Russia’s annexation of Merv, and the deceitful manner in which this had been carried out, had already set the presses rolling in Britain, as a new generation of Wilsons, Urquharts and Rawlinsons took up their pens. General Lumsden’s warning that the Russians were on the move once more was followed shortly by a report from the British military attaché at St Petersburg that the Tsar’s generals planned to seize Herat on some pretext in the spring – ‘or as soon as a large portion of our forces are locked up in Egypt and the Sudan’. Then came the news that General Gordon had been butchered on the steps of the Residency at Khartoum by a fanatical mob. It put the nation in a belligerent mood. With the hawks convinced that their moment had come, the year 1885 was destined to be a vintage one for Great Game literature.
Of the new breed of forward school commentators, the most prolific was probably Charles Marvin, already the author of several works on the Russian menace, including The Russian Advance Towards India, and The Russians at Merv and Herat and Their Power of Invading India. Another, Reconnoitring Central Asia, detailed secret missions and journeys made by Russian officers in the regions surrounding British India. A former correspondent in St Petersburg for the London Globe, he had the advantage over his rivals of being fluent in Russian, and knowing a number of the Tsar’s leading generals personally. A facile and persuasive writer, he also turned out countless newspaper articles on Russian aims in Central Asia, and how best these could be thwarted.
Marvin had first come to the attention of the public, not to mention the authorities, in May 1878, when he was involved in a cause célébre concerning a Whitehall leak. It occurred at the time of the Congress of Berlin, following the Russo-Turkish War of 1877, when Marvin was working as a part-r time official at the Foreign Office, as well as contributing to the Globe. Discovering that the government intended to leak details of agreements reached between Britain and Russia to The Times, he decided instead to pass them to his own newspaper. The result was a world scoop, although the story was hastily denied by the government. However, the following day the Globe published the text of the agreements. Soon afterwards Marvin, the most obvious suspect, was arrested and charged with stealing a top-secret document. When a search of his home failed to find any trace of this, he was acquitted, the court ruling that he had broken no law – there being no Official Secrets Act at that time. In fact, Marvin had committed the entire text to memory as he copied it. The affair was to do Marvin no harm, for within five years, while still only in his late twenties, he was to become the most widely read writer on Anglo-Russian matters of his day.
In 1885, that annus mirabilis for all who addressed themselves to the Russian menace, Marvin published no fewer than three books on various aspects of the subject, including one on the threat posed to India by the new Transcaspian Railway. Another, The Russians at the Gates of Herat, was written and published in the space of one week (demonstrating that there is nothing new in the ‘instant’ book). Like other works by Marvin, it was to become a bestseller, 65,000 copies being sold in all. In general, Marvin’s line was that successive British governments, especially Liberal ones, had brought the problem upon themselves by their spineless and vacillating policies towards St Petersburg. Of the present administration he declared: ‘Mr Gladstone’s Cabinet is notoriously given to making concessions, and Russia, well aware of this, is resorting to every artifice to squeeze it.’ Other Great Game works appearing that year included Demetrius Boulger’s Central Asian Questions, Colonel G. B. Malleson’s The Russo-Afghan Question and the Invasion of India, and H. Sutherland Edwards’s Russian Projects against India – to name just three. In addition there were innumerable pamphlets, articles, reviews and letters to the editor by these and other commentators, mostly backing the Russophobe cause.
But perhaps the best known of the writers on the Russian peril, after Charles Marvin, was not an Englishman at all. He was an Anglophile Hungarian orientalist named Arminius Vambery, who had taken up the cudgels on behalf of Britain, Twenty years earlier, disguised as a ragged dervish, or Muslim holy man, he had made a long and daring journey through Central Asia, drawn by the belief that the Hungarians originally came from there. A brilliant linguist, who already spoke Arabic and Turkish, he quickly mastered the languages of the region, which enabled him to visit Khiva, Samarkand and Bokhara without detection. At that time all three still enjoyed independence, but Vambery returned to Budapest convinced that they would very soon be seized by Russia. Finding little interest in Central Asia among his own countrymen, Vambery turned his attention to Britain, hoping that people there would heed his warnings, particularly over India. When he arrived in London in 1864, he discovered that word of his remarkable exploits in Central Asia had preceded him, and he was immediately lionised. The son of a poor Jewish family, he was overwhelmed by the warmth of his reception, which had included meetings with the Prince of Wales, Palmerston and Disraeli. Although everyone wanted to hear at first hand of his adventures as a dervish, in one thing he failed. It will be recalled that forward policies were out of favour at this time, as Sir Henry Rawlinson was finding, and Vambery likewise was unable to persuade anyone other than the hawks to take his warnings seriously.
