will, throwing off the heavy jute covers to reveal six medium-sized cannon and their powder and shot as well as bundles of new spears and five boxes of muskets.
‘We’ll take all the muskets. Empty the boxes. Strap bundles of the muskets to the saddles of some of the spare horses. Fill the cannon barrels with as many linen bags of powder as they will take and then run a trail of powder along the ground to those rocks over there. We’ll ignite the powder from behind them,’ Humayun said.
A quarter of an hour later the work was complete. Humayun despatched most of his men to a safe distance but remained with a few of his bodyguards to oversee the destruction. He gave the honour of firing the powder to a tall young Badakshani who, taking the flint box, struggled nervously to get a spark.When eventually he succeeded, the powder flame went sputtering across the ground. For a moment it seemed that it was going to die as it skirted a small rock but then it was away again. Almost immediately there was a massive bang followed closely by five others.The charges had exploded in each of the cannon barrels.
When the debris and dust had settled Humayun, still half deafened by the blast, could see that four of the barrels were split and peeled back, much like the skin of a banana. Another had disintegrated completely. The barrel of the sixth was cracked — just enough, Humayun thought, to render it useless. His men had soon returned and were searching the remaining baggage wagons for booty. One had found some silks, another was jamming his dagger into the lock of a casket, trying to force it in search of jewels.
Then Humayun saw one of the cavalrymen he had detached to form the perimeter defence galloping towards him. ‘The Gujaratis have regrouped, Majesty. They are forming up to attack, now they have seen how few we are.’
‘We must be away. Trumpeter, sound the retreat. We’ll go back up the escarpment. They won’t follow. They’ll know it would be death to give us the opportunity to attack them as they struggle up.’
Twenty minutes later, Humayun looked down from the sandstone escarpment on to the wreckage of the column around which the Gujaratis were now milling. His men had got away safely except for a foolish few who, mesmerised by the prospect of loot, had lingered too long investigating the contents of the baggage wagons. Among them, Humayun reflected sadly, had been the young Badakshani who had been brought down by an arrow in the back as he galloped too late for the escarpment. The bolt of embroidered pink silk tied to his saddle had unravelled, streaming out behind his riderless horse.
There it was — beyond the tall palm trees and the pale tangerine sand the glinting ocean reflecting the light of the midday sun with such an intensity that Humayun was forced to shield his eyes with his hand. After his successful raid on the enemy column he had despatched half his force of three thousand men back to the main body of his army, which was beginning its slow advance from Moghul territories towards the jungle fortress of Champnir with all the equipment and provisions required for a siege.
Humayun himself, together with a picked body of fifteen hundred horsemen, had penetrated even further into Gujarat, disrupting and defeating enemies wherever he found them. He had succeeded, he was sure, in leaving them uncertain and confused as to the main thrust of his army, just as he had planned. His quest for a caravan reported by captured Gujaratis to be carrying military supplies and trade goods towards the port of Cambay had brought him to the sea. Humayun was glad that it had. He called Jauhar to his side. ‘Pass the order that we will rest and refresh ourselves beneath the shade of the palms during the midday heat while our scouts search for the caravan. It cannot be far off now. Indeed, from what we learn Cambay itself should be no more than ten miles or so northwest up the coast. Give orders for pickets and sentries to be posted so that we cannot be taken by surprise.’
As Jauhar turned with the message, Humayun nudged his black horse forward through the palms, whose long, pointed, dark green leaves were rustling in the breeze coming off the sea, and on into the soft sand. Here, Humayun jumped down. Stopping only to discard his boots, he walked out into the sea, conscious that he was the first of his family ever to do so.The water slapping against his lower calves was refreshingly cool. Again shielding his eyes, he gazed out to the glittering, sparkling horizon. There he thought he could make out the shape of a ship — presumably one of those trading with Cambay.What kinds of goods were they carrying? What kind of people? What else lay beyond the horizon, beyond even Arabia and the holy cities? Was there new knowledge to be gleaned there? Were there new enemies or were there simply barren lands or an infinity of ocean?
