The British officers made frantic attempts to protect the column and rally a counter-attack but they were dealing with a ghostly army that was ambushing them at every overhanging rock and twist in the gorge. There was nothing to do but try to press on and escape the attack.
The women rode on through a hail of musket shot, their horses and camels stumbling. Florentia cried out. Alice turned to see her agonised face. Her friend had been shot and was clutching her arm.
‘Ride on!’ she shouted at Alice. ‘I’m all right.’
Alice lost sight of Emily’s camel in the mêlée as they all tried to flee.
A moment later, Alice felt the sting of a bullet graze her hand, followed by another. Her pony reared up, shot in the neck. Alice felt no pain as blood appeared on her hand, just fear at how close Lotty had come to being hit. Alice screamed for help. She lost her grip on the reins as pain pulsed through her wrist. She thought she would faint. She clamped her knees into the flanks of the agonised beast to stop herself falling.
A rider came up alongside and took hold of the reins. Osman.
‘Thank God,’ she gasped. Her head pounded.
She felt Alexander’s grip around her waist lessen. The boy screamed for his mother. Alice half-turned to see a turbaned horseman snatching the boy and lifting him onto his horse at full canter.
‘No! Leave him!’
Then her own horse was being dragged forward and she almost toppled from the saddle. Clutching at a hysterical Lotty, Alice righted herself. Only then did she see that it was not Osman who pulled her pony forward but a Ghilzai bandit.
Alice struck out at him with her wounded hand. Indescribable pain shot through her. The wounded pony bucked and lurched in a frenzy of fear too. Leaving go of the reins, the attacker seized Lotty by the hair and pulled her from Alice’s slack hold. Alice saw the terrified look on her daughter’s face. Alice was too shocked to utter a sound. Her daughter’s screaming filled the air. Then the girl was gone, swallowed up in the chaos of fighting and fleeing humanity.
CHAPTER 35
Khoord-Kabul Pass, East Afghanistan, January 1842
Alice hardly remembered how she got to Khoord-Kabul. Later, she was told that it was Osman who found her hysterical beside her dying pony and, lifting her to safety, rode with her into camp. The British officers and families were sheltering in a cluster of overcrowded tents pitched in the snow below a brooding, half-derelict fort rumoured to be recently occupied by Akbar.
An army doctor extracted a piece of shot from her wrist and bound it up as best he could. From him she learnt that other women and children had been abducted.
‘Alexander!’ Alice wailed, as she remembered what had happened. ‘They took him from me. It was my fault.’ She buried her face in her hands and wept uncontrollably. How could she face Emily?
Vernon found her and forced her to drink the dregs of his brandy.
‘Lotty,’ Alice moaned. ‘We must find her. A Ghilzai took her.’
Vernon was tight-lipped.
Alice’s agitation grew. ‘I must go and look—’
‘You’re not going anywhere. I’ve got my men searching.’
But Alice would not be stilled. She went out into the raw dusk – it was snowing again and visibility was bad – and she called and called for her daughter.
Eventually, Vernon, with the help of Gita and Bali, pulled her back into the meagre shelter of a damp tent. ‘Stop making such a spectacle of yourself,’ Vernon hissed. ‘You’re not the only one suffering. I’ve lost scores of my men. It was carnage out there. So much for your precious Sinclair and his savage friends with their promises of protection.’
Alice flinched at his harsh words. ‘Don’t you care about Lotty?’ she rebuked him.
‘Of course I care! When I find the men who have taken her I’ll blow their bloody brains out! I can’t bear to think of their dirty hands on her. But they won’t get away with it – no one treats a Buckley like that.’
Angrily, Vernon marched off to be with his men, leaving Alice weeping with despair and guilt. Gita sat quietly with her, pressing something into her hand. Alice saw it was Lotty’s favourite rag doll. With a stab of loss, she clutched it to her face and breathed in her daughter’s scent. It gave her a flash of comfort.
Alice lifted her head and looked at Gita properly for the first time. Bali squatted close beside his mother, his usually cheerful face pinched with cold and anxiety.
