The guests were absolutely prompt, and stood in what served as the drawing room of the Sales’ house in near silence. Each of them held an aperitif of some garnet-pink liquid, but no one was drinking from his coarse thick green goblet. Lady Sale had been quick to turn this necessity into a tradition, as if for generations the Sales had offered their guests nothing but pomegranate juice before dinner, but no one with any sense ever drank it. The lazy kitchen boys had failed to pick out the pith, which floated like scum on the surface, and left the juice with an unpleasant tang, bitter as earwax.
‘We are waiting for Frampton, I believe,’ Lady Sale announced. ‘Where can he be? He is not one to disappoint. Tell me, Mr Burnes, have you had a chance to hunt yet? A shikar is something no new arrival in India should long neglect – it is Sale’s passion. I do not know if anyone is planning one.’
‘A shikar?’ Elphinstone said. ‘For myself, I am too advanced in years for such amusements, but I recall, in younger days … I wonder if I have ever told you of the day in ’26 which turned into a shikar of the most thrilling variety? The Colonel’s plan, that day – the old Colonel, you understand, the old Colonel – his plan was for a few hours’ pig-sticking, and I am sure that none of us, least of all myself, considered it at all probable to conclude as it did, with my bagging a ten-foot tiger, a “man-eater” as we vulgarly call them. The most extraordinary thing, all things considered. Well, you see—’
‘Frampton,’ Lady Sale interrupted, greeting her last guest with an air of decisive relief. Frampton stood apologetically in the doorway; in his hands was a bough of some fruit tree. He looked, despite his whiskers and his high-waisted scarlet uniform, like nothing so much as a pagan god.
‘I have heard of pig-sticking,’ Charlie Burnes began apologetically, but nobody, even Elphinstone, paid him any attention.
‘What is that you have there?’ Lady Sale said peremptorily.
‘Most sowwy to be so delayed,’ Frampton said, bowing quickly around the group. ‘Extwaordinawy thing. I found this laid upon my cot like a love-offewing. I thought myself quite past the time to attract such attentions, and in any case, there are no unattached ladies in the camp at all likely to make so womantic a gesture. An extwaordinawy thing. I count myself baffled.’
‘What is it?’
‘Mulberries,’ Burnes said, taking it from Frampton and weighing the dark fruit still attached to the bough in his left hand. ‘You are not alone, Frampton. I found exactly the same thing, left in my private quarters, when I returned from my audience with Shah Shujah today. I was at quite a loss to think who could have left it, and the servants denied any knowledge of it.’
‘A mulberry branch?’ Lady Sale said. ‘How amusing. How curious. Had you brought your offering, too, Sir Alexander, it might have furnished an agreeable supplement to my cook’s dessert. But I am sure you both would prefer to keep your romantic offerings. How mysterious and fine a thing to discover. Or perhaps—’ she gave a little trill of laughter, ‘—perhaps it is no more than a gesture of welcome from the people of Kabul, and they seem very shy in temperament to me, it is not impossible that they prefer to offer it in secret than openly. I recall when Sale and I were in Allahabad, the people, you know, they truly loved us, and one day we returned from exercise, and—’
‘I do not think that it is a romantic gesture,’ Macnaghten said. ‘Or a hospitable one. I found one, too, in my private quarters yesterday, and thought no more of it. I cannot think what it means, but I fear it has some quite specific meaning not apparent to us.’
‘Of course,’ Elphinstone said, ‘it is said that west of Peshawar, the mulberry branch is a sposal symbol. Many travellers, you know, sir, have observed it, but for myself—’
‘Nor that,’ Macnaghten said heavily. There was an awkward silence, as they nervously passed the mulberry branch from hand to hand, inspecting it as if some explicit message might be written among the leaves. They shifted about, not having anything else to add, but not feeling that the subject was at an end.
‘Let us go through,’ Lady Sale said decisively. ‘Bob, lead the charge.’ The steward was at the door, and they sorted themselves out – the excess of men forming a kind of tail at the end of the procession – and quietly went into the dining room.
