by Saul David
‘I bow to your superior historical knowledge, Major,’ said George, hand raised in submission, ‘and now I must get some rest.’
As he rose a final thought occurred to him. ‘You spoke warmly of your mother, earlier. May I ask how often you write to her?’
‘What business is it of yours?’
‘None, of course, but if she’s anything like my mother – and we know they have some similarities – she’d certainly appreciate a note from her son now and then. Just to know he’s alive and well. You know how mothers are . . .’
‘I’ll thank you to keep your filial advice to yourself. What an odd cove you are, Harper,’ said FitzGeorge, his brow furrowed. ‘I can’t make you out at all.’
‘Not many can, Major. Not many at all.’
Early next morning, George was woken by a member of the headquarters staff and told that the general wanted to see him. Minutes later he was shown into a large whitewashed front room in the adjacent farmhouse, where he found Roberts sitting at the head of a long table.
‘Ah, Harper, I trust you slept well,’ said the general, his immaculately pressed uniform and jaunty tone a reproach to George’s own thick head and rumpled appearance.
‘Not really, sir. I couldn’t get the stench of livestock from my nostrils, and my guide snored.’
‘I noticed the odour myself when we first looked round these buildings. It’s why we decided not to use the barn as our mess. Take a seat,’ said Roberts, gesturing towards an empty chair on his left. To his right sat a thick-set colonel George did not recognise, with prematurely grey hair, a neat moustache and goatee covering the lower half of his tanned, leathery face. Next to the colonel sat FitzGeorge.
‘You know my chief of intelligence,’ said Roberts. ‘This other officer is Colonel MacGregor, my chief of staff. He claims direct descent from Robert MacGregor, better known as the notorious Highland bandit Rob Roy, and I can easily believe him. Like me he was blooded in the Mutiny, and a more redoubtable soldier you would do well to find. He doesn’t know the meaning of fear. His speciality is guns, capturing the enemy’s or saving ours, and how he hasn’t won a Victoria Cross is beyond me.’
‘Me too,’ said MacGregor, with a growl. ‘I should have been given one for the action at Sinho in China in sixty, when I saved three guns and received five slugs for my pains, but that blighter Fane wouldn’t recommend me.’
‘Our good colonel has a temper, you see,’ continued Roberts, ‘that doesn’t always endear him to his superiors. But he’s a fine soldier and has travelled extensively in this region, reaching Herat in western Afghanistan in seventy-five and crossing Baluchistan a couple of years later. Like me, he believes that India will never be truly secure from a Russian invasion until we have Afghanistan in our possession.’
‘Or at least part of it,’ muttered MacGregor.
‘Quite so. Which brings me to the point of this meeting. I’ve heard from Lord Lytton and his instructions are emphatic. British public opinion will not tolerate any delay in British troops entering Kabul and gaining retribution for the murder of the resident and his escort. We are, therefore, to continue our advance on Kabul as soon as possible, as are the other British columns at Kandahar and Peshawar. I have written all this in my reply to the amir, and the relevant passage is the one I have underlined,’ he said, handing George a copy of the letter. It read:
I have carefully considered Your Highness’s proposal that you yourself should be permitted to administer just punishment to the mutinous troops and others who shared in the treacherous and cruel attack on the British resident and his small escort, and thus save Her Majesty’s troops the trouble, hardship, and privation that must necessarily be encountered by an advance on Kabul at this season of the year. I thank Your Highness most cordially on the part of the viceroy and government of India for this further proof of Your Highness’s friendly feelings. Under ordinary circumstances such an offer would be gratefully and willingly accepted, but after what has recently occurred, I feel sure that the great British nation would not rest satisfied unless a British army marched to Kabul and there assisted Your Highness to inflict such punishments as so terrible and dastardly an act deserves.
