Bent on vengeance, another of the officer’s bodyguards next engaged Humayun, wielding a two-headed axe. He was soon joined by a second and then a third, both with long, double-edged swords. Humayun held them off, wheeling his nimble brown horse and parrying their blows but suffering a minor wound to his cheek from a sharp sword, until some of his own guards galloped up to assist him. Before long, two of his attackers were stretched on the stony earth, cut down by Humayun with sword strokes to head and neck. The third had dropped his sword and was fleeing, blood from a spear thrust to his thigh inflicted by one of Humayun’s guards pouring down his saddle and staining his horse’s light coat.
‘We have driven off most of Sher Shah’s cavalry. His musketeers and archers are pulling back too,’ a breathless officer reported.
‘Good. Establish our archers and musketeers among the boulders where those of Sher Shah were. Turn over some of those baggage wagons to make extra barricades and get some of the guns pulled round ready to fire if Sher Shah tries another flank attack.’
As his men went to work, pushing and straining at the large wooden baggage carts to topple them and bringing up oxen to move the cannon, Humayun rode towards a point a few hundred yards away on the ridge where he could get a better view of the battlefield and ponder his next move. On reaching it, his decision was made for him. Sher Shah’s horsemen had broken through the middle of his line of earth ramparts about three-quarters of a mile away and his own men were retreating before them.
‘What happened?’ Humayun demanded of a short, dark officer on a brown and white horse who was leading a party of about fifty tough-looking Badakhshani archers forward.
‘I am not certain, Majesty, but I was told that after Sher Shah’s first attack surprised us by dividing to encircle the ends of our lines, he ordered a second wave of horsemen to gallop down the ridge in close formation to assault the very centre of our ramparts, a position which was weakened — as he knew it would be, I am sure — by our withdrawal of troops to protect the flanks. So fierce was their charge that they overwhelmed our remaining defenders and drove deep into the very centre of our camp. Baba Yasaval sent orders for us to advance to help defend the position he has established over there, around the base of that outcrop.’
Looking in the direction of the officer’s pointing arm, Humayun saw a great melee of horsemen and could just make out Baba Yasaval’s yellow flag. ‘I trust in the bravery of you and your men. We will drive Sher Shah back. I will summon my mounted bodyguard and precede you into the fight.’
‘Majesty.’
Humayun turned and, beckoning his bodyguards to follow, galloped back up the rise of the ridge towards the outcrop where the fighting was centred. As he rode, he could see more and more of Sher Shah’s men pouring through the undefended breach in his earth ramparts and joining the battle around the outcrop. As he got nearer, he encountered a small group of his own foot soldiers who were running away, abandoning positions which had not yet even come under direct attack. Reining in his horse he shouted to them to return, that all was not lost — but they ran on, eyes fixed and fearful, heading for Kanauj and its crossings over the nearby Ganges.
Only a minute or two later, Humayun was on the edge of the heaving mass of men and of horses around the outcrop. He saw a loose horse gallop away with part of its intestines protruding from a great cut to its belly. Several bodies lay sprawled on the ground, attackers and defenders indistinguishable in death. Baba Yasaval’s soldiers seemed to be slowly yielding ground and being forced back against the steep side of the outcrop but Humayun could still see Baba Yasaval’s yellow flag flying in the middle of the fight. Immediately he charged towards it, leaving his bodyguards to follow as best they could.
Humayun’s brown horse stumbled on the mangled body of one rider whose skull had a great bloody cleft in it but Humayun was a good horseman and the beast was nimble and recovered, carrying Humayun further into the press. He struck one of Sher Shah’s cavalry from the saddle with a single stroke of his sword Alamgir, wounded the horse of a second in the neck, causing it to throw its rider before, collapsing to the ground with a severed windpipe, it brought down another horseman who had been preparing to attack Humayun from behind. Humayun was now what seemed only twenty or so yards from Baba Yasaval. Spying a gap, Humayun pressed forward towards his commander through riders too deeply engaged in fighting each other to notice him.
