by Jane Feather
The back gate was sparsely guarded, the street behind miraculously empty. Kit bellowed at the sepoys to fetch reinforcements as they bolted the gate behind him; and in the same moment a screaming mass poured around the corner, heading for the rear entrance to the residency. He could not possibly withstand them, or add any useful support to the guards. His task was to alert the cantonment. He swung his horse away from the mob and galloped down the street.
It was as if all human life in the city had been drawn forth and concentrated on the square yards around the residency. No one was to be seen. Doors stood open to the street. His horse pounded over the straw-littered cobbles, swung into the street where Akbar Khan’s house stood.
Kit had not been aware of deciding on this route. In fact, this street was as good a way as any of reaching his goal—the city gates. But Akbar Khan’s door stood open and unguarded. After that, Kit was not aware of making any choices. He simply acted.
Flinging himself from his mount, he stepped into the dark, stone-flagged hallway. The empty silence in the house seemed to take on solid form, as if he were enwrapped in a wet and heavy cloak. He mounted the stairs, cautiously yet without hesitation. It was as if he had always known the way. Unerringly, he turned to the left at the head of the stairs. A tapestried doorway stood exactly where he expected it to be. He pushed through.
Ayesha stood in the center of the room, transfixed as if frozen in mid-step. Her hair poured down her back, burnished copper in the gloom. She was unveiled, dressed simply in a cream-colored woolen tunic and flowing trousers, and her eyes still wore the shadow of sleep. The whiteness of her complexion took on a deathly pallor as she saw him.
“Dear God! Are you mad?” she breathed. “Get out of here, quickly.”
“Not without you,” he said with perfect calm. “There is no one here.”
“Of course there is,” she hissed fiercely. “The women are all here. I have just woken, and any minute now, Soraya will wake and—”
“Then come quickly.” He took a step toward her. “The guards are gone from the door … gone to see the fun, I daresay.”
“Akbar Khan will have them crucified for deserting their posts,” she whispered, terror standing out in the jade eyes as the image of what he would do to Christopher Ralston if he discovered him here rose in all its dread reality. “Please, Kit, you must go from here.”
He folded his arms and stood very still, looking at her. “I will not leave without you. The choice is yours.”
Ayesha had no idea what was happening, except that as she had feared something momentous and horrendous was taking place in the city. She had been told nothing, but the sounds of the mob had woken her … that and the empty stillness in the house. And suddenly, Christopher Ralston had materialized. How? Where from? She could not begin to guess, and it did not matter. What mattered was that in his eyes she saw the same burning fanaticism exhibited by any Afghan zealot. She had seen it many times since that first time in the Khyber pass, and she knew how unvanquishable it was. Reasoning with him would be as pointless as reasoning with a lunatic. He was laying his life upon the line, forcing her to act to prevent his being torn limb from limb … or even worse. The sweat of terror broke from her pores, coldly damp, at the nightmare possibilities.
She moved swiftly past him to the doorway. If she could just get him out onto the street again, then she could jump back inside and bar the door. Once outside, he would be safe enough, dressed as he was. She began to run down the stairs, her heart pounding sickeningly at the thought that any moment could bring the guards back … could produce Akbar Khan … If the guards caught her fleeing, fleeing unveiled in the company of a feringhee intruder, they would have no compunction in dealing with her. Her own fate would be as grim as Kit’s.
“Do you have a cloak?” Kit followed her, speaking as if this madness were the most normal, ordinary occurrence; as if he had no understanding of what they were risking. “You’ll freeze without something.”
She made no response, having absolutely no intention of venturing more than a step beyond the door.
A heavy, fur-trimmed mantle hung from a hook in the hall. He yanked it loose and stepped after her, into the deserted street. His horse still stood at the door, but he was sniffing the air uncertainly, pawing the cobbles with clear anxiety.
