by Tamim Ansary
No one cheered, but no one argued. Rupert felt faint with all the bodies pressing in from every side, too faint to speak his mind again.
“Excellent,” said Elphinstone. “Excellent good sense, General. Let us gather our people, then, and make what bargains we can with the chiefs.”
“But who will do the bargaining, m’lord?” General Burnett looked at Elphinstone apologetically. “You’re hardly fit to, um, try the streets in your condition.”
Who would bargain with the Afghans? No one spoke.
* * *
Reeling out of headquarters, Oxley almost tumbled headlong to the yard. Behind him, the officers were still shouting, but the mob had made its decision—yes, mob: no other word for it. And he’d been a part of it, God help him. His silence had fed the consensus to strike for Jalalabad, ninety miles away, on the other side of the mountains, instead of for the royal fortress merely three or four miles across the city. In the jostle and tumble of that suffocating room the scheme had sounded sensible. Now…?.
Thick clouds had swallowed up the sunshine, and the afternoon had turned as dark as an omen. Now the plan sounded mad, he realized. Absolutely mad! But if the others left, he must too. No one could stay behind. And Amanda—the memory of her brought him up short. Good Lord, she was stranded in that compound of hers, alone with her servants. What if the garrison forgot her? Who in that roomful of screaming officers had a thought to spare for one lone widow isolated in some corner of the city?
Rupert mounted his horse and left cantonments without a word to anyone. An hour later, he was banging on her door. His mind was shambling for thoughts, words, but he wasn’t sure what he thought, what to say. Bring her away, was all he could fix upon. Bring her back to cantonments where the others were gathering. Safety in numbers, he thought, his heart moist with tenderness for the widow. Hard enough to lose a husband but to lose one at a time like this, in such a place!
A Hindu servant opened the door. “Sergeant Oxley,” he said politely.
“Captain Oxley,” Rupert snapped. Small of him to correct the man, he knew—what did rank matter now? Yet it rankled. “Is memsahib home? I must see her at once.”
“Memsahib hope for you.” The comment triggered flutters in Rupert’s belly. She was hoping he would come!
Amanda stood up from her writing desk, pale as a tombstone. The room looked undisturbed. The chaos of the city had not intruded here, except for an occasional muffled roar. “What’s happened?” she blurted, clasping her hands together in a knotted tangle of fingers. “It’s something dreadful, isn’t it? We’ve had nothing but stories. Such terrible stories! The commotion—“
“Whatever you’ve heard, it’s the truth is worse.” He would not soften the blow, it would do no good: she must know soon enough. “Macnaghten’s dead, Amanda. The chiefs killed him.” He brushed snow from his epaulets. “They’re out for blood, and Elphinstone’s gone to pieces. The city’s swarming with tribesmen. You can’t stay here. I’ve come to fetch you back to cantonments.”
“And there we’ll be safe?” she pleaded.
Her small voice twisted a knife in him. “There …” He could not tell her of the plan, he felt ashamed, he feared the alarm he must give her. Drops of water fell from his sleeves and trouser legs, forming a puddle on her cement floor. He must not remain inarticulate. Suspense was the worst of agonies. Her face was draining of hope before his very eyes as he stood there. “We won’t be staying there long.”
“Why not?” she stammered. “What do you mean? Where shall we go?”
“We are to leave this country, it would seem.” He could not bring himself to offer details, but she pressed for them.
“How? When? Where shall we go?”
His head drooped. “Jalalabad,” he said. “And then Peshawar.”
“Jalalabad!” she gasped. “But how shall we get there? It’s across the mountains. Have we horses enough? Have we carriages?” Horror grew in her eyes as the implications dawned on her. He wanted to allay her fear, but how could he? Her fear was entirely justified!
“Most of us shall walk. But it’s only ninety miles,” he added hastily.
“In the snow, Mr. Oxley?”
“Please. Will you not at last call me Rupert?”
“Rupert. We shan’t have…carriages to ride?”
