He gave her a wistful smile and a look of longing, before tucking the handkerchief back in his inner pocket. Then he helped her to her feet.
Her heart breaking, Esmie led the way back to the police outpost.
Chapter 37
Just before dusk, five riders appeared at the gates of the fort. Mullah Mahmud had arrived from over the border, bringing with him Subahdar Tor Khan from Gardan and three other Otmanzai.
Tom and his old comrade greeted each other with enthusiastic handshakes. Esmie was touched when the old white-bearded soldier extended his hand in welcome to her too and spoke in English.
‘Guthrie Memsahib, you are a brave lady and it is an honour to meet you.’
‘Thank you,’ Esmie replied. ‘And you are very kind to offer your help, subahdar.’
Mullah Mahmud was more reticent, obviously finding it awkward to have Esmie among their throng as they sat and ate together. But Esmie was not going to be parted from Tom any sooner than she had to be. Wary of the Otmanzai guards with their ragged beards and dark clothes, she sat close to Tom and listened while the men talked, hardly able to swallow her food for nervousness. The subahdar was explaining that they still didn’t know exactly where Lydia was.
‘But I believe she is alive. One of my servants is sure he saw a white woman leaving the homestead of Baram Wali’s brother just before dawn two days ago.’
‘So my wife could already be far from Gardan by now?’ Tom asked in alarm.
‘It is possible,’ the old man admitted, ‘but unlikely. The gang would need time to arrange for a new hiding place – asking favours of kin in Afghanistan, for example.’
‘And you think it is Baram Wali behind this?’
Mullah Mahmud spoke. ‘I believe it is him. He won’t admit it to my face but he has been heard boasting about seizing a rich prize from Taha.’
Esmie’s stomach turned to hear Lydia described in such terms.
The subahdar nodded in agreement. ‘He and his kin are notorious for their wild behaviour – stealing and fighting are second nature to them. I would itch at the chance to send them packing.’
Tom gripped his shoulder. ‘You are still a Rifles’ man at heart, my friend.’
Esmie asked, ‘So why haven’t they made any demands for money yet?’
Tor Khan stroked his long white beard, a kindly look in his grey eyes. ‘It might be a good sign that they haven’t. Perhaps they never had a clear plan and don’t know what to do next.’
Esmie didn’t like to say that a criminal gang who couldn’t agree among themselves might be a greater threat to Lydia than one who could. She wondered how much the Otmanzai warriors understood of the conversation which had been conducted in a mixture of English and Pashto. One was the subahdar’s servant but the other two had been sent by Mirza Ali to look after the mullah. These two said little but their look was watchful. What if one of them was kin to Baram Wali and was already plotting how to capture her too?
It was agreed they would leave promptly in the morning. Gardan was a full day’s ride away and over two passes.
‘Mirza Ali is sending a larger armed guard to meet us at the border,’ said the mullah.
Esmie saw the concern on Tom’s face. ‘I thought this was to be a small inconspicuous party. Does this escort have the blessing of Mullah Zada?’
The young mullah hesitated and then said with a fatalistic shrug, ‘We cannot pass through Mirza Ali’s land safely without it.’
After a moment, Tor Khan put his hand on Tom’s arm. ‘Help me up, sahib. My legs have grown stiff and I would be grateful if you would see me to my sleeping mat.’
Esmie saw the look of understanding pass between the two old comrades. There was nothing wrong with the subahdar’s legs; he wanted a word in private with his former officer.
Esmie hardly slept. She tossed restlessly on her charpoy, falling into fitful sleep. She was woken at dawn by Malik bringing her a glass of tea with an encouraging nod. Groggily, she drank the sweetened tea and listened to the men saying their prayers in the courtyard beyond. Then Esmie got up and dressed in the loose pantaloons, long shift dress and thick woollen jacket that Karo had packed for her and tied a scarf around her head. Shivering in the cold, she was glad of her sturdy riding boots too.
Emerging from her room, she gasped in shock as a Pathan loomed out of the half-dark towards her.
‘It’s me!’ the man said quickly.
‘Tom? I hardly recognised you.’
