thought they knew
more about than port or racehorses,

it was liberty.

They basked in it.

It was the reward,
they told themselves,

for nearly a century of civil wars.

It helped make Britain
the freest country in the world,

safe from Catholic tyranny,
absolute monarchs

and standing armies.

Liberty was their religion.

They built temples in their gardens
devoted to it.

They even wrote it a hymn.

Pity the rest of the enslaved world,
deprived of its manifold blessings!

But the real payoff of liberty

had been riches and power
from around the globe.

With liberty had come trade.

Trade had wrought perhaps the most
staggering transformation of power

in all British history.

From being a tiny outcrop
of insignificant islands

off the north-west coast of Europe,

Britain had expanded
into a global power.

The shadow of Britannia
now fell across America,

the Caribbean,
the Indian Subcontinent.

It had taken barely a century.

And, unlike the Roman Empire
they so admired,

they dreamt of a British Empire
that would endure.

One based on trade, not on conquest.

It would be an empire of liberty,
they thought,

Britain writ large,
sharing its bounty with the world.

So, how was it that
in just over a century,

the people that thought of themselves
as the freest on earth

ended up subjugating
much of the world's population?

How was it that a nation which had
such mistrust of military power

ended up the biggest
military power of all?

How was it that the empire
of the Free became one of slaves?

How was it that profit
seemed to turn not on freedom,

but on raw coercion?

How was it that we ended up
with the wrong empire?

Ask any British gentleman
in the middle of the 18th century

to draw you a map
of the British empire,

and it would have looked like this.

To the east,
there were trading posts in India,

tiny enclaves that had been there
for 100 years,

shipping home
printed cottons and silks.

A commercial enterprise
run by the East India Company,

not the government.

There would be no colonies in Asia.

But Britain could look west
as well as east.

And west was a whole different story.

To the west was America -
Britain West, in fact.

Two million people between the Atlantic
seaboard and the Appalachian Mountains.

They came from York to New York,
Hampshire to New Hampshire.

And they all ate, slept,
breathed the same mantra -

liberty and Britishness.

They had first arrived
in the early 17th century,

seeking their fortune
or religious tolerance.

Time enough to build farms,
communities, towns, cities even.

Certainly time enough
to deal with the troublesome natives -

to make alliances where possible,
and, if not, to wipe them out,

or drive them inland.

Within the settlements and houses
of the Virginia tobacco planters

and Massachusetts merchants,
the silverware was a little simpler,

the furniture not quite so
Hepplewhite as back home in England,

but that very simplicity
spoke to their origins,

the quest for liberty and the drive
for honest self-improvement.

But it was rather small potatoes,
shall we say,

if what you really wanted
was a palazzo in England,

rather than a picket fence
in New England.

Suppose you wanted
to make a serious fortune?

Now, where could that happen?

In the mid-17th century,
the Caribbean was where.

Nobody settled in the West Indies
to read the Bible unmolested.

This was not Massachusetts.

No, you braved the fevers and swamps
for one reason alone -

to make yourself very rich very fast.

Serious profits
were already being raked in

catering to Europe's addictions -

chocolate, coffee
and, in England especially, tea.

But, as a money spinner, nothing
compared with the stuff you added

to make them more palatable - sugar.

Once seen as a luxurious drug,
it was now a necessity,

the cash crop of the empire.

Barbados provided the perfect habitat
to grow the sugar cane -

tropical heat and saturating rains.

So the British
settled in the West Indies,

transforming virgin forest

into a patchwork quilt
of sugar plantations.

But Queen Sugar was a bitch,

demanding absolute service
before she'd spill her bounty.

She took 14 months to get ripe,
all eight feet of her.

When she was ready, she was ready.

Cut the cane at once, get it
to the crushers before it spoiled.

Boil the juice before it degraded.

All very messy and very dangerous.

By the side of the crushing mills
hung a sharpened machete,

ready to sever the limbs of anyone
who got caught in the rollers.

What she needed was a combination
of strength and lightning speed.

What she needed
were human beasts of burden,

strong, quick, durable
and uncomplaining.

One commodity
would be reaped by another.

By slaves.

