Farewell To Afghanistan

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The first thing Jack noticed about Major-General James Maurice Primrose was his fashionable side-whiskers and neat hair. The second thing was his clear eyes and gentle face that did not sit well with his position as commander of Kandahar, a city in the south of Afghanistan and surrounded by some of the most intractable Pashtun tribes.

Are you the right man to command the garrison, General Primrose?

Britain’s war in Afghanistan had started in 1878, two years previously, when perceived Russian interference in the country alarmed some British politicians. Jack and the 113th Foot had been part of General Roberts’ force that had won a series of battles and occupied Kabul. Now, as Britain prepared to install a friendly Amir to rule Afghanistan, the military was slowly evacuating the country. However, politicians in Britain spoke of retaining Kandahar and the south as a buffer to protect British India.

What the devil am I doing in Kandahar? Jack tugged at his too-tight collar. I should be with my regiment in Kabul, not here with the Royals. He recalled the brief telegram that had summoned him to Kandahar.

Major Windrush. Accompany Royal Malverns to Kandahar. Persuade Batoor Khan of the Rahmut Khel to support the British. Hook.

Jack had sworn when he read the telegram. General Hook was head of British military intelligence and had known Jack for years, but although Jack regarded him as a friend, his messages usually presaged a dangerous mission. Jack preferred to work as a regimental officer rather than dabbling in politics.

The music started as Jack looked over the large, airy room in which General Primrose had gathered the British and Indian officers, close allies and Afghan maliks – tribal leaders - before the durbar. Tall, pointed windows allowed in light, while Persian script and abstract designs ornately decorated the walls. Every British officer wore their dress uniform while the guests, both Afghan and Indian, dressed in the clothes they thought best fitted the situation. Sher Ali Khan, the wali of Kandahar, was the guest of honour, a heavy-featured man with a shaggy beard and fine clothes.

Jack looked around the room but failed to see Batoor. I hope you have come, Batoor, or I’ve wasted a long journey.

General Primrose seemed perfectly at home amidst the glamour, talking easily to the Wali, Pashtun maliks, the Wali’s officers, British officers, and women alike. Smooth and debonair, he smiled as his officers swirled around the floor. A staff officer and administrator rather than a fighting soldier, his diplomacy graced the room.

Standing with his back to the wall, Jack sipped an atrociously bad wine and watched everybody. He saw William Windrush, Colonel of the famous Royal Malverns and his half-brother, talking to Brigadier-General George Burrows and Colonel James Galbraith of the 66th Foot. They seemed animated, ignoring Helen, who drifted away, glass in hand, to seek more entertaining company. Jack watched her for a moment, then drew a deep breath when she stopped to talk to a group of Afghan maliks.

Batoor Khan stood in the centre of the group, as comfortable in the middle of the meeting as he was in battle or his own valley. With his karakul hat of Astrakhan fur and the ivory-and-silver-hilted pulwar- the curved Pashtun sword - at his waist, he looked as dignified as any of the guests. As Jack watched, Batoor laughed at something Helen said, leaning forward to touch her shoulder.

Thinking he had better pursue his duty, Jack stepped forward, sliding through the crowd.

“Ah, here you are, Jack,” Helen said. “Batoor Khan here was regaling me of tales of Afghanistan.”

“I’m sure he was,” Jack said.

“Do you two know each other?” Helen asked.

“We’ve known each other for years,” Jack said. “We fought side by side in the Mutiny and again in the Umbeyla campaign.”

Batoor grinned, with his brown eyes alight. “And against the Russians,” he said until Jack shook his head to silence him. He could not reveal his most recent campaign.

Helen glanced from one to the other. “You did not tell me you knew such a personable Pashtun malik, Jack,” Helen said. By using the term malik, she was demonstrating her knowledge of the local culture.

Batoor bowed with as much aplomb as any Eton-educated British aristocrat. “Thank you, Lady Windrush,” he replied.

“I do not have a title,” Helen said.

“The British are at fault, then,” Batoor said, “for by neglecting you, they are weakening their position.”

Helen curtseyed in acknowledgement. “I will leave you men together,” she said. “I’m sure you have much to discuss.” She glided away to talk to Major Baxter.

“You were very gallant, Batoor,” Jack said. “Where did you learn such manners?”

Batoor grinned. “You and I are similar, Jack. You are British and move among the Pashtun. I am Pashtun and move among the British.” He touched his pearl earring. “You had better be careful with your sister-in-law. I am looking for a new wife, and a woman like that would make a splendid addition to my household.”

Jack smiled, although he was unsure whether Batoor was joking. “Her husband would not appreciate that.”

“Perhaps not,” Batoor said. “I already have a younger woman in mind, but to marry a memsahib like that,” he smiled. “Your brother is a fortunate man.”

