by Saul David
Placing his foot on the man’s chest, Ilderim hauled the blade free and wiped it clean on his victim’s baggy trousers. Then he spat on the corpse. ‘Mangal pigs! They never could fight with knives.’
‘For God’s sake, grab his rifle and get down beside me,’ implored George, who was already holding the other Snider. ‘The wood is crawling with tribesmen and they won’t give up until they have the mules.’
Ilderim did as he was told and the pair watched helplessly from the edge of the trees as the Mangals closed in on their prey, shooting at the column until all resistance had ceased, and then advancing with their knives. George was sorely tempted to shoot at two tribesmen who emerged just yards to his left, but that would give away their position so he was forced to hold his fire as the merciless Afghans butchered the wounded. Unwilling to witness such horrors, he looked away, but the agonized screams and cries told their own story.
George and Ilderim stayed hidden while the Mangals stripped the corpses, rounded up the mules and their ponies, and made off into the hills. Only when they were convinced it was safe did they emerge from the woods to check for survivors. The scene reminded George of the pitiless killing he had witnessed in Zululand as he came upon body after gashed and naked body, the ground soaked with blood and buzzing with flies. About to give up, he noticed a slight movement and heard a groan. It was a muleteer with a bullet wound in his back. George turned him over and could see that he was still breathing in short gasps. ‘Ilderim!’ he shouted. ‘This man is still alive.’
‘I have one here too,’ replied Ilderim, from further up the track.
Just as George was wondering how they could move the wounded men, a patrol of khaki-clad Indian soldiers appeared over the brow of the Soorkai Kotul. They were led by a young British officer whose eyes widened in horror as he took in the scale of the massacre. ‘I’m Lieutenant Macinkstray of the Fifth Punjabs,’ he said to George. ‘We heard the firing but they attacked our post at the same time, killing one of my men, and we were unable to come to your assistance. How many wounded have you?’
‘Only two. They despatched the others with their knives and took all the mules.’
‘The wretches! How did you survive?’
‘We made it to the treeline and hid.’
‘And you are?’
‘James Harper, a British merchant, and this is my guide Ilderim Khan, late of the Guides. We’ve just come from Kabul with vital intelligence for General Roberts.’
‘Then it’s doubly fortunate you survived. We can take you as far as Karatiga and they’ll arrange your onward journey from there. You should reach Ali Khel tomorrow.’
‘Can’t we be there any sooner?’ asked George, conscious that every hour was precious.
‘Not if you want to arrive in one piece. For that you’ll require an escort.’
Chapter 11
Headquarters camp, Ali Khel, Kurram valley, late September 1879
It was not until noon the following day that George and Ilderim, mounted on fresh ponies and escorted by a troop of Bengal Lancers, finally reached Ali Khel, the main British base in the Kurram valley. The village itself lay in a saucer-shaped valley, on the left bank of a tributary of the Kurram, and was a typical Afghan cluster of sturdily built mud houses flanked by orchards of fruit trees. The British camp was sited on the opposite side of the stream, a huge tented city that in recent days had steadily expanded to include the many diverse regiments and corps that Roberts was assembling for the re-invasion of Afghanistan: tall Sikhs in outsize turbans, wiry Gurkhas with their fearsome kukris, sturdy Highlanders in kilts, Bengal sappers with their picks and spades, bearded Pathans, and small but tough British infantrymen from the agricultural poor and the industrial slums. The total force under Roberts’s command was 7,500 men, though some had already been sent forward to garrison posts as far as the Shutargardan.
At the centre of the camp were two mud-brick buildings that, before the arrival of the British, had been the home of a local farmer. Now they served as Roberts’s headquarters, and it was into the smaller of the two structures, formerly a barn, that George and Ilderim were led. ‘Wait here,’ said the Lancers officer. ‘I’ll inform Major FitzGeorge of your arrival.’
