by Saul David
‘Why there?’
‘Her mother was a Kohistani. She’s dead, but the princess has other family in the north.’
‘Does she now? Well, if that is so, we must follow.’
‘Huzoor, you’re in no condition to ride that far. You must rest until your leg is better.’
‘There isn’t time. But you’re right: I can’t ride all that way. You’ll just have to find me some alternative transport. For now I’ll have to grit my teeth and bear the pain. Let’s go,’ he said, jabbing the pony with his one good leg.
That night they camped in hills seven miles north of the defile. Again George slept fitfully, and dreamt of dungeons and falling rocks. When he woke the air was chilly and the fire Ilderim had built to keep them warm had dwindled to a few smoking embers, yet his skin was burning. He threw off his blanket and tried to sit up, but he lacked the strength and slumped back to the ground.
Ilderim stirred. ‘Huzoor?’
‘My skin’s hot and I feel as weak as a newborn.’
Ilderim came over and placed a palm on his forehead. ‘You have a fever, huzoor. Let me look at your leg.’ He carefully unravelled the soiled bandages that covered George’s right calf and gasped. The puckered entry hole at the right rear of the swollen muscle was neat enough, but on the far side the jagged exit wound was the size of a crown and crawling with tiny white maggots. ‘It’s infected, huzoor, and if it’s not treated soon you will die.’
‘Are you certain?’ asked George.
‘I’ve seen enough bullet wounds to know when one is infected. And likely the bone is broken too, or chipped at best. Either way you need rest.’
‘Very well,’ said George, his palms raised in submission. ‘I’ll rest for a while. But where?’
‘My uncle Sher Afzul, my mother’s brother, has a house in the hills south-west of Kabul. I haven’t seen him for many years, but he always liked me and will surely help us. Anyway, he has to – he’s family.’
‘How far?’
‘Twenty miles. Can you make it that far on horseback, or shall I steal a cart?’
‘I can make it.’
Chapter 17
Sher Afzul’s fort, south-west of Kabul
George sat up in bed, and looked round the bare, unfamiliar room. Its few sticks of furniture were rough-hewn and of poor quality, but the view through the open window of snow-capped mountains, their peaks bathed in morning sunshine, was one of the most beautiful he had seen.
Where on earth am I? he wondered. And then he remembered the conversation with Ilderim about his uncle, and the long, difficult ride through the hills to Sher Afzul’s fort, by the end of which he had been barely conscious and had had to be tied to his saddle.
‘Greetings, Angrez,’ said a voice from the door. ‘You’re awake at last. I’m Sher Afzul, Ilderim’s uncle.’
The speaker was of middle height and thick-set, with a white beard and an easy smile. His kurta and sash were clean and well made, rather than extravagant, and denoted a man of means, but not great wealth or power. He pulled up a chair and sat down.
George nodded. ‘I remember arriving, but nothing after that. How long have I been here?’
‘Three weeks.’
‘Three weeks? Have I been unconscious all that time?’
‘For most of it, yes,’ said Sher Afzul. ‘You were very feverish when you arrived and rambling. My wife made up a poultice for your leg and at last it seems to have worked. She tells me the wound is healing well and that the bone is unbroken.’
George touched his lower leg. ‘It’s still a little sore, but much better. Will you thank her for her kindness?’
‘You may thank her yourself.’
‘I will. But what of Ilderim? Is he still in the fort?’
Sher Afzul shook his head. ‘He waited two weeks for you to recover. When you did not, he went to visit his father. He should be back soon.’
‘I’m glad. I have much to thank him for. He saved my life three times. Did he tell you that?’
‘No, Angrez, but he did say you had both been in great danger, and were fortunate to be alive.’
‘Very fortunate,’ said George. ‘But, tell me, what news of the British? Have they taken Kabul?’
‘They took it in early October, after dislodging the rebels from a strong position in the hills above Charasiab. But much has happened since then, and none of it to the credit of the Angrez chief.’
‘I take it you mean General Roberts?’
