by Saul David
Lucy
Anger flared in George's breast. Poor Lucy, he thought, hounded by that brute. He knew, though, that Harris was bluffing and said as much in his reply, counselling Lucy to sit tight and destroy any subsequent letters. Harris had no evidence against them, he added, and would find it impossible to refute the alibi that George's former lover, Mrs Bradbury, had given them to atone for a previous wrong. As for Harris paying her a visit, it was impossible for him to do so while the Zulu war was still being fought and likely to continue for some time. Meanwhile George promised to return to South Africa as soon as he could to reassure her in person. He signed off 'with much love' and, for the first time, meant it.
Later that morning, as George was handing in the letter for posting and paying his bill at the front desk, he caught sight of a tall, fair-haired man on the far side of the lobby he was sure he recognised from the voyage. The man was smartly dressed in a cream linen suit and apparently reading a newspaper - but George was convinced he was being watched because every time he glanced in that direction the man looked back to his paper. He was about to go over and ask him his business when the hotel manager, an unctuous European called Beresford, interrupted his train of thought: 'I trust you have had a pleasant stay, Mr Harper, and that everything was to your satisfaction?'
'What's that?' said George. 'Um . . . yes, very satisfactory, though I can't say I've enjoyed being woken every morning by the Muhammadans' call to prayers.'
'No, sir, but there's little we can do about that. If the Mutiny taught us anything it's that you tamper with the natives' religion at your peril.'
'I'm sure. I wasn't suggesting . . .' George trailed off as he remembered the man observing him. He looked over again but he had gone.
Chapter 4
Kotri railway station, Sind, midsummer 1879
The whistle sounded twice as the train approached the small town of Kotri, an oasis of whitewashed buildings fringed with orange, lime and mango trees on the right bank of the Indus. George could feel only relief that the tedious ten-hour journey was over and that he no longer had to stare at the drab, featureless desert that covered much of southern Sind.
The small station was packed with passengers, and as the train juddered to a halt with a squeal of its brakes and a great whoosh of steam, they surged forward, some clambering onto the roof, others passing children and sacks of their possessions through open windows, one or two even using the doors.
George stepped down from the cool haven of his first-class carriage into this seething mass of humanity, keeping a tight hold on his kit-bag as turbaned traders offered their wares from behind carts heaped with colourful spices, and railway officials, in their blue tunics and caps, tried in vain to keep order. He had been warned about the chaos of an Indian railway station but nothing, he now realized, could have prepared him for such a sensory overload. A voice hailed him. 'Huzoor! Wait there!'
It was Ilderim, towering head and shoulders above the other passengers, but still a good fifty yards further down the platform, having just got out of third class. As he moved towards George the crowd seemed to part, intimidated as much by his size as by the steel-rimmed wooden club, or lathi, he clutched in his right hand.
On reaching George he rattled off instructions to a waiting gaggle of porters: two were to carry their bags while a third collected their horses from the livestock carriage and met them at the ghat, or landing place. 'This way, huzoor,' he said to George. 'We'll take a gharry to the river. It's not far.'
From the back of the pony-drawn carriage George got his first view of the famed Indus, the two-thousand-mile river that flowed from the Tibetan plateau to the Arabian Gulf, whose Greek name had been given to the entire sub-continent. Its span at Kotri was more than half a mile, yet it was close to bursting its banks, thanks to the recent onset of the monsoon and the melting of the summer snows. The ghat below teemed with native craft, some with thatched roofs, and all crammed with merchandise bound for or just arrived from the booming port of Karachi. The exception was a small steamer with a rear paddle-wheel, and a barge attached to either side, that was tied to a rough wooden jetty.
'Is that it?' asked George, having imagined something much grander.
'Yes, huzoor. A fine vessel, no?'
George was about to answer in the negative when his attention was drawn to a tall man boarding the steamer by a rickety gangplank. He was wearing a light-coloured suit and George could have sworn he was the man from the hotel. 'Ilderim, have you seen that man before?' he asked, pointing at the steamer.
'Which man, huzoor?'
