The Great Game: On Secret Service in High Asia (41 page)

But just as the murder of Sir Alexander Burnes had brought no retribution, so a similar paralysis seemed to grip the garrison now. Had the British, who were still a well-armed and potentially formidable force, been led with boldness and determination, they could even at this late stage have routed the Afghans and turned the tables on Akbar. However, the elderly Elphinstone, dragged down by gout and looking forward to a quiet retirement, had long before sunk into a torpor of indecision and despair, if not downright funk. This, in turn, had spread to his senior officers. ‘That indecision, procrastination and want of method which paralysed all our efforts’, wrote one subaltern, ‘gradually demoralised the troops and, ultimately, not being redeemed by the qualities of his second in command, proved the ruin of us all.’ Without the will to act decisively, and with just a few days’ supplies left, the British could now hope to avert disaster only by renewed negotiation with the enemy.

On Christmas Eve Akbar, who had clearly recovered from his momentary fears over British vengeance, sent fresh emissaries to the cantonments. They again offered the garrison safe passage, but this time at a considerably higher price. With Macnaghten and Burnes dead, and most of the other politicals in Akbar’s hands or otherwise out of action, Eldred Pottinger was given the thankless task of negotiating from a position of extreme weakness. Pottinger, who had so successfully organised the defence of Herat five years before, had all along urged Macnaghten and Elphinstone to move into the Bala Hissar while there was still time, fighting their way there if necessary, rather than attempting to defend the cantonments. But Elphinstone had always managed to find reasons for not doing this, and now they had missed their chance, for the Afghans, realising the danger, had destroyed the only bridge across the Kabul river.

Even now, although suffering from a severe wound himself, Pottinger tried to persuade his chiefs to launch an all-out onslaught against Akbar and his allies, who were still far from united. It was a strategy which enjoyed the support of all the younger officers, not to mention the troops, who were in a coldblooded fury over the murder of Macnaghten. Pottinger argued strongly against having any dealings with Akbar, warning that he was totally untrustworthy, and that his treacherous murder of Macnaghten had invalidated any undertakings given to him by the British. Elphinstone overruled him, however, for he and the other senior officers wanted to get home as soon as possible, and with what they judged to be the least possible risk. With Macnaghten and Burnes gone, no one had the authority to challenge Elphinstone and his staff, least of all Pottinger, who was employed strictly as a political officer, and not in any military capacity. ‘I was hauled out of my sick room’, he wrote afterwards, ‘and obliged to negotiate for the safety of a parcel of fools who were doing all they could to ensure their destruction.’ With his superiors simply hoping for the best, and trusting that Akbar would prove merciful, it therefore became Pottinger’s painful and distasteful task to appease him and to negotiate what was, in effect, the garrison’s surrender.

In addition to demanding that the British stand by Macnaghten’s original offer to leave Afghanistan forthwith, Akbar further insisted that they surrender the bulk of their artillery to him, as well as what was left of their gold, and that the hostages he already held be replaced by married officers, together with their wives and children. Elphinstone, ever ready to take the line of least resistance, at once asked for volunteers to serve as hostages, but not surprisingly got little response. One officer swore that he would rather shoot his wife than agree to surrender her to the mercies of the Afghans, while another declared that he would have to be taken at the point of a bayonet to the enemy. Only one officer volunteered, declaring that if it were for the common good he and his wife would remain behind.

The weather was now rapidly deteriorating, and they had little time to waste if they were to stand a chance of getting through the passes to Jalalabad before they were blocked for the winter. Pottinger was given no choice but to submit to most of Akbar’s harsh demands. On January 1, 1842, as heavy snow fell on Kabul, an agreement was signed with Akbar under which he guaranteed the safety of the departing British, and promised to provide them with an armed escort to protect them from the hostile tribes through whose territories they must pass. In return, the British agreed to surrender all but six of their artillery pieces and three smaller mule-borne guns. For their part, the Afghans dropped their demand for married officers with families to stay behind, and Captain Mackenzie and his companion were freed. The first they had known of Macnaghten’s fate was when his severed hand, attached to a stick, was thrust up in front of the window of their cell by a mob yelling for their blood outside. Instead of them, as a guarantee of good faith, Akbar insisted that three other young officers stay behind as their ‘guests’. The British were in no position to argue.

As preparations for the garrison’s exodus quickly got under way, an alarming rumour began to circulate in the cantonments. ‘We are informed’, noted one senior officer’s wife in her journal, ‘that the chiefs do not intend to keep faith.’ After seizing the women, it was whispered, they proposed to slaughter all the men except one. He was to be taken to the entrance to the Khyber Pass, where he would be left, after his arms and legs had been hacked off, with a note pinned to him warning the British never again to try to enter Afghanistan. The British wives would then be used as hostages for the safe return of Dost Mohammed. Added to this were the warnings of Afghans who still had British friends that by agreeing to Akbar’s terms they were signing their own death warrants. But in the desperate haste to get away, no one was prepared to listen to them. Also ignored was Mohan Lai’s warning that they were all doomed unless the sons of the Afghan leaders accompanied them as hostages.

At first light on January 6, to the sound of bugles and drums, and leaving Shah Shujah and his followers to fend for themselves inside the Bala Hissar, the once proud Army of the Indus marched ingloriously out of the cantonments. Its destination was Jalalabad, the nearest British garrison, which lay more than eighty miles across the snow-covered mountains to the east. From there it would leave Afghanistan and enter India by the Khyber Pass. Leading the march was an advance guard of 600 red-coated troops of the 44th Regiment of Foot and 100 cavalry. Next came the British wives and children on ponies, and sick or pregnant women in palanquins borne by Indian servants. Then followed the main body of infantry, cavalry and artillery. Last of all came the rearguard, also consisting of infantry, cavalry and artillery. Between the main body and the rearguard wound a long column of camels and bullocks carrying ammunition and food. Left to struggle along as best they could, without any proper provision having been made for them, were several thousand camp-followers who attached themselves to the column wherever they could.

