Raiders from the North

Around them, on a string of larger craft, were the cannon and much of the heavy baggage, while the bulk of the army made its way along the banks.

‘You did well, Humayun, to raise so many troops among the northern nomads.’ Ten days after Babur and the main force had left Kabul, his son had joined them with more than two thousand soldiers from the wilds of Badakhshan.

‘It wasn’t difficult, Father — not with all the gold we had to offer.’

‘They’re good fighters, the Badakhshanis, though they’re quick to quarrel among themselves or with others,’ said Baburi, drawing his blue cloak more tightly round him against the chill air blowing off the water.

‘The pace they’re having to keep up should sap their surplus energy,’ Babur said.

The sight of the rushing jade waters bearing him downriver towards Hindustan pushed thoughts of troublesome tribesmen from his mind and filled him with euphoria. Soon he’d call for some bhang mixed with opium. Once it had provided an escape from reality but now it enhanced the happiness of the present and heightened his optimism for the future. Each time he took it, even the austere, stony grey landscape they were passing through seemed drenched in a golden light and every feature — every tree, every flower, even the flocks of fat, shaggy sheep — was endowed with a fresh, startling beauty. When he closed his eyes, other images crowded his mind — of his men galloping joyously across battlefields strewn with the bodies of his enemies, their horses’ hoofs scarcely touching the ground, of himself wearing a golden crown glittering with rubies and sitting on a golden throne beneath an infinite sky. .

‘What are you smiling about?’ asked Baburi.

‘I’m thinking about what’s ahead. Where we’ll be in a year from now.’

‘In Delhi, I hope. .’

‘And where d’you think we’ll be, Humayun?’

‘I don’t know, Father. . but, God willing, we’ll have slain your enemies and won an empire.’

Babur and Baburi exchanged an amused glance at his naivety but then their expressions sobered. Grandiose words, perhaps, for one so young but weren’t their sentiments exactly the same?

‘Majesty, the scouts have returned. They have found a suitable place to cross the Indus.’

Babur’s heart leaped. This was the news he had been waiting for ever since, leaving the Kabul river behind, he had marched his army safely beyond the bare, pebbly defiles of the Khyber Pass and south-eastwards towards the Indus. He and Baburi had just set out to go hunting — villagers had reported two rhinoceroses browsing beneath the interlaced branches of an oak wood five miles beyond his camp — but that would have to wait.

‘Come!’ Babur called to Baburi, then galloped back to where the scouts were waiting outside his scarlet campaign tent.

‘Majesty, there is a place a day’s march from here where, if we build rafts, we can float everything across,’ the commander of the scouts reported.

‘What about the currents?’

‘The crossing place is just below a sharp bend in the river that reduces the strength of the current at that point — we experimented, floating three pack-mules across, and it went well. Also, there are enough trees to cut down for the rafts and there was no sign of any habitation along that stretch of the bank. We should be able to cross unmolested.’

Next day, Babur and Baburi looked for the third time in their lives on the Indus.

‘You’re not going to go swimming again, are you?’ Baburi asked. ‘Because if you are, I’m not coming in this time. .’

‘No more swimming until I have my empire. We’re in luck — the level of the river is lower than when we last saw it.’ Babur stooped, picked up a stick and flung it in. ‘The scouts were right. That bend in the river does reduce the force of the current — the stick is floating away quite slowly. .’

‘You sound almost disappointed. Do you want some symbolic epic struggle to get across?’

‘I don’t want it but I expected it. We’ll camp here, and as soon as our carpenters have built enough rafts, we go over.’

Constructing the rafts — felling trees, hewing wood into rough planks, securing them together with rope and covering the surface with hide cut from spare tents — took three days. On the fourth, they crossed. Although a thin veil of cold rain was falling, turning the banks to oozing mud and making the rafts slippery, getting so many men and beasts over the Indus took only from first light until midday. The advance guard went first, then the horses, camels, bullocks, and the all-important cannon and muskets. Next came the soldiers, merchants and the camp baggage, leaving the camp-followers to make their own crossing. The only losses were three camels that, badly laden and not properly tethered, had capsized a small raft and drowned.

