by M. M. Kaye
Even if he had been able to do so, it is doubtful if Sir Louis would have accorded the scheme much sympathy. The good temper engendered by a pleasant evening's sport had been considerably improved by the welcome news, conveyed to him by a trusted agent shortly before dinner, that the Ardal Regiment would parade on the morrow to receive their arrears of pay in full: a piece of information that had much the same effect on Sir Louis' spirits as it had had on Ash's, as it confirmed his belief that the money would and could be found, and that now the rest of the army would shortly be paid its wages and law and order would reign in Kabul. He had immediately instructed William to see that the usual telegram confirming that all was well with the Kabul Residency went off first thing in the morning, and in the circumstances he would not have been particularly interested in a scheme for improving the military defences of the Residency compound by devious and complicated means.
‘I'll ask Ash about it, and see what he thinks,’ decided Wally later that night as he prepared to go to bed. ‘Ash'll know if it would be any use, and if he thinks it wouldn't and I'm crazy, I'll hold my tongue.’ On which thought he said his prayers and turned out the lamp, though he did not immediately retire to bed.
The talk at dinner had reminded him of home, and he went to the window, and leaning his arms on the sill, looked out across the dark courtyard below and the flat roof of the Envoy's House towards the horizon, and thought of Inistioge.
Beyond the sheer drop of the outer wall lay the valley, with the pale ribbon of the Kabul River winding across it, and behind and beyond the wrinkled hills, grey in the starlight, rose the immense, shadowy rampart of the Hindu Kush. But the river he saw was the Nore, for he was back in Inistioge… There were the dear familiar fields and woods and the blue hills of Kilkenny, and that was not Shah Shahie's tomb, but the little church at Donaghadee, while the far shimmer in the sky was not snow, but white clouds floating high and serenely above the Blackstairs mountains in Carlow…
‘I wonder,’ mused Lieutenant Walter Hamilton, V.C., aetat twenty-three, ‘why Generals always seem to choose the name of one of their battles when they are made peers? I shan't I shall choose Inistioge… Field Marshal Lord Hamilton of Inistioge, V.C., K.G., G.C.B., G.C.S.I. – I wonder if I shall be allowed to go Home to get my medal from the Queen? or if I shall have to wait my turn for Home Leave? .. I wonder if I shall ever get married…’
Somehow he did not think that he would: or not unless he found someone exactly like Ash's Juli, which seemed to him unlikely. Ash ought to send her away from Kabul, for by all accounts there was a deal too much cholera in the city. He must speak to him about that on Wednesday. It would be grand to see Ash again, and with any luck…
A cavernous yawn interrupted his train of thought and he laughed at himself and went to bed feeling enormously happy.
64
The sun was still well below the horizon when Sir Louis Cavagnari, always an early riser, left for his customary ride on the following morning, attended by his Afridi orderly Amal Din, his syce, four sowars of the Guides and half-a-dozen troopers of the Amir's cavalry.
The dâk-rider had left even earlier, carrying a telegram that would be transmitted from Ali Khel to Simla. And not long afterwards a procession of twenty-five grass-cutters, carrying ropes and sickles, had also left the citadel, shepherded by Kote-Daffadar Fatteh Mohammed and Sowars Akbar Shah and Narain Singh of the Guides, and accompanied by four Afghan troopers.
Wally and Ambrose Kelly had followed some twenty minutes later, just as Ash, who had arrived early that day because of the pay parade, was placing the pottery jar in position on his window-sill. He watched them ride away and wished that he could have gone with them. The air would be sharp and fresh in the open country, whereas it was already stale and warm in here, and would be even warmer in the large open space near the palace where the Ardal Regiment would soon be gathering to receive their pay, as that was not only a sun-trap, but an insalubrious one into the bargain, since all kinds of rubbish was thrown out there, and there were no trees to provide shade.
