by George Bruce
The retreat, on a bright frosty night, had got as far as Seh Baba without being fired on, then a few shots were aimed at the rear. The camp-followers again surged forward, and into the dark mass of men the Afghans then fired with telling effect.
The retreat as a result failed in its night-long effort to reach Jugdulluk by morning, halting instead at 8 a.m. at Kutter Sung, 10 miles short of it, for the rear of the column to close up, and by now almost totally exhausted.
The few score fighting-men now wished the many sick and wounded good luck and left them, an act which appears merciless, but to which there was perhaps no alternative for men barely able to stagger along themselves. One of those left behind was Dr. Duff, the Surgeon-General. After a severe wound in his hand he had directed its amputation with a pocket-knife to avoid gangrene. Now exhausted, he was left on the roadway and was later found killed.
The few men of the advance, followed by the camp-followers, moved off on 11 January, the sixth day of the retreat, shortly after eight o’clock. But now all advantage was lost, wreaths of Afghan turbans crowned the heights on both sides of the pass, a hail of bullets hit the column below. Brigadier Shelton with his diminishing band of redcoats again protected the rear with accurate short-range shooting which checked Afghan efforts to launch another murderous sabre-swinging charge.
The advance staggered into Jugdulluk at 3 p.m., and halted in the snow behind some ruined walls on a height beside the road to await Shelton and the rearguard. Here, where the Afghan bullets still droned past their ears, Elphinstone, with a crazy ineffectual gesture of defiance ordered some of his officers — about twenty were at hand — ‘to form line and show a front’ — that is, to stand up boldly in line, facing the enemy’s jezzail fire. One of his close advisers, Captain Grant of the 27th Native Infantry at once paid dearly for his bravado. A bullet smashed into his cheek and shattered his jaw and he fell forward in the saddle. Johnson lifted him to the ground.
But the remaining nineteen officers, led by the tottering old General, stood their ground bravely, until the rearguard having appeared they received it with a cheer and took cover behind the heaps of masonry. There they hoped for rest, respite from Afghan jezzail fire, and water, if no food, but they had none of these — only the whine and ricochet of the heavy 1½-ounce rounds poured down from the surrounding heights.
‘Our men were almost maddened with hunger and thirst,’ Captain Johnson noted. ‘Some snow was on the ground, which we greedily devoured; but instead of quenching, it increased our thirst.’
A stream of clear pure water rippled over the rocks 150 paces away; all were tortured by it, many no doubt poised themselves for a desperate rush to it, but no one ventured against the hail of well-aimed rounds that would have struck him.
Suddenly the firing ended. The General sent Johnson to see whether the camp-followers still had any bullocks or camels for food. Johnson and the men with him seized three bullocks, killed them at once and served out great doggets of flesh to the remaining troops — ‘instantly devoured, although raw and still reeking with blood’.
The Afghans opened fire again and again a party of horsemen appeared near by. Learning that Akbar was among them, Captain Skinner — ‘Gentleman Jim’ — rode bravely out of cover to protest angrily about the continued shooting.
This now became so hot, with volley after volley hitting the packed fugitives in the small enclosure, that many of the camp-followers lost their wits and rushed out into the open where, like frightened deer, they were, one after the other, shot down on the run.
Captain Bygrave, paymaster of the force, called for volunteers to chase the sharpshooters from the hideout on a nearby peak. Fifteen redcoats of the 44th joined him in a brave dash up the hill in face of heavy fire. The hundred or so Afghans retreated at the sight of the gleaming bayonets — probably believing that the entire British force would at last come to its senses and occupy the height as well.
Not so. Elphinstone recalled Bygrave and his brave followers for some unaccountable reason. The Afghans thereupon reoccupied the height and once more picked off officers and men without fear of retaliation.
Why, at the earliest stage in the retreat, had not Elphinstone obeyed one of the basic rules of warfare in these circumstances — the detailing of small bands of skirmishers to move ahead of the force, seize the heights that dominated the route and thus prevent the slaughter? The answer can only be that while he had the officers and had the men capable of it, he himself must have lacked the fighting spirit, preferring instead the hollow pretence of gentlemanly negotiations with Akbar.
