Hart of Empire (2010) Page 14

  Even before he spoke, George could sense that his interrogator was suspicious but he ploughed on regardless, repeating his cover story and the exact sequence of events from his and Ilderim's arrival at the Residency to their flight to the royal palace. As George finished he could see FitzGeorge shaking his head in disbelief. 'I'm sorry, Harper,' he replied, 'but I'm finding your tale a little hard to swallow. You say you were in Kabul on business and just happened to be visiting the Residency when the violence occurred. And yet you, a civilian with no military training, survived when Lieutenant Hamilton, a Victoria Cross winner, lost his life. Forgive me if I speak my mind, but you bear no resemblance to the usual representative of a British trading company.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'You're a little too eastern-looking. It generally pays to send a white man if you want to do business in these parts. That way you won't confuse the natives.'

  'I'll have you know I was educated at Harrow,' said George, indignantly.

  'I'm sure you were - but that means nothing these days.'

  George sighed. 'All right, have it your way, Major. You don't believe I'm who I say I am but at least take seriously the letter I carry from the Amir of Kabul. You can easily verify it by comparing the handwriting and seal to the previous letters you've received, one of which I read before it was sent.'

  'Show me the letter.'

  George took it from his trouser pocket and handed it to FitzGeorge, who turned it over in his hand.

  'It looks similar, I grant you. I'll return once I've checked with the chief.' With that, FitzGeorge left the barn.

  Ten minutes later he was back with a stern-eyed older officer, identically dressed, but a good six inches shorter, with a small wiry frame and an unruly salt-and-pepper beard. He was holding the opened letter. 'I am General Roberts. I'm told you brought this message from the Amir of Kabul, having previously escaped from the Residency. Is that so?'

  'It is, General.'

  'The letter looks genuine enough. What can you tell me of Sir Louis's fate?'

  'He was mortally wounded during a sortie to silence an artillery piece. We took him back to the Residency but he died later.'

  'You're certain of that?'

  'I am.'

  Roberts bowed his head. 'Poor Sir Louis. I had a bad feeling when we parted in July, but he seemed gay enough and talked of all he might accomplish in Kabul. As we descended from the Shutargardan we came across a solitary magpie, which Sir Louis begged me not to mention to his wife because she would be sure to consider it an unlucky omen. And so it was.' Roberts's eyes flashed. 'But I will ensure that he didn't die in vain, that his mortal remains receive a Christian burial, and that the cowardly dogs who murdered him get their just deserts. The amir hopes to placate me with honeyed words,' said Roberts, shaking the letter he was holding, 'but it won't work. I hear from other sources that he did nothing to prevent the massacre, and that he now plays for time in the hope of raising the whole country to oppose our re-invasion.'

  'That's not the case, General, and I'll do my best to explain. But first may I read the letter?'

  'By all means,' said Roberts, passing it to him. 'It's a typical example of eastern deceit, promising much yet delivering little.'

  George skipped the flowery compliments and read only the heart of the letter. It stated:

  I am dreadfully distressed and grieved at the recent event, but there is no fighting against God's will. I hope to inflict such punishment on the evil-doers as will be known worldwide; and to prove my sincerity, I have written twice on this subject. I now write to say that I have preserved myself and my family by the good offices of those who were friendly to me, partly by bribing, partly by coaxing the rebels. Some of the cavalry I have dismissed, and night and day am considering how to put matters straight. Please God, the mutineers will soon meet with the punishment they deserve, and my affairs will be arranged to the satisfaction of the British government. Certain persons of high position in these provinces have become rebellious; but I am watching carefully and closely every quarter. I trust to God for the opportunity of showing my sincere friendship for the British government, and for recovering my good name before the world.

  George looked up from the letter. 'I don't see it as deceitful. What the amir is trying to say is that it's an extremely delicate situation in Kabul, and that he needs time to disarm the regular troops, raise new levies and punish all those involved in the massacre. To give him the opportunity to do this, he asks you to delay your advance on Kabul. This is because the mutinous soldiers come from all the tribes of Afghanistan, and if you were to invade now and crush them, there's a danger that the whole country will unite against us and the amir. Already there are many in Kabul who regard the amir as a traitor, because of the way he has thrown in his lot with us.'

