The Far Pavilions - Mary Margaret Kaye [638]
There had been no question of saving the wounded; the fire had taken hold far too suddenly and violently to allow anyone to attempt it. Those who could do so had run for their lives, and scorched, choked and half blind, had stumbled across the smoke-filled courtyard to take refuge in the Envoy's House.
The Afghans on the roof of the burning building, realizing with what swiftness the flames would destroy that ramshackle wood and plaster structure, had scrambled back across their ladders in haste, and instantly transferred their attentions to the opposite house. Thrusting out other ladders onto the high parapet that Taimus had jumped from, they clambered across and leapt down among the half-dozen men who still held out there: and though their leaders died as they came, falling sideways into the street or pitching head-first on to the roof, those behind them pressed forward, and as William and the jawans reloaded they sprang down to the attack…
There had been no hope of holding the roof, even though Wally and every Guide who remained in the Residency had rushed up to try and stem the horde of invaders who came leaping down from the parapet like a band of monkeys swarming on to a melon patch. Their very numbers had made the task impossible and the end a foregone conclusion.
The garrison, closing ranks and using their useless firearms as clubs, retreated towards the stairwell and were driven down it step by step, until the last man down slammed shut the door at the foot of the stairway and dropped the bars into place. But that door, like all the rest in that ancient and dilapidated building, was incapable of withstanding a determined attack, and there was no time – and no materials – to reinforce it.
The house itself would soon be on fire, for if the Afghans sapping from below failed to set it alight, it seemed only too likely that the flames and sparks that were now pouring from every doorway and window of the Mess House would do the job for them; and even if it did not, the garrison could no longer hold out in the Residency, because the enemy, taking advantage of the fighting on the roof and under cover of the smoke, had smashed another breach in the back wall of the courtyard, and widening it unhindered, were streaming in from below.
Wally caught a nightmare glimpse of them through the acrid clouds of smoke, shooting and slashing at a panic-stricken handful of servants who had been driven out of the Mess House by the fire and taken refuge in the lee of a pile of baggage that had been used to barricade the back door, Sir Louis' bearer and his own fat Pir Baksh among them – Pir Baksh defending himself with a knife in one hand and a boot-tree in the other. But there was nothing he could do for them, and he turned away, sickened, and striding to the nearest of the two windows that faced the compound, wrenched back the shutters and sprang up on to the sill.
‘Come on!’ yelled Wally, waving his companions forward, and in the same breath, leapt out and down across the narrow lane and onto the roof of the barracks.
They had not waited for any further urging, but followed unhesitatingly, leaping as he had done down across the gap to land on the barracks; Jenkyns, Kelly and the jawans who had survived the fight on the roof, and half-a-dozen non-combatants who had been helping to fight the fire and had run up from the floor below.
Even as the last man jumped and landed, the roof of the Mess House fell in with a roar that equalled that of the guns, and they turned and saw a brilliant fountain of sparks, vivid even in the afternoon sunlight, shoot up from the pyre that was consuming the body of Louis Cavagnari – and with it a great number of the soldiers and servants who had accompanied him to Kabul.
‘Like a Viking Chieftain going to Valhalla with his