Sitting in a plantation house,

next to mills turning sugar
into liquid gold,

what did you care if you had to go
to West Africa to buy the slaves

and ship them back
across the Atlantic?

Oh, yes,
the logistics were difficult.

Nothing the greatest seafaring
nation in the world couldn't handle.

The British were good at commodities.

A couple of thousand pounds
bought you

200 acres of Barbadian cane fields,
a mill and a 100-odd slaves.

Within a few years, it returned
an equal amount every year

for the rest of your life.

You were now among the richest men
anywhere in the British Empire.

The slave economy in the Caribbean
wasn't just a side-show of empire,

it was the Empire.

3.5 million slaves were transported
in British ships alone.

They went to British plantations,

to make British profits
and build British cities...

Bristol, Liverpool and Glasgow,

where the cult of liberty
was still on everyone's lips

in smart coffee houses.

Apart from the occasional
visiting Quaker and exiled Puritan,

there was a deafening silence
in the land of liberty

about turning fellow men
into work animals.

The scale of profits sealed
the conspiracy of silence.

Well, here's a little thing
of devilish prettiness.

It's silver. It might be jewellery.
A hat pin or something like that.

But it's not. This is an object
which marked the passage

of a human being to a thing.

It's a branding iron.

Once the initials
were burnt into your flesh,

you were no longer a person.

You were an object, a commodity.
You were a beast of burden.

Your journey into hell
started months earlier in Africa.

It's described in one
of the few surviving accounts

by Olaudah Equiano,

one of the millions
to experience the nightmare.

Captured as a small boy,
he was separated from his sister...

then dragged to the coast
and a waiting slave ship.

When I looked around the ship

and saw a multitude of black people
of every description, chained,

every one of their countenances
expressing dejection and sorrow,

I no longer doubted of my fate.

Quite overpowered
with horror and anguish,

I fell motionless on the deck.

To make the venture profitable,

the slaves were stacked
in two layers in the hold,

with only about two feet between
the planks below and above them.

The air soon became
unfit for respiration,

from a variety of loathsome smells,

and brought on a sickness among
the slaves of which many died.

This deplorable situation
was again aggravated

by the galling of the chains

and the filth of the necessary tubs

in which the children often fell
and were almost suffocated.

The shrieks of the women
and the groans of the dying

rendered it a scene of horror
almost inconceivable.

You're a ship's surgeon. It's your
job to go into the hold of a morning

and examine the cargo.

What do you find? For a start,
you find a lot of dead slaves,

some of them manacled together,
living and dead, chained as one pair.

What do you do then?

You take the pair on deck,
strap them to the grating,

sort out the living from the dead,
throw the dead overboard.

There are the sharks,
always the sharks, waiting, grateful.

If you were one of those
who made it to land alive,

your troubles had just begun.

Naked but for a loincloth,

you were once again
paraded and poked at,

your teeth inspected like horses.

Violence, the threat or application
of it, ran the system.

Women were the objects
of particular terror.

In one year, a Jamaican overseer
of a plantation, aptly called Egypt,

gave 21 floggings to women,
each no less than fifty lashes.

Equiano says it was common
at the end of the beating

to have the victims kneel and thank
their masters for the treatment.

The same overseer also recorded,
with the same matter of fact manner,

that he'd had sex
with 23 slave women that year,

not including his regular mistress.

Only Sundays
offered some moments of joy.

The market and music let slaves
recreate some sense of community

and the Africa they had left behind.

At no time was there more joyous
music than at a funeral,

because death, at last, was liberty.

Death was the return home.

(BASS VOCALIST) # Deep river...

It was very important
for such a momentous journey

to have something like this, African,
though made in Barbados.

#... Jordan...

A necklace of teeth,
shells and bones, discarded trinkets,

copper and bronze rings.

#... I want to cross over it
to campground...

So, a people who legally had
no possessions at all

reserved what they'd hidden away
for this last important journey,

so their spirits could return
to Africa with dignity.

#... I want to cross over it
to campground #

For the British,
it was the perfect set-up.

Their ships dominated the oceans,

their slaves brought them profit,
the world was their oyster.

But someone else was eager
to prise it open -

the French.

They'd fought for centuries
and they would fight again.

