After two days of such manoeuvring back and forth on the plains around Samugarh, this morning, 7 June, the two armies had deployed in full battle formation, Dara retaining his slight initial advantage of the somewhat higher ground. As the airless morning had drawn on and the heat increased, none of the three brothers had appeared to wish to push for a decisive engagement. Nicholas had even wondered whether there might be a chance for negotiations, though this seemed unlikely. All that had happened for the past five hours was that both sides had stood still or sat on horseback in the broiling sun, which was now at its midday zenith. Both men and horses were falling victim to the heat. Flocks of bald-headed scrawny vultures were already perching on the bodies of some of the dead animals, pecking at eyes and bellies now spilling out skeins of bluish intestines, unwanted portents to the men of their own potential fate in battle when it was finally joined.
Glancing round, Nicholas saw that there was still little movement in the ranks of either army other than young water-bearers running with their gourds and bottles to attempt to slake the thirst of the soldiers although there were not enough of them – nor enough water – to prevent more men collapsing from the heat. In the next two hours Nicholas lost two further men, including one – a ginger-haired Scot named Alex Graham – who had soldiered with him since his first northern campaign with Murad and had begged him to take the five silver coins in the pouch at his waist and get them back to his family in the Scottish highlands. Nicholas had assured him he would, while realising how difficult it would be even if he himself survived, with civil unrest in Britain as well as Hindustan.
As he pondered this question he saw sudden movement in the ranks of the army opposite. Were they going to attack at last? Nicholas shouted to his men to prepare for action, glad that the waiting might be over – nothing could be worse than standing in this awful heat. A few minutes later he realised that there would be no battle that day. The enemy appeared to be retreating back to their camp, which was about a mile behind their current position. Soon the order came from Dara through one of his qorchis to return to their own camp on the hillocks. At least he would live another day, thought Nicholas as he turned his horse and gestured to his men to follow.
Chapter 19
The next morning Nicholas was up before dawn. In truth he had slept little that night. The war council he had attended the previous evening had agreed unanimously that rather than spend another day waiting for their opponents to make a move they should take advantage of their numerical superiority – eighty thousand men compared to their opponents’ fifty thousand – and seize the initiative, attacking with some of their elite cavalry early in the morning. As for Nicholas and his mercenaries, Dara had ordered them to form a reserve just behind his command tent, ready to reinforce any weak points or exploit any breakthroughs. In doing so they were to utilise their military experience and steadiness under fire to the full, bolstering the nervous and restraining the rash.
Nicholas made a quick round of his men, shaking awake any so nerveless as still to be asleep, giving a word of encouragement here, checking the sharpness of a blade there, but above all exhorting everyone to carry as much water as they could. Afterwards he climbed with his morning meal to the top of the hillock around which his men were encamped to survey the opposing battle lines, each stretching more than a mile and a half as they faced each other across the dry plains. While he sipped his clay cup of lassi – a mixture of yogurt and water – ate several round chapattis, delicious when hot from the skillet as these were, and gnawed on a bony hunk of chicken thigh, he looked beyond Dara’s scarlet command tent and his army’s front lines to those of the enemy. He saw that Aurangzeb and Murad’s men were also up and busy. Even at a distance his keen eyesight could make out howdahs being hoisted on to elephants and troops of horsemen preparing to mount in front of the orderly ranks of tents. Suddenly – it could not have been more than an hour after dawn – he heard the crash of artillery and white smoke billowed from the batteries of heavy bronze cannon opposite, drawn up in the centre of the enemy position near a large pavilion which he imagined must be the headquarters of Aurangzeb and Murad. So Dara’s brothers were as unwilling as he was to put off the decisive encounter any longer.
