Hart of Empire (2010) Read online

  'You sound bitter.'

  'I am, and with good reason. I am of royal birth, for goodness' sake, yet I exist on the very fringes of society. All it would take to change that is a single invitation from Her Exalted Majesty to Windsor - or Balmoral, even. But it never comes,' he said, shaking his head, 'and I continue my ambivalent existence as an officer and a gentleman who is unwelcome in the best houses - all because my parents were not married at the time of my birth. You of all people must know how that feels.'

  'I certainly do,' said George, with something close to empathy.

  'And the worst of it is that my parents did marry eventually, before the birth of my brother Gussie, but it was never legal because my father failed to ask the Queen's permission and so contravened the Royal Marriages Act.'

  'Would permission have been given, do you think?'

  'Good God, no! Not in eighteen forty-six, when that arch-prig Albert was still alive, and probably not even now - notwithstanding John Brown. You see, my maternal grandfather was a common labourer, hardly a suitable father-in-law for a cousin of the Queen. Nor did it help that when my mother met Papa she already had two small children, Charles and Louisa.'

  'My God! How did they meet?'

  'Why, in the theatre, of course. Where else would a prince meet a commoner? Mother was playing Margaret in Much Ado About Nothing at Drury Lane. She was known as Sarah Fairbrother in those days, and considered a great beauty. Papa first set eyes on her at a royal performance - attended by the Queen and Prince Albert, no less - and at once pursued her. They've been together, on and off, ever since.'

  'That's two advantages you have over me, Major. First, you know your father's identity. I don't. And, second, your parents still live together.'

  'After a fashion,' said FitzGeorge, refilling their glasses from the whisky bottle. 'They share the same address, I'll grant you, but no longer the same bed - they haven't since my mother became an invalid ten years ago. Even before then Papa had many mistresses, and when my mother found out, as she invariably did, there were the most terrible rows. I remember one in particular, when I was about fourteen. Mother was apoplectic with rage because the lady in question, if that's the right word, was also an actress, but much younger and still in her prime. Mother's a very jealous woman. Always has been.'

  'Did I hear you correctly?' said George. 'Did you say your father had another mistress who was an actress?'

  'He could never resist a pretty face.'

  George was stunned. FitzGeorge's mention of his mother's jealousy had reminded him of something his mother had said a couple of years earlier when she had first confessed that his father hadn't died in shipwreck but was still very much alive. He had not been in a position to acknowledge George because, she had said, he was already 'married', as the duke had been, albeit illegally, when he had had an affair with a 'younger' actress. A tiny suspicion entered George's mind, and was just as quickly rejected, that his and FitzGeorge's father was one and the same man. Surely it couldn't be - or could it? There was one way to rule it out. 'Do you recall the year of the affair?'

  'Yes. I was fourteen, so it must have been eighteen fifty-nine. Why do you ask?'

  George's jaw fell. 'Oh, no reason,' he said, trying desperately to conceal from FitzGeorge the emotions that were swirling through his breast. The idea that his father was none other than His Royal Highness the Duke of Cambridge was almost beyond belief, yet it made sense. He knew from his mother that his father was a man of considerable influence, already married but with a predilection for actresses, who had given George financial incentives to do well as a soldier because his other sons in the military had disappointed him. The duke himself had said as much in May with the words: If they'd been anyone else's sons they'd have been cashiered years ago. At the time George had been surprised by the duke's willingness to talk about his family - but why wouldn't he to his own son? As for the mystery of how a half-breed like him was able to gain entry into Harrow, Sandhurst and a crack cavalry regiment, like the King's Dragoon Guards (not that that he had stayed long, thanks to Sir Jocelyn Harris), it was now explained. His father was not only a first cousin to the Queen but also Commander-in-Chief of the British Army, a man with the authority to send a member of Military Intelligence to keep an eye on him and make sure he reached Afghanistan safely. And Overton had done his job, even if it had cost him his own life.

