The Khyber Pass Massacre

Author: Russell, A.F.
Akbar Khan, heir to the Afghan Throne, forced by his British conquerors to wander in the wilderness of exile, plotted revenge. Perhaps the Shah of Persia would lend him troops wherewith to eject the accursed Infidel from Kabul, the City of Orchards, his capital-to-be. Perhaps....

A swarthy horseman galloped towards him bringing news. The garrison of Kabul had been depleted, and the Afghan chiefs were in revolt against the British invader. They had sworn to throw him back across the Khyber Mountains into the India from which he had come to capture Dost Mohammed, King of Afghanistan, father of Akbar, and their country. They had written their oath in blood on the leaves of the Koran. And the British Resident, Sir William Macnaghten, utterly incapable of understanding his fellow-men, especially the treacherous inhabitants of these stark regions of the north, had taken no serious measures to frustrate them. This foolish, high-principled, bespectacled British Envoy, surrounded by a spate of desperate men, had even thought it weakness to attempt to discover who had written their names in the Koran. Had he only arrested three or four of the conspirators and sent them to India to join Akbar's father, Dost Mohammed, all would have been well.

Akbar's dark eyes glowed at the good news. His powerful sensual mouth uttered fierce orders, the impetuous prince led his men back at speed to Kabul, there to join the conspirators. They were not so pleased to see him as he would have liked. These wild men of the hills had no great desire to be ruled by any one, King of England or Amir of Afghanistan. The dawning kingship of Akbar must be kept at bay. The Afghan's cunning brain does not go direct to the point. The conspirators first suggested that Akbar was too friendly disposed towards the British, then they hinted that he might be a traitor to the general desire to throw out the accursed Infidel.

And Akbar was furiously angry. He defended himself with great energy. His fiery words, fierce countenance and undisciplined gestures, showed that their captive monarch's favourite son was an awkward prince, one not lightly to be trifled with. This man, with many family wrongs to redress, had the spirit of his fine physique; he was to exert a mighty influence over them all; and they must now understand just where he stood.

"Prove your words."

"That I will. I swear by the Koran before you all that by this time to-morrow I will bring the British Resident from Kabul into our camp either as a hostage or as a corpse."

That vow, spoken with all the force of his wild nature, surprised them all. Hitherto they had contented themselves with a little furtive shooting, a sly murder or two; but if Akbar Khan, son of their deposed Amir, would be so bold as to strike down the British Raj, that would be the end of Infidel rule in Kabul. Some of the lesser chieftains maybe hoped that Akbar would himself be struck down, as some day he would be, but by an enemy as yet unknown. Meanwhile he would become the terrible avenging figure swooping again and again on the ever-dwindling British column struggling vainly to escape from Kabul to the safety of India. From changing positions high up in the blood-stained Khyber he would direct and observe probably the most frightful debacle in the history of the British Army.

Sir William Macnaghten received a request from Akbar Khan for another conference. He was a little surprised, for he had only recently seen Akbar, presented him with a pair of pistols, and made a humiliating treaty for the evacuation of the city. In this new demand he might have seen the shadow of coming evil, but he still professed his confidence in the good faith of the Afghan leader. It was Christmas Day, 1841, when the Resident, taking with him Captains Lawrence, Trevor and Mackenzie, kept the appointed rendezvous at a bridge outside the British cantonments where sixteen Afghan warriors were ambushed.

For the benefit of the hidden tribesmen Akbar began to inveigh against the British official for what he described as his delay and duplicity. Why had his father not been set at liberty? And why, seeing that he was prepared to supply transport for the baggage, had not the British cleared out of Kabul? Further, why had not General Sale, occupying Jellalabad on the other and safe side of the Khyber, not quitted according to the terms of the treaty? "Instead of leaving," shouted Akbar, "your General has fortified himself against us with more energy than ever."

Some of the hidden tribesmen began to draw round and Macnaghten, seeing them, urged Akbar not to speak so loudly. He replied that there could be no secrets on these matters between him and his followers. Then, no longer playing a part, he announced that he considered Sir William and his suite to be his prisoners. The Resident protested that he had not broken the treaty, and that he would rather die than submit himself to Akbar. The Afghan seized the feeble British official in a mighty grip, whereupon his three aides ran to protect him. The encircling Afghans leaped forward and slew Captain Trevor; the other two were captured.

But the Resident was given no mercy. The savage Akbar produced one- of his captive's gift pistols and pulled the trigger. It flashed in the pan, but at the second attempt the Envoy lay dead at his feet. That Christmas morning Akbar had surely demonstrated that he was no friend of the British!

The head of Macnaghten, still wearing his rose-coloured spectacles, was first shown to his two captains in custody, and then carried in triumph through the bazaar on the point of an Afghan spear. Then it was fixed to a pole on the dome of the bazaar, where it remained for three days before being thrown into a disused well. Captains Lawrence and Mackenzie, after hearing the jeers of Akbar and his men, were allowed to return to the British camp.

