by Saul David
'The insolent dog answered you in Persian, huzoor, though he speaks perfectly good Pashto.'
'Why?'
'Because he dislikes Feringhees.'
'Is he from one of the Herat regiments?'
'He is.'
'So Ahmed Jan was right. There is trouble brewing. What did he say?'
'He said that we should hurry if we wished to visit the resident because he wouldn't be here for much longer. When I asked him what he meant by that, he refused to say, but I think we know.'
'There's not a moment to lose. Which way?'
'The Residency stands against the southern wall of the Bala Hissar, and directly below the south-east wall of the citadel. To reach it we must pass by the amir's garden. It's not far.'
Using the citadel as a guide, they soon came to a small unkempt square that was being used as an artillery park: six field guns and as many mountain guns were parked in front of a dozen dirty tents, the gunners lounging and chaffing in the sun. Ilderim questioned one man, who was not wearing uniform and looked more like an unwashed coolie than a soldier, and was told they had come too far. They retraced their steps and eventually found the narrow lane that ran along the southern edge of the amir's garden. On their right was the high wall that marked the garden's boundary and on their left rude open-air stables, little more than simple enclosures in the mud wall, in which were tethered the horses of the royal household.
The lane brought them to the rear of an enclosed three-storey building that Ilderim explained was part of the Residency compound, but that to reach the main gate they had to work their way round to the right. They did so, and at last came to an open gateway guarded by two soldiers wearing large turbans, long khaki kurtas with red facings on the collar and cuffs, and riding boots. 'Rest easy, huzoor,' said Ilderim, 'they're Indian soldiers from my old corps.'
'Guides?'
'Yes.'
'Do you know them?'
'Perhaps,' said Ilderim, as if he was speaking to a child. 'But I can't tell at this distance.'
As they got closer, George received his answer from one of the Guides, a burly naik, or corporal,with a hooked nose and a trim beard. 'Can it be true?' He took a step forward and peered intently at Ilderim. 'Why, it is. The hero of a thousand fights, Subadar Khan! What are you doing in Kabul, sir?'
'And salaams to you, too, Akbar Shah, as insolent as ever, I see. Whatever possessed your officer to raise you to naik?'
Akbar Shah chuckled, showing a fine set of betel-stained teeth. 'He believes, like many, that it's better to guard sheep with a wolf.'
'And is he a wolf?' asked Ilderim.
'No, sir, but he is a lion. He saved my life when I was unhorsed in the charge at Futtehabad, in April, by cutting down my three assailants. We had already lost the commandant and Hamilton Sahib took charge. There is none braver and he deserves the Queen's Cross.'
'He has been recommended for the Victoria Cross?' asked George.
'I have indeed,' said a voice to their right, with a distinctly Irish accent. The speaker was a stocky officer of middle height with a pale, freckled face and a centre parting. He was dressed in a khaki patrol jacket and breeches, with a sword and pistol holster attached to his shiny leather Sam Browne cross-belt, and was holding a white sun helmet topped with a metal spike under his left arm. 'I'm Lieutenant Walter Hamilton, commanding the Resident's Escort. What can I do for you?'
George gave his cover story and said he had come to discuss business opportunities with the resident. His intention was to use the interview to warn Cavagnari of the impending attack and then to make contact with Pir Ali.
'The resident is very busy but if you follow me, Mr Harper, I'll see what I can do. Leave your horse here. Your guide can secure him to the picket line and is welcome to refreshments in the soldiers' mess.'
'Thank you,' said George, dismounting. 'His name is Ilderim Khan. Does that ring any bells, Lieutenant?'
'Should it?'
'He was a subadar in your regiment.'
'Was he?' exclaimed Hamilton. He gave Ilderim the once-over but showed no sign of recognition. 'Well, I don't remember him. He must have been before my time. Come this way, Mr Harper. Akbar Shah will look after Ilderim Khan and see to your horses.'