He looked warrior-like in shalwar kameez, sheepskin waistcoat, turban and a belt bristling with cartridges. She heard the amusement in his voice as he answered, ‘You hardly look like one of the sahib-log in your outfit either.’
She couldn’t help but smile. ‘No, I don’t suppose I do.’
He steered her back into the shadows and lowered his voice.
‘I’m coming with you over the border.’
Esmie’s heart jolted. ‘But you can’t. Rennell and McCabe said—’
‘They don’t know the situation on the ground,’ Tom interrupted. ‘I don’t trust Mirza Ali not to take advantage of another feringhi woman coming into his fiefdom. Tor Khan has appointed me his henchman and will vouch for me should I be challenged. Mullah Mahmud doesn’t object to my coming – he told me he’d do the same if it was his wife in jeopardy.’
‘What does Sergeant Baz say to this?’
‘He’s in agreement,’ Tom answered. ‘He won’t say so, but I think he’s contemptuous at his superiors for sending a British woman into tribal territory without any protection from her own kind.’ Tom touched her on the shoulder. ‘And so am I.’
Esmie’s spirits soared. ‘I can’t pretend I’m not thankful. But you mustn’t take any unnecessary risks, Tom. Promise me that?’
Tom gave her a wry look. ‘No more than you will, Esmie.’
They rode on horseback for the border: Esmie, Tom, Baz, Malik, Mullah Mahmud, the subahdar and the three guards. Both Baz and Malik were also dressed in native clothes. There were no uniforms or topees to provide a target for snipers. Esmie’s heart pounded as hard as the hooves of her pony – a stocky chestnut mare from the police stables – as the mountain tracks grew increasingly narrower and steeper. At the top of the pass a solitary mile post marked the border, which was overlooked by a fortified police picket. Waiting for them on the far side were a dozen more Otmanzai tribesmen.
Esmie took one last look back at distant Kanki-Khel, wondering if she would ever return to British India and Harold again. Turning back, she caught Tom’s steady look of encouragement. She tried to convey without words how much she wanted him there. Then she kicked her horse forward and followed her escort down into Otmanzai country.
As the sun strengthened and the air warmed, they followed a river and entered a steep-sided gorge. Among the Otmanzai was a young, thin-faced man, who said he was a son of the chief. It troubled Esmie that the escort had been sent by Mirza Ali and not Mullah Zada. Although she had treated scores of men at the clinic in Kanki-Khel the previous year, she did not recognise any of the bearded and turbaned men, armed to the hilt with long knives, pistols and old-fashioned muzzle-loading jezails. The further they travelled into the mountains, the more her anxiety grew that they were being lured into a trap. Baz had left instructions that if they didn’t return to Kanki-Khel within the week, then the army were to be called out.
Only the thought of Tom, riding close behind, stopped her from succumbing to fear and fleeing back to safety. How glad she was that he had defied orders and insisted on coming. The presence of the old subahdar was comforting too. Surely he must carry some authority over his fellow tribesmen? Or would it be held against him that he had soldiered for the despised feringhi?
After two hours, they stopped to rest the horses at a hut made of mud-baked bricks with a straw awning, where a toothless, weather-beaten man and a young boy served tea and slices of watermelon to the travellers. Baz paid them and tried to strike up a conversation with the old man, but he said little
in response. Yet Esmie took heart from the fact that their escort had thought to provide them with refreshments. As they sat on a dusty carpet under the awning, she exchanged glances and encouraging smiles with Tom. Soon they were in the saddle again.
The path grew narrower and more precipitous. The midday sun dazzled the eye, glinting off buff-coloured rock and making Esmie perspire. Birds of prey wheeled in the air thermals above. Occasionally, she would see a cluster of low-lying houses nestled into the hillside, only distinguishable from the landscape by the splash of orange and yellow on their flat roofs from drying corn and gourds. Esmie thought of the women she had treated the previous November and wondered if any of them lived in these remote hamlets. What tough and isolated lives they must live, eking out a living in a harsh climate from a thin soil. Karo too must have come from such a place.
Esmie tried to imagine what it had been like for Lydia, forced along this route a few days earlier. How terrifying it must have been to be alone with her captors, perhaps trussed to a pony or mule, wondering when her ordeal would end and yet dreading where they might be going. Whatever Esmie felt, it would be nothing to the fear her friend must have experienced.