Such was the treatment received by the head of the British Government in newly-captured Kabul. Yet the man who was responsible for this treachery, Akbar Khan, was the villain with whom Macnaghten's successor must perforce negotiate for the evacuation of Afghanistan. To his tender mercies must be entrusted some 5,000 troops and 12,000 camp-followers, besides women and children, all of whom, if they would reach safety, must trudge through or be carried over, snow a foot deep, in mid-winter, through the narrow defiles of Khyber, alive with enemy snipers, who had proclaimed a holy war against them, and who had determined to plunder their goods and gorge themselves with their blood.

But there was no help for it now. After a series of blunders in the handling of an alien race the colossal blunder had been made of appointing to the command of the soldiery a decrepit gout-ridden old man named General Elphinstone, who had confessed his own inability for the trust confided to him. Macnaghten had hoped that the army would have been able to disperse the investing hordes of Afghans; Elphinstone declared that his troops were incapable of the task. So a treaty had to be made with these Ishmaels of diplomacy whose cold relentlessness of purpose was everywhere evidenced.

Akbar's fellow-chieftains, still unwilling for the concentration of power into the hands of one man, decided to take part in the fresh negotiations now opened by Major Pottinger. They all ratified the terms of the new treaty, which were that General Sale should evacuate Jellalabad, that Dost Mohammed should be liberated, and that the British should take their arms with them upon leaving Kabul.

After a siege lasting sixty-seven days, General Elphinstone, and the army he commanded, prepared to leave under these humiliating conditions. The fatal morning of January 6, 1842, dawned bleak and cold. It was a dreary and dismal prospect for the strongest and stoutest heart; and there were not many of those in that bedraggled procession of nearly 20,000 souls. Every inch of the mountains and the plain was dazzling white snow, and the cold was so penetrating that everybody shivered in the sunshine. The lot of the women and children among the camp-followers was indeed miserable from the start, and became progressively so. The country through which they would travel, presented unparalleled difficulties; the fact that it would soon become peopled with the enemy transformed it into a narrow line of ghostly valleys destined to become the grave of all.

Akbar had promised an escort to protect them on the way, but this escort, like many of his promises, did not materialise. Nor did the fleeing British see any signs of the enemy at the moment when the head of the procession left the camp. They were held in check; the rabbits must not be frightened back into their hole. The Afghan vultures were in no great hurry; the journey was long, Jellalabad was many miles away; at their rate of progress it would be a long time before the Khyber Passes were threaded. In fact, the first day's journey had only covered five miles when nightfall forced the column into camp.

In the morning a cut had been made in the Kabul cantonment to allow of a clear passage out for troops and baggage, gun wagons and platform planks, which would make a temporary bridge over Kabul River. Through this opening lumbered every available camel and Afghan pony laden with camp equipages, stores and things necessary to shelter at least some of the troops from the rigours of the mountain climate.

The advance began at the early hour of 9 a.m., a pathetic cavalcade of victors in retreat. By ten o'clock the Afghans had bestirred themselves and were beginning that devilishly subtle diplomacy which characterised all their dealings with the retreat. A message came suggesting that the departure be postponed for yet another day to enable the escort to be made ready; the real reason was to give the Afghans time to plunder the Kabul camp and to send their human vultures to line the passes.

But the column was now in motion and could not conveniently return. Moreover, from the Afghan villages nearby a crowd of armed tribesmen was already emerging. Soon it was in the mission compound, evacuated too soon, and the work of plunder and destruction had begun. There could be no return!

As was to be expected with a force so badly controlled, there were many delays, and it was noon before the head of the procession had cleared the river, leaving the way open for camp-followers and rearguard to follow.

The presence with the army of two or three times their number of camp-followers made it impossible for the troops to march in proper order. From the very start the camp-followers were a clog on the movements of the soldiers, contributing immensely to the misfortunes of the march. But the civilians could not have been left behind to the mercy of the tribesmen, for men who would triumphantly parade through the Bazaar with the head of the British Resident on the point of a spear were unlikely to show greater mercy to his unprotected people. If only the British Force, small though it was, had refused to leave, and stayed on to fight if necessary, as was done in Jellalabad, all might yet have been well.

The procession moved out, and the women and children, mixing in with the troops, soon threw the column into confusion. As that long train of soldiers, civilians, ponies and heavily-laden camels moved forward it presented an irresistibly tempting sight to the greedy watchers. At last Allah had delivered the accursed Infidel and all his possessions into their hands. Not content would they be with exulting over their parting guests' discomfiture; they must ever and again be interfering with that tempting column. The rearguard did its best to restrain them, but it presently had to take up a position on the plain to protect a large quantity of baggage which had been dumped there.

The Afghans, as the day passed, became satiated with plundering the deserted cantonments, and now began to line the ramparts. Their chief had promised protection to the departing British. His yelling followers produced their long rifles and poured a mischievous fire into the slow-moving procession.

Perhaps it was fortunate that the soldiers had spiked the cannon which they were unable to bring away with them, or the tribesmen would have turned those heavy guns as well on to the column.