With a sudden movement, Ayesha darted back, behind Kit to the door. Again without conscious thought, he reacted, seizing her arm, hauling her against him. There was a short, fierce, soundless struggle, both of them knowing that the first cry would bring disaster. Kit had only one thought. For days … weeks … he had been wrestling with the seemingly insoluble problem of his obsession. Now the solution was in his hands. He had her, outside in the street, free and clear. How free was free? How clear was clear? The buzkashi catchphrase swam into his head, to be instantly dismissed. He had her. He had his horse. The other contenders were nowhere in sight. The fact that the prize was resisting him was an irrelevance he would deal with later. For now, he would make his own rules.
Catching her around the waist, he lifted her clear of the ground and tossed her forward over the bare back of his horse. Shock rendered her motionless for the split second he needed to jump up behind her. He flung the cloak over her prone body, covering her completely, before leaning forward, holding her securely with one hand and the weight of his own body. His horse sprang into an almost instantaneous gallop.
In the next street, there were people, running, shrieking. The sight of a wildly plunging horse and a wild-eyed, dark-skinned, turbanned rider seemed entirely in keeping with their own rampage. The inert bundle in front of him was unremarkable. But Kit knew that if she called out, he would die here. She didn’t, but suddenly began to struggle, pushing upward against the pressure on her back.
The smell of smoke, thick and acrid, filled the air. Flames shot up from the direction of the residency, and the savage yells battered against his ears as he galloped madly toward the city gate. He had left the residency no more than twenty minutes earlier, but in that time, it sounded as if the mob had broken through. With sudden dread, he changed direction, turning toward the street in front of the residency.
The scene was straight out of hell. The stables behind the house were burning merrily, the great gates of the courtyard flung open to admit the screaming horde. The bodies of the sepoy guards lay, broken and contorted. The front door splintered under a battering stave, and with a wild shriek the mob poured into the house. Then came a sound from the garden behind the house that stilled his heart, sent ice through his veins. It was an exultant shout of triumph, swelling to a roar. He straightened, his hand on Ayesha slackening. In instant response, she twisted violently.
“Goddamn you, keep still!” he hissed furiously, as if she did not have the right to protest the appalling discomfort of her position, and, indeed, in this moment of horror and violation, he associated her with the butchery he knew was taking place. He increased the pressure of his hand in the small of her back and stared into the flame-shot inferno.
The torrent of humanity boiled into the courtyard from the rear garden; still screaming exultantly, they held something aloft. Vomit rose in Kit’s throat, filled his mouth. He kicked his horse into a gallop and left the scene, the image of Alexander Burnes’s disembodied head scorched into his internal vision.
Ayesha ceased her struggles out of exhaustion. She was jolted unmercifully, her ribs screaming their protest, the heavy folds of the cloak constricting her breathing. Her rage now was so vast that it seemed all-consuming, so that she was aware of no other emotion. Even her physical discomforts were subsumed under this blazing outrage. She could guess where they were going, and when Kit slackened speed momentarily at the gate to the cantonment, she heard without surprise his imperative demand in English to the guard.
The gate swung open, and the horse galloped unerringly to Kit’s bungalow and the prospect of his own secure stable. People in various stages of disarray and morning deshabille stood in the small f
ront gardens of the bungalows, staring toward the city from whence came the dreadful sounds of riot and carnage. The smoke from the fired residency and Treasury now hung dense in the sky. People called out to Kit as he passed, only some of them recognizing Lieutenant Ralston of the East India Company’s Cavalry in the burning-eyed, wildly galloping horseman. He made no response, drawing rein abruptly at the door of his own bungalow.
Harley came running out. “Oh, my God, sir, you’re safe. What the ’ell’s goin’ on?”
“In a minute,” Kit said shortly, flinging himself to the ground. He reached up to lift Ayesha down, but she pushed herself to the ground with a resurgence of strength and turned on him … like some green-eyed lynx, he thought, when he could think at all through the stream of abuse she flung at him in Persian and Pushtu, as if English failed her in such an extremity.