George looked up with a frown. ‘General, I must ask you to reconsider, or at least to ask Lord Lytton to do so. I’m convinced the amir had nothing to do with the attack on the Residency, and that if you invade now it will leave him in an impossible position. He is already a traitor in the eyes of some of his people for signing the treaty that allowed a British mission in Kabul in the first place. But if you cross the border again, only three unenviable options will be available to him: allying himself with the rebels in opposition to us, which will mean near certain military defeat; allying himself with us against the rebels, which will be like signing his own death warrant; or abdicating. Whichever he chooses, he will forfeit his throne.’
‘And good riddance, as far as I’m concerned,’ said Roberts, and turned to FitzGeorge. ‘Tell Harper the latest intelligence you’ve received about Yakub.’
‘It’s from a chief in the Logar valley,’ replied FitzGeorge. ‘He insists the amir is stirring up the frontier tribes to oppose our advance.’
‘You see, Harper?’ said Roberts, triumphantly. ‘Yakub is not to be trusted, and the sooner he shows his true colours and sides with the rebels, the sooner we can break up this accursed country and annex the territory as far as the Hindu Kush. Then, and only then, will we be able to sleep safely in our beds, secure in the knowledge that the Russians are not about to pour down on us through the Afghan passes. So, no, I will not reconsider, and neither will the Indian government. MacGregor,’ he said, turning to his chief of staff, ‘what is the timetable of advance?’
‘Yesterday General Baker’s brigade advanced as far as Kushi, and set up camp there,’ said MacGregor, gruffly, his voice betraying no hint of his Scottish ancestry. ‘We follow with the rest of the column once we’ve gathered enough supplies and transport animals. That should take no more than a few days.’
In the meantime, Harper,’ said Roberts, ‘I expect you to carry out your side of the bargain and deliver my reply to the amir. Will you do that?’
George nodded. The Indian government’s response had been disappointing, but no more so than he’d expected, and his priority now was to proceed to Ghazni and find the cloak. The slight detour to Kabul would provide the perfect cover.
‘Splendid,’ said Roberts. ‘You’d better have some breakfast and be on your way. How long do you think it will take you?’
‘Two days, I expect, with a stop at Kushi en route.’
‘In that case it might be better not to wear your native togs until you leave the camp at Kushi. The men are a bit jumpy, and it wouldn’t do to be shot by your own side.’
‘No, it wouldn’t,’ said George, though the thought had occurred to him that he no longer knew which side he was on.
Chapter 12
Advanced British Camp at Kushi, Afghanistan
The first streaks of daylight were visible to the east as George and Ilderim passed through the outer picket of Baker’s camp, manned by wiry Gurkhas of the 5th Regiment, and joined the track to Kabul. They had reached the camp the evening before, after a difficult and slow two-day ride from Ali Khel, and George was anxious to press on with as little delay as possible. He had donned his Afghan garb once more and, with a rifle slung across his back, looked every inch the fierce tribesman he was trying to impersonate.
In a ravine to his left, he could just make out the village of Kushi, a veritable oasis of mud houses, abundant orchards and fertile land irrigated by the stream from the Dobundi defile. The camp, by contrast, was pitched on stony ground on the right bank of the ravine, which was three miles long and half a mile wide, each bank rising for more than a hundred feet.
They had been riding for some hours when, as they approached a low range of hills, Ilderim drew George’s attention to a large dustcloud ahead. ‘Many riders, huzoor, we must take care.’
‘We’ll hide in that building,’ said George, pointing to a ruined fort on the side of the road, ‘until we know who they are. If they are rebels, they’re taking something of a chance in coming so close to Baker’s camp.’
They rode through the fort’s ramshackle main entrance and dismounted. ‘Wait here with the horses,’ said George. ‘We might need to leave in a hurry. I’ll take a look from the ramparts.’
He picked his way carefully up the crumbling steps to the parapet and, leaning his carbine against the wall, scanned the hills to the north. The dustcloud was still visible but nothing else. Then over the brow of the hill came a continuous stream of red-coated riders, their naked tulwars glinting in the early-morning sun. ‘I think they’re rebel horsemen,’ he shouted down to Ilderim. ‘Get ready to move.’
