"No one can can defend it!" shouted Shelton. "We cannot defend the smallest thing! Was I the only witness to the plundering of our camels and defend it!" shouted Shelton. "We cannot defend the smallest thing! Was I the only witness to the plundering of our camels and dhoolies dhoolies this morning, as they returned from leaving our wounded at the Bala Hisar? Did I alone see our drivers and bearers stripped of all their clothes and forced to run for their lives, naked, across the snow?" this morning, as they returned from leaving our wounded at the Bala Hisar? Did I alone see our drivers and bearers stripped of all their clothes and forced to run for their lives, naked, across the snow?"
The general sighed. "I do not know why no one ever fights these people off when they attack us. Have we no sentries, no proper guard?
"I have received another letter from Shah Shuja, begging us not to desert him," he added mournfully. "I wish I had any idea what to do now."
They were to leave in the morning. Mariana stared into space as she sipped her third cup of tea. The sun had already set. It was too late.
After Nur Rahman pounded away toward the city, she and her family had continued their dignified journey toward the vast caravanserai and animal market west of Kabul where Aminullah's men waited to escort them to India.
Perched atop her camel, frantic with nerves, she had hardly noticed the sweet air she breathed, or the clear azure sky above the steep brown hills in front of them. After they passed inside the caravanserai's high gate, she had paid little attention to the huddled camps scattered over the caravanserai's hilly terrain.
A short distance from the main gate, they had found their quarters, a pair of thick, black goat-hair tents that squatted close to the ground, each one boasting half a dozen armed guards.
Other tents stood nearby. A lamb had been tied to one of them.
"The ladies will take one tent, the men will take the other," Aminullah Khan had announced from the back of his horse, gesturing toward the black tents. "I will entertain you until your departure in the morning. Then I will accompany you as far as the Sher Darwaza pass."
The morning. Mariana sighed, adjusting her hopes. Perhaps the horseman had not been Hassan after all. Perhaps he had only turned his head as Hassan would have done... Mariana sighed, adjusting her hopes. Perhaps the horseman had not been Hassan after all. Perhaps he had only turned his head as Hassan would have done...
She looked about her in the gathering darkness. Held up by many poles and wrapped in layers of black goat-hair, the women's tent was comfortable enough, although it was too cold inside for them to remove their poshteens. It also was attractive, with its thickly woven floor coverings, its mattresses and bolsters, its piles of woven saddlebags, and its cheerful little fire in a circle of stones, although Aunt Claire had already complained bitterly about being stuffed into the same ice-cold tent with all the female servants.
Mariana imagined Uncle Adrian with Yar Mohammad and the Mug cook, not to mention Dittoo.
The smell of roasting meat drifted in from outside, along with male voices. Earlier, hearing frightened bleating, Mariana had put her head out of the tent in time to see a man holding the dying lamb up by its hind legs, while the blood from its slit throat drained into the snow.
Now, chopped into pieces and threaded onto skewers, it was to be their dinner.
She was dozing against a bolster when Nur Rahman put his head hesitantly into the tent.
"Tell that boy to come in or go out, but for goodness sake close the flap," Aunt Claire snapped from her cocoon of quilts, causing Mariana to start awake. "We have a howling draft as it is. Why is he he in the women's tent? And why is he swathed in-" in the women's tent? And why is he swathed in-"
Before her aunt could finish, Mariana was on her feet, beckoning him inside.
"I thought I would never find your horseman," he whispered excitedly. "But there he was, at Haji Khan's house, drinking tea with Munshi Sahib. He-"
"Where is he now?" Mariana demanded, her thoughts whirling. "Is he here?"
"Of course not." The boy waved a vague arm. "He is at his own camp. Aminullah Khan would have him killed if he tried to visit you here. Aminullah has taken responsibility for your honor."
His face filled with curiosity. "Who is this man? Why do you want to see him?"
"Wait there." Without replying, she hurried across the tent floor, found her chaderi, and put it on. "Take me to him."
A plaintive voice rose from the carpet as she tugged on her boots. "Mariana! Where on earth are you going?"
"I shall be back soon, Aunt Claire," Mariana called over her shoulder as she and Nur Rahman, identical in their chaderis, left the black tent and started off into the darkness.
"Stop. I must explain first." Nur Rahman whispered something unintelligible to the trio of guards who sat outside, then motioned for Mariana to follow him.
