Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul

by Alex Rutherford

  The Bajauris, living high in the mountains in dense forests of oak, olive and wormwood, noisy with rasping mynah birds, were an idolatrous, infidel people with strange beliefs. When a Bajaur woman died the men placed her corpse on a stretcher and, taking each of the four corners, raised it up. If she had lived a good life, the Bajaurs believed her spirit would cause the men holding the stretcher to shake so violently that her body would be thrown to the ground. Only then would the people don black mourning garb and begin their lament. If, on the other hand, a female corpse induced no such motion, it was considered proof of an evil life and the body was tossed unceremoniously on to a fire to be reduced to nothing.

  The ruler of these singular people had provided him with a fine opportunity, Babur thought, as, with Baburi by his side, he rode out of Kabul at the head of a column that included a detachment of newly trained matchlock men and gunners, all hand-picked by Ali-Quli, and four cannon. They circled northwards up through hilly terrain towards Bajaur. In the old days, Babur and his men would have ridden fast and hard on a raid like this, taking their enemy by surprise. But the heavy cannon in their trundling bullock carts slowed their pace, providing more opportunity and time for observers to raise the alarm.

  Babur brooded on this as he rode, not noticing the chill wind in his face. He was also reflecting on a passage he had come across in a chronicle shortly before leaving Kabul: ‘Timur prized bold and valiant warriors by whose aid he opened the locks of terror and ripped in pieces men like lions and through them and their battles overturned the heights of mountains . . .’ It also told of Timur’s loathing for cowards. Any man, whatever his rank, who failed him in battle had had his head shaved and his body painted red. Then, dressed in women’s clothes, he had been dragged through the camp to be beaten and reviled by his comrades before being executed. Mercy had been unknown to Timur.

  Babur understood the need for ruthlessness. Just three nights ago, on a surprise tour of inspection, he had found five men asleep on picket duty and had ordered an example to be made of them. Their left ears had been sliced off and the men paraded before the rest of Babur’s force, bleeding and with the severed ears on a string round their necks. But if he was to succeed, as Timur had done, in forging and holding an empire, he would have to find even greater reserves of toughness within himself, an even greater ability to sacrifice others to his ambition without the appearance of a second thought.

  ‘Majesty.’ One of Babur’s scouts, well muffled in sheepskin against the cold, rode up to him. ‘The sultan has fled from his capital ten miles ahead of us to a fortress on banks of the Bajaur river in the hill country twenty miles east of here. He has taken all his army, two thousand soldiers, with him.’

  ‘You’re sure of this – it isn’t a trap?’

  ‘We saw him ride out with his troops, accompanied by many camp-followers and citizens, and tracked him all the way.’

  ‘Tell me about the fortress.’ Babur leaned forward in his saddle, green eyes glinting above his face-cloth.

  ‘It’s a large rectangular mud-brick structure, two storeys high, on the brink of a river gorge . . . Let me show you.’

  The scout dismounted, cleared a patch of earth and, with the tip of his dagger, marked out a square tower with a river running through the gorge beneath its north wall. ‘See, Majesty. Rising scrubland surrounds it on three sides. This single gateway in the southern wall is the only way in – or out . . .’

  Baburi and Babur exchanged a glance. It couldn’t be better. The sultan thought himself in a stronghold. In fact, he was in a trap.

  Four days later, Babur drew on his leather gauntlets in his scarlet command tent in his camp on one of the few stretches of flat land not far from the fortress. As he had expected, the sultan had ignored his invitation the previous evening to surrender and find mercy. Now he would face the consequences. Under cover of the night men and oxen had dragged the four guns into position four hundred yards from the gateway to the fortress. As quietly as they could, Ali-Quli’s men had dug mounds of earth on which to rest the guns, then concealed them with brushwood until the moment for action came.

  And that moment was fast approaching. Each of Babur’s commanders had had his orders. The main force was to advance openly on the fortress’s southern side and immediately launch a frontal assault. Meanwhile, the matchlock men would follow them, ready to pick off defenders on the battlements. Finally, when he judged the time was right, Babur would reveal his cannon.

