Bold Destiny

by Jane Feather

  As they left the cantonment through the wide gateway prepared by the engineers, a triumphant crowd of Afghans poured down from the city, forcing their way into the cantonment as the evacuation continued. “Dear God,” muttered Kit. “They can’t even wait for us to get out before taking possession.”

  Exultant yells filled the air in complete contrast to the grim silence of the retreating force, and from the residential areas of the cantonment flames shot up as the victors plundered then fired the bungalows, destroying the suburban enclave until the pathetic facsimile of an English village was reduced to ashes.

  It was well after noon when the first lines of the main body crossed the temporary bridge in the wake of the advance party. Behind them the rear guard was massed between the ramparts and the canal, offering what protection it could to the vast procession of camels slowly clearing the cantonment. Baggage, already abandoned as too cumbersome once the reality of the freezing march had become apparent, lay heaped outside the ramparts, rapidly disappearing under the thickly falling snow. And within the cantonment the riotous plundering and destruction continued to the frenzied yelling of the marauders.

  Once the joys of plunder had palled, the Afghans within the cantonment turned their jezzails onto the trapped rear guard, who were obliged to remain in position beneath the vicious fire from the ramparts until the last camel, the last camp follower, the last baggage mule had passed them. It was twilight before they were able to turn and follow the main body, leaving one officer and fifty men dead in the snow.

  At the head of the main body, Annabel could hear the sounds of confusion, the screams of triumph, the continual crack of rifle fire from the rear carrying through the crystal-sharp air.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Kit muttered, craning over his shoulder. But he could see only the column weaving into the fire-shot distance behind him.

  Annabel swung Charlie away from the line. “I’m going to see,” she called.

  “Annabel, come back here!” Kit yelled imperatively, but she waved at him and galloped down the column. “Goddamn it!” Kit exclaimed, unable to go after her without abandoning his post at the general’s side. “It must be all of three miles to the end of the column.”

  “She’ll be all right,” Colin reassured him. “That horse isn’t going to let her down, and if you can’t see her face she still looks more like an Afghan than an Englishwoman.”

  Kit didn’t look particularly reassured, but there was nothing he could do except wait for her return and reflect that his Anna was not without a well-honed sense of self-preservation.

  Annabel rode hard down the column. Men were already falling out on all sides, collapsing with fatigue and cold by the wayside, lying apathetically amongst the heaps of abandoned baggage. Afghan plunderers swarmed over the baggage, turning their knives on the fallen sepoys as they searched for booty. A woman lay in the snow, a baby wailing thinly beside her. A Ghazi fanatic stood above the supine figure, knife raised.

  “Son of swine!” Annabel rode at him, screaming abuse in Pushtu with the virulence of any Ghazi. He turned, his eyes glaring at the insults. His khyber knife arced through the air, aiming for the underside of the horse’s neck, and Charlie sidestepped as neatly as if they were practicing in the riding school. The knife fell harmlessly and before he could lift it again, Charlie had turned on a sixpence and reared high above him, every hoof as powerful a weapon as any knife. The Ghazi gave up the unequal struggle; there was easier prey elsewhere.

  Annabel dismounted cautiously, well aware that the minute she was on the ground she would be vulnerable to attack. She carried a stiletto, Kit having acceded to the request to find her one with no more than a grim nod, but she was under no illusions that the slender dagger would deflect the sweep of scimitar or khyber knife.

  The babe’s mother, clearly a camp follower worn down by the deprivations of the last weeks, was beyond help, her eyes staring sightlessly at the gray bowl of the sky, darkening now with the approach of evening. The babe was blue with cold, thinly wrapped in a blanket, its piteous wails trembling on cracked lips. Annabel picked it up, wrapping the blanket more securely around the tiny frame, and wondered how she was to remount. In the past, there had always been someone to give her a leg up onto the enormous Charlie, but out here on the frozen plain there were no helping hands and she was hampered by the babe in her arms.

