by Saul David
‘You were there, at the Residency? How did you get away when the others perished?’
‘I went to the amir’s palace to summon help, but by the time I’d persuaded him to intervene it was too late. A couple of weeks later, once I’d recovered from a sword cut to the hand, I agreed to the amir’s request to carry a message to General Roberts. And here I am.’
‘Just like that? Do you really expect me to believe all this cloak-and-dagger nonsense?’
‘Whether you believe me or not, Sykes, is immaterial. General Roberts and Major FitzGeorge, on the other hand, are in no doubt as to the veracity of my tale and have asked me to deliver the Indian government’s response to the amir’s letter, which I’ve agreed to do.’
Sykes looked more incredulous than ever. ‘You’re working for the general? But you’re not even a soldier.’
‘I am, as it happens. I was granted a new commission, and promotion to captain, for services during the recent Zulu war.’
‘What services?’
‘It’s a long story. Suffice to say, I’m not using my military rank in Afghanistan.’
‘I see,’ said Sykes, his eyes lighting up. ‘So the general doesn’t know you’re a soldier?’
‘No, and neither does Major FitzGeorge. I’ve told them I’m a British merchant, and was in Kabul on business when the mutiny occurred. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t disabuse them. Your career prospects might depend upon it.’
‘My prospects? Are you threatening me?’
‘Certainly not. I’m just letting you know how things stand. Few Guardsmen are seen in these parts and I’m assuming you came east to further your career and not to enjoy the weather. Am I right?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘And am I also correct in assuming your immediate loyalty is to your chief, General Roberts?’
‘Of course. I’m on his staff.’
‘Yes, but are you a member of his “ring”, his inner circle of favoured staff officers?’
‘Not yet, but I hope to be. Then I’ll be guaranteed a plum appointment in any future campaigns. After all, he’s the best fighting general in India. I’d be a fool not to tie myself to his star.’
‘A fool indeed. But remember this: my assignment to Afghanistan was sanctioned by His Royal Highness the Duke of Cambridge. If you were to reveal my true identity to General Roberts and Major FitzGeorge, he would not thank you. So ask yourself this: who would you prefer to make an enemy of? General Roberts or the Duke of Cambridge? I know which one I’d choose.’
‘You haven’t changed, have you?’ sneered Sykes. ‘I knew you were a blackguard from the minute I clapped eyes on you at Harrow. How your Fenian actress mother got you into the school is anyone’s guess. We all suspected she was pleasuring the head beak. But then someone suggested your mystery father must be a man of influence. Is that true? I can’t think of any other reason why a dago bastard like you would be allowed into Harrow and Sandhurst.’
George let go of his whisky glass and curled his hand into a fist. He was on the point of leaping on Sykes and pummelling him to a pulp when another voice intervened: ‘What did you just say, Lieutenant Sykes? Did you call this man a “dago bastard”?’
They both turned to see FitzGeorge standing beside them, his moustache bristling with indignation. ‘Good evening, Major,’ replied Sykes, hoping to placate his notoriously thin-skinned superior.
‘Did you, or did you not, call this man a “dago bastard”?’
‘I – I may have, but only to tease. We were both at Harrow. We’re old school chums. Isn’t that right?’ said Sykes, turning to George but careful not to use his real name.
‘Well, is it, Harper?’ demanded FitzGeorge.
‘Yes, Major, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say we’re chums. I was his fag.’
‘Were you? Well, I was a fag too, at Eton, and I don’t recall feeling anything other than contempt for my fagmaster, a sadistic bully called Fellowes who’s now an under-secretary at the Home Office. But I’m also illegitimate, as the world knows, and thus a little sensitive to the use of the word “bastard” as an insult. Do you know, Sykes? When you spoke just then you reminded me of Fellowes, and he’s not a person I care to be reminded of. I suggest you leave the mess, now, before I do something I’ll regret.’
‘Sir,’ said Sykes, red-faced, ‘I apologize if I said something to upset you. It was a light-hearted remark, not to be taken seriously.’