The Hundred Years' War of the Middle Ages

would become the Seven Years' War
of the 18th century.

Agincourt, fought,
not on a muddy field,

but in battles around the globe.

It turned out that the combo
the British most despised -

Jesuits, professional soldiers
and bureaucrats -

were stealing the empire
before their very eyes,

starting with continental America.

Singing patriotic anthems wouldn't
stop them, only war would.

And war, as the Romans discovered,
changes everything.

The first victim is liberty
and the second is profit.

The French had been in North America
for as long as the British,

based in Canada to the north,
and Louisiana to the south,

and exploring the Mississippi
and the Ohio River valley in between.

It didn't take a genius to work out

that a cordon of French forts
linking Canada to Louisiana

would box the British colonies in.

It would be death
by slow strangulation.

The days of the ad hoc empire
were drawing to a close.

Empires were not for sharing.

The British would have to fight
to keep theirs.

It was commonly thought
by politicians that war was coming,

but it wasn't a prospect
anyone relished,

except someone who made
global victory his alpha and omega.

And that man was William Pitt.

For better or worse,

it was William Pitt,
neurotic, gouty, irascible,

either maniacally hyperactive
or collapsed in a paralysing gloom,

who was the British Empire's
true visionary.

He believed
with an almost feverish intensity

that what was at stake in the struggle
between France and Britain

was not just who would get
the lion's share of wealth,

but whether the world would be
conquered by liberty or despotism.

The first rounds went badly
for the forces of liberty.

British troops were wiped out
in the backwoods of New York State

by the French
and their native allies.

So Pitt unleashed
his biggest weapon -

his war chest.

He would fight the first world war

with columns of figures
as well as columns of soldiers.

Pit spent �18 million a year,
twice the government's annual income.

This flew right in the face
of the Empire's basic principle -

that it shouldn't cost.

But, as Pitt calculated, you can't
make a profit from empire

if it's not your empire.

After one more setback,
there were nothing but glories.

1759 was a year of military miracles.

The French Empire's strongholds fell,
one by one, to truly British forces,

Highland regiments
often leading the way

in India, the French sugar islands,

West Africa and Nova Scotia.

Horace Walpole boasted:

Our bells are worn threadbare
with the ringing of victories.

But there was no victory
as sweet or as significant

as the one that broke the back

of French power
in North America for good -

General Wolfe's conquest of Quebec.

It was exactly
the kind of thing Pitt adored.

An attack so improbable that Wolfe
himself assumed it couldn't work.

He'd designed it more
as a glorious death than a likely victory,

climbing the sheer cliffs
that protected the city

and surprising - and were
they surprised! - The French.

After a suicidal charge,

the defenders were cut down
in a monstrous volley.

(GUNFIRE)

True to his script, Wolfe
took a shattering shot to the wrist,

then bullets in the guts and chest.

Bleeding into the arms
of his brother officers,

he died as the first
imperial romantic martyr,

duly set in marble
in Westminster Abbey.

Victory in Quebec and then Montreal

totally transformed
the British Empire in North America.

Pitt had made America,
as he supposed, British forever.

And he must have felt he'd made
the world safe for liberty to triumph.

The age of imperial Britain
as a world power was about to dawn,

was it not?

There was reason for
the new young king, George III,

to be the first Hanoverian
to admit out loud that:

I glory in the name of Britain.

Even an American in London
like Benjamin Franklin

couldn't help but agree.
He wrote that:

The foundations of the future
grandeur and stability

of the British Empire lie in America.

17 years later, he was signing the
American Declaration of Independence.

So, what went wrong?

How could it all have been
thrown away in less than a generation?

Pitt would learn
that even victories come at a cost.

And, in Britain's case,
that cost would be America.

Perhaps the resources
of the British Empire

were now terminally over-stretched.

Perhaps that young empire might
turn out to be a 30-year wonder.

At any rate, if they were going
to defend the status quo,

they were going to need
a huge transcontinental army

and even bigger navy.

And if that army and navy
were to be funded,

the burden of taxes had better not
just fall on the British themselves.

So, the colonists, who were
supposed to enjoy their protection,

would have to cough up
their share of the money.

And they'd do it through taxes.

