Companions of Paradise (23 page)

November 20, 1841

A
fter Munshi Sahib's collapse, Nur Rahman had bundled him into several padded rezais, sat him on the borrowed donkey, and taken him away to Haji Khan's house in the city.

For three days, he had not returned. Each morning Mariana sent for Yar Mohammad and asked him for news, but he had only shaken his head, his eyes hollow with worry.

But her old teacher's illness was not the greatest difficulty Mariana had to face.

“We are not to be relieved,” her uncle announced as they perched on two of the sitting room's three chairs after breakfast. “General Sale is not returning from Jalalabad.”

“He is not coming? But why?” Mariana stared at her uncle.

“Macnaghten has asked him to return eleven separate times,” he said heavily, “but as Envoy he has no military authority. No one can get poor old Elphinstone to make any decision at all. Sale has therefore decided for himself.” He ran a hand over his bald head. “Sale is right. It seems that immediately after he fought his way through the Khurd-Kabul and Jagdalak defiles, the same tribesmen reappeared and closed them again, more tightly than before. It is a miracle that any messages have gotten through.”

His nose was scarlet from the cold, although he sat close to the fire. “Of course you and I remember those deep passes well,” he went on. “As Sale went through, the Ghilzai defenders ranged themselves high up on the corridor walls and poured fire down upon the column. It was only with great difficulty that Sale was able to crown the heights and dislodge them.”

“They never told us that part of it. They said the passes were clear, and—”

“Ah, Mariana.” Her uncle sighed. “It was sheer folly on all our parts to imagine the tribesmen would not return in even greater numbers. After all, that is their way.”

Mariana shivered, remembering the steep, claustrophobic defile at Jagdalak. “But Sale's sappers must have blasted open the worst of the bottlenecks,” she offered.

“I am sure they did, my dear, but that would not have helped much.”

“Does he not worry about Lady Sale and his daughter?”

“He is a military man, my dear.” Her uncle shook his head. “He must do what is right for the army, whatever the consequences. I am sure he is very worried about his family.”

“Then what of General Nott at Kandahar? Will he get through to us with reinforcements?”

“He has said he will try. All we can do now is wait.

“That one-armed fool, Brigadier Shelton, thinks Sale is too frightened to return,” he said, sighing again. “He has already said so, publicly, to Lady Sale.

“I wish he were still in a tent at Sia Sang,” he added, “or anywhere but here. Since his return from the Bala Hisar, he has taken to rolling himself into a quilt during councils of war, and pretending to fall asleep.”

Mariana shook her head.

“If Shelton is as good in the field as he thinks he is,” her uncle went on, as he took a large thermometer from its leather case, “he should prove it now. It is forty degrees in this room,” he said, studying the instrument, “but only because we have such a large fire. This morning it was just above freezing.”

Outside the sitting room's single window, the sky was a heavy gray. Shriveled, brown stubble covered the ground. Mariana hugged herself inside her many shawls.

“Perhaps,” she suggested, as her uncle put the thermometer away, “it would be better if we did not know how cold it is.”

He hoisted himself to his feet and reached for his greatcoat. “I must go and see Sir William now,” he said. “Would you mind looking in on your aunt while I am gone?”

Aunt Claire had been ill with fever since the weather turned cold. Wrapped to her eyes in shawls, a newly purchased
poshteen
spread over her lap, she did not smile when Mariana appeared in her doorway.

“I would give anything for a nice, hot cup of soup,” she said faintly.

Mariana smiled as encouragingly as she could.

“I wish Lieutenant Fitzgerald would come,” her aunt added, as Mariana patted her arm. “I always feel better when he is here.”

A little later, Mariana stood in the open doorway of their quarters, looking pensively out over the parade ground, her icy hands tucked beneath her arms. Fitzgerald had not come to see them for three days, which meant he was even busier than usual with the cantonment's defenses. The last time he came, he had barely been able to keep his eyes open.

