by Saul David
‘You’d better stay here and wait for us to return. The rest of you, come with me. And don’t bunch together or you’ll make it easy for them.’
Hamilton burst into the open, sword in one hand, pistol in the other, determination etched on his young face. The others followed, but with slightly bigger gaps between them, and again they made a few yards before the Afghans opened fire. George felt a tug on his left arm and, looking down, realised a bullet had passed harmlessly through the baggy material. A second Guide went down, then a third and, just as they reached the edge of the row of huts that housed the Residency servants, Dr Kelly was shot in the right side of his chest and spun onto his back. George and Ilderim dragged him behind the cover of the huts. ‘Go on!’ gasped Kelly. ‘I’m a dead man, and so will you be if you linger.’
They left him, and followed the others down a maze of dusty, refuse-choked lanes towards the main gate. At the last hut Hamilton again waited for the others to catch up. The party was now down to Hamilton, Jenkyns, George, Ilderim and seven Guides. ‘Is the doctor hit?’ Hamilton asked George, breathlessly.
George nodded.
‘For his sake, let’s not fail. One last effort and we’re there.’
Boom! The gun sounded just around the corner and a shell exploded against the front wall of the barracks. Hamilton sneaked a quick look round the corner of the hut. ‘They’re reloading. Let’s go.’
With Hamilton leading the charge, they covered the remaining twenty yards to the gun in a matter of seconds, surprising the artillerymen by their sudden appearance. Hamilton vaulted the low wall and sabred a big Afghan wielding a ramrod, while George and the others shot and bayoneted the rest of the gun crew. The supporting Afghan infantry in the walled enclosure, meanwhile, had fled up the hill and through a small gateway.
Hamilton shouted orders for two men to secure ropes to the gun so it could be dragged, while the rest provided covering fire. Already the surprised Afghans were rallying, and shots pinged off the mud wall and the metal of the gun. Hamilton ran up to George, who was scanning his hand-drawn map. ‘You’d best be off, Harper. Good luck.’
‘Thank you,’ said George, shaking Hamilton’s hand. ‘We’ll make our way through the gate at the top of the hill, then go east towards the palace. You should have some help within the hour. Do you think you can hold out that long?’
Hamilton grinned. ‘If we can get this gun back to the barracks we can hold out indefinitely. God speed.’
George signalled to Ilderim and they set off up sloping scrubland to the top of the enclosure where a small wooden gate gave access to the lane beyond. George eased it open and poked his head through to check that all was clear. The lane appeared to be deserted. He knew from his map that the shortest route to the amir’s palace was to turn right and pass in front of the flat-roofed houses that overlooked the Residency compound, but as many of the houses were still occupied by mutineers, he thought it safer to go left and double back later.
At the end of the lane they came to a crossroads where a crowd of Afghan soldiers was being harangued by its non-commissioned officers to rejoin the fray. ‘Where’s your courage, brothers?’ shouted one. ‘They are few and we are many, yet you scatter like sheep at their first charge. Let us return to the fray and prove ourselves worthy of our country and our faith.’
With his face partially covered by his turban, and his hand on the butt of his pistol, George approached the group of arguing soldiers with his heart thumping. But in the general tumult, with people running this way and that, he and Ilderim were thought to be two more civilians fleeing the scene and no one challenged them. They turned right at the crossroads and walked north away from the Residency.
Ten minutes later, having taken two more turns that should have brought them back to the vicinity of the royal palace, George consulted his map and realised they were hopelessly lost. ‘We’ll have to ask someone the way.’
‘Leave it to me, huzoor.’ Ilderim approached a rudely built hovel of mud bricks, and knocked on the door. As he waited for an answer, the clatter of hoofs heralded the arrival of horsemen. George thought of hiding, but decided there wasn’t time. He stood his ground as a squad of six Afghan cavalrymen, wearing French-grey kurtas and small silver helmets, clutching the curved sword known as the tulwar, came into view at the top of the lane. Spotting George, but not Ilderim, who was partly shielded by a mulberry tree in front of the house, they cantered up and surrounded him. ‘Where are you going, brother?’ asked the leader of the horsemen, a white-bearded rissaldar. ‘The fight at the infidel house is the other way.’