Late in the afternoon Gentleman Jim Skinner returned with a message to the General requesting his presence at a conference with Akbar and demanding Brigadier Shelton and Captain Johnson as additional hostages as well.
The force was now reduced to 150 redcoats of the 44th Regiment, 15 dismounted men of the Horse Artillery, 255th Light Cavalry troopers and not one single sepoy of the original 3,000. All reserves of ammunition had been lost or fired; and what remained in pouches had been taken from the bodies of comrades. In the circumstances, the General and Shelton felt that they had no choice but to attend the conference and try to make the best terms possible to save those who still lived.
They took Captain Johnson with them as interpreter and, relates Vincent Eyre, ‘the troops witnessed their departure with despair, having seen enough of Afghan treachery to convince them that these repeated negotiations were… designed to engender confidence in their victims, preparatory to a fresh sacrifice of blood’.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Akbar received them with courtesy and kindness. A cloth was spread on the ground, mutton and rice, water and long draughts of tea were served, Akbar also promising Elphinstone that food and water would be sent at once to the famished troops and the General again believed him, but nothing was sent to them.
When the meal was finished they sat round a blazing fire in the darkness to discuss terms. Akbar now produced his bombshell. He required as hostages he said, not only Shelton and Johnson but Elphinstone as well, and though the General pleaded, said it would be dishonourable for him to leave his troops, promised if he were allowed to return to send Brigadier Anquetil instead, Akbar was adamant and the General was more or less a prisoner. The three officers were shown into a small tent for a night’s sleep.
When the conference was resumed at 8 a.m. Akbar promised to do all he could to save the lives of the remaining troops, but at about nine o’clock, Johnson noted, the chiefs of the pass and of the country towards Soorkhab arrived. ‘The chiefs were most bitter in their expressions of hatred towards us; and declared that nothing would satisfy them and their men but our extermination, and money they would not receive…
‘From their expressions of hatred towards the whole race of us, they appeared to anticipate much more delight in cutting our throats than in the expected booty.’
Akbar tried to calm them as far as he could, but Johnson heard them say twice in reply — ‘When Burnes came into this country was not your father entreated by us to kill him, or he would go back to Hindustan and on some future day return with an army and take our country from us. He would not listen to our advice, and what is the consequence? Let us, now that we have the opportunity, take advantage of it and kill these infidel dogs.’
The Ghilzye chiefs swore that they wanted blood, not money, but when the payment of 2 lakhs of rupees (£20,000) was promised them for safe conduct, their leader, Mahommed Shah Khan, hurriedly went off to consult the lesser chiefs. Akbar, when he had gone, remarked to Johnson that these chiefs were dogs in whom no faith could be placed — begged him to send to the force for three or four of his best friends, to save them from likely death.
Johnson answered that he would gladly do so, but his friends would be against leaving their comrades.
Akbar then proposed instead that at dusk that day each one of the surviving British troops should be mounted behind one of his men and brought away to safety in his camp, for
the Ghilzyes would not fire for fear of hitting him or his men. But it was quite impossible, he said, for him to try to protect the crowd of almost 2,000 surviving camp-followers as well.
Akbar was obviously sincere in this offer. The 189 troops would present no problem as prisoners and could well prove a useful bargaining counter for him in the future with his own family.
‘But’, says George Lawrence, who was present, ‘with the fatal indecision which adhered to all their measures, the General and Shelton demurred to the Sirdar’s proposal on a point of honour.’
It was, as Lawrence remarks, a little late then to talk of honour, when seven days ago they had abandoned Kabul, where they had an army of 5,000 well-equipped men: when they had lost their stores, food and money, had allowed some 12,000 camp-followers to be butchered or taken into slavery, and had so commanded their troops that they were now less than 200. With certain annihilation now facing the weary officers and men down in the valley, surrender on Akbar’s terms seems to have been imperative.
