Hart of Empire (2010) Page 6

  'I have been sent here on a secret mission. I told your son I was a businessman called James Harper, but my real name is George Hart. I'm a captain in the British Army and I've been sent to Afghanistan to try to prevent a tribal uprising that will topple Yakub and provoke a fresh invasion, with more bloodshed.'

  On hearing this Ilderim turned to George. 'I knew you were a soldier, huzoor. Didn't I say it when--'

  'Quiet!' shouted Abdulla. 'I'm speaking. So tell me, Feringhee, how do you plan to stop the uprising? Because there will be one, and soon.'

  'My task,' said George, looking Abdulla in the eye, 'is to prevent the Mullah Mushk-i-Alam from donning the Prophet's Cloak and rousing the faithful.'

  'The Feringhee dog is a British spy!' interjected Gul Shah, raising his pistol. 'He says it himself. Let me kill him now and there's an end to it.'

  'Stay your hand, Gul,' growled Abdulla. 'I will hear him out first. It is true that the mullah plots a holy war and would have the whole country under sharia law. I know this much from my cousin who lives in Ghazni. It is also true that the cloak would bring many Ghazis to the mullah's side. So your aim is not a foolish one, even if your hopes of success are slender. I, too, have no wish to see the mullah rule supreme: he would weaken the authority of tribal chiefs like me. But I have even less desire to see the British rule in Kabul, and will do everything in my power to prevent it.'

  'Then you must spare me, forgive your son, and let us continue on our mission because there are those in Simla who would welcome a rising as an excuse to invade Afghanistan - and this time they will stay.'

  'You talk in riddles,' said Abdulla, shaking his head. 'First you say the British don't want to invade. Now you insist they do. Which is it to be?'

  'Both. The British government in London doesn't, but the Indian government at Simla does. The viceroy and his friends are convinced the security of India would best be served by annexing Afghanistan. London feels that would only result in more blood spilt and treasure spent, which is why it hasn't told Simla about my mission. If Simla finds out it will certainly try to interfere.'

  'So I must let you go if I want Afghanistan to remain free?'

  'Yes, and your son too. I can't find the cloak without him.'

  Abdulla tugged at his beard while he digested George's words. 'I will think more about what you have said and soon make a decision. But I have one final question. If I let you go and, by the grace of Allah, you recover the cloak, prevent an uprising and avert a British invasion, what then? What will you do with the cloak?'

  George hesitated. The cloak was of great spiritual and cultural import to the Afghans and they would not take kindly to its removal, yet his mother desperately needed the money he would earn if he delivered it to London. He was in a quandary and, for the moment, decided to lie. 'It will be kept safe until the country has settled down and Yakub's rule is secure. Only then will it be returned to its special casket in the shrine of Kharka Sharif in Kandahar.'

  'I'm not a devout man, but this cloak belongs to we Afghans and must not leave the country. If you can swear to me now, on the life of your mother, that you will neither harm nor remove it, I will grant you your freedom.'

  'I swear,' said George. If he kept his word it would cost him two thousand pounds.

  'Good. Now let us--'

  'Malik, think what you do!' implored Gul Shah, waving his pistol. 'How can you trust a Feringhee?'

  'Quiet, I say!' snapped Abdulla. 'If this man can keep the mullah from power and the British outside our borders, then the risk will have been worth taking. And my nose tells me this Feringhee speaks the truth.'

  'If that is so,' Gul scowled, 'he will be the first.'

  'Maybe so,' said Abdulla, 'but he has already done me a service by returning my son to me.' He turned to Ilderim. 'Promise that you'll never disobey me again. If you can do that, the past is forgotten.'

  Ilderim, eyes filled with tears, took a step forward. 'I promise, Father.'

  'Then embrace me,' said Abdulla, arms outstretched.

  The two huge men stood locked together as Gul glowered and George breathed a sigh of relief, marvelling at the speed with which an Afghan could change his mind.

  'Come inside and eat,' said Abdulla, having released his son. 'You must all be hungry.'