  'What do you make of this, FitzGeorge?' asked Roberts.

  'I wouldn't trust Yakub an inch, Sir Frederick. We've already heard from several Afghan sirdars that he's hand-in-glove with the mutineers, and wants to delay our advance so that he can raise more troops to oppose us. Only yesterday we received corroboration from a local chief interviewed by young Sykes.'

  George started at the mere mention of a name that, for him, was synonymous with cruelty and vindictiveness: the name of his fagmaster at school, Percy Sykes. But as he knew that Sykes had gone on to join the Grenadier Guards, a smart regiment that rarely fought in colonial wars, and that there were bound to be many officers of that name in the British Army, he saw no need to enquire further. Indeed, he was in no position to do so without jeopardizing his cover story. So, casting all thoughts of Percy Sykes from his mind, he responded to FitzGeorge's charge that the amir was playing a double game. 'I don't believe that for a minute, General. When I arrived at the royal palace on the day of the attack, Yakub seemed genuinely bewildered by events, and unsure how to react. He had already sent his commander-in-chief, Daoud Shah, and other emissaries to dissuade the mutineers from violence, but none had the desired effect, and Daoud Shah was badly beaten for his pains. I finally convinced him that he must send his loyal Kuzzelbashes to intervene. But it was too late - the Residency had fallen.'

  'You say he did his best to save Cavagnari and the others, Harper,' said FitzGeorge, 'but it doesn't seem so to me. Instead of troops he sent a handful of emissaries who were never going to have the desired effect. He must have known that.'

  'Possibly, but bear in mind that one of the emissaries he sent was his own son and heir, which was a courageous thing to do. He didn't go further, until it was too late, because he feared the mutineers would turn on him.'

  'You seem determined to see the amir in a positive light,' said Roberts, 'and yet you hardly know him. Nor can someone of your tender years have much experience of this part of the world. How many times have you visited Afghanistan?'

  'Only once.'

  'Once! Yet you try to convince us that you know best. Do you know how long I've been dealing with these people?'

  'No, General.'

  'Almost thirty years. My first posting as a young subaltern was to Peshawar in fifty-two. It was there I met the late great John Nicholson, whose authority over the refractory tribes of the frontier was legendary. He taught me to judge the men of these parts by their deeds, not their words. It's a lesson you've yet to learn. But I'd be failing in my duty if I didn't pass on by telegraph the gist of the amir's letter, and your verbal clarification, to Lord Lytton at Simla. Then it will be up to him and his council to decide on our next move.'

  'Quite right, Sir Frederick,' said FitzGeorge, 'and would it not make sense to ask Harper to deliver this response? He knows the amir, and has already crossed the ground between here and Kabul, so he is familiar with the route.'

  Roberts smiled. 'Capital idea. And if he refuses we'll keep him here until we can verify his identity. So, what do you say, Harper? Will you carry our answer?'

  'It seems I have no alternative.'

  'Good. We'll leave you now, and later I'll send someone
with a change of clothes. You're welcome to use the officers' mess, but go easy on the drink. As soon as I've heard back from Simla I want you in the saddle.'

  A couple of hours later, wearing an assortment of ill-matched clothes that included a Gurkha officer's tunic and a pair of riding breeches, George entered the large tent that served as a staff officers' mess to howls of derision. 'I didn't know they'd mounted the Gurkhas,' called a young wag among a group sitting in easy chairs.

  'Either that or it's fancy-dress night and the mess president forgot to tell us,' said another.

  George ignored them and made for the trestle-table bar where he ordered a whisky. As he took his first gulp, a finger tapped him on the shoulder.

  'George Hart. It is you, isn't it?' said a voice, a little the worse for drink.

  This use of his real name caused George to freeze - until he remembered FitzGeorge's mention of a 'young Sykes', and silently cursed his ill luck. He turned to see a face that, in recent years, had appeared in only the occasional nightmare. It was a little fleshier and more weathered than he remembered, but the thin lips, piggy eyes and cruel sneer were unmistakably those of his schoolboy tormentor-in-chief, Percy Sykes, as was the broken nose, courtesy of George's right fist. That fight, which the lighter and younger George had won despite the handicap of a broken hand, had put a stop to the physical bullying if not the taunts, and Sykes's departure from Harrow School a year later had come as a huge relief. He had hoped never to set eyes on him again - yet here he was, on the Afghan border of all places, wearing the uniform of a staff officer and threatening to blow George's cover. 'I'm sorry,' replied George, feigning ignorance, 'you must have confused me with someone else.'

