Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War (16 page)

‘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 quarter 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.

‘Where are the nearest of my soldiers, Nizam?’

‘As I told you, those on this side of the river have mostly retreated far off. But there remain many on the opposite shore – see.’ Nizam pointed across the steaming, muddy banks and over the main branch of the Ganges. There Humayun made out a large group of horsemen.

‘Are you sure they’re mine?’

‘Yes, Majesty. The detachment over there has been joined by many from this side.’

Nizam must be right, thought Humayun. He had been wise to take the precaution of stationing a force on the opposite bank to prevent Sher Shah from bypassing his army, crossing the river and attacking him from the rear.

‘I must join them.’ As he spoke, Humayun scrambled to his feet but his legs shook under him and he again felt dizzy.

‘Lean on me, Majesty.’

Humayun gratefully put his left arm on Nizam’s bony shoulder. ‘Help me down to the river so that I can swim across.’

‘But you are too weak. You will drown.’

‘I must make the attempt. It would be a great dishonour to be captured.’

Nizam’s eyes glanced around and alighted on his two large goatskin water bottles and he looked up into Humayun’s face. ‘Can you stand for a minute alone, Majesty? I think I have the answer.’

Receiving a nod from Humayun, he ran over to the bottles and pulling out the rough stoppers emptied them. Then, to Humayun’s surprise, he took the larger of them, placed the filling hole to his lips and began to blow, dark eyes bulging and thin cheeks puffing out with effort. After some moments, Humayun saw the skin begin to inflate and soon it became taut and full of air. Nizam inserted the stopper and brought it over to Humayun. Then he swiftly blew up the second and, tapping it playfully, smiled. ‘That should do. We must hurry, Majesty. Soon Sher Shah’s men will be dispersing to look for booty on the corpses of their enemies. I’ve hidden your armour so that it won’t catch the light, but they’re bound to inspect the whole shore.’

‘I know, but first help me to my brave horse. I must check he is dead or else put him out of his misery. He has served me well.’ An inspection quickly satisfied Humayun that the black stallion was indeed dead. Then, leaning on Nizam’s shoulder, he slowly picked his way across the hillocks and flats towards the river. He fell at least twice but on each occasion Nizam – already burdened by the inflated water bottles – hauled him to his feet. After ten minutes’ struggle, the pair reached the Ganges. Nizam passed the water bottles to Humayun.

‘Thank you, Nizam. Now be gone and save yourself.’

‘No, Majesty, I will accompany you or else you will drown.’

‘Help me off with my boots then,’ said Humayun, half sitting, half collapsing on to the bank. Soon Nizam had tugged the heavy boots off and, being all the time barefoot himself, helped Humayun into the water.

‘Swim with your legs and your good arm, Majesty. Try to keep one bottle under your right arm and the second beneath your chin. I will help direct you.’

Slowly they succeeded in reaching what to Humayun seemed the middle of the river. His right arm was stinging intensely from contact with the water but the pain had cleared his mind. He mustn’t die – it wasn’t his destiny – and he kicked harder with his feet. Nizam had clearly been brought up on the water and was pushing and pulling at Humayun to keep him headed for the far shore. A few minutes later, they were only five yards from the south bank when Nizam suddenly became frantic, legs thrashing at the water and arms pulling at Humayun. ‘It’s a crocodile, Majesty – he must have scented your blood. I saw the snout not far off. Hurry!’

Humayun took another two strokes and, as he put his feet down, soft mud oozed beneath his toes. Summoning his last reserves of strength he staggered, dripping and breathless, from the water, Nizam at his side.

‘We must get further up the bank, Majesty.’

With Nizam’s help Humayun stumbled another ten yards. From this place of relative safety, he looked back to see the crocodile’s amber eyes and snout breaking the surface near the shore. As he watched, the reptile turned and slunk sinuously away into deeper water. Perhaps it had been too small to finish him off but he was glad not to have to find out.

‘Majesty, I will find some of your officers, tell them of your plight and ask them to send people to bring you back to your army. Then I must swim back across the river – I need to find my father. He is one of the cooks in your field kitchens and I haven’t seen him since Sher Shah’s first attack.’

‘But you did not mention him till now?’

‘I knew it was my duty to help you.’

