by John Wilcox
At this, the Afghan turned his head and consulted with a trio of his followers arranged behind him. Then, he growled at the Sikh again.
‘He says, give the message to him and he will take it to the Amir. Infidels are not welcome in Afghanistan at this time.’
Immediately, Fonthill raised his voice. ‘Tell him he is impertinent to speak thus to the Viceroy’s envoy. My message is for the Amir’s eyes alone and I shall deliver it to him personally. If this man – or anyone else – interferes with my mission it could lead to very adverse consequences for him. The Amir is expecting the message and he will undoubtedly be angry if its delivery is delayed to him.’
Fonthill turned and shouted to Appleby-Smith. ‘Captain, have the guard turned out behind me, immediately, with their carbines presented to these ruffians.’
‘Very good, sir. Guard – at the double – line up in two ranks behind Mr Fonthill. NOW! PRESENT ARMS!!’
The effect was immediate. The ponies of the Afghans involuntarily took a half pace backwards and a murmur rose from the ranks of the tribesmen. Some immediately unslung their rifles but a command from their leader led to them being lowered. He spoke again to Inderjit.
‘He say he do not wish to give offence. You go in peace with your message, but we may meet again.’
With that, the Afghan raised his hand and wheeled the head of his pony around and led the group away at the trot until they had disappeared around a bend in the road leading upwards towards the high pass.
‘Blimey!’ Fonthill became aware that Jenkins, rifle in hand, was at his side. ‘You certainly spoke a bit sharply to that feller, bach sir. You was quite shirty, in fact.’
Fonthill let his face relax. ‘I am glad we met him. Now the neighbourhood will know who we are and that we are not to be threatened or interfered with. Come on, let’s have breakfast.’ He turned to Appleby-Smith. ‘Thank you, Clarence. That was done very smartly. You may stand down the guard but we must be very vigilant from now on. It looks as though the truculence of the Pathans has crossed the Border.’
The camp was broken and the column, with outriders now doubled at front, rear and on either flank, road on up towards the Shutargarden. At last, they reached the summit, with the horses’ breath rising like steam from their nostrils. Fonthill was half expecting to find his way blocked by hostile Afghans but the view that met their gaze was reassuringly pastoral and peaceful. The road fell away less steeply than their path to the summit for they had now reached the central plateau of the Amir’s kingdom and a fertile valley lay before them, with the little town of Kushi glittering at them in the distance.
They met few people as they wound their way down towards the town, reaching it within the hour. Fonthill had no desire to stop there and they picked their way through the dirty, unpaved streets, this time attracting lines of bystanders, watching them sullenly as the cavalcade passed through.
‘Ah, I think the word has got out,’ murmured Fonthill to Jenkins. ‘That is good, for it will reach Kabul quicker than we can, so the Amir will be expecting us.’
Jenkins turned a puzzled face towards him. ‘But I thought you said that he was expectin’ the letter, like?’
‘Did I? Well, he will be now.’
Now the going was much easier and they followed the Logar River and camped that night above the settlement of Zahidabad, some fifteen miles from Kushi. Guards were posted but the night was uneventful. They passed through a pretty little village called Charasia, which nestled in orchards and gardens, and then approached the gorge of Sang-i-Nawishta, through which the Logar gurgled and jumped. Here the river had carved its own passage through the low range of hills which overlooked Charasia and blocked the passage to Kabul, creating a narrow defile only a hundred yards in length, before opening out again into the plain beyond. Fonthill remembered this as a perfect place for an ambush but none came and they passed through it with some relief.
They then rode through pleasant countryside, seeing a scattering of Afghans tending the fields and skirting a dozen villages that told them that they were nearing Kabul. It was a fertile area and behind stone walls they could see a profusion of fruits and recognised mulberries, peaches, plums, apricots, apples, quinces, pomegranates and even vines.
Fonthill caught Appleby-Smith’s eye and called, ‘Almost like Kent, eh, Clarence?’ but received only a surly nod in reply.