Yet as George watched the cavalrymen were followed by other riders in a variety of rich clothes, a couple of horse-drawn carriages and, finally, a long baggage train of mules and more red-coated horsemen. It did not look to George like an army on the move; rather, an important retinue with its escort. But who would be foolish enough to venture so close to the British at a time like this? The answer came to him: Yakub Khan. Only the amir would risk such an association with an invading army. He was obviously about to place himself under the protection of the British. But why?
Ignoring the dangerous masonry, George ran down the steps, took his bridle from Ilderim and mounted. ‘Let’s go. The riders approaching are Yakub Khan and his escort.’
Ilderim’s broad forehead creased in a frown. ‘Has he come to negotiate with the British?’
‘Judging by the number of baggage animals he has with him, he’s here to stay. Something must have happened in Kabul to drive him out. Whatever it was, he’s crossed the Rubicon now and there’s no going back.’
‘The Rubicon, huzoor?’
‘It’s a river in Italy . . . never mind. Unless . . .’
‘What, huzoor?’
‘Unless I can talk him into returning to Kabul. Quick, Ilderim, we have little time.’
Ilderim vaulted into his saddle and the pair cantered out of the fort and up the road towards the approaching calvacade. They were intercepted by the Kuzzelbash advance guard, which surrounded them with tulwars outstretched. Once George had explained to their officer that he was carrying an important message for the amir from the British general, he and Ilderim were led along the column to where Yakub was waiting, mounted on a fine grey Arab, with Shah Mohammed and his leading sirdars behind him. The amir’s eyes were bloodshot and he looked exhausted, as if the strain of ruling such a turbulent country had finally proved too much to bear.
‘Your Highness,’ said George, ‘it is I, Captain Hart, the man who carried your last message to General Roberts. I was on my way back to you with his reply. Why have you left Kabul?’
‘I had to,’ said Yakub. ‘When word reached the city that Angrez troops had entered Afghanistan and occupied Kushi, my uncle, Nek Mahomed, and the other rebel leaders came to my palace and offered me a choice: join them against the Feringhees or die. I chose life, but I had no intention of leading the fools in a war they cannot win. So yesterday morning I sent servants to erect tents in my pleasure garden at Beni Hissar, as I often do at this time of year, and followed later with my retinue, including my son and heir, Musa Khan. In the evening I sent the tents back to the Bala Hissar, as if to show my intention of returning. But instead I rode south through the night to Zergan Shah, and on to here.’
‘You’ve ridden all night?’
‘I have.’
‘Then stop and rest while we talk.’
Yakub hesitated, as if worried that at any moment the rebels, having worked out his intention, would overtake him and return him to Kabul in chains. But exhaustion got the better of him and he agreed to halt for refreshments. Orders were shouted and servants came scurrying from the baggage train with carpets and cushions for the amir and his sirdars to sit on. Fires were lit and soon tea was being served in pretty china cups from a fine silver teapot. George took a sip. It was far too sweet for his taste, and he preferred it with milk, but he drank it anyway. With the niceties observed, he put down his cup and turned to Yakub, who was sitting cross-legged to his right.
‘Your Highness, I must ask you to reconsider your decision to meet with General Roberts. It will be seen by your people as an act of betrayal.’
‘What do you know of my people, Angrez? Nothing. Believe me when I tell you they will understand my reasons. It is the rebels I flee, not my people.’
‘Quite right, Highness,’ said his wazir, Shah Mohammed, seated to his right. ‘Once those dogs have been defeated, we can return to Kabul with honour.’
George ignored the wazir. ‘Do you really believe, Your Highness, that your people will forgive you for deserting to the British?’
‘I am not deserting them,’ said Yakub. ‘I am removing myself from Kabul for my own safety.’
‘But is that how they will see it?’
