News of the vast concourse of men that had accompanied Aziz Ullah to Kabul had, of course, reached the high officers of government. Directly after the hour of prayer on the following morning, the self-constituted sentries observed issue from the city a troop of military horsemen. News was at once conveyed to Aziz Ullah who, despite objections, went to meet them. He was not permitted to go alone, however; well over a hundred fierce-eyed peasants insisted on keeping in close touch, for fear harm was intended to his person. A gleam of approval showed fleetingly in The Master’s eyes as he gazed at the smart habiliments and equipment of the cavalrymen. At a command, the troopers halted, their captain riding forward alone to meet Aziz Ullah. He was a handsome young man, whose modern and very serviceable uniform suited him to perfection. There was a look of undisguised contempt on his face as he looked at the wild, ragged crowd forming a semicircle round their leader, but obviously he was impressed by the latter’s appearance, for his eyes showed unmistakable admiration as they met. Saluting smartly, as Aziz Ullah bowed, he announced that he had been sent to inquire into the reason for the display of force.
‘Do you come in peace?’ he demanded.
‘I come in peace,’ replied the other simply.
‘Then why are these with you?’
Aziz Ullah smiled.
‘They come of their own will. It is they I represent, for whom I work. Is it not natural that they should wish to be on hand at the time when matters so gravely affecting them are discussed?’
The officer eyed him narrowly.
‘Is there no other reason for their presence?’ he asked doubtfully.
‘Not in my knowledge. They are not with me by my command.’
‘It is well, though I like not their warlike appearance. I am ordered to escort you into Kabul, but these men cannot be admitted. The police could not cope with such a rabble and riots might result. You will understand the difficulty.’
Aziz Ullah understood well enough that the authorities feared the consequences, should harm overtake him, with ten thousand devoted but fierce followers loose inside the city walls. It also proved to him that they were either planning treachery or were not certain that the safe conduct promised him could be respected. He gave no indiction of his thoughts, however, merely pointing out that the men who had elected to follow him had as much right in Kabul as anyone else. He also delivered a friendly homily on the impropriety of the officer’s contemptuous use of the word ‘rabble’.
‘It is only because they have been downtrodden and denied the privileges of decent citizenship,’ he pointed out, ‘that you dare designate them by such a term. Are not we all true believers? Does it matter whether we are of peasant or gentle birth? All are alike in the eyes of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful. “Those who strive hard for Us, We will most certainly guide them in Our Ways. Allah is most surely with the doers of good.”’
This quotation from the Koran was received with bowed heads and murmured responses from all who heard it. The officer appeared somewhat ashamed of himself. He muttered a half-hearted apology. The news spread quickly throughout the camp that The Master was expected to enter Kabul alone, whereupon there was a great outcry. For a time matters looked ugly. Scores of angry men surged threateningly round the officer, with no other thought in their minds but that evil was intended to their leader. The second-in-command of the troop of cavalry became alarmed; ordered his men to advance with drawn swords. Such an action was calculated more to precipitate a riot than to protect the captain. Aziz Ullah quickly recognised the danger.
‘Halt those soldiers,’ he snapped peremptorily to the other. ‘I cannot be answerable for the consequences should they continue to approach in such a manner.’
Fortunately the officer was a man of common sense. He swung his horse round; galloped back to his men with hand upraised; ordered them to halt, and sheathe their swords. It could be seen that he was speaking angrily to his subordinate. Presently he came trotting back. In the meantime, Aziz Ullah was loudly haranguing his followers or rather those in his vicinity. He pointed out that there was a good deal to be said for the reluctance of the authorities to permit the entrance of so vast a multitude into the city, as congestion might be caused and traffic arrangements dislocated. Had it been expected, preparations could have been made to cope with it, but there was no time for that now. He also declared that any display of aggression would only prove a serious obstacle in the way of obtaining that in which his hopes were centred. Finally he adjured the men to remain patiently where they were, and await with confidence his return. He would enter the city with his twenty immediate followers and no others. The captain of cavalry arrived back some time before he concluded his exhortation; sat his horse listening with approval. He saw no objection to Aziz Ullah being accompanied by a mere score of men. There were many in The Master’s party however, who shook their heads dubiously, and muttered to each other. They put no trust in promises of safe conduct; remembered only the efforts that had been made to discredit and apprehend the man most of them regarded as a new prophet. However, Aziz Ullah had his way. He set off at the head of the twenty, the captain of the cavalry riding by his side.
When the troop was reached, half of it wheeled and went ahead; the other half fell in behind. Thus they proceeded towards the city. Aziz Ullah could not help reflecting somewhat grimly that the arrangement gave the appearance more of a guard conducting a prisoner than of an honoured person being escorted. This feeling was intensified by the fact that no courtesies had been extended to him. At least, a horse might have been provided, in order that he could have ridden with the captain on terms of equality. Not a word was exchanged between the two as they went along, and it seemed to the men walking by his side that the officer was a trifle uneasy.
On entering Kabul, Aziz Ullah was not surprised to find the streets lined by jostling crowds anxious to catch a glimpse of him. Occasionally cheers were raised but, on the whole, the people regarded him with silent curiosity. His campaign on behalf of the downtrodden peasants of the countryside made no particular appeal to the inhabitants of Kabul. He walked along watchfully, feeling that, at any moment, an attack might be launched by a body of assassins engaged for the purpose. It will be gathered that he had scarcely more faith in the promised safe conduct than had his followers. Once he glanced behind him, to notice Yusuf and the other men glowering suspiciously from side to side. Their attitude was comforting. At least, were an attack to come, they would not be caught unprepared.
Aziz Ullah also obtained a measure of consolation when, passing the British Legation, he caught sight of the Union Jack above, floating lazily in the breeze. There was something about that not very attractive flag that caused the thought of stabs in the back or other treacherous actions to appear ridiculous and imaginative. Among a group of people standing at the gate, he observed a slight man with freckled complexion and red hair. The ghost of a smile flitted across his face as he passed on.
The small procession reached the very imposing modern government buildings, but instead of being escorted inside, Aziz Ullah was led into the well-kept grounds. Here a shamiana had been erected. Apparently the government had ordained that the meeting should be held in the open. Aziz Ullah wondered why. Although early, it was already very hot. Kabul is close on seven thousand feet above sea level; nevertheless, the heat can be intense there, and that particular June morning gave promise of a high temperature before many hours had passed. It would have been cooler and altogether more comfortable inside a building than in the close confines of a marquee. Possibly the government expected the meeting to be of short duration or else considered Aziz Ullah, whom it had outlawed, to be unworthy of such entrance into halls devoted to legislation. There were few people in the grounds and not a sign of a police officer which, he thought, was strange.
He was kept waiting in the open for nearly an hour before an usher arrived to escort him into the shamiana. At once the escort of cavalry trotted away. Yusuf and his men were about to follow into the tent but were ordered to remain outside. They obeyed reluctantly, and only when their leader had signified his wish that they should do so. Inside, on a rostrum, was a long table, behind which were fifteen chairs, the one in the centre being a large, ornate affair above which hung a shield bearing the arms of Afghanistan. A solitary stool was placed on the nearer side of the table alone. This Aziz Ullah concluded was for him, and his brows met in a little frown at the thought that even the courtesy of a chair was denied him. Below the platform, squatted half a dozen clerks, who gazed at him with deep curiosity as he appeared, but did not rise to their feet.
Again there was a period of waiting. At last, however, the curtains at the entrance were thrown back with a flourish. The fifteen members of the commission, headed by the Minister of the Interior, walked solemnly to the rostrum. All, except two, affected the sober morning attire fashionable in Europe. The couple dressed in picturesque native garb were obviously mullahs. None of them took any notice of Aziz Ullah, until they were seated, and the usher had led him to his stool. Then all eyes were focused on him and, in most, he read antagonism. The Minister of the Interior, a black-bearded, sharp-featured man, sitting below the national coat of arms, spent several moments staring at him as though endeavouring to probe into his very soul. Aziz underwent the scrutiny without discomfort; in fact, he appeared to be entirely at ease, and forced the minister, by his own return gaze, presently to drop his eyes to the papers on the table before him.
Lack of space does not permit me to report in detail the proceedings of that historic meeting. It is necessary to be brief as, although vastly interesting, the discussion and arguments are not actually of importance to this narrative.
Aziz Ullah was at first subjected to a veritable inquisition concerning his origin and family. He replied simply and with assurance, stating that he was born at Herat, moving to the holy city of Mesched in Persia with his family at an early age. There he had sat at the feet of learned doctors of divinity and inculcated the principles which had eventually led to his returning to Afghanistan, in the hope of being able to do something to improve the lot of the suffering thousands in that country. The announcement that he had studied in the city of Imam Riza, which is visited annually by thousands of Muslim pilgrims, made an impression on his hearers. They proved their antagonism, however, in demanding by what right he constituted himself the champion of the people of Afghanistan, stating that everything possible was being accomplished for their welfare. The Minister of the Interior pointed out that improvements are expensive, that the process must necessarily be gradual, and that the government was alive to requirements without the ill-considered intervention of a fanatic whose methods were calculated to cause unrest.
In reply, Aziz Ullah used quotations from the Koran in support of his right to make himself champion of the people. He managed this so adroitly that he silenced many arguments against him. He also reminded the commission that a promise had been publicly made that sympathetic consideration would be given to any proposals he put forward for the welfare of the lowly, and stated vehemently that he had not come there to be pilloried, neither was he on trial. His firmness of tone and apparent sincerity had their influence. The members of the commission spoke together for some time, then he was bidden deliver himself of the suggestions he had in mind. He, at once, plunged into a well-prepared oration, in which housing, employment, wages, education, child and maternity welfare, as well as a host of other important matters, had their part. Not only did he point out the necessity of all these, but he also showed how improvements could be accomplished by the government with the greatest thoroughness and least expense; proved how the outcome of capital expended would be interest gained, the building of a finer, healthier, more peaceful, more united people and a sure road opened to national progress and contentment.
