Hart of Empire

by Saul David Ltd

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

George Hart, back in England following his heroics in the Zulu Wars, scarcely has time to gamble away his meagre fortune when he is summoned to a secret meeting in Whitehall. There, Prime Minister Disraeli himself asks George to undertake a dangerous mission to Afghanistan. Mistrust and dislike for the local ruler chosen by the British is growing and Muslim extremists threaten to overthrow the local government. The British cannot allow the loss of Afghanistan, which would put at risk India, the jewel in the Imperial crown. Although he suspects that the Establishment sees a part-Zulu officer as expendable, George can see that his dark skin will help him go undercover, and soon, accompanied only by a Pathan guide, he is descending the Khyber pass into a strange and violent land. On the way he meets Yasmin, an alluring Afghan princess, and together this unlikely trio find themselves in a race against time to prevent a tribal uprising and head off a catastrophic British invasion.

Release date: August 5, 2010

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 352

Sample

Author’s Note

Historical fiction always takes liberties with the ‘truth’: it compresses time, invents conversations and motives that real people never had, and generally tampers with the historical record for the purposes of plot. The trick is to minimize those liberties, and to make sure that when you’re writing about historical figures you stay true to the spirit of that person. A made-up character, of course, gives the author the greatest license, but even he or she must conform to the standards/mores/thought patterns of the time.

It helps, too, if the plot is credible. I first came across the Prophet’s Cloak – my chief plot device – when I read David Loyn’s excellent history of foreign engagement in Afghanistan, Butcher & Bolt (see below). From that book and other sources, I discovered that the cloak was said to have been brought to Afghanistan from Central Asia in the 1760s by the first Amir of Kabul, Ahmad Shah Durrani, and today is kept in a locked silver box in the Kharka Sharif shrine in Kandahar. Its last public appearance was in the spring of 1996 when the leader of the Taliban, Mullah Omar, wore it to rally support for his movement’s stalled attempt to capture Kabul, proclaiming himself Amir al-Mu’minin (“Leader of the Faithful”). Weeks later Kabul fell to the Taliban. A hundred and fifty years earlier, and for much the same reason, it was donned by Amir Dost Mahomed when he launched a jihad against the first British invasion of Afghanistan. Dost was restored to power when the British withdrew in 1842.

There is, however, no evidence that the cloak was used by Mullah Mushk-i-Alam, or any other leader, during the Afghan rebellion of 1879 (part of a conflict known to historians as the second Anglo-Afghan War). But it easily might have been: it seems inconceivable, given the precedent set by Dost Mohamed a generation earlier, that the advantage to be gained by displaying it in public did not occur to them. The mullah certainly proclaimed a jihad that was hugely popular until it suffered the crushing military defeat at Sherpur, on 23 December 1879, which is the climax to this book.

Nor is it beyond the bounds of possibility that the British government in London would have sent an agent to acquire the cloak in 1879. Disraeli was furious that Lord Lytton, the Viceroy of India, had exceeded his brief by invading Afghanistan in the first place in 1878, and by the following year he and his Cabinet colleagues were doubly determined to avoid a fresh outbreak of hostilities. Lytton and many senior political and military figures in India, on the other hand, were convinced that the sub-continent’s security depended upon the annexation of all or part of Afghanistan (the so-called ‘Forward’ policy), and the attack on the Residency was just the excuse they needed for a fresh invasion. After the victory at Sherpur, the preferred plan was to break up the country and only annex Kandahar. But even that province was relinquished when the British, following defeat at Maiwand, finally withdrew in early 1881. Soon afterwards the country was reunited by Britain’s preferred choice of amir, Abdur Rahman, who ruled for the next 20 years without foreign interference (though Britain exercised a nominal control over the amir’s foreign policy).

