Chronicles of the Secret Service (23 page)

He nodded towards the body of Aziz Ullah.

‘One of the Afghans you are endeavouring to fool into joining you, I suppose,’ replied Kershaw. ‘I know you hope to obtain allies from this country.’

Abdul Qadir scowled angrily, but did not comment on his captor’s knowledge.

‘He is the man they call The Master,’ he declared. ‘The whole of East Afghanistan is at his feet. The rest will quickly
follow. He is worshipped as a saint. You will be torn to pieces, when it is known you have laid impious hands upon him.’

‘It is not in my mind to take him with me,’ Kershaw replied, ‘but you, of a certainty, will come, O Abdul Qadir. Talk is useless. Quickly you will realise how I propose to convey you to Peshawar.’

At this moment, Aziz Ullah chose to recover from his supposed unconsciousness. At first he was apparently confused but, after a few minutes spent in frowning meditation, demanded from Kershaw an explanation of the assault and the position in which he found himself.

‘I regret,’ replied the Intelligence officer, ‘that my man was forced to treat you as I treated Abdul Qadir Khan, but if you will keep bad companions you must expect to suffer. It is possible that I have thus saved you from a great folly, death, even worse. This man is a source of unrest, of sedition, treachery. He plans murder, massacre, wickedness beyond description, because in him are ambitions sown there by the devil. But enough. We must depart. I am sorry we will have to leave you bound to a tree in this place. I cannot risk my undertaking being ruined. Tomorrow perhaps you will be released. In any case, my servant will contrive to leave information regarding your whereabouts once we have crossed the border.’

Aziz Ullah turned his eyes on Abdul Qadir Khan and, in them, was the deepest reproach as well as a tinge of suspicion. At once the Mahsud broke out into explanations, protests, apologies, but received not a word in reply. Aziz Ullah thereafter maintained an offended, albeit dignified, silence. He was raised to his feet by Kershaw and Rashid, and apparently lashed to a
tree. During this process a rendezvous was appointed and full directions given him in a whisper by the Intelligence officer. It was arranged that they should meet in ten days at a spot on the bank of the Kabul River near Dakka. Abdul Qadir’s pony was to be left for him.

When the pretended fastening of Aziz Ullah to a tree was accomplished, Rashid disappeared. He was away for a quarter of an hour; then returned, leading his and Kershaw’s ponies and the pack mule. During his absence, Abdul Qadir had given vent to another fiery outburst. He now saw all his aspirations, all his ambitions, everything, toppling down like a house of cards. It must have been an intensely bitter experience for him. His one remaining hope, that the Englishman would never succeed in getting him through to Peshawar, was more or less destroyed when he realised the manner in which it was to be undertaken. A roll of material was removed from the mule and unwound. A gag was first thrust into his mouth, and firmly fixed beyond all possibility of slipping. That done, he was wrapped in the cloth in such a manner that it presented the appearance merely of a bale of merchandise. He was then bound securely to the mule.

‘Frightfully uncomfortable, I am afraid,’ commented Kershaw in English, ‘but you’ll be able to breathe all right. We’ll release you for exercise and food at night. It will be some days before we reach our destination, as we’ll have to go slowly.’ The preparations completed, he strolled across to Aziz Ullah’s tree. ‘All right, old chap,’ he whispered. ‘You can’t be seen now.’

Aziz Ullah shook himself free of his ropes, which were gathered up by the careful Rashid.

‘Poor old Abdul Qadir,’ murmured the man who was known
as The Master; ‘he’s in for a sticky time. I suppose he’s clinging to the slender hope that I’ll be freed in time to rescue him. Well, good luck, Kershaw. We meet in ten days.’

They shook hands warmly; then the Intelligence officer and the havildar set off for the pass, the latter leading the pack mule. Aziz Ullah watched them until they disappeared from view, after which he set about searching for a spot where Abdul Qadir’s pony could find food and water. Rashid had left him rope of sufficient length in order that the animal’s movements should not be unnecessarily curtailed. A suitable place, that was also well secluded, was not easy to find, but eventually he came upon an ideal situation. An hour later he arrived back on the little plateau where the faithful twenty awaited him. He informed Yusuf that his visitor had departed, as he was in haste to return to Kabul. That evening he called his disciples to him.

