Conolly reached Herat in September 1830, and passed through the city gates with a mixture of apprehension and excitement. For Herat was then governed by the greatly feared Kamran Shah, one of the most ruthless and brutal rulers in Central Asia. The Englishman was to remain there for three weeks, this time posing as a hakeem, secretly observing and noting down everything of significance. He was especially interested in anything to do with the city’s defences and its ability to provision an army from the produce of the great fertile valley in which it stood. How Conolly was able to do this without attracting the attention of Kamran’s secret police, he does not disclose. The next stage of his reconnaissance, the hazardous, 300-mile journey to Kandahar, took him through bandit-infested country where, he was warned, the slave-raiders removed their captives’ ears to make them ashamed to return home, and thus less likely to escape. Conolly was lucky, however, to be able to attach himself to a party of Muslim holy men. Such respected companions, from whom he learned much that was of interest to him, offered at least some protection from robbery, enslavement or murder.
Although he reached Kandahar safely, despite some anxious moments, Conolly had the misfortune to be struck down with illness shortly after his arrival. He became so weak that at one time he feared that he was going to die, but he was nursed back to health by one of the kindly holy men. Just as he was recovering, however, a dangerous rumour began to circulate that he was really an Englishman in disguise and spying for Kamran, who was then at war with Kandahar. This forced Conolly to drag himself from his sick-bed and leave town hurriedly after only nine days there. On November 22, this time in the company of some horse-dealers, he arrived at Quetta, at the head of the great Bolan Pass, the Khyber’s southern twin, and an entry point to India for an invader. Two weeks later, after riding down the eighty-mile-long pass, Conolly reached the banks of the River Indus. The following morning he was rowed across by ferrymen. It took precisely eight minutes, he noted. His odyssey, which had brought him more than 4,000 miles from Moscow to India, was all but over.
Just to have come through alive was achievement enough. Others would be less fortunate. But Conolly had done a great deal more than that. By travelling the very routes along which a hostile Russian army was likely to advance, he was able to address many of the questions to which Lord Ellenborough and those responsible for India’s defence needed answers. His more sensitive military and political observations were obviously kept for his superiors’ eyes only. But he also wrote a book telling the full story of his adventures and misadventures. Entitled Journey to the North of India, Overland from England, Through Russia, Persia and Affghaunistan, it was published three years later, in 1834. It included a lengthy appendix in which he examined in detail the possibilities open to a Russian general planning an invasion of India, and the likelihood of success.
Conolly argued that there were only two possible routes which a Russian army, large enough to stand any chance of success, could take. Put simply, the first involved seizing Khiva, followed by Balkh, and then crossing the Hindu Kush, as Alexander the Great had done, to Kabul. From there the army would march via Jalalabad and the Khyber Pass to Peshawar, and finally cross the Indus at Attock. The initial seizure of Khiva, he reasoned, might best be undertaken from Orenburg rather than from the eastern shore of the Caspian. This route, although longer, was better watered than the Karakum, and the tribes along its line of advance could be more easily subdued than the dangerous Turcomans. On reaching the northern shore of the Aral Sea, moreover, the Russian troops could be conveyed by boat or raft to the mouth of the Oxus, and continue up it to Khiva. The capture of Khiva, and subsequent advance on India, was a highly ambitious undertaking and might involve several successive campaigns, and take two or three years to carry out.
The second feasible route open to the Russian generals involved seizing Herat, and using it as a staging point where troops could be massed. From there they would march via Kandahar and Quetta to the Bolan Pass, the way he himself had entered India. Herat could be reached either overland through a compliant Persia, or by crossing the Caspian to Astrabad. Once Herat was in Russian hands, or had been annexed by a friendly Persia, then an army ‘might be garrisoned there for years, with every necessity immediately within its reach’. Its very presence there might be sufficient to unsettle the native population of India, thus smoothing the way for an invasion when the British found themselves under attack from within.