‘I have come from the fight,’ said George in Pashto, trying to keep his voice as even as possible. ‘I myself killed one of their hired dogs. But my cousin was shot beside me and it is my duty to tell his family so they have time to arrange his funeral.’
‘Very commendable, brother, but the Feringhees are still holding out and we need every man we can muster. Climb up behind Ewuz Khan, over there, and you’ll soon be avenging your cousin.’
‘A generous offer, rissaldar, but let others enjoy the spilling of Angrez blood.’
The native officer raised his eyebrows. ‘You recognize my mark of rank, brother. That’s unusual for a civilian.’
George silently cursed his error. ‘I . . . I once served in the army.’
‘Which regiment?’ asked a burly trooper to George’s right.
‘And where is your weapon?’ asked another.
‘I . . .’
The rissaldar touched George’s chest with the point of his sword. ‘Uncover your face, brother, so we can see you.’
George lifted his left hand to the knot at the side of his face, and with his right drew his pistol from its hidden holster. He shot the rissaldar in the neck, the bang causing the other horses to rear and shy. Before the riders could regain control, George had hauled the wounded officer from his horse, grabbed his sword and vaulted into his saddle. He rode towards the house. ‘Ilderim!’ he shouted. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m here, huzoor,’ replied Ilderim, firing his rifle from behind the mulberry tree. George turned to see another saddle empty, but the other four riders were bearing down on him, swords outstretched. He shot one and ducked as the second rider made a wild cut at his head that missed by inches. As the Afghan passed, George looked up to see the last two riders just feet away, their eyes wild and their teeth bared, as they looked to avenge their comrades. He fired at the nearest and missed, cursing himself for not aiming at the horse, and was just in time to parry a sword thrust aimed at his chest. The two horses closed and George fought desperately to defend himself from a flurry of thrusts and slashes, one of which sliced through the top of his hand and forced him to drop his sword. From the corner of his eye he saw the last rider’s tulwar arcing down towards his head. He tried to sway out of range but, hemmed in by the other horse, there was no room for manoeuvre. With the blade just inches away, the rider reared in his saddle and dropped his sword. Ilderim had shot him.
Aware now of the threat from the hidden rifleman, the last two riders disengaged and galloped off down the road, leaving George nursing an injured right hand, which he bandaged with his handkerchief. ‘Is it bad, huzoor?’ asked Ilderim, as he emerged from behind the tree.
‘It’s not good,’ said George, wincing as he tried and failed to flex his fingers, ‘but I don’t think I’d have a head on my shoulders if you hadn’t shot that swordsman. That’s twice you’ve saved me today.’
‘If you want to thank me, huzoor,’ said Ilderim, with a grin, ‘you can always increase my pay.’
George shook his head, laughing. ‘Typical Afghan. Now get up behind me. Yakub’s palace isn’t far and there may still be time to save the others.’
The royal palace was off the next lane. As they approached the towering gatehouse, a burly guard in chain mail stepped into their path with palm outstretched. ‘No one enters on the amir’s orders.’
‘Tell the amir,’ said George, ‘that I must s
peak to him on a matter of the utmost importance.’ His explanation was deliberately oblique because he did not know how sympathetic the royal guards were to the mutineers’ cause.
‘And you are?’
‘Abdulla Khan, Malik of Khajuri.’ George had said the first thing that came into his head, and the guard did not look convinced.
‘Wait here,’ he said, and disappeared through a wicket-door to the left of the two wooden gates.
‘A bad idea to say you’re my father,’ whispered Ilderim. ‘He’s an old man.’
‘The guard won’t know that.’
Five tense minutes later, the guard returned with his officer, similarly dressed but wearing a sword. ‘I’m Walidad Khan, Commander of the Palace Guard. What is your business with the amir?’
‘I have news of the fight at the Residency.’
‘What news? Do the Feringhees hold out still?’
‘Yes, as you can hear,’ said George, gesturing towards the sound of gunfire. ‘But the end is close and it might profit the amir to stop the slaughter.’