My three main characters – George Hart, Princess Yasmin and Ilderim Khan – are all fictional, but most of the people they come into contact with really existed: Sir Louis Cavagnari, Lieutenant Walter Hamilton V.C., William Jenkyns and Doctor Kelly (all of whom perished during the attack on the Residency); Yakub Khan and his wazir, Shah Mohammed Khan; Lieutenant-General Sir Frederick ‘Bobs’ Roberts (who went on to command the British Army), Brigadier-General Thomas Baker and Colonel Charles MacGregor; and the rebel leaders Mullah Mushk-i-Alam and Mir Bacha. As far as possible I have tried to stay true to the historical record of where these figures were and what they were up to (even, in places, using recorded speech and letters), and the main events in Afghanistan from September to December 1879 – including the sack of the Residency, the re-invasion by Sir Frederick Roberts, Yakub Khan’s abdication, Roberts’s reverse in the Chardeh valley, and the final British victory at Sherpur cantonment – were as I describe. Yakub Khan, moreover, did abandon his wives and close relatives in the Bala Hissar when he left to join the British in late September.

During my research I used a number of excellent histories and first-hand accounts. For those readers who would like to delve further, I recommend the following:

 

Giles St Aubyn, The Royal George, 1819-1904: The Life of H.R.H. Prince George Duke of Cambridge (1965)

J. Duke, Recollections of the Kabul Campaign 1879 & 1880 (1883)

T.A. Heathcote, The Afghan Wars: 1839-1919 (2007)

David Loyn, Butcher & Bolt: Two Hundred Years of Foreign Engagement in Afghanistan (2008)

Field Marshal Lord Roberts of Kandahar, Forty-One Years in India: From Subaltern to Commander-in-Chief (1898)

Brian Robson, The Road to Kabul: The 2nd Afghan War 1878-1881 (2008)

William Trousdale (ed.), War in Afghanistan, 1879-80: The Personal Diary of Major General Sir Charles Metcalfe MacGregor (1985)

 

Switching from history to fiction is never easy. Fortunately I’ve been guided by an excellent editorial team at Hodder – notably my publisher Nick Sayers and his (former) assistant and now editor Anne Clarke – and once again they’ve come up trumps. I have Nick to thank for suggesting I consult the screenwriter Guy Meredith while I was plotting this book (in an attempt, no doubt, to iron out the wrinkles of its predecessor) and Guy’s input has been invaluable. And to everyone else at Hodder who has worked so hard on the book – Laura, Kerry, Claudette, Helen, Mark, as well as Auriol, Lucy, Jason and their teams, in particular Aslan – not to mention my excellent freelance copy-editor Hazel Orme, proof-reader Barbara Westmore, and Martin Collins who drew the maps, I’m extremely grateful.

Thanks, also, to Richard Foreman and Peter Robinson, my publicist and agent respectively, who between them made this transition to fiction possible; and, last but not least, to my wife Louise for reading the manuscript (and enjoying it for a change), and making the extremely sensible suggestion that I should leave the writing of sex scenes to those ‘who know what they’re doing’.

Chapter 1

Haymarket, London, late spring 1879

‘Thirty-three black!’ announced the croupier.

George shook his head slowly, scarcely able to believe his luck. He preferred gambling at cards but neither baccarat nor chemin-de-fer had been kind to him today and he had switched in desperation to roulette, placing his last fifteen pounds of chips on black. It had won and, for want of a better strategy, he had bet on the same colour for five more spins, each time doubling his money, so that with this latest success, he now had the princely sum of £960. One more win would give him the two thousand or so that he desperately needed. He took another gulp of whisky and decided to let the money ride. All or nothing.

But something in his drink-fuddled brain told him it couldn’t be black again, not seven times in a row, though he knew the odds on each new bet were the same for either colour. At the last moment, as the croupier was about to spin the wheel, he leant forward and moved all his chips to red. Then he closed his eyes and prayed.

As the ball was released, George glanced nervously round the dingy gambling den, its candelabra casting ghostly shadows over the few remaining players. He was alone at his table but for the croupier, a small, wiry man with greasy hair and a lopsided bow-tie, who was staring at the wheel as if his life depended upon it. Maybe it did, because his brow glistened with beads of sweat and his hands were gripping the table so tightly that the knuckles were white.