A determined invader might even use both these routes simultaneously, Conolly pointed out. But whichever was chosen, one major obstacle remained which might rule out any hopes of success. By either route an invader would have to pass through Afghanistan. ‘The Afghans’, Conolly wrote, ‘have little to gain, and much to fear, from letting the Russians enter their country.’ Moreover they were fanatically hostile towards those on whom the Russians would most depend, the Persians. ‘If the Afghans, as a nation, were determined to resist the invaders,’ he declared, ‘the difficulties of the march would be rendered well nigh insurmountable.’ They would fight to the last drop of blood, harassing the Russian columns incessantly from their mountain strongholds, destroying food supplies and cutting off the invader’s lines of communication and retreat.
If, however, the Afghans were to remain divided, as they then were, the Russians would be able to play one faction off against another with promises or other inducements. ‘Singly,’ Conolly wrote, ‘the chief of a small state could not offer effectual opposition to a European invader, and it would be easy to gain him by encouraging his ambitions against his rivals at home, or doubly to profit by it, by directing it on India.’ It was very much in Britain’s interest therefore that Afghanistan be reunited under one strong and central ruler in Kabul. ‘It would require great inducements to tempt a reigning prince from a sure and profitable alliance with us,’ Conolly declared, ‘and to engage him in an undertaking which, at best doubtful, would entail ruin upon him if he failed.’ And if the Russians did succeed in holding out expectations ‘sufficiently dazzling to seduce a prince’, then either the stakes could be upped, or his overthrow could be arranged.
The Afghan chief whose claim to the throne should be supported, Conolly urged his superiors, was Kamran Shah of Herat. While his unsavoury character might be regretted, he and Britain shared one vital interest – that Herat, ‘the Granary of Central Asia’, should not fall into the hands of either the Persians, who had a long-standing claim to it, or the Russians. In Herat, moreover, it was no secret that Kamran was most anxious to ally himself to the British. If he were left to fend for himself against the Persians, Conolly warned, then it would only be a matter of time before Herat fell to their superior forces, ‘and the road to India would be open to the Russians.’
During the year that Conolly was away, in London and Calcutta mistrust of Russian intentions continued to mount, particularly among the hawks in Wellington’s Cabinet, who deplored the passive policies of the previous Tory administration. Particularly they feared the prospect of Turkey and Persia, already crushed and shackled to St Petersburg by treaty, becoming Russian protectorates. Lord Ellenborough, who had been given a virtually free hand with regard to India by his friend Wellington, was becoming increasingly convinced of Russia’s expansionist aims. It was his belief that the Tsar would use stealth to get his armies within striking distance of India. As Persia gradually became weaker, the Russians would extend their influence and military presence throughout the country, while elsewhere Russian troops would follow in their merchants’ footsteps, protection being the pretext. Thus, merely by mapping the progress of their trading posts, the line of advance towards India could be monitored. But two could play at that game, Ellenborough believed, and the superiority of British goods should be used to halt the advance of the Russian merchants. This was the very strategy which Moor-croft had vainly urged on his superiors. Now, five years later, it was official British policy.
It had been one of Moorcroft’s dreams to see the River Indus used to transport Br
itish goods northwards to the frontiers of Central Asia, whence they could be carried across the mountains by caravan to the bazaars of the old Silk Road. His impassioned arguments, however, had as usual fallen on deaf ears. Now that Ellenborough himself had taken up the idea, the Company’s directors embraced it enthusiastically. Since very little was known about this great waterway, it must first be surveyed to ensure that it was navigable. This was much easier said than done, for the Indus flowed through vast tracts of territory which did not belong to the Company, notably Sind in the south and the Punjab in the north, whose rulers would almost certainly object. Then Lord Ellenborough hit on a brilliant, if somewhat devious, solution.
Ranjit Singh, the ruler of the Punjab, had recently presented to the King of England some magnificent Kashmiri shawls, and the question now arose of what the British sovereign, William IV, could send him in return. Women, who were known to be the ageing maharajah’s favourite pastime, were clearly ruled out. Next on the list of his hobbies came horses, and this gave Ellenborough an idea. Ranjit Singh would be presented with five horses. But these would be no ordinary mounts. They would be the largest horses ever seen in Asia – massive English dray horses, four mares and a stallion. It was thought that they would make a suitably impressive and spectacular gift for this Asiatic potentate who had recently sent an envoy to St Petersburg. At the same time Sir John Malcolm, the Governor of Bombay, gave orders for the construction of a gilded state coach in which Ranjit Singh, drawn by his huge horses, could tour his kingdom in regal splendour and comfort.