Taxation, the very thing that had
triggered the British civil wars,

would do so again,
this time in America.

The taxes may have been different,

but the result would
once again be disaster.

What happened in America
was really Round Two of those wars,

the civil war of the British Empire,

with the Hanoverians
playing the part of the Stuarts

and the Americans
the heirs of the revolutionaries -

of Cromwell and of William III,
the inheritors of a true British liberty

that had somehow got lost
in its own motherland.

One such American was John Adams,
a Boston lawyer and politician,

deeply read in history and philosophy,

and one of the most eloquent
patriot leaders in the colonies.

He believed fervently
in those hard won liberties -

no taxation without consent,
no standing armies, no martial law.

When he looked
at what Britain had become,

he no longer recognised a pristine
temple of liberty, and no wonder.

Thanks to the unrelenting wars
with France,

Britain had become a huge military state,
supporting a massive army, navy,

and an insatiable
tax collecting machine.

Adams's Britain,
the shrine of freedom,

was, of course, a fantasy,
a dream Britannia.

But this was a dream that John Adams
woke up with every morning.

And from such nagging visions
comes action.

He would not pay the taxes,
and he was not alone in this struggle.

Angry, wealthy Boston in the 1760s
was exactly the kind of place

that might breed a revolution.

Adams, his friends and neighbours,
argued about everything.

They attended public meetings
in droves.

Gossip flew around
the cobbled streets in minutes

and roused the citizens
to use their muscle -

fast and fierce
in opposition to British taxes

and those who tried to enforce them.

Stunned by this strength of feeling,
the British hit on a tax by stealth.

One only of interest to bureaucrats,

something the mob couldn't possibly
notice, or so they thought.

So, when the British government
decided to put a stamp on the paper

which official documents,
handbills and newspapers were printed on,

what in London
looked harmless enough,

in Boston
seemed like a tax on knowledge.

In that dangerously
over-informed city, it really lit a fire.

After all, who uses official
documents and reads newspapers?

Well, only every single lawyer,
merchant, minister, publisher

and pamphleteer
across the 13 colonies.

Anyone who has to deal
with an official document now hates you.

And who are they?

Only the best educated and loudest
of the colonial population.

Their leadership was prepared
to mobilise anger on the Boston streets.

The mob tore down the house
of the Governor of Massachusetts.

In Britain, this violent opposition
divided parliament almost as strongly.

The government was outraged
at the insolence

of colonials who were
protected by our care,

and demanded
that they should yield obedience.

Up got William Pitt, the man who'd
done most to make America British,

to demand the repeal
of the Stamp Act and save his empire.

I rejoice that America has resisted.

I would argue that even
under former arbitrary reigns,

parliaments were ashamed of taxing
a people without their consent.

The gentleman asks, "When were
the colonies emancipated?"

But I desire to know,
when were they made slaves?

As the war for public opinion
escalated,

the American politician
and publisher, Benjamin Franklin,

produced an image that quickly seized
the public imagination -

a nightmare vision
of a dismembered Britannia

ruined by alienating her colonies.

Tensions rose in London and Boston.

Parliament did eventually
repeal the stamp duty,

but still the Americans
boycotted British goods.

Parliament put troops
on the streets of Boston to keep order.

The Americans assaulted
and abused them.

Then, in one notorious incident,

the tormented Redcoats opened fire
before the State House.

Five Bostonians
were left dead on the street.

Shocked by the killings,
over the next three years,

both sides let things calm down.

Eventually, the British dropped
all their taxes except one -

that on tea.

The import duty had been lowered
to sweeten the cup.

The government supposed no one would
notice the tax. Well, they noticed.

The ships carrying the tea
duly arrived in Boston.

Unloading them meant
paying the import duty.

On the night of December 16, 1773,

the largest hall in Boston
was filled to capacity

with people listening to orators
warning that to bring the tea ashore,

much less to brew it, was to swallow
slavery along with a cuppa.

At a pre-arranged signal,
the doors burst open

and a group of patriots,
dressed in blankets as Mohawk Indians,

urged the crowd to storm the ships.

About 30 to 60 of our Mohawks,
with their faces all blackened up,

blankets still in place,
climbed aboard with lanterns.