The outer compound was bounded on its south side by the huge outer wall of the Bala Hissar, and on the north by a low mud wall that was commanded along its length by flat-roofed houses. In the centre of the compound stood the cavalry lines and stables, and at the far end the infantry barracks. Just beyond the barracks was the gated entrance to the inner courtyard, which, again, was manned by four Guides. They presented arms as George and Lieutenant Hamilton passed through the gate and turned immediately right towards the Residency, a handsome two-storey brick and plaster house, with two small wings and a covered balcony on each floor. 'Not a bad place to live,' commented George.
'I wouldn't know,' said Hamilton, with a grin. 'I'm slumming it with the other officers in the Mess House opposite.' George looked back to see an even grander three-storey suite of rooms enclosing the far end of the inner courtyard, the back wall of which he had seen from the lane that flanked the amir's garden. However, as it backed on to two lanes it was harder to defend, while Cavagnari's house was built into the fortress's outer wall. Even to George's relatively inexperienced eye, it was obvious that the compound - overlooked on three sides by flat-roofed houses and higher ground - was a death-trap.
'Coming?' said Hamilton, rousing George from his gloomy thoughts.
He followed the officer through the door of the main house, across a marbled entrance hall and into a small antechamber beyond. 'Take a seat,' said the lieutenant. 'I'll let Sir Louis know you're here.'
An hour passed and, with the light failing, servants came to light oil lamps. George was pacing the room, wondering how best to phrase his warning, when another servant entered. He was short and wiry, with a keen, intelligent face, and wearing a small white cap of the type favoured by Bengali Muslims. 'A thousand apologies, sahib,' said the man in English. 'The resident cannot see you today and asks that you come back another time.'
'No!' said George, loudly. 'That's not good enough. I must see him today. Tell him it's a matter of the utmost urgency.'
The servant looked puzzled. 'But Hamilton Sahib said you had come to discuss business?'
'That too. But I have something more serious to talk to the resident about and I will not leave until I have spoken to him.'
'I will try.'
Minutes later the servant was back. 'The resident will see you now.'
George was led up a flight of polished wooden stairs to a large, airy office on the first floor. A middle-aged man with thinning hair and a spade beard sat at a desk strewn with papers, writing a letter. He was impeccably dressed in a starched shirt with a wing collar, a loose bow-tie and double-breasted frock coat sporting three medals, one of which George recognized as the campaign award for the Indian Mutiny. Like many ambitious officers in India, Cavagnari had served a brief time with his regiment before switching to the political service.
'Thank you, Pir Ali,' said Cavagnari to the servant, with just the faintest touch of the Irish brogue in his voice, 'that will be all.'
George was startled to hear the name of the Foreign Office spy he had come to see. He had assumed the departing munshi was just another servant, and now he knew better he chided himself for missing the opportunity to talk to him.
'Well?' snapped Cavagnari. 'What's so important that it must interrupt a letter to Lord Lytton? You do know who Lord Lytton is?'
'Of course,' replied George, trying hard to keep the irritation out of his voice. 'And what I have to say would be of interest to the viceroy.'
'Go on.'
'The Afghan regiments, lately arrived from Herat, are planning to mutiny, and when they do they'll attack the Residency. They intend to kill everyone.'
'How did did you come by this information?' asked Cavagnari.
'I heard it two days ago from a Ghil
zai whose nephew serves in one of the mutinous regiments.'
'So it's hearsay?'
'Well, yes, but--'
'No buts. You've heard a rumour and now you're repeating it as fact. So, tell me, if you're so sure of your source, when is this mutiny to take place?'
'I don't know, but it will be soon. Why, only today as we passed through the gatehouse--'
Cavagnari raised his hand. 'You come here without an appointment, demanding an audience, and when I grant you one against my better judgement, you repeat some gossip from the bazaar about a mutiny and a threat on my life. Do you think I'm some griff, wet behind the ears, who knows nothing of these people?'
'Of course not. I was simply trying to--'
'Save your breath. Who exactly are you, anyway? You say you're a businessman, but you look too young for that. Tell me, how long have you been in India?'
'About two months.'
'Two months? I've been here for more than twenty years, most of that time on the frontier, and I know the Afghans. They're cowards - oh, they're brave enough when they have numbers on their side, but put 'em in a fair fight and they'll slip away every time.'
