by Saul David
Resolved as to his future course of action, George blew out the lamp and fell asleep. He was woken at dawn by a servant. ‘Sahib, His Highness would like to speak with you in the durbar rooms.’
‘This very minute?’
‘Yes, sahib, it’s a matter of some urgency.’
George dressed and made his way downstairs to the first of the durbar rooms where he found the amir, dressed informally in a dark blue kurta and white pyjama trousers, reclining on a cushion and eating an apricot. A large bowl of fruit lay at his elbow. ‘Ah, Mr Harper, do take a seat,’ said Yakub, wiping juice from his chin with a sleeve. ‘Did you know we Afghans produce the finest apricots in the world, to say nothing of our pomegranates, peaches, grapes and plums, or that our dried fruit and nuts, particularly walnuts, are our chief exports and are prized all over India?’
‘I did know that, Your Highness,’ said George.
‘Would you like to try one?’
‘Not just now. I prefer savoury food in the morning.’
Yakub chuckled. ‘You never did explain how you and your Afghan guide came to be at the Residency yesterday. How long have you been in Afghanistan?’
‘Not long,’ said George, as he sat down. He paused, wondering whether it was worth continuing with his cover story, then decided that he would have more influence over the amir if he came clean and admitted his links to the British government. ‘I didn’t tell you the truth yesterday, Your Highness. I’m not a trader. My real name is Captain George Hart and I was sent to Afghanistan by the Foreign Office to keep an eye on the resident.’
‘To spy on your own side? Why was that necessary?’
‘Because, Your Highness, there are those in the Indian government who think that the only sure way to stop a Russian invasion of India is by annexing all or part of Afghanistan. Lord Lytton is of this mind, as was Sir Louis Cavagnari. The British government, on the other hand, is anxious to avoid the expense and loss of life that would result from a renewed war, which was why they sent me to try to prevent another conflict.’
‘You don’t think, Captain, that the resident had anything to do with yesterday’s riot?’
‘Not directly, Your Highness, but once the fire had begun he made little attempt to put out the flames. He could have agreed to the mutineers’ demands and paid their arrears but he chose not to, almost as if he welcomed a crisis that he hoped would provoke an armed British response.’
Yakub shook his head. ‘Sir Louis always professed himself a friend of the Afghans. I had no idea that he was really a serpent in the bosom. But it seems, Captain, that you and I want the same thing – to prevent the rebellion spreading and the need for another British invasion. To that end I wish to ask your advice. Last evening I sent a letter explaining yesterday’s unfortunate events to your superior General Roberts, who commands the British garrison at Ali Khel in the Kurram valley, just eighty miles from Kabul. In it I detailed the unprovoked attack on the Residency by the troops, the people from Sherpur and the country around the Bala Hissar, and the city people of all classes. I also mentioned the attempts I had made to stop the fighting by sending Daoud Shah to speak to the rebels. This morning I have written a second letter that I would like you to read.’
George scanned the proffered sheet of paper. After half a page of flowery compliments, it came to the point:
Yesterday, from 8 a.m. till evening, thousands assembled to destroy the Residency. There has been much loss of life on both sides. At evening they set fire to the Residency. All yesterday and up till now, I and five attendants have been besieged. I have no certain news of the resident, whether he and his people have been killed in their quarters, or been seized and brought out. Afghanistan is ruined; the troops, city and surrounding country have thrown off their yoke of allegiance. Daoud Shah is not expected to recover; all his attendants were killed. The workshops and the magazine are in cinders – in fact, my kingdom is ruined. After God, I look to the government for aid and purpose. My true friendship and honesty of purpose will be proved as clear as daylight. By this misfortune I have lost my friend, the resident, and also my kingdom. I am grieved and perplexed.
‘So tell me, Captain Hart,’ said the amir, as George looked up from the page. ‘Will it do?’