“No, mum, but once we reach Jalalabad we can rest. General Sale will have fresh horses for us, hot food. We’ll have carriages to carry you ladies in comfort from there. Only the first ninety miles will be hard.”
“Ninety miles.” Those were the only words she heard. Those were the only ones that really counted. He gazed at this soft, blond woman in her long skirts and thin blouse, hugging herself, her breasts squeezed between her forearms, that dear lock of stray hair dangling over her ear—he didn’t want to picture her in the snow. He would not. But another image formed in its place: of the streets outside filled with raging natives, of a bearded tribesman snatching Amanda into his saddle and wrapping his cloak over her, of the mob closing in, howling for flesh…He shuddered and pity so brimmed in him that he almost made to reach for her, but he didn’t want another slap.
“Ninety miles?” she repeated. “And it’s snowing!”
“Only a little,” he whispered. “We’ll wear our warmest clothes. The marching itself will keep us warm. I shouldn’t wonder if we work up a sweat!”
She walked to the window. Tiny flakes of snow blurred the outline of the trees in the courtyard. He followed her and set his hands on her shoulders. She did not shake him off. “Is there no other course?” she said. “Can we not stay here?”
“You would not say that if you had seen the streets. They’ve captured the commissary, they can starve us. They’ve taken the field outside the gates of cantonments. They can cut us off from water. They’ll overrun us so soon as we weaken, and they will be merciless. I saw Macnaghten—I’m sorry to say it but I must say it: beheaded! We must leave while we have the strength. Not in haste, that much is settled. We’ll gather ourselves properly and march out in ranks. But Amanda…” His hand dropped from her shoulder to her hip, and she did not move away. “Put yourself in my care. I’ll protect you. I’ll bring you out of Afghanistan alive and safe, I swear it.”
“Do you?” She stayed where she was, leaning against the shutter, listless. He took her hand in his, and she let him, but said simply, “I should pack.”
“I will saddle your horse,” he agreed, “while you change clothes. We have a few minutes, though. You don’t have to rush. We can still talk a little, here…alone...”
She didn’t look at him. She kept her cheek pressed against the window frame, kept her gaze trained on the yard. He sensed the tension of her body. How to clothe his feelings in words? He swallowed. “I have something to say to you.”
“Yes?” she said.
“I intend … I intend to bring you safe out of Afghanistan.”
“Yes. You said so just now. You will do all you can, I’m sure.”
“I am rough with words,” he choked out. “I’m a soldier, do not despise me for that. I have not always been good, I know that, but I am trying to improve.”
“I am very far from despising you.” She stirred as if to create some distance between them; but since he didn’t retreat, her motion only brought her back into contact with his front. And there she stayed. “You know I am fond of you, Mr. Oxley.”
“Please,” he pleaded, “call me Rupert. I am rough with words, but I know soldiering. Rely on me, Amanda. I want to tell you something..”
“I know. You mean to bring me out of this country safe and alive.” She cast a glance over her shoulder, still touching against him, and he detected a smile hovering behind her blue eyes, but he didn’t mind. If he could bring a smile to her lips at a time like this, he was glad to do it, even at his own expense.
“I must seem very clumsy to you. I know I do, I must sound comical when I say I will bring you out of this nightmare alive and safe, b
ut you don’t know what’s in my heart. You don’t know what I have inside me, Amanda. There is good in me. There is strength.”
All traces of amusement vanished from her features. “I hope I don’t seem to laugh. You have no idea how you comfort me. You’re not so rough as you think. I have always found you brave. I do rely on you. I do. I will.”
His spirits bubbled, his gut unclenched. “Amanda…” But the words clotted in his throat. Talking to a woman was harder than running a sword through a man! “So many men pour through this world without leaving a mark. I don’t want to be one of those.”
“And you won’t. Now let me go and pack, my dear.”