George looked back at the wheel and, almost imperceptibly, the croupier moved his right thumb below the level of the table, felt for a small button and pressed it. Seconds later the ball ran out of momentum and fell into the bed of the wheel, rattling along the numbers before finally coming to rest.

‘Zero green,’ announced the croupier, with as straight a face as he could muster, before raking George’s neat pile of chips from the red diamond at the side of the baize.

Oh, my God, thought George. It’s fallen into the only number I didn’t consider, the one that gives the house its advantage. But even as his racing heart and clammy hands registered the consequences, he noticed the visibly relieved croupier grinning at someone behind him. He swung round to see the rotund proprietor, Mr Milton Samuels, advancing towards him.

‘So sorry for your loss, Captain Hart,’ said Samuels, thumbs crooked in his bright checked waistcoat. ‘You win some . . .’

George’s eyes narrowed. He had lost money before, of course, but Samuels had never felt the need to console him. Something was wrong. He looked from boss to employee, and back again, and felt sure he had been cheated. ‘Don’t give me that flannel, Samuels,’ he said, a hard edge to his voice. ‘You’re not sorry at all. And why would you be when you’ve just fleeced me of everything I own?’

‘Now, now, Captain Hart, there’s no need for that.’

‘Isn’t there?’ said George, his voice rising. ‘So, you keep your temper when you’ve been rooked, do you?’

The room had fallen silent, all eyes on the altercation. Samuels glanced beyond George to the stairs. ‘I assure you, sir, that nothing untoward—’

‘I saw your croupier gripping the side of the table and suspect you may have fitted some mechanical device to ensure the ball landed on green.’

George strode towards the croupier’s end of the table, intent on discovering the truth, but Samuels intercepted him, his arms outstretched. ‘I don’t want no trouble, Captain Hart, so if you leave quietly we’ll say no more about it.’

‘I shall go nowhere without my money.’

‘That right, Cap’n?’ said a new voice, behind him. Before George could turn he felt an iron-like grip on his throat as an arm pinned him from behind. The more he struggled, the more the pressure increased. He could feel blood pounding in his ears and knew he was close to blacking out. But then the pressure on his throat eased a little and, coughing and spluttering, he regained his senses.

‘Like I was saying,’ snarled Samuels, ‘I don’t want no trouble but you would insist. All right, Paddy, throw him out.’

George felt as helpless as a rag doll as he was dragged backwards up the stairs, through the entrance and propelled on to the pavement, the boisterous Haymarket crowd parting for yet another drunk. Furious, he scrambled to his feet and advanced towards O’Reilly, the huge doorman who had thrown him out and was now standing coolly on the steps, his arms crossed. ‘Don’t be a fool, Cap’n. I’ll make mincemeat of you, so I will, and it’d be a shame to damage that handsome figurehead of yours.’

George knew he was no match for the former prize-fighter, and was likely to receive a thrashing, but he was so angry and drunk he didn’t care. He swung a right hook that missed as the battle-scarred Irishman swayed out of range, moving his large frame with the speed and grace of a cat. Overbalancing, George stumbled forward into a hammer of a counter-punch, O’Reilly’s right fist slamming into his solar plexus, driving the air from his lungs and dropping him to his knees. He had never been hit so hard.

‘You won’t get away with this,’ he said, gasping for breath. But he knew that they would, for he could hardly complain to the police about an illegal gambling den.

‘Go home and sober up, Cap’n, though I’ll wager home for you is far from these shores.’

Normally such an insulting reference to his dark skin, which made him look more southern Mediterranean than British, would have provoked a violent response. But the blow George had received had knocked much of the fight out of him and, as he crouched on the pavement, he realized he had only himself to blame for his humiliation. He rose to his feet, dusted himself down and, with a last scornful glance at O’Reilly, set off in the direction of his hotel in Knightsbridge. It was a fair distance and he would normally have hailed a cab but he had decided to walk to save money and to clear his head.

Halfway down Piccadilly – oblivious of the fashionable swells in their frock coats, checked waistcoats and tight blue trousers, and the ladies in dolman-style cloaks and narrow-brimmed bonnets – he pulled out his mother’s letter and read it a second time.