‘Well, that depends on what you’re trying to achieve, Your Highness. If you seek to reassure the Indian government that you’re as much a victim as the defenders of the Residency, that you’re still a friend of the Indian government and that you look to the British for assistance, your letter will serve admirably.’
‘Thank you. That is exactly how my advisers and I were hoping it would be read.’
‘But,’ added George, ‘I don’t think you’ve been entirely honest in it. I know for certain that the resident is dead, and the others almost certainly are. As for your point about being besieged, you and I both know that’s not true. I accept you were in a very difficult position but at no stage was the palace sealed off by the rebels. Your decision not to send your guard to intervene until it was too late was because you feared such an action would be counterproductive, not because it was a physical impossibility.’
The amir sighed. ‘My friend, let’s not quibble over minor details. As you are aware, I am in a delicate situation. I need the help of you British to restore my authority – particularly here in Kabul where I hear reports that my treacherous uncle Nek Mahomed Khan has usurped the government – yet I can’t be seen as your lapdog. So please allow me to . . . how do you say it? Gild the lily just a little. That way I satisfy the Indian government and, hopefully, also my own people.’
George nodded. ‘I take your point. I believe the Indian government was wrong to invade your country last year, and that we still haven’t learnt the lesson of our previous attempt to install a pro-British ruler in Kabul.’
Yakub smiled, showing a fine set of even white teeth. ‘You refer to Shah Shuja’s brief reign in the eighteen forties, and you are right to make the comparison. More’s the pity that a far-sighted man like you is not viceroy, instead of Lord Lytton. But it would be dishonest of me not to admit that last year’s British invasion was to my benefit. Without it, my late and unlamented father would still be amir and I would be languishing in a Ghazni prison. So, I’m grateful to the British, but I’m also aware of the tightrope I must tread if I’m to keep my throne.’
‘I’ll do everything I can to help. But never forget that Simla and London have different agendas. One will use the news of the massacre here as an excuse to invade while the other strives for peace. Yet the British government is hamstrung because, apart from me, it has no representatives in the region – the Indian government has many and most are pro-war hawks like General Roberts. Your letter is well judged, but whether it will satisfy Roberts that you had nothing to do with the massacre is another matter.’
‘Then perhaps, Captain Hart, you could write a letter of your own to the general, saying much the same thing.’
‘I could, but it won’t cut any ice. General Roberts doesn’t know me from Adam – and has not been informed of my mission, for obvious reasons.’
‘Then I will send this letter and, if Allah wills it, all will come right.’
‘Inshallah, Your Highness. May I offer you one more piece of advice?’
‘Please do.’
‘Try to re-establish your authority in Kabul, and apprehend those responsible for the massacre without delay. Then you will have removed from General Roberts his chief motive for invasion – revenge.’
‘That won’t be easy, Captain Hart. As things stand, my power remit barely runs beyond the walls of this palace, let alone the Bala Hissar. But I will do my best, and I hope you will remain here to advise me.’
‘I will stay until my hand is healed and I can ride again. By then you should have heard from General Roberts and the picture will be clearer.’
George left the durbar room in two minds about the amir. In some ways Yakub appeared to be a weak and indecisive man who told you what he thought
you wanted to hear, and who needed others to make up his mind for him. That was the conclusion George had come to after their first meeting, but now he was not so sure. The amir was not a man for a crisis, that much was plain, but could that be attributed to flaws of character or to the fact that he was trapped in an impossible situation, caught between Scylla and Charybdis, his own people and the British? George could not decide.
He was mulling this over as he climbed the broad wooden staircase to his bedchamber on the second floor, and barely noticed the finely dressed Afghan lady, flanked by two guards, who was moving in the opposite direction. Only as she passed, and the faint perfume of jasmine reached his nose, did he turn and catch a fleeting glimpse of two beautiful brown eyes above a gauze veil. He sneaked a look back and judged her to be of medium height, with a full, rounded figure her garments did little to disguise.