Walidad Khan scowled. ‘Why should he? The infidels should not have come, and deserve their fate. But I will tell him you are here. Leave your horse and come with me.’
They dismounted and followed the guard commander through the wicket-gate and past more sentries into an enchanted garden of fountains, shaded pavilions, fruit trees and octagonal parterres of sweet-smelling flowers. At the far end of the garden lay the palace itself, a three-storey building similar in design to Cavagnari’s Residency, but much bigger. It, too, had covered arcades with lattice-work balconies on every floor, and two wings that jutted out from the main building to form a central courtyard.
More sentries, armed with long spears, barred the entrance. But on seeing the commander of the guard they stood aside. George and Ilderim were led through the hall and up a staircase to the two interconnecting durbar rooms. On the floors were spread thick Persian carpets, bolsters and the thin mattresses known in the East as rezais, while gaudy glass chandeliers hung from the ceilings. The walls were covered with cheap prints in elaborate frames, including one of Tsar Alexander III of Russia, and a copy of the Graphic newspaper lay on a British-made chair. ‘Wait here,’ said Walidad Khan.
Ten minutes passed and no one came. ‘Where the devil is he?’ asked George. ‘The Residency is being destroyed a few hundred yards away and he behaves as if it’s a normal day. I’m damned if I’ll wait here doing nothing.’ George turned for the door but was stopped in his tracks by a man entering the room ahead of Walidad Khan. He was of middle height, in his early thirties, with a conical-shaped head, slightly receding black hair, and a weak chin that was only partially obscured by his beard. He was wearing what appeared to be a white ceremonial uniform with gold stripes on the trousers, gold epaulettes and a profusion of gold lace.
‘I’m Yakub Khan, Amir of Kabul. Who are you and what news do you have of the resident?’
‘Thank you for receiving me, Your Highness,’ said George, removing the piece of turban from his face. ‘I’m James Harper, a British trader, and I’ve just come from the Residency.’
Yakub looked stunned. ‘A British trader? How did you escape?’
‘In disguise, as you see. Your Highness, you must send troops to stop the slaughter. Cavagnari is dead and the others soon will be unless you act now.’
‘Cavagnari dead!’ said Yakub, putting his head into his hands. ‘Those foolish soldiers have no idea what they’ve done.’
‘It’s not over yet, Your Highness. If you act now you can save the others. Did you not receive the messages we sent earlier?’
‘I received them, Mr Harper, which is why I sent Daoud Shah, my commander-in-chief, to talk to the mutineers and try to return them to their duty.’
‘But he failed, Your Highness. His own soldiers set upon him like wolves. Are you aware of that?’
‘How could I not be? He was brought back to the palace, badly injured, by some soldiers who took pity on him. It was then that I sent my uncle Sirdar Yahia Khan and my son to appeal for order, and later some well-known mullahs. But all to no avail.’
‘Why did you not order your own guards to intervene?’
‘My dear Mr Harper, I don’t think you understand the difficulty of my position. I have only one regiment I can rely on, the Kuzzelbashes, the descendants of Persian warriors who conquered Kabul in the last century. They are a thousand strong, but the mutineers number many thousands. If I send the Kuzzelbashes to intervene, they will be destroyed and I with them.’
‘You don’t know that for certain, Your Highness. It’s a risk, I know, but it’s one you have to take. Simla will never forgive you if you don’t even try to save the garrison.’
‘This is not my fault,’ he said, in an anguished tone. ‘I was forced to sign that accursed treaty, or you British would never have withdrawn your troops. Yet my people can’t forgive me for allowing a British resident and his escort to reside in Kabul. And now I’m caught between the two. What should I do?’
George despised irresolution and knew that every minute Yakub prevaricated was costing another life. Yet he also felt that the amir’s predicament was genuine, and that he needed to be cajoled rather than bullied. ‘I appreciate it’s hard for you to ask your men to fight other Afghans, Your Highness, but you personally guaranteed the safety of the British mission. You must do something to help.’
‘How can I? Daoud Shah told me that it’s not only mutineers who are attacking the Residency but ordinary civilians too. Should I order the Kuzzelbashes to fire on my own people?’
