flapping gestures, begging her not to speak. Beside her, Fitzgerald cleared his throat warningly.
But what if she did speak? What if she told these self-satisfied, overstuffed people that the Afghan “mad dogs” they referred to had only been defending their own fortress, that Muslims were very far from godless, that it was not satisfying for human beings to be roasted to death?
What if she told them of the horrors she had seen in Lahore?
She imagined the terrible scene that would follow her outburst— the accusations of brash ignorance, of disloyalty to the Queen, of siding with the enemy. Who would speak first, General Sale, his features swollen with martial fury, Sir William Macnaghten, his thick brows knitted in disbelief, or Lady Sale, whose attack would be the deadliest of all?
What right, they would say, had she, an unmarried woman, to voice an unfavorable opinion about a British army action? Who was she, a person of no great fortune or family, whose reputation had already been blackened once by scandal, to criticize her elders and betters?
All this would mean the ruin of Lady Macnaghten's carefully arranged party. Lady Macnaghten, who was generously trying to help her, would never speak to her again.
But General Sale, it seemed, was too intent on his remembered triumph to take her breach of manners into account. “The horses were a different matter,” he boomed, shaking his head. “Dozens of them had been wounded in the assault. When we entered the fort, we found them galloping about, hysterical and dangerous. In spite of all our efforts to spare them, quite a number had to be shot.”
“A pity,” agreed Burnes.
Macnaghten nodded sorrowfully.
Mariana gazed from face to face, searching for someone who shared her feelings.
“I shall be leaving for Kandahar in the morning.” Fitzgerald leaned toward her, interrupting her troubled thoughts. “I do not know when I shall return. May I write to you while I am gone?”
“Yes, of course.” She nodded absently. She had studied military strategy since she was twelve. All that time she had likened war to a game of chess
General Sale turned to her. “And now, young lady,” he trumpeted, “may I ask if you have seen our cantonment?”
“No, Sir Robert, I have not,” she replied flatly.
“Since you have such a keen interest in military matters, if you will present yourself at the gate at three o'clock sharp tomorrow afternoon, one of my subalterns will bring you inside and show you about. And bring your uncle. I like him.”
“Thank you,” was all she could manage.
N ow, Mariana,” her uncle told her as they rode under the archway of the cantonment's main gate, “as we shall not be invited again to see the workings of the cantonment, I encourage you to examine it thoroughly. It is rather impressive, is it not?” He flushed happily beneath his top hat as he surveyed the huge, enclosed military compound.
Mariana smiled carefully, not wishing to disturb his expansive mood. Several times recently, she had caught her uncle staring into space, his face creased with worry. He never told her what information he had gained from his informants about the true state of Afghanistan, or whether Sir William Macnaghten had paid attention to his warnings. But whatever her uncle's concerns were on that score, she could see that he had every confidence in the safety of the cantonment.
This was no time to tell him how puzzling and unwise she found the location of the cantonment and Residence compounds, both overlooked by nearby hills and surrounded on every side by occupied forts.
Why on earth had Sir William Macnaghten so airily dismissed General Elphinstone's plan to buy and destroy those buildings?
Furthermore, the ground on which the cantonment and Residence stood seemed to have been chosen for its beauty rather than its utility, for it was wet orchard land, full of trees and covered like a checkerboard with deep irrigation ditches.
How did they expect to
But what if she did speak? What if she told these self-satisfied, overstuffed people that the Afghan “mad dogs” they referred to had only been defending their own fortress, that Muslims were very far from godless, that it was not satisfying for human beings to be roasted to death?
What if she told them of the horrors she had seen in Lahore?
She imagined the terrible scene that would follow her outburst— the accusations of brash ignorance, of disloyalty to the Queen, of siding with the enemy. Who would speak first, General Sale, his features swollen with martial fury, Sir William Macnaghten, his thick brows knitted in disbelief, or Lady Sale, whose attack would be the deadliest of all?
What right, they would say, had she, an unmarried woman, to voice an unfavorable opinion about a British army action? Who was she, a person of no great fortune or family, whose reputation had already been blackened once by scandal, to criticize her elders and betters?
All this would mean the ruin of Lady Macnaghten's carefully arranged party. Lady Macnaghten, who was generously trying to help her, would never speak to her again.
But General Sale, it seemed, was too intent on his remembered triumph to take her breach of manners into account. “The horses were a different matter,” he boomed, shaking his head. “Dozens of them had been wounded in the assault. When we entered the fort, we found them galloping about, hysterical and dangerous. In spite of all our efforts to spare them, quite a number had to be shot.”
“A pity,” agreed Burnes.
Macnaghten nodded sorrowfully.
Mariana gazed from face to face, searching for someone who shared her feelings.
“I shall be leaving for Kandahar in the morning.” Fitzgerald leaned toward her, interrupting her troubled thoughts. “I do not know when I shall return. May I write to you while I am gone?”
“Yes, of course.” She nodded absently. She had studied military strategy since she was twelve. All that time she had likened war to a game of chess
General Sale turned to her. “And now, young lady,” he trumpeted, “may I ask if you have seen our cantonment?”
“No, Sir Robert, I have not,” she replied flatly.
“Since you have such a keen interest in military matters, if you will present yourself at the gate at three o'clock sharp tomorrow afternoon, one of my subalterns will bring you inside and show you about. And bring your uncle. I like him.”
“Thank you,” was all she could manage.
N ow, Mariana,” her uncle told her as they rode under the archway of the cantonment's main gate, “as we shall not be invited again to see the workings of the cantonment, I encourage you to examine it thoroughly. It is rather impressive, is it not?” He flushed happily beneath his top hat as he surveyed the huge, enclosed military compound.
Mariana smiled carefully, not wishing to disturb his expansive mood. Several times recently, she had caught her uncle staring into space, his face creased with worry. He never told her what information he had gained from his informants about the true state of Afghanistan, or whether Sir William Macnaghten had paid attention to his warnings. But whatever her uncle's concerns were on that score, she could see that he had every confidence in the safety of the cantonment.
This was no time to tell him how puzzling and unwise she found the location of the cantonment and Residence compounds, both overlooked by nearby hills and surrounded on every side by occupied forts.
Why on earth had Sir William Macnaghten so airily dismissed General Elphinstone's plan to buy and destroy those buildings?
Furthermore, the ground on which the cantonment and Residence stood seemed to have been chosen for its beauty rather than its utility, for it was wet orchard land, full of trees and covered like a checkerboard with deep irrigation ditches.
How did they expect to
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