The Weeping Ash

by Joan Aiken

  “Oh, very well done, missy sahib—very good done!” yelled the Therbah exuberantly in her ear as he ran to pick her up. “No bone broke, not even medicine bottle—might have been crossing river every day of life!”

  Filled with pride at her survival, though still shaking violently, Scylla staggered to her feet, waved, and shouted. But the distance was too far for sound to carry.

  “They see you come safe, no worry,” said the Therbah, busily resetting the wishbone seat so that it could be hauled back across the river. “Miss Musson Sahib now come too also probably.”

  However a pause now ensued of some considerable duration. Scylla’s fear rose again. What about that party on the lower road? Where were they now? A bend in the gorge cut off the view from here; she could only conjecture. Or had something gone wrong with the sling? Were she and the Therbah to be marooned on this side of the river, with the rest of the party unable to reach them? Could Miss Musson have balked at the crossing? The Therbah, frowning, puzzled, stared across and up, shading his eyes with his hand, muttering:

  “Master tie Memsahib in seat I think yes perhaps? Very dangerous tie in seat. Get ready quickly catch I believe yes understand very quick, missy?”

  He directed Scylla where to position herself so as to grasp and slow down the speeding sling the instant it came within reach; it was not hard to see that this would be a very tricky proceeding, rather like trying to halt a galloping horse that was about to come shooting down out of the sky.

  “Can it be because of the baby?” Scylla wondered, perplexed. But Miss Musson had adopted the mountain women’s practice of carrying the baby in a sling on her back, where he was perfectly secure; it seemed unlikely that this would raise any additional problem.

  When the seat at last came down, however, at its previous breakneck pace, they saw between the wooden arms, not Miss Musson’s white head, but Cal’s dark one; and he seemed to be lolling unconscious in the leather cradle, his hands were not grasping the arms of the fork.

  “God in heaven! My brother must have fainted!” exclaimed Scylla, horrified. “No wonder they must delay—”

  “Quick, missy—be ready—catch legs, push back—NOW!”

  Working together like herdsmen to stop an escaping beast, Scylla and the muscular little Therbah simultaneously gripped the sling seat and Cal’s inert body, struggling to bring him to a halt before he smashed into the tree. They were dragged, scrambling, along the ground with him, and all came to rest together in a tangle of boughs just short of the trunk.

  “Well done, missy,” the Therbah said again. “Break no leg I think very lucky. Cal Sahib got sick—not good time get sick.”

  Scylla could only agree, but as they worked to unfasten Cal, who had been strapped into the seat with massive knots and twists of plaited cable, presumably by Cameron, she could feel within herself exactly what must have precipitated an epileptic attack in him just then: it had been the dizzying, horrifying spectacle of his twin sister, almost part of himself, shooting down at such nightmare speed into the gulf. What a mercy that the attack had occurred before he had taken his place in the sling, and not on the way down, in which case his hands would have loosened their hold and he been plunged to destruction.

  Colonel Cameron must have been very angry about it, thought Scylla uncharitably. Heaven knows how they hoisted him up into the tree.

  The empty seat was sent back and Miss Musson came next with the baby; by now Scylla and the Therbah had achieved some degree of experience in how much to give way, how much to resist a body approaching them at full speed; in comparison with Scylla’s arrival, that of Miss Musson and the baby was almost decorous.

  “Well!” exclaimed the older lady, extracting herself neatly from the seat. “That was certainly a novel and diverting experience, and reminds me of the games that we used to play in the big old maple tree when I was a child! But how is poor Cal—did you manage to bring him safely to land?”

  “Yes, ma’am, but I fear he may be unconscious now for some time,” Scylla said worriedly. “I believe the seizure has turned into one of those deep slumbers that he falls into. It was a most unfortunate moment for it to occur—”

  “Unfortunate, but not in the least surprising—the poor lad turned positively green when he saw you diving through the air like a falcon.”

  “Was Colonel Cameron very displeased?”

  “Displeased? No, why should he be? He perfectly understands Cal’s disability.”