The confusion and the babble, the shouts of command, the wrangling of the women, the rampaging of the camels, and the general disorder, would have discouraged the most patient of strong commanders. Elphinstone's patience and that of his lieutenants were soon exhausted. Away in the distance were the treacherous defiles, destined to become the glens of slaughter. When the request had come to wait another day for the escort Elphinstone had looked back ruefully at the devastated encampment, at the army of plunderers who were already harrying the baggage columns and straggling civilians and had said pathetically, "It's too late now!" The cantonments had been fired, and the scene was one of fearful sublimity. If death lay ahead there was certainly no chance of life in that plundered and burning encampment. The Residency was the first to go, after which every other building was set alight; even if the Infidel changed his mind, he could now find no shelter in his old cantonments.

Though a day of unclouded glory over the whole valley of Kabul, it had been a terrible first day for the luckless marchers. A bridge of gun-carriages, overlaid with planks, had been built across Kabul River, but even with this the river had not been fordable for much of their goods. Pottinger advised Elphinstone to push on as far as Khurd Kabul before calling a first halt, but it was found impossible to move that imponderable conglomeration of soldiers, civilians and cattle any farther that night. Looking back over the five miles that had been traversed, the outcasts could see the plain dotted with the baggage which had been first abandoned and then plundered. There lay also the dead bodies of some fifty British soldiers. But that was not the worst, for scores of old Sepoys whose fighting days were over and other camp-followers, unfitted to battle with the cold or to endure a tramp of even a few miles, were already sitting down in the snow, ready for death by cold or by the knives of the holy warriors of Afghanistan.

Tongues of fire played about the sky, making a vast funeral pyre of the home of the British Forces for the past three years, and illuminating the wretched sleepless crowd that lay freezing in the snow of the new camp. The officers' wives and some of the troops had a few provisions, but for the majority there was little or no food, and for these starving wretches a shelterless night in the open was a poor preparation for the grim to-morrow. Some were fortunate; they became so benumbed that they were incapable of feeling. And when the bugle sounded in the morning these lucky ones were left behind, frozen to death.

General Elphinstone had a small tent for his sick body; there was another for Lady Sale, who was to write her experiences of this retreat, and her daughter. The soldiers' tents were flimsy, and offered but poor protection from the cold. They had been pitched without any regard to regularity or regiment and the various sections were mixed with the camp-followers, the camels and the horses, in one hopeless intimate mass.

It was fortunate for Captain Mackenzie that his native riflemen were still loyal, for they had a system of camping which, had it been practised by everybody before the departure, would have saved much of the misery of that horrible night. These riflemen cleared a small space of the snow and then lay down in a closely-packed circle with their feet meeting in the centre, all the warm clothing available spread equally over each. In this way sufficient animal warmth was generated to preserve each person from frost-bite. There was no distinction between officer and men in that homely circle. Captain Mackenzie lay gratefully with the rest, and in the morning he declared that though he had lain in the open without a tent, with snow on the ground a foot thick, he had felt no cold. But who could sleep on a night like that? The hours of darkness were disturbed by the yells from without and the cries and whimperings from within the camp. And still the bonfires, lit by the holy warriors, played freakishly over all.

The sun rose next morning in unveiled splendour, shone on the smouldering embers of the old cantonments, and on the heavings and stirrings of the camp in the snow. No bugle call for breakfast. All who could, scrambled to their feet, shook the snow from their benumbed bodies, many cursing their fate as they stamped about to restore circulation. Captain Lawrence, who had done his utmost all through the previous day to rally the troops, the terrified women and children, joking with them, and shepherding them into the line of route, struggled out of his little tent to find an elderly artilleryman lying frozen to death at his feet. He still grasped his sword.

An effort was made to sort out the troops. Bugle calls sounded and resounded without evoking a response from the native sappers and miners, who had deserted to the enemy in the night. Better the opportunity of imprisonment and possible death with the Afghans, than certain death in the Khyber Pass. The order was given to resume the journey from this nightmare of snow to the warmer lands of the South; but it was an undisciplined mob, almost a rabble, that took up the march the second day. How could a hungry, frost-bitten army march in step with any semblance of order? How could frost-bitten hands carry their rifles? The Indian soldiers - unused to cold climates - had already-suffered so much that they were beginning to throw away their arms, leaving them for the enemy, who would soon turn them on their owners.

Away in the distance rose the rocky ranges with their vertical cliffs which guarded the gateway to the south. Once those were gained there was a sixty-mile trudge through valley after dangerous valley until they emerged at Jellalabad, on the farther side. Progress was again frightfully slow, the order of march becoming more and more disorganised. Again the Afghans showed that they were not early risers, but soon, from a small fort above the road, there debouched a horde of fanatical warriors, brandishing their weapons, and yelling their fury. It was a bad day for the guns, some of which, making a detour, were surrounded before they could be got back into the road. Though the British troops seemed incapable or unwilling to defend their guns, the officers dashed in and spiked them. Captain Lawrence returned gloomily from the scene, declaring that the disgrace was too humiliating to speak about. He was just in time to rescue Lady Macnaghten from the snow, where she had been dumped by her scared and frost-bitten coolies. Unable to induce them to resume their load, Lawrence took Lady Macnaghten with him on to his Arab charger. But at that moment some Afghan horsemen swooped down on the baggage column, slashing at everybody with their swords. Lawrence caught the rope trailed by a passing camel and transferred his charge.