On returning to Budapest, where he became Professor of Turkish, Arabic and Persian at the university, Vambery proceeded to bombard The Times and other British newspapers with letters urging the government to take a far tougher line with the Russians, as one by one the Central Asian khanates fell to them, bringing them ever closer to what he considered to be their ultimate goal, India. But now, with the fall of Merv, and with the Russians showing no real signs of halting, Vambery sensed that his moment had come, and in the spring of 1885 he set out for London intent on expounding his views on St Petersburg’s ambitions towards India. Once again he was lionised, but this time people listened to his warnings at a series of packed meetings which he addressed up and down the country. He received so many invitations that he was forced to turn most of them down. One admirer placed at his disposal, during his stay in London, a luxurious apartment, complete with cook, servants and wine cellar. More than once during his travels in the provinces luncheon baskets filled with expensive delicacies were thrust into his railway carriage, their donors signing themselves simply ‘an admirer’ or ‘a grateful Englishman’. After three exhausting but triumphant weeks, during which he met many leading figures of the day, Vambery returned to Budapest to work on a book entitled The Coming Struggle for India. Completed in twenty days, it contained very little that he had not said before. But this time both mood and moment were right. With its eye-catching, vivid yellow cover, it was quickly to join Charles Marvin’s latest work among the year’s bestsellers.
Yet most of these books, hastily written following the fall of Merv, were little more than polemics. Aimed at alerting the public to what the authors believed to be the rapidly growing Russian menace, they relied heavily on the arguments and strategic reasoning originally put forward by Kinneir, de Lacy Evans, McNeill and others. Admittedly, since their time the Russians had moved that much closer to India’s frontiers. However, none of the new generation of analysts had any firsthand experience or knowledge of the military realities involved. Only Vambery had ever set foot in these regions, and that many years earlier, and he knew nothing at all of modern strategy or tactics. Colonel Malleson, it was true, had served in the Indian Army, but he had long been retired after years in non-combative employment (including sanitation and finance), ending his career as guardian to the young Maharajah of Mysore.
There was one analyst who really did know what he was talking about, but copies of his book – a veritable encyclopedia of the Great Game – could not be obtained for love or money. Its author, Major-General Sir Charles MacGregor, was uniquely qualified to examine the Russian threat to India in all its aspects. As Quartermaster-General of the Indian Army, he was also head of its newly formed Intelligence Department. Not only was he a veteran of numerous frontier campaigns, but he had also travelled extensively in Afghanistan and northeastern Persia, even visiting Sarakhs. Needless to say, since this was his job, he had access to the latest intelligence, both military and political, to reach India. If there was a definitive work to be written on the Russian peril, then MacGregor, not Marvin or Vambery, was the man to undertake it.
Until MacGregor’s appointment, the collecting of military intelligence had been extremely haphazard, and compared badly with the well-organised and efficient Russian system. The new Intelligence Department – based at Simla, since this was a good deal closer to the areas of Russian activity than Calcutta – consisted at first simply of five officers, two of whom were only part-time, and a number of trusted native clerks and cartographers. It was principally concerned with gathering and evaluating information about Russian troop dispositions and strengths in Central Asia, and their potential threat to India in the event of war. It also arranged the translation into English of relevant Russian books, articles and other matter. Political intelligence continued to be collected by frontier officers, who passed it back to the Political Department, by whom they were employed, and which was, in effect, the Indian government’s Foreign Office. Topographical intelligence, much of which was of military value, was largely the responsibility of the Survey of India, based at Dehra Dun. This organisation, which until very recently had employed native agents or ‘pundits’ for gathering geographical information in sensitive areas, had the task of mapping the entire sub-continent, both within and beyond India’s frontiers, and of keeping these maps up to date. Military, political and topographical intelligence were additionally contributed by enterprising young officers and other travellers, as we have seen, although unofficially. But contrary to the impression given by Rudyard Kipling in Kim, there was no overall intelligence-gathering or co-ordinating body in India at that time. Indeed, there was a good deal of rivalry and jealousy between the three existing departments.