“He certainly chose a good woman,” Jack agreed.

“You had also better be careful with these men.” Batoor nodded to a small knot of maliks who stood at the edge of the room, watching everything through suspicious eyes.

“Who are they?” Jack asked. All three were large men with heavy beards and dark turbans, and all carried the ugly Khyber Knife at their waist.

“Babrakzai Khan, his cousin Zamar Khan and Hyder Ali.” Even in Batoor’s voice, the names sounded flat. “All from the Nazar Khel of the Zirak Durrani.”

“Durrani? You are Durrani.”

“I am.” Batoor touched his pearl earring. “We are not friends. Babrakzai is my neighbour from the Bolak valley and constantly raids my herds. Zamar Khan and Hyder Ali are his cousins. Zamar belongs to this area and Hyder from Helmand.”

“I think I’d better talk to these three gentlemen,” Jack said. “Would you care to join me, Batoor?”

“Only if you wish me to kill all three,” Batoor replied without a trace of humour.

“Not today.” Massacring our guests would not endear the British to the local Pashtun tribes. “I’d best go alone.”

With one hand on the hilt of his sword, Jack walked across to the three maliks. They eyed him from across the room and stood, unsmiling, until he arrived.

“I am Major Jack Windrush of the 113th Foot,” Jack introduced himself.

The Pashtuns nodded briefly, with Zamar Khan’s lip’s curling into what he may have intended as a smile. “Where is General Primrose?” Zamar had a very steady gaze.

“He’s over there.” Jack saw Primrose in the centre of the room, talking to William and Galbraith. “I’ll take you to him.” What the devil is Primrose thinking, inviting a trio of Pashtun maliks and not treating them as honoured guests? Is the man looking for trouble?

General Primrose smiled as Jack introduced the three Pashtun maliks. “Welcome to Kandahar,” he said while Sher Ali Khan and the maliks exchanged wary looks.

Zamar Khan thanked Primrose with a nod, while Hyder and Babrakzai Khan stared at the general as if he did not exist.

Trouble. Jack thought. These three will be carrying arms against us soon.

Flanked by William Windrush and Colonel James Galbraith, General Primrose appeared the epitome of British military confidence, Smiling and urbane, he stood in the brilliant scarlet of his full-dress uniform with the light glittering on his gold braid and the row of medals on his chest. For a moment, Jack saw Primrose talking to the three Afghan leaders, a contrast between a general of the leading imperial power on Earth and men whose beliefs had scarcely changed in the last thousand years, and then a servant passed between them. When Jack looked again, the image had altered. Hyder had moved sideways, and William Windrush had shifted away.

Galbraith nodded to Jack. He was a distinguished-looking man, with bushy side-whiskers and slightly pouchy eyes under his balding head. He looked surprised when William Windrush spoke sharply to Jack.

“You may leave us, Major,” William Windrush said. “This meeting is for senior officers.”

“As you wish, sir,” Jack bit back his angry retort. William was perfectly entitled to order a junior officer away. He was aware of the maliks watching as he withdrew.

“Your brother does not care for you,” Batoor joined Jack.

“I know,” Jack agreed.

“I had a brother like that, once.” Batoor touched the silver hilt of his Khyber knife. “I killed him.”

“We don’t do that in our culture.” Jack did not force his smile. “Sometimes, I think the Pashtun way is better.”

“It is more honest,” Batoor said. He met Jack’s smile. “Why are you here, Windrush? Your regiment, the 113th Foot, is at Kabul.”

“General Hook thought I might be useful,” Jack said.

“General Hook thought you could persuade me to aid the British, support Sher Ali, and help Abdur Rahman Khan become Amir,” Batoor said.

Jack nodded. He was not surprised that Batoor had worked out General Hook’s reasoning. “Do I need to persuade you?”

Batoor touched his earring. “I will keep neutral,” he said. “I’ve little time for Sher Ali, but the new Amir won’t need my support. Once he’s properly in power, Rahman Khan will rule Afghanistan with an iron fist.”

“What’s Rahman Khan like?”

Batoor angrily rebuffed a mess waiter who offered him a glass of wine. “I am Muhammadan!” and returned his attention to Jack. “Rahman Khan is about forty, not tall, overweight, courteous when he chooses and with a good brain. He’ll match the British and Russian politicians for intelligence and outdo them for ruthlessness,”

Jack grunted. Batoor’s assessment agreed with that of Major Baxter. “A weak man doesn’t last in Afghanistan.”

“That is so,” Batoor agreed.

Both men looked up as Colonel Primrose gave an order, and everybody filed through to the durbar room.

The atmosphere altered in seconds. The room was smaller, with a raised dais on which Primrose and Sher Ali sat, with everybody else sitting on couches or chairs below. Jack moved to the rear of the room, with Batoor at his side and the three maliks remaining near the door. British and Afghan officers and officials of Sher Ali’s court filled the remainder of the room.

