The Far Pavilions (123 page)

‘Then all I can say is that it's a pity it can't be fought on paper!’ observed the Commanding Officer of the 1st Sikhs savagely. To which Colonel Jenkins offered no comment, for he too was appalled by the scheme and could only hope that someone – anyone – would be able to bring the Viceroy and the Deputy Commissioner of Peshawar to their senses before it was too late.

Fortunately, his hope was justified. The Military Member of the Viceroy's Council, learning of it only after the order to act upon it had already been given, declared in forthright language that in his opinion the absurdity of abandoning Ali Masjid after capturing it was only equalled by the folly of taking it: a protest that might have been ignored had it not been for the timely arrival in Simla of a telegram bringing news that Ali Masjid had been strongly reinforced by Afghan troops and artillery.

In the light of this piece of information the Viceroy had no option but to cancel the project, and Louis Cavagnari, baulked of his cherished plan to dazzle the Khyber Tribes with a brilliant
coup-de-main
that would make them decide to throw in their lot with the British, turned once more, with tireless patience, to the slow and often exasperating task of striving to attain the same end by words instead of deeds; negotiating with their Maliks, one by one.

Few men could have done it better, but the cajolery, argument and bribery involved took time. Too much time. And he was vividly aware of how little there might be left.

52

The conviction that time was running out was shared by many men that autumn. Not least by that one-time Commandant of the Corps of Guides, Sam Browne – the same who had discussed the boy Ashton's future with Zarin's elder brother, Awal Shah, so many years ago, and decided to send William Ashton's nephew to England in the care of Colonel Anderson.

Sam Browne, now Lieutenant-General Sir ‘Sam’ and newly appointed to the command of the First Division of the Peshawar Valley Field Force, had not been among those who approved Louis Cavagnari's sensational scheme for the capture of Ali Masjid. But he realized that if war were declared the fortress would have to be taken: not as a flamboyant gesture designed to impress the tribes, but as a matter of stark military necessity. Furthermore, it would have to be attacked within hours rather than days of the declaration, because Ali Masjid was the key to the Khyber Pass, and until it was taken the road to Kabul would remain barred.

In these circumstances it shocked the General to discover how little was known of the country through which his troops might soon have to advance – and this despite the fact that a British Army had marched that way before, and on retreating, suffered one of the most appalling disasters to befall an invading army since Napoleon's
Grande Armée
melted away on the agonizing retreat from Moscow.

‘This is ridiculous. I must have maps,’ said General Sam. ‘We can't go barging bald-headed into those hills without knowing a damn' thing about them. Do you mean to tell me there
are
no maps? None at
all
?’

‘Apparently not, sir; only a few rough sketches, and I understand none of those are very accurate,’ said the Adjutant-General, adding in extenuation: ‘The tribes don't take kindly to strangers wandering around their territories with compasses and theodolites, so you see –’

‘No I don't,’ snapped the one-armed General. ‘But Major Cavagnari tells me that he has already come to an agreement with two of the tribes, and is in hopes of persuading a third – the Mohmands – to allow us free passage through their territory. That being so, it should be possible to send a few men to spy out the land for us. You'd better see to it, will you.’

The Adjutant-General had seen to it, and that same evening two men, Captain Stewart of the Guides and a Mr Scott of the Survey Department, had set out from Peshawar to reconnoitre the Border country and collect what information they could as to the strength and disposition of Faiz Mohammed Khan's forces. They had been absent for the best part of two weeks, and a few days after their return Louis Cavagnari had suggested that it would be a good idea if he were to accompany them on a second reconnaissance to confirm their results: ‘And I think it might be as well, sir, if one or two of the officers who were with me during my interview with the Governor of Ali Masjid went with us. They already know something of the country, and a second visit should help to fix a good many important details in their minds; it seems to me that an accurate knowledge of the terrain may shortly be of incalculable value to us all.’

‘You are right, there,’ agreed the General grimly. ‘The more we know about the place the better. Take whom you like.’