‘Light-hearted?’ said FitzGeorge. ‘Are you certain? Because I could have sworn it was the opposite. It sounded to me as if you were voicing your incredulity that a “dago bastard” could have been admitted to Sandhurst. Well, I’m not a dago, but I am a bastard and I did go to Sandhurst. Do you think I should have been barred from entry as well?’
‘No, sir, I don’t think that at all.’
‘But you do think that Harper should have been?’
‘I . . . Well, no, sir, not really.’
‘Then why say it? I’d like you to leave. Now!’
‘But I haven’t had dinner, sir.’
‘You can go hungry. Now get out!’
‘Sir,’ said Sykes, saluting smartly before turning on his heel and leaving the tent.
FitzGeorge sat in the vacated armchair and beckoned the mess waiter with a raised arm. ‘A chota peg and soda, please, Hanumant Singh,’ he said to the bearded Sikh, immaculate in his starched white tunic. ‘On second thoughts I’ll have a double.’
Once his drink had arrived, FitzGeorge took a large gulp and stared at George for a moment. ‘It seems,’ he said, pursing his lips, ‘that we have more in common than I thought. Why didn’t you mention you’d served in the army?’
‘I didn’t think it was important.’
‘I’m sure not. What happened?’
‘I didn’t see eye to eye with my commanding officer.’
‘His name?’
‘Sir Jocelyn Harris.’
‘He drove you out, did he?’
‘He didn’t appreciate sharing a mess with . . . Now, how did he put it? Ah, yes, I remember, “a tawny Irishman of unknown paternity”. It was after I left that I joined the Anglo-Indian.’
‘I see. So you’re Irish, are you?’
‘On my mother’s side, yes. Her father was a captain in the Twenty-Seventh Inniskillings.’
‘And what of her? Did I hear Sykes say she’s an actress?’
‘Yes, though she rarely appears now.’
‘What is her stage name?’
‘Emma Hart,’ said George, omitting to mention that that was also her real name.
‘I think I’ve heard of her. She’s quite exotic-looking, isn’t she?’
‘Her mother was Maltese,’ said George. He didn’t care to share his Zulu heritage with FitzGeorge. ‘Hence my own dark colouring,’ he added.
‘I wondered about that. Thought you might have Indian blood. It used to be very common out here.’
‘What was?’
‘Consorting with the natives. Of course, all that changed with the arrival of British wives and daughters, the so-called “fishing fleet”, in the thirties and the prissy moral standards imposed soon after by our sainted sovereign. Not that she’s maintained those standards. According to Papa, she’s long been under the spell of her ghastly Scotch gillie, John Brown, and many suspect their relationship of having crossed the bounds of propriety, hence the soubriquet “Mrs Brown”. And she still refuses to receive my mother, or to acknowledge the existence of my brothers and me. The hypocrisy is not to be borne.’
‘You sound bitter.’
‘I am, and with good reason. I am of royal birth, for goodness’ sake, yet I exist on the very fringes of society. All it would take to change that is a single invitation from Her Exalted Majesty to Windsor – or Balmoral, even. But it never comes,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘and I continue my ambivalent existence as an officer and a gentleman who is unwelcome in the best houses – all because my parents were not married at the time of my birth. You
of all people must know how that feels.’
‘I certainly do,’ said George, with something close to empathy.
‘And the worst of it is that my parents did marry eventually, before the birth of my brother Gussie, but it was never legal because my father failed to ask the Queen’s permission and so contravened the Royal Marriages Act.’
‘Would permission have been given, do you think?’
‘Good God, no! Not in eighteen forty-six, when that arch-prig Albert was still alive, and probably not even now – notwithstanding John Brown. You see, my maternal grandfather was a common labourer, hardly a suitable father-in-law for a cousin of the Queen. Nor did it help that when my mother met Papa she already had two small children, Charles and Louisa.’
‘My God! How did they meet?’