'But this won't be a fair fight!' said George, in exasperation. 'The Afghan troops from Herat are more than six thousand strong. How many men do you have?'
'I have seventy-five, under one of the finest officers in the Indian Army, which is more than enough to deter a mutinous rabble. But it won't come to that because the Afghans know that if anything happens to me the Indian Army will be back in force.'
It occurred to George that Cavagnari, a staunch advocate of Lytton's Forward policy, might welcome an attack as a means of provoking a British response. But even he, George decided, wouldn't be stupid enough to ignore the risk of an attack, and put his own life in danger, in the interests of government policy. Or would he?
'I'm not saying the Afghans welcome our presence,' continued Cavagnari. 'Of course they don't. And it's true the regiments from Herat have been going about the city with drawn swords, using inflammatory language against us and the amir. But their chief gripe is with their arrears of pay. Once Yakub pays up, they'll be as meek as lambs. When you've been in this part of the world as long as I have, Harper, you'll know that barking dogs never bite.'
'I'll have to take your word for that, sir,' said George. 'But a wise man would still take the precaution of preparing the Residency for a siege and asking Simla for more troops.'
'A wise man? How dare you condescend to me?' Cavagnari blustered. 'The troops I have are unpopular enough. Bringing in more would be like waving a red rag before a bull. I think it's time you left. Pir Ali!'
The munshi reappeared. 'Sahib?'
'Show Mr Harper out.'
'At once.' He turned to George. 'This way, Harper Sahib.'
George followed Pir Ali out of the room and, as they reached the top of the stairs, put his arm on the munshi's shoulders. 'I must speak with you in private. My real name is Captain George Hart. I've been sent by the Foreign Office on a secret assignment.'
Pir Ali seemed mystified. 'I'm sorry, sahib, I don't understand.'
So convincing was Pir Ali's disavowal that for a second George feared he had the wrong man. Then he remembered the password. 'Himalaya,' he said, without explanation.
Instantly Pir Ali's demeanour changed. 'Welcome, sahib. Follow me.'
At the bottom of the stairs, Pir Ali led George along a short corridor and into a small, windowless room. A table was piled high with papers. 'My office,' explained Pir Ali. 'Now what can I do for you, sahib?'
'You can start by convincing your arrogant, short-sighted chief that you're all living on borrowed time.'
Pir Ali laughed. 'I've been trying to do that for months. My instructions from the Foreign Office are to watch for any signs of disaffection, and to warn Cavagnari Sahib accordingly, which I have. But he ignores me. It's as if he welcomes an explosion.'
'My thoughts exactly,' responded George. He explained his assignment to secure the Prophet's Cloak.
'I fear your task here has been compromised,' said Pir Ali, ruefully. 'Only the other day I overheard Cavagnari Sahib tell his secretary, Jenkyns Sahib, that it was vital he got his hands on the cloak before the Foreign Office did. It was the first time I'd heard him speak of it.'
'But how could he have found out?'
'Perhaps the Indian government has a spy in the Foreign Office. It wouldn't surprise me. But Cavagnari Sahib didn't mention you by name so he may not know your identity.'
George breathed a sigh of relief. 'That's something. If he did suspect anything just now, he didn't let on. Then again, he could hardly have been ruder. What do you think he plans to do with the cloak?'
'I couldn't say, sahib. It's possible he intends to give it to the mullah. That way a rebellion is certain. It will be followed by a British invasion. The resident has often talked of annexation as the only way to guarantee India's security. I suspect he covets the post of governor. You must never forget, Hart Sahib, that the cloak means power.'
George nodded. 'That's why I must get to it first. I was told you'd know how to find it. Do you?'
'I did. But I heard only yesterday that it had been moved from the shrine of Kharka Sharif in Kandahar.'
'Do you know by whom, and where it is going?'
'No, I do not. But the people who have it are either acting for Cavagnari Sahib or the mullah. I will ask my contacts. Now you had better go, sahib, or you'll arouse suspicion. Come back tomorrow and I should have some news for you.'
