She should be grateful. She was was grateful. In spite of the pain she had caused him, and in spite of the disgrace and ostracism her native liaison had caused, he had still found it in his heart to forgive her. grateful. In spite of the pain she had caused him, and in spite of the disgrace and ostracism her native liaison had caused, he had still found it in his heart to forgive her.
He must have thought all along that she had come to Kabul to marry him.
He had made her a generous offer, and she had treated him like a merchant selling a bolt of cotton.
But he had given her no warning. Had she been prepared, she might have offered him a less hurtful reply, or at least a more truthful one.
And what of his own feelings? He had not said he loved her. Perhaps he did not. Perhaps, like her, he only wanted to imagine a peaceful future far from this cold, mountainous land, in a house with a garden, and fair-haired children playing at his feet.
She had sent him into battle without the one thing that would have given him hope "You must eat something, my dear," Uncle Adrian said kindly. "We must all preserve our strength."
She looked up at her kind, unperceiving uncle. "I will try, Uncle Adrian," she murmured, raising a forkful of rice and meat to her mouth. "I will try."
Later, after reciting the durood, she lay listening to the night sounds of the cantonment. Over the coughing of the troops, someone was singing a mysterious, rhythmic Indian air, full of trills and mournful wobbling sounds.
It was, Mariana thought, the song of a broken heart.
November 23, 1841 Since that young man of yours is in charge of the gun," Lady Sale announced, as she steered Mariana past her now defunct vegetable garden, "you had better come to the roof with me and have a look at the fighting."
Sorely regretting her shortcut past Lady Sale's house on her way to ask Nur Rahman for raisins, Mariana trailed reluctantly along a narrow space between the house and its outer wall.
The last thing she wanted to see from Lady Sale's flat roof, with its perfect view of the Bibi Mahro hills and the village below, was Harry Fitzgerald being killed or wounded.
Lady Sale stepped past the bloody feathers of a recently killed chicken, negotiated a pile of loose stones beneath her kitchen window, and took hold of a bamboo ladder that leaned conveniently against the wall. Without hesitating, she gripped the uprights with gloved hands, and began to climb.
Halfway up, she looked down, her field glasses swinging from her neck. "Stop dawdling, child," she snapped. "They've been up there since three in the morning. For all we know, the battle is nearly over."
Escape was impossible. Mariana stiffened her spine, and stepped onto the ladder.
They had sent a little over a thousand British and Indian fighting men to face a seemingly inexhaustible supply of Afghan fighters with better knowledge of the terrain.
She would not think of Fitzgerald and his gun, she decided, as she scrambled onto the roof. She did not know how she would bear her remorse if he died "Take shelter behind one of the chimneys," Lady Sale ordered. "Stray balls come whizzing past."
It was just after dawn, and the snow on the mountains had turned from purple to pink and gold. Mariana crouched behind her brick fortification, straining to see what was happening.
"Shelton took seventeen companies, a hundred sappers, a few troops of cavalry, and your young man's gun at two o'clock this morning," Lady Sale announced, her field glasses to her eyes. "He has set himself up on the hill immediately over the village, but he has already made his first mistake. He should have surprised the enemy while it was still dark, instead of wasting all this time."
"I should have thought," Mariana offered, "that the brigadier's first mistake was to bring only one gun. Surely he knows there is a standing order forbidding-"
"That, missy," Lady Sale barked from her post, "is no concern of yours. I, who am a general's wife, may comment upon our military operations. You You, an unmarried woman with designs on an officer too low in rank to marry, may not." not."
Mariana felt her face color. "I have read the rules," she insisted stubbornly. "It is true about the guns."
"Of course it is true," replied Lady Sale, "but it is for me me, not you, to say so! Where," she asked after a pause, "have you learned about standing orders?"
"My father is interested in military history. I have read it since I was a child."
