The Emerald Affair

by Trotter, Janet MacLeod

  Her charpoy was taken back inside where Esmie was to bed down for the night. The room was so dark that she could hardly see two feet in front of her. The floor was of beaten earth and it smelt of animals. Groping her way to the string bed, Esmie crawled into her bedroll fully clothed. She could hear dogs snuffling and a baby whimpering. She thought she would never fall asleep.

  Esmie woke scratching, wondering where she was. The dark was oppressive. She sat up in alarm. From a tiny window high in the wall, a glimmer of daylight showed her she was in a room with three other charpoys. One was empty and the other two were occupied by young girls. A curtain hung over the doorway and a dog lay beside it, scratching at fleas. Esmie was reminded that she itched all over.

  She climbed out of bed, wincing at the pain in her bruised hip, pulled on her boots and went outside. The air in the courtyard was so cold her breath billowed like smoke. Some women were already baking fresh bread. In the early light, Esmie could see that the courtyard doubled as a farmyard. Hens strutted and pecked at crumbs, hunting dogs yapped to be fed and her own pony was tethered in the corner alongside two mules munching hay.

  Esmie made towards the heavy wooden door that led through into the main quarters. Mirza Ali’s wife came after her in a hurry.

  ‘You must stay here,’ she ordered, shooing her away from the entrance.

  ‘But I want to see my friends,’ said Esmie.

  She shook her head. ‘Come; sit. Drink tea with me.’

  Reluctantly, Esmie did as she was told. No doubt Mirza Ali would summon her later.

  As the daylight grew stronger and shafts of sunlight penetrated the enclosed courtyard, Esmie noticed that the chief’s wife had a weeping encrusted eye. She went and fetched her saddle-bag of medicine.

  ‘Let me look at that,’ she said, steering the woman onto the charpoy that had been carried out once more for Esmie to sit on. The others gathered round to stare and comment.

  ‘You have conjunctivitis,’ Esmie said. ‘It looks sore.’ She opened her bag and pulled out some ointment. ‘First we must bathe your eye in warm water.’ She took out a clean tin bowl from her bag and instructed one of the women to fill it with water from the well, then Esmie warmed it on the fire bricks.

  After a few minutes, she dipped pieces of cotton wool into the dish and gently swabbed the woman’s eye. After a short while, the chief’s wife was able to open it but it was still bloodshot.

  ‘This is going to sting,’ said Esmie, trying to explain. ‘Like a small bee. Buzz buzz.’

  The women laughed and winced in sympathy but the chief’s wife was stoical and didn’t flinch as Esmie applied some lotion. To protect it from the dirt and germs, Esmie taped a piece of gauze over the infected eye. To her surprise, her patient almost preened, as if the bandage from the feringhi memsahib conveyed distinction.

  Within minutes, others were coming to her with their ailments and Esmie was occupied all morning cleaning old wounds, applying dressings and administering ointments and tablets.

  By the afternoon, she was restless and eager to know what was happening beyond the zenana. Were the men locked in a council of war over what to do? Had Mullah Zada been summoned? Perhaps Mullah Mahmud had taken Baz and Tom to see the senior mullah at his home by the saint’s tomb. Surely word would come soon.

  Esmie paced around the small courtyard almost bursting with pent-up energy. Doubts beset her once again over whether Mirza Ali could be trusted. She already felt like a captive confined to this dismal overcrowded yard. What if the Otmanzai chief had imprisoned the men of her party? How would she know? She clung to the belief that Subahdar Khan would not allow such a breach of hospitality. They were guests of the Otmanzai, not prisoners.

  She occupied herself with teaching some of the children to play noughts and crosses using a stick on the dusty ground. When the light began to fade again, Esmie lost patience.

  ‘You must allow me to see my friends,’ she told Mirza Ali’s wife. ‘Please! I wish to be taken to see them now.’

  This prompted lively discussion among the women. Eventually a boy was dispatched with a message. Almost an hour later, when Esmie was beginning to despair that anyone would come, Mirza Ali himself appeared. Esmie could tell by his swaggering gait and the way the women treated him with deference, that this was the headman of Gardan.

  He looked of indeterminate age; his hair was hidden under a large white turban but his beard was grizzled. His skin was pitted with scars that showed he’d survived smallpox and he looked on her with shrewd dark eyes. He greeted her formally.