As he did so, Humayun saw that in fact Baba Yasaval had only about a dozen of his men around him. Three or four of them had lost their horses and Baba Yasaval and their comrades were trying to protect them as they held off Sher Shah’s more numerous attackers. At that very moment, however, one of their assailants — a large, purple-turbaned man with a bushy black beard armed with a long lance — kicked his horse towards one of the dismounted men who was becoming separated from the rest. Despite getting his shield up in front of him to ward off the lance tip, the man was unable to withstand the weight of the charge which knocked him off his feet. He tried desperately to roll away from under the hooves of his attacker’s horse towards his companions but, as he did so, the purple-turbaned horseman pulled back his lance and taking deliberate aim skewered him through the belly before any of Baba Yasaval’s other soldiers could intervene. Quickly twisting his blood-tipped lance out of the body, the purple-turbaned man — surely an officer — retreated back into the mass of his fellows.The whole incident had taken less than a minute, during which Humayun had pushed through to Baba Yasaval’s side.
‘Majesty, where are your bodyguards?’ Baba Yasaval broke off from waving his own men back into tighter formation. Humayun suddenly realised that none of them had succeeded in following him through the press and that Sher Shah’s fighters now completely filled the small corridor through which he had come. They had almost surrounded himself and Baba Yasaval and his men, cutting them off from either help or retreat.
‘Baba Yasaval, we must keep as close order as we can to protect ourselves and each other until either more of our warriors arrive or we can identify a break-out route. If we keep our backs to the wall of the outcrop our rear at least will be protected.’
Humayun and Baba Yasaval waved their other soldiers together, but as they attempted to obey, three of Sher Shah’s riders surrounded a horseman and one of them knocked him from his mount with a swinging flail. One of the fallen man’s companions kicked his own horse forward to try to save him only to be killed instantly by a stroke from a two-headed battleaxe which caught him by his Adam’s apple and decapitated him. Another of Sher Shah’s men meanwhile despatched the man knocked from his saddle by the flail. At the same time, the purple-turbaned officer separated another of Baba Yasaval’s unhorsed men from his protectors and stuck him in the groin with his lance. The wounded soldier’s legs and heels thrashed against the ground for about a minute and then he lay still.
There were now only nine men left with Baba Yasaval and Humayun, two of whom were unhorsed and another badly wounded in the head. Then, the purple-turbaned officer waved Sher Shah’s riders in for the kill as Humayun and his soldiers retreated until they were only a few yards from the side of the outcrop. At this point it was almost twenty feet high and nearly sheer, clearly impossible to ride up on a horse and offering no obvious route for a climber on foot.
One of the nine men with Baba Yasaval was a young trumpeter whose smooth-skinned face had as yet no need of the barber. He still had his instrument strapped to his back. Baba Yasaval shouted to him, ‘Sound your trumpet so we may get help. The rest of you protect him while he does so.’ The trumpeter succeeded in taking his three-foot-long trumpet from his back and putting it to his lips. However, at first no sound came and the youth looked at Baba Yasaval in alarm and panic.
‘Calmly, boy,’ said Baba Yasaval. ‘The excitement and fear of battle have dried your mouth. Cough and try to wet your lips with your tongue.’
The youth obediently coughed and licked his lips before trying again.This time, the full sound issued from the trumpet�
�s brass mouth — the rallying call of Humayun’s men.
‘And again, boy, and again!’
Three more of Humayun’s riders had been killed in valiantly providing protection for the young trumpeter before suddenly the purple-turbaned officer swerved his black horse towards the trumpeter and with his long lance caught the boy in his right armpit, exposed as he kept the trumpet to his lips, unhorsing him. He was killed by a further stab of his assailant’s lance as he lay on the ground.
Humayun, seeing another of Sher Shah’s horsemen ride towards one of the two remaining men who were on foot, kicked his own horse to meet the rider’s charge, blocking his path to his target. As the man pulled hard at his reins to guide his mount round Humayun, Humayun cut at his wrists severing one of his hands, causing the rider to lose control and be carried away into the melee. Humayun extended his hand to the man on foot to pull him up behind him on his horse. But as he did so, a spear thrown by an unknown assailant pierced the soldier’s chest and another spear hit Humayun’s horse in the neck. It staggered and collapsed, blood pouring from the wound.
