That night, John raised the issue of the missing Lotty in front of the general, asking Aziz if they had seen any traders passing through with a fair-haired British child.
Aziz shook his head. ‘But there have been many armed bands travelling through the mountains in recent months,’ he said, ‘so it is not impossible the girl might have come this way.’
General Saleh Mohammed grew indignant. ‘No true Afghan would do such a thing! She must have fallen into the hands of Uzbek or Turkic traders. They would sell their own grandmothers for a handful of rupees.’
‘Then, sir, will you help us track down the missing girl?’ John asked.
‘When we reach Bamian I will send out my scouts,’ the general declared. ‘If she still lives, I shall rescue her myself!’
Alice woke to the sound of men’s subdued voices beyond her makeshift tent under the apple trees and sat up. What surprised her was the soft laughter. What did any of them have to be cheerful about?
Getting up, she stepped beyond the cloth wall and peered into the moonlight. Two men, one turbaned and the other bareheaded, were lying on their stomachs by the edge of the river where the water collected into a deep pool.
They were reaching into the water. With a sudden pang, Alice realised that it was John with the young Kazilbashi, Aziz, who had laid on a feast for them that evening. Sandy had said the handsome slim-faced young man was John’s brother-in-law.
With a suppressed cry of triumph, Aziz hauled out a fish from the pool and threw it onto the ground beside him. Alice saw the flash of silvery scales as the fish gasped and flapped. John clapped him on the shoulder and said something in a language Alice didn’t know. The meaning though was obvious; John was praising Aziz. The affection in his voice made Alice’s eyes sting with tears.
How could she have forgotten what John had suffered in losing his wife and baby son? Being with Aziz must be a comfort to him – and a painful reminder. But John was not eaten up with bitter hatred. He was doing all he could to keep the hostages safe. Sandy had spoken of how John was going out of his way to cultivate friendship with their captor, Saleh Mohammed.
‘Sinclair could be a free man by now,’ Sandy had said, ‘but he’s choosing to stay with us.’
Alice had pondered this. Why would John not take the chance of staying with his dead wife’s tribe if he could? Yet the thought pricked her. For the first time in a month she felt the stirrings of some emotion deep inside. She didn’t want John to leave them. Watching him now with Aziz she felt a sudden pressure on her chest. She gasped for breath. John turned. ‘Who’s there?’ he asked.
‘Alice,’ she whispered.
Swiftly he was on his feet and holding out a hand. ‘Can’t you sleep either?’
She shook her head. John steered her to the riverbank and introduced her to Aziz. The men had a quickfire conversation. Aziz put his hand on his heart and said something to her.
John interpreted. ‘He’s sorry to hear about your missing daughter. They will keep watch for her should she pass this way.’
Alice’s vision blurred. ‘You’ve told him . . . ?’
‘Yes,’ said John. ‘He knows about Lotty.’
At the mention of her beloved daughter’s name, Alice felt the pressure lift from her chest. She let out an agonised sob. At once, John pulled her into his hold. All the misery and grief of the past months since Lotty had been carried off poured out of Alice in uncontrollable weeping. She had all but given up on ever seeing her daughter again, beginning to believe Vernon’s words that she was probably dead. Yet John had not given up. He had told others to look out for Lotty. This young Kazilbashi man was prepared to search for the girl too – and maybe there were others like him.
How wrong she had been to dismiss all Afghans as thieves and murderers. That was what Englishmen like Vernon wanted her to believe. It was so much easier to hate, but so very destructive for the spirit. Alice cried into John’s shoulder until she was exhausted. He did not try to stop her but simply held her tight.
By the time she had stopped and looked up, Aziz had gone. She let John wipe her tears.
‘Please forgive me for being so unkind to you,’ she whispered.
‘There is nothing to forgive,’ he answered.
‘But there is,’ said Alice. ‘I’ve done nothing but push you away since you rescued Alexander. I have been so wrapped up in my own misery that I haven’t seen how hard it has been for you. You have risked your life all these months being Akbar’s messenger and trying to keep us safe – and you’re still doing it. You amaze me with your courage, John.’