Dear? Had she said that word? He lost his head and pressed himself against her from behind, put his arms around her waist—she trembled but did not shake him off. “I have a worthy deed in me,” he said. “I always thought I would come to nothing, because I was given nothing. I sulked through my life until I met you, Amanda. A man only gets what he reaches for and has only himself to blame if he reaches for nothing. I will bring you home. You’ll see.”
She turned, but not to escape his embrace. She leaned into his chest and accepted the encirclement of his arms; he felt the cling of her. “Hush,” she murmured.
“You’ll be proud of me,” he vowed. “When we get to England. You’ll meet my father and my brother. I will be so proud of you. And you of me.”
“Oh, very proud.” With her face buried in his shirt, her words were muffled.
He stroked her neck. “Will you say you love me?”
“I love you?”
“Ah!” He had spent such any agony of hours and days and months yearning for those words. Now he felt released, now he felt equal to any danger. “Go, my dove. Get ready.” He untangled her hair gently from his shirt buttons. “Don’t take much, only what you can wear—and nothing fripperous, just woolens and warm things. Boots, if you have them. It will be cold, my sweet. If we lose everything, it won’t matter, we’ll have each other, and that’s everything.”
44
Ibrahim rode in silence with the Afghan lords. The ruined city felt full of hidden eyes. The group diminished as each lord split away with his retainers, heading toward his own estates. By the time they reached the Ghazni Gate, Ibrahim was alone with Akbar and Sultan Jan. The three men reined up, their horses blowing plumes of wet nostril breath into the freezing sunshine.
“What now?” said Ibrahim.
“Now,” said the prince, “we pray. Allah have pity on us. Satan is loose.”
“And who set him loose?” Ibrahim lamented in a low voice. “Wazir-sahib, you were there to sign a treaty! Why the trickery?” In his agitation, he jerked at the reins and his horse commenced a nervous cantering.
“Blame Osman!” Akbar shouted. “Blame Amanullah of Logar! What were they thinking, those fools, pulling out those letters! Mine was enough to shame Macnaghten, I had the conniving bastard right where I needed him—”
“You never intended to forge a treaty,” Ibrahim charged. “You went there to exalt yourself among the Afghan lords—”
“Scribe! Scribe! Do you think you’re talking to one of your fellow villagers! Do you dare to spar with me?” Akbar wiped his sleeve across his nose. “This country needs one strong king! Without me…” His soot-black eyes flashed dangerously. “This country—”
“What country? What is ‘this country’ you keep talking about?” Ibrahim demanded. “My country is Char Bagh, Wazir-sahib! Yes, I’m unimportant, Yes, I’m a nobody. Yes! Yes, but I came to you as a subject comes to his king because I saw greatness in you, and you let me down.”
Akbar stared back at him with wounded eyes. “You and your’s won’t be spared once the lords start fighting. I did what I did for people like you, for villages like your’s. Because someone must harness the tiger.”
“Yes, I know all about the tiger, you explained. But it’s loose now and who broke its cage open? My God, Wazir-sahib, what have you done?”
Sultan Jan spurred his horse past Ibrahim and slapped his face so hard, he jolted Ibrahim sideways on his saddle. The unexpected jerk on the reins made Ibrahim’s horse rear. “You can’t talk to Wazir-sahib that way, you wretched farmer!” Sultan Jan yelled tearfully. “By the Quran of God, I should kill you right here—”
“Stop that,” the prince commanded.
But Sultan Jan had already wheeled his horse for another charge.
“Stop that! You stop at once! Stop!” roared the prince.
The youngster pulled back on the reins, his eyes red, bits of ice clinging to his flimsy beard. He was crying now. “I can’t let him talk to you like that, my prince.”
“Jackass! Today’s the day I was going to unite all the Afghans. Do you think I want to watch one Afghan kill another on this day? On my behalf?” Akbar shook his head mournfully. “Give this peasant his due, Sultan, he alone speaks his heart to me. Honor his courage. Scribe, I should have done more listening when I had the chance.”
“Allah knows best, your highness.”