‘Where is Adeep?’ Alice asked.
Gita dropped her gaze and shook her head. ‘I don’t know. He stayed to help his father in the pass. Bali has looked for them but nothing . . .’
Alice reached out and pulled Gita and Bali into her hold. The bereft women clung onto each other in comfort and Bali quietly wept. After a few minutes, Alice composed herself and went in search of Emily and Walter. She found them crammed into a tiny tent with Lady MacNaughten and the widowed Mrs Trevor and her seven children.
‘I’m so sorry about Alexander,’ Alice said tearfully.
Emily was mute with shock. She clutched a grizzling Walter to her breast.
‘Our children will be returned to us,’ Alice said. ‘The men will see to that.’
Emily looked at her with eyes swollen from crying. ‘I should have let Alexander ride with Osman, shouldn’t I?’ Emily whispered. ‘Then he’d still be here with me.’
Alice could hardly sleep for the pain in her wrist and the anguish of wondering what had become of her daughter. Her mind was in turmoil at the thought of Lotty in the hands of a cruel enemy. She would be so frightened and wonder why her mother had let such a thing happen. Would some Afghan mother be put in charge of her? Perhaps she had been taken as a hostage for bartering. Alice would pay anything to get her beloved daughter back. Kidnap for ransom was the best she could hope for. Anything worse was unthinkable. Fear consumed her at the thought that Lotty might already be dead.
The moans of the other injured punctuated the night. People cried out for water. Brave Florentia had been wounded in the arm but she and her daughter were tending Johnny Sturt, who had been shot in the stomach. In the dim glow of a flickering lamp, the doctor had dressed his wounds but he lay feverish and shivering with cold.
Dinah was kissing her husband’s brow and whispering into his ear. Alice swallowed down tears at her tenderness and the loving look that Johnny returned. Was she telling him about their forthcoming baby? From the deathly sheen on his skin, Alice doubted he was going to live long enough to see his child. She looked away, sore at heart for the devoted couple. Was it only five short months ago that they were embarking on married life together? Alice thought of that golden summer day when she and John had stolen kisses in the Sale’s garden. It was the last time they had been intimate. If only she could get a message to John, she felt sure that he would do all he could to find Lotty and bring her safely back to Alice’s empty arms. The thought gave her a flicker of strength.
Alice got up and went to help the officers who were tramping down to the stream to fetch water for the parched and delirious wounded.
Early the next morning, on the ninth of January, Johnny Sturt died of his wounds. They buried him under stones, sang psalms in the bitter air and prayed for his soul.
Dinah’s distress shocked Alice out of her own worry over Lotty. She went to comfort her friend.
‘You must stay strong for your baby,’ Alice whispered. ‘Do it for Johnny. The best way to honour him is to live and give birth to his child.’
As the sun rose, they waited for the bugle call to rally the column into marching, but it did not come. The snow was littered with the fresh corpses of those who had failed to find shelter and died in the night. Animals – those which had not already been stolen – had frozen in large numbers too. There had been no fodder to give them since leaving the cantonment three days ago. Alice was now without her pony and most of the camels had perished in the pass too.
Alice existed in a state of numbness, yet she thought she would never be able to rid he
r mind of the appalling sights in the snow. She looked around at her companions, the worn-out women and haggard officers. At least a dozen soldiers’ wives had been abducted the previous day and half a dozen of their children were missing. How could they endure any more heartache? Would it not be better for them all to lie down in the snow and pray for a swift death?
Suddenly there was a flurry of excitement as a messenger rode in. He was swathed in a blanket but wore a British army jacket underneath.
‘He’s got a child sitting in the saddle with him!’ someone shouted.
Alice and the other mothers picked up their skirts and staggered through the snow in their haste to see.
‘It’s Lieutenant Sinclair!’ Florentia cried.
Alice felt her knees buckle. If Dinah hadn’t caught her she would have collapsed in the snow in shock. John looked gaunt and unshaven as he threw off his blanket and dismounted but her heart filled with joy to see him. She pressed forward. Could he possibly have brought Lotty with him?
