He went on to tell Lavelle that he had a reasonable command of Pushtu, and suggested that he take a position as Lavelle’s batman. But Lavelle hadn’t finished spluttering, and he did a bit of blustering as well, and when that was over he dismissed Cavanagh with a flea in his ear, telling him not to be so impertinent and to keep his treacherous thoughts of desertion to himself.
“You must have hoped to curry favor with me, y’wretched lickspittle,” he roared. “For whatever reason I cannot imagine, but I’m telling you, I remain General Elphinstone’s faithful servant to the very last.”
By the first night of the march it was clear that Akbar Khan had indeed gone back on his word and that Elphy Bey was a fool. And as the column rang to the screams of wounded men and the Afghan sorties continued, and poor unfortunates froze where they lay, a terrified and craven Lavelle crept into Cavanagh’s tent to ask if the corporal would agree to be his batman.
“Me, a mere wretched lickspittle?” said Cavanagh, his face betraying nothing of the dark satisfaction he felt at the look of panic on the colonel’s face. He demurred and refused, acting offended, until he elicited an apology from the quaking colonel.
The next morning, as British Lancers rode against the Afghans in a futile attempt to deter further attacks, Cavanagh, Lavelle and a faithful sepoy whose name is not recorded left the company for good.
Their path through the hills and passes was treacherous. They didn’t dare get too near the column for fear of being seen by either the British soldiers or their Afghan attackers, but neither did they want to stray too far from established routes. The Afghanistan countryside was well-known for being one of the most hostile on the face of the known world, never more so than in the unforgiving frost of January, and what’s more, the men feared falling into the hands of far-flung tribes.
They had feed for their mounts, but as they made their way through the cliffs and peaks of the pass, it became clear that they had seriously miscalculated when it came to food for themselves. So when, in the late afternoon of the third day, the chill breeze brought to them the smell of cooking meat, their stomachs were as alert as their senses.
Sure enough they soon came upon five Afghan hillmen on the track. They were tending to a fire in a clearing, over which they were roasting a goat, with a sheer rockface on one side of them and a vertiginous drop on the other.
The three deserters took cover immediately. Like all English soldiers they maintained a healthy respect for the fighters of Afghanistan—theirs was a warrior nation: the men were skilled and fearsome and the women notorious for their ghastly methods of execution, with flaying and “the death of a thousand cuts” among the least sadistic of them.
So the trio stayed hidden behind a large boulder: the sepoy, implacable, a picture of steely resolve despite knowing how the Afghans treated their Sikh prisoners; Lavelle wordlessly ceding authority to Cavanagh, who thanked God the tribesmen had not thought to post a lookout and, in a series of quick glances, took stock of the situation.
There was no making a detour around the position, that was for sure. In order to continue along the path, Cavanagh, Lavelle and the sepoy would have to engage them in combat—either that or return to the column and explain their absence and most likely be shot for desertion.
Combat it was, then.
There were five of them, wearing skullcaps or turbans, and long coats. Tethered nearby were horses loaded with supplies, including the carcass of a second goat. The Afghan rifles, called jezzails, were arranged in a tepee shape not far from the campfire.
Cavanagh knew the jezzail well. Homemade weapons, their long barrels gave them a considerable range advantage over the British Brown Bess musket used by Elphinstone’s men. These Afghan warriors would use their jezzails to great effect against the column, with expert snipers firing a deadly barrage of bullets, nails and even pebbles down upon the beleaguered retreat some 250 meters below. They were intricately decorated, as was the Afghan custom; one of them was even adorned with human teeth.
However, noted Cavanagh with relief, the jezzail was a muzzle-loaded weapon, and by the looks of things those stacked in front of them were not primed. Either way, the tribesmen would reach for the curved Khyber knives at their waists. Excellent close-quarter weapons.
Cavanagh looked at his two companions. The sepoy, as he knew, was a decent shot. He wasn’t sure about Lavelle, but he himself had trained at the Domenico Angelo Tremamondo fencing-master academy and was an expert swordsman.
(Here, The Ghost came across a note, presumably left by whichever Assassin curator had assembled the dossier. The correspondent wondered how a mere corporal had studied at the great Angelo School of Arms in Carlisle House, Soho in London, where the aristocracy were tutored in swordsmanship. Or, perhaps, to turn the question around, how a graduate of that particular academy had ended up a mere corporal? The note was appended with an inscription from Ethan, a single word The Ghost knew well from the dreaded Latin lessons Ethan had insisted upon as part of his tutelage. “Cave” it said, meaning beware.)
Cavanagh knew this was his chance to impress upon Lavelle that he was more than a mere deserter. The day before, when Lavelle had asked him why he might wish to curry favor, the question had gone unanswered. But the truth of it was that Cavanagh was well aware of Lavelle’s position within the Order and wished to take advantage of it. So Cavanagh drew his saber silently, gave his own service pistol to the sepoy and indicated for Lavelle to ready his.
When the two men were in place he indicated for them to take the two tribesmen on the left.
Next he rose slightly on his haunches, stretching out his calves. The last thing he needed was his legs seizing up when he made his move.