During his discourse he took care to ascertain that every word he said was being taken down by the clerks. He had no intention of finding afterwards that no record had been made and that all had been wasted. He spoke at great length eagerly, clearly, and with the keenness of a zealot. His enthusiasm and power of oratory carried most of his hearers with him; even those who had feared his rising influence, lest their well-feathered nests be affected, now saw little in the plans suggested whereby their greed might be checked. On the contrary, they wondered if they were not opening up other paths by which they could eventually enrich themselves. Nevertheless, they resented still the coming of this unauthorised reformer. An attempt was made by some to cast doubt and discredit on his altruism, but it was half-hearted, and was quickly and smartly combated by the astute Aziz. He saw at once that it had been the intention to prove him an impostor, a man working for his own ends, and thus to confound him utterly in the eyes of all. But his clear enunciation of proposals and the manner in which they could be carried out, in which not an atom of self-interest could possibly be involved, defeated them entirely. Aziz Ullah won a great victory.
During the discussion that followed, he became aware that many of the members wore uneasy expressions as though they were anticipating something they wished now they could avoid. This caused Aziz to think deeply. When, from outside, rose an angry murmur that presently increased to a roar, in which he caught such expletives as ‘betrayer’, ‘unholy one’, ‘false prophet’, and others of a like nature, his mind became suddenly illumined. He gritted his teeth with anger. The reason for the shamiana was now manifest. He was marked as the victim of a vile plot. It was not difficult to understand the whole treacherous scheme. While the government commission granted him an apparently sympathetic hearing, arrangements had been made for an attack by hooligans which would end in his destruction and, at the same time, be made to appear entirely beyond the control of the authorities. Everything would have been engineered in such a manner that suspicion could not fall on them as the perpetrators. The members of the commission would doubtless act in a way to prove afterwards they had done all in their power to save him. But Aziz Ullah was not a fool. Such an attack by a rabble would have been impossible inside the government buildings, thus the shamiana; the absence of police in the grounds had puzzled him; the departure of the troop of cavalry, after the usher had taken charge of him, had been significant. He knew now he stood practically alone. Yusuf and the other nineteen men being his only protection against, perhaps, a couple of hundred or more savage ruffians.
Even at that moment, however, as the yells outside grew more threatening, he was able to smile a little. Matters had not worked out quite as the plotters expected. They did not desire his destruction now; in fact, being favourably disposed towards his schemes, they would rather he lived, in order that he could show how anxious they were to do good for the people and how quickly and eagerly they had fallen in with the proposals. But how were they to stem the flood they had caused? It was probable the ringleaders of the rabble had been told the officials would cry out in protest and command, but no notice was to be taken of their pleas. Perturbation showed on every face; they whispered and gestured together, careless of how their actions might be construed by the man they had betrayed. Obviously the clerks knew nothing of the plot; every one of them was on his feet, stark fear showing plainly in all faces. The noise outside grew more vicious; there came now the sound of blows and groans. Aziz Ullah knew the faithful twenty were barring the way. He stood and regarded the commission with the utmost contempt.
‘What of the safe conduct promised me?’ he demanded. ‘Is it thus the government of Afghanistan fulfils its pledges?’
Turning his back, he stepped from the rostrum, and strode towards the entrance. Someone shouted to him to come back, that a way of escape would be found, but he took no notice. He had no intention of allowing his handful of loyal disciples to be butchered. Drawing the curtains aside, he looked out. An astounding sight met his eyes. His twenty men had spread themselves across the entrance; were fighting desperately, shoulder to shoulder, against a horde of filthy ruffians, even more fierce-looking than themselves. Fortunately the fight had only just commenced and, except for a few blows and cuts, from which the blood was streaming, none of Yusuf’s men had, up to then, been seriously hurt. It was only a matter of time, however, before they would be overwhelmed unless something was done to stop the fight. Aziz Ullah’s appearance was the signal for a deafening uproar. A chorus of execrations greeted him, and it seemed as though pandemonium had broken loose. Yusuf’s bloodstained face was turned momentarily to him in frantic appeal.
‘Go back, Master,’ he cried. ‘They would murder you.’
For answer Aziz Ullah strode forward, pushed two of his disciples to one side, and stood exposed to the attacks of the rabble. For a few moments his action gave the fierce-looking mob pause. The men in the forefront were visibly discontented. Then, with a roar of triumph, a great, hulking brute of a fellow flung himself forward, knife upraised to strike. Down it flashed, glittering balefully in the brilliant sunlight. Aziz Ullah stood without making the slightest attempt to defend himself. He was counting upon superstition to turn imminent assassination into victory. Everything depended on the jacket of mail he was wearing. If it failed in its purpose, the end was come. He admitted afterwards that it was one of the most nerve-racking moments of his life. The dagger struck him with terrific force just over the heart. But the finely tempered steel withstood the thrust. Aziz Ullah hardly moved. He had braced himself for the shock, not wishing to give his assailants even the satisfaction of seeing him stagger.
A great cry of wonder rose on all sides as it was observed that he remained unharmed. The fellow who had struck dropped the dagger from suddenly nerveless fingers; shrank back, an arm before his face, as though protecting himself from a blow. The twenty disciples stood for a few seconds dumbfounded; then gave vent to shouts of joy and praise; threw themselves on their knees before Aziz Ullah. Yusuf raised one of his feet and placed it upon his head, whereupon great shouts of acclaim rent the air from the very ruffians who, shortly before, had been bent on murder. Aziz Ullah gently bade the faithful twenty rise; thanked them for their gallant efforts to defend him.
‘Allah will reward you,’ he declared. Then, turning to the ragged crowd of hired assassins, he delivered a vehement speech in which he exhorted them to mend their ways, to forsake evil, and walk in the path of Allah. ‘“And do not kill whom Allah has forbidden except for a just cause,”’ he quoted from the Koran. ‘“Whoever is slain unjustly We have indeed given to his heir authority.” Go in peace!’ he concluded in ringing tones.
They slunk away like a lot of bewildered cattle. The miracle they believed they had witnessed had completely flabbergasted them. They would spread the story throughout the bazaars and, although Aziz Ullah was not complacent enough to think everyone would believe a miracle had been worked – Afghanistan was not a country in which mail armour was unknown – he felt himself safe for the time being. At least, untutored minds would be influenced as those of his assailants and his followers had been. He waited until all but Yusuf and his men remained; then, stooping first to pick up the dagger that might have so easily transfixed his heart, walked back to the shamiana.
At the entrance stood a group of stupefied ministers of state. The sudden change in tone of the shouts, from execration to wonder and adulation, had brought them rushing from the seats in which they had been sitting so uneasily with undignified haste, in their anxiety to discover the reason for the surprising volte-face of the mob. They had heard the latter part of Aziz Ullah’s address, had watched the men who were intended to murder him creep away bemused and shaken, but had been unable to learn how he had accomplished the feat. He had no intention of enlightening them. They stood aside meekly now to let him pass, then followed in to the shamiana. This time he took supreme control. Standing on the rostrum, with them grouped below him, and his followers waiting watchfully in the background, he delivered what amounted to an ultimatum. It was artfully wrapped in the flowery language of Persia, liberally flavoured with the proverbs and sayings with which that tongue is adorned, but he knew no doubt would linger in their minds that he was aware they were the instigators of the treacherous attack on him. One or two proved this by uttering protests, but he paid no attention to them. He demanded and received an assurance signed by all that his proposals would be placed not only before government but also before His Majesty the Amir. They were left with the knowledge that failure to comply would result in his rounding up the men who had taken part in the attack and forcing them to disclose every detail of the plot. Eager declarations were made that not only would their assurances be faithfully carried out, but they would guarantee acceptance of the proposals he had elaborated. Aziz Ullah knew he could safely rely on this. They were probably delighted, after witnessing his extraordinary ability to tame a crowd of assassins, to be spared unfortunate consequences to themselves.
Their treatment of him at his departure was the very opposite to that which they had accorded him on arrival. He refused all their eager offers of hospitality but permitted them to escort him to the government buildings, where he and his men were accommodated with carriages to convey them back to their camp. A whole regiment of cavalry, despite his objections, was hastily ordered from the barracks. Thus he returned in great triumph. Crowds watched him go by, but not this time in comparative silence. On all sides rose deafening cheers, for the news of the supposed miracle of his escape from death had already preceded him. He was not deaf to the note of awe and reverence which could easily be detected in the acclamations. Perhaps Aziz Ullah felt rather a hypocrite as he reflected that hereafter, unless unforeseen events took place to confound him, he would be regarded as a saint by the majority of people in Afghanistan.
Major Kershaw watched the procession go by; smiled with satisfaction as well as a deep sense of relief. He had been gnawed with anxiety. The regiment of cavalry, the carriages, above all the person of Aziz Ullah, safe and sound, now apparently a national hero as well as a champion of the oppressed was complete answer to all his doubts and fears.
The cavalcade arrived at the camp to receive another uproarious welcome. At first the thousand waiting there thought the troops were coming to attack and disperse them, but when the carriages were observed in the midst of the escort and, in them, could be seen The Master and his disciples joy knew no bounds. Of course Yusuf and his men quickly circulated the story of the ‘miracle’ with the result that awe, very nearly approaching adoration, was added to the pride and admiration of the peasants in their leader.
Gifts of various kinds, from a richly damascened sword to baskets of fruit, arrived for The Master from admirers in Kabul. They came in such abundance that he decided to break camp instead of resting for the remainder of the day, as had been his first intention. The sword only he retained for himself, everything else was distributed among his followers. He has kept the beautiful weapon as a treasured reminder of Kabul, but it takes second place to a very ordinary Afghan dagger, which is badly blunted at its point.
Before the departure could be made, there approached the camp, from the direction of the city, a string of ornately caparisoned camels, the riders of which, with the exception of the first, were finely-built, bearded men who sat their mounts with impressive dignity. Aziz Ullah happened to see them coming; recognised them at once as Afridis. Not a flicker of interest showed in his face, but inwardly he felt a deep sense of satisfaction. Before the strangers were announced to him, he knew the leader must be Abdul Qadir, the Mahsud whose advances he had previously rejected. It was no longer his intention to hold him aloof, however; he had been hoping for his appearance, or that of an emissary, ever since returning to his camp. The time was at hand for which he and Major Kershaw of Indian Intelligence had schemed.
