Companions of Paradise

by Thalassa Ali

  Swathed in shawls and straight of back, Lady Sale had talked of the weather, her voice raised over Lady Macnaghten's muffled sobbing, as if she could drive the shock and sorrow from the house by simple force of personality.

  With Sir William dead, Eldred Pottinger, the most sensible of the civil officers, had been made temporary Envoy, but as everyone remarked, his appointment would do no good as long as the senior army officers were unable to act.

  If only General Sale were here with his 1st Brigade, and not ninety miles away in Jalalabad, everything would be different. Mariana ran a hand over her face. Against her pillows, Aunt Claire yawned and closed her eyes.

  Their own household was also suffering. Besides Aunt Claire, who seemed to have collapsed from cold and anxiety, several of the servants, including Uncle Adrian's old Adil, had ugly-sounding coughs. They had enough food in the house, thanks to Nur Rahman's forays to the city bazaars, but there was barely any water, and it was difficult, even with a roaring fire, to bring the temperature more than eight degrees above freezing in any of the rooms.

  None of Mariana's clothes had been washed for weeks. She could not remember when she had last bathed.

  While Aunt Claire snored gently, Mariana stared into space, her thoughts racing.

  If Hassan had come to Kabul instead of divorcing or abandoning her, she and her family would be in Lahore by now. If Harry Fitzgerald were not exhausted from doing his duty while wounded, he would at least try to save them. He had said as much himself.

  But the harsh truth was that no help was on the way, and time was running out.

  If they were to escape from here, they must rely upon themselves.

  Excluding Uncle Adrian, who would certainly insist upon remaining at his post, the household with all its servants numbered twenty-two souls. How could such a large group of foreigners slip past the Ghilzai tribesmen who now dominated the roads, the hills, and all the surrounding forts?

  Except for the sweepers who hastily threw the picked bones of the dead animals outside, no one dared venture beyond the cantonment gates. Anyone in uniform who stepped more than a few yards from the gate was brought down instantly by a well-aimed musket shot.

  Even the unarmed and scarecrow-thin camp followers who wandered unwisely outside the walls were robbed, beaten, and left to die.

  Akbar Khan's sharp-shooting allies, it seemed, were watching them day and night.

  Besides Charles Mott's mad proposal that she ask an enemy chief for asylum, she could think of only one plan. Undisturbed by the fighting around the cantonment, the kafilas of the nomadic Pashtoon tribes were still passing by on their way to Butkhak and the passes to India, bringing their trading goods, their herds, and their camels.

  According to Nur Rahman, many were traveling by the Lataband Pass, where people made wishes and tied rags to the bushes for luck.

  Not all of those nomads would be Ghilzais.

  If Mariana could manage disguises for everyone in the household, including the toothless sweeperess and the cross-eyed woman who polished Aunt Claire's silver, it might be possible to persuade a family of nomads to carry them to the Punjab.

  But could she really wave down a moving caravan in full view of passing travelers, then bargain with its leader through the hole in her chaderi, revealing her identity as she did so? And even if she did persuade a kafila of non-Ghilzais to take them, how could she buy a safe passage for so many people, with all her money spent on Nur Rahman's forays to the city?

  Uncle Adrian kept no hoard of gold coins. Aunt Claire's pearls would scarcely be enough.

  Mariana bent and laid her forehead on the edge of her aunt's bed. Perhaps Charles's plan was not as mad as she had thought. After all, she herself had given asylum to Nur Rahman. But to throw her family on the mercy of an enemy seemed far too desperate a gamble.

  Every morning for weeks she had awoken with the same tightening in her middle, the same heavy feeling in her temples. Fear and loss surrounded her, draining her strength. She could not remember feeling so tired.

  Three years ago, she had relished danger. She had embarked on one adventure after another, full of hope—that she was doing the right thing, that she would be seen as a hero. Each of her actions— her rescue of Saboor from the neglectful old Maharajah, her mistaken marriage to Hassan, even that mad mission to fetch Hassan home, wounded, from the house with the yellow door—had all begun in the hope of recognition and a bright future.

