Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul

by Alex Rutherford

  To hearten the men, Babur and Humayun each took a spade and laboured with them, filling buckets with earth and carrying them two at a time suspended from wooden shoulder yokes to the top of the ramparts. After three days the barricades were of sufficient height. Behind them, the wagons had been linked together and bullocks had drawn the cannon into carefully measured positions in the gaps between them. Supplies of the heavy stone cannon balls had been piled next to each and the Turkish gunners were drilling their men in the loading process. The noise of the armourers’ hammers and the clamour of numerous voices – excited and apprehensive – echoed around the camp.

  As Babur rode by on his tour of inspection, Baburi at his side, the voices hushed for a moment and the soldiers stood still, bowing their heads. Baburi leaned across to Babur. ‘The latest reports still show the forces of Delhi disinclined to attack although they are now only three miles off.’

  ‘But at least – if our informers are right – there’s dissent and desertion in their camp, with complaints that Ibrahim is miserly in paying his troops and even more parsimonious with promises of future reward. A divided house is easier to conquer than a united one and – equally important – easier to provoke to rash action.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Ibrahim must know that waiting will sap morale and leave scope for more complaining and quarrelling, and perhaps more desertions.’

  ‘But even we can’t hold our men in check for too long, however good our discipline is and however often we explain the reasons for delay.’

  ‘Let’s plan a sortie to draw him on to us.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Call the military council.’

  About an hour before dusk the next day Babur, on his black horse, watched as four thousand of his best men – half of them archers – mounted and then, amid the shouts of their officers and the neighing and snorting of their horses, who seemed to have absorbed some of their riders’ excitement and nervous tension, formed themselves into ranks and then squadrons. As soon as they had done so, Babur led his force out of his encampment, through the barricades and trenches, and started to circle to the west of Sultan Ibrahim’s position. He had decided to attack from out of the setting sun so that, with the glare combining with the dust from the horses’ hoofs, his opponents would be unable to tell the number of their assailants. When they had reached a point about a mile west of Sultan Ibrahim’s outposts, Babur halted his men and turned to Baburi. ‘Have you chosen the men to snatch some prisoners?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll lead them myself.’

  ‘Then let’s go.’

  ‘Keep safe for the final battle.’

  With a wave of his arm, Babur gave the order to charge. Digging his heels into the glossy black flanks of his horse he rapidly outdistanced his men. Soon he was a hundred yards ahead. He realised he felt no fear, only exhilaration at the speed of his charge, and a joy that his strength remained that of his youth. Then he remembered Baburi’s parting words: this was not the final battle on which his destiny depended, just a raid to bring it on. He must curb his impatience and exuberance and allow the riders following to take closer order round him. As he did so, he saw that, in front of them, Ibrahim’s men were running for their weapons. Some were already mounted and the first arrows were flying towards his own troops.

  Moments later, Babur’s black horse had carried him in among his enemies and he was instinctively twisting and slashing to left and right with Alamgir. To him, the fight became a series of images blurring together: a Hindustani with a blue turban falling beneath his horse’s hoofs, blood streaming from a slash across his face that had exposed his teeth; a brown tent suddenly appearing in front of him so that he had to drag his horse’s head round to avoid becoming entangled with it; an axe whizzing through the air to embed itself in the neck of the horse beside him, followed by the thud as its slow fall pitched its rider to the ground.

  Suddenly Babur saw open space before him. He was through the first line – he and his men must wheel round rather than penetrate deeper and risk being swallowed up by his opponents. Reining in his excited horse with difficulty, he gave the prearranged signal to come round and gallop back through the swirling dust that was now blanketing Ibrahim’s disordered troops.

  Babur knew this turn was the moment of greatest danger, when his galloping men could collide with each other and become an easy target for Sultan Ibrahim’s archers. However, his cavalry were well trained and – although he saw one or two men take crashing falls as they tried to turn their mounts too tightly – most accomplished it successfully and Babur was soon back through the dust and confusion of the enemy line and riding for his own camp, pursued by a hissing shower of arrows. Just as he had ordered before the attack began, his men immediately broke formation and scattered, some throwing away their shields as if in panic.

