by Saul David
Yakub smiled, showing a fine set of even white teeth. 'You refer to Shah Shuja's brief reign in the eighteen forties, and you are right to make the comparison. More's the pity that a far-sighted man like you is not viceroy, instead of Lord Lytton. But it would be dishonest of me not to admit that last year's British invasion was to my benefit. Without it, my late and unlamented father would still be amir and I would be languishing in a Ghazni prison. So, I'm grateful to the British, but I'm also aware of the tightrope I must tread if I'm to keep my throne.'
'I'll do everything I can to help. But never forget that Simla and London have different agendas. One will use the news of the massacre here as an excuse to invade while the other strives for peace. Yet the British government is hamstrung because, apart from me, it has no representatives in the region - the Indian government has many and most are pro-war hawks like General Roberts. Your letter is well judged, but whether it will satisfy Roberts that you had nothing to do with the massacre is another matter.'
'Then perhaps, Captain Hart, you could write a letter of your own to the general, saying much the same thing.'
'I could, but it won't cut any ice. General Roberts doesn't know me from Adam - and has not been informed of my mission, for obvious reasons.'
'Then I will send this letter and, if Allah wills it, all will come right.'
'Inshallah, Your Highness. May I offer you one more piece of advice?'
'Please do.'
'Try to re-establish your authority in Kabul, and apprehend those responsible for the massacre without delay. Then you will have removed from General Roberts his chief motive for invasion - revenge.'
'That won't be easy, Captain Hart. As things stand, my power remit barely runs beyond the walls of this palace, let alone the Bala Hissar. But I will do my best, and I hope you will remain here to advise me.'
'I will stay until my hand is healed and I can ride again. By then you should have heard from General Roberts and the picture will be clearer.'
George left the durbar room in two minds about the amir. In some ways Yakub appeared to be a weak and indecisive man who told you what he thought you wanted to hear, and who needed others to make up his mind for him. That was the conclusion George had come to after their first meeting, but now he was not so sure. The amir was not a man for a crisis, that much was plain, but could that be attributed to flaws of character or to the fact that he was trapped in an impossible situation, caught between Scylla and Charybdis, his own people and the British? George could not decide.
He was mulling this over as he climbed the broad wooden staircase to his bedchamber on the second floor, and barely noticed the finely dressed Afghan lady, flanked by two guards, who was moving in the opposite direction. Only as she passed, and the faint perfume of jasmine reached his nose, did he turn and catch a fleeting glimpse of two beautiful brown eyes above a gauze veil. He sneaked a look back and judged her to be of medium height, with a full, rounded figure her garments did little to disguise.
Over the next week or so, as the rebellion showed no sign of fizzling out and the palace remained shut off from the rest of Kabul, George had more brief sightings of the mysterious lady. He learnt from Ilderim that she was none other than the amir's younger sister, Princess Yasmin, and that she was kept in close confinement because she had refused to marry the Afghan chief her brother had chosen for her. George was well aware of the sensitivity of such an issue, particularly as it involved such a high-born lady, but he was bored by his enforced inactivity and, intrigued by the princess's predicament, determined to find out more. One afternoon, he went up to her apartments on the top floor of the palace. There, he discovered her two guards asleep. Without regard for the consequences, he crept past them and tried the door. It was unlocked, so he slowly pushed it open and slipped inside.
The room was large and airy, with shutters at the far end that opened onto a covered balcony. The floor was covered with rich carpets and scattered with cushions, and on one wall hung a huge looking-glass. A cushioned swing dangled from the ceiling, still gently swaying as if it had recently been used. There was no sign of the princess, yet George could hear a female voice from the room beyond.
'Sufi, I've told you a thousand times I do not like the colour scarlet. It reminds me of the accursed Angrez. Change it, please.'
