Hart of Empire (40 page)

'What are your orders, Major?' asked Sykes.

'To advance, to charge - as you've both suggested.'

'I didn't suggest that, sir, and neither did Hart. If we charge now,' advised Sykes who, like George, had served in a cavalry regiment, 'the horses will arrive blown. Better to close the distance at a trot.'

'And when we do, how do we find Mir Bacha? They all look the same to me.'

'To you maybe,' said George, 'but not to the princess.' He turned to Yasmin. 'Can you see anything, Princess,' he asked in Pashto, 'that would enable us to pinpoint your cousin?'

She scanned the many standards being carried by the retreating Kohistanis and soon found what she was looking for. 'Look to the centre of the throng, Angrez,' she said, pointing, 'and you will find a large body of cavalry and a huge green and gold flag. Do you see it?'

'Yes.'

'That's Mir Bacha's personal standard. He will not allow it to be captured.'

'So if we aim for the standard, we'll find Mir Bacha?'

'Yes.'

George repeated what she had said to the two officers.

'Very good,' said FitzGeorge. 'The standard will be our target. Tell your men, Sykes, that whoever captures it will earn himself ten guineas.'

'And the man who captures Mir Bacha himself?' asked Sykes.

'A hundred.'

Sykes whistled softly. 'That's quite an incentive, Major, but can you be sure the general will pay out?'

'I'm certain of it. His priority now is to secure the rebel leaders. If he could do that for a hundred guineas a man, he'd pay up willingly.'

Sykes grinned. 'I'll inform the men,' he said, turning his horse to find the nearest NCO.

As George waited for the order to move, his horse impatiently pulling on its bridle, he felt a hand on his forearm. 'If anything happens to me, Angrez,' said Yasmin, her eyes brimming with tears, 'I want you to know that I am grateful for all you've done.'

'Thank you,' said George, putting his hand over hers. 'But you mustn't talk like this. You'll come safely through. We both will.'

She gave a thin smile and nodded, but George could tell she was unconvinced. He was about to speak more words of encouragement when Sykes returned to the head of the column and spoke to the bugler. He at once played the seven notes that all cavalrymen dream of hearing on active service: 'Form line!'

The two squadrons formed up side by side, in two lines, their combined front extending for more than three hundred yards. FitzGeorge and Sykes took their place at the head of the right squadron, the 9th Lancers, with George, Yasmin and Ilderim close behind. George surveyed the ground between them and the retreating Kohistanis and noted with relief that it was flat and uncultivated, with only the occasional ditch and clump of trees providing an obstacle. It was almost ideal for cavalry.

By now the closest Kohistanis had seen what was happening and many were fleeing for the nearest high ground, while a few of the bolder types had turned to stand their ground. Mir Bacha and his horsemen, on the other hand, were continuing their orderly withdrawal down the centre of the plain as if they had all the time in the world.

Taking his lead from FitzGeorge and Sykes, George drew his sword and carefully wrapped the loop of cord dangling from its three-bar hilt around his wrist in case he lost his grip. Then he tested the edge of the three-foot straight blade with his thumb and felt a prick of pain as it drew blood. It was razor sharp.

He looked beyond Yasmin to Ilderim and felt a surge of brotherly affection for the big Afghan who, thus far, had seen him through so much danger. As ever, Ilderim seemed to be enjoying the prospect of combat, and was sitting on his grey with a half-smile on his handsome bearded face, the stock of his carbine resting lazily on his left thigh.

'Ilderim,' called George.

'Yes,
huzoor
?'

'Don't worry about me today. Stay close to the princess.'

Ilderim nodded, and as he did so Sykes gave the order to advance. The bugle sounded the familiar three notes, repeated once, and the two lines began to move forward: first at a walk, then a trot and finally, as the distance to the nearest Kohistanis closed to under two hundred yards, a gallop.

Once again George felt that strange mix of fear and exhilaration as his horse tore across the plain, kicking clods of snow onto the grim-faced troopers behind them, their fearsome lances extended like the quills of a porcupine. Bullets were zipping through the air and the odd one found its mark, knocking a trooper from his horse, or bringing his mount down. But no sooner had one rider dropped out than the nearest officer cried, 'Close up! Close up!' and the line formed a new unbroken front.

Most of the Afghans on foot were running from the wall of horsemen, which must have seemed as unstoppable as the incoming tide. But a few brave souls had stopped to face the foe, and they were the first to be consumed by sword and lance as the line swept over them. George saw a lone rifleman to his right front, and changed direction so that he could cut at him right-handed. But at the last moment the Afghan went to ground and George's swing passed harmlessly over his head. It was left to a trooper behind to skewer the Afghan with his lance, a weapon from which no man on foot without cover could hide.

Up ahead, Mir Bacha and a few of his horsemen had at last recognized the danger and were galloping for the safety of the pass, the huge green and gold standard marking their progress through the scattered remnants of the Kohistani army. Yet the bulk of Mir Bacha's escort, presumably under orders from their chief, had turned to meet the Lancers and was firing a last ragged fusillade before the two forces collided. More saddles emptied behind George, yet he and the others rode on unscathed.

The bugler sounded the charge and a great cheer rose from the throats of the Lancers as they swept towards their prey. But George had eyes only for the green and gold standard, which, billowing out behind its bearer, was nearing the spur at the entrance to the pass. 'Leave the fighting to the Lancers and follow me,' he shouted across to Yasmin and Ilderim. 'We must catch up with the standard before it's too late.'

