ONLY AN ENSIGN

A Tale of the Retreat from Cabul.

BY JAMES GRANT,

AUTHOR OF "THE ROMANCE OF WAR," "FIRST LOVE AND LAST LOVE," "LADY WEDDERBURN'S WISH," ETC.

IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. II.

"Come what come may, Time and the Hour runs through the roughest day."—Macbeth.

LONDON: TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE ST., STRAND. 1871. [All Rights Reserved.]

LONDON: BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.

CONTENTS.

CHAP.

I.—BEYOND THE LAND OF THE SUN II.—IN THE AFGHAN FORT III.—THE WARNING IV.—WHAT TOOK US THERE V.—TIFFIN WITH THE TRECARRELS VI.—THE APPOINTMENT VII.—"THE BAND PLAYS AT TWO" VIII.—THE DRIVE IX.—ADVENTURE IN CABUL X.—THE MOSQUE OF BABER XI.—"Only an Ensign" XII.—ASSASSINATION XIII.—HOME IN THE SPIRIT XIV.—IN THE FORTIFIED CAMP XV.—CHRISTMAS AT CABUL XVI.—THE MORNING OF THE RETREAT XVII.—THE HALT BY THE LOGHUR RIVER XVIII.—SPIRITED AWAY! XIX.—THE SKIRMISH XX.—IN THE KHYBER PASS XXI.—WALLER'S ADVENTURES XXII.—CHANCE BETTER THAN DESIGN XXIII.—DENZIL A NAWAB XXIV.—A MEETING XXV.—MARRIED OR NOT? XXVI.—THE WANDERER XXVII.—THE LOST STEAMER

ONLY AN ENSIGN.

CHAPTER I. BEYOND THE LAND OF THE SUN.

Far, far away from rough and rocky Cornwall—from steep Tintagel with all its memories of King Arthur's knights, his "Table Round" and flirting queen; from the traditionary haunts of its giant Tregeagle, and from its wondrous mines deep, deep down below even the blue waves of the Atlantic; far away beyond the Indus and the frontiers of British India, fifteen hundred miles from Calcutta, and seven hundred from the shores of the Arabian Gulf, we have to change the scene to where a British army, under General Elphinstone, was cantoned before the city of Cabul, ere we can look after the fortunes of Denzil Devereaux, of whom we have barely thought, while progressing through an entire volume of our story.

A detachment of his regiment, under a captain named Waller, was attached to General's Trecarrel's Native Infantry Brigade; and an afternoon in November of the second year after the military occupation of the province by her Majesty's troops, found him quartered, with his brother officers, the aforesaid captain—popularly known as Bob Waller—a lieutenant named Jack Polwhele, also of the "Cornish Light Bobs," in one of the little native forts, of which a dozen or more lay scattered over the plain between the British cantonments and the bleak range of hills named Siah Sung, or "the Black Rocks."

The apartment in which the three were seated, each in a bamboo easy chair and wearing fur-trimmed poshteens (or native pelisses) above their blue undress surtouts, while they idled over brandy-pawnee and a box of cigars, was neither luxurious nor splendid, being simply a portion of a half shattered tower of native construction, before the windows of which the Bengal Sappers had erected a species of verandah, as a promenade and shade from the sun in summer; but now the season was winter; and though the evening was temperate, a fire blazed merrily in the open grate-less fireplace, and shed a cheerful glow on the whitewashed walls, the only adornments of which were certain caricatures (executed by Waller with burnt cork) of the regimental adjutant, of the brigade major, of "old Elphinstone," or other personages, to him more or less obnoxious. A charpoy or native bedstead, a few bullock-trunks, an overland ditto, an iron washing-stand, several pairs of boots, a few swords, whips, guns and hogspears, with any number of bottles, full or empty, littering the corners, made up

the splendours of Bob Waller's quarters in the fort, from which, some two years before, Sir Robert Sale's brigade had summarily expelled sundry unwilling Kussilbashes at the point of the bayonet.

The rooms of Denzil and Jack Polwhele in other parts of the same rude edifice were precisely similar; but their soldiers were hutted in the cantonments close by.

One window of Waller's room faced the hills to the westward and the Arab-looking village of Behmaru, which means "the place of the husbandless," from a legend of the time of old—remote, perhaps, as the wars of Mohammed Ghori. An Afghan maid of high rank had been betrothed to a chief whom she tenderly loved; for the Afghans, though strict Mussulmen, neither seclude their wives, as others usually do, nor wed without duly winning them. But tidings came that he had fallen in battle against the Hindoos, on which she pined away and died. The news, however, was premature, for the chief recovered from his wounds, and returned to find only her grave on the hillside now called Behmaru; so he brought from Bourkhor one of those strange and spectral-like white stones, which, when placed upright, so closely resemble an eastern woman in her drapery, and set it above her tomb. In his old age he, too, was laid beneath it, and in time to come a village sprung up there.

