Bayonets Along the Border (12 page)

The meal was a rather miserable affair. Native food, of course, had been provided for them in a tiny room leading off their washroom. Fonthill himself was introspective, digesting the information supplied to him by Buckingham; the latter seemed disturbed by breaking one of the rules of the service and remained silent throughout; Appleby-Smith was monosyllabic as usual in the presence of Jenkins, clearly disapproving at having to mess with a ranker; and only the Welshman and Dawson chattered away, the subaltern happily recalling holidays he had spent in North Wales as a child.

Eventually, Appleby-Smith spoke to ask Fonthill when they were expected to return.

‘Well,’ responded Simon, ‘I am not exactly sure, to be honest. I have no wish to stay here longer than is absolutely necessary but when the Amir gives me his response to the Viceroy’s message, we can be gone. By the way, ‘I have asked Inderjit Singh, Buckingham’s
daffadar
, to mingle in the bazaars to see if he can pick up any intelligence about the Amir that might be useful. Obviously, we mustn’t leave without him.’

‘What?’ Appleby-Smith lowered the mutton bone on which he had been munching. ‘You sent one of my men to carry out intelligence work, without informing me?’

‘Yes, well. I was going to mention it to you, as, indeed, I have. But you have no objection, surely?’

‘I have every objection. You are a civilian, as I understand it, and you have no right to give orders to my men. And,’ his voice now took on a higher pitch, ‘if he is discovered doing this … this …
spying
it could go badly with us, here in the Amir’s capital.’

Fonthill frowned. ‘Now, look here, Captain. I am in charge of this mission – in
complete charge
. On military matters, concerned with escorting me, then of course I shall defer to you. But in every other way, I am in command here, as the Viceroy’s emissary. It is important to find out as much as I can about the Amir and his attitude towards the rebellion across his Border. Asking the
daffadar
, who speaks the local language fluently and is a most intelligent man, to carry out this work is quite within my remit. My apologies if I was a little slow to inform you of what I had done but, frankly, I did not think it that important.’

An awkward silence fell on the gathering. Then Appleby-Smith, his face flushed, muttered: ‘My apologies, Mr Fonthill. I spoke out of turn.’

‘Very well. We will say no more of it.’

The next day was spent relaxing in their lodgings. Jenkins, reverting to his original role as officer’s servant, had somehow found a hot iron and had pressed Simon’s trousers and tunic, had rubbed the Maltese Cross that proclaimed that he was a member of the Companionship of the Bath until it glittered on the dark blue of his jacket and had given his riding boots the shine of a guardsman. Fonthill, then, felt as debonair as an ambassador as he presented himself the next morning.
The official of the household who had met him the day before led the way into the interior of the palace, with two turbaned and sashed Afghans, carrying large curved swords, falling into place on either side of Simon, making him feel that he was being escorted towards, if not formal execution, at least facing a charge of being drunk and disorderly – or, more likely, improperly dressed.

After winding down a dark corridor, he was ushered into a spacious room through which the sunlight filtered only dimly through wooden screens, carved delicately. On the stone walls, he could make out colourful tapestries hanging and, at the far end, a small, frail man sitting on a large, wooden seat, more than a chair but rather less than a throne, set on a stone dais. On either side of him sat an elderly Afghan, each adorned with a long white beard and wearing robes of an undoubted richness.

Fonthill realised, of course, that he was in the presence of the Amir Abdur Rahman, who rose from his chair and waved a thin, bony hand to him in welcome. Simon regarded him intently as he approached.

He knew that the man was only about fifty years of age, yet he looked much, much older. A member of the ruling family in Afghanistan, he had spent his younger years in exile, under Russian patronage, in Samarkand before the events of the second Anglo-Afghan War had brought him to the throne, supported by the British. There he had remained for nearly two decades, proving to be a strong and ruthless leader, reputedly throwing those who opposed him down a well and leaving them to rot on top of the other bodies lying there. Nevertheless, he had maintained good relations with the British Raj, despite his successful determination to exclude all foreign influences from his country. Now, however, the word came that he was growing increasingly frail and
suffering from gout. His beard was as white as those of his secretaries, but it was thin and his skin seemed stretched almost to bursting point over his high cheekbones. His eyes, however, shone brightly, like black precious stones in his chalk-white face. Simon remembered the Viceroy’s phrase ‘ruthless and as slippery as an eel’.

