by John Wilcox
The old man stepped gingerly down from the dais and waited, with outstretched hand, for Fonthill to approach him. Simon did so and took the hand carefully, bowing low over it. The Amir barked a command and two chairs were brought forward and then a small table was placed between them. He gestured for Simon to sit.
‘I am honoured,’ he said, in excellent but accented English, ‘that His Excellency the Viceroy should entrust his letter to such a distinguished bearer of it.’ The old man gently lowered himself into the other chair. ‘Even I, separated in this humble country from the rest of the world by these mountains, had heard of the Sahib Fonthill who slipped through the armies of the Mahdi to reach your General Gordon in the Sudan.’
Simon lowered his head again, this time in genuine admiration. The Viceroy’s letter had contained no details of his experiences in the Sudan. ‘I am flattered that Your Highness should know of these unimportant things,’ he said in reply.
‘Ah yes. You see I have made it my business, as best I could over the years, to keep myself informed of the happenings in your Empire. After all,’ he gave a thin smile, ‘we are neighbours, you know.’
He clapped his hands and gave an order to a servant who rushed forward. ‘I have ordered tea,’ he said. Then he leant forward, as though in intimacy. ‘Is it not strange that two races so different from each other as the Afghans and the British should each place such a dependency on this strange drink? Personally, I do not think I could live without it. But I do hope you like it with mint. Is that to your taste?’
‘That would be perfect, Your Highness.’
‘Good.’ The Amir turned and snapped his finger to one of his secretaries, who stepped forward and gave him a letter, heavily sealed.
‘Now, Mr Fonthill, here is my reply to the Viceroy.’ He gave his mirthless smile again and handed the letter to Simon. ‘It is much shorter than his to me. I have merely said that there is no question of me sending troops to help my former subjects across the Border. I have given him my word on that.’
Fonthill nodded slowly. ‘I know that the Viceroy will be very glad to hear that, Your Highness.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Your former subjects … ?’
‘Ah, Lord Elgin will take and understand the reference. It is the result of that Allah-cursed Durand Line. You know, Mr Fonthill, I never wanted this relocation of the boundary between my country and the Punjab. I was … what is the phrase? I think it is “leant upon”. Yes, I was leant upon to accept it.’
‘I am sorry to hear that, sir. I understood that there were compensatory allocations of territory to you.’
‘Oh yes.’ For a moment the black eyes in the depths of their hollows narrowed and flashed, and Fonthill glimpsed something of the ruthlessness and cruelty that lay beneath the Amir’s urbanity. The ‘well that gives no water’ suddenly became a reality rather than a rumour. ‘I was given what was known as the Wakhan Corridor, a strip of land in the far north next to the Russian territories. Useless to me but, of course, I was now expected to oversee it as a kind of buffer state between these two great European powers. Difficult to do, for there is no thanks in that role and there is a real chance of upsetting either one of these huge empires if things go wrong.’
The smile came again but it did not reach the old man’s eyes. ‘But what did I lose in return for gaining this precious piece of barren ground? My dear Mr Fonthill, I lost,’ and he began slapping one finger after another into his palm, ‘the lands of Chitral, Bajaur, Swat, Buner, Dir, the Khyber, Kurram and Waziristan. Those were all my people. Now they are yours. Ah, tea.’
Simon was not sorry for the interruption. The Viceroy had asked him to supplement his letter in any way demanded by the Amir. But did this extend to debating with him the politics of the Border? If so, he was not sure he was up to it.
He sipped his tea. ‘You put your point well, Your Highness,’ he said, ‘as I am sure you did to the present Viceroy’s predecessor. But allow me to ask you one question. Were the people of these lands your filial and devoted servants?’
The Amir waved an exasperated hand. ‘Of course not. They are tribesmen of the hills, who pay no formal loyalty to me or anyone else. They are as independent and as free as the wind that blows the clouds from the mountain tops. But they have been people of my religion and nationality for centuries and they have known me and my family for years.
