The Dark Night in Peshawar: Origins of a Colonial Fantasy

On a stifling June evening in the 1880s, two Englishmen strode into a newspaper office in northern India. “The less said about our identities the better,” declared Daniel Dravot and Peachey Carnehan. Their singular obsession? Reaching the mythical land of Kafiristan.

Dravot, the self-appointed strategist of the pair, mapped their ambition: “That territory sits at Afghanistan’s top-right corner, no more than 300 miles from Peshawar. They’ve got thirty-two heathen idols there—we’ll be the thirty-third and thirty-fourth… Nobody’s been there. They’re always fighting wars, and in war-torn lands, whoever can train men to fight becomes king.”

This scene, immortalized in Rudyard Kipling’s 1888 short story The Man Who Would Be King, captured the imperial imagination. Yet Kipling’s fiction mirrored startling realities of the 19th century—an era when audacious individuals could carve out kingdoms with rifles and sheer audacity.

From Fiction to Frontier Reality: The White Rajahs and American Princes

Kipling’s protagonists were fictional, but their archetype existed. Consider James Brooke, who at sixteen joined the East India Company’s forces, survived wounds in Burma, then purchased a ship armed with cannons. By 1838, he’d suppressed a rebellion for the Sultan of Brunei, who gratefully appointed him Rajah of Sarawak. Brooke’s dynasty ruled until 1946, when his descendants handed the territory to Britain for a handsome compensation. Today, Sarawak’s finest hotel still bears the name of Brooke’s vessel—The Royalist.

Across the Atlantic, another adventurer sought similar glory. Josiah Harlan, a heartbroken American surgeon who’d fought alongside Brooke in the Anglo-Burmese War, convinced Punjabi princes to grant him governorship of two states. Marching into Afghanistan in 1838, he deposed the slave-trading Prince of Ghor and briefly raised the Stars and Stripes over Central Asia’s mountains. Though British intervention cut short his reign, Harlan’s escapades proved the 19th century’s most improbable truth: with enough daring, a man could become king.

The Military Revolution That Shaped Empires

What made such adventures possible? A 500-year military revolution beginning with Portugal’s 1415 capture of Ceuta. Two transformative inventions—firearms and oceangoing ships—fueled this revolution, though neither originated in Europe.

Chinese alchemists experimenting with gunpowder in the 9th century couldn’t have imagined its world-altering potential. By 1288, bronze “fire lances” appeared on Chinese battlefields, and within decades, rebels against Mongol rule deployed hundreds of cast-iron cannons. Yet China’s focus shifted northward against steppe nomads, where slow-firing guns proved useless against cavalry. Europe, however, crammed with castles and infantry, became the perfect laboratory for firearm evolution.

The consequences were global. By 1615, European armies could outgun any force on Earth. Ottoman commanders lamented facing Christian troops “mostly infantry with arquebuses,” while their own cavalry lacked firearms expertise. This firepower gap birthed empires—and adventurers like Dravot and Carnehan.

Cultural Impacts: The Burden and Boast of Empire

Kipling’s tale satisfied Victorian cravings for imperial heroics, but its enduring appeal lies in its uncomfortable truths. When Dravot and Carnehan impose order on Kafiristan—surveying land, appointing priests under threat of execution, drilling riflemen—they parody Britain’s civilizing mission.

The story’s legacy reflects empire’s dual nature. In India, British rule suppressed thuggee cults and banned sati (widow burning), yet also enabled horrors like the 1770 Bengal Famine that killed 10 million. As historian Kenneth Chase notes, Europe’s military edge stemmed not from cultural superiority but geography: “Guns made sense in Europe’s castle-dotted landscape. On the steppes, they didn’t.”

Modern Echoes: Adventure Capitalism and Fragile States

Today’s equivalents might be mercenary firms or resource-extraction adventurers in fragile states. The 19th century’s lesson endures: where central authority collapses, ambitious outsiders with technical advantages—whether Martini-Henry rifles or blockchain contracts—can reshape societies.

From Silicon Valley “disruptors” to Wagner Group operatives, the archetype persists. As one modern adventurer in Africa told me: “It’s not about flags anymore. It’s about who controls the lithium.” The men who would be kings have traded pith helmets for polo shirts, but their playbook remains startlingly familiar.

In our era of eroding norms, Kipling’s dark comedy still asks: When order shatters, what kind of order replaces it—and at what cost? The answer, then as now, depends on who arrives first with the most guns.