‘Great God, the sepoys!’ he said, leaping up. ‘They are still there, at least!’
He went briskly to Charlie’s desk, where paper and pen lay, and wrote quickly; a note to Macnaghten. The sepoys were still there, would send for help. He finished, and folded it briskly in three, not saying to Charlie what he was doing, and then went out into the courtyard. There was a small door set into the great gates of the house, and, without thinking, Burnes undid it and opened it. There, as he thought, were the sepoys, standing there hardily, and beyond them, twenty or thirty Afghans, squatting in the snow inattentively. Was that all? For a moment he thought of simply walking out, past the Afghans, returning to the cantonments with a carapace of confidence. The nearest sepoy turned, a look of terrible alarm on his face, and Burnes knew what to do; he handed the note to him, and shut the door firmly behind him, bolting it solidly. There was food in the house, and, after all, Ahmed was not wrong, not necessarily wrong; he had fled, but this, perhaps, might be a matter of a day, no more than that. Reinforcements would soon arrive, and the Afghans disperse, and things return to normal, and the shamefaced household would slink back by nightfall.
3.
The time, then, had come: the time of Akbar’s reckoning, and the princes of the house swept down from the hills, and entered into the city of their father. One by one they came, the many sons of the Dost, under disguise. For many weeks, no day had passed without a party of traders presenting itself at the gates of the city, and entering without challenge. But the English did not look into the faces of these traders, and did not see the mark of the Baroukzye princes in their eyes. Unsuspecting, the English searched the possessions of what they thought to be merchants, and, one after the other, each of the sons of the Amir passed into the city.
At this moment, there was no disloyalty between the brothers, but only a fierce conviction, a burningly held purpose. Each of them arrived, and each carried out the same humble task, at the order of Akbar. Each of the princes went to one of the mulberry trees in the city, and cut off a branch with his sword, knowing that same sword would serve a different purpose, very soon. Then the princes went, humbly, by darkness, and carried out the errand of a servant or a spy. Each of them bowed before Akbar’s purpose, and accepted the humblest duty. Each, by darkness, entered into the houses and the inner rooms of the English, and there left the branch of the mulberry. The English saw it, and understood what this meant, and trembled in fear.
Akbar was patient, but he knew, now, the time had come to act. Soon, the princes of the English army would feel the weight of his wrath, would hear the song of Akbar’s scimitar, slicing through air. But first, he would send one more message to them, that they would know something of the fury of the princes of the Afghans, the wrath of the Afghan empire.
4.
He had lost track of time. It must have been days now. In this dank dark place, there was no sign of day coming and going; nothing to mark the passage of time but the arrival and departure of his dreadful torturers. He was slumped, naked, in the corner of the cellar furthest from the door, shivering from cold and terror and the many shallow cuts all over him. For the moment he was alone; they had left him when his pain had brought him to the point of retching, but now he knew they would return. He thought, over and over again, what he had not stopped thinking for days now, that when they next entered, he would dash at them, desperately, and seize a blade and somehow do away with himself before it could all start again. He thought it, and believed it was possible, not admitting to himself that he had tried before, each time, and each time failed as they pushed him back, contemptuously, and held him down to continue their black acts; drawing the points of their blades across his body as if in the most exquisite calligraphy, one after the other. It was the pain, always the pain; each time, he thought – he knew – that this time he must die of the pain, and each time he did not. Why this was happening to him, he did not know, and for days had been wailing at them that he was not important, that he was nothing but a common soldier, nothing anyone would care about or miss; promising them that if they let him escape, he would bring no punishment down on them; consoling them with his assurance that he knew, he understood that they meant to seize some other fellow in the marketplace, there, a week before; that it was a mistake, that there was no reason for them to go on with this; pleading in English, over and over again, and then, as they returned and returned, turning to the language of his childhood, and calling out in Welsh for mercy to his uncomprehending torturers, these inquisitors who asked no question and did not listen to any answer he could offer. They had been gone for hours. They would return in minutes. He listened; and out of the underground silence, his terrifying fantasy produced the sound of footsteps, outside, coming closer.