Harley stood dumbstruck, staring at this amazing creature. Then someone hailed them from across the street, and Bob Markham came running, talking as he came.
“Have you come from the city, Kit? The old man’s screaming for you. He—” He stopped both speaking and moving as he took in the sight before him. “In the name of the Almighty!” he cried. “You got her out!”
Ayesha spun around as his words penetrated her fury, then she raised her hand and struck Kit with the full force of her arm. “So you have talked about me, too, have you, Ralston, huzoor? Mess talk, I imagine.”
Kit came to his senses. His cheek stinging from the blow, his ears ringing with her insults, his brain still reeling with the rioting images of horror, he picked up the fallen cloak, threw it around her, and bundled her into the bungalow, out of sight and earshot of any more inquisitive passersby.
Bob and Harley followed, both of them wide-eyed with surprise and curiosity.
“Annabel, I have to go to headquarters,” Kit said urgently, pushing her into his bedroom and kicking the door shut on their audience. “When I return, we’ll talk about this … we’ll arrange something—” He pulled off his turban, running his hands through his hair in distraction.
“I am leaving, now,” she declared, but more temperately than she had yet spoken to him. “Stand aside.
After everything he had gone through to get her here, she couldn’t really imagine that he would calmly permit her to return, Kit thought incredulously. “Don’t be ridiculous, Annabel. You’re back with your own people now. Everything is going to be all right, I promise.”
He had completely lost his wits! Ayesha stared at him, utterly nonplussed, as if she had just come face to face with a mad dog.
Taking advantage of her stunned silence, he moved swiftly to the door. “Harley will look after you. He will get you anything you want. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve reported to the general.”
Once on the other side of the door, he leaned weakly against it, facing the fascinated stares of his friend and batman. “You have never seen such carnage,” he said, rubbing his eyeballs as if to dispel the searing images. “They’ve butchered Alexander and Charlie Burnes, and Broadfoot; fired the Treasury. I don’t know what has happened to Johnson. The entire city is in arms and on the rampage. We must send troops in immediately.”
Bob pointed wordlessly to the closed door at Kit’s back and raised an eyebrow before saying deliberately, “The lady didn’t seem too happy to me. What are you going to do with her?”
“Keep her here for the moment,” Kit said crisply. “Harley, you will attend to Miss Spencer. She will be glad of food and tea, I am certain. Oh, God, I can’t deal with this now. I have to go to headquarters,” he added, the crispness vanished, a note of desperation in its place. “Will you stay here, Bob, and keep an eye on things?”
“You mean make sure she stays put?” the other demanded. “Lord, Kit, you do ask a lot of a friend.”
“Thanks.” Taking the statement as consent, Kit ran from the bungalow, swung onto his horse again, and rode at speed to headquarters.
In the bedroom, Ayesha examined her surroundings. The window was barred. A precaution, she guessed, to keep intruders out, rather than the occupants within, but it served the dual purpose. She could hear male voices outside the room. She turned the door handle. To her surprise, it opened.
Two apprehensive faces stared at her as she stood in the doorway. “Can I get you some breakfast, miss?” Harley ventured. “A nice cup of tea?”
“No,” she said icily. “You can both stand aside and let me out of here.”
“Can’t do that, ma’am,” Bob said, coughing awkwardly. “Promised Kit, you see. He’ll make all right and tight when he gets back, just you wait and see.”
Ayesha stamped a slippered foot in frustration. “I have no desire to wait and see, you idiot! Get out of my way!” But when she made to push past, Bob Markham, albeit apologetically, proved a very effective wall.
She could not possibly evade both of these rather bulky men; one, maybe, but not both. She threw a Persian oath at them and stormed back into the room, slamming the door so that it shivered on its hinges.
“D’you think a nice cup of tea would do the trick, sir?” ventured Harley.