  Darkness was falling swiftly, as it always did on the plains, by the time Babur dismounted within the protection of his earth ramparts. He did not have long to wait before Baburi appeared from the gathering gloom. He had a white cloth tied tightly round the knuckle of his left hand and, from the scarlet stain, had clearly suffered a sword slash. However, he was smiling as he approached Babur.

  ‘You’ve got the prisoners?’

  ‘A fine selection – not just water-carriers but some cavalrymen including a captain who put up a great fight before we could subdue him.’

  ‘He’ll be our messenger, then. Bring him to my tent in five minutes. Make sure he and the rest stay blindfolded. We don’t want them reporting on our dispositions.’

  Five minutes later, Baburi led his prisoner into Babur’s presence. He was a tall, muscular man with dark skin. As he approached, Babur noticed he had a bushy moustache of the type beloved by so many Hindustanis and reflected that few from his homeland – himself included – had the luxuriant hair required to produce one.

  ‘Take off that blindfold. What is your name?’

  ‘Asif Iqbal.’

  ‘Well, Asif Iqbal, you are as fortunate as I am told you are brave. You’re to be released to bear a message from me to Sultan Ibrahim.’

  The man showed no emotion, merely bowing his head in acknowledgement that he understood.

  ‘You will tell him that although we were repulsed in our attack today and have suffered many casualties, we defy him. We call him coward because even though he has overwhelming numbers he dare not attack us. Ask him if it is because his commanders will not obey him – you can tell him several have sent messages to me offering their allegiance for reward. Or is it because he knows that God will not support him, a ruler whose army numbers far more infidels than it does followers of the true faith? Tell him, “Attack, or for ever bear the name of coward.”’

  After the black blindfold had been re-tied tightly round the captain’s eyes and he had been led out to be released near Ibrahim’s camp, Babur turned to Baburi. ‘Let’s hope that that and the impression of weakness we gave by our pretended flight tonight are enough to encourage Ibrahim to the attack.’

  ‘They should be. No man likes to be called coward. Ibrahim knows that there is discontent within his army and the suggestion that some nobles are in secret contact with us should make him want to attack before his army begins to disintegrate and he loses some of his advantage in numbers.’

  ‘I agree. Arrange for our men to be called to arms an hour before dawn. Any attack from Ibrahim will surely come before the heat of the day.’

  Baburi was turning to go when suddenly he embraced Babur. ‘Tomorrow will be a fateful day for us both. I feel it.’

  ‘Sleep well. Fate will favour the rested, I’m sure.’

  Without reply, Baburi walked from the tent and was swallowed up by the darkness beyond.

  Ever since dawn there had been great activity in Sultan Ibrahim’s camp – shouting, the trumpeting of elephants and the neighing of horses. A few minutes ago Ibrahim’s drummers had begun to beat out an urgent rhythm.

  He really is going to attack, Babur th
ought. If so, this would be the most decisive day of Babur’s life but he had done all he could to ensure victory. Scarcely sleeping, he had gone over his battle plan throughout the night, looking for flaws or weaknesses without finding any. There was no more he could do . . .

  He called Baburi and Humayun to him for their final orders. Humayun was to command the right wing and Baburi the left. Once battle was well joined and Ibrahim’s men preoccupied with the attack on Babur’s barricades of earth and wagons, they were to start an encircling movement. When, God willing, victory was theirs, they were to pursue any fleeing enemies relentlessly to prevent them regrouping.

  When his son and his comrade had departed to their positions, Babur rode round the troops that would defend the barricades and addressed them in small groups. His message was usually the same: ‘Yours is the position of glory. You will decide the fate of the battle. Be strong. Trust in yourself and our cause. You have seen the strength of our new weapons, the cannon and the muskets. You must defend them well from the enemy to allow them to wreak their havoc.’