  They ate in the eastern style, lying on cushions and bolsters, and using their fingers to scoop lamb and rice from wooden bowls. Abdulla was affable now, telling George of when his son had won the tribal wrestling competition, the proudest moment of his life. 'Six months later he left home without a word. But he is here now,' he said, smiling at Ilderim across the room, 'and all is well. A man is nothing without a son to lean on, and a son without the advice of a grey-bearded father is like a pilgrim lost in the desert. Wouldn't you agree, Feringhee?'

  'Heartily,' replied George. He gulped his sherbet drink 'I have never met my father. He abandoned me as a child, though he paid for my upkeep and has set aside a substantial sum of money for me if I achieve certain goals.'

  'What kind of man abandons his child?' demanded Abdulla.

  'I asked my mother that very question. Her answer? "The sort that's married" - he already had a wife.'

  'May an Englishman not take many wives?'

  'No - it's against the law. And because of this I've never had a father's advice, though there were times when I would have been glad of it,' he said ruefully.

  'All sons need direction. But you said your father set you tasks. What are they?'

  'To marry well, reach a high military rank and win the Victoria Cross, our highest gallantry award, before the age of twenty-eight.'

  'And what age are you now?'

  'Almost twenty.'

  'Then you have more than enough time. It seems, Feringhee, that even in his absence your father shapes your life.'

  'He tries to. And the money would be useful - but for my mother not me. I have no aspirations to be rich.'

  'Yet you are bold enough, at nineteen, to come to a foreign country to steal a sacred treasure.'

  'I had no choice.'

  'Perhaps not, but if your father knew of it he would surely applaud you. It takes much courage even to try such a thing.'

  'That and stupidity. I seem to have plenty of the latter.'

  With the meal over and the evening entertainment about to begin, Abdulla leant close to George. 'A word of advice, Feringhee,' he whispered. 'If anything happens to my son in your service, you will pay with your life.'

  'Then I will do my best to deliver him back to you without a scratch.'

  The main door to the hall swung open to reveal a tall, lean tribesman, his clothes streaked with dust.

  'Ahmed Jan! At last!' exclaimed Abdulla. 'What news from Kabul?'

  'Before strangers, Malik?' asked Ahmed Jan, motioning towards George and Ilderim.

  'One is my son Ilderim, the other his companion. They leave for Kabul tomorrow and need to know what's afoot.'

  'What's afoot, Malik, is mutiny.'

  'In which regiments?'

  'The six recently arrived from Herat. They haven't received pay for two months and are angry that Yakub Khan has signed the treaty with the Angrez. I heard one soldier abuse a fellow whose regiment had been defeated by the Angrez last year. He said that if the Herat regiments had fought, the outcome would have been very different.'

  'What deluded fools they are to imagine they wouldn't scatter like sheep at the first sight of an Angrez bayonet. And now they plan mutiny, do they? How came you by this news?'

  'My cousin serves with one of the Herat regiments. He told me not all are disaffected, but the leaders threaten those who waver with death. Their plan is to kill their officers and attack the compound inhabited by the Angrez envoy and his escort. None of the Feringhees will be spared.'

  George felt a chill down his spine. The Foreign Office spy he was due to meet, his sole contact in Afghanistan, worked at the British Residency in Kabul as an interpreter for the envoy, Sir Louis Cavagnari. He had to get to
him before the mutiny erupted or he would never discover the whereabouts of the cloak. 'Do you know when this will happen?' he asked Ahmed Jan.

  'No, my cousin couldn't say. But it will be soon.'

  'Then Ilderim and I must leave at first light.'

  'As you wish, Feringhee,' said Abdulla. 'But first some entertainment.'

  He clapped his hands and a light-skinned young dancing girl appeared, wearing satin trousers and a tight, transparent bodice that seemed too flimsy to restrain her ample bosom. Her face was partially obscured by a gauze veil, but above it shone a pair of green almond-shaped eyes, a legacy of Alexander's Greeks. As the flautists and drummers began to play, the girl's body writhed and quivered, her hands twirling before her.

  George couldn't take his eyes off the undulating spectacle before him. Faster and faster the musicians played, with the dancer keeping pace, seemingly with ease, though her face glistened with perspiration. Suddenly the music stopped and the girl froze, then slumped to the floor, her chest heaving.

  Abdulla turned to George. 'Isn't she magnificent?'

  'She certainly is. What's her name?'

