TLIAW: The Lions of Lahore

Japhy

Banned


The Lions of Lahore
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.​
 
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Japhy

Banned
So the Haggisian Crusade is Dead?

No, why would you say that?

That whole update was literally White People and Imperialism

Well one has to be dramatic at the start, and whats better for drama than the biggest Imperialist defeat in history between the Haitian Revolution and the Fall of Singapore?

You still could have done an Afghan perspective of it.

Oh I'm sure I could have, I'm going to make up for it though.

So what's the Point of Divergence here? Its not that the 44th's remnant get rescued, because there's already messed up stuff in here. Conolly is supposed to be dead in Bokhurna.

Ok so I started In Medias Res. All will soon be made clear to those who know nothing of Indian History.

Big Words, you only took one Indian History class in all of College.

I've been a big fan of reading about it for years too. There's more to Asia than just the East after all.

So you're not giving away the POD again, and you're looking for people to actually dig up a divergence point. How exactly is the Haggisian Crusade not just you being a jerk to people?

Its about shining lights on parts of history that aren't just rampant Imperialism. And sometimes its about subverting Imperialism, since British dominance of the subcontinent was secured by the time of the 1835 Point of Divergence. And anyway, in a normal Imperialist bullshit timeline about India the only difference would be "what Europeans take over the whole continent and---"

Alright. Fine. OK. The Haggisian Crusade isn't over. And you're not just being a jerk. Just show what this is about then, will you?
 
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Fascinating I am just knocking over 'The return of the King' now, fascinating read. On another note is there a chance of one of the all time greats Harry Flashman making a cameo in this TL?
 

Japhy

Banned
Ranjit Singh lives longer? Anyways, lovely opening, looking forward to more!

Ding, Ding, Ding!

Fascinating I am just knocking over 'The return of the King' now, fascinating read. On another note is there a chance of one of the all time greats Harry Flashman making a cameo in this TL?

Oh its an absolutely great book, glad someone else is reading it.

No comment on the rest of that.

Looks very promising. I'll be subscribing to this one. :)

Always glad to have people get interested in my work. Humbling too. Mind you I have to give you all a heads up, this Timeline will involve Afghanistan somemore, probably, but the general trend is going to be to show things in the longer term, as opposed to my previous Weekend at Mao's.
 
If Ranjit Singh lives longer, then will Shah Shuja be more successfully restored? I'd imagine he'd end up becoming heavily reliant on the Sikhs if he stays in Kabul; not an amazingly compelling, if tragic, ruler.
 

Japhy

Banned
Part II: The End of an Era.


The Lahore Durbar, Sikh Empire
September 27th, 1849

When Alexander Burnes awoke in the morning these days his limbs ached.

When he worked about his private offices he had to wear spectacles to read his papers and write his reports.

His hair was starting to gray, he looked weathered, more so than a man of his age ought.

But he’d earned a knighthood, and a Colonelcy in one of the Company’s Regiments to boot. And one of the more comfortable stations in the Political Service.

At forty-five he knew he wasn’t the young man who half a lifetime ago had slipped beyond the lands of the Afghans and Pashtuns into the uncharted depths of Central Asia to ancient Bokura. And in general he could accept that.

But sometimes…

Lahore was barely hospitable in the summer. One hundred plus degrees fahrenheit, with nearly one hundred percent humidity, neither marvelous garden nor dank and dark cellar offered much in the way of relief. The Maharaja, now the old man he had looked the part of for decades, had taken in the years since the Afghan War to ride about, down to his final conquests, Quetta to the South, or the fortresses at the mouth of the Khyber. As much of the court as was able to secure a slot went on these treks out of the low plains. Burnes and his his small staff were always present.

But then came the rest of the year, where the capital of the Sikh Empire was but a collection of brilliant gardens and marvelous parties in fortresses, in parlors and on estates beyond the walls.

And quiet liaisons. He had to smile at that.

But there was also an other activity that came naturally to the court when the rains came. And it was a duty that Burnes had come to loath.

The drinking.

The only Scotch was that the British took with them, as were the Wines, the Rums, the Irish Whiskeys, the Gin, the Madeira, the Brandy, the Cognac, and even the Beer.

Today it was Scotch that Burnes drank. The ritual was the same no matter what it was.

After watching the Scottish Officer take a few sips, the Potentate would demand he sample some himself. He would wave away his taster, Burnes’ continued survival being proof enough, and he would finish a whole glass of the spirit in a single go.

Now he examined the glass.

And now he looked back up at his guest and in a loud voice spoke up in Punjabi.

“One day you must tell me Burnes, how you Englishmen ever enjoy such weak drinks! Give this man some of my wine, he must enjoy himself tonight if he is to be in my company!”

And so the wine came, made from raisins, with the useless additive of finely crushed pearls added just to make it the most expensive on earth, and Burnes worked to sip the glass, his liver screaming in agony with each fiery sip.

The Lords sons, some of them Burnes age, some younger were sitting around their father, drinking as well. At least some of them seemed to have the same sort of hard time drinking the firewater, but their father never cared. He was too busy enjoying himself.

“How many years have we done this Colonel?” The old man asked from his golden throne.

“On and off again for twenty years my lord.” Replied Burnes.