However, there was more to it than just that. Because of their size, and the unsuitability of both the climate and the terrain, it was reasoned that the horses and the state coach could not possibly travel the 700 miles to Lahore, Ranjit’s capital, overland if they were to survive. Instead, they would have to go by boat up the Indus. This would make it possible to conduct a discreet survey of the river, and ascertain whether it was navigable as far as Lahore. The officer chosen to lead this curious espionage mission was a young subaltern named Alexander Burnes, who, because of his unusual talents, had recently been transferred from his regiment, the 1st Bombay Light Infantry, to the elite Indian political service. At the age of 25, he had already shown himself to be one of the Company’s most promising young officers. Intelligent, resourceful and fearless, he was also an excellent linguist, being fluent in Persian, Arabic and Hindustani, as well as in some of the lesser-known Indian tongues. Although of slight stature and mild appearance, he was a man of extraordinary determination and self-confidence. He also possessed remarkable charm, which he exercised to great effect on Asiatics and Europeans alike.
Ellenborough’s scheme for the clandestine survey of the Indus did not, however, meet with universal approval in India. One of its severest critics was Sir Charles Metcalfe, a member of the all-powerful Supreme Council, and former Secretary of the Secret and Political Department. ‘The scheme of surveying the Indus, under the pretence of sending a present to Rajah Runjeet Singh, is a trick . . . unworthy of our Government,’ he complained. It was just the sort of deviousness, he added, which the British were often unjustly accused of, and would very likely be detected, thus confirming the suspicions of the native rulers. He and Sir John Malcolm, both powerful figures in India, represented the two extremes of strategic thinking then prevalent. Metcalfe, destined to become Governor-General of Canada, believed in the consolidation of the Company’s existing territories and frontiers, while Malcolm, like Ellenborough in London, was convinced of the need for a forward policy.
It was at this moment that Wellington’s government fell, taking Ellenborough with it, and the Whigs came to power. Fearing – needlessly, as it turned out – that the Indus project might now be cancelled, Malcolm urged Lieutenant Burnes to set out as soon as possible. The latter, eager for adventure, needed no second bidding. Wasting no time, he sailed from Kutch on January 21, 1831, accompanied by a surveyor, a small escort and the coach and five horses for Ranjit Singh.
·11·
Enter ‘Bokhara’ Burnes
‘Alas, Sind is now gone,’ a holy man was heard to say as he watched Lieutenant Alexander Burnes and his party sail past him up the Indus. ‘The English have seen the river which is the road to our conquest.’ This fear was echoed by a soldier who told Burnes: ‘The evil is done. You have seen our country.’ The real purpose of the expedition, as Sir Charles Metcalfe had warned, fooled no one, and at first the suspicious emirs had objected strongly to the passage across their dominions of the Company’s vessel with its bizarre cargo. Finally, however, threatened with grave consequences if they held up Ranjit Singh’s gifts, and sweetened with gifts themselves, they reluctantly agreed to allow Burnes and his companions to proceed. Apart from the occasional pot-shot taken at them from the river bank, they had no further trouble, although the emirs insisted that they could not be responsible for their safety as they made their way slowly northwards.
Working wherever possible at night to avoid arousing the hostility of the locals, they reached Lahore, Ranjit Singh’s capital, five months after entering the mouth of the Indus. In addition to charting the river, which involved taking discreet soundings of its muddy depths, they had proved by their arrival that the Indus system was navigable up to that point, 700 miles from the coast, though only for flat-bottomed craft like their own. There, provided Ranjit Singh agreed, British goods could be unloaded and carried overland into Afghanistan and across the Oxus to the markets of Turkestan.
