The Far Pavilions by M. M. Kaye
‘But I do know,’ said Cavagnari. ‘And so does His Highness the Amir, who has been before you in this, having already warned me to keep away from the city until the trouble dies down, which it will surely do. As for the Heratis, you need have no fear, Risaldar-Sahib. Dogs who bark do not bite.’
‘Sahib,’ said the ex-Risaldar-Major gravely, ‘these dogs do bite. And I who know my people tell you that there is great danger.’
Sir Louis frowned at the implied criticism, then his face cleared and he laughed and said: ‘And I tell you again, Sirdar-Sahib, that they can only kill us; and if they do, we shall be terribly avenged.’
The Sirdar shrugged and gave up.
‘It was profitless to say more,’ he told Ash. ‘Nevertheless, after I had left his presence I saw Jenkyns-Sahib leaving the courtyard, and I followed him and asked permission to speak to him apart. We walked together by the stables in the cavalry lines while I disclosed the same matters to him, and when I had done, he spoke sharply, saying “Have you told Cavagnari-Sahib this?” When I told him that I had just done so, and of the reply I had received, he was silent for a space, and then he said: ‘What the Envoy-Sahib says is true. The British Government will not be harmed by losing three or four of us here.” Now I ask you, what can one do with men like that? I have wasted my time and theirs, for it is clear that they will not be warned.’
Ash had fared little better with Wally, whom he had managed to meet on several occasions and with comparative ease, as Sir Louis' policy of encouraging visitors and keeping open house meant that the Residency was always full of Afghans, who left their attendants in the compound where they fell into conversation with the Residency servants and the men of the Escort. This had made it a simple matter for Ash to mingle with them and get a message passed to Wally making an assignation to meet at some spot where they could talk together without attracting attention, and after that first meeting they had also devised a simple code.
But though Wally was always unfeignedly glad to see him and took a deep interest in all he had to say, there was never any question of his attempting to pass on anything Ash told him to Sir Louis. The Commandant, with whom Ash had discussed this point in Mardan, had recognized the trouble this could lead to, and in briefing Wally before he left, had impressed it upon him that the Envoy would have his own sources of information and that it was no part of Lieutenant Hamilton's duties to supplement them. If at any time he had reason to believe that Sir Louis was ignorant of some vital matter that he himself had learned from Ashton, then he should mention it to the Envoy's Secretary and Political Assistant, William Jenkyns, who would decide whether to pass it on or not.
‘I did that the other day,’ confessed Wally ruefully, ‘and never again. Will bit my head off. Told me that Sir Louis knew a damn sight more than I did about what went on in Kabul, and suggested that I run away and play with my soldiers – or words to that effect. And he's right of course.’
Ash shrugged and remarked ungraciously that he sincerely hoped so. He was feeling worried and apprehensive, not only on account of the many disturbing things that were being said and done in the city, or his fears for the safety of Wally and the Guides, but because he was afraid for Juli. For there was cholera in the city. There had as yet been no cases of it in the Bala Hissar or near the quiet street in which Nakshband Khan's house stood, but the disease was rampant in the poorer and more congested quarters of Kabul; and there came a day when Ash heard from a friend of the Sirdar's, a well-known Hindu whose son was in the service of the Amir's brother Ibrahim Khan, that it had broken out among the disaffected troops.
Had it not been for the fact that half India, to his certain knowledge, was also suffering from a raging cholera epidemic that year, he would almost certainly have taken Anjuli away that same day and abandoned Wally and the Guides without a second thought. But there being nowhere he could take her with any certainty of escaping it, he had decided that it was probably safer for her to stay where she was, as with luck the cholera would not reach their quarter of the city; and in any case it was bound to diminish drastically with the onset of autumn. But it was an anxious time, and he grew thin from strain and found it increasingly difficult to talk to Wally of the dangers that threatened the Mission. Or, with his mind filled with fears for Juli, to sit around discussing that indefatigable poet's latest composition.