Another window faced the south, affording the more ample view of the huts and compounds (i.e., hedges and palisades) of the British Cantonments, and about two miles beyond them the great city of Cabul, surrounded of course by a fortified wall, as what city in that part of the world is not. Here and there rose above the flat roofs of its narrow streets the tower or castle of a chief; the dome or minar of a mosque; and the huge mass of its vast bazaar, built in the time of Aurengzebe, when it became the trade emporium of Central Asia; and high over all, the Bala Hissar, or palace (wherein resided the Shah Sujah, whose power our troops had come most unwisely to uphold) and which was also the citadel or fortress—a place of vast strength; and far away in the distance, rising like the waves of a frozen sea against a deep blue sky, were the mighty peaks of Kohistan and Hindoo Koosh, in height fourteen thousand feet above the plain, and crowned by eternal snows, unchanged in aspect and character, as the dwellers there have been since Alexander marched past them with his Greeks to

the conquest of the Eastern world, and since Malimoud of Ghuznee poured his hordes across the Indus in the eleventh century.

The boy ensign—he over whose couch a pale, sad mother hung, watching as he lay asleep and unconscious on the eventful morning of his departure—watching him tearfully and tenderly while he was yet her own—was now a well knit, well set up and weather-beaten looking young fellow. A few months of campaigning had changed the erratic Sandhurst cadet, whose best exploits had been breaking lamps and dismounting the college guns to spite the governor, into a practical soldier; and all that remained in him of the mere lad had nearly given place to the quietly confident air of a man—one who could take his part in society as the leader of others; one who had faced perils and surmounted them by his own unaided energy; for already had Denzil been twice under fire, and had, with a small party, defeated more than one plundering band of the fierce Beloochees.

Ignorant of the calamitous state of matters at home, and of the sorrows of his sister, Denzil, with the natural elasticity of youth, aided by the excitement consequent to military life in the cantonments of Cabul, had recovered the first shock occasioned by his father's loss at sea, and hence on the evening we have met him again, he was in excellent spirits. General Trecarrel had arrived shortly before this, and was now in command of a brigade. His daughters were with him, and proved leading attractions in that little circle of British residents, the European society, military and diplomatic, in and about Cabul, of which Lady Sale and Lady Macnaghten were the recognised heads; and Denzil had been duly introduced to Mabel and Rose by his friend Waller (who had known them in Calcutta), of the result of which introduction we shall have more to say in time to come.

Audley Trevelyan had not yet come up country, as he had been landed on the sick list at Bombay.

The young ladies knew well the story of Constance's alleged marriage, and Denzil's consequent claim to rank; but the tale seemed strange and mysterious, and good taste caused them to be silent, and to keep in the Cantonments and Residency at least what they deemed to be the secret of Denzil, who was an especial favourite with them both; but he never took them into his confidence, though he had taken his friend Waller, one day when they were on guard together at the arsenal and commissariat fort. On that occasion but little passed, and it proved a guide for the future conduct of Denzil.

"You remember our quarrel, Bob?" he asked.

"And the interrupted duel—what griffs we were! Yes—well; what of it?"

"I want your advice, old fellow;" and then he read to Waller certain portions of a letter from Sybil, impressing upon him the necessity for silence on their now unsupported claims.

"Your sister is right, Denzil, and advises you like a sensible girl," said Waller, after a pause, during which he had been thoughtfully filling his pipe with cavendish; "neither here nor at home—here most especially—can you prove anything. The important papers seem to be lost irretrievably; that lawyer fellow, with the name so consonant to his trade, Sharkley, has failed in the matter; so be, as your sister advises, a Devereaux till you can, if ever, announce yourself with strength, a Trevelyan; and have no quarrels—she seems very sensitive about that—with your kinsman on Trecarrell's staff; for meanwhile we may have the Afghans, the Ghilzies, the Kussilbashes, and the devil knows how many more darkies to fight."

Both Waller and Polwhele were unusually good-looking fellows of that peculiar style to be found in the British service, and in no other in Europe. In years they were not more than six or seven-and-twenty; and the former had attained his company after eight years' service in India.