MacGregor’s role as head of military intelligence was one of his responsibilities as Quartermaster-General, but being an ardent forward school man, like most of his fellow generals, he embraced it with particular enthusiasm. While on leave in London in the summer of 1882, he had devoted considerable time to examining the workings of the Intelligence Branch of the War Office, and to combing its files for data useful to his own department. However, back in India he had soon encountered obstruction and resentment from the Political Department, most of whose members at that time favoured a policy of masterly inactivity, as well as from some members of the India Council. MacGregor, who was convinced that the Russians meant trouble, was determined to shake his political and civilian colleagues out of their complacency by demonstrating how easily, as things stood, an attack could be launched against India. It was largely with this in mind that in the summer of 1883 he had set about gathering material for a confidential handbook which was to be called The Defence of India.
It took him the best part of a year to assemble his material. In addition to his own intelligence files on Russian capabilities and dispositions, he was able to draw on the thinking of the most senior officers and best strategic brains in the Indian Army. Many of those whom he consulted were personal friends, including General Roberts, under whom he had served as a column commander during the Second Afghan War. From them he sought an answer to the crucial question of how long it would take a 20,000-strong Russian force to reach Herat, in the event of a race, as against a similar sized British force. Other key points around India’s frontiers from which an invasion could be launched were likewise evaluated. Finally, in June 1884, his report and recommendations – running to more than 100,000 words, with extensive appendices, tables and a large map of Central Asia – were ready for the printer.
MacGregor warned that if the Russians decided to attack India they would probably do so at five different points simultaneously. It was a spectre that no one had raised before. One column would go for Herat, another for Bamian, a third for Kabul, a fourth for Chitral and a fifth for Gilgit. Careful calculations showed that in this way the Russians could position 95,000 regular troops around India’s northern frontiers, and from there, when they were ready, pour into India. As things stood, MacGregor argued, the Indian Army had neither the numbers nor the capacity to resist such an attack. Only determined action now by the British and Indian governments would ‘make Russia see the hopelessness of attacking us’, he declared. He urged that the Indian Army be greatly expanded so that it might be in a position to meet such a threat. He also proposed the immediate occupation of Herat by Britain, so as to pre-empt any Russian move in that direction, together with the reoccupation of Kandahar. Delay, he warned, might be very costly. Were Herat to fall in the meantime to the Russians, then the expansion of India’s armed forces would need to be even greater, while if Kandahar fell too, it would have to be greater still. He also called for increased urgency to be given to the construction of strategic roads and railways to and within the frontier regions, pointing out that the Russians were working flat out to advance their own railway system towards Afghanistan.
Recalling St Petersburg’s record of broken pledges, MacGregor dismissed any hopes of ever coming to terms with the Russians. The only way to restrain them, he argued, was by squaring up to them, preferably in alliance with Germany, Austria and Turkey. In giving this piece of gratuitous advice, in what was supposedly a military assessment, the general was clearly going far beyond his brief and trespassing in domains regarded by statesmen and diplomatists as theirs and strictly out of bounds to soldiers. But MacGregor was not content to leave it there, for he ended his report with words so provocative that even his fellow hawks must have reread them to make sure they had understood him correctly. ‘I solemnly assert my belief, he wrote, ‘that there can never be a real settlement of the Anglo-Russian question till Russia is driven out of the Caucasus and Turkistan.’ (The italics are MacGregor’s.)
The report, which bore the word CONFIDENTIAL in red type on its title page, was officially intended for the eyes of India Council members and senior government and military men only. However, on the author’s instructions some copies were sent to carefully selected politicians and editors in London. For he was convinced that the Great Game had first to be won at Westminster if there was to be any hope of winning it in Asia, and he was determined to jolt the home government into vigorous if belated action. Aware, though, that much of the material in the report would be of considerable value to Russian planners, he impressed upon the recipients the need for secrecy. At the same time he urged them to use their influence to get the government to act while there was still time. Then he sat back to await the results. They were not long in coming.