5.
It is fair to say that nobody appreciated the sacrifice Florentia Sale had made in parting from her husband as much as she did herself; but few silently deplored and regretted it as much as Macnaghten. ‘Splendid woman,’ he would say routinely, his voice somewhat trailing off. ‘Pillar of the, of the …’ He disliked and feared her, he did not know why, and if he longed for a larger society, it was only because that would enable him to refuse her invitations. At present, that was impossible. She would instantly know whether he was going somewhere else, or merely preferring his own company to hers. And Sale’s departure meant that the woman was at something of a loose end, at any hour of the day, and at any hour of the day, expected Macnaghten – expected him! Macnaghten! – to attend to her.
He had been caught, like a rat in a trap. His morning stroll about the cantonments was no longer a safe occupation. It was not precisely an inspection of the state of things, more of an idle curious promenade, to see what the men were up to. An army encampment is always throwing up interesting sights, and one of Macnaghten’s pleasures was to walk about, and watch the men digging a ditch, or a hopeful native arriving with a basket of curiosities for sale, or, if nothing better could be provided, a dog worrying a rat. His position licensed this inactivity in him, and for an hour or so each day, he liked to shed his secretary and pretend to embark on an inspection of the cantonments; his interest, however, was less like a general, and more like a street urchin with nothing to do but gawp at the local doings.
That had always been his pleasure, and, surely, a harmless one, but Florentia Sale had contrived to deprive him of it, and an agreeable hour of solitude. No sooner was he embarked on his promenade than the wretched woman would materialize, and waste his time in conversation of the most hectoring variety. He had contemplated explaining brutally that he was engaged on business, but that was so evidently untrue that he did not dare. The truth was that every other person in the camp recognized his right to idleness, and respected it without him resorting to pretence. There was nothing to be said, and he wished the woman had been taken off by that damned ‘Fighting Bob’, where she might at least have been shot in the passes.
‘Poor Mrs Sturt,’ Florentia was saying at this moment as they walked the alley behind the officers’ mess. ‘Men, of course, know nothing of true bravery; it is for women to discover that, I may tell you. The dangers and suffering of battle are nothing compared to the usual lot of women. A battle – over in an afternoon. I would a hundred times be dropped in the thick of battle than endure poor Mrs Sturt’s long sufferings. Thirty-six hours, Sir William – think of that – thirty-six hours of constant pain, and no sign of the poor baby. Of course, all will be well in the end, but I must say, I myself am kept awake by her suffering, two nights now. Poor Dr Brydon, too, exhausted and yet still hopeful.’
‘Yes,’ Macnaghten said. ‘I have often thought, the lot of women is a hard one.’
‘Sir William,’ Florentia said. ‘You never said a truer word. But I must say, the poor woman, in so sadly temporary accommodation, and though, I know, nothing can be done in that regard for the men, or, indeed for her, I really feel that now that we are to be billeted here for some time, it cannot be right that we all live in this extr
aordinary way.’
‘As you say, Lady Sale,’ Macnaghten said, ‘there is nothing that can be done in that regard.’
‘Come, now, Sir William,’ Florentia said. ‘Nothing? It is so very unsuitable, I must say, for a General Sale to make do in such a manner, at least. And you know, I am the last to complain about discomfort where it is unnecessary, but this is quite unsatisfactory. Now, I am going to break a marital confidence, and tell you something. Do you know, Sale, as he left, said one last thing to me: he said, “Florentia, my dear, make sure that Macnaghten finds you a proper home for the winter.” Sir William, are there not ample houses within the city for us? I cannot answer for the General’s rage, were he to return and find that his wife had endured one more winter in this impossible, this impossible—’
‘Lady Sale, I am most sorry for your discomfort,’ Macnaghten began wearily – would the woman never leave the subject alone? – but it was at that moment that a sepoy ran up, and, bowing, handed Macnaghten a hastily folded note. ‘Excuse me one moment, Lady Sale.’