At the last moment a worrying discovery was made. Akbar’s promised escort, which was supposed to be waiting for them ahead, was nowhere to be seen. Nor were the supplies of food and fuel which they were expecting. Pottinger at once suggested to Elphinstone that even at this late stage they could still change their plans and make straight for the protection of the Bala Hissar. But the general would not hear of it, ruling that there could be no turning back now. A messenger had been sent ahead to alert the British garrison at Jalalabad that they were on their way. So it was, on that icily cold winter’s morning, that the long column of British and Indian troops, wives, children, nannies, grooms, cooks, servants and assorted hangers-on – 16,000 in all – set out through the snow towards the first of the passes.

A week later, shortly after noon, a look-out on the walls of the British fort at Jalalabad spotted a lone horseman in the far distance making his way slowly towards them across the plain. News of the capitulation of the Kabul garrison had already reached Jalalabad, causing intense dismay, and for two days, with increasing anxiety, they had been expecting the advance guard. For it was a march which normally took only five days. At once the look-out raised the alarm, and there was a rush for the ramparts. A dozen telescopes were trained on the approaching rider. A moment later someone cried out that he was a European. He appeared to be either ill or wounded, for he leaned weakly forward, clinging to his horse’s neck. A chill ran through the watchers as it dawned on them that something was badly amiss. ‘That solitary horseman’, wrote Kaye, ‘looked like the messenger of death.’ Immediately an armed patrol was sent out to escort the stranger in, for numbers of hostile Afghans were known to be roaming the plain.

The horseman, whose head and hand were severely gashed, told them that he was Dr William Brydon, a physician who had been in Shah Shujah’s service, but who had left Kabul with the British garrison. The tale he had to relate was indeed a dreadful one. As Mohan Lai and the few Afghans friendly to the British had warned, Akbar proved treacherous from the very outset. No sooner had the rearguard left the cantonments than the Afghans swarmed on to the walls and opened fire on the British with their deadly
jezails,
killing a subaltern and wounding a number of soldiers. From then onwards the harassment never ceased. The Afghan horsemen rode in among the troops, slaughtering and plundering, and driving off the baggage animals. Nor were the unarmed and helpless camp-followers spared. Soon the snow was crimson with blood, while the trail was lined with the dead and dying. Despite this the column pressed on, fighting off the Afghans as best they could. But weighed down by unnecessary baggage, and hindered by the presence of the terror-stricken camp-followers, the British only managed to cover five miles on the first day after leaving Kabul, with stragglers coming in until late at night.

The senior officers and some European wives and children slept in the one tent which had survived the pillage. The rest, Dr Brydon among them, spent the night out in the snow. Some built fires, though having no fuel they burned portions of their own clothing. Brydon wrapped himself in his sheepskin coat and managed to sleep, firmly clutching the bridle of his pony. In the morning it was discovered that many of the Indian troops and camp-followers, who came from the sultry plains and were without warm clothing, had frozen to death. Others, on waking, found to their horror that their feet were badly frost-bitten, looking, in Brydon’s words, ‘like charred logs of wood’. They had to be left behind in the snow to die. Yet Pottinger had urged Elphinstone to try to obtain horse-blankets for the troops to make into puttees, as the Afghans did at the first fall of snow each year. Like every other suggestion he had made, however, this too had been rejected – the tragic and costly result of the rivalry which existed between the military and the political officers.

And so the retreat continued, a struggling mass of soldiers and civilians, British and Indians, infantry and cavalry, baggage animals and guns. There was only one idea in everyone’s minds – to escape the terrible cold and get down to the warmth and safety of the plains beyond the Khyber. Throughout the day sniping continued, taking a steady toll of lives. Small skirmishes also took place, and the Afghans managed to seize a pair of mule-guns and force the British to spike and abandon two other precious guns. All they had left now were one mule-gun and two heavier pieces. Yet the real fighting had scarcely begun.

Around midday on the second day, Akbar himself put in an unexpected appearance, claiming to have come to escort them safely through the passes to Jalalabad. He blamed the British for their heavy loss of life, claiming that they had left the cantonments before his escort was ready (although the time had, in fact, been agreed upon by both sides). In return for escorting them, however, he now demanded further hostages, including Pottinger and two other political officers. He also ordered Elphinstone to proceed no further that day, saying that he must first make arrangements with the chiefs of the tribe guarding the pass ahead, the Khoord-Cabool, to let them through. Once again, incredibly, Elphinstone believed him, and agreed to camp there after covering only ten miles in two extremely costly days. He also accepted Akbar’s demand for the three hostages, and they duly left to join the Afghan camp. Although it can hardly have seemed so at the time, for them it was to prove a most providential move.

The next day, January 8, the straggling column entered the narrow, winding, four-mile-long pass. There was still no sign of Akbar’s promised escort, but there could be no further delay, for frost-bite and hunger were beginning to take an alarming toll. Akbar had also promised them provisions, but there was no sign of these either. Nor was there any evidence of his having arranged a safe passage for them with those who guarded the pass. Indeed, it soon became evident to all but Elphinstone that he had persuaded them to halt so as to give the tribesmen time to position themselves with their
jezails
in the towering crags overlooking the pass.