A visit to the village of Bemaru, scene of the outbreak of the Kabul disaster of 1841, had inspired a particularly tedious epic, and Ash had wasted a precious afternoon listening in growing frustration while Wally strode to and fro reciting lines that only the author himself or his doting family could possibly have regarded as serious poetry –
‘Though all is changed,’ declaimed Wally, ‘yet
remnants of the past
Point to the scenes of bloodshed, and, alas!
Of murder foul; and ruined houses cast
Their mournful shadow o'er the graves of grass
Of England's soldiery, who faced a lot
That few, thank Heaven! before or since have shared; –
Slain by the hand of Treachery, and not
In open Combat…’
There had been more to the same effect, and the poet (who had put in a lot of hard work on it and was not displeased with the result) was disconcerted when Ash had merely remarked thoughtfully that it was curious that the four Europeans in the Residency should think and speak of themselves as ‘Englishmen’ when one was a Scot, two were Irish, and the fourth was half Irish and half French. A comment that showed he had been thinking of something else and missed the finer points of the poem.
All the same, Wally drew more comfort than he would have cared to admit from the knowledge that his friend spent a large part of each day in a house that backed on the Residency compound. It was consoling to know that he need only glance up at a certain window to confirm whether he was there or not, for each morning, when Ash came to work, he would place a cheap blue and white pottery jar with a spray of flowers or greenery in it between the two centre bars of his window, as a sign that he was still there and had not left Kabul.
Yet even without the information he received from Ash, Wally could hardly have avoided being aware that the situation in Kabul was deteriorating daily. He knew – he could hardly fail to know – that neither the servants nor the men of the Escort any longer went singly, or even in pairs, to bathe or wash their clothes in the river, but preferred to go in groups – and armed; that even the Mussulmans did not care to venture alone into the city now, while as for the Sikhs and Hindus, it was as much as their lives were worth to be seen in the streets at all, so that except when on duty they stayed within the compound. What he did not know was that Ash had already taken action in one small sphere to defuse some of the ill-feeling that was being generated against the foreigners.
It was a minor matter, and one that invited more risk than Ash had a right to take. But it had had its effect. He had taken part in the mounted sports, riding a borrowed horse and disguised as a Gilzai tribesman, and had won several events – to the delight of the Kabulis, who had been resentful of the prowess shown by the Guides, and had become convinced that the contests were designed to demonstrate the superiority of the ‘Sahibs' Army’ over their own.
Ash's skill at this particular type of sport had helped redress the balance a little. But he had not dared to repeat the experiment, even though the muttered comments of the spectators continued to worry him – as did the talk in the bazaars. The latter to such an extent that eventually he approached the Sirdar's Hindu friend (who, as the Sirdar said, ‘knows the ins and outs of what goes on in the houses of great men’) to beg him to call at the Residency and speak to Sir Louis Cavagnari of the increasingly virulent attitude of the citizens towards the presence of the foreign Mission in their midst.
‘For His Excellency,’ explained Ash, ‘has so far spoken only with Afghans. And who can say how much truth they have told him, or whether it is to their advantage to make him believe that al
‘What measures?’ inquired the Hindu sceptically. ‘There is only one which might serve: to dissolve this Mission and return with it to India without delay. Though I would not care to vouch for it reaching there in safety, as the tribes might well fall upon it on the way.’
‘That he would never do,’ said Ash.
‘No. Yet there is little else that he can do, for he must know that the quarters in which he and his Mission live cannot be defended against attack. Therefore if he treats all warnings lightly and replies to them with brave words, this may well be because he is wise, and not, as you suppose, because he is either blind or foolish. He will know that his words will be repeated, and the very fact that they are bold and fearless may well give the hot-heads pause; and placed as he is that is wisdom, not foolishness. I have called on him before, but if you and the Sirdar-Sahib wish, I will certainly do so again and see if I cannot enlighten him as to the ill-will against the Mission that prevails in the city. Though I think you will find that he already knows this.’