Lady Sale sniffed. "All well and good, but you should learn to behave yourself. Ah," she added, the field glasses once more to her eyes. "A party has started down from the top of the hill, no doubt to storm the village. Perhaps they will at last do something-but wait, they have missed the main gate, and gone past it, to one side. What fools! They are right in the line of fire from inside the walls. There," she cried, "several have already fallen!"
Where was Fitzgerald? "Lady Sale," Mariana began. "Can you tell me-"
Lady Sale took the glasses from her eyes and glared toward the hills. "What a stupid, senseless thing to do. They have missed their opportunity to take possession of the village! What is is the matter with them all?" the matter with them all?"
A whistling sound came from nearby. "Musketry," she shouted, retreating behind her chimney. "By the way," she added, after the ball thudded into the edge of the roof, "your young man is doing quite well with his gun. He has managed to get it onto the very top of the hill and now he is firing down into the village. I can make out the smoke."
Your young man. Please, please, Mariana prayed, let Fitzgerald live until she could think of the right thing to say.... Please, please, Mariana prayed, let Fitzgerald live until she could think of the right thing to say....
At nine o'clock they were still at their posts. The sun beat down on the flat roof, warming Mariana in spite of the cold wind.
Her throat felt dry. "Should we not go down," she suggested, "and have some water?"
"What for?" Lady Sale waved a gloved hand toward the battle. "Those men up there have had no water all morning. We, at least," she added, as a second musket ball thudded into the bricks, "are safe."
No more than a mile from Mariana's vantage point, the two Bibi Mahro hills stood side by side, separated by a deep gorge leading to a valley beyond. On top of the right-hand hill, plainly visible above the collection of flat-roofed houses that climbed its lower slope, two groups of red-coated infantry had formed their usual dense squares. Nearby, Mariana could make out a troop of irregular Indian cavalry, distinguished by their flowing, native dress. Puffs of smoke issued from nearby, presumably from the gun.
Someone sat astride a horse on the summit of the hill, his jacket a tiny smudge of color against the distant mountains. Was it Fitzgerald?
"I understand you blotted your copybook in Lahore, two years ago," Lady Sale said bluntly.
Mariana did not reply.
"A serious mistake," Lady Sale decreed. "One never recovers from a scandal like that. How on earth did you allow yourself to be duped into marrying a native? native?
"I should think you would have had more sense," she added, before Mariana could think of a reply. "Moreover, it is very unwise of you to pin your hopes on a lieutenant, who is much too young for you. With all your knowledge of military matters, you must know that a lieutenant may not not marry, a captain marry, a captain may may marry, and a colonel marry, and a colonel must must marry. marry.
"Have you seen those horsemen on the plain?" she asked, mercifully changing the subject.
A distant swarm of Afghan riders appeared below the hills and milled about as if waiting for a signal.
"Look," Mariana cried, pointing to the slope. "I think men are leaving the village!"
"They are indeed," Lady Sale agreed, her glasses trained upon the hill. "They are running away, while our storming party is pinned down and unable to enter and secure it. Fools! But at least the Irregular Horse has ridden downhill to intercept the deserters."
To Mariana's left, on the Kohistan Road, a thick stream of men on foot and horseback made its way toward them. "More armed men are coming from the city," Mariana cried. "They are heading toward the second hill! Why have we not sent a sortie from here to cut them off?"
The men from the city numbered several thousand. Moving rapidly for men on foot, they traveled in groups toward the hills, triangular pennants aloft. They had no artillery, and save for a single, gesticulating figure at their head, they appeared to be leaderless. Nonetheless they made a terrifying sight.
Twenty minutes later, Mariana watched the first of the column begin to climb the left-hand hill, clearly making for the gorge that separated them from the British force.
The Afghan horsemen had already chased off the British irregular cavalry.
"A silly, stupid failure," opined Lady Sale.
Fitzgerald's gun shot steadily at the column from the city. Puff after puff of smoke issued from his position, making it hard to see what was happening to the infantry squares nearby.