The sepoy and Lady Sale stood there while he read the communication. It was from Burnes, and read: The guard here is insufficient: please supply two dozen men, without delay.
Macnaghten handed the note over to Lady Sale, shaking his head. ‘You see my difficulties,’ he said. ‘Burnes, there, in the city, demanding men, a constant drain as it is, and now requiring more without a by-your-leave. I have the greatest respect for that young man, but regret the day I ever acceded to his request to take up residence within the city walls. A very able young man, but I fear he has no concept of the demands being made on me from all sides. And, my dear Lady Sale—’ now Macnaghten was losing his temper, ‘—I know quite well that ladies very easily submit to fear and make precisely this absurd request, and, with my respect for you, I should not easily be able to refuse it, whatever difficulties it would present to me. No, we must go on as we are for the moment. Now …’
Macnaghten took a pencil from his inside pocket, and scrawled Quite impossible on the bottom of the note.
‘Return this to Sir Alexander with my regrets,’ he said to the sepoy, with the sense of being indubitably in the right. ‘I shall explain further tonight, I think. We dine together, do we not, Lady Sale? And Burnes, surely, will be of the company.’
6.
The long day wore on, with no news. The sepoys did not call out again, and the only noise from beyond the gate was the slow increase of murmur, the occasional raised voice, the occasional roar of assent. Burnes and Charlie sat in the old zenana, saying nothing, only listening.
At four, from beyond the gates, a tremendous noise broke out, and suddenly it was apparent that the crowd outside was far larger than it had been in the morning. Charlie leapt to his feet.
‘They’re not—’ he said, but then the gates sounded like a great bass drum, and it was clear to both of them that some escalation was beginning. Some kind of ram was being deployed against the gates, and, far from drifting away, the crowd was growing bigger and more driven by fury.
‘If I could only speak to them,’ Burnes said, but he knew it was far too late to think of that; and what had happened to the reinforcements, he did not know. Outside, it went very quiet, and they listened; it was a single voice, raised in imprecation, like the summoning song from the mosque, twisting and winding like a melody. As it reached its cadence there was an explosion; the crowd yelling in obscure joy, and, for the first time, the sound of gunfire, dreadfully close. ‘There must be—’
He could not stand here, and, although there was nowhere else to go, he left the room. Charlie followed him. They had walked through half a dozen rooms when, somewhere near at hand, inside the house this time, they heard a noise from the kitchens. Burnes stopped and drew his pistol. Making a hushing gesture to Charlie, he tiptoed forward; through the silent dining room, the silent pantry, and there were the kitchens. They halted for a moment on the threshold, ears cocked, looking around; at first there was nothing to be seen, but then, all at once, in the gloom of the far end, a movement – an animal, perhaps – no –
‘Who’s there?’ Burnes called. Nothing moved for a moment, and then a figure came forward. At first he could not see who it was, but as the man moved into the light, unarmed, he recognized him; it was the man from the previous night, whom Ahmed had described as his brother.
‘Stop there,’ Burnes said. The man stopped, and spread wide his hands, in a gesture of friendship. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Sikunder Burnes,’ the man said. ‘I slept in the kitchens, and when I woke, the house was empty. I do not know where everyone is gone. I stayed because my brother told me not to leave until his return.’
‘When will he return?’
‘Sikunder Burnes, I do not know,’ Hasan said. ‘I think now he will not return. The men are outside the gates and calling for your blood.’
That was something they had not said to each other, and to have it confirmed in speech, so simply, somehow made everything so much worse. Burnes gave silent thanks that Charlie did not understand Persian.
‘You must go,’ Hasan said. ‘Or they will break in and kill you.’