Ignoring the reek of sheep dung, Ilderim lay down on the straw-covered floor and soon fell asleep, his snores echoing round the single-room building. But George was too aware of the importance of the impending interview to rest, and spent the time pacing the room, rehearsing what he was about to say. The success of his mission and the British government’s foreign policy in the region were, he knew, dependent to a great degree upon his ability to convince both Major FitzGeorge and General Roberts that Yakub Khan was an ally they could trust. He was so absorbed in thought that he didn’t hear the rough door being pulled open.
‘I take it you’re James Harper, the man who says he escaped from the Residency?’ said a haughty voice behind him.
George spun round to see a tall, strikingly handsome officer, with a waxed moustache and piercing blue eyes, standing in the doorway. He looked to be in his thirties, and was wearing the staff officer’s garb of dark blue patrol jacket, dark blue trousers with a red stripe, and shiny black riding boots. On his head he wore a yellow and blue pill-box hat with a small peak, and on his face a look of such utter conceit that George took an instant dislike to him.
‘That’s right. And you are?’ he asked, though he knew perfectly well.
‘Major Harry FitzGeorge. I’m in charge of intelligence here, hence the questions. Where’s your companion?’
George motioned to Ilderim’s sleeping form.
‘We’ll let him be, shall we?’ said FitzGeorge. ‘You’re the one I want to speak to. I hear you had a spot of bother en route from the Shutargardan.’
‘You could call it that, though I imagine the thirty-two dead soldiers and muleteers would quibble at the description.’
‘My, my,’ said FitzGeorge, ‘you do have a sharp tongue. So tell me, Mr Harper, exactly what you and your Afghan guide were doing in Kabul on the day of the massacre, and how the pair of you – and you alone – escaped from the Residency.’
Even before he spoke, George could sense that his interrogator was suspicious but he ploughed on regardless, repeating his cover story and the exact sequence of events from his and Ilderim’s arrival at the Residency to their flight to the royal palace. As George finished he could see FitzGeorge shaking his head in disbelief. ‘I’m sorry, Harper,’ he replied, ‘but I’m finding your tale a little hard to swallow. You say you were in Kabul on business and just happened to be visiting the Residency when the violence occurred. And yet you, a civilian with no military training, survived when Lieutenant Hamilton, a Victoria Cross winner, lost his life. Forgive me if I speak my mind, but you bear no resemblance to the usual representative of a British trading company.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re a little too eastern-looking. It generally pays to send a white man if you want to do business in these parts. That way you won’t confuse the natives.’
‘I’ll have you know I was educated at Harrow,’ said George, indignantly.
‘I’m sure you were – but that means nothing these days.’
George sighed. ‘All right, have it your way, Major. You don’t believe I’m who I say I am but at least take seriously the letter I carry from the Amir of Kabul. You can easily verify it by comparing the handwriting and seal to the previous letters you’ve received, one of which I read before it was sent.’
‘Show me the letter.’
George took it from his trouser pocket and handed it to FitzGeorge, who turned it over in his hand.
‘It looks similar, I grant you. I’ll return once I’ve checked with the chief.’ With that, FitzGeorge left the barn.
Ten minutes later he was back with a stern-eyed older officer, identically dressed, but a good six inches shorter, with a small wiry frame and an unruly salt-and-pepper beard. He was holding the opened letter. ‘I am Ge
neral Roberts. I’m told you brought this message from the Amir of Kabul, having previously escaped from the Residency. Is that so?’
‘It is, General.’
‘The letter looks genuine enough. What can you tell me of Sir Louis’s fate?’
‘He was mortally wounded during a sortie to silence an artillery piece. We took him back to the Residency but he died later.’
‘You’re certain of that?’
‘I am.’
Roberts bowed his head. ‘Poor Sir Louis. I had a bad feeling when we parted in July, but he seemed gay enough and talked of all he might accomplish in Kabul. As we descended from the Shutargardan we came across a solitary magpie, which Sir Louis begged me not to mention to his wife because she would be sure to consider it an unlucky omen. And so it was.’ Roberts’s eyes flashed. ‘But I will ensure that he didn’t die in vain, that his mortal remains receive a Christian burial, and that the cowardly dogs who murdered him get their just deserts. The amir hopes to placate me with honeyed words,’ said Roberts, shaking the letter he was holding, ‘but it won’t work. I hear from other sources that he did nothing to prevent the massacre, and that he now plays for time in the hope of raising the whole country to oppose our re-invasion.’
