Hart of Empire (12 page)

'What about rate of fire? Is it as quick as the Martini?'

'Almost.'

'Really?' George raised his eyebrows.

'In skilled hands, anyway. Look, I'll show you.'

He took a rifle from the nearest soldier and showed George how to cock the hammer before using a lever on the left of the breech to slide the side-hinged block to the right. The old cartridge, he explained, could then be extracted either by hand, or by turning the rifle on its back to allow it to drop out. Finally a new cartridge could be inserted and the block returned to its original position for firing. 'Effective, isn't it?' said Hamilton.

'Not really,' said George. 'With the Martini-Henry you just pull the lever behind the trigger guard and the weapon is ready to reload. But beggars can't be choosers. I'm sure it will suffice.'

George squinted down the sight of his Snider, took a deep breath and gently squeezed the trigger. A metallic click sounded as the hammer struck the firing pin, but no explosion. He lowered the weapon and went through the loading procedure that Hamilton had taught him. But no matter how many times he did it he couldn't get the hang of it. Part of the problem was that you needed two hands, and that made the whole process far clumsier than loading the Martini-Henry. There was also the issue of recoil: he'd suffered many a painful shoulder from firing the .45 calibre Martini-Henry; but the Snider was .577 and reputedly had a kick like a mule's. Not that he'd know until he actually fired it.

He glanced at his pocket-watch. Ten minutes to nine, and already the glare from the sun was making it hard to focus. He could feel a trickle of sweat rolling down his back and sensed it was going to be a long, hot day. He and Ilderim had been kneeling with Lieutenant Hamilton and a party of Guides behind a makeshift parapet on the flat roof of the Mess House for more than forty-five minutes and still there was no sign of either the messenger or the mutinous troops. Of more immediate concern to George, however, was the state of Pir Ali's health. The unconscious
munshi
had been put to bed on the second floor of the Mess House but there had been no news of him since.

He stood up to stretch his cramped limbs and to get a better view of the Bala Hissar's layout. Directly below him, away to the west, stretched the Residency's mostly deserted outer compound, though the Guides' cavalry horses were still picketed at the far end; the only troops were the twenty or so men guarding the infantry barracks, the roof of which was a nerve-racking but manageable leap of about ten feet from where George was standing on the south-west corner of the Mess House. Due south of George was Cavagnari's house, and behind him, to the north-east, a garden that led to the amir's palace, no more than 250 yards away.

A voice spoke behind him: 'He should have been back by now, Hamilton. What's keeping him?'

It was Cavagnari. He and his secretary, Jenkyns, a tall Scotsman with a neat moustache, had climbed up to the roof for a better view.

'I don't know, sir,' replied Hamilton. 'I suppose it's possible he's been detained.'

'By the amir? Never. He wouldn't dare. But unless we hear back soon we'll have to send another message. And another, until that rascal Yakub responds.'

'Just give me the word, sir. My sowars are ready for anything.'

'Can I ask, sir,' interrupted George, 'how is Pir Ali? Has he come round yet?'

'I'm afraid not. Dr Kelly thinks his skull is fractured and that he may not live.'

George's heart sank. Without Pir Ali's contacts he knew that locating the cloak would be like finding a needle in a haystack. But he had only a moment to dwell on the matter before Hamilton pointed to a gathering cloud of dust beyond the fortress's main gate. 'Sir, we have company.'

'My God,' breathed Cavagnari. 'How many must there be to raise a cloud like that?'

At first all they could hear was the din and rush of hurrying feet, but soon the sound swelled to an audible chant from countless throats. '
Ya Charyar! Ya Charyar!
'

'What are they saying, Ilderim?' asked George.

'It's the Ghazi war-cry,' explained Ilderim. 'It means "Hail, the four Prophets of Muhammad", and promises death to the non-believer.'

As if to confirm Ilderim's words, a mob of soldiers and civilians came pouring down the road that led from the main gate and spilt through the lanes that fed into the far end of the Residency's outer compound. Some clutched the green flag of
jihad
, others a variety of ancient and modern weapons: muskets, swords, rifles, pistols, clubs and knives. There were hundreds of them, and they kept coming.

'Sights at four hundred yards,' roared Hamilton, above the din. 'Hold your fire until they reach the cavalry lines. Steady . . . steady.'

Memories of the desperate fight at Rorke's Drift flooded back to George as he waited, heart thumping, for the order to fire. How he and most of the tiny British garrison had survived wave after wave of Zulu attacks he would never know, but this time the odds were even worse, the position less defensible and the enemy better armed.

'Fire!' shouted Hamilton.

George pulled his trigger and the stock slammed viciously into his shoulder. He had no idea whether he had hit his target but, given the number of bodies he had fired into, it didn't seem to matter. As the boom of the first volley echoed behind him, and the smoke from the black powder cartridges began to clear, he could see gaps in the charging mass. But still they came.

Hamilton ordered a second volley, and a third, and each time the Residency's rooftops erupted into smoke and flame. By the fourth volley the charge had been broken, and upwards of a hundred bodies, some still, others writhing in agony, littered the ground between the cavalry lines and the infantry barracks. Many hundreds more had taken cover and were firing back from the roof of the stable block, some godowns to the left and the low mud wall to the right.

'Independent firing,' called Hamilton. 'But only shoot if you have someone in your sights. Our ammunition is limited and Heaven knows how long they'll keep this up.'

Cavagnari looked across from his own position in the firing line. 'How limited, Lieutenant?'

'Fairly, sir. Each man has seventy rounds on him, and we have five thousand in reserve, which works out at another seventy per man. It sounds sufficient, but we'll soon run through it if we're not careful.'