Abdul Qadir Khan sent a message begging humbly to be received. With an appearance of reluctance, Aziz Ullah bade Yusuf bring the Afridi to him. Unlike the men in his train, Abdul Qadir was neither very tall nor broad. Also, except for a slight moustache, he was clean-shaven. He was not unhandsome, though his thin, hooked nose, tightly-drawn lips and rather small, restless eyes gave him a somewhat sinister appearance. A broad forehead, and powerful, finely-moulded jaw, however, suggested keen intellect and strength of character. Like his followers, he was attired in pyjamas and flowing shirt of spotless white, this cleanliness being a rather rare virtue in an Afridi. Their puggarees were also of white material, but his was green, denoting that he had made the pilgrimage to Mecca. Aziz Ullah, whose unkempt appearance compared unfavourably with the smartness of his guest, greeted him courteously. They squatted together on a Persian rug out of earshot of the other men. Yusuf placed a hookah between them.
‘It has been my wish, O Holy One, to meet you,’ began Abdul Qadir in silky, flattering tones. ‘My happiness is now very great and my mind at rest.’
‘I do not deserve the title of “Holy One”,’ Aziz reproved him. ‘We will speak as man to man. What want you with me?’
Like all natives of that part of the world, the Afridi took some time to get to the point, but he did not delay it longer than usual. Aziz Ullah’s previous refusals to meet him had aggravated him greatly; had made him all the keener to put the proposal he had been nursing for so long before this man who had obtained such power in Afghanistan. The events of that day, of which he was well-informed, had increased his eagerness to the point of a burning fervour. It did not require a great deal of imagination to realise that, had he wished, Aziz Ullah could take command of the country, which was exactly what Abdul Qadir wished him to do. He got over the preliminaries, therefore, as quickly as Oriental procedure permitted. Then commenced an exposition of subtle craftiness that Aziz Ullah afterwards declared was positively classic. The Mahsud flattered but not fulsomely; his praise and admiration was neither overdone nor prolonged. By gradual and admirably reasoned stages he progressed discursively from the benefit the coming of Aziz Ullah had proved to the peasant classes to the wonderful advantage it would be to the whole of Afghanistan were he dictator or had been born to reign as amir. He spoke as though he had no intention whatever of suggesting that the man listening to him should aspire to such greatness. But all the time he was cunningly engaged in attempting to insinuate the ambition in the other’s mind, desiring that the temptation should be firmly rooted there, without the fact of his playing the part of tempter becoming apparent. He dwelt regretfully on the happiness and contentment that would be the people’s, the greatness and prosperity that would be Afghanistan’s had Aziz Ullah been amir instead of the man who was ruling. It was only when he felt, from observation of Aziz Ullah’s reactions to his remarks, that the poison he was instilling was beginning to work that he emerged into the open, so to speak, and then only momentarily.
‘There is no need,’ he declared half-laughingly, ‘to speak of that which would be were you amir. It is evident you could ascend the throne at any time, if it was your wish.’ He rose to his feet. ‘I fear I have wearied you. In my enthusiasm, I have allowed my admiration of you perhaps to outweigh my discretion. You must forgive me.’
Aziz Ullah had let it appear that, from merely polite interest and grateful acknowledgment of the compliments, his imagination, and later his ambition, had been stirred by the other’s words. He rose now, giving the impression of a man deep in thoughts of a nature that were attractive to him. His eyes sparkled; there was a half smile on his lips. He walked with his guest to the place where the camels were tethered. Neither of them spoke on the way but, ever and anon, Abdul Qadir stole a look at his companion, and was well satisfied. Visions of the splendid Afghan army fighting side by side against the hated English began to assume a reality. He pictured Peshawar, Nowshera, Kohat, Campbellpur, Attock, even Rawalpindi razed to the ground, in flames; saw a beaten British army falling back before his victorious forces, leaving the Punjab in his power. Mentally he shook hands with himself. He had been very clever. Aziz Ullah would rise to the bait, and he (Abdul Qadir) would prove to the old men of the Afridi villages, who had shaken their heads and named him mad, that the days of petty warfare on the frontier were indeed over, that he, Abdul Qadir Khan, had risen to destroy utterly and for ever all English claims to the territory that belonged to the Afridis, to the Pathan, perhaps even that of the Punjabis.
As the Mahsud chieftain was about to mount his obediently kneeling camel, Aziz Ullah uttered the words which completed the plotter’s joy and proved conclusively that the intended cat’s paw was not above ambition or beyond temptation.
‘Your words have given me much thought,’ he admitted. ‘The welfare of this country is dear to me, and I would shoulder any responsibility, however great, in order to raise the people to prosperity. We will speak again, O Khan.’
Abdul Qadir tried not to appear too eager, but could not repress the gleam in his eyes.
‘It will give me much happiness,’ he returned almost casually. ‘Where and when shall our meeting take place? I am wholly at your disposal.’
Aziz Ullah’s eyes became fixed on the ground apparently in deep reflection. At last he looked up.
‘Go alone to the village of Gharat in two days at the hour of noon,’ he bade Abdul Qadir. ‘It is not far from my retreat. Say nothing of your intentions to any man. It would be unwise. Yusuf,’ he indicated that faithful shadow, standing a few yards behind him, ‘will conduct you to me. Salaam alaikum. The peace of Allah go with you.’
Abdul Qadir, triumphant, though showing little of it in his attitude, responded suitably, and mounted his camel. The ungainly animal rose and presently the Mahsud and his followers were heading once more for Kabul. Aziz Ullah stood for some time watching them, and there was a smile on his face. In fact, there was something so happy and mischievous about it that it would be more aptly described as a broad grin.
Towards evening on the following day, Aziz Ullah climbed down from his secluded retreat in the mountains and reached the pass a couple of hundred feet below. He was not accompanied, having indicated to his disciples that he wished to be alone. There was nothing unusual about such a desire; he had often before wandered by himself about the mountains, which he was understood to love. Nobody but he and Major Kershaw knew that these excursions invariably led him to a cave high up and well hidden, though easily accessible. It was their rendezvous; a place utterly safe, because it possessed a bad reputation. Known as the cave of the witch, it was believed to be inhabited by a wicked old woman many hundreds of years old, who held intercourse with satan and other evil spirits. No Afghans of that district would approach anywhere near. It was Kershaw who had first thought of it as an ideal spot in which he and Aziz Ullah could meet. Ginger’s knowledge of eastern Afghanistan and the North West Frontier of India was probably unique. He also possessed an amazing acquaintance with all the local folklore and superstitions.
It took Aziz Ullah the best part of an hour to reach the cave from his retreat. It was a gloomy place, running an incredible distance into the mountain – neither Kershaw nor Aziz Ullah had discovered how far it penetrated; it hardly invited exploration. The entrance, a little over eight feet high by perhaps six feet wide, was hidden by a large withered tree that looked as though it had come under the witch’s spell. Inside, the cave broadened out and was quite roomy, narrowing again farther back.
The Master found Kershaw sitting near the entrance, leaning against a rock, hands clasped round his knees, placidly smoking a pipe. He sprang up with an exclamation of delight, and the two men warmly shook hands. Aziz Ullah sniffed.
‘By Jove!’ he exclaimed in English, referring to the tobacco, ‘that smells good.’
For answer the Intelligence officer took another pipe already filled from his pocket; handed it to his companion who accepted it eagerly. A few seconds later the two were squatting together, smoking with great contentment. Yusuf and his men would probably have had the shock of their lives had they been able to set eyes on their revered leader at that moment. The spectacle of a bearded Afghan smoking a pipe is strange enough in itself. When the Afghan happened to be Aziz Ullah, whom most people in that district now regarded as a saint sent specially for their benefit, the sight would be well nigh devastating. Fortunately for their peace of mind, none of Aziz Ullah’s followers were able to see him.
‘This is great,’ he murmured. ‘You’re a lifesaver, Bob, which reminds me’ – he turned to the other impulsively – ‘I owe you my life. If you hadn’t thought of that mail jacket, the vultures would have picked my bones clean by now.’
‘Heard there’d be an attempt to assassinate you,’ nodded Kershaw. ‘Rashid went ferreting about and was told excitedly of a miracle. Your stock has soared to the sky, my boy. Tell me about it.’
Aziz Ullah obliged; then plunged into a full account of the proceedings in the shamiana. He may surely be pardoned if he displayed a little pride and triumph when speaking of his great success.
‘They realised,’ he concluded, ‘that it would be more to their personal advantage to recommend my proposals than reject them. Anyway, after what happened, and my threat, I don’t think they dare break their promise to put them before government and the amir.’
‘I can satisfy your mind on that point,’ Kershaw told him. ‘I made judicious inquiries this morning by making use of the resources of the legation. A memorandum has already been placed before the amir for his approval and government met today to discuss the recommendations – recommendations, mark you! You’ve done a wonderful job of work for Afghanistan, old son. It must never be known that Aziz Ullah is anybody but – Aziz Ullah. How are you going to manage that?’
‘Like an old soldier,’ laughed the other, ‘I’ll simply fade away. I should hate to rob them of their illusions.’
Kershaw nodded.
‘It’s the only way,’ he agreed. ‘It won’t do any harm if they continue always to think you’re a saint sent specially to succour the oppressed, and disappeared in proper saintly manner when your work was accomplished. Shouldn’t be surprised if that’s how most saints won the label. I wish we could make those blighters suffer who engineered the plot to murder you. Bloody swine!’
Aziz Ullah knocked out the ashes from his pipe, and asked for a refill. Kershaw handed him a bulging pouch. Quickly Aziz stuffed the bowl full, lit the tobacco carefully and, when it was burning evenly, puffed away with deep contentment again. Presently he smiled quizzically at his companion.