  An abandoned chest lay a few feet away, and she led Charlie over to it. Using the chest as a mounting block, she scrambled onto his back, the babe tucked securely in the crook of her arm, and surveyed the scene anew. The column still trudged through the snow, the rear guard now following, groups of Ghazis cutting into them with merciless persistence, hampering the march with their repeated deadly forays that the troops could not beat off. The whole ghastly scene was illuminated by the raging conflagration from the abandoned cantonment, where the flames showed violent orange and crimson against the grim, gray desolation of the winter twilight, and the crackles of destruction sounded like some species of satanic laughter.

  Sick at heart, yet knowing that she should have expected nothing less, Annabel rode Charlie back to the front of the line. The three miles seemed much longer this time, and she realized that the column had now slowed to such an extent that it was spread out much farther than before. The march was impeded by the bodies of those who had yielded the frozen, exhausting struggle, and by the endless piles of discarded baggage. If but half a day could produce such disintegration, what would the expected six days to Jalalabad bring?

  Kit greeted her return with a furious diatribe to which she listened quietly, making no attempt to answer back. She was too chastened by what she had seen and too well aware of Kit’s justifiable fear for her safety to offer defense or protest, even at the embarrassingly public nature of the reprimand. “That is the last time you will leave my side without permission, is that clear?” he finished, finally running out of steam in the face of her complete lack of response.

  “I don’t imagine there will be any reason to,” she replied. “See what I have found.” She drew forth the baby from the warm folds of her cloak. It had ceased wailing some time earlier, either through exhaustion or because her body warmth had offered some comfort. “What should we do with it?”

  “Where on earth did it come from?” Kit stared in dismay.

  Annabel told the story as briefly and unemotionally as she could, making as little of her encounter with the Ghazi as was consonant with veracity, but she could see Kit begin to whiten as his imagination filled in the details.

  “Charlie and I partnered each other very well,” she said calmly. “That was the point of all those hours in the riding school, wasn’t it?”

  Kit sighed in defeat. “When we bivouac, take it to one of the ayahs. One child more or less will not make much difference to them.”

  She nodded and they continued in silence as night fell. Finally a solitary bugle signaled a halt. “We cannot have traveled more than six miles from the cantonment,” Annabel commented.

  It was not necessary to expand the statement. Seventy miles to Jalalabad could not be accomplished in six-mile stages, as they all knew.

  Harley, who had been riding at the rear of the general’s staff, came up with them as the lines broke to make some kind of camp on the frozen wasteland. “There’s a stream over yonder, sir,” he said. “I’ve sent one of the carriers to fetch water.” He unfolded a small tent from his saddlebag and looked for a suitable spot to pitch it.

  “Where the hell did that come from?” Kit demanded.

  “Miss found it, sir,” Harley said. “Found our provisions, too.” He drew forth dried antelope meat, talkhan, and a bar of tea. “If we can get a fire going, we’ll manage tonight.”

  “You were too busy to worry about such matters,” Annabel said, seeing Kit’s dumbfounded expression. “I knew we would not be able to rely upon the regular provisions with the baggage train.” She shrugged. “There’s sufficient to go round, and the tent will probably sl
eep eight or nine if no one minds being cozy.” She glanced around the grim landscape and the confused milling of beasts and people. “Pitch the tent over there, Harley, against that rock. It will provide some protection from the wind.”

  “I do not think we can have advantages denied others,” Kit said slowly.

  “But we already have one inestimable advantage that is denied everyone else,” she pointed out. “I know this land and I know how the Afghans live and survive their winters. I have traveled with the nomads during the snows. Would you pretend I do not have that knowledge? Surely it is better shared than denied.”

  “Annabel’s right, Kit,” Bob said. “To whom are you going to give the supplies and tent?” He gestured at the milling multitude. “Are you going to pick one of those poor devils?”

  Kit shook his head. “No. I daresay we had best put her foresight to good use amongst ourselves. It’ll not be an advantage we’ll have for long. Are you going to find someone to look after the baby, Annabel?”

  “I suppose I had better,” she said, looking down at the scrap still wrapped in her cloak. “I would keep it, but I have never cared for a baby before and I really do not know what to do with it. Would it drink tea, do you think?”