  But even her most daring and successful adventures had been marred by complications and bad results—pursuit by soldiers, courtiers, and child thieves; ostracism by her own people; fear and mistrust; and, in the end, her loss of Hassan.

  Now, after so many failures, how could she face this new, elemental danger? Exhausted, dirty, and cold, with a houseful of unhealthy people, how could she trust herself? How could she even imagine success?

  All she wanted was rest, and someone to tell her what to do.

  There was no space in her whirling head for the question that had tugged at her in Haji Khan's house. All that now remained of those visits to the city were a little roll of paper and a single lovely vision of an unknown desert and a full, beckoning moon.

  She pushed herself to her feet, and bent down to kiss Aunt Claire's wrinkled cheek. It was nearly time for dinner, but there was something she must do first.

  She had not seen Fitzgerald since her visit to the hospital. In the five days since his release, he had used every ounce of his energy to shore up the cantonment defenses. There had been no time for social calls.

  Of course she had sent him a regular share of Nur Rahman's bounty, but all the same, she felt she had neglected him.

  Now it was Christmas Day.

  There was just enough time before dinner to deliver a few nuts and raisins to his quarters. If she dropped them off herself, that might pass for attentiveness

  A short while later she made her way through the snowy darkness to the long building that housed the surviving junior officers, then stood waiting, her breath white in the moonlight, for Fitzgerald's orderly to answer her knock.

  Instead, his own voice came from within.

  “It is Mariana Givens,” she said through the door.

  The bolt moved.

  “Come in, Miss Givens.” Fitzgerald bowed a little stiffly, and stood aside to let her in, as an Indian manservant slipped past her and out of the room.

  For a lady to enter an officer's private quarters without another lady's chaperoning presence would be a grave breach of proper behavior, and an unnecessary encouragement to the officer in question.

  Mariana stepped inside. “I have brought you something,” she began, then stopped short inside the doorway.

  Well aware that her own unwashed appearance left much to be desired, she still had not expected what she saw.

  Fitzgerald had become a shadow in the days since she had last seen him, a shuffling caricature of himself. His handsome gunner's uniform now hung in loose folds on his frame. His hair fell, ragged and uncut, below his ears. The bones stood out in his face.

  His left arm had been strapped to his chest with a filthy bandage. A pair of woolen shawls lay on his shoulders.

  But most of all, it was his eyes, hollow and intense, that caught her attention.

  “A Christmas visit.” He smiled and waved his good hand toward a cane chair near the fire. “How good of you to come.

  “We have moved all the guns for the fourth time,” he volunteered, as she handed him her gift and sat down. “The Afghans had become too used to our artillery positions. We mean to surprise them tomorrow morning.”

  Mariana nodded, not trusting her voice.

  He looked like a man on the verge of madness or death.

  An open book lay upside down on a small table next to her. As he dragged a second chair toward the little fire, she picked it up, and found it open to “Hohenlinden” by Robert Campbell. She glanced at the last stanza.

  Ah! Few shall part where many meet!


  The snow shall be their winding-sheet;

  And every turf beneath their feet

  Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

  Hungry, cold, and in pain, alone in his quarters, Fitzgerald had been trying to entertain himself, and this was what he had been reading.

  Tears flooded her eyes.

  What would happen to them all?

  The long, black-clad funeral procession that she had seen at Butkhak so many months before rose again in her mind's eye—the vision that Munshi Sahib, the great interpreter of dreams, had never explained.

  When she begged him to tell her its meaning, he had only quoted the Qur'an.

  She closed the book, and tried to smile at Fitzgerald.

  As if he read her thoughts, Fitzgerald cleared his throat and bent forward in his chair. “Miss Givens,” he said hoarsely, wincing a little as he tried to reach toward her, “I know you cannot stay long, but since you are here, I have something to ask you.”