‘Bob,’ he remarked, ‘your patience is monumental. You are burning to yell, “What of Abdul Qadir?” Yet not a murmur concerning our pièce de résistance has left your lips. Amazing!’
Kershaw grinned.
‘I knew you’d out with it when you thought fit,’ he returned. ‘The ubiquitous Rashid found him, and kept watch on him and his boy friends. He told me they had gone to visit your camp. Well, since you have brought up the subject, what’s the news?’
‘The very best.’ He entered into a detailed account of his conversation with Abdul Qadir Khan, concluding with the arrangements made to continue the discussion on the following day. ‘Talk about craftiness,’ he declared. ‘Abdul Qadir has the cunning of all the monkeys, serpents, and devils that were ever conceived – that is, if a devil is conceived. We’d never have nailed him any other way, but this. Lord! What a brain the chief has!’
‘We haven’t nailed him yet,’ commented Kershaw, but he was tremendously elated, and made no effort to hide his glee. ‘The chief’s brain,’ he went on with frank admiration, ‘may have worked out the whole scheme, but what a marvellous job you’ve done. I take off my hat and boots and any darned thing you care to mention to you.’
‘Don’t!’ begged Aziz Ullah. ‘You’ll make me blush.’
‘Blush away. It’d be a pretty sight. I’ve never seen a blush on a brown skin before. But seriously, you gave me fits yesterday. If you’d gone and got yourself killed—Hell! I don’t want to think about it. What’s the scheme for tomorrow?’
‘Is Rashid with the ponies in the usual place below?’ asked Aziz.
Kershaw nodded. ‘He has the pack mule with him.’
‘Good. Well, listen! I’ll bring Abdul Qadir here on the pretence that it is not safe to talk anywhere else. If he knows of the evil reputation of this cave and won’t come up, things will be a trifle difficult. But keep your eyes skinned, Bob. Before you and Rashid do your stuff, I must fool him into telling me where he has all those machine guns and ammunition stored, and I want you to listen in, for you know his country and I don’t. I should hate any mistake to arise through my not getting hold of names or directions properly. Taking it for granted I get him to come up here, you and Rashid will be concealed in the cave, and I hope you miss nothing that is said. What signal shall I give when I think it is time for you to act?’
‘I think the best thing you can do is to stroll away with him. That will be signal enough.’
‘Stroll away with him!’ exclaimed Aziz Ullah. ‘But—’
‘I’ve been thinking things over,’ interrupted Kershaw. ‘On no account must he think you’re concerned in any way, otherwise he’ll take steps afterwards to damn you in Afghanistan. We don’t want your pearly white reputation to be soiled, for the sake of the poor beggars who believe in you. It wouldn’t be fair. Just walk away with Abdul Qadir and leave it to Rashid and me. We’ll appear when he can’t possibly suspect that you took him to the cave for any ulterior reason; I know several ways down from here; Rashid and I will circle round, and get ahead of you. Don’t worry! He won’t see or hear anything suspicious. And don’t forget! Directly we appear on the scene like a couple of villains in a Lyceum melodrama, beat it like hell, shouting that you’re off to fetch Yusuf and Co. I’ll take care afterwards he thinks you and your men are searching for him. Believe me, there won’t be a chota suspicion, even in Abdul Qadir’s astute mind concerning Aziz Ullah, when I’ve done with him.’
They sat perfecting their plans for half an hour or so longer; then Aziz Ullah knocked out the ashes of his pipe, and reluctantly gave it back to Kershaw. The two friends shook hands, and parted, descending to the pass by separate ways.
As arranged Yusuf met Abdul Qadir in Gharat at noon on the following day. The Mahsud was conducted towards the retreat in the mountains. He was entirely alone, having fully understood, or so he thought, the reason for Aziz Ullah’s warning. He knew quite well that the hiding place was known only to the twenty disciples apart, of course, from Aziz Ullah himself. No doubt he was greatly flattered that so much trust should be placed in him that he was to be taken actually to The Master’s home, the whereabouts of which had always been kept a closely-guarded secret. He proved to be wrong in his expectations. He was not conducted to the place after all. Aziz Ullah met him in the pass. Telling Yusuf to join the others and informing him that he would probably bring the Khan up to the little plateau later on for a meal, he led his guest on up the pass.
‘It is well that we should be alone,’ he explained to Abdul Qadir. ‘My followers are entirely trustworthy, but the matters of which we speak should not be heard by other ears than our own.’
He did not think it necessary to mention that he could quite easily have ensured secrecy on the plateau. His present manner of leading Abdul Qadir into the trap prepared for him was least calculated to rouse suspicion in the Afridi’s mind. Once the latter had been in the retreat and had noted how easy it was to avoid eavesdroppers there, he would have been bound to wonder why it was considered necessary to take him elsewhere. Abdul Qadir Khan smiled to himself. His words had obviously taken root. Aziz Ullah was no different from other men where ambition was concerned. The Mahsud was riding a hill pony and, out of courtesy to The Master who, of course, was on foot, dismounted. Aziz Ullah told him he was acquainted with a cave where they would be quite secure from interruption. Casually he asked if his companion knew the mountains well; was greatly relieved when Abdul Qadir confessed entire ignorance of that district. They came at last to one of the paths leading to the cave of the witch. The pony was tethered in a clearing, and the two climbed to the ledge where Kershaw and Aziz Ullah had sat the day before. Abdul Qadir shivered a little. He was as superstitious, despite his European training, as most of his race, and the gloomy neighbourhood depressed him.
‘Truly this is a lonely and dismal place,’ he observed, as he accepted his companion’s invitation to sit down. ‘It is certain we shall remain undisturbed here. It is in my mind that men would avoid it as a place of the devil.’
Aziz Ullah laughed softly.
‘True believers who walk in the ways of Allah need fear no evil,’ he reminded the Afridi.
Abdul Qadir eyed him curiously.
‘You speak Pashto with an unusual accent, O Master,’ he remarked. ‘You come not from this part of the country?’
‘I was born at Herat,’ explained Aziz Ullah, ‘and have been, since a child, in the holy city of Mesched. Persian has thus become more my tongue than Pashto.’
For some time they spoke of Persia; of anything, in fact, but the subject upon which Abdul Qadir’s mind was centred and which, he believed, was uppermost also in the mind of The Master. To come directly to the point is rarely done in the Orient. Gradually, however, the eager Afridi brought the conversation to the reason for the meeting. Even then they conversed more or less in parables, each knowing perfectly well the hidden meaning contained in the other’s words. The longer this went on, the greater became Abdul Qadir’s elation. He was certain now that the man squatting by his side yearned to control Afghanistan, would never be satisfied until he was created amir. Whether the reason behind this was a belief that he could do great things for the people or merely personal ambition did not concern the Mahsud. The latter’s only interest in helping him ascend the throne was in obtaining him as an ally to fight later against the English. At last, after they had been sitting in that lonely spot for nearly an hour, Abdul Qadir Khan threw aside all subtlety. Suddenly he launched into an enthusiastic discourse, its main theme being Aziz Ullah as amir. He told his intended cat’s paw that the time was ripe for him to take possession of the country.
‘The people will rally round you with great eagerness,’ he declared. ‘From your retreat in these mountains, you must issue a proclamation that it has been revealed to you by Divine interposition, that you must rule. I have no doubt,’ he added craftily, ‘that this is the truth, for the thought would not have entered your mind had it not been put there by Allah. Wait but until I can bring twenty thousand well-armed Afridis across the border ready to back you or fight for you. In three weeks I can rally fighting men of the Yusufzai, Mohmand, Orakzai, Mahsud, Bettani and others into a powerful force. The Shinwaris on this side of the border will join at once, and before long the whole Pathan race will be behind you. The Afghan army will quickly follow the example. I have talked with many of the soldiers, and know they are much impressed by you. The first and most important matter will be to imprison without warning the present amir in his palace at Paghman and to arrest all the members of government as they sit in session. I will undertake all military plans. It will be best for you to remain in the mountains until this is done. Then will come your proclamation. I am wholeheartedly your ally, O Master. Speak that I may know you are agreeable to this, and our compact can be made.’
It was not Aziz Ullah’s intention to appear too eager, for fear of rousing suspicion. He showed himself reluctant, therefore, raising many objections. Abdul Qadir had replies for them all and, by slow degrees, the other allowed him to think he was being won over. It was when he was apparently on the point of agreeing that he looked Abdul Qadir full in the face.
‘Why,’ he asked, ‘are you, a Pathan from the land of the Mahsuds, so eager that I should take this step? What advantage would it be to you or your race were I to become king?’
A slow smile spread across Abdul Qadir’s crafty face.
‘That,’ he declared, ‘is the question of one of much wisdom. I make no pretence that there would be no advantages; there would be many. You see, I am frank with you. The reigning amir is a timid, cautious man whose intentions are good, but as king he is useless to his people. He is inimical to the great Pathan race that lives beyond the borders of his country, and languishes under the laws of the English. Rather than help us, he would help those hated unbelievers against us. You, O Master, have proved your love for the people. You have shown yourself, in a short while, to possess a great power. With that power you can work wonders. You would not be inimical to the Pathans, for are they not of the same blood as those for whom you are already accomplishing so much? I could speak for many hours about the advantages that would come to us either directly or indirectly, were you King of Afghanistan, but it is not necessary. There is one ambition dear to my heart, however, and you, when amir, could help me accomplish it.’
He paused and Aziz Ullah looked at him questioningly.
‘Speak!’ commanded The Master when his companion showed no signs of continuing of his own accord.
‘Do you know much of the English?’ asked Abdul Qadir, and there was a depth of hatred in his voice that even surprised Aziz.
‘I know little indeed of them,’ he replied.
Thereupon the Mahsud plunged into a condemnation of the British people that was little short of vitriolic. He spoke of wrongs done to tribes of the frontier, of outrages, insults, indignities that, had they been true, would have called for the vengeance of heaven upon the perpetrators. Vastly amused inwardly, Aziz Ullah wore a look of utter indignation on his face as the tale of wrongs, suffered over a long period of years, went on. At last he cried out in a voice of horror, as though he could no longer bear to hear the recital. Delighted at this manifestation of the other’s newly-born belief in the wickedness of the English, Abdul Qadir then went on to tell of his ambition to unite all Pathans under one leader – he made no secret of the fact that the leader was to be himself – and to drive the hated white people from the country that was not theirs. He told frankly of the manner in which he was organising the tribes into a properly disciplined fighting machine.
