Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War

by Alex Rutherford

  ‘Majesty, it’s the same with all the guns,’ said Baba Yasaval.

  ‘I believe you. Besides, the downpour is such it’ll be difficult for either the gunners or the musketeers to keep the gunpowder dry or light their fuses. We must rely on our bravery in close combat with the old weapons of cold steel. We still have many more men than our enemies. Get the officers to marshal them in the best defensive positions they can improvise. Use the wagons and tents as barricades . . .’ Humayun paused and then – still conscious of the perilous position of his aunt and the other women and that it was his complacency and naive gullibility that had exposed them to danger – commanded, ‘Send another strong detachment of cavalry – ten thousand men including half my own bodyguard – back along the riverbank to add to the protection of the royal women.’

  ‘But we need them here, Majesty.’

  ‘Don’t question my orders. It’s a matter of honour to save them.’

  Baba Yasaval did not argue further but despatched a messenger with the instruction.

  ‘Now, Baba Yasaval, where will my presence help the most?’

  ‘Over there to the northwest, Majesty. Enemy cavalry broke through our pickets and attacked our infantry while they were still in their tents and killed many before they could defend themselves. Some ran away. Only by rushing reinforcements of Badahkshanis and Tajiks into position have we been able to hold the line, and even then only some distance back from our original perimeter.’

  ‘To the northwest then.’ Humayun mounted his black stallion and, with the half of his bodyguard that he had not sent to protect the women around him, made his way over to the northwest defences as fast as he could. In the muddy conditions the horses sometimes sank up to their hocks. When one rider tried to push his mount too hard, it stumbled and fell, fracturing a hind leg which had stuck in the mud.

  Approaching the area of his camp which had become the front lines, Humayun saw that his commanders had got howdahs on to a dozen war elephants and brought them forward. Protected by the canopies of the howdahs from the seemingly unceasing rain, some of his musketeers had actually succeeded in priming and firing their long-barrelled weapons and bringing down into the mud a few of Sher Shah’s attackers. Taking a little heart from their success, small bands of his infantry were firing volleys of arrows from the cover of overturned baggage wagons and forcing Sher Shah’s men, in turn, to shelter behind five of Humayun’s large cannon which they had overrun in their first assault.

  As he reached the forward position, Humayun shouted to his men. ‘Thank you, my brave soldiers one and all. You’ve blunted the enemy’s attack. Now it is time to recover our great cannon. To allow Sher Shah’s rabble to carry them off would be a dishonour. I will lead you. Elephant drivers advance. Musketeers, shoot down more of those insolent rebels for me.’

  Humayun waited impatiently for the elephants to begin to move forward. Eventually they did so, lurching through the mud and making the howdahs on their backs sway so much that it was difficult for the musketeers to steady their weapons to shoot accurately. Humayun waved his horsemen forward too. As they approached the captured cannon, Humayun saw a group of Sher Shah’s gunners run from the shelter of one of the largest bronze cannons towards a beige-coloured tent belonging to Humayun’s infantry that had apparently remained standing after his men had retreated. Suddenly these gunners pulled away the front of the tent to reveal a sixth captured cannon that they had somehow managed to drag inside the tent and to get dry enough to fire. Immediately an artilleryman, who had been hidden within the tent, applied a light to the fuse.

  With a loud bang and lots of billowing white smoke, the ball flew from the cannon’s mouth, hitting the foremost of Humayun’s advancing elephants squarely in its great domed forehead. Mortally wounded, the elephant at once fell sideways, dislodging its howdah and throwing the musketeers, arms and legs flailing, to the ground.The elephant behind panicked and ran forward, squashing one of the fallen musketeers into the mud beneath its feet. As he struggled to regain control of his charge, which had its head back and grey trunk raised and was trumpeting in fear, one of this elephant’s two drivers also tumbled from its neck but the other held on and seemed to be succeeding in restraining his mount.