“Doesn’t seem that kind of lady to me,” Bob mused. “A bit too fierce for tea.” He shrugged helplessly. “But it can’t hurt to try. You go and make it, Harley. I’ll watch the door.”
In ten minutes, the batman reappeared, a tray bearing tea and a plate of buttered toast in his hands.
“I thought she might be ’ungry, sir. A little toast might be soothing.”
Bob looked doubtful but opened the door.
“If you do not leave me alone this instant, I shall strip naked,” announced the lady in fierce and unmistakably genuine threat.
Harley nearly dropped the tray. “I… I … just brought you a little … little … breakfast, miss,” he stammered, standing in the doorway, holding his offering.
For answer, the lady seized the hem of her tunic and began to pull it up. Both men gasped and fled the room.
“Lord,” murmured Bob, wiping his brow.
“What ’as the lieutenant gone an’ done, now, sir?” Harley set the tray on the hall table. “I know he ’as his frolics, a bit wild-like sometimes, but nothin’ like this. Lost ’is wits, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Bob was all too well aware of his friend’s obsession with the mysterious Englishwoman in Akbar Khan’s zenana; although he had taken it no more seriously than anyone else, had assumed it was fed by brandy and the all-pervasive dissatisfaction and boredom of life in Kabul. Now, however, it rather looked as if it were a very serious matter indeed. Kit had clearly acted without thought for the consequences, and without any planning for the woman’s future. He had never intimated, either, that the woman would be so fiercely resistant to rescue, should it be possible to effect.
Absently, he poured himself a cup of tea from the spurned breakfast tray, and nibbled a piece of toast.
“Oh, I don’t think much of it,” Macnaghten said, peering into his coffee cup. “Just a few of those damned rebels getting above themselves.”
“Sir William, they have butchered the English in the residency, and the sepoys as well,” Kit said, wondering when the last frayed tether of his temper would snap. “The residency and the Treasury have been fired. Prompt and vigorous military action are needed if the insurrection is to be quashed.”
“Well, it is a damnable shame we have lost Burnes and the Treasury,” Elphinstone quavered. “I do feel we should do something, Sir William.”
Kit wondered if this were really happening. He had described as vividly as he could the scenes in the city, and these two had listened, at first as if they did not believe him, and then as if he must have exaggerated.
Sir William went to the window and stuck his head out. Faint sounds continued to come from the city, and the smell of smoke still hung in the air. “I suggest we order Shelton to march into the Balla Hissar from the Seah Sung heights, General. He can reestablish order in the city from there. Just the sight of his brigade will probably be
sufficient to send the rats scuttling back to their holes.”
At least it was something. Kit went off to send the order to Shelton, but when he returned to the general’s office in the hopes of being dismissed in order to change out of his unconventional garb, he was told by a wavering Elphinstone to send another runner to Shelton countermanding the first order.
“I think we should wait a little longer,” the general said. “Just to see if things quiet down by themselves.”
“Akbar Khan is in the city,” Kit said. “He will not permit things to quiet down, sir.”
“Lieutenant, were you never taught to obey orders?” testily demanded the general.
Kit saluted and left to send the second dispatch. He decided that from here on, he would play the good soldier, obeying orders, however inane, without the least attempt to moderate idiocy with common sense. It would be less frustrating in the end, and it just might get him released from duty all the sooner and free to tackle the ever-pressing matter of Annabel.
Chapter Eight
It was an hour later, however, before Kit was finally given permission to return to his bungalow and the attentions of his batman. In that hour, Shelton had again been ordered to march to the Balla Hissar, but when Kit left, Elphinstone was still wittering wretchedly as to whether the decision had been overhasty. Perhaps, after all, he should send to Shelton and tell him to halt his march, and await further orders?
Kit fled, leaving his alternate adjutant to muddle through the conflict. He found Bob and Harley sitting glumly outside his bedroom door.
Bob sprang to his feet at first sight of Kit with a heartfelt “Thank God!”