Ash sighed, envying Wally and his companions riding out to meet the sunrise through the dewy croplands along the river and among the groves of poplars, chenars and walnut trees that hid Ben-i-Hissar and the grassy sweep of the charman beyond. The cloudless sky was still pale with the opalescent paleness of dawn, and the land an indeterminate colour between dove-grey and sand, unmarked by shadows. But high above the neutral tinted ridges the hidden sun had already turned the snows to apricot. It was going to be a wonderful day: ‘a day for singing hymns’, as Wally would have said.
Remembering those tuneful mornings in Rawalpindi, Ash smiled to himself and began to hum ‘All things bright and beautiful’, only to check abruptly as he realized, with a queer stab of fear, that he was doing something that was so completely alien to the character of Syed Akbar, scribe, that if anyone had overheard it he would certainly have been betrayed.
For over a year now he had been careful – deadly careful – never to say or do anything that might arouse suspicion, until by now he had imagined that any chance of his doing so was too remote to be worth considering, and that to all intents and purposes he had become Syed Akbar. Yet now he realized that he had not; and suddenly, with that knowledge, came an intense longing to be rid of pretence and be himself – only himself. But which self? Who was he? Ashton…? Ashok…? Akbar…? Which? Which two could he discard? Or must he always be an amalgam of all three, joined together like… ‘like Siamese triplets,’ thought Ash wryly.
If so, was there anywhere in the world where he and Juli could live without having to remember and pretend? Where they need not act a part, as both were doing now; forced to be forever on their guard for fear of making some trivial slip that, by exposing them as impostors, could endanger their very lives? The sort of slip he had made just now, when he began to hum an English hymn. It was frightening to realize that he would have done so even if there had been someone else in the room, and that it was only sheer luck that had saved him from being overheard. The knowledge left him profoundly shaken, and when he turned from the window to collect the ledgers that the Munshi would need, he found that his hands were cold and not entirely steady.
The sun was up by the time Wally and his party reached the outskirts of Ben-i-Hissar, and avoiding the village and the croplands surrounding it, selected an area of the uncultivated charman where the grass-cutters could collect all they needed without infringing on the rights of the local peasantry.
‘By gum, what a day!’ breathed Wally, awed by the dazzle of the morning. There had been a heavy dew during the night, and now every leaf and twig and blade of grass was hung with diamonds that flashed and glittered in the early sunlight, while the Bala Hissar, basking in the bright rays, might have been Kubla Khan's palace built on a hill of gold. ‘Will you look at that now, Rosie. Who would ever believe, seeing it from here, that the place is no more than a rat's nest of tumble-down mud-and-plaster houses and half-ruined walls?’
‘Not to mention dirt and smells and sewage,’ grunted Rosie. ‘Don't be forgetting that. It's a wonder to me so it is that we aren't all dead from typhoid and cholera. But I grant you it looks very fine from here, and as I'm as empty as a drum and breakfast is calling, I suggest we leave these fellows to their own devices and get back there as soon as possible. Unless you feel we should stay around a bit longer, of course?’
‘Good Lord, no. They'll be all right now. Besides, the Chief said he wanted breakfast an hour early this morning – quarter-to-seven at the latest. He has to see some local big-wig at eight, I believe.’
Wally turned to the Kote-Daffadar and instructed him to see that the grass-cutters came back before the sun became too hot, and having saluted the escort and the Amir's men, rode off at a gallop, singing ‘Get thee, watchman, to the ramparts! Gird thee warrior with the sword!’
Ash was usually right about Wally.
‘Slow down, you young madman,’ exhorted Rosie as they raced across the ch
arman and their horses, reaching a bank that concealed an irrigation ditch, rose to it as though it had been a bullfinch in distant Kildare and came down on cultivated land once more. Wally reined in reluctantly, and they approached the citadel at a sedate canter and entered the Shah Shahie Gate at a walk; pausing under the arch to exchange salutes with the Afghan sentries and speak to a passing sepoy of the Guides Infantry, one Mohammed Dost, who explained that he was on his way to the Kabul bazaar to arrange for the purchase of flour for the Escort…
The fact that he was going there unaccompanied, and plainly had no qualms about doing so, was an indication of how greatly the feeling in the city had changed for the better of late, and both officers realized it, and in consequence returned to the compound buoyed up by a conviction that from now on life in Kabul was going to be far more enjoyable than they had supposed.