But at the moment, when these men’s lives were at stake, when a word to Akbar could have saved them — the General and Shelton preferred instead to talk of honour. What a fantasy this honour was if to sustain it men had needlessly to be left to die.
Having then declined Akbar’s offer, the General asked again to be allowed to rejoin his troops, but once more Akbar refused and about mid-day rode off to Mahommed Shah Khan, the Ghilzye chief, to find out what had been arranged about payment. From time to time Elphinstone and his party heard bursts of musketry from the direction of the camp, but when they questioned it they were assured that all was well. They waited, fearing the worst.
Akbar returned at dusk, soon followed by Mahommed Shah Khan, who said that between him and his followers all was now arranged for the safe conduct of the troops to Jellalabad in the morning. Akbar said he would personally accompany them. General Elphinstone then wrote a note to Brigadier Anquetil informing him of this and ordering him to have the troops ready to move off at 8 a.m. next morning.
But at about 7 p.m., when the letter had not yet been sent, they heard a burst of heavy firing from the direction of the pass and horsemen rode up with the news that the British had finally marched, followed by the attacking Ghilzyes. ‘We were all in consternation,’ relates Captain Johnson. ‘At first the Sirdar suggested and the General concurred that we should follow them. In two or three minutes the former changed his mind and said he feared our doing so would… greatly injure the party, bringing after them the whole horde of Ghilzyes then assembled in the valley.’
From the time of the General's departure the day before the situation of the troops had been grim, with constant attacks. Early in the morning the tireless Captain Skinner — this time accompanied by Major Thain — had again set out for Akbar’s camp to find out what was afoot.
A Ghilzye soldier, Bulund Khan, suddenly appeared, and passing Thain, who was slightly ahead, went close up to Skinner and shot him in the face. Skinner fell and was carried back to camp. Later in the day, behind the ruined walls he died, and all the surviving force mourned him.
At intervals throughout that day too, the Afghan sharpshooters fired at the survivors from their hilltop, killing and wounding at will. The troops made repeated sallies and drove them off, but again and again the Afghans returned to shoot them down. Finally, it was decided at 7 p.m. to push on at all costs, necessarily abandoning the wounded.
Vincent Eyre passed by the ruined enclosure with the party of hostages an hour or two later. ‘We beheld a spectacle more terrible than any we had previously witnessed,’ he noted, ‘the whole interior space being one crowded mass of bloody corpses. The carnage here must have been frightful.’
The force now descended into a long narrow defile some two miles long, closed in by precipitous heights. This the troops passed through without more than a few shots from the Ghilzyes. But towards the head of the pass where the road sloped upwards they came face to face with two thick barriers of prickly holly-oak, twisted together, about six feet high, stretching across the whole defile.
The fugitives tore at the branches with naked hands and the hidden Ghilzye marksmen poured in a series of shattering volleys. When all was confusion, they rushed in whirling sabres. The British met them with bayonets, killing and wounding many with savage ferocity, so glad were they at last to get to grips with their tormentors. But weak from hunger and thirst they were also hopelessly outnumbered. Falling bleeding by the score, they were massacred.
Their own casualties made the Ghilzyes eventually withdraw and as the clash of knives and bayonets ceased, the British still alive took up their wounded comrades, staggered on through the opening in the barrier and halted several miles on near Gundamuk just before sunrise. A small party of mounted officers and men rode on ahead.
Many wounded died during the night and when a count was taken there were but twenty officers and forty-five men alive, apart from those who had ridden on alone. Brigadier Anquetil was dead and Major Thain, Elphinstone’s friend who had gone out to India as his aide-de-camp to enjoy a little hunting; Colonel Chambers, who commanded the cavalry at Kabul, Captain Nicholl, of the Artillery, Captain Grant, who had still lived on after a bullet had smashed his jaw three days before, and more than 100 redcoats, cavalry troopers and artillerymen. Captain Dodgin, a very strong and active man who had lost a leg in some earlier campaign, sabred five Afghans to death before he was shot down.