‘The work for which I came,’ he informed them, ‘is about to be accomplished. I must go from you for a time. Perhaps again I will come. I wish you all to return to your village now. May Allah the Beneficent, the Merciful, pour on you and your people all His blessings.’

There was utter consternation at this announcement. They cried out in protest; threw themselves on their knees before him, and begged him to let them stay with him. Aziz Ullah experienced perhaps the most difficult half hour of his life, before his commands at last prevailed. Then he presented each with a sum of money that, considering their frugal method of existence, would probably mean affluence to them for a very long time. Gathering their meagre belongings together, and
imploring him to return to them soon, they departed. It was a very sad little band that left the retreat and turned its steps homeward. He himself felt a pang of regret at parting from them. They had shown themselves such grand fellows. At the same time, he reflected, they would have proved very much the opposite, had they discovered he was an entirely different person from the man they supposed him to be.

He gave them half an hour in which to get well away; then, feeling assured none of them would be returning, climbed to a secret hiding place in a tiny cave, high up above the little plateau. From there he took a bundle, returned to his own sleeping quarters and, with the help of a small mirror and an electric torch, set to work to make certain alterations in his appearance. That done, he changed his clothing, piling those he removed into a compact package. A last look round, and he descended cautiously from the plateau, stopping every now and again to ascertain whether there was any sign of another human being in the vicinity. The chances were against this in such a lonely spot, but he did not intend to take any risks. At length he reached the pass, and set off for the place where the pony had been left.

It is certain nobody would have recognised in the individual, laboriously walking along that narrow track among those vast mountains, the man who had become such a familiar figure to thousands. His hair and beard were grey, there were lines of age on his face into which the grime had deeply sunk, his eyelids hung heavily over his eyes, as though weariness prevented him from raising them. He was very bent, his stature thus being considerably reduced; he walked somewhat shakily, suggesting
that his legs were weak. His puggaree was badly wound and untidy, his clothing dirty and rather ragged. Altogether, there was nothing indicative of the young, powerful, and dignified Aziz Ullah about him. The bundle he carried seemed to be almost beyond his strength.

It took him a considerable time to reach the pony, which he found patiently standing without movement except for an occasional swish at hordes of flies with his tail. By the light of a brilliant moon, he studied the animal. It was a shaggy creature of a dull grey colour, but far too well groomed to pass without comment as the possession of a homeless wanderer. He set to work at once and, with the help of dirt and water, transformed it before long into a concomitant of his own disreputable self. It shivered during the process, for it was chilly at night in those altitudes, and the mud which he liberally spread on its body and hair was cold and clammy. Satisfied at length that he and the pony were in harmony with each other, he tied on the bundle with the rope that had tethered the animal, mounted, and set off. It was a somewhat perilous undertaking, even though the moonlight was so glorious, to descend a pass by night that, at times, was little better than a track meandering along the sheer edges of a precipice. However, it was accomplished without accident and, in the early hours of the morning, he reached the security of the lower levels. He continued to travel until daylight, skirting one or two villages en route; then rested for a few hours by the side of a stream which he knew eventually ran into the Kabul River. Thought of the river made his rendezvous with Kershaw seem very near, but he had a hundred and eighty miles to travel over difficult
ground, with the necessity of avoiding the usual routes, and he knew ten days were by no means overgenerous for such a journey on a pony.

Day by day went by. Country people, with the generosity of their race, supplied him with food, either for nothing or on payment of a few pice. He told a tale in which he figured as a farmer of a small holding north of Lataband. Having fallen into debt, he had been ruthlessly evicted and, with the pony, all that remained to him of his possessions, was on his way to seek shelter with a brother who lived near Dakka. People of the type with whom he took care to come into contact were mostly those who had suffered or were likely to suffer, in the same way. Their pity for the ‘poor old man’ was consequently very great and he was the recipient of many favours, as he travelled on. Several times he found himself in touch with caravans, but was careful to avoid those going his way. He was confident enough of his disguise, but did not feel inclined to risk sustained scrutiny when the necessity of touching it up meant that it might appear slightly different from one day to another.

