by Saul David
'And ammunition?'
'We've got three hundred rounds per man. Why do you ask?'
'Because at Rorke's Drift we had almost that amount yet by morning were down to our last box and a half.'
Roberts gaped. 'You were at Rorke's Drift?'
George cursed himself for this first slip of the tongue since his arrival in Afghanistan. His first instinct was to say he had been joking, but then it occurred to him that, with his mission almost over, there was no longer any need for secrecy. And he suspected that Roberts would be more willing to let him take part in the battle if he was aware of his true military rank. 'Indeed I was,' he admitted.
'But you said you worked for a British trading company.'
'I know. That was the cover story I was given. In fact I am Captain George Hart of the Third Sixtieth Rifles. I'm currently on attachment to the Foreign Office, and was sent here on a secret assignment by Lord Beaconsfield himself.'
'I'll be damned,' interjected FitzGeorge. 'I knew all along you weren't a businessman.'
'Quiet!' barked Roberts, his hand raised. 'You say you're an army officer on a mission for the British government. Why wasn't I informed?'
'Because no one in India was told about my mission, not even the viceroy. The only people who know are the Prime Minister, the Foreign Secretary, the Commander-in-Chief and one or two senior officials at the Foreign Office.'
'I'm sorry Harper - or Hart, or whatever you're calling yourself now - I don't believe you. The home government knows very well that Afghanistan is within our sphere of influence, and that all intelligence gathering is co-ordinated by Simla. It would never send agents without letting us know. We're on the same side, after all.'
'I know that, General, but this is an exceptional case and the Prime Minister has his reasons.'
'Which are?'
'I'm not at liberty to say.'
'Not at liberty!' exploded Roberts, his face red with fury. 'Who do you think you are? You arrive at my headquarters with some cock-and-bull story about a secret mission and you expect me to believe you? I'm beginning to wonder if the princess's warning of an attack on our east wall isn't a ruse to get us to weaken our defences elsewhere. I'm tempted to shoot you all as spies.'
'It's not a ruse, General, and I'm not a spy - at least, not for the rebels.'
'How can I be sure? You're swarthy enough to be an Afghan.'
'I was brought up in Ireland and my mother is half Maltese. But everything I've told you about my military rank and mission is true.'
'Do you have any proof? You must have something in writing.'
'No, General, I do not. But there is one man on your staff who can vouch for me.'
'Name him.'
'Lieutenant Sykes.'
'Sykes? How does he know you?'
'He was with me at Harrow We met by chance in the mess at Ali Khel, and I decided to tell him the truth of my mission for fear he'd reveal my identity.'
Roberts turned to FitzGeorge. 'Did Sykes say anything to you?'
FitzGeorge gulped. 'Only that he and Harper had known each other at school. When I asked Harper about this he said they hadn't got on. He also said he'd since left the army.'
'Why didn't you tell me about this?'
'I don't know, sir. I suppose I didn't think it was important.'
'Well, it is. Fetch Sykes. We'll soon get to the bottom of this.'
'Yes, sir,' said FitzGeorge, less than happy to be forced out into the cold for the second time that night.
Minutes later he returned with Sykes. 'You asked to see me, General?'
'Do you know this man?' said Roberts sharply, gesturing at George.
At first Sykes failed to recognise his former fag beneath the beard and Afghan clothes. 'He looks familiar, but I can't . . .'
George interrupted, 'It's me, you fool. George Hart.'
Sykes's eyes widened in shock. 'Good Heavens, it is.'
'So you do know him?' said Roberts.
'Um . . . yes, sir. We were at Harrow together.'
'And do you know why he's in Afghanistan?'
Sykes paused, causing George to hold his breath. He knew that if Sykes lied, there was every chance he would be locked up until the battle was over.
At last Sykes spoke: 'I only know what he told me, sir.'
George exhaled slowly in relief
'And what was that?' asked Roberts.
'That he was sent here by the Prime Minister on a secret mission.'
'Did he tell you the nature of that mission?'
'Only that it was to do with our relations with Afghanistan.'
'He didn't elaborate?'