Which explains why a few days later dawn found Colonel Jenkins and Wigram Battye scrambling up a steep and almost invisible goat-track on the wrong side of the Border, in the wake of Captain Stewart, Mr Scott and the Deputy Commissioner of Peshawar…

The five men had left Jamrud in the chill pre-dawn darkness, and as unobtrusively as possible. Their horses and two sowars of the Guides Cavalry had been waiting for them outside the main gate of the fort, and the small party had mounted and ridden quietly away in the darkness. The moon was down and the stars were already fading, but in the east the sky was beginning to pale, and there was just enough light for the riders to be able to take their horses at a cautious trot across the stretch of plain that lay between Jamrud and the hills; though not enough – or so Major Cavagnari hoped – to make them visible to any watcher on those hillsides. Once safely across the open ground and among the foothills they had dismounted, and leaving their horses in charge of the sowars, gone forward on foot.

It had been a long and arduous climb, and the darkness had not helped. But as the sky overhead was beginning to lighten, they reached the summit of a five-hundred-foot ridge where Scott, who had been leading, stopped at last, panting and breathless. When he was able to command his voice he spoke in a whisper, as though he were afraid that even on this remote and silent hilltop there might be other listeners: ‘I think, sir,’ he said addressing Major Cavagnari, ‘that this is the place you meant.’

Cavagnari nodded and said equally softly: ‘Yes. We will wait here,’ and his four companions, who were hot and tired and dripping with sweat, subsided thankfully on the ground and stared about them.

They were looking out across tribal territory: the secret and jealously guarded lands of men who recognized no law other than their own desires, and whose forebears have for centuries swept down from these hills like wolf packs to rob and lay waste the villages on the plains whenever the fancy took them: tribesmen who, though titular subjects of the Amir, have always had to be paid to keep the peace and to hold the passes against the enemies of Afghanistan – or, alternatively, bribed to let those enemies through.

Even with the aid of binoculars the light was still not strong enough to allow the five men on the hill-top to detect much detail in the shadowy, treeless maze of ridges and ravines that lay below them, or to pick out Ali Masjid from the hills that surrounded it. But the higher ranges were beginning to catch the first glimmer of dawn and to stand out clearly against the paling sky.

There was frost on the higher hills, and behind them, very far away, Wigram could see the gleam of snow and the white soaring peak of Sikaram, queen of the Safed Koh. It would be winter soon, he thought; the nights would be bitterly cold, and once the snow began to fall the northern passes would be blocked. He wouldn't have said, himself, it was a good time to start a war in a country like Afghanistan…

Glancing round at his companions he noticed for the first time that though Stewart, Scott and Colonel Jenkins were all lying at full length among the rocks, elbows propped on the ground as they raked the hills and ridges with their binoculars, Cavagnari alone had remained standing, and unlike the others, showed no interest in the scene ahead. His tall figure, outlined against the sky, conveyed a curious impression of tension, and his head was cocked a little on one side as though he was listening for something; and instinctively, Wigram too began to listen, straining his ears to pick out some unexpected sound in the dawn silence.

At first he could hear nothing but the hiss and whisper of the autumn wind through the rocks and the yellowing grasses, but presently he heard another sound: a faint click of metal on stone, followed by the unmistakable rattle of a displaced pebble rolling away down the hillside. Apparently Cavagnari had heard it too, and Wigram realized suddenly that this was something that the older man had been expecting; for though he made no movement the tension seemed to leave him.

Someone was climbing up towards them from the opposite side of the ridge, and now the others were aware of it too. Colonel Jenkins had dropped his binoculars and there was a revolver in his hand, while Scott and Stewart were on their knees and reaching for their own weapons; but Cavagnari checked them with an imperative gesture, and they waited, all five of them, making no sound and holding their breath to listen, while dawn broke over the plains below and the far snows flushed pink in the first glow of the new day.

The unseen climber was obviously an experienced hillman, for considering the difficulties of the terrain he was making excellent progress up the precipitous slope, and as though to prove what little effect the altitude and strenuous exercise had upon him, he began to hum the
Zakmi dil,
which is an old song that all Pathans know. Not loudly, but hissing it through his teeth -for Asiatics do not whistle.