“I never wanted to hear anyone tell me I was wrong. It was my least kingly trait. I see that now.” The prince scratched his cheek and stared at the hills. “A man sees things too late. Well, Scribe, I release you from my service. Pray for the country, go where you will. God alone knows what the rest of today will bring.”
“And what will you do?” At the edge of his vision, Ibrahim could see Sultan Jan astride his horse, barely containing his violence.
“I suppose I will try to open new negotiations with the Engrayzee,” Akbar Khan replied morosely. “This time…” He gazed into Ibrahim’s eyes. “This time I’ll bring the malang into it from the start. I always meant to keep my promise. If I get him out, I’ll send word. If I don’t…” The prince dug around under his cloak and brought out a bag of coins. “Take this money. If order breaks down totally, see if you can bribe the guards. Save your malang yourself. I can do nothing more for you, Ibrahim. God protect you now.”
* * *
Shamsuddin’s family huddled indoors around a coal burning stove under heavy blankets, men, women, and children together wearing doom like an extra set of blankets. This was Ibrahim’s first time in his friend’s home. When he arrived, the women gave him room, none fleeing from his gaze, as if he were of the family, a generosity that brought tears to Ibrahim’s eyes.
All that week, the city felt besieged, but the enemy was not outside the walls, it was inside and everywhere and it was anyone. Men ventured out only for essential supplies. Of the news, they knew only what they could tap from street gossip. Street gossip said the Engrayzee were lining up cannons on the slopes of Siah Sung—everybody should get into cellars if they had any. Street gossip said the Engrayzee were planning to burn the city down—everybody should get out of town, if they could. Street gossip said a new Engrayzee army was approaching, a hundred-thousand strong. Everybody should pick up arms. It was coming from the north. Run, run, everybody shore up the north. No, from the south, said the street. No from all directions at once.
Then one day, people came through the neighborhood yelling the most improbable rumor of them all. The Engrayzee were leaving. No one believed this one, but still, Ibrahim thought he’d better check it out. He climbed to the top of Behmaru Hill. From there a man could look right down into the foreigners’ garrison and what he saw astounded him. A long procession was indeed moving through the back wall where cannon fire had knocked broad gaps. Hundreds of camels loaded with baggage, hundreds of horses and riders had already snaked to the river and beyond. Countless bullocks were pulling wheeled cannons and wagons piled high with supplies. Thousands of people were walking with enormous bundles strapped to their backs. Even from the hilltop, Ibrahim could see that many of the marchers were women, and quite a few were children. He closed his eyes and saw his own children, his dead son, his Khadija and Soraya among those marchers. A mob of shouting Afghans had collected in front of the cantonment and were throwing stones. The
n the light started to fade, and snow started to fall, and Ibrahim could see nothing more. How did that ragged company hope to survive, marching away from shelter and into the mountains in this weather? Could they stay warm in some way that Afghans could not even imagine?
That night, in the healer’s compound, the men sat up for hours after final prayers, talking in the dark about the strangers who had come to their land and had now, seemingly, departed. What had these people ever wanted in Afghanistan anyway? What had led them to suppose they could live and rule here, so few among so many? And what would happen to their puppet king? Was he still up in the fortress? Would Akbar take over? Would Dost Mohammed Khan return? Would the lords start fighting, the way the progeny of Emperor Ahmad Shah had done?
The next morning, Ibrahim made a decision. Since the prince had sent no word, and the Engrayzees were gone, he would set the malang free himself. He rode across the city on the horse the lords had given him and climbed the royal road up to Bala Hissar again. No one manned the checkpoints this time. He made his way unobstructed to the prison compound and banged on the gates. The same guard who had given him a dollop of money a month ago opened up and looked out with bleary eyes.
“Remember me?” said Ibrahim. “I was in your prison last month.”
“No,” the man shrugged. “Many people have been in this prison. Faces blur. I’m just the gatekeeper. If you’re here to assassinate Shah Shuja, I’ll open the gates for you, but I can’t give you a gun. That you’ll have to supply yourself.”