‘Why, in the theatre, of course. Where else would a prince meet a commoner? Mother was playing Margaret in Much Ado About Nothing at Drury Lane. She was known as Sarah Fairbrother in those days, and considered a great beauty. Papa first set eyes on her at a royal performance – attended by the Queen and Prince Albert, no less – and at once pursued her. They’ve been together, on and off, ever since.’
‘That’s two advantages you have over me, Major. First, you know your father’s identity. I don’t. And, second, your parents still live together.’
‘After a fashion,’ said FitzGeorge, refilling their glasses from the whisky bottle. ‘They share the same address, I’ll grant you, but no longer the same bed – they haven’t since my mother became an invalid ten years ago. Even before then Papa had many mistresses, and when my mother found out, as she invariably did, there were the most terrible rows. I remember one in particular, when I was about fourteen. Mother was apoplectic with rage because the lady in question, if that’s the right word, was also an actress, but much younger and still in her prime. Mother’s a very jealous woman. Always has been.’
‘Did I hear you correctly?’ said George. ‘Did you say your father had another mistress who was an actress?’
‘He could never resist a pretty face.’
George was stunned. FitzGeorge’s mention of his mother’s jealousy had reminded him of something his mother had said a couple of years earlier when she had first confessed that his father hadn’t died in shipwreck but was still very much alive. He had not been in a position to acknowledge George because, she had said, he was already ‘married’, as the duke had been, albeit illegally, when he had had an affair with a ‘younger’ actress. A tiny suspicion entered George’s mind, and was just as quickly rejected, that his and FitzGeorge’s father was one and the same man. Surely it couldn’t be – or could it? There was one way to rule it out. ‘Do you recall the year of the affair?’
‘Yes. I was fourteen, so it must have been eighteen fifty-nine. Why do you ask?’
George’s jaw fell. ‘Oh, no reason,’ he said, trying desperately to conceal from FitzGeorge the emotions that were swirling through his breast. The idea that his father was none other than His Royal Highness the Duke of Cambridge was almost beyond belief, yet it made sense. He knew from his mother that his father was a man of considerable influence, already married but with a predilection for actresses, who had given George financial incentives to do well as a soldier because his other sons in the military had disappointed him. The duke himself had said as much in May with the words: If they’d been anyone else’s sons they’d have been cashiered years ago. At the time George had been surprised by the duke’s willingness to talk about his family – but why wouldn’t he to his own son? As for the mystery of how a half-breed like him was able to gain entry into Harrow, Sandhurst and a crack cavalry regiment, like the King’s Dragoon Guards (not that that he had stayed long, thanks to Sir Jocelyn Harris), it was now explained. His father was not only a first cousin to the Queen but also Commander-in-Chief of the British Army, a man with the authority to send a member of Military Intelligence to keep an eye on him and make sure he reached Afghanistan safely. And Overton had done his job, even if it had cost him his own life.
As George pondered the revelation that his father might be one of the most powerful men in the British establishment, he felt nauseous and giddy, and put his hand on the table to steady himself.
‘Are you all right, Harper?’
George looked closely at the man he now strongly suspected was his half-brother. His eyes were blue to George’s hazel, but there were definite similarities. Both had symmetrical, classically handsome faces with square chins and prominent cheekbones. George’s nose was a little broader, and slightly crooked, thanks to a schoolboy fistfight, and his upper lip was a little more generous, but their toothy smiles were the same, as were their tall, athletic frames. He was tempted – very tempted – to blurt out his suspicions. But then he came to his senses. He scarcely knew the man opposite him, even if they were related. And he had seen enough of FitzGeorge’s haughty arrogance at their first meeting to be wary of too close an association. There was also the issue of FitzGeorge’s cosy relationship with his chief, General Roberts, and that he had made no bones about his support for the Indian government’s Forward policy in Afghanistan. As such he could not be trusted with the truth about George’s previous dealings with the duke, still less the real reason he had been sent to Afghanistan. He could, of course, still voice his general inkling that they were related, but where was the proof? Only his mother could provide that – and she was in Ireland.
‘I just feel a bit out of sorts,’ George said. ‘Too much sun, I expect.’