They used hatchets, which they
called, of course, tomahawks,

to break open the chests and poured
the stuff straight into the water.

For those who knew,

and the leaders of the patriot campaign
were very shrewd about this,

understood that it was indeed
an incredibly fateful moment.

John Adams said:

"This was the most
magnificent moment of all,

"that I cannot but call it
an epoch in history."

How right he was.

To punish Boston,
the British now closed its port,

galvanising
all of the American colonies

to come to the distressed city's aid.

Cartloads of food came
from colonies north and south.

George Washington declared:

The cause of Boston now is,
and ever will be, the cause of America.

And yet, still, there was hesitation
on the brink of catastrophe.

Few wanted irrevocable divorce
from the motherland.

In London, King George III
and his government

believed rebellion
had already started

and had to be nipped in the bud.

In parliament, William Pitt made
a last-ditch plea for sanity and reason.

Did their lordships not understand
that in fighting the Americans,

they were fighting their own ghosts,
the ghosts of English liberty past?

What, though you march from town
to town, province to province,

though you shall be able to enforce
a temporary submission,

how shall you be able to secure
the obedience of the country you leave,

to grasp the dominion of 1,800 miles
of continent, populous in numbers,

possessing valour,
liberty and resistance?

The spirit which resists
your taxation

is the same spirit which called
all England on its legs

and, by the Bill of Rights,
vindicated the English constitution.

This glorious spirit animates
three millions in America

who prefer poverty with liberty
to gilded chains and sordid affluence,

and who will die in defence
of their rights as free men.

George III's ministers
were having none of it.

Parliament's authority as government
of the Empire was at stake,

and, if necessary, it had to be
backed up with bullets.

So, few were surprised
when the first blood was shed

at Lexington, outside Boston,
on April 19, 1775.

Redcoats had been sent
to seize militia arms.

They arrived just before dawn.

Nobody knows who,
but inevitably, someone fired.

And, in response,
the British shot their muskets

straight into the ragtag group
of militiamen gathered before them.

The Redcoats stormed nearby Concord,
but were then forced back to Boston

in bloody shock,
peppered with fire all the way!

The dream of somehow remaining
British and still being free

had died along with the militiamen
at Lexington and Concord.

Now there was a different dream,
a dream of a new country.

It was an American dream.

Once those shots had been fired,

many more bodies would be laid
beside those in Concord.

It would be a war fought,
not just with muskets,

but with words and ideals.

Adams and his fellow colonial leaders,
including Benjamin Franklin,

meeting in Philadelphia,

would publish their Declaration
of Independence on July 4, 1776.

Yes, when the declaration
accused a king,

in this case, George III,
of being a tyrant,

it did sound remarkably like
a chapter from a British history book.

But that's not
what everyone remembers.

What we remember is something fresh,
something profoundly American.

We hold these truths
to be self evident,

that all men are created equal...

They are endowed by their creator
with certain unalienable rights...

... that among these are life, liberty
and the pursuit of happiness.

In April 1778,

faced with the undoing
of his life's work,

an alliance between the old enemy,
France,

and the new dominion of liberty,
America,

Pitt tried to make one last
parliamentary speech

which would put some gumption
into his demoralised compatriots.

He struggled to his feet,
but, before he could pronounce,

he collapsed back again
into the arms of his fellow peers.

When he died a month later,

the right empire, the empire
of liberty, died with him.

It would take George Washington,
now commander of the American forces,

seven years of bloody fighting
before independence became a reality.

In that time, the Americans suffered
as many defeats as victories,

but gained the crucial support
of France, Spain and Holland,

eventually forcing the British
to surrender

at Yorktown in Virginia in 1781.

It may have been the end
of one kind of British Empire,

but another one
was waiting to be born.

20 years after defeat in America,

the British found themselves
ruling millions in Asia.

They hadn't planned it, they hadn't
even dreamed it was possible.

Why would they?

Since the British had first come
to India, early in the 17th century,

they thought of nothing but trade.

Their only presence
was the East India Company,

a commercial body
there to make a profit.

From toeholds on the south-east
and western coasts,

they bought brilliantly-printed silks
and cottons and shipped them home,

where the parlours and bodies
of the polite classes

were suddenly transformed
by splashes of Indian colour.

