by Saul David
‘If you’re straight with her.’
‘That makes a change in this Godforsaken country. I tell you, Hart, the Afghans could do a lot worse than have a woman like her as their ruler. It hasn’t done us any harm.’
‘My thoughts exactly, General.’
‘Well, off you go to fetch the princess. But don’t dawdle. I need you ready to move at a moment’s notice. Major FitzGeorge will arrange your mounts. On second thoughts, he can go with you. He’s studied the photographs of the rebel leaders and knows who we’re looking for. He can also keep an eye on the princess and, if he’s lucky, pick up some worthwhile intelligence. That is, after all, what he’s trained to do – though you wouldn’t always know it,’ said Roberts, with a chuckle. ‘Eh, FitzGeorge?’
‘Quite, sir,’ said the major, flustered. ‘But wouldn’t I be of more use to you here?’
‘No, frankly, you wouldn’t. Not when the battle’s as good as won, which it will be by the time I send out the flying columns. You’ll be my eyes and ears.’
‘Yes, General,’ said FitzGeorge, without enthusiasm.
Roberts scribbled a note on a scrap of paper and handed it to George. ‘The princess’s quarters are in the double-storey house to the east of here that the Royal Engineers officers are using as their mess. Give that to the officer in charge of the princess’s guard. If she agrees to accompany you, escort her to the cavalry lines below the Bimaru Heights where Major FitzGeorge will be waiting with your mounts. Quick as you can.’
George saluted and left the room, gathering up Ilderim outside. As they made their way up the covered walkway to the Engineers’ mess, he had one or two misgivings that he was putting Yasmin in the way of danger. But her reaction to the plan was enough to dispel them instantly. ‘Of course I’ll come with you!’ she said, her face as radiant as a child’s. ‘Anything to escape this prison.’
‘Are you certain, Princess? We’ll be hunting your own kin.’
‘I know that, Angrez. But they rejected me. And if I have to turn in that slippery toad Mir Bacha to safeguard my family’s rule, I’ll do it.’
George was tempted to mention the general’s complimentary remarks, and the possibility that the British might even recognize her as ruler of Kabul, but he didn’t want to risk her becoming even more reckless than usual so he held his tongue. Instead he told her that General Roberts had come to his senses and, once the battle was over and the rebellion put down, would recommend to his political masters in Simla that Kabul be restored to an Afghan ruler.
‘I wish I could believe that, Angrez. But even if he is true to his word, who will rule the rest of the country?’ she asked.
‘He didn’t say, and it may well be that they’ll try to hold on to Kandahar and the south. But at least the rest of Afghanistan will be rid of foreign control.’
‘If I were amir,’ said Yasmin, her pretty chin raised defiantly, ‘I wouldn’t rest until the whole country was free.’
‘I can believe it, Princess,’ said George, marvelling again at her fierce patriotism. ‘But let’s take one step at a time. Mir Bacha is our priority today.’
‘You’re right, Angrez,’ she said, buttoning up her poshteen, ‘one step at a time.’
Chapter 21
They found Major FitzGeorge waiting impatiently with a groom and their horses at the entrance to the cavalry lines, a large tented encampment in the lee of the Bimaru Heights. ‘Where have you been?’ he demanded. ‘The general has already sent out the Fifth Punjab Cavalry and four horse artillery guns to drive the rebels from Khatir, as you suggested. We could be ordered after them at any moment.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, Major,’ said George. ‘As for our tardiness, we came as quickly as we could. The princess had to change her clothes.’
FitzGeorge turned to Yasmin who, as before, looked remarkably fetching in her riding garb of jodhpurs, boots, poshteen and turban. In her cummerbund was stuffed a short dagger with a jewelled hilt and pistol. ‘Of course. Please accept my apologies, Your Highness. It’s just that the general has impressed upon me the importance of overtaking the Kohistan rebels before they reach the Khair Khana Pass to the north-west.’
‘And so we will, Major,’ replied Yasmin, stern-faced. ‘Many of the Kohistanis are on foot and the Khair Khana is a good five miles from here.’
‘That’s true, Your Highness, but Mir Bacha and his lieutenants are the prize and they’re horsed. So if you would care to select a mount, we can join the rest of the flying column at the gap in hills.’