‘Listen. When I was forced to acknowledge the presence of this accursed line three years ago, I wrote to the Viceroy warning him that these people would never be of any use to him. I said that he would always be engaged in fighting or other trouble with them and that they would always go on plundering. As long as your government is strong and in peace, you will be able to keep them more or less quiet by a strong hand, but if at any time an enemy appears on the border of India, these frontier tribes will be your worst enemy. Now, they are rising in rebellion and I can do nothing to help you. Because by taking these people away from me you have injured my prestige in the eyes of my subjects and made me weak – and my weakness is injurious to your government.’
He took another sip of his green tea. ‘And you must realise, my dear Mr Fonthill, that the white man has never been exactly loved by the Pathans. In fact, they have a saying.’ A faint smile stole over his face. ‘It goes: “first comes one Englishman for shikar – that means hunting; then come two Englishmen to draw a map; then comes an army to take your land. It is best to kill the first Englishman.”’
Simon could think of nothing to say, so smiled in appreciation of the joke. Then he remembered, from years before, a saying that Inderjit’s father had related to him. Why not? Why should the Devil have the best tunes? ‘And that, sir,’ he responded, ‘reminds me of a saying that the Sikhs had about the Pathans. I think it goes: “Trust a Brahmin before a snake, and a snake before a harlot and a harlot before a Pathan”.’ Then he leant forward. ‘But to be serious, Your Highness, there does not appear to be an enemy approaching the border of India at the present. Our relationship with Russia now seems placid. Why should the tribes revolt?’
For the moment, it seemed that he had scored a debating point, because the eyes of the Amir closed for a second. Then, he said, ‘I do not know. This is for you to find out and deal with. But, as I have said to the Viceroy, I will give no assistance to my ex-subjects.’
Simon thought again. How far could he push this clever old man?
‘Your Highness,’ he said, ‘there does not appear to be any obviously national interest from outside the borders of the British Raj stirring the tribes, but they seem to be showing unusual signs of unity. They have rarely come together in this way before. We have some evidence that strange mullahs from outside the Border territories are going from valley to valley demanding a jihad against the government. Do you know of this?’
The Amir’s face remained implacable. ‘I have heard of something similar, but I have no details.’
‘But – and forgive me pressing Your Highness on this point – we understand that most, if not all, of these religious fanatics come from Afghanistan in answer to your pamphlet recently stating that you were “the King of Islam”.’
The Amir shook his head. ‘That was misunderstood. I merely pointed out that I was the senior representative of the Muslim religion in this part of Asia. Which is perfectly true. Now …’ He put down his teacup and rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘I know that you will wish to set out on your return journey as soon as possible, so I must give you Allah’s blessing for your journey.’
It was dismissal and Fonthill had to accept it without further argument. There was no chance to gently threaten the Amir with the greatly enhanced size of the British army in India. He rose to his feet, bowed from the waist and, clutching the letter, said, ‘I will take this back to the Viceroy with all despatch. I thank Your Highness for his courtesy and hospitality.’
The thin hand was extended again. ‘Good day to you, Mr Fonthill. Have a safe journey back. I shall pray for you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Back in his room, Simon found Jenkins waiting for him. ‘Old Gracey’s son is anxious to see you,’ he said. ‘He may ’ave some word, I think, from the bazaars. Pity they don’t drink proper stuff around ’ere. I could ’ave gone with ’im.’
‘Yes, well, please have Inderjit report to me at once. Oh, and please find the captain. Present my compliments and say that I would be grateful if he could arrange for us to begin the return journey tomorrow.’
‘Very good, bach sir.’
The Sikh came in almost immediately. ‘I have news, I think, from the bazaars, sahib.’
‘Good. Report.’
‘Well, all the old men say that the Amir has definitely not ordered any of his army to move towards the Border and the talk is that he will not, because he does not want the British to invade.’
‘Good.’
‘But there is something else, sahib.’
‘Go on.’
‘Everyone knows that Amir has been calling for many mullahs – that is religious preachers, sahib.’
