The Distant Kingdom Read online

  ‘Go with God.’ Unsmiling, he turned his yaboo and rode away, leaving them alone in the wilderness of rock and snow. They watched him ride away until his tiny dark figure dwindled into nothing in the distance.

  ‘Come,’ said Perdita briskly, ‘we have only twenty miles now. Just over those hills and then we shall see the fort. Charlie, roll up that blanket. That’s right. Will you do Annie’s too?’

  ‘Mama, why did Aktur go?’

  ‘He had to get back to his village, Charlie. We shall all right now.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ he said, but he kept looking back. ‘Does Uncle James know the way?’

  ‘Yes, and so do I. This track goes all the way to the fort. Aktur said that we had only to follow it and we would get there.’

  It was not until about midday, judging by the height of the brazen sun in the sky, that anything untoward, happened. There was a distant ominous rumbling sound, a closer crashing of rocks and then a peculiar, heavy stillness. Just there the track ran round a highish craggy mountain, and less than a hundred yards ahead turned out of their view.

  ‘Another earthquake,’ said Captain Thurleigh into the silence ‘Wait here and I’ll find out what damage has been done to the road.’

  ‘Be careful,’ said Perdita involuntarily as he rode towards the bend. He had hardly been out of sight for three minutes before that sickening noise came again. Into the silence that this time seemed even more eerie than before came the screams of an animal in pain. Perdita thrust the leading rein at her son, saying:

  ‘Charlie, take Papa’s rein. I must see what has happened.’

  She rode nervously round the bluff to be confronted by the evidence of a small rockfall. Scars on the mountainside above the track showed where the stones now strewn about it had come from. There was no sign James Thurleigh or his horse, although its screams became more distinct with every pace her own pony made. She urged it forward, and soon saw what had happened.

  A vast boulder, obviously detached from the rocks above, had pinned the pony against a rocky wall above a tiny depression just below the track. Perdita dismounted, took out her pistol and cocked it, walking forward to take aim at the poor creature’s head. It was not until she stood over it that she saw James.

  He too lay half under the rock. One of his arms was free and he was jerkily feeling about him, touching and rejecting the rocks in desperate search for something. Perdita carefully uncocked the revolver and knelt down.

  ‘James, James, can you hear me?’ she said, taking that searching hand in her own.

  ‘Perdita,’ he said, gasping for breath. ‘I can’t find my gun.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I shall shoot the poor pony for you, and then we’ll get you out of there.’

  His hand grasped hers strongly and he said, panting slightly:

  ‘No; you cannot. And anyway my back must broken.’ He gasped in another breath, and went on; I can’t feel anything below my waist. You will have to shoot me. But you must do it first, before the pony, so that Marcus will hear its screams after the shot and think you missed.

  Perdita recoiled in horror. To kill in cold blood someone who was not an enemy – who did not threaten the life of anyone she loved – was not possible.

  Seeing her hesitation, he whispered in desperation:

  ‘Sweet Christ, you must do it.’

  Looking down at his agonized face, she made herself imagine the alternative. She could see that he was right, that she could never shift the vast boulder to free him. If she left him, he would die anyway, but not quickly. He would have to wait as the inexorable effects of exposure ate into his resistance, suffering a pain that she could see from his face was already tormenting him. Even if he had been an enemy she could not have found it in herself to consign any human to that hell.

  ‘Perdita, please,’ he begged in anguish.

  ‘Hush,’ she said, as she used to say it to Charlie in his babyhood. ‘I shall do it for you.’ She felt his hand relax and looked at his face with terrible pity. Sweat stood out on the greyish skin in large drops and deep lines had been scored from his mouth by the pain. There could be no shrinking in the sight of his nightmare. She used both hands to recock the pistol. Then she took his hand again.

  His heavy eyelids lifted once more, and the dark eyes looked into hers. He must have felt the cold muzzle on his skin, but he gave no sign. He said:

  ‘Don’t tell Marcus. Don’t ever tell.’ She tried to smile at him, and shook her head.

