Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul (50 page)

‘And Maham? It must have been hard for her.’

Babur’s face tightened. ‘It was . . . Years ago, as a new young wife with everything ahead of her, she accepted my marriage to Gulrukh without question. But her grief when I took other wives was unnatural. When rumours spread that they might be pregnant her sorrow was uncontrollable. Not even Baisanghar, her own father, or Khanzada could quieten her. One night she attempted to cut her wrists with the shards of a broken pot. My
hakim
had to sedate her with a potent mixture of wine and narcotic
kamali
. . .’

‘And is she still so unhappy?’

‘No . . . and there’s a reason. About four years ago, while I was away on an expedition along the borders of Hindustan, Maham wrote telling me that Dildar was pregnant. Her letter ended, “Whether it is a boy or a girl, I will take my chances. Give the child to me and I will raise it as my own and be content once more.”’

‘What did you do?’

‘It was difficult. I knew I was wronging Dildar but how could I deny Maham something that might comfort her? I wrote back that though the child was still in Dildar’s womb, it was hers. As I said, it turned out to be a boy . . .’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Hindal.’

Baburi’s eyes flickered. ‘Which means Conqueror of Hindustan.’

‘I chose it in a moment of euphoria. The news of his birth came while I was still away on that expedition. Perhaps it was wishful
thinking, but I took it as a sign that Hindustan, with its great wealth, its great possibilities, was where my destiny lay, if only I could find a way . . .’

‘Just as we talked about all those years ago when we raided its borders. Do you remember those seemingly limitless skies, that intensely orange sun?’

‘Of course – and the lake we saw filled with thousands of birds, wings as red as if they’d been dipped in blood . . . They were hard to forget.’ Babur rose from the yellow brocade cushions he’d been leaning against and went over to an open casement. Torches flickered on either side of the gatehouse in the courtyard below where all was quiet, as it should be in the darkest hours of the night. ‘But Hindal is three now and I’m no closer to realising my dreams of a great empire in Hindustan or anywhere else . . . I know I should be grateful for what I’ve got. When they look at me, my nobles and commanders – even Baisanghar, who has been with me all these years – see a king secure on his throne with little to trouble him. They don’t understand the dissatisfaction and lack of fulfilment that envelop me. And why should they? I can never tell them . . .’

‘What about Khanzada? Surely your sister knows you too well to be fooled.’

‘She suspects my restlessness – I’m sure of it. But after all she has been through, I didn’t want to load her with my gnawing ambitions and selfish preoccupations – so paltry in comparison with her sufferings . . . And I couldn’t talk of it to Maham, she just wouldn’t understand . . . whenever I try to speak to her of my dissatisfaction she becomes upset as if I were criticising her. If you’d been here, it might have been different. It’s hard to describe to you what my life has become. I have absolute power and live in opulence but sometimes this enviable existence feels like unfulfilling drudgery with nothing to look forward to except more of the same. Often, to deaden my discontent, I hold drinking parties with my nobles where we sample the potent vintages of my kingdom – like this red wine of Ghazni that we are drinking now. We revel till dawn when my attendants carry me, head bobbing in oblivion, back to my apartments. Sometimes I take opium and
bhang
– marijuana.
They take me to a bright, vibrant world where everything seems possible.’

‘There’s no shame in that.’

‘But where’s the nobility? Where’s the glory my soul still hankers for? I’m scarcely four decades old but I feel as trapped as my father did in Ferghana. What’s more, the old Timurid world – my world, our world – is gone. The Uzbek barbarians have shattered it for ever. What is left for me?’ Babur’s voice trembled. He turned to Baburi and, after a pause, added, ‘I know I must seem ungrateful and conceited . . . I’ve never said these things to anyone and perhaps I shouldn’t be saying them to you . . . you used to mock my moments of doubt . . .’

‘No, not your doubt, only your self-pity. But my life these past years has taught me many things. I was so arrogant, so convinced I was right. I had far more pride than you, though you were the king, not I. Now I understand . . . I know how it feels to want something badly and be unable to find a way to it.’

