Companions of Paradise

by Thalassa Ali

  Everything about him and his house reminded her of Hassan.

  She fingered the gold medallion under her bodice. He must have had his reasons for sending it to her, but whatever they were, they had not prevented him from abandoning her in a time of desperate need.

  She should never have wasted her time hoping, or writing those letters

  She frowned at the passing crowd. It was true that armed men filled the road to the cantonment, but how enticingly Kabul beckoned from beyond the river, its smoke rising lazily on the breeze, its markets full of root vegetables, pomegranates, and carefully preserved grapes

  A body of Pashtun horsemen clattered toward them. Their leader, an elderly gray-bearded man with a wolflike face, sat loosely on a bay stallion, one hand holding his horse's reins, the other resting on his knee.

  He might have felt Mariana's gaze, for he turned in his saddle and glanced thoughtfully at her, his eyes resting on her riding boots. A moment later, he spoke softly to his horse and trotted on.

  “Hurry, Khanum,” Nur Rahman urged.

  Perhaps, she thought as she quickened her steps, something would come of Sir William's latest negotiations with Akbar Khan. From her uncle's vague references the previous evening, it seemed that a new offer had come from that quarter. With luck, all would be settled by the evening, and within a week or two they would be on their way back to India.

  AS MARIANA was making her way toward the city, her uncle stood in Lady Sale's dining room, watching Sir William Macnaghten gather up his papers.

  “I am concerned about this meeting of yours, sir,” he said carefully. “I am suspicious of Akbar Khan's sudden change of heart.”

  Macnaghten looked as if he had not slept for a week. “You may be right, Lamb,” he said wearily, “but in these past ten days I have come to my wits’ end.”

  “I cannot fathom,” pressed Adrian Lamb, “why, after flatly refusing to give us either amnesty or provisions for our departure, he has suddenly offered us so many concessions. And, if I may be direct, sir, you have intrigued against him in the past few days. Is it possible, sir, that—”

  Macnaghten gestured impatiently. “My dear Lamb, what else should I do in this situation? The only way to gain advantage now is to sow dissension between the tribes. Besides, I have done no more than offer cash payments to the Durranis and Ghilzais in exchange for abandonment of Akbar's cause.”

  “But we have no hand to play, sir.” Adrian Lamb's voice rose. “Why has Akbar offered to supply us with food until next spring? Why has he promised to rule Afghanistan together with Shah Shuja, his enemy? Even more puzzling, why has he offered to kill Aminullah Khan, his ally and friend, the man who arranged for Burnes's murder? I fear that Akbar may not think it beneath his honor to trick you. After all, these people have very different ideas of—”

  Macnaghten raised a silencing hand. “Perhaps the chiefs I approached have taken the bait, and joined us. Perhaps that is why he has proposed such favorable terms.” He smiled. “Although I found it quite disgusting, I was pleased to be offered Aminullah Khan's head on a platter. I refused, of course, but I must say it would have given me great pleasure to see that palsied old ruffian dead.” He sighed. “I suppose arresting him will have to be sufficient for now.”

  Adrian put out a pleading hand “Akbar Khan's offer amounts to a betrayal of the Afghan people, sir. They clearly do not want Shah Shuja to remain on the throne. I cannot believe they will accept Akbar as a paid employee of our government. And why should they tolerate our presence here for the rest of the winter?”

  “He has made us an offer,” Macnaghten said patiently, “and now I must investigate it. For us to remain here for a few months, fully provisioned, then leave in the spring with our heads high, would be the best possible ending to this story.

  “Do you remember, Lamb,” he added wistfully, “how great our dreams were for this country?”

  Adrian Lamb nodded. “I remember, sir.”

  “I shall take Lawrence, Trevor, and Mackenzie with me,” Macnaghten continued, as they walked to his waiting horse. “And of course I shall have a cavalry escort, and Shelton's two regiments are ready to storm Aminullah Khan's fort and arrest him.

  “I shall enjoy that,” he added as he mounted his horse. “Well, good-bye, then, Lamb. With luck, you shall see me again in an hour or two. And if I should not return,” he added quietly, “look after my wife, will you?”

  WHEN MACNAGHTEN and the three captains met by the cantonment gate, there was no sign of a cavalry escort, only a few Residency guards hugging themselves against the cold.

