She seesawed between guilt and anger, hating her impotence to change a thing. But underlying her mix of emotions was her grief for George and the death of their short, tender marriage.
‘We’ll take you back to Calcutta early if you wish,’ Sandy offered.
‘You must come and live with us at Fort William for a bit,’ said Emily. ‘I won’t let you be on your own. At least till you decide . . .’
When Alice tried to think of the future she could picture nothing that would make her happy. Was she expected to return to Britain? Tolland Park seemed like a different world – a distant life that a much younger Alice had lived. She would be lonely there in the dower house, attempting to fill in endless hours with riding, embroidery and taking tea with the gentry.
Yet how long could she stay in Calcutta as a widow? She could hardly bear the thought of returning there without George. She had made the long journey to India to be with him. Calcutta was his city, the botanic gardens his passion. Had their charming home been fumigated and boarded up? She could never bear to live there again.
Would she be expected to swiftly remarry? Widows of officers frequently did, especially if they had young children.
‘Oh, George!’ she wept aloud in her room. ‘If only you had given me a child to love, I could bear this emptiness more easily.’
At night, sleepless and numb with grief, she would wrap herself in her warm gauzy shawl – made from the pashmina that John had sent – and sit on the veranda. Staring out at the Himalayan peaks, Alice would allow herself to think of John. Only in the dark of the Indian night did she admit that she was now free to marry him. She felt disloyal for even contemplating it so soon after George’s death but it plagued her waking thoughts.
But where was he? A month ago a rumour had been circulating Simla that he was no longer in Ladakh. Kashmiri traders had brought news that they had helped him escape. If that were so, then why was he not back here in India? It was probably untrue, yet it gave her hope. Sandy had written to Colin MacRae to ask if there was any truth in the rumour but had heard nothing back.
Yet, a worm of doubt had burrowed into her mind about John ever since Vernon had said those terrible things about him. Could John really have been so callous in his treatment of women? She had hated Vernon for saying such things – had avoided him since and ignored his flowers and letter of condolence – but what if some of what he’d said was true?
How well did she really know John? She had fallen in love with him during ten intense days while she nursed him in the lighthouse. But she had only been seventeen years old and completely naïve about men. She had agreed to marry him on a romantic impulse, not because she knew him well. She had thought about him constantly since but had no idea how he had lived his life until they had come across each other in Simla.
Even then, they had been unable to talk to each other frankly until the final painful morning when John had declared his love once more but decreed they must not see each other again. What if he had never really written letters to her and her father and just made up the story to excuse his behaviour? Perhaps he had received her letters to him but had ignored them – enjoying himself too much with the maids at Addiscombe. And yet he had made the journey to Tolland Park to try to see her; the Spanish coin was proof of that.
Restless, Alice went to her jewellery box and retrieved the tarnished coin. She had consigned it to the bottom of the box since her heart-to-heart with George before leaving Calcutta. She fingered the coin and tried to shake off her doubts about John. He did love her; she was sure of that. If John knew she was no longer another man’s wife, would he not come rushing back to be with her? She would write to Colin herself to see if he could help her find him. She hung the chain around her neck and dropped it beneath her nightgown. Then Alice felt a fresh wave of guilt that her mind was preoccupied with John and not with George.
‘I’m not going to go back to Calcutta with you,’ Alice told the Aytons. It was the end of September and her friends were making preparations for the long journey down to the plains.
They gaped at her.
‘But you must,’ said Emily.
‘We can’t leave you here on your own, my dear,’ said Sandy.
‘I won’t be,’ said Alice. ‘I’m going to live with Miss Wallace and carry on working at the school. It’s all I want to do at the moment. I feel I’m being useful here.’
‘But you can’t!’ Emily cried in dismay. ‘I’d miss you too much and so will Alexander.’
‘I’ll miss you all too,’ said Alice, ‘but you’ll be back next spring and we can take up where we left off.’
