Clive moved confidently and resolutely among his men, keeping up their
courage by cheerful words, and he was well seconded by his officers.
"Now, lads," Charlie Marryat cried to the company of which he was in
command, "stick to it. You ought to be very thankful to the French,
for saving you the trouble of having to march another twelve miles
before giving you an opportunity of thrashing them."
The men laughed, and redoubled their fire on the French infantry, who
were facing them in the watercourse at a distance of eighty yards.
Neither party liked to charge. The French commander knew that he had
only to hold his position to win the day. His guns were mowing down
the English artillerymen. The English party on the left of the
watercourse, with difficulty, held their own against the charges of
his horsemen, and were rapidly dwindling away under the artillery
fire, while other bodies of his cavalry had surrounded the baggage,
and were attacking the little force told off to guard it. He knew,
too, that any attempt the English might make to attack the battery,
with its strong defences, must inevitably fail.
The situation was becoming desperate. It was now ten o'clock.
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