‘It will be many moons before they are ready to advance as a united whole to battle,’ he admitted. ‘I have much prejudice to overcome, much persuasive force to use, and I am working practically alone. The young men are with me, but are hotheaded and slow in becoming disciplined. It is a weary task selecting, from among them, those fit to be officers. The elders are obstinate, and are difficult to influence. But I will win,’ his eyes shone with fanatical fervour, ‘and then I will throw my army against the English. In the meantime, it will do much to hasten matters and consolidate opinion in my favour if I take steps to put you on the throne of Afghanistan. I can, as I have said, bring to your help twenty thousand fighting men now. If, O Master, I can assure my people that, in return for that service, you will ally yourself with me, when you are amir and, as soon as I am ready to strike, aid me against the enemy with the Afghan army, I shall have the support of all. The great day of vengeance will be brought very near.’
He ceased speaking; glanced from the corners of his eyes at the thoughtful face of Aziz Ullah. Anxiously he awaited the words that would mean elation or keen disappointment for him.
‘You have been frank,’ murmured Aziz at last, ‘and I will be frank with you in return. I like not the idea of plunging the country into a war with the powerful white people, but Allah is always with the oppressed and, perhaps, as the servant and instrument of the Beneficent and Merciful, I am destined to help accomplish that which you have shown me is the great need of a grievously suffering people. I am inclined to make the compact you ask, O Khan, but you must give me time to think. I will tell you this now, that I truly believe my answer will be favourable to you. There is only one question that is causing me some doubt.’
‘Ask it!’ begged the highly-satisfied Mahsud.
‘I have heard these English have many strange and terrifying machines of warfare. Afghanistan is also now, doubtless, well advanced in this manner. But what of the army you are endeavouring to train? What would be the use of one or two or even three hundred thousand men fighting with weapons which are of the past, or rudely constructed against a great army equipped with these terrifying modern instruments of battle?’
‘Truly your wisdom is indeed great,’ returned Abdul Qadir in admiring tones. ‘I will let you into a secret that will resolve all your doubts.’
He then proceeded to tell Aziz Ullah of the manner in which, over a long period, he had been smuggling materials of war into the Afridi country. These included machine guns, rifles of the latest pattern, field guns that had arrived in parts and been assembled, and masses of hand grenades and ammunition. His hearers – Kershaw and the Havildar Rashid were, of course, listening close by – could not help feeling an admiration for the cleverness of the man. Kershaw had known of this smuggling of munitions but, despite his resources, had been up to then unable to fathom how it was done. Aziz Ullah let it appear that this disclosure had practically decided him to agree to the pact proposed. However, he took care to sound a trifle doubtful of the actual existence of such quantities of warlike stores. Thus with a craftiness matching Abdul Qadir’s he succeeded in obtaining from the latter the information that the whole stock was hidden in one place. The Mahsud did not trust the tribes sufficiently to equip them fully, until they had completely fallen into line with his plans.
‘It is safely concealed in a series of caves difficult of approach,’ he told Aziz, ‘known only to me and men of my own village, whom I can trust. I alone have a map of the district indicating the caves and the manner of reaching them, and I always carry it with me. It is here.’
He tapped his breast as he spoke, to imply that the precious document reposed in a pocket inside his clothing. Kershaw, hearing all this, felt a desire to give vent to a cry of triumph. He had not anticipated being supplied with a plan depicting the position of this ammunition depot of which, for so long, he had tried to find the whereabouts.
‘It is well,’ nodded Aziz Ullah. ‘I can no longer doubt that you are a man of great resource and possess abundantly the qualities of leadership. I will spend the night in meditation on the proposition you have laid before me. Now we will go to my retreat and partake of refreshments. Will you remain in the mountains as my guest until the morning?’
Abdul Qadir accepted eagerly.
‘It will be a great honour,’ he assured Aziz Ullah.
‘What of your men? Do they know where you are?’
‘I have sent them – all but one who is my brother, and awaits my return in Gharat – back to my country. He only knows of my mission.’
‘Will your brother grow anxious if you return not tonight?’
Abdul Qadir smiled, and shook his head.
‘I told him I might not return until the morrow.’
‘It is well. Come! You must be in need of food.’
They rose, and commenced the descent to the pass. Neither spoke again of the subject that had brought them together. On the way down, Aziz Ullah listened somewhat apprehensively for sounds indicative of the movements of Major Kershaw and Mahommed Rashid. But, except for the occasional note of a bird, the flutter of wings, or the rustling made by an animal, all was silent as the tomb. They came at length to the clearing in which Abdul Qadir’s pony patiently stood awaiting the return of his master. The Mahsud bent to untie the animal. It was then that Aziz Ullah caught sight of Kershaw and Rashid hurrying towards them. He waited until they were close by, then:
‘Look!’ he cried in pretended alarm, clutching his companion’s arm in a convulsive grip. ‘Who are these?’
Abdul Qadir straightened and swung round. A full-blooded oath, which is certainly not in the Koran, broke from his lips but, before he could raise a finger to defend himself, Kershaw had sprung forward, knocked off his turban, and brought the butt of a heavy revolver down with sickening force on his head. Abdul Qadir crashed to the ground without a sound, and lay still.
‘What the—?’ began Aziz Ullah in surprise.
The red-haired Intelligence officer grinned at him.
‘Altered our plans a little,’ he confided. ‘It occurred to me that the spectacle of you taking to your heels to bring your men to the aid of this bird, might not appear as convincing as we thought. After all, you look as though you could eat both Rashid and me at one gulp. I’m sure this is much the better way. Except for a headache, Abdul Qadir won’t be any the worse, when he comes round. Besides, you know how fantastic these beggars are – he might have forced me to shoot him. He’ll recover to learn that Rashid administered the same medicine to you as I did to him; you’ll both be trussed up, and you personally will be of the opinion that he has betrayed you, or been careless, or something. How’s that?’
‘Excellent. And what becomes of Aziz Ullah? Is he to be taken along with you as an additional prisoner.’
‘Not on your life. I leave you tied to a tree in the hope that we can get safely away before you are discovered and spread the alarm. I also apologise for the inconvenience, pretend I don’t know Aziz Ullah from Adam, and explain that the trouble that has befallen you is entirely due to your own fault in being associated with a man so badly wanted by the Indian government.’
Aziz laughed.
‘You’ve certainly worked everything out very neatly,’ he admitted. ‘Who unties me from the tree?’
‘Nobody. You walk away when Abdul Qadir’s packed up and we’re out of sight. We’ll only pretend to tie you. By the way, that brother’s a nuisance. We can’t leave him in Gharat.’
Rashid had been listening to the conversation with a slight smile on his stern face. Now he broke in in his laboured English.
‘Me know him, sahib. Not worry – I get.’
‘Good for you, Rashid,’ approved Kershaw. ‘Now let us truss this beauty up. Oh, boy,’ he exulted to Aziz Ullah, ‘what a jolly old triumph! The way you got him to talk about that armament dump of his was priceless, and to think he was obliging enough to bring along a map.’
‘Yes; that certainly was rather an unexpected piece of luck,’ agreed Aziz. ‘You’d better take possession of it before he wakes up.’
The luckless Abdul Qadir Khan was carefully searched. Not only was the plan of which he had spoken on him, but various other interesting documents, among which, after a hasty glance through them, Kershaw brought to light a draft treaty which the Mahsud hoped would be approved by Aziz Ullah, and detailed notes concerning the tribesmen under training as a result of his ambitious scheme. There was also a complete list of the arms and ammunition stored ready for the day when he confidently expected to commence driving the British from the Frontier.
The red-haired major was exuberant. Aziz Ullah seemed no less elated. They certainly had achieved a great triumph. All that remained was to accomplish safely the difficult task of conveying the captive through the lawless country between the frontier of Afghanistan and Peshawar. Under the critical eye of the Englishman, Rashid bound Abdul Qadir hand and foot. They debated whether to slip a gag into his mouth also, but decided that could be left till later. Aziz Ullah was also tied, but his thongs were left so loose that he could have shaken them off whenever he wished. Still he gave the appearance of being effectually trussed. Water from a nearby stream was brought in a pannikin and thrown on the Mahsud’s face. At first, this had no effect, but eventually he stirred uneasily; then opened his eyes with a groan. As his opened, those of Aziz Ullah, who was lying close by, shut. The result was that, when memory returned and Abdul Qadir realised that he had been attacked, the first sight he saw was The Master stretched out in the vicinity, apparently unconscious and bound with ropes. At the same time he grew aware of his own trussed condition. Then his eyes became fixed on the slim Englishman standing looking down at him. Immediately his face became convulsed with rage and hate; a string of profanities poured from between his lips. Kershaw listened and smiled, made no attempt to interrupt. Eventually Abdul Qadir Khan obtained sufficient control of himself to demand an explanation of the attack, the reason why he and his companion were bound with rope, and the identity of his captor.
‘Do you not know me?’ returned Kershaw. ‘Well, learn, O man of trouble, that for many moons have I been on your track. Now, at last, I have you. You will be conveyed to Peshawar and will have to answer the charge of planning war and outrage against the Indian government. Your activities are well known and I now have these’ – he waved before the other’s appalled eyes the documents that had been taken from his pockets – ‘to condemn you. My task is complete; your dreams of greatness will now have to be replaced by the certainty of years of exile in the Andamans or some other secure retreat where you can do no harm.’
The previous outburst from the Mahsud was nothing compared with the frenzied utterances that were now flung at the white man. He appeared to have gone mad, his eyes burning feverishly, foam collecting at the corners of his lips. At last he stopped, it seemed from sheer exhaustion. After a pause, during which he made great efforts to regain command of himself, he went on more calmly:
‘You fool, do you believe you can carry me out of Afghanistan, through my own country to the land groaning under the iron heel of your vicious race? Do you know who he is who lies there?’
