Japhy
Banned
The Lions of Lahore
A Timeline in a Week By Japhy
A Timeline in a Week By Japhy
Part I: The End of an Army
South East of Kabul, Afghanistan
January 12th, 1842
Captain Souter tightened the regimental colours around his chest again, and clumsily started to put his jacket atop over it.
Three of the the tough old Sergeants --- of course they were the ones who had made it this far --- has busy hacking up the Union Jack with knives and bayonets; handing a sliver to each surviving men.
The rest of the men were checking their cartridge boxes, those who shamefully had some to spare at this point made up for their past sins by passing rounds to those who had none left. When it was over no man had more than two rounds. Others were fixing their bayonets, adjusting their bandages and coats.
A few of the younger boys were crying. No one gave them any disdain. There was no point now, they were all already dead.
Arthur Conolly made sure his bandage was still tight over the right side of his face. The lack of pressure over where his eye had been until the second day out of Kabul was still disturbing, but he could shoot left-handed. It may have been odd for a dead man to worry about the state of his bandages, but he had to admit, he would rather have it still in place then not, if only to offer part of his body just a little bit more protection from the cold.
Between the flurries every man, even the newly one-eyed political officer, could see down the slope of the hill, note the vastness of the hoard of tribesmen who also waited for their messenger to make his long, lonely ride back down the hill with Sergeant Hudson’s retort --- “Not Bloody Likely!” --- to the final empty promise for quarter.
Another blast of snow and ice was flying up to this Last Stand position when that tribal chieftain of Akbar Khan finally arrived back amongst his men. Conolly couldn’t make out what happened next but the wind carried loud shouts back up: variations on “Kill the Infidel” he saw no need to bother translating to Souter or the NCO’s that were really running what was left of the Kabul Army.
This is it then. Thought Conolly to himself, and moved forward to find a good spot on the irregular firing line to die at.
As the charge up the hill began, with tribesmen running from rock to rock, depression to depression, a vast broken up wave that took pot shots from cover wherever they could, Conolly thought for a moment he heard the rumble of Artillery.
If only it were really there.
He took aim at a brave looking fellow, who shouted behind him in the way that a local strongman ought in an army of savages, when the tribesmen stopped for a moment, the Political Officer put the bead on his chest and fired, the man hunching over momentarily before collapsing on the cold ground.
It need not have mattered, his death had no impact on the vast host making its way upwards. Even his fellow villagers-cum-partisans paused only momentarily before their shouts resumed along with their shots.
As the Anglo-Irishmen shoved the ramrod down the barrel of his musket, and prepared his final shot Sergeant Hudson’s face turned to red mist just a bit down the line. Other men died more gruesomely, some mercifully less so. Other men were injured but were unmercifully still alive, shouts of pain and screams of horror filled the air on the British side of the line.
A last stand of Spartan heroes it was not.
A last stand of desperate men, who had seen an army around them slaughtered over the past week and seen honor vanish when Elphinstone and Macnaghten had left them all to die, it was.
Schoolboy dreams of Waterloo honours meant nothing in the face of the bloody rapidity or Afghani slowness of death in this God forsaken country.
Conolly tried to ignore the sound of guns in the distance again, as he heard a rumble between the whizzing of shot by his head. There was no support. No loyal force for hundreds of miles. There would be no relief.
The second round, he didn’t bother to find a worthy target for. The Afghans were almost upon them, and the best you could do was find a man and kill him before he killed you.
There was no time either to try and see if the lead made contact with its designated target. All that was left was to ready for the hand to hand combat that was the only option left.
Kill who you can. Enrage the rest. Die fast.
A quick death on the battlefield wasn’t only honorable at this point. It was the only way out of being handed over to the widows and wives in the tribal villages.
One of the Old Hands in the surviving members of the column didn’t it seem think that was an ensured enough way to avoid that fate. No one even tried to stop him as he spent his last round on himself, his corpse rolled a few feet closer to the charging tribesmen. The sound of Brown Bess shots faded away, as the ammunition supply was finally exhausted. Souter had his sword out. Conolly, and the remaining men clutched their muskets, ready to use them as the pikes or clubs of old.
The lad next to the Political Officer was muttering a prayer for mercy. Conolly was well past such pleading, his only prayer was that his feet were steady when he would leap up. All he wanted was a good fight, and a quick death. He took a deep breath, and squinted as more snow blew up the hill. He readied himself to meet annihilation and his God.
Instead of a rapid beating though, there was a sudden blast of explosions on the hillside. As strange as that was, there was no time to think about it, to even question it.