Mariana did not need to be told that the Afghan jezail, with its longer range and greater accuracy, was a better weapon than the British musket. If the enemy came within a quarter mile of the red-coated British and Indian squares on the hill, their fire would be both damaging and unreturned.
"We Afghans never use more than two balls to kill a man," Nur Rahman had boasted once. "We only waste ammunition at a wedding or over a good joke."
An hour later, the climbing column of Afghans had the British squares in their sights. Hidden behind hillocks and outcroppings, they picked off the closely packed infantrymen, one by one.
"The first square has collapsed," observed Lady Sale, as if she were commenting upon the weather.
"Why do the brigadier's men not get down?" Mariana asked desperately. "Why are they trying to hold those squares? Surely Shelton is expecting long-range weapons fire, not a cavalry charge. And I thought we sent a hundred sappers out with the force. Why have they not created a breastwork?"
How long, Mariana wondered, would the squares stand against hot enemy fire? How long would Fitzgerald's gun continue to serve them before it overheated? How long...
"Lady Sale," she murmured, "I do not believe I can watch any longer."
"Do not be a goose," Lady Sale snapped. "Those are our our soldiers. Who is there to cheer them on but us?" soldiers. Who is there to cheer them on but us?"
"But they are surrounded by the enemy. I cannot bear to see them lose."
"Croaker!" Lady Sale turned on Mariana, her high-boned face twisting with fury. "How dare you say we might lose? How dare you suggest that our Christian army is inferior to a pack of infidel savages?" Lady Sale turned on Mariana, her high-boned face twisting with fury. "How dare you say we might lose? How dare you suggest that our Christian army is inferior to a pack of infidel savages?"
Her back to Mariana, she raised her glasses to her eyes in a sweeping gesture of British loyalty and confidence.
For two more hours, they watched the infantry squares suffer deadly losses. They saw the cavalry fail to charge. They saw the enemy, now at least ten thousand strong, overrun the unresisting British and Indian troops, and throw further reinforcements into Bibi Mahro village.
They saw the enemy capture Fitzgerald's gun, already overheated and spiked, and drive away his team of horses.
They cheered when Shelton's force somehow rallied, and drove the enemy from the gorge below, then stood in silence when, an hour later, a fresh body of Afghans arrived and rushed upon his one remaining square, slaughtering men and officers until all discipline broke. In the ensuing rout, men and officers, infantry and cavalry, all scrambled downhill toward the cantonment, killed as they ran by enemy horsemen who rode among them, hacking up the wounded where they fell, swinging swords that gleamed in the November sunlight.
As the mingled tide of panicked soldiers and pursuing Afghans neared the cantonment, a sudden burst of cannon fire came from within, followed by a brave, suicidal charge by a few native cavalrymen under a British officer, who was beheaded before Mariana's eyes with one sweep of an Afghan sword.
In moments, pursuers and pursued would all be inside the gate. No one could stop the insurgents now.
Mariana darted toward Lady Sale's betraying bamboo ladder, to fling it away. There would be time enough later, while the enemy swarmed over the cantonment, to think how to get down from the roof- "Wait!" Lady Sale called from her post. "They are going away."
Only yards from the open gate, the horsemen had paused, then, unexpectedly, had spun about. By the time Mariana rushed back to look, they were already riding off the way they had come, bloody swords above their heads, their shrill cries of triumph echoing across the plain.
As they prepared to make their way to the ground, Lady Sale extended a gloved hand. "I am sorry to say," she said somberly, "that your Lieutenant Fitzgerald has been shot. I saw him fall before the retreat began."
Numb with shock, Mariana stepped onto the waiting ladder.
Ten minutes later, still accompanied by Lady Sale, she shivered in a corner of the cantonment gateway, watching the remnants of Brigadier Shelton's force stream inside.
The air, already fouled by the rotting flesh of the dead animals outside the wall, now smelled of gunpowder and blood. The air was full of the panting breath of the filthy, exhausted survivors, the unsteady tramp of their boots, and the hoarse, unheeded cries of British officers attempting to rally their men, both Indian and British, as they poured through the gate.