'No, sir.'
'And you didn't think to mention this either to myself or Major FitzGeorge?'
'No, sir . . . That is, I did think about it, but Hart warned me that if I said anything my career would suffer.'
'And you believed him?'
'Yes, sir. He said that his mission had been authorized by the Commander-in-Chief himself, and that I would be jeopardizing my prospects of promotion if I revealed what he was up to.'
Roberts exploded: 'You self-serving fool! As a member of my staff, your first loyalty should always be to me - yet you think of your own advancement and keep vital information from your chief! If I didn't need every man I could muster for the battle ahead, I'd lock you up and throw away the key. As it is, you're finished on the staff. From tomorrow you'll serve with the Ninth Lancers as a supernumerary. Maybe together you can regain your honour. Now get out of my sight.'
'But, sir, I was only doing what--'
'Get out!' shouted Roberts. 'Or, so help me, God . . .'
'Sir,' said Sykes, pausing only to glare at George before he saluted, turned on his heel and left.
'It seems,' said Roberts to George, 'that you are who you now say you are. Whether the rest of your story is true is another matter. But as there's no way to verify it, I'll have to let the matter rest until after the battle. In the meantime, I'm sending you and your Afghan companion to assist Colonel Jenkins of the Guides Infantry. He's a good man, one of the best I've got, and is in charge of the vulnerable eastern sector, which, if the princess is right, will face the brunt of the assault. He'll need every man he can get.'
'I'm glad to help where I can,' said George, 'as is Ilderim Khan. He served for many years in the Guide cavalry, retiring as a subadar, and may still know some of the officers. Will we retain our ranks?'
'No, your ranks are unverified and mean nothing to me. You'll both serve as privates. But remember this: if you're playing me false, you'll suffer the consequences. I promise you that. As for the princess, she'll be kept within these walls until it's possible for her to join her brother in exile.'
'You mean to keep her under lock and key?' George was aghast.
'No, no, nothing like that,' said Roberts, waving dismissively. 'She'll be given a guard of honour, as befitting her royal status.'
'And if she tries to leave the cantonment before the battle?'
'Then she'll be, um - how can I put it? - dissuaded. She'll be much safer here. I'd be grateful if you could explain that to her.'
'I'll try, but she won't like it.'
'Maybe not, but there it is. Goodnight, then,' said Roberts, bowing slightly to Yasmin as he rose from his chair. 'FitzGeorge will arrange your quarters and the princess's guard.'
Once Roberts had departed, George turned to Yasmin and translated what the general had said.
'Great God!' responded Yasmin, eyes blazing. 'Am I to be kept here against my will?'
'I'm afraid so. At least until the battle is over.'
'That's not quite how the general put it,' interrupted FitzGeorge, also speaking Pashto.
'Isn't it, Major?' said George. 'Then perhaps you'd care to explain what he did mean.'
'Simply that it wouldn't be safe for the princess to leave while the rebellion is in full spate.'
'So you won't allow me to, is that it?' asked Yasmin.
'Um, yes,' said FitzG
eorge, 'but for your own good.'
'What nonsense! Why can't you admit I'm your prisoner?'
'Because it's not true, Your Highness,' said FitzGeorge, lamely. 'You should think of yourself, instead, as a guest with restricted movement. Now, if you'll allow me, I'll show you to your quarters.'
George was lying fully clothed on a camp-bed in his room over the main gate, mulling over the events of the evening, when a knock sounded at his door. 'Who is it?'
'FitzGeorge. I've a message from the princess.'
George rose wearily from the camp-bed, padded to the door and opened it. FitzGeorge was standing there, his head cocked to one side, a half-smile on his lips.
'What message?'
'She wanted you to know that she doesn't blame you for what's happened, and that she trusts you'll stick to your side of the bargain. I'm intrigued as to what she means by that.'
'Oh, it's nothing,' said George, more than a little irked that Yasmin felt she needed to remind him to keep the cloak secret. 'Was there anything else?'
'I meant to ask you earlier if you ever found out what became of the cloak.'