That’s... odd…
And then the tribesmen were atop them, some held back and kept shooting, others were there with knives, axes, their long barrelled rifles ready at once to be used as clubs. Some had British muskets and bayonets ready.
There was no pause. Everything happened at once, and happened eternally.
Souter slashed wildly.
Conolly lept up, and shoved the blade at the end of his musket into a man's stomach.
One of the privates screamed as his belly was cut open.
An Afghan of massive build stood atop a rock and waved his rifle over his head one handed, until a British old hand stabbed him in the groin with a knife, the man falling atop him.
Conolly was on the ground, one of the attackers having tackled him, he was bitten. He rolled the man over, found himself on top. Was bitten again, felt unspeakable pain as something pierced his side. Screaming he somehow grabbed the man's beard, used it to pull up his head. Felt another piercing blow to his side. There were more explosions. Slammed the fellows head into the ground. Onto a rock. Over and over and over again. Two more whatever-they-were’s at his side. The Afghan was dead.
Unsteadily he rose back up. Conolly’s left side was covered in blood. He couldn’t stand up straight. He reached over, nearly toppled as he grabbed his musket, took the bayonet off of it, grabbed it in his hand at its base. He turned, and spread his feet wide, another tribesman with a musket in hand noticed him, held his musket like a pike and began to rush towards the larger man.
Around them the whole position had collapsed. Every man to his left was on his own. Conolly couldn’t see anything to his right, and couldn’t afford to turn his head to find out. The Captain was being dragged down the hill, either dead or more likely clubbed into unconsciousness. And behind him…
The Afghans were fleeing.
From what?
There were more explosions blasting up dirt and rock on the hillside. Men were falling over dead. And racing up the hills were… horsemen?
Distracted in awe for a moment, Conolly was unready for his charging opponent, the only good thing was that between his own distraction and his inexperience at the art of stabbing from the tip of a musket, the tribesman shoved the blade into his targets left arm. Noting how much the blade entering his arm felt like what had come into contact with his side before, the taller man shoved his own blade into the man’s neck. They were both on the ground after that. Though one was very rapidly dead, and facing towards the cloudy skies, Conolly could only wait for that release.
Around him came the sounds of screaming, gunshots, horses.
So many horses, soon he couldn’t hear the loud, desperate fight that had been the last stand of the 44th Regiment a few moments before, only the sound of horses, and of Pashtun shouts, that he couldn’t make out, sounding further and further off.
Where the hell are you going? He wanted to scream. You need to kill me first! Don’t miss me! Savages!
But that wasn’t much of an option at this point. He wasn’t sure he could stand up. Or raise his head. Or even get the blade out of his shoulder as he lay there.
It was his feeble attempt to get his right hand up to his shoulder that attracted the attention of the man who suddenly shouted in an Italian-accented English “I say, who is in command here?”
And with that, his vision was filled with men with thicker beards than his own, and turbans. Two were obviously North Indian, the third was oddly light-skinned for his garb.
“Lets get him the doctor then shall we?” The lighter man said to his subordinates, in flawless Punjabi, and one of them at once ran off. The Italian switched back to his sing-song English and kept going.
“Colonel Stoddart, I presume?” He asked, as he squatted down on Connally’s left, a politeness based on the fact that the man was half-blind.
“Dead. Kabul.” Was all Conolly was able to get out.
“I see. Kokand Conolly then. My apologies. They call me Abu Tabela in these parts. I’d offer my hand, but I’d rather not worsen your condition.” Said the older of the two.
Recognition flashed through Conolly at that. “Governor Avitabile.”
His savior nodded.
“That is what you fellows call me, yes. We’re driving these savages back, and I’ll have to make a few more examples of the ones we capture.” He paused at that, his face a smile, his eyes showing nothing but a pure evil that was as terrifying as that of the tribesmen who had hounded the army since the day they left Kabul. “I need to know though, where is the main force of General Elphinstone? We must reach them at once you see.”
“This is it.”
The Butcher of Peshawar's face went pale. “And the General?”
“Surrendered.”
The man cursed in a language that even Conolly was unfamiliar with.
“Well come now Conolly, the surgeon is here. We’ll have you fixed up nicely, along with the rest of your poor souls. The Maharaja will certainly want to talk to you when we have you patched up.”
Stretcher-bearers were lifting the wounded man up, along with from what he could see every other survivor, which seemed little more than a score or two., when that statement clicked in his brain.
“The Maharaja is riding North?” He asked the Italian Mercenary as the Punjabi soldiers began to move down the hill.
“Of course he is!” Responded Avitabile. “This is the Lahore Army! You can’t expect the Sher-e-Punjab to simply stay in his palaces when there’s a war to be fought!”