Which he did. Trusting Lavelle and the sepoy to be accurate and putting his faith in the element of surprise and his own not-inconsiderable swordsmanship, Cavanagh sprang from behind the boulder to do battle.
He saw the soldier on the left spin and scream at the same time as he heard the pistol shot from behind, then came a second shot, this one not so accurate but enough to lift the next man off his feet and take him down clutching at his stomach. As the second tribesman turned and snatched for the Khyber knife at his waist, Cavanagh reached him and attacked with the saber, a single chopping blow to the neck that opened the carotid artery, then he stepped nimbly away to avoid a rhythmic pumping fountain of blood.
The Englishman had chosen his first strike deliberately. Afghan warriors were as tough and unflappable as they come, but even they could not fail to be disturbed by the sudden appearance of bright arterial spray arcing and splattering in the dying light of the afternoon. It sent the other two into a state of disarray, one of them wiping his comrade’s blood from his face with one hand even as he reached for his curved knife with the other.
His knife cleared the belt, but that was all. Cavanagh spun his own blade in midair as he swung backhand, slicing open the luckless hillman’s throat. The man’s skullcap tumbled from his head as he folded to the dirt with blood sheeting down his front and a final wet death rattle but there was no time for Cavanagh to bring his saber to bear and take the last man. He heard a shot from behind and felt the air part, but the shot went wild. Too late he saw the Khyber knife streak from outside of his peripheral vision and though there was no immediate pain he felt the hot wash of blood coursing down his face.
(A note from the dossier curator: “N.b. Cavanagh bears this scar to this day.”)
Had the Afghan pressed home his advantage he might have made it out of the clearing alive, and maybe even with the blood of a British corporal to show for his pains. Instead he chose to make a break for the horses. Possibly he hoped to escape and warn his friends; maybe he knew of a loaded pistol secreted within the saddlebags. Unfortunately for him the sight of a terrified man running toward them was too much for the normally imperturbable Afghan steeds and they reared up, pulled their tethers free and scattered.
Meanwhile, the Afghan wheeled, his teeth bared and his Khyber knife slashing. But Cavanagh went on guard saber style, his right hand raised, the point of the sword tipping downward and it was with some satisfaction that he saw the tribesman’s eyeballs swivel up and to the left a second before he buried the tip of his blade into the man’s face.
In the aftermath of the battle was silence. The gutshot Afghan writhed and moaned, and Cavanagh delivered the coup de grace, wiping his saber clean on the man’s robes, which were already so bloodstained as to be useless.
“Quick, grab whatever clothes you can before the blood ruins them,” he told Lavelle and the sepoy, who had emerged from behind the rock. The sepoy had acquitted himself well, just as Cavanagh always thought he would, and Cavanagh congratulated him. Lavelle congratulated Cavanagh. Nobody congratulated Lavelle.
The three men ate heartily of goat, which, having been left unattended during the conflict, was slightly overdone. Not that it mattered to the ravenous British. They ate until their bellies were full of overcooked goat, and after that they donned the robes and turbans of the dead, cobbling together outfits that didn’t show obvious bloodstains. When that was done, they hid the bodies as best they could, rounded up what horses they could find and continued on their way.
For a day they rode, staying ahead of the retreating column, a mile or so as the crow flies. Despite the distance they heard the constant crack of shot, even the occasional shriek of pain that was carried to them on the chill wind. Cavanagh began to grow in confidence. They drew farther away from prescribed routes, finding a new track higher up the rock pass. And then, on the afternoon of the fifth day, they came upon the outskirts of another, much larger traveling encampment. And they faced their most difficult test yet.
TWENTY-ONE
Thinking about it later, Cavanagh would come to the conclusion that they had happened upon a roaming settlement belonging to one of Akbar’s warlords. From such a base the chieftain could dispatch snipers to take up position on the passes above the column where they would use their jezzails to rain devastation on the poor marchers below. He could also send riders to make their way down near-hidden paths to the floor of the pass below where they could make terrifying, damaging charges into the rear, less-well-guarded sections of the column, mercilessly cutting down servants, women and children and plundering what few supplies were left.
It was here that Cavanagh’s knowledge of Pushtu came in handy. Indeed, it saved their lives. Coming over the brow of a hill, with their horses slipping and sliding on a frosty, flinty path, they were hailed by a lookout.
Thank God. The man had taken one look at their garb and from a distance taken them to be Afghans. When he called hello, Cavanagh’s quick thinking once again saved the day, for instead of showing surprise and taking flight, he kept his composure and replied in kind.
At his signal, the three men came to a halt. Some two hundred yards in front of them the lookout had risen from behind a rocky outcrop, his jezzail slung across his back. His features were indistinct as he cupped his hands to his mouth and called again in Pushtu, “Hello!”
Cavanagh’s mind raced: there was no way they could get too close; they would be recognized as imposters. But the Afghans would mount a pursuit if they turned tail and fled, and being the superior horsemen it would in all likelihood be a short pursuit indeed.