Most of them still had their weapons. All wore torn, bloody uniforms. Many were missing their forage caps. Dark-skinned or white, some dropped, panting, to the ground as soon as they entered, too spent to move, while others wandered about, open-mouthed and staring, as if they did not recognize their surroundings.
"We must go and look for Fitzgerald. I will not leave you until you have learned the truth," Lady Sale had said firmly, as she escorted Mariana through her garden, a steadying hand beneath her elbow.
Unsurprisingly, there had been no sign of him.
"If he does not appear soon," Lady Sale said into Mariana's ear, "we must assume the worst."
As she spoke, a final group of survivors straggled through the gate. Among them were three tattered natives, dragging a dusty, wounded European between them.
His chest was caked with blood. His ankle dripped crimson. It was only after the men had dropped him to the ground and thrown themselves down, groaning, beside him, that Mariana recognized Harry Fitzgerald.
With a cry, she started toward him.
"Stop." Lady Sale gripped her by the arm. "This is no time for you to act the heroine. You cannot do anything for him now. People will come and take him to hospital with the other wounded."
As two young Englishmen rushed up and bent over him, Fitzgerald raised his dusty head as if he were looking for someone. "Tell Shelton," he croaked, "that we may have killed Abdullah Khan."
"You may have killed killed him?" they cried eagerly. him?" they cried eagerly.
His head dropped back. "We knocked him from his horse with a shot of artillery."
Several young officers rushed forward. Mariana watched them carry him away, his blood dripping into the dust.
On the night she had found Hassan in the house with the yellow door, blood had formed a little pool beneath the string bed where he lay....
"You may send your young man a message," Lady Sale declared as she steered Mariana across the parade ground, "and you may visit him, but not until he is better. I cannot imagine," she added, "how his men got him all the way here from the top of the hill. He must be a very popular officer."
Lost in her own thoughts, Mariana did not reply.
December 16, 1841 After many delays, Zulmai's dozen mules and twenty tough mountain ponies had arrived at last, and Hassan's rescue party, with its servants, coolies, and guards and its load of tents, quilts, food, and sundries, had taken the road south from Peshawar to Kohat, to join its protecting Hindu caravan.
Following a scarcely visible track between the uneven out-croppings of the Safed Koh range, the caravan's seventy-odd travelers and forty-eight pack animals had crossed the stony Kohat Pass with its half-ruined watchtowers and gun factories, their kafila guarded by ragged men Hassan and Zulmai had recruited from various forts along the way.
They found the mud-walled caravanserai at Kohat full of traders from Taxila and Bannu, and even from Sadda, halfway up the Kurram valley, but empty of any sign of a caravan traveling to Kabul. Inquiries brought nothing but shaken heads from fellow travelers.
Now, four days after their arrival, Ghulam Ali stepped up into Hassan's shedlike room along one wall of the caravanserai.
It had rained since they arrived. Outside, in the great open court, windswept sleet had turned the ground to ankle-deep slush.
A new brass samovar bubbled merrily beside Hassan's sodden doorway, filling the already damp room with steam and wood smoke. Carpets from Hassan's baggage covered the brick floor. A charpai charpai leaned up against one wall. leaned up against one wall.
"There is news," Hassan announced, setting down his teacup. "Akbar Khan has reached Kabul."
Zulmai nodded. "The people there love Akbar Khan as much as they hate the British. Now the insurgency will begin in earnest."
"We will leave here tomorrow, kafila or no kafila." Hassan raised his voice over the squealing of the yabus outside.
He shivered in spite of the blanket he wore about his head and shoulders. At first, he had seemed worn down by impatience. Now his gaze was heavy with worry.
Anticipating the misery of the journey, Ghulam Ali hunched his shoulders. Zulmai put down his chillum and blew a plume of smoke into the air.