Hart of Empire (8 page)

'Greetings, brothers,' said Ilderim, cheerily, in Pashto as they approached to within a few yards of the waiting horsemen, whose deadpan expressions betrayed neither friendliness nor hostility. 'Is it far to Jalalabad?'

'Yes, very far,' responded the leader of the group, a bearded ruffian with a hawk nose and high cheekbones. 'Who are you and what are you doing in Afghanistan?'

'My name is James Harper,' responded George, 'and I'm--'

'Hold your tongue, Feringhee,' barked the Afghan. 'I wasn't speaking to you.'

'We have business in Kabul,' said Ilderim, 'and plan to stop in Jalalabad on the way.'

'What business?'

'My companion works for the Anglo-Indian Trading Company and is hoping to develop trade between Afghanistan and Britain for the mutual benefit of both countries.'

'You lie. Trade is an excuse for the British to take control. Did not their interest in Hindustan begin with trade?'

'I can assure you,' said George, 'that my company has no--'

'Quiet! If you speak again, Feringhee, you will lose your tongue. Is it not bad enough that our exalted amir has relinquished the Khyber and allowed the Franks a presence in our capital? Soon, if we let them, they will take over and convert us to Christianity - which is why it is our duty to kill all Feringhees and their Afghan accomplices.'

The leader drew his pistol and aimed it at Ilderim. 'Prepare to meet Satan, you Angrez lapdog!'

'Wait!' shouted Ilderim, who was sure he recognized the cheek mole on the man about to kill him. 'You're Gul Shah. Your father served mine. I'm Ilderim Khan, son of Abdulla Khan, Malik of Khajuri.'

George was about to draw his own pistol, though he knew it would only delay the inevitable, but stayed his hand for the Afghan's response.

'You're
Ilderim
?' the man asked, jaw dropping. 'The malik's only son?'

'I am.'

'Is it possible? The last time I saw Ilderim he had fluff on his chin, yet indeed you resemble him. There is one way you can prove it. Tell me how I got this scar on my temple.' He tapped the side of his head with the revolver.

Ilderim smiled. 'We were hunting for eagles' eggs. You fell and hit your head.'

'That's right,' said Gul, nodding. 'And you stole my prize.'

'You'd have done the same,' countered Ilderim. 'It's good to see you, old friend. Tell me, is my father well?'

'He is. But he still hasn't forgiven you for betraying your people and serving the British. I will spare you and the dark-skinned Feringhee for now, but your father will decide your punishment. Come - Khajuri, as you know, is many miles to the west. It will be dark long before we arrive.'

With Gul and three of his men preceding them, and four more behind, there was little chance of escape, but George was more relieved than concerned. As they rode he told Ilderim that he was looking forward to seeing his ancestral home, and felt sure his father would forgive his youthful indiscretions. 'You're his flesh and blood, after all.'

'You do not know my father,' growled Ilderim. 'When I told him, aged eighteen, I was going to join the Guides, he flew into a rage and said it would be over his dead body. I stole away one night and never returned.'

'That explains your lack of enthusiasm when I suggested a visit. You could have told me, Ilderim.'

'We all have secrets,
huzoor
, even you.'

George wondered again if he should tell him the truth about his mission. But now was not the time.

An hour later, his legs stiff from so long in the saddle, George had just urged his horse up and over yet another steep, scree-covered incline when he saw ahead the ominous outline of a squat mountain fortress with a main entrance gate and a tower at each corner. 'Khajuri?' he asked Ilderim.

'Yes. It seems like only yesterday that I was stick-fighting with Gul in the courtyard, but it must have been thirty years ago.'

'Come!' shouted Gul, kicking his pony into a canter. 'Your fate awaits you.'

They clattered over the wooden drawbridge and into a courtyard lit with burning torches. Grooms hurried forward to hold their horses as they dismounted. 'Follow me,' said Gul to Ilderim, pistol in hand. 'Your father will be dining in the great hall.'

With Gul leading the way, they passed through a large wooden door, studded with iron, and down a stone passageway to where another door and a guard with a rifle barred their progress.

'Tell the malik I've brought his son and a Feringhee,' said Gul.

The sentry nodded and entered the hall, closing the great door behind him. At last it opened to reveal a towering figure of a man with a jet-black beard and a craggy, lined face, his chin glistening with animal fat. 'I have no son,' he said coldly, looking from Ilderim to George. 'Kill them.'

The words were so peremptory, so shocking, that George just stood there open-mouthed. Then he spoke. 'What do you mean you have no son?' he said in Pashto. 'He's standing before you.'

Abdulla turned his fierce dark eyes on George. 'You dare to address
me
, Feringhee?' he said, with quiet menace.

'Yes,' said George. 'I do. Your son is a warrior famed for his valour. You should be proud of him.'

'Proud?' spat Abdulla. 'Of a man who betrayed his people? Never!'

'How did he betray his people?' demanded George. 'Did he take up arms against them? No, he became a soldier of the British, like countless others. When was it a crime for an Afghan to become a mercenary?'

'Always - if his employer is British. They have twice invaded our country and deposed our rightful ruler. Now, instead of Sher Ali, we have his faithless son, Yakub Khan, who has allowed the British a residency in Kabul. Soon they will conquer the whole country.'

George measured his response. He knew that his and Ilderim's lives hung in the balance, and that to preserve them he would have to convince Abdulla that Britain was not intent on annexing his country. The only way to do this, he decided, would be to tell the truth about his mission. Only then might Ilderim's military service be forgiven.