The old man stepped gingerly down from the dais and waited, with outstretched hand, for Fonthill to approach him. Simon did so and took the hand carefully, bowing low over it. The Amir barked a command and two chairs were brought forward and then a small table was placed between them. He gestured for Simon to sit.

‘I am honoured,’ he said, in excellent but accented English, ‘that His Excellency the Viceroy should entrust his letter to such a distinguished bearer of it.’ The old man gently lowered himself into the other chair. ‘Even I, separated in this humble country from the rest of the world by these mountains, had heard of the Sahib Fonthill who slipped through the armies of the Mahdi to reach your General Gordon in the Sudan.’

Simon lowered his head again, this time in genuine admiration. The Viceroy’s letter had contained no details of his experiences in the Sudan. ‘I am flattered that Your Highness should know of these unimportant things,’ he said in reply.

‘Ah yes. You see I have made it my business, as best I could over the years, to keep myself informed of the happenings in your Empire. After all,’ he gave a thin smile, ‘we are neighbours, you know.’

He clapped his hands and gave an order to a servant who rushed forward. ‘I have ordered tea,’ he said. Then he leant forward, as though in intimacy. ‘Is it not strange that two races so different from each other as the Afghans and the British should each place such a dependency on this strange drink? Personally, I do not think I could
live without it. But I do hope you like it with mint. Is that to your taste?’

‘That would be perfect, Your Highness.’

‘Good.’ The Amir turned and snapped his finger to one of his secretaries, who stepped forward and gave him a letter, heavily sealed.

‘Now, Mr Fonthill, here is my reply to the Viceroy.’ He gave his mirthless smile again and handed the letter to Simon. ‘It is much shorter than his to me. I have merely said that there is no question of me sending troops to help my former subjects across the Border. I have given him my word on that.’

Fonthill nodded slowly. ‘I know that the Viceroy will be very glad to hear that, Your Highness.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Your former subjects … ?’

‘Ah, Lord Elgin will take and understand the reference. It is the result of that Allah-cursed Durand Line. You know, Mr Fonthill, I never wanted this relocation of the boundary between my country and the Punjab. I was … what is the phrase? I think it is “leant upon”. Yes, I was leant upon to accept it.’

‘I am sorry to hear that, sir. I understood that there were compensatory allocations of territory to you.’

‘Oh yes.’ For a moment the black eyes in the depths of their hollows narrowed and flashed, and Fonthill glimpsed something of the ruthlessness and cruelty that lay beneath the Amir’s urbanity. The ‘well that gives no water’ suddenly became a reality rather than a rumour. ‘I was given what was known as the Wakhan Corridor, a strip of land in the far north next to the Russian territories. Useless to me but, of course, I was now expected to oversee it as a kind of buffer state between these two great European powers. Difficult to do, for
there is no thanks in that role and there is a real chance of upsetting either one of these huge empires if things go wrong.’

The smile came again but it did not reach the old man’s eyes. ‘But what did I lose in return for gaining this precious piece of barren ground? My dear Mr Fonthill, I lost,’ and he began slapping one finger after another into his palm, ‘the lands of Chitral, Bajaur, Swat, Buner, Dir, the Khyber, Kurram and Waziristan. Those were all my people. Now they are yours. Ah, tea.’

Simon was not sorry for the interruption. The Viceroy had asked him to supplement his letter in any way demanded by the Amir. But did this extend to debating with him the politics of the Border? If so, he was not sure he was up to it.

He sipped his tea. ‘You put your point well, Your Highness,’ he said, ‘as I am sure you did to the present Viceroy’s predecessor. But allow me to ask you one question. Were the people of these lands your filial and devoted servants?’

The Amir waved an exasperated hand. ‘Of course not. They are tribesmen of the hills, who pay no formal loyalty to me or anyone else. They are as independent and as free as the wind that blows the clouds from the mountain tops. But they have been people of my religion and nationality for centuries and they have known me and my family for years.

