Far Pavilions (158 page)

That look on Zarin's face explained many things: the Mogul conquest of India and the Arab conquest of Spain, and all the many Holy Wars – the Jehads waged in the name of Allah – that have drenched the long centuries with blood. It had thrown a white light on something else too: something he had always been dimly aware of but had not troubled to think about. The fact that religion has not brought love and brotherhood and peace to mankind, but, as was promised, a sword.

The bond between Zarin and himself had been strong enough to withstand almost any strain that could be put upon it – except the stroke of that sword. For though on one level they were friends and brothers, on another, deeper one, they were traditional enemies: the ‘Faithful’ – the followers of the Prophet – and the ‘Infidels’, the Unbelievers to whose destruction the Faithful are dedicated. For it is written
‘kill those who join other gods to God wherever ye shall find them, besiege them, lay in wait for them with every kind of ambush’.

Zarin must have known that he, Ash, would for his life's sake have had to observe every ritual of the Mohammedan religion as part of his disguise, even though he had never actually seen him doing so. Yet now, seeing it for the first time – and when the necessity for it had passed – he saw it only as sacrilege; and Ash as an Infidel making a mockery of the True God.

It was strange, thought Ash, that he should never have realized before that between himself and Zarin there yawned a gulf as wide as the one that separated him from all caste Hindus, and that this too was one that he would never be able to cross.

He turned away, feeling strangely bereft, and more shaken by that sudden revelation than he would have believed possible. It was as though the very ground under his feet had disintegrated without warning, and all at once the pearly morning was full of an aching sense of loss and sadness, because something of great value had gone out of his life and would never be regained.

In that moment of crisis his mind turned to Juli as gratefully as a man turns to a glowing fire in a cold room, holding out his hands to its comforting warmth. And as the first flush of the morning lit the snows on the Safed Koh, he said his own prayers, the same that he had said facing towards the Dur Khaima when Zarin Khan was a magnificent youth in Gulkote and he himself an insignificant little Hindu boy in the service of the Yuveraj: ‘Thou art everywhere, yet I worship thee here… Thou needest no praise, yet I offer thee these prayers…’

He prayed too for Juli, that she might be shielded from all harm and that he might be permitted to return to her in safety. And for Wally and Zarin, and the repose of the soul of Wigram Battye and all those who had died in the hills near Fatehabad and in the ambush last night. There was no food on the raft, so he could make no offerings: which was, he reflected wryly, just as well, for Zarin would certainly have recognized it as a Hindu rite and been even more displeased.

Zarin finished his prayers, and after they had rested a while, Ash took over the pole and thrust off from the bank. As the sun rose and the morning mists smoked off the river, they saw ahead of them the mud walls of Michini glow gold as the bright rays caught them, and presently they landed and bought food, and arranged for a man to ride to Mardan with a message warning of their arrival and asking that arrangements should be made to meet the raft at Nowshera and escort the body of Major Battye by road to the cantonment.

They saw the messenger leave, and having eaten, went on themselves by river: Ash poling their cumbersome craft and its grim burden forward through the pitiless, shadeless heat of June, while Zarin slept the sleep of utter exhaustion.

It has been an appalling day, even though the river now ran smooth and swiftly between low sandbanks and through quiet country. The sun beat down on his head and shoulders like a red-hot hammer, and with each hour the stench from the coffin became more pervasive and intolerable. But all things come to an end, and as twilight fell they reached the bridge of boats at Nowshera, and saw Wally with an escort of Guides Cavalry drawn up on the road, waiting to take Wigram home to Mardan.

58

Not having known that Ash was on the raft, Wally failed to recognize him in the dusk, and there had been no opportunity for speech until much later, for as the condition of the body made it necessary to re-bury it immediately, the coffin had been hurried to the outskirts of Mardan in a brake, where it had been transferred to a gun-carriage, and the funeral had taken place that night by torchlight.

Only when the prayers for the dead had been recited, the Last Post sounded and the volleys fired above the mound of raw earth that marked Wigram's final resting place, and when the mourners had gone back to their quarters leaving the little cemetery to the moonlit silence and the black shadows, had Ash been able to see Wally alone.

He had hoped to see the Commandant first, but as Colonel Jenkins was playing host to two senior Frontier Force officers, friends of Wigram's who had ridden over from Risalpur for the funeral and were staying the night, that interview would have to be postponed until sometime next day; so Zarin had smuggled him into Wally's rooms in the fort instead.

Wally had been delighted to see Ash, but the emotional strain of Wigram's second funeral had subdued his normally good spirits and he was in no mood to listen to any criticism of the proposed British Mission to Afghanistan, let alone consider refusing command of the Escort – supposing he were offered it, which he had not been; or at least, not officially. At the moment it was only a rumour, though everyone, according to Wally, was agreed that Cavagnari would be the best possible choice for Envoy, if and when a Mission were sent to Kabul. ‘I fancy he must have received a pretty broad hint to that effect from the Viceroy, because he was good enough to tell me that if he got the job he would ask for me as Military Attaché, in command of an Escort of Guides. And I don't believe he'd have said that unless he was fairly certain of getting the appointment. All the same, I don't mean to count my chickens before they're hatched.’

‘If you've any sense,’ said Ash, ‘you'll put up a prayer that this particular clutch turns out to be addled.’

‘
Addled
? What on earth do you mean by that?’ demanded Wally blankly.

‘I mean that when the late Amir, Shere Ali, was trying to get it into the heads of our Lords and Masters that his people would never take kindly to the establishment of a British presence – or, for that matter, any foreign presence – in his country, he pointed out that no Amir of Afghanistan could possibly guarantee the safety of such foreigners
“even in his own capital”
. Wally, don't you ever read anything but poetry?’