His stature verged on six feet; his features were perfectly regular and aquiline; he had fair hair, which he parted in the middle with an amount of care only equalled by that adopted in curling his long, fair whiskers. He had very white teeth, and merry, roguish blue eyes. He possessed a singular aptitude for making himself essentially useful and agreeable to the married ladies, who consulted him on all manner of things, for Waller excelled in everything, from driving a four-in-hand drag to making a pig out of an orange at supper. He shone in amateur theatricals; wrote verses (not always his own composition) in albums; took charge of the band; got up all the parties and picnics about the station, and even the balls at the Residency, if such they could be called, in a European circle so excessively limited, as that of our garrison at Cabul.

Jack Polwhele was perhaps the more soldier-like of the two; he was fully an inch less in stature than Waller, taper-waisted and broad-chested; to his weather-beaten face, dark complexion, and sparkling eyes of the clearest hazel, a pair of black eyebrows, and a heavy mustache of the same tint, imparted a great deal of character; and being closely shaven, the contour of a chin indicative of decision—a virtue essentially military—was fully displayed. He had a smarter, perhaps more dashing, air than Waller; but like him exhibited a set of teeth, unique for whiteness and regularity, when he laughed, which he always did heartily, for like most young officers, he was a happy and heedless fellow.

He and Waller were rather considered to be two "pattern officers" of the Cornish Light Infantry, a corps which carries on its colours all the honours of the old war that began on the plains of Corunna and ended on those of Waterloo; and to these are added the glories of India down to the battle of Goojerat and the terrible siege of Lucknow.

Raised in 1702, in the days of the Good Queen Anne, it has served in every war that added honour or territory to the British Empire, and numbers among its Colonels sturdy old Brigadier Jacob Borr, who, before the capture of Barcelona in 1705, during the strife of the Spanish Succession, in a dispute about precedence, fought a duel in front of the British lines, sword in hand, in his Ramillies wig and lace ruffles, with Colonel Rodney of the Marines, whom he ran fairly through the body; Brigadier Thomas Paget of the House of Uxbridge; the ferocious old John Huske, who did such butcherly things at Culloden; Lieutenant-General Leighton of Watlesborough; William Amherst, who was Governor of Newfoundland during the American War of Independence; Ralph Earl of Rosse, and others, down to General Trecarrel, to whom Sir John Keane presented the watch already referred to, subsequent to the storming of Ghuznee, where "Old Tre," as the soldiers named him, was the second man through the Cabul gate, after Colonel Peat had blown it up, by three hundred pounds of gunpowder.

The conversation of those with whom Denzil now found himself, will best explain the state of affairs in Cabul, and the new phase of society in which Destiny had cast him.

CHAPTER II. IN THE AFGHAN FORT.

"So, Polwhele, I find by the Order Book, that you are detailed for the party against the plundering Ghazeeas?" said Waller.

"Yes; I shall have the pleasure of scouring all the Siah Sung after these wretched fanatics to-morrow."

"What force goes with you?"

"Thirty rank and file of ours, with Sergeant Treherne."

"Son of old Mike, the miner, at Porthellick?"

"Yes; and forty of the thirty-seventh Native Infantry under Burgoyne."

"But I believe you are to tiff, with us at the Trecarrels in the afternoon," observed Denzil. "The General's Chuprassey, a half-naked fellow with a brass badge, brought Waller and me pink notes of invitation, and I saw there was one for you."

"I shall be duly there if a ball from a juzail, or a slash from an Afghan knife don't put me on the sick list, or give you a chance of a lieutenancy," replied Polwhele, twirling his thick black moustache.

"It is wretched work we are condemned to, at times, here."

"Yes," rejoined Polwhele, "and I fear that my little affair with the Ghazeeas is but the forerunner of some greater disturbance."

"However, to-morrow or the day after, the Envoy is to have a solemn conference with the ferocious Ackbar Khan."

"I don't think much will come of that," continued Polwhele. "It is to the memories of Plassey, Assaye, and a hundred glorious battles, rather than to our present numerical force, that we Britons owe our prestige in the East; but here in Cabul, beyond the Indus, it has not yet been felt, thanks to parsimony and utter mismanagement, civil and military."

"Don't take to grumbling, Jack, but pass the brandy bottle, old fellow. I hope we shall keep Shah Sujah on his throne despite Ackbar Khan and all the rebellious rabble in Afghanistan. What was up in your quarter yesterday? You were on guard near the old tomb and temple westward of the Cantonments."

"Up—how?"

"I heard a sound of musketry near it."

"One discharge?"

"Yes."