Lady Sale’s dinner was subdued at the start – not that that was unusual, and the Sales clapped their hands for a succession of dishes with their usual chilly enthusiasm. Cold curried soup, roasted river fish, and a fricassee of what game birds the country could supply, and their guests offered each other each dish with punctilious courtesy. The subject of the mulberry branches did not recur, and they cast about for a better subject; the inadequacies of servants, the discomforts of the camps, a private soldier caught stealing from his fellows. The food was good, but somehow it was not Lady Sale’s; she had been provided with it, as she had, newly, been provided with her title, and she seemed a guest at her own table, her display of grandeur not quite convincing. It was as if she itched to turn her plates upside down to judge the style of the establishment, and her guests always felt, obscurely, that though the food here was good, if she had been left in charge they would have found themselves eating the cooking of a child, and dined off baked pastry shapes. It was with relief that the table heard one of Charlie Burnes’s inquiries, and fell on it gratefully, as on fish pie after a monotonous procession of curries.
‘I am sure I have been told this before, but what is a shikar?’
‘A shikar!’ Frampton said. ‘Yes, that is an excellent ideah. Let us mount a shikar for our young fwiend, to show what pleasures Kabul can supply. It must be utterly dweawy, to be cooped up here with nothing to break the monotony, and I am sure, it is weeks since we thought of such a diversion. A hunt, a shoot, Mr Burnes, nothing more. It is so affected, to be sure, how one slips into these pieces of jargon, and I fear that the newcomer must think we use these words for no other weason than to confuse and baffle.’
‘Shikar – an interesting word,’ Macnaghten began, but nobody paid him any attention.
‘Of course,’ Lady Sale said, ‘there is no wooded country hereabouts, and the absence of coverts must inevitably change the quality of any hunting, but let no one say that there are no country pursuits in Kabul, or that we were dull dogs. The game is bountiful, and well rewards a morning in the hills. Some laughed, indeed, at our bringing a pack of foxhounds, but to my mind, that was a part of our luggage which has proved of the greatest efficacy in maintaining the enthusiasm of the men for their present situation. Not that the men hunt, of course, but the diversion offered by a morning’s sport does tend to restore the spirits and return the weary officer to us with a new sense of purpose. So often, I have noticed, what initially seems a luxury when the camels are being loaded turns out to be of vital importance and great value. I recall, when we were in Allahabad – Sale, is it Allahabad I mean?’
‘I believe so,’ Sale said, turning from the other lady at the table with mild, assenting regret.
When Lady Sale had finished her story, and the table had added similar instances of apparently idle pleasures, Charlie Burnes said diffidently, ‘Is there any hawking to be had here? I should so much like to see a sport so associated with the East.’
‘I fear we are too far to the West here,’ Burnes said. ‘They seem to enjoy it in the East, east of here, I mean – I remember a pleasant morning I spent near Peshawar, as the guest of a great nabob – and again in Persia, true, but not here. My friend Mohan Lal and I went on numerous hunts when we were first in Kabul, and they knew what was meant by hawking, but they had not the skill or the curiosity.’
‘I hardly blame them,’ Frampton said. ‘Of all the deadly dull sports, hawking is the worst; to thwow a small bird into the sky and then unleash a bigger bird to kill it never stwuck me as an amusing diversion, so lacking in any exercise is it.’
‘I greatly enjoyed it,’ Burnes said. ‘I confess, it is lacking in exercise, and there is never any serious question about the outcome of the
sport, but there is something courtly and pleasurable about it when practised in a strange land.’
‘Have you ever been on a true Afghan hunt, Sir Alexander?’ Lady Sale inquired.
‘In the past, on two or three occasions,’ Burnes said. ‘Our old host, the Newab Jubbur Khan, was very keen that we should see it – an odd and laborious business, and sometimes not very sporting. The usual way is to dig a sort of man-sett near a spring, and wait there at night to shoot the deer that come there to drink.’
‘Not my idea of a hunt,’ Sale said.
‘No, not very sporting, but their principal interest is in shooting for food, and our concerns for sporting behaviour do not strike them as being sensible or even capable of being explained. There are more dashing forms of field-sports, of course.’
