The Mulberry Empire

by Philip Hensher

  The caravan did not stop. The child stood there in front of the fort, and irresolutely ran after them; but they did not look back. The child stopped, and burst into a storm of wails. The men opened up, wondering, and went for the child. It was a small girl, in Afghan dress, but as they looked at her tear-stained dirty face, it was apparent that she was European. The kind private who knelt by her took his handkerchief, and with a little spit and a few kisses cleaned and calmed her. Her tears died down, and, by degrees, so did the private’s. She looked up at them, as if recognizing something, and said a sentence in the pretty rustic Persian she had learnt. ‘My mother and father are infidels,’ she said. ‘But I am a Mussulman.’ She was fat and well, and proved to be the Andersons’ little daughter. Of the Andersons themselves, there was no sign.

  Brydon remained in his room for weeks, like the well-guarded treasure of the fort. It was nearly a month before he appeared in public, walking round the battlements with an air of puzzlement. It was as if this now seemed to him a strange way for anyone to spend his life, walled up in a strange land, staring out at emptiness. His presence had become inexplicably embarrassing, and he was avoided by most of the men. His story had been told, and it could not be listened to or endured. The fort had all seen and handled the thing which had saved his life, a French novel which he had placed in his hat and which had been sliced almost in two by an Afghan sword in the course of the army’s last day. In time, that would become a relic, like the regiment’s salt pot, fashioned from a horse’s hoof, souvenir of the regiment’s great day at Waterloo. Not yet, however, and no one wished to see it again, or talk of the last days of the army. It could have been them. Only Brydon wanted to go on talking, and Brydon was avoided.

  No one cared to disturb the General, and Sale, too, preferred to keep to his quarters. It was nearly two months before any communication came from Akbar. It was brought by an insolent Afghan sirdar. The man appeared, his hand tight on the handle of his sword, and gave the letter to the officer of the watch without dismounting, turned and rode smartly away. The letter was taken to Sale, and, with a native, he patiently read what Akbar had to say. No reference was made in it to the last days of the Army of the Indus; nothing was said of what Akbar had done, and it seemed sedulously to avoid any tone of regret or exultation. The letter merely informed Sale, with the minimum of formalities, that the hostages were well, and that, in one month, when Dost Mohammed had been returned safely to his kingdom, they would be delivered to Jalalabad. The letter concluded with the information that Elphinstone had died, and here there was, perhaps, a touch of regret and condolence as Akbar added that all that could have been done for him was done in his last illness. Sale could not share any regret; Elphinstone had, by dying, saved himself the worst humiliation of all, to see the disasters of the war laid at his door. And that, no one would have doubted. There would have been no one but Elphinstone left alive to blame; and now, there was no one at all left to blame. It was as well Akbar regretted Elphinstone’s death, because no one else would mourn him. The letter said no more; it made no reference to the identity of the prisoners. Sale handed it back to the translator with no comment.

  He made no comment, either, when, in the coming days, word was received from the Governor General that what Akbar had requested had been granted. Dost Mohammed was released from his Indian captivity, and was to be permitted to return to his kingdom, to rule if he could. There was nothing else, in truth, to be done. Somehow India had learnt that Shah Shujah, that puppet emperor walking on rose petals, had met his end. They had abandoned him to his enemies in Kabul, and the long feud between the princely families had run its inevitable course, once the English were gone. How Shah Shujah had been killed, no one knew. No one could think, or cared to, how an emperor who had spent so much of his life devising the last torments of his enemies could face his own horrible death. No one could wish that it had been merciful. Jalalabad, and Calcutta, and London, had now supped full of horrors, and if little information had been received concerning the last hours of Shah Shujah-ul-mulk, none was requested. It was enough that he was dead, and certainly so. Enough to know, too, that Dost Mohammed was returning to what had always been his, and that the men and women Akbar had held were returning. Who they were, what they had endured, these things Jalalabad did not know, and were not told. They did not talk of it. They had too much to spare themselves.