  As George pondered the revelation that his father might be one of the most powerful men in the British establishment, he felt nauseous and giddy, and put his hand on the table to steady himself.

  'Are you all right, Harper?'

  George looked closely at the man he now strongly suspected was his half-brother. His eyes were blue to George's hazel, but there were definite similarities. Both had symmetrical, classically handsome faces with square chins and prominent cheekbones. George's nose was a little broader, and slightly crooked, thanks to a schoolboy fistfight, and his upper lip was a little more generous, but their toothy smiles were the same, as were their tall, athletic frames. He was tempted - very tempted - to blurt out his suspicions. But then he came to his senses. He scarcely knew the man opposite him, even if they were related. And he had seen enough of FitzGeorge's haughty arrogance at their first meeting to be wary of too close an association. There was also the issue of FitzGeorge's cosy relationship with his chief, General Roberts, and that he had made no bones about his support for the Indian government's Forward policy in Afghanistan. As such he could not be trusted with the truth about George's previous dealings with the duke, still less the real reason he had been sent to Afghanistan. He could, of course, still voice his general inkling that they were related, but where was the proof? Only his mother could provide that - and she was in Ireland.

  'I just feel a bit out of sorts,' George said. 'Too much sun, I expect.'

  'Too much whisky, more like.'

  'Perhaps. I'd better . . .' George paused. He had been about to say he would turn in but, having discovered common ground between himself and FitzGeorge, and possibly kinship, he was keen to take advantage of an opportunity that might not repeat itself. '. . . turn in,' he went on, 'but before I do, could I ask you about a rumour I heard in Kabul that the cloak said to belong to the Prophet Muhammad has been taken from its shrine in Kandahar and is bound for a rabble-rousing mullah in Ghazni?'

  'The rumour is true.'

  'How can you be certain?'

  FitzGeorge tapped the side of his nose in a conspiratorial gesture. 'And I wouldn't be surprised,' he added, 'if it hadn't already reached its destination.'

  George feigned puzzlement. 'But surely you wouldn't want that to happen when it would enable the mullah to declare a holy war against ourselves and Yakub.'

  'And would that be disadvantageous to us? I think not. For one thing, it would flush our enemies out into the open and end the current unsatisfactory state of affairs whereby we have to rely on a pliable ruler for our influence in Afghanistan. That way we bite the bullet and absorb the whole country - lock, stock and barrel - into British India.'

  'You think it will be so easy? If history teaches us anything in this region it's that Afghans do not submit lightly to outside political interference. Why should they? Do you think we would if the roles were reversed?'

  FitzGeorge snorted. 'Well, they're not reversed, are they? We're the globe's dominant power with a long-established hegemony in this region and they're a backward agricultural society, dominated by feudal chiefs who think nothing of slitting each other's throats over a petty feud. They need to know we're not to be trifled with, that we're here to stay. A short, sharp war should do it. The only thing these people understand is force.'

  George could have sworn he'd heard those exact sentiments expressed about the Zulus earlier in the year, and look how that conflict had unfolded. But he knew that to make the comparison would invite awkward questions about what an employee of the Anglo-Indian Trading Company knew about South Africa. 'That's true up to a point, Major, but they tend to meet
force with force. And even if you do overcome the mutinous regiments, you've still to contend with tens of thousands of unruly tribesmen who, familiar with weapons from boyhood, know instinctively how to make the best use of cover, and can move from rock to rock with the nimbleness of a mountain goat. I know - I saw them in action a couple of days ago. Such proud, tough people, at one with their harsh terrain, are almost impossible to subdue by conventional military methods.'

