Hart of Empire (42 page)

'I'm sorry, General, but that's confidential.'

'Yes, yes. I'm aware of that. But I'd consider it a special favour - and one that I'd be happy to reciprocate - if you could tell me the gist of what you'll write.'

George remembered a similar offer - you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours - being made to him in Zululand by Lord Chelmsford's chief of staff. But the crucial difference now was that he wasn't being asked to lie, just to provide information. Moreover, the man asking was a general who, despite his flaws, was clearly heading for the very top of the army, a man he should try not to cross.

After a pause, George said, 'I'll give you a brief pointer. On the one hand I fully understand you've had a difficult job to do and feel, on the whole, that you've carried out your military responsibilities with professionalism and no little skill. On the other I think you were far too quick to invade, and that you let your own strategic priorities - notably your wish to see part of Afghanistan fall under British rule - cloud your judgement of the political situation, notably Yakub's responsibility for the massacre. And even after the invasion you made mistakes, alienating the locals with your harsh proclamations and, even worse, underestimating their military capabilities, hence the recent siege and the close-run battle yesterday.'

Roberts raised his palm in acknowledgement. 'I accept I've made mistakes, Hart. All generals do. All I ask is that you present the duke and the Cabinet with the full picture. Yes, there was a minor setback in the Chardeh valley a couple of weeks ago, I'm not denying that. But we put that right yesterday and I'd hope to have British troops out of the country before next summer at the latest.'

'Can you guarantee that we'll have left by then?'

'Too many variables are involved for that, not least the agreement of Lord Lytton and his council. But I'll do my best. You have my word.'

'Good. And in turn I promise to include in my report the fairest possible account of your actions during these last few months.'

Roberts extended his hand with a smile. 'Then let's shake on it, like gentlemen.'

'Gladly,' said George, satisfied that he had promised nothing more than to tell the truth. But as he took the small bony hand offered, Roberts widened his bright blue eyes and tilted his head slightly as if an unspoken pact had passed between them.

The spell was broken by a knock at the door. 'Yes?' responded Roberts.

A young staff officer entered and saluted. 'Sorry to interrupt you, General, but the Lancers have just brought in the princess's body.'

'Thank you, Jarvis, I'll be out directly.' Roberts turned back to George, whose face had paled. 'You all right, Hart?'

'Yes . . . I . . . I think so. It's the shock of her death. I still can't believe she's gone.'

'No, I can see that. Well, I must arrange the funeral. Ordinarily we'd return the body to the family, but there's no time. Muhammadans are never embalmed, as I'm sure you know, and must be buried as soon after death as possible.'

'So you'll bury her today?'

'Yes.'

'May I see her first?'

'Of course. Follow me.'

They left the headquarters office and found the horse-drawn ambulance and a Lancer guard of honour just beyond the main gate. As they reached the rear of the ambulance, the princess's body was being removed on a makeshift stretcher of lances and blankets.

'Present arms!' shouted an officer. The guard responded by lowering their lances to the horizontal position, with the butt resting in the armpit, a sign of respect. Roberts and the assembled officers saluted, as did George, feeling sick at what he was about to witness.

Roberts strode forward and lifted the blanket covering Yasmin's face. He shook his head slowly, as if deploring the waste of a young life, let the blanket fall and moved a few paces away. George was next. As he lifted the blanket, and saw that it was indeed her, he felt a wave of grief wash over him and shuddered. But it was some comfort to see that her face was unmarked by injury, though it was flecked with blood and grime, and that in the stillness of death she was, if anything, even more beautiful. Her lips were parted slightly and George could have sworn, or at least consoled himself with the thought, that at the moment of death she had been smiling. He leant down and kissed her cold forehead.

'Goodbye, Princess,' he whispered, a single tear falling from his face onto hers.

George's body felt heavy with exhaustion as he trudged up the stone steps to his room above the gatehouse. With Roberts's permission, he had decided to leave with Ilderim for the Khyber Pass that very afternoon, and it only remained to don his old Afghan disguise and gather up his kit. It was some small consolation to him that, though he had failed to stop the war or save Yasmin's life, he at least had possession of the cloak. Now all he needed to do, to claim the reward that would enable him to pay off his mother's creditors, was get it back to England in one piece.

But as George reached the door to his room he found it slightly ajar. He crept forward and looked through the narrow gap. The room was dark, with its curtains still drawn, but he could just make out a shadowy form by the bed, rifling through his saddle-bags. He flung open the door and tore across, driving his shoulder into the small of the intruder's back and knocking him to the floor.

'Aaargh!' roared the man in pain and surprise, before springing nimbly to his feet. He was an inch or so taller than George, and though he could have run off he didn't. Instead he came at George and the two of them wrestled, crashing into a wall, then the bed and finally the floor. The man had one hand on George's throat and was slowly throttling him. In desperation George slammed a fist into the intruder's kidney and the pressure on his thoat eased, enabling him to roll away, gasping for breath. But when he looked back the man had drawn a tiny pistol and was pointing it at his chest.

'Don't shoot!' said George, instinctively. 'Just take what you want and go.'

'Gladly,' came the reply, 'if you'll pass me the saddle-bags.'

The voice was unmistakable. 'FitzGeorge?'

'Who else?'

'What are you doing here, skulking about like a thief?'

