Hart of Empire (2010) Read online

  George held his breath, convinced that Ilderim had gone too far. But the mutinous officer, no doubt yearning for the warmth of his bed, ignored the jibe and waved them on without comment.

  Once safely out of earshot, George asked Ilderim if he'd ever visited the whorehouse in question. 'Sadly not, huzoor, but I hear it is the best in Kabul. When the country has quietened down, what say we visit it together?'

  'You're incorrigible.' George shook his head. 'We've just cheated death again and all you can think about is chasing women!'

  They pressed on and, having safely negotiated the Sang-i-Nawishta defile, through which the Logar river passes into the Kabul valley, they eventually came to Zahidabad where they stopped to water the ponies. They had covered twenty miles in two and a half hours. But with another sixty to go to reach Ali Khel, Roberts's headquarters in the Kurram valley, including a strength-sapping ascent up the ten-thousand-feet high Shutargardan Pass in the Sufaid Koh mountains, they did not delay long.

  It was getting light as they neared the village of Kushi, the last settlement of any size before the climb to the Shutargardan, and George was able to observe the terrain that Roberts's army had crossed the previous year. The road passed over a stony plain, devoid of vegetation, that was flanked on either side by low slate-coloured hills. Directly ahead, no more than eight miles beyond the village, stood the towering, snow-capped peaks of the mountains.

  The road continued along the same flat, barren terrain for a further five miles beyond Kushi until it reached the foot of the mountains where the Shinkai Kotal provided the first steep climb. Thereafter the track descended to a stony riverbed before rising sharply through a series of narrow gorges and rocky climbs to the Shutargardan. As their exhausted ponies plodded through yet another narrow defile, flanked on both sides by sheer rock faces that at one point closed to within a few feet of each other, George was forced to conclude that a tiny force of determined tribesmen could have prevented a far bigger army getting through any of these features.

  'Huzoor,' said Ilderim, snapping George out of his reverie, 'there are soldiers ahead.'

  George looked up the hillside to see, beyond the next hairpin, a group of khaki-clad men working on the road with picks and shovels. 'Are they Afghans?'

  'Sikh pioneers, Indian troops. I can tell by the shape of the turbans.'

  'At least we don't have to run the gauntlet of any more mutineers. But the presence of Indian troops here, on Afghan territory, means the preparations for the invasion are already well under way. We must hurry,' said George, urging his pony into a trot.

  As they rounded the next bend, a voice shouted, 'Stop and identify yourselves!'

  George could see Sikh riflemen concealed in rocks at either side of the road. The speaker was a young British officer, standing in the road, his palm outstretched.

  'I'm James Harper, a British businessman,' called George. 'I've come from Kabul with a letter for General Roberts from the amir.'

  'Have you now? You don't look very British to me.'

  'Of course not. I'm in disguise.'

  'And your companion? Is he in disguise too?'

  'He's an Afghan in my employ.'

  'And you've just come from Kabul, you say? How did you manage that? The last report we received was that the city was given over to mutineers and bandits.'

  'We were stopped once, but my guide convinced them we were natives of the Logar valley. We were lucky.'

  'I must ask you to hand over your weapons until we can verify your story.' The officer turned to a strapping Sikh who was wearing cross-belts over his dust-coloured tunic, puttees below his baggy trousers and native shoes. 'Havildar Singh, disarm these men, please, and escort them up to the general at the pass.'

  'Is General Roberts already so far forward?' asked George.

  'Of course not. He's at Ali Khel. I'm referring to Brigadier General Baker. He's in command of the advanced troops on the Shutargardan. We've been holding the pass since word reached us of the massacre at the Residency. Do you know of any survivors?'

  'Yes. Ourselves.'

  Flanked by Havildar Singh and four of his men on foot, George and Ilderim rode the last couple of miles to the summit of the pass, a desolate, snowy, rock-strewn clearing where Baker's men had established their entrenched camp on the recently established frontier between British India and Afghanistan. As they approached, George could see the strength of the huge rectangular position, defended by an outer trench and a four-foot mound of earth, topped with rocks and stones, that was bristling with riflemen and cannon. Once past the outer picket of 72nd Highlanders - big men with bronzed, bearded faces, white sun helmets, scarlet tunics and green and blue tartan trews - Singh led them through the main gate and along row after row of white bell tents to the centre of the camp where Baker had sited his headquarters' marquee. The sun was shining brightly, but the air was cold. Singh and his men were breathing hard after the exertion of the climb.