 

17 Connaught Square

Dublin

 

Dearest George,

It was wonderful to have you to myself again for those few short weeks of your convalescence, and to hear all your news. I am so proud that your gallantry in South Africa has been rewarded with a regular commission, and that you now have a second chance to make something of your military career.

I am grateful for the £500 you sent on your return to England. I have never been good with money, and since your father stopped paying your allowance it has been a constant struggle to keep my creditors at bay. In truth the £500 was quickly eaten up by debts and I have been forced to resort to moneylenders. But their interest is exorbitant and they have warned me that if I do not pay the £2,000 I shall owe by January next year they will force me to sell the house. I hate to burden you with this, my darling, particularly after your recent generosity, but I don’t know where else to turn.

Your loving mother,

Emma

 

George folded the letter and groaned. He knew he had been a fool to try to raise the money his mother needed by gambling, but what was the alternative? After having kitted himself out with his new regimental uniform he had been left with barely two hundred pounds. Now, thanks to his idiocy, that money was almost gone and tomorrow he would return to South Africa to join his new regiment. It was almost a relief.

He set off at an unsteady walk and, twenty minutes later, was in sight of his hotel on Queen’s Gate when he registered footsteps behind him. They grew gradually louder, and as the pedestrian caught up, George moved aside to let him pass. Instead he felt a tap on the shoulder.

‘What do you­­­—’ As he turned, George froze in mid-sentence. There, standing before him in a top hat and cape, was a ghost. The ghost of a man he had killed in a fight the year before: the same huge frame, clothes and blotchy red face. It couldn’t be, yet he seemed real enough in the flickering light from a nearby gas lamp. ‘It can’t be­­ . . .’ he whispered. ‘You’re dead.’

‘Not me,’ snarled the man, ‘my brother Henry. I’m Bob Thompson.’

‘You’re his brother?’ George was aghast.

‘Yes. And I’m here to see you pay.’

George looked down at the man’s hands, expecting to see a weapon. They were bunched into fists. ‘Now just a minute. I can understand your anger, but your brother drew a sword on me. I had to defend myself.’

‘That’s not what you told the police. They said they were about to arrest you when a lady gave you an alibi. And yet you’ve just admitted to me that you did kill my brother.’

A voice in George’s head was screaming at him to stop incriminating himself and say no more, but perhaps because of the drink, or the shock, or perhaps because in truth he was haunted every day by his distress at having killed a man and run from the fact, he spoke again: ‘It was self-defence, I swear.’

‘Then why not swear to the police, and let a jury decide?’

‘Because I cannot believe I’ll receive a fair trial. I fought your brother because he was trying to apprehend a young girl I was travelling with. She had just left the employment of my former commanding officer, Colonel Harris, who wanted her back. But she feared he would ravish her – he had tried once before, which was why she left.’

A shadow passed over the big man’s face. ‘So my brother was acting on Harris’s orders?’

‘Exactly.’

‘And you say he drew a sword on you?’

‘A sword-stick, to be exact.’

Thompson swore. ‘John always were a bully, quick to use his fists. But he never killed no one, not to my knowledge.’

‘Well, he almost killed me. As I say, he left me no alternative.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ said Thompson, shaking his head. ‘I reckon you were taking a beating and you pulled a pistol.’

‘That was not how it was. He drew his weapon first. I tried to reason with him, but he wouldn’t let us go. So I told the girl to run, which was when your brother tried to stab me. I shot him in self-defence.’

‘So you keep saying, but old Bob can’t speak for himself, can he?’

‘No.’

‘Which is why I’m asking you nicely, Captain Hart, to hand yourself in. Our poor old mother won’t rest until she knows justice has been done.’

‘I’m sorry for her, I truly am. But no jury influenced by Harris will believe I was justified in using a pistol against a sword-stick, though I know I was. If I admit to killing your brother I’ll swing, and I don’t deserve that.’

‘And that’s your final answer?’

‘It is.’

‘You bloody coward.’ Thompson lurched forward, swinging a left-handed haymaker at the side of George’s head.