The cavalcade, their casualities increasing with every furlong they traversed, plodded towards that yawning gap in the mountain, the first of the four Passes to be negotiated before they could reach safety. Again a messenger came urging them to wait until provisions, firewood, and an escort could arrive to help them through the Pass.

Brigadier Shelton, generally unpopular, furiously objected to the order to halt, even though that meant a re-organisation of the column. His advice was wise; their only chance now was to press forward with all possible speed. It was dusk before the order to resume the march was given, by which time a large body of Afghans had been observed riding after them through the snow. But they were not the expected escort, though their leader was Akbar Khan, murderer of Sir William Nacnaghten and the self-appointed instrument of vengeance on those who had conquered and misruled his father's country. He claimed to have come to protect the column from the fanatics who were beginning to people the hills through which they were to pass. Akbar sternly charged them with planning to effect a junction with General Sale at Jellalabad; if they did so their two forces would unite against him. He now demanded that they halt at one of the villages en route, until news came that Jellalabad had been evacuated. They must also supply him with hostages as guarantees that his demands would be carried out; and in return he would supply them with all the necessaries they required, and would clear the Passes of the savage tribes. The pusillanimous Elphinstone weakly agreed to the demand and halted the procession for the night, thus giving the human vultures still more time to prepare for their coming.

If the first night had been bitter, it had been but the beginning of sorrows. That second night the snow was deeper, the frost more keen, with the temperature 12 degrees below zero. Yet most of that column, still numbering over 15,000 souls, somehow lived through that awful night. The grip of the frost was so pitiless that some went almost insane with the cold. The state of the hungry, half-frozen children was terrible to witness. It may have been possible even at that stage to have charged the encircling enemy, and have made for the Bala Hissar, a citadel which they had passed on their first day's journey. Here they might have held out until a relief force arrived. It was not to be. On the third morning the fanatical warriors were again swarming about the camp, and still Elphinstone had no intention of attacking. But Captain Lawrence, seeing that the enemy were massing for a charge, led the cavalry towards them, scattering them like chaff. While this engagement was taking place, Akbar had sent in another ultimatum, a demand for six hostages, including the doughty Lawrence, and Shelton the Brigadier. Lawrence objected to surrender himself, and Pottinger, who had been wounded, volunteered to take his place. Meanwhile the sunless hours were passing, and noon was drawing on. Back came the message from Akbar saying that he would not press his demand for more than three hostages, but they must include Captain Lawrence, whose value as a fighting officer he had long recognised. The hostages departed, and that conglomerate mass moved forward into the valley of slaughter.

The Pass of Khurd Kabul, soon to become a Golgotha, was a broken track of rock and loose stones whose sides towered steeply upwards to end in jagged peaks. A gloomy, echoing, sinister gorge it was. At the start there was an attempt at order, with the native Infantry and Anderson's Force as the advance guard, and the light cavalry, with the two remaining guns in the rear. The general and his staff, the ladies in their camel panniers, the Government treasure, and what little baggage there was left, provided the main column. It was found impossible to round up all the cattle, and most of these, with perhaps half the ammunition, was left scattered about the camp, a prey to the avengers. The camp-followers still mixed themselves with the military, to everybody's confusion. Half blinded by snow-glares, benumbed by cold - there were icicles on the ponies' manes and the men's beards - the procession stumbled forward into the trap. The torrent that ran through the Pass had to be constantly recrossed, and soon the legs of men and animals became encrusted with ice. The Pass grew narrower, and as darkness came the men on the heights began to add to the woes of the British by incessant sniping. There was no escape either from the snow and ice, or from the fusillade of bullets. Whichever side of the valley was hugged, that side was exposed to the rifles of the tribesmen opposite. It seemed impossible that anybody could pass through that defile alive. Mingling with triumphal yells from above, as the snipers observed a successful shot, were the roar of the mountain cataracts, the smashing of ice, the groans and shrieks of dying men, women, children and animals. But on the whole the shooting from above was indifferent.