Sitting beside him, Lavelle flicked nervous eyes. “What the hell are we going to do, man?”
“Shut up,” hissed Cavanagh, oblivious to Lavelle’s outrage. “I’m thinking. Just whatever happens, don’t say another word and follow my lead.”
Meanwhile, the lookout, again with his hands cupped to his mouth was calling to unseen others behind him, and other faces appeared from the landscape. Six or seven men. Christ, they’d almost ridden slap-bang into the middle of the camp. They now stood staring across the space between the two groups, one or two of them shielding their eyes against the dying winter sun, all no doubt wondering why their three visitors had stopped on the perimeter of the camp.
Still Cavanagh’s mind reached for answers. Couldn’t run. Couldn’t advance. His attempts to answer any further interrogation would surely expose his shaky grasp of Pushtu.
One of the men unslung his rifle, but Cavanagh preempted what might happen next and called out to him before he could bring the weapon to bear. “My good friend, we come from hounding the British cowards. With us is a captured Sikh scum. A man trying to adopt our dress and escape as a deserter.”
From over the way came Afghan laughter. Unschooled in Pushtu, the sepoy sat, oblivious to what awaited him. Loyal, faithful.
“What are you saying, man?” demanded Lavelle.
“Quiet,” snapped Cavanagh back.
His voice rose again. “Here. We’ll leave our prize with you as a gift for your women and take our leave if we may.”
With that he drew his stolen Khyber knife and then in one quick movement pretended to cut binding at the sepoy’s hands. Confused, the sepoy turned in his saddle to face Cavanagh, face clouding with confusion. “Sir?” But Cavanagh reached down, snatched the man’s foot and dragged it upward, unseating him at the same time as with one almighty and merciless slice of the Khyber knife blade, he slashed open the desperate man’s Achilles tendon.
As the Afghans over the way jeered and laughed, Cavanagh waved to say good-bye, and he and Lavelle pulled their horses around. At the same time the sepoy tried to pull himself up, but his torn-open heel folded beneath him, gushing blood, and he was sent back to the ground, mewling and pleading, “Sir? Sir?”
But they left him there, to his fate at the hands of the Afghan women. Flaying alive or death of a thousand cuts. They left the nameless sepoy there, to die an unspeakable death, so that they might save themselves.
“Christ, man, that was cold,” said Lavelle later, when they had made camp in the rocks above the pass.
“It was him or us,” said Cavanagh.
That night the sound of gunfire came to them, and both men fancied that they could also hear the screams of the sepoy in the far distance as the Afghan women began their work.
TWENTY-TWO
The Ghost had seethed with hatred for Cavanagh, a man for whom he had, up until that precise moment, developed something approaching a respect.
A month or so later, when he faced the men in the churchyard, he understood the strength of the impulse to survive. That he understood. But what he could not understand (and maybe this was why he was never truly cut out for a life of bloodshed) was the ability to sacrifice another man’s life, to let another man die in your stead. Not only that, but a man who’d shown you nothing but loyalty.
He wondered, did the face of that sepoy haunt Cavanagh in his dreams? Did he feel anything at all?
The dossier had gone on. Cavanagh and Lavelle had turned up at Jalalabad a day after William Brydon made his historic appearance. Their survival went unheralded, shrouded as it was in rumor and suspicion.
Despite their insistence, and the fact that they steadfastly stuck to a prepared and detailed story about becoming detached from a cavalry section and losing their way, the gossip at the Jalalabad Cantonment was that the two men had deserted. Nothing about Lavelle suggested any other explanation but when, on April 17, 1842, the Jalalabad garrison attacked Akbar Khan’s lines, Cavanagh acquitted himself well, proving indomitable in combat.
His movements were next noted sometime after his return to England, by which time he had gained a position for himself within the Templar Order. It was shortly after this that Colonel Walter Lavelle met with a fatal accident. According to the dossier the Assassins believed it was Cavanagh who had not only recommended but carried out the execution.
Up until this point, The Gh
ost had been wondering where he came in. Why was he reading about this man Cavanagh?
Then it became clear. The next time Cavanagh appeared as a person of interest to the Assassins was when, quite out of the blue, he had secured an appointment to the company building the world’s first underground-railway line. He became a director at the Metropolitan Railway, directly involved with the excavation. The company’s “man on the ground,” as it were.
Now The Ghost was beginning to understand.
When he arrived in England he did as he’d been told by Ethan. He found lodgings at the tunnel and he, too, gained an appointment to the Metropolitan dig though in a rather less exalted position than his quarry. And so it was that he had been there at New Road to see the shaft sunk. He had seen wooden houses on wheels come into view, then wagons piled high with timbers and planks, men armed with pickaxes and shovels marching by their side like an oncoming army.
He had bought a spade from a drunken man in a pub, etched the name of “Bharat Singh” into it and joined them. He had helped to enclose hundreds of yards of roadway, when New Road had been transformed from a part of London’s history to a significant part of its future. Horses, carpenters and troops of laborers had arrived; the sound of pickaxes, spades and hammers and the passing of steam began, a clamor that was rarely to cease, day or night.
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