‘Did you bind the wound?’
‘Yes, Majesty. I have often watched the hakims at work after battles and one told me that a small flat stone was good to keep pressure on a cut to stop the loss of lifeblood.’
‘It clearly worked. You’ve done well. How did you know I was your emperor?’
‘By your tiger ring and your jewelled sword. I’ve often been told of them in the camp.’
Humayun was fully conscious now and sitting up realised that he did have both the ring and his father’s sword Alamgir, which either he or Nizam had put back into its scabbard.
The midday sun was beating down, causing the wet ground to steam in an eerie semblance of morning mist. Scrutinising his saviour, Humayun saw that Nizam, who was wearing only a rough black cotton tunic, was small, skinny and mud-streaked — probably no more than thirteen or fourteen years old. Nevertheless, he could easily have stripped Humayun of his possessions and run but instead he had loyally stayed with him. Humayun realised that — although defeated as he surely had been — he still deserved his birth name of ‘Fortunate’ bestowed on him by his father Babur. One defeat was of little matter. Babur had suffered many setbacks. ‘It is how you deal with them,’ he remembered Babur saying. Then Humayun’s head swam again. Pulling himself back to the present, he knew that his first task must be to rejoin his army.
‘Where are the nearest of my soldiers, Nizam?’
‘As I told you, those on this side of the river have mostly retreated far off. But there remain many on the opposite shore — see.’ Nizam pointed across the steaming, muddy banks and over the main branch of the Ganges. There Humayun made out a large group of horsemen.
‘Are you sure they’re mine?’
‘Yes, Majesty. The detachment over there has been joined by many from this side.’
Nizam must be right, thought Humayun. He had been wise to take the precaution of stationing a force on the opposite bank to prevent Sher Shah from bypassing his army, crossing the river and attacking him from the rear.
‘I must join them.’ As he spoke, Humayun scrambled to his feet but his legs shook under him and he again felt dizzy.
‘Lean on me, Majesty.’
Humayun gratefully put his left arm on Nizam’s bony shoulder. ‘Help me down to the river so that I can swim across.’
‘But you are too weak. You will drown.’
‘I must make the attempt. It would be a great dishonour to be captured.’
Nizam’s eyes glanced around and alighted on his two large goatskin water bottles and he looked up into Humayun’s face. ‘Can you stand for a minute alone, Majesty? I think I have the answer.’
Receiving a nod from Humayun, he ran over to the bottles and pulling out the rough stoppers emptied them. Then, to Humayun’s surprise, he took the larger of them, placed the filling hole to his lips and began to blow, dark eyes bulging and thin cheeks puffing out with effort. After some moments, Humayun saw the skin begin to inflate and soon it became taut and full of air. Nizam inserted the stopper and brought it over to Humayun. Then he swiftly blew up the second and, tapping it playfully, smiled. ‘That should do. We must hurry, Majesty. Soon Sher Shah’s men will be dispersing to look for booty on the corpses of their enemies. I’ve hidden your armour so that it won’t catch the light, but they’re bound to inspect the whole shore.’
‘I know, but first help me to my brave horse. I must check he is dead or else put him out of his misery. He has served me well.’ An inspection quickly satisfied Humayun that the black stallion was indeed dead. Then, leaning on Nizam’s shoulder, he slowly picked his way across the hillocks and flats towards the river. He fell at least twice but on each occasion Nizam — already burdened by the inflated water bottles — hauled him to his feet. After ten minutes’ struggle, the pair reached the Ganges. Nizam passed the water bottles to Humayun.
‘Thank you, Nizam. Now be gone and save yourself.’
‘No, Majesty, I will accompany you or else you will drown.’
‘Help me off with my boots then,’ said Humayun, half sitting, half collapsing on to the bank. Soon Nizam had tugged the heavy boots off and, being all the time barefoot himself, helped Humayun into the water.
‘Swim with your legs and your good arm, Majesty. Try to keep one bottle under your right arm and the second beneath your chin. I will help direct you.’
Slowly they succeeded in reaching what to Humayun seemed the middle of the river. His right arm was stinging intensely from contact with the water but the pain had cleared his mind. He mustn’t die — it wasn’t his destiny — and he kicked harder with his feet. Nizam had clearly been brought up on the water and was pushing and pulling at Humayun to keep him headed for the far shore. A few minutes later, they were only five yards from the south bank when Nizam suddenly became frantic, legs thrashing at the water and arms pulling at Humayun. ‘It’s a crocodile, Majesty — he must have scented your blood. I saw the snout not far off. Hurry!’
Humayun took another two strokes and, as he put his feet down, soft mud oozed beneath his toes. Summoning his last reserves of strength he staggered, dripping and breathless, from the water, Nizam at his side.
‘We must get further up the bank, Majesty.’
With Nizam’s help Humayun stumbled another ten yards. From this place of relative safety, he looked back to see the crocodile’s amber eyes and snout breaking the surface near the shore. As he watched, the reptile turned and slunk sinuously away into deeper water. Perhaps it had been too small to finish him off but he was glad not to have to find out.
‘Majesty, I will find some of your officers, tell them of your plight and ask them to send people to bring you back to your army. Then I must swim back across the river — I need to find my father. He is one of the cooks in your field kitchens and I haven’t seen him since Sher Shah’s first attack.’
‘But you did not mention him till now?’
‘I knew it was my duty to help you.’
‘You must return to me so I can reward your bravery and your loyalty.’
‘No, Majesty — I must find my father,’ Nizam replied, his small face set.
A strange thought came into Humayun’s head. Impulsively he blurted it out. ‘You have been a prince among water-carriers. When I am back in my capital, come to me and you shall sit on my throne and be a true king, giving orders for an hour or two. Whatever you command shall be done.’
Nizam looked puzzled then smiled hesitantly and stammered, ‘Yes, Majesty,’ before turning and running swiftly over the undulating muddy banks of the Ganges in the direction of Humayun’s remaining forces.
Chapter 7
Humayun looked around at those of his officers who had rejoined him in his makeshift headquarters twenty miles up the Ganges from Chausa, the site of the battle two days previously. Suleiman Mirza was of course dead and Humayun had taken part in the mullahs’ solemn prayers for him and the other fallen. Baba Yasaval was there, however, bandaged more heavily than Humayun himself. So too amazingly was Ahmed Khan, his face pale and drawn above his stringy brown beard. His wounded thigh was strapped and he was leaning on a stout wooden crutch.
Only a few minutes after Nizam had left Humayun on the banks of the Ganges a detachment of his cavalry had reached him. The hakims had washed and stitched together the sides of the long, deep wound in his hand and forearm, dressed it with ointments and bound it in fine muslin bandages but he had refused their offer of opium to deaden the pain. He needed more than ever to think clearly. He was pleased to find he could still move his fingers but the wound sometimes felt hot, sometimes numb, and stung unbearably every time it caught against anything. But above all, he was glad to be alive. He had suffered a major defeat but was determined to recover his lost lands just as his father Babur had done when he’d faced adversity.