Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul (51 page)

But now, at last, on a cold, clear January day, Babur was leading an expedition to see for himself the effect of these weapons against an enemy unused to them. That enemy was the new Sultan of Bajaur, a dependency of Kabul, who had taken it into his foolish young head to refuse Babur the customary annual tribute in grain, sheep and oxen.

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 with 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.