he has exposed his soldiers to the worst fate of all – humiliation – by keeping them shut up in cantonments while the Afghan rabble mock at them. Now his own troops are sick at heart; they have no fight in them.”
He paused, picking his words.
“The British cannot stay here now,” he went on. “They have lost their power, and we Afghans wish to be rid of them. There are those who say we should slaughter them all – needless to say, I do not agree.” And he smiled. “For one thing, it might not be so easy—”
“It is never easy,” said old Muhammed Din. “These same feringhees took Ghuznee Fort; I saw them, by God.”
“—and for another, what would the harvest be?” went on Akbar. “The White Queen avenges her children. No, there must be a peaceful withdrawal to India; this is what I would prefer myself. I am no enemy of the British, but they have been guests in my country too long.”
“One of ’em a month too long,” says I, and he laughed.
“You are one feringhee, Flashman, who is welcome to stay as long as he chooses,” says he. “But for the rest, they have to go.”
“They came to put Sujah on the throne,” says I. “They won’t leave him in the lurch.”
“They have already agreed to do so,” said Akbar smoothly. “Myself, I have arranged the terms of withdrawal with McLoten Sahib.”
“You’ve seen McNaghten?”
“Indeed. The British have agreed with me and the chiefs to march out to Peshawar as soon as they have gathered provisions for the journey and struck their camp. Sujah, it is agreed, remains on the throne, and the British are guaranteed safe conduct through the passes.”
So we were quitting Kabul; I didn’t mind, but I wondered how Elphy and McNaghten were going to explain this away to Calcutta. Inglorious retreat, pushed out by niggers, don’t look well at all. Of course, the bit about Sujah staying on the throne was all my eye; once we were out of the way they’d blind him quietly and pop him in a fortress and forget about him. And the man who would take his place was sitting watching how I took the news.
“Well,” says I at last, “there it is, but what have I to do with it? I mean, I’ll just toddle off with the rest, won’t I?”
Akbar leaned forward. “I have made it sound too simple, perhaps. There are problems. For example, McLoten has made his treaty to withdraw not only with myself, but with the Douranis, the Gilzais, the Kuzzilbashies, and so on – all as equals. Now, when the British have gone, all these factions will be left behind, and who will be the master?”
“Shah Sujah, according to you.”
“He can rule only if he has a united majority of the tribes supporting him. As things stand, that would be difficult, for they eye each other askance. Oh, McLoten Sahib is not the fool you think him, he has been at work to divide us.”
“Well, can’t you unite them? You’re Dost Mohammed’s son, ain’t you – and all through the passes a month ago I heard nothing but Akbar Khan and what a hell of a fellow he was.”
He laughed and clapped his hands. “How gratifying! Oh, I have a following, it is true—”
“You have all Afghanistan,” growls Sultan Jan. “As for Sujah—”
“I have what I have,” Akbar interrupted him, suddenly chilly. “It is not enough, if I am to support Sujah as he must be supported.”
There was a moment of silence, not very comfortable, and Akbar went on:
“The Douranis dislike me, and they are powerful. It would be better if their wings were clipped – theirs and a few others. This cannot be done after the British have left. With British help it can be done in time.”
Oho, I thought, now we have it.
“What I propose is this,” says Akbar, looking me in the eye. “McLoten must break his treaty so far as the Douranis are concerned; he must assist me in their overthrow. In return for this, I will allow him – for with the Douranis and their allies gone I shall have the power – to stay in Kabul another eight months. In that time I shall become Sujah’s Vizier, the power at his elbow. The country will be so quiet then – so quiet, that the cheep of a Kandahar mouse will be heard in Kabul – that the British will be able to withdraw in honour. Is not this fair? The alternative now is a hurried withdrawal, which no one here can guarantee in safety, for none has the power to restrain the wilder tribes. And Afghanistan will be left to warring factions.”
I have observed, in the course of a dishonest life, that when a rogue is outlining a treacherous plan, he works harder to convince himself than to move his hearers. Akbar wanted to cook his Afghan enemies’ goose, that was all, and perfectly understandable, but he wanted to look like a gentleman still – to himself.
“Will you carry my proposal secretly to McLoten Sahib, Flashman?” he asked.
If he’d asked me to carry his proposal of marriage to Queen Victoria I’d have agreed, so of course I said “Aye” at once.
“You may add that as part of the bargain I shall expect a down payment of twenty lakhs of rupees,” he added, “and four thousand a year for life. I think McLoten Sahib will find this reasonable, since I am probably preserving his political career.”
And your own, too, thinks I. Sujah’s Vizier, indeed. Once the Douranis were out of the way it would be farewell Sujah, and long live King Akbar. Not that I minded; after all, I would be able to say I was on nodding terms with a king – even if he was only a king of Afghanistan.
“Now,” went on Akbar, “you must deliver my proposals to McLoten Sahib personally, and in the presence of Muhammed Din and Khan Hamet here, who will accompany you. If it seems” – he flashed his smile – “that I don’t trust you, my friend, let me say that I trust no one. The reflection is not personal.”
“The wise son,” croaked Khan Hamet, opening his mouth for the first time, “mistrusts his mother.” Doubtless he knew his own family best.
I pointed out that the plan might appear to McNaghten to be a betrayal of the other chiefs, and his own part in it dishonourable; Akbar nodded, and said gently:
“I have spoken with McLoten Sahib, remember. He is a politician.”
He seemed to think that was answer enough, so I let it be. Then Akbar said:
“You will tell McLoten that if he agrees, as I think he will, he must come to meet me at Mohammed’s Fort, beyond the cantonment walls, the day after tomorrow. He must have a strong force at hand within the cantonment, ready to emerge at the word and seize the Douranis and their allies, who will be with me. Thereafter we will dispose matters as seems best to us. Is this agreed?” And he looked at his three fellows, who nodded agreement.
“Tell McLoten Sahib,” said Sultan Jan, with a nasty grin, “that if he wills he may have the head of Amenoolah Khan, who led the attack on Sekundar Burnes’s Residency. Also, that in this whole matter we of the Barukzis have the friendship of the Gilzais.”
If both Gilzais and Barukzis were in the plot, it seemed to me that Akbar was on solid ground; McNaghten would think so too. But to me, sitting looking at those four faces, bland Akbar and his trio of villains, the whole thing stank like a dead camel. I would have trusted the parcel of them as much as Gul Shah’s snakes.
However, I kept a straight face, and that afternoon the guard at the cantonment’s main gate was amazed by the sight of Lieutenant Flashman, clad in the mail of a Barukzi warrior, and accompanied by Muhammed Din and Khan Hamet,15 riding down in state from Kabul City. They had thought me dead a month ago, chopped to bits with Burnes, but here I was larger than life. The word spread like fire, and when we reached the gates there was a crowd waiting for us, with tall Colin Mackenzie16 at their head.
“Where the devil have you come from?” he demanded, his blue eyes wide open.
I