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.’
Kershaw chuckled.
‘He will probably believe he made the journey in a state of religious ecstasy. Is he not an imam?’
Aziz nodded. Rashid cast a reproachful glance at the Intelligence officer.
‘It is not well to speak lightly of holy men, sahib,’ he protested.
Kershaw actually blushed, and bit his lip. He realised he had blundered, and apologised earnestly.
‘I intended no offence, Rashid,’ he declared. ‘It was thoughtless of me. As you know, few Christians have greater respect for the Muslim faith than I.’
Rashid smiled.
‘That I do know, sahib,’ he admitted. ‘I understand the remark was not meant to be irreverent. It is forgotten. I will bring the sahib food that he will like and take these away,’ he indicated the chapatis he held in his hands. ‘It must be long since he ate as he would wish.’
Aziz Ullah thanked him, whereupon he stalked away with the dignity of bearing so typical of soldiers of his race. The others watched him go.
‘Touchy beggars these Mohammedans,’ commented Kershaw. ‘Still it was damned tactless of me. I could have kicked myself. Let us take a stroll. If we keep well under the bluff we won’t be seen, even if there’s anyone to see us. Abdul Qadir and his brother can’t hear. Still, I’d like to stretch my legs a bit.’
They set off presenting a strange contrast – the apparently old, bent Afghan beside the slight, upright Englishman.
‘So you got the brother?’ remarked the former.
‘Yes; or rather Rashid did. He’s the second package over there. Poor blighters! I can’t help feeling sorry for them, but there was no other way. Rashid went to Gharat, while I waited a couple of miles from the village. It didn’t take him long to find the whereabouts of the fellow – Gharat’s a tiny place, as you know. He told him he had been sent from the mountains by Abdul Qadir Khan at the request of Aziz Ullah with orders to conduct him to the retreat. He fell into the trap without question, which isn’t to be wondered at, as only he and his brother knew anything about the meeting with you. Rashid brought him to me. Of course I was waiting in a carefully selected spot. I administered the same medicine as Abdul Qadir had received. We bound and gagged him, rolled him up in another bale, and there you are. Of course Rashid had to buy a second mule. It was too much to ask one animal to carry both. The fresh acquisition is a poor flea-bitten sort of creature, but it meets requirements.’
Suddenly from afar off came the cry of a muezzin: ‘La Illah ha il Illah ho, O Muhammad Rasul il Illah.’
Aziz looked sharply at his companion.
‘We’re nearer humanity than I thought,’ he observed. ‘There must be a mosque quite close.’
‘Not particularly. A cry like that carries a long distance in this still air. Anyhow, nobody bothers to come down here, where the river’s practically dried up. Don’t worry. I know the country like a book and the habits of the people almost as well.’
But always there is the unexpected element to be feared. That evening, some time after the sun had set and darkness had fallen with its usual abruptness, there appeared with startling suddenness a body of mounted troops under the command of an officer with a ferret-like face and small, shifty eyes. Where they had come from or what they were doing on the dried-up bed of the river puzzled Kershaw and his companions exceedingly. Rashid was just about to unwrap the material binding Abdul Qadir and his brother, preparatory to giving the two exercise, fresh air, and a meal. Fortunately he became aware of the newcomers, and desisted from his occupation in time.
They might have passed by without noticing the little encampment, had there not been a fire burning. The moon was not due to rise for some time, consequently it was darker than it would be later on. Kershaw muttered something that sounded like a curse on the campfire, rose hastily from the rug upon which he had been sitting, and went across to meet the officer who had halted his men. Aziz Ullah crept out of view. As yet he had made no alteration to his appearance. It would not do for an old man of the type he represented to be seen in the company of an English merchant. The officer dismounted as Kershaw reached him; peered suspiciously at him through the gloom. It was not too dark for him to see that he was facing a white man, one who appeared rather well groomed. He grunted.
‘It is strange to find one of your race in such a place,’ he commented. ‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’
Kershaw explained that he was the representative of an English firm and was travelling from Kabul to Peshawar. Purposely he spoke in halting Pashto, to give the impression that his knowledge of the language was not very great.
‘The heat was so intense,’ he told the other, ‘that I preferred to camp for the night rather than enter Dakka. I came to the river, thinking it would be cooler by the side of the water, but alas! There is little water.’
‘Of a certainty you know not the Kabul River,’ commented the officer. He threw the reins of his horse to an orderly, who had dismounted, and stood by. ‘I would look round your camp,’ he announced.
That was exactly what Kershaw did not want him to do. However, any sign of reluctance on his part would only cause the other’s suspicions to increase, with probably unfortunate results. He avowed himself as delighted, therefore; expressed the hope that the officer would take refreshments with him. The invitation, as he anticipated, caused his companion to become a little warmer in his attitude.
‘I fear I cannot stay long,’ he remarked. ‘I am travelling on an important mission. There is a badly wanted band of outlaws ranging the country. I am in search of them. It is known they are somewhere in this neighbourhood, and when I saw your campfire, I at first thought they were here. It is the kind of place they would choose in which to rest.’
The reason for the appearance of the troop in that out-of-the-way spot was now apparent. It caused Kershaw to reflect, somewhat ruefully, that one can be absolutely certain of remarkably little in this world. He wished to persuade the officer to take a seat on the rug with him, and order Rashid to bring refreshments, but the fellow insisted on walking round, peering at the various bundles on the ground. To Kershaw’s dismay, he bestowed particular attention on the long packages containing Abdul Qadir Khan and his brother.
‘What have you in these?’ he asked.
‘Rather a mixture,’ confided the Englishman. ‘I have collected one or two Persian rugs, some silks, and various other articles, which I hope some day to take to my own country. They are packed like that for easier and more secure transportation.’
The other glanced at him slyly.
‘And perhaps to delude the customs,’ he observed with a laugh. ‘I have heard that people passing into India try often to do so without paying duty on articles they take in.’ Suddenly he administered a kick to one of the packages, and Kershaw thought contritely of the Mahsud concealed inside. ‘You have something harder than silk or carpets within there,’ commented the Afghan. ‘Would you mind unrolling this? I am greatly interested to see what it is of my country English people treasure.’
The British Intelligence officer was at his wits’ end. Suddenly he saw the scheming, the plotting and planning of months rendered futile, at one unexpected blow, simply because a ferret-faced Afghan cavalry officer was curious. If he refused to unpack the roll, suspicion would immediately become intensified, and he would be forced to divulge the contents to the man, backed by his troop of well-armed soldiers. On the other hand, if he submitted, Abdul Qadir would be freed to continue his subversive activities, all Aziz Ullah’s efforts and his own would be ruined. The peril on the frontier would become greater than ever. He did not think of the certainty that he also would suffer, perhaps be thrown into an Afghan prison and left there to die. Personal considerations meant nothing to him.
‘I am afraid,’ he observed calmly, ‘that it will be rather a difficult task to undo these bales. They have been very tightly strapped. However, if you really wish it—’
‘I do. I hope you will not think I am too inquisitive.’
He would have been outraged had he known what Kershaw was actually thinking of him at that moment. The Englishman called over Rashid.
‘Help me to untie this,’ he ordered. ‘Untie it, you understand? I know it will be difficult, but the ropes must not be cut. If that is done, we shall never be able to pack it securely again.’
Thus he conveyed to Mahommed Rashid that he was to experience great difficulty in unfastening the knots. Anything to gain time; though Kershaw felt delay would not help. He was becoming convinced that all was up with him and Aziz. The triumph they had accomplished was about to prove barren, to be transformed into utter failure. Working with apparent zeal, the two set to work, while the Afghan officer stood by smoking a cigarette. Ten minutes labour only saw two ropes untied. Kershaw looked up with a smile.
‘I am sorry it is taking so long,’ he apologised. ‘Patience and you will set eyes on that which my people greatly treasure.’
At that moment the clear stillness of the night was shattered by a shot, followed by a cry; then came several in quick succession, a perfect din of yells, more shots, and silence. The Afghan swung round as though he himself had become a victim of the shooting. Kershaw and Rashid ceased their labours, and strained their ears in a futile attempt to pierce the darkness. The firing appeared to have come from the other side of the river. Without a word, the officer ran to his horse; sprang into the saddle, at the same time shouting an order. The troop galloped away, the thunder of the horses’ hooves decreasing rapidly as they quickly drew farther and farther from the little camp. Another shot, more cries were heard – this time it appeared the sound came from a much greater distance than before. Then, once again, complete silence was restored to the neighbourhood. Kershaw sat down, and wiped away the beads of perspiration that liberally besprinkled his brow.
‘Phew!’ he gasped. ‘What an escape! If the outlaws, for whom the soldiers are searching, were responsible for that shooting,’ he added to Rashid in Punjabi, ‘we owe them a deep debt of gratitude.’
In reply the havildar laughed quietly.
‘It is in my mind,’ he murmured, ‘that the shots were not fired by bandits, but that the sahib came to the rescue.’
Kershaw whistled.
‘By Jove!’ he muttered in English, more to himself than to his companion. ‘I believe you’re right. But how did he get over there and where did he get the rifle. He was not armed.’
Rashid disappeared into the darkness; returned silently a few minutes later.
‘Your pony and your rifle are gone, sahib,’ he announced. ‘Allah grant he will receive the good fortune his gallantry deserves. They will shoot him down or hang him if they catch him.’
‘For God’s sake, don’t talk like that, Rashid,’ snapped Kershaw. ‘Why should he be caught?’
‘I believe he will not be satisfied until he has led them so far from us that they will not return here. Your pony is swift, sahib, but it has not the speed of the horses.’
