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 Shiv"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.
A simple and admirable adjunct to the night-attack which followed, and which found the Rajputs unprepared, in fancied security.
About the false dawning, when even the noise of revelry in the opposite camp had quieted down to sleep, the Mahomedan army forded the river in silence, and drew up in order on the sands beyond. Some portion of it was actually within the Hindu lines ere the alarm was raised.
Even so, the Rajput cavalry was to the front immediately, and checked the advance.
For what followed, Mahomed Shahab-ud-din deserves unstinted praise. It was good general-ship.
He formed his bowmen into four divisions, and placing them one behind the other, ordered the first to come into fighting line, discharge their arrows, and wheel to the rear, thus giving place to the second fighting line, the whole army to retreat slowly, giving ground whenever hard pressed.
All that day he fought, biding his time with such patience as he and his twelve thousand steel-armoured hors.e.m.e.n could muster. The sun was just setting when, judging the delusion of victory had done its work in the hot heads of the Rajputs, he gave the orders for one desperate charge.
It did its work!
"Din! Din! Fateh Mahomed!" once and for all overcame the Hindu war-cry of, "Victory, Victory!" In the years to come success and failure were to attend both; but only in detail. The great issue between Brahmanism and Mahomedism was fought out on the vast Karnal battle-plain in A.D.
1193, when, as the chronicler of Islam says,
"one desperate charge carried death and destruction throughout the Hindu ranks. The disorder increased everywhere, till at length the panic became general. The Moslems, as if they now only began to be in earnest, committed such havoc, that this prodigious army once shaken, like a great building tottered to its fall, and was lost in its own ruins."
How many thousand pagans "went below?" Who knows? But one is sure that Mahomed Shahab-ud-din duly praised G.o.d from whom all blessings flow.
His subsequent atrocities prove that he must have relied on something which he deemed Divine Guidance; mere humanity could never have been so cruel.
Half Rajput chivalry lay dead under the stars, but the flower of it was hiding in the sugar-cane brakes, stealing his way back to Delhi, to the Princess Sunjogata his wife, who, as she had watched him go forth, lance in rest, his sword buckled on by her own steady hands, had said with foreboding courage to her maidens: "In Yoginapur (Delhi) I shall see him no more: we will meet in Swarga." The tale of what happened is almost beyond telling.
Prithvi Rajah was murdered in cold blood, murdered ignominiously. The Princess Fortunata escaped a like, or a worse, fate by a funeral pyre, and Delhi was given over to such hideous devils work as even that long-suffering city has never seen before or since. The followers of the Prophet wiped out their own and their G.o.d"s disgrace in torrents of blood, filled their pockets by the way, went on to Ajmir, enacted a like tragedy, and so returned northwards when the pink clouds of the low-lying groves of _dakh_ trees began to blossom about the battle-field where the sun of the Hindus had set for ever.
But Mahomed Shahab-ud-din left his pet Turki slave Kutb-din-Eibuk behind him at Delhi, and he, a.s.suming almost regal honours, "compelled all the districts around to acknowledge the faith of Islam."
How many murders go to the making of a Moslem is a question which might fairly be asked. Converts, however, hardly came in fast enough for Shahab-ud-din"s zeal, so the next year saw him back again to help his slave in crushing the Rajah of Kanauj, who, doubtless, had not been of Prithvi-Raj"s host. Thence he marched to Benares, in which hot-bed of idolatry he thoroughly enjoyed himself by smashing the idols in a thousand temples, which he subsequently purified by prayer and purgation, and thereinafter consecrated to the worship of the true G.o.d.
This was his last real outing, for Fate--can it have been that she dissociated herself from his doubtful use of the white flag--began to play him false. His slave-viceroy showed inclination to plunder on his own behalf, and though the master once more returned to India, it was but a flying visit, apparently to check independence. To no avail, for Kutb-din-Eibuk, "ambitious of extending his conquests, led an army into Rajputana, where, having experienced severe defeat, he was compelled to seek protection in the fort at Ajmir."
For the fighting spirit in the Rajput was not to be quenched by blood, or burned out by fire. It was to flame up fiercely for many a century to come, until the wisdom of Akbar won it over to his side.
Mahomed Shahab-ud-din"s hands were, however, too full to permit of his giving much attention to India. His brother, Ghia.s.s-ud-din, the mere figure-head of a king, died in A.D. 1202, and though Shahab-ud-din was crowned in his stead without any opposition, bad luck seemed to attend him afterwards. His army was literally cut down to a mere body-guard of a hundred troopers in Khora.s.san, and though his fortunes were recovered in some measure, his time seems to have been taken up in quelling the rebellions of his favourite slaves whom he had promoted to honour.
In India, Kutb-din, it is true, remained faithful in name, though his power and prestige rose above his master"s, and he was virtually king, not viceroy.
Finally, in A.D. 1206, the leader of the last real raid of the Crescent into India was a.s.sa.s.sinated by the Ghakkars of the Salt Range upon the banks of the Indus.
"The weather being sultry, the King had ordered the screens which surround the royal tents to be struck in order to give free admission to the air. This afforded the a.s.sa.s.sins an opportunity of seeing into the sleeping apartments. So at night time they found their way up to the tents and hid themselves, while one of their number advanced boldly to the tent door. Challenged by a sentry, he plunged his dagger in the man"s breast, and this rousing the guard, who ran out to see what was the matter, the hidden a.s.sa.s.sin took that opportunity of cutting a way into the King"s tent.
"He was asleep, with two slaves fanning him. They stood petrified with terror as the Ghakkars sheathed their daggers in the King"s body, which was afterwards found to have been pierced by no fewer than twenty-two wounds."
THE SLAVE KINGS
A.D. 1206 TO A.D. 1288