  The life of the fort was quiet and empty. Watch succeeded watch, and nothing was looked for or seen. It was the most peaceful period anyone could remember, and beyond the blue hills to the west, the gates of the Dost’s Empire were closed for ever. Behind those walls, there was silence; or perhaps the empire, made whole again, was roaring with joy. Perhaps it was torn apart by war and murder. But here there was no word, and it was no longer any concern of the English. Dost Mohammed and his court were returned, and there was still no word of the men and women his son had held. Sale sat in his quarters, day after day, and was not disturbed.

  It was spring before any word came. A letter was brought to the gates of the fort, from an English officer, Eyre. The hostages were near, very near; no more than a day’s march west of here. They were weak, but healthy and in good spirits. Eyre said they had no complaints of their treatment. Their escort had brought them to this place with trust and consideration, and left them there, turning back to Kabul. The hostages were alone now, and wrote begging for the kindness of an escort to be sent from Jalalabad to bring them to safety.

  The aide-de-camp brought Eyre’s letter to Sale in his darkened room. Sale read it carefully, making no comment.

  ‘Send a party to fetch them,’ he said tonelessly. ‘I am glad Eyre is well.’

  ‘Sir,’ the aide-de-camp said. ‘You have not looked at the last pages of his letter. Look, he has thought to send us a list of those in his party, and look—’

  Sale turned over the pages. There was no expression in his face, but his hand was trembling. The aide-de-camp would not say, but he knew what Sale would find in the list, and what he would look for first. He cursed Eyre for writing the names in random order; it would take the old man a few minutes to find the name. Still, he would say nothing. It was for the General to find the name of his wife, buried down there among lists of other wives, children, jemaudars, and discover that she was still alive. There were twenty or twenty-five names there, all familiar; and one of the names was that of Florentia Sale.

  Sale opened his mouth, as if trying to speak, but he could say nothing. The aide-de-camp stepped forward smartly, and took the list back from the old General, turning and going before the General could dismiss him. He dreaded seeing the old man cry.

  Sale would not move from his room still, and when the watch saw the party approaching, word had been received that he was in the guardroom, and the prisoners should be conducted directly to him. That was Sale’s word, but everyone took it for granted that he meant only Florentia. The rest could wait. That was all, then, this knot approaching so fast towards the fort; this little knot of humanity, treated with such care and defensiveness, like well-bundled china. The solicitude of the men was evident even from the battlements. They approached, a small band of thirty or so, and, at the orders of the captain of the watch, the great gates of the fortress were flung open, to greet them in like heroes. Behind them, the gates would shut, slowly, slowly, and the story would end. Here they come, then, from the west, bearing no gifts but themselves; and, as they come, the incredulous guards see a face lifted in something like defiance, to claim what heroism they can. Incredulously, the guards look on, as they stand at the yawning gates, and see faces they know; thinner, whiter, harder, but faces they know, as if from some previous life. Mrs Sturt, looking up as if daring anyone to question her right to be here and alive; she carries an infant in her arms. Here is Eyre, his arm bound up in bandages, and looking down at the earth, his neck flopping, riding under some invisible burden; and by him, there is Florentia. The men will normally cheer at anything, but now they are silent. The war
has wrought great alteration in them all, as it swept through the lands and their lives like the burning Wind, and the strangest change of all is the one wrought on Florentia. Because Florentia looks directly forward into the bright winter sun unblinking, unforgiving, audacious, and she is not changed at all. She is helped from her horse, and led to Sale, waiting for her in the guardroom of the fortress.

  The war is not over, but the story is. And in the end, in the stories, in the circuses, it will come down to this; the nurses of the West will hunch by candlelight over their wide-eyed charges and tell them the story, and this is what it will come down to, this last scene. The war is not over; still to come is the revenge of the British, as they ride in force to Kabul, in the righteous angelic fury which, blazing high in them, will turn to flame, and consume the great bazaar of Kabul; and then they will leave, leave the smoking ruins of Kabul, and ride back to their Indian stronghold as if the devil himself was pursuing them, never again to return. That is still to come, but when the nurses tell the story, this is their last scene; a man stiff as a ramrod, waiting in a guardroom, hardly knowing what to expect.

