Hart of Empire (10 page)

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.

'The insolent dog answered you in Persian,
huzoor
, though he speaks perfectly good Pashto.'

'Why?'

'Because he dislikes Feringhees.'

'Is he from one of the Herat regiments?'

'He is.'

'So Ahmed Jan was right. There is trouble brewing. What did he say?'

'He said that we should hurry if we wished to visit the resident because he wouldn't be here for much longer. When I asked him what he meant by that, he refused to say, but I think we know.'

'There's not a moment to lose. Which way?'

'The Residency stands against the southern wall of the Bala Hissar, and directly below the south-east wall of the citadel. To reach it we must pass by the amir's garden. It's not far.'

Using the citadel as a guide, they soon came to a small unkempt square that was being used as an artillery park: six field guns and as many mountain guns were parked in front of a dozen dirty tents, the gunners lounging and chaffing in the sun. Ilderim questioned one man, who was not wearing uniform and looked more like an unwashed coolie than a soldier, and was told they had come too far. They retraced their steps and eventually found the narrow lane that ran along the southern edge of the amir's garden. On their right was the high wall that marked the garden's boundary and on their left rude open-air stables, little more than simple enclosures in the mud wall, in which were tethered the horses of the royal household.

The lane brought them to the rear of an enclosed three-storey building that Ilderim explained was part of the Residency compound, but that to reach the main gate they had to work their way round to the right. They did so, and at last came to an open gateway guarded by two soldiers wearing large turbans, long khaki
kurta
s with red facings on the collar and cuffs, and riding boots. 'Rest easy,
huzoor
,' said Ilderim, 'they're Indian soldiers from my old corps.'

'Guides?'

'Yes.'

'Do you know them?'

'Perhaps,' said Ilderim, as if he was speaking to a child. 'But I can't tell at this distance.'

As they got closer, George received his answer from one of the Guides, a burly
naik
, or corporal,with a hooked nose and a trim beard. 'Can it be true?' He took a step forward and peered intently at Ilderim. 'Why, it is. The hero of a thousand fights, Subadar Khan! What are you doing in Kabul, sir?'

'And salaams to you, too, Akbar Shah, as insolent as ever, I see. Whatever possessed your officer to raise you to
naik
?'

Akbar Shah chuckled, showing a fine set of betel-stained teeth. 'He believes, like many, that it's better to guard sheep with a wolf.'

'And is
he
a wolf?' asked Ilderim.

'No, sir, but he
is
a lion. He saved my life when I was unhorsed in the charge at Futtehabad, in April, by cutting down my three assailants. We had already lost the commandant and Hamilton Sahib took charge. There is none braver and he deserves the Queen's Cross.'

'He has been recommended for the Victoria Cross?' asked George.

'I have indeed,' said a voice to their right, with a distinctly Irish accent. The speaker was a stocky officer of middle height with a pale, freckled face and a centre parting. He was dressed in a khaki patrol jacket and breeches, with a sword and pistol holster attached to his shiny leather Sam Browne cross-belt, and was holding a white sun helmet topped with a metal spike under his left arm. 'I'm Lieutenant Walter Hamilton, commanding the Resident's Escort. What can I do for you?'

George gave his cover story and said he had come to discuss business opportunities with the resident. His intention was to use the interview to warn Cavagnari of the impending attack and then to make contact with Pir Ali.

'The resident is very busy but if you follow me, Mr Harper, I'll see what I can do. Leave your horse here. Your guide can secure him to the picket line and is welcome to refreshments in the soldiers' mess.'

'Thank you,' said George, dismounting. 'His name is Ilderim Khan. Does that ring any bells, Lieutenant?'

'Should it?'

'He was a subadar in your regiment.'

'Was he?' exclaimed Hamilton. He gave Ilderim the once-over but showed no sign of recognition. 'Well, I don't remember him. He must have been before my time. Come this way, Mr Harper. Akbar Shah will look after Ilderim Khan and see to your horses.'

The outer compound was bounded on its south side by the huge outer wall of the Bala Hissar, and on the north by a low mud wall that was commanded along its length by flat-roofed houses. In the centre of the compound stood the cavalry lines and stables, and at the far end the infantry barracks. Just beyond the barracks was the gated entrance to the inner courtyard, which, again, was manned by four Guides. They presented arms as George and Lieutenant Hamilton passed through the gate and turned immediately right towards the Residency, a handsome two-storey brick and plaster house, with two small wings and a covered balcony on each floor. 'Not a bad place to live,' commented George.

'I wouldn't know,' said Hamilton, with a grin. 'I'm slumming it with the other officers in the Mess House opposite.' George looked back to see an even grander three-storey suite of rooms enclosing the far end of the inner courtyard, the back wall of which he had seen from the lane that flanked the amir's garden. However, as it backed on to two lanes it was harder to defend, while Cavagnari's house was built into the fortress's outer wall. Even to George's relatively inexperienced eye, it was obvious that the compound - overlooked on three sides by flat-roofed houses and higher ground - was a death-trap.