The tune was no more than a thread of sound, but in that dawn stillness it was clearly audible, and hearing it Cavagnari gave a sharp sigh of relief and motioning to his companions to stay where they were, walked quickly forward and down the hillside. The melody broke off and a moment later they heard him give the Pathan greeting,
‘Stare-mah-sheh,’
and receive the conventional reply, and rising to their feet, looked downward and saw him in conversation with a lean, bearded tribesman who was armed with an antiquated matchlock and girt about with a bandolier stuffed full of brass-topped bullets.

It was not possible to hear what the two were saying, for after that first greeting their voices dropped to a murmur, but it was clear that Cavagnari was asking questions and the Pathan replying to them at some length; and presently, as the light strengthened, the man pointed in the direction of Ali Masjid, accompanying the gesture with an upward jerk of the head, and Cavagnari nodded, and turning, came back to the ridge, the stranger following behind him.

‘One of my men,’ explained Cavagnari briefly. ‘He says that we ought to keep down and stay out of sight, as Ali Masjid is held in force. Also that there is a picket not more than two miles away, and that as soon as the sun is up we shall be able to see it for ourselves.’

The Pathan ducked his head in salute to the Sahib-log, and at a word from Cavagnari, withdrew down the back of the ridge to the shelter of a tumble of rocks some twenty to thirty feet below, where he squatted down to wait, while above him the five men flattened themselves among the stones and took up their binoculars again as the featureless, pasteboard outlines of the hills took on shape and dimension and the morning mists shredded away.

The sky above them was no longer pearl-grey but cerulean, and from somewhere out of sight a partridge began to call. Then of a sudden the grass was streaked with long blue shadows, and four miles away as the crow flies, something glinted brightly in the blaze of the rising sun; pinpointing an insignificant hill-top that until then had been indistinguishable among a hundred others.

‘Guns,’ breathed Colonel Jenkins. ‘Yes, that's Ali Masjid all right, and as your Pathan friend says, it's been well and truly re-inforced. Just look at those breastworks.’

The fort, now suddenly visible, crowned a conical hill that barely showed above a stony ridge that was scored with lines of newly built breastworks which the binoculars showed to be well defended. There was also a cavalry encampment at the foot of the ridge, and presently a small body of horsemen emerged from among the tents, and riding up to the Shagai plateau, made their way across it to a little tower near the Mackeson road: presumably the picket that the Pathan had spoken of.

‘Time we went, I think,’ decided Major Cavagnari, putting away his binoculars. ‘Those fellows have got eyes like hawks, and we don't want to be spotted. Come on.’

They found the Pathan still squatting, frontier-fashion, among the rocks, his jezail across his knees, and Cavagnari motioned the others to go on ahead and went over to exchange a last word with him: but catching up with them a few minutes later as they hurried forward down the grassy hillside towards the safety of the plains and their own side of the border, he checked suddenly and called to Wigram, who stopped and turned:

‘Yes, sir?’

‘I'm sorry, but I forgot something –’ Cavagnari produced a handful of silver and a packet of cheap country-made cigarettes and thrust it at Wigram. ‘Be a good fellow and take this up to that man up there, will you? I usually give him a few rupees and some of these things, and I don't want him turning up in Jamrud to demand his baksheesh, and being recognized. We won't wait for you –’ He turned and hurried on downward as Wigram started back up the steep slope.

The chill had gone out of the morning and now the sun was hot on Wigram's shoulders and there were butterflies on the hillside: familiar, English-looking butterflies. Fritillaries, brimstones, meadow-browns and tiny common blues that reminded him of summer holidays long ago, when he and Quentin had been boys and gone butterfly-hunting in the fields and lanes of Home. There were birds too, twittering among the grasses, and when a shred of shadow flicked over him he looked up and saw a lammergeyer very high in the blue, soaring majestically above the tumbled ridges of the Khyber.

Now that the sun was up, walking back up the hillside was warmer work than it had been in the chill starlight before dawn, and as he plodded forward, sweat soaked his shirt and ran down into his eyes. He brushed the drops away irritably and wondered if Cavagnari's Pathan would still be there, and if not, what he was supposed to do about it. But a faint sound drifted down to him: the ghost of a melody –
Zakmi dil,
that traditional love-song of a land where homosexuality has always been an accepted part of life… ‘
There's a boy across the river with a bottom like a peach, but alas, I cannot swim
…’