Hart of Empire (36 page)

Minutes later he returned with Sykes. 'You asked to see me, General?'

'Do you know this man?' said Roberts sharply, gesturing at George.

At first Sykes failed to recognise his former fag beneath the beard and Afghan clothes. 'He looks familiar, but I can't . . .'

George interrupted, 'It's me, you fool. George Hart.'

Sykes's eyes widened in shock. 'Good Heavens, it
is
.'

'So you
do
know him?' said Roberts.

'Um . . . yes, sir. We were at Harrow together.'

'And do you know why he's in Afghanistan?'

Sykes paused, causing George to hold his breath. He knew that if Sykes lied, there was every chance he would be locked up until the battle was over.

At last Sykes spoke: 'I only know what he told me, sir.'

George exhaled slowly in relief

'And what was that?' asked Roberts.

'That he was sent here by the Prime Minister on a secret mission.'

'Did he tell you the nature of that mission?'

'Only that it was to do with our relations with Afghanistan.'

'He didn't elaborate?'

'No, sir.'

'And you didn't think to mention this either to myself or Major FitzGeorge?'

'No, sir . . . That is, I did think about it, but Hart warned me that if I said anything my career would suffer.'

'And you believed him?'

'Yes, sir. He said that his mission had been authorized by the Commander-in-Chief himself, and that I would be jeopardizing my prospects of promotion if I revealed what he was up to.'

Roberts exploded: 'You self-serving fool! As a member of my staff, your first loyalty should always be to
me
- yet you think of your own advancement and keep vital information from your chief! If I didn't need every man I could muster for the battle ahead, I'd lock you up and throw away the key. As it is, you're finished on the staff. From tomorrow you'll serve with the Ninth Lancers as a supernumerary. Maybe together you can regain your honour. Now get out of my sight.'

'But, sir, I was only doing what--'

'Get out!' shouted Roberts. 'Or, so help me, God . . .'

'Sir,' said Sykes, pausing only to glare at George before he saluted, turned on his heel and left.

'It seems,' said Roberts to George, 'that you are who you
now
say you are. Whether the rest of your story is true is another matter. But as there's no way to verify it, I'll have to let the matter rest until after the battle. In the meantime, I'm sending you and your Afghan companion to assist Colonel Jenkins of the Guides Infantry. He's a good man, one of the best I've got, and is in charge of the vulnerable eastern sector, which, if the princess is right, will face the brunt of the assault. He'll need every man he can get.'

'I'm glad to help where I can,' said George, 'as is Ilderim Khan. He served for many years in the Guide cavalry, retiring as a subadar, and may still know some of the officers. Will we retain our ranks?'

'No, your ranks are unverified and mean nothing to me. You'll both serve as privates. But remember this: if you're playing me false, you'll suffer the consequences. I promise you that. As for the princess, she'll be kept within these walls until it's possible for her to join her brother in exile.'

'You mean to keep her under lock and key?' George was aghast.

'No, no, nothing like that,' said Roberts, waving dismissively. 'She'll be given a guard of honour, as befitting her royal status.'

'And if she tries to leave the cantonment before the battle?'

'Then she'll be, um - how can I put it? - dissuaded. She'll be much safer here. I'd be grateful if you could explain that to her.'

'I'll try, but she won't like it.'

'Maybe not, but there it is. Goodnight, then,' said Roberts, bowing slightly to Yasmin as he rose from his chair. 'FitzGeorge will arrange your quarters and the princess's guard.'

Once Roberts had departed, George turned to Yasmin and translated what the general had said.

'Great God!' responded Yasmin, eyes blazing. 'Am I to be kept here against my will?'

'I'm afraid so. At least until the battle is over.'

'That's not
quite
how the general put it,' interrupted FitzGeorge, also speaking Pashto.

'Isn't it, Major?' said George. 'Then perhaps you'd care to explain what he
did
mean.'

'Simply that it wouldn't be safe for the princess to leave while the rebellion is in full spate.'

'So you won't allow me to, is that it?' asked Yasmin.

'Um, yes,' said FitzGeorge, 'but for your own good.'

'What nonsense! Why can't you admit I'm your prisoner?'

'Because it's not true, Your Highness,' said FitzGeorge, lamely. 'You should think of yourself, instead, as a guest with restricted movement. Now, if you'll allow me, I'll show you to your quarters.'

George was lying fully clothed on a camp-bed in his room over the main gate, mulling over the events of the evening, when a knock sounded at his door. 'Who is it?'

'FitzGeorge. I've a message from the princess.'

George rose wearily from the camp-bed, padded to the door and opened it. FitzGeorge was standing there, his head cocked to one side, a half-smile on his lips.

'What message?'

'She wanted you to know that she doesn't blame you for what's happened, and that she trusts you'll stick to your side of the bargain. I'm intrigued as to what she means by that.'

'Oh, it's nothing,' said George, more than a little irked that Yasmin felt she needed to remind him to keep the cloak secret. 'Was there anything else?'

'I meant to ask you earlier if you ever found out what became of the cloak.'

So surprised was George by the question that he just stared, open-mouthed. 'The cloak? What cloak?' he said at last, playing for time.