He had traversed the same route, or rather in the vicinity of it, several years before, but under vastly different circumstances. Still he found his knowledge useful. At first, he was greatly interested in the wild scenery as he rode up and away from the direction of Kabul, then down again towards Jalalabad. But, having laboriously skirted that city, and while riding on towards Dakka, he began to find the journey monotonous. He had lived in the wilds of Afghanistan too long to feel any continued pleasure in the country round him. Most of the way
now he was climbing, with the rare comfort of descents. He found most interest in the historic associations conjured up on the route, particularly when passing through the Jagdalak Pass where a British force was destroyed in 1842. At length he came within sight of Dakka, and turned off to the spot on the Kabul River selected as a rendezvous. He arrived on the evening before the day appointed, and was not surprised to find he was there before Kershaw. This caused him no misgivings. The Intelligence officer and Mahommed Rashid would, of necessity, have to travel slower than he, on account of Abdul Qadir Khan. There was also the possibility that they had with them the man whom the Mahsud had said was his brother. Nevertheless, he was relieved when, at noon on the next day, they appeared. He chuckled softly to himself as he became aware they had two well-loaded pack mules with them instead of one. The animals were relieved of their burdens which were laid down carefully on the ground some distance from the shady nook Kershaw selected for himself.

Aziz was a little puzzled when no effort was made to communicate with him. In fact, they appeared to take no notice of him at all. Wondering if Kershaw was being watched, and was taking precautions lest his joining an old man, who appeared more of a beggar than anything else, might give rise to comment and suspicion, he remained where he was, and gave no signal. At the same time, he was a trifle surprised. The place selected was very secluded and lonely, actually on the dry bed of the river and well hidden by a bluff. He had had a good deal of difficulty in finding it, despite Kershaw’s careful and excellent directions.

The day wore on towards nightfall, and Aziz noticed that
Rashid disappeared several times, was away once for a long period. At length it dawned on him that the havildar was on the lookout for him, that he had not been recognised. He had not told Kershaw of the manner in which he would disguise himself and, as the pony was hidden from them, they had probably not connected the old fellow, fifty or sixty yards away, with him. He chuckled softly to himself and, rising, walked in the bent and shaky fashion he had adopted across to Kershaw. As he approached, he noticed that the latter appeared worried, and decided that he had guessed rightly. However, in case there was any other reason why the Intelligence officer had not communicated with him, he continued to sustain his role. Speaking in the usual whine of a beggar, he asked for food. Kershaw called over Rashid; ordered the havildar to supply the old man’s wants.

‘What do you here, old man?’ he asked in Pashto.

‘I have no home, master. My farm was taken from me, my wife is dead, my children are scattered. I go to join my brother. It is Allah’s will.’ He bent forward until he was very close to the other. ‘What game do you think you’re playing, you son of a gun?’ he whispered in English.

‘Good God!’ Kershaw shot to his feet as though a scorpion had attacked him. Then he laughed. ‘You!’ he exclaimed. ‘Damn it all! We’ve been wondering what was keeping you, and getting more anxious every hour. It never occurred to either of us that the old chap sitting over yonder was you. By Jove! What a disguise! I’d never have recognised you. But why in heaven’s name, didn’t you come across before?’ Aziz Ullah explained, and Kershaw laughed again. ‘Well, thank God you are here. Perhaps
you’d better keep up the character, just in case, although we’re safe enough at present.’

‘I intend to,’ replied the other; ‘at least, until it’s dark, when I’d better be transformed into a second bearer.’

Rashid came up with some food; was no less astonished than Kershaw had been when he discovered who the old man was. His stern face relaxed into a broad smile, and he made no secret of his relief that Aziz Ullah was safe.

‘It was in our minds, sahib,’ he declared in Punjabi, ‘that harm had befallen you.’

‘I have not even been in peril,’ replied Aziz in the same language and in a tone that suggested regret. ‘My journey has been monotonous and uneventful.’ He described how he had parted from his faithful followers and the sorrow they had shown, when he told them he was going away. ‘The real Aziz Ullah in Mesched,’ he observed, ‘will have a shock, if it ever reaches his ears that he has been in Afghanistan and championed the oppressed.’