Hart of Empire (33 page)

George reached across and took one of her hands in his. 'I heard what you said to them and they
are
fools. I would have followed you. I
do
understand your strength of feeling. You may think I'm a typical Angrez officer but I'm not. I was born in Ireland, a country that has long felt itself occupied by the Angrez, and I have Zulu blood.'

'Zulu? What is that?'

'An African tribe. My mother is half Zulu, yet earlier this year I fought for the British against the Zulus in a war I knew to be wrong.'

'Why?'

George sighed. 'It's hard to explain. I didn't agree with the war, but I felt it might have a positive outcome for the Zulus if it resulted in the destruction of their king's brutal system of rule.'

'And did it?'

'Time will tell. But I wanted you to know that I'm not what I seem to be. This,' he said, indicating his tanned skin, 'should give you a clue.'

Yasmin smiled. 'You're not very different in colour from me. I thought you'd been too long in the sun. But I'm glad you understand why I acted as I did.'

George nodded. 'There's just one thing that still bothers me. Did you feign your affection for me to get close to the cloak?'

'At first, yes. I
do
like you, more than any man I've met - not that my family has exposed me to many - but my personal feelings will always come second to my duty.'

'So you don't regret betraying me?'

'I did it for the noblest of reasons. But I am sorry that my actions might have caused you pain, Angrez. Tell me what happened at Ghazni. How did you escape the mullah's men?'

'I didn't.'

'But . . . here you are.'

'I got away eventually, thanks to him,' said George, nodding towards Ilderim's sleeping form.

'And before that? Were you badly treated?'

'I'd prefer not to talk about it,' said George, staring intently into the flames.

Yasmin leant closer to him and gently stroked his face. 'I'm sorry, Angrez, I truly am.'

George turned to face her. 'It's forgotten, in the past. What matters now is that we work together to end the war and the British occupation.'

'I'm with you, Angrez. But how do we do that?'

'By keeping the cloak out of the hands of the Ghazis and tribesmen converging on Kabul, and by warning General Roberts that he's about to be attacked. Because if Roberts
is
taken by surprise, and his force at Kabul is destroyed, the Indian government will send more troops and use the defeat as an excuse to annex the whole country.'

'You're asking me to betray my own people? I won't do it!' she said, with a shake of the black mane hanging loose down her back.

'You wouldn't be betraying your people, just those who would seek to profit from war,' said George, patiently. 'Surely most Afghans would choose peace over war.'

'Yes, but not at the cost of their independence.'

'It need not come to that if we give Roberts sufficient warning of an attack.'

Yasmin seemed unconvinced. 'But even if we
do
save your General Roberts, what makes you think he and all the other Angrez soldiers will then want to leave?'

'They won't. Not immediately. They'll go when they're ordered to by London, of course, but that will not happen if our troops have been defeated in the field. So it's vitally important to prevent that.'

'So what you're saying, Angrez, is that your people are
less
likely to leave if they've been defeated in battle?'

'A defeat will give the Indian government the excuse it needs to send more troops to occupy Afghanistan permanently. The government in London, on the other hand, does not want this to happen because it fears the financial and human cost of occupation. It was to prevent this that I was sent to Afghanistan in the first place. But a lot has happened since then, including Cavagnari's murder, and for reasons of prestige the British government would be bound to support its subordinates in Simla if one of its armies was defeated. Do you understand?'

'I think so. But the choice is not a happy one for me, Angrez. To serve my country I must betray some of my people, my family even. It does not seem right.'

'I was faced with a similar dilemma in Africa, but I made the right choice in the end. You will too.'

'It is strange you have such faith in me, Angrez, after the way I treated you. But I'm about to repay that faith.'

'What do you mean?'

'What would you say if I told you I knew when Mir Bacha was planning to attack the Angrez at Kabul?'

'When?'

'First tell me what you'd say.'

'I'd say you hold in your hand the key to the battle, and that if you tell me you will be doing me and your country a service.'

'Then it is right for me to tell you, and you can make what use of it you will. Mir Bacha's plan is to join with the Ghazni mullah and attack the Angrez camp at Sherpur north of Kabul at first light on the last day of the Shia festival of Mohurram. The festival commemorates the martyrdom of the Prophet's grandson, Imam Hussain, and runs for ten days at the start of the Muhammadan New Year. It's regarded as an auspicious date.'

'Are you saying Roberts and his men are at Sherpur? I thought they'd be holed up in the Bala Hissar.'

'Some of them were, but they evacuated the fortress after the magazine exploded in October. The whole Angrez force is now concentrated at the Sherpur cantonment, a much weaker defensive position.'

'I see. When is the last day of Mohurram?'

'A week from now.'

'At least that gives us time to warn Roberts. What will you do? Will you come with us?'

She nodded. 'On one condition.'

'Name it.'

'That you make no mention of the cloak to General Roberts. If he discovers we have it, he will either destroy it or remove it from Afghanistan. I can't allow that. Will you promise?'

George hesitated. He had been ordered by Lord Salisbury to do exactly what she was asking him to promise he would try to prevent: namely, the removal of the cloak to Britain. But as the payment of his bonus depended upon it, he decided to reassure her, and defer a final decision on the fate of the cloak until after the battle. He consoled himself with the thought that he would not, strictly speaking, be lying if he simply assured her he would keep all mention of the cloak from Roberts and his staff.

