Hart of Empire (17 page)

'That will be of little consolation to Hamilton and the others,' said George. He turned to Walidad Khan. 'Is there any hope of survivors?'

'No, sahib, the buildings are all on fire.'

'Can you show me?'

The commander looked at the amir and received a nod of assent. 'This way, sahib.'

Up on the palace roof, with the sun low in the sky and the light beginning to fade, they could see great plumes of smoke rising from the Residency compound, which was barely a quarter of a mile away. The Mess House was little more than a charred ruin, but the other two buildings were burning fiercely, a sign that the defenders hadn't been long overcome. Both inside and outside the compound a huge crowd was celebrating its victory by chanting and firing rifles into the air. 'Those poor souls,' said George. 'It doesn't look as if they managed to get the cannon back to the barracks.'

'No,
huzoor
,' said Ilderim. 'I can see it by the entrance, where we left it.'

George looked in that direction, but it was too far to make out any detail. 'What else can you see?'

'Some mutinous dogs near the gun. They're cutting at something with their knives.'

'Is it a body?'

'Maybe so,
huzoor
. They've put it on a spear and are holding it up for the crowd to see.'

The mutineers' chanting grew louder. George felt sick. 'Can you see what it is?' he asked, though he knew the answer.

'It's a man's head,
huzoor
, but there's no beard. It must be Hamilton Sahib's.'

George turned and vomited.

Chapter 9

Royal Palace, Bala Hissar, Kabul

George woke with a start, his heart thumping and his body bathed in sweat. He blinked his eyes open, desperate to erase the nightmarish image of Hamilton's headless body lying by the abandoned gun, but it was still dark. He groped for matches and lit the oil lamp by the bed. Slowly his breathing returned to normal.

As he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, he agonized over his next move. He was tempted to use the murder of Cavagnari and the others as an excuse not to continue with his mission now that an uprising had taken place and a new British invasion was inevitable. Yet he also knew that the rising, thus far, was only in Kabul and that the Mullah Mushk-i-Alam could still use the Prophet's Cloak to spread the flame of
jihad
across the country. His mission, therefore, was still very much alive. Yet Pir Ali's death in the Residency had cost him not only his main contact in Afghanistan, but all hope of discovering the whereabouts of the cloak. All he knew for certain was that it had been moved from its shrine in Kandahar by either Cavagnari's agents, or those of the Mullah Mushk-i-Alam, and was probably bound for the mullah's home town of Ghazni. He and Ilderim would go there next, he decided, but first he had to recover from his wound and let the tumult in Kabul die down a little. As things stood, no European in Afghanistan was safe.

Resolved as to his future course of action, George blew out the lamp and fell asleep. He was woken at dawn by a servant. 'Sahib, His Highness would like to speak with you in the durbar rooms.'

'This very minute?'

'Yes, sahib, it's a matter of some urgency.'

George dressed and made his way downstairs to the first of the durbar rooms where he found the amir, dressed informally in a dark blue
kurta
and white pyjama trousers, reclining on a cushion and eating an apricot. A large bowl of fruit lay at his elbow. 'Ah, Mr Harper, do take a seat,' said Yakub, wiping juice from his chin with a sleeve. 'Did you know we Afghans produce the finest apricots in the world, to say nothing of our pomegranates, peaches, grapes and plums, or that our dried fruit and nuts, particularly walnuts, are our chief exports and are prized all over India?'

'I did know that, Your Highness,' said George.

'Would you like to try one?'

'Not just now. I prefer savoury food in the morning.'

Yakub chuckled. 'You never did explain how you and your Afghan guide came to be at the Residency yesterday. How long have you been in Afghanistan?'

'Not long,' said George, as he sat down. He paused, wondering whether it was worth continuing with his cover story, then decided that he would have more influence over the amir if he came clean and admitted his links to the British government. 'I didn't tell you the truth yesterday, Your Highness. I'm not a trader. My real name is Captain George Hart and I was sent to Afghanistan by the Foreign Office to keep an eye on the resident.'

'To spy on your own side? Why was that necessary?'

'Because, Your Highness, there are those in the Indian government who think that the only sure way to stop a Russian invasion of India is by annexing all or part of Afghanistan. Lord Lytton is of this mind, as was Sir Louis Cavagnari. The British government, on the other hand, is anxious to avoid the expense and loss of life that would result from a renewed war, which was why they sent me to try to prevent another conflict.'

'You don't think, Captain, that the resident had anything to do with yesterday's riot?'

'Not directly, Your Highness, but once the fire had begun he made little attempt to put out the flames. He could have agreed to the mutineers' demands and paid their arrears but he chose not to, almost as if he welcomed a crisis that he hoped would provoke an armed British response.'

Yakub shook his head. 'Sir Louis always professed himself a friend of the Afghans. I had no idea that he was really a serpent in the bosom. But it seems, Captain, that you and I want the same thing - to prevent the rebellion spreading and the need for another British invasion. To that end I wish to ask your advice. Last evening I sent a letter explaining yesterday's unfortunate events to your superior General Roberts, who commands the British garrison at Ali Khel in the Kurram valley, just eighty miles from Kabul. In it I detailed the unprovoked attack on the Residency by the troops, the people from Sherpur and the country around the Bala Hissar, and the city people of all classes. I also mentioned the attempts I had made to stop the fighting by sending Daoud Shah to speak to the rebels. This morning I have written a second letter that I would like you to read.'