One of many odd incidents to attract the attention of the few was the sudden bolting of a horse on which rode the wife of Lieutenant Eyre. The horse, galloping ahead of the whole column, soon left it far behind, and presently its rider reached the top of the cliffs, the first to escape from the bloody Pass. As the advance guard followed her, some of the savage warriors, rushing down from the lateral gorges, fell upon the main column and rearguard with upraised swords. In the middle of that column were the other English women and children struggling to escape over the dead bodies of their relatives and friends. Mothers lost their children, wives their husbands, in that terrible struggle for life. Mrs. Mainwaring told little Mary Anderson to cling to her while she, carrying her own child in her shawl, strove to scramble up to safety. The child at her side was wrenched away and became lost, never to be found again. A savage horseman rode up to Mrs. Mainwaring and demanded the shawl in which her child was wrapped, but a Sepoy, seeing her shrink back, fired a shot and the savage fell from his saddle, dead. Yet a further shot struck the Sepoy and he, too, fell, begging Memsahib and her child to hurry up the rocks and boulders away from the carnage. Still the bloody hand-to-hand battle continued to rage in the centre of the glen.

And now one of the remaining two guns was lost and had to be spiked into uselessness. The gunners dragged the other up the slope, waited for the camp-followers to pass, then fired round after round of grape-shot into the teeth of the pursuing tribesmen. Through bad leadership and overwhelming odds the column had suffered frightfully in this gorge, at least three thousand dead and wounded having to be left behind. None of the wounded had an earthly hope of escape from the knives of the holy warriors. Yet the solitary remaining gun had done considerable devastation in the ranks of the enemy.

Following in the wake of the demoralised British came the inescapable Akbar. With him were the hostages. They had been allowed to keep their swords, and even told that they could use them against any fanatic who molested them in the Pass. Pottinger, who understood Persian, riding with Mackenzie, recognised the duplicity of Akbar from his own words. He heard Akbar shout to his followers in their own language to slay all the Infidels, whereupon, speaking the language only the British understood, he changed the order to "Cease fire." As the hostages rode through the glen the Afghans leapt up from the dead and dying to taunt them. Pointing their blood-stained knives at the corpses, they shouted that those who had sought fruit in Kabul had found it too sharp for their stomachs. Yet Pottinger and Mackenzie each contrived to rescue from that glen of slaughter a frightened child whom they took along with them.

Next morning it was found that Elphinstone's fighting men had been reduced from about five thousand to less than a thousand, of whom no more than three hundred might still be fit to fight. Again the depleted column stirred itself and prepared to start off at sunrise. But now another and still more startling proposition was received from Akbar. Professing himself to be greatly distressed by the plight of the English ladies and their children, and that his own troops were unable to protect them so long as they remained with the column, he invited them into his camp for safety. Up to this time they had scarcely eaten a meal since leaving Kabul. Some of the ladies had infants a few days old at the breast. "Others were far advanced in pregnancy.... Yet most had been without shelter, and with the exception of Lady Macnaghten and Mrs. Trevor, had nothing in the world left but the clothes on their backs." Akbar's offer seemed to be their only chance of salvation.

Could a man who had murdered their Envoy be trusted not to murder the ladies of his entourage? Elphinstone was in a mood to trust the untrustworthy. But already the column was on the move. It had to be halted and brought back to the camp, a proceeding which caused open mutiny among the Indian troops, who saw only too plainly how things were going and that they had no conceivable opportunity of struggling through the remaining fifty miles to safety.

Ten Englishwomen, twenty-two children and five husbands made up the new hostage party that set out for Akbar's camp, each of them feeling a haunting prescience of impending evil. Yet at first the little cavalcade were gallantly received and assured by Akbar that they would be safely escorted to Jellalabad. Nevertheless, it was plain that Akbar was playing a double game; because his father and family were in British hands, he must be openly friendly; secretly he would do his utmost to requite the invaders for stealing the throne of his fathers.

He promised Elphinstone that now the cavalcade were through the Khurd Kabul Gorge, there would be no further attacks by the tribes, and consequently the British, incredibly trustful, were ordered not to fire on the pursuers. The column moved on again, but as the rearguard began to follow the stragglers along the high ground towards the Seven Hills, the enemy suddenly attacked once more. After a wholesale butchery of the unprotected wounded, they bore down on the troops. The native cavalry, ordered to counter-charge, did so with such zest that the harried Britishers began to cheer. Their elation was short-lived, for the cavalry, after four demoralising days, had decided to throw in their lot with the enemy, whose victory was assured. Finding that their own native cavalry had turned against them, the deserted rearguard hurriedly followed the main column towards the next gorge, with Akbar still clinging close behind. This next Pass, barely one hundred yards in length, provided the enemy with another opportunity. The advance guard passed through without much difficulty and pushed on to Kabar-i-Jabar, where they awaited the rest of the column. But it was only a remnant that came on to join them. For in that tiny gorge, the main column, encumbered by camp-followers, panic-stricken men, women and animals, had been assailed by the holy cut-throats from above, behind and before, and cut to pieces. The little gorge seemed to be almost choked with slaughtered bodies. By now all that was left was the advance guard, some four hundred British soldiers, their solitary gun, and about three thousand camp-followers. One-third of the journey had been covered, and four-fifths of the cavalcade had been murdered.