George nodded in agreement. For him it was
deja vu
. At Rorke's Drift he and the other hundred and forty or so defenders had shot off forty thousand rounds in just under twelve hours. At Isandlwana, a few hours earlier, the problem hadn't been quantity but supply: the increasingly desperate, and ultimately doomed, attempt to get the bullets out of their boxes and up to the firing line. 'May I suggest,' said George, above the zip and whine of incoming bullets, 'that you ensure the ammunition boxes are unscrewed and the packets ready for distribution? If they rush us we'll need the bullets to hand.'

'The advice of a civilian is always welcome, Harper,' replied Hamilton, his voice heavy with sarcasm, 'but not required in this instance. The boxes are no longer secured by screws - Isandlwana taught us that lesson - and I've already divided them between the various houses and ordered the sliding tops to be removed.'

'A wise precaution, Hamilton,' said Cavagnari, 'but Yakub is bound to intervene long before we run out of ammunition.'

'Hamilton Sahib!' shouted a sowar manning the opposite side of the roof, with a view of the royal palace.

'What is it, Dowlat Ram?' asked Hamilton.

'Horsemen are coming from the amir's palace.'

'At last!' exclaimed Cavagnari. 'I knew Yakub wouldn't leave us in the lurch. How many are coming, sepoy?'

'Three, sahib.'

'Only three? You must be mistaken! Let me see for myself.'

Cavagnari kept low as he crossed the roof, followed by Jenkyns, Hamilton and George in the same crouching stance. All four joined Dowlat Ram behind the low barricade. 'There, sahib,' said the sepoy to Cavagnari, pointing to a trio of riders advancing up the lane that led from the royal palace.

'Well, that explains it,' said Cavagnari. 'See the big rider in front? That's General Daoud Shah, Commander-in-Chief of the Afghan Army. If anyone can restore order, he can.'

The lead rider was a huge man whose broad shoulders and huge frame almost dwarfed the Arab horse he was riding. He was simply dressed in a drab black
kurta
and trousers, with matching cap, and only his jewel-studded sword-hilt hinted at the high office he held. George held his breath as Daoud and his two aides approached the rear of the mob, which, by now, had entirely surrounded the Residency compound, and was tightly packed into the lane that ran along the back of the Mess House. Without breaking stride, the horsemen rode into the crowd and tried to force their way through. At first the mob gave way, but as soon as the soldiers among them recognized Daoud they surged angrily around his horse and those of his aides. Daoud tried to force the crowd back with the flat of his sword, but weight of numbers told and he and his aides were dragged from their mounts. As George and the others looked on in horror, the enraged mob struck at the defenceless officers with clubs, stones and even their fists.

'Should we fire into the crowd, Sir Louis?' asked Hamilton.

'Too dangerous. You might hit Daoud. But by all means shoot those on the fringes. It just might disperse them.'

Hamilton gave the order and a volley rang out from that side of the roof, bringing down ten or so rioters and causing the others to flee for cover. They left behind the three apparently lifeless bodies of the Afghan officers.

'My God!' exclaimed Cavagnari. 'If they're prepared to kill their own general, what hope have we?'

Barely had he finished speaking than a fusillade of shots began to ricochet off the roof behind them, the sound not unlike a swarm of angry bees. George knew at once that the mutineers were firing from above, which could only mean the upper fort. He looked up and saw the tell-tale puffs of smoke along the ramparts. 'They've taken the citadel, Sir Louis!' he shouted. 'We're sitting ducks if we stay here.'

'Harper's right, sir,' said Hamilton.

'Let's get below then,' said Cavagnari, dashing for the open trapdoor in the middle of the roof. Halfway across he staggered and fell to his knees.

Hamilton ran to his assistance. 'Are you badly hit, Sir Louis?'

Cavagnari put his hand to his forehead, which was covered with blood. 'A ricochet. I'll live. Get the others below.'

Hamilton gave the order and, one by one, his men followed Cavagnari through the trapdoor and down the ladder. As George waited his turn, a bullet zipped past the back of his head, causing him to duck. When he looked up the sowar next to him was lying slumped against the barricade, his sun helmet beside him and a neat blue hole in the side of his head where the Snider bullet had entered. Most of the far side of his skull had been blown away, and fragments of skin, bone and brain tissue were spattered over the face and helmet of the soldier beyond him. 'Aaaiee!' cried the man in anguish, as he wiped his face with his sleeve.

George couldn't help gagging as he stripped the dead sowar of his ammunition pouches and rifle before making his escape down the ladder. Ilderim, Jenkyns and Hamilton brought up the rear. In a corner room on the first floor below they discovered Dr Kelly, a short Irishman with a red beard, tending Cavagnari and the wounded Guides on the floor. Pir Ali lay unconscious beside them, while a sowar fired through the half-barricaded window.

'How's Sir Louis?' shouted Hamilton.

'It's just a flesh wound,' said Dr Kelly. 'The bullet glanced off his skull, but it gave him quite a bump and he needs rest.'

'I certainly do not,' said Cavagnari. 'We need every rifle we can muster. Just patch me up, Doctor, quick as you can. In the meantime, Hamilton, you'd better put a man on each window and a couple covering the trapdoor. They're bound to get onto the roof sooner or later.'

'Sir.'

'What about the gate from the inner courtyard to the lane beyond?' asked George, who had noticed that exit during his first visit. 'If the mutineers get through there we're finished.'

'One man's keeping an eye on it,' said Hamilton. 'But you're right. I'd better send a couple more.'

'I'm happy to go,' offered George. 'I'll take Ilderim Khan with me.'