  Macnaghten frowned. “Where is everyone else? Where are Shelton's regiments?”

  “They are not yet ready, sir,” replied Captain Mackenzie. “The cavalry also did not parade in time, but they should be here soon.”

  “Soon is not good enough. I cannot afford to be late.”

  Macnaghten spurred his horse unkindly, and started for the open gate, causing the other officers to trot hastily after him. “This,” he said darkly, “is the same slackness I have had to endure since the very start of the outbreak.”

  “And are you certain, sir,” asked one of the three accompanying captains, “that there is no risk of treachery from Akbar Khan?”

  “Of course there is risk, Lawrence,” Macnaghten snapped, “but what can I do? The general will not fight, nor will the brigadier. No help is to be expected from any quarter. For six weeks our enemies have visited every possible inconvenience and deprivation upon us. They have been playing with us, and have not fulfilled any of their promises, but nevertheless, I must take this final chance.

  “I would rather risk a hundred deaths, Lawrence,” he declared, “than suffer the disgrace we all must endure if we retreat from Afghanistan with dishonor.”

  A large carpet had been spread over the snow on sloping ground out of the wind. An unclean crowd of silent tribesmen stood ranged about it in a half circle. Among them six or seven chiefs on horseback spoke to one another.

  “Akbar Khan seemed quite pleased with the pair of pistols I sent him last week,” Macnaghten remarked, as he and the three other officers approached the waiting Afghans. “Let us hope they have given him reason to be kindly disposed toward us.”

  After formal greetings had been exchanged, all the men dismounted, and a smiling Macnaghten was handed onto the carpet.

  Behind him, one of the captains had refused to sit down. Instead, he crouched on one knee, watching tensely as the chiefs and the host of other, wilder onlookers crowded closer and closer.

  “Sit down, Lawrence,” hissed Captain Trevor, “and take your hand from your sword. You are making it appear that we don't trust them.”

  Ignoring this exchange, Sirdar Akbar Khan, the handsome eldest son of Dost Mohammad, leaned comfortably on a large bolster and gazed with lustrous brown eyes upon the Englishman beside him.

  “I must ask you, Macnaghten,” he said gently, “if you are quite ready to carry into effect the proposition we have offered you.”

  The Envoy smiled easily. “Why not?”

  The sirdar smiled approvingly in return. “Come, then,” he said, moving to rise, “I must take you to Aminullah Khan's fort.”

  “But why?” Macnaghten stiffened against his bolster. “I am not yet ready to arrest him. My regiments have not arrived.”

  The sirdar, his beautiful eyes on the Envoy's, did not reply. The tribesmen edged closer.

  “It is a trap, sir!” Lawrence reached for his sword.

  Understanding, Macnaghten scrambled to his feet.

  His horse waited at the edge of the crowd. He started toward it, but Akbar Khan came up behind him and caught him by both arms.

  “I cannot allow you to return to your cantonment,” he said politely.

  “Trevor, Lawrence, Mackenzie!” The Envoy's frightened voice barely carried as far as the trio of officers behind him, but it was too late.

  Akbar's face had changed. “Begeer! Begeer! Seize them!” he cried, his fea
tures distorted, his voice tight and shrill.

  In an instant the crowd of tattered onlookers shed its silence.

  With a high triumphant yell, the mob closed in on the four Englishmen. Many hands gripped Sir William Macnaghten, and held him motionless. Jostling tribesmen snatched away the British officers’ weapons, and pinned their arms behind their backs.

  Caught in the storm, all but one of Macnaghten's native escort pushed their way through the struggling crowd and bolted, headlong, from the scene. The remaining man, a mustachioed Rajput sepoy, lunged toward Macnaghten, but before he had reached the Envoy's side, a sword sliced through the back of his neck. He dropped, gurgling, to his knees, his half-severed head lolling to one side, but a single dreadful wound was not enough to satisfy the Sirdar's warriors. Knives raised, they fell on him. While he still breathed, they hacked his limbs, one by one, from his body.

  Macnaghten sagged against his captors, his face gray with shock, his spectacles askew. His top hat lay on its side at his feet. He opened his mouth to speak, but whatever he said was lost in the din around him.

