The Far Pavilions by M. M. Kaye
The Ardal Regiment, deprived of this focus for its rage and realizing that there was nothing to be gained by attacking the hapless array of underlings on the verandah, remembered the Amir, and with shouts and oaths turned to make instead for the palace. But the rulers of Afghanistan had taken good care to fortify the royal residence against just such an eventuality as this, and the palace gates were far too stout to be easily forced, while its battlemented walls were high and massive and well loop-holed against attack. Moreover the two regiments on guard were the Kazilbashi Horse and the Artilley Regiment, both loyal to the Amir.
The yelling mutineers found the gates closed against them and the gun-crews standing to their guns, and there was nothing they could do except hurl stones and insults at the Kazilbashis and those who looked down on them from the walls, and renew their demands for pay and food. But after some minutes of this, the shouting gradually began to die down; and taking advantage of the lull, a man on the wall – some say a General of the Afghan Army – shouted at them angrily that if they wanted more money they should go to Cavagnari-Sahib for it – there was plenty of money there.
It is possible that the speaker intended no mischief but was merely exasperated and had put the suggestion sarcastically. But the Ardal Regiment received it with acclaim. Of course! Cavagnari-Sahib. The very man. Why had they not thought of that before? Everyone knew that the English Raj was rich beyond the dreams of avarice, and was not Cavagnari-Sahib the mouth-piece and representative of that Raj? Why was he here in Kabul, uninvited and far from welcome, if not to buy justice for all and help the Amir out of his difficulties by paying off the arrears due to his troops? Cavagnari-Sahib would right their wrongs. To the Residency, brothers -!
The crowd turned as one, and cheering wildly began to race back the way they had come. And Ash, still on the verandah, saw them coming and heard the shouts of ‘Cavagnari-Sahib!’ and knew where they were headed.
He was not conscious of the process of connected thought. There had been no time for that and his reaction had been purely automatic. There were steps at each end of that long verandah, yet he had not attempted to reach the flight nearest him, but thrusting aside the man in front of him, leapt down from the edge a split second before their panic rush began, to be caught up and swept forward in the van of a tumultuous wave of shouting, cheering men.
It was only then that he knew why he must at all costs reach the Residency compound ahead or at least among the first of the throng.
He had to warn the Mission that this vociferous and apparently menacing crowd was not as yet activated by any hostility towards them, but that their anger was all for their own Government, for Daud Shah and the Amir, who having promised them three months' pay had gone back on their word and tried to fob them off with one. Also that they firmly believed that the Angrezi Government was not only fabulously rich and well able to pay them, but that its Envoy would be able to obtain justice for them…
Running with them, Ash could sense the mood of the crowd as clearly as though he had been one of them. But he knew that the least little thing could change that mood and turn them into a mob, and as he ran he found himself praying that Wally would not let the Guides open fire. They must not fire. Provided they kept calm and gave Cavagnari time to talk to the ring-leaders of this shouting horde, all would be well… Cavagnari understood these people and could speak their language fluently. He would realize that this was no moment for quibbling and that his only hope was to give them a firm promise to pay them what they were owed, then and there if the money was available, and if it was not, to pledge his word that it would be forthcoming as soon as his Government had time to send it…
‘Dear God, don't let them open fire!’ prayed Ash. ‘Let me get there first… If only I can get there first I can warn the sentries that this isn't an attack and that whatever happens they must not lose their heads and do anything silly.’
He might even have succeeded, for some of the Guides had known him and would have recognized and obeyed him; but any chance of that was swept away by another and entirely unexpected influx of men from the left. The regiments on duty at the Arsenal had heard the uproar and seen the mutinous Ardalis come pouring down towards the Residency compound, and had raced to join them, and as the two separate streams of excited men, coming from different directions, cannoned into each other, Ash, among others, was sent sprawling.
By the time he was able to roll clear and struggle to his feet, bruised, dazed and choked by dust, the rout had gone past and he was at the back of the crowd; and there was no longer any hope of his being able to get into the compound in time – if at all – for the noisy throng that milled to and fro ahead of him now numbered close on a thousand, and there was no question of his being able to force his way through it.
But he had under-estimated Wally. The youthful commander of the Escort might be an indifferent poet and hold an over-romantic view of life, but he possessed the extreme military virtue of keeping his head in a crisis.
The first inkling that something had gone wrong with the pay parade had dawned on the denizens of the Residency compound when they heard the roar of rage that greeted the disclosure that the Amir's Government was defaulting on its promise. And though that sound and the tumult that followed had been muffled by the houses in between, there were few in the compound who did not hear it, and stop whatever they were doing to stand stock still, listening…
They did not hear the suggestion that Cavagnari-Sahib would pay, for that had been a single voice only. But the uproar that had preceded it and the applause with which it was received, above all the cry of Dam-i-charya chanted in unison by several hundred voices, had been clearly audible. And when presently they realized that the volume of sound was not only increasing but coming steadily nearer, they knew before they saw the first of the running soldiers where the shouting crowd was heading.