But George, though drunk, was the nimbler of the two, easily slipping the punch and countering with one of his own, a straight right that caught Thompson flush on the jaw with a crack that echoed down the empty street. It was a blow made all the more potent by the humiliation he had already suffered at the gambling den, and Thompson reaped the consequences. He staggered and fell backwards into a sitting position, his eyes glazed.

‘Like your brother, you left me no choice,’ said George. Suddenly sober, he walked briskly away.

Chapter 10

Royal Palace, Bala Hissar, Kabul, two weeks later

George entered the durbar rooms to find Yakub Khan talking to a short, thick-set man with a long, handsome beard, a hawk nose and a haughty, scornful expression, whose rich clothes marked him out as a nobleman. ‘Ah, Captain,’ said Yakub, wringing his hands. ‘This is my wazir, Shah Mohammed Khan. We’ve just been discussing General Roberts’s reply to my letters, which arrived this morning. It’s not good news. Will you read it and give me your opinion?’

George strode up to Khan and took the proffered letter. It stated:

 

Ali Khel, 18 September 1879

 

Your Highness,

In accordance with your own request that a British officer should be deputed as resident to your court, and on condition that you would yourself be responsible for the protection and honourable treatment of such a resident, Major Cavagnari and three British officers were allowed to go to Kabul, all of whom within six weeks have been ruthlessly murdered by your troops and subjects.

Your inability to carry out your treaty engagements, and your powerlessness to establish your authority, even in your own capital, having thus become apparent, a British army will now advance on Kabul with the double object of consolidating your government, should you loyally do your best to fulfil the terms of the treaty, and of exacting retribution from the murderers of the British mission.

But although Your Highness has laid great stress in your letter of 4 September on the sincerity of your friendship, my government has been informed that emissaries have been dispatched from Kabul to rouse the country people and tribes against us, and as this action appears inconsistent with friendly intentions, I consider it necessary for Your Highness to send a confidential representative to confer with me and explain your object.

Yours, etc.,

Sir Frederick Roberts, V.C.

 

George looked up from the letter. ‘Your Highness, I warned you that Simla would want revenge, and that the only way to forestall this would be for you to put down the rebellion and punish the leaders. Yet you have not done this.’

‘How can I, when I have so few reliable troops?’ cried Yakub, throwing his hands into the air. ‘Even my uncle, Nek Mahomed Khan, whom I appointed governor of Kabul, sides with the rebels. The faithless scoundrel! It is he who is rousing the tribes against the British, not I. But at least I’ve regained control of the Bala Hissar and, in time, will disarm the regular troops and raise new levies. Then I can act against those responsible for the late abominable outrage. But how can I convince General Roberts of this?’

‘You must do as he asks,’ advised George, ‘and send an emissary to give your side of the story. But the man you choose must be a senior member of your government, such as the wazir, or Roberts will not take him seriously.’

‘I?’ spluttered the wazir. ‘Must I cross the rebel lines and put myself at the mercy of General Roberts? I will not.’

‘You must,’ pleaded Yakub. ‘Captain Hart is right. The emissary must be an important man whom I trust implicitly. You are that man.’

‘If I go, the British will not let me return.’

‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said George. ‘Roberts wouldn’t dare to hold you against your will. Not while his stated aim is to re-establish the amir’s authority.’

Yakub turned to George. ‘If Shah Mohammed refuses, will you go instead? Roberts will believe you if you tell him I had nothing to do with the rebellion, and did all in my power to save the resident.’

‘I can’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I don’t believe it to be true. Anyway, as I said before, Roberts doesn’t know me.’

‘It’s of no matter, Captain Hart. You simply say you’re a British traveller who was caught up in the fighting at the Residency, and are carrying a letter for General Roberts from the Amir of Kabul. Remember we both want the same thing: to prevent an invasion that will almost certainly provoke a full-scale war. As things stand, I have only to overcome the mutinous regiments and a few disaffected civilians. But if Roberts and other British columns invade, the tribes will surely rise across the country in a jihad against the infidel and those who are friendly towards them, which includes the present government.’