Sir Louis, who had returned from his morning ride some time before them, had already bathed and changed and was strolling in the courtyard, and though not normally loquacious before breakfast, today he was full of plans for the cold weather, and in such good spirits that Wally, taking his courage in both hands, at last broached the subject of fodder for the winter months and the extra storage space that would be needed for it; pointing out that the slope of waste ground known as the Kulla-Fi-Arangi would provide ample space for a few sheds, but being careful not to mention the question of defence. Sir Louis agreed that something would have to be done about it, and turned the matter over to William, who made a face at Wally and said blandly that he was sure that the Guides would be able to find room for a haystack or two near the stables.
A few hundred yards away, in a building that overlooked the open ground where the pay parade was due to take place, General Daud Shah, Commander-in-Chief of the Afghan Army, was already seated by an open window from where he could oversee the proceedings, while below him on the ground floor, on a narrow recessed verandah that ran the length of the building, Ash squatted among a number of underlings and watched the Munshi and a number of minor officials fussing with ledgers as the dusty space before them filled up with men.
The prevailing mood was a holiday one, and there was nothing suggestive of smartness or military discipline about the men of the Ardal Regiment as they sauntered up by twos and threes, talking and laughing and making no attempt to form up in ranks. They might have been a crowd of ordinary citizens attending a fair, for they were not in uniform and such weapons as they carried were no more than any subject of the Amir took with him when he walked abroad, a tulwar and an Afghan knife, Daud Shah having prudently ordered that all firearms and ammunition must be handed in and stored in the Arsenal for safe keeping, and even the Herati Regiment on guard there obeying this edict.
By now the sun was well up, but though the time was barely seven o'clock, the day was already warm enough to make Ash grateful for the shade provided by the painted roof and carved wooden arches of the verandah. And even more so for the fact that the matting-covered floor stood a full six feet above the level of the ground, which enabled tnose who sat there to look down on the crowd and avoid being stifled by that shifting sea of bearded, ill-washed humanity.
It also gave them the opportunity to study the faces of the men who stood below them, and Ash was conscious of a sudden prickle of unease as he recognized one of them: a thin, wizened little man with a hook nose and the eyes of a fanatic, who had no business to be there at all, since he was neither a soldier nor a resident in the Bala Hissar, but a holy man, the Fakir Buzurg Shah, whom Ash knew to be an agitator who hated all ‘Kafirs’ (unbelievers) with a burning hatred, and worked tirelessly for a Jehad. He wondered what had brought the man here this morning, and whether he hoped to sow the good seed among the soldiers of the Ardal Regiment as he had sowed it among the Heratis? Ash could only hope that this soil would prove less fertile.
He had begun to wonder how long the pay parade would take and if the Munshi would allow him to have the rest of the day off as soon as it was over, when a portly official from the Treasury rose to his feet and took his stand at the top of the central flight of steps that led up to the verandah. Raising a podgy hand he called for silence, and having achieved it, announced that if the men would line up and advance one by one to the foot of the stairs, they would receive their pay; but here he paused and flapped both hands angrily to quiet the babble of approval – but… they would have to be content with one month's pay instead of the three that had been promised them, as there was not enough money in the Treasury to cover the sum demanded.
The news had been received with a stunned silence that lasted for what seemed like minutes, but was probably less than twenty seconds. And then pandemonium broke loose as the men of the Ardal Regiment surged forward, pushing and shouting, screaming at the portly gentleman and his companions on the verandah, who screamed back at them that they would be well advised to take what they were offered while they had the chance – the Treasury had already been drained to give them even that one month's pay and there was no more to be had, not so much as one pice. Could they not understand that? The money was not there – they were welcome to come and see for themselves if they did not believe it.