‘What was it you wanted so much?’

‘To come back . . .’

‘You’ll stay?’

‘Yes . . . at least, until we have another fight . . .’

Baburi slapped the end of the five-foot-long bronze tube. ‘This is the barrel. First linen bags filled with gunpowder and then the shot are loaded and rammed down into it. And this,’ he pointed to the swelling at the bottom end of the barrel, ‘is the breech. See this little aperture? They call it the touch-hole. It is where – just before firing – the gunners insert a long, sharp metal spike – the awl – to break open the bag of powder. Finally, a man applies a lighted taper to the touch-hole to create the flashing spark that sets off the main charge in the barrel.’

‘How far can it throw the shot?’

‘It depends on the length of the barrel and its diameter – the bore. The longer the barrel and the bigger the bore, the further the range. Many of the Turkish sultan’s guns have barrels ten feet long
or more and some weigh as much as twenty thousand pounds. But they’re small compared with the bronze cannon they call the Great Turkish Bombard that Mehmet of Turkey used seventy years ago when he captured Istanbul. You should see it! The seventeen-foot barrel has a thirty-inch bore and it could fire a twelve-hundred-pound stone shot over a mile away. They say you could hear its blast ten miles off. But it could only fire about fifteen shots a day and needed two hundred men to operate it. It was so heavy it took seventy oxen and ten thousand men to shift it, unlike this one.’

‘Show me what it can do . . .’ Babur wanted to see the miracle weapon at work. The target was a ten-foot-high pile of large stones that Baburi’s men had set up three hundred yards away.

Baburi shouted an order to five of his mercenaries, who were wearing round leather skull-caps, leather jerkins and breeches. One man rammed a linen bag down the barrel of the cannon into the breech with a long stick like a polo mallet, except that the top was wrapped in sheepskin. Then another two, grunting with the effort, heaved a round stone shot into the barrel and – again using the stick – sent it rumbling down into the breech. As they finished, the fourth man approached and inserted the awl to puncture the bag of powder inside and scattered a little loose powder around the touch-hole – ‘Just to make sure,’ Baburi explained.

‘Stand back.’ He waited till he was content that Babur was far enough away, then walked forward to the cannon and checked the angle of the barrel.

Satisfied, he stepped back and signalled to the fifth man to advance. He held a forked staff with a length of oil-soaked cord attached to it, the tip glowing. The man looked towards Baburi.

‘Fire!’

The man pressed his smouldering taper to the touch-hole and leaped back. Seconds later, with a
boom
the missile shot out of the barrel and across the meadow to smash into the target. A cloud of dust erupted, and as it cleared, Babur saw that the tower of stones was now a pile of fragments.

‘Look at that.’ Baburi’s voice was full of pride. ‘At Chaltran, Sultan Selim used a row of cannon just like these, protected by a
barrier of carts, and there was nothing the Persians could do . . . Afterwards, the Turks surged forward, and shot down any Persians who still resisted with their matchlock muskets. Look . . .’

Baburi clapped his hands and one of his men carried over a long, thin wooden box that he placed at his feet. ‘You taught me a long time ago to be an archer. You made me a
Qor Begi
, a Lord of the Bow. Now I can teach you to be a marksman with one of these.’ Baburi bent and took a long metal object from the box. ‘It’s fashioned from the finest steel.’

‘It’s shaped like a little cannon.’

‘Exactly. It’s a musket – a cannon in miniature. See, it has a long metal barrel for firing a ball. This matchlock mechanism, as it’s called, is how it works. You put the gunpowder here, into the pan, then light the end of a thin piece of rope. When the flame reaches the gunpowder, it ignites it and the force fires the ball from the barrel.’

‘How far?’

‘More than two hundred yards but it’s most accurate up to about fifty. Try it.’