  Sale stands there, and the door opens. He can hardly look, although he knows who it is standing there. It is Florentia, his wife. Behind her, the adjutants of the fort crowd together. They could not have restrained themselves if they had tried. He stands there, and his eyes are pained with being kept open, like a wanderer in the driest deserts. He looks at her, and she is just the same. He cannot speak, and cannot move. Fighting Bob; she looks at him, and the expression on her face is just as it was. She has somehow kept the last unspeakable months from marking her. But he looks at her, into her face, and there, there, what is it, stirring the surface of her flesh like a noiseless tiger, moving to pounce, unseen, deep in a grove of bamboo? Some reproach is there, some tight rage, some knowledge which, if she talked and told for day after day, she could never share with Sale. He knows it. By degrees, the officers behind her fall silent. Sale and Florentia are before each other, and for the first time in months, each knows the other not to be dead. Never again will Sale sit and think through the thousand deaths his wife could have died. They are restored to each other, and all, surely, is well. But Sale cannot speak. He walks forward five paces, unable to do anything other, and she looks directly into his face. Before that look, he shrinks. What he can do, he does. He places his hand on her shoulder, and he grips her tightly. ‘Old girl,’ he says, his voice drying and choking. ‘Old—’

  More than that, he cannot do. With a few strides, he leaves the room, not looking behind at his Eurydice. She does not follow him. The aide-de-camp walks briskly after the General, wondering, through the parting crowd of officers, expectant at the scene. Sale goes through to the gate of the fort, his head cast down, walking as quickly as he can. There, the tired horses of the party are still standing, still saddled. Sale waves aside the stable-boys, and mounts one. The gate of the fort is opened a few feet again. Sale, followed by his mounted adjutant, spurs his horse and rides out into the desert.

  The adjutant has a job to keep up with the old man, who rides like fury. It is a silent hour later before he pauses. The adjutant catches up and stops, but Sale says nothing. The country is bare of habitation, of vegetation, bare rock. There is nothing to be seen but miles of rock, stretching far away to the edges of the sky. That is what they all died for. The fort is left far behind. The two of them sit there on their exhausted horses in the barren cold desert. The sun is starting to set, and finally the adjutant can no longer endure to be silent.

  ‘General,’ the young man blurts out. Sale’s face is turned away from him; he is gazing furiously at the horizon. ‘General, I congratulate you.’

  Sale turns finally, and looks directly at the subaltern. His face contorts, twists, wriggles; he is quite unable to say a word. Whether he is trying to suppress something, or to force something out, his face contorts. And then, all at once, he turns his horse away, and digs his spurs in. The subaltern watches the old man gallop away, the dust beneath the hooves rising in great angry spurts, and lets him go; and the sounds of the hooves diminish, fade, fall into silence, as the figure shrinks and falls into the landscape, a man riding, a fly buzzing, a speck of dirt, nothing, nothing, nothing.

  This, then, was the second virtuous journey of the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan. The bonfires were lit in Kabul, and another on the horizon, and a third on the horizon’s horizon, and so, a chain of fires, stretching eastwards across the curving earth without a break, from the city of the Dost to the Dost in exile. And horsemen rode through the day and through the night to bring the Dost the news of his triumph, passing the message from rider to rider, and happy the man who was admitted to the presence of the Amir, and, kneeling, brought the great news to the ears of his king. The Dost heard the news with joy, and bent to kiss the messenger. He ordered his household to assemble, and before a further day could pass, the Amir made ready for his journey. Made ready for his second journey, the second virtuous journey of the Amir Dost Mohammed Khan; his return to the city that loved him.

  With his court he rode westwards, and when the noble horse of the Amir trod on the rich soil of his empire, the Amir and all his princes wept for joy. The Amir halted, and dismounted; and there, in the day, beneath the Afghan sky, he kissed the Afghan earth, knowing that never again would he leave it. His empire was returned to him, and if he did not forsake it, it would repay him with loyalty, and love.