  'What do you know about conventional military methods? You were only in the army for five minutes, for God's sake, and you're wrong. We thrashed the Afghans last year, and we'll do it again. You talk about learning from history, and I assume you're referring to the disasters of the last war. Well, the lesson I take from that conflict was that we used too little force and trusted a ruler who did not have popular support. We made the same mistake in May. This time we won't. As for the martial capabilities of the Afghans, of which you've waxed so lyrical, I don't agree they're insurmountable. They can shoot straight, I'll give you that, but can they stand up to trained and disciplined troops, armed with the latest breech-loading weapons? I doubt it. In 1842 our smooth-bore muskets were outgunned by the Afghan jezail. Now our Martini-Henrys are far superior to anything they have. So don't quote history to me, Harper, unless you're sure of your facts.'

  George could see no sense in continuing the discussion. As he'd suspected, FitzGeorge was a fully paid-up supporter of the Indian government's Forward policy and, as such, his solution to India's security problems was very different from the one George was pursuing for the home government. In truth their aims in Afghanistan were diametrically opposed and, brother or no, George would have to tread warily. He now knew there was very little chance the Indian government would give Yakub the time he had requested to re-establish his authority, which made it more imperative than ever for him to continue his mission. If he could get his hands on the cloak before the mullah used it to rouse the faithful, there was still time to prevent the national uprising that Roberts and the Indian government required to justify annexation. And if his conversation with FitzGeorge had revealed anything of importance, beyond their possible fraternal connection, it was that the cloak was indeed on the way to Ghazni, and he should be too.

  'I bow to your superior historical knowledge, Major,' said George, hand raised in submission, 'and now I must get some rest.'

  As he rose a final thought occurred to him. 'You spoke warmly of your mother, earlier. May I ask how often you write to her?'

  'What business is it of yours?'

  'None, of course, but if she's anything like my mother - and we know they have some similarities - she'd certainly appreciate a note from her son now and then. Just to know he's alive and well. You know how mothers are . . .'

  'I'll thank you to keep your filial advice to yourself. What an odd cove you are, Harper,' said FitzGeorge, his brow furrowed. 'I can't make you out at all.'

  'Not many can, Major. Not many at all.'

  Early next morning, George was woken by a member of the headquarters staff and told that the general wanted to see him. Minutes later he was shown into a large whitewashed front room in the adjacent farmhouse, where he found Roberts sitting at the head of a long table.

  'Ah, Harper, I trust you slept well,' said the general, his immaculately pressed uniform and jaunty tone a reproach to George's own thick head and rumpled appearance.

  'Not really, sir. I couldn't get the stench of livestock from my nostrils, and my guide snored.'

  'I noticed the odour myself when we first looked round these buildings. It's why we decided not to use the barn as our mess. Take a seat,' said Roberts, gesturing towards an empty chair on his left. To his right sat a thick-set colonel George did not recognise, with prematurely grey hair, a neat moustache and goatee covering the lower half of his tanned, leathery face. Next to the colonel sat FitzGeorge.

  'You know my chief of intelligence,' said Roberts. 'This other officer is Colonel MacGregor, my chief of staff. He claims direct descent from Robert MacGregor, better known as the notorious Highland bandit Rob Roy, and I can easily believe him. Like me he was blooded in the Mutiny, and a more redoubtable soldier you would do well to find. He doesn't know the meaning of fear. His speciality is guns, capturing the enemy's or saving ours, and how he hasn't won a Victoria Cross is beyond me.'

  'Me too,' said MacGregor, with a growl. 'I should have been given one for the action at Sinho in China in sixty, when I saved three guns and received five slugs for my pains, but that blighter Fane wouldn't recommend me.'

  'Our good colonel has a temper, you see,' continued Roberts, 'that doesn't always endear him to his superiors. But he's a fine soldier and has travelled extensively in this region, reaching Herat in western Afghanistan in seventy-five and crossing Baluchistan a couple of years later. Like me, he believes that India will never be truly secure from a Russian invasion until we have Afghanistan in our possession.'

  'Or at least part of it,' muttered MacGregor.