‘That’s not the case, General, and I’ll do my best to explain. But first may I read the letter?’
‘By all means,’ said Roberts, passing it to him. ‘It’s a typical example of eastern deceit, promising much yet delivering little.’
George skipped the flowery compliments and read only the heart of the letter. It stated:
I am dreadfully distressed and grieved at the recent event, but there is no fighting against God’s will. I hope to inflict such punishment on the evil-doers as will be known worldwide; and to prove my sincerity, I have written twice on this subject. I now write to say that I have preserved myself and my family by the good offices of those who were friendly to me, partly by bribing, partly by coaxing the rebels. Some of the cavalry I have dismissed, and night and day am considering how to put matters straight. Please God, the mutineers will soon meet with the punishment they deserve, and my affairs will be arranged to the satisfaction of the British government. Certain persons of high position in these provinces have become rebellious; but I am watching carefully and closely every quarter. I trust to God for the opportunity of showing my sincere friendship for the British government, and for recovering my good name before the world.
George looked up from the letter. ‘I don’t see it as deceitful. What the amir is trying to say is that it’s an extremely delicate situation in Kabul, and that he needs time to disarm the regular troops, raise new levies and punish all those involved in the massacre. To give him the opportunity to do this, he asks you to delay your advance on Kabul. This is because the mutinous soldiers come from all the tribes of Afghanistan, and if you were to invade now and crush them, there’s a danger that the whole country will unite against us and the amir. Already there are many in Kabul who regard the amir as a traitor, because of the way he has thrown in his lot with us.’
‘What do you make of this, FitzGeorge?’ asked Roberts.
‘I wouldn’t trust Yakub an inch, Sir Frederick. We’ve already heard from several Afghan sirdars that he’s hand-in-glove with the mutineers, and wants to delay our advance so that he can raise more troops to oppose us. Only yesterday we received corroboration from a local chief interviewed by young Sykes.’
George started at the mere mention of a name that, for him, was synonymous with cruelty and vindictiveness: the name of his fagmaster at school, Percy Sykes. But as he knew that Sykes had gone on to join the Grenadier Guards, a smart regiment that rarely fought in colonial wars, and that there were bound to be many officers of that name in the British Army, he saw no need to enquire further. Indeed, he was in no position to do so without jeopardizing his cover story. So, casting all thoughts of Percy Sykes from his mind, he responded to FitzGeorge’s charge that the amir was playing a double game. ‘I don’t believe that for a minute, General. When I arrived at the royal palace on the day of the attack, Yakub seemed genuinely bewildered by events, and unsure how to react. He had already sent his commander-in-chief, Daoud Shah, and other emissaries to dissuade the mutineers from violence, but none had the desired effect, and Daoud Shah was badly beaten for his pains. I finally convinced him that he must send his loyal Kuzzelbashes to intervene. But it was too late – the Residency had fallen.’
‘You say he did his best to save Cavagnari and the others, Harper,’ said FitzGeorge, ‘but it doesn’t seem so to me. Instead of troops he sent a handful of emissaries who were never going to have the desired effect. He must have known that.’
‘Possibly, but bear in mind that one of the emissaries he sent was his own son and heir, which was a courageous thing to do. He didn’t go further, until it was too late, because he feared the mutineers would turn on him.’
‘You seem determined to see the amir in a positive light,’ said Roberts, ‘and yet you hardly know him. Nor can someone of your tender years have much experience of this part of the world. How many times have you visited Afghanistan?’
‘Only once.’
‘Once! Yet you try to convince us that you know best. Do you know how long I’ve been dealing with these people?’
‘No, General.’