‘I really don’t think we can leave you,’ Sandy said, flustered, ‘not a young woman on your own—’
‘I won’t be on my own,’ Alice pointed out, ‘I’ll be with Miss Wallace. If it’s safe in Simla for her, then it is for me.’
‘But how will you manage financially?’ Sandy asked.
‘I am well provided for,’ said Alice. ‘George made out his will in my favour. He has no other relatives to make a claim on his estate.’
She did not add that the combined wealth from Tolland Park and Black Harbour was considerable. She was a wealthy widow and was determined to use her money to help girls’ education in the way that George had helped hers. She had already arranged for a donation to be given to Mrs Meadows to keep the mission school going in Calcutta.
Nothing the Aytons could say would dissuade her. She could tell by their shocked looks that they were a little scandalised by her stubborn wish to live independently and reject the security of the British enclave. But Alice did not care what people thought. To stay in the hills with kind Miss Wallace and the schoolchildren would give her life purpose and bring comfort to her sore heart.
Alice moved her belongings into Miss Wallace’s airy bungalow on Jakko Hill the week before the Aytons left for Calcutta. She went to bid them farewell.
‘I’ll miss this boy the most,’ said Alice, hugging Alexander to her.
‘If you change your mind,’ said Emily, ‘you must come and live with us.’
Alice smiled. ‘Thank you.’ She kissed Alexander and handed him over to his ayah.
She didn’t stay to see them leave, preferring to go to the school and keep busy instead. A sudden panic gripped her that she was being reckless in staying. How isolated she would be in Simla over the long winter months. Loss for George engulfed her anew.
But when she saw the smiling faces greeting her at the school, she felt a surge of optimism. She was doing the right thing. It was best not to think too far ahead; life in India was so uncertain. She would cope with the future one day at a time.
CHAPTER 22
Baltistan, summer 1837
John and Rajban followed the River Indus north, at times climbing above sheer black cliffs when the gorge became too narrow for a path. They crossed mountain spurs between dark pinnacles that reminded John of the Cuillins – hard peaks of gneiss with crevices filled with ice.
When they reached the next plateau they would search for shade from the harsh white light under sparse clumps of willows or apricot trees. There was little vegetation anywhere except for where triangular fans of alluvial soil had been washed down from the mountains. They came across occasional fields of barley clinging to the contours of mountain slopes and irrigated by hardy farmers who gave them refreshment. Sitting in the shivery gloom of dark mud houses, John and Rajban would be offered handfuls of crisp toasted barley.
‘This reminds me of toasted oats,’ said John. ‘We used to take bagfuls with us when we went up to the shieling with the cattle in summer.’
But they never lingered, preferring to push on towards Skardu where they could rest and refresh their supplies before heading to Afghanistan.
The only other people they saw were occasional bands of nomads with flocks of sheep, roaming in search of pasture.
There was a stark beauty to the countryside, with its rock and sand of different hues from rusty red to bleac
hed white and green-grey rushing water from the melting glaciers. John was amazed by the number of birds that managed to survive in the harsh landscape: hoopoes, water wagtails, linnets and redstarts. They shot antelope and used the dung from their two ponies and one yak as fuel for their fire.
They rose before dawn and travelled until early afternoon when the sun grew too fierce, then made camp and slept with their turbans wrapped over their faces to protect them from the sun and wind.
John had never experienced such sand storms. The wind never stopped blowing, whipping sand into their eyes and shredding the skin on their faces. Where they could they followed goat or deer tracks higher up the slopes.
Finally, they came over a pass and glimpsed in the distance an imposing fortress dominating a dazzling blue lake. John knew this must be Skardu, the fortress capital of Baltistan. What he had learnt of the Baltis was largely from Wahid. They were fellow Muslims, ruled by the ageing Ahmed Shah, who was fiercely independent. In looks they were like their Tibetan neighbours.