Kershaw knew he was right. Aziz Ullah, in his efforts to prevent Abdul Qadir Khan and his brother from being discovered and released, had taken a step that might well lead to his own death. For a long time he sat, straining his ears for any sounds that might indicate what was happening, even though he realised that it was wasted effort. Once he thought he heard rifle shots again but, if so, they were too far off to be distinguished with any certainty or to convey any clue to his mind concerning the identity of the man or men who had fired them. He decided that he dare not remain in that neighbourhood long. The Afghan officer was far too curious for his peace of mind. Despite Rashid’s words, he might return during the night. There was a possibility he would abandon the search sooner than expected or, and the thought caused the Englishman another pang of apprehension, he might quickly overtake Aziz and kill or capture him. No use giving way to morbid thoughts! Kershaw rose and gave orders for the prisoners to be released and fed. That must be done. It was bad enough in all conscience being compelled to make them travel in a manner so unpleasant. He had no intention of starving them, or refusing them fresh air and exercise.
By way of contrast with his and Rashid’s laborious efforts to open the rolls while the Afghan officer was present, it was remarkable how quickly the men were now released from their wrappings. Each in turn was allowed to walk about, the strappings being removed from his legs, but his hands were kept pinioned and the gag not removed from his mouth, until he was given food and drink. These precautions, of course, were necessary, but there was little danger to be apprehended from the two now. The manner of their confinement had completely knocked the spirit from them, besides which their bodies had become far too stiff to enable them to make any efforts on their own behalf. At first, Kershaw and the havildar had had considerable trouble from them as well as the most fiery abuse, had been compelled on three occasions to act somewhat severely. For four days they had refused food but nature had conquered that kind of obstinacy. Afterwards they were sullen but utterly quiescent, ate and drank all that was given to them and otherwise submitted. Kershaw intensely disliked forcing them to travel in such discomfort, regretted the necessity of it, but there was no other way. As far as possible, he had lightened things for them, travelling slowly in order that they would not be bumped too much, and in many ways tried to ease their lot.
On this particular night, he was on tenterhooks until the two were packed in their wrappings again. The unexpected appearance of the troop of soldiers had destroyed his faith in the rendezvous he had selected. He had been so sure of it, only to have his confidence shattered. If one body of men appeared there, it was just as likely others might come. Apart from this, he knew it was his duty to get away from the spot as quickly as possible in case the inquisitive Afghan officer returned with his men. Naturally all his instincts rebelled against leaving without Aziz Ullah – he longed almost passionately to wait there for him, at least, until hope that he would return had evaporated. But men in his position, with great issues depending on them, cannot consider personal or comradely inclinations. He compromised with himself by waiting until within an hour of dawn; then reluctantly helped Rashid strap their human and other bundles on to the pack mules, and gave the order to start. He rode the havildar’s pony, the latter being astride that of Aziz Ullah. From the time that Abdul Qadir Khan and his brother had been exercised and fed until the departure, Kershaw and Rashid had sat almost motionless waiting for the return of the man whose resource had saved the enterprise from ruin. Both had been afflicted with the keenest anxiety. Kershaw declared afterwards that the suspense was agonising. It can be imagined how they felt when, after waiting until the last possible moment, they were forced to go without Aziz Ullah and in fear that he had been killed or captured.
Their journeyings from then on were fairly uneventful. They crossed the border of Afghanistan safely, but, if anything, Kershaw’s precautions were increased. They were now in the land of the Pathan tribes; in other words, in districts from which Abdul Qadir Khan had hoped to enlist and train the army that he had intended eventually to throw against the British. There was never any certainty that a solitary Englishman would pass unmolested through that lawless country. However, Landi Kotal was reached safely, and there Kershaw obtained an escort of Gurkhas, who marched with him down the Khaibar and on to Peshawar. He had not considered it expedient or wise to travel by train. An inclination had assailed him at Landi Kotal to leave his prisoners there, while he went back to search for Aziz Ullah, but his duty prevented this. He must carry on to Peshawar. Besides, there was very little hope of any success regarding such an undertaking. If Aziz had escaped from the men he had led on such a wild goose chase, it was certain he would now be on his way to Peshawar. The fact that he had not caught them up reduced Kershaw’s spirits to the lowest ebb. By the time he reached Peshawar, and Abdul Qadir Khan and his brother had been imprisoned in the Cantonments, he had given up hope for ever of seeing Aziz Ullah alive again.
The two Mahsuds were locked up with the greatest secrecy. It was essential that no whisper of the Khan’s capture should leak out. Having handed them over, Kershaw sent a laconic telegram to Major-General Sir Leslie Hastings. Then he was driven to Dean’s Hotel. Almost the first person he saw there, squatting on the veranda outside his rooms, was Aziz Ullah!
He barely succeeded in stifling a great cry of joy and relief in time. It would never do for an Englishman to show such tremendous elation at sight of the disreputable old man who rose to greet him. Hurrying the latter inside, he closed the door, and clasped Aziz Ullah’s hand in both of his.
‘By Jove, old chap!’ he cried. ‘I have never felt so glad to see anybody in my life before. It is really you, isn’t it? I’m not suffering from fever and delusions, am I?’
For answer the other gave him a grip that caused him to howl with the pain of it.
‘Certain now?’ asked Aziz with a smile.
‘Yes; confound you. Was it necessary to break my bones to convince me? Sit down and – no, wait a while. My bearer will be along in a minute or two with a few bottles of iced beer. He’s trustworthy enough, but it’s just as well that he shouldn’t know too much. We’ll wait until he’s gone.’
‘Did you say beer?’ asked Aziz Ullah in a tone of ecstasy.
Kershaw laughed.
‘A fine Mohammedan you are, O Master. Yes; I said beer, my lad.’
‘The blessings of Allah be upon you. I only want five things. Lots of beer – a few bottles will be no good to me – a bath, a shave, decent clothes, and a pipe of baccy.’
‘You shall have all. I forgot to mention to you before that your suitcase duly arrived, and has been locked up in the bedroom there for the last six months.’
The bearer put in an appearance as he finished speaking, carrying four large bottles of Allsopp’s Lager in an ice pail. He took little notice of the disreputable old man standing before his master. He was used to the queer visitors Kershaw so often had in his rooms. The Intelligence officer sent him to find Havildar Mahommed Rashid.
‘That’ll keep him out of the way for a bit,’ confided the latter when the man had gone. ‘Rashid is probably in his quarters some distance from here taking a well-earned rest.’
‘Why not let him continue to rest?’ queried Aziz. ‘Surely you could have got rid of the bearer on some other pretext?’
‘Rashid would never forgive me if I didn’t let him know at once that you are safe. He’s been as anxious as I about you.’ He rummaged in a cupboard, produced a couple of pewter tankards, and filled them with the foaming lager. ‘Sit down,’ he urged, handing one to his guest, ‘and tell me all about it.’
Aziz sank into a comfortable cane chair with a sigh of deep satisfaction.
‘Do you think I can bear to talk when I have this in my hand?’ he asked reproachfully. ‘Have a heart! This is the first man’s drink I’ve touched for over six months. Cheer ho!’
Kershaw responded suitably, and the two quaffed the beer in copious draughts. Aziz put down his tankard empty.
‘Lord!’ he gasped. ‘I’ve always liked my beer, but I’ve never known it taste quite so good before. Encore please.’ Kershaw obliged. His visitor accepted the replenished tankard gratefully. ‘I can talk now,’ he proclaimed.
Thereupon he plunged into a recital of his adventures since leaving the rendezvous near Dakka. When the Afghan troops had appeared, he had hidden himself by climbing into a tree a short distance away. From there, although he could not see anything but the campfire and the shadowy figures of Kershaw, Rashid, and the Afghan officer, he was able to hear distinctly and thus learnt about the outlaws. Directly he gathered that the officer insisted on seeing what was contained in the large packages, he slipped to earth, and crawled to the animals, picking up Kershaw’s sporting rifle on the way. He guessed that the Intelligence officer and Rashid would delay the opening of the rolls as long as they possibly could, and calculated that he would thus have time to get a good distance from the camp. He had been compelled at first to lead the pony he took, in order to make as little sound as possible. But he had mounted as soon as he dared, and had crossed to the other bank of the river. There he had fired a shot and shouted, paused a little, and then fired and yelled again.
‘I tried to sound like a crowd,’ he remarked.
‘You succeeded,’ Kershaw assured him. ‘I certainly thought the bandits that fellow was after had quite innocently created a diversion. I said so to Rashid, when the Afghans stampeded after you.’
Aziz went on to tell him how he had waited until he heard the thunder of hooves; then had ridden away, firing an occasional shot or two at first, later dropping various things, such as an article of clothing, cartridge cases, and so on.
‘They must have wondered what the outlaws were playing at,’ he commented, ‘but that didn’t matter a hoot. They could think what they liked so long as they kept on following me. When I calculated I had covered some miles from you, I stopped, dismounted, and removed the saddle from your beast. It was a particularly English-looking affair, and wouldn’t have passed muster as the possession of an Afghan bandit. Then I gave the pony a hearty punch which sent it careering away, hid the saddle, and sat down to wait. I had to wait a jolly long time too, and began to fear the troops had given up the chase and gone back, but, at last, they arrived. They pounced on me with glee. In fact, they seemed so glad to see me that I thought they would pretend I was one of the outlaws, to save themselves trouble, and take me back in triumph to Dakka, saying that they had killed the rest or something. But I suppose I looked too old and feeble to delude anybody into believing I was a tough guy—’
‘Phew!’ whistled Kershaw softly, admiration showing in his eyes. ‘You took an infernal risk. I hate to think what would have happened had they taken you along with them, and washed your face.’
‘Well, they didn’t. They bombarded the old man – that’s me – with questions, and I sent them off quite happily, with a tale that a dozen or so wild-looking fellows had passed by half an hour or so before riding like the wind. They didn’t even ask me what I was doing there. I suppose they thought I was just a tramp. That’s about all I think. I buried your saddle, and set off to walk to Landi Kotal. It wasn’t any use going back to find you. It took me two days pretty steady going to get there. Every time I met anybody, I had to go all bent and feeble and old. I begged or stole food. By that time I was too dilapidated to buy it – it might have roused suspicion had I produced money. Sorry about your pony and saddle, Kershaw, but que voulez vous?’
The red-haired Intelligence officer was sitting as though lost in admiration.
