by Saul David
‘A defeat will give the Indian government the excuse it needs to send more troops to occupy Afghanistan permanently. The government in London, on the other hand, does not want this to happen because it fears the financial and human cost of occupation. It was to prevent this that I was sent to Afghanistan in the first place. But a lot has happened since then, including Cavagnari’s murder, and for reasons of prestige the British government would be bound to support its subordinates in Simla if one of its armies was defeated. Do you understand?’
‘I think so. But the choice is not a happy one for me, Angrez. To serve my country I must betray some of my people, my family even. It does not seem right.’
‘I was faced with a similar dilemma in Africa, but I made the right choice in the end. You will too.’
‘It is strange you have such faith in me, Angrez, after the way I treated you. But I’m about to repay that faith.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What would you say if I told you I knew when Mir Bacha was planning to attack the Angrez at Kabul?’
‘When?’
‘First tell me what you’d say.’
‘I’d say you hold in your hand the key to the battle, and that if you tell me you will be doing me and your country a service.’
‘Then it is right for me to tell you, and you can make what use of it you will. Mir Bacha’s plan is to join with the Ghazni mullah and attack the Angrez camp at Sherpur north of Kabul at first light on the last day of the Shia festival of Mohurram. The festival commemorates the martyrdom of the Prophet’s grandson, Imam Hussain, and runs for ten days at the start of the Muhammadan New Year. It’s regarded as an auspicious date.’
‘Are you saying Roberts and his men are at Sherpur? I thought they’d be holed up in the Bala Hissar.’
‘Some of them were, but they evacuated the fortress after the magazine exploded in October. The whole Angrez force is now concentrated at the Sherpur cantonment, a much weaker defensive position.’
‘I see. When is the last day of Mohurram?’
‘A week from now.’
‘At least that gives us time to warn Roberts. What will you do? Will you come with us?’
She nodded. ‘On one condition.’
‘Name it.’
‘That you make no mention of the cloak to General Roberts. If he discovers we have it, he will either destroy it or remove it from Afghanistan. I can’t allow that. Will you promise?’
George hesitated. He had been ordered by Lord Salisbury to do exactly what she was asking him to promise he would try to prevent: namely, the removal of the cloak to Britain. But as the payment of his bonus depended upon it, he decided to reassure her, and defer a final decision on the fate of the cloak until after the battle. He consoled himself with the thought that he would not, strictly speaking, be lying if he simply assured her he would keep all mention of the cloak from Roberts and his staff.
‘I promise,’ he said at last, a lump in his throat. ‘But are you certain you want to do this? Once you’re in Roberts’s clutches, he won’t easily let you go.’
‘I’m certain,’ she said, her gaze steady. ‘There’s nothing left for me here. My people have made their choice, and my duty now is with my brother in exile. Will you take me to him, if we survive the fighting?’
George blinked in surprise, taken aback that this once spirited woman was willing to go so meekly into exile. Could she be luring him into a false sense of security, he wondered, so that she could make off again with the cloak? Or had she genuinely given up all hope of personal rule? He couldn’t decide, which was why he resolved to watch her and the cloak like a hawk until they were safely within the walls of the Sherpur cantonment. But, of course, he said nothing of this to her. ‘It would be an honour,’ he replied.
‘Thank you, Angrez,’ she said, closing her eyes and raising her lips to his. He hesitated for the briefest moment as images of Fanny and Lucy, particularly the latter, swam before him. But ignoring them he leant forward to kiss her, gently at first, and then more urgently as she pressed her upper body against his. He raised his hand to cup the gentle swelling of her right breast and she pulled away abruptly.
‘I’m sorry,’ said George, flushed with embarrassment. ‘Please forgive me.’
‘There is no need to apologize. I was enjoying it – too much. But now is not the time. Not here, in front of him,’ she said, nodding towards Ilderim’s sleeping form.
‘Of course not.’
‘Goodnight, then, Angrez,’ said Yasmin, with a final kiss, before pulling her blanket over her and settling down for the night.
‘Goodnight, Princess.’