A nice business, but anything more
ambitious was out of the question,

for there already was
an empire in India,

one of the most spectacular
in the world.

The Mughals.

The Moslem descendants
of the Mongol conquerors of Asia.

At their head
was the Emperor in Delhi.

Across the land, a network
of governors loyal to him, the Nawabs.

They had to give their permission
for the East India Company to be there.

To the Mughals, the British merchants
were just extra pocket money,

supplying silver
to take Indian goods home.

No more than a gnat
on the elephant's rump,

specks of bothersome dust
on the Emperor's peacock throne.

But in 1739, that throne disappeared

in the plunder
taken by Persian invaders

when they sacked Delhi
and slaughtered its inhabitants.

In the decades that followed,
other invaders,

Afghans from the north-west,
rode deep into the Indian heartland

waging war and fighting battles
on an unimaginable scale.

The gorgeous fabric of
the Mughal Empire frayed and tore.

Left to their own devices, the Nawabs
took advantage of Delhi's weakness,

raising their own armies,
creating their own mini-states.

18th-century Mughal India
was not some howling anarchy

begging for the British
to come in and stop the rot.

It was a patchwork of successor
states, elegant, robust, vigorous,

many of them still using Persian law
and Persian court style.

And it was
these up and coming states,

not the corrupt petty kingdoms which
the British always complained about,

into which the East India Company
smashed its way

with a ferocious, unstoppable mixture
of arrogance, ignorance and political cunning.

No one in Delhi saw it coming,
no one in London wanted it,

but then enter the French,
enter trouble.

It was the 1740s.
Anglo-French rivalry was going global.

What the French had been doing
with native North American tribes,

interfering in wars and alliances
to steal a march on their rivals,

they would now do
in the Asian subcontinent.

From Pondicherry,
their base in the south,

the French
jumped into Indian politics,

learning that a well-engineered coup

could replace a neutral local
governor with a tame Nawab,

one who would not just help
their business prospects,

but shut out the British.

So the British had little choice
but to join this game of trump the Nawab.

To act was risky, but failure
to act was commercial suicide.

Not everyone in the little company
settlements, like nearby Madras,

was biting his nails
at the idea of an Indian war.

There was one young man, who'd been
sweating it out as a company clerk,

for whom the drum roll of battle
was an irresistible serenade.

Robert Clive, like the East India
Company itself, you might say,

was never really cut out for business,
at least, not legit business.

In Market Drayton,
where he'd grown up,

the Shropshire lad ran an extortion
racket, threatening shopkeepers

with his own gang of toughs
unless they coughed up.

Exported to Madras, Clive lived
the life of a bachelor clerk,

scribbling, sweating,
drinking, fornicating,

and making the whole thing bearable
only with pipes of opium.

Scenting that powerful old aroma
of money and fame,

Clive made a career change,
and he took British India with him.

In the war that erupted between
French- and British-supported Nawabs,

Clive turned a diversion
into the main event.

While both main armies were on a long
siege at the city of Trichinopoly,

Clive took a few men and stormed
the capital of the pro-French prince.

He then held out for six long weeks
against everything thrown at it.

The effort fatally weakened the enemy
and the British client Nawab took power.

The French gamble in south India
was a busted flush.

Clive had just broke the bank.

Suddenly, the rest of India
woke up to the fact

that it was no longer dealing
with a feeble little merchant fledgling.

What it had got
was a cuckoo in the nest.

Up the coast to the north,
the young impulsive Nawab of Bengal,

Siraj-ud-Daulah, decided to do
something about this threat.

In 1756, he attacked the British
settlement that had been established

at the mouth of the Hooghly River
since 1690 - Calcutta.

Most of its residents
made it out of the town in time.

The rest, 100 or so, found themselves
imprisoned in a 20-foot-square cell...

with no food or water and virtually no air,
in the height of the Indian summer.

Few came out alive,

and the Black Hole of Calcutta now entered
British history's lexicon of infamy.

One survivor, John Zephaniah Holwell,
wrote a book about the Black Hole

on his way back
from India to England.

When it was published, in 1758,
it became an instant best seller.