George scanned the proffered sheet of paper. After half a page of flowery compliments, it came to the point:

Yesterday, from 8 a.m. till evening, thousands assembled to destroy the Residency. There has been much loss of life on both sides. At evening they set fire to the Residency. All yesterday and up till now, I and five attendants have been besieged. I have no certain news of the resident, whether he and his people have been killed in their quarters, or been seized and brought out. Afghanistan is ruined; the troops, city and surrounding country have thrown off their yoke of allegiance. Daoud Shah is not expected to recover; all his attendants were killed. The workshops and the magazine are in cinders - in fact, my kingdom is ruined. After God, I look to the government for aid and purpose. My true friendship and honesty of purpose will be proved as clear as daylight. By this misfortune I have lost my friend, the resident, and also my kingdom. I am grieved and perplexed.

'So tell me, Captain Hart,' said the amir, as George looked up from the page. 'Will it do?'

'Well, that depends on what you're trying to achieve, Your Highness. If you seek to reassure the Indian government that you're as much a victim as the defenders of the Residency, that you're still a friend of the Indian government and that you look to the British for assistance, your letter will serve admirably.'

'Thank you. That is exactly how my advisers and I were hoping it would be read.'

'But,' added George, 'I don't think you've been entirely honest in it. I know for certain that the resident is dead, and the others almost certainly are. As for your point about being besieged, you and I both know that's not true. I accept you were in a very difficult position but at no stage was the palace sealed off by the rebels. Your decision not to send your guard to intervene until it was too late was because you feared such an action would be counterproductive, not because it was a physical impossibility.'

The amir sighed. 'My friend, let's not quibble over minor details. As you are aware, I am in a delicate situation. I need the help of you British to restore my authority - particularly here in Kabul where I hear reports that my treacherous uncle Nek Mahomed Khan has usurped the government - yet I can't be seen as your lapdog. So please allow me to . . . how do you say it? Gild the lily just a little. That way I satisfy the Indian government and, hopefully, also my own people.'

George nodded. 'I take your point. I believe the Indian government was wrong to invade your country last year, and that we still haven't learnt the lesson of our previous attempt to install a pro-British ruler in Kabul.'

Yakub smiled, showing a fine set of even white teeth. 'You refer to Shah Shuja's brief reign in the eighteen forties, and you are right to make the comparison. More's the pity that a far-sighted man like you is not viceroy, instead of Lord Lytton. But it would be dishonest of me not to admit that last year's British invasion was to my benefit. Without it, my late and unlamented father would still be amir and I would be languishing in a Ghazni prison. So, I'm grateful to the British, but I'm also aware of the tightrope I must tread if I'm to keep my throne.'

'I'll do everything I can to help. But never forget that Simla and London have different agendas. One will use the news of the massacre here as an excuse to invade while the other strives for peace. Yet the British government is hamstrung because, apart from me, it has no representatives in the region - the Indian government has many and most are pro-war hawks like General Roberts. Your letter is well judged, but whether it will satisfy Roberts that you had nothing to do with the massacre is another matter.'

'Then perhaps, Captain Hart, you could write a letter of your own to the general, saying much the same thing.'

'I could, but it won't cut any ice. General Roberts doesn't know me from Adam - and has not been informed of my mission, for obvious reasons.'

'Then I will send this letter and, if Allah wills it, all will come right.'

'
Inshallah
, Your Highness. May I offer you one more piece of advice?'

'Please do.'

'Try to re-establish your authority in Kabul, and apprehend those responsible for the massacre without delay. Then you will have removed from General Roberts his chief motive for invasion - revenge.'

'That won't be easy, Captain Hart. As things stand, my power remit barely runs beyond the walls of this palace, let alone the Bala Hissar. But I will do my best, and I hope you will remain here to advise me.'

'I will stay until my hand is healed and I can ride again. By then you should have heard from General Roberts and the picture will be clearer.'

George left the durbar room in two minds about the amir. In some ways Yakub appeared to be a weak and indecisive man who told you what he thought you wanted to hear, and who needed others to make up his mind for him. That was the conclusion George had come to after their first meeting, but now he was not so sure. The amir was not a man for a crisis, that much was plain, but could that be attributed to flaws of character or to the fact that he was trapped in an impossible situation, caught between Scylla and Charybdis, his own people and the British? George could not decide.

He was mulling this over as he climbed the broad wooden staircase to his bedchamber on the second floor, and barely noticed the finely dressed Afghan lady, flanked by two guards, who was moving in the opposite direction. Only as she passed, and the faint perfume of jasmine reached his nose, did he turn and catch a fleeting glimpse of two beautiful brown eyes above a gauze veil. He sneaked a look back and judged her to be of medium height, with a full, rounded figure her garments did little to disguise.

Over the next week or so, as the rebellion showed no sign of fizzling out and the palace remained shut off from the rest of Kabul, George had more brief sightings of the mysterious lady. He learnt from Ilderim that she was none other than the amir's younger sister, Princess Yasmin, and that she was kept in close confinement because she had refused to marry the Afghan chief her brother had chosen for her. George was well aware of the sensitivity of such an issue, particularly as it involved such a high-born lady, but he was bored by his enforced inactivity and, intrigued by the princess's predicament, determined to find out more. One afternoon, he went up to her apartments on the top floor of the palace. There, he discovered her two guards asleep. Without regard for the consequences, he crept past them and tried the door. It was unlocked, so he slowly pushed it open and slipped inside.