CHAMBERS'S

POCKET MISCELLANY.

PASS OF KHOORD-CABOOL.

A REALITY OF WAR.

THE retreat of the British army through the Pass of Khoord-Cabool, in Afghanistan, will be fresh in general recollection; for it occurred so late as January 6th 1842, and was signalised by the most terrible disasters. The following particulars of the retreat, furnished by a survivor, will give an impressive idea of the realities of war.

It will be remembered that the army, which was under the command of Major-General Elphinstone, was compelled to evacuate the cantonments at Cabool, where it had sustained a thoroughly disheartening siege of two months, and to commence a retreat towards Jelalabad-the attempt to settle affairs in Afghanistan, where the British had in reality no right to be, having signally failed. To aggravate the difficulties of the retreat, the period was the depth of winter, the cold was intense, and the troops were inadequately supplied with provisions, fuel, or tentequipage. Besides, the road lay through a country full of rugged mountains and barren heaths, without any

means of shelter or succour. To complete the picture, a powerful and treacherous enemy hung on the skirts of the retreating regiments, and threatened their entire slaughter. The whole affair, indeed, had what is usually called 'a very ugly look!' And ugly it was, sure enough. Orders were issued to cut a passage through the eastern rampart, to allow the exit of the gun-carriages, baggage, &c. and for planks to be conveyed to the river to construct a bridge. These orders were carried into effect, and 2000 camels and yaboos or mules were laden with military and other stores, together with a miserably small supply of materials to shelter the troops when encamped. The 44th regiment is said to have mustered about 600 strong; add to these 970 cavalry, a troop of horse artillery of about 80 or 90 in number, and 2800 native troops, chiefly Hindoos, and the total is 4460 fighting men, with three mountain train-guns and six horse-artillery guns. The camp-followers, which are the annoyance of Indian armies, amounted to about 12,000 men, women, and children--a host of useless lumber in the flight that was to take place.

There was a sergeant in the 44th, named Frederick Maitland. He was a handsome young man, whom misfortune had compelled to enlist as a private soldier, just before the regiment left England, and he was accompanied by his young wife. During the occupation of Cabool by the regiment, a strong friendship had sprung up between Maitland and a renowned chieftain of the Kuzzilbashes,* named Chinga Zung. It arose from the sergeant having saved the life of Chinga in action, and the grateful Kuzzilbash offered eternal friendship to his preserver. The time had now come for him to evince his gratitude, and he prepared to do so most nobly. On the morning of the evacuation, he sought the sergeant, to tell him that

The Kuzzilbashes are descended from the Persians, and usually may be distinguished by their red caps. They remained neutral during all the disastrous skirmishes which led to the subversion of our power at Cabool, until the British lost the Commissariat Fort, which at once shamefully induced the majority of them to join the Afghans.

he would, with the aid of his personal followers, do all that was possible to protect the sergeant's wife, and that he had already mounted her on a sure-footed and swift camel. Chinga Zung was a man of gigantic stature, and of very impressive appearance. He wore the usual dress of his people-wide trousers, tightly gathered round the ankles, and his red cap was surmounted with a small plume of eagles' feathers. A pair of long-barrelled pistols were stuck in his embroidered crimson belt; and a curved yataghan in a Persian sheath, enriched with golden devices and sparkling gems, was suspended by his side. The head of the chieftain, although well shaped, was comparatively very small. His features were swarthy, but finely shaped, and indicative of great resolution. He was of very superior intelligence, and spoke the English language with facility, and in a voice of singular melody and sweetness. As he now conversed with his friend the sergeant, he held a heavy rifle in his hand, loosely slung from a belt over his shoulder, with a bright keen bayonet turned down on the under side of the barrel, but which, by pressing a powerful spring, could be projected and fixed for use in a moment.

Their dialogue was interrupted by a fearful shriek-a woman's cry of agony and despair-that rose piercingly above all other sounds. A few paces off, a little group had already collected, and when Maitland and his Kuzzilbash friend strode to the spot, they at once comprehended the cause. Stretched on the cold ground was the lifeless body of a fine young soldier who had been badly wounded in one of the previous bloody skirmishes, and had become in consequence so debilitated that when he essayed, with the aid of his wife and a comrade, to stagger towards one of the baggage-wagons destined to convey the sick, the slight exertion so far hastened the dissolution which under any circumstances must soon have taken place, that he dropped down, gasped a few broken words of farewell, and died. Thus dead, his head was supported on the lap of his wife, the unhappy woman whose shriek, at the moment when he expired, had thrilled the hearts of

hundreds. But that shriek once uttered, not another, not a word, not a murmur, escaped her bloodless lips, as with dishevelled hair, and hands clasped together over her breast, she bent with her face almost touching her husband's. His eyes were open, and set in what seemed an affectionate parting look on his beloved wife; and with lineaments to the full as stony as his own, did that devoted creature immovably sit. She shed not a tear; not an eyelash quivered, not a muscle stirred, not once did her bosom heave. