by John Wilcox
‘Of course, sir. I am well aware of the rules of the game.’
The Resident raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, yes. I should hope so. You will have to live by them here, of course.’ He sighed faintly. ‘You have been a regrettably short time in India, have you not?’
A feeling of annoyance began to steal over Simon. He hated condescension. ‘Regrettably short, I’m afraid. But I understand that General Roberts was anxious to improve the standard of intelligence-gathering here, and I . . . well . . . had some experience of this in Zululand.’
‘Ah, yes. That bit of nonsense with the Kaffirs.’ Cavagnari’s mouth twitched. ‘I think you will find the wily Afghan a rather different kettle of fish from your naked aboriginal. Had time to acquire the language at all?’
‘Very little, sir.’
‘Know what a choor is?’
‘Er . . . a thief, isn’t it?’
‘Well done. What’s a kala admmi?’
‘It’s a black man - and I believe it is a great insult to call a Pathan that.’
‘It is indeed. Who or what is Bhodisat?’
‘The Buddha, or one of his incarnations.’
‘And the Kaisar-i-Hind?’
‘The Queen Empress of India.’ Simon took a deep breath. ‘But surely, sir, these are Hindee expressions?’
‘Quite so. But they are common terms across the tribes that straddle the Frontier here. Do you have an interpreter?’
‘Yes, and a good one.’
‘Shabash.’ Cavagnari crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair. ‘Look here, Fonthill, I have no objection to you being here and . . .’ he waved his hand languidly, ‘learning on the job, so to speak. The point is that I don’t believe there is much of a job to do. You see, I feel that matters are well in hand here. We are not an army of occupation. I deliberately kept my escort here down to fifty men to avoid causing provocation. I have the full support of the Amir, whose palace is only a stone’s throw away. I negotiated an acceptable peace with him and there is every indication that that peace is going to be kept to the full satisfaction of both our countries.’
Cavagnari’s head was now back and he seemed to be addressing the ceiling, as though rehearsing arguments to himself. ‘We did not need to crush these people to bring them into the British Empire - even under mandate. No, they realise that we are the most powerful nation on earth and can bring untold benefits to them. We have much to teach them and they know it.’
Simon frowned. Not another lecture on the benefits of empire! He had heard so many since landing in India. But the Resident was now addressing him directly again.
‘Of course, in an uncivilised country such as this, there are always risks. For instance, we have contingents of the Afghan army back here from Herat, where they saw no fighting in the war at all, and they are damned cocky. They sneer at the fellows who got a bloody nose from Roberts at the Peiwa Kotal and say that they could see off the British quite easily.’ He looked rueful for a moment. ‘It doesn’t help that they haven’t been paid for months and they think we have lakhs of rupees to distribute. They’re camped out at Sherput, two or three miles north of here.’
For a moment the mask of insouciance had slipped. Aware of it, Cavagnari smiled again. ‘But dogs that bark do not bite.’ He raised his hands in mock indignation. ‘Bobs does worry so! He seems to feel that I have no sources of intelligence of my own. I in no way wish to deprecate what you can do, but my ear is very firmly to the ground, I assure you. And I am not exactly alone here. My escort is small but it is made up of Guides, and - as I am sure you will agree - one wouldn’t wish to have a better body of men to protect one. But the main point is that I am sure that the Amir, Yakub Khan, will turn out to be a very good ally and that we can keep him to his engagements.’
He stood up. ‘Now, I really fear you must excuse me, for there is a dispatch to be written.’ He called to a bearer. ‘I have arranged lodgings for you not far away. They are expecting a Persian merchant, so maintain your position.’ They shook hands. ‘Ahmed will take you there. Come back and see me tomorrow afternoon at four. Then we shall discuss how you can be of service.’
The tone was dismissive and conclusive. The audience was over. Simon gave a half-bow and followed the servant, collecting Jenkins and W.G. from the anteroom on his way out.
As Ahmed led them through the steep streets, Simon looked carefully about him. There was no air of sullen resentment on the faces that passed him; no sign of a people on the edge of revolt. Yet it seemed that every third man carried a jezail or a more-or-less modern rifle, and the gazes that met his were direct and unswerving. The very walk of the Afghan - an undulating, unhurried, hip-swinging stride - seemed to reflect independence and even arrogance.
Come back and see me tomorrow . . . then we shall discuss how you can be of service . . . Simon fumed at the lofty tone and the memory of the crude test of his Hindee. It was the assumed air of superiority that annoyed him. There was nothing wrong with the Empire; it was the people who administered it from middle to top who were at fault. It was the same with the army: long years of insularity had bred a contempt for natives and all outsiders. It was as though incest had been allowed to creep into a distinguished family. A type of sanguine sickness had resulted, which left the victim brave and bold enough in action, but lacking in perception and openness of mind.
Simon sighed. It was clear, anyway, that Cavagnari expected little ‘service’ from this newly arrived parvenu. To what extent, though, did that languid air conceal a shrewd player of the game? After all, Cavagnari had been making his way on the Frontier with skill and subtlety for nearly two decades now. He knew the ways of the Pathans better than Simon, and even, probably, Lamb and Roberts. He must surely know if he was sitting on a powder keg.
The house to which they were led was unpretentious and small, yet comfortable enough after their days on the road. They were received with a polite indifference and given mutton rice and delicious mint tea. Simon, with much on his mind, went to his bed roll early, leaving Jenkins and W.G. playing dice in monosyllabic whispers.
Chapter 4
Simon awoke the next morning aware of a background noise. It was a distant, high-pitched rumble but not consistent in level; there were peaks and troughs. Intrigued, he walked to the open window and looked down on to a completely empty street. He squinted up at the sun. It was quite high. He had slept late. Forgetting his nakedness, he leaned out, the better to hear. Frowning, he concentrated and the rumble took a form: it was the noise of a mob shouting. And it came from the direction of the Bala Hissar.
Pulling on his shirt, Simon ran to the room shared by Jenkins and W.G. The Welshman was sitting on his mattress, carefully cleaning his rifle.
‘Damn,’ said Simon. ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’
Jenkins was unfazed. ‘Thought we could all do with a bit of a lie-in after that journey, bach sir.’ He squinted down the barrel of his Snider. ‘This hubbub started about half an hour ago, so I’ve sent old Gracey off to see what’s up, like. Didn’t want to wake you if they was just lettin’ off steam for nothing, see.’
Simon frowned impatiently. ‘It sounds as though it’s coming from the Residency. We’d better get down there.’
Jenkins rose to his feet and sucked in his moustache. ‘Don’t you think we ought to wait till W.G. gets back? We might not find ’im in the crowd, and if we do lose ’im, we’d be about as useful in this place as a three-legged Welsh pony.’
Simon shook his head. ‘Can’t help that. If there’s trouble at the Residency we can’t stay here. We must help.’
They were interrupted by the sound of sandalled feet climbing the stairs and the Sikh entered the room. He bowed to Simon. ‘Sahib . . .’ he began in his strong, deliberate tones.
‘Parsi,’ hissed Simon.
‘No, lord. There is no one in the house. I have checked. We can speak English. Everyone seems to have gone to great fort, the Bala Hissar. There is big crowd there.’ He spread his arms wide. ‘All v
ery angry about the Amir and begging your pardon, lord, the English.’
‘Wait. Tell me as I dress.’
The two followed Simon into his room. The house was eerily quiet. ‘Now,’ said Simon, pulling on his soft, baggy trousers, ‘tell me what you know.’
The Sikh spoke quickly and quietly. ‘The crowd is about three hundred, perhaps four hundred, lord, and they all seem to be soldiers of the Amir who have recently returned from Herat. They did not fight His Excellency General Roberts in war, sahib,’ W.G. shrugged his shoulders. ‘In fact they fought no one. They are like hounds who smelled the wild pig, lord, but were not allowed to chase.’
‘What are they demonstrating about?’
‘They want wages, lord. They have not been paid for half a year, they say. They think that the Lord Cavagnari has money and they shout that he should pay them.’
‘Are they armed?’
‘Ah,’ the Sikh nodded his head, ‘that exactly is point, lord. Many of them went off to their camp at Sherpur to get rifles, sir, so I came back here, pretty damn quick. I think they will attack the building where lives the Lord Cavagnari.’
‘Right.’ Simon was now fully dressed. ‘Get the rifles, 352. If this mob is armed, no one will notice three more men with guns. Leave the horses, though.’
Jenkins opened his eyes in mock alarm. ‘What about the carpets? Look you, we could make a sovereign or two sellin’ to them fellers dressed in the dirty washin’ with the bundles on their ’eads.’
‘Don’t be flippant. Come on.’
The three men hurried through the deserted streets towards the Balar Hissar. As they approached, the noise grew louder but, thankfully, they heard no shots. It was clear that the mob had now congregated in the small square that faced the Residency. It had also spilled out into the narrow streets surrounding the high-walled building, so that it was difficult for Simon and his companions to push their way through. As they attempted to do so, they attracted some attention, but the crowd’s main interest centred on the gates of the Residency, which had now been firmly closed.
Simon realised that it would be impossible to approach the building, let alone enter it, and he looked around him keenly. The mob was clearly militant, in origin as well as attitude. Most of the gesticulating men wore the dun-coloured garments - seemingly half uniform, half mufti - of the Afghan army, with brightly swathed turbans or wide fur poshteens on their heads and broad belts at their waists. Through these were tucked daggers, sometimes two or three. Many had bandoliers worn across their shoulders and breasts, but so far there seemed to be no rifles. Simon noticed that the crowd was now being swollen by citizens of Kabul, street vendors and traders who shouted and gesticulated as strongly as the soldiers. Here and there, marked by their comparative inanimation, stood shorter but impressive-looking cavalrymen from the north, wearing leather jerkins and long kid riding boots. They watched impassively from under black sheepskin Turkoman caps, the fringes of which hung over their eyes and framed their cheeks. Simon wrinkled his nose. The mob had its own distinctive smell - not just of sweat, dust and a hundred cooking pots, but of something else: excitement, anger and, yes, a kind of passion.
Behind the bars of the Residency gate Simon could see a unit of Indian Guides watching the mob expressionlessly, their Martini-Henrys at the port, their young English subaltern standing to one side, as still as his troops. For a moment Simon caught his eye, but there was no flicker of recognition. Nor should there have been. To him, Simon’s was just another dark, turbaned face in the crowd.
The mob quietened for a moment then let out an angry roar as the slim, erect figure of Cavagnari appeared on the flat roof and moved to the edge of the parapet. For a few seconds the Resident looked down on to the crowded square, taking in quite coolly the distorted faces and raised fists. He wore the elegant blue uniform which Simon remembered from the previous day, but this time it was ablaze with orders and medals and a white topi hid the receding hair.
Then Cavagnari raised his hand for silence. It did not come at once, but as he began speaking in high-pitched, fluent Pushtu, the crowd quietened. Simon strained to gain the sense but failed.
He turned to W.G. ‘What is the English lord saying to the people?’ he asked in his slow, stilted Parsi.
The Sikh shook his head in concentration. Then, as a howl broke out from the Afghans - a shout of derision and renewed anger - he cupped his hand and whispered loudly in English into Simon’s ear, ‘The Sahib is promising them two months’ rupees, which I think is only one little third of their wages. I think they do not like it much.’ He smiled.
Cavagnari turned and spoke to an aide by his side, who hurried away out of view. Then he took off his topi and held it above his head in another plea for silence. Once more he addressed the multitude, this time, it seemed to Simon, raising his voice perhaps a little petulantly. His words evoked an even louder reaction and stones began to fall around him.
‘What? What?’ hissed Simon.
‘His Excellency says he has no more money,’ the Sikh whispered into Simon’s ear. ‘He says that he will send messengers to the Amir to ask for payment for the soldiers. But they do not like this either.’
As they watched, Cavagnari slowly - almost contemptuously - turned his back on the square, replaced his topi and walked out of sight. Bricks and stones followed him. Simon felt a nudge in his ribs and Jenkins nodded silently to the right. There the front wall of the Residency turned at right angles and formed one side of a narrow street which ran away from them. Through a small post-gate halfway along, a trio of cavalrymen Guides emerged and began to move cautiously, carbines at the ready, away from the square, pushing their way through clusters of Afghans. Suddenly, a stone hit one of the Guides. Without hesitation, he raised his weapon and fired, bringing one of the Afghans nearest to him to the ground. The rest hung back under the threat of the carbines and the three Guides backed away up the street and then disappeared into a side turning.
‘Gone, I respectfully suggest, lord, to gain help from Amir,’ said W.G.
But the incident seemed to be the signal for which the crowd were waiting. From the fringes of the square shots began to ring out and spurts of dust and patches of dried mud sprang from the walls of the Residency. Within seconds, the square was echoing to the sound of gunfire as the soldiers behind the gate levelled their pieces and fired through the wooden bars into the crowd. The Residency was now besieged.
Simon raised his own rifle and fired vaguely in the direction of the building. Taking their cue, the others did likewise. Then, firing as he went, Simon led the trio quickly through the rapidly dispersing crowd to the comparative safety of a doorway at the edge of the square. Here, the noise of the shouts and gunfire was so loud that he could speak freely in English.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘There is no chance now of us getting into the Residency. But the men there are in real trouble, I fear. Our best hope of helping them is to find a place from where we can safely direct our fire at the mob without being seen - at least for a while.’
Jenkins looked reflective. ‘Well, bach sir, we shall be lucky to get away with that, look you. Any fool can see where the firing’s coming from.’ He gestured around. Distinctive puffs of smoke were now issuing from windows overlooking the Residency.
‘No. If we can find a building or room to ourselves and direct our fire from well inside, away from the windows, we shall stand a chance. Anyway, there is no alternative. Come on.’
The three flitted from doorway to doorway until they found entry to a house situated at the side of the square and partly flanking the street up which the Guides had departed. There was no sign of occupancy at street level nor on the first storey. But above that, the first room they entered sheltered a large Afghan soldier who was carefully aiming his jezail through the window at the rooftop of the Residency. Without a word, Jenkins drew his dagger, sprang across the room and, in one movement, pulled back the man’s head with one hand and slit his throat with the other. The Sikh’s
eyes widened for a moment.
‘Don’t ’ang about, Gracey bach,’ said Jenkins. ‘ ’Elp me pull the bugger out the way.’
As they did so, Simon looked into the room next door. It was empty. Not so the only other room on the floor. There, two Afghans crouched at the window, one aiming through it, the other inserting a long ramrod down the barrel of his jezail in the act of reloading. This man slowly rose to his feet, and for a brief moment he and Simon regarded each other in silence, the Afghan’s black eyes travelling the length of Simon’s figure, taking in the gold-edged turban, the fine brocaded waistcoat and the Snider rifle. Puzzled, the Pathan frowned and took a half-step forward, his hand falling to the curved dagger in his waistband.
This was an incongruous place, Simon reflected, for a Persian carpet seller to be. He raised his rifle and, firing from the hip, sent the bullet into the breast of the man before him. At this his companion swung round, threw his empty musket at Simon and leapt upon him. Like most Afghans, he was tall and lithe and the force of his spring sent Simon crashing to the floor, the Pathan on top of him. The fall temporarily winded Simon, but his adversary was not so disadvantaged. In a second his hands were upon Simon’s throat. Desperately, Simon drove his knee into the Afghan’s groin, but the man’s long garment muffled the thrust and his grip tightened, wrists like steel rods resisting all efforts to tear them apart.
A roaring started to sound in Simon’s ears, and the Afghan’s dark face, inches from his own, was slowly beginning to become indistinct when, suddenly, the grip was relaxed and the weight pressing him down was removed. As his vision swam back, Simon saw the Pathan’s heels dangling above him and the man’s head forced back unnaturally by W.G.’s forearm under his chin. Almost lovingly, the giant Sikh relaxed his grip for a second and then tightened it again with a jerk. Simon heard a crack and a cry and saw W.G. throw the man to the ground.