  But Sykes was not fooled. 'Nonsense, I'd recognize you anywhere, even with a beard and in that damn stupid rig. The last I heard you'd been drummed out of the King's Dragoon Guards. So, what are you doing here?'

  With heads turning, George made an instant decision to change tack and bring the hated Sykes into his confidence. 'You're right - I am Hart,' he whispered, a finger to his lips, 'but lower your voice, please. I'm travelling under an assumed name.'

  'Are you indeed?' said Sykes, in a mock-conspiratorial voice. 'For what purpose, may I ask?'

  George took him by the arm and led him to seats in a quiet corner of the mess. 'I'm on a secret assignment for the Foreign Office,' he said, once he was happy no one could overhear. 'I was briefed by Lord Beaconsfield himself.'

  'To do what?'

  'I can't say, but it's to do with our relations with Afghanistan.'

  'What relations?' scoffed Sykes. 'Haven't you heard about the murder of our man at Kabul? We're at war again, or damn soon will be, only this time we won't make the mistake of withdrawing after victory.'

  George could feel his temper rising. He could never look upon Sykes's face, its near permanent expression of disdain, without wanting to drive a fist into it. But to do so now would guarantee the failure of his mission and with difficulty he managed to control himself. 'Of course I know about Cavagnari's death. I was there. And it needn't result in a full-scale war if we're sensible, which means not invading until the amir has been given a chance to prove himself a reliable ally by re-establishing his authority and punishing those responsible for the attack on the Residency.'

  'You were there, at the Residency? How did you get away when the others perished?'

  'I went to the amir's palace to summon help, but by the time I'd persuaded him to intervene it was too late. A couple of weeks later, once I'd recovered from a sword cut to the hand, I agreed to the amir's request to carry a message to General Roberts. And here I am.'

  'Just like that? Do you really expect me to believe all this cloak-and-dagger nonsense?'

  'Whether you believe me or not, Sykes, is immaterial. General Roberts and Major FitzGeorge, on the other hand, are in no doubt as to the veracity of my tale and have asked me to deliver the Indian government's response to the amir's letter, which I've agreed to do.'

  Sykes looked more incredulous than ever. 'You're working for the general? But you're not even a soldier.'

  'I am, as it happens. I was granted a new commission, and promotion to captain, for services during the recent Zulu war.'

  'What services?'

  'It's a long story. Suffice to say, I'm not using my military rank in Afghanistan.'

  'I see,' said Sykes, his eyes lighting up. 'So the general doesn't know you're a soldier?'

  'No, and neither does Major FitzGeorge. I've told them I'm a British merchant, and was in Kabul on business when the mutiny occurred. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't disabuse them. Your career prospects might depend upon it.'

  'My prospects? Are you threatening me?'

  'Certainly not. I'm just letting you know how things stand. Few Guardsmen are seen in these parts and I'm assuming you came east to further your career and not to enjoy the weather. Am I right?'

  'Perhaps.'

  'And am I also correct in assuming your immediate loyalty is to your chief, General Roberts?'

  'Of course. I'm on his staff.'

  'Yes, but are you a member of his "ring", his inner circle of favoured staff officers?'

  'Not yet, but I hope to be. Then I'll be guaranteed a plum appointment in any future campaigns. After all, he's the best fighting general in India. I'd be a fool not to tie myself to his star.'

  'A fool indeed. But remember this: my assignment to Afghanistan was sanctioned by His Royal Highness the Duke of Cambridge. If you were to reveal my true identity to General Roberts and Major FitzGeorge, he would not thank you. So ask yourself this: who would you prefer to make an enemy of? General Roberts or the Duke of Cambridge? I know which one I'd choose.'

  'You haven't changed, have you?' sneered Sykes. 'I knew you were a blackguard from the minute I clapped eyes on you at Harrow. How your Fenian actress mother got you into the school is anyone's guess. We all suspected she was pleasuring the head beak. But then someone suggested your mystery father must be a man of influence. Is that true? I can't think of any other reason why a dago bastard like you would be allowed into Harrow and Sandhurst.'