"We must look as if we are going to that tent over there," he said quietly, pointing. "They must think we have gone to find other women to shield us while we relieve ourselves outside. There is very little time," he added, "only enough to wish the man peace before we return."
Fires glowed in the distance. Tents clustered near them. The boy pointed. "That is his camp."
A faint glow inside the largest tent told them it was occupied.
Mariana tried to smooth her hair, but it was beyond help after being stuffed into the embroidered cap of her chaderi, with most of its pins gone. Her lips were chapped from the cold.
She ran a nervous hand over her face. Why, in all those months, had she not imagined what she would say to Hassan?
Her stomach lurched as she remembered Harry Fitzgerald.
Someone heard them arrive. "Who is there?" inquired a male voice.
"It is I, Nur Rahman," called the boy.
"Enter," the voice replied.
Mariana signaled for Nur Rahman to wait, took a deep breath, lifted the door flap, and entered.
A single oil lamp lit the comfortably arranged tent. Its flame guttered in the draft from the door. Remembering, she bent to remove her boots.
Hassan was already on his feet when she entered. "I have been waiting for you," he said sharply, stepping toward her across a thick Bokhara carpet. "Where is the lady who sent you to find me?"
He was thinner than she remembered. He looked worn, as if he had recently completed some long and difficult work.
"Speak," he snapped, gesturing impatiently.
"Oh!" she cried, her hand to her mouth, too flustered to take in that he thought she was Nur Rahman. "Oh, your beautiful hand!"
He stopped short. He bent, and gazed through her cutwork. "It is you," he said.
He wore an exquisite, unfamiliar scent. Unnerved by his presence, she could only nod.
Nur Rahman's head appeared in the doorway. "Quickly, Khanum," he urged, "we must return at once."
Hassan turned, frowning at the interruption. Mariana raised a hand. "A moment, Nur Rahman."
"No!" The boy shook his head violently. "There is no time. You have left Aminullah Khan's tents without a male escort. If you do not return at once you will cause him dishonor. They kill their own women for making such mistakes," he added desperately.
Hassan strode across the carpet and jerked the door curtain open, letting in both Nur Rahman and a blast of freezing air. "Where is his camp?" he asked curtly.
Nur Rahman pointed. "Inside the gate. Near the mosque."
"If it is that far away," Hassan said decisively, "then you have already been gone too long. You cannot return."
Not return? "But I must go back," Mariana protested. "My aunt and uncle will worry. They will-" "But I must go back," Mariana protested. "My aunt and uncle will worry. They will-"
Ignoring her, he pointed outside. "Nur Rahman, you will sleep in that tent over there. My servant Ghulam Ali will give you food."
Ghulam Ali had survived the journey after all! He had found Hassan, and given him her second letter....
Mariana breathed in, trying to grasp her situation. Hassan's carpeted tent was lovely, with its small quilt-covered table on one side, and its pile of silk bolsters. Nevertheless, she felt a sudden pang of homesickness for her aunt and uncle, for Dittoo and Yar Mohammad. How would they manage without her? They were her family.
"Go," Hassan snapped.
Nur Rahman did not reply. As he walked out of the tent, a single sob floated behind him.
He had only been trying to protect her. All this time he had treated her with respect, and no one had bothered to tell him the truth.
"Wait," she called, stumbling after him. "That man is my husband," she said to his back.
He stopped short. "Your husband? husband? Why did you not tell this to Aminullah Khan?" Why did you not tell this to Aminullah Khan?"
Already turning back, she did not reply.
She found Hassan bending over a saddlebag, his back to her.
"You must write to your uncle," he said briskly, as he took out paper, a quill pen, and a bottle of ink, and laid them aside. "Tell him you are safe. Tell him that I have undertaken to escort you to Lahore." He straightened, frowning. "And take off that dirty chaderi.
"I would have brought the rest of your family with me," he added, as she pulled off the yards of enveloping cotton and raked her fingers through her tumbled hair, "but it would be disrespectful for them to leave Aminullah Khan."
He held out the paper and pen. "Write," he said, then strode from the tent.
When he returned with Nur Rahman, she was folding her letter. He took it from her and handed it to the boy. "Deliver this without your disguise," he ordered. "Be careful."
Dearest Uncle Adrian, the letter said, My husband Hassan has arrived from India. I am safe with him. My husband Hassan has arrived from India. I am safe with him.