  'Ishtar - it means "Star of Heaven". Her parents were killed in a tribal feud when she was just four. She has lived under my protection ever since. No Ghilzai dances better. Would you like to meet her?'

  'Certainly.'

  'Ishtar, come to me,' called Abdulla.

  The girl walked over, her breasts swaying provocatively, and stood before the cushions, arms crossed and chin held high. She was very tall, with a tiny waist and full hips, and George could just detect a tiny diamond sparkling in her belly button.

  'This Feringhee is my guest,' said Abdulla. 'Sit with him awhile and, if he likes you, he may choose to take you to his bedchamber.'

  'No!' said George. 'That's not what I meant when I said I'd like to meet her.'

  'You don't like her?' asked Abdulla, affronted.

  'Of course I do. Who wouldn't? But does she like me?'

  'Like you? What difference does it make? Ilderim!' he shouted, motioning for his son to come closer. 'You must hear this.'

  Ilderim rose and walked over. 'What is it, Father?'

  'The Feringhee won't accept my offer of Ishtar.'

  Ilderim looked grave. 'You understand, huzoor, that to spurn an Afghan's hospitality is the greatest insult you can offer?'

  'I know, and I would never do that,' said George, calmly. 'I wish to be sure that Ishtar has a say in the matter.'

  'You have much to learn about our customs,' said Ilderim. 'Ishtar owes her life to my father. If he asked her to jump into a freezing river she would do it. Spending the night with a pretty youth like you is nothing. She might even enjoy it. Eh, Ishtar?'

  The girl did not reply and, because she was still veiled, George was unable to read her expression, though her eyes seemed faintly amused.

  'So what do you say, Feringhee?' asked Abdulla. 'Will you lie with her or not?'

  George had been in some ticklish positions in his young life, but none quite as bizarre as this. He was certainly attracted to the girl, and would have liked to take her to his bed if she was willing. But how could he know she was before he accepted Abdulla's offer? The only solution, he decided, was to tread a delicate middle ground.

  'I will,' said George, standing up and taking Ishtar's hand. 'And as it's late, and we have an early start, I hope you will not take offence if I retire at this very minute.'

  Abdulla roared with laughter. 'You change your mind like a woman, Feringhee, but no matter. Leave us and enjoy yourself. The servants will show you the way.'

  'Good night, then,' said George.

  He and Ishtar followed a servant along a passageway, then up a spiral staircase to a chamber in one of the towers. It was a simple whitewashed room with few furnishings beyond a carpet, a chest and an iron bedstead, and was lit by a single flaming torch set in the wall. Beside the bed lay George's kit-bag. He turned to Ishtar. 'You may stay or go. If you go, I won't tell the malik.'

  She unhooked one side of her veil to reveal a beautiful shapely mouth. Slowly her full lips parted in a smile. 'I will stay, Feringhee, not because you want me to but because I choose to.' With that she took two paces forward and raised her lips to his.

  Surprised by her boldness, George felt a momentary stab of guilt as he was reminded of the two women he had left behind in Africa - one with whom he was in love, or had been, and one who was in love with him and increasingly in his thoughts. Yet he was tied to neither, he told himself, and Ishtar was too inviting an opportunity to dismiss. His qualms assuaged, he leant forward and kissed her hungrily, pulling her towards him and down onto the bed.

  Chapter 6

  They left at dawn, and were escorted by Gul Shah and his men as far as the Kabul road where they continued on alone. Ilderim broke the silence. 'Thank you for what you did last night, huzoor,' he said, as they slowed their mounts to a walk. 'I am for ever in your debt.'

  'Not a bit of it,' replied George, trying to keep a straight face. 'It is I who am in your debt, or at least your father's. I have never known such hospitality. Your dancer . . .'

  Ilderim snorted. 'I did not mean Ishtar but your talk with my father. One moment he is angry enough to kill us both, the next he is ordering food and embracing me like the long-lost son I am. It was your doing, huzoor, and I shall not forget it.'

  'Oh, that,' said George, feigning surprise. 'Well, I did it to save both our skins. But, joking aside, it was fortunate that your father sympathized with my mission because he and the British government in London have the same basic aim in Afghanistan - to keep the mullah from power and British troops out.'