'That is not true,' said George. 'The British government's only interest in Afghanistan is to prevent Russian encroachment, which might threaten the security of India. If Yakub Khan can guarantee this, he will be left to govern as he sees fit. How do I know this? Because I heard it from the mouth of our wazir, Lord Beaconsfield.'

'You lie, Feringhee. Why would your wazir tell a mere boy like you - and a dark-skinned one at that - about matters of such importance?'

'I have been sent here on a secret mission. I told your son I was a businessman called James Harper, but my real name is George Hart. I'm a captain in the British Army and I've been sent to Afghanistan to try to prevent a tribal uprising that will topple Yakub and provoke a fresh invasion, with more bloodshed.'

On hearing this Ilderim turned to George. 'I knew you were a soldier,
huzoor
. Didn't I say it when--'

'Quiet!' shouted Abdulla. 'I'm speaking. So tell me, Feringhee, how do you plan to stop the uprising? Because there will be one, and soon.'

'My task,' said George, looking Abdulla in the eye, 'is to prevent the Mullah Mushk-i-Alam from donning the Prophet's Cloak and rousing the faithful.'

'The Feringhee dog is a British spy!' interjected Gul Shah, raising his pistol. 'He says it himself. Let me kill him now and there's an end to it.'

'Stay your hand, Gul,' growled Abdulla. 'I will hear him out first. It is true that the mullah plots a holy war and would have the whole country under
sharia
law. I know this much from my cousin who lives in Ghazni. It is also true that the cloak would bring many Ghazis to the mullah's side. So your aim is not a foolish one, even if your hopes of success are slender. I, too, have no wish to see the mullah rule supreme: he would weaken the authority of tribal chiefs like me. But I have even less desire to see the British rule in Kabul, and will do everything in my power to prevent it.'

'Then you must spare me, forgive your son, and let us continue on our mission because there are those in Simla who would welcome a rising as an excuse to invade Afghanistan - and this time they will stay.'

'You talk in riddles,' said Abdulla, shaking his head. 'First you say the British don't want to invade. Now you insist they do. Which is it to be?'

'Both. The British government in London doesn't, but the Indian government at Simla does. The viceroy and his friends are convinced the security of India would best be served by annexing Afghanistan. London feels that would only result in more blood spilt and treasure spent, which is why it hasn't told Simla about my mission. If Simla finds out it will certainly try to interfere.'

'So I must let you go if I want Afghanistan to remain free?'

'Yes, and your son too. I can't find the cloak without him.'

Abdulla tugged at his beard while he digested George's words. 'I will think more about what you have said and soon make a decision. But I have one final question. If I let you go and, by the grace of Allah, you recover the cloak, prevent an uprising and avert a British invasion, what then? What will you do with the cloak?'

George hesitated. The cloak was of great spiritual and cultural import to the Afghans and they would not take kindly to its removal, yet his mother desperately needed the money he would earn if he delivered it to London. He was in a quandary and, for the moment, decided to lie. 'It will be kept safe until the country has settled down and Yakub's rule is secure. Only then will it be returned to its special casket in the shrine of Kharka Sharif in Kandahar.'

'I'm not a devout man, but this cloak belongs to we Afghans and must not leave the country. If you can swear to me now, on the life of your mother, that you will neither harm nor remove it, I will grant you your freedom.'

'I swear,' said George. If he kept his word it would cost him two thousand pounds.

'Good. Now let us--'

'Malik, think what you do!' implored Gul Shah, waving his pistol. 'How can you trust a Feringhee?'

'Quiet, I say!' snapped Abdulla. 'If this man can keep the mullah from power and the British outside our borders, then the risk will have been worth taking. And my nose tells me this Feringhee speaks the truth.'

'If that is so,' Gul scowled, 'he will be the first.'

'Maybe so,' said Abdulla, 'but he has already done me a service by returning my son to me.' He turned to Ilderim. 'Promise that you'll never disobey me again. If you can do that, the past is forgotten.'

Ilderim, eyes filled with tears, took a step forward. 'I promise, Father.'

'Then embrace me,' said Abdulla, arms outstretched.

The two huge men stood locked together as Gul glowered and George breathed a sigh of relief, marvelling at the speed with which an Afghan could change his mind.

'Come inside and eat,' said Abdulla, having released his son. 'You must all be hungry.'

They ate in the eastern style, lying on cushions and bolsters, and using their fingers to scoop lamb and rice from wooden bowls. Abdulla was affable now, telling George of when his son had won the tribal wrestling competition, the proudest moment of his life. 'Six months later he left home without a word. But he is here now,' he said, smiling at Ilderim across the room, 'and all is well. A man is nothing without a son to lean on, and a son without the advice of a grey-bearded father is like a pilgrim lost in the desert. Wouldn't you agree, Feringhee?'

'Heartily,' replied George. He gulped his sherbet drink 'I have never met my father. He abandoned me as a child, though he paid for my upkeep and has set aside a substantial sum of money for me if I achieve certain goals.'

'What kind of man abandons his child?' demanded Abdulla.

'I asked my mother that very question. Her answer? "The sort that's married" - he already had a wife.'

'May an Englishman not take many wives?'

'No - it's against the law. And because of this I've never had a father's advice, though there were times when I would have been glad of it,' he said ruefully.

'All sons need direction. But you said your father set you tasks. What are they?'