  Under a steely grey sky, Babur gave the signal for the attack to begin. From a new vantage-point on the edge of a copse three hundred yards below the western corner of the fortress, where he and Baburi sat side by side on their horses, he watched his mounted archers charge up the stony slope to the fortress, loosing arrows as they rode. Dismounting, they began to hoist the broad wooden ladders they had dragged with them up against the fortress walls, to the left of the gateway. While they worked, Ali-Quli and his matchlock men fired at any defender rash enough to expose himself on the battlements above.

  Two Bajauris fell immediately. Even from where he was, Babur sensed the defenders’ consternation and dismay. More fell. As the Bajauris realised that the red-hot balls could penetrate even shields and chain-mail, they began vanishing from the battlements.

  Babur’s men were already swarming up the rough ladders two abreast. Keeping themselves pressed as close to the walls and ladders as possible, they held their round shields high to protect themselves against any missiles from above. Ali-Quli had already signalled the matchlock men to hold fire for fear of hitting their own side. Baba Yasaval, a courageous warrior from near Herat, was the first to reach the battlements and, fighting his way to the gatehouse, at once got to work with his men, trying to winch up the black metal grille blocking the main gateway. But now that the muskets had fallen silent, the defenders had regained their courage. Babur could see them running back on to the battlements, striking at Baba Yasaval’s outnumbered men with spiked maces and battleaxes, forcing them to fall back from the gatehouse.

  Babur exchanged a brief glance with Baburi who, understanding exactly what was in his mind, rode swiftly to the cannon and their teams, concealed further down the slope. Babur watched as the gunners dragged the brushwood from around the weapons and adjusted the angle of elevation of each barrel.

  Next, they rammed in the bags of gunpowder and the stone shot, inserted their spiked awls into each touch-hole and quickly sprinkled a little more gunpowder around. Finally, four more men advanced to light the charges – Babur could just see the glowing tips of the lengths of oil-soaked cord. Baburi looked across at him and, seeing him circle his sword above his head, gave the order to fire. All of a sudden, above the ordinary noise of battle, booming, cracking sounds never heard before in Bajaur tore the air.

  The first cannon ball smashed into the lower storey of the agreed target, the fortress’s twenty-foot-high south-eastern wall to the right of the gateway. It struck about ten feet above the ground, spraying chunks of brick and dust in all directions. The second ball hit just below as did the third and fourth. When the dust and smoke cleared, a small part of the wall had collapsed and there was a large fissure in a neighbouring section. A detachment of Babur’s men, held in reserve till now, were already scrambling over the piles of rubble into the fortress.

  Stunned defenders were fleeing, some letting themselves down from the battlements on ropes, slipping and falling in their haste to get away before the unknown weapon that had destroyed part of the walls roared again.

  While Babur’s archers provided covering fire, the matchlock men moved closer, set up their forks and fired at the fugitives. Babur saw two Bajauris tumble over, one in complete silence with a musketball hole in his forehead, the other – a yellow-turbaned giant – screaming and clutching at his chest with twitching fingers that dripped blood. But so many were running, stumbling and falling down the eastward slope beneath the fortress and away from Babur’s men that it was impossible for the matchlock men to deal w
ith them all.

  ‘Ride them down!’ Babur ordered a troop of his guard. Then, sword in hand, he galloped up the incline towards the main gate where his men had now succeeded in retaking the gatehouse and raising the grille. Baburi joined him just as he reached it and they rode in together.

  ‘Majesty.’ Baba Yasaval, his face shiny with sweat from his efforts and blood running from a jagged cut above his left ear, greeted Babur as he emerged into the courtyard. ‘The sultan is dead – he threw himself from the battlements into the gorge. We have taken many prisoners. What are your orders?’

  ‘Timur opened the locks of terror and overturned the heights of mountains . . .’ Those words – cruel, perhaps, but very clear – resonated in Babur’s head. ‘Execute the royal council. They had the opportunity to submit but rejected it. Round up the rest – women and children too – to be sent to Kabul to work as slaves for our people.’

  ‘Well? What do you think? How did we do?’ Baburi asked, as they inspected the conquered fortress and the damage inflicted by the cannon.

