Part 33 (1/2)
”And found it not, most times,” put in Babar with a grim smile. ”I have had too much of fighting and running away. I have been at it my life long. Now let us see how it does to fight and stick to it--to the death.”
”To the death by all means, sire,” said old Kasim with affectionate admiration, ”but 'tis madness all the same.”
If it were so, there was distinct method in it. Babar threw up strange earthworks round his camp and disposed pickets in quaintly modern fas.h.i.+on on the points of vantage in the hills. This done he sat down calmly and awaited events, much to the discomfiture of those within the city. They were not besieged, of course, but there was an enemy to be reckoned with beyond the gates where an enemy should not be. Being hopelessly in a minority, he ought to have run away.
”Lo!” said one soldier to another doubtfully, as, hand over his eyes, eaves-wise, he looked out keenly from the watch towers, ”I dare swear that is the King going his rounds. How I mind me of his smile as he pa.s.sed the meanest.”
”Aye!” would come the a.s.sent, ”but none were mean in his army. We all felt brave men. At least so 'twas with me. I could have swaggered it with Rustam.”
And both pair of eyes would hold a vague regret. A regret that deepened as day after day skirmishes that were almost battles, resulted invariably in a retreat back to the walls of Kabul for the night.
For Babar's five hundred were ready to fight all the twenty-four hours, while the insurgent twelve thousand preferred their beds.
And the next dawn rose calm over that orderly encampment, which it was no use trying to rush because of its cunning defences. Then Babar's cavalry had learnt to charge without an inch of spare room between stirrup and stirrup, so that there was no hope of pa.s.sage or escape between that close-linked, supple, chain of lance and sword.
Altogether it was disconcerting. Then no one had a moment's peace. To show your head beyond the gates was to bring down on you the King in person, heading a reckless band of picked swordsmen.
”Kasim-Beg is the best fencer in Asia,” murmured a trooper with a slash on head and arm; ”'tis small wonder I got this from him. And his teaching hath made even the rank and file better at swordsplay than our leaders--curse them--who sit at cards and drink, while we--” The rest was sullen silence.
”Yea!” said another, with a leg bandaged. ”And I got this from a mere back blow of the Most-Clement's. See you, he hath youth on his side, as well as all old Kasim's art. I saw him, as I fell, cleave a Moghul to the very chin.”
So round the watch fires at night it became the fas.h.i.+on to applaud the prowess of the foe. With this result that in the morning, more than one place was vacant on the ramparts; the holder of it had slipped away in the night to join Babar's forces.
As time went on, the latter grew more and more adventurous. His military skill, his personal strength, his courage, his invincible spirit, brought mingled admiration and dread to his enemies.
”Lo! he is a true _Shaitan_,” admitted one of the chief rebels. ”Didst hear that when he was at the Kharwa Fort he amused himself by leaping from battlement to battlement--and there is sheer fall of a thousand feet to the river below.”
”Aye!” a.s.sented another gloomily. ”And s.h.i.+rbash saith he hath seen him do it with a trooper under each arm.”
So ran the stories, the one outdoing the other.
At last, one day, just before the opposing forces began the clash of arms, the armies stood thrilling, aghast, expectant, as a tall young figure rode out alone, and in a voice that echoed and re-echoed, challenged Abdul-Risak, the usurper, to single combat.
The challenge was refused.
”Then send your best man,” cried Babar, ”and may G.o.d show the right.”
There was a pause; and then from out the rank and file of the insurgents rode one Ali-Beg, and a chorus of approval went up on both sides.
The opponents were well matched. Both young, both in the very pink of training.
”Art ready, friend?” came Babar's clear joyous voice, and with a dash they were at each other.
”Now G.o.d send he remembers the trick of wrist,” said Kasim-Beg under his breath, ”for Ali-Beg hath it to perfection. He was my best pupil at Samarkand.”
But Babar remembered it. How, he felt, could he forget anything with so much for which to fight? His eyes blazed, not with anger--what cared he for the actual enemy?--he was but the dummy of possible defeat--but with calm will. He meant to disarm this fellow--not to hurt him.
The horses reeled against each other, the sword arms were interlocked, for Babar, at close quarters, would not let his antagonist break loose.
G.o.d and his prophets! they would be down! Nor horse nor man could stand that boring pressure, that invincible strength. Wrist against wrist; and beneath them struggling legs and tails and fear-snorting crests!
There! over!--A confused heap upon the ground, but Babar uppermost with two swords in his hand.