Sadly, we must now part. It was not my intention to desert you at this difficult time, but by calling on Hassan I have somehow broken a Pashtun rule, and now may not return to Aminullah's camp. Furthermore, it would be most unwise for us to interfere with Aminullah's arrangements for you and the servants.
Please forgive me, and give all my love to Aunt Claire. God willing, we will meet again in India.
After Nur Rahman had trotted away, Hassan turned to Mariana and looked silently at her. Something in his tired face made her want to close her eyes.
She must tell him how she felt now, before she lost her courage. She must voice her remorse and hope before it was too late.
"I am so- so-" she began.
He silenced her with a raised hand, then took her arm and guided her to the sandali with its pile of bolsters.
"You did not write," she said, as she stretched her legs beneath the table, toward the warmth of the brazier.
He did not reply or look at her, but as the shawls across his chest rose and fell, a wave of feeling seemed to come from him, as it had once, long before. It crossed the space between them and washed over her. Her breathing quickened.
"You asked Aminullah Khan for panah," he said softly, "and brought those whom you love to safety."
She nodded.
What did he want from her? She would die if he did not...
His eyes flicked away from hers. He reached into his clothes and pulled out a worn, stained paper. It crinkled between his fingers. "Do you remember this?" he asked, smiling.
"I said too much," she whispered, her face heating. "I did not-"
Beneath his warm, compelling perfume lay the sharp scent of his skin. He put the letter down, and leaned toward her. "Search out a man," "Search out a man," he murmured as he reached to open the front of her sheepskin cloak, he murmured as he reached to open the front of her sheepskin cloak, "whose own breast has burst from severance, that I may express to him the agony of my love-desire." "whose own breast has burst from severance, that I may express to him the agony of my love-desire."
Love-desire. His eyes on her face, he reached inside her cloak, and, with his damaged hand, drew a slow circle on one of her breasts, then the other. His eyes on her face, he reached inside her cloak, and, with his damaged hand, drew a slow circle on one of her breasts, then the other.
"And though in my grief I stripped off my feathers and broke my wings, even this could not drive from my head this rough passion of love."
His eyes were half closed. She took his damaged hand and kissed the stump of his missing finger.
"I love you," she breathed. "I have loved you from the moment I first saw you."
As soon as she said those words, she realized they were true.
January 5, 1842 She awoke the next morning to see Hassan bending over her, fully dressed but for his boots. He held the gold medallion on its chain.
"I believe this is yours," he said, holding it out. "I must buy provisions, and a mount for your journey to Lahore," he added, as he padded to the doorway. "Ghulam Ali and Nur Rahman will look after you until I return, as will my own servants. I will be back, Inshallah, by late morning. When I return, we will prepare to depart."
After the tent flap fell shut behind him, she closed her eyes.
"Nur Rahman," she called, "I want tea!"
HASSAN AND Zulmai waited on their horses at the head of a file of eight unburdened mules. "There is no point in going to the city," Zulmai pointed out. "All the shops will be closed. The British retreat is to take place tomorrow. Everyone is preparing to see the show. We should go instead to one of the forts near the Sher Darwaza. Someone there will be willing to sell us food for our journey." "Show?" Hassan frowned. "So there is to be shooting." Zulmai shrugged. "Akbar Khan may have offered the British safe passage, but he will never control the Ghilzais who want revenge for being cheated of their payments. And in any case, the British army is four thousand strong. It is not a merchant kafila. Fighting is an army's life."
"And what is that large army's condition?"
"From what I hear, they are weak from hunger, but hungry or not, fighting is what they will do. Even if they have shown little courage in the past weeks, they will fight tomorrow. "
"And they will have no chance at all."
"None," Zulmai agreed. "Gunmen are already waiting for them in the Khurd-Kabul pass, and in the Haft Kotal. As the army passes, more men will come, and lie in wait at Tezeen and Jagdalak. But now," he concluded, clucking to his horse and signaling to the mule drivers, "let us stop talking and go."
The fort he chose was on a slope overlooking the Kabul River. It was not as impressive as some of the strongholds they had passed on their way to Kabul, but it was substantial enough, with its corner towers and high, irregular walls. Hassan and Zulmai left the road and turned toward it, then stopped a respectful distance from the main entrance, their mules lined up behind them, and waited for someone to take notice of them.
Almost immediately men with jezails appeared on the parapet. Moments later, the tall doors were flung open, and a group of men galloped out.
Their leader was a thickly built man with a startling red beard.
"Peace," he offered politely, a hand over his heart.