  ‘I welcome you to my home, Guthrie Mem’. I trust you are being well looked after?’

  ‘Very well, thank you. Your wife and daughters are being very kind.’

  ‘And I see you have been giving out feringhi medicine to my women,’ he said. ‘I thank you for that.’

  ‘I’m happy to do that, sir. But I have been here nearly a day and have been told nothing of the plans to rescue my friend, Lomax Memsahib. I hope you have come with news.’

  He gave a non-committal shrug. ‘These things are not easy to solve.’

  She waited for him to elaborate. Instead he began fussing over one of the hounds.

  Esmie persisted. ‘I would like to be taken to see Mullah Zada. I’m told he has influence over the kidnappers.’

  The headman shook his head. ‘That is not possible. Mullah Zada has refused to meet with a feringhi woman.’

  Esmie felt dashed. ‘So who will he meet with? It’s important to act quickly.’

  Mirza Ali fixed her with a look. ‘We don’t know yet who these men are – if indeed your feringhi friend has been brought here at all.’

  She fought to remain calm. ‘Mrs Lomax has been seen in Gardan. It is openly acknowledged that Baram Wali is responsible for the kidnap.’

  He feigned surprise. ‘Is that so?’

  Esmie was sure that Tom and the others would already have had this conversation. Perhaps he was belittling her because as a woman she shouldn’t be challenging him. She changed tack.

  ‘It’s good of you, sir, to offer us hospitality and to help us in our search. In the meantime, are there others of your kin who have ailments that need treating?’

  He looked pleased at her offer. ‘My uncle has bad legs. He can hardly walk.’

  ‘Then I shall speak to my orderly, Malik, and see if we can help him. I can come with you now.’

  He considered this for a moment, as he fondled one of the dogs. ‘Very well,’ he agreed.

  The conditions in the men’s quarters were almost as uncomfortable as the women’s, though they seemed a little less cramped and there were bolsters spread under an awning where the senior men sat and smoked. Esmie, clutching her medical bag, couldn’t hide her relief at seeing Tom and Malik leaning against a wall sharing cigarettes.

  Tom came rushing forward. ‘Esmie! Are you all right?’

  Esmie, aware of Mirza Ali’s assessing gaze, nodded and gave a tense smile. ‘The chief’s uncle needs medical attention. Perhaps you and Malik could help me?’

  ‘Of course,’ Tom agreed at once.

  Malik took the bag from Esmie as they were ushered over to an ancient-looking tribesman propped up by cushions. His face was as brown and wrinkled as a walnut under a vast white turban. He peered at Esmie with rheumy eyes, said something in a thin reedy voice that Esmie didn’t catch and then began to chuckle.

  ‘What did he say?’ she asked.

  Tom gave her a rueful look. ‘He says your white face looks half-baked.’

  Esmie gave a huff of amusement. ‘I’ll resist telling him he looks like a prune.’

  Together with Malik they inspected the old man’s legs. They were bent and stiff with rheumatism.

  ‘He’s never going to run again,’ said Esmie, ‘but we can rub on some embrocation and ease his joints.’

  As they did so, Mirza Ali wandered off and Esmie was able to quietly ask Tom what, if anything, was happening to rescue Lydia.

  ‘Baz has g
one with Mullah Mahmud and the subahdar to speak to Mullah Zada – to try and persuade him to summon the kidnappers and confront them with what they’ve done.’

  ‘When did they go?’

  ‘Couple of hours ago. Mullah Zada wouldn’t see them at first. He thought you might be with them and he’s refusing to see a feringhi woman.’

  This worried Esmie. ‘So how am I to petition him on behalf of Lydia?’

  ‘Mullah Mahmud might be able to win him round,’ Tom encouraged.

  ‘Were you not allowed to go either?’

  ‘Baz thought it best if I kept out of the way too,’ Tom admitted. ‘Mirza Ali has been ridiculing me about having no control over my wife. Says if I’d kept her in purdah this would never have happened.’

  ‘Imagine Lydia in purdah,’ Esmie said wryly. ‘You mustn’t let him provoke you.’

  ‘I feel so damn useless,’ Tom said in exasperation.