  She knew what was coming. She waited for it, her hands clasped around the book in her lap.

  “I wonder if you recall a promise you made to me before the battle of Bibi Mahro.”

  His hollow gaze was candid, but it held something else she could hardly bear to see: hope.

  “I believe,” he added, offering her a ghost of his old crooked, knowing smile, “that the battle ended some weeks ago.”

  He leaned forward and peered attentively into her face.

  He knew she did not love him.

  She dropped her eyes. What good would a refusal do either of them? Except for a bag of nuts and raisins, she had nothing to offer this good man.

  She raised her chin and regarded her ragged lieutenant. “Yes,” she replied. “I will marry you.”

  “Thank you.” Fitzgerald nodded seriously, as if she had done him a service, then held out his good hand for her to take.

  She smiled grimly as she trudged back to her quarters, thinking of the two people who would most have enjoyed that moment.

  Unfortunately neither Aunt Claire nor Lady Macnaghten was able to celebrate it.

  December 26, 1841

  The following morning, as Mariana huddled alone before the sitting room fire, wondering whether she should tell Aunt Claire of her engagement or keep it to herself, someone knocked on the door.

  “Your Munshi Sahib has come,” called Dittoo's muffled voice.

  Mariana jumped to her feet.

  A moment later, supported by a solicitous Nur Rahman, the old man stood in front of her, wrapped incongruously in a yellow satin rezai, his golden qaraquli hat pulled low on his forehead.

  He seemed to have grown smaller since she had seen him last.

  She pointed to the straight-backed chair she had been sitting on. “Please sit down, Munshi Sahib.”

  Why on earth, she wondered, as he shuffled over to the fire and lowered himself onto the chair, had he left his bed in this weather to come all the way from the city to visit her?

  He looked like a wizened king, with his golden rezai, and the boy crouched at his feet, pressing his legs rhythmically with both hands. His shallow coughing filled the little room.

  It was the first time he had sat down in Mariana's presence.

  “I have come, Bibi,” he wheezed, “to learn whether Haji Khan's durood has borne fruit. Have you seen, heard, or smelled anything unusual while you were reciting?”

  She nodded, remembering her vision for the first time in days.

  “And may I know what you have seen?”

  Looking into his calm, rheumy eyes, she forgot her fears and misery. She even forgot her horrid breakfast of black tea and dried mulberries.

  Leaving out no detail, she described the rolling desert landscape of her dream, the camel bells signaling the presence of other travelers, the fresh breeze and the heavy, fecund moon that had seemed to promise her every happiness.

  She told him of the peace she felt even now, as she spoke of it.

  “But what does it mean, Munshi Sahib?” she asked, leaning toward him, her kingly little interpreter of dreams. “Does it contain the answer to the question I brought to Haji Khan three months ago?”

  He regarded her for a moment, then signaled to Nur Rahman that he wanted to rise.

  “It means, Bibi,” he said mildly, as he prepared to leave her, “that you should not have made the promise that you made yesterday.”

  His words fell on her like a blow. “Why?” she breathed.

  “You will see for yourself,” he replied.

  Then, wrapped in his golden quilt, he made his dignified way to the door.

  A HUNDRED miles away, Hassan and Zulmai stopped to water their animals at the silver river that wound toward them between flat, stony banks.

  Ghulam Ali bowed his muffled head against the wind and turned to signal to the animal drivers that straggled behind them.

  Each morning for the past ten days, before the sun appeared over the tops of the mountains, the travelers had offered their prayers on the cold ground and taken a few swallows of water before folding their tents and starting off.

  Each day they had made between eight and ten miles.

  Today, having traversed four miles of rough terrain along a vague track, every member of the kafila, including Ghulam Ali, was yawning and famished.

  A little distance away, Hassan, dressed in embroidered sheepskins and an Afghan-style turban, clucked solicitously as he guided his silver mare down a shale slope to the river's edge, while the two dozen Turi tribesmen they had recruited from local villages stepped forward to fetch water for their tea.