‘And they say the old spirit of the adventurers is dead!’ he murmured.
‘For goodness’ sake, don’t come all over mushy,’ begged the other. ‘By the way,’ he went on, ‘I managed to hold on to your rifle. I left it with some of the lads at Landi Kotal. They were damned inquisitive to know how I had come into possession of it, and I’m afraid I had to tell a few fibs. Anyhow, you’ve only to ask for it in the mess next time you’re in Landi Kotal.’
‘How did you get it over the Frontier in your get-up?’ asked the surprised Kershaw. ‘And where did you conceal it during your journey?’
Aziz Ullah smiled.
‘Rolled it in some of my rags,’ he replied. ‘As for the Frontier, I crossed where there weren’t no bloomin’ outposts or prying eyes or nuffin’. As a matter of fact, I travelled to Landi up and down some of the grimmest, most barren-looking precipices I’ve ever tackled. Talk about mountaineering! If I ever go climbing in Switzerland again, it’ll seem like up a staircase, after those I’ve just negotiated.’
Kershaw gave vent to a deep sigh.
‘You’re a marvel!’ he exclaimed. ‘And the general spoke of Aziz Ullah as “That bloody Afghan” in tones of the deepest contempt. He’s in for a number one surprise. By the way, how is it you got here before me, when—?’
‘Use your brains, my lad. I travelled from Landi Kotal by train; squeezed in among a crowd of smelly Peshawaris, wives, children, family utensils, and whatnots. It was great fun. And now what about your end? You got Abdul Qadir and brother through all right, I hope?’
Kershaw nodded.
‘They’re lodged secretly and safely in the Cantonments.’
Aziz Ullah drained his tankard.
‘Good!’ he remarked. ‘I can now become human again. Lead me to a bath, Kershaw, where I can soak for some hours. Then for the luxury of a shave, some nice Christian duds, a haircut, more beer, and a succession of pipes. And heigh ho! Farewell to Aziz Ullah. May the peace of Allah be upon him.’
Major-General Sir Leslie Hastings had not heard any news of Major Kershaw for some weeks and had reached the point of exasperation again. The consequence was that his staff, although now in the cool altitudes of Murree, were again in a state of heated resentment. All this was suddenly changed, however, when a telegram arrived from Peshawar. Captain Charteris opened, and read it, gave a single whoop of joy, and actually ran to the general’s office, quite oblivious to any scandal this lack of decorum on the part of a staff officer might cause to the orderlies and sentries. He burst into Sir Leslie’s room, forgetting to knock, and waved the telegram in the air. The startled general looked at him as though he thought he had gone mad.
‘What the devil’s the matter with you, Charteris?’ he demanded wrathfully.
‘A telegram, sir.’
‘Confound you! I can see that. What’s in it to make you behave like a lunatic?’
‘It’s from Major Kershaw, sir. He’s back in Peshawar with Abdul Qadir Khan!’
‘Eh! What’s that? What’s that?’ The general rose from his chair with surprising agility for one of his bulk, leant forward, and almost snatched the telegram from his secretary’s hand. “Have brought A. Q. to Peshawar,” he read aloud. “If not coming down, kindly wire instructions.” If not coming down!’ he repeated with a sound that was very much like a snort. ‘Of course, I’m going down. Charteris, order a car at once. We’ll be able to reach ’Pindi by dark, and can go on to Peshawar early in the morning. Send a wire telling Kershaw I’ll be there before noon. Gad! What a man!’ he exulted, as the staff officer hurried from the room.
‘Jumbo’ was as good as his word. His car, white with dust, drew up outside command headquarters at ten minutes to twelve on the following morning. The general found Major Kershaw awaiting his arrival.
‘Glad to see you, Ginger,’ he bellowed, as he stepped from the motor, forgetting for once in a way that such familiarity and lack of dignity on the part of a general officer was not conducive to good discipline. As a matter of fact, he was like a schoolboy on holiday. Captain Charteris who, of course, was with him, had never seen this side of his character before, and had begun to form a different opinion of him. ‘Come along in,’ Sir Leslie invited the smiling Kershaw. ‘Your news sounds so good that I feel there must be a catch in it somewhere.’ When they were seated alone in the office, with the fans going full speed he leant eagerly forward. ‘Is it actually true? You have brought Abdul Qadir to Peshawar?’
‘Yes; he and a fellow called Sikandar Khan – he says he’s a brother – are under close guard in a part of jail which has been cleared specially so that the news can’t leak out. My advice to you, sir, if I may presume, is to spirit them away from this part of the country at once – send them to Delhi by special train tonight.’
‘H’m! Sounds the sensible thing to do. But how the devil did you manage to get him?’
‘I did very little, sir. The brain behind the whole scheme was that of Sir Leonard Wallace—’
‘What! You mean the Director of the Secret Service?’
‘There is only one Sir Leonard Wallace,’ returned Kershaw. ‘He conceived the scheme, and one of his most brilliant men carried it out marvellously. I assisted in a very chota manner.’
‘Who is the man to whom you are referring?’
‘Aziz Ullah, sir. The bloke you called “That Bloody Afghan”.’
The GOC stared at him incredulously for several seconds; then:
‘You’d better start at the beginning and tell me the whole tale,’ he decided.
‘Right,’ assented Kershaw. ‘Some months ago, when it was first discovered that this new and very modern menace Abdul Qadir Khan had risen on the Frontier – the news first reached Sir Leonard from an agent of his in Persia – all kinds of traps were laid for him, but he was far too cunning to fall into them. Sir Leonard then conceived a scheme that for sheer subtlety and ingenuity would take a lot of beating. It had been learnt that one of Abdul Qadir’s pet ideas was to ally Afghanistan with him. He knew very well the amir and present government were friendly with England, but it isn’t so difficult to overthrow kings and governments in Afghanistan, so long as the proper man with the right personality and powers of leadership comes along. From Abdul Qadir’s point of view, he must also be one who, for services rendered, would afterwards put the Afghan army at his disposal. He scoured the country for such a man. Sir Leonard Wallace decided to supply him with one, who would eventually trap him. Now the Chief of the Secret Service is far too clever to create entirely imaginary people. He realised that inquiries might crash the whole scheme. Information was immediately sought concerning Afghans living in Persia. He chose Imam Aziz Ullah of Mesched, who had been born in Herat, and had moved to the Persian city as a boy. There his life has been devoted to religion, he is almost a recluse, and is regarded as a very holy man. Sir Leonard selected one of his most efficient agents, a man who speaks Persian like a native. This man spent some time in Mesched, studying Aziz Ullah; then travelled from Bushire to Karachi, where I met him. I had received orders through the Intelligence Department of the Indian government. The whole scheme was put to me by the new Aziz Ullah, who by then had grown a beard and allowed his hair to lengthen. He dyed his body with a stain that no amount of washing or rubbing would remove, and which wears off slowly, only having to be renewed occasionally. Dressed in native attire, he then departed to commence his work, having had his European belongings packed in a suitcase which was duly forwarded to me at Dean’s. He travelled by way of Baluchistan into Afghanistan and spent a couple of months becoming fully acquainted with customs, habits and the part of the country in which he was to operate. From my knowledge, I had been able to give him directions enabling him to find a safe retreat in which to hide and a rendezvous where he and I could meet occasionally.
‘Sir Leonard’s idea, you see, sir, was that Abdul Qadir Khan could only be trapped by the appearance of somebody who fitted into his schemes, yet was apparently in no way concerned with him. No harm was intended or could possibly come to Afghanistan. If this plot ended in a betterment of conditions for the lower-class Afghans, so much to the good. The poor beggars needed it. It has. Our Aziz has worked wonders for them. Abdul Qadir soon realised, and without any suspicions, that the very man he wanted had arisen. He made attempts to get into communication with him, only to be rebuffed at first. It was part of the game naturally for Aziz to appear reluctant to have anything to do with him.’
Kershaw then went on to give a full account of Aziz Ullah’s operations in Afghanistan, the triumph at Kabul, and then the manner in which Abdul Qadir Khan had been trapped and brought to Peshawar. Sir Leslie Hastings sat entranced. At the end of the recital, he seemed to find it difficult to express his feelings.
‘Gad!’ he exclaimed at last, then again: ‘Gad! Kershaw,’ he added with a smile, ‘I shan’t be happy until I shake hands with – that bloody Afghan.’
Ginger laughed, and rose from his chair.
‘He’s at the hotel, sir. I’ll send for him at once.’
When he came back to the room, he described to the general how, for a long time, Abdul Qadir Khan had been smuggling munitions in vast quantities from Russia through Turkestan to a well-selected spot near Shabqadar. He repeated all he had heard Abdul Qadir divulge to Aziz Ullah, and showed Sir Leslie the map and other documents taken from the Mahsud. The general could not read either, as his knowledge of the vernacular was practically non-existent, but his quick mind soon grasped all salient facts. He agreed with Kershaw that he had every excuse for a punitive expedition. The mass of smuggled military stores was more than enough for this. With Sir Leslie, to decide was to act. It may be as well to relate here that two nights later a large force of troops guided by Kershaw, descended suddenly on Shabqadar. The hiding place of the munitions was captured practically without a fight, the surprise was complete. Men of the Sappers and Miners dynamited the caves, wherein the arms and ammunition were stored, and Abdul Qadir Khan’s ambitions were destroyed for ever. He himself was sent into exile.
While the two officers were planning the scoop, there came a knock at the door. In response to the general’s invitation, a tall, immensely broad individual entered the room. He was immaculately clothed in a well-cut silk suit; was altogether an attractive figure, with his clean-shaven face, clear grey eyes, square jaw and other fine features. His skin, however, was a light brown. Smiling broadly at Kershaw, he stood stiffly to attention, as the general rose to greet him.
‘You sent for me, sir?’ he asked.
‘This, General,’ introduced Ginger Kershaw, ‘is Aziz Ullah who has done so much for Afghanistan and incidentally for Great Britain. In other words, he is your bloody Afghan – Captain Hugh Shannon of the British Secret Service.’