  'Dismount and wait here,' said Singh, before announcing his business to the sentries and disappearing through the tent flap. Seconds later he reappeared. 'The general sahib will see you now, Mr Harper. Your guide can wait outside.'

  George entered the tent and it took a second or two for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Three officers were poring over maps on a trestle table in the centre. The oldest of the three, a tall, bulky man with steel grey hair and a neat moustache, looked up. 'I'm Brigadier General Baker. Who might you be and what are you doing here?'

  George explained that he had been visiting the Residency in Kabul to talk to Cavagnari about business opportunities when the attack had begun on 3 September. Thereafter his account of the battle - Cavagnari's wounding, the sorties against their guns, his and Ilderim's eventual escape to the royal palace - was exactly as it had happened. 'Once I'd recovered from my wound,' added George, 'I told the amir I was anxious to reach the safety of British lines in the Kurram valley, and that I'd be happy to carry a message from him to General Roberts.'

  'May I see the message?'

  'Of course,' said George. 'Have you a knife handy? It's sewn into my tunic.' One of Baker's staff officers handed him a pen-knife, which he used to unpick the lining of his kurta and recover the letter. He gave it to Baker, who inspected the writing and seal, before passing it to the officer on his right.

  'What do you think, Innes? I'm damned if I know. The bloody thing could have been written by anyone.'

  Innes inspected the letter. 'I agree with you, sir. The whole story sounds a little unlikely.' He turned to George. 'You say you're a British merchant? Have you proof of this? A passport, for example?'

  'I left all my papers in my hotel room.'

  'Very convenient, Mr Harper. You sound British, all right, but you look as if . . . you come from foreign parts.'

  'My mother's part Maltese.'

  'Is she? Well, I'm not entirely convinced.'

  'Neither am I,' said Baker. 'But I'll pass you up the line and Major FitzGeorge, General Roberts's chief of intelligence, can make up his own mind.'

  'Do you mean Major Harry FitzGeorge?' asked George.

  'I believe that's his name. Why? Are you claiming an acquaintance?'

  'We have mutual friends in England.'

  Baker looked doubtful. 'I see. Well, we'll keep you here overnight and tomorrow you'll be escorted as far as Karatiga with some mules we're sending back for telegraph wire. That's about ten miles from here. Ali Khel is a further twenty, but you'll have to wait until another supply column is ready to leave because it's too dangerous to travel without an escort. Only today I received a warning from the local Mangal tribesmen that our columns would be attacked if we didn't pay protection money. I fancy it's bravado, but you can never tell. And if you do get through safely, I hope, for your sake, you can persuade Major FitzGeorge that your story is true. If not, you may end up swinging from a rope.'

  George dozed in his saddle as the column of eighty unladen mules, accompanied by their Indian muleteers and a modest escort
of one naik and nine sepoys of the 5th Punjab Infantry, plodded up the slope of a feature known as the Soorkai Kotul, roughly halfway to Karatiga. In places the track was little more than stones and boulders, and it had taken them two hours to cover just five miles, with the muleteers regularly resorting to curses and blows to keep their animals moving.

  Ilderim leant across and shook George by the arm. 'Huzoor, wake up.'

  George blinked open his eyes. 'What is it?'

  'I've just seen movement in the trees ahead, near the summit. It might be an ambush.'

  George peered up at the fir-covered slopes on either side of the track. 'I can't see anything, but those trees would offer splendid cover. I'll have a word with the naik.'

  He nudged his pony forward to the head of the column where the naik and four of his men were marching with rifles slung; the remaining five infantrymen were acting as rearguard. 'My man thinks he saw someone in the trees,' said George to the naik, a jolly-looking man with an impossibly large turban. 'Shouldn't we stop the column while you send forward a couple of your men to investigate?'