  Babur struggled to put his feelings into words. Because of his new weapons the fortress had fallen in hours, not days, weeks or months. The possibilities seemed limitless. He gripped Baburi’s shoulder. ‘Today we fought in a way my ancestors never knew, that would have amazed them . . .’

  ‘So why don’t you look more cheerful?’

  ‘Too often I’ve let myself be seduced by grand prospects that did not materialise. Haven’t you often said so yourself? I don’t want to rush into an attack against Hindustan until I’m sure we’re ready.’

  ‘But today was a beginning, wasn’t it?’

  The weeks that followed provided further chances for Babur to test both weapons and tactics. Leaving a conquered and subdued Bajaur, he took his men south-eastwards into the wild, mountainous country bordering Hindustan. Again, none of his opponents had any response to the crash of his cannon or the crack of his muskets.

  Indeed, on learning of Babur’s approach nervous chieftains fell over themselves to send gifts of sheep, grain, horses, even women, accompanied by grovelling messages. Their eagerness to placate him and preserve from destruction their villages and mud fortresses perched on hilltops provoked a wry amusement in Babur. Some even presented themselves before him with grass in their mouths – the gesture of submission Babur had seen among other wild tribes in his youth.

  But his interest in subduing petty chiefs was waning. At night, when he tried to sleep, different images filled his mind. A conqueror – ‘eyes like candles without the brilliance’ – surveyed the great river, the Indus, that lay between him and his objective. Timur had had no difficulty is overcoming men. Neither had he let any physical barrier stand in his way – no mountain or river had stopped him. Babur must be the same. Fifteen years ago, in blistering summer heat, he and Baburi had gazed on the Indus. Waking with a start he felt a fierce desire to do so again that he could not later explain – not to Baburi or even to himself . . . But it persisted and strengthened.

  Putting aside thoughts of further campaigning, Babur turned his column eastward until, on a chill March morning, a broad, swift-flowing river finally came in sight. Without waiting for any of his men, he galloped ahead over cold, hard earth. Reaching the bank, he jumped from his horse, ripped off his clothes and dived into the snow-fed waters that had flowed all the way from the distant mountains of Tibet.

  The water was so cold that he gasped and swallowed a freezing mouthful that seemed to constrict his throat with ice. The strong current was already sweeping him away and cries of alarm were coming from his men on the bank. Taking another deep breath – but this time keeping his mouth well above the water – he struck out with powerful strokes, defying the elemental force that wanted to carry him off. With elation he realised he was not only holding his position but making headway. He was winning. There was a splash beside him and Baburi’s head pushed up out of the water beside him.

  ‘You idiot, what are you doing?’ Baburi’s face was almost blue. ‘And why are you laughing?’

  ‘Swim with me to the other side and I’ll tell you.’

  Together they forced themselves through the eddies and currents until they reached the far bank and, grabbing handfuls of coarse, sage-green grass, hauled themselves out. Babur flung himself on to the ground, still chuckling though he was shuddering and his chilled skin was puckering with goose-pimples.

  ‘So what’s this all about?’ Baburi looked down at him, shaking his hair out of his eyes and slapping his sides to keep warm.

  ‘Last night I was unable to sleep. The thought of the Indus so near made my blood roar in my ears like the waters of the river itself. I made a vow that if God grants me victory in Hindustan, I’ll swim every river in my new empire.’

  ‘You didn’t have to start so soon . . . you’re still a long way from conquering anything.’

  Babur sat up. ‘I had to do it. How could I look at the Indus and not cross it . . . ? Though we must return to Kabul it won’t be long till we’re back. And when I return, this earth will know I have already claimed it. It will welcome me . . .’

  ‘And now I suppose we have to swim back?’

  ‘Of course.’

  In the hour before dawn, eight months after his swim in the freezing Indus, Babur left Maham’s chamber where, for one last time, he had lost himself in the silken folds of her body, and her long, sandalwood-scented hair, and returned to be alone in his private apartments. He listened as the war drums boomed out their sombre rhythm across the meadows beneath the citadel of Kabul. Going on to the balcony, he looked out into the soft half-light, pricked by the glow of thousands of campfires. Yesterday, on this same balcony, with Baburi close behind him, he had announced his grand design to his people.