'The European who just boarded.'
'There are many Europeans on deck. Which one?'
'The one in the cream suit. I'm sure he was watching me at the hotel.'
'I have no memory of him, huzoor.'
'Well, perhaps you weren't on duty - or he didn't leave you a tip. But, believe me, he was there.'
'And you'd like me to keep an eye on him, huzoor?'
'Yes, please, if it's not too much trouble.'
Ilderim frowned at his employer's attempt at a joke. 'Consider it done.'
But Ilderim had little opportunity to make good his promise because, for the first week of the voyage up the Indus, the mysterious European spent most of his time in his cabin, even taking his meals there rather than in the communal saloon. Only occasionally did he venture on deck, and only at night when the stifling heat made even the first-class cabins all but unbearable. Ilderim had spotted him once or twice from the shore where he and George, after one torturous night on board, had taken to sleeping rough, wrapped in thin mosquito nets to discourage the swarms of insects. It was as well for them that the steamer only travelled by day to minimize the chances of grounding on the many sandbanks that lay just below the river's fast-flowing surface, and at night was usually anchored alongside a wood station so that fuel for the hungry boilers could be replenished. One by one the other passengers had followed their lead until only the stranger remained on board at night, which made George more suspicious still. When he quizzed the skipper, a light-skinned Anglo-Indian called Skinner, he received a curt reply: 'Where he sleeps at night is his business.'
As the days passed George began to think less of the stranger and more about his mission. His grasp of Pashto was increasing by the day and even Ilderim - who took little pleasure from his duties as language tutor, or munshi, which he seemed to regard as beneath him - was forced to concede that he was a fast learner. George knew that he would have to be fluent if he was to have any chance of getting his hands on the cloak, and redoubled his efforts, spending many hours studying in his cabin.
When he was not working he would sit in a deckchair as the steamer crawled up-river, at speeds rarely exceeding four miles an hour, through immense forests, sandy plains and the occasional tract of cultivated land. They passed so many villages of rudely constructed flat-roofed huts, whose inhabitants looked almost as destitute as their dwellings, that George was hard-pressed to think of a more impoverished setting - until, that was, Ilderim pointed out to him the numerous small craft loading and unloading goods in little creeks beside each village. 'Don't be fooled, huzoor. They can trade, thanks to the river, and have more than most. To see real poverty, you must visit the interior.'
The only place of any size and interest on their journey was the sacred town of Sukkur, in upper Sind, which they reached towards the end of the second week. Its main attraction - the needle-shaped minaret of Mir Masum Shah, completed in 1614, and said to house the bones of numerous Mussulman saints - was visible for miles around. George decided to pay it a visit without Ilderim. He had just completed the last of its eighty-four winding steps, and was enjoying the spectacular view over Sukkur's colourful bazaar when footsteps heralded another sightseer. It was, to George's great surprise and not a little alarm, the suspicious stranger who, for once, had left his cabin. He was an odd-looking man, with small, light blue eyes and a slightly crooked jaw, his blond hair parted in the centre. Like Ge
orge, he wore a broad-brimmed slouch hat, open-necked shirt and trousers, though he also carried a small bag, which could have housed a weapon.
'Are you following me?' asked George.
'Not at all,' said the stranger, with a chuckle. 'Why do you ask?'
'Because every turn I take you're right behind me - the ship from England, the Hotel Metropole in Karachi and now the steamer to Multan. You probably caught the same train as me to Kotri.'
'I did. I won't deny it. But it's hardly a coincidence. Anyone travelling to Peshawar from England would have gone that way. Mail packet to Karachi, a few days' stay in its best hotel while they waited for the first steamer up the Indus from Kotri. I'm not following you, just taking the same route.'
Put like that, George had to concede that it wasn't such a coincidence - but that didn't explain the stranger's odd behaviour. 'Then why have you been acting so suspiciously? I saw you watching me in the hotel lobby, and since we boarded the steamer you've hardly left your cabin.'
'And you've put two and two together, and concluded I'm following you.'
'Exactly.'