She had been unsurprised by his exhaustion. To defend a poorly built perimeter more than a mile long with insufficient men and guns would have been difficult anywhere. Here, with every foot of the cantonment wall exposed to attack, the job was too great for any one man.

Perhaps she would feel less cold in his burly, comforting presence, but whatever she might wish, his poor exhausted men needed him more than she did.

She had seen them standing guard on the ramparts during the bitter evenings, Englishmen and Indians, many with no more covering than the same woolen uniforms they had worn throughout the summer. At night, their painful coughing echoed over the parade ground.

Like Munshi Sahib, many of them now had pneumonia, but her teacher at least had a sheepskin cloak and a heavy quilt, and boiled quinces and Nur Rahman.

The others had barely any water, and not enough to eat

She turned and stared past the parade ground and over the cantonment wall, toward a pair of low hills northwest of the cantonment. At least there was the food from Bibi Mahro.

Every third day, a file of camels entered the cantonment gate, laden with wheat from the flat-roofed village built into the side of one of those hills. The farmers of Bibi Mahro could not supply all the cantonment's needs, but they brought enough to provide the soldiers with half their daily bread ration.

It was all the cantonment could count upon.

Fodder was scarcer than wheat, and the animals were beginning to starve. Each day the bony carcasses of half a dozen camels and horses were dragged outside to be abandoned in the sun near the gates. Each night the pile of carcasses froze. Each day it thawed enough to rot a little more. Each day the air grew thicker with the sweet, nauseating smell of putrefying flesh.

At least Mariana's own food had improved. Thanks to Nur Rahman, she and her family had breakfasted that morning on bread from a Kabuli baker, warmed by Dittoo over a cooking fire. There had also been butter, although the cook had complained that it had been half butter and half goat hair when it arrived from the city.

Tea, chickens, sugar, even grapes and cabbages, appeared daily in the panniers of Nur Rahman's borrowed donkey, to be shared with the Macnaghtens and Lady Sale. When there was extra, Mariana shared it among the seven other ladies and their pallid children, but there was little she could do for the runny-nosed native children who swarmed barefoot outside the officers’ quarters, begging for food, reminding her of herself, crouched in terrible need outside the gate of Qamar Haveli.

“Forgive me,” she said, when they held out their little hands, “I am so sorry, so sorry.”

Needing something else to think about, she set off to discover how Lady Macnaghten was bearing the current difficulties. Adding one more shawl to the three she already wore, she made her way across the frozen lawn to Lady Sale's house.

“Oh, it is you,” someone said moistly, when Mariana arrived in the drawing room.

The speaker sat huddled beside the fire. From the sound of her voice, Lady Macnaghten had been weeping. Lady Sale was nowhere to be seen.

“It is foolish, really.” Lady Macnaghten raised her head and regarded Mariana with tear-filled eyes. “It is just that Vijaya is ill, and I have no idea how to pin up my hair. My lips are so chapped from the cold that I can hardly move them. I envy your youth,” she added mournfully. “A fresh-faced girl like you needs no assistance. I have criticized your appearance in the past, but it was only for your own good. You are a lovely girl, really.”

Lovely?
Before Mariana could collect herself to reply, Lady Macnaghten plunged on. “So many horrible things are happening all around us. In the past three days Captain MacCrea, Colonel Mackrell, and Captain Westmacott have all been cut to pieces by the Afghans. So many others have been wounded—their poor hands and feet, their arms and legs cut off with those terrible Afghan swords and knives. I saw Mr. Haughton yesterday, such a handsome man, with no right hand.

“It breaks my heart to see how our brave officers are suffering,” she wailed. “Each day they fall, trying to protect us. I want to do something useful, but I cannot even pin up my own hair.”

She tore off her pretty lace cap, freeing two black braids to drop down her back. “Look at me!” she cried. “I cannot even leave this house.”

