Part 23 (1/2)
”My dear fellow,” he said, his jowls wobbling as he shook his head, ”I am far too ill to have the slightest idea what we should do.”
At the foot of the bed, Captain Sturt s.h.i.+fted his weight. ”I understand your difficulty, sir,” he said carefully, ”but I must ask you to reconsider your-”
”But one thing I do do believe,” interrupted the general, ”is that we must believe,” interrupted the general, ”is that we must not not leave here and move into the Bala Hisar.” leave here and move into the Bala Hisar.”
He wore a heavy woolen dressing gown with a ta.s.seled waist cord. A fur-lined robe lay on his knees. He peered into Sturt's scarred face like an old dog that hopes he is still loved.
”Sir,” Sturt attempted, ”the men will all starve if we-”
Elphinstone raised a trembling hand. ”Our honor will be forever forfeit if we abandon our cantonment,” he intoned. ”Can you not see that, my dear Sturt? Besides, we shall never arrive there without dreadful losses. You have already seen what these Afghans are capable of. Think of your wife and mother-in-law, Sturt!”
”Sir,” the younger man protested through clenched teeth, ”we are less than two miles two miles from the Bala Hisar. That is no distance at-” from the Bala Hisar. That is no distance at-”
”I am far too exhausted to speak about it anymore.” The general reached, wincing, into the pocket of his dressing gown. ”Here you are, my dear fellow,” he said, holding out a folded paper. ”Take this letter to Sir William. It contains all my thoughts on our present situation.”
The three men in Lady Sale's dining room looked up when Captain Sturt entered.
”It is no use,” he said bitterly, handing the letter to Macnaghten. ”General Elphinstone would not let me finish a single sentence.”
” 'Winter is advancing,' ” Macnaghten read aloud. ” 'We find ourselves in a state of siege, with every man in Afghanistan arming against us. We have little food and no forage left, and our water and communications have been cut off. Our animals are starving, and great numbers of our troops are sick or wounded. We have no strength left to attack even armed civilians, and none to defend ourselves. Worse, we have no hope of relief from any quarter.' ”
He raised his head. ”All this is true,” he said sourly, ”but it is largely his fault.”
” 'As no further military action can be taken,' ” he continued, his eyes on the letter, ” 'you must must come to an agreement with the enemy for our withdrawal to India. Honorable terms are better for our government than our being destroyed here.' come to an agreement with the enemy for our withdrawal to India. Honorable terms are better for our government than our being destroyed here.'
”Honorable terms? Withdraw to India!” Macnaghten refolded the letter and threw it onto the table. ”That is exactly what Elphinstone and Shelton have both wanted all along.” Macnaghten refolded the letter and threw it onto the table. ”That is exactly what Elphinstone and Shelton have both wanted all along.”
He raised his head and looked cheerlessly at his three companions. ”Gentlemen,” he said, ”our army, even our most senior officers, have given in to fear. I have done all I can to encourage this flaccid force to do its duty, but I can no longer hope for a single successful military action on our part. I must now follow a course that will bring utter ruin and disgrace upon us. Tomorrow morning I shall ask for an audience with Akbar Khan.
”I can tell you this, Lamb,” he added sorrowfully, ”all our reputations are forfeit now. History will not treat us kindly.”
The front door banged open. Voices cried out for a.s.sistance. Sir William arrived in the pa.s.sage in time to see his deathly pale wife being carried into the house.
THAT NIGHT as she prepared for bed, Mariana did not wish to recite the durood. All she wanted was to draw the covers over her head and shut out Fitzgerald's begging eyes and the horrors she had seen, but Muns.h.i.+ Sahib had told her that self-discipline was the key to proper living.
”Weakness,” he had said mildly, ”comes from lack of attention. A man who rushes here and there, ignoring his duty and his promises, forgetting the needs of others and obeying the selfish demands of his own heart, will never find peace.”
Muns.h.i.+ Sahib had found peace. She saw it in every gesture he made, every word he uttered. In the teeth of this murderous time, in the cold, with almost no water and little to eat, he had never failed to maintain his usual, unruffled calm.
Had he or Haji Khan, she wondered, ever given in to pa.s.sion or panic? Had Shaikh Waliullah or Safiya Sultana? Had Ha.s.san?
She knew the durood by heart, so there was no need to keep her lamp burning. She blew it out, and lay down.
”You must always recite a durood while sitting,” Muns.h.i.+ Sahib had told her. ”Otherwise, you may fall asleep before you have finished.”