  'Quite so. Which brings me to the point of this meeting. I've heard from Lord Lytton and his instructions are emphatic. British public opinion will not tolerate any delay in British troops entering Kabul and gaining retribution for the murder of the resident and his escort. We are, therefore, to continue our advance on Kabul as soon as possible, as are the other British columns at Kandahar and Peshawar. I have written all this in my reply to the amir, and the relevant passage is the one I have underlined,' he said, handing George a copy of the letter. It read:

  I have carefully considered Your Highness's proposal that you yourself should be permitted to administer just punishment to the mutinous troops and others who shared in the treacherous and cruel attack on the British resident and his small escort, and thus save Her Majesty's troops the trouble, hardship, and privation that must necessarily be encountered by an advance on Kabul at this season of the year. I thank Your Highness most cordially on the part of the viceroy and government of India for this further proof of Your Highness's friendly feelings. Under ordinary circumstances such an offer would be gratefully and willingly accepted, but after what has recently occurred, I feel sure that the great British nation would not rest satisfied unless a British army marched to Kabul and there assisted Your Highness to inflict such punishments as so terrible and dastardly an act deserves.

  George looked up with a frown. 'General, I must ask you to reconsider, or at least to ask Lord Lytton to do so. I'm convinced the amir had nothing to do with the attack on the Residency, and that if you invade now it will leave him in an impossible position. He is already a traitor in the eyes of some of his people for signing the treaty that allowed a British mission in Kabul in the first place. But if you cross the border again, only three unenviable options will be available to him: allying himself with the rebels in opposition to us, which will mean near certain military defeat; allying himself with us against the rebels, which will be like signing his own death warrant; or abdicating. Whichever he chooses, he will forfeit his throne.'

  'And good riddance, as far as I'm concerned,' said Roberts, and turned to FitzGeorge. 'Tell Harper the latest intelligence you've received about Yakub.'

  'It's from a chief in the Logar valley,' replied FitzGeorge. 'He insists the amir is stirring up the frontier tribes to oppose our advance.'

  'You see, Harper?' said Roberts, triumphantly. 'Yakub is not to be trusted, and the sooner he shows his true colours and sides with the rebels, the sooner we can break up this accursed country and annex the territory as far as the Hindu Kush. Then, and only then, will we be able to sleep safely in our beds, secure in the knowledge that the Russians are not about to pour down on us through the Afghan passes. So, no, I will not reconsider, and neither will the Indian government. MacGregor,' he said, turning to his chief of staff, 'what is the timetable of advance?'

  'Yesterday General Baker's brigade advanced as far as Kushi, and set up camp there,' said MacGregor, gruffly, his voice betraying no hint of his Scottish ancestry. 'We follow with the rest
of the column once we've gathered enough supplies and transport animals. That should take no more than a few days.'

  In the meantime, Harper,' said Roberts, 'I expect you to carry out your side of the bargain and deliver my reply to the amir. Will you do that?'

  George nodded. The Indian government's response had been disappointing, but no more so than he'd expected, and his priority now was to proceed to Ghazni and find the cloak. The slight detour to Kabul would provide the perfect cover.

  'Splendid,' said Roberts. 'You'd better have some breakfast and be on your way. How long do you think it will take you?'

  'Two days, I expect, with a stop at Kushi en route.'

  'In that case it might be better not to wear your native togs until you leave the camp at Kushi. The men are a bit jumpy, and it wouldn't do to be shot by your own side.'

  'No, it wouldn't,' said George, though the thought had occurred to him that he no longer knew which side he was on.

  Chapter 12

  Advanced British Camp at Kushi, Afghanistan

  The first streaks of daylight were visible to the east as George and Ilderim passed through the outer picket of Baker's camp, manned by wiry Gurkhas of the 5th Regiment, and joined the track to Kabul. They had reached the camp the evening before, after a difficult and slow two-day ride from Ali Khel, and George was anxious to press on with as little delay as possible. He had donned his Afghan garb once more and, with a rifle slung across his back, looked every inch the fierce tribesman he was trying to impersonate.