That night they camped by the Kabul River, wide and fast flowing, running over and between hundreds of rocks that caused the water to swirl and foam. Up early the next morning, the walls of Kabul itself came into view, looking down forbiddingly onto the river.
Fonthill looked behind him and waved forward Inderjit Singh.
‘Do you remember where the Amir’s palace is?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sahib. We must go through the main gate, which is straight ahead. The streets are narrow and crowded so we must take care, for it would be easy to stop us there. We continue past a fortress place called the Bala Hissar …’
Simon nodded. ‘Ah, I remember that place. It overlooked the old Residency.’
‘Yes, sahib. The palace is very near there. I can find it.’
‘Good. Lead the way, then.’
The column passed through a high, narrow gate in the wall – so narrow that the Guides, now riding eight abreast with Fonthill and Jenkins in their midst – had to squeeze together to ride through it. Immediately they were into streets that were only slightly wider and which were lined with houses made of mud, interspersed, here and there, with stone-walled gardens in which grew a variety of flowers and fruits. It was clear that Kabul was a city of colour and fragrance, despite its grim exterior.
It was also a city with a large population, and crowds lined the streets and gazed askance at the Guides, with their coloured turbans, smart khaki uniforms, gleaming brown belts and prancing horses. Before leaving camp that morning, Simon and Jenkins had changed their clothing and now were wearing their own uniforms with their decorations. Few troops of the British Raj had been seen in the streets of Kabul since General Roberts had led his army from the Afghan capital after his victory at Khandahar some sixteen years before. Now the Guards were regarded as though they were creatures from another planet, evoking gasps and the occasional shout of derision.
Looking about him, Fonthill could not help but think that this was what London, perhaps, might have looked like in Tudor times, with narrow streets, crowded thoroughfares and the top storeys of the houses almost meeting overhead. Except that, of course, there were few signs of timber being used in construction, only mud and, here and there, some stone and brickwork.
The palace itself, when they reached it, showed little attempt at architectural pretension. Made of stone, it was set back in a street round the corner from the square where the old British Residency had been destroyed by the mob in 1879 and its occupants killed, so leading to the British invasion of Aghanistan and the Second Afghan War.
The column was led through an archway into a small courtyard, where Fonthill, Jenkins and the officers dismounted. From there, Simon, with Inderjit Khan’s help, sent through a flowery message to the Amir, asking the ruler’s permission to call on him, at the Amir’s convenience, to deliver a personal letter from the Viceroy at Simla.
A message came back with commendable promptitude – confirming Simon’s suspicions that the column’s progress had been reported back to Kabul regularly – explaining that the Amir was momentarily indisposed but would receive him 11 a.m. the next morning and requesting that the letter should be left so that His Highness could study it. In the meantime, Fonthill and fellow Britons were invited to stay as guests of the Amir in a house within the courtyard. (Simon remembered that there had been no permanent British representative at Kabul since the end of the war in 1881, this being part of the settlement of the conflict, so there was no British embassy or consulate.) The royal stables would accommodate the horses and the men of the escort.
Fonthill was reluctant to release the document from his
possession but could see no alternative and it was therefore passed over to someone who appeared to be a senior member of the Amir’s household, who also conducted them to their accommodation.
Their rooms were cell-like and spartan but perfectly adequate and, having deposited his bag in the room, Fonthill immediately walked to the stables to ensure that the men of the escort were comfortably housed. He did not like the sound of them being deposited in stables. In fact, he met Buckingham on the same mission – although there was no sign of Appleby-Smith – and found the men grooming their horses. They had been allocated a long, communal room above the stables, with mattresses on the floor and a large washroom on the same level. The men would be cramped but comfortable enough.
He took Buckingham and Inderjit Singh on one side. ‘I need to know as much as I can about the role that the Amir is playing in this game,’ he said. ‘I doubt if you, Duke, as an Englishman in this town, can find out much. But you, Inderjit, might be able to. Do you have mufti – civilian clothes – with you?’
‘Only a loose gown and slippers, sahib, but I could borrow more. You want me to fit into the town here – be like the people?’
