Part 14 (1/2)
But the bravest, the dearest, the best, held her close, unharmed, and so the soft kisses came at last.
For Prince Prithvi, though he lost some friends--lost, as the historians put it, ”the sinews of India”--kept his prize, and gained for himself immortal memory in the hearts of all Rajput maidens even to the present day.
This, then, was the paladin who took the field against the bearded, middle-aged Mahomed Shahab-ud-din, and deftly outflanking his wings, drove them back and back until the whole Mahomedan army showed a circle surrounded by the enemy. In the centre the great general himself, mad with pa.s.sion at the counsel sent to him by his subordinates to save himself as best he could. His reply was to cut down the messenger, and calling on all who would to follow him, rush out on the enemy, dealing reckless, almost futile death. To no purpose. Prithvi's younger brother, marking down his quarry, drove his elephant full against the burly-bearded leader of the desperate sally; but Mahomed Ghori lacked no courage, and the charge was met half-way, horse against leviathan, lance couched to lance.
And the honours lay with the Moslem, for Chawand Rao took the lance-head full in his mouth, to the destruction of many teeth. But Prithvi was in support of his brother, and a well-aimed arrow tw.a.n.ged and quivered in the northerner's scimitar arm; he reeled in his saddle and would have fallen, had not a faithful servant, taking advantage of the wild, swift closing in of rescue for the wounded monarch, leapt up behind him in the saddle, and turning the horse's head to the open, carried the almost fainting king from the field. He was followed by his whole army, hara.s.sed for full 40 miles by the victorious Hindus.
Princess Fortunata's kisses must have been sweet that night to her victorious hero. But Mahomed Shahab-ud-din's calm had gone. Smileless, he waited for the healing of his wound at Lah.o.r.e, then, returning to Ghor, publicly disgraced every officer who had not followed his forlorn hope, by parading them round the city like horses or mules, their noses in ”nose-bags filled with barley, which he forced them to eat like brutes,” and afterwards flinging them into prison. So two years pa.s.sed in moody anger and sullen disgrace, crushed into forgetfulness by reckless pleasure and festivity. Then, taking heart of grace, he got together a picked force of 120,000 Toorki and Afghan cavalry recruits, for the most part men of his own cla.s.s and calibre, whose helmets were encrusted with jewels, their cuira.s.ses inlaid with gold; and so off Peshawur ways.
”Since the day of defeat,” he said to an old sage, ”despite external appearances, I have never slumbered with ease, or waked but in sorrow.
I go, therefore, to recover my lost honour from these idolaters, or die in the attempt.”
”My king,” replied the wise old man, kissing the ground, ”wherefore should not those whom you have so justly disgraced likewise have opportunity of wiping away the stain of their defeat?”
The plea struck him by its justice. He issued orders for the disgraced officers' freedom, and gave leave for those desirous of redeeming their character to follow his example. A picked force this, indeed, with a vengeance!
And on the other side was haughty defiance, marked still by the chivalrous sense of honour which, to such as Prithvi-Raj, was dearer than life.
A proud acceptance of the issues met the curt declaration of war should the Indians refuse to embrace the true faith, which the Mahomedan general sent to Ajmir by accredited amba.s.sador. A 'cute move this; one to enhance the martial ardour of his men; perhaps to still further inflame his own determination to turn past defeat to present victory. Then ensued a pause for parley, in which the Princess Fortunata had her share--a worthy share, as the following extracts will show. Till then her kisses had lulled Prithvi-Raj to forgetfulness of sterner things; now they were to rouse him from his dream. For this was her reply when her husband, leaving his War-Council to deliberate, sought wisdom where he had so often found pleasure:--
”What fool asks woman for advice? The world Holds her wit shallow.... Even when the truth Comes from her lips men stop their ears and smile.
And yet without the woman where is man?
We hold the power of Form--for us the Fire Of s.h.i.+v's creative force flames up and burns: Lo! we are thieves of Life and sanctuaries Of Souls. Vessels are we of virtue and of vice, Of knowledge and of utmost ignorance.
Astrologers can calculate from books The courses of the stars, but who is he Can read the pages of a woman's heart?
Our book has not been mastered; so men say 'She hath no wisdom' but to hide their lack Of understanding. Yet we share your lives, Your failures, your successes, griefs and joys.
Hunger and thirst, if yours, are ours, and Death Parts us not from you; for we follow fast To serve you in the mansion of the Sun.
Love of my heart! Lo! you are as a swan That rests upon my bosom as a lake.
There is no rest for thee but here, my lord!
And yet arise to Victory and Fame.
Sun of the Chauhans! Who has drunk so deep Of glory and of pleasure as my lord?
And yet the destiny of all is death: Yea even of the G.o.ds--and to die well Is life immortal---- Therefore draw your sword, Smite down the foes of Hind; think not of self-- The garment of this life is frayed and worn, Think not of me--we twain shall be as one Hereafter and for ever.--Go, my king!”
So the fiery cross sped round Rajputana, and ere long Prithvi-Raj could confront the enemy with an army of 300,000 horse, 3,000 elephants, and a large body of infantry. They encamped opposite and within sight of each other on the old battle-field, with the river Saraswati, which was soon to lose itself in the desert sands beyond, running between the opposing armies. Despite the disparity in numbers the forces were not ill-matched, for the Indians were hampered by a thousand old traditions, old accoutrements, old scruples. The Mahomedans, on the other hand, were full up with desire for gold, for souls. But it was a holy war on both sides. The Hindus had sworn on Ganges water to conquer or die, the Moslem had sworn likewise on the Koran; so heads were bowed in humble prayer to the Lord of Hosts, and human hearts beat high with murderous hope. Quaint conjunction when all is said and done!
Thus far, well. Now comes Mahomed Shahab-ud-din's diplomatic strategy, which some might call by another name, even though the account of what occurred comes to us through the pen of an ardent Mahomedan, and cannot, therefore, but put the best face on what happened. Prithvi-Raj, then, facing his foe, so much smaller in numbers, so altogether insignificant beside the splendid lavishness of the Rajput camp, wrote a letter to Mahomed Shahab-ud-din. Whether dictated by mere pride or martial honour, by contemptuous pity, religious dislike to take life, or, as the Mahomedans aver, by mere brag, the terms of it are worth reading:--
”To the bravery of our soldiers we know you are no stranger: and to our great superiority in numbers, which daily increases, your eyes bear witness. If you are wearied of your own existence, yet have pity on your troops who may still think it a happiness to live. It were better, then, you should repent in time of the rash resolution you have taken, and we shall permit you to retreat in safety.”
Not an undignified appeal, this first recorded attempt at peace with honour. Its reply was, as the historian puts it, ”politic.” It consisted in Mahomed Shahab-ud-din's a.s.sertion that he was only the general of his brother's forces; that therefore he dare not retreat without orders, but he would be glad of a truce until such time as information could be sent to Ghuzni and an answer received.