  Once he singled out a bunch of nervous young cavalrymen, clustered together round their mounts, checking and rechecking their equipment. ‘I remember how I felt in my first battle. The waiting is the worst. I know you will fight well when the time comes. Concentrate on the enemy in front of you, trusting in your comrades to protect you from the side.’

  In another part of the line he dismounted at one of the earth barricades and tested the bow-string of a leathery-skinned veteran with a pink scar high on his bald head who was at his post behind the rampart. ‘How far can you send an arrow with this bow?’

  ‘Five hundred yards, Majesty.’

  ‘Well, I don’t need to remind a seasoned soldier like you to wait until our enemies are four hundred and ninety-nine yards away before you fire. But perhaps I do need to say that you’ll serve me best by aiming at the riders sitting behind the ears of those elephants I hear preparing over there. Once they are dead, the beasts are directionless and will trample their own men.’

  As he rode back to his place in the centre of the barricades, Babur made his final stop before the captain of his Turkish gunners, Ali-Quli. ‘Thank you for travelling so far from your homeland to fight with me. I know that each of your weapons is worth fifty of our opponents’ elephants, however daunting they may seem. Put them to flight and I’ll reward you well.’

  Back in his position Babur dismounted and knelt for a moment in prayer. As he finished, images of his father, his mother, his grandmother Esan Dawlat, Wazir Khan and Baisanghar came into his mind. Esan Dawlat’s expression seemed the most warlike of all. Silently he promised, I will do you all honour today and prove I am worthy of you and the blood of Timur and Genghis.

  ‘Majesty, they’re definitely on the move.’

  His qorchi broke into Babur’s thoughts and he stood up, calm and confident in his destiny. His squire fitted on his steel breastplate, buckled on his father’s sword and handed him his domed helmet, with its green and yellow plume, together with a long leather-sheathed dagger that Babur stuck into the top of one of his brown leather riding boots.

  He could see that Ibrahim’s forces were advancing swiftly now. As he’d expected, the war elephants were in the lead. Most seemed twice a man’s height and the morning sun reflected off the shiny, overlapping steel plates of their armour. Curved scimitars – six feet in length – were strapped to their scarlet-painted tusks. The drivers were urging their elephants to move more quickly with blows from the large wooden sticks they held in their hands. Already archers were firing from the howdahs – the small castles positioned on the elephants’ backs – but the arrows were falling short: they were still out of range.

  Babur hoped his own men would heed his command to hold their fire until they could reach their target. But first let Ibrahim’s men and beasts feel the effect of his new weapon from the west: the cannon. Babur waved Alamgir twice above his head – the prearranged signal to Ali-Quli to open fire. He saw the first artilleryman bend to put a lighted taper to the powder in the firing hole. Then there was a flash, a roar, and white smoke emerged from the barrel as the cannon ball was propelled towards the enemy. Other flashes followed from the rest of the cannon and smoke began to drift across the barricades.

  Through it Babur saw one of the leading elephants fall, dislodging its howdah and sending the occupants sprawling to the ground. Then the wounded beast staggered upright again, turned, trunk raised in what looked like a trumpet of pain, and crossed the path of its neighbour, bringing it down, too, before collapsing again, blood pouring from the stump of one of its front legs. As it lay, thrashing its head back and forth in agony, the scimitar on its tusk cut into an elephant following, which – frightened and in pain – bolted. But although such incidents were being repeated the length of the advancing line, Sultan Ibrahim’s forces were still pressing on.

  Suddenly, Babur heard the crackling discharge of muskets. More of his enemies fell. Then his archers started to fire, some riding out from behind the barricades to get closer to their targets – the drivers sitting behind the elephants’ white-painted ears. Ibrahim’s front line wavered. More elephants trumpeted in fright and turned to the rear, bringing a crashing halt to those behind, provoking yet more to panic and trample their own men beneath their great feet as they fled.