  They had come a long way from Peshawar, but even so, they had covered only half of the distance to Kabul, and the worst part of their journey still lay ahead.

  Hurrying had been impossible. Throughout the long, uncomfortable journey from Kohat to Thal, as they struggled over bare, uneven ground cut by deep ravines, Hassan had worn a concentrated look, as if he had put everything but this one, vital journey out of his mind.

  Near Hangu they had met a rich caravan from the north, bringing horses with thick coats, and a hundred big Bukhara camels loaded with Russian fabric, dried apricots, and pistachio nuts.

  The leader of the caravan had shrugged when Hassan asked him for news of Shah Shuja and the British.

  “The British are finished,” he said. “Their main water supply was cut off long ago. Akbar Khan and his men have stopped them from buying food from the villages. For weeks now, anyone who strays more than a few yards from their cantonment has been shot.

  “Many of their officers have been killed, including their two leaders. As for Shah Shuja,” the man added, “it is only a matter of time before he, too, dies.”

  Hassan's fist had opened and closed on his knee. “Have the British talked of leaving Kabul?”

  The leader smiled. “Talk is all they do. These British do not fight. They cower, starving, behind their walls, sending message after message to Sirdar Akbar Khan. But he will not easily let them go after they knocked his father from the throne.”

  At Thal, Hassan and Zulmai had turned northwest, and started up the long, fertile Kurrum River valley, passing nomad family groups bringing their flocks down from the north, their camels festooned with cooking pots, live chickens, and tent hangings.

  Now, as they let the animals drink, a group of such nomads walked by with their swaying camels, whose ankle bells chinked with every step.

  “Ho,” called the headman, “where are you going?”

  “To Kabul,” Hassan replied.

  “What takes you to Kabul in this bitter weather,” he asked, “when the scent of blood is in the air?”

  “Family business,” Hassan replied shortly.

  The headman looked him over. “For all your Afghan dress,” he observed, “I see that you are Indian. Keep in mind that death awaits the infidel British and their Indian lackeys.”

  When Hassan did not answer him, the headman shrugged and continued on his way.

  The valley floor in fr
ont of them rose and fell in waves, with steep ascents and sudden descents. The road ahead had been cut into steep, curving hillsides in places. In others it ran along the gray shingle of the riverbed, with its ribbon of silver water. At Shinak Kili, distant mountains, now rose-colored, now magenta, frowned from the distance, and groups of villages beckoned, their haze of smoke promising warmth and company.

  Ahead of them, a narrow, camel-neck of a road wound its way to the Shuturgarden Pass and the last leg of their journey.

  Two days later, hunched against the cold, they followed a frozen riverbed through the high, winding Shuturgarden's most dangerous defile, a claustrophobic six-mile stretch between smooth rock walls so high that sunlight did not reach the stony riverbed below.

  Of the pack animals, the stubborn, scrambling yabus fared best on the icy, uneven track. The mules were not as lucky.

  “Undo its load!” Hassan shouted, as Ghulam Ali and three other men ran, their shoes slipping, to haul a downed mule to its feet. “See if it has broken its bones!”

  The animal had caught a forefoot between the stones, and fallen onto its side, crushing some of the chickens tied to its back. As Ghulam Ali struggled with stiff fingers to release its load, several dead chickens, open boxes of tea leaves, and a stream of cooking oil lay in a messy heap at his feet.

  With a wheezing cry, the mule got up, and stood on three legs, a twisted forefoot dangling off the ground.

  “Shoot it,” Zulmai ordered. “We will eat the dead chickens tonight. The rest of the load, except for the live birds, must be left behind.”

  This was the rule of the kafila. For each dead pack animal, a load would be abandoned. With each fallen hill pony or mule, something they needed would be lost: quilts, perhaps, or tents, rice, fodder, or tea.

  The men would protect their own mounts to the last, and their weapons to the death.