Chapter 19
Near Sherpur cantonment, Kabul, winter 1879
Ilderim turned and put his finger to his lips as they approached the Afghan pickets a mile to the east of the British fortified post at Sherpur. Well wrapped in poshteens and thin scarves called pugris to keep out the cold, they were leading their horses through a snow-covered field to the right of the main road, hoping that the Afghan guards ahead would not see them in the failing light.
A day earlier, at Koh-i-Daman, they had picked up the alarming news that the mullah’s army had already attacked Roberts at Kabul, badly mauling a column of cavalry. Roberts himself had been present at the action and, according to the bazaar gossip, had only narrowly escaped with his life, as had the bulk of his troops. More skirmishes had taken place in the days following this initial contact, but so numerous were the insurgents that Roberts had eventually chosen to withdraw all his troops inside the relative safety of the Sherpur cantonment. Since then they had been besieged by the mullah’s army, fifteen thousand strong and led in the field by Mohammed Jan, though the mixed quality of the Afghan fighters – some of whom were trained soldiers, some fanatical Ghazis and some tribesmen out for plunder – had convinced George that it would not be too difficult to pass through their screen of pickets. Ilderim and Yasmin had agreed, so here they were, risking their lives to take news of the impending attack to a general whom none of them had any time for and whose reputation and promising career, tarnished by the setbacks of the last few days, hung in the balance.
George peered nervously to his left front and could just make out the twinkle of a fire and two sentries standing near it, stamping their feet to keep warm. ‘Let’s hope they’re too distracted by the cold to notice us,’ he whispered to Yasmin, who was walking beside him.
She nodded, a weak smile betraying the anxiety she was bound to feel as she sought to enter the camp of her country’s occupiers.
All three tensed as they drew level with the picket, barely three hundred yards to their left. There was no shouted challenge, no shot, and they pressed on, convinced the worst was over. But as they remounted on the road beyond the picket, barely half a mile from the cantonment, they could hear riders behind them. Ilderim swung round in his saddle to see dark shapes coming up the road at speed. ‘They’ve seen us, huzoor, we must hurry!’ he shouted, urging his horse into a canter.
The others fell in behind him, their horses’ hoofs thudding into the thin layer of snow on the paved surface. They had discussed the danger of approaching the cantonment at speed, and decided that it was worth the risk if they were being pursued. Now, as they clattered onwards in the dark, George was not so certain. ‘Ilderim!’ he called. ‘Let me go first. They’ll see I’m a European.’
Barely had the words left his mouth than a shot lit the darkened battlements ahead, followed by more, the flashes of flame spreading along the rampart. Bullets were striking the road all around them and George knew it was only a matter of time before one of them was hit. ‘Stop firing!’ he shouted, waving his free hand. ‘I’m British!’
But they couldn’t have heard him because, if anything, the rate of fire increased. George crouched lower on his horse’s neck and continued to shout his name as the road swung sharply to the left to reveal the dark shadow of the main gate, no more than three hundred yards away. Now bullets were coming fro
m two directions as their pursuers, fearful of losing their prey, had opened fire from horseback. Through this crossfire they rode, miraculously untouched, until even George dared to imagine that they might get through unscathed. He looked back to see the princess close behind him, her beautiful face grimly determined; Ilderim, now bringing up the rear, had his pistol out and was firing the occasional shot over his shoulder. It seemed to George that some invisible shield was deflecting the storm of lead and protecting them from harm.
Then something thudded into his horse’s chest, causing the large gelding to stumble and fall. Time seemed to slow as the ground rose to meet George’s right shoulder. The impact was softened a little by the light covering of snow, yet it still drove the air from his lungs and left him sprawled on his back. Beside him lay the still form of his dead horse.
Too stunned to move, George gazed up at the night sky, its blackness relieved by scores of brilliant stars. Then his view was obscured by a bearded face. ‘Huzoor! Can you hear me?’
‘Yes,’ replied George, half forgetting his predicament. ‘No need to shout. Where’s the princess?’