Gladstone’s Cabinet, already hard-pressed in the Sudan, and genuinely worried about Herat, saw MacGregor’s move as a flagrant attempt to undermine their authority. Frantic telegrams began to pass between Whitehall and Calcutta demanding an explanation. The Government of India presses at Simla, which were still running off copies of the report, were hurriedly stopped on the orders of the Viceroy. Where possible, copies were called in. MacGregor was officially reprimanded, although most senior officers in India agreed with his conclusions, if not necessarily with his methods. For it was widely known that their opposite numbers in the Imperial Russian Army were now openly boasting of their coming conquest of India, despite what St Petersburg might be saying. Indeed, hardly had the presses been stopped than the Russians made their next move. It was to bring Britain and Russia to the brink of war – and a glow of grim satisfaction, no doubt, to MacGregor, Marvin, Vambery and others who had long been forecasting it.
The flashpoint was the remote and little-known oasis of Pandjeh, lying half-way between Merv and Herat, and destined shortly to become a household word. The British had always regarded it as belonging to Afghanistan, as did the Afghans. But for some time, following their annexation of Merv, the Russians had had their eye on it. During the correspondence leading to the appointment of the Anglo-Russian boundary commission, St Petersburg had challenged Afghanistan’s claim to it, insisting that the oasis belonged to Russia by virtue of its possession of Merv. London had strongly resisted this, since Pandjeh lay astride the strategic approach to Herat, which clearly explained St Petersburg’s keen interest in it, not to mention the furtive Russian troop movements which General Lumsden, the chief British commissioner, had detected in the vicinity on his arrival there. It soon became obvious to him, as he sat out the winter of 1884–5 at nearby Sarakhs, that the Russians had no intention of sending a representative to join him until they had wrested Pandjeh from the Afghans. This they were unlikely to attempt until the spring, when the snows melted, and more troops could be brought up to ensure success. All this Lumsden reported to his chiefs in London, where Gladstone and his Cabinet colleagues were becoming increasingly disturbed.
The Russians, aware that there were considerable risks in what they were doing, were obliged to proceed cautiously. For it was known in St Petersburg that Britain had pledged herself– albeit in somewhat vague terms – to help Abdur Rahman if ever he were attacked by his northern neighbour. What the Russians could not be sure of was just how far the British would be prepared to go to honour their pledge. Would they risk a full-scale conflict over a distant oasis which they did not even own, and which few people in Britain had ever heard of? With Gladstone in power, and the Sudan in flames, it seemed unlikely. And even if they did decide to intervene it would take their troops weeks, if not months, to reach the spot. Nonetheless, the Russians advanced stealthily, playing their old game of Grandmother’s Footsteps – carefully observing British reactions to each move forward, while maintaining their long-running correspondence with London over the Afghan Boundary Commission as though nothing untoward was going on.
By now, however, the British knew exactly what was going on. In India two army corps, one under the command of General Roberts, were being mobilised in readiness to march across Afghanistan to defend Herat if it became necessary. At the same time three engineer officers attached to General Lumsden’s party were sent to Herat to examine its fortifications and decide how best the city could be defended, while others of his staff set to work to map the route a Russian army would take to reach it. General MacGregor wrote to Roberts observing that at last there were hopeful signs that ‘our miserable government’ was beginning to heed their repeated warnings. Meanwhile the Afghans, partly as a result of British prompting, had dispatched troops to Pandjeh and strengthened its defences. When the Russian commander, General Komarov, learned of this he was furious. Declaring that the oasis was Russian, he ordered them to leave at once. The Afghan commander refused. Komarov now turned to Lumsden, demanding that he instruct the Afghan troops to leave. This Lumsden declined to do.