'I'll do that, but please don't take any unnecessary risks. The success of my mission depends on your information. One more thing: where can I spend the night?'
'Try the Shalimar Hotel on Faizabad Street. It is cheap and clean, and out of the way. But don't go out after dark. It is not safe in these troubled times.'
Chapter 7
George took Pir Ali's advice and shared a room with Ilderim at the ramshackle Shalimar Hotel. They regretted it the following morning, having been eaten alive by fleas, and it was as much as George could do to prevent Ilderim assaulting the owner.
Ilderim was still cursing as they rode back up the hill to the Bala Hissar, but the faint sound of fifes and drums caused George to interrupt: 'Hush! Listen!'
Ilderim cocked an ear. 'It sounds like soldiers, huzoor.'
They both swung round in their saddles and looked out across the dusty plain that separated the city from the Sherpur cantonment to the north. Advancing steadily up the road that skirted the city and led directly to the Bala Hissar they saw a great straggling mob of soldiers. The head of the column had just crossed the Kabul river, barely a mile distant, and would be with them in fifteen minutes. 'They must be the Herat troops,' said George. 'We'd better warn the resident.'
They clattered to a halt at the gatehouse. There was no sign of the surly havildar, but his replacement looked no more pleased to receive them. Once again Ilderim did the talking and they were soon waved through. At the Residency George was pleased to note that the guard had been strengthened, with six on duty at the entrance to the outer compound and another six on the inner gate. 'It seems our warnings weren't entirely disregarded,' he said to Ilderim, as they dismounted.
'Maybe not, huzoor, but what can twelve do against many thousands?'
They explained to the guards they had an appointment with the munshi and hurried into the main house where George almost collided with the resident who, having just returned from his morning ride, was still wearing his jodhpurs and hacking jacket. 'Ah, it's Harper, the Cassandra,' sneered Cavagnari, 'come to warn us the sky is about to collapse. I thought I made my feelings plain yesterday.'
'You did, perfectly,' said George, ignoring the sarcasm. 'But events have moved on since then. As we rode up the hill from the city just now we could see the Herat troops marching across the plain.'
'What of it? Like as not they're coming to receive their pay.'
'And what if there isn't money to pay them?'
'Then they'll come back when there is.'
George frowned. 'I believe you're being a little optimistic. If you only knew the temper of the troops you'd be taking every precaution. They'll be here in minutes.'
'I've heard enough of this,' said Cavagnari. 'Jemadar!' An immaculately dressed Sikh officer appeared from a side room. 'Escort this pair out of the compound without delay, please.'
The jemadar was about to comply when the sound of shouting caused him to pause. Cavagnari strode over to the door and opened it. The shouts and yells were much louder now, as if they were getting closer. He turned to the native officer. 'Jemadar, take two men and find out what's happening.'
'Sir.'
Minutes later the jemadar returned, his chest heaving with exertion. 'Sahib, come quick! Hundreds of unruly soldiers have entered the outer compound.'
'Why didn't the guard stop them?' asked Cavagnari.
'They didn't want to shoot for fear it would make matters worse.'
'Where's Hamilton?'
'He's at the cavalry lines, sahib, trying to stop the crowd looting.'
'I must speak to them,' said Cavagnari. 'Pir Ali!'
The munshi appeared from his office and acknowledged George with a slight dip of his head. 'Yes, sahib?' he said to Cavagnari.
'Come with me. I need you to translate.'
'Shall we come too?' asked George.
'If you must.'
They hurried through the gate into the outer compound and past the infantry barracks. Up ahead, stretching from the cavalry lines to the low mud wall, stood a thin picket of Guides, rifles at the ready. Beyond them raged a huge crowd of infuriated half-savage soldiery in their undress uniform, clutching clubs, wooden staves and stones, and shouting curses and threats.
They ran forward to the centre of the thin khaki line where they were met by Lieutenant Hamilton, who had reinforced the initial guard with another twenty men. He gestured towards the mob. 'They're demanding their arrears of pay, sir.'