The five horses, which had miraculously survived the heat and other discomforts of the long voyage, caused a sensation among the court officials sent to the frontier to welcome them to the Punjab. ‘For the first time,’ Burnes noted, ‘a dray horse was expected to gallop, canter and perform all the evolutions of the most agile animal.’ Further astonishment was to follow when their massive feet were inspected. On it being discovered that just one of their shoes weighed four times that of a local horse, Burnes was asked whether one of these might be sent ahead to Lahore. ‘The curiosity was forthwith dispatched,’ he observed, ‘accompanied by the most minute measure of each of the animals for Ranjit Singh’s special information.’ The coach too, with its lining of blue velvet, drew similar admiration from his officials, and hauled by the five huge horses (‘little elephants’, the locals christened them), this now set out overland for the capital.
A dazzling reception awaited Burnes in Lahore, Ranjit being as anxious to maintain cordial relations with the British as they were to keep on the right side of their powerful Sikh neighbour.. For his highly trained and well-equipped army was thought in Calcutta to be almost a match for the Company’s own forces, although neither side had any wish to put this to the test. The only cause for concern in London and Calcutta was Ranjit’s health, and the inevitable struggle for power which would follow his death. One of Burnes’s tasks was to report on the ruler’s expectation of life, and on the political mood of the kingdom.
‘We passed close under the walls of the city,’ he wrote afterwards, ‘and entered Lahore by the palace gate. The streets were lined with cavalry, artillery and infantry, all of which saluted as we passed. The concourse of people was immense; they had principally seated themselves on the balconies of houses, and preserved a most respectful silence.’ Burnes and his companions were next led across the outer courtyard of the royal palace to the main entrance to the throne room. ‘While stooping to remove my shoes,’ he reported, ‘I suddenly found myself in the arms and tight embrace of a diminutive, old-looking man.’ He realised to his astonishment that it was the mighty Ranjit Singh himself who had come forward to greet his guest, an unprecedented honour. The maharajah now led Burnes by the hand to the interior of the court where he seated him on a silver chair before the throne.
Burnes presented Ranjit Singh with a letter from Lord Ellen-borough. Sealed in an envelope made from cloth of gold, and bearing the British royal coat-of-arms, it conveyed a personal message to the Sikh ruler from William IV. Ranjit ordered it t
o be read aloud. ‘The King’, Lord Ellenborough had written, ‘has given me his most special command to intimate to your Highness the sincere satisfaction with which his Majesty has witnessed the good understanding which has for so many years subsisted, and which may God ever preserve, between the British Government and your Highness.’ Ranjit Singh was clearly delighted, and even before it was finished gave orders for a thunderous artillery salute – sixty guns, each firing twenty-one times – to be discharged to make his pleasure known to the people of Lahore.
Next, with Burnes at his side, Ranjit was taken to inspect the five dray horses, which were waiting patiently in the heat outside, together with the new state coach. Clearly pleased with this spectacular gift from the English sovereign, he called out excitedly to court officials as one by one the horses were led past him. The following morning Burnes and his party attended a military review, with five regiments of infantry drawn up in line. Burnes was invited by Ranjit to inspect his troops, who were dressed in white with black cross belts, and armed with locally made muskets. The regiments now manoeuvred for Ranjit’s guests, ‘with an exactness and precision’, Burnes noted, ‘fully equal to our Indian troops.’ Ranjit asked him many questions about military matters, and in particular whether British troops could advance against artillery.
In all, Burnes and his companions were to spend nearly two months as Ranjit’s guests. There were endless military parades, banquets and other entertainments, including long sessions spent imbibing with Ranjit a locally distilled ‘hell-brew’ of which the latter was extremely fond. There was also a troupe of Kashmiri dancing girls, forty in number and all dressed as boys, to whom the one-eyed ruler (he had lost the other from smallpox) appeared similarly addicted. ‘This’, he confided to Burnes with a twinkle, ‘is one of my regiments, but they tell me it is the only one I cannot discipline.’ When the girls, all strikingly beautiful, had finished dancing, they were whisked away on elephants – much to the disappointment of the youthful Burnes, who also had a weakness for comely native girls.
The Great Game: On Secret Service in High Asia Page 15