  ‘I won’t,’ she said. Then, forcing herself to keep looking into his eyes and smiling at him, she pulled the trigger.

  Bitter vomit rose in her throat and her breath broke on a dry gasping sob. She forced her eyes away from the reddening snow and lifted the weapon once more, to put the pony out of its agony.

  Then she stood up, her knees shaking and the sickness making her stagger, trying to make herself walk past James Thurleigh’s shattered head to take the life-saving blanket and food from his pony’s saddle. Jellalabad might be only a few miles away, but they could have lost the right path and take days to reach it. She could not gamble with the children’s lives to save herself this horrible task.

  When she had struggled back on to the road with the half-unrolled blanket, she saw that the hem of her dress was dabbled in blood and so were her hands.

  ‘It is the pony’s,’ she said aloud and walked back to her own animal. He shied at her approach and so she did not attempt to mount him, but took the reins and led him pack to the others.

  As she rounded the bend that hid Marcus and the children from the scene, she saw Charile waiting for her. His face was greenish-white and his eyes stared. She was sad to find that her voice shook as she said:

  ‘It is over, Charlie. The poor yaboo’s legs were broken. But I have shot it now and it is out of the pain for ever.’ She put her free hand on his head to comfort him. But then she saw her hand was bloody and when she moved it the pale blond hair was stained as well.

  When they reached Marcus, she went straight up to him, took his hands, and said:

  ‘He was dead, Marcus. The rocks caught him and must have killed him immediately. He had hardly bled at all, and so it must have been quick.’

  ‘Are you sure he is dead? How could you tell?’

  ‘I listened to his heart, Marcus, and held the gun to his lips and there was no breath to mist it. He was dead, my dear.’

  ‘There were two shots.’

  ‘I know. My hand was shaking so much I did not the poor pony the first time.’

  ‘Yes, I heard it scream,’ he said, his quiet voice in horrible contrast to the shaking of his hands. She wanted to hold him but the knowledge of James’s blood on her hands made that impossible. All she could do was watch as he brought the trembling under control. Then he spoke to her again. ‘My poor dear, you should not have to do such things. Do you want to rest?’

  ‘Rest? No, no,’ she said more violently than she meant. ‘We must reach Jellalabad before dark.’

  She helped Charlie on to the pony, and saw Annie’s eyes widen at the sight of blood all over her hands. Perdita said carefully:

  ‘The poor pony was badly wounded, Annie. Don’t look when we pass the place. It is a sad sight.’

  ‘Yes, Mama,’ she whispered, and obediently closed her eyes. Charlie, who was capably directing their mount, looked firmly ahead all the way along the track until the rockfall, and then seemed to his mother to look sideways at the bodies. She prayed he would say nothing to alert Marcus. As his pony paused, Marcus said:

  ‘Is this the place?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I can smell the blood.’

  ‘I wish I could have buried him, Marcus, but the rocks are too big to move.’

  ‘I know you would have if it had been possible,’ he said.

  After that they rode on in silence. There were no more tremors, and in due course the track brought them to the edge of the hills above the fort. When they emerged dusk was falling, but they could see the fl
ag flying bravely from the ramparts, its bright colours challenging and welcoming.

  ‘There, Marcus, there is Jellalabad. We must get down before the light fails. Come. Oh, look, children: the sentries are hanging lanterns on the walls.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  They had reached Jellalabad, but it provided only comparative safety, for the fortress itself was under intermittent but fierce siege by Akbar’s men. Nevertheless, the spirits of the defenders were high and they greeted the Beaminsters’arrival with wild triumph.

  They delved into their meagre supplies of food and clothes in an outpouring of generosity. There were no Englishwomen there to share their gowns with Perdita, but one of the regimental tailors contrived a kind of skirt for her from several pairs of trousers, and officers rushed to offer her their spare shirts and coats. For the first time since the retreat began, she was able to strip off her filthy, ragged clothes, bathe and scrub the vermin from her skin and hair.