Until daybreak there was a brief respite. Crouching together on the wintry plain outside the hovels of Gundamuk, the survivors, one can imagine, looked at each other with vacant eyes, bound up their wounds with any rags they had and wondered when they too would fall.
A messenger now came from the local chief to the senior officer, Major Griffiths of the 37th Native Infantry, suggesting a parley. Hopefully Griffiths descended a hill to a conference, with Lieutenant Blewitt. The Afghans surrounding the force now assumed a friendly tone, but one or two of them tried to seize the soldiers’ weapons. Wild with despair and half crazed now the men drove them off at bayonet point.
For this little group it was the end. The Afghans retired to a hill near by and picked them off one by one with unerring aim. Soon all were either dead or wounded, and Afghans rushed in and put them to the sword.
Only Captain Souter of the 44th and four redcoats were spared and taken prisoner. All five were badly wounded, Souter with a deep sword-cut in his shoulder. Earlier in the day, he had ripped the colours from their pole when the quarter-master sergeant carrying them was killed, and wrapped them round his body. He believed the Afghans thought he was a great leader and spared him so that he could be ransomed.
Another group of some fifteen officers and men who were still mounted, had ridden on ahead together after escaping the barrier at Jugdullak. They, too, were shot down one by one on the road, until at Futtehabad, 16 miles from General Sale’s army at Jellalabad, only six still lived. They were all officers — Captains Bellew, Collyer and Hopkins; Lieutenant Bird and Doctors Harpur and Brydon.
Deliverance, it seemed, might now be at hand. If they could urge on their exhausted horses for these last few miles they could reach Jellalabad before night.
Just beyond Futtehabad, some Afghan peasants approached and offered bread. Having eaten nothing during three days of violent action, a little bread — even the half-baked lumpy Afghan bread — was irresistible. They stopped to eat.
A party of armed horsemen rode out and attacked them. Bird and Bellew were surrounded and cut down at once, the other four galloped off and Dr. Brydon, who was mounted on an exhausted pony, fell behind, left the road and hid behind some rocks while the chase went on.
Soon it occurred to him that there was no safety in delay so he turned his pony to the road again and drove him on. Not long after, he came up with the body of Dr. Harpur, terribly mutilated and bleeding. An Afghan horseman with upraised sword appeared and rode at him.
Brydon drew his own weapon and fought for his life. In the fi
ght his sword was broken off at the hilt and a moment after he received a wound in the knee, the pain of which made him involuntarily lean forward. The Afghan, thinking Brydon was about to draw a pistol — or wounded himself — turned and fled.
Bleeding and weak, scarcely able to stay in the saddle, Brydon rode on blindly towards Jellalabad, not even sure that Sale’s troops would still be there to save him.
Four days earlier on 11 January a party of Afghan horsemen bearing a flag of truce had brought General Sale a letter from General Elphinstone. It was dated 2 January 1842 and informed Sale that Elphinstone had agreed with Akbar Khan to evacuate the country and that this should start at Jellalabad. Sale was accordingly directed to march immediately for Peshawar — the force at Kabul had agreed not to march until it was known that General Sale and his force were beyond the frontier.
‘Everything has been done in good faith,’ the General had written. ‘You will not be molested on your way; and to the safe-conduct which Akbar Khan has given, I trust for the passage of the troops under my immediate orders through the passes.’
The signature was genuine, the orders were peremptory, but Elphinstone had made it clear that he had capitulated — and that he was dependent upon Akbar Khan for the safety of his troops. Sale and his staff, believing that the letter must have been written under duress and that after all that had been done, Afghanistan should not be thus abandoned decided ‘that it would not be prudent to act upon such a document; and that the garrison would abide where it was till further orders’.
Sale, who had great confidence in his troops saw no point in keeping this astonishing news from them and, says G. R. Gleig, their chaplain, they ‘held up their hands in amazement when the capitulation of 5,000 disciplined soldiers to any conceivable number of barbarians was announced to them as an affair accomplished. Moreover, the men were ready to march, or stay where they were.’ When told they would stay they received the news with a cheer and returned to the task of strengthening the fortifications.