Immediately Dara’s own cannon boomed out their response. Many of their balls fell short as had many of the enemy’s, sending up showers of grit and dust as they bit harmlessly into the dry ground. However, through the ever-increasing smoke Nicholas saw that one of the enemy cannon had been knocked from its limber. Then a loud explosion deafened him for a moment. It came from behind him and to the left where he remembered some of Dara’s powder wagons had been positioned, as the war council had thought, out of enemy cannon range. Either a lucky and record-breaking shot from one of Aurangzeb’s biggest cannon or more likely some carelessness by one of Dara’s own gunners had resulted in the powder in an ammunition wagon’s being detonated. Pray God the damage was not too great.
As if in response to this setback, Nicholas saw one of Dara’s regiments of cavalry begin to deploy from the centre of his lines, passing through regiments of musketeers and foot soldiers and out beyond the advanced pickets into the open ground between the two armies. They were the same Rajputs and Punjabis who had formed the rearguard the day the army had left Agra. Now they would be the first into battle. Soon the regiment were moving into the gallop and charging straight for Aurangzeb and Murad’s cannon. Their green banners were fluttering, their lances were levelled and they were resisting the temptation to bunch close together and thus make themselves more vulnerable to enemy fire. Even at that distance Nicholas could hear the Rajputs shouting their war cry of ‘Ram! Ram! Ram!’ as they rode. When they were around half a mile from them, Aurangzeb and Murad’s cannon fired again. The galloping bay horse of the leading banner-bearer collapsed instantly, catapulting its rider over its head to lie motionless while his banner, its staff trapped beneath his sprawled, lifeless body, still fluttered feebly. More horses and riders fell while other horses swerved away, either injured themselves or because their riders were wounded and losing control of them. Still the remaining horsemen pressed on, pace unslackened and helmeted heads bent low to their horses’ necks.
Musketeers stationed in between Aurangzeb and Murad’s cannon levelled their long-barrelled weapons on tripods to steady their aim and then added the weight of their fire to the cannonade. Their first disciplined volley emptied many more saddles and many more horses tumbled to the dust, rolling over, legs and hooves flailing. But then Dara’s horsemen were up to the cannon, thrusting with their lances, slashing and cutting at the gunners and musketeers with their swords. Soon some of the enemy musketeers were fleeing, abandoning their weapons. To Nicholas’s delight, the imperial troops seemed to be winning. Dara clearly thought so too. Nicholas could see him standing in the howdah of his great war elephant beside his scarlet tent, hands clenched over his head in triumph.
However, only a minute or two later, looking back towards the action around the enemy cannon, Nicholas saw a large body of Aurangzeb and Murad’s horsemen gallop from their position on the left flank of their army to join the battle, and smash into Dara’s cavalry. For some minutes the fighting washed around them like waves round ocean rocks sometimes receding, sometimes engulfing the cannon. Gradually, though, the enemy cavalry were gaining the upper hand as they were joined by more and more reinforcements.
After about twenty minutes Nicholas saw Dara’s banners beginning to turn. Soon it was beyond doubt. Dara’s horsemen, much depleted in numbers, were in retreat, riding hard for their own lines. Even though Murad and Aurangzeb’s cavalrymen did not pursue them, riders continued to fall, pitching from their saddles as they were hit by musket balls. One orange-clad Rajput’s foot caught in his stirrup as he fell and he was dragged along until the leather broke and he rolled over several times before lying still. Elsewhere, a rider bravely turned his grey horse to ride back towards the enemy, zigzagging as he did so to put the opposing musketeers off th
eir aim, before bending to scoop a fallen comrade up behind him. Other unhorsed riders were running or limping back towards their own lines, some throwing off their breastplates and helmets so that they could make better progress.
A riderless and panic-stricken horse – one of many – knocked to the ground a dismounted rider who tried to grab its dangling reins as it galloped past. The man struggled back to his feet and staggered on, now dragging his right leg behind him. Soon nearly all those who were still on horseback regained the comparative safety of their own lines. Among the last to arrive was a banner-bearer whose wounded mount got him to within a hundred yards of safety before collapsing slowly. Sliding from his saddle, its rider, a burly Punjabi, ran the remaining distance still holding on to his heavy banner. Elsewhere syces, grooms, were helping wounded men from their horses, gently placing the most severely injured on makeshift stretchers to be carried to the lines of hakims’ tents.
