Chronicles of the Secret Service (24 page)

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.