Yasmin nodded and, with barely fifty yards between them and the much bigger block of Afghan horsemen, George veered off to the right in an effort to outflank the obstacle. Yasmin and Ilderim followed, and it seemed for a moment as if they would make it unimpeded, giving them a clear run at Mir Bacha. But just as Sykes, FitzGeorge and the front rank of Lancers smashed into the waiting body of Afghan horse amid screams, cries and shots, half a dozen Afghans wheeled to the right in an attempt to block George's manoeuvre. Yasmin killed one with her pistol, and Ilderim another with his carbine, which he was firing one-handed. But the rest closed with
tulwar
s and George found himself attacked from two directions. He parried one cut with a loud ringing of steel, and ducked the second, before countering with a thrust that pierced his first assailant's lower abdomen. The man screamed with pain and clutched his stomach as George turned back to the second Afghan, who had closed to take advantage. It was too late to block the Afghan's slashing cut, which was arcing towards his head. But it never made contact because, halfway through his stroke, the Afghan reared up in his saddle as a bullet passed through his midriff, his
tulwar
dropping from his grip. His expression was a mixture of agony and amazement as he toppled from his saddle.

'Come, Angrez!' shouted Yasmin, smoking pistol in hand. 'There's still time to catch my cousin.'

George put spurs to his mount and was relieved to see that all three of them had come through the scrimmage, though Ilderim was tightening a bloody strip of material round his left forearm with his teeth. 'How is it?' yelled George, as they rode for the spur.

'A scratch,' replied Ilderim. 'Unlike the wound I inflicted in return.'

George looked back to see a boiling mass of men and horses, hacking, stabbing and shooting at each other. Though his view was partly obscured by smoke, he could see that the discipline and skill at arms of the Lancers was giving them the upper hand against a numerically superior opponent. Yet it seemed unlikely that any would break free in time to join their pursuit of Mir Bacha and his diminished escort who, by now, had disappeared round the corner of the spur. They were on their own.

George began to have his doubts as to the sense of their headlong dash into the pass and voiced them to Yasmin, whose horse was surging ahead. 'Princess!' he shouted. 'We should stop. There's no knowing how many snipers are guarding the sides of the pass. It's madness to rush in without support.'

She pulled hard on her reins, slowing her horse and almost causing George and Ilderim to collide with her. 'Are you afraid, Angrez?' she asked.

George felt a surge of anger that she should suggest such a thing. 'Not afraid,' he snapped, 'just realistic about our chances. It was worth making the attempt, but we're too late. If we enter that pass alone we won't come out alive.'

'Then return to your people. I must go on.'

'Why?'

'Because I would rather not be remembered as the Afghan princess who betrayed her people and was forced into exile.'

'That won't happen. General Roberts knows the contribution you've already made to our cause, and will certainly look favourably upon your claim to the throne when we leave.'

Yasmin shook her head sadly. 'You're so young and still have much to learn, Angrez. General Roberts will support the strongest claimant, whatever I do today. I know now I will never be ruler, and that whoever takes over will not forgive my actions of these last few days. I also know I can never leave Afghanistan.'

'But you said before that--'

'I was angry with Mir Bacha and the Kohistanis for rejecting me, and didn't see the sense of remaining in a country that offers no outlet for a woman's talent or ambition. But I know that I could never be happy in exile. So here, today, is where it must end. And if, before I die, I can kill my cousin and help bring peace to my country, my life won't have been in vain.'

George tried to think of something - anything - that would change her mind. In desperation, he blurted out, 'I love you.'

She raised her eyebrows. 'You
love
me? How can you after I left you at Ghazni?'

'I don't know, but I do.'

Yasmin blinked as if holding back the tears. 'Maybe you do love me, Angrez - and maybe I have feelings for you too. But it doesn't change anything.'

'Why not? My mission is almost over and tomorrow, if I survive this jaunt, I'll leave this country for ever. Why don't you come with me?'

'To where?'

'To England. To South Africa. Does it matter?'

'Indeed it matters. These places are as alien to me as Afghanistan is to you. I know what you're doing. You're hoping to delay me long enough for your cavalry to arrive and force the pass. But that will be too late. Mir Bacha will be long gone. I must go now.'

'Princess, please, I beg you not to go. It will mean certain death.'

'I know that.'

'Then why do it?'

'Because it's my destiny. Goodbye, Angrez.' She gave George a last look of regret before she turned her horse towards the pass and dug in her heels.

George was about to follow when Ilderim grabbed his reins. 'What are you doing?' demanded George. 'We have to help her.'

'No,
huzoor
. She has chosen to die. I prefer life.'

'Let go of my reins, Ilderim,' said George, raising his sword. 'Or, by Christ, I'll sever your arm.'

'As you wish,
huzoor
,' he said, releasing the reins with a flourish. 'But I will not come with you.'

'It's your choice,' said George, as he put spurs to his horse and thundered after Yasmin who, already, was two hundred yards ahead and nearing the entrance to the pass.

'Princess!' yelled George, as he rode. 'Wait!'

She either didn't hear or didn't want to, and was soon into the pass and out of view. George used the flat of his sword's blade to urge his mount to go faster, but it made little difference, and every yard he expected to hear the gunshot that would signal Yasmin's demise. It never came and, as he neared the rocky spur that marked the southern entrance to the pass, he began to hope that Mir Bacha and his Kohistanis had kept running. But once past the spur, and into the pass, his optimism was dashed. Lining the heights on either side of the narrowest part of the pass ahead, perched behind every bush and rock, were hundreds of armed Afghans, while the stony track through the defile was barred by a thorn barricade protected by yet more riflemen and, beyond, a small cluster of horsemen with Mir Bacha's green and gold standard in their midst. All eyes seemed focused on a single stationary rider - Yasmin - who had reined in halfway between George and the barricade.