‘Almost thirty years. My first posting as a young subaltern was to Peshawar in fifty-two. It was there I met the late great John Nicholson, whose authority over the refractory tribes of the frontier was legendary. He taught me to judge the men of these parts by their deeds, not their words. It’s a lesson you’ve yet to learn. But I’d be failing in my duty if I didn’t pass on by telegraph the gist of the amir’s letter, and your verbal clarification, to Lord Lytton at Simla. Then it will be up to him and his council to decide on our next move.’
‘Quite right, Sir Frederick,’ said FitzGeorge, ‘and would it not make sense to ask Harper to deliver this response? He knows the amir, and has already crossed the ground between here and Kabul, so he is familiar with the route.’
Roberts smiled. ‘Capital idea. And if he refuses we’ll keep him here until we can verify his identity. So, what do you say, Harper? Will you carry our answer?’
‘It seems I have no alternative.’
‘Good. We’ll leave you now, and later I’ll send someone with a change of clothes. You’re welcome to use the officers’ mess, but go easy on the drink. As soon as I’ve heard back from Simla I want you in the saddle.’
A couple of hours later, wearing an assortment of ill-matched clothes that included a Gurkha officer’s tunic and a pair of riding breeches, George entered the large tent that served as a staff officers’ mess to howls of derision. ‘I didn’t know they’d mounted the Gurkhas,’ called a young wag among a group sitting in easy chairs.
‘Either that or it’s fancy-dress night and the mess president forgot to tell us,’ said another.
George ignored them and made for the trestle-table bar where he ordered a whisky. As he took his first gulp, a finger tapped him on the shoulder.
‘George Hart. It is you, isn’t it?’ said a voice, a little the worse for drink.
This use of his real name caused George to freeze – until he remembered FitzGeorge’s mention of a ‘young Sykes’, and silently cursed his ill luck. He turned to see a face that, in recent years, had appeared in only the occasional nightmare. It was a little fleshier and more weathered than he remembered, but the thin lips, piggy eyes and cruel sneer were unmistakably those of his schoolboy tormentor-in-chief, Percy Sykes, as was the broken nose, courtesy of George’s right fist. That fight, which the lighter and younger George had won despite the handicap of a broken hand, had put a stop to the physical bullying if not the taunts, and Sykes’s departure from Harrow School a year later had come as a huge relief. He had hoped never to set eyes on him again – yet here he was, on the Afghan border of all places, wearing the uniform of a staff officer and threatening to blow George’s cover. ‘I�
��m sorry,’ replied George, feigning ignorance, ‘you must have confused me with someone else.’
But Sykes was not fooled. ‘Nonsense, I’d recognize you anywhere, even with a beard and in that damn stupid rig. The last I heard you’d been drummed out of the King’s Dragoon Guards. So, what are you doing here?’
With heads turning, George made an instant decision to change tack and bring the hated Sykes into his confidence. ‘You’re right – I am Hart,’ he whispered, a finger to his lips, ‘but lower your voice, please. I’m travelling under an assumed name.’
‘Are you indeed?’ said Sykes, in a mock-conspiratorial voice. ‘For what purpose, may I ask?’
George took him by the arm and led him to seats in a quiet corner of the mess. ‘I’m on a secret assignment for the Foreign Office,’ he said, once he was happy no one could overhear. ‘I was briefed by Lord Beaconsfield himself.’
‘To do what?’
‘I can’t say, but it’s to do with our relations with Afghanistan.’
‘What relations?’ scoffed Sykes. ‘Haven’t you heard about the murder of our man at Kabul? We’re at war again, or damn soon will be, only this time we won’t make the mistake of withdrawing after victory.’
George could feel his temper rising. He could never look upon Sykes’s face, its near permanent expression of disdain, without wanting to drive a fist into it. But to do so now would guarantee the failure of his mission and with difficulty he managed to control himself. ‘Of course I know about Cavagnari’s death. I was there. And it needn’t result in a full-scale war if we’re sensible, which means not invading until the amir has been given a chance to prove himself a reliable ally by re-establishing his authority and punishing those responsible for the attack on the Residency.’