‘Exactly.’ Simon dug into his pocket and handed the Sikh a handful of rupees. ‘I don’t expect you to pass off as an Afghan exactly, but there must be Sikhs here in Kabul, I would have thought?’
‘Oh, I am sure. Yes. Particularly horse-traders, I think. My people are good at that.’
‘Good. Take these coins and go into the bazaars. Drink tea with the locals and pick up the gossip. See if you can find out if the word is that the Amir is backing the Pathan rebels across the Border – if not with troops, then in some other way. Perhaps with sending mullahs across to foment jihads in the hills and villages. Anything you can find might be useful.’
‘Very good, sahib. I go as soon as horses are settled.’
‘Good.’ He drew Buckingham to one side. ‘Now, Duke. Do you know where the captain is?’
‘In his room, I presume.’
‘Has he not been to the stable to see if the men are all right?’
‘No. I’m afraid he is well known for not doing that sort of thing.’
‘Is this why you dislike him?’
The subaltern immediately became uneasy and looked away. ‘I spoke out of turn that day, sir. And I am sorry. I do not wish to criticise my superior officer.’
Fonthill nodded. ‘I understand and that does you credit. Whatever you say will stay between us. But, listen. We are far from home here and I am not at all sure that the return back to the Punjab will be as easy as it was coming here. I will need to rely on the officer commanding the escort to take us through. If he has any faults – no, damnit, we all have faults – any inefficiencies in the way he carries out his duty, then I would like to know so that I can watch out for them and, if necessary, prepare for them.’
Buckingham gulped. ‘Very well. I consider the captain to be … to be …’ he paused and then spoke hurriedly, as though in relief ‘unfit to command in action, sir.’
‘Do you have evidence of this?
‘Yes. Two examples of this.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I was out on patrol with him as squadron commander six months ago, when we came under fire from Pathans hidden behind rocks up a defile north of Malakand.’
‘Go on.’
‘Instead of ordering the squadron to dismount, with handlers taking the horses at the double behind cover – Pathans don’t usually fire at horses because they are worth money, if captured.’
‘Yes, quite so.’
‘Then, of course, we should have taken cover with men moving quickly on either wing to scramble up the hillside to outflank the riflemen, while a central section kept firing at them, to pin them down and to prevent them from slipping away.’
‘So, what happened?’
‘Appleby-Smith panicked. He drew his sword and screamed “recall, recall” and led the way back we had come at the gallop. It was some time before Dawson – he is senior to me, you know – was able to overtake him and calm him down.’
‘Hmmm. And the second instance?’
‘A similar thing. We were approaching a Pathan village that we suspected housed tribesmen who had killed a sentry of ours three nights before and stolen his rifle. Instead of leading the patrol into the village, which anyone in command, of course, should have done, he sent me in with my troop and stayed outside “covering us”, as he said. But he deployed his men too far away to be of any use to us in the village if we had been attacked. Luckily, we were not.’
‘I see.’
‘And you have seen, sir, that, in my view, he does not look after the troopers well. He does not rotate the men on the march to alleviate the nuisance caused by dust and, as you have seen, he has not been down here to make sure that the horses and the men are comfortable.’
Fonthill frowned. ‘But I know Colonel Fortescue to be a splendid officer. Has he not noticed this?’
‘No, sir. The problem is that the colonel, who, as you say, is much respected by everyone, seems to have a blinkered view of the captain. He has always, well, rather nurtured him, since he joined the Guides a year ago. I am afraid that this is well known. You see, sir, Appleby-Smith is the colonel’s brother-in-law.’
‘Oh Lord. Very well, Duke. This will go no further, but to be warned is to be prepared. Thank you. I presume we will all meet at dinner this evening.’
The meal was a rather miserable affair. Native food, of course, had been provided for them in a tiny room leading off their washroom. Fonthill himself was introspective, digesting the information supplied to him by Buckingham; the latter seemed disturbed by breaking one of the rules of the service and remained silent throughout; Appleby-Smith was monosyllabic as usual in the presence of Jenkins, clearly disapproving at having to mess with a ranker; and only the Welshman and Dawson chattered away, the subaltern happily recalling holidays he had spent in North Wales as a child.