  'No need, sahib. One of our own posts is barely half a mile from here. The Afghans wouldn't risk an attack with troops so near. Now, please go back to your place in the column. There's nothing to fear.'

  George rejoined Ilderim. 'The damned fool won't listen, and here we are stuck in the centre of the column without even a weapon to defend ourselves.'

  'I have weapons, huzoor,' said Ilderim, with a grin. 'A pistol and a knife. I keep them under my saddle for times like this.'

  'Good - we might need them.'

  Barely had George spoken than a single shot echoed from the woods to the flank, followed by a fusillade. Muleteers screamed as they were hit and their animals stampeded in panic. 'Dismount and take cover, huzoor,' shouted Ilderim, as he swung himself off his mount and felt under the saddle for his weapons.

  George rolled to the ground and sprinted behind a large boulder, on the edge of the riverbed, where he was joined by Ilderim, who handed him his six-shot Adams revolver and a small pouch of ammunition. 'How did you get this back?'

  'I took it from the havildar's pack when he wasn't looking.'

  'Well done,' said George, peeking round the boulder and firing at the puffs of smoke in the trees. As he did so the top of the boulder seemed to explode, stinging his cheek with fragments of rock. He looked down to see where the bullet had struck, and quickly concluded that it could only have come from the far slope, against which line of fire the boulder offered no protection. 'They're on both sides, Ilderim,' he yelled, above the din of musketry, screams and braying mules. 'We've got to get to the line of trees or we're done for.'

  'Stay close to me, huzoor!' shouted Ilderim. Clutching his Khyber knife, he scrambled up the steep bank of the riverbed and set off for the treeline, no more than thirty yards away. George trailed in his wake as bullets zipped and whined overhead. With just ten yards to go Ilderim pitched forward as if poleaxed, his huge frame hitting the stony ground with an audible thump.

  George dropped beside him. 'Where are you hit?' he shouted.

  Ilderim pointed to his right ear. 'Not so loud, huzoor. I tripped - must have been a tree root.'

  'Idiot! Hurry, or the next bullet will find its mark.'

  George hauled Ilderim to his feet and the two stumbled forward to the trees where they almost collided with two Mangal tribesmen, in long white kurtas and sleeveless black tunics, coming in the opposite direction. George shot one before he could raise his Snider, but the other had his Khyber knife out, intending to finish off the unarmed muleteers, and at once closed with Ilderim. George was afraid to shoot again, for fear of hitting his companion, and for a few moments the result of the fight seemed to hang in the balance. But Ilderim's bulk soon began to tell and, having missed once too often with a wild slash, the tribesman left himself open to a counter-thrust and Ilderim drove the fearsome eighteen-inch blade deep into his chest. 'Kafirs!' he groaned in defiance, as his life ebbed away.

  Placing his foot on the man's chest, Ilderim hauled the blade free and wiped it clean on his victim's baggy trousers. Then he spat on the corpse. 'Mangal pigs! They never could fight with knives.'

  'For God's sake, grab his rifle and get down beside me,' implored George, who was already holding the other Snider. 'The wood is crawling with tribesmen and they won't give up until they have the mules.'

  Ilderim did as he was told and the pair watched helplessly from the edge of the trees as the Mangals closed in on their prey, shooting at the column until all resistance had ceased, and then advancing with their knives. George was sorely tempted to shoot at two tribesmen who emerged just yards to his left, but that would give away their position so he was forced to hold his fire as the merciless Afghans butchered the wounded. Unwilling to witness such horrors, he looked away, but the agonized screams and cries told their own story.

  George and Ilderim stayed hidden while the Mangals stripped the corpses, rounded up the mules and their ponies, and made off into the hills. Only when they were convinced it was safe did they emerge from the woods to check for survivors. The scene reminded George of the pitiless killing he had witnessed in Zululand as he came upon body after gashed and naked body, the ground soaked with blood and buzzing with flies. About to give up, he noticed a slight movement and heard a groan. It was a muleteer with a bullet wound in his back. George turned him over and could see that he was still breathing in short gasps. 'Ilderim!' he shouted. 'This man is still alive.'

  'I have one here too,' replied Ilderim, from further up the track.