‘Too much whisky, more like.’
‘Perhaps. I’d better . . .’ George paused. He had been about to say he would turn in but, having discovered common ground between himself and FitzGeorge, and possibly kinship, he was keen to take advantage of an opportunity that might not repeat itself. ‘. . . turn in,’ he went on, ‘but before I do, could I ask you about a rumour I heard in Kabul that the cloak said to belong to the Prophet Muhammad has been taken from its shrine in Kandahar and is bound for a rabble-rousing mullah in Ghazni?’
‘The rumour is true.’
‘How can you be certain?’
FitzGeorge tapped the side of his nose in a conspiratorial gesture. ‘And I wouldn’t be surprised,’ he added, ‘if it hadn’t already reached its destination.’
George feigned puzzlement. ‘But surely you wouldn’t want that to happen when it would enable the mullah to declare a holy war against ourselves and Yakub.’
‘And would that be disadvantageous to us? I think not. For one thing, it would flush our enemies out into the open and end the current unsatisfactory state of affairs whereby we have to rely on a pliable ruler for our influence in Afghanistan. That way we bite the bullet and absorb the whole country – lock, stock and barrel – into British India.’
‘You think it will be so easy? If history teaches us anything in this region it’s that Afghans do not submit lightly to outside political interference. Why should they? Do you think we would if the roles were reversed?’
FitzGeorge snorted. ‘Well, they’re not reversed, are they? We’re the globe’s dominant power with a long-established hegemony in this region and they’re a backward agricultural society, dominated by feudal chiefs who think nothing of slitting each other’s throats over a petty feud. They need to know we’re not to be trifled with, that we’re here to stay. A short, sharp war should do it. The only thing these people understand is force.’
George could have sworn he’d heard those exact sentiments expressed about the Zulus earlier in the year, and look how that conflict had unfolded. But he knew that to make the comparison would invite awkward questions about what an employee of the Anglo-Indian Trading Company knew about South Africa. ‘That’s true up to a point, Major, but they tend to meet force with force. And even if you do overcome the mutinous regiments, you’ve still to contend with tens of thousands of unruly tribesmen who, familiar with weapons from boyhood, know instinctively how to make the best use of cover, and can move from rock to rock with the
nimbleness of a mountain goat. I know – I saw them in action a couple of days ago. Such proud, tough people, at one with their harsh terrain, are almost impossible to subdue by conventional military methods.’
‘What do you know about conventional military methods? You were only in the army for five minutes, for God’s sake, and you’re wrong. We thrashed the Afghans last year, and we’ll do it again. You talk about learning from history, and I assume you’re referring to the disasters of the last war. Well, the lesson I take from that conflict was that we used too little force and trusted a ruler who did not have popular support. We made the same mistake in May. This time we won’t. As for the martial capabilities of the Afghans, of which you’ve waxed so lyrical, I don’t agree they’re insurmountable. They can shoot straight, I’ll give you that, but can they stand up to trained and disciplined troops, armed with the latest breech-loading weapons? I doubt it. In 1842 our smooth-bore muskets were outgunned by the Afghan jezail. Now our Martini-Henrys are far superior to anything they have. So don’t quote history to me, Harper, unless you’re sure of your facts.’
George could see no sense in continuing the discussion. As he’d suspected, FitzGeorge was a fully paid-up supporter of the Indian government’s Forward policy and, as such, his solution to India’s security problems was very different from the one George was pursuing for the home government. In truth their aims in Afghanistan were diametrically opposed and, brother or no, George would have to tread warily. He now knew there was very little chance the Indian government would give Yakub the time he had requested to re-establish his authority, which made it more imperative than ever for him to continue his mission. If he could get his hands on the cloak before the mullah used it to rouse the faithful, there was still time to prevent the national uprising that Roberts and the Indian government required to justify annexation. And if his conversation with FitzGeorge had revealed anything of importance, beyond their possible fraternal connection, it was that the cloak was indeed on the way to Ghazni, and he should be too.