  ‘From the time Timur invaded Hindustan it has been the rightful property of his descendants. As chief among them I will ride tomorrow to claim what is mine from those who have usurped my birthright. Four months ago I sent a hawk to the self-proclaimed ruler of much of Hindustan – Sultan Ibrahim Lodi of Delhi – as a gift. I told him if he would acknowledge me as his overlord I would give him lands to govern as my vassal. He sent the hawk back – without its head. Now he will lose his throne for insulting the House of Timur and the ruler of Kabul.’

  Babur’s people had roared out their approval of his martial tone even if Sultan Ibrahim was just a name to them and they knew nothing of his palaces and fortresses in Delhi and Agra, his great treasuries and vast armies or the confederation of rulers – some Muslim like himself, others infidels – who were his vassals. Babur had smiled inwardly at their unthinking acceptance of his words. True, he had a claim to Hindustan but his greater birthright was to Samarkand. The memory of it still moved him but he knew he would never rule there again.

  ‘Majesty, your sister wishes to speak to you.’ An attendant interrupted Babur’s thoughts.

  ‘Of course. Does she wish me to go to her?’

  ‘No, Majesty, she is here.’

  Khanzada stepped out on to the balcony. As soon as she and Babur were alone she lowered her veil. The light falling on her face from a torch in a bracket on the wall softened her angular features and smoothed away the lines. Babur saw again the girl who had solemnly brought their father’s sword, Alamgir, to him in the fortress of Akhsi the night he’d claimed the throne of Ferghana.

  ‘I know that later you will return to the women’s quarters to bid your wives and myself goodbye, but I wanted a moment with you alone. You and I are the only ones who remain from the happy days of our childhood in Ferghana when life seemed so secure, so full of promise. We have experienced much since then, both great highs and lows . . .’ She paused. ‘Our lives might have been easier and less eventful but fate made them otherwise. Now you go on this great expedition of yours into Hindustan, which will decide the place of our family in history. I pray it may bring you everything you and I desire, just as our father, mother and grandmother would have done. Victory and conquest will give a point
to what we have lived through . . . but take care, my little brother.’ Khanzada’s raisin eyes – so like their grandmother’s but darker – shone with tears.

  ‘I will, just as when you scolded me to be careful after I fell from my first pony when I was trying to turn too tightly.’ Babur put his arm round her. ‘Whatever happens, you know that I’m following my destiny and trying to live up to my birth. The signs are favourable. Hasn’t the court astrologer predicted that if I launch my expedition now, in late November, while the sun is in Sagittarius, I will be victorious?’

  For a brief moment, Khanzada held his face in her hands and kissed his forehead. ‘Goodbye, brother, till we meet again.’

  ‘I will send for you when victory is ours.’

  Then she was gone, hastening back to the women’s quarters where he knew that, in the months ahead – whatever her own anxieties – she would be the strong hub, the comforter rather than the comforted. Humayun would accompany him on the campaign but he had appointed Kamran as regent in Kabul. Even though he would have the wise guidance in public of Baisanghar and Kasim who would both also remain, Khanzada’s astute advice would be the best guarantee of Kabul’s safety and good governance in his absence. He knew also that she would prevent too many jealousies arising among his wives, listening, conciliating and consoling, just as Esan Dawlat had done.

  Out of the darkness came the sound of a trumpet, a reminder that in the meadows below the citadel, more than ten thousand horsemen were stirring. Soon they would be checking their weapons and equipment and saddling their horses. The standard-bearers would be unfurling the banners that Babur had decided to stripe with yellow and green – the colours of his homeland, Ferghana, and of Timur’s capital, Samarkand – and emblazon with the three circles that Timur had painted on his banners, to represent the perfect conjunction of the planets at his birth.

  The gunners and matchlock men, their skills honed by rigorous, relentless training, would also be preparing. The cannons, muskets, gunpowder and shot were already loaded on to the carts. So were the huge amounts of equipment needed to set up camp – the heavy hide tents, their supporting poles and the great cooking pots needed to feed so many mouths.