Another mother shrieked in relief as John lifted down a small boy into her arms. It was the son of Captain Boyd. Alice felt sick with disappointment. John caught sight of her and for an instant held her look. His eyes were full of compassion and her battered spirits lifted a fraction. But he was immediately ushered into Elphinstone’s tent without a chance of talking to her.
‘The Sirdar has been persuaded to take the British women and children under his protection,’ John told them. ‘If you agree, they are to be conveyed to the fort today. He has promised to keep them safe and return them when our garrison leaves Jalalabad.’
‘Promise?’ Vernon was scathing. ‘You expect us to believe a word that barbarian says?’
‘I believe he will keep them alive,’ John replied. ‘Surely that’s what you want, Buckley?’
‘Of course it is,’ Vernon snapped. ‘But I don’t trust him an inch. He allowed that savagery yesterday.’
‘He tried to stop it,’ John insisted. ‘It was Akbar who rescued the Boyd boy – along with an infantryman’s wife and a private from the 44th.’
‘Well, he didn’t save my child from being carried off by some savage!’ Vernon cried.
John felt winded. ‘Lotty was taken? My God! I’m sorry, Buckley.’
‘I don’t need your sympathy—’
‘Gentlemen,’ intervened Elphinstone, ‘we are all anxious about our families. Let us not argue amongst ourselves. We should consider what the Sirdar is offering.’
Vernon was adamant. ‘We shouldn’t let our women fall into the hands of these people without British men to protect them.’
‘Akbar has agreed to take some of the most wounded officers,’ said John. ‘Osman said that Sturt was shot in the stomach. He can be rescued.’
‘Too late,’ said Shelton. ‘Sturt died a few hours ago.’
John was appalled. Poor Johnny Sturt was dead? The young engineer was one of the bravest and most dedicated soldiers he had known. What a loss he would be. How was his sweet young wife coping? And Alice, she must be going out of her mind with worry over Lotty.
‘What use will a handful of badly wounded officers be to our womenfolk?’ Vernon asked. ‘We must insist that their husbands go with them. Only we can make sure that no harm comes to them.’
John gave him a look of disdain. He knew how little Vernon cared for Alice. The cavalry officer was only interested in saving his own skin.
‘I don’t think Akbar will agree to that,’ said John.
‘Then we should tell him no,’ Vernon said, with a challenging look.
John was sickened by the man’s callous attitude; he was prepared to use the women as bargaining chips in a bid for his own survival.
‘If you reject the offer,’ John said impatiently, ‘you are condemning women and children to death.’
Shelton said, ‘I agree with Sinclair. We should hand over the families. They are an extra burden and worry on the march.’
‘Sir,’ Vernon appealed to Elphinstone, ‘you cannot allow the women and children to go without their husbands. It would be dishonourable – and our wives wouldn’t want it.’
John saw the general waver with indecision. Elphinstone looked as if he had aged another ten years in the short time since he had last seen him.
‘I think Buckley’s right,’ said Shelton. ‘Loath as I am to lose any more officers, we are just talking about half a dozen men plus some wounded. We have to think of the women’s honour.’
‘Very well,’ Elphinstone said. ‘Sinclair, go back to the Sirdar and say that we insist on the husbands accompanying the families. Let’s hope to God he agrees.’
Later that day, Vernon sought out Alice.
‘Thanks to me,’ he told her, ‘the British families are to be removed to the safety of the fort under the protection of their husbands.’
‘All of us?’ Alice gasped. ‘To Akbar’s fort?’
‘Just temporarily,’ he said. ‘We’ll be moved down to Jalalabad once it’s safe.’
Alice put her hands to her face and swallowed down a sob of relief. ‘Oh, thank the Lord!’
‘Thank me, woman,’ Vernon boasted. ‘They wanted to abduct all the wives but I insisted that the husbands go into captivity too. At least that way, we can keep a protective eye over you.’
‘And we can plead for the return of our children,’ Alice said with a surge of hope. ‘Lotty and Alexander.’