Holwell exaggerated the number
of those who suffocated on that night,

multiplying them by about three,
from around 40 to 120.

I don't think he was simply kicking
up the number for sensationalism.

He was making a point.

The point was that a regime that could
do that, that was so cruel, so inhuman,

scarcely deserved the name
of a government at all,

in fact, scarcely deserved
to survive.

Clive sailed north
in Royal Navy ships,

recaptured Calcutta
and pursued Siraj-ud-Daulah up-river.

In June, 1757,
he took on an Indian army

that outnumbered his ten to one.

But Clive had been in India
long enough to know

there was more than one way
to fight a battle here.

The Battle of Plassey has gone down
in imperial textbooks

as one of those stellar victories,

with a handful of European soldiers
pulling off a long-shot victory

against massed elephant cavalry.

What happened was that Clive cut a deal
with Abdullah's second-in-command -

"Make sure your soldiers disappear
and you can be the next Nawab."

Well, of course, he went for it.

The soldiers duly evaporated
and that was that.

Courtesy of his tamed new Nawab,

Clive helped himself to a quarter
of a million pounds reward.

It made the delinquent
from Market Drayton

one of the wealthiest men in Britain,
and Baron Clive of Plassey.

When challenged, years later,
at the scale of his plunder, Clive replied:

An opulent city lay at my mercy.

Vaults were thrown open to me, piled
on either hand with gold and jewels.

At this moment, I stand astonished
at my own moderation.

The new Nawab would have disagreed.

Clive cost him his independence,
as well as his jewels.

The British could and would
replace him at their whim.

As Clive turned from a general
into a power broker, an Indian Caesar,

suspicions began to mount
back in London.

Was this an economic exercise
in damage containment

or was it empire building?

For empires notoriously
came with long bills.

But Clive was one step ahead of them.

He would solve all their problems
by turning Bengal

into a money-making machine
for the company.

Not by trade,
but by collecting its land taxes.

The temptation was not just for
company men to build private mega-fortunes,

it was for the company itself
to want to grow rich, fast.

This was just so much easier
for the business.

Increasingly, the main trade of British India
was not spices, not cloth, but taxes.

Taxes would pull down
one empire in America,

but now they were going
to set one up in India.

In 1765, the company
was granted the right

to collect the land tax
across all of Bengal.

For the British, it marked
the shift from trading to ruling.

The theory of empire
had been turned on its head.

Trade can only thrive,
that theory had said,

when it's not lumbered
with government or an army.

"Trade can only thrive in India,"
whispered Clive,

"when it hooks up with government,
when it runs a tax system,

"and when it supports an army."

And it was in stark contrast to what
occurred in America at the same time.

In Boston, they were sending
protesting mobs into the streets,

but in Bengal, the money men
were falling over themselves

to bankroll the British.

The local land-owning tax collectors,
or Zemindars, as they were called,

would happily keep harvesting the rupees,
as they had for the Mughals.

The British even imagined that
under their enlightened supervision,

Bengal would be turned
from a place of grinding toil

into a model of progress.

In theory,
everyone was going to be happy.

If the Zemindars could know for sure
exactly how much tax

they would owe to the government,
they could go easy on the peasants.

The peasants, in turn, would be able
to be thrifty and industrious

and produce a surplus for the market,

and plough back the profit
into self-improvement.

The only problem with this
was that it was a total fantasy.

The Zemindars' main interest was,
and always had been,

in shaking as much money as possible
from their peasants,

which they continued to do.

So, instead of beginning
a chain reaction of benevolence,

it started a pyramid of extortion.

The government screwed the Zemindars,
who screwed the peasants.

The Zemindars went broke,
the peasants were evicted

and died in hundreds of thousands.
So much for good intentions.

And, in short order,
famine arrived in Bengal.

Walking ribcages on the trunk roads,

saucer-eyed children
dying in baked mudholes,

flocks of kites landing
on the carcasses of cattle.

Perhaps a quarter of the population
of Bengal perished, millions of people.

Perhaps the British didn't cause it,
but they certainly didn't help.

Guilty or innocent,
one fact was indisputable -

Bengal now belonged to the British.

Over the next 50 years,
most of the rest of India would follow.