He’s right, thought George. We do want the same thing – if for different reasons – and I might just get away with the businessman cover story. But now I’m recovered from my wound, can I justify a trip to the Kurram valley that will inevitably delay my departure for Ghazni and the continuation of my mission?

He decided he could: it would waste a little time and there was no guarantee he would be able to stop Roberts’s march, but if he didn’t try, full-scale war was almost inevitable – whether or not he captured the cloak. And the added advantage of travelling to the Kurram was that Roberts, one of the leading exponents of the Indian government’s Forward policy, was as likely to know its exact whereabouts as anyone.

‘Very well. Ilderim and I will leave after dark.’

‘Thank you, Captain. I’ll see you’re given my letter to General Roberts before you leave. My family will be for ever in your debt.’

 

That night, mounted on sturdy ponies and armed with carbines, pistols and Khyber knives, George and Ilderim rode unchallenged out of the Bala Hissar’s main gate, dropped down to the plain and took the road south, skirting the spine of bare and rocky hills called the Sher Darwaza Heights. They were approaching the village of Beni Hissar, nestled close to the hills, when a voice ahead called, ‘Stop! Who are you and what is your business?’

They drew rein. George could just make out a small group of armed men blocking the road and, though he had grown an impressive beard and was disguised in his Ghilzai border ruffian garb, he prayed they weren’t mutineers. ‘What ails you, brother?’ responded Ilderim. ‘Can a man no longer return to his home at night unmolested?’

‘No, he may not. Where have you been these last few weeks since we butchered the Feringhees and their lapdog guards at the Residency? The country is crawling with spies, all seeking to pass information between that traitorous dog of an amir and the Angrez, and we’ve been ordered to question everyone who passes. So, I ask you again, what are you doing on the road at this time of night?’

With his worst fears confirmed, and fearing discovery, George moved his right hand closer to where his pistol was concealed. But Ilderim seemed unconcerned, and continued his comradely banter: ‘Brothers, put aside your weapons! We’re returning to our home village of Zahidabad in the Logar valley. We’ve been celebrating the marriage of my cousin in Kabul, and afterwards we spent a while in a bawdy house on Charahai Street. Aiee! If you could have seen the Tajik woman I enjoyed. What thighs! What . . .’ Ilderim cupped his hands in front of his chest, an idiotic grin on his face.

‘I have been there,’ interjected one of the mutineers. ‘The trollops are indeed magnificent, and from all corners of the country. Why, I once paid for two Hazaras who kept me—’

‘Quiet, Anwar!’ snapped the officer of the guard. ‘Will you lower yourself to this debauched fool’s level? Though it’s plain he hasn’t the sense to be a spy so we need detain him no longer. On your way, then, fellow! And next time you choose to visit the fleshpots of Kabul, take a room for the night.’

‘I will, brother,’ cackled Ilderim. ‘And as I’m enjoying the pleasures therein, I’ll be sure to think of you.’

George held his breath, convinced that Ilderim had gone too far. But the mutinous officer, no doubt yearning for the warmth of his bed, ignored the jibe and waved them on without comment.

Once safely out of earshot, George asked Ilderim if he’d ever visited the whorehouse in question. ‘Sadly not, huzoor, but I hear it is the best in Kabul. When the country has quietened down, what say we visit it together?’

‘You’re incorrigible.’ George shook his head. ‘We’ve just cheated death again and all you can think about is chasing women!’

They pressed on and, having safely negotiated the Sang-i-Nawishta defile, through which the Logar river passes into the Kabul valley, they eventually came to Zahidabad where they stopped to water the ponies. They had covered twenty miles in two and a half hours. But with another sixty to go to reach Ali Khel, Roberts’s headquarters in the Kurram valley, including a strength-sapping ascent up the ten-thousand-feet high Shutargardan Pass in the Sufaid Koh mountains, they did not delay long.

It was getting light as they neared the village of Kushi, the last settlement of any size before the climb to the Shutargardan, and George was able to observe the terrain that Roberts’s army had crossed the previous year. The road passed ov. . .