  However, by now all Humayun’s attention was on the cannon which had fired the shot.The gunners were frantically trying to reload it. They had taken a linen bag of powder from the metal chest which had kept it dry and succeeded in ramming it down the cannon barrel. Two of them were struggling to lift a metal cannon ball, ready to roll it down the barrel after the powder, when Humayun reached them. Bending low from the saddle of his black horse, Humayun’s first stroke with Alamgir almost severed the arm of one of the men lifting the ball. He fell to the ground together with the cannon ball, blood spurting from his wound. Humayun cut at the face of the other man but the gunner got his arm up to protect it. Nevertheless, his arm was badly gashed and, turning, he began to run. He had got no more than a couple of paces before Humayun’s sword caught him in the flesh at the back of his neck, above his chain mail and below his domed steel helmet, and he too crumpled to the ground. By this time Humayun’s bodyguard had killed or put to flight the remainder of the enemy gunners and his musketeers were dismounting from the elephants.

  ‘Good work. Order the remaining infantry to advance to protect the cannon. Our success will give them renewed confidence. I must return to the centre of the camp.’

  With that, Humayun turned his horse, which was already blowing hard from its charge through the clinging mud, towards his scarlet command tent.Visibility had much improved as the rain, which had slackened during his attack on the guns, had by now almost ceased. From the centre he would be able to direct a further strengthening of his position, Humayun thought.

  However, he had covered scarcely half the distance to his tent when Jauhar galloped up. ‘Majesty,’ he gasped, ‘Baba Yasaval asked me to beg your presence on the far southwestern perimeter. A large force of Sher Shah’s cavalry is attacking along the bank of the Ganges. They have already broken through our front lines and the vanguard are deep among our makeshift secondary defences.’

  Immediately Humayun pulled the head of his black horse round and the willing beast, responding to his urging, began to pick up pace towards the west past the neat lines of tents hastily abandoned by Humayun’s men as they had rushed earlier to repel the unexpected attackers. He was followed by Jauhar and his bodyguards.

  Very soon Humayun could hear increasing cries and sounds of battle and then, breasting a low rise, he looked down on the wide, muddy banks of the Ganges and a scene of chaos. Several bands of Sher Shah’s cavalry had breached his front line and his own cavalry were trying to encircle them or drive them back. Other mounted officers, waving their swords, were encouraging groups of his infantry forward to fill gaps in the defences but they seemed to be having only limited success. Indeed some of the infantrymen were fleeing towards the rear, throwing down the small round shields and the long spears with which they were armed.

  Most ominously of all, only a mile or so from his wavering defences another large force of Sher Shah’s cavalry was forming up to launch a further attack. At their centre was a knot of bright flags and pennants and to Humayun it seemed obvious that Sher Shah was there, ready to lead this charge in person finally to overwhelm his enemies.

  ‘We’ve only got a short time to prepare to confront them, Jauhar. Where are Baba Yasaval and my other commanders?’

  ‘When I left to find you, Majesty, Baba Yasaval was a little further along this rise with some of his junior officers. But he told me the situation was so perilous that he could not wait for your arrival but would straightaway lead an attack on some of the enemy cavalry that had already broken through. Isn’t that his yellow flag at the head of those riders over there, driving that group of our enemy before them?’

  ‘You have good eyes, Jauhar. Get a message to him to bring as many men as he can detach to meet me by that cluster of grey tents over th
ere. Send further messengers to summon any other officers who can break off from the action to lead their men there too. We’ll meet Sher Shah’s advance head on. The ground around those tents looks firm enough for us to be able to get up enough speed to do them some damage with the weight of our initial charge.’

  Only ten minutes later Humayun had a number of his officers around him. He was saddened how many including Baba Yasaval – who was helmetless and had a bloody, yellow cloth wound around his head – were wounded, and even more how many were missing. ‘Where is Suleiman Mirza?’

  ‘Dead, Majesty, killed by a spear thrust as he attempted to fight off cavalry.’

  ‘And Ahmed Khan?’

  ‘Badly wounded. In the very first minutes of Sher Shah’s attack while he was inspecting the pickets two arrows hit him in the thigh. Some of his men found him weak from loss of blood and got him over to the opposite side of the Ganges along with other wounded. They’re being cared for by the men you stationed there.’

  ‘We must manage without these brave officers, trusting in our own courage and in our destiny.’