Except for Wally, the Guides were not yet in uniform: the infantry and those who were not on guard duty had been taking their ease in the barracks, and Wally himself had been down at the cavalry pickets beyond the stables, inspecting the horses and talking to the cavalrymen and the syces. A sepoy of the Guides Infantry, Hassan Gul, ran past without seeing him, making for the barracks where the Havildar of B Company stood by the open archway, picking his teeth with a splinter and listening with detached interest to the hullabaloo being raised by those undisciplined shaitans of the Ardal Regiment.
‘They are coming here,’ panted Hassan Gul as he reached the barracks. ‘I was outside and saw them. Quick, shut the gate!’
It was the makeshift one that Wally had had made and put up only a short while ago, and would not have stood up to any determined battering. But the Havildar closed it while Hassan Gul ran on past the inner door of the deep archway and through the long courtyard, to shut and bolt the far door that faced the entrance to the Residency.
Wally too had been listening to the din of that abortive pay parade as he strolled along the line of picketed horses, pausing to fondle his own charger, Mushki, while he discussed cavalry matters with the sowars. He turned, frowning, to watch the running sepoy, and seeing the door into the barracks being closed, reacted to the situation as swiftly and instinctively as Ash had done:
‘You – Miru – go and tell the Havildar to open that gate and keep them open. All three, if they have shut the others. And tell him that whatever happens, no one is to fire unless I give the order. No one!’
Sowar Miru left at a run and Wally turned to the others and snapped: ‘No one – that is an order,’ and went swiftly back to the Residency by way of the barrack courtyard, where the doors now stood open, to report to Sir Louis.
‘You heard what the Sahib said: there will be no firing,’ said Jemadar Jiwand Singh to his troopers. ‘Moreover –’ But he had no time to say more, for in the next instant a cataract of yelling, leaping Afghans poured into the peaceful compound, shouting for Cavagnari, demanding money, threatening and rollicking, pushing and jostling the Guides with how
A humorist among them called out that if there was no money to be had here either, they could always help themselves to the equipment in the stables, and the suggestion was received and acted upon with enthusiasm, the invaders rushing to get their hands on saddles, bridles, sabres and lances, horse-blankets, buckets and anything else that was movable.
Within minutes the stables were stripped bare and fights had broken out between the looters over the possession of the more highly prized items, such as English saddles. A panting sowar, his clothing torn and his turban awry, fought his way clear of the boisterous mass of looters and managed to get to the Residency to report to his Commanding Officer that the Afghans had stolen everything from the stables and were now stoning and stealing the horses.
‘Mushki!’ thought Wally with a contraction of the heart, visualizing his beloved charger gashed by stones or in the hands of some Ardali lout. ‘Oh no, not Mushki…’
He would have given anything at that moment to have been able to run to the stables himself, but he knew very well that he would be unable to stand by and see Mushki stolen, and also that even if he did not lift a hand to prevent it, the mood of the crowd could change in a moment and the sight of one of the hated feringhis might act on it as a red rag to a bull. There was nothing for it but to order the breathless sowar to return and tell the Guides that they must leave the Cavalry lines and get back into the barracks.
‘Tell the Jemadar-Sahib that we need not fear for our horses, because tomorrow the Amir will recover them from these thieves and restore them to us,’ said Wally. ‘But we must get our men back into the barracks before one of them starts a fight.’
The man saluted and ran back to plunge into the frightening mélée in the lines where the terrified horses squealed and reared, lashing out at the Afghans, who snatched at them, pulling them this way and that as they quarrelled among themselves for the possession of each animal or cut at them for sheer sport while sowars and syces struggled to save them. But the message was delivered, and because the Afghans were pre-occupied with looting, all but one of the Guides had been able to obey that order and retreat in safety to the barrack block, angry, bitter and dishevelled, but unharmed.
Wally came out to them and ordered twenty-four sepoys of the infantry to take their rifles and go up to the roof to stand behind the high parapet that surrounded it, but to keep their rifles out of sight, and on no account open fire unless they received an order to do so. ‘Not even when those reputation-less ones come this way, as they will do as soon as they find nothing left to steal in the lines or the stables. See that they find no weapon here. Now up with you – and the rest of you bring your arms and come into the Residency. Quickly.’
He had not been a moment too soon. As the last of the twenty-four sepoys disappeared up the steep flight of steps that led to the roof, and the door in the wall of the Residency courtyard closed behind the rest of the Escort, the riotous crowd that had been milling around at the far end of the compound in search of plunder began to break up.
Those who had been lucky enough to gain possession of a horse, or (less enviably) a saddle or a sabre or some such desirable piece of loot, were hastening to leave with their spoils before their less successful comrades succeeded in robbing them of these ill-gotten gains. But the empty-handed, who numbered several hundred, abandoned the deserted lines and ransacked stables, and suddenly recalling the purpose for which they had come, surged in a body across the compound and through and around the barracks, to gather before the Residency and shout once more for money – and for Cavagnari.