‘You must. Who would you rather make an enemy of – the rabble from the bazaar or the British?’
‘The rabble, of course, but it’s not as simple as that.’
‘It is. As soon as the Indian government hears about this attack it will despatch troops to punish those responsible. When that happens, your only hope of keeping your throne is by convincing the British that you did all you could to save the garrison.’
Yakub sighed. ‘Very well. I’ll send my men. Much good it will do. Walidad Khan!’
The guard commander appeared. ‘Highness?’
‘Form up the Kuzzelbashes and lead them at once to the Residency. I want you to put a stop to the fighting. How you do that is up to you.’
‘Is that wise, Highness? The mutineers are many and we are few. And the firing seems to be lessening. It might be at an end by the time we get there.’
‘All the more reason to make haste.’
‘Yes, Highness,’ said Walidad Khan, saluting. He glared at George as he left the room.
Minutes later he was back.
‘I gave you an order,’ said Yakub.
‘I was about to carry it out, Highness, but then all firing ceased and I received a message from a lookout on the roof that the Residency had fallen.’
George’s heart sank. ‘Are you certain of this?’ he asked Walidad Khan.
‘Yes, sahib. I went up to the roof to see for myself.’
George turned to Yakub. ‘If you’d only acted earlier you might have saved them.’
‘I am not to blame,’ said Yakub, angrily. ‘Did I put those faithless soldiers up to this? No. But I vow to you now that those responsible will suffer.’
‘That will be of little consolation to Hamilton and the others,’ said George. He turned to Walidad Khan. ‘Is there any hope of survivors?’
‘No, sahib, the buildings are all on fire.’
‘Can you show me?’
The commander looked at the amir and received a nod of assent. ‘This way, sahib.’
Up on the palace roof, with the sun low in the sky and the light beginning to fade, they could see great plumes of smoke rising from the Residency compound, which was barely a quarter of a mile away. The Mess House was little more than a charred ruin, but the other two buildings were burning fiercely, a sign that the defenders hadn’t been long overcome. Both inside and outside the compound a huge crowd was celebrating it
s victory by chanting and firing rifles into the air. ‘Those poor souls,’ said George. ‘It doesn’t look as if they managed to get the cannon back to the barracks.’
‘No, huzoor,’ said Ilderim. ‘I can see it by the entrance, where we left it.’
George looked in that direction, but it was too far to make out any detail. ‘What else can you see?’
‘Some mutinous dogs near the gun. They’re cutting at something with their knives.’
‘Is it a body?’
‘Maybe so, huzoor. They’ve put it on a spear and are holding it up for the crowd to see.’
The mutineers’ chanting grew louder. George felt sick. ‘Can you see what it is?’ he asked, though he knew the answer.
‘It’s a man’s head, huzoor, but there’s no beard. It must be Hamilton Sahib’s.’
George turned and vomited.
Chapter 9
Royal Palace, Bala Hissar, Kabul
George woke with a start, his heart thumping and his body bathed in sweat. He blinked his eyes open, desperate to erase the nightmarish image of Hamilton’s headless body lying by the abandoned gun, but it was still dark. He groped for matches and lit the oil lamp by the bed. Slowly his breathing returned to normal.
As he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, he agonized over his next move. He was tempted to use the murder of Cavagnari and the others as an excuse not to continue with his mission now that an uprising had taken place and a new British invasion was inevitable. Yet he also knew that the rising, thus far, was only in Kabul and that the Mullah Mushk-i-Alam could still use the Prophet’s Cloak to spread the flame of jihad across the country. His mission, therefore, was still very much alive. Yet Pir Ali’s death in the Residency had cost him not only his main contact in Afghanistan, but all hope of discovering the whereabouts of the cloak. All he knew for certain was that it had been moved from its shrine in Kandahar by either Cavagnari’s agents, or those of the Mullah Mushk-i-Alam, and was probably bound for the mullah’s home town of Ghazni. He and Ilderim would go there next, he decided, but first he had to recover from his wound and let the tumult in Kabul die down a little. As things stood, no European in Afghanistan was safe.