Again an emissary approached the little force. Despite all his previous treacheries, Akbar was still posing as the treaty-keeping friend of the British. Elphinstone sent one of his officers to where Akbar stood surveying the many times decimated force, to ask the Afghan chief why this butchery was continuing. Akbar expressed deep concern over the tremendous losses of his enemy, and proposed a safe escort of the remainder to Peshawar, if they would only surrender their arms. For once Elphinstone refused, and his force moved down to the valley of Tazin, harried all the way by knives and bullets.

Many camp-followers were slain during that descent of 2,000 feet, and the whole force would have perished there but for the determined resistance of the little rearguard. When presently they encamped on the plain, Akbar occupied a fort above them and closely observed the movements of the doomed force, quietly chuckling at the achievements of his troops and the havoc caused among the enemy ranks. But here at Tazin there was no shelter. They decided to remain but a few hours, to spike their remaining twelve-pounder, and hurry off at nightfall in the hope of forcing the Jagdalak Pass before morning.

A few odds and ends of food were discovered among the regimental stores together with a few frozen bottles of wine. This time the troops decided to move off quickly before the camp followers could stir and interrupt their progress, but this was not to be. The civilians hurried after them through the fierce country until the still fiercer heights of Jagdalak drew near. Here again they saw what they had all dreaded to see - the ubiquitous enemy.

Akbar, from his elevated fort, had seen them folding their tents and stealing away. Instead of following upon their heels, he had taken a short-cut across the mountains and was investing the Jagdalak Heights by the time they arrived. Some of the Afghans had established themselves on a little hillock by the roadside and Elphinstone ordered his men to charge. They did valiantly and suffered heavily. The remaining few, tormented by hunger and thirst, exhausted with incessant fighting, now sought refuge behind some ruined walls where they were still overlooked by the insatiable tribesmen. By now most of the rank and file had been killed or had given up the effort; and the surviving officers were almost as numerous as the men. They made a little meal from a few handfuls of flour during which one of them dropped their last piece of rock salt.

Some one said, "It is a bad omen to spill the salt." The others laughed, forced laughter, to hide their misery.

Once more they saw approaching horsemen - another envoy from the remorseless Akbar. Thinking that a parley meant respite from attack, the troops threw down their arms and slept. They were observed from the heights and attacked once more. The exhausted British scrambled back to the semi-shelter of the ruin from which twenty of them made a desperate effort to dislodge the Afghans, and would have done so had not the general, fearful of losing them, recalled them to camp. And now Akbar, again pleading that General Sale was refusing to evacuate Jellalabad, demanded more hostages. General Elphinstone, Brigadier Shelton and another officer rode off for a further parley.

But why argue further with this clever and audacious villain whose plan of campaign had been working out so diabolically as they marched? By a series of messages Akbar had created a false optimism in the ranks of his enemy as they passed through the stark regions and yawning gorges of Afghanistan. Specious promises of an escort, had kept them dawdling for two days at the start while his troops plundered the capital; and for five nights he had kept the demoralised rabble in altitudes where frost and snow would assist his butchers to do their work of destruction. By parley after parley, always accompanied by some new impudent demand, supported by offers of help which never matured, he kept delaying the advance until every fresh height they reached had been lined by his fanatical snipers. And now he had induced the British General to leave his command and trust himself to his tender mercies.

The fragment of the retreating column awaited his return until nightfall, by which time there were barely two hundred and fifty soldiers left. Two officers rode out hoping to meet the returning General, but met only a lone horseman who, riding up to one of the officers thrust a pistol in his face, pulled the trigger and galloped off.

Elphistone did not return; but the sniping continued; it could only be checked by charges up the heights; and these were continued from dawn the following day until noon. Although the holy warriors always fled before the British bayonets, the ranks of the little force became more and more depleted. Still no news of Elphistone, and the company decided to march at dusk. Only a few wounded could be taken. Amid pitiful entreaties from the rest, who knew they would be butchered at dawn, this handful of survivors tore themselves away. Before a real start could be made the enemy discovered they were on the move, and swooped down again. Dr. Brydon was pulled off his horse and felled by a blow on the head; but rising on one knee, he guarded himself against the second blow. Whilst his assailant went one way Dr. Brydon, hatless, shoeless and horseless went the other. He proceeded alone up through the Jagdalak Pass and then became aware that some of the advance guard were being driven backwards, completely demoralised. The holy warriors had drawn a barrier of prickly holly-oak across the mouth of the gorge against which the troops had charged in vain. Those who attempted to scramble over it fell back with hands and faces torn and bleeding. At the moment the tribesmen were not there to greet them, for they had not expected the advance to begin until dawn. But they soon swarmed to the barrier, yelling their war cries and raining bullets upon the discomfited British. In that nightmare of carnage no one knew how long the battle raged, but presently one horse and man broke through the barrier. As the gap widened others fought through; until nearly one hundred units of a column that originally totalled nearly 20,000 souls, had escaped. On went this tiny company, their progress signalled by watch-fires from hill to hill. A further barrier, and another terrible struggle ensued. Presently the survivors struck the open country, now aflush with dawn. They had passed such a night that if they now succeeded in reaching safety they were certain of being lionised by England when their epic story became known.