‘Yes, I know what they are. Go on, do.’
‘He has been telling them to go across Border and preach jihad, that means …’
‘Oh, I know what it means. Do go on.’
‘Sorry, sahib. They go across in many numbers to start holy war against British. One mullah, very strong man, very good preacher, they say, has recently left to raise tribes that have not so far fought against British.’
‘Ah, interesting. Well, the sooner we leave and get back to the Punjab the better. Thank you, Inderjit. What you have found confirms the Viceroy’s fears. We leave tomorrow.’
They were interrupted by the arrival of a trooper, who spoke in dialect to the daffadar and handed a letter to him. Inderjit passed it on to Simon. ‘From the Amir, sahib,’ he said. ‘It just arrive this minute.’
‘Strange. I only left him half an hour ago.’ He broke the seal and read the following, written in a strong, forward-sloping hand and signed by the Amir:
News has just reached me since you leave. I hear that Mullah Sayyid Akbar, very powerful preacher, is in Khyber region raising ten thousand Afridis against forts there. I did not send him. But could be dangerous for you if you take that route back. Go different way. May Allah go with you.
Abdur Rahman
Fonthill crushed the letter in his hand, clenched his fist and put it to his mouth. Ten thousand men against the Khyber Pass forts – and Alice was in the first of them! He turned to Inderjit Singh. ‘Please find Captain Appleby-Smith and ask him to report to me immediately. Tell him it is urgent.’
‘Very good, sahib.’
Simon straightened out the letter and read it again. The Amir must have known about the planned attack on the forts all along but had written this letter as an afterthought after pondering Fonthill’s implications that he was linked to the mullahs’ activities. His warning obviously was an attempt to curry favour with the Viceroy. The old devil! Ten thousand warriors! Would the forts – particularly the Landi Kotal, the first they would reach if the Afridis came from the west end of the Pass – be able to hold out? He bit his lip.
Appleby-Smith came bustling in, his face very red and the veins in his nose standing out sharply. Had he been drinking or merely sleeping?
‘Clarence,’ he said, ‘I have ended my business with the Amir and have just received news that an attack is about to be launched on the Khyber Pass forts in great force. We must hurry there. We must leave this afternoon.’
Frowning, the captain shook his head. ‘Oh, that would be very difficult, I fear. I gave the daffadars permission to let the men go into the bazaars today, reporting back this evening. I thought that—’
‘Damnit, man. Never mind what you thought. That was a stupid thing to do. This is hostile country. Individually, our men will be vulnerable to attack in the crowded bazaars. Can you recall them immediately?’
‘Well, I am not sure, I—’
‘Get them back. Send out the daffadars to round them up and bring them back. At least they won’t have been drinking. I want us on the road by 3 p.m. at the latest.’
‘What? That would be diff—’
‘DO IT! Lives are at stake. Go man. NOW!’
CHAPTER SIX
Once inside the fort, Alice followed Captain Barton up steep stairs to the little room that had been allocated to her. Thanking him, she threw her bag onto the trestle bed, waited for him to leave, then hurried out onto the battlements to catch one last glimpse of the column as it wound its way to the west. She was just able to see Simon, a small and distant figure, sitting upright in the saddle in the midst of the troopers, before a bend in the road took them out of sight.
She rested her chin on the stone rampart, closed her eyes and let her troubled thoughts run free. Why, oh why, did she and her beloved husband keep putting themselves in harm’s way? What were they doing in this strange, barren and brutal country, anyway? And why couldn’t she have stopped him from undertaking this ridiculous mission – not so much putting his head into the tiger’s mouth as pulling it shut on his neck?
Turning her face to the hot sun and leaning back, Alice speculated on how much she loved Simon Fonthill. If only they could have had a child, if only the good Lord had allowed that single pregnancy of so many years ago to reach fulfilment, then their son would be now – what? She calculated quickly: twelve years old. A big, strong lad with a taste for rugby football and maybe hunting and Jenkins would have taught him how to catch trout by tickling them with his fingers …
If he had lived, their lives would have been so different. The boy would have made demands on them, of course, he would have had to receive a good education, like his father, and there would surely have been other children. Events would have taken such a different course – no adventuring with Cecil Rhodes, no rushing to respond to this silly invitation to a birthday party on the edge of nowhere. Just a conventional acceptance of their responsibilities as parents in this age of Victorian family fealty.