'Now, why would I do that? Have you something to hide?'
George reddened. 'No! I just don't like being spied on.'
'Well, you've nothing to worry about then, have you? At the hotel I looked over when I heard you asking about the train to Kotri because I was going the same way. As for my strange behaviour on the boat, there's a quite innocent explanation. I've been working on the facts and figures for a major new piece of business my company is trying to secure in Peshawar.'
'And what business would that be?'
'Why, carpets, of course. You must know that Peshawar is the emporium for Asian carpets - the Shatuz is particularly in demand in London at the moment, though the Persian is never out of fashion.'
'You're a carpet dealer?'
'I am. Thomas Overton of the Anglo-Persian Carpet Company, to be precise. And you are?'
'James Harper of Anglo-Indian Trading.'
'Never heard of them. What do you trade in?'
'Dried fruit and nuts from the Punjab and Afghanistan. The well-to-do in the Home Counties can't get enough of them.'
'Is that so? Well, well, well. It seems we're in a similar line of work.'
'Yes, indeed.'
'Well, I must be getting back to my books, sir. Enjoy the view but don't stay out too long. You may be waylaid by dacoits.'
'Dacoits? I don't think I've come across that word in my language book.'
'Which language?'
'Pashto.'
'"Dacoit" is an Urdu word for petty thief or robber. This part of Sind is crawling with them - another reason not to sleep on shore.'
'I'll bear that in mind,' called George, as Overton began to descend the stone staircase.
Later, back at the boat, George told Ilderim of his meeting with Overton, and that he hadn't believed a word the man had spoken. 'Carpet dealer, my foot! He's no more a carpet dealer than I'm a . . .'
'Businessman?' suggested Ilderim.
'What do you mean? I am a businessman. No, I was going to say Eurasian. But never mind that. The point is, I don't trust Overton - if that's his name. I fear he means to disrupt my plans.'
'Your business plans, huzoor?' said Ilderim, pointedly.
George took the hint, and was tempted to tell him the truth, or at least that he was an agent of the British Foreign Office. But on reflection he realized he hardly knew his Afghan companion, and the fewer people who were privy to his mission the better. 'Yes, of course. It may be he works for a rival company. Anyway, as I said before, I'd appreciate it if you'd keep a close eye on him.'
Ilderim said he would, but George could not help feeling that his bodyguard was taking his duties less than seriously. He preferred flirting with the young Sindi women who were travelling with their families in steerage, packed like sardines into the two airless barges that flanked the steamer. One in particular had caught Ilderim's eye, a black-haired beauty with kohl-dark eyes and a suggestive pout, and more than once George had caught him ogling her from the upper deck as she washed her clothes by the riverbank.
'Is she not fine, huzoor?' Ilderim had asked, with a wolfish grin.
'Very fine. But she happens to have a father in tow so keep your hands to yourself.'
As it happened, Ilderim could not, but his excuse was a good one. A day after George's brief conversation with Overton, the steamer was negotiating a particularly narrow channel between two large sandbanks when it came to a loud shuddering halt. Its passengers and staff were knocked off their feet and its wheel thrashed the water to no avail. It had run aground.
The captain could not say how long it would take to free it: a day, if they were lucky, possibly three. It depended upon the height of the river. The poorer passengers took him at his word and, despite the danger from the crocodiles that infested the river above Sukkur, set up camp on the nearest sandbank. Before long, the makeshift shelters had spread across several hundred yards of sand and mothers busied themselves at their cooking fires while their youngsters splashed in the shallows.
George and Ilderim had found a secluded spot a little further on and were in the process of unrolling their bedding when they heard a high-pitched scream from the direction of the main camp. Ilderim pulled his long, razor-sharp Khyber knife from its scabbard and tore off down the sand, with George, pistol in hand, a good twenty yards at his rear. A crowd had gathered on the shore, pointing and shouting at an adolescent girl, transfixed with fear, on a narrow sandbank. Also on the sandbank, barely twenty yards from her, was a huge crocodile.