‘We shall demand their return,’ Vernon replied.
‘But what of the others?’ Alice asked. ‘Our servants?’
‘You will just have to do without such luxuries for a while,’ he said.
‘I don’t care about my comforts,’ Alice retorted. ‘I’m thinking only of their safety.’
‘That is none of my concern.’
‘Well, I’m going nowhere without Gita and Bali,’ Alice declared.
Camels were sent to transport the families to the fort – eleven women, sixteen children and eight men, including two wounded officers – and half a dozen servants. Alice got her way; Gita and Bali were among the latter. Alice listened to Florentia’s indignation at Frances MacNaughten’s overladen camel. Somehow, the murdered envoy’s widow had managed to salvage basket-loads of possessions: clothes, furnishings, bedding and even her pet cat, Nabob.
‘And a chestful of jewels!’ Florentia muttered.
‘Well, that might come in useful,’ Alice murmured, thinking how Frances’s treasure could be bartered for their missing children. Alice felt an agonising stab at the thought of her lost daughter. The pain was a hundred times worse than the throbbing in her wrist.
As they climbed higher, a flurry of snow obliterated the view below. By the time it had cleared, the army column was once more on the move. Alice prayed for their safety and survival.
They reached a circle of round Afghan tents – made of thick dark wool – and were taken inside for refreshment. Alice nearly fainted with relief to sit out of the cold and sip sweet black tea and eat dried apricots. She encouraged an unresponsive Emily to drink too.
‘Let me take Walter for a few minutes while you rest,’ Alice suggested.
Emily shook her head, clutching her baby tighter. He whimpered. Alice touched his forehead; it was cold and clammy. Dear God, don’t let her lose Walter too! Alice unwound the heavy Afghan blanket that someone had put around her shoulders.
‘Lie down then,’ Alice said, gently pushing Emily onto a mattress. She tucked the extra blanket around the mother and child and left them to sleep.
As the light left the sky, Alice went outside, hoping to find John. The thought of seeing him and talking to him again had got her through the day. But she soon discovered that he had been taken with Akbar to negotiate in Pashto with the warring chiefs along the route.
‘Thick as thieves, Sinclair and Akbar,’ Vernon muttered. ‘The Scotchman will make sure he survives whatever happens to us.’
Alice could not bear his snide remark. ‘I heard it was Sinclair who persuaded Akbar to save us wome
n, so we should be glad he has the ear of the Sirdar.’
She retreated into the tent before he could answer.
That night, the Afghans gave up their tents to the women and slept out in the open wrapped in their blankets. The next day, Vernon insisted that they should be housed in the fort and given hot food. Alice soon wished that they had stayed in the tents. The cell-like rooms in the crumbling fort were dark and dirty, and the food they were served was a thin soup of mutton bones and greasy rice. Yet she knew it was a feast compared to the starvation rations that the army on the move would be having.
The captives spent another day in the fort, wondering what was to become of them. The following morning, they were roused by the arrival of horsemen. Alice’s heart raced to think it might be John returning. But they soon learnt that it was Sultan Jan, a cousin of Akbar’s, who had come to move them on. They were not told where they were going.
They set off, bumping along in camel panniers, the wounded officers suffering at the jarring and jolting on the icy, rocky paths. Vernon and the able-bodied men rode on horseback alongside the Afghan escort, weapons at the ready to defend the small entourage.
At first, Alice thought the strange hummocks in the snow must be rocks but then the full horror of what they were passing hit her. Under the fresh snow were piles of bodies – bloodied limbs and uniforms – among abandoned guns and dead pack animals. They were following the tracks of the retreating army. Two days ago, as the British families had sat idle but safe at the fort, there must have been slaughter on a horrific scale. Some of the faces would still be recognisable to those who had known them; others had been mutilated and picked at by carrion.
Alice leant out of her pannier and vomited. A strange silence descended on the group. There were no words to describe what they saw. Each of them knew that, but for the intervention of Akbar, it could have been them who lay dead and unburied on the cold mountainside.
In the Far Pashmina Mountains Page 42