As soon as he arrived on the other side, Babur ordered a small tent to be erected. Entering it alone he fastened the flaps. Then, he knelt, leaned forward and pressed his lips to the bare earth. ‘I claimed you once and I do so again,’ he whispered. ‘I claim you for the House of Timur, for myself and my descendants.’ Taking a small agate locket that hung on a chain round his neck, he opened it and very carefully, with the tip of his dagger, dug a few grains of earth and tipped them inside. Then closing the locket again he tucked it back inside his tunic where it rested against his heart.

In the February sunset, the waters of the Sutlej river beside Babur’s camp glowed amber. It was the final great waterway before the north-west plains of Hindustan and Sultan Ibrahim’s great city of Delhi. They had done well to get there so quickly, Babur thought. After crossing the Indus, the winter rain had stayed with them for a while. The soft ground had slowed their pace as the horses and pack-animals had struggled, especially the beasts drawing the cannon. But at last the rain had ceased and they had advanced steadily, crossing the network of tributaries of the Indus.

So far they had faced only wild, lawless tribes. One — the Gujars — had descended on Babur’s men as they negotiated a narrow pass but his rearguard had easily repulsed them. The piles of Gujari heads left in neat stacks had been an effective deterrent and no others had dared attack. Once across the Sutlej, it would be a different matter. They would be entering the lands of powerful chiefs who were vassals of Sultan Ibrahim. A few days ago, Babur had sent messengers over the river with an ultimatum to one of these — Firoz Khan — whose lands lay directly between him and Delhi: ‘Your lands once belonged to Timur and I claim them as my birthright. Surrender them and pledge me your allegiance. Then you may continue to rule as my vassal and there will be no pillage or plunder.’

In reply, the chieftain had sent back the gift of a fine, mail-clad horse, the colour of pale almond blossom, with a message: ‘Your claim is artificial. My allegiance is to Sultan Ibrahim in Delhi, the rightful ruler of Hindustan. After your long journey into lands that do not belong to you, your own horse will be tired and thin. May this beast carry you swiftly back to Kabul.’ Babur had laughed at the man’s arrogance and given the horse to Baburi.

Firoz Khan would regret his impudence, Babur thought, as he made his way back to his campaign tent. Humayun had begged to be allowed to take a small advance force of his Badakhshani nomads over the Sutlej to spy out the terrain in preparation for the advance of the main force on Firoz Khan’s stronghold and Babur had agreed. Soon, God willing, he would rendezvous with his son after crossing the river and show Firoz Khan weapons he had never seen. . In his tent, he paced up and down, restless and conscious that the success of his long-pent-up ambition would soon be decided. Towards midnight, he ordered his attendants to bring him some opium mixed with wine. It would help him relax, maybe even sleep — something he was finding it harder and harder to do.

The heady concoction did its work and Babur’s mind began to wander down pleasant paths. . he’d no idea how long had passed when suddenly the crack of thunder intruded into his dreams. The day had been hot and humid. Perhaps the rains would bring freshness to the air.

Soon heavy rain was pounding the roof of his tent. After a while, droplets started to ooze through the seams. He began to count them — one, two, three, splash. . one, two, three, splash. . His eyelids were drooping when suddenly he heard Baburi’s voice and felt a strong hand shaking him to full consciousness. ‘The river’s burst its banks! The camp’s being washed away.’

‘What?’ Dazed with the opium, he found it hard to take in Baburi’s words.

‘We’re being flooded. The river’s turning into a lake. We’ve got to move.’

Grabbing Alamgir in its scabbard and chaining it to his belt, Babur rushed outside and could hardly believe what he saw: the whole camp was already beneath a foot of muddy water. His commanders, struggling through it