The snow had gone and the morning air was fresh and sweet. But again the tribesmen were in evidence still athirst for blood and plunder. Further progress was impossible. The stragglers came in, all that was left of the column, about seventy of them. Through that terrible night they had made tremendous progress, the best since Kabul was evacuated. They had travelled no less than twenty-five miles, but a similar distance still separated them from Jellalabad. Their armament now consisted of twenty swords, twenty rifles, and forty cartridges. But they took a height and held it for a while, threatening all comers with death. The Afghans drew round, jested with the men they intended to murder, and attempted to snatch away their rifies. The fight was on again. Charge after charge was made by the holy warriors and time and again they were beaten back, cursing the enemy who had taken toll of so many of their braves. But the end came at last, and every one of that gallant remnant lay dead on the height where they had defended themselves so gallantly. The Kabul garrison was no more.

But a few of the advance guard might yet have escaped. Four of them, taken alive that day, were sent to join the hostages still safe in Akbar's keeping. Seven others, however, were at liberty, waiting in a little glen ten miles ahead, and wondering why the main body did not join them. They decided to resume the advance, and came to a village where they were promised bread; but the village chief sent out a signal, and soon the vultures again put in an appearance. The villagers followed and invited them to return, still declaring that they were friendly. One officer named Bellew, tormented for rest and food, turned back to ask them further questions. He and another were hacked to pieces. The other five resumed their journey, counting themselves lucky to have escaped the perfidious villagers. Of these, the three who had the best horses drew farther ahead, and Dr. Brydon found himself riding with a young wounded officer named Steer, whose horse was bleeding at the mouth and nostrils. Brydon urged the boy forward saying that they would win through yet. But Steer declared that he could do no more. He would lie in one of the caves till nightfall, and then resume his journey. Brydon protested that he was mad to linger, yet Steer would not listen. The doctor rode on alone, still hatless, one unshod foot resting in the only stirrup of his wooden saddle. His poor horse was even more exhausted and desperate than he.

He scanned the horizon for his goal - -Jellalabad - securely held by General Sale and his British troops. He saw only twenty horsemen picking up stones with which to greet him. The desperate Brydon made one more determined fight for safety. He galloped his pony at his tormentors, slashing at them right and left, and so prevented then-knives from doing their bloody work. He was through and away, followed by a volley of stones. Somewhere in the distance lay Jellalabad but again between it and Brydon appeared yet another body of horsemen. One more lone charge, his lagging pony spurred forward with the point of his sword. Though he broke through again, his sword was now broken at the hilt by a large stone. Then a shot fired by a man hiding behind a mound wounded his pony which lurched but struggled bravely on. Still more men ahead of him, leading one of the horses of his three better mounted companions. They too must have gone the way of the great majority. But he contrived to pass before it was realised that he was an Englishman. Then one man turned and gave chase. Brydon flung the hilt of his sword in the Afghan's face, but the tribesman dodged cleverly. Having dropped his reins, Brydon now stooped to gather them, and the gesture saved his life. Thinking that the enemy had reached for a pistol, the Afghan galloped away. With the disappearance of the last of his enemies the nerve of Dr. Brydon broke. He continued his journey startled by every shadow.

At Jellalabad news had been received that the army of Kabul had set out to cross the Khyber. Colonel Dennie, one of the officers serving under General Sale, heard the news, and uttered a prophecy. This is what he said:

"You will see that not more than one man will reach this city alive. And he will come in to say that all the rest are destroyed."

The watchers on the walls of Jellalabad saw a lone figure riding a stumbling pony, rolling towards the gates of the city.

The one Englishman to escape from that long-drawn-out massacre had arrived to tell the appalling story.

Colonel Dennie turned to his brother officers.

"Didn't I tell you," he said quietly, "Here comes the survivor!"

Dr. Brydon swayed into the city.

Having achieved his relentless purpose with the army of Kabul, Akbar Khan decided to keep his hostages until he should hear that Jellalabad had been evacuated. General Sale knew better than to follow the example of General Elphinstone. And it was well that he did for it became known afterwards that Akbar had planned to exterminate his army to the last man.

Akbar, now that his forces had been augmented by deserters from the Kabul garrison, laid seige to Jellalabad, but Sale's army sallied out, attacked the Afghans and completely routed them. Akbar himself had a lucky escape from capture. He was also fortunate in not being shot by a rival chief whose gun went off accidentally. Akbar, alleging that the shot had been fired purposely, had the chief executed.