Determined not to let Pandjeh slip from his grasp, Komarov now switched tactics. On March 13, pressed by Britain, St Petersburg had given a solemn assurance that their forces would not attack Pandjeh, provided the Afghans refrained from hostilities. Three days later Nikolai Giers, the Foreign Minister, repeated this, adding that the undertaking was given with the Tsar’s full approval. Earlier, Queen Victoria herself had telegraphed to Alexander, appealing to him to prevent the ‘calamity’ of a war. There was only one way now in which Komarov could justify the seizure of Pandjeh. The Afghans had to be seen as the aggressors. It was here that the wily Alikhanov, now governor of Merv, came in. Already, according to rumours reaching Lumsden’s camp, he had secretly visited Pandjeh, disguised as a Turcoman, and studied its defences. He was now entrusted by Komarov with the task of goading the defenders into firing the first shot. Aware that the Afghans were both proud and quick-tempered, Alikhanov wrote a personal letter to their commander couched in highly offensive and insulting terms. It accused him, among many other things, of cowardice, a charge guaranteed to enrage an Afghan, to whom fighting was almost a way of life. But Lumsden, warning him of the Russian’s game, urged him not to react, explaining that the British were in no position to help him if he did. The Afghans, despite intense provocation, managed to control their tempers – and trigger fingers.
All this time, despite St Petersburg’s repeated pledges, Komarov’s troops had been gradually closing in on Pandjeh. By March 25 they were in positions less than a mile from those of the defenders. Having failed to provoke the Afghans into firing at them, Komarov now presented their commander with an ultimatum. If, in five days, he had not withdrawn every one of his men, then the Russians would drive them from what, the general claimed, rightfully belonged to the Tsar. Until then Lumsden had been closely monitoring developments and reporting these back to London. But having done everything he could to prevent a clash, he now decided to withdraw his camp to a position some distance away to avoid being caught up in the fighting. As a result we have only the Russian account of what followed.
On March 31, when General Komarov’s ultimatum expired, and the Afghans showed no sign of giving way, he ordered his troops to advance, but not to fire unless first fired upon. In the event, if Alikhanov is to be believed, the Afghans opened fire first, wounding the horse of one of his Cossacks. It was just what he was waiting for. ‘Blood has been shed,’ he declared, and gave orders for his troops to open fire on the Afghan cavalry, who were massed within easy range. Thrown into confusion by the murderous hail, they broke and fled. But the Afghan infantry fought with great bravery, Alikhanov recounted later, two entire companies dying to a man as the Russians gradually overran their positions. Finally they too fled, leaving behind them more than 800 dead, many of them drowned while trying to escape across a flooded river. Komarov’s casualties amounted to only 40 dead and wounded.
The news that the Russians had seized Pandjeh reached London a week later. It was received with a mixture of fury and dismay, and even the government admitted that a situation of ‘the utmost gravity’ had arisen. Most people, including foreign diplomats in London, assumed that war between the two great powers was now inevitable. Gladstone, who had been made a fool of by Giers, not to mention by the Tsar himself, denounced the slaughter of the Afghans as an act of unprovoked aggression, and accused the Russians of occupying territory which unquestionably belonged to Afghanistan. He told the House of Commons that the situation was grave, though not hopeless. As something approaching panic swept the Stock Exchange, he obtained an £11 million vote of credit from excited MPs of both parties, the largest such sum since the Crimean War. Official announcements of the outbreak of hostilities were prepared in readiness by the Foreign Office. The Royal Navy was placed on full alert, with instructions to monitor the movements of all Russian warships. In the Far East the fleet was ordered to occupy Port Hamilton in Korea, so that it might be used as a base for operations against the great Russian naval stronghold at Vladivostok and other targets in the North Pacific. At the same time, the possibility of striking at the Russians in the Caucasus, preferably with Turkish help, was being considered.
So that the Tsar and his ministers could have no doubt whatever about the government’s firmness of intent, the British ambassador in St Petersburg was instructed to warn Giers that any further advances towards Herat would definitely mean war. In case this failed to stop the Russians, the Viceroy prepared to move 25,000 troops to Quetta, where they would be held poised, awaiting Emir Abdur Rahman’s approval, ready to race to Herat. In Teheran meanwhile, the Shah of Persia, profoundly alarmed himself by these aggressive Russian moves so close to his own frontier with Afghanistan, was urging Britain to seize Herat before St Petersburg did, while declaring that he intended to remain strictly neutral in the event of a war between his two powerful neighbours.
By now the tremors from the crisis were being felt throughout the rest of the world. In America, where the news had rocked Wall Street, all talk was of the coming struggle between the two imperial giants. Beneath the banner headline ENGLAND AND RUSSIA TO FIGHT, the normally sober New York Times began its story with the words: ‘It is war.’ And so it might well have been, had not one man kept his head when all about him were beginning to lose theirs.