'I would have thought that was obvious. First you lie to me about the cloak, which you had in your possession all along. Then you persuade the general to withdraw from Afghanistan. Don't you understand what that means? Without the commission from the trading concessions, I won't be able to pay my debts and will have to resign from the Army. I'll be ruined and my father will disown me. Which is why I need money from somewhere, and that somewhere is the cloak. So pass me the saddle-bags, there's a good chap, and we'll say no more about it.'

'You can't mean to sell it to the highest bidder,' said George, appalled.

'Why not? If it's as precious to the Afghans as they claim, they'll pay handsomely for it.'

'I'm sure they will,' said George, massaging his bruised throat. 'But what if it finds its way into the hands of someone who'll use it for their own ends, as the mullah tried to do?'

'What if it does? We're pulling out, thanks to you, so what do I care? Anyway, don't take the moral high ground with me. For all I know you were planning to sell it too. You certainly weren't going to hand it back to its rightful owners, I'm quite sure of that.'

'No, Major, you're right. I wasn't planning to hand it back because I've been ordered by my superiors, your father among them, to see it safe to London.'

'To
London
? I don't believe you.'

'It's true. They want to keep it out of the clutches of the religious fanatics.'

'But we're leaving. It's no longer our business.'

'Isn't it? What if our preferred candidates as rulers of the separate provinces are toppled by opponents using the cloak? It'd be our business then.'

FitzGeorge mulled over George's words. 'Yes,' he said, after a considerable pause. 'I suppose you're right. I tell you what. I'll do you a deal. I need money, you need the cloak to complete your mission. So why don't I take the jewelled clasp and you can keep the rest? After all, the clasp is not even part of the original garment. I read somewhere that it was added by Ahmad Shah Durrani, one of Yakub's ancestors, in the eighteenth century.'

'That's possible, I suppose,' said George, not entirely convinced. 'I certainly didn't hear any mention of it until I saw the cloak for the first time in Kohistan. But, even so, I can't let you take it.'

FitzGeorge laughed, waving the end of the pistol. 'You're hardly in a position to stop me, now, are you?'

'Are you serious?'

'Deadly.'

'You'd shoot me for the clasp?'

'Yes,' said FitzGeorge, jutting his jaw defiantly.

'You must be desperate.'

'I am.'

George considered playing the trump card of their probable kinship. But would FitzGeorge believe him? And even if he did, would it be enough to curb his avarice? After all, they hardly knew each other and had little in common beyond a slight physical resemblance. And something else prevented George showing his hand: an instinct that, once his royal connections were known, everything would change. He certainly wasn't ashamed of them, far from it, but neither did he wish to be known thereafter as a royal bastard whose career was dependent on his father's patronage. He preferred to make his own way in life, and he knew he could only do that if he kept his suspicions about his father's identity to himself. So he stayed silent.

FitzGeorge raised his eyebrows. 'What's this? The garrulous Hart for once struck dumb? I'll take that as acceptance of my offer, then, shall I?'

George nodded.

'Good. Well, if you'll do the honours,' said FitzGeorge, pointing towards the saddle-bags.

George did as he was asked, unclasping one of the bags and pulling out the cloak. Then, having taken a deep breath, he wrenched off the clasp and handed it to FitzGeorge. 'I hope you can live with yourself, Major.'

'Oh, I think I can,' said FitzGeorge, with a wink. 'The question is, can you?'

'What do you mean by that?'

'I think you know. Goodbye, Hart. I doubt our paths will cross again.'

'Don't be too sure, Major.'

Chapter 23

Near Torkham, the Afghan gateway to the Khyber Pass, late December 1879

It was a beautiful day to bid farewell to Afghanistan. The sun was glinting off the snow-covered ground, the air crisp and clear, as they crested the final ridge to reveal the border crossing at Torkham in the valley below. George turned in his saddle to the man who had seen him through so many dangers, and from whom he would now have to part. 'So, my old friend, it's time to say goodbye.'

'Yes,
huzoor
,' said Ilderim, stony-faced, trying hard not to show his true feelings.

'This is for you,' said George, pulling the money-belt and its remaining sovereigns from his saddle-bag, and handing it to Ilderim. 'I've kept back a few coins to get me as far as Karachi. The rest are for you.'

Ilderim opened the belt and counted the sovereigns. 'Twenty-nine,
huzoor
? This is more than you owe me.'

'Maybe so,' said George, with a grin, 'but no more than you deserve. No amount of money can repay the service you have done me. I'm for ever in your debt.'

'No,
huzoor
. You have repaid me handsomely by reconciling me with my father.'

'That was for my benefit too, if you remember. But I'm glad it's worked out. I could tell how much he loves you, and must have missed you. I'd give my eye teeth to be as close to my own father.'

'Why are you not,
huzoor
?' asked Ilderim.

'It's a long story, for another time. Before I go, I have one more thing for you.'

'A gift,
huzoor
?'

'No, not a gift, more a responsibility.' George felt behind him in his saddle-bag and brought out the cloak, neatly folded into a square. 'I didn't tell you this before because I knew you wouldn't approve, but my superiors wanted me to take this to my country so that it could never be used again to rouse the Afghan people against us. They even promised me a reward of money, a lot of money, which I desperately need. But I can't bring myself to do it. The cloak belongs here in Afghanistan so I'm entrusting it to you. Will you swear to return it, when the time is right, to its shrine in Kandahar?'