  He rode into the ways of Kabul, clad all in white, his white-robed princes about him, and the city roared its joy, its blazing fires, its yelling throats, its guns cracking into the bright summer sky. He rode through the streets, slowly, reaching down from his horse and taking the hand of any man who wished to run forward and touch his great Emperor. There were many such. The Amir Dost Mohammed Khan rode, so slowly, through the press of men, his eyes and his heart full of joy, and at length, he came to the gates of his palace, to the gates of the Bala Hissar. They were flung open, and the Amir paused, and spoke in his ringing voice. ‘Let these gates never be closed again to my people,’ he said. ‘Let them be forever shut against those who wish my people harm.’ And the empire, all at once, roared its fiery approval.

  Later that night, from the portals of the Emperor’s palace, the Emperor looked down upon the jewelled orchard city, and was pleased; and by his side stood his son, Akbar, who saved his father’s kingdom, and the Emperor was proud. The city, too, was proud, proud of the Dost who had left in grief and returned to them in triumph, and gazed up at the palace of the Dost as at the mansions of heaven. ‘My son,’ the Emperor said, and his wise eyes blazed with love and glory, and he said no more.

  And so the tale is done, and justice restored, and wisdom and virtue triumphed. Ended, the interlude of the English and their vainglory; over in four winters; ended, that mulberry empire, that season of wrong. And forever afterwards, when the children of the Dost’s empire were gathered together, and they told each other tales of the past to while away a long cold night, they would talk of the great deeds of these years. And father would tell son, and when the son grew to manhood, he would tell his son, and the triumph of the Dost would not be forgotten until Afghanistan itself was destroyed. Let the city chant its uncadenced joy; let the nightingales in celestial flocks descant the empire’s unending glory. The world shall hear the tale of the retreat of the English before the wisdom and greatness of Dost Mohammed, and the world shall learn what the Afghans are, and tremble at the show of their might. Fear may be learnt: awe may be taught.

  The tale is done, and it ends here, with the Emperor in his palace, preparing to rule again, looking down at his great city. With Dost Mohammed, greatest of the Afghans, who barely blinks as guns are fired to mark his splendour, whose reign was of calm and plenty, whose name be blessed in the presence of the children of the Afghans and their children’s children and their children’s children’s children, who, for the rest of his virtuous reign, considers the English from time to time; and his thoughts are str
ange, as into his mind comes the memory of one face; comes the memory of Burnes, who tried for greatness, whose greatness failed; comes a face, and, when it comes, Dost Mohammed remembers a man with eyes blue as the sky; and his feelings are kind, as he remembers him. Sing, Dost, sing of your worthy enemy, and offer thanks that He who made all things afforded you an adversary worthy of your greatness, and rewarded your humility with empire. An Englishman; and the Dost’s mind sings on, in silence, and knows that the Dost, for a time, admired him; remembers him in friendship, and nothing else.

  EPILOGUE

  THE ORCHESTRA SWELLED IN ITS FERVENT ADAGIO, and General Sale rose to his feet. He raised his hands to his face, clutching his expert expression. For a moment, the hushed multitude could not see what he was seeing, but then a female figure emerged from the darkness at the back of the stage. A low murmur came from the upper seats in the house; she was their favourite, and to see her as Lady Sale exceeded all expectations. The murmur did not drop, but fell seamlessly into a humming, as they all recognized a slow grand tune in the orchestra, and unthinkingly joined in. In the flies, two boys crouched, steadily reaching into the box of torn-up paper, flinging it far over the stage. The paper snow fell prettily over the scene. This was what they paid for, and why they came to Astley’s circus.

  The two figures stood, ten feet apart, unmoving, waiting for the audience to start weeping. She might have been a statue, there with her hand in the air – and how well she had done, last season, in The Winter’s Tale! The orchestra grew more impassioned, and the gods sang along, and, now, she was moving forwards, towards her husband. One uncertain step; one more; and then, half-running, she came to him and they fell into a marvellous embrace, face-front to the audience.