  She did the same for the children and Marcus as soon as they had been examined by Doctor Brydon, who was the only man to have survived all the fighting in the passes and who had reached the safety of the fort to bring its defenders news of the catastrophe. Then, together, they burned all the bloody, frightful clothes, even the sheepskins that had saved their lives, and as Perdita watched the flames and thick, choking smoke, she tried to believe that the fire could wipe out her memories as easily as it exterminated the filth she had carried with her.

  In time the horrors retreated just far enough for them all to cope with the life they now had. The doctor had assured Perdita that the children had suffered no physical harm and that their fears and nightmares would cease in time. Marcus’s leg was healing as well as could be expected and, although there was not even the tiniest hope that he would ever see again, he was learning to live with his blindness. She watched him sometimes talking to Sale’s officers about the war, showing none of the desperate, aching horror she had expected him to feel, and he seemed happy to walk with them on the walls of the fortress as they told him of Akbar’s frequent assaults and the measures they had taken to defend it.

  Full of admiration for his courage, she tried to learn from him and convince herself that she need no longer be constantly on guard against an unexpected attack. But it would take time. She still jumped violently at any sudden noise or unexpected touch, and the men around her learned how to warn her quietly of their approach. To them, she was a heroine, and they would have done anything for her. Any survivor from the hell of the retreat would have been cherished, but a lady, and one who had led her blinded, wounded husband and two small children through the mountains to safety, was more than just a survivor. She gave them hope for their own wives and children and the others who still lived in captivity in one of Akbar’s forts to the north, and she seemed to be a symbol of the ultimate victory for which they all prayed.

  Marcus, overhearing them talk one day, thought back to the impossibly shy, flinching woman he had married and was astonished to think of what she had achieved. With no help from him or James she had led them all to safety, with a decisiveness and courage that no woman he could think of would have matched. He, who had once had to protect her and teach her how to live in his world, would now depend on her for the rest of his life; and he knew that he could.

  How long that would be was still in doubt, for there was no escaping the knowledge that the defenders of Jellalabad, however high their spirits, were still cut off from their own people, and would have to continue fight for their survival. By then they knew that a new army had been raised in India under the command of General Pollock and that its purpose was as much retribution as rescue. They had been informed that it was on its way to their relief, but the weeks passed and there was no sign of its arrival. Supplies became very short, and raiding parties had to be sent out day after day to round up the enemy’s sheep and cut grass for fodder, while messengers were despatched almost as often to General Pollock, begging him to bring the new force as quickly as possible.

  The runners hid their messages to and from Pollock in the most surprising places, knowing that they faced death if they were caught by Akbar’s men, and many got through. Because of them, Sale knew that the Army of Retribution was waiting at Peshawar, and with their help he sent plea after plea for help, explaining the situation of the desperate garrison in an attempt to rouse their impatience and make them move.

  Charles Byrd, too, was in Peshawar, waiting in agony for word of Perdita. He had been in Lahore when the first news of the Caubul catastrophe had reached the Punjab, and he had turned back at once, reaching Peshawar, the nearest he could get to the Afghan frontier, by early February. There he had heard of the survival of a group of married officers with their wives and children, and he had made himself believe that Perdita and her family were among them. When the actual list of prisoners was promulgated he was left to face the assumption that the Beaminsters had died in the retreat, and that her body was one of those he had heard lay in stinking, rotting heaps in the passes, mutilated and looted of anything of value by the blood-happy tribesmen.

  When General Pollock arrived with his army Charles had begged to be allowed to march with them – a gesture the emptiness and absurdity of which did not escape him. They could not let him, of course, and he was on the point of leaving the Punjab, and India, when one of Sale’s secret, crumpled messages was brought in with the news of the Beaminsters’miraculous survival.

  A friendly officer on Pollock’s staff, who knew of Charles’s connection with them, came as soon as he could to Charles’s lodging near the bazaar to tell him the story. At first he could hardly take it in.