The horses were typical cavalry mounts, big-boned and none under fifteen hands. George picked out a fine bay for Yasmin.
‘How many sabres are we?’ he asked FitzGeorge, as he helped Yasmin into the saddle.
‘Two hundred. A squadron each of the Ninth and Fourteenth Bengal Lancers. Will that be enough?’
‘I hope so,’ said George, tightening Yasmin’s girth. He then mounted his own horse, a sturdy black Waler leaving Ilderim with the grey. All three animals, he noted with satisfaction, were equipped with leather buckets containing carbines. But he also knew that a sword was a more effective weapon at close quarters. ‘I don’t suppose you have a spare sabre?’ he asked FitzGeorge.
‘I’m afraid not. I suggest you try to cadge one from the lancers. Now can we go?’
‘By all means. Lead on.’
The sound of firing was fairly constant from most parts of the perimeter, but it rose in intensity as they neared the narrow gap in the centre of the Bimaru Heights – more a shallow depression than an interval between two separate features – through which the 5th Punjab Cavalry and four guns had already passed. George could hear artillery fire from beyond the hills, and assumed that the horse artillery was already in action.
The two squadrons of blue-coated Lancers – one composed of whey-faced Britons of medium height, the other of tall Jats from northern India – were waiting for them on the road ahead, just beyond a barrier of trees and wire that had been hastily pulled aside. Each trooper was holding a nine-foot bamboo lance with a red and white pennon and tipped with a steel three-sided point, its metal shoe resting in a special holder attached to the right stirrup. Across their backs were slung carbines, while the officers were armed with pistols and swords.
Major FitzGeorge rode up to one of these officers, a young cornet of the 9th Lancers, and asked him who was in charge. ‘Captain Fanshawe was, sir, but he was wounded a short time ago by a stray bullet.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said George, concern in his voice – Fanshawe was the officer who had escorted them in.
‘So who’s replaced him?’ asked FitzGeorge.
‘I have, Major,’ said a voice behind them. They all turned to see Percy Sykes approaching on horseback with a bugler in tow. ‘How can I help?’
‘By saluting a superior officer, for a start,’ said FitzGeorge, testily.
Sykes quickly did so, the bugler too.
‘That’s better. The flying column’s task is to capture Mir Bacha, the Kohistani leader. Is that right?’
‘Yes, sir. We’re to make for the Khair Khana Pass as soon as the rebels break off the attack.’
‘We’re coming with you.’
Sykes looked from one to another, his face darkening as he recognised George. ‘All of you? Captain Hart and the princess included?’
‘That’s right. Any objections?’
‘Only that this is a military operation, and no place for part-time soldiers and women.’
George bristled at the insult and was about to respond in kind, but FitzGeorge got in first. ‘So you know what Mir Bacha looks like, do you, Lieutenant Sykes?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Does anyone under your command?’
‘I don’t think so, sir.’
‘Well, both Princess Yasmin and Captain Hart do, as does Captain Hart’s companion, Ilderim Khan. Their task is to identify and capture Mir Bacha with your assistance. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Sy
kes, through gritted teeth. ‘May I ask who’s responsible for the princess’s safety?’
‘You are, so make sure she returns in one piece. Now, before we set off, Captain Hart would like to borrow a sabre.’
Sykes looked at George. ‘You were in the cavalry so briefly I’m surprised you know how to use one.’
‘Just get him the sword, Lieutenant,’ said FitzGeorge.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Sykes, and instructed the bugler to fetch his spare.
He did so, and George was buckling it to his waist when a galloper arrived with a message from the heights. FitzGeorge read it. ‘The good news,’ he announced, ‘is that our sortie has worked: the rebels have been outflanked by our horse artillery guns and are streaming back from Khatir. The issue of the battle, it seems, is no longer in doubt. The bad news for us is that the Kohistanis are well on their way to the Khair Khana Pass, and had probably begun their withdrawal before the cavalry and guns left the cantonment. We must move now, Lieutenant, to have any chance of success.’
‘Sir,’ responded Sykes. ‘Bugler, sound the advance!’