‘There is nothing amazing in what I do,’ he said. ‘I do it for you, my love.’
‘Oh, John, I couldn’t bear to lose you as well as Lotty.’
Tenderly he kissed her forehead. ‘As long as there is breath in my body I will never leave you.’
Alice reached into the pocket of her tunic and, pulling out a small cloth pouch, pressed it into John’s hand. ‘There’s a letter inside – I wrote it to you in Budeeabad when I thought we were going to be executed. It says all there is to say between us, my dearest John.’
She saw from his glittering green eyes the emotion he felt at her words. He pushed the pouch into his jacket. Then, lifting her chin, he bent and gently kissed her on the lips. It seemed a lifetime since they had last been able to embrace each other. Alice felt love flooding through her once again like warmth thawing her frozen feelings. It was painful to feel such emotion and yet John’s touch gave her courage.
She wanted to stay with him but he steered her back towards the encampment as a sentry called out and fired a warning shot into the air.
CHAPTER 40
Bamian, Central Afghanistan, September 1842
The mountain paths grew more rugged and the next few days were a relentless grind up rocky defiles, over high passes and down steep gorges, only to repeat the precipitous climb all over again. From the top of the Kaloo Pass, Alice saw more barren hills rippling to the far horizon like the waves of a petrified sea. The only vegetation was a prickly furze that the animals fed on. The land seemed even more desolate and remote than any she had seen before, and her spirit wilted to think that this wilderness was to be their place of captivity. Was it possible that any British soldiers would ever venture this far to rescue a handful of their hapless countrymen and women? Surely they would now be left to their fate?
Only John’s strong presence kept Alice’s spirit from breaking. Just a tender look or an encouraging word in a snatched exchange was enough to lift her morale for the rest of the day. In turn she was able to bolster the flagging spirits of the other women and children. She shared the responsibility with Sandy of riding with Alexander. The boy had become nervous and needy compared to his former boisterous self. He would cling to his father and whine until Sandy lost patience. Alice would intervene and coax the boy onto her pony, distracting him with games of spotting birds and singing songs.
Finally, in early September, they arrived in the wild high valley of Bamian, peopled by Hazara tribes with broad sun-baked features quite unlike the Afghans Alice had met so far. Surprisingly, the mile-wide valley was a fertile oasis among the dun-coloured mountains. Fields of golden wheat and gardens of green peas and beans were intersected by glinting water channels under a vivid blue sky. Fat-tailed sheep grazed in the shade of rustling tamarisk and poplars.
Most extraordinary of all, carved out of the rock face that reared up like a protective wall on one side of the valley, were two mighty statues of Buddha. The cliffs around the giant carvings were pockmarked with caves.
‘Centuries old,’ Pottinger told them. ‘They were the cells of Buddhist monks. The Buddhists are long gone, of course.’
‘I wish I could sketch them,’ Alice said in wonder.
John gave a soft chuckle. ‘Well, I imagine our hosts will be happy to lay on some sightseeing trips while we’re here.’
Alice smiled back.
‘I don’t see why you’re both so cheerful
,’ said Emily. ‘I think the rarefied air has gone to your heads.’
John grinned. ‘I think you might be right.’
The look he gave Alice made her stomach knot in longing.
But their levity was short-lived. Word came back that the fortress on the hill would not accommodate them, so they made camp under its walls. Just as they had got the tents pitched and the children settled, the guards told them they were to be moved on to another fort. There was general complaining but they were marched on another mile, past a honeycomb of ruined cave-dwellings and towers, to a crude mud fort.
‘We’ll be able to protect you better here,’ the fatigued Saleh Mohammed told them.
‘Keep us imprisoned he means,’ Florentia muttered in a defiant tone, despite her exhaustion.
The rooms they were given were little more than a series of cow byres – airless and dark – around a high-walled courtyard.
‘You could write your name in the soot on the walls,’ complained Florentia.
‘If we could see to write,’ joked Alice.