  ‘The Beaminsters? Lord Beaminster? And Perdita, his wife?’

  ‘That’s right, Byrd. And two children. They reached Jellalabad two weeks ago.’

  To his shame, Charles felt the first tears since childhood springing into his eyes. He gritted his teeth in an attempt to stop them and felt the muscles in his face and neck judder with the effort, but the tears were forced out and his breath broke into one uncontrollable, gasping sob. He turned away from the British officer, his whole being flooded with a tearing, overmastering relief. He felt the man’s hand gripping his upper arm, and controlled himself enough to say:

  ‘Thank you for that. She has a father, you know, in Simla. Has he been told?’

  ‘Not yet, old chap. We only got the message this morning, but it will be sent on.’

  ‘I’d better go. I’ll take it.’

  ‘That’s mad, Byrd. It’ll get there much faster by the usual channels. But you can always follow, unless you want to wait here for them. They’re bound to come through Peshawar once the siege is over.’

  The temptation to stay was powerful, but he knew that he could do little for her there, and he would hardly be able to attach himself to the Beaminsters’party as they travelled back to Simla; whereas if he were already staying there he would be able to see her often and might be of some help. He stayed long enough in Peshawar only to write letters to her and Marcus, scour the town for any clothes and preserved delicacies he could find and persuade the friendly staff officer to add them all to his baggage when the army eventually marched up the Khyber. Then he left to ride at breakneck speed across the Punjab following the runners who had taken the news to Simla.

  Pollock’s army left Peshawar on 30 March, fought their way successfully and bloodily up the Khyber Pass, and marched out on to the plain of Jellalabad on 16 April. The garrison that had waited so long for them and fought so bravely to hold their beleaguered position played the new army in with an old Jacobite melody.

  Perdita, standing on the walls with Marcus and a group of Sale’s officers, rather liked the tune and turned to Havelocke to ask:

  ‘I haven’t heard that before; what is it called?’

  He looked down, and she was surprised to see a smile of dry mischief on his usually severe face.

  ‘”Oh, but ye’ve been lang a’coming”.’

  The wit of
it, and the fantastic relief, combined into a spring of laughter that bubbled up in Perdita, and she hugged Marcus’s shoulders in delight.

  Six weeks later, having exchanged their makeshift clothes for the ones Charles Byrd had sent them, the Beaminsters reached Simla. The instant the carriage stopped outside Whitney House, Perdita lifted the children down, called a servant to help Marcus, and ran into the house.

  Her father caught her in his arms and hugged her in an embrace that felt like safety itself as he said to her over and over again:

  ‘My dearest child. Perdita. Oh, my dear child.’

  He released her only as he saw Marcus being helped up the steps, and went to take the servant’s place. Perdita watched him speaking gently, encouragingly to her husband and felt her burden slip a little. A familiar, deep, slow voice said:

  ‘Perdita.’

  She turned her head towards the shadows at the far end of the hall, and held out her hands.

  ‘Charles?’

  He walked forward and took her hands and kissed them. Looking down at his bent head, remembering through everything the misery of his departure, she said:

  ‘You didn’t go.’

  ‘How could I when I knew what was happening?’

  Marcus, too, recognized the voice and came limping towards them supported by Edward’s stalwart arm.

  ‘Byrd?’

  ‘Yes, Beaminster,’ he answered, still holding Perdita’s hands.

  ‘I’m dam’glad you’re here, Byrd. Those things you sent up to us from Peshawar: it was really very good of you to take such trouble.’

  He held out his right hand and Charles shook it firmly, trying to say something, but finding that the sight of Marcus’s wounds made anything he could think of banal, trivial. All he could manage was:

  ‘It was so little, but all I could think of that might help.’

  ‘It helped. To feel clean, clothed and fed like that had become something of a dream by the time we got your boxes, eh, Perdita?’

  ‘Yes, Marcus’, she said simply, but her eyes and her smile told him that his gifts had mattered to her.