Part 12 (1/2)
The next day, one of the ewes went lame. Qadeer carried her across his shoulders as they crossed the stony Lowyah Dakkah plain.
”So,” Ghulam Ali said carefully, ”a rebellion has begun against Shah Shuja and the British?”
Qadeer gave a curious, giggling laugh. ”Of course it has, my friend,” he had replied as he strode along, the ewe wrapped around his neck like a great, s.h.a.ggy collar. ”Wazir Akbar Khan is no coward like his father, Dost Mohammad, who threw down his arms before the British and ran away to India. The Amir's eldest son is a man of courage and honor. All will happen quickly, now that the shabna-mas shabna-mas, the night letters, have gone to every part of the country and the people are ready.”
That night they reached the old fort at Haft Chah, the last stop before the Khyber Pa.s.s. There, while the camp was asleep Ghulam Ali slipped away from the Ghilzais, and ran.
In the end, he crossed the Khyber with a group of heavily guarded Hindu merchants bound for Peshawar with a cargo of dried fruit, musk, and caged Persian cats. The merchants and their long file of s.h.a.ggy, jingling donkeys were part of a steady stream of men and animals following that narrow, stony track through the foothills of the Suleiman Koh range.
The Khyber Pa.s.s had been in use for countless centuries. Aryan invaders had traveled it long before history began. Barefoot Buddhist monks had crossed it two thousand years before, followed by hordes of Huns and the armies of Babur, Nadir Shah, and Ahmad Shah Durrani.
It was not a high pa.s.s, for its summit stood only three thousand five hundred feet above sea level, but it was long and dangerous. Sometimes crossing flat valleys, sometimes clinging with hairpin turns to the harsh slopes of the Suleiman Koh, or pa.s.sing through narrow defiles, the pa.s.s stretched for thirty-three miles through territory occupied by Afridi tribesmen, who lived, as the Ghilzais did, by plunder.
The Afridis had no special enmity for the servants of English people, but even so, Ghulam Ali had been glad of the hard-eyed men hired by the Hindu traders, who strode beside the donkeys, long-barreled muskets slung over their shoulders, their eyes scanning the hills on either side of the road.
He strode toward the city of Peshawar with his caravan, the tail of his turban across his face to keep out the ever-present dust, past mud forts and watchtowers, past black nomad tents and flocks of sheep, goats, and cows that grazed between scrubby tamarisk trees.
As he walked, he thought about his first encounter with the Englishwoman.
He had delivered a letter to her in Calcutta, a year earlier. The letter had been from Ha.s.san Ali Khan. Ghulam Ali had, of course, never learned what news or instructions that letter had contained, but shortly afterward the lady, her uncle, and her aunt had packed their belongings and begun the long journey across the width of India, from Bengal to the Punjab, bringing with them Ha.s.san's small, gifted son Saboor, who seemed to be under her protection.
Ghulam Ali had accompanied them on that journey.
There had been no Englishwomen in the Punjab. Ghulam Ali had never before seen the like of Ha.s.san's wife, with her steady, green gaze and oddly revealing clothing. Horrified that the Waliullah family had been saddled with such an unseemly female, he had avoided her as much as possible on that journey.
But she had won him over in the end, for she had somehow understood that he had suffered in his life. Tormented since childhood for his strange paleness and pink eyes, he had never known friends.h.i.+p. She, who did not distinguish between rich and poor, accepted man and outcast, had respected his humanity and given him hope. Together they had saved Ha.s.san Ali Khan from certain death.
Best of all, in her talkative, hunched-over servant, Dittoo, Ghulam Ali had found a man he could trust. Later, he had added Yar Mohammad to that short list.
Ahead of him a concentrated haze stood in the distant sky. They were nearing the Gateway to India, the old high-walled city of Peshawar.
An hour later, the Hindu traders led their animals through the shouting congestion at the city's Kabul Gate, whose name needed no explanation. To their left, in the street of goldsmiths, stood Mahabat Khan's grand mosque, from whose topless minarets the Maharajah's enemies were thrown daily to their deaths. Before them ran the broad Qissa Khwani, the Street of Storytellers, home of Peshawar's tea shops and caravanserais, where all the news of the world was told.
Like all caravanserais, the one they stopped at was no more than a great open square, its perimeter lined with gaping, three-sided sheds with bare rooms above, where a traveler might find shelter. Its huge courtyard was already filled with shouting men, grunting animals, and great heaps of bales and bundles. Ghulam Ali yawned. With luck he would find an empty corner in an upstairs room. With no luck he would sleep with the donkeys.
Abandoning his merchants and their charges, he set off to drink at the courtyard well. After that he would buy something to eat and a moment to himself to consider his situation.
The Englishwoman's letter must be important, for she had sent it all the way from Kabul. But whatever news that letter contained, it was nothing compared to the critical information that he, Ghulam Ali, must now deliver. As soon as he had filled his stomach he would hurry to the market, find a scribe, and dictate his own letter, telling Ha.s.san of the dangers threatening his wife and her family.