‘How can we go?’ Burnes said. ‘The house is surrounded. If we stay they will break in and kill us; if we leave they will certainly kill us. Our best hope is to wait until Macnaghten sends soldiers.’
‘Macnaghten,’ Hasan said, thoughtfully. His clean eyes shone white in the murky room. ‘Sikunder Burnes, there is no hope now that the English can rescue you – there are too many outside for that. I can help you to reach safety – trust me.’
His face was familiar, open and clear; Burnes thought for a second before agreeing.
‘Here are some robes,’ Hasan said. ‘Take them and put them on – darken your face – and we will go over the back wall. That will be safe.’
‘We still have to go to the front of the house, through the mob,’ Burnes said.
‘They will be watching the gate; trust me, you will be safe,’ Hasan said simply.
There was nothing to be done. They stood there in the cold dark kitchen, and Hasan gazed seriously at the two of them. A rat ran across the floor.
‘Very well,’ Burnes said decisively. He explained everything to Charlie. ‘It will be fine,’ he said. ‘I know this man – I think we can trust him.’
A blind alley ran around two-thirds of the house, and ended at a high wall underneath the inner orchard. Once Burnes and Charlie were in their dirty borrowed robes, their faces darkened with cold meat juices from the bottom of a kitchen pan, they made their way to the back of the house. The orchard was raised six feet above the level of the street, and below, the alley was quite empty. Quickly, Burnes swung himself over the wall and dropped into the street, followed by the Afghan and finally Charlie. Without saying anything, their blue eyes lowered, they followed the alley around the house towards the furious shrieks of the mob at the front. When they turned, and Burnes saw the faces of the crowd, he almost flinched; but it was too late for that, and he prayed, without turning to look, that Charlie, too, was finding some bravery in himself.
In ten paces, they were among the crowd, and Burnes began to edge through the pressing bodies. It was going to work; he sidled between the men, each with a blade raised or a jezail pointed at the heavens, and no one took notice of them. There were hundreds of them, and of the sepoys no sign at all, buried deep within the crowd, pressed against the heavy gate. Three hundred, perhaps; four hundred; perhaps more, and –
A heavy hand fell on his shoulder, and with a single movement, his hasty turban had been ripped off. He turned, as swiftly as if he had been burned, and saw Hasan, holding his turban up, and calling. And then, of course, Burnes remembered him: Hasan. Remembered his face, and knew him; remembered the man who had left with Porter, and returned alone. Hasan: he saw all his wrath and virtue, and heard his voice, now, now, calling with the great high beautiful voice of the angels, summoning the righteous heavens to descend upon them.
‘I have him, I have him! Sikunder, Sikunder, here, here!’
And there was a moment of terrible blind stillness, as the crowd, as one, turned to Charlie, and to him.
7.
And the dogs of the city devoured his face.
Kabul was still, and from the cantonments the pall of smoke could be seen to hang over the city, marking the end of Burnes. The word had come, and Macnaghten had grown silent; the men were armed, and sent to the pitiful mud walls of the cantonments. There they waited, but everything was quiet. And then more word came, from the Bala Hissar itself. The palace was taken, and of Shah Shujah there was no news. Macnaghten sat, and was silent, and the cantonments waited.
Deep within the cantonments, two women sat and waited. Florentia Sale, at the bedside of Mrs Sturt. In the younger woman’s arms, a baby, hours old, sucked at its mother. There, six hours old, was the only content to be found, and the two women were pale.
‘He is feeding well, at any rate,’ Lady Sale remarked – for something must be said. There was an unnatural silence about the tent; the men were all at the snow-deep ramparts, waiting, and about them nothing. The silence when there is no one there; the silence when no one in a crowd makes a noise; Florentia strained, painfully, listening. She recalled herself; for Mrs Sturt’s sake, an effort had to be made. ‘A fine boy. I think I can promise you one thing,’ and her voice rose, ringingly, in assurance, ‘he will grow up, and grow up to be as brave a soldier as his father.’
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