'I promise,' he said at last, a lump in his throat. 'But are you certain you want to do this? Once you're in Roberts's clutches, he won't easily let you go.'

'I'm certain,' she said, her gaze steady. 'There's nothing left for me here. My people have made their choice, and my duty now is with my brother in exile. Will you take me to him, if we survive the fighting?'

George blinked in surprise, taken aback that this once spirited woman was willing to go so meekly into exile. Could she be luring him into a false sense of security, he wondered, so that she could make off again with the cloak? Or had she genuinely given up all hope of personal rule? He couldn't decide, which was why he resolved to watch her and the cloak like a hawk until they were safely within the walls of the Sherpur cantonment. But, of course, he said nothing of this to her. 'It would be an honour,' he replied.

'Thank you, Angrez,' she said, closing her eyes and raising her lips to his. He hesitated for the briefest moment as images of Fanny and Lucy, particularly the latter, swam before him. But ignoring them he leant forward to kiss her, gently at first, and then more urgently as she pressed her upper body against his. He raised his hand to cup the gentle swelling of her right breast and she pulled away abruptly.

'I'm sorry,' said George, flushed with embarrassment. 'Please forgive me.'

'There is no need to apologize. I was enjoying it - too much. But now is not the time. Not here, in front of him,' she said, nodding towards Ilderim's sleeping form.

'Of course not.'

'Goodnight, then, Angrez,' said Yasmin, with a final kiss, before pulling her blanket over her and settling down for the night.

'Goodnight, Princess.'

Chapter 19

Near Sherpur cantonment, Kabul, winter 1879

Ilderim turned and put his finger to his lips as they approached the Afghan pickets a mile to the east of the British fortified post at Sherpur. Well wrapped in poshteens and thin scarves called
pugri
s to keep out the cold, they were leading their horses through a snow-covered field to the right of the main road, hoping that the Afghan guards ahead would not see them in the failing light.

A day earlier, at Koh-i-Daman, they had picked up the alarming news that the mullah's army had already attacked Roberts at Kabul, badly mauling a column of cavalry. Roberts himself had been present at the action and, according to the bazaar gossip, had only narrowly escaped with his life, as had the bulk of his troops. More skirmishes had taken place in the days following this initial contact, but so numerous were the insurgents that Roberts had eventually chosen to withdraw all
his troops inside the relative safety of the Sherpur cantonment. Since then they had been besieged by the mullah's army, fifteen thousand strong and led in the field by Mohammed Jan, though the mixed quality of the Afghan fighters - some of whom were trained soldiers, some fanatical Ghazis and some tribesmen out for plunder - had convinced George that it would not be too difficult to pass through their screen of pickets. Ilderim and Yasmin had agreed, so here they were, risking their lives to take news of the impending attack to a general whom none of them had any time for and whose reputation and promising career, tarnished by the setbacks of the last few days, hung in the balance.

George peered nervously to his left front and could just make out the twinkle of a fire and two sentries standing near it, stamping their feet to keep warm. 'Let's hope they're too distracted by the cold to notice us,' he whispered to Yasmin, who was walking beside him.

She nodded, a weak smile betraying the anxiety she was bound to feel as she sought to enter the camp of her country's occupiers.

All three tensed as they drew level with the picket, barely three hundred yards to their left. There was no shouted challenge, no shot, and they pressed on, convinced the worst was over. But as they remounted on the road beyond the picket, barely half a mile from the cantonment, they could hear riders behind them. Ilderim swung round in his saddle to see dark shapes coming up the road at speed. 'They've seen us,
huzoor
, we must hurry!' he shouted, urging his horse into a canter.

The others fell in behind him, their horses' hoofs thudding into the thin layer of snow on the paved surface. They had discussed the danger of approaching the cantonment at speed, and decided that it was worth the risk if they were being pursued. Now, as they clattered onwards in the dark, George was not so certain. 'Ilderim!' he called. 'Let me go first. They'll see I'm a European.'

Barely had the words left his mouth than a shot lit the darkened battlements ahead, followed by more, the flashes of flame spreading along the rampart. Bullets were striking the road all around them and George knew it was only a matter of time before one of them was hit. 'Stop firing!' he shouted, waving his free hand. 'I'm British!'

But they couldn't have heard him because, if anything, the rate of fire increased. George crouched lower on his horse's neck and continued to shout his name as the road swung sharply to the left to reveal the dark shadow of the main gate, no more than three hundred yards away. Now bullets were coming from two directions as their pursuers, fearful of losing their prey, had opened fire from horseback. Through this crossfire they rode, miraculously untouched, until even George dared to imagine that they might get through unscathed. He looked back to see the princess close behind him, her beautiful face grimly determined; Ilderim, now bringing up the rear, had his pistol out and was firing the occasional shot over his shoulder. It seemed to George that some invisible shield was deflecting the storm of lead and protecting them from harm.

Then something thudded into his horse's chest, causing the large gelding to stumble and fall. Time seemed to slow as the ground rose to meet George's right shoulder. The impact was softened a little by the light covering of snow, yet it still drove the air from his lungs and left him sprawled on his back. Beside him lay the still form of his dead horse.