With Sykes and FitzGeorge leading, followed closely by George, Yasmin, Ilderim and successive troops of Lancers riding four abreast, the column trotted through the gap in the hills and out into the plain beyond. A few bullets whistled close, but the vast majority of rebels were more concerned with escape than continuing the fight. As far as the eye could see figures were fleeing, some taking refuge in the villages and dry watercourses called nullahs that dotted the plain, others heading for the more certain refuge of the high ground to the north and west.
‘Keep to the roads,’ shouted FitzGeorge over his shoulder, ‘and ignore any stragglers. We must get to the pass before the Kohistanis do.’
For ten minutes they rode through the slush of a narrow dirt track, mud and ice spattering the clothes of the riders behind. Once of twice they were fired at from villages they passed, prompting a fusillade in response, but otherwise their passage was unimpeded as rebels melted from their path. Having skirted the southern edge of a lake, they turned north and finally sighted their prey. Spread out ahead was a huge array of horse and foot, many thousands strong, swarming across the plain towards the safety of the pass. They seemed to be wearing all the colours of the rainbow, and were armed with a wide variety of weapons, ancient and modern, from swords and spears to muskets and breech-loading rifles. The rear of this retreating mass was barely a mile ahead; the front was nearing the spur that hid the entrance to the pass.
FitzGeorge at once called a halt. ‘God almighty!’ he exclaimed. ‘We can’t take them all on with our tiny force. What do we do?’
‘You’re the senior officer, Major,’ said Sykes, sourly. ‘You tell me.’
George nudged his horse forward. ‘Gentlemen, we’re wasting time. If we don’t take the initiative we’ll lose track of Mir Bacha and the other chiefs, and neither of you will want to explain why to General Roberts. In any case, retreating troops are terrified of cavalry and will fly at our approach.’
‘How can you be certain?’ demanded FitzGeorge. ‘Have you charged an enemy on the move?’
‘No, but I’ve read enough military history to know that pursuits are rarely opposed. Moreover they have no artillery to use against us. We must advance and take our chances.’
‘I hate to admit it, Major,’ said Sykes, ‘but I agree with Hart. In any event, if we don’t attack we might as well write off our military careers.’
This last point seemed to make up FitzGeorge’s mind. ‘Very well, then. We’ll advance. But I won’t take the blame if this ends in disaster.’
George looked scornfully at FitzGeorge, and wondered how it was possible that two brothers – if indeed they were – could have such different characters. But then he remembered the crucial distinction between them: FitzGeorge was white and had always known of his royal status, albeit one tainted by illegitimacy, whereas he was a quarter black African and, until recently, had assumed his father was a gentleman but no more. Was it any wonder that FitzGeorge saw the world from the embittered perspective of a man born into, yet never truly accepted by, the British ruling class while he, thanks to his Irish-African heritage, had a broader outlook and tended to sympathize with the underdog? The answer was no.
‘What are your orders, Major?’ asked Sykes.
‘To advance, to charge – as you’ve both suggested.’
‘I didn’t suggest that, sir, and neither did Hart. If we charge now,’ advised Sykes who, like George, had served in a cavalry regiment, ‘the horses will arrive blown. Better to close the distance at a trot.’
‘And when we do, how do we find Mir Bacha? They all look the same to me.’
‘To you maybe,’ said George, ‘but not to the princess.’ He turned to Yasmin. ‘Can you see anything, Princess,’ he asked in Pashto, ‘that would enable us to pinpoint your cousin?’
She scanned the many standards being carried by the retreating Kohistanis and soon found what she was looking for. ‘Look to the centre of the throng, Angrez,’ she said, pointing, ‘and you will find a large body of cavalry and a huge green and gold flag. Do you see it?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s Mir Bacha’s personal standard. He will not allow it to be captured.’
‘So if we aim for the standard, we’ll find Mir Bacha?’
‘Yes.’
George repeated what she had said to the two officers.
‘Very good,’ said FitzGeorge. ‘The standard will be our target. Tell your men, Sykes, that whoever captures it will earn himself ten guineas.’
‘And the man who captures Mir Bacha himself?’ asked Sykes.
‘A hundred.’
Sykes whistled softly. ‘That’s quite an incentive, Major, but can you be sure the general will pay out?’