  Scylla reflected that Cameron often seemed disposed to be more lenient with Cal than he was with herself. Not that he ever permitted Cal any reduction in his share of work and hardship—nor, indeed, that Cal expected it; but the colonel allowed himself more of an easy, relaxed manner with her brother—a smile now and then, an occasional joke; whereas to Scylla, lately, his manner had been curt to the point of dislike.

  Her somewhat unprofitable train of thought was interrupted by the need to receive the guide, Hazarah, who now came down across the gorge, a reluctant co-passenger with the terrified goat; and after him, lastly, came Cameron himself.

  He was bleeding, they noticed, from a scrape wound on his brow.

  “What is that, Rob?” demanded Miss Musson.

  “Some fellows came up and shot at me just as I was starting off; I think we had best cut the rope,” he said negligently, and did so. “How is the boy?”

  “He will do well enough,” Miss Musson said. “But his seizure has changed to a sleep and I am strongly of the opinion that he should not be roused from it; the sleep is nature’s way of compensating for the violent convulsion that he has undergone. I am afraid, Rob, that you must resign yourself to make camp here for the next twelve hours.”

  “I had apprehended as much,” he said shortly. “We had better retire out of range from the opposite bank; not that there is much chance of hitting a mark with all this foliage in the way. Therbah! Help me carry Cal Sahib to a safer stopping place.”

  “How will travelers manage who wish to cross the gorge in future?” Scylla wondered as she and Miss Musson went to and fro, carrying stores up the riverbank.

  “They will choose some other route,” Cameron, overhearing her reflection, commented dryly. “I had thought that must have been obvious, Miss Paget.”

  She blushed, feeling foolish, and walked away from him without reply. But she heard Miss Musson demand:

  “Rob! The men who shot at you? Were they mountain brigands?”

  “No, Miss Amanda, I think they were soldiers from Ziatur; I am afraid Mihal has not given up the search for us yet. He has a longer arm than you credited him with.”

  * * *

  Cameron visibly chafed at the delay, but the rest of the party were grateful for the hours of rest enforced on them by Cal’s seizure. The women availed themselves of the opportunity to mend worn footwear and patch torn garments; Miss Musson cleaned and dressed Cameron’s graze; Cameron engaged in a long discussion with Hazarah as to the best routes ahead once the party had crossed the Lowacal Pass into Kafiristan. The result of this discussion was a certain cautious optimism.

  “Hazarah thinks that, if we can cross by Lowacal and then surmount the Weran Pass, which is the watershed between the Kokcha and Kunar rivers, there may by that time have been sufficient rain so that we may travel by raft down to Jellalabad; which, I need hardly say, would be a considerable easement in our mode of travel.”

  “By raft? Oh yes! What a delightful prospect!” exclaimed Miss Musson. “I shall look on that as quite a holiday, indeed!”

  “But before that, ma’am, I must warn you, lie some extremely arduous stretches of trail.”

  “Arduous?” put in Scylla, though she had not been directly addressed. She raised her brows. “More arduous than those we have hitherto traversed, Colonel Cameron?”

  He glanced at her briefly. “In comparison with what lies ahead, Miss Paget, our journey up to no
w will seem like a mere Sunday school picnic.”

  “Tell me, Rob,” said Miss Musson while Scylla was digesting this, “who now reigns in Afghanistan? Is the country in a settled condition since the death of the Amir Thaimur?”

  “No, ma’am, far from it,” he replied bluntly. “Crossing Afghanistan must be regarded as merely the lesser of two evils. Better than being assassinated by Mihal’s agents in Surat, no doubt; but I fear that lawlessness and civil strife are prevalent all over the country since the death of Thaimur—he left behind, as you may be aware, twenty-three sons—”

  “Twenty-three? Dear me!”

  “Twenty-three sons, none of whom had been positively nominated by him as his heir and successor.”

  “You were in the employ of Thaimur, were you not?” said Miss Musson.

  “I was, ma’am; for three years before his death I had charge of his army. I will say that those wild Pathans make fine soldiers! Devils when roused, given to relentless blood feuds, yet they have a great sense of honor and discipline.”