They spent a sleepless night, bitten by lice and kept awake by the scratchings of rats and scuttling of cockroaches. In the morning, after protests from the women, they were granted permission to pitch tents in the gateway.
For the next few days, the captives lived in a strange state of limbo. They were allowed out under guard to explore the Buddhist caves and were fed on refreshing curds from the many cows in the fort. But there was an air of tension hanging over them. Alice noticed John having intense conversations with Pottinger and Sandy. She sensed that their fate was in the balance. Any day now they would be moved on – but to where and how many of them? There was rumour that they might be split up.
She longed to be able to speak to John in confidence but there was never any chance of them being alone. The guards watched them closely, seeming ill-at-ease, and the women were kept separate from the men.
John’s worst fears for the prisoners were coming true. Saleh Mohammed had orders to march them on to Khullum and hand them over to the Uzbek chief, Umeen Khan. He had called John into his tent to warn him.
‘The Wallee of Khullum?’ John asked, aghast. ‘He’s a slave-trader, for God’s sake!’
‘These are my orders from the Sirdar.’ The general looked harrowed.
‘The women and children are exhausted,’ John said. ‘They won’t stand another march over the mountains. It will kill them.’
Something about the Afghan’s expression made John’s insides turn leaden. ‘What else have you been ordered to do?’ he asked.
The general hesitated. When he spoke, his voice was grim. ‘Those who are not fit to travel are to be put to death.’
John was horrified. His dear friend Colin would be one of them. The artillery officer had been weakened by the journey and had succumbed to another bout of fever. He spent the days lying in a tent and had to be helped up to do his ablutions or to eat.
‘You can’t allow it,’ John cried.
Saleh Mohammed held his look. ‘Then tell me how I am to avoid it!’
Outside, John reeled from the news. It was the sign of a desperate man, that Akbar should have issued such a dire command. Perhaps the Sirdar was finally losing to the British and no longer had control of Kabul. But even if Pollock’s army or Nott’s force from Kandahar were gaining ground, they were too far away to be of any help to the prisoners in Bamian. By the time any troops arrived, the captives would either have been butchered or sold into slavery.
John balled his fists in anger. There must be something he could do to save the hostages. As he stood in the bright September sunshine he heard children’s laughter down by the stream; Alexander was playing with some Hazara boys. The Aytons’ son was beginning to lose his fear and enjoy life again. John was reminded of his boyhood days at Ramanish, running around with Donald and Duncan. Something must be done to save Alexander and the other innocents from a brutal death or a life of captivity.
Words that Aziz had said to him came back suddenly to John. His heart quickened. There might just be a way of preventing this terrible deed. Perhaps that was why the Afghan general had given him forewarning. John turned on his heels and went to find Pottinger.
Late that night, closeted in one of the dingy rooms in the fort, they sat cross-legged: John, Sandy, Pottinger and Lawrence on one side, Saleh Mohammed and his second-in-command on the other.
‘A pension of one thousand rupees every month for life in exchange for our release,’ Pottinger offered, ‘and a bond written out to honour the payments – signed by all the officers here in the fort.’
It had been John’s idea, prompted by Aziz’s attempt to buy John’s freedom from his captors. It gave the general a way out of having to either put them to death or into the hands of slave-dealers, options which the Afghan found abhorrent. It was a gamble – the general might send word at once to Akbar of their attempts at bribery – but John knew Saleh Mohammed was a reluctant gaoler. The general’s first loyalty would always be to his tribe and not to any ruler of Afghanistan, so John was staking their lives on the military commander’s self-interest and concerns for his kin.
‘That is all very well for us,’ said Saleh Mohammed, ‘but even if we agree, we still cannot defend you from Akbar’s allies. There is talk of Sultan Jan’s men being in the area – and the Uzbeks will send a force if they get wind that the prisoners are not going to be delivered into their hands.’
‘What do you need,’ asked Pottinger, ‘to guarantee our safety?’
‘The co-operation of local chiefs here in Bamian,’ he replied. ‘At a price.’