‘They might, if I can persuade your General Roberts not to enter Kabul. All I need is time to restore order among my troops and to punish those who attacked the Residency. What does he say in his letter? Does he hold out any hope of a delay?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said George, removing the message from inside his kurta and handing it over. ‘He’s determined to advance as quickly as possible to assist Your Highness in putting down the rebellion and carrying out the necessary punishments. He says that British public opinion won’t accept any delay, and that other British columns are advancing on Kabul from the south and the east.’
Yakub read the letter, then passed it to his wazir. ‘I must do something before it’s too late,’ he said to George, almost in tears. ‘I must speak to General Roberts, face to face, and persuade him to change his mind.’
‘He will not.’
‘He may if I explain to him that an Angrez army at Kabul will provoke a national uprising.’
‘I am not sure that will sway him.’
‘Why?’
‘Because,’ said George, ‘that’s exactly what he and the hawks in the Indian government want. It will give them the excuse they need to depose you and annex the country. They’re already blaming you for Cavagnari’s death.’
‘But I had nothing to do with it. You were there. You saw my efforts to stop the fighting.’
‘Indeed I did,’ said George, but did not add that the amir’s efforts had been less than wholehearted. ‘And I said as much to the general. But he seems only too happy to see the worst in you, and claims to have intelligence that you have been encouraging the hill tribes to oppose his advance.’
Yakub seemed caught off guard by the accusation, his eyes darting sideways to his wazir for reassurance. ‘Lies, all lies,’ he said, without conviction. ‘Why would I do that?’
George raised his eyebrows, as if the answer was clear. ‘To slow Roberts’s advance, of course, and to give you a chance to shore up your authority and win kudos among your countrymen in the event of a British defeat. Who knows? But it’s immaterial because Roberts has made up his mind that you’re not to be trusted. Make no mistake, he’ll welcome you with open arms and expressions of friendship but he’ll watch you like a hawk and ignore any request you make to slow his advance. Kabul will be his in a matter of days.’
‘In that case,’ said Yakub, ‘my family are doomed.’
‘Is your family not with you?’
‘Only my son, Musa Khan. He’s seven and is travelling in one of the covered carriages. But the rest of my household – my sister Yasmin, my wives and servants – are still in the Bala Hissar. I wanted to bring them with me, but Shah Mohammed advised against it.’
‘And with good reason, Highness,’ interjected the stern-faced wazir. ‘It would have been impossible to move them all in carriages to Beni Hissar without arousing the suspicion of the mutinous soldiery.’
‘So instead you abandoned them to the depredations of those same soldiers.’ George
was appalled by Yakub’s weak and unchivalrous behaviour, and no less furious with the wazir. ‘How could you?’
‘Shah Mohammed said it was for the best,’ said Yakub, defensively. ‘And I didn’t abandon them. They still have Walidad Khan and the palace guard to protect them.’
‘How strong is the guard?’
‘Two hundred picked men.’
‘And can they be trusted?’
‘Of course. They have all sworn a personal oath of allegiance to me. But already they are outnumbered by mutineers, and if Roberts continues his advance, as you say he will, other regiments at Sherpur may break out and attack the citadel. If that happens, my family will be in grave peril.’
‘All the more reason for you to return to Kabul, or at least send your escort back to collect them.’
‘I . . . don’t know,’ said Yakub, hesitating. ‘Shah Moham-
med?’
‘Ignore the Feringhee, Highness,’ growled his wazir. ‘The rebels will arrest you if you return, and if you don’t they will never allow your family to join you. It’s hard, I know, but the women must fend for themselves. You must put your throne before your family.’
Yakub nodded his assent. ‘You see, Captain Hart? I have no choice. I must go on, and hope that General Roberts takes pity on my poor womenfolk.’
Fat chance of that, thought George. He looked from Yakub to his wazir – they were as bad as each other, with their weasel words and cowardly actions. Yakub in particular was beneath contempt and Afghanistan, he decided, would be better off without him. ‘I can see that your mind is made up, and that any further discussion is pointless,’ he said coldly. ‘With your permission, therefore, I will take my leave.’