‘I do. Since reaching Kabul he has levied a huge fine, placed the entire city to a distance of ten miles under martial law, and set up military courts to try those responsible for the death of the resident. He has also made the carrying of any weapon – firearms, swords and knives – an offence punishable by death, and ordered the arrest of the amir’s chief advisers for complicity in the massacre at the Residency and the resistance at Charasiab.’
‘Is the wazir among them?
‘He is. Do you know him?’
‘Not well, and what I saw I didn’t like. But accusing Shah Mohammed Khan of conspiracy is tantamount to accusing the amir himself. Do they have any credible evidence that he was involved?’
‘I couldn’t say, Angrez. What I have heard is that scores of Afghans have been executed without any proof of their guilt.’
‘But not Yakub’s advisers?’
‘Not yet. But the other killings have created much bad feeling, as has the Angrez practice of collecting grain and forage supplies by force, leaving the people with nothing for themselves. This leaves them easy prey to the hotheads and religious extremists who talk of jihad, and who, only two days ago, killed Mohammed Hussein Khan, the man appointed by the Angrez general to rule the region to the east of here.’
‘Was Mullah Mushk-i-Alam of Ghazni involved?’
‘I’m certain of it. Most believe the assassination was the work of Bahadur Khan, a Ghilzai chief in the Dara Nirikh valley, whose villages were destroyed because they refused to hand over supplies. But if he did it, he was acting on the orders of the mullah and his military commander, Mohammed Jan. For weeks the mullah has been gathering large bodies of armed men with his fiery speeches at Ghazni. He even sent emissaries here to ask if I would join the fight.’
‘Were they looking for me?’
‘I think not.’
‘So how did you get rid of them?’
‘It wasn’t easy,’ said Sher Afzul, stroking his beard. ‘I told them I’d consider their proposal. But they’ll be back, and when they come I’ll find it even harder to refuse them. Since Yakub’s abdication, I can no longer plead loyalty to the amir.’
‘Yakub has abdicated? When?’
‘A few days ago. The Angrez general issued this proclamation,’ said Sher Afzul, producing a yellow slip of paper from his pocket and handing it to George. It read:
I, General Roberts, on behalf of the British government, hereby proclaim that the amir, having by his own free will abdicated, has left Afghanistan without a government. In consequence of the shameful outrage upon its resident and suite, the British government has been compelled to occupy by force of arms Kabul, the capital, and to take military possession of other parts of Afghanistan.
The British government now commands that all Afghan authorities, chiefs, and sirdars do continue their functions in maintaining order, referring to me whenever necessary.
The British government, after consultation with the principal sirdars, tribal chiefs, and others representing the interests and wishes of the various provinces and cities, will declare its will as to the future permanent arrangements to be made for the good government of the people.
George handed back the proclamation. ‘I can understand why Yakub did it: ever since joining Roberts at Kushi he’s been a virtual prisoner of the British. And by abdicating he’s revealed Roberts and the Indian government for what they are – not allies here to help, but foreign invaders, plain and simple. Well, now that they have Kabul and the government of the country, they won’t
relinquish it without a fight.’
‘Then that’s what they shall have, Angrez, mark my words. Already the countryside is ungovernable for your people, and each day the armed opposition will grow. Unless, that is, you and Ilderim can recover the cloak.’
George’s jaw fell. ‘You know about the cloak?’
‘Of course. Ilderim explained. Afghan families have no secrets.’
‘Did he tell you that the princess took the cloak from us at the point of a gun?’
‘I told you, I know everything.’
‘So you agree with Ilderim that the princess has probably gone north?’
‘I suspect she planned this all along. She has many relatives and supporters among the Kohistan tribes, and is probably making her own play for leadership of the uprising.’
‘You think she intends to fight the British?’
‘I’m sure of it. How else can she hope to gain popular support for her rule?’