He would then hurry to the hilltop citadel of Ghor Khatri at the center of the city, where the Maharajah's appointed governor had built his palace, and find an official relay runner going to Lah.o.r.e. He would then bribe the man to put the lady's letter and his own into the pouch, for delivery to Ha.s.san.
A good qasid qasid could get it to Lah.o.r.e in three days. could get it to Lah.o.r.e in three days.
Then, without stopping to enjoy the city's fruits or its chappli chappli ka-babs of ground mutton cooked in its own fat, he would find a way to return to Kabul, where he would offer what aid he could to the lady and her family. ka-babs of ground mutton cooked in its own fat, he would find a way to return to Kabul, where he would offer what aid he could to the lady and her family.
Since the British army had already fought with the Ghilzais in the pa.s.ses near Kabul, she must know of the coming rebellion. He hoped she was not too frightened.
If Allah willed, Ha.s.san Ali Khan would arrive to rescue them before it was too late....
As he drank from the dipper at the well, Ghulam Ali sensed eyes upon him. Three tattered-looking men watched him from a makes.h.i.+ft tea shop. Knife handles protruded from the coa.r.s.e sashes wound around their waists. Jezails leaned against the wall behind them. They spoke together, then glanced at him again.
They were dressed like the Ghilzais he had left behind on the Jalalabad plain. From the way they looked at him, they knew who he was. Cursing his white skin and yellow beard, he returned the dipper to its place and left the well, forcing himself not to hurry.
I would have killed you after you left us. He had been a fool to leave the Ghilzais, but if he had stayed, he would never have succeeded in keeping up his lie, for they had watched his every move, had seen him sweat at each of their questions, each of their glances. He had been a fool to leave the Ghilzais, but if he had stayed, he would never have succeeded in keeping up his lie, for they had watched his every move, had seen him sweat at each of their questions, each of their glances.
In the end it had made no difference. Leaving them so abruptly and without good-byes, he had given himself away.
Desperate to escape, he hurried between piles of baggage, herds of goats, and dozens of kneeling camels. All that mattered now was that he preserve his life long enough to help the English lady.
At the entrance to the caravanserai, he pushed through the crowded gateway and onto the main street.
He stepped onto the road and turned toward the street of goldsmiths. Surely he would find a scribe near the mosque. There was danger in each hurried step he took, but he had no choice. Surely, the Ghilzais would not bother to follow him into a place of prayer....
After spending an hour in the mosque, dictating his letter to an eager young scribe, Ghulam Ali hurried up a dusty hill, toward the ma.s.sive gate of the Ghor Khatri, the great walled caravanserai that was now the residence of the governor.
”I have business inside,” he barked impatiently to the uniformed guards at the gate. ”I am a courier for the a.s.sistant Foreign Minister.”
A Sikh infantry officer in a steel helmet and chain mail vest looked him unhurriedly up and down. ”You say you are Ha.s.san Ali Khan Sahib's courier?”
”I am.” Ghulam Ali hunched his shoulders against the man's inspection.
”He's gone out.”
”Gone out? out? Is he here in Is he here in Peshawar?” Peshawar?”
The officer snorted. ”How are you his courier, if you do not know where he is?”
”Where has he gone?” Ghulam Ali demanded. ”When is he coming back?”
The officer waved an uninterested hand. ”How should I know? They go to the chaikhanas and the Englishman's house. Ha.s.san Ali Khan has his own-”
He stopped speaking, for Ghulam Ali had already turned on his heel and started down the hill, toward the crowded warren of alleys below the Ghor Khatri.
His throat was dry with fear, but he did not stop at the ancient Shabaz Well whose waters were icy cold, even in summer. Instead, he hurried through colorful bazaars and cobbled lanes, past mean little doorways and great houses with lovely carved balconies, past merchants and rich men, beggars and thieves, gamblers, cutthroats and starving dogs, until he arrived once again in the Street of Storytellers.
There, he stopped short.
The Qissa Khwani was broad enough to accommodate five pa.s.sing kafilas at once. Lines of pack animals carrying bales of goods took up its dusty width, all accompanied by hordes of armed men. Up and down the street, a hundred tea shops beckoned, their canvas awnings sheltering travelers from the sun, each customer with a pot of tea before him. Ghulam Ali took in the smells of animals and cooking meat, of burning incense and sewage.
He had no idea where to find Ha.s.san in this busy thoroughfare.
Certain he would know where to look, he had allowed instinct to drive him this far. Now, confused by the crowd, he stood at the side of the road, uncertain, hungry, and afraid for his life.
Why should Ha.s.san have come here after he left the Citadel? Why should a man of his station spend his time in this busy, dirty street, when he could be visiting some dignitary in his house, leaning on silk cus.h.i.+ons, eating white grapes, and drinking water perfumed with roses?
Ghulam Ali frowned. Had the officer on guard started to say that Ha.s.san had his own accommodation in the city?
He looked about him nervously. Fearing to stand out in the open, he climbed two stone steps into a small, crudely built tea shop, and looked for a place to sit. He had enough money left to sit on a chaikhana's small, carpeted platform and drink a pot of sweet tea while he made up his mind what to do. Later, he would satisfy his hunger with a princely meal of bread and kababs bought from a street vendor.