‘I’m here, Angrez,’ she answered, from behind Ilderim.
‘What about the horsemen?’
‘They turned tail when the defenders spotted them and switched targets. They’ve ceased firing now. They must think we’re all dead.’
Ilderim helped George up into a sitting position, but as he did so the main gates of the cantonment were thrown open and out rode a troop of lancers with lighted torches who made directly for them.
‘I’m British!’ George shouted, as the horsemen surrounded them with lowered lances. ‘My name is James Harper.’
‘You don’t look British to me,’ said the troop officer, a tall man with a pencil-thin moustache.
‘That’s because I’m in disguise,’ said George, with more than a hint of sarcasm, his mood not improved by the pain in his shoulder. ‘But I can assure you I am. Major FitzGeorge will vouch for me.’
‘We’ll see about that. What about your accomplices? Who are they?’
‘The man’s my guide. The lady’s a member of the Afghan royal family.’
‘Is she now?’ said the officer, peering at Yasmin with new respect. ‘You can explain everything to the Major. But quite what you think you were doing, charging through the enemy lines and appearing unannounced below our walls, is anyone’s guess. It’s a miracle you weren’t all killed. Fortunately for you, an eagle-eyed sentry spotted the Afghans in pursuit and eventually put two and two together. But not before your horse was hit, I see. Can you ride or do you need a litter?’
‘I can ride,’ said George, rising to his feet with Ilderim’s help. ‘My shoulder’s a little sore, but otherwise I’m all right.’
‘Good. Jump up behind me. We’ll have you in the fort in a jiffy. I’m Captain Fanshawe, Ninth Lancers, by the way,’ he said, extending his hand.
George took it. ‘A Delhi spearman, eh?’ he responded, using the nickname for the 9th that had been earned during the Indian Mutiny.
‘Yes,’ said Fanshawe, helping George up behind him. ‘Though I suspect we might be given a less respectful soubriquet after the regiment’s poor show in the Chardeh valley the other day. Let’s go, before the Afghans see what we’re up to.’
Barely a minute later they were clattering through the gateway and into the fortified cantonment, which had, only three months earlier, housed the Herat regiments responsible for the attack on the Residency. Now it had become a place of refuge for General Roberts’s army of invasion and would soon, George knew, be the focus of a huge attack by those Afghans – notably the Ghazni mullah and Mir Bacha – who were determined to remove the British by force.
Once through the gate, guarded by the familiar big-boned soldiers of the 5th Punjabis, they drew rein and dismounted. Though it was dark and hard to pick out detail, George could tell by the spread of camp-fires that the cantonment covered a huge area and would, as a result, be extremely difficult to defend.
‘This way, if you please,’ said Fanshawe, leading them towards a cluster of buildings close to the gate they had just passed through. He knocked on the door of a single-storey house.
‘Who is it?’ asked a familiar voice.
‘It’s Captain Fanshawe of the Ninth Lancers. I’ve just brought in a man called James Harper. He’s here with his guide and, um, an Afghan princess. Harper says he knows you.’
Hurried footsteps, and the door swung open to reveal the handsome features of Major FitzGeorge. ‘Harper! Is that you?’ he said, catching sight of the heavily bearded George in his Afghan garb. ‘My God, it is. It must be almost three months since I last saw you at Ali Khel. Yet here you are again, safe and sound, with your faithful guide. And this is?’ he asked, inclining his head towards Yasmin.
‘Yakub’s sister, Her Highness Princess Yasmin.’
FitzGeorge gave her an admiring glance. She was still clad in her masculine riding garb, her face streaked with dust and grime, but there was no disguising her beauty.
‘I’ll be damned,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘So you’re the cause of all that firing. I thought it was the sentries getting the jitters. But do come in, all of you. And thank you, Fanshawe, I’ll take charge from here.’
They filed past FitzGeorge into a large, whitewashed room, part of which was wreathed in shadows. The rest was lit by a single oil lamp, and contained a table covered with papers, a few scattered chairs and, most welcome of all, a small wood-burning stove. ‘Do sit down,’ said FitzGeorge. ‘Would any of you like a drink or something to eat?’