Suddenly all became clear to George. He remembered the words of Pir Ali: You must never forget, Hart Sahib, that the cloak means power. Sher Afzul was right, he decided. The princess had taken the cloak because she wanted to rule in her own right. And while the revelation made her betrayal a little easier to take, George was not optimistic about her chances of success. ‘From what I’ve seen of your people, Sher Afzul, I find it hard to believe they’ll accept a female ruler. Would you?’
‘It depends, Angrez. All most of us want is a ruler who is strong, just and only a little rapacious. That seems as much as we Afghans can hope for, and if Princess Yasmin is all of those things then I, for one, would back her at the loya jirga we tribal chiefs attend to approve a new amir. Whether the mullahs and the more traditional chiefs would ever consent to be ruled by a woman is another matter. I doubt it.’
‘So do I. But are you saying, Sher Afzul, that you’d support a war against the British?’
‘Of course, if your people intend to stay in Afghanistan. I have nothing against you, Angrez, but it’s the patriotic duty of every Afghan to repel the foreign invader. I would not fight for the mullahs and the extremists, but I would take sides with a strong moderate like Sher Ali, our former amir, or even Princess Yasmin if she proves her worth.’
‘I understand. And may I point out that Roberts and his kind are not my people, as you put it. I was sent here to prevent the Indian government from provoking an all-out war that would give it the excuse to annex Afghanistan, and that is still my aim.’
‘Then we see eye to eye, Angrez.’
‘So it seems. But do you really believe there’s still a chance we can stop the war by recovering the cloak?’
‘Yes, Angrez, I do. The mullahs and the extremists will fight with or without the cloak. But many moderate Afghans will only join a jihad if they believe it’s legitimate. The cloak gives it that legitimacy.’
‘But did you not say a moment ago you would join a jihad?’
‘Not a jihad. I would fight to free my country. There’s a difference. Put it like this, Angrez. If the Ghazni mullah succeeds in raising a national jihad, the Angrez troops at Kabul will be slaughtered and your government will have no choice but to return to avenge them, never to leave. Then even I would be forced to fight, and I’d most likely die. But if the rising is local, it will be defeated. Then there is still some hope that your government will see sense and, with its honour intact, withdraw its troops and leave us to our own devices.’
‘Good Lord,’ said George, impressed, ‘you’d put a philosopher to shame with your sophistry. But even if you’re right, and we can still make a difference by recovering the cloak, we’ve first got to find it. And then there’s the issue of time. We’re more than three weeks behind the princess, who must have reached her destination long ago. She may, at this very moment, be marching south at the head of a huge army.’
‘True, Angrez, she may indeed. But never forget it takes many weeks for a man to gather an army, and for a woman even longer, so you and Ilderim may yet be in time.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ said George, thinking it over. The odds, he knew, were stacked against them. It would be hard enough finding the cloak, let alone stealing it from the princess and her armed adherents. But he had to try or his mission would fail and Afghanistan would suffer. There was also the small matter of forfeiting the two-thousand-pound bonus he desperately needed to save the family home.
‘I’ve made up my mind,’ said George, after a long pause. ‘We’ll leave as soon as Ilderim returns.’
‘Leave for where, huzoor?’
George turned to see Ilderim’s smiling face and huge frame, covered with dust from his ride, taking up most of the doorway. ‘You’re back,’ he said lamely, incapable of doing justice to the pleasure he felt at the sight of his comrade in arms.
‘Yes, huzoor.’
‘And your father is well?’
‘He is, huzoor, as are you, I see.’
‘Much better.’
‘I’m glad. But you haven’t answered my question. Where are we going?’
George rolled his eyes. ‘Why, to Kohistan, of course. Where else?’
Chapter 18
Near Gulbahar, Kohistan, winter 1879
‘Wait here, huzoor,’ instructed Ilderim, ‘while I ride into the town and make enquiries. It will be better for both of us if I go alone.’
‘Very well,’ replied George, blowing into his hands to warm them. ‘But don’t be too long. It looks like snow again and we need to find shelter before dark.’
