Chronicles of the Secret Service (20 page)

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.