  ‘But you’re not,’ Esmie assured him. ‘I feel safer having you here.’ They exchanged quick smiles. Esmie murmured, ‘I don’t trust our host. What if he’s in league with the gang? He was pretending to have no knowledge of them and even implied that Lydia might never have been brought to the area at all. Yet the women of the zenana have heard about her.’

  ‘I feel the same about him,’ said Tom. ‘I think he’s an opportunist who’s after something for himself. He’s just waiting to see which way things go.’

  Soon afterwards, Mirza Ali returned and told Esmie that his wife was expecting her back in the zenana.

  ‘I would like to wait until Mullah Mahmud returns,’ she said, ‘and hear what he has to say.’

  The headman spread his hands wide. ‘Who knows when that might be? When these mullahs get together, they can talk for hours. Perhaps he will stay the night there.’

  ‘Let the memsahib eat with us this evening,’ Tom suggested.

  The chief shook his head and laughed. ‘And make my wife jealous? I cannot allow such a thing.’

  Reluctantly, Esmie saw she had no option but to return to the women’s quarters. As she left, she said firmly, ‘I shall return tomorrow and treat your uncle’s legs again.’

  Unable to bear another night in the tomb-like flea-ridden bedroom, Esmie slept on her charpoy by the fire in the courtyard. Wrapped in blankets and with a scarf covering all but her eyes, she bedded down under the stars. One of the hounds came and lay down under her bed and she fell asleep to the comforting sound of mules munching hay.

  The next day was similar to the first. During the hours of waiting, Esmie kept busy nursing the petty illnesses of Mirza Ali’s household. In the brief time she was permitted into the men’s courtyard to treat the old patriarch, Tom was able to tell her that the young mullah and Baz had returned once more to confer with Mullah Zada.

  That night, lying sleepless in the courtyard, she could hear raised voices from the men’s quarters. It sounded like they were holding a Jirga – a council of local men – judging by the volume and number of competing voices. She strained to hear but couldn’t make sense of what they were saying. Overall, one voice dominated; a deep resonant voice that carried authority. Esmie felt hope flutter inside. Could this be Mullah Zada come with a plan to help them?

  She could hardly bear the wait until morning and stayed awake long after the voices had ceased and the flicker of lamps had been extinguished.

  On the third day, as Esmie was bathing the eye of the chief’s wife and commenting on how it looked less inflamed, a boy appeared and summoned her next door. Her hope leapt as she hurried after him.

  The tense expressions on the faces of Tom and Baz made her insides clench. They stood up as she came in but Mirza Ali, his son and henchmen continued to sit. Mullah Mahmud sat between the two sides. He greeted her without meeting her look. Esmie’s heart thumped in her chest as she sat down on the cushion provided for her.

  ‘What news?’ she asked. ‘I heard the meeting last night. Was Mullah Zada here?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tom said. ‘He has spoken with the kidnappers.’

  Esmie gasped. ‘And they have Lydia?’

  He nodded, his eyes glinting with suppressed emotion.

  ‘That’s good news, surely? Is she all right?’

  ‘Yes, Guthrie Mem’,’ said Baz. ‘They insist she is.’

  ‘Oh, thank goodness!’

  ‘But they won’t release her,’ Tom said angrily. ‘They are demanding a small fortune – fifty-thousand rupees. And also for immunity from revenge attacks by the British.’

  Mirza Ali raised his voice. ‘That is enough feringhi talk. Speak Pashto so we all understand.’

  Esmie took a steadying breath and said, ‘My friends tell me that Mullah Zada has spoken to the kidnappers. Is it Baram Wali’s gang?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ the chief said with an impatient wave. ‘As we suspected. I will send a force to smoke those rats out of their hole.’

  ‘No,’ Esmie said at once. ‘We must do nothing to endanger Mrs Lomax’s life. This must be settled peaceably.’

  The young mullah spoke up. ‘That is what Mullah Zada wishes too. Yesterday at the tomb, Baram Wali confessed to what he had done. He said it was in revenge for his wife and daughter being kidnapped by the feringhis.’

  ‘That’s nonsense,’ Tom cried. ‘He mutilated his wife and so she fled for her life!’

  The young mullah held up a hand to quieten him. ‘Mullah Zada has told Baram Wali that it is his duty as a Muslim to release the feringhi woman – it is against the laws of Islam to harm her.’