Or would they? She smiled, letting her head fall back in the gap of the castellated wall and allowing herself the rare luxury of taking in the hot sun on her skin for a little longer. No. They could never have settled for that sort of prosaic life, children or not. They had adventure in their blood, both of them, and the call had to be answered. The Empire, this strange accumulation of foreign lands by people from a small island off the coast of mainland Europe, was the place to answer it.
Her lip curled. The Empire. The British Empire! So beloved by the jingo press and the Tory party and usually portrayed by cartoonists as some mystic combination of a lion and a bluff old John Bull. But what was it? No more than a collection of other people’s countries invaded by the British army over the last three hundreds years, serviced by the British navy in that time and exploited by British merchants at the expense of their indigenous inhabitants. Oh, how she hated it!
And now it could be about to break up her precious marriage.
She twisted and looked back up the Khyber Pass towards where Afghanistan lay somewhere over those mountains. They – she and Simon and, of course, Jenkins – had tempted fate for so long that sooner or later she knew that it would catch up with them. Had the time come now?
Alice pushed herself upright and sucked in the hot air. Stupid to think of that just because she and Simon had been parted again. He could look after himself, and where he might fail there was always Jenkins. Better, much better, to get on with her work. It’s time she looked round Fort Landi Kotal. She prided herself on the wealth of detail in her reports. Now, she must make notes.
It was, indeed, an impressive bastion. It completely commanded the road, so that it could halt invaders coming from the west and provide safety to travellers along it. The trouble was that it was overlooked by the hills climbing up behind it. But then, she shrugged, it would have been impossible to have found a cleared, flat piece of land at this end of the Khyber. And it was strongly built, with castellated ramparts and a huge, single, iron
-studded door that it would take heavy artillery to break down. Yes, Fort Landi Kotal seemed quite impregnable.
So Captain Barton confirmed that evening over dinner, a delicious stew, whose provenance Alice had trouble in defining but which was of no importance, so flavoursome was it. She found to her surprise that he was the only European officer in the fort and that he messed with the subedars, the Indian officers; four of them, a cheerful, handsome bunch, all bearded and with flashing teeth. Although respectful, they were not above engaging in mild flirtation with her and Alice enjoyed that.
What, she asked of Barton, were the tribal affiliations of the soldiers of the Khyber Rifles?
‘Oh, they are all locals, all Afridis, from along the Khyber,’ he said. ‘All raised by Sir Robert Warburton, the political officer here, who, alas, is now on retirement leave. We shall miss him.’ He looked along the table at the grinning faces, ‘Particularly these chaps and, indeed, all the men of the regiment, for they all respected him.’
‘Indeed,’ Alice spoke quietly now. ‘But I remember that the Afridis from this area were a great problem for General Roberts in the Second Afghan War. They harried his troops at every stage, if I remember aright.’
Barton nodded. ‘So I believe. But Sir Robert has been able to keep them quiet for the last sixteen years or so. No trouble at all with them. And, of course, they make perfect soldiers, you know. Cheerful, hard-working, good with weapons and brave, very brave. Of course, it helps that the Afridis of the Pass have been given an annual subsidy of goodness knows how many rupees to keep the road open. It has certainly paid off, but Warburton has been the key. He is almost an honorary Afridi, you know.’
‘Really.’ Alice made a note on her ever-present writing pad. ‘As you know, we met some trouble in the north – Malakand and all that – which seemed to have been inspired by some kind of mullah, who preached fire and brimstone along the valleys and persuaded so many of the tribesmen that they would reach Paradise if they attacked the British troops. You’ve had no sign of that sort of trouble along here?’