Earlier that day Nicholas had glanced into one and seen the red-aproned doctors calmly laying out their saws, knives and other instruments while their assistants prepared the cauterising fires. He had quickly looked away, not wishing to dwell on his fate if wounded. Why hadn’t Aurangzeb and Murad followed up the advantage they had gained in repulsing the cavalry charge, he mused, only to be interrupted by a qorchi summoning him to a war council in Dara’s command tent.
Since he was stationed so close to it, Nicholas was among the first to arrive. As he ducked beneath the awning he saw Dara, now clad in his gold breastplate, standing staring towards his brothers’ camp, where labourers were struggling in the growing heat to right some of the cannon overturned in the first attack. Others were unloading more cannon balls and stocks of powder from wagons which teams of oxen were pulling up to the artillery positions. Another small group of soldiers were going among the dead and wounded men and horses sprawled around the guns. Nicholas saw them carry away some of the wounded, presumably those of their own side. Another band were thrusting lances into the hearts of injured horses. Appearing to have completed the grisly task of putting the animals out of their misery, they turned to the remaining bodies, bending over them, perhaps to search for valuables, and then thrusting their lances into their chests. A wounded man, seeing what was happening, suddenly staggered to his feet and began to stumble back towards Dara’s lines. One of the killers sprinted after him, caught him easily, pushed him to the ground then very deliberately spitted him with his lance.
Dara, who had clearly also been watching, cried, ‘How can they be so brutal?’
‘Highness, it is war and war is brutal, particularly civil war. But I have seen men suffer much worse deaths in enemy hands in our northern campaigns,’ Nicholas replied.
‘You have far greater experience of war than I. In truth I have little and want little more. The sooner this battle and this war are over the better.’
By now Dara’s other commanders were assembled around him and he addressed them without any of the normal preliminaries or flowery courtesies of the court. ‘I have seen our enemies kill those of our brave men who were left wounded as our horsemen retreated. I do not intend to give them that opportunity again. We will not retreat again. Our next attack will be in overwhelming force with every soldier we have at our disposal.’
‘That is brave, Highness, but is it wise,’ asked Raja Jai Singh, ‘to commit all our forces to a single attack? Shouldn’t we keep some regiments in reserve to guard against the unforeseen, or any setback?’
‘Holding men back will only make setbacks more likely. I am determined to strike decisively now and end this rebellion today. How long will it take to ready our men?’
‘An hour, perhaps, Highness,’ said the raja, ‘and in that time I recommend that to give the attack the greatest chance of success you begin a cannonade of enemy lines to disrupt their forces and knock out some of their remaining guns.’
‘Give the necessary orders.’
‘Don’t forget, Highness, while we make our own preparations,’ said a voice from the back, ‘we should keep watch for any massing or movement of troops by our enemy or for signs of attempts to outflank us.’
Another wise comment, thought Nicholas. In war as in chess it was not enough to plan your own moves well, you had to watch out for your enemy’s and be flexible in responding to them.
‘Yes, of course. We should advance more pickets and send out scouts to warn us of any manoeuvres on our enemy’s part or of any reinforcements riding to join them. However, it seems to me that, being outnumbered, my brothers are prepared to sit on the defensive. I am not. Let us lose no more time. Make the necessary arrangements for the attack, Jai Singh. I am indebted to you all, my loyal and wise counsellors, and so too will be my father, our rightful emperor. Good luck and may God bless us with victory. The council is dismissed.’