Over the next week or so, as the rebellion showed no sign of fizzling out and the palace remained shut off from the rest of Kabul, George had more brief sightings of the mysterious lady. He learnt from Ilderim that she was none other than the amir’s younger sister, Princess Yasmin, and that she was kept in close confinement because she had refused to marry the Afghan chief her brother had chosen for her. George was well aware of the sensitivity of such an issue, particularly as it involved such a high-born lady, but he was bored by his enforced inactivity and, intrigued by the princess’s predicament, determined to find out more. One afternoon, he went up to her apartments on the top floor of the palace. There, he discovered her two guards asleep. Without regard for the consequences, he crept past them and tried the door. It was unlocked, so he slowly pushed it open and slipped inside.
The room was large and airy, with shutters at the far end that opened onto a covered balcony. The floor was covered with rich carpets and scattered with cushions, and on one wall hung a huge looking-glass. A cushioned swing dangled from the ceiling, still gently swaying as if it had recently been used. There was no sign of the princess, yet George could hear a female voice from the room beyond.
‘Sufi, I’ve told you a thousand times I do not like the colour scarlet. It reminds me of the accursed Angrez. Change it, please.’
The door opened and in walked the princess, book in hand. She was simply dressed in a silk shalwar kameez, consisting of loose trousers and a long-sleeved tunic, her raven hair pulled back in a high top-knot. Her face was uncovered, and the scowl she wore could not hide the beauty of her high cheekbones, aquiline nose and delicately arched eyebrows. She looked to be in her early twenties, but might have been younger. At last she noticed George and gasped. ‘How dare you enter my room without leave? Who are you and what do you want?’
George bowed. ‘I apologize for the intrusion, Princess, but I heard you were under house arrest and knew I would never be allowed to speak to you. I waited until your guards were distracted – they’re asleep – and came in as quietly as I could. My name is Captain George Hart and I’m one of the “accursed Angrez”. I escaped from the Residency during the attack and came here to ask your brother for help.’
‘Did he provide any?’
‘He was about to, but then we heard the place had fallen with all lives lost.’
She nodded. ‘Yakub can never make up his mind until it’s too late. But in this instance I sympathize with him. What was he supposed to do? If he saves the Angrez he alienates his people. A nobler act would have been to throw in his lot with the rebels and declare a war of national liberation. Yet he does neither, and skulks here in his palace while my upstart uncle Nek Mahomed Khan and the bazaar rabble control Kabul.’
‘It sounds as though there’s little love lost between you and your brother.’
‘Are you surprised, Angrez? He rules like a woman, and bows to the opinion of his advisers, particularly that snake Shah Mohammed Khan, the wazir, who insists I marry my aged cousin Safed Khan for dynastic reasons. When I refused they put me under constant guard, and said the confinement would continue until I was safely married in October. Do they know me so little,’ she said, raising her chin defiantly, ‘that they imagine I will meekly succumb after a spell under lock and key? The fools! I would rather die than marry a man I didn’t love.’
‘I’m certain it won’t come to that. Once your brother realizes the strength of your feeling, he will relent.’
She laughed scornfully. ‘Have you any understanding of what life is for a woman in Afghanistan? We are little more than chattels.’
‘Surely it’s different for a royal princess?’
‘No. I live in a palace, wear pretty clothes and have plenty to eat, but I have no say in my future – and when I marry the man chosen for me I become his property, and will have to live by his rules, never to be seen in public without a veil. You’re a fortunate man, Angrez. Only members of my family and eunuchs have seen me like this. So have a care: if you’re discovered here you will certainly forfeit your manhood.’
‘Unlikely, Princess. I’m more useful to your brother in one piece.’
‘Truly? Tell me how.’