They trekked on. It occurred to Esmie that their escort might be taking them in a circuitous route so that they would not easily find their way back again without a guide. Baz had admitted that he had never ventured as far as Gardan before, though his mother’s kin were distantly related to the Otmanzai and one or two had been on pilgrimage to the holy tomb. No British had been there since a border war over twenty years ago, when the army had sent troops in to subdue the tribesmen in revolt.
Eventually, the Otmanzai guards led them down a steep slope to a river crossing of uneven boulders around which the river swept. The first half a dozen Otmanzai plunged their horses into the shallows and got quickly across. Baz and Subahdar Khan followed. Tom brought his horse up beside Esmie’s.
‘Ready?’ he asked. She nodded.
Esmie’s pony whinnied nervously. She urged it on. It slipped and slithered between the rocks, nearly pitching Esmie into the rushing water. She cried out.
‘Hold on!’ Tom shouted. He was there instantly, grabbing the bridle and steadying the animal.
One of the Otmanzai, surprised at Tom’s cry in English and mistaking his sudden movement as suspicious, turned, shouted and fired his gun in the air. Esmie’s horse, spooked by the noise, bucked and scrambled for the far side, tipping Esmie from the saddle. She tumbled into the water, bashing her hip on a rock.
At once, Tom threw his reins for Malik to catch hold of and jumped down. Splashing through the water, he reached for Esmie and pulled her up. The guards began shouting and gesticulating at Tom. The subahdar barked at them in rapid Pashto.
‘Are you all right?’ Tom asked anxiously. ‘Can you walk?’
Esmie clung on to him in shock. ‘Yes,’ she gasped.
As he helped her from the river, she winced at the pain in her hip. Her pantaloons were soaked but she was more concerned at the volatile mood of the tribesmen. Baz, who had dismounted on the far riverbank, hurried to help. Together, the two men supported her to a nearby rock and sat her down.
The guards began to protest but the subahdar answered back robustly that the memsahib should be allowed to rest. The chief’s son had a heated exchange with Tor Khan, which Esmie couldn’t fully understand but she knew it must be about Tom’s identity. Mullah Mahmud arrived and intervened. His soft diffident words appeared to mollify the young chieftain and he accepted the subahdar’s assurances that Tom was no threat to them. Calming his men down, the chief’s son decreed that they would stop for a few minutes. He ordered them to hand around grapes and nuts from one of the saddle bags.
Esmie’s hip throbbed and her head pounded.
Baz and Tom looked at her in concern.
‘Guthrie Mem’, can you ride any further?’ Baz asked.
She was dizzy and sick at the prospect. ‘I’ll be fine. I just need to get my breath back,’ she panted.
‘You can ride with me,’ Tom declared. ‘My horse is strong enough for two and I’m not going to risk you having another fall.’
Esmie began to protest. ‘I can manage—’
‘I think that would be a good idea,’ Baz said, agreeing with Tom.
Soon, the Otmanzai guards grew restless and ordered them to move on. The mullah offered to swap saddles so that Tom and Esmie could use his less rigid padded cloth saddle. With Malik’s help, Esmie was lifted into the saddle in front of Tom. Luckily the horse did not buck at the extra weight. Malik took charge of Esmie’s pony. As they moved off, she clung to the horse’s mane while Tom gripped her around the waist with one arm and took hold of the reins with the other.
Esmie could feel the strong beat of his heart against her back, which matched the hammering of her own as they clung together. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her hair. It was sweet purgatory to be pressed so close to his body knowing that they would never be intimate. Yet she thought it was her fault that the guards had discovered so soon that Tom was not a Pathan. They muttered among themselves and threw glances at the feringhis.
Tom and Esmie could only ride at a walking pace and the sun was waning by the time they emerged onto a small plateau surrounded by almost vertical cliffs. Esmie’s thighs had been rubbed raw by her damp clothes and she was light-headed with fatigue, yet she dreaded the moment she would have to leave Tom’s safe hold and face the unknown.
