Two hours later, after the last of the counsellors had left, Shah Jahan rose a little shakily from his silver chair. Dara hurried to support him but Shah Jahan waved him back. ‘No. I must learn to be strong again … and, Dara, there’s something I must say to you. If I’d formally declared you my heir many years ago, this could never have happened. Now you will be forced to fight for what should have been yours by right. I regret it from the bottom of my heart, but more importantly I mean to try to make amends. Tomorrow, seated on my peacock throne and before all my court, I will formally declare you my successor and your brothers outlaws.’
Chapter 17
Nicholas Ballantyne turned restlessly on the straw mattress on which he had been trying to snatch a few hours’ sleep and slapped at one of the many mosquitoes whining around him. In just three days the Juno would sail from Surat for Bristol, her hold packed with calicos, silks and indigo to add to the fat profits of the English East India Company. He would also be aboard. He’d negotiated a good price for his passage with the Juno’s burly red-faced captain but there was little pleasure in the prospect of the long and hazardous voyage round the Cape of Good Hope and a return to the country which, the more he’d thought about it, was scarcely any longer home.
Abandoning thoughts of sleep as pointless, Nicholas got up. Though dawn was barely an hour away heat still radiated from the mud-brick walls of the small, bare ground floor room of the inn and his near-naked body felt damp with perspiration. Going out into the courtyard he drew a bucket of water from the well and poured it over himself. Then, shaking himself like a dog, he went to sit beneath the spreading branches of a neem tree near a string charpoy on which an old man — supposedly the nightwatchman — was fast asleep. At least he need no longer worry about Princess Jahanara. The short letter that had caught up with him the day before had put his mind at rest, extinguishing any guilt he’d felt at fleeing Agra.
Jahanara was strong. She had learned to be, even in childhood when her family had fled from Jahangir. All the same, the thought of her standing accused of imaginary crimes had troubled him deeply, especially if the rumours circulating among the merchants in Surat were true. But could the emperor’s younger sons really be in revolt? Jahanara’s letter had said nothing explicitly, but she had mentioned her relief at being able again to be at her father’s side with Dara, whatever fate held in store for them. Could this be an oblique reference designed not to alarm him on his voyage? Probably not. Far more likely Dara’s brothers were just posturing. In this vast land, despite the imperial trunk roads and teams of post riders, news took time to travel. It often became distorted along the way and there were always credulous fools to be taken in.
Nicholas had risen to go inside when he heard a barrage of crashes and felt the ground shake. After a minute or two the noise began again, and this time didn’t cease. It could only be cannon fire. Was Surat under attack? By the direction of the sound cannon were pounding the city from the landward side. From nearby streets came shouts of alarm. Nicholas hurried back into his room, hastily pulled on his shirt, breeches and boots and ran into the alley outside to find it already full of people — English merchants, some in their night clothes, some clutching their cash boxes; Indian clerks and shopkeepers. They must be making for the protection of the fort. The square, thick-walled tower lay about a quarter of a mile away on the tip of a promontory. The East India Company stored its treasure there in deep underground vaults and it was well fortified and guarded by a regiment of Company soldiers sent out from England. In case of serious trouble the Company also kept several ships well equipped with cannon riding at anchor beneath its walls.
And trouble, it seemed, had definitely arrived … Pressing himself into a doorway to allow the tide of humanity to sweep past, he looked back over their heads towards the city walls and sure enough in the pale light of dawn saw billowing columns of dust and smoke. Suddenly he caught sight of a young merchant he knew slightly, clutching a leather-bound ledger to his chest as he ran towards him. ‘John, what’s happening?’ Nicholas yelled above the confusion. When the young man didn’t appear to hear him Nicholas reached out a muscular arm and yanked him over as he passed. ‘It’s me, Nicholas. Do you know what’s going on? Is it dacoits?’ But even as he posed the question Nicholas knew it couldn’t be. They might lurk outside the city to prey on caravan trains but where would they get large cannon?
‘Someone said Prince Murad has hired Turkish mercenaries to attack Surat.’
‘But he’s the Governor of Gujarat! Why is he assaulting its richest city — the one that pays him most in taxes?’ The young merchant was trying to twist from his grip and Nicholas saw his pale eyes turn towards the stream of people who in their eagerness to get away from the danger and into the fort were now pushing and shoving each other as they ran.
‘Because the prince asked the Company for a huge loan and the local board of directors refused him,’ the young man gasped, feeling Nicholas’s hold on him tighten.
‘So now he’s decided to help himself …’ Nicholas released his grip and the merchant dashed away to be swallowed up in the crowd. Nicholas stayed where he was. Should he too take sanctuary in the fort? He was no longer a Moghul commander with troops to deploy but a foreigner caught in the middle of someone else’s problems on the eve of his return home. His first duty was to himself. Or was it? If Murad had indeed launched an attack on Surat this was anarchy. Shah Jahan would never have sanctioned such a thing, in which case the rumours must be true: the emperor’s sons — or Murad at least — had indeed risen against their father.
Stepping out of the doorway, Nicholas barged his way through the jumbled mass of frightened people and back into the inn from which everyone else seemed to have fled. The string charpoy was empty and the only sign of life was a pale-furred dog that had taken refuge beneath the bed where it lay, head between its front paws, whimpering in fear as the bombardment continued. Running into his room Nicholas grabbed his two saddlebags from beneath the straw mattress. They were not heavy — so much for his many years’ service in Hindustan — but he still owed something to this land and he knew where he must go.
There had been so little time to organise the imperial armies but delay was not an option, Shah Jahan reflected as he prepared to address his council once more. Like him, his counsellors were growing old. Barely a man under fifty. Not for the first time since the crisis had broken three weeks ago he regretted Dara’s lack of military experience. He had wanted to keep his eldest son by his side, content, as in truth Dara had been also, for his younger brothers to go off on campaign, never for a moment thinking it was giving them the chance to develop skills they would one day turn against himself and Dara on the battlefield.
‘My loyal counsellors, the latest reports I have through scouts and post riders are that Shah Shuja’s forces are still advancing westward along the Ganges, making slow but steady progress,’ he began. ‘I have sent orders to those whose lands lie in his path to do all they can to obstruct him and deny him supplies, but I must meet force with force. Therefore I am despatching an army against Shah Shuja. My grandson, Dara’s son Suleiman, will lead it, with you, Raja Jai Singh of Amber, as his adviser. Your force will consist of twenty thousand horsemen and five thousand foot soldiers. You and my grandson will be reinforced as you travel down the Ganges by my Afghan general Dilir Khan and his men.’