The promised visit had been made that very day. But this time the caller had not succeeded in seeing the British Envoy, for the Afghan sentries who by the Amir's orders stood guard by the entrance to the compound (ostensibly for the greater safety and protection of the British Mission) had not only turned him away, but had abused and stoned him as he left. ‘I was struck several times,’ reported the Hindu, ‘and when they saw me stagger they laughed. This is no longer a safe place for men such as myself, or for foreigners of any persuasion. I think it is time I left Kabul for a while and went south to visit my relations.’
He had refused categorically to make any further attempt to see Sir Louis, and true to his word had left Kabul a few days later. But the tale of his friend's treatment at the hands of the Afghan sentries had disturbed Sirdar Nakshband Khan almost as much as it had shaken Ash, and though after his previous visit to the Residency the Sirdar too had sworn that he would not go there again, he had done so.
Sir Louis had greeted him graciously enough, but made it clear from the outset that he was already fully informed as to the situation in Kabul and needed no further information on that head, and though pleased to see the ex-Risaldar-Major, was unfortunately too busy to spare as much time as he would wish to on purely social calls.
‘Indeed so. That is understood,’ agreed the Sirdar politely. ‘As is also the fact that your Honour has many sources of information and therefore knows much of what goes on in the city. Though not all, I think,’ and he had told Sir Louis how a well-known and much-respected Hindu who had called at the Residency desiring to speak with him, had been refused admittance and driven away with stones and abuse by the Afghan sentries.
Sir Louis' eyes blazed as he listened and even his luxuriant black beard seemed to bristle with anger. ‘That is untrue,’ rasped Sir Louis. ‘The man lies!’
But the Sirdar was not to be intimidated by the Envoy's wrath. ‘If the Huzoor does not believe me,’ he replied calmly, ‘let him ask his own servants, several of whom witnessed the stoning of the Hindu, as did many of the Guides also. The Huzoor has only to ask; and when he does so he will learn that he is little better than a prisoner. For what profit is there in remaining here if he is not permitted to see men who only desire to talk truth to him?’
The suggestion that he was not a free agent touched the Envoy on the raw, for Pierre Louis Cavagnari was an intensely proud man, so much so that he had frequently been accused by those who did not share his views, or had been treated to the rough side of his tongue, of being insufferably arrogant. It is certain that he had a high opinion of his own capabilities and did not take kindly to criticism.
Sirdar Nakshband Khan's story struck at his personal pride as well as his official dignity as the representative of Her Britannic Majesty the Empress of India, and he would have liked to disbelieve it. Instead he replied coldly that he would inquire into the matter, and having dismissed his visitor, sent for William Jenkyns and ordered the secretary to find out at once if anyone in the Residency compound had in fact witnessed such an incident as Nakshband Khan described.
William was back within fifteen minutes. The story, he reported, was unfortunately true. It had not only been vouched for by several of the Residency servants, but by two grass-cutters and a dozen men of the escort, including Jemadar Jiwand Singh of the Guides Cavalry and Havildar Hassan of the infantry.
‘Why was I not informed of this before?’ demanded Cavagnari, white with rage. ‘By God, I'll have those men disciplined! They should have reported it at once, if not to me, then to Hamilton or Kelly, or to you. And if young Hamilton knew, and did not tell me – Tell him I wish to speak to him immediately.’
‘I don't think he's here at the moment, sir. I believe he went out about an hour ago.’
‘Then send him to me the minute he comes back. He has no right to slip off without letting me know. Where the devil has he gone?’
I'm afraid I've no idea, sir,’ said William woodenly.
‘Then you should have. I will not have my officers leaving the Residency whenever they think fit. They ought to have more sense than to go jaunting about the city at a time like this. Not that I believe…’
He left the sentence unfinished and dismissing William with a curt gesture, sat scowling into the middle-distance and jerking at his beard with lean, angry fingers.