The door opened and in walked the princess, book in hand. She was simply dressed in a silk shalwar kameez, consisting of loose trousers and a long-sleeved tunic, her raven hair pulled back in a high top-knot. Her face was uncovered, and the scowl she wore could not hide the beauty of her high cheekbones, aquiline nose and delicately arched eyebrows. She looked to be in her early twenties, but might have been younger. At last she noticed George and gasped. 'How dare you enter my room without leave? Who are you and what do you want?'
George bowed. 'I apologize for the intrusion, Princess, but I heard you were under house arrest and knew I would never be allowed to speak to you. I waited until your guards were distracted - they're asleep - and came in as quietly as I could. My name is Captain George Hart and I'm one of the "accursed Angrez". I escaped from the Residency during the attack and came here to ask your brother for help.'
'Did he provide any?'
'He was about to, but then we heard the place had fallen with all lives lost.'
She nodded. 'Yakub can never make up his mind until it's too late. But in this instance I sympathize with him. What was he supposed to do? If he saves the Angrez he alienates his people. A nobler act would have been to throw in his lot with the rebels and declare a war of national liberation. Yet he does neither, and skulks here in his palace while my upstart uncle Nek Mahomed Khan and the bazaar rabble control Kabul.'
'It sounds as though there's little love lost between you and your brother.'
'Are you surprised, Angrez? He rules like a woman, and bows to the opinion of his advisers, particularly that snake Shah Mohammed Khan, the wazir, who insists I marry my aged cousin Safed Khan for dynastic reasons. When I refused they put me under constant guard, and said the confinement would continue until I was safely married in October. Do they know me so little,' she said, raising her chin defiantly, 'that they imagine I will meekly succumb after a spell under lock and key? The fools! I would rather die than marry a man I didn't love.'
'I'm certain it won't come to that. Once your brother realizes the strength of your feeling, he will relent.'
She laughed scornfully. 'Have you any understanding of what life is for a woman in Afghanistan? We are little more than chattels.'
'Surely it's different for a royal princess?'
'No. I live in a palace, wear pretty clothes and have plenty to eat, but I have no say in my future - and when I marry the man chosen for me I become his property, and will have to live by his rules, never to be seen in public without a veil. You're a fortunate man, Angrez. Only members of my family and eunuchs have seen me like this. So have a care: if you're discovered here you will certainly forfeit your manhood.'
'Unlikely, Princess. I'm more useful to your brother in one piece.'
'Truly? Tell me how.'
'As an intermediary between him and General Roberts, who commands the nearest British troops in the Kurram valley. At this very moment Roberts will be massing his men on the border, thirsting for revenge, but your brother knows that if they enter Afghanistan he must choose between them and the rebels, and either way he'll forfeit his crown. So his only hope is to persuade Roberts not to invade, which is where I may be able to help him.'
'I don't follow, Angrez. Why would you discourage an invasion? It's no secret that your masters in Simla would like to add my country to their Raj.'
'That may be true, Princess, but I wasn't sent by the Indian government. I was sent by London.'
'Are they not one and the same?'
'No, Princess,' said George, and explained the Foreign Office's determination to avoid being drawn into another costly war.
'An admirable objective,' scoffed Yasmin. 'But I don't see how
you can keep your countrymen from invading. They'll demand revenge for the massacre, and my brother is hardly in a position to arrest those responsible.'
'We'll see,' said George, though he saw her point. He paused. 'Since we're discussing the avoidance of war, may I ask what you know about the Prophet's Cloak?'
'Only that it's kept under lock and key in a mosque in Kandahar. It's long been said that whoever controls the cloak controls Afghanistan.'
'Do you believe that?'
'Yes.'
'Then why hasn't your brother tried to get his hands on it?'
'Because the imams would never allow it to be removed from their care unless the country was threatened by foreign invaders.'
'Is that not the case now? Is it not possible that the Indian government will send troops to exact revenge for the Residency massacre?'
'That's true, but the imams must decide.'
'But if the cloak was taken from them, who would benefit?'
