Part 32 (1/2)

”And what of Ghulam Ali?”

”He is outside your doorway with a musket. He has been there since dawn.”

Her chest tightened. ”And he he is our protection?” is our protection?”

Nur Rahman raised his chin. ”Ghulam Ali and I,” I,” he said, pointing to his own, wicked-looking knife, ”are he said, pointing to his own, wicked-looking knife, ”are your your protection.” protection.”

Mariana stood up, tightened her sheepskin across her chest, and pushed the door curtain aside. There was no sign of the courier. The other tents that had dotted the sloping ground in front of her were gone, except for the three menacing-looking ones she had seen the night before.

”Ghulam Ali is not there.” She pushed her hands into her sleeves against the invading wind. ”Ask the servants to bring more hot coals.”

Nur Rahman went out, and returned almost immediately. ”There is no one in the servants' tents,” he whispered. ”They are gone.”

”Gone?” She stared. ”But where would they go, in this weather?” She stared. ”But where would they go, in this weather?”

”I heard one of them say yesterday that he has a Hindu friend in the city. Perhaps they have gone to find him. I found a tribesman standing near their tents just now,” he added. ”He said that he and his friends had been teasing the servants, threatening to come at night and kill them all. He said they were cowards to run away.”

”Perhaps they were not teasing.” A s.h.i.+ver ran down Mariana's back. She had seen only two of Ha.s.san's servants since her arrival, but she knew enough of Indian households to imagine them all-at least three personal servants, a pair of cooks, a sweeper, someone to wash Ha.s.san's clothes, grooms, porters, someone to attend to the fire, a courier....

”And what of Ghulam Ali?” she asked sharply.

The boy shook his head. ”He has not returned.”

”Then we are alone.” Panic rose in Mariana's throat.

She put a hand on the tent pole to steady herself. Even the freezing roads would be safer than this vulnerable, unguarded tent. Who knew what horrors they would risk if they stayed.

”We must leave at once,” she said urgently.

”No.” Nur Rahman shook his head. ”We must wait. Ghulam Ali cannot have gone far. Ha.s.san Ali Khan is coming back soon. He will-”

”How do you know Ha.s.san will come?” she demanded, her voice rising. ”How do you know he has not been killed? How do you know Ghulam Ali is not lying somewhere outside with his throat cut?”

Her shoulders sagged at the sound of her own terrible words. ”We have no food left, Nur Rahman, and only that knife of yours for protection. The men in front of us have seen me here. They know we're alone.”

”But where will we go?”

”To Haji Khan's house. He will know what to do. If Ha.s.san returns, he will find me there.”

If. The Afghans would have seen that Ha.s.san was Indian. She must not picture him shot by a sniper, lying crumpled by the side of the road. The Afghans would have seen that Ha.s.san was Indian. She must not picture him shot by a sniper, lying crumpled by the side of the road.

No one knew where she was.

Nur Rahman threw up his hands. ”Khanum,” he cried, ”we cannot go to the city! It is at war. No women will be allowed on the streets.”

She found her chaderi and threw it on. ”Then we must join the British on their march to Jalalabad. If we hurry, we can join the vanguard, where the senior ladies are-”

”No!”

”Please, Nur Rahman,” she begged, her chin wobbling with fright beneath her veil. ”We must get away from here before we are killed. Tomorrow morning the British will have marched away, and the city will be safer. We will go to Haji Khan's house then.”

Nur Rahman squeezed his eyes shut.

When she did not reply, he opened his eyes and sighed. ”If I am to walk on the road with you,” he said resignedly, ”then I must fetch my own chaderi.”

Like a pair of countrywomen, with dirty, worn chaderis over their sheepskins, they walked together under the high gate of the caravanserai, then turned east, along the narrow, trampled path to the city, and the road to Jalalabad.

A faint thudding came from the distance.

”Heavy guns,” Mariana said as they walked. ”The British must be fighting a rearguard action, to cover the retreat.”

As they neared the city, the sound of artillery grew louder. Mariana walked heavily, weighed down by her sheepskin, her movements hampered by her sodden chaderi.

Her face burned from the cold.

Nur Rahman pointed. ”Look!” he cried, over the thundering of the guns.

To their left, past leafless orchards, heavy gray smoke rose into the air.

”The British fort has fallen,” he said.

She stared despairingly at the column of smoke. She had never thought the enemy would set the cantonment on fire. Where were Lady Macnaghten and Lady Sale? Where were Charles Mott and Harry Fitzgerald?

”Akbar Khan's men have captured the British artillery,” the boy went on. ”They are firing after the British as they run away.”

Run away. It was a terrible admission, but it was correct. The rising smoke certainly did not speak of tactical retreat, a prelude to future victory. It told only of dismal, hopeless flight. It was a terrible admission, but it was correct. The rising smoke certainly did not speak of tactical retreat, a prelude to future victory. It told only of dismal, hopeless flight.

It had taken the Afghans no time at all to use the captured artillery....

Two boys approached, leading a donkey.

Nur Rahman stopped them to ask for news. The elder of the two pointed east, toward the Hindu Kush mountains. His companion gestured excitedly, a wide grin on his dirty face.

When they had gone, Nur Rahman turned to Mariana. ”Those boys watched everything, even the shooting,” he said. ”They say that Afghan fighters have disrupted the retreating column. They say the British and Indian soldiers are not returning the Afghan artillery fire, and that most of their baggage was plundered before they had even crossed the river.”

Mariana s.h.i.+vered. The smoke now seemed to come from more than one fire. Had Fitzgerald lost all his guns? What would become of the poor, desperate column as it tried to force its way through the first, claustrophobic Khurd-Kabul pa.s.s? How would it survive that pa.s.s, and the next one, and the next? What of the half-starved sepoys who marched in this bitter cold, or the camp followers, the twelve thousand unarmed men, women, and children? What of the shoeless, runny-nosed babies she had seen in the bazaar?

At its narrowest, the Jagdalak Pa.s.s was only six feet wide.

Her legs felt weak. Her feet had lost their feeling. She wanted to sit down, but there was nowhere to rest, only snow, gray skies, leafless trees, and more snow.

”We must avoid the fighting,” Nur Rahman said thoughtfully. ”We will turn north to avoid the path of the British army, then travel parallel to them until we reach the head of the column. At dark, after the Ghilzais have stopped shooting, and dispersed to their homes, we will join the British camp.”

She nodded numbly.

”Since it has taken them all morning to cross the river,” he said, ”they will not have gone far. Early tomorrow morning, before the fighting begins again, we will get away and return to the city. But we must move quickly.”

Had they made a mistake? she wondered, as she forced herself to follow the boy. Had they abandoned Ha.s.san's camp too soon? Why, in her panic, had she failed to leave a note for Ha.s.san? Was he searching for her even now?