Well, its about bloody time. Thought Conolly as he moved down the hill and finally passed out.
Three of the the tough old Sergeants --- of course they were the ones who had made it this far --- has busy hacking up the Union Jack with knives and bayonets; handing a sliver to each surviving men.
The rest of the men were checking their cartridge boxes, those who shamefully had some to spare at this point made up for their past sins by passing rounds to those who had none left. When it was over no man had more than two rounds. Others were fixing their bayonets, adjusting their bandages and coats.
A few of the younger boys were crying. No one gave them any disdain. There was no point now, they were all already dead.
Arthur Conolly made sure his bandage was still tight over the right side of his face. The lack of pressure over where his eye had been until the second day out of Kabul was still disturbing, but he could shoot left-handed. It may have been odd for a dead man to worry about the state of his bandages, but he had to admit, he would rather have it still in place then not, if only to offer part of his body just a little bit more protection from the cold.
Between the flurries every man, even the newly one-eyed political officer, could see down the slope of the hill, note the vastness of the hoard of tribesmen who also waited for their messenger to make his long, lonely ride back down the hill with Sergeant Hudson’s retort --- “Not Bloody Likely!” --- to the final empty promise for quarter.
Another blast of snow and ice was flying up to this Last Stand position when that tribal chieftain of Akbar Khan finally arrived back amongst his men. Conolly couldn’t make out what happened next but the wind carried loud shouts back up: variations on “Kill the Infidel” he saw no need to bother translating to Souter or the NCO’s that were really running what was left of the Kabul Army.
This is it then. Thought Conolly to himself, and moved forward to find a good spot on the irregular firing line to die at.
As the charge up the hill began, with tribesmen running from rock to rock, depression to depression, a vast broken up wave that took pot shots from cover wherever they could, Conolly thought for a moment he heard the rumble of Artillery.
If only it were really there.
He took aim at a brave looking fellow, who shouted behind him in the way that a local strongman ought in an army of savages, when the tribesmen stopped for a moment, the Political Officer put the bead on his chest and fired, the man hunching over momentarily before collapsing on the cold ground.
It need not have mattered, his death had no impact on the vast host making its way upwards. Even his fellow villagers-cum-partisans paused only momentarily before their shouts resumed along with their shots.
As the Anglo-Irishmen shoved the ramrod down the barrel of his musket, and prepared his final shot Sergeant Hudson’s face turned to red mist just a bit down the line. Other men died more gruesomely, some mercifully less so. Other men were injured but were unmercifully still alive, shouts of pain and screams of horror filled the air on the British side of the line.
A last stand of Spartan heroes it was not.
A last stand of desperate men, who had seen an army around them slaughtered over the past week and seen honor vanish when Elphinstone and Macnaghten had left them all to die, it was.
Schoolboy dreams of Waterloo honours meant nothing in the face of the bloody rapidity or Afghani slowness of death in this God forsaken country.
Conolly tried to ignore the sound of guns in the distance again, as he heard a rumble between the whizzing of shot by his head. There was no support. No loyal force for hundreds of miles. There would be no relief.
The second round, he didn’t bother to find a worthy target for. The Afghans were almost upon them, and the best you could do was find a man and kill him before he killed you.
There was no time either to try and see if the lead made contact with its designated target. All that was left was to ready for the hand to hand combat that was the only option left.
Kill who you can. Enrage the rest. Die fast.
A quick death on the battlefield wasn’t only honorable at this point. It was the only way out of being handed over to the widows and wives in the tribal villages.
One of the Old Hands in the surviving members of the column didn’t it seem think that was an ensured enough way to avoid that fate. No one even tried to stop him as he spent his last round on himself, his corpse rolled a few feet closer to the charging tribesmen. The sound of Brown Bess shots faded away, as the ammunition supply was finally exhausted. Souter had his sword out. Conolly, and the remaining men clutched their muskets, ready to use them as the pikes or clubs of old.
The lad next to the Political Officer was muttering a prayer for mercy. Conolly was well past such pleading, his only prayer was that his feet were steady when he would leap up. All he wanted was a good fight, and a quick death. He took a deep breath, and squinted as more snow blew up the hill. He readied himself to meet annihilation and his God.
Instead of a rapid beating though, there was a sudden blast of explosions on the hillside. As strange as that was, there was no time to think about it, to even question it.
That’s... odd…
And then the tribesmen were atop them, some held back and kept shooting, others were there with knives, axes, their long barrelled rifles ready at once to be used as clubs. Some had British muskets and bayonets ready.