  “Too small, miss,” said Harley authoritatively. “Give it ’ere, and I’ll take it to Mrs. Gardner’s ayah. The poor lady only ’ad her own child five days ago, so they’re bound to ’ave the right things with ’em.”

  “Five days ago.” The thought of making this journey a mere five days after childbirth was horrendous, sending chills up her spine. But then Mrs. Gardner was not the only invalid, many of whom were traveling in litters and palanquins in the vicious cold, wearing only their nightclothes. She handed over the baby, putting grim speculation from her. “I will make some tea. There are some cakes of dung in my saddlebag to make a fire. Kit, can you light it?” Her tone was slightly hesitant as if she was unsure, as indeed she was, whether pampered cavalry captains were capable of undertaking such a lowly chore.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Kit said solemnly. “I think I might find myself equal to the task, although you are putting us all to shame, I fear.”

  She smiled nobly at his brave attempt at lightheartedness, but no one was deceived. They drew some comfort from the warmth of the tea, passing around the little saucepan as they huddled in their cloaks over the tiny smoldering flame of the dung fire.

  Annabel remembered that other time when she had been so desperate for tea in the aksakai’s hut, and it would have been denied her but for Akbar Khan’s vigilant thoughtfulness. Where was he? She looked up at the mountain peaks all around them, deep whitecapped shadows against the night sky. Was he up there somewhere, watching this murderous fiasco from some lofty spot, watching and waiting for the moment when he would intervene? She knew he would intervene at some point, but in what way she could not guess.

  “Come.” Kit touched her shoulder. “It’s time for bed.”

  They managed to squeeze ten people into the tent. Kit and Annabel took up the space of one body, so tightly did he wrap her in his arms, covering her with his body so their breath mingled warmly and the killing cold was kept at bay.

  Out in the open, soldiers and camp followers froze to death in hundreds. Others deserted, sliding off in the night across the snow, searching for some shelter away from this doomed progress through the mountains. Sepoys, severely frostbitten and no longer fit for duty, mingled with the noncombatants, adding to the confusion as dawn broke and the column sluggishly dragged itself onto the march again.

  Annabel did not need Kit’s sternly reiterated injunction that she was to stay at his side. The savage cold bit through her clothes, despite fur and wool, and she crouched on Charlie’s back in a numbed torpor, her hood covering her mouth, leaving only her eyes visible. The rear guard struggled against harassment from their Afghan pursuers, who seemed unaffected by the temperature and the continuously falling snow.

  “Anna … Anna, sweetheart!” Kit spoke urgently, breaking into her lethargic trance.

  “Mmmm? What is it?” She blinked at him in the gray-white light.

  “I am taking a troop up to the lateral heights,” he said swiftly. “An Afghan force has charged into the baggage column and is threatening to cut off the rear. They need reinforcements to clear the pass from above.”

  “God go with you,” she said simply, and he nodded before wheeling his horse and disappearing into the blanketing snow.

  She couldn’t worry about him, Annabel found. In many ways it seemed that a swift death from a Ghilzai bullet or a Ghazi knife would be preferable to this slow disintegration of body and spirit. It might be a defeatist reflection, but she couldn’t seem to care about that either.

  Up on the ridge, Captain Ralston and his men fired down onto the track where the Afghan force massed, blocking the advance of the rear guard. At last, the enemy moved away from the thoroughfare and the rear of the column was able to catch up with the main body.

  Kit and his men rejoined the column as they approached Boothak. Ten miles outside Kabul, this settlement was always the first halt on the road from Kabul to Jalalabad.

  At Boothak awaited Akbar Khan.

  Annabel saw him sitting astride his Badakshani charger on a ridge above the track where the column painfully wound its tortuous way. He was surrounded by Ghilzai tribesmen, three of whom separated themselves from the circle and galloped down the ridge toward the approaching column.

  General Elphinstone struggled upright in his saddle and his staff closed around him. There was no threat apparent in the newcomers’ demeanor, but there was arrogance in the way they drew rein and ran their cold dark eyes over the confused and distraught multitude.