John had briefed Pottinger that this was likely to be the general’s strategy: provide tribute to the local Hazara chiefs and build an alliance around Saleh Mohammed’s renegade force. John held his breath. Pottinger was handling the situation with a cool decisiveness; John had been right to take his plan to the political officer and not to the belligerent Shelton.
‘Then let us arrange a payment of ten thousand rupees,’ said Pottinger, ‘for you to distribute as you see fit.’
‘Twenty thousand,’ countered the general.
Pottinger made a pretence of conferring with the other officers. But they had already agreed in advance that they would offer the Afghan whatever he demanded and worry about honouring the payment later.
‘Twenty thousand,’ Pottinger said with a nod, ‘and a remission of the taxes imposed by the British.’
The general nodded in approval. ‘But you must give me proof that you can honour such payments,’ said Saleh Mohammed, ‘otherwise the chiefs will not believe me.’
At this point, Pottinger produced a casket and opened it. Inside were all the jewels and mementoes that John had been able to gather up from the anxious women; brooches, hairpins, lockets, wedding rings and even bills of fare – any bits of paper that looked official and legal. From the men he had demanded pocket watches, chains, medals and brass buttons.
‘These shall be yours until we are reunited with the British Army and can pay you in money,’ promised Pottinger.
The general looked satisfied. ‘Then we are in agreement,’ he said, smiling for the first time.
‘I shall have a document drawn up in the morning,’ said Pottinger, ‘and signed by all the officers.’
Saleh Mohammed grinned. ‘And we shall rally our Hazara brothers to your cause.’
The next day, instead of being force-marched to Khullum, the British prisoners suddenly found themselves no longer under armed guard. The Afghan general had his banner hoisted from the fort tower – a fluttering crimson-edged, green-fringed flag of defiance – to alert the neighbouring forts. Word soon spread that a deal had been done to save the British captives and that their former captor was rallying fighters to defy Akbar. That very day, two Hazara chiefs – Kurrim Beg and Meer Hassun – came and pledged support for the general and the British. By the next day, several more chiefs had thrown in their lot with the rebel force.
‘They all h
ave an eye to the future,’ said Pottinger. ‘They must have word from the south that the British are advancing and that Akbar’s days are numbered.’
Yet no one could be sure. There were still rumours of men loyal to Akbar being within striking distance of Bamian. John went to find Sandy to see about amassing supplies in case they had to withstand a siege.
‘Let me come too,’ said Alice. ‘I can at least lead a mule or two.’
‘It’s still dangerous away from the fort,’ warned Sandy. ‘You shouldn’t come, my dear.’
‘Let her,’ said John with a smile. ‘Alice Brown will be more than a match for any warring Afghans.’
Alice gave a wry laugh. Sandy looked at them quizzically but made no further protest. With an armful of clothes and a bag of coins they had collected from their almost penniless compatriots, they went in search of grain, cooking oil, fruit and nuts to buy from the local farmers. A chief who lived in a fortified farmhouse next to the fort sat them down in the shade of his courtyard while his wife served them tea flavoured with salt and butter, and curds sprinkled with sultanas.
Alice felt lightheaded to be sitting with John and Sandy in this quiet oasis with nothing to disturb them except the pastoral sounds of a trickling stream and sheep bleating. She still couldn’t believe that they were to be spared. How had Pottinger managed such a miracle? Sandy had told her it had been John’s doing but John would take none of the credit.
The chief was offering them accommodation, John explained. ‘He knows that the fort has few creature comforts,’ he said with a wry smile, ‘so he would like to offer some rooms here at the farmhouse around one of his courtyards.’
‘How kind,’ said Alice.
‘I’m not sure Emily will be persuaded,’ said Sandy. ‘It may be short on comfort but she feels safer in the fort – and she can keep an eye on the boys there.’
‘Well, tell him that I would like to stay here,’ said Alice, ‘and that I’m very grateful. I think Colin should be brought here too. It’s cleaner and the air is better.’
In the Far Pashmina Mountains Page 47