Without breaking stride, Ilderim stuck his knife between his teeth and hurled himself full length into the water, his long arms eating up the short distance to the stranded girl. George followed, holding his pistol above the water, but was barely halfway across as Ilderim clambered on to dry land. The crocodile had closed to within a couple of yards of the girl, who was screaming hysterically but making no attempt to escape. So intent was the beast on its prey that it failed to notice the big Afghan approaching from behind. As it opened its gaping jaws to strike, Ilderim threw himself on to its back and plunged his knife through the hard scales of its right flank. The great beast snapped its jaws and thrashed in agony, but Ilderim clung on, stabbing it repeatedly until it lay still.
George ran forward and fired a single bullet into the crocodile's head.
'Aargh!' groaned an exhausted Ilderim, his right ear ringing with the gun's report. 'Not so close, please.'
'I was making sure it was dead.'
'It was. Is the girl all right, huzoor?'
George turned to see her enfolded in the embrace of the dark-haired beauty Ilderim had been ogling. She, too, had swum across, and her soaking wet salwar kameez left little to the imagination. 'Are you sisters?' asked George.
The elder girl smiled but did not reply.
'She doesn't speak English, huzoor,' explained Ilderim, who had risen to his feet. He was still holding the bloody knife and the right arm of his white tunic was red with crocodile blood. 'Or Pashto. I'll try in Urdu.'
After a brief conversation, Ilderim turned back to him. 'They're sisters, travelling with their family to their ancestral home near Multan. The young woman is called Soraya. The little one is Umra. She has a habit of wandering off, but no harm done.'
'Thanks to you,' said George. 'That was very brave, what you just did.'
'Any man would have done the same.'
'I think not. Did you see anyone else take on the crocodile?'
'You did.'
'But I had a pistol,' said George, clapping Ilderim on the back. 'Let's get back, shall we, before any more crocodiles appear?'
Having safely escorted the pair back across the water, Ilderim and George were applauded by the crowd and warmly embraced by the girls' father, a great bear of a man with a notable belly and a pair of upturned moustaches. 'You saved my child's life,' he declared in Urdu with great solemnity. 'I am for ever in your deb
t. Name your price. Anything I have is yours.'
'Anything?' asked Ilderim.
'Anything.'
Ilderim's eyes twinkled with mischief. 'He says I can name my price for saving his daughter. Do you think he'd be agreeable if I asked for the other--'
George raised an index finger. 'Don't even think it!'
Out of the corner of his eye George noticed Overton on the upper deck of the steamer. He was aiming a rifle at the far bank, as if on the look-out for the plentiful game that lined the river, but there were no wild geese, ducks or peafowl in sight. George had an uncomfortable feeling that he might have been Overton's true target.
That night, as he slept beside Ilderim on the sandbank, George dreamt the steamer had hit a rock and was sinking. Everyone was leaping into the water to save themselves, and as he followed suit he noticed, too late, that the river was crawling with crocodiles. He woke as a pair of huge jaws were about to slam shut on his arm. It took him a moment to realize that something was indeed tugging on his shoulder. Thinking it must be Ilderim, he uttered an oath and pushed the hand away, but it was insistent. 'What the devil--' He froze in mid-sentence.
It was a clear moonlit night and he could distinctly see a revolver levelled at his chest. The man holding it was not Overton, as he'd half expected, but a swarthy, turbaned rogue with rotten teeth and a great jagged scar from jaw to ear. A couple of steps behind him crouched a younger accomplice, his face pitted with smallpox scars, also holding a pistol. 'Where's your money, Feringhee?' demanded the older man in English.
'I have none,' said George, loudly, hoping to wake Ilderim. But when he sneaked a look at the bedroll on his left it was empty.
'You lie. Feringhees always carry money. Find it or you die.'
George searched in his jacket pockets and produced a handful of notes and coins, which the robber counted. 'Thirty-three rupees, you dog! Where is the rest?'
'That's all I have,' said George, determined not to hand over his gold sovereigns, which were in the bottom of the pack he was using as a pillow, and hoping against hope that Ilderim would return from his midnight ramble.