“Welcome all,” General Primrose spoke in Pashtu and English and began a long speech to inform everybody of the current situation in Afghanistan. Jack thought him a good speaker, if a little flowery. The British officers soon looked bored, while the Afghans listened with attention. Zamar and Babrakzai spoke quietly to each other, with Hyder looking around the room, taking note of everybody present.

These three are not here to discuss current affairs, Jack thought. They are spying on us, checking our strengths and weaknesses.

When General Primrose stopped talking, Sher Ali stood up. He raised his hands as if in prayer as he addressed the room, speaking in rapid Pashtu.

“Wait!” Primrose lifted a hand. “We’ll need a translator.” The job was evidently beneath the dignity of a general officer. “Major Windrush! Translate for the benefit of those who don’t speak the language.”

Jack mounted the dais and repeated Sher Ali’s words. The Wali was extolling the benefits of a British alliance and telling everybody present of his power and control of the city and province of Kandahar. As he spoke, Jack saw the three maliks listening intently until Hyder Ali slipped away to talk to one of the Wali’s officers.

Trouble.

When the Wali sat down, Jack expected General Primrose would ask for comments from his audience, but instead, he seemed content to finish the durbar. The officers left, some complaining that the whole thing had been a waste of time.

“Thank you, Major,” Primrose said formally.

Batoor joined Jack in the outer chamber, where the informal gathering resumed.

“Where are the maliks?” Jack asked.

“They left immediately after the durbar finished,” Batoor said.

“Are you staying?” Jack looked up as the door opened and a clutch of garrison wives entered, each one searching for her husband among the scarlet uniforms.

“I am not staying,” Batoor said. “You may tell General Hook that your mission was a success, and Batoor Khan of the Rahmut Khel will support the new Amir and will not lead his men against the British.” Batoor grinned. “Or not until it suits him.”

Jack met Batoor’s smile. “Thank you, Batoor.” He watched as Batoor slipped out of the door.

Major Baxter approached with a glass in each hand. “Here you are, Windrush. I didn’t know you were fluent in Pashtu.”

“I’ve served in this area before,” Jack said.

Baxter glanced at Jack’s medals. “So I see, Major.” The use of Jack’s rank held an implied question. Why have you not been promoted? Baxter was asking.

“Do you know what my men are complaining about?” Baxter changed the subject to routine regimental matters.

“No,” Jack said. As a guest officer from the 113th Foot, he had no contact with the rank and file of the Royal Malverns and missed the day-to-day conversation and worries of the men.

“There is a shortage of rum,” Baxter said solemnly. “More is on the way, but at present, the men are forced to drink the local spirits.” He grinned. “Forget the politics and whoever the Amir is this week; the Tommies have more immediate concerns.”

Jack smiled. “The swaddies may have the right idea.”

Baxter continued. “The Kandaharis, non-drinking Muslims to a man, make the local concoction from raisins, and it tastes foul. The Tommies call it Billy Stink, which it does, and choke it down with reluctant gusto.”

Jack knew British soldiers well enough to know they would drink anything alcoholic. “If the lads are complaining about Billy Stink, it must be a truly vile mixture.”

Baxter held up his glass for a refill. “That is one great advantage of a commissioned rank, my boy. We may have great responsibilities, but at least we can drink decent brandy. I intend to remain drunk until we leave this foul country.”

“So I see, Baxter,” Jack said.

“On to less immediate matters,” Baxter said. “I heard there is more trouble up north. Ayub Khan has stirred things up in Herat direction and is heading south.”

“There’s always trouble in Afghanistan,” Jack said. “Excuse me, Baxter, duty calls.” He followed Batoor outside.

Morale in Kandahar was low, Jack saw, and despite the British garrison, the population was restless. As well as the constant threat of assassination from local ghazis – fanatics – there was a more distant danger in the north. Ayub Khan was the governor of Herat, Abdur Rahman’s cousin and a claimant for the throne. If he stirred up the tribes, the British withdrawal from Afghanistan could be more difficult. Jack sighed, hitched up his sword and pushed the matter from his mind. Worrying about events could not change them. As he marched across the citadel, he noticed a Timuri merchant watching him behind a kafilah, a string of camels but walked on. Jack planned to compose a letter to Mary, his wife, that evening, so Ayub Khan and all of Afghanistan would have to wait.

When Jack reached his quarters, he saw the folded paper lying on his bed. He broke the simple seal and unfolded the paper. The message was brief, William’s reply to Jack’s attempt at reconciliation.

“My compliments, sir, and be damned.”

Jack sighed and dropped the note into the wastepaper bin. He had expected nothing else.