  Someone shouted orders. The three British captains were frogmarched to a group of waiting horses, and forced to mount pillion behind three of the chiefs.

  Thwarted by the loss of their quarry, the mob surged toward the horses, swords and knives in hand. “Do not spare the accursed!” they screamed, slicing with their knives at the three captains, who now clung to the chiefs for protection. “Kill the infidels! Shed their blood! Do not let them escape!”

  As they worked to free themselves and their captives from the crowd, the three chiefs turned upon their own people. “Leave them,” they shouted, laying about them with heavy swords, causing several men to stagger backward, spurting blood. “Leave our hostages to us!”

  The three horses surged to a gallop. A moment later, Captain Trevor lost his grip on his captor and fell, shoulder-first, onto the icy ground. In an instant, a dozen members of the pursuing mob stood over his prone body, long knives rising and falling.

  Behind them, Akbar Khan and a stocky, richly dressed man manhandled Macnaghten down the slope toward the river, so forcefully that the Envoy's feet dragged behind him like those of a condemned man.

  He was indeed condemned. As Akbar's chiefs galloped away with the two surviving captains, Macnaghten's last, helpless cry followed them across the snow.

  “Az barae Khuda! For God's sake!” he screamed hoarsely, as the yelling crowd closed in.

  “SOMETHING IS wrong,” Nur Rahman said sharply. He turned and stared nervously behind him. “Something has happened there,” he added, pointing north, along the road. “I can feel it.”

  Mariana frowned. The last of the stream of tribesmen had passed them only a moment earlier, thin shawls billowing in the icy breeze. Beyond the river and its brick bridge, the busy city beckoned.

  In no time, the three of them would be in the labyrinthine alleys of Kabul, with its cobbled streets and tempting markets, on their way to Haji Khan's house.

  “What do you mean?” she said irritably, turning to look. “Why must you always—”

  Nur Rahman gasped aloud. “They are coming back,” he cried, pointing. “Look! The fighters are returning!”

  A hand to her eyes, Mariana peered into the distance, but all she saw was a thick, advancing crowd of men, whose raised voices proclaimed important, unintelligible news.

  They seemed to take up the whole road. Their shouting echoed across the flat valley.

  Other travelers had also seen them. An old man on a mule paused uncertainly, as if waiting for instructions. A pair of Uighur tribesmen with goatee beards were already coaxing their horses into the knee-deep snow at the side of the road.

  “I see them coming,” Mariana agreed, “but what have they to do with us?”

  Yar Mohammad, too, had stopped. He, too, looked back, a hand on the donkey's neck.

  Nur Rahman looked rapidly from side to side, as if he were seeking an escape route. “We must not enter the city,” he said decisively. “There is no telling what will happen there once the crowd returns. And we must not turn back to the cantonment, for they have blocked the way.”

  “No!” Mariana protested. “We must go on. The city is right here, in front of us, and Haji Khan's house is not far from the gate. We'll be there long before the crowd arrives. I need a chicken for my aunt's soup,” she added plaintively, “and you yourself said that Munshi Sahib needs your company.”

  She sighed impatiently. What was the matter with the boy? Did he have some mad reason to prevent her from seeing her munshi?

  Aunt Claire had especially wished for grapes

  “Hurry,” Nur Rahman shouted. “There is no time!”

  Ignoring the stares of their fellow travelers, he lifted the skirts of his chaderi and sprinted forward, toward Yar Mohammad and the donkey. The animal's reins in one hand, and Yar Mohammad's sleeve in the other, he tugged them both into the snow, gesturing for Mariana to follow.

  The man on the mule, the Uighurs, and a family whose half-dozen women and children had been stuffed onto four camels, had also left the road. All of them waited, their eyes on the advancing crowd.

  “Turn away,” Nur Rahman ordered sharply. “Do not look.”

  Snow had packed itself into the tops of Mariana's boots and drenched her thin cotton trousers and the hem of her chaderi. Fearful of the real terror in Nur Rahman's voice, she turned from the road, her hands to her ears.

  The crowd was upon them. Its collective voice resembled the din made by the river of men that had passed Haji Khan's door on the morning of Alexander Burnes's death.

