In dangerous quicksands it sank twice to its girth, on the last occasion falling on its rider, whose head was thrust so far below water that he was nearly drowned ere he scrambled breathlessly to dry land.
Colville, who had been riding with the captain and three subalterns at the head of the troop, which mustered seventy-six sabres, felt his horse become restive when the water flowed over his holsters; the animal kicked and plunged till at last he was thrown off its back, and found himself floundering in deep water. Being a good swimmer he thought to get rid of his sword and belt, but failed, as he sank each time in making the attempt, and each time he came to the surface with an invocation to heaven on his lips.
The men in the squadron were all in heavy marching order, fully accoutred and supplied with ammunition—circumstances sufficient to drag down a good swimmer even in smooth water. Nearly all were thrown by their terrified horses, which, as they rolled over and over, lashed out with their hoofs, maiming and stunning many of our poor fellows as they were swept into the dark rushing current of the rapids, and where these ceased lay a little pool of deep water, and there it was that all who had strength left to struggle succeeded in reaching the land, but many failed, alas!
As Colville was swept downward, while in the desperate agonies of seeking to save his own life, he could take in the terrible details of the tragedy, and saw how the river was crowded with men, horses, and white helmets rolling past; how heads, hands, and spurred heels rose momentarily and vanished to rise again, and then sink for ever beneath the cruel and greedy current.
Amid all this scene of death and horror, there came not one cry from our perishing hussars; each battled with the waters of the hostile river as they would have battled with the Afghans.
Colville struck out to reach the bank, after he sank a third time; but, encumbered by his heavy boots and putties (or leg bandages), his sword, revolver, and ammunition, he was unable to keep himself afloat, and the agony of a helpless death was in his heart!
He knew that at the time all this was happening Mary Wellwood would probably be sleeping, sweetly and peacefully, on her pillow; and even in that moment of supreme anguish and terror, he wished that if death came, his soul might flash home to her in a dream—a farewell dream!
He felt himself sinking at last, as he had only been getting occasional breaths of air; the last of his strength seemed going, and all hope with it, when suddenly his feet touched the bottom, and a prayer rose to his lips.
Rousing himself for a final effort, he pushed forward, and hope began again to dawn on him as he found the water getting shallower; but he was too weak to reach the river's bank, and, grasping some wild jasmine trailers that grew between two boulders, he propped himself up to rest and breathe.
At this point, seeing neither man nor horse near him, he thought that all must have perished—perished through the diabolical hatred and treachery of Mahmoud Shah!