‘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 thought. 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
