Looking round, Humayun saw that his commanders had assembled a sizeable force, perhaps as many as five thousand riders, to confront Sher Shah’s next attack which, from the increasing movement amongst his opponents’ ranks, would not be long delayed.
‘As soon as Sher Shah’s lines advance, so too do we. Make for the centre where I believe he will ride himself. If we can kill or capture him, his men will become demoralised. Despite our losses the day will be ours. .’
Moments later, Sher Shah put his cavalry into motion, galloping increasingly quickly towards Humayun’s defences. Humayun took Alamgir from its jewelled scabbard and waving it above his head yelled, ‘Charge! Let it be a matter of honour to die rather than to retreat.’
Soon his whole force was galloping as fast as the mud and puddles would allow. Humayun’s tall black horse, despite its previous efforts, kept him at the head of his troops, closing fast with his opponents who were themselves racing forward, weapons extended, shouting ‘Tiger, Tiger’ in celebration of their leader, Sher Shah.
All his thoughts now concentrated on the coming fight, Humayun bent low over his stallion’s neck and kept its head aimed at the very centre of Sher Shah’s galloping ranks where he saw a black-bearded man in bright steel armour on a white horse shouting encouragement to those around him as he rode. It could only be Sher Shah himself. Humayun pulled on his reins once more to bring him directly into Sher Shah’s path. Within seconds the two lines clashed. Humayun slashed at Sher Shah with Alamgir but the sword slid harmlessly off his steel breastplate and in a moment the press of forces had separated them.
Suddenly, Humayun thought he saw the traitorous Tariq Khan mounted on a brown horse and wearing his familiar dark green beneath his armour. Humayun urged his own mount towards him. Although hampered by the disorganised mass of wheeling, rearing and snorting horses with their riders slashing and striking at each other, Humayun reached the green-clad man. It was indeed Tariq Khan.
‘Tariq Khan, your life is forfeit. Face me and die like a man, not the slippery snake you are.’ With that, Humayun struck at Tariq Khan but his opponent quickly got his shield up and deflected the blow and at the same time swung wildly at Humayun with his double-headed steel battleaxe. Humayun leaned back in his saddle and the axe only hissed through empty air but Humayun thrust Alamgir deep into Tariq Khan’s unprotected armpit, exposed as he made his axe-sweep. With a cry of pain Tariq Khan dropped the axe and, as blood poured from his armpit staining his dark green clothing, he seemed to lose control of his brown horse which carried him off into the melee. Moments later, Humayun saw him fall, sliding backwards from the saddle of his rearing mount to be trampled into the muddy ground beneath the hooves of other horses. So perish all traitors, thought Humayun.
Looking round, he realised most of his bodyguards had lost touch with him, but shouting hoarsely to the few who remained to follow he turned his own black horse, now covered with white, frothing sweat, towards where he calculated Sher Shah’s charge might have taken him. As he pushed forward, a riderless horse, blood streaming from a deep sword slash to the rump, crashed into the right flank of his own, knocking it off course and for a moment painfully trapping Humayun’s mail-clad thigh against his saddle. Then, neighing shrilly, it careered away, veering straight across the path of one of Humayun’s remaining bodyguards. The bodyguard’s horse stumbled and fell, throwing its young rider over its neck on to the ground. He lost his domed helmet on impact, rolled over two or three times and then lay still.
Regaining control of his horse once more, Humayun urged it towards where the fight seemed the most intense. Suddenly thunder crashed overhead and immediately rain began to fall again in torrents, heavy drops splashing into puddles and dripping from the rim of Humayun’s helmet before running down into his eyes. He removed his leather gauntlet and raised his right hand to brush the rain away and clear his vision. But his action prevented him from seeing two dark-clad riders dashing towards him until they were almost upon him. When he did, he swerved away from the first but could not prevent the sharp sword of the second slicing into the exposed flesh of his hand and wrist and sliding down into his forearm, pushing back his chain mail and penetrating deeper as it went on. His black horse carried him away from his assailants, who failed to turn quickly enough in the mud to pursue him.
Bright scarlet blood was streaming from Humayun’s wounded right arm and hand and flowing down and through his fingers, coating Timur’s ring. He tried to untie his cream neck cloth with his left hand to use it to staunch the wound but he could not. His numb right fingers could scarcely keep a grip on his reins. He began to feel light-headed and white flashes started to appear before his eyes. Through them he could just about make out that there were none of his men around him. The situation was bad but surely he was not destined to end like this? Defeat was not inevitable. He must get back to his men to rally them. Humayun tugged at the reins with the last of his strength, trying to turn his tired, blowing horse in what his blurring mind imagined was the direction of his remaining men. He kicked the horse’s sides to urge it on, then slumped forward on to its black neck, clinging to its mane with his left hand as the last remnants of his consciousness deserted him.
‘Majesty.’
Humayun’s opening eyes throbbed with bright light and he half closed them again. The glare was the same when he tried again. Slowly he realised he was lying on his back staring up into the midday sun.
‘Majesty.’The same voice came again and a hand tentatively shook his shoulder. He was no longer wearing armour or chain mail. Where had it gone? Was he captured? He turned his clearing head towards the voice and slowly a nut-brown face came into focus, a concerned, anxious expression on its small features.
‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Nizam. I’m one of the water-carriers in your army.’
‘Where am I?’
‘On the banks of the Ganges, Majesty. I was gathering water from the river in my leather bottles to take to your soldiers when I saw your black horse coming slowly towards me from the direction of the battle a mile or so from here, with yourself slumped over its neck. When it got nearer the horse’s knees buckled and it collapsed. As it did so, you slid to the ground.’
‘Where is the horse now? Where are my men?’
‘The horse is over there. It is dead, Majesty, from exhaustion I think, even though it had many small wounds and a larger one to its rump.’
Feeling a little stronger, Humayun raised himself on his left elbow and there indeed was his black stallion no more than twenty paces away lying neck outstretched, tongue lolling. Clusters of green-black flies were already forming around its mouth and nostrils and on its many wounds.
‘And my men?’
‘Mostly they retreated east down the riverbank closely followed by Sher Shah’s force who struck many from their saddles. Some crossed the river where it is low, about a quarter of a mile from here, to the opposite bank where some of your troops still are.’
‘Was I not pursued?’
‘No. And it’s difficult to see this particular place because of the banks and mud spits, so no one has come since. Do you wish to drink, Majesty?’
‘Please.’ Instinctively Humayun tried to extend his right arm for the bottle. It was stiff and numb. Remembrance of the fight and his wound came back to him. His arm felt bandaged. Looking at it he realised that it was — with the same cream neck cloth he had himself failed to untie, and there seemed to be something like a flat pebble bound against the worst of his wound.
‘Help me to drink.’
Nizam took the stopper from one of his large water bottles, which seemed from its size and shape to have been made from the skin of an entire small goat. Supporting Humayun’s head, Nizam poured a little into his mouth. Humayun drank quickly, then asked for more. With each gulp he felt life returning to him.