There was no pause. Everything happened at once, and happened eternally.
Souter slashed wildly.
Conolly lept up, and shoved the blade at the end of his musket into a man's stomach.
One of the privates screamed as his belly was cut open.
An Afghan of massive build stood atop a rock and waved his rifle over his head one handed, until a British old hand stabbed him in the groin with a knife, the man falling atop him.
Conolly was on the ground, one of the attackers having tackled him, he was bitten. He rolled the man over, found himself on top. Was bitten again, felt unspeakable pain as something pierced his side. Screaming he somehow grabbed the man's beard, used it to pull up his head. Felt another piercing blow to his side. There were more explosions. Slammed the fellows head into the ground. Onto a rock. Over and over and over again. Two more whatever-they-were’s at his side. The Afghan was dead.
Unsteadily he rose back up. Conolly’s left side was covered in blood. He couldn’t stand up straight. He reached over, nearly toppled as he grabbed his musket, took the bayonet off of it, grabbed it in his hand at its base. He turned, and spread his feet wide, another tribesman with a musket in hand noticed him, held his musket like a pike and began to rush towards the larger man.
Around them the whole position had collapsed. Every man to his left was on his own. Conolly couldn’t see anything to his right, and couldn’t afford to turn his head to find out. The Captain was being dragged down the hill, either dead or more likely clubbed into unconsciousness. And behind him…
The Afghans were fleeing.
From what?
There were more explosions blasting up dirt and rock on the hillside. Men were falling over dead. And racing up the hills were… horsemen?
Distracted in awe for a moment, Conolly was unready for his charging opponent, the only good thing was that between his own distraction and his inexperience at the art of stabbing from the tip of a musket, the tribesman shoved the blade into his targets left arm. Noting how much the blade entering his arm felt like what had come into contact with his side before, the taller man shoved his own blade into the man’s neck. They were both on the ground after that. Though one was very rapidly dead, and facing towards the cloudy skies, Conolly could only wait for that release.
Around him came the sounds of screaming, gunshots, horses.
So many horses, soon he couldn’t hear the loud, desperate fight that had been the last stand of the 44th Regiment a few moments before, only the sound of horses, and of Pashtun shouts, that he couldn’t make out, sounding further and further off.
Where the hell are you going? He wanted to scream. You need to kill me first! Don’t miss me! Savages!
But that wasn’t much of an option at this point. He wasn’t sure he could stand up. Or raise his head. Or even get the blade out of his shoulder as he lay there.
It was his feeble attempt to get his right hand up to his shoulder that attracted the attention of the man who suddenly shouted in an Italian-accented English “I say, who is in command here?”
And with that, his vision was filled with men with thicker beards than his own, and turbans. Two were obviously North Indian, the third was oddly light-skinned for his garb.
“Lets get him the doctor then shall we?” The lighter man said to his subordinates, in flawless Punjabi, and one of them at once ran off. The Italian switched back to his sing-song English and kept going.
“Colonel Stoddart, I presume?” He asked, as he squatted down on Connally’s left, a politeness based on the fact that the man was half-blind.
“Dead. Kabul.” Was all Conolly was able to get out.
“I see. Kokand Conolly then. My apologies. They call me Abu Tabela in these parts. I’d offer my hand, but I’d rather not worsen your condition.” Said the older of the two.
Recognition flashed through Conolly at that. “Governor Avitabile.”
His savior nodded.
“That is what you fellows call me, yes. We’re driving these savages back, and I’ll have to make a few more examples of the ones we capture.” He paused at that, his face a smile, his eyes showing nothing but a pure evil that was as terrifying as that of the tribesmen who had hounded the army since the day they left Kabul. “I need to know though, where is the main force of General Elphinstone? We must reach them at once you see.”
“This is it.”
The Butcher of Peshawar's face went pale. “And the General?”
“Surrendered.”
The man cursed in a language that even Conolly was unfamiliar with.
“Well come now Conolly, the surgeon is here. We’ll have you fixed up nicely, along with the rest of your poor souls. The Maharaja will certainly want to talk to you when we have you patched up.”
Stretcher-bearers were lifting the wounded man up, along with from what he could see every other survivor, which seemed little more than a score or two., when that statement clicked in his brain.
“The Maharaja is riding North?” He asked the Italian Mercenary as the Punjabi soldiers began to move down the hill.
“Of course he is!” Responded Avitabile. “This is the Lahore Army! You can’t expect the Sher-e-Punjab to simply stay in his palaces when there’s a war to be fought!”
Well, its about bloody time. Thought Conolly as he moved down the hill and finally passed out.
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