‘It’s too far off to reach today,’ said John. ‘Let’s make camp and arrive there in daylight tomorrow.’
From their vantage point on the hillside, overlooking the broad plain ringed on all sides by mountain ranges, they now had a good view of the fortress.
‘Looks like the rock at Gibraltar,’ John mused. It thrilled him to think he was one of the very few Europeans who could have come this way. ‘Do you think there’s really a way through from here to Yarkand like Wahid said?’
‘There must be,’ said Rajban. ‘If Wahid is right, then Afghan traders still use it.’
As the light faded they wrapped themselves in blankets, brewed coffee over John’s spirit lamp and ate apricots. It was Rajban who spotted the caravan of camels in the setting sun, crossing the plain below.
‘Nomads?’ he queried.
‘No flocks with them,’ said John. ‘They must be merchants.’
They watched with interest as the travellers stopped to set up camp. John took out his telescope for a closer look.
‘They have women with them,’ he said in surprise. ‘There’s one getting out of a box-like contraption on that camel.’
‘A Balti woman?’
‘Looks more like an Afghan.’ John passed the eyeglass to Rajban.
‘Perhaps they are pilgrims?’ the hillsman speculated. ‘Certainly followers of Mohammed. Some of them are praying.’
They continued to observe the setting-up of tents, fetching of water and fires being lit for cooking and keeping wild animals at bay. John felt comforted by the sight of others peaceably resting in the clear, dry atmosphere of this remote valley. If they had come from Afghanistan and were moving east then they must be familiar with a route through the Himalayas. It might be worth trying to speak to them to find out what they knew. He hadn’t used his Pashto or Persian for a long time but was sure he could communicate with them somehow.
The sun sunk quickly and a bright full moon rose, flooding the rocky plain with silver light. John and Rajban wrapped their blankets over their heads and slept.
Rapid hoof beats woke John. The moon was gone but the sky was littered with stars. Shots fired out. Yells from below had him scrambling to his feet. Rajban was instantly beside him. Animals bellowed and the campers shouted out in confusion as a dozen riders were suddenly amongst them.
John saw sabres drawn and glinting in the ghostly light. A shrieking rider tore into the camp and slashed about him. Others followed. People tried to flee on foot but were cut down. Their screams filled the night.
‘We have to help them,’ John cried, seizing his rifle.
Rajban did the same. They grabbed swords and knives too and mounted their ponies – hardly horses of war but they would have to do.
The men exchanged glances. They knew that two of them against the robbers below would soon be outnumbered. The look that passed between them said everything; they would be comrades-in-arms until they took their last breath.
‘When we get within range, start firing and not before,’ John ordered. ‘It doesn’t sound like they have many guns between them.’
They kicked their ponies forward and down the slope.
The raiders had not expected a counter-attack from that direction out of the dark and were quite taken by surprise. John and Rajban’s shots sounded deafening, ringing around the bald rock. Two riders fell from their saddles. The others turned their horses in confusion. John and Rajban brought down two more before the raiders worked out where the firing was coming from. Some of the travellers struck back, plunging knives into the fallen attackers. Two of the robbers drew out pistols and began firing indiscriminately about them. John and Rajban rode at them, swords unsheathed. They clashed. John unseated one and slashed the arm of another.
Abruptly the attackers wheeled around and began to retreat. One of them seized a woman standing petrified by the camp fire and threw her onto his horse. She screamed in terror as he galloped off with her.
John turned and went after them. John caught up with the first rider just as he was gaining the entrance to a narrow pass. The robber slashed wildly with his sword and caught John on the arm. His thick Tibetan coat took the worst of the blow but his sword clattered from his grip. John pulled out Azlan’s dagger and, lunging forward, threw himself at the kidnapper’s horse and plunged the dagger into the man’s shoulder.