  Just as George was wondering how they could move the wounded men, a patrol of khaki-clad Indian soldiers appeared over the brow of the Soorkai Kotul. They were led by a young British officer whose eyes widened in horror as he took in the scale of the massacre. 'I'm Lieutenant Macinkstray of the Fifth Punjabs,' he said to George. 'We heard the firing but they attacked our post at the same time, killing one of my men, and we were unable to come to your assistance. How many wounded have you?'

  'Only two. They despatched the others with their knives and took all the mules.'

  'The wretches! How did you survive?'

  'We made it to the treeline and hid.'

  'And you are?'

  'James Harper, a British merchant, and this is my guide Ilderim Khan, late of the Guides. We've just come from Kabul with vital intelligence for General Roberts.'

  'Then it's doubly fortunate you survived. We can take you as far as Karatiga and they'll arrange your onward journey from there. You should reach Ali Khel tomorrow.'

  'Can't we be there any sooner?' asked George, conscious that every hour was precious.

  'Not if you want to arrive in one piece. For that you'll require an escort.'

  Chapter 11

  Headquarters camp, Ali Khel, Kurram valley, late September 1879

  It was not until noon the following day that George and Ilderim, mounted on fresh ponies and escorted by a troop of Bengal Lancers, finally reached Ali Khel, the main British base in the Kurram valley. The village itself lay in a saucer-shaped valley, on the left bank of a tributary of the Kurram, and was a typical Afghan cluster of sturdily built mud houses flanked by orchards of fruit trees. The British camp was sited on the opposite side of the stream, a huge tented city that in recent days had steadily expanded to include the many diverse regiments and corps that Roberts was assembling for the re-invasion of Afghanistan: tall Sikhs in outsize turbans, wiry Gurkhas with their fearsome kukris, sturdy Highlanders in kilts, Bengal sappers with their picks and spades, bearded Pathans, and small but tough British infantrymen from the agricultural poor and the industrial slums. The total force under Roberts's command was 7,500 men, though some had already been sent forward to garrison posts as far as the Shutargardan.

  At the centre of the camp were two mud-brick buildings that, before the arrival of the British, had been the home of a local farmer. Now they served as Roberts's headquarters, and it was into the smaller of the two struc
tures, formerly a barn, that George and Ilderim were led. 'Wait here,' said the Lancers officer. 'I'll inform Major FitzGeorge of your arrival.'

  Ignoring the reek of sheep dung, Ilderim lay down on the straw-covered floor and soon fell asleep, his snores echoing round the single-room building. But George was too aware of the importance of the impending interview to rest, and spent the time pacing the room, rehearsing what he was about to say. The success of his mission and the British government's foreign policy in the region were, he knew, dependent to a great degree upon his ability to convince both Major FitzGeorge and General Roberts that Yakub Khan was an ally they could trust. He was so absorbed in thought that he didn't hear the rough door being pulled open.

  'I take it you're James Harper, the man who says he escaped from the Residency?' said a haughty voice behind him.

  George spun round to see a tall, strikingly handsome officer, with a waxed moustache and piercing blue eyes, standing in the doorway. He looked to be in his thirties, and was wearing the staff officer's garb of dark blue patrol jacket, dark blue trousers with a red stripe, and shiny black riding boots. On his head he wore a yellow and blue pill-box hat with a small peak, and on his face a look of such utter conceit that George took an instant dislike to him.

  'That's right. And you are?' he asked, though he knew perfectly well.

  'Major Harry FitzGeorge. I'm in charge of intelligence here, hence the questions. Where's your companion?'

  George motioned to Ilderim's sleeping form.

  'We'll let him be, shall we?' said FitzGeorge. 'You're the one I want to speak to. I hear you had a spot of bother en route from the Shutargardan.'

  'You could call it that, though I imagine the thirty-two dead soldiers and muleteers would quibble at the description.'

  'My, my,' said FitzGeorge, 'you do have a sharp tongue. So tell me, Mr Harper, exactly what you and your Afghan guide were doing in Kabul on the day of the massacre, and how the pair of you - and you alone - escaped from the Residency.'