Something useful.
Mariana stood silently in the drawing room doorway. Beyond rolling a few bandages, she herself had done nothing.

It had been up to vain, selfish Lady Macnaghten to point out this shameful fact.

But for all Mariana's remorse, she had no more idea what to do than the beautiful woman who sat before her, painful tears coursing down her cheeks.

“MOVE THE entire force to the Bala Hisar?” That same afternoon, General Elphinstone blew out a breath through puckered lips as he sat, hunched over the dining table in his house. “I cannot see that as a solution.”

“Sir, such a move will offer us great advantages.” General Sale's son-in-law leaned forward, the stab wounds to his face still raw and disfiguring. “Our troops will be free to attack the city and nearby forts, instead of constantly standing guard on our ramparts in this freezing weather. Food will be easy to procure from the city, and the insurgents will be unable to drive us out, for the fortress itself commands the entire surrounding area.”

“Hear, hear,” put in Harry Fitzgerald and half a dozen young officers.

“Hah!” Brigadier Shelton barked from where he lay on the carpet.

“Have either of you considered the difficulty of removing our sick and wounded to the Bala Hisar?”

He threw back his rezai and raised himself onto his one elbow. “Have you thought for a moment of the livestock we should have to leave behind us, or the disastrous fighting we should face on our way?”

“Yes, yes,” General Elphinstone put in eagerly, his elderly face flushing at this unexpected agreement by his hated second-in-command.
“Have
you?”

Sturt's ruined face hardened. “It is no more than two miles to the Bala Hisar,” he replied evenly. “We can cover our march by placing guns on the Sia Sang hills to sweep the plain. The sick and wounded will travel on camels or in covered litters.”

“As for our livestock,” Fitzgerald put in, “since there is no forage to be had, they will have to be shot in any case. The horse artillery will suffer and the cavalry will lose their mounts, but neither of them will be needed once we are at the Bala Hisar.”

“Quite right,” chorused several other voices.

The general coughed heavily as he lifted a bandaged leg to an empty chair. “But what of the sacrifice of valuable government property? What of the houses? And what of the enemy's triumph, seeing us march from our own cantonment?”

“There will be no triumph, sir,” put in a young man with wildly curling hair. “With our horses shot and our guns spiked, there will be nothing remaining of value to them. Of course, with all the camp followers and baggage, there are bound to be deaths, but the long-run military advantage is too great to dismiss.”

The old general shook his head, his jowls wobbling. “I do not know.”

“We shall do nothing of the kind,” Shelton snapped from his pillows. “We shall stay exactly where we are.”

As they left General Elphinstone's house together, Fitzgerald turned to Sturt. “All this reminds me of the fate of the Athenians at Syracuse,” he murmured.

“Like them,” he went on, when Sturt grunted his agreement, “we embarked on a military folly, believing we had every advantage over our enemies. Now we, too, are far from home, cut off, and fighting for our lives.”

“The Athenians, at least, had great generals,” Sturt said bitterly.

“But even so, they died to a man. Let us pray we do not suffer their fate.” He frowned. “Have you any idea what is wrong with our senior officers? Can
you
fathom their inability to act?”

Sturt shrugged. “They are cowards,” he replied. “That is all there is to it.”

“I CANNOT bear,” Aunt Claire announced from her bed two days later, “to hear of any more battles lost to the Afghans.”

As her aunt sighed over her tea tray, Mariana sat beside her in thoughtful silence. Harry Fitzgerald had sent a note saying he would call before dinner. What fresh bad news, she wondered, would he have to tell them?

At six o'clock, Dittoo knocked on Mariana's door. “The big British officer is here,” he said breathlessly. “He is asking only for you, Bibi. There is new wood on the fire.”

Without bothering to splash water onto her face, Mariana rushed to the sitting room, where she found Fitzgerald striding up and down among the furniture, unshaven, his forage cap in a callused hand, looking as if he had come directly from his troops.