  “So why did you leave Afghanistan?” inquired Scylla, interested despite herself.

  Cameron continued, addressing himself to Miss Musson. “When Thaimur died, his son, Zaman Shah, briefly gained control of the throne, adopting Peshawur as his capital. He asked me to continue in his employ as commander of the army but I—did not see eye to eye with Zaman. He was extravagant, wild, cruel—almost a maniac, indeed! His ambition was to invade India, drive out the British and French. He occupied Lahore, as you know. But then the canny British, taking him in the rear, set up an alliance with the Persians, who began nibbling at Zaman’s western frontiers. And then a year later his brother Mahmud, who is Prince of Herat, started gathering forces against him. Mahmud was my friend, so I transferred my allegiance to him when the father died.”

  “So why are you not in Afghanistan still?”

  “Because Mahmud is a prisoner in Kandahar. A third brother, Shuja’ ul-Mulk, has since then seized power and installed himself on the throne.”

  “I collect,” thoughtfully remarked Miss Musson, “that you are not in favor with brother Shuja’ either?”

  “No, Miss Amanda. That is why I left Kabul and traveled to England.”

  “May it not be somewhat dangerous for you to pass through Afghanistan?”

  “Why no,” he said indifferently. “I did it on the way to Ziatur—in disguise, naturally. And who knows? Perhaps by now Mahmud has succeeded in releasing himself; Fatah Khan, the son of his father’s chief minister, was working to help him, when I last heard. Or, very likely, someone out of the other twenty brothers has had a snatch at the throne. Do not be putting yourself in a pucker over the dangers in Afghanistan, Miss Amanda; we shall have plenty of more immediate perils to contend with!”

  Scylla stood up, leaving the other two, and walked up the slope to where Cal lay asleep, rolled in his traveling cloak, with his head pillowed on a clump of moss. He looked peculiarly young, innocent, and defenseless. None of the men had been able to shave since the expedition began, but, whereas this had merely added another inch to Cameron’s luxuriant red-gold beard, not materially altering his appearance, Cal previously clean-shaven, now had a soft dark fringe of fuzz over his upper lip and chin, which made him look even more youthful than before. A loose lock of soft black hair had fallen forward over his face; kneeling by him, Scylla gently smoothed it back out of his eyes. He did not even stir when she touched him. He slept very deeply, drawing long, slow breaths that could hardly be heard.

  Looking up, after a moment or two, Scylla was astonished to find that Cameron stood beside her. He had moved as silently as some creature of the forest. He stooped and laid a finger on Cal’s wrist to feel the pulse.

  “He will do well enough. It is a strange affliction, epilepsy—very inconvenient—devilish inconvenient in a situation such as ours,” he remarked abruptly, and then added, “For twins, you are singularly unlike!”

  “I am sorry, sir.” She could not keep a note of anger out of her voice. “I greatly regret that my brother’s disability causes you such inconvenience.”

  “Oh, confound it!” He turned on his heel and strode away again. As he crossed the clearing she heard him mutter the word “Women!” in his beard.

  Scylla knelt on by her brother. Despite the welcome rest and the comfortable presence of Miss Musson, softly singing, “‘Roti, makan, chini, chota,’” across the clearing, she felt desolate, weary, lonely, and very low-spirited.

  Nine

  The meeting at Petworth House was quite frightening to Fanny, after such a long period of seclusion and virtual confinement at the Hermitage. To be going into company—to walk through the streets of the town with Thomas and Bet, just like any normal family—was in itself an extraordinary novelty. She had hardly set foot in the streets of Petworth during her nine months’ residence there. For the occasion Thomas had even thought of taking out the carriage; parsimony had warred in his breast with the wish to make a creditable appearance among the other gentry who would be arriving at Petworth House; but parsimony had won. It was only a five-minute walk, after all! Every minute of this, though, was of fresh interest to Fanny: the handsome town hall in the central square, built only five years previously by Lord Egremont—with a great black and white broadsheet stuck up on its door, terrifyingly depicting hideous brutish Frenchmen raping and devouring English women and children while houses flamed in the background; then there were the shops—drapers, mercers, shoe shops; there were the farmers in their leather breeches and leggings, round hats and neckerchiefs; the butchers’ stalls adorned with burning candles; so many impressions poured in upon her that by the time they reached the great front gates of Petworth House, Fanny was already quite dazzled.