  Looking round, Humayun saw that his commanders had assembled a sizeable force, perhaps as many as five thousand riders, to confront Sher Shah’s next attack which, from the increasing movement amongst his opponents’ ranks, would not be long delayed.

  ‘As soon as Sher Shah’s lines advance, so too do we. Make for the centre where I believe he will ride himself. If we can kill or capture him, his men will become demoralised. Despite our losses the day will be ours . . .’

  Moments later, Sher Shah put his cavalry into motion, galloping increasingly quickly towards Humayun’s defences. Humayun took Alamgir from its jewelled scabbard and waving it above his head yelled, ‘Charge! Let it be a matter of honour to die rather than to retreat.’

  Soon his whole force was galloping as fast as the mud and puddles would allow. Humayun’s tall black horse, despite its previous efforts, kept him at the head of his troops, closing fast with his opponents who were themselves racing forward, weapons extended, shouting ‘Tiger, Tiger’ in celebration of their leader, Sher Shah.

  All his thoughts now concentrated on the coming fight, Humayun bent low over his stallion’s neck and kept its head aimed at the very centre of Sher Shah’s galloping ranks where he saw a black-bearded man in bright steel armour on a white horse shouting encouragement to those around him as he rode. It could only be Sher Shah himself. Humayun pulled on his reins once more to bring him directly into Sher Shah’s path. Within seconds the two lines clashed. Humayun slashed at Sher Shah with Alamgir but the sword slid harmlessly off his steel breastplate and in a moment the press of forces had separated them.

  Suddenly, Humayun thought he saw the traitorous Tariq Khan mounted on a brown horse and wearing his familiar dark green beneath his armour. Humayun urged his own mount towards him. Although hampered by the disorganised mass of wheeling, rearing and snorting horses with their riders slashing and striking at each other, Humayun reached the green-clad man. It was indeed Tariq Khan.

  ‘Tariq Khan, your life is forfeit. Face me and die like a man, not the slippery snake you are.’ With that, Humayun struck at Tariq Khan but his opponent quickly got his shield up and deflected the blow and at the same time swung wildly at Humayun with his double-headed steel battleaxe. Humayun leaned back in his saddle and the axe only hissed through empty air but Humayun thrust Alamgir deep into Tariq Khan’s unprotected armpit, exposed as he made his axe-sweep. With a cry of pain Tariq Khan dropped the axe and, as blood poured from his armpit staining his dark green clothing, he seemed to lose control of his brown horse which carried him off into the mêlée. Moments later, Humayun saw him fall, sliding backwards from the saddle of his rearing mount to be trampled into the muddy ground beneath the hooves of other horses. So perish all traitors, thought Humayun.

  Looking round, he realised most of his bodyguards had lost touch with him, but shouting hoarsely to the few who remained to follow he turned his own black horse, now covered with white, frothing sweat, towards where he calculated Sher Shah’s charge might have taken him. As he pushed forward, a riderless horse, blood streaming from a deep sword slash to the rump, crashed into the right flank of his own, knocking it off course and for a moment painfully trapping Humayun’s mail-clad thigh against his saddle. Then, neighing shrilly, it careered away, veering straight across the path of one of Humayun’s remaining bodyguards. The bodyguard’s horse stumbled and fell, throwing its young rider over its neck on to the ground. He lost his domed helmet on impact, rolled over two or three times and then lay still.

  Regaining control of his horse once more, Humayun urged it towards where the fight seemed the most intense. Suddenly thunder crashed overhead and immediately rain began to fall again in torrents, heavy drops splashing into puddles and dripping from the rim of Humayun’s helmet before running down into his eyes. He removed his leather gauntlet and raised his right hand to brush the rain away and clear his vision. But his action prevented him from seeing two dark-clad riders dashing towards him until they were almost upon him. When he did, he swerved away from the first but could not prevent the sharp sword of the second slicing into the exposed flesh of his hand and wrist and sliding down into his forearm, pushing back his chain mail and penetrating deeper as it went on. His black horse carried him away from his assailants, who failed to turn quickly enough in the mud to pursue him.

