TW06 The Khyber Connection NEW (11 page)

In a few months it would be his birthday. He would be ninety-three. He looked thirty-seven. His body was in peak physical condition, and his youthful face was marred only by the knife scar that ran from below his left eye to just above the corner of his mouth. In his costume as Sayyid Akbar, he looked like a dashing bandit chieftain, but he felt old. Emotionally drained.

They had done that to him. Drained him. Leeched from him everything he knew. And now he could not exist without them.

As the sun rose above the peaks, thinning the mist, he looked down into the velvet-shrouded gorge, toward a narrow section of the pass hemmed in by two protruding rock formations. Like the Pillars of Hercules, he thought. The pillars that guard the gates. Three shapes stepped out of the undulating mist, walking out of one world into another. They looked up at him. He raised his arm to signal them.

The three figures rapidly ascended toward him from the bottom of the gorge, rising up until they were level with him and continuing on over his head to land behind him. He turned around as they shut off their jet-paks.

"Give us your report," said one of them.

"Everything proceeds according to plan," said Drakov. "The British are heavily engaged in the Malakand and at Chakdarra. Sadullah is working the tribesmen up into a frenzy about the coming Night of the Long Knives. He'll lose the battle at the Malakand fort, and undoubtedly the British will beat him at Chakdarra, but that makes little difference. The British Raj is convinced the uprising is confined to that area and that all the tribes have flocked to join Sadullah, so they haven't realized that I've rallied the remaining tribes to my side here. The garrisons in the Khyber Pass have been deserted, and even Colonel Warburton's Khyber Rifles have gone over to me, convinced I am the Light of Islam. Warburton has been transferred back to Lahore. He's retiring and going back to England. Without him to lead the Khyber Rifles, it was a simple matter to get them to join the jehad. That's something it will take the British years to understand, that it isn't the Empire the natives give their allegiance to, but individuals. As Oscar Wilde said, it is personalities and not principles that move the age. Meanwhile, I have finally succeeded in recruiting the last remaining independent warlord in the region. A local chieftain named Sharif Khan. The pass is now completely under my control. I have well over 10,000 men in my
lashkar
, more than enough to overrun Landi Kotal and destroy all the remaining forts in our path. Your way is clear."

"We'll have to move quickly," one of the three said. "There's no telling how long this confluence will remain stable. There's no margin for error, Drakov."

"There will be none, at least not on my part," said Drakov. "Just see to it that you live up to your part of our agreement."

"You have no need for concern," said another of the three. "Considering what is at stake, it's a miniscule price to pay. And it gives all of us what we want. What we require. Your life is at stake as well as ours. The most important thing is that the British are kept ignorant of your strength in this area. They must not send more troops until we can mobilize."

"They won't," said Drakov. "Since the action at the Malakand Pass began, I've been intercepting all of their communications. The telegraph wires are all down and the only dispatches which get through arc the ones I wish to get through. They still think they're dealing with a small uprising. By the time they realize that every tribesman in the Hindu Kush is up in arms, it will be far too late."

"Good. It's imperative that you control the pass. The sooner we can move, the better. We'll see you again when we're ready to cross over."

They switched on their jet-paks and descended into the gorge, arcing down toward the two pillars. Drakov watched them until they were swallowed by the mist. If any wandering tribesmen had been watching. Drakov thought, the legend of Sayyid Akbar had just grown greater. They would speak of how the Holy One communed with spirits, and they would anxiously await the moment when the host of heaven arrived. And they will arrive soon, thought Drakov. But not from heaven.

They were traveling in the opposite direction from Chakdarra, where most of the enemy forces were concentrated, but they were still in hostile territory. To avoid drawing unwanted attention to themselves, they wore the white robes of the Ghazis over their clothing and wound turbans around their heads. Even from a short distance there was nothing to distinguish them From a roving band of tribesmen riding captured British horses. To help complete the disguise, they carried jezail rifles in addition to their own Martini-Henrys and armed themselves with charms, which like the clothing and the rifles, they had taken from tribesmen killed at the scene of the battle. Mulvaney carefully inspected Andre's appearance before they set out, and grunted his approval.

"It'll do," he said. "No one will take you for a woman in that getup. Now all we need is to smear a bit o' dirt upon our faces to darken up our skin, and the lot of us'll be able to pass as Pathans."