‘As an intermediary between him and General Roberts, who commands the nearest British troops in the Kurram valley. At this very moment Roberts will be massing his men on the border, thirsting for revenge, but your brother knows that if they enter Afghanistan he must choose between them and the rebels, and either way he’ll forfeit his crown. So his only hope is to persuade Roberts not to invade, which is where I may be able to help him.’
‘I don’t follow, Angrez. Why would you discourage an invasion? It’s no secret that your masters in Simla would like to add my country to their Raj.’
‘That may be true, Princess, but I wasn’t sent by the Indian government. I was sent by London.’
‘Are they not one and the same?’
‘No, Princess,’ said George, and explained the Foreign Office’s determination to avoid being drawn into another costly war.
‘An admirable objective,’ scoffed Yasmin. ‘But I don’t see how you can keep your countrymen from invading. They’ll demand revenge for the massacre, and my brother is hardly in a position to arrest those responsible.’
‘We’ll see,’ said George, though he saw her point. He paused. ‘Since we’re discussing the avoidance of war, may I ask what you know about the Prophet’s Cloak?’
‘Only that it’s kept under lock and key in a mosque in Kandahar. It’s long been said that whoever controls the cloak controls Afghanistan.’
‘Do you believe that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why hasn’t your brother tried to get his hands on it?’
‘Because the imams would never allow it to be removed from their care unless the country was threatened by foreign invaders.’
‘Is that not the case now? Is it not possible that the Indian government will send troops to exact revenge for the Residency massacre?’
‘That’s true, but the imams must decide.’
‘But if the cloak was taken from them, who would benefit?’
‘Whoever planned to lead a holy war against the British, I suppose,’ said Yasmin. Or, thought George, whoever had a vested interest in such a war – namely, the Indian government.
‘Who are you talking to, Princess?’ asked a voice from the next-door room.
When Yasmin made no reply, a dark-haired beauty appeared, holding a green sari. ‘Princess,’ she cried, ‘you’re not veiled! Who is this man?’
‘Quiet, Sufi, you’ll rouse my gaolers!’ warned Yasmin. ‘This man is Captain Hart, a survivor from the Residency. He insists he has the best interests of Afghanistan at heart, but I’m not convinced.’
‘I didn’t say that, Princess,’ interjected George. ‘I told you that I’m working for the British government to prevent another war. If that benefits most Afghans, then all well and good.’
‘But that’s not your chief aim – no, why would it be? You’re an Angrez, after all.’
‘Not exactly. My mother is half Irish and half African.’
&
nbsp; ‘African? How can that be?’
‘It’s a long story – but I’m not a blinkered Englishman who views the world only from his perspective. I do see the broader picture which is why, irrespective of my mission, I can sympathize with your brother’s predicament.’
‘Much good that will do him. Truth is, he should never have become the amir. He’s too weak to be of use to his country.’
‘What about you, Princess? Would you make a better ruler?’
‘Indeed I would.’
Inwardly George agreed with her. The woman standing before him seemed to possess the two qualities that a successful monarch most requires: good judgement and resolve. Afghanistan would indeed have been better served if she, not her brother, had been born to rule.
Chapter 10
Royal Palace, Bala Hissar, Kabul, two weeks later
George entered the durbar rooms to find Yakub Khan talking to a short, thick-set man with a long, handsome beard, a hawk nose and a haughty, scornful expression, whose rich clothes marked him out as a nobleman. ‘Ah, Captain,’ said Yakub, wringing his hands. ‘This is my wazir, Shah Mohammed Khan. We’ve just been discussing General Roberts’s reply to my letters, which arrived this morning. It’s not good news. Will you read it and give me your opinion?’
George strode up to Khan and took the proffered letter. It stated:
Ali Khel, 18 September 1879
Your Highness,
In accordance with your own request that a British officer should be deputed as resident to your court, and on condition that you would yourself be responsible for the protection and honourable treatment of such a resident, Major Cavagnari and three British officers were allowed to go to Kabul, all of whom within six weeks have been ruthlessly murdered by your troops and subjects.