The explosion of rage that greeted this last announcement resembled nothing so much as the snarling roar of a gigantic tiger, hungry, furious and thirsting for prey. And hearing it Ash felt his nerves tighten, and for a brief moment was tempted to run to the Residency and warn them of what had happened. But the narrow verandah was so crowded that it would not be easy to leave without attracting notice; and besides, this was a dispute between the Afghan Government and its soldiers, and no affair of the British Mission – which would in any case have already been warned by the noise that trouble was afoot, since the uproar must be loud enough to be heard in the city.
It was soon to grow louder.
A bull-voiced man in the forefront of the crowd bellowed ‘Dam-i-charya!’ – ‘pay and food' – and those about him took up the cry. Within seconds half the men were shouting the words in unison, and the thunderous beat of that slogan boomed under arches of the verandah until the whole fabric of the building seemed to vibrate to the sound. ‘Dam-i-charya! Dam-i-charya…! Dam-i-charya…!’
Then suddenly stones began to fly as the hungry, cheated troops stooped to snatch up this handy and time-honoured ammunition and hurl it at the upper windows where their Commander-in-Chief sat. One of his Generals and some of the Ardal's officers, who had been standing in a group by the central steps, began to move among the men in an effort to calm them, shouting for silence and exhorting them to remember that they were soldiers and not children or hooligans. But it proved impossible to make themselves heard above the din, and presently one of them fought his way back, and thrusting aside the dismayed officials on the verandah ran into the house to beg the Commander-in-Chief to come down and talk to them himself, as that might quieten them.
Daud Shah had not hesitated. He had suffered many insults of late from the soldiers of the Afghan Army, and only a handful of days ago the departing Herati regiments had booed and jeered him as they marched out. But he was a fearless man, and it was not in his nature to seek safety in inaction. He descended at once and strode to the top of the steps, lifting his arms for silence.
The men of the Ardal Regiment made a concerted rush, and the next moment he was down and fighting for his life as they dragged him from the verandah and fell on him like a pack of wolves on a buck.
In an instant everyone on the verandah leapt to their feet, Ash among them. He was too far to one side to see what was happening, nor could he move forward, for he found himself hemmed in by horror-struck civilians: clerks, chupprassis and minor officials, who pushed and jostled each other as some strove to get a better view and others struggled to make their escape from the verandah and take refuge in the rooms behind.
Ash himself was in two minds whether to go or stay. But with the troops in their present mood, any civilian intent on escape and trying to force his way through them would
probably be beaten up as savagely as they were beating Daud Shah, so it seemed better to stand fast and wait upon events. But for the first time in several days he was glad that he carried a pistol and a knife with him, and regretted that he had not brought his revolver as well, instead of deciding at the last moment that in view of the slackening of tension and the return of a more relaxed and peaceful atmosphere throughout Kabul there was no longer any need to carry such a bulky weapon with him and that it could be safely left in his office, hidden in one of the locked boxes in which he kept the Munshi's files.
That had been a mistake. But then no one had anticipated the present situation – certainly not Daud Shah, who seemed likely to pay for this error of judgement with his life. That he did not do so was due to luck more than anything else, for when the furious Ardalis had beaten and kicked him until he could barely see or speak, one of them plunged a bayonet into the fallen man. The savage act served to sober them, and they drew back and fell silent, staring down at their handiwork and making no attempt to prevent his entourage – who to give them their due had tried to go to his assistance – from carrying him away to his own house.
Ash caught a glimpse of him as they went past, and would have found it hard to believe that this battered object, turbanless and clad now in no more than a few torn and bloodstained rags, could possibly be alive, had it not been for the vigorous stream of profanity that issued from those split and bleeding lips. The indomitable Commander-in-Chief, having recovered his breath, was using it to express his opinion of his assailants: ‘Filth! Offal! Sons of diseased swine! Spawn of reputationless mothers! Sweepings of hell!’ snarled Daud Shah between gasps of pain as he was borne away, dripping blood that left a vivid scarlet trail on the white dust below the verandah.