  One of them began to speak in Pushtu and the general replied that he did not understand them.

  “He is saying, General, that Akbar Khan had agreed to escort the column to Jalalabad, but you left the cantonment prematurely, so he was unable to offer protection from the Ghazis,” Annabel translated quietly, somehow knowing that this role had been allotted her.

  The Afghan, with no sign of surprise, waited until she had finished. Then he resumed.

  “Akbar Khan insists that the column halt here for the night,” she said, receiving a nod from the tribesman when he paused. “He will send in supplies in the morning, but he demands fifteen thousand rupees immediately.”

  The man began to speak again and this time the names of Lawrence, Mackenzie, and Pottinger were distinguishable. Annabel glanced at the three men. “Akbar Khan demands that Major Pottinger and Captains Lawrence and Mackenzie be given over to him as hostages,” she said without expression.

  “Tell them, Miss Spencer, that I accede to Akbar Khan’s demands,” mumbled the general, amid a whispering rustle of outrage from those around him. “Dear God,” he said in agitated defense, “what else can we do? Someone tell me what is to be done.”

  Without a word, Major Pottinger drew his sword and dropped it to the ground. Colin and Captain Lawrence did the same, then they sat their horses, unarmed, stony-faced with the mortification of obeying such an order, waiting for a signal from Akbar Khan’s messenger.

  Annabel waited also, but the expected summons did not come. The Ghilzais moved to enclose their hostages and the little party rode off up the ridge, the three British officers not looking back.

  So she was to be left squirming, hooked but as yet in the water, for a while longer. With an internal shrug, Annabel turned aside, but not before she had caught a glimpse of Kit’s expression, where stark despair stood out in every line as he, too, faced the absolute knowledge that they danced on the end of Akbar Khan’s line. He would reel it in whenever he was ready, and until then they must endure this appalling, degrading helplessness.

  They passed the second night of horror. The snow lay a foot deep on the ground and access to the stream for water was prevented by Afghan snipers firing with devastating effect on the carriers, who rapidly gave up the attempt. The tent and their entwined bodies ag
ain afforded Kit and Annabel the shelter that stood between life and death, and the morning dawned, for all those still living, with the same bitter realization of the extremity of their plight.

  Jezzails were pouring fire into the rear of the bivouacking column and the camp followers hurtled to the front, stripping the baggage animals of what remained of the supplies and taking off the animals in a desperate attempt to escape. The ground was littered with ammunition, household goods, the private possessions of the Kabul garrison.

  Annabel was too stiff to clamber onto Charlie’s back, despite Kit’s cupped palms beneath her booted foot. Catching her by the wrist, he lifted her with some difficulty until she could grasp the pommel and haul herself astride the saddle. “I don’t know why I’m so feeble,” she apologized. “I’m not sure I have the right to be. There are so many so much worse off.”

  “You’ll loosen up,” Kit said, brusquely because he was afraid for her. She was so wan, the jade eyes dominating the drawn face, an alarming fragility suddenly manifest in the usually lissom, sinuous frame, cracks appearing in that previously indomitable spirit. He knew he could not bear it if she were to give up the fight.

  “Sir, this should help.” Harley appeared clutching a tumbler of tawny liquid. “I know miss doesn’t take strong drink, but they’re givin’ it to the children back there.” He held up the tumbler. “Even Lady Sale ’as had a glass. She said as ’ow it warmed her somethin’ powerful, miss.”

  Annabel took the tumbler. “What is it, Harley?”

  “Sherry, miss,” the batman responded. “You drink it up, now. If a cup don’t bother the kiddies, it’s not goin’ to bother you.”

  In any other circumstance, Annabel would have smiled at this invigorating encouragement, but now she simply took a tentative sip. The taste was unpleasant, but the effect was instantly restorative.

  “They’re distributin’ the mess stores, sir,” Harley explained. “Shockin’ it is back there. The bearers ’ave all died or deserted and they’re puttin’ the ladies in panniers on the camels. Right in the line of fire, they are.”