Humayun slipped from the saddle and, as the purple-turbaned officer kicked on to attack him, ran back towards the steep face of the outcrop, zigzagging sharply to put the rider off his aim with his deadly lance. Coming close to the rock face, Humayun realised it was indeed impossible to climb, at least with an assailant armed with a long lance close behind. So Humayun turned at bay, with Alamgir in his right hand and a foot-long, serrated-edged dagger drawn from his belt in his left. Pivoting on the balls of his feet so that he could dart this way and that once the officer attacked, Humayun waited.
The officer charged seconds later, his lance tip pointed at Humayun who left it until the very last moment to jump aside. Thwarted, the officer swerved and turned to try again. As he did so, Baba Yasaval — now unhorsed too and bleeding from a deep sword slash to his face — ran in front of Humayun and, as the officer charged, struck at his horse. He succeeded in bringing the animal down but at the cost of taking its rider’s lance full in the abdomen. Humayun ran forward towards the purple-turbaned man who, although winded by his fall from his horse, was quickly on his feet with sword drawn to parry Humayun’s first blow with Alamgir. He managed to fend off the second blow too but while he did so, Humayun struck with the dagger in his left hand, striking the man in the throat and twisting the dagger’s jagged blade as it entered to cause fatal damage. The officer’s warm blood spurted all over Humayun’s hand.
‘Majesty, we heard the trumpet,’ a voice came from above on top of the vertical outcrop. Humayun glanced up. Some of his men — from the cast of their features and the colour and cut of their orange clothes members of the army of one of his Rajput vassals — had succeeded in getting on top of the outcrop and were peering over the edge. As Humayun turned again to face his attackers — he seemed to be the only survivor of those trapped beneath the outcrop — one of the Rajputs fired a black-shafted arrow, felling the horse of one of Sher Shah’s men. A second arrow wounded another man in the leg. The rest of Humayun’s attackers recoiled as if to consider their next move. In the few seconds while they did so, the Rajput archer uncoiled his orange turban from around his head. He threw one end of the material, which was about ten feet long, over the edge of the outcrop where it hung blowing slightly in the breeze about a foot above Humayun’s head.
‘Grab hold of my turban cloth, Majesty. I will pull you to safety.’
Humayun hesitated and looked around him. Baba Yasaval was still lying where he’d fallen, slumped against the steep side of the outcrop. His helmetless head with its grey stubble was down on his chest and trickles of blood were still seeping from his nostrils and the corners of his lips and dripping down on to his breastplate. His arms were by his side but his legs were splayed and the lance still protruded from his abdomen. He was surely dead and Humayun could see no sign of life in any other of his men.
Any moment now his attackers would close in again to finish him off, Humayun realised. His duty to both his destiny and his dynasty was to save himself. Transferring Alamgir to his left hand, he reached up with his right and grasped the orange turban cloth tightly. Immediately he felt the material tauten and as he scrambled with his feet against the stone rock face for added impetus he began to rise. Suddenly, his attackers, seeing that he was about to escape, rushed towards him.
Humayun slashed awkwardly at the foremost of them with Alamgir in his left hand but the cut went home, the sharp blade slicing into the man’s forehead as he looked upward, almost detaching a flap of skin and causing blood to pour down into his eyes. At the same time, Humayun felt the air move close to him as a Rajput from above threw his battleaxe at the next attacker, catching him in the muscle of his upper arm, and he too fell back. A third hesitated for a moment and that hesitation allowed Humayun to scramble and pull himself over the edge and on to the top of the outcrop. He scarcely noticed that the scar tissue on his right forearm and hand had opened up under the pressure imposed on it as he had been pulled up and was now bleeding profusely.
‘Majesty.’ The Rajput who had thrown the turban cloth spoke urgently as he helped Humayun to his feet. ‘We have a fresh horse for you. Everywhere your men are retreating. Unless you too ride quickly away you will be captured or killed.’