With a cry of anguish, the man pushed the woman from the horse and kicked the animal forward. He sped off, leaving the woman sprawled on the ground. John dismounted quickly and went to her aid. She was unconscious, blood sticky on his hand from a head wound. He pulled off his turban and made a bandage of it. Lifting her as gently as he could onto his pony, he mounted and led it away from the gulley and into the shadows. Half a dozen riders came clattering past. John waited till the sound of hoof beats had died away. He led his pony back to the camp, holding firmly onto the unconscious woman. There was carnage. People lay dead or dying in the flickering firelight. The camels had scattered across the plain.
John found Rajban nursing a young boy. ‘He has a bad sword wound to his leg,’ his friend said.
John looked about him, stunned by the brutality that had come so swiftly in the tranquil night. As he did so, he heard horses returning. Grabbing his knife, he turned to face the enemy. He would defend this woman and child with his life.
The horsemen appeared out of the dark and quickly surrounded them. They were not the same men; they looked like soldiers.
John shouted out a salaam before he and Rajban could be mistaken for attackers.
The front rider saluted him back with a hand to his heart. ‘I am sent by Ahmed Shah. Tell me who you are!’
‘I am Lieutenant John Sinclair of the East India Company. These people are badly wounded and need your help.’
It was after sunrise before the few survivors were safely within the walls of Skardu’s fortress, and the wounded had been seen to. Ahmed Shah, the amir of Baltistan, welcomed an exhausted John and Rajban into his dining hall. He addressed them in the courtly language of Persian.
‘Eat, eat, Lieutenant!’ he encouraged. ‘My men will fetch your yak and possessions. You will tell us what brings you to my kingdom – but first we must see to the others.’
The Balti-speaking soldiers could understand nothing that the survivors said, until John discovered that they spoke Persian. From the distraught boy, Aziz, that Rajban had saved, he learnt that they were a group of Kazilbashis from the Kohistan region of Afghanistan. Aziz told him that they were on their way to Kashmir to trade and attend a wedding. The boy’s sister, Sultana, the unconscious young woman being tended in the next room, was the bride-to-be. Apart from a wounded uncle, all the male relations escorting Sultana had been murdered, among them their father and two other uncles. Only a handful of servants had survived.
Ahmed Shah assured the boy that they were safe and he would protect them while they remained in Baltistan.
Later he told John, ‘I fear for the boy and
his sister. Their uncle may not survive his stab wounds. And the robbers appear to have made off with most of the dowry along with the raisins that the travellers were bringing to sell in Kashmir. It’s a terrible business – and to happen right under my nose!’
‘Who was it who attacked them?’ John asked. ‘They did not look like Baltis.’
The amir said disdainfully, ‘The robbers are bad men from neighbouring Kafiristan – they hate us Muslims. Their greatest trophy is the severed head of one of our brothers. Or to abduct one of our young women.’ He spat into the fire.
John slept an exhausted sleep in a dark chamber that was simply furnished but comfortable with a padded bed roll and cushions. He awoke not knowing where he was or the time of day.
It was already evening.
In the main hall, Ahmed was playing a board game with the young Kazilbashi boy.
‘Aziz is a skilful player,’ said Ahmed with a wink. ‘He can already outwit a king. Perhaps you will be a better match for his keen young mind than an old man like me?’
John saw from the boy’s red-rimmed eyes that he was in pain from his leg wound and deeply in shock. The kind ruler was trying to divert the boy’s mind from the horror of the previous night’s attack.
‘I can try,’ said John. ‘I used to beat my chief at backgammon – this looks similar.’
While they were playing a new game, a servant who had survived the attack and was keeping watch over Sultana came hurrying in.
‘She’s awake!’ the woman cried.
Aziz leapt to his feet, spilling counters to the floor in his haste. The men kept back. A few minutes later, Aziz returned, his face tear-stained and smiling in relief.
‘She can speak – she knows who I am.’
Over the following days, Sultana grew in strength. Her servant and Aziz were very protective of her and no one else was allowed in to see her.
In the Far Pashmina Mountains Page 25