'You know perfectly well what cloak. The Prophet's Cloak, of course. You asked me about it at Ali Khel, and I confirmed it was on its way to the mullah at Ghazni. The question is, did it get there?'

'I've no idea,' said George, trying to keep his gaze away from the saddle-bag beside the bed. 'But, given the success of the mullah's call to arms, I'd say it's a safe bet he has it.'

'You'd think so, wouldn't you? But none of my spies has mentioned it, which they would have done if he'd worn it in public.'

'Maybe he's waiting for the right moment.'

'That moment's been and gone. The only logical explanation is that he doesn't have it yet. But if that's so, who does?'

'Does it matter?'

'I don't suppose so. Either way the tribes have risen and if Lytton holds his nerve we'll soon have them licked. Then we can choose at our leisure which bits of the country we'd like to keep hold of.'

'This is what you've been planning for all along, isn't it?' asked George. 'To break up the country, divide and rule.'

'Of course. It will secure India's frontiers and give us the opportunity to extend British trade.'

'What do you care about trade?'

'Nothing, ordinarily,' said FitzGeorge. He paused. 'But I'm a little short of cash at the moment and an Armenian merchant, prominent in the Calcutta business community, has offered me a very generous sum if I secure for him a monopoly over certain Afghan exports.'

'Which ones?'

'Fruit and nuts, to begin with. Have you tried them? They're excellent.'

'What else?'

'Opium. My merchant friend is keen to find out if Afghanistan, particularly the Helmand province in the south-west, is suitable for the production and export of high-grade opium. The Chinese can't get enough of it.'

'And why is that?' asked George, indignantly. 'It's because twice in the last forty years we've fought wars to force the Chinese to open their ports to our trade, particularly opium grown in India. Why do you think we acquired Hong Kong in forty-two if not as a base for opium smuggling? And why do you think in sixty we destroyed the Imperial Summer Palace at Peking, one of the wonders of the world, if not to promote free trade? It certainly seems to have worked because this year, according to
The Times
, we exported twice as many chests of opium to China as we did in eighteen sixty. The result is that three of every four Chinese males are addicts - and you're happy to extend this wicked trade here, as if the Afghans haven't got enough to worry about. What kind of a monster are you?'

FitzGeorge snorted with derision. 'Don't get pious with me, Hart. We're all in it for something, even you. And why shouldn't my Armenian friend take over? He'll make more money out of the opium and fruit trades than the Afghans ever could. I wouldn't be surprised if, in a few years' time, they name a Kabul street after him.'

'How much?'

'How much what?'

'How much is your cut?'

'He's offered me a lakh of rupees, which is ten thousand pounds to you, but I'm sure I can squeeze a little more out of him.'

George looked at FitzGeorge scornfully, almost ashamed now that they might be brothers. 'Aren't you forgetting one thing?'

'What's that?'

'There's a battle looming that we might not win. Much good ten thousand pounds will do you when you're cold and in your grave - if the Afghans can be bothered to bury you, that is, which I very much doubt they will. Goodnight,' said George, and shut the door before FitzGeorge could respond.

Chapter 20

North-east corner of the Sherpur cantonment, Kabul, 23
December 1879

George blew on his hands for warmth as he peered across the cantonment to the Asmai Heights where, if Yasmin's intelligence was correct, the Mullah Mushk-i-Alam would light a fire to signal the start of the battle. He and Ilderim were keeping watch behind a raised parapet on the roof of the native field hospital, a walled enclosure that was the keystone to the otherwise makeshift defences in the cantonment's north-east corner. It was pitch black and bitterly cold, and most of their new comrades in the 28th Punjab Infantry were still asleep in their tents.

The day before, in line with General Roberts's instructions, George and Ilderim had reported to Colonel Jenkins, a tall, snowy-haired officer in charge of the cantonment's eastern defences that stretched from the trenches on the lower slopes of the Bimaru Heights to the corner bastion facing the Siah Sang hills. After a breezy welcome, Jenkins had posted them to the 28th, which was holding the unfinished east wall as far as the native hospital. Ilderim had wanted to join his old comrades in the Guides, manning the trench system that linked the hospital to the loopholed village of Bimaru, but Jenkins would not relent, even when George told him they had fought alongside the doomed Guides at the Residency. 'We're all desperate to avenge our fallen comrades,' he had said, 'but you can do that just as well in the Twenty-Eighth as with us. They've lost quite a few men in recent days, and will welcome the reinforcement.'

So George and Ilderim had been directed to the headquarters of the 28th, a low building set back from the unfinished wall, where a red-faced quartermaster had issued them with Sniders and the battalion uniform of light blue turbans, short black boots, khaki tunics and trousers, and white cross-belts holding a bayonet and ammunition pouches for forty rounds. Then they were assigned to a company of a hundred men defending the hospital. The company commander, in turn, had put them on night sentry duty, which was why they were standing alone on the hospital roof with orders to rouse Havildar Singh as soon as they saw the first sparks of a fire on the distant Asmai Heights.

'Can you see anything?' asked George, as he stared into the inky blackness.

'No,
huzoor
, but I can hear something being dragged across the snow.'