But Britain was not content to let Afghanistan off with one defeat. Kabul must be reoccupied and Akbar and his chiefs taught that they could not massacre semi-defenceless British troops and their wives and children without suffering for their devilry. Two armies set out for Kabul, one commanded by General Nott, which had to cover ninety miles, and the other by General Pollock, who had only two-thirds the distance to traverse. These two capable generals were each determined to Leat the other in being first in Kabul. Pollock had to march his army through those four blood-stained Passes where Elphinstone's cavalcade had made their grave. At that dreaded Jagdalak Pass, where the remnant had been stopped by the holly barricade, the standards of the holy warriors fluttered everywhere. Pollock ordered Sale to take his brigade up those heights and revenge the lost garrison, and gallantly they did so. The Afghans fled in terror from that advancing forest of steel, fled to the topmost peak which they thought inaccessible; and there they planted their standard. Under cover of the guns the British troops scaled that dizzy height and wiped out the disgrace of the massacre. On they went to the ruined enclosure, passing the bodies of their dead comrades, preserved by the frost - and still recognisable.

In that other terrible Pass of Khurd Kabul, Akbar awaited them again with a larger force, totalling 16,000 men. Again the Afghans had all the advantage of position; but they had not the discipline, the courage, nor the determination to be revenged, which stimulated the British troops. Again the heights were stormed; but this time the Afghans, fighting under the eye of their chief, made a firmer stand. No quarter was asked or given and in the end the peaks were carried. The Gurkhas, described as "the finest sight of the day," looked like terriers attacking mastiffs, when compared with the brawny Afghans. But in the end all the passes were carried, and Akbar and his followers were in flight. As they passed through the last defile the British saw the bodies of Elphinstone's army lying in heaps of fifties and hundreds. It was a veritable Golgotha. The British gun-wheels literally rumbled over the skulls of their former comrades.

Pollock won the race to Kabul by a short head. Had not General Nott been compelled to waste a couple of days trying to save a pair of historic gates, Pollock would have come in second. Even so there was some little feeling between the two generals over the coveted honour.

In revenge for the treatment of Macnaghten the British troops destroyed the bazaar where his severed head had been publicly displayed, also a citadel and a Mohammedan Mosque.

But what of Elphinstone and the other hostages? Did Akbar keep his word? For a time. He first sent them far into the mountains and had them interned in an Afghan fortress. The journey there was almost as perilous as the passage through the Khyber. Some of the gorges that the ladies had to climb were so steep that they clung to their horses' necks to keep themselves and their saddles from rolling down the mountain side. One of the rivers they crossed was so difficult to ford that they even availed themselves of the offer of Akbar to seat themselves behind the Afghans on their horses. When they had reached the comparative safety of the fortress they found that it was not so safe after all. One day they felt the building swaying and all rushed into the courtyard which was now undulating like waves of the sea. As they stood there the earth opened in a tremendous quake and the hut in which their goods were stored was suddenly engulfed. Lady Macnaghten had brought some of her pet animals through those terrible passes to the safety of the fort. At sight of the earthquake she raised her voice in lamentation: one of her cats had been swallowed up. Her fellow hostages seized spades and began to dig. Her cat leaped out alive!

Akbar continued his practice of sending messengers to the British Forces. When it became evident that the British Raj was getting the whip hand, his tone changed. Affirming that he had all along been Britain's only friend among the savage tribesmen he asked the British General to state how much of the country he would make over to him in return for helping in its reconquest. General Pollock disdained to offer terms to this wily villain. Akbar expressed astonishment when two of his hostages, sent to the British camp with messages from him voluntarily returned to captivity, bringing with them an unfavourable answer. He asked his chiefs if they would have done so. They replied "Praise be to Allah; we're not such fools."

Meanwhile Elphinstone had died in the enemy camp. Akbar had his body placed in a coffin and sent down towards Jellalabad for internment by the British. But on the way the cortege was met by some of the savage tribesmen who had distinguished themselves in the retreat from Kabul. Suspecting that it contained treasure, they knocked off the lid. Disappointed at what they found, they expressed their wrath by taking out the body of the Infidel General and hacking it to pieces. Like Long John Silver, Akbar played his double game to the end. He had the coffin fastened down again and taken safely into Jellalabad.

Angry at the persistent refusal of General Pollock to come to suitable terms, Akbar now threatened to send his hostages over the border into Turkestan where they would be sold into slavery. The ladies of the party looked gloomily at each other. The horrors of such a future they well understood. Suddenly deliverance came. One of the chieftains, seeing that the British had returned to power, offered to escort them back through Akbar's lines to their friends - for a reasonable ransom. On the way they met a rescue party, led by General Sale, whose reunion with Lady Sale was one of the most touching scenes in the whole series of campaigns.

The British now released Dost Mohammed, Akbar's father and permitted him to resume his position as Amir of Afghanistan. As such he found in his son Akbar the same monster of treachery under a veneer of urbanity as the British had found. The two quarrelled and Akbar, always revengeful when frustrated, might have again distinguished himself by another savage murder had not fate intervened. Feeling run down, and needing a stimulant, he ordered an Indian medicine man to prepare him some physic. Cautious as ever, he told the Indian to take the first two pills from the box, and to swallow them. Presumably the Indian knew which were the right ones to swallow, for he suffered no harm from his concoctions. But the brutal Akbar was taken suddenly ill, and died in convulsions. So ended the life of the man who had given the British Army the most humiliating experience in its history.