  Was this new mob as murderous as that one? Unable to stop herself, Mariana turned to look.

  Packed shoulder to shoulder, a column of several thousand men advanced toward them, filling the roadway, shouting unintelligibly and firing weapons into the air.

  She glanced at Nur Rahman, and saw that his chaderi was trembling, as if his whole body were shaking. The old man steered his mule farther off the road. Only Yar Mohammad showed no sign of worry. He stood straight, his bony face impassive, the donkey's reins dangling from his fingers, as the mob flowed toward them, faces contorted with a kind of joy, light gleaming on the blades of their long knives.

  Mariana searched about her, but there was nowhere to hide, only an expanse of dirty snow, and leafless trees full of whistling wind.

  What was that, impaled on a long stick above the heads of the mob? Was it really a top hat, its brim half torn off? And what was that that followed the hat, also on a stick? It looked like a cannon-ball, only—

  By the time Mariana understood what it was, there was no time to turn away, or even to lift the face-covering flap of her chaderi. There was only time to bend over and vomit helplessly into the unclean snow at her feet.

  But,” Adrian Lamb argued later that afternoon, “General Elphinstone is telling everyone that Sir William and his companions have been removed to the city for further negotiations.”

  The ashen-faced subaltern who stood before Mariana's uncle was no more than a boy. He shook his head. “No, sir,” he said mournfully, “Akbar and Aminullah Khan have murdered Sir William and Captain Trevor, and have taken Lawrence and Mackenzie away. They have already paraded Sir William's head and limbs in the city. His torso is now hanging from a meat hook in the Char Chatta Bazaar. I heard this from an irregular native cavalryman whose brother-in-law saw it all.

  “They are massing at the Pul-e-Khishti now, waiting for our counterattack,” he added.

  Adrian Lamb exchanged a glance with his assistant, and then got to his feet. “Thank you, Harris,” he said grimly, “I am glad you came to me at once. And now, if anyone needs me, I shall be conferring with General Elphinstone and Brigadier Shelton.”

  Twenty minutes later he and Brigadier Shelton stood over the bed where General Elphinstone lay bundled and shivering. Faint shouts and thudding of musket fire floated in through the closed bedroom shutters.

  “Are you tell
ing me,” Adrian Lamb inquired tightly, shifting his gaze from the general to his second-in-command, “that there is to be no retaliatory attack upon the city, even now, after Sir William's revolting, disgraceful murder?”

  “We are,” barked Shelton.

  “And we are to sit on our heels and do nothing, even with our troops sufficiently enraged to storm and carry the city of Kabul and arrest Akbar and Aminullah?”

  “We are hopelessly outnumbered,” the general wheezed from his bed. “It is only by sheerest luck that we have so far managed to escape a devastating attack by thousands of yelling tribesmen.

  “Surely,” he added, pointing a trembling finger toward the window, “you can hear the horrible din they are raising even now outside the city walls. I understand they are massed near the Pul-e-Khishti, screaming and firing into the air. They may storm our gates at any moment.”

  Mariana's uncle let out a bitter sigh. “I have it on good authority,” he said evenly, “that the noise we are hearing is in preparation for an expected attack by us on them.”

  The general coughed weakly.

  The brigadier hunched his bony shoulders. “May I ask, Lamb, who gave you, a mere intelligence man, the right to come into this room and criticize the chief military officers of this cantonment?”

  “No one gave me the right, Brigadier,” Adrian Lamb said grimly. “It was there for the taking.”

  IT WAS Christmas.

  Mariana tried not to fidget as she sat beside her aunt's bed. “Of course you are getting better, Aunt Claire,” she insisted, for the third time that afternoon.

  “I do not know, my dear,” her aunt replied faintly. “Sometimes I wonder if I shall ever see England again.”

  Unable to argue, Mariana could only reach out and pat her wrinkled hand.

  Since her frightening but safe return to the cantonment, she had paid three condolence visits to Lady Sale's house, but had not yet seen the newly widowed Lady Macnaghten, who was still secluded in her bedroom. That morning, while sounds of painful grief emanated from the far end of the house, Mariana had sat in the icy drawing room with Lady Sale and a few other officers’ wives, helpless to offer comfort, wondering about her own future.