"Unless anyone gets close enough to see that red hair stickin' out from beneath your puggaree," said Learoyd.

They adjusted Mulvaney's turban and set off down the road to Peshawar. They traveled quickly and made it through the first day of their journey without incident. They stopped to pitch camp in the shelter of a rock formation which would hide them and their campfire.

Ortheris boiled some water for tea, and they watched the shadows lengthen as the sun slowly sank behind the peaks.

"What'll you do now, miss?" said Learoyd.

"I don't quite know," said Andre.

Learoyd nodded, watching as Mulvaney and Ortheris saw to the horses with the help of Gunga Din. Finn was scouting around, looking to see if their position was vulnerable. They could afford to take no chances. They would stand watch in shifts, with the exception of Andre and Din, Mulvaney having insisted that it was work for soldiers. Neither Finn nor Andre were in a position to disagree.

"It was too bad about the Father," said Learoyd.

"Were you close?"

Andre nodded. "We'd known each other for a long time. He taught me almost all I know. It's hard to believe he's dead. I feel as if I've lost a relative. It's the second time that's happened to me. The first time, it was my brother. I never thought I could feel pain like that again."

"I know what you mean, miss," said Learoyd, star-staring out into the growing darkness, the flames making dancing shadows on his face. "I lost someone once. myself."

"A brother?" Andre said.

"My son," Learoyd said softly.

"I didn't know you had a wife," said Andre.

"I don't, not anymore," Learoyd said. "It was a long time ago, when we first arrived in India. Bombay, it was. There was an outbreak of typhoid. My young son came down with it. I remember sittin' up with him all night, prayin' for the fever to break. It didn't, and he died. My wife never forgave me. She blamed me for havin' brought them to this godforsaken place, and placed the burden of responsibility for our son's death squarely on my shoulders. He was just five years old. She went into hysterics and raved at me. After that she became very quiet and never said two words to me. She went back to London. I never saw nor heard from her again. Some time later a piece of paper arrived, informin' me that I wasn't married anymore, and that was an end of it."

"You were an officer," said Andre.

Learoyd looked at her with surprise, as if he hadn't actually realized he had a listener.

"Enlisted men don't bring their wives with them," she said.

"I was a captain in the 4th Dragoon Guards," Learoyd said. He shrugged. "It was a long time ago. Ages, seems like."

"What happened?" Andre said.

"Why am I an infantry private now, you mean? I was broken. I was in a bit of a state after she left me. My commandin' officer saw me sulking about and drinkin' too much. I suppose he meant to snap me out of it. Provoked an argument. Told me I was better off without the bloody bitch. It was the wrong thing to say to me, you understand, and the worst time to say it. I thrashed him to within an inch of his life. Took five men to pull me off him, otherwise I'm sure I would have beaten him to death. All things considered, my punishment could have been far worse. Circumstances were taken into account, that sort of thing. I couldn't remain with the Guards after that. I requested a transfer to an infantry regiment and it was expeditiously granted. As to the pain, well, it subsided after a while. After a while longer, it more or less went away. But the memory comes back every now and then." He took a pull from his flask. "We do not, fortunately, have an infinite capacity for pain. But we do remember."

He handed her the flask. "Join me?"

"Thank you, I will," said Andre.

"Do yourself a favor," Learoyd said. "When we reach Peshawar, you keep right on goin'. This country is no place for someone like you." He held up a hand to forestall her comment. "I don't mean to imply that you're not up to it. I mean that it's no place for you. No place for any of us. We don't belong here. We came here with our bloody empire and our bloody customs and our bloody rules, and we're tryin' to impose the whole lot on people who want no part of it. I wonder how the folks at home would feel if Sadullah brought his Ghazi army into London, if he came with a corps of mullahs to do missionary work and instruct good Anglicans in the ways of Mohammad. Made them all build bloody mosques, closed down all the pubs and put veils on all the women. We'd start our own jehad. The lads and I are here for the duration, but you, there's nothin' to hold you here. Go back to London. find yourself a nice bloke and get married. Have yourself some kids, and talk about all this with the ladies over tea. Go home before this land withers your soul."

"Has it withered yours, Chris?" she said.

He sighed. "Perhaps it has. I don't know if I could go back home now. I've been here too long. In London I'd likely wind up on Leicester Square with a tin cup. Soldierin' is all I know."