  “Make haste, Frances!” Thomas said irritably. “Do not be staring about so! It will not do for us to be late, as Lord Egremont has invited me to take command of the troop.”

  Fanny, however, could not go any more rapidly; even at a moderate pace, buckled into her corselet, she could hardly breathe, and the linen webbing cut cruelly into her thighs; she said softly:

  “I can go no faster than this, Thomas. But see the church clock; it still wants five minutes to noon.”

  The gravel sweep before the house was a confusion of barouches, landaus, curricles, and phaetons; ladies and gentlemen were laughingly greeting one another as they descended from their equipages and stood about enjoying the warmth of the sun.

  “What’s this, James, is it true what I hear, that you have contributed ten thousand pounds to Pitt’s defense fund—and you a Whig? Fie!”

  “Well, if some wretched Lancashire calico merchant can subscribe ten thousand, it behooves us poor farmers to put our hands in our pockets—”

  “Dearest Lady Susan, how do you go on, over there, south of the Downs? Are you not afraid to open your windows in the morning, in case you see the French walking up the garden?”

  “Why, no, my love, for I have only to look southward to see a perfect forest of masts in the roadsteads off Portsmouth Harbor. I feel well protected!”

  “But they say that Rouen and Cambrai are packed with French troops, waiting to embark.”

  “I am persuaded that Admiral Duncan would never let them cross the Channel.”

  “What about that ill-starred landing of Popham’s at Ostend, though? A most shockingly botched and ill-conducted business! Fourteen hundred men obliged to surrender to the Frogs!”

  “The force was simply not strong enough—it should have been at least double that number—”

  “Just let them try landing on British soil, that’s all—the very sheep will fly at them—”

  “I quite agree with you, sir. This new semaphore telegraph will have the whole nation mustered within a space of hours. What a magnificent invention—news flashed from all the ports to the roof of Westminster Abbey, faster than a bird can fly!”

>   “For my part, I do not believe Buonaparte means to invade us at all. I have heard rumors that French engineers at Alexandria have been collecting information regarding the routes to Suez and the navigation of the Red Sea. I am of the opinion that Boney means to strike eastward, to India; after all, he is in league with Tippoo Sahib—”

  “Well, if he does so, it will be a cursed shame, after all our preparations—”

  Shy and silent amid all this cheerful babel, Fanny and Bet stood in the shadow of Thomas, who, also somewhat quelled by the sight of so many well-dressed, loud-voiced, confident people, stood looking about him with a kind of nervous hostility. His clothes suddenly appeared countrified, his broadcloth shabby, his neckcloth skimpy, and he himself small, pale, and ill assured.

  Bet was avidly taking in the ladies’ toilets. Up to this moment she had considered Fanny and herself very creditably dressed. Regardless of Thomas’s admonitions, they had put on their best walking gowns—Fanny’s gray and white striped poplin, somewhat old-fashioned, but it suited her, with its frill at the neck and a tilted hat over a lace cap; Bet had her spotted India calico, a Norwich shawl over her shoulders with the long dangling ends crossed in front and a pink sash tied over them. The shawl was too hot for such a warm day but it was by far the finest thing she had, and she had been determined to wear it. Now she saw that she and Fanny looked like a pair of dowds among these ladies, who were all dressed in the most exiguously scanty garments, low-necked muslin gathered in front with gauzy fichus, no hats to be seen, but only bonnets, some of them shaped like Athene’s helmet (for in spite of the war, Paris fashions still floated across the Channel), worn over bewitchingly pretty mobcaps with ribbons at the back and rosettes on top. And such lovely slippers! Morocco leather, and satin in every color of red, blue, and green. Surreptitiously Bet shuffled her own feet under the skirt of her gown.