‘I’m certain of it. His priority now is to secure the rebel leaders. If he could do that for a hundred guineas a man, he’d pay up willingly.’
Sykes grinned. ‘I’ll inform the men,’ he said, turning his horse to find the nearest NCO.
As George waited for the order to move, his horse impatiently pulling on its bridle, he felt a hand on his forearm. ‘If anything happens to me, Angrez,’ said Yasmin, her eyes brimming with tears, ‘I want you to know that I am grateful for all you’ve done.’
‘Thank you,’ said George, putting his hand over hers. ‘But you mustn’t talk like this. You’ll come safely through. We both will.’
She gave a thin smile and nodded, but George could tell she was unconvinced. He was about to speak more words of encouragement when Sykes returned to the head of the column and spoke to the bugler. He at once played the seven notes that all cavalrymen dream of hearing on active service: ‘Form line!’
The two squadrons formed up side by side, in two lines, their combined front extending for more than three hundred yards. FitzGeorge and Sykes took their place at the head of the right squadron, the 9th Lancers, with George, Yasmin and Ilderim close behind. George surveyed the ground between them and the retreating Kohistanis and noted with relief that it was flat and uncultivated, with only the occasional ditch and clump of trees providing an obstacle. It was almost ideal for cavalry.
By now the closest Kohistanis had seen what was happening and many were fleeing for the nearest high ground, while a few of the bolder types had turned to stand their ground. Mir Bacha and his horsemen, on the other hand, were continuing their orderly withdrawal down the centre of the plain as if they had all the time in the world.
Taking his lead from FitzGeorge and Sykes, George drew his sword and carefully wrapped the loop of cord dangling from its three-bar hilt around his wrist in case he lost his grip. Then he tested the edge of the three-foot straight blade with his thumb and felt a prick of pain as it drew blood. It was razor sharp.
He looked beyond Yasmin to Ilderim and felt a surge of brotherly affection for the big Afghan who, thus far, had seen him through so much danger. As ever, Ilderim seemed to be enjoying the prospect o
f combat, and was sitting on his grey with a half-smile on his handsome bearded face, the stock of his carbine resting lazily on his left thigh.
‘Ilderim,’ called George.
‘Yes, huzoor?’
‘Don’t worry about me today. Stay close to the princess.’
Ilderim nodded, and as he did so Sykes gave the order to advance. The bugle sounded the familiar three notes, repeated once, and the two lines began to move forward: first at a walk, then a trot and finally, as the distance to the nearest Kohistanis closed to under two hundred yards, a gallop.
Once again George felt that strange mix of fear and exhilaration as his horse tore across the plain, kicking clods of snow onto the grim-faced troopers behind them, their fearsome lances extended like the quills of a porcupine. Bullets were zipping through the air and the odd one found its mark, knocking a trooper from his horse, or bringing his mount down. But no sooner had one rider dropped out than the nearest officer cried, ‘Close up! Close up!’ and the line formed a new unbroken front.
Most of the Afghans on foot were running from the wall of horsemen, which must have seemed as unstoppable as the incoming tide. But a few brave souls had stopped to face the foe, and they were the first to be consumed by sword and lance as the line swept over them. George saw a lone rifleman to his right front, and changed direction so that he could cut at him right-handed. But at the last moment the Afghan went to ground and George’s swing passed harmlessly over his head. It was left to a trooper behind to skewer the Afghan with his lance, a weapon from which no man on foot without cover could hide.
Up ahead, Mir Bacha and a few of his horsemen had at last recognized the danger and were galloping for the safety of the pass, the huge green and gold standard marking their progress through the scattered remnants of the Kohistani army. Yet the bulk of Mir Bacha’s escort, presumably under orders from their chief, had turned to meet the Lancers and was firing a last ragged fusillade before the two forces collided. More saddles emptied behind George, yet he and the others rode on unscathed.
The bugler sounded the charge and a great cheer rose from the throats of the Lancers as they swept towards their prey. But George had eyes only for the green and gold standard, which, billowing out behind its bearer, was nearing the spur at the entrance to the pass. ‘Leave the fighting to the Lancers and follow me,’ he shouted across to Yasmin and Ilderim. ‘We must catch up with the standard before it’s too late.’