A year and more ago Wally, writing to Ash of his latest hero, had said that he did not believe that Cavagnari knew the meaning of fear: an extravagant statement that has been made about many men, and is usually untrue. But in this instance it was no exaggeration. The Envoy had already received a garbled warning from the Amir, who hearing that all was not going well with the pay parade, had hurriedly dispatched a message to Sir Louis urging him not to allow anyone to enter the Mission compound that day. But the message had arrived only minutes before the mob, and far too late to be acted upon, even if there had been any adequate way of keeping them out, which there was not.
The Envoy's first reaction to the tumult in the compound had been anger. It was, he considered, a disgrace that the Afghan authorities should permit the precincts of the British Mission to be invaded in this manner by a horde of undisciplined savages, and he would have to speak sharply about it both to the Amir and Daud Shah. When the looting stopped and the rabble turned their attention to the Residency and began to shout his name, demanding money with uncouth threats and flinging stones at his windows, his anger merely turned to disgust, and as the chupprassis hurried to close the shutters, he withdrew to his bedroom, where William, running up from his office on the ground floor below, found him donning his Political uniform: not the white of the hot weather, but the blue-black frock-coat usually worn in the cold months, complete with gilt buttons, medals, gold braid and narrow gold sword-belt.
Sir Louis appeared to be completely oblivious of the racket below, and seeing the look of cold and disdainful detachment on his face, William was torn between admiration and an odd feeling of panic that had nothing to do with the howling horde outside or the sound of stones rattling like hail against the wooden shutters. He was not normally given to imaginative flights, but as he watched the Envoy shrug himself into his coat it struck him that so might a noble of Louis XVI's day – an ‘Aristo’ – have looked when hearing the screeching of the canaille outside the walls of his château…
William cleared his throat, and raising his voice in order to be heard above the din said hesitantly: ‘Do you mean to… are you going to speak to them, sir? ’
‘Certainly. They are not likely to leave until I do, and we really cannot be expected to put up with this ridiculous form of disturbance any longer.’
‘But… Well, there seem to be an awful lot of them, sir, and –’
‘What has that got to do with it?’ inquired Sir Louis chillingly.
‘Only that we don't know how much they want, and I – I wondered if we'd got enough. Because our own fellows have only just been…’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ inquired the Envoy, busy adjusting the fastening of his ceremonial sword so that the tassels showed to advantage.
‘Money, sir, rupees. It seems to be what they want, and I presume this means that when it came down to brass tacks there wasn't enough to go round this morning, and that is why –’
He was interrupted again. ‘Money?’ Sir Louis' head came up with a jerk and he glared at his secretary for a moment and then spoke in tones of ice: ‘My dear Jenkyns, if you imagine for one moment that I would even consider allowing myself and the Government I have the honour to represent to be blackmailed – yes, that is the word I mean – blackmailed, by a mob of uncivilized hooligans, I can only say that you are very much mistaken. And so are those stone-throwing yahoos outside. My topi, Amal Din –’
His Afridi orderly stepped smartly forward and handed him the white pith helmet topped by a gilt spike that a Political Officer wore with his official uniform, and as he clapped it firmly on his head, adjusted the gilded strap across his chin and moved to the door, William sprang forward saying desperately: ‘Sir – if you go down there -’
‘My dear boy,’ said Sir Louis impatiently, pausing in the doorway, ‘I am not really in my dotage. I too realize that if I were to go down to them only those in the forefront of the crowd would see me, while those who could not would continue to shout and make it impossible for me to be heard. I shall of course speak to them from the roof. No, William, I do not require you to come with me. I will take my orderly, and it will be better if the rest of you keep out of sight.’
He crooked a finger at Amal Din and the two tall men left the room, Sir Louis striding ahead and the Afridi following a pace behind, hand on sword hilt. William heard
Unlike the barracks, there was no parapet surrounding the flat roofs of the two Residency houses, though both were screened from the view of the maze of buildings directly behind them by a man-high wall. The other three sides had a rim of brick no more than a few inches high, and Sir Louis walked to the edge, where all below could see him, and held up a commanding hand for silence.
He did not attempt to make himself heard above the din but stood waiting, erect and scornful: a tall, black-bearded, imposing figure in the trappings of his official uniform, with the gilt spike on his helmet adding inches to his height. Medals glittered on his coat and the broad gilt stripe that adorned each trouser-leg shone bright in the early sunlight of that brilliant morning, but the cold eyes under the brim of the white pith helmet were hard and unwavering as they stared down contemptuously on the clamouring mob below.
The Envoy's appearance on the roof had been greeted with an ear-splitting yell that might well have made even the bravest man flinch and draw back, but for all the response it drew from Sir Louis it might have been a whisper. He stood there like a rock, waiting until it pleased the crowd to stop shouting, and as they gazed up at him, man after man fell silent, until at last he lowered that imperious hand – it had not even quivered – and demanded in stentorian tones what they had come for and what did they want with him?