The Lion laughed at that. “And yet what changes my friend? You’ve grown older no doubt, but I imagine I seemed as ancient to you then as I do now. Except this time I really am.” The ruler laughed at that too. Burnes smiled, Oh yes, the man had seemed old then, an ancient ruler of an ancient land back in 1831. Who’d known he’d go this far still?

“Whatever changes Sir, my respect for your rule has only grown.” He offered back.

There wasn’t an English word for the Lion’s response but if there was it was several degrees more obscene than ‘hogwash’. “I’ve always considered you a friend you know. There will be no diplomatic language tonight.”

“Of course Sir.”

The night wore on, the drinking continued. Eventually Burnes was allowed to switch back to Scotch. The Princes listened to their father tell stories of how he had unified the Sikh tribes. Prime Minister Dhian Singh Dogra spoke about the troubles of absorbing the latest Muslim populations, torn off from Afghanistan in 1839-1842. One of Burnes’ men, a Pink-Pantsed Captain in the Company Army spoke about his fight to survive in Kandahar until a Company-Sikh Army had broken through in the summer after the fall of Kabul. The Maharaja spoke, and drank and occasionally listened with glee.

He’s having a good night. Burnes thought to himself.

None of the headaches of the past decade.

That was literal for the Maharaja, and figurative for Burnes himself. Tonight was going a lot better than most of the recent drinking nights.

Eventually, late into the night, the Lion seemed to be dozing off. Several of his younger sons and Dogra had excused themselves.

One of the members of Court, a Brigadier in the Sikh Army, was relating how an Irish enlisted men had somehow served in the armies of the United Kingdom and the Sikh Empire, with two stopovers in between as a Sergeant in the US Army and an officer in that of the Mexican Republic. It was certainly an interesting story but he kept bogging it down answering questions about how his Irish troops had fought a new kind of war with cannon facing down Winfield Scott. Only the old man was interested in that sort of thing.

“It is a shame Riley that you were unable to save Mexico City.” he offered in the end. “The fate of your compatriots at the hand of the villain Scott was abhorrent.”

“Aye, your Majesty. It’s a shame, but it wasn't just my men. Santa Anna wasn’t nearly half the Napoleon as he thought he was.” Was all the man offered.

But that last bit had caught the one-eyed ruler’s attention. Now to everyone and no one he spoke, gazing upward. “Napoleon…”

“You would have defeated him soundly as you once promised your Majesty. Had he ever dared to set foot in India.” Offered up Burnes.

“Oh no doubt.” Nodded the Lion. “But what I could have done, had I had all his benefits. To this day I cannot read, its never caused me much trouble, but the education the man earned, before ever raising a blade in combat, what a boost. And the Empire he was able to build from the starting point of all of France, if I had only been able to inherit a united Sikh nation when I succeeded my father, I dare say only the seas could have stopped me.”

Well that and the British Army. Thought Burnes quietly to himself. What would another one have been for Wellington?

“And as you say Burnes, we would have routed him soundly had he marched across the Persian Empire to face us. What a battle it would have been, as he sought to cross the Khyber, or march along the coast. What great fun.”

Everyone nodded to that, as the Lion was looking for agreement.

“But all that’s past us now. All thats left are Pashtun Bandits. Life has gotten boring.” Said the man who kept seven wives, dozens of concubines, of both sexes, who started wars over individual horses, and whom lived his days in decadent splendor. Not to mention the owner of the worlds largest diamond.

“If only you’d been there with your Flying Artillery back when we marched back to Kabul to exact Justice, Riley. That was the last good fight of things we had around these parts…”

The night dragged on but eventually even the Lion decided sleep was the best course.

Burnes bade him and the rest of the drinking court a good night and headed for bed.

It wasn't the drinking that made the drinking nights such a painful duty for the Queen.

It was waking up the next morning.

This day was no exception.

It was the one-time Cherrybum that made things worse than the normal post-spirit night.

“Ranjit Singh’s gone. The old fellow died in his sleep last night.” He said breathlessly after storming into the private quarters.

Even though the hangover, Burnes was quick to wake up.

“Well so much for a boring life for us then.” Was the first thing he could think to say.​
 

Japhy

Banned
If Ranjit Singh lives longer, then will Shah Shuja be more successfully restored? I'd imagine he'd end up becoming heavily reliant on the Sikhs if he stays in Kabul; not an amazingly compelling, if tragic, ruler.

Honestly I'm not sure any amount of Bayonets, British or Sikh could have kept him in power, so I've got to say no. The Anglo-Afghan War ended more or less similarly to IOTL, just with a whole lot of Sikh troops along with the Company Army.
 
I'm sure having ten more years will alter the succession or at least mitigate some of the factionalism. I'm sure the Company isn't pleased- Singh sounds like he was a good ally for them.

And did the USA end up taking more in Mexico?
 

Japhy

Banned
I'm sure having ten more years will alter the succession or at least mitigate some of the factionalism. I'm sure the Company isn't pleased- Singh sounds like he was a good ally for them.

Singh was just as much a problem as an ally. He was smart enough to always follow his treaties down to the finest points with the British, which always meant that there was no way to go after him no problem, his intervention into the Afghan War was enough to make sure that he became untouchable to the public back in the UK.

You're right that more time will help deal with the backstabbing politics of the court, thought that probably wont last for ever.

And did the USA end up taking more in Mexico?

If so it'd only be by minor adjustments rather than anything drastic.
 
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