But Wally was not jaunting about the city. He had ridden out to see Ash, whom he had arranged to meet on the hillside to the south of Kabul where the Emperor Barbur lies buried. For it was the eighteenth of August and his birthday: he was twenty-three.
61
The last resting place of Barbur – ‘Barbur the Tiger’, who had seized the Land of Cain only a few years after Columbus discovered America, and gone on to conquer India and establish an imperial dynasty that had lasted into Ash's own life-time – was in a walled garden on the slope of a hill to the south-west of the Shere Dawaza.
The spot had been known in Barbur's day as ‘The Place of Footsteps’, and it had been a favourite haunt of his, so much so that though he had died far away in India, at Agra, he had left instructions that his body was to be brought back there for burial. This his widow, Bibi Mubarika, had done, travelling to Agra to claim her husband's body and take it back through the passes to Kabul.
Nowadays the garden was known as ‘The Place of Barbur's Grave’, and few people visited it at this season, for Ramadan, the month of fasting, had begun. But as it was regarded as a pleasure park, no one would think it odd that the young Sahib who commanded the foreign Envoy's Indian escort should choose to visit such a historic spot, or that once there he should fall into conversation with one of the local sight-seers. In fact, Ash and Wally had the garden to themselves, for though the day had been sultry and overcast, no rain had fallen as yet, and the hot wind that herded the sluggish clouds across the valley was stirring up enough dust to keep all sensible Kabulis indoors.
A little stream in a formal channel flowed past the worn slab of marble and the ruined fragments of a pavilion that marked the great man's grave, and the wind strewed the water with fallen leaves and sent eddies of dust whirling between the trees and flowering shrubs, and through the carved wooden arches of a small memorial mosque – an open-sided, unpretentious building that like Barbur's tomb was sadly in need of repair. There had been only one devotee there that day, and it was not until he rose and came out that Wally realized it was Ash.
‘What were you doing in there?’ he inquired when they had greeted each other.
‘Saying a prayer for the Tiger. May he rest in peace,’ said Ash. ‘He was a great man. I've been reading his memoirs again, and I like to think that his bones are lying here under the grass and that I can sit beside them and remember the tremendous life he lived, the things h
There were other humbler graves in the garden. A number of conventional Moslem stelae in weathered marble or stone rose out of the parched grass, some still standing upright, but the majority canted to left or right by the hand of time, or lying half hidden on the ground. Ash by-passed these and having paused a moment by Barbur's grave, led the way to a level piece of ground that was sheltered from the wind by a clump of shrubs, and sat down cross-legged on the dusty grass.
‘Many happy returns of the day, Wally.’
‘So you remembered,’ said Wally, flushing with pleasure.
‘Of course I did. I've even got a present for you.’ Ash groped among his robes and produced a little bronze horse: a piece of ancient Chinese craftsmanship that he had bought in the bazaar at Kabul, knowing that it would delight Wally. It had done so; but the donor had not been pleased to discover that Lieutenant Hamilton had ridden out to meet him without an escort.
‘For God's sake, Wally! Are you mad? Didn't you even bring your syce?’
‘If you mean Hosein, no. But you can keep your hair on, because I gave him the day off so that I could bring one of our troopers instead: Sowar Taimus. You wouldn't know him – well after your time. He's a first-rate fellow with guts enough for six. The Kote-Daffadar says that he's a Shahzada in his own right and a Prince of the Sadozai dynasty, which is probably true. What he doesn't know about Kabul and the Kabulis isn't worth knowing, and it's due to him that we managed to sneak out without trouble, and without having a couple of Afghan troopers trotting along behind us. He's waiting outside with the horses, and if he doesn't like the look of anyone approaching this place you can be sure he'll let me know. So will you be calm now, and stop fussing like an old hen.’