'Coming?' said Hamilton, rousing George from his gloomy thoughts.

He followed the officer through the door of the main house, across a marbled entrance hall and into a small antechamber beyond. 'Take a seat,' said the lieutenant. 'I'll let Sir Louis know you're here.'

An hour passed and, with the light failing, servants came to light oil lamps. George was pacing the room, wondering how best to phrase his warning, when another servant entered. He was short and wiry, with a keen, intelligent face, and wearing a small white cap of the type favoured by Bengali Muslims. 'A thousand apologies, sahib,' said the man in English. 'The resident cannot see you today and asks that you come back another time.'

'No!' said George, loudly. 'That's not good enough. I must see him today. Tell him it's a matter of the utmost urgency.'

The servant looked puzzled. 'But Hamilton Sahib said you had come to discuss business?'

'That too. But I have something more serious to talk to the resident about and I will not leave until I have spoken to him.'

'I will try.'

Minutes later the servant was back. 'The resident will see you now.'

George was led up a flight of polished wooden stairs to a large, airy office on the first floor. A middle-aged man with thinning hair and a spade beard sat at a desk strewn with papers, writing a letter. He was impeccably dressed in a starched shirt with a wing collar, a loose bow-tie and double-breasted frock coat sporting three medals, one of which George recognized as the campaign award for the Indian Mutiny. Like many ambitious officers in India, Cavagnari had served a brief time with his regiment before switching to the political service.

'Thank you, Pir Ali,' said Cavagnari to the servant, with just the faintest touch of the Irish brogue in his voice, 'that will be all.'

George was startled to hear the name of the Foreign Office spy he had come to see. He had assumed the departing
munshi
was just another servant, and now he knew better he chided himself for missing the opportunity to talk to him.

'Well?' snapped Cavagnari. 'What's so important that it must interrupt a letter to Lord Lytton? You do know who Lord Lytton is?'

'Of course,' replied George, trying hard to keep the irritation out of his voice. 'And what I have to say would be of interest to the viceroy.'

'Go on.'

'The Afghan regiments, lately arrived from Herat, are planning to mutiny, and when they do they'll attack the Residency. They intend to kill everyone.'

'How did did you come by this information?' asked Cavagnari.

'I heard it two days ago from a Ghilzai whose nephew serves in one of the mutinous regiments.'

'So it's hearsay?'

'Well, yes, but--'

'No buts. You've heard a rumour and now you're repeating it as fact. So, tell me, if you're so sure of your source, when is this mutiny to take place?'

'I don't know, but it will be soon. Why, only today as we passed through the gatehouse--'

Cavagnari raised his hand. 'You come here without an appointment, demanding an audience, and when I grant you one against my better judgement, you repeat some gossip from the bazaar about a mutiny and a threat on my life. Do you think I'm some griff, wet behind the ears, who knows nothing of these people?'

'Of course not. I was simply trying to--'

'Save your breath. Who exactly are you, anyway? You say you're a businessman, but you look too young for that. Tell me, how long have you been in India?'

'About two months.'

'
Two months?
I've been here for more than twenty years, most of that time on the frontier, and I know the Afghans. They're cowards - oh, they're brave enough when they have numbers on their side, but put 'em in a fair fight and they'll slip away every time.'

'But this won't be a fair fight!' said George, in exasperation. 'The Afghan troops from Herat are more than six thousand strong. How many men do you have?'

'I have seventy-five, under one of the finest officers in the Indian Army, which is more than enough to deter a mutinous rabble. But it won't come to that because the Afghans know that if anything happens to me the Indian Army will be back in force.'

It occurred to George that Cavagnari, a staunch advocate of Lytton's Forward policy, might welcome an attack as a means of provoking a British response. But even he, George decided, wouldn't be stupid enough to ignore the risk of an attack, and put his own life in danger, in the interests of government policy. Or would he?

'I'm not saying the Afghans welcome our presence,' continued Cavagnari. 'Of course they don't. And it's true the regiments from Herat have been going about the city with drawn swords, using inflammatory language against us and the amir. But their chief gripe is with their arrears of pay. Once Yakub pays up, they'll be as meek as lambs. When you've been in this part of the world as long as I have, Harper, you'll know that barking dogs never bite.'

'I'll have to take your word for that, sir,' said George. 'But a wise man would still take the precaution of preparing the Residency for a siege and asking Simla for more troops.'

'A
wise
man? How dare you condescend to me?' Cavagnari blustered. 'The troops I have are unpopular enough. Bringing in more would be like waving a red rag before a bull. I think it's time you left. Pir Ali!'

The
munshi
reappeared. 'Sahib?'