  Babur yelled for more mounted archers to ride out and fire into the swiftly disintegrating enemy ranks. As he did so, he felt, rather than heard, a loud explosion near him and pieces of hot metal showered around him while something warm and soft stuck to his face. Dazed and partly deafened, he could not think what had happened. Then he realised one of his cannon had exploded and Ali-Quli had been blown apart. Raising his hand to his cheek he discovered it was a piece of his master-gunner’s flesh that had struck him. Ali-Quli would now receive his reward in Paradise, not on earth, but his work had been well done. More and more of Sultan Ibrahim’s troops were fleeing when they could, in particular the infantry, many of whom were barefoot, wearing only a loincloth and with just a spear to defend themselves.

  Pulling himself together, Babur waved his sword in a gesture for his best cavalry to follow, kicked his heels into the flanks of his black horse and led them at a gallop through the smoke and dust the half-mile into the heaving, shouting mass of fleeing, frightened men.

  Some of Ibrahim’s troops were made of more determined stuff and were putting up a brave fight, grouping themselves tightly into defensive formations. Babur made for a small hillock on which one such group of cavalry – about a hundred men all wearing gold turbans – were succeeding in driving off all attacks.

  ‘It’s Ibrahim’s bodyguard,’ one of his men yelled. Babur rode directly towards the tall officer who appeared to be commanding them. Swerving to the left at the last minute to pass him, Babur slashed with his sword in his right hand but the officer raised his shield in time to deflect the blow and, with his other hand, cut deep into the rump of Babur’s black stallion with his sword. The animal reared in pain and Babur was thrown to the earth. As he struggled to regain his feet, he saw the officer urge his white horse towards him, bent on finishing him off.

  Babur stood his ground until the last minute, then jumped to the side slashing wildly with Alamgir as he did so. The sword skimmed along the left side of the white horse’s neck and then penetrated deep into the thigh of its rider. However, he was clearly an expert horseman and despite his wound stayed in the saddle, controlling his horse and wheeling it – bright red staining its white coat – ready to attack Babur once more.

  This time, Babur ducked low as the officer swung his sword with the aim of decapitating him, and cut with Alamgir at the back of the white horse’s foreleg. He hit his target and the horse fell, trapping its rider beneath it and causing his sword to fly from his grasp. As the officer struggled to reach for it, Babur put his foot on his wrist and Alamgir to his throat. ‘Surrender. You deserve to live for your bravery.’ As he spoke, more of his men assembled around
him, having at last killed or put to flight the rest of the gold-turbaned warriors. Seeing further resistance was useless, the officer lay still. ‘I will give you my word not to renew the fight,’ he said.

  ‘Help him to his feet . . . What was it you and your fellows were struggling so bravely to protect?’

  ‘The body of Sultan Ibrahim. It lies over there. He was mortally wounded by the sting of one of your new weapons. They have rendered bravery useless.’

  ‘No weapon is more powerful than he who aims it.’

  All the while they had been speaking, the officer’s white horse had been neighing and thrashing in pain, blood running from the cut on its neck and unable to support itself on the foreleg where Babur had slashed its tendon. Now, bleeding from the mouth and speaking with increasing difficulty – probably from the effect of being crushed by his mount – the officer said, ‘Allow me to have my sword to put my stallion to rest. I have ridden him in many battles. He will face death more calmly if I am the one to inflict it.’

  Babur signed to one of his men to return the sword. The officer – scarcely able to walk from the wound in his own thigh as well as his shortage of breath – moved over to the horse. Taking its gold leather bridle he stroked its nose, cradled its head and whispered into its ear. His words seemed to calm it. Then he quickly drew his sharp sword across its throat severing its windpipe and artery and more red blood spurted. The horse collapsed instantly and within moments was still, its blood welling up into the dust. However, the officer was not finished. He thrust the sword into his own abdomen. ‘I can no more survive crippled than can my horse.’

  ‘May your soul rest in peace.’

  ‘I pray so, but remember that to subdue Hindustan you’ll need to subdue many men braver than I.’

  As the last words bubbled scarcely audibly through the froth of blood in his throat, he too died, his body slumping across that of his stallion while his gold-turbaned head hit the bloodstained earth.