"You're an educated man," she said.

"That's neither here nor there. Soldierin' gets in your blood after a while. It changes a man. It's all fine and good for a young chap just commissioned. He can parade around in his full dress, impressin' all the girls. For a bloke like me, who's been out on the front, it's another matter. Your home becomes your barracks, your family the men you serve with. You begin to talk like them and think like them. If you spend any time on the frontier, you begin to go a little native. You go back home and it's another world. One that doesn't make much sense somehow."

He stretched out his hand and she passed the flask back to him.

"It's a strange thing," he said, staring up at the rock walls towering above them. "I both hate and love this country. It isn't mine, you see, and it never shall be. Look at Din over there. He's got no home, but he's happy as a lark. He's got his soldier suit and he isn't an untouchable out here and that's all it takes to make him satisfied. Ortheris, well, Stanley doesn't much care where he is nor what he's doin' so long as he comes out of it okay. A more easygoin’ chap you'll never meet. Mulvaney? If Terrence would have his way, he'd be back with the field force headin' for Chakdarra. He dearly loves a good, rousin' dustup. He's not truly happy unless he's putting his steel in someone's gizzard. In England he'd probably be in gaol. But me, I think about things far too much, so I look for trouble to keep my mind from thinkin'." He smiled. "As they say, it may not be much, but it's a livin'."

He handed her the flask. "Here, have another drink."

"What are we drinking to?" said Finn, returning with the others.

"Old times," said Andre.

Finn took out his own flask and unscrewed the cap.

"I'll drink to that," he said.

"Old times," Learoyd said, holding up his flask.

"Old times," they echoed. They drank. And then a rifle shot cracked out. Ortheris fell to the ground.

The camp of Sayyid Akbar possessed all the atmosphere of a Kabul bazaar. It had engulfed the small cliffside village where it was situated, enlarging it many times. Tents had been erected not only all around the village, on all sides of it, but in the village streets as well. The thousands of tribesmen who gathered in answer to Akbar's summons made the camp festive and cacophonous.

The mood was infectious. A great leader had arisen. The Light of Islam would rid the land of the hated British once and for all, and as the hoped-for day grew near, the fanatical enthusiasm of the tribesmen reached a fever pitch.

News of the siege at Malakand had spread quickly. There were as many different accounts of what had happened or was happening there as there were tongues.

One version reported that the British garrison had been wiped out to the last man. Another claimed that the British garrison was being starved out. Still another story had it that the British soldiers were being decimated in ceaseless attacks by the faithful. The most popular seemed to be that the British soldiers had at-attempted to escape and were cut to pieces in the Malakand Pass. Sadullah supposedly had the head of the British commander on a pike. Sadullah himself had led the attacking forces, impervious to the bullets of the British. Sadullah was even now on his way to join Sayyid Akbar, the Light of Islam, bringing his thousands of followers with him. Together they would strike the final blow and call down the host of heaven to destroy the alien invader.

It was like a giant festival. Veiled women danced for the pleasure of the raucous mob. Horsemen played games of
buzkashi
, a savage Afghani version of polo in which the "ball" was a freshly killed goat. The object of the game was for the carcass of the goat to be dragged across the goal line, and there weren't any rules beyond that. It was a juba—a fair—in which the temper of the throng possessed an ebb and flow, like tides, the noise often rising to a deafening level.

In the center of the village was a large brick house which Sayyid Akbar had taken as his headquarters. Outside its walls a pit had been dug. It was deep and square, with sheer walls of earth that made it impossible for anyone thrown into it to climb out. The pit had been Filled with bugs of every description, so many that the floor writhed with them. As Phoenix looked into it, he saw that several unfortunate British soldiers, as well as native tribesmen who had served in British regiments, had been thrown into the bug pit. One of the men had gone insane after who knew how much time spent in there with inspects crawling over him. He screamed continually, ceaselessly trying to clamber up the sheer walls of the pit, clawing at them with his ruined hands, much to the amusement of the watching tribesmen. Another of the men had died and his body lay in a corner, slowly being devoured by bugs. The others were not far from dead themselves. They expended what little energy they had by constantly brushing off the insects. It was clear that none of them had slept for a long time. Sleep in such an environment was even more terrifying than wakefulness.