Again Nicholas wondered whether, although Dara had been gracious in his final remarks, he might not have done better to allow a little more time for his officers to ask questions and make suggestions about his simple strategy, as well as to enthuse them more thoroughly with the reasons why victory was important for the empire and of course for them. Having known Dara for over thirty years he was well aware of his warmth, charm and abilities, so clearly displayed in his family and personal life and his relationship with close allies. He just wished he would be less distant and aloof in public discussion with the wider circle of his supporters. Still, with the superior forces at Dara’s disposal, his battle plan should succeed and, God willing, by evening he and his men should be riding victorious for Agra.
An hour and a half later Nicholas, mounted on his chestnut horse, was again on the top of the hillock behind Dara’s command tent. He was now fully dressed for war, sweating beneath steel back- and breastplates, his long sword at his right side and his two bulbous-handled pistols primed and stuck into his blue sash. He watched as drums began to beat and Dara’s troops started to advance along the whole one and a half miles of their front line from Raja Ram Singh Rathor’s Rajputs on the right to Khalilullah Khan’s Uzbeks on the left, moving into the white smoke drifting across the plain between the two armies from the previous exchanges of cannon fire. Despite the amount of powder and shot expended by both sides in the previous eighty minutes, neither seemed to have suffered great damage – the most obvious casualties were three of Aurangzeb and Murad’s elephants, hit as they strained to haul some of their cannon into a more advanced position and now slumped within a few feet of each other like great grey rocks.
More and more of Dara’s men began to move forward. Soon Dara’s own massive war elephant started to advance and as it did so he waved from its jewel-encrusted tower-like howdah to the surrounding troops. The size of his elephant and the construction of the howdah allowed him to see and be seen by many more of his troops than he could have been in any other way.
In obedience to his own orders, which were still to stay where he was with his men till he saw how the battle developed, Nicholas sat tight on the hillock as Dara’s army pushed forward. Sometimes drifting smoke obscured his view, making it difficult for him to judge the progress of the fighting. On the right flank, Raja Ram Singh Rathor’s orange and saffron-clad horsemen were outdistancing the rest of the army, swerving as they did so to attack the enemy’s centre. Through another gap in the smoke Nicholas was able to guess why. Two great elephants with howdahs were moving along the enemy lines, surrounded by a squadron of banner-bearing horsemen. Aurangzeb and Murad were encouraging their own troops to stand firm and Raja Ram Singh Rathor must have determined to win glory for himself and his Rajputs while avenging the defeat of his cousin Jaswant Singh at Dharmat by killing or capturing the two rebellious brothers. His men were clearly suffering casualties as the price for their daring with many falling, brought down by musket balls or fire from the cannon batteries at the centre of the enemy lines.
Raja Ram Singh Rathor, distinguishable by his pure white stallion and the two standard-bearers riding beside him, both still also miraculously un
scathed, was the first to smash into the horsemen surrounding the rebellious brothers’ elephants, his much diminished force close behind him.
It was difficult at the distance for Nicholas to make out the details of the action but he saw a Rajput horseman attack one of the two elephants, urging his mount, specially trained and equipped with a face plate as some cavalry horses were, to rear on its hind legs to allow him to strike at the elephants’ mahouts. A bodyguard in the howdah stood and thrust twice with his long lance. Both horse and rider dropped from view.
One of Raja Ram Singh Rathor’s banner-bearers had fallen but the other remained close by his leader’s side as he battered his way towards the other imperial elephant, opponents swerving away from him or faltering beneath his attack. Suddenly, the remaining Rajput banner-bearer pitched forward out of his saddle and became entangled in his orange banner as he hit the ground. Next, the raja’s own white horse reared up. Was he too preparing to attack the elephant’s mahouts? But in a moment the horse toppled backwards, clearly wounded, and the raja, still identifiable by his lemon turban and flowing orange and white robes, slipped from the saddle and ran, drawn sword in hand and almost bent double, towards the elephant. Bravely he tried to duck beneath its belly, perhaps attempting to cut the girths holding the howdah in place. Whatever was his aim he did not succeed in it but fell wounded, and as he tried to rise he was trampled beneath the elephant’s feet.
Empire of the Moghul: The Serpent's Tooth Page 25