So surprised was George by the question that he just stared, open-mouthed. 'The cloak? What cloak?' he said at last, playing for time.
'You know perfectly well what cloak. The Prophet's Cloak, of course. You asked me about it at Ali Khel, and I confirmed it was on its way to the mullah at Ghazni. The question is, did it get there?'
'I've no idea,' said George, trying to keep his gaze away from the saddle-bag beside the bed. 'But, given the success of the mullah's call to arms, I'd say it's a safe bet he has it.'
'You'd think so, wouldn't you? But none of my spies has mentioned it, which they would have done if he'd worn it in public.'
'Maybe he's waiting for the right moment.'
'That moment's been and gone. The only logical explanation is that he doesn't have it yet. But if that's so, who does?'
'Does it matter?'
'I don't suppose so. Either way the tribes have risen and if Lytton holds his nerve we'll soon have them licked. Then we can choose at our leisure which bits of the country we'd like to keep hold of.'
'This is what you've been planning for all along, isn't it?' asked George. 'To break up the country, divide and rule.'
'Of course. It will secure India's frontiers and give us the opportunity to extend British trade.'
'What do you care about trade?'
'Nothing, ordinarily,' said FitzGeorge. He paused. 'But I'm a little short of cash at the moment and an Armenian merchant, prominent in the Calcutta business community, has offered me a very generous sum if I secure for him a monopoly over certain Afghan exports.'
'Which ones?'
'Fruit and nuts, to begin with. Have you tried them? They're excellent.'
'What else?'
'Opium. My merchant friend is keen to find out if Afghanistan, particularly the Helmand province in the south-west, is suitable for the production and export of high-grade opium. The Chinese can't get enough of it.'
'And why is that?' asked George, indignantly. 'It's because twice in the last forty years we've fought wars to force the Chinese to open their ports to our trade, particularly opium grown in India. Why do you think we acquired Hong Kong in forty-two if not as a base for opium smuggling? And why do you think in sixty we destroyed the Imperial Summer Palace at Peking, one of the wonders of the world, if not to promote free trade? It certainly seems to have worked because this year, according to The Times, we exported twice as many chests of opium to China as we did in eighteen sixty. The result is that three of every four Chinese males are addicts - and you're happy to extend this wicked trade here, as if the Afghans haven't got enough to worry about. What kind of a monster are you?'
FitzGeorge snorted with derision. 'Don't get pious with me, Hart. We're all in it for something, even you. And why shouldn't my Armenian friend take over? He'll make more money out of the opium and fruit trades than the Afghans ever could. I wouldn't be surprised if, in a few years' time, they name a Kabul street after him.'
'How much?'
'How much what?'
'How much is your cut?'
'He's offered me a lakh of rupees, which is ten thousand pounds to you, but I'm sure I can squeeze a little more out of him.'
George looked at FitzGeorge scornfully, almost ashamed now that they might be brothers. 'Aren't you forgetting one thing?'
'What's that?'
'There's a battle looming that we might not win. Much good ten thousand pounds will do you when you're cold and in your grave - if the Afghans can be bothered to bury you, that is, which I very much doubt they will. Goodnight,' said George, and shut the door before FitzGeorge could respond.
Chapter 20
North-east corner of the Sherpur cantonment, Kabul, 23 December 1879
George blew on his hands for warmth as he peered across the cantonment to the Asmai Heights where, if Yasmin's intelligence was correct, the Mullah Mushk-i-Alam would light a fire to signal the start of the battle. He and Ilderim were keeping watch behind a raised parapet on the roof of the native field hospital, a walled enclosure that was the keystone to the otherwise makeshift defences in the cantonment's north-east corner. It was pitch black and bitterly cold, and most of their new comrades in the 28th Punjab Infantry were still asleep in their tents.
