“Ho! Ghazis to the front! Ho! Ghazis bear the brunt
Of the battle waged on snowy Bemaru!
Let not the stinging ball your fiery hearts appal,
But hurl the Kafirs down! Allah-hu!”
The despatch says:—
“A desperate resistance was made, but a bugler with the 72nd succeeded by a ruse in turning the fortunes of the day. He crept round in the enemy’s rear and sounded the regimental call of the 92nd, followed by the ‘cease fire’ and ‘retreat;’ the 92nd fell back and the attacking party carried the position. Many prisoners were taken and the usual atrocities committed—one gallant Highlander having three men sitting on his chest at once; while others, equally gallant, were buried alive in the snow. The conduct of all concerned fully bore out the estimate previously formed of the splendid fighting powers of our men, and several 'V.C.s’ are to be awarded. The number of wounded was unusually great, but all are now doing well. The defeat of the enemy was so complete that they at once sued for peace, and a treaty was signed at the Club later in the day by the principal leaders. In consequence of the ink being frozen, curaçoa and brandy were substituted.”
It will be seen from the halting sketch here drawn, that with all our growling discontent at being left in the dark as to the future, we manage to smooth away the rough edges of our life which so much gall us, and that our petulance never grows into sulkiness. That we have to fall back upon rough horse-play occasionally is not surprising: there is no softening influence to keep our spirits at an equable temperature. We are a colony of men—chiefly young men; and Cabul society is so very select that we have not yet gained an entrance within its sacred limits. If we were to make ceremonial calls upon the zenanas, we should probably be confronted by some buck-Afghan, with a knife in his hand and an oath in his mouth. Love and war do not go hand in hand now in Cabul, although they did forty years ago; so we must sigh in vain for a glimpse of that beauty which the yashmaks hide so jealously when the Cabul ladies flit by us in the narrow streets of the city. When a more than usually coquettish white-clad figure passes, we turn hastily about; but what can be seen?—
“Nought but the rippling linen wrapping her about.”
And what is she like in the seclusion of the zenana? Ah, that lies apart from our life in Sherpur; but perhaps I may be able to partly answer the question. “How we Live in Sherpur,” can only have as its companion picture—