  Bright scarlet blood was streaming from Humayun’s wounded right arm and hand and flowing down and through his fingers, coating Timur’s ring. He tried to untie his cream neck cloth with his left hand to use it to staunch the wound but he could not. His numb right fingers could scarcely keep a grip on his reins. He began to feel light-headed and white flashes started to appear before his eyes. Through them he could just about make out that there were none of his men around him. The situation was bad but surely he was not destined to end like this? Defeat was not inevitable. He must get back to his men to rally them. Humayun tugged at the reins with the last of his strength, trying to turn his tired, blowing horse in what his blurring mind imagined was the direction of his remaining men. He kicked the horse’s sides to urge it on, then slumped forward on to its black neck, clinging to its mane with his left hand as the last remnants of his consciousness deserted him.

  ‘Majesty.’

  Humayun’s opening eyes throbbed with bright light and he half closed them again. The glare was the same when he tried again. Slowly he realised he was lying on his back staring up into the midday sun.

  ‘Majesty.’The same voice came again and a hand tentatively shook his shoulder. He was no longer wearing armour or chain mail. Where had it gone? Was he captured? He turned his clearing head towards the voice and slowly a nut-brown face came into focus, a concerned, anxious expression on its small features.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Nizam. I’m one of the water-carriers in your army.’

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘On the banks of the Ganges, Majesty. I was gathering water from the river in my leather bottles to take to your soldiers when I saw your black horse coming slowly towards me from the direction of the battle a mile or so from here, with yourself slumped over its neck. When it got nearer the horse’s knees buckled and it collapsed. As it did so, you slid to the ground.’

  ‘Where is the horse now? Where are my men?’

  ‘The horse is over there. It is dead, Majesty, from exhaustion I think, even though it had many small wounds and a larger one to its rump.’

  Feeling a little stronger, Humayun raised himself on his left elbow and there indeed was his black stallion no more than twenty paces away lying neck outstretched, tongue lolling. Clusters of green-black flies were already forming around its mouth and nostrils and on its many wounds.

  ‘And my men?’

  ‘Mostly they retreated east down the riverbank closely followed by Sher Shah’s force who struck many from their saddles. Some crossed the river where it is low, about a quarte
r of a mile from here, to the opposite bank where some of your troops still are.’

  ‘Was I not pursued?’

  ‘No. And it’s difficult to see this particular place because of the banks and mud spits, so no one has come since. Do you wish to drink, Majesty?’

  ‘Please.’ Instinctively Humayun tried to extend his right arm for the bottle. It was stiff and numb. Remembrance of the fight and his wound came back to him. His arm felt bandaged. Looking at it he realised that it was – with the same cream neck cloth he had himself failed to untie, and there seemed to be something like a flat pebble bound against the worst of his wound.

  ‘Help me to drink.’

  Nizam took the stopper from one of his large water bottles, which seemed from its size and shape to have been made from the skin of an entire small goat. Supporting Humayun’s head, Nizam poured a little into his mouth. Humayun drank quickly, then asked for more. With each gulp he felt life returning to him.

  ‘Did you bind the wound?’

  ‘Yes, Majesty. I have often watched the hakims at work after battles and one told me that a small flat stone was good to keep pressure on a cut to stop the loss of lifeblood.’

  ‘It clearly worked. You’ve done well. How did you know I was your emperor?’

  ‘By your tiger ring and your jewelled sword. I’ve often been told of them in the camp.’

  Humayun was fully conscious now and sitting up realised that he did have both the ring and his father’s sword Alamgir, which either he or Nizam had put back into its scabbard.

  The midday sun was beating down, causing the wet ground to steam in an eerie semblance of morning mist. Scrutinising his saviour, Humayun saw that Nizam, who was wearing only a rough black cotton tunic, was small, skinny and mud-streaked – probably no more than thirteen or fourteen years old. Nevertheless, he could easily have stripped Humayun of his possessions and run but instead he had loyally stayed with him. Humayun realised that – although defeated as he surely had been – he still deserved his birth name of ‘Fortunate’ bestowed on him by his father Babur. One defeat was of little matter. Babur had suffered many setbacks. ‘It is how you deal with them,’ he remembered Babur saying. Then Humayun’s head swam again. Pulling himself back to the present, he knew that his first task must be to rejoin his army.