‘I should so much like a shikar,’ Charlie Burnes said. ‘May we have one?’
The table all laughed at Charlie’s simplicity. ‘Of course, sir, of course,’ Macnaghten said. ‘Perhaps the day after tomorrow? I think the hounds would benefit from the exercise, and I am sure it would be of no difficulty to persuade some of the men to act as beaters. A true Afghan hunt. Elphinstone, you know, in his book about Kabul, describes the hunt, and, I must say, for once he did not make any obvious errors – if you wish to know what one consists of, I am sure Elphinstone has a copy close to hand, or—’ this evidently occurring to Macnaghten as an eccentric alternative, ‘—you could always ask one of us about it. An excellent idea. The day after tomorrow, gentlemen?’
The guests here excused themselves a good deal earlier than in London, or India, Florentia noted when they had all gone. She strode about the rooms with the appearance of strict purpose, although the servants apparently needed no instruction or supervision as they cleared the dining room. Sale was in an armchair with a thoughtful cigar; he gazed into space, taking a consoling puff from time to time.
‘I can see young Burnes will prove a great addition to our society, in time,’ Florentia said, picking up a gewgaw from the makeshift card table and putting it down again. Sale grunted; he had been thinking of Bath, autumn of 1822. You always regretted the ones who got away, and wasn’t that the truth. What a fine filly she had been! ‘It is so sad that we can afford him no prospect of a suitable wife, so far from any civilized society.’
‘I expect he can wait,’ Sale said.
‘Wait he can,’ Florentia said. ‘I expect I was thinking more of ourselves; how agreeable it would be to have more feminine adornments to our little parties. If only one could import the officers’ wives!’
Sale looked at her in mild surprise. His wife, he supposed, had always rather enjoyed the lack of any serious competition on that front. ‘They come in bundles, and you will soon have more than you know what to do with,’ he said. ‘Now that we are settled, it seems as if more and more of the officers are sending for their families, and soon, my dear, society here will be as interesting as that of Calcutta. I know, like all ladies, you constantly feel the lack of gossip, but—’
‘Not that,’ Florentia said. ‘I merely feel a lack of civilization can be discerned in a settlement which is predominantly male, and I dread to think what misbehaviour can spring when so little moderating feminine influence may be felt. I tremble for the consequences, Sale, I truly tremble.’
‘My dear,’ Sale said. ‘Not all ladies have the heart and spirit you do, and this can only be a temporary situation. Why, only yesterday, five more ladies arrived to join their husbands.’
‘Those,’ Florentia said, taking a finger and drawing an angry streak in the dust on a glass bowl, ‘were not ladies, by the most generous estimate. Boy!’
‘A curious business, those mulberry branches,’ Sale said.
‘Were you left one, too, Sale?’ Florentia asked.
‘No,’ Sale admitted. ‘No, I seem to have been overlooked.’
Florentia seemed as dissatisfied as if she had been snubbed. ‘I dare say it signifies nothing so very important,’ she said finally.
3.
Burnes sat at his desk, and looked levelly at the private soldier standing at ease before him. This was his least favourite part of the week, and why the task had fallen to him, he did not know. Military discipline had up until now been quite outside his interest or expertise; but, as Macnaghten had finally managed to explain, many of the lapses the men were likely to fall into could best be dealt with by Burnes. They were in an unfamiliar place. Those who would normally be charged with enforcing discipline were, it must be admitted, no more familiar with the customs and beliefs of the natives than the men. ‘Local sensitivities, you see,’ Macnaghten had said, coming with relief to his final point. ‘Local sensitivities, Sir Alexander. That is the matter at hand. Of course, I myself would be pleased, ah …’ ‘You are so very busy a man, sir, I quite see the point,’ Burnes had said, unwillingly. So it came about that although – ‘Of course, of course,’ Macnaghten had said, waving the point away – ordinary breaches of discipline would be dealt with in the normal way, by the commanding officer, from time to time cases would arise where ‘local sensitivities’ would require an explanation and a reprimand from Burnes. Quite why – Burnes thought, looking at the resentful private soldier before him – nobody else could explain why it was undesirable to take an Afghan nobleman’s wife as a mistress, he could not say; but the task had, in this instance, fallen to him. It was the morning after the Sales’ dinner, and he, surely, had better things to be doing.