They had left Sher Afzul’s fort two days earlier and, resolved to give the British at Kabul a wide berth, had passed to the west of the city through the fertile pastures and shady orchards of the Chardeh valley, rejoining the main route north at Karez Mir. Another day’s hard ride had brought them close to Gulbahar where the Shamali plains rose to meet the foothills of the Hindu Kush, the towering range of mountains that divides northern from southern Afghanistan, which the proponents of the Forward policy in Simla had long hoped to acquire as the ‘scientific’ northern frontier of British India. And George could see why. The most prominent of the snow-capped peaks in the distance rose to a height of twenty thousand feet, and even the smaller ones seemed to form an unbroken wall of jagged ridges and deep ravines. There were, moreover, only a limited number of passes over the natural barrier, easy to control and blocked in winter.
As Ilderim continued down the snow-covered hill to Gulbahar, a small town of flat-roofed houses at the head of the Panjshir valley, George dismounted and led his horse off the road into a forest of conifers and weeping spruce. About fifty yards in he came upon a small clearing where he knee-haltered his horse and sat down on a rock with his carbine to wait. But after half an hour, with the chill seeping into his bones, he rose to stretch his legs and ease the ache in his recently healed calf. The clearing was too small for any proper exercise, so he shouldered his carbine and struck off into the trees in an easterly direction, away from the main road, and soon came upon a forest track that led gently downhill. He followed it for about four hundred yards and was about to turn back when he heard the faint sound of raised voices. They seemed to be coming from further down the path. George walked towards them, hugging the treeline, until he came to the edge of the forest where he stopped, open-mouthed.
Directly below him, strung out along a fast-flowing river at the foot of the valley, was a huge tented encampment with a brushwood enclosure for hundreds of horses. Near the centre of the camp was a large bonfire and round it sat a vast crowd of Afghan tribesmen, listening to and occasionally heckling a man who was addressing them. They were too far away for George to hear what was being said, or to recognize faces, and he was again on the point of retracing his steps when he saw a second figure rise from the edge of the crowd and join the original speaker by the fire. Two things caught George’s attention: from her gait and outline, the new speaker was almost certainly a woman; and she was wearing a heavy red cloak with tan sleeves, the jewels of its clasp sparkling at her
throat.
‘It can’t be,’ muttered George. But he knew it was. He had found Yasmin and the cloak.
For a moment he stared transfixed, his heart pounding at his first sight of the woman who had drawn him into her web only to betray him. He didn’t feel anger, just sadness, and a determination to hear from her lips the answer to the question: why? Yet he forced himself to put all personal feelings aside and to concentrate on the matter in hand, which was how to steal the cloak from under the noses of a band of armed and dangerous Afghans. He knew he couldn’t do it alone, and was about to return to the clearing to wait for Ilderim when a strong hand gripped his right arm, causing him to start. His spirits sank as he imagined an Afghan sentry had sneaked up on him. But when he swung round he found Ilderim, finger to his lips.
‘How did you find me?’ whispered George.
Ilderim snorted. ‘It wasn’t difficult, huzoor. You left tracks in the snow a child could have followed. What’s down there?’
‘It looks to be some sort of tribal gathering. A man was speaking, now a woman. I think she’s Princess Yasmin, and she’s wearing a red cloak with tan sleeves. It must be the Prophet’s Cloak.’
‘It is, huzoor. I heard talk in the bazaar at Gulbahar of a big meeting of Kohistani chiefs and their men by the Panjshir river. This is surely it. So if that Hell-cursed bitch is here, wearing the cloak, she must be trying to win them over. But why?’
‘To march on Kabul. She’s making her play for the throne, and her means to that end is to defeat Roberts in battle. I’m sure of it.’
Ilderim frowned. ‘No Afghan will follow a woman into battle.’
‘Are you certain about that?’
‘I am.’
‘We’ll soon find out. But first we need to get closer to the camp so we can hear what they’re saying. Luckily the light’s fading,’ said George, as he eyed the sun setting to the west, ‘and we should be able to cross the fields below without being seen. We’ll make for that orchard just above the camp.’