  George let go of his whisky glass and curled his hand into a fist. He was on the point of leaping on Sykes and pummelling him to a pulp when another voice intervened: 'What did you just say, Lieutenant Sykes? Did you call this man a "dago bastard"?'

  They both turned to see FitzGeorge standing beside them, his moustache bristling with indignation. 'Good evening, Major,' replied Sykes, hoping to placate his notoriously thin-skinned superior.

  'Did you, or did you not, call this man a "dago bastard"?'

  'I - I may have, but only to tease. We were both at Harrow. We're old school chums. Isn't that right?' said Sykes, turning to George but careful not to use his real name.

  'Well, is it, Harper?' demanded FitzGeorge.

  'Yes, Major, but I wouldn't go so far as to say we're chums. I was his fag.'

  'Were you? Well, I was a fag too, at Eton, and I don't recall feeling anything other than contempt for my fagmaster, a sadistic bully called Fellowes who's now an under-secretary at the Home Office. But I'm also illegitimate, as the world knows, and thus a little sensitive to the use of the word "bastard" as an insult. Do you know, Sykes? When you spoke just then you reminded me of Fellowes, and he's not a person I care to be reminded of. I suggest you leave the mess, now, before I do something I'll regret.'

  'Sir,' said Sykes, red-faced, 'I apologize if I said something to upset you. It was a light-hearted remark, not to be taken seriously.'

  'Light-hearted?' said FitzGeorge. 'Are you certain? Because I could have sworn it was the opposite. It sounded to me as if you were voicing your incredulity that a "dago bastard" could have been admitted to Sandhurst. Well, I'm not a dago, but I am a bastard and I did go to Sandhurst. Do you think I should have been barred from entry as well?'

  'No, sir, I don't think that at all.'

  'But you do think that Harper should have been?'

  'I . . . W
ell, no, sir, not really.'

  'Then why say it? I'd like you to leave. Now!'

  'But I haven't had dinner, sir.'

  'You can go hungry. Now get out!'

  'Sir,' said Sykes, saluting smartly before turning on his heel and leaving the tent.

  FitzGeorge sat in the vacated armchair and beckoned the mess waiter with a raised arm. 'A chota peg and soda, please, Hanumant Singh,' he said to the bearded Sikh, immaculate in his starched white tunic. 'On second thoughts I'll have a double.'

  Once his drink had arrived, FitzGeorge took a large gulp and stared at George for a moment. 'It seems,' he said, pursing his lips, 'that we have more in common than I thought. Why didn't you mention you'd served in the army?'

  'I didn't think it was important.'

  'I'm sure not. What happened?'

  'I didn't see eye to eye with my commanding officer.'

  'His name?'

  'Sir Jocelyn Harris.'

  'He drove you out, did he?'

  'He didn't appreciate sharing a mess with . . . Now, how did he put it? Ah, yes, I remember, "a tawny Irishman of unknown paternity". It was after I left that I joined the Anglo-Indian.'

  'I see. So you're Irish, are you?'

  'On my mother's side, yes. Her father was a captain in the Twenty-Seventh Inniskillings.'

  'And what of her? Did I hear Sykes say she's an actress?'

  'Yes, though she rarely appears now.'

  'What is her stage name?'

  'Emma Hart,' said George, omitting to mention that that was also her real name.

  'I think I've heard of her. She's quite exotic-looking, isn't she?'

  'Her mother was Maltese,' said George. He didn't care to share his Zulu heritage with FitzGeorge. 'Hence my own dark colouring,' he added.

  'I wondered about that. Thought you might have Indian blood. It used to be very common out here.'

  'What was?'

  'Consorting with the natives. Of course, all that changed with the arrival of British wives and daughters, the so-called "fishing fleet", in the thirties and the prissy moral standards imposed soon after by our sainted sovereign. Not that she's maintained those standards. According to Papa, she's long been under the spell of her ghastly Scotch gillie, John Brown, and many suspect their relationship of having crossed the bounds of propriety, hence the soubriquet "Mrs Brown". And she still refuses to receive my mother, or to acknowledge the existence of my brothers and me. The hypocrisy is not to be borne.'