"Oh—you remember that odd-looking fellow who appeared at the band-stand and cut such strange capers when the musicians of the 37th were playing an air from Rossini. Well, he proved to be a Thug, and all the implements of Thugee—the holy pick-axe, the handkerchief and cord for strangulation, were found upon him."

"Not in his clothes," said Denzil, "for he had none, so the orderlies switched him away from the vicinity of the Trecarrels' carriage."

"I saw those wags of girls in fits of laughter at him. No, the implements were not found in his clothes, certainly, but in his hair, which hung below his waist, plaited like ropes. Many murders—he had strangled Christians and Hindoos with perfect impartiality—were fully proved against him by the Provost-Marshal, so he was shot, off-hand, to save all further trouble."

"So those Thugs are a sect?" said Denzil.

"Yes; and a vast community of secret assassins, too. As for sects, you will find as many here as in England, but calling themselves by different names, Mahommedans, Soonies, Ismaelites, Parsees, Hindoos, Bheels, Khonds, and worshippers of Mumbo Jumbo, et cetera, all hating each other most cordially; and by Jove, amid them, we may say as the knight of La Mancha said to his squire, 'Here, brother Sancho, we can put our hands up to the elbows in what are called adventures.'"

"Who are to be at the Trecarrels' to-morrow?" asked Waller, manipulating a fresh cigar.

"Ask Devereaux," replied Polwhele, sending some spiral circles towards him, and laughing the while.

"Why me?" asked Denzil, with a little annoyance of tone.

"How amusingly pink you become, my boy, whenever their names are mentioned," said Polwhele; "doubtless you will be 'doing' our old Cornwall all over again with Rose, though it is evident your heart is not there."

"Where, then?"

"In Cabul, and nearer Kohistan than the Well of St. Keyne," replied Polwhele, who, as his name imports, was a Cornishman; and he added, laughingly. "What says Southey?—

But if the wife should drink of it first, God help the husband then! * * * * * * I hastened as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch; But i'faith she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church.

Ah, well do I remember that old spring so famed for its virtues, arched over by old masonry, above which grow five ancient trees, the Cornish oak, the elm, and three ashes, their roots entwined like a network in the turf and moss! But to return to the Trecarrels and their tiffin to-morrow, if I escape the Ghazeeas, who are we likely to meet?"

"Well, I have heard that Lady Sale—"

"The wife of 'Fighting Bob' of the 13th Light Infantry!"

"—Is to be there; the General Commanding too, if his health will permit it, and most likely her Majesty's Envoy to the Shah," continued Denzil, still colouring plainly and deeply.

"I knew that you could tell us all about it; for, of course, the fair Rose employed you to write all the little pink notes on the perfumed paper. You seem very soft in that quarter, Denzil; but one might as well attempt to catch a meteor, my friend, as that girl's heart."

"Don't say so, Jack," urged Denzil, so earnestly that both Waller and Polwhele laughed immoderately.

"You will be like the little boy who wept for the moon," said the former, curling and caressing his long fair whiskers complacently.

"And be assured, she has a soul far above Ensigns," added his other tormentor, for unluckily for his own peace of mind, Denzil had fallen a tender victim to the flirting Rose; "yet, I must admit, that the girl—the second Trecarrel I mean—is charming; almost handsome."

"Nay, more than handsome!" added Waller emphatically, "and I must sympathize with Denzil, as I rather affect la belle Mab myself."

"But the old General has little more than his pay, or he would never have brought the girls so far up country else; at least, the good-natured Cantonment folks who indulge in gup say so," remarked Polwhele, using the native word for "gossip." "And now I must go, for Burgoyne and I mean to study the geography of yonder confounded hills which we have to scour to-morrow; and we move off from the Cantonments in the dark—an hour before daybreak."

"One glass more ere you go, Jack."

"Thanks," replied Polwhele, and then he added with mock gravity; "two of the golden rules of my simple domestic economy are, a cheroot and glass of stiff brandy-pawnee before switching the mosquito curtains and turning in; and a cup of cold tea, with a wet towel about my temples before morning parade; or at least, such used to be my custom, before we came to this Arctic and Afghan, rather than Orient region."

"And considering late hours immoral, you always come into quarters early in the morning."

"A third golden rule—precisely so, old fellow," replied the other as he assumed his sword and forage-cap. He was about to go, when Waller's servant, a soldier in livery, appeared to announce that a native wished "to speak with the Sahibs Waller and Polwhele on particular business."

"Now, what can the nigger want?" asked Polwhele; "a Parsee money-lender perhaps—have you been flying kites, Bob?"