‘You must see,’ Burnes said patiently, ‘that our presence here must excite feelings of hostility and resentment. Do you see that?’
‘Yes sir,’ the private said, staring directly before him at the wall.
‘You do see that,’ Burnes said. ‘Whatever we may think of the matter it cannot be pleasant to find yourself, overnight, governed by a foreign power. Do you understand?’
‘Yes sir,’ the private said.
‘Where do you come from, soldier?’
‘Bristol, sir.’
Burnes paused, to permit the picture of the man’s home town to rise up in his mind. ‘Imagine, for one moment, that an army of Afghans appeared at the gates of Bristol.’
‘With your permission, sir, Bristol, no gates, sir.’
‘Be that as it may,’ Burnes said. ‘Imagine for a moment that an army of Afghans arrived in force to take over your city.’
‘With permission, sir – fight them off – a lot of heathens sir – no match for a hundred men of Bristol sir—’
‘That,’ Burnes said, ‘is not quite to the point.’ The man subsided into mild muttering, in which the words ‘lot of wogs sir’ could be discerned. ‘It is important that I make you understand quite why your conduct, if it continues, will create a quite unnecessary problem. To that end, I am trying to make you imagine the situation from a point of view which is not your own. Is that clear?’
‘Yes sir,’ the private said.
‘Now,’ Burnes said. ‘There is no doubt in our minds, you understand, that we are here for the best of reasons, and we hope, in time, to make the inhabitants of this city understand quite why we are here, and, in time, to appreciate our presence. How do you suppose that we may best achieve this end?’
The private looked dumbstruck.
‘I would like to know,’ Burnes continued patiently, ‘by what method you consider that we can convey our goodwill and honourable intentions to the disgruntled natives of this place.’
‘Don’t know sir,’ the private said.
‘Think, man,’ Burnes said. The man was astonishingly stupid, all in all; how he came to penetrate a Kabul zenana was decidedly baffling. ‘Very well; I shall tell you. We shall achieve this end by behaving extremely well. That is all. Careful, consistent, honourable behaviour; that is all we can do to assure them that we have not come to rape their women and steal their goods. Do you understand?’
‘Yes sir,’ the private said.
‘Now,’ Burnes said slowly. ‘Now, I wish you to imagine, once again, that yo
u are at home, in your city, in Bristol. Are you married, private?’
‘No sir,’ the private said. ‘Not married sir. No cause to be sir.’
‘Do you have, for instance, a girl?’
‘No sir,’ the private said. ‘Been in India five years sir. A man like me sir.’
‘Let us leave that to one side,’ Burnes said steadily. This was not going at all well. ‘I would like you to imagine that you are back in England, in Bristol, with a loving wife and several children. Your life is steady, and peaceful. One day you discover that your wife has been entertaining an Afghan warrior each day. I would like you to tell me what your feelings on the subject would be.’
‘I’d kill her, sir,’ the private said.
‘And then?’
‘I’d kill her, sir,’ the private said.
‘Soldier, if you please, I would like to suggest that your feelings towards your wife’s lover, too, would be less than amicable,’ Burnes said. ‘You would be filled, would you not, with a feeling of great resentment and dislike directed not merely towards him, but towards the entire occupying forces. Whatever benefits your new masters brought you, or were planning to bring to you, your feelings would be those of anger and hostility. Now, I would like you to think of the consequences of your actions, and think what the lady’s husband is likely to be thinking, not just of you, but of us all.’
‘There’s a difference, though, sir,’ the private said.
‘I am not very interested in excuses, soldier,’ Burnes said. ‘How did you come to meet the lady?’
‘She came to me,’ the soldier said. ‘I never thought of such a thing, but she came to me in the market and she took my hand and she took me to her house. I never wanted – sir, she is wronged, and I did no wrong.’
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