A shout from Jauhar interrupted Humayun’s solitary contemplation. ‘Majesty, your officers wish to consult with you. Will you take food with them? You’ve been watching the sea for some time and the waters are rising around you.’ It was true. The little waves were now splashing Humayun’s knees before retreating. Reluctantly he turned his mind away from the metaphysical speculations he found so beguiling to present-day practicalities and made his way to where the officers waited, sitting cross-legged under a scarlet awning beneath the palms.
Ten minutes later, his chief scout Ahmed Khan, a wiry turbaned man of about thirty from the mountains of Ghazni, south of Kabul, was standing before him, sweat running from his brow down his cheeks into his thin, brown beard. ‘The caravan is no more than five miles off, travelling along a road about a quarter of a mile inland on the other side of that thick belt of palms fringing the coast. It is about four miles from the town of Cambay, which is hidden from our view by that low promontory over there.’
‘We will ride along the beach itself on the other side of the palms and ambush them as they reach Cambay. God willing, we may even be able to force our way into the port if the gates are opened ready for the caravan’s entry.’
Only five minutes later, Humayun was galloping along the edge of the sand with his bodyguard grouped close around him. In less than an hour they had crossed the rocky promontory and from the continuing cover of the palms Humayun could see the masts and sails of the ships lying in the port of Cambay or at anchor outside it. The caravan, including loaded, swaying camels and pack elephants as well as mules and donkeys, was trudging slowly towards the open main gate in the mud wall surrounding the settlement. The wall itself did not look too high — perhaps only double a man’s height. The caravan’s escort, about four hundred men in total, were riding on either side of it but appeared indolent, heads bowed in the midday heat with their swords in their scabbards and their shields on their backs.
Riding back to the main body of his men, Humayun yelled, ‘Charge now. Take them by surprise. Try to panic the camels and elephants.That should disrupt the Gujarati escort.’ Even as he spoke, Humayun kicked on his black horse, which was already flecked with creamy sweat, and soon he was galloping full tilt with his men out through the palms, over the half a mile of stony, sandy ground separating him from the caravan and the port’s gate. At his command, some of his most expert archers took their reins in their teeth and standing in their stirrups loosed off a volley of arrows towards the caravan just as its escort realised that they were under attack. Some of the arrows wounded one of the elephants which with several shafts embedded in its leathery skin turned, trumpeting in pain, across the path of some of its fellows, scattering them.
A camel fell with a low snort of pain, shedding its load as it subsided to the sand, its large, padded feet flailing futilely in the air. Another, with a black-feathered arrow piercing its long neck, galloped off towards the sea. Almost immediately, Humayun and his men were riding through the thin line of the escort, slashing at them as they went. Some Gujaratis fell under the first weight of the charge. A few were cut down as they tried to rein in their horses and turn to face the unexpected onslaught. Most simply bent low to their horses’ necks and urged the beasts towards the shelter of the still open gates of Cambay.
Humayun and his bodyguard followed. Humayun galloped as hard as he could after what looked like an officer who was fleeing with two of his men. Hearing Humayun close behind, the officer turned and seeing his danger tried to grab his shield to protect himself. Before he could do so, Humayun’s sharp sword cut deep into his thick, muscular neck just above his chain mail coat and he fell, rolled over several times and was still.
In moments, Humayun was in the gateway to Cambay. Hauling his horse round to avoid an overturned table from which some frightened tax or customs officials must have fled only moments earlier, he was soon out into the small square behind the gatehouse. Here it seemed a market had been in full swing. The stalls had been quickly abandoned, bags of bright-coloured spices pushed to the dust in panic, corn spilled to the ground where it mingled with orange lentils and rivers of milk from an overturned barrel. There was no sign of soldiers. Like the caravan’s escort, Cambay’s defenders seemed to have no appetite for a fight. The few stallholders that were left — mostly white-bearded old men or dark-clad women — were prostrating themselves faces to the sand before their attackers.
‘Find the barracks. Imprison any soldiers you find there. Take what you can from the warehouses and ships. Burn the rest. Don’t overburden yourselves. We must depart before sundown. When they learn of our attack on