But she was too cold and tired to sit up. She tucked her quilts around her, and began to recite.
Her eyes began to close at the seventh repet.i.tion. At the ninth, she felt her breathing deepen.
Only two more ...
As she began the eleventh repet.i.tion, a picture unfolded in her mind's eye of a desert landscape. It lay, wide open, before her, its rolling surface as white as snow. Ahead of her, a full moon hung in the eastern sky, its silver light falling upon the ground, illuminating the path she was to take.
She must go forward, toward the beckoning moon, for joy lay somewhere ahead.
She was not alone. Camel bells c.h.i.n.ked beside and behind her, revealing the presence of invisible others, but in her waking dream she did not turn her head to look at them.
Following the moon's path, she walked straight ahead, her feet sinking into the sand. Joy filled her heart, and lightened her steps.
Yes, she thought drowsily as she drifted into sleep, that was the message of Haji Khan's durood: for those who practiced these recitations, even the worst of times could not entirely erase hope, or the beauty of dreams.
What a pity that Muns.h.i.+ Sahib, the great interpreter of visions, had been taken away to the city....
December 23, 1841 As he followed Yar Mohammad and the borrowed donkey along the frozen Kohistan Road, Nur Rahman glanced nervously through his peephole at the crowd of hors.e.m.e.n and foot travelers around him.
On previous occasions, he had hummed to himself as he hurried toward the city to rejoin his dear old Muns.h.i.+ Sahib, whose health was improving a little each day. But on this morning, the atmosphere on the road had changed. His plan to fetch chickens, turnips, and round red pumpkins faded, engulfed by a steady stream of men who poured out of the city and over the Pul-e-Khishti bridge, all of them traveling north.
What news had sent them from their homes on this cold day, their faces hard and intent, speaking little as they moved, alone or in groups, in the direction of the British cantonment?
Nur Rahman wished he were already at Haji Khan's house, boiling water in the samovar for Muns.h.i.+ Sahib's tea, instead of on the open highway.
”I do not like your boots,” he said tensely to his shrouded companion. ”People will see that they are foreign.”
”Never mind them,” the English lady replied sharply. ”Tell Yar Mohammad not to walk so quickly. I can hardly see out of this chaderi as it is. I am certain to fall on this slippery road.”
For the past four days, every time he had seen the Englishwoman, she had pestered him to take her to visit Muns.h.i.+ Sahib and Haji Khan. For four days he had fended her off, using every excuse he could find, but she had won in the end. Now, forced to bring her to the city, he sweated beneath his disguise.
The air was clear. A bitter wind rattled the branches of the trees along the road. Travelers of all nationalities were, of course, to be seen, but the people Nur Rahman feared were his fellow Pashtuns, who streamed past him by the hundreds.
For months, Nur Rahman had been afraid of discovery by Painda Gul's Pashtun relatives, but in the presence of these warriors, he felt a s.h.i.+ver of real terror. Who knew what horrors their long knives might inflict on him if they discovered he had been buying food and carrying it to their enemies?
A tall man with a skullcap and a long beard turned to his companions as they strode by. ”Why has Sirdar Akbar Khan waited so long to make his move?” he asked in Pushto.
A second man shrugged. ”He wished to test the infidel Englishman's honor one final time.”
A third spat onto the ice at his feet. ”What need is there for tests? These English are all liars. I say Macnaghten should have been killed months ago.”
Nur Rahman turned to the Englishwoman. She, who spoke only Farsi, could not have understood those words. ”Hurry,” he whispered urgently, reaching out a damp hand. ”We must hurry.” hurry.”
NO ONE had even glanced at them, but still Mariana bent her head and pulled her chaderi closer over her chest. There was no point in adding to Nur Rahman's agitation.
She had lengthened her steps when he urged her to walk faster, but for all his anxiety, and in spite of the armed men who strode past them or clattered by on horses, she felt safer on the Kohistan Road than she did within the ramparts of the British garrison.
Here, only a thousand yards from the cantonment, with its frightened population and starving animals, the landscape looked calm and prosperous, and the people robust and healthy. Judging from the bounty that Nur Rahman brought from the city on his borrowed donkey, the markets must be full of lovely, fresh food.
Cold rose through the thin soles of her boots, causing her feet to ache, but no amount of discomfort could reduce her excitement.
She had wanted for so long to make this short, thrilling journey....