  Esmie was alarmed. ‘Has he harmed her?’

  ‘He says not,’ answered the mullah.

  ‘So will he do as the mullah asks him?’

  ‘He still wants money.’

  ‘I must be allowed to see for myself that she is all right,’ insisted Esmie. ‘That is why I was sent – because I’m a nurse. Where are they holding her?’

  ‘He won’t say,’ Tom said through gritted teeth.

  ‘We think it must be near Gardan,’ said Baz. ‘It was noticed that Baram Wali’s horse was hardly out of breath.’

  ‘If I’d been there, I’d have followed the blackguard!’ Tom fulminated.

  Esmie turned to Mirza Ali. ‘Can’t you persuade Baram Wali to bring Mrs Lomax here? You must have influence over him. Then perhaps we can come to some arrangement to suit everyone. We just want my friend safely back with us. Please!’

  Mirza Ali cracked his fingers. The gesture made Esmie think of Harold. Would it have been better if he had come in her place? She seemed to be making no difference here.

  ‘Perhaps there is something else Baram Wali might accept in recompense for losing his wife,’ said the chief.

  ‘Such as?’ asked Tom.

  ‘The release of some of his kin,’ he replied. ‘There are three Otmanzai in prison in Taha.’

  Tom and Esmie exchanged looks. So this was what Mirza Ali was really after. Tom turned to Baz. ‘Do you know of these men?’

  The sergeant nodded and murmured in English. ‘Thieves and cattle rustlers.’ Then he spoke to the chief. ‘We might be able to negotiate their release if the memsahib was returned unharmed and allowed safe passage to the border.’

  Mirza Ali nodded. ‘I will see what I can do.’

  Esmie gave Tom a smile of encouragement. For the first time since arriving in Gardan, she felt a surge of optimism. The worry on his face eased a fraction as he smiled back.

  Esmie spent another night of fitful sleep in the courtyard of the zenana. In the morning she rose and splashed icy water on her face, stamped her feet and walked around to warm up her stiff limbs and aching hip. She wondered how Mirza Ali’s negotiations had gone with Baram Wali the previous day. If all went to plan, today would be the one where Lydia was returned to them. Please let it be so! It had been ten days since her friend’s disappearance and Esmie dreaded what effect such terror and loneliness might have had on her. Lydia was used to a life of leisure and people around her who looked after her needs. She hated dirt
and discomfort, and she didn’t speak Pashto. These past days must have been a living hell for her. Did she have any inkling that help was at hand and that there were people close by pressing for her release?

  Soon after a breakfast of curds and raisins, Esmie was summoned to the main courtyard. She went with alacrity. Perhaps Lydia was already on her way. There was no sign of Mirza Ali or his son but as soon as she saw the eager expressions on the faces of Tom and Malik, her heart leapt.

  ‘They’ve agreed a deal,’ Tom said, his eyes shining. ‘The prisoners in Taha in exchange for Lydia.’

  Esmie put a hand to her thumping chest. ‘And can we do that?’

  ‘Baz has already left with the chief’s son to take a message to the border post asking for the men’s release.’

  ‘That’s wonderful!’ Esmie exclaimed. She sat down quickly, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. The strain of the constant worry over Lydia had been relentless.

  ‘Of course Rennell won’t allow the Otmanzai to go free until he hears that Lydia is safe,’ Tom cautioned.

  Esmie’s euphoria subsided. ‘But won’t the kidnappers want the same reassurances about the release of their kinsmen?’

  Doubt flickered across Tom’s face. ‘It will depend on good faith on both sides. Baz is to organise a handing over at the border.’

  ‘So when will Lydia be brought here?’ Esmie asked.

  ‘Soon, I hope.’ Tom’s anxious expression returned. ‘Mirza Ali and Mullah Mahmud have gone to meet with the gang again. I can’t help thinking that the chief has been pulling the strings all along. He won’t let my old friend the subahdar be involved because he was in the Rifles. Says the gang resent the interference of a British loyalist.’

  ‘But Mullah Mahmud is a good man,’ Esmie reminded him, ‘and has been a true friend in trying to find and rescue Lydia. He has helped us from the start.’

  ‘Yes,’ Tom agreed. ‘The mullah is on our side thanks to you, Esmie. You are the one who impressed him.’