The day before, in line with General Roberts's instructions, George and Ilderim had reported to Colonel Jenkins, a tall, snowy-haired officer in charge of the cantonment's eastern defences that stretched from the trenches on the lower slopes of the Bimaru Heights to the corner bastion facing the Siah Sang hills. After a breezy welcome, Jenkins had posted them to the 28th, which was holding the unfinished east wall as far as the native hospital. Ilderim had wanted to join his old comrades in the Guides, manning the trench system that linked the hospital to the loopholed village of Bimaru, but Jenkins would not relent, even when George told him they had fought alongside the doomed Guides at the Residency. 'We're all desperate to avenge our fallen comrades,' he had said, 'but you can do that just as well in the Twenty-Eighth as with us. They've lost quite a few men in recent days, and will welcome the reinforcement.'
So George and Ilderim had been directed to the headquarters of the 28th, a low building set back from the unfinished wall, where a red-faced quartermaster had issued them with Sniders and the battalion uniform of light blue turbans, short black boots, khaki tunics and trousers, and white cross-belts holding a bayonet and ammunition pouches for forty rounds. Then they were assigned to a company of a hundred men defending the hospital. The company commander, in turn, had put them on night sentry duty, which was why they were standing alone on the hospital roof with orders to rouse Havildar Singh as soon as they saw the first sparks of a fire on the distant Asmai Heights.
'Can you see anything?' asked George, as he stared into the inky blackness.
'No, huzoor, but I can hear something being dragged across the snow.'
George listened hard and could just make out a swishing sound, like a sledge. 'What do you think it is?'
'They might be bringing ladders closer to the wall.'
George shivered again and this time it wasn't the cold. He knew, as did every defender in the improvised fort, that if the Afghans broke in they would give no quarter. It was Isandlwana all over again, only this time they knew an assault was imminent, and from which direction. 'If the princess is correct,' said George, 'they'll attack the south wall first, but their main effort will be against us. Why is it that we always find ourselves in the thick of the action?'
Barely had George spoken than the garrison clock struck the hour, its six chimes heralding the near approach of dawn. George looked again to the Asmai Heights away to the south-east. On the topmost crag he could just see the spark of a tiny fire. Fed by oil, or ghee, and brushwood, it quickly grew until it was a blazing beacon, its flames and sparks shooting skywards and casting a reflection upon the fort below.
'That's the signal,
Ilderim,' said George. 'Tell Havildar Singh.'
Ilderim sprinted across the rooftop and down the steps. Within minutes the battalion had been roused and a hundred tall Sikhs and Punjabi Muhammadans were pouring into the loopholed lower rooms of the native hospital and onto its roof. The hurried spectacle was being repeated across the cantonment as the bulk of four British and twelve Indian regiments hurried to their allotted places on the perimeter. All of the 'martial races' so beloved of the British were represented - Sikhs, Pathans, Gurkhas and kilted Highlanders - and the majority of the best regiments, the 28th included, had been placed on the southern and eastern walls.
As the Punjabis fell in on either side of George, each man cocking and loading his Snider with practised ease, a single rifle shot rang out from the direction of the amir's garden, a walled enclosure just a few hundred yards from the south wall that had been occupied by the rebels a few days earlier. More shots came from the villages on the south-east and eastern flanks, and one or two whistled over the top of the hospital, causing George and others to duck their heads.
'Hold your fire until I give the order,' bellowed Havildar Singh, an imposing figure of a man with a long black beard and a ready smile. But he needn't have worried, because it was still too dark to see individual objects and the first attack, as everyone knew, would come from the south. It was heralded by a rolling thunder of musketry against the south wall as thousands of Afghans, hidden behind every conceivable scrap of cover, opened a covering fire designed to keep the defenders' heads down.
Then, from the amir's garden and a fort to its right, came the sound of sandals slapping against snow as small groups of men with huge ladders broke from cover and made for the centre of the southern wall, a sector held by the dismounted troopers of the disgraced 9th Lancers and the 14th Bengal Lancers. The cavalrymen held their fire until star shells had lit up the battlefield, revealing numerous clusters of Afghans as they closed in on the walls. At last the order was given and the south wall exploded in a storm of carbine and howitzer fire, the bullets sweeping the open ground and the shells targeting the strongholds beyond. Scores of Afghans were hit, while their comrades ditched their ladders and sought cover behind broken walls and in ditches.