‘Listen. When I was forced to acknowledge the presence of this accursed line three years ago, I wrote to the Viceroy warning him that these people would never be of any use to him. I said that he would always be engaged in fighting or other trouble with them and that they would always go on plundering. As long as your government is strong and in peace, you will be able to keep them more or less quiet by a strong hand, but if at any time an enemy appears on the border of India, these
frontier tribes will be your worst enemy. Now, they are rising in rebellion and I can do nothing to help you. Because by taking these people away from me you have injured my prestige in the eyes of my subjects and made me weak – and my weakness is injurious to your government.’

He took another sip of his green tea. ‘And you must realise, my dear Mr Fonthill, that the white man has never been exactly loved by the Pathans. In fact, they have a saying.’ A faint smile stole over his face. ‘It goes: “first comes one Englishman for
shikar
– that means hunting; then come two Englishmen to draw a map; then comes an army to take your land. It is best to kill the first Englishman.”’

Simon could think of nothing to say, so smiled in appreciation of the joke. Then he remembered, from years before, a saying that Inderjit’s father had related to him. Why not? Why should the Devil have the best tunes? ‘And that, sir,’ he responded, ‘reminds me of a saying that the Sikhs had about the Pathans. I think it goes: “Trust a Brahmin before a snake, and a snake before a harlot and a harlot before a Pathan”.’ Then he leant forward. ‘But to be serious, Your Highness, there does not appear to be an enemy approaching the border of India at the present. Our relationship with Russia now seems placid. Why should the tribes revolt?’

For the moment, it seemed that he had scored a debating point, because the eyes of the Amir closed for a second. Then, he said, ‘I do not know. This is for you to find out and deal with. But, as I have said to the Viceroy, I will give no assistance to my ex-subjects.’

Simon thought again. How far could he push this clever old man?

‘Your Highness,’ he said, ‘there does not appear to be any obviously national interest from outside the borders of the British Raj stirring the tribes, but they seem to be showing unusual signs of unity. They
have rarely come together in this way before. We have some evidence that strange mullahs from outside the Border territories are going from valley to valley demanding a jihad against the government. Do you know of this?’

The Amir’s face remained implacable. ‘I have heard of something similar, but I have no details.’

‘But – and forgive me pressing Your Highness on this point – we understand that most, if not all, of these religious fanatics come from Afghanistan in answer to your pamphlet recently stating that you were “the King of Islam”.’

The Amir shook his head. ‘That was misunderstood. I merely pointed out that I was the senior representative of the Muslim religion in this part of Asia. Which is perfectly true. Now …’ He put down his teacup and rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘I know that you will wish to set out on your return journey as soon as possible, so I must give you Allah’s blessing for your journey.’

It was dismissal and Fonthill had to accept it without further argument. There was no chance to gently threaten the Amir with the greatly enhanced size of the British army in India. He rose to his feet, bowed from the waist and, clutching the letter, said, ‘I will take this back to the Viceroy with all despatch. I thank Your Highness for his courtesy and hospitality.’

The thin hand was extended again. ‘Good day to you, Mr Fonthill. Have a safe journey back. I shall pray for you.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Back in his room, Simon found Jenkins waiting for him. ‘Old Gracey’s son is anxious to see you,’ he said. ‘He may ’ave some word, I think,
from the bazaars. Pity they don’t drink proper stuff around ’ere. I could ’ave gone with ’im.’

‘Yes, well, please have Inderjit report to me at once. Oh, and please find the captain. Present my compliments and say that I would be grateful if he could arrange for us to begin the return journey tomorrow.’

‘Very good, bach sir.’

The Sikh came in almost immediately. ‘I have news, I think, from the bazaars, sahib.’

‘Good. Report.’

‘Well, all the old men say that the Amir has definitely not ordered any of his army to move towards the Border and the talk is that he will not, because he does not want the British to invade.’

‘Good.’

‘But there is something else, sahib.’

‘Go on.’

‘Everyone knows that Amir has been calling for many mullahs – that is religious preachers, sahib.’

‘Yes, I know what they are. Go on, do.’