Part 41 (1/2)
”And so did I.
”Next morning I held a court, and the miscreants being questioned, detailed the whole circ.u.mstances of the plot in all its particulars.
The master-taster was ordered to be cut in pieces; the cook flayed alive; the female slave to be shot by a matchlock. The ill-fated lady I condemned to be thrown into custody for life: one day, pursued by her guilt she will meet with due retribution in penitence.
”Since then I have lived chiefly on antidotes and lily-flowers, and thanks be to G.o.d! there are now no remains of illness. But I did not fully comprehend before how sweet a thing life is. As the poet says:
”'He who comes to the Gate of Death knows the value of Life.' Truly when this awful occurrence pa.s.ses before my memory, I feel myself involuntarily turn faint; but having overcome my repugnance even to think of it, I write, so that no undue alarm or uneasiness might find its way to you. G.o.d has, indeed, given me a new life. Other days await me, and how can my tongue express my grat.i.tude. The ill-fated lady's grandson Ibrahim had previously been guarded with the greatest respect and delicacy; but when an attempt of so heinous a nature was discovered to have been made by the family, I do not think it prudent to have a son of the late King in this country. So I am sending him to my son Kamran, away from Hindustan. I am now quite recovered.”
This was true, but the nervous shock remained. Babar had been close to death in its most sordid form. To die like a poisoned rat was to him, with his breezy, open-hearted love of frankness in all things, a horrible fate. His repugnance even to think of it was real; but he hovered between two methods of forgetfulness--the drowning of thought in the wine-cup, and the anodyne of repentance and forgiveness. Deep down in his heart, he felt himself foresworn in not having kept to his promise of reform when he was forty; but he could not make up his mind to take the plunge and give up wine. It was, he told himself, the only comfort in that cursed country, the one thing that made life possible.
With its help, even fever and ague were bearable.
It was, therefore, in the midst of drinking bouts, that news came which roused him to other activities. It had never needed much to change the habitual toper into a clear-sighted man of arms. And never, in all his life, had news of such significance brought Babar up with a round turn.
Rana Sanka of Udaipur was on the move. The quarrel could no longer be put off. The fight for final supremacy was nigh at hand.
The news came when the Christmas rain was just over, and Babar, exhilarated as he always was by the freshened verdure of trees, the sudden start into growth of the wide wheat fields, was heightening his enjoyment by a feast over the river in ”Kabul,” which day by day under his fostering care, showed more and more likeness to the sponsor country. Humayon was back from a successful expedition and was of the party; no kill-joy, his father thought fondly, though he drank no wine; not from scruples but from lack of liking.
It was, of course, a wonderfully innocent and guileless party. No coa.r.s.e jokes, no scurvy tricks. But the most of them were incontestably drunk, and even Babar's strong head was fast becoming fuddled when the special messenger arrived. Canopus was s.h.i.+ning away like a moon in the South, and Babar looked at it gravely, yet truculently.
”Gentlemen!” he said solemnly, and it was all he could do not to hiccup. ”Draw your s-s-words, gentlemen. We have to fight a--a--dam-ned--p-pagan--to--to-morrow. Meanwhile I'll sing you a song:
”Account as wind or dust The world's pleasures and pain.
Be not raised up or crushed By its good or its bane.
As a mere throw of dice Is the life of a man.
Fortune goes in a trice, Just a flash in the pan.
Take then a cup of wine, Drink it down to the dregs, And don't grumble or whine, 'Tis but the fool who begs.”
His voice failed him when he had got so far. He sat solemn-drunk gazing at Canopus, wondering how many years ago it was since he had first seen it from the top of the Pa.s.s.
How clear, how cold the night-air had been. How the star had sparkled!
How the glad life in him had answered to the thrill of that distant, heaven-sent, throbbing light ...
Well! The night was as clear, as cold now. The stars?--how they sparkled and shone, all colours like jewels ...
Yes! all things were the same except himself ...
”Gentlemen!” he said suddenly, rising unsteadily to his feet, ”I give you leave. I--I go to my bed.”
But he was up before dawn next day to see Ali-Kool put the final touches to the great gun he had been making. For, after all, the casting had been a success, needing only a little alteration to make it perfect. In the afternoon it was tested, and threw one-thousand-six-hundred good paces, which was not so bad.
And all Agra was in a turmoil of preparation for the coming march; but there was so much to be done that a few days pa.s.sed before Babar, at the head of all his available troops, moved out in battle array to occupy the rising ground at Sikri, where the huge tank promised abundance of water. He had been in a fever of impatience to get there, lest the Pagans, also seeing its many advantages as a camping ground, might forestall him. But the 17th of February found him preparing for the biggest battle of his life in the very place where his grandson Akbar was, in after years, to build his Town-of-Victory.
It was just a year since Babar had entered India. Now he was faced by the strongest man in it, and the fight must be to the bitter end.