'Whoever planned to lead a holy war against the British, I suppose,' said Yasmin. Or, thought George, whoever had a vested interest in such a war - namely, the Indian government.
'Who are you talking to, Princess?' asked a voice from the next-door room.
When Yasmin made no reply, a dark-haired beauty appeared, holding a green sari. 'Princess,' she cried, 'you're not veiled! Who is this man?'
'Quiet, Sufi, you'll rouse my gaolers!' warned Yasmin. 'This man is Captain Hart, a survivor from the Residency. He insists he has the best interests of Afghanistan at heart, but I'm not convinced.'
'I didn't say that, Princess,' interjected George. 'I told you that I'm working for the British government to prevent another war. If that benefits most Afghans, then all well and good.'
'But that's not your chief aim - no, why would it be? You're an Angrez, after all.'
'Not exactly. My mother is half Irish and half African.'
'African? How can that be?'
'It's a long story - but I'm not a blinkered Englishman who views the world only from his perspective. I do see the broader picture which is why, irrespective of my mission, I can sympathize with your brother's predicament.'
'Much good that will do him. Truth is, he should never have become the amir. He's too weak to be of use to his country.'
'What about you, Princess? Would you make a better ruler?'
'Indeed I would.'
Inwardly George agreed with her. The woman standing before him seemed to possess the two qualities that a successful monarch most requires: good judgement and resolve. Afghanistan would indeed have been better served if she, not her brother, had been born to rule.
Chapter 10
Royal Palace, Bala Hissar, Kabul, two weeks later
George entered the durbar rooms to find Yakub Khan talking to a short, thick-set man with a long, handsome beard, a hawk nose and a haughty, scornful expression, whose rich clothes marked him out as a nobleman. 'Ah, Captain,' said Yakub, wringing his hands. 'This is my wazir, Shah Mohammed Khan. We've just been discussing General Roberts's reply to my letters, which arrived this morning. It's not good news. Will you read it and give me your opinion?'
George strode up to Khan and took the proffered letter. It stated:
Ali Khel, 18 September 1879
Your Highness,
In accordance with your own request that a British officer should be deputed as resident to your court, and on condition that you would yourself be responsible for the protection and honourable treatment of such a resident, Major Cavagnari and three British officers were allowed to go to Kabul, all of whom within six weeks have been ruthlessly murdered by your troops and subjects.
Your inability to carry out your treaty engagements, and your powerlessness to establish your authority, even in your own capital, having thus become apparent, a British army will now advance on Kabul with the double object of consolidating your government, should you loyally do your best to fulfil the terms of the treaty, and of exacting retribution from the murderers of the British mission.
But although Your Highness has laid great stress in your letter of 4 September on the sincerity of your friendship, my government has been informed that emissaries have been dispatched from Kabul to rouse the country people and tribes against us, and as this action appears inconsistent with friendly intentions, I consider it necessary for Your Highness to send a confidential representative to confer with me and explain your object.
Yours, etc.,
Sir Frederick Roberts, V.C.
George looked up from the letter. 'Your Highness, I warned you that Simla would want revenge, and that the only way to forestall this would be for you to put down the rebellion and punish the leaders. Yet you have not done this.'
'How can I, when I have so few reliable troops?' cried Yakub, throwing his hands into the air. 'Even my uncle, Nek Mahomed Khan, whom I appointed governor of Kabul, sides with the rebels. The faithless scoundrel! It is he who is rousing the tribes against the British, not I. But at least I've regained control of the Bala Hissar and, in time, will disarm the regular troops and raise new levies. Then I can act against those responsible for the late abominable outrage. But how can I convince General Roberts of this?'
'You must do as he asks,' advised George, 'and send an emissary to give your side of the story. But the man you choose must be a senior member of your government, such as the wazir, or Roberts will not take him seriously.'
'I?' spluttered the wazir. 'Must I cross the rebel lines and put myself at the mercy of General Roberts? I will not.'