Looking round, Humayun realised that he had indeed only two choices — to retreat to fight another day or die in battle. However much the latter appealed to his warrior’s honour, he felt that life and ambition still burned bright within him and that fate had better in store for her fortunate son than a futile if courageous death. He must live.
‘Let us ride and regroup as many of our forces as we can.’
Chapter 9
Brothers
The hot, still air, already heavy with the moisture that in a week or so would begin to pour from the skies, was oppressive. Beneath his chain mail and fine-woven cotton tunic, sweat trickled down Humayun’s back. His face too was beaded with it. Impatiently he wiped it away with a face cloth only to feel the salty drops immediately re-form. The drumming of his bay horse’s hooves as he galloped back towards Agra, bodyguards ahead and a detachment of cavalry including his loyal orange-clad Rajputs behind him, seemed to pound out a bitter message. Defeat and failure. Defeat and failure. The words echoed around his head but even so he could scarcely believe what had happened.
The troops he had hoped to reassemble had melted away. Some had returned to their own provinces but more had deserted to Sher Shah’s advancing armies. That they should believe the son of a low horse trader could overthrow the Moghuls. . the enormity hurt more than a physical wound, but even worse was the thought that, for all his courage in battle, he had allowed it to happen.
Where was his good fortune now? At Panipat, Hindustan had dropped like a ripe, juicy pomegranate into the Moghuls’ outstretched hands. The ease with which he had defeated Bahadur Shah and the Lodi pretenders had made him think his dynasty invincible. Perhaps he hadn’t understood the nature of his new empire — that rebellion was endemic. However many insurrections he quashed, however many rebels’ heads he struck off, there would always be more. Inspired by Sher Shah’s success, enemies were now menacing him from the west and south as well as from the east.
In his frustration, Humayun slapped his gauntleted hand so hard against the pommel of his saddle that his startled horse skittered sideways, tossing its head and snorting, almost unseating him. Gripping hard with his knees he managed to steady it, then relaxing the reins leaned forward and patted its sweating neck to reassure it. Anyway, with luck he and his advance party should be in Agra before nightfall. Though it would be another week, maybe longer, until the rest of his army — the artillery wagons, baggage carts and thousands of pack beasts — reached the city, he would have a little time to consider his next move. According to his scouts, Sher Shah had halted his advance, at least for the moment, not moving far beyond Kanauj. Perhaps he too was taking stock. .
In fact it wasn’t till afte
r midnight that Humayun’s exhausted horse carried him through the dark streets of Agra, along the banks of the Jumna and up into the fort. The kettledrums above the gatehouse boomed out into the night as, by the orange light of torches flickering in sconces high on the walls, he rode up the steep ramp into the courtyard. A groom rushed to take the reins as Humayun lowered his weary body from the saddle.
‘Majesty.’ A dark-robed figure moved forward. As it came closer, Humayun recognised his grandfather, Baisanghar. Normally so strong, even forceful, his face looked haggard, for once showing every one of his seventy-two years and it told Humayun immediately that something unforeseen and unwelcome had occured.
‘What is it? What’s happened?’
‘Your mother is ill. For the past six weeks she has complained of a pain in her breast so sharp that only opium can bring her relief. The hakims say they can do nothing for her. I wanted to send messengers to you but she insisted I should not distract you from your campaign. . yet I know she longs to see you. It’s all that has kept her alive. .’
‘I will go to her.’ Hurrying across the stone flagstones towards his mother’s apartments, Humayun no longer saw the red sandstone fortress around him. Instead, he was a boy again in Kabul — galloping his pony through the grassy meadows, firing arrows from the saddle at the straw targets Baisanghar had set up and already rehearsing wildly inflated stories of his skill and daring with which to impress Maham.
As he entered his mother’s sickroom, the soothing smell of frankincense filled his nostrils. It came from four tall incense burners set up around her couch in which the golden crystals of resin were smouldering. Maham looked very small beneath the green coverlet, the skin on her face paper thin, but her large, dark eyes still had their beauty and they warmed as they rested on her son. Humayun bent and kissed her forehead. ‘Forgive me — I come to you with the sweat and dust of the journey still upon me.’
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