A village of huts hugged the bottom of the far cliff, while the mountainsides were peppered with fortified houses that seemed to defy gravity. At the centre of the village was a simple domed structure that glowed dusty gold in the last rays of sun.
‘The holy tomb,’ Baz said with wonder in his voice.
‘Gardan,’ the subahdar confirmed with a note of pride. ‘I will be honoured if you would stay at my home.’
But soon an argument broke out between the old soldier and the chief’s son.
Tor Khan explained in agitation that Mirza Ali was insisting on Esmie being his guest instead.
‘You will come to my father’s homestead,’ the young warrior decreed. ‘My mother’s zanana will be more comfortable than the house of a subahdar.’
Esmie could hardly refuse without insulting the chieftain. Besides, her party were completely outnumbered by Mirza Ali’s men.
‘That is very kind of you,’ she answered as calmly as she could.
They skirted the plateau as the sun sank out of sight and the air instantly turned chilly. At the mouth of a narrow gorge, hemmed in by cliffs and a rushing river, lay a fortified farmhouse with high windowless walls and a towering gateway, reminding Esmie of the stark peel towers of the Scottish borders.
Although a strip of green irrigated fields and an orchard surrounded the homestead, it looked forbidding and impregnable. A place that, once inside, it would be impossible to leave without permission. Her stomach lurched in fear. Tom must have sensed her tensing. He squeezed her to him and murmured, ‘Courage, Esmie. I won’t leave you until this is over. You’re a brave McBride and your father would be proud of you.’
How he filled her with courage!
‘Thank you,’ she said, more resolute, and she sat up taller.
Ten minutes later they were crossing the river by a wooden bridge. Ahead, the gates were being pulled open. The band of riders clattered into the compound. As swiftly as they were opened, the gates clanged shut behind them.
Chapter 38
That night, Esmie lodged with the women. She was taken to the women’s courtyard and they dragged out a charpoy from the dark interior for her to sit on by an open fire. They crowded around her in fascination, never having seen a white woman before. Some children pointed and giggled.
Esmie’s initial fear at being separated from the men was soon dispelled by the friendliness of the women. They dried off her woollen jacket, wrapped her in a thick black blanket and gave her a bowl of milk to drink, still warm from the goat. While the o
lder women plied her with questions, a younger one was instructed to massage Esmie’s legs, which Esmie knew to be a gesture of friendship.
‘How far have you come?’
‘Where is your husband?’
‘Who is the memsahib who has been kidnapped? Is she your sister?’
Esmie was encouraged that they appeared to have heard about Lydia. She replied that she lived in Taha with her doctor husband. ‘Lomax Memsahib is a friend – from . . .’ Esmie searched for the word for school. ‘Madrassa.’
They marvelled at her answers, amazed that memsahibs went to school.
‘You must love her like a sister to seek her here,’ said Mirza Ali’s wife.
‘I do,’ said Esmie. ‘Please can you tell me where she is being held?’
She shook her head. There were rapid words exchanged between the older women.
‘None of us know,’ she said. ‘But we pray to Allah that she is safe.’
Esmie curbed her frustration. Did that mean that Mirza Ali didn’t know either or just that he hadn’t told his wife? These women were powerless to help in any rescue – it was only the men who would decide the fate of both Lydia and herself. She discovered that most of the zenana women had never even been beyond the fortress. The view from the roof was the limit of their world. These women were not poor enough to go out and work in the fields or rich enough to travel with their husbands to the towns.
They busied themselves keeping the bread ovens going and preparing an evening meal, their faces illuminated in the flickering light. Beyond the high mud walls of the narrow courtyard, stars pricked the night sky. The temperature had plummeted. Esmie guessed that Gardan must be at least a thousand feet higher than Kanki-Khel. In a week or so, the first snows of winter would come to the mountains. She shuddered at the thought of them being cut off here at the mercy of the elements as well as the Otmanzai.
Wishing that she could share a meal with Tom and her other companions, Esmie sat with the women and scooped food from a communal pot, a tasty dish of pilaf and spiced minced goat, raw red onions and rounds of thick brown unleavened bread. Afterwards, tiredness overwhelmed her.
The Emerald Affair Page 43