'You must,' pleaded Yakub. 'Captain Hart is right. The emissary must be an important man whom I trust implicitly. You are that man.'
'If I go, the British will not let me return.'
'Stuff and nonsense!' said George. 'Roberts wouldn't dare to hold you against your will. Not while his stated aim is to re-establish the amir's authority.'
Yakub turned to George. 'If Shah Mohammed refuses, will you go instead? Roberts will believe you if you tell him I had nothing to do with the rebellion, and did all in my power to save the resident.'
'I can't do that.'
'Why not?'
'Because I don't believe it to be true. Anyway, as I said before, Roberts doesn't know me.'
'It's of no matter, Captain Hart. You simply say you're a British traveller who was caught up in the fighting at the Residency, and are carrying a letter for General Roberts from the Amir of Kabul. Remember we both want the same thing: to prevent an invasion that will almost certainly provoke a full-scale war. As things stand, I have only to overcome the mutinous regiments and a few disaffected civilians. But if Roberts and other British columns invade, the tribes will surely rise across the country in a jihad against the infidel and those who are friendly towards them, which includes the present government.'
He's right, thought George. We do want the same thing - if for different reasons - and I might just get away with the businessman cover story. But now I'm recovered from my wound, can I justify a trip to the Kurram valley that will inevitably delay my departure for Ghazni and the continuation of my mission?
He decided he could: it would waste a little time and there was no guarantee he would be able to stop Roberts's march, but if he didn't try, full-scale war was almost inevitable - whether or not he captured the cloak. And the added advantage of travelling to the Kurram was that Roberts, one of the leading exponents of the Indian government's Forward policy, was as likely to know its exact whereabouts as anyone.
'Very well. Ilderim and I will leave after dark.'
'Thank you, Captain. I'll see you're given my letter to General Roberts before you leave. My family will be for ever in your debt.'
That night, mounted on sturdy ponies and armed with carbines, pistols and Khyber knives, George and Ilderim rode unchallenged out of the Bala Hissar's main gate, dropped down to the plain and took the road south, skirting the spine of bare and rocky hills called the Sher Darwaza Heights. They were approaching the village of Beni Hissar, nestled c
lose to the hills, when a voice ahead called, 'Stop! Who are you and what is your business?'
They drew rein. George could just make out a small group of armed men blocking the road and, though he had grown an impressive beard and was disguised in his Ghilzai border ruffian garb, he prayed they weren't mutineers. 'What ails you, brother?' responded Ilderim. 'Can a man no longer return to his home at night unmolested?'
'No, he may not. Where have you been these last few weeks since we butchered the Feringhees and their lapdog guards at the Residency? The country is crawling with spies, all seeking to pass information between that traitorous dog of an amir and the Angrez, and we've been ordered to question everyone who passes. So, I ask you again, what are you doing on the road at this time of night?'
With his worst fears confirmed, and fearing discovery, George moved his right hand closer to where his pistol was concealed. But Ilderim seemed unconcerned, and continued his comradely banter: 'Brothers, put aside your weapons! We're returning to our home village of Zahidabad in the Logar valley. We've been celebrating the marriage of my cousin in Kabul, and afterwards we spent a while in a bawdy house on Charahai Street. Aiee! If you could have seen the Tajik woman I enjoyed. What thighs! What . . .' Ilderim cupped his hands in front of his chest, an idiotic grin on his face.
'I have been there,' interjected one of the mutineers. 'The trollops are indeed magnificent, and from all corners of the country. Why, I once paid for two Hazaras who kept me--'
'Quiet, Anwar!' snapped the officer of the guard. 'Will you lower yourself to this debauched fool's level? Though it's plain he hasn't the sense to be a spy so we need detain him no longer. On your way, then, fellow! And next time you choose to visit the fleshpots of Kabul, take a room for the night.'
'I will, brother,' cackled Ilderim. 'And as I'm enjoying the pleasures therein, I'll be sure to think of you.'