‘Don't be an ass. You know I do.’

‘Then you must have read Kaye's history of the First Afghan War, and ought to remember his conclusions – which should have been written up in letters a foot high over the entrance to the War Office,
and
over Viceregal Lodge and Army Headquarters in Simla as well! Kaye wrote that after an enormous waste of blood and treasure we left every part of Afghanistan bristling with our enemies, though before the British Army crossed the Indus the name of England had been honoured in Afghanistan, because the people associated it with vague traditions of the splendour of Mr Elphinstone's mission; but that all they remembered now were “galling memories of the invasion of a desolating army”. That is still true today, Wally. And that is why this Mission has simply got to be called off. It
must
be stopped.’

‘It won't be. It's too late for that. Besides –’

‘Well, postponed then – delayed for as long as possible, to allow time for every effort to be made to build up confidence and establish really friendly relations with the Amir and his people. Above all to allay their fears that the British mean to take over their country as we took over this one. Even at this late date that might still be done if only men like Lytton and Colley and Cavagnari could be persuaded to try a different approach – to lay aside the big stick and see what moderation and good-will can do instead. But I promise you, Wally, that if Cavagnari really means to take this disastrous Mission to Kabul, he'll never come back alive. Nor will you or anyone else who goes with him – you've got to believe that.’

Wally, who had been listening with ill-concealed impatience, said: ‘Ah, blather!’ and pointed out that the Amir himself had agreed to accept the Mission.

‘Only under duress,’ corrected Ash sharply. ‘And if you think his subjects have accepted it, you're a long way out. They are as much against it as they ever were: more, if anything, after this war. And it's
their
wishes that count and not the Amir's a fact that he is so well aware of that he came to the Gandamak Conference prepared to fight against it every inch of the way, and nothing that the Generals or the Politicals could say could make him budge. He stuck out against them all, and it was only when Cavagnari demanded that he be allowed to talk to him alone, without anyone else being present that he

‘I know. You don't have to be telling me. Dammit, I was there!’ interrupted Wally irritably. ‘And what's more, Cavagnari talked him round.’

‘Did he? I take leave to doubt it. I imagine he threatened him, and pretty strongly. All that anyone knows for certain is that he forced the Amir to give in – and boasted afterwards that he had “rated him as though he had been a mere Kohat Malik”. It's no use shaking your head at me, for it's true. If you don't believe me, ask him yourself – he won't deny it. But he would have done better to have kept quiet about it, because it got about, and I cannot believe that it will have helped him to make a friend of the Amir. Or of his people either, who are not ready to accept a British presence in Afghanistan because in their eyes it means only one thing: a prelude to the annexation of their homeland in the same way that the first small trading posts of the East India Company led to the annexation of India.’

Wally observed coldly that they would have to lump it, and that, though he realized that the Mission would not be popular at first, once it was there it would be up to its members to see that they got on good terms with the Afghans and showed them that they had nothing to fear. ‘We shall all do our damnedest, I promise you. And if anyone can bring them round his thumb it's Cavagnari. That's something I
do
know!’

‘Then you're wrong. I agree that he might have done it once, but riding rough-shod over the Amir has lost him a vital ally. Yakoub Khan is not one to forgive an insult, and now he will give him as little help as possible, and probably intrigue against him behind his back. Wally, I know what I'm talking about. I've lived in that damned country for months on end, and I know what is being said there – and in places like Herat and Kandahar and Mazar-i-Sharif too. The Afghans do not want this Mission, and they are in no mood to have it forced down their throats.’

‘Then that is their misfortune,’ said Wally, brusquely. ‘Because they are going to have it whether they want it or not. Besides, we gave them such a hell of a thrashing in the Khyber and the Kurram that they had to sue for peace, and I think you'll be finding that troops who have just been as soundly defeated in battle as these fellows have will have learnt their lesson by now and not be over-eager to get another dose of the same medicine.’

Ash came to a stop, and gripping the back of a chair with both hands until his knuckles showed white, explained in a strictly controlled voice that the whole point was that they hadn't learned anything – because they didn't even know that they were defeated. ‘That's one of the things I came here to tell the Commandant: there have been insurrections in Turkestan and Badakshan, and as the defeated regiments have all been hurried off to deal with the situation there, the Amir is having to raise fresh ones to take their place, and the new troops are nothing but an undisciplined rabble who have never been in action against the British Army, and know nothing about the defeats. They have, on the contrary, swallowed whole a score of fairy-tales about “Glorious Afghan Victories”, and worse still they have received no pay for months, because the Amir insists that there is no money in the exchequer to pay them. So they are preying on the wretched villagers instead, and by and large I'd say they were a far greater menace to him than having no troops at all. It's obvious that they are already pretty well out of control, and in my opinion they're likely to prove a serious threat to any British Mission foolish enough to set up shop in Kabul and trust to them to keep order; because they can't do so, and what's more they won't!’

Wally retorted crossly that Cavagnari was bound to have heard all about this already as he had scores of spies collecting information for him. To which Ash agreed: ‘But the trouble is that they come and go, and only someone who has actually lived in Kabul during these past months can have any inkling of the situation there. It's unstable as water and potentially dangerous as a wagon-load of gunpowder, for you can't expect reason from an undisciplined, unpaid rabble that having played no part in the recent hostilities thinks the present withdrawal of our army is a retreat, and is therefore firmly convinced that the invading British were soundly defeated and are scuttling out of Afghanistan with their tails between their legs. Because that is how it looks to them, and so they can see no reason why their new Amir should permit a handful of the defeated, despised and hated “Angrezi-log” to establish a permanent Mission in Kabul. If he does, they will merely regard that as weakness, and think the less of him: and that isn't going to help matters, either.’