As soon as one of the Turks had set up a melon on a pole as a target, Baburi poured a small amount of gunpowder into the pan and loaded the shot. ‘ To help take the weight as you aim, you should rest the barrel on this frame.’ Baburi indicated a tall metal stick about four feet high that forked at the top to make a cradle. Thrusting the end of the stick into the ground, he showed Babur how to rest the barrel of the musket in the centre of the cradle. ‘Look straight down the barrel at your target and, remember, when it fires you’ll feel a kick, so brace yourself. Ready?

Babur took the musket, placing the butt against his shoulder, closed his left eye and focused his right along the shining barrel. When he thought he had the melon in his sights, he nodded. Baburi lit the piece of rope, which began to smoulder.

‘Keep it steady . . .’ Baburi was still speaking as, with a sharp crack, the ball shot out and the top of the melon disintegrated in a spray of orange pulp . . . ‘Good. But now let me show you what my trained musketeers can do with these . . .’ He gestured to
another row of targets: fifteen straw dolls lined up on a trestle table some fifty yards away. An equal number of Baburi’s men lined up, primed and loaded their weapons and, one after another, fired with perfect precision, each man knocking over his target, then stepping back smartly to reload and stand to attention. Immediately the fifteenth man had reloaded, they swung round a hundred and eighty degrees, rested their muskets again in the cradles and fired at a row of clay pots set up even further away. Again, each man’s aim was perfect.

‘Of course, in the heat of battle, fingers fumble, targets move, but I’ve seen these guns shatter advancing lines of soldiers.’

Babur put his arm around Baburi’s shoulders as he tried to put into words the vision that had been forming in his mind as he had watched his friend demonstrate the power of these miraculous new weapons. It was as if Canopus had risen above the enshrouding clouds to blaze brightly on him and his dynasty once more.

‘You’re not just my friend. You’re my inspiration. You’ve brought me far more than weapons . . . Until now, although I’ve long wished to make one, a full-scale attack on Hindustan was not possible. I had neither the numbers of men nor any special advantage. The rulers there are numerous and strong. Their overlord is the proud, arrogant Sultan Ibrahim Lodi of Delhi. To win Hindustan I must defeat his huge armies and his ranks of war elephants. But with these new weapons I now see how I can do it. I may not be destined to have a great empire like Timur’s in the lands of my birth but with your cannon and muskets I can surpass his raid over the Indus to Delhi. We will fulfil the dreams we had all those years ago.’

D
reams of greatness came easily. Achieving it was harder. It had taken Baburi and his Turkish mercenaries six months to create a corps of troops skilled at firing the cannon and muskets he had brought to Kabul. Meanwhile, as the citizens of Kabul had grown used to the flashes and
booms
around their city, Babur had despatched an embassy to the Turkish sultan, with a message from Baburi and bags of gold coin, to buy six more cannon and four hundred muskets from the foundries and gun-makers of Istanbul.

Even more satisfying to Babur had been the knowledge that his own armourers were learning to make the new weapons under the expert guidance of Ali-Quli, the grey-bearded Turkish master-gunner who had accompanied Baburi to Kabul. His ability with both cannon and musket was extraordinary – especially as five years ago, two fingers of his right hand had been blown off by an exploding matchlock with a cracked barrel.

Night after night, Babur had sat late with Baburi, questioning minutely his accounts of battles in which cannon and matchlocks had been deployed. In what circumstances were they most effective? In open battle or siege? How could you best protect your gunners and matchlock men against archers or cavalry charges? How did these weapons change the traditional methods of attack? Before he tested them in battle, he must understand everything.

Babur also sent men out into the city to linger in the large, arched caravanserais where the merchants of many lands displayed their wares on raised stone platforms in the middle of the courtyard, trading gossip as well as goods. Babur’s agents listened carefully, asking the occasional discreet question. They heard much boastful talk from the Hindustani merchants about Delhi’s vast palaces of carved rose-pink sandstone and the grandeur of Sultan Ibrahim’s court but not the faintest rumour that he – or any other ruler of Hindustan – had acquired cannon and matchlock muskets.