George repeated the question to Yasmin in Pashto.
‘Yes, but no pork,’ she said, placing a chair close to the stove and rubbing her arms for warmth.
‘She’d like . . .’
‘I know,’ interrupted FitzGeorge. ‘I speak Pashto. What about your guide?’
‘He’ll have what she has.’
‘Fine. I’ll get my servant to rustle something up. I won’t be a moment,’ said FitzGeorge, opening the door and disappearing into the night.
Minutes later he was back. ‘Brrr. It’s cold out there. The refreshments are on their way. In the meantime, Harper,’ said FitzGeorge, lighting a second oil lamp, ‘can I have a word with you in private?’
‘Of course,’ said George, turning to Yasmin. ‘He wants to speak to me alone. I won’t be long.’
Yasmin nodded her assent, though George could tell she was unhappy at being excluded. He followed FitzGeorge through to his bedroom, a Spartan affair with a camp-bed, a trunk and a mahogany chest of drawers.
‘Where did you get that?’ asked George, pointing at the chest.
‘I liberated it from one of the palaces in the Bala Hissar before we abandoned the place. Handsome, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is, but I wouldn’t let the princess see it if I were you. It’s technically her property – or, at least, her brother’s.’
‘Don’t be such a prig, Harper. It’s a legitimate spoil of war. Do sit down while I get you a whisky.’
George sat on the camp-bed while FitzGeorge poured the drinks.
‘I’m relieved to see you again, Harper,’ said FitzGeorge, handing him a glass containing a more than generous dram. ‘But I won’t deny I’m surprised. When Yakub came into our camp shortly after you’d delivered the general’s message, and there was no word from you, we all assumed you’d been killed. What happened to you? And how did you find the princess?’
George took a large gulp from his glass, letting the fiery liquid warm his throat. He knew he couldn’t tell FitzGeorge everything so decided to stick as close to the truth as possible. ‘My intention was to deliver the message to Yakub and then leave the country. But when Yakub told me he had left his family defenceless in the Bala Hissar at Kabul, I was so angered by his cowardly behaviour that I decided to return with Ilderim to see if we could help. I had met the princess while I was recovering from the wound I received during the attack on the Residency,
and I was worried for her safety.’
‘Having seen the princess, I can well understand your eagerness,’ said FitzGeorge, with a lascivious wink. ‘She’s a fine piece. But I still can’t believe you’d risk returning to a city teeming with armed rebels, any one of whom would have happily slit your throat, for the sake of a woman, however beautiful. There must be more to it than that.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said George, flustered. ‘I went back to save the princess, that was all.’
‘So you say – but let’s not fall out over this. I didn’t really care why you returned to Kabul. The fact is you did, and by doing so you may have come across vital intelligence. So, please, tell me everything.’
George sat there for a moment, mulling things over. He knew there was a strong chance that the prickly, self-serving individual before him was his half-brother. There were just too many coincidences for that not to be true. But that didn’t mean he had to like him. Neither did he have to help him. But this wasn’t about helping Harry FitzGeorge. It was about saving an army and, with a bit of luck, preventing the Indian government from absorbing yet another unwilling country into the British Raj. To do that he would have to tell FitzGeorge the truth, or most of it anyway.
So George related exactly what had happened in the Bala Hissar, only diverging from the truth when they had taken refuge in the pleasure garden at Beni Hissar. At that point, George claimed, the princess had persuaded him to escort her north to Kohistan where she had family and knew she would be safe.
‘Safe? She’d have been a darned sight safer with us. Why didn’t you bring her to join her brother?’
George had expected this question and had his answer ready. ‘Because, Major, she didn’t want to. She didn’t agree with Yakub’s decision to leave Kabul for our camp, and was furious that he did so without telling anyone, leaving her and his wives to the tender mercies of the mutineers and, as it turned out, his own guard. With her father dead, it was only natural that she would seek refuge with her mother’s family in Kohistan.’