Eventually, Appleby-Smith spoke to ask Fonthill when they were expected to return.
‘Well,’ responded Simon, ‘I am not exactly sure, to be honest. I have no wish to stay here longer than is absolutely necessary but when the Amir gives me his response to the Viceroy’s message, we can be gone. By the way, ‘I have asked Inderjit Singh, Buckingham’s daffadar, to mingle in the bazaars to see if he can pick up any intelligence about the Amir that might be useful. Obviously, we mustn’t leave without him.’
‘What?’ Appleby-Smith lowered the mutton bone on which he had been munching. ‘You sent one of my men to carry out intelligence work, without informing me?’
‘Yes, well. I was going to mention it to you, as, indeed, I have. But you have no objection, surely?’
‘I have every objection. You are a civilian, as I understand it, and you have no right to give orders to my men. And,’ his voice now took on a higher pitch, ‘if he is discovered doing this … this … spying it could go badly with us, here in the Amir’s capital.’
Fonthill frowned. ‘Now, look here, Captain. I am in charge of this mission – in complete charge. On military matters, concerned with escorting me, then of course I shall defer to you. But in every other way, I am in command here, as the Viceroy’s emissary. It is important to find out as much as I can about the Amir and his attitude towards the rebellion across his Border. Asking the daffadar, who speaks the local language fluently and is a most intelligent man, to carry out this work is quite within my remit. My apologies if I was a little slow to inform you of what I had done but, frankly, I did not think it that important.’
An awkward silence fell on the gathering. Then Appleby-Smith, his face flushed, muttered: ‘My apologies, Mr Fonthill. I spoke out of turn.’
‘Very well. We will say no more of it.’
The next day was spent relaxing in their lodgings. Jenkins, reverting to his original role as officer’s servant, had somehow found a hot iron and had pressed Simon’s trousers and tunic, had rubbed the Maltese Cross that p
roclaimed that he was a member of the Companionship of the Bath until it glittered on the dark blue of his jacket and had given his riding boots the shine of a guardsman. Fonthill, then, felt as debonair as an ambassador as he presented himself the next morning. The official of the household who had met him the day before led the way into the interior of the palace, with two turbaned and sashed Afghans, carrying large curved swords, falling into place on either side of Simon, making him feel that he was being escorted towards, if not formal execution, at least facing a charge of being drunk and disorderly – or, more likely, improperly dressed.
After winding down a dark corridor, he was ushered into a spacious room through which the sunlight filtered only dimly through wooden screens, carved delicately. On the stone walls, he could make out colourful tapestries hanging and, at the far end, a small, frail man sitting on a large, wooden seat, more than a chair but rather less than a throne, set on a stone dais. On either side of him sat an elderly Afghan, each adorned with a long white beard and wearing robes of an undoubted richness.
Fonthill realised, of course, that he was in the presence of the Amir Abdur Rahman, who rose from his chair and waved a thin, bony hand to him in welcome. Simon regarded him intently as he approached.
He knew that the man was only about fifty years of age, yet he looked much, much older. A member of the ruling family in Afghanistan, he had spent his younger years in exile, under Russian patronage, in Samarkand before the events of the second Anglo-Afghan War had brought him to the throne, supported by the British. There he had remained for nearly two decades, proving to be a strong and ruthless leader, reputedly throwing those who opposed him down a well and leaving them to rot on top of the other bodies lying there. Nevertheless, he had maintained good relations with the British Raj, despite his successful determination to exclude all foreign influences from his country. Now, however, the word came that he was growing increasingly frail and suffering from gout. His beard was as white as those of his secretaries, but it was thin and his skin seemed stretched almost to bursting point over his high cheekbones. His eyes, however, shone brightly, like black precious stones in his chalk-white face. Simon remembered the Viceroy’s phrase ‘ruthless and as slippery as an eel’.