New British armies would complete
the job that Clive had started.

For some who came after him,

India was more than an invitation
just to smash and grab.

Warren Hastings, the first to hold
the title of Governor-General,

was committed to the possibility

of repairing the broken body of India
the Indian way.

He learned Persian
and four Indian languages.

He founded the Asiatic Society,

dedicated to understanding
Indian culture.

He commissioned the first
Anglo-Hindustani dictionaries,

translations of Indian law codes
and the Bhagavadgita.

And under Hastings' administration,
there was a tantalisingly brief moment

when the two cultures actually
converged rather than collided.

British men had Indian mistresses,
even wives,

sometimes two,
one in Delhi, one in Lucknow.

They went to cock fights, smoked
hookah pipes with Indian princes...

...made deals with Hindu money men.

But for many of the British
who came to India,

there would be no home,
just a cenotaph...

their presence immortalised
only in stone.

Acres in central Calcutta are still
occupied by Park Street Cemetery.

In the early days, one in three
wouldn't make it through the first monsoon.

In all, it's said over two million
Europeans are buried in India.

And the imperial size
of their graveyard monuments

says something
about a wish to be remembered,

to leave an imposing mark
on the subcontinent.

But neither translations of Hindu
epics nor Mughal-sized tombstones

persuaded everyone that the British
really were Indianising themselves.

Many still saw them as conquerors
to be resisted to the death.

(MOSLEM CALL TO PRAYER)

They were rulers like Tippu Sultan,

who built up his southern Indian state of Mysore
into a dynamic Moslem power.

For 20 years, he bitterly
and effectively opposed British rule,

bloodying their armies and fighting
their soldiers to a standstill.

But it couldn't last.

Tippu Sultan, the tiger, would learn

that a new kind of British
governor-general

had arrived at the end
of the 18th century,

contemptuous of Warren Hastings'
tendency to go native,

and resolved to squash the least sign
of local insurrection.

The most uncompromising of all
was Richard Wellesley,

the older brother
of the future Duke of Wellington.

Yet again, France provided
the impetus for action.

With the rise of Napoleon Bonaparte
came the excuse

to stamp on anyone
who might be his Indian ally.

And so Wellesley dispatched
an overwhelming company army,

the vast majority of its manpower
Indian sepoys, to Mysore.

They stormed Tippu's island fortress,
Seringapatam,

and overwhelmed the Sultan's army.

Tippu was as good as his word
and fought to the death,

his body discovered where
the fighting had been fiercest,

shot in the head
and stripped of his jewels.

Over the next two decades,
Wellesley and his successors

moved relentlessly
across the subcontinent,

picking off Indian states one by one.

In one of Wellesley's letters
to his wife,

you can hear the authentic voice
of the future of British India.

Farewell, dear soul.

I am about to arrange the affairs
of a conquered country.

The foundation stones of a true Raj

were laid by Richard Wellesley,
literally, in 1799,

when he decided that British India

had to have the kind of building
that was fit for an emperor.

So he built a classical palace
in Calcutta,

complete with busts of the Roman
Caesars and grand colonnades.

From it, Richard Wellesley surveyed,
with triumphal satisfaction,

the stupefying immensity
of what had been done.

It might be pricey.

But Wellesley wasn't thinking
about double-entry book-keeping.

He was too busy measuring
his hat size for the victory garland.

As far as he was concerned,
what he had wrought,

the empire he had carved out,
was the ultimate riposte

to Napoleon's jibe about the English
being a nation of shopkeepers.

They were not. They were
a nation of empire builders,

an empire of arms,
of law, of engineering.

These men no longer cared
about an empire of liberty.

That now sounded dangerously French,
suspiciously revolutionary.

Let the Americans play with the tomfoolery
of democracy if they chose.

As for the empire of liberty's twin,
the empire of trade,

surely it was understood now

that something grander was in the offing
than money-grubbing business.

The Almighty had led them,
by crooked steps, to be sure,

toward their true destiny
as the modern Rome,

instructor to the benighted,

guardians of an empire which would
make war to provide peace.

And just think, Roman culture might
have reached Spain and Jerusalem,

but British civilisation
would span the world...

...or so we told ourselves.