‘You must return to me so I can reward your bravery and your loyalty.’

‘No, Majesty – I must find my father,’ Nizam replied, his small face set.

A strange thought came into Humayun’s head. Impulsively he blurted it out. ‘You have been a prince among water-carriers. When I am back in my capital, come to me and you shall sit on my throne and be a true king, giving orders for an hour or two. Whatever you command shall be done.’

Nizam looked puzzled then smiled hesitantly and stammered, ‘Yes, Majesty,’ before turning and running swiftly over the undulating muddy banks of the Ganges in the direction of Humayun’s remaining forces.

H
umayun looked around at those of his officers who had rejoined him in his makeshift headquarters twenty miles up the Ganges from Chausa, the site of the battle two days previously. Suleiman Mirza was of course dead and Humayun had taken part in the mullahs’ solemn prayers for him and the other fallen. Baba Yasaval was there, however, bandaged more heavily than Humayun himself. So too amazingly was Ahmed Khan, his face pale and drawn above his stringy brown beard. His wounded thigh was strapped and he was leaning on a stout wooden crutch.

Only a few minutes after Nizam had left Humayun on the banks of the Ganges a detachment of his cavalry had reached him. The
hakims
had washed and stitched together the sides of the long, deep wound in his hand and forearm, dressed it with ointments and bound it in fine muslin bandages but he had refused their offer of opium to deaden the pain. He needed more than ever to think clearly. He was pleased to find he could still move his fingers but the wound sometimes felt hot, sometimes numb, and stung unbearably every time it caught against anything. But above all, he was glad to be alive. He had suffered a major defeat but was determined to recover his lost lands just as his father Babur had done when he’d faced adversity.

‘Ahmed Khan, what are Sher Shah’s latest movements?’ he asked.

‘He hasn’t moved beyond Chausa. He and his men are dividing the contents of our treasure chests and attempting to extricate our cannon from the muddy banks of the Ganges before its waters rise so far that they cover them. Like us, they have lost many men. Others will probably slip off home once they have their booty.’

‘You’re sure of all this, Ahmed Khan? You failed to warn previously of the imminence of Sher Shah’s attack.’

‘Yes, Majesty.’ Ahmed Khan lowered his head and paused before continuing. ‘Like many others I was deluded into thinking that Sher Shah wanted peace. Although I sent out scouts, perhaps I did not send out enough. And perhaps they themselves were not vigilant enough . . . and then there was the weather . . . and the speed of movement of Sher Shah’s—’

Humayun held up his hand to halt Ahmed Khan’s self-exculpation. Wittingly or not he had been trying to transfer some of the burden of responsibility for what had happened on to the loyal and badly wounded Ahmed Khan. But that was unfair. He was the emperor, the sole commander, the final arbiter in decisions. He had been tormenting himself as he lay on his bed, kept awake by the pain and itching of his wound, as to how he had let this defeat happen. Had he been too trusting, too ready to hear what he wanted to hear without, as Khanzada always urged, seeking the motive? He had been complacent, that he knew, but had his military strategy also been flawed? However, he must not brood too much on the past but rather put the defeat behind him and make sure it did not happen again. Of one thing he was certain. His resolve to rule had grown in the face of setbacks.

‘I did not mean to criticise, Ahmed Khan, but make sure we keep as many scouts out as possible on both sides of the river. Have we heard from the troops accompanying my aunt and the other royal women?’

‘At least good news from them. They are making excellent progress despite the monsoon and expect to reach Agra in seven or eight weeks.’

‘Good.’ Turning to Baba Yasaval, Humayun asked, ‘What were our losses?’

‘Grievous, Majesty. Over fifty thousand men are dead or severely wounded, or have deserted, and we’ve lost at least that number of horses, elephants and baggage animals. We were able to bring off only a few of the cannon and those were mainly small ones. We lost a good part of the war chest as well as other equipment too.’

‘I feared as much.We need time to re-equip and to recruit. We must send ambassadors to reassure our allies before any unwise seeds of rebellion or defection germinate in their minds. Like Sher Shah, we’re in no position to renew the conflict immediately. Instead, we should continue our march back along the Ganges. There is no shame in such a retreat if it is a prelude to victory, as we must ensure it is.’