  'Yes, huzoor, very fortunate. But why didn't you tell me about your mission? I knew you were no trader. A soldier always knows his kind.'

  George grinned. 'You spotted me, all right. But I didn't dare tell you because I was afraid you wouldn't come with me if you knew the truth. I suspect most Afghans would happily slit the throat of an infidel if he dared to look upon the cloak, let alone touch it.'

  'Maybe so, huzoor. But you have my father's blessing and that is enough for me. I will remain with you until you have the cloak, or are killed, whichever comes first.'

  'Thank you, Ilderim. I appreciate your loyalty.'

  Now it was Ilderim's turn to smile. 'It's not loyalty, huzoor. I'm doing it for the money.'

  'Spoken like a true Afghan!'

  'So where next, huzoor?'

  'To Kabul. My only contact in the country is Pir Ali, a munshi in the employ of the British resident. He will have information about the cloak. I must also speak to Sir Louis Cavagnari himself, without revealing my true identity, and warn him of the impending mutiny. But it's a race against time. If the mutineers attack before we reach the Residency, and Pir Ali is killed, we have no hope of locating the cloak. So, let's not dawdle,' said George, and dug his heels into his horse's sides.

  An hour later, as they watered the animals in a shallow stream, George looked across at his companion. 'I confess, Ilderim, I never dreamt I'd spend my twentieth birthday here.'

  'So young, but why didn't you talk of this last night? My father would have given you two women to mark the occasion.'

  George laughed. 'One was quite enough!'

  It was late afternoon the following day when George and Ilderim came in sight of the walled city of Kabul. They had camped overnight at Gandamak, where the recent treaty had been signed. It had been the site, too, in 1842, of the British 44th Regiment of Foot's last stand. Riding in from the east, with the Siah Sang range of hills on his right, it seemed to George that the city occupied a near impregnable position: to the south and west it was protected by mountains, to the north by the Kabul river, while the east, directly ahead, was guarded by a wall, twenty feet high and twelve feet thick. Its south-eastern corner was commanded by a towering fortress, rising more than 150 feet above the plain.

  'That must be the Bala Hissar,' said George, pointing towards the fort. 'Now I know why th
e British were so criticised for relinquishing it in thirty-nine.'

  Ilderim nodded. 'We have a saying: "He who holds the Bala Hissar holds Kabul." By that we mean the upper fortress, or citadel, which contains the magazine and the dungeon known as the "Black Pit". The lower fortress, which you enter first, is not as formidable and houses the stables, barracks and royal residences.'

  'One of which, I'm told, Yakub has given to Cavagnari to use as his residency. Well, at this distance it looks quiet enough. I think we're in time.'

  They rode on through a richly cultivated valley of clover and lucerne, the crops' verdant green a relief from the general brownness of the land, and up a road lined on both sides with closely planted willow trees. Just short of the city walls they turned sharply to the left and began the climb to the fortress. Their first view was of a huge wall of crumbling masonry, twenty feet high but built on a rock of similar height so that a precipitous face of forty feet was presented to any attacker. Every hundred yards or so a bastion, bristling with cannon, jutted out from the main wall, and in the intervals between rose the high, flat-roofed buildings of the palaces. The road curved gently to the right and soon came to the main gatehouse, almost medieval in appearance, with its two round towers, vaulted archway and castellated top. It, too, had seen better days, the inner supports having crumbled away and the defensive position overhead lacking its protective parapets.

  As they approached, a big, bearded havildar, or sergeant, of the Afghan Army, with a Snider rifle on his shoulder, stepped forward.

  'I'm a British businessman,' said George in Pashto. 'I've come to speak to the resident.'

  The Afghan soldier spat pointedly on the ground and said something in a language George didn't understand.

  Ilderim shouted back at him in the same strange tongue and the soldier responded in kind. Worried that the argument was getting out of hand, George was about to tell Ilderim to calm down when the havildar, his face still defiant, waved them through the gateway.

  'What was that about? And what language was he speaking?' asked George, as they entered the lower fortress, a veritable rabbit warren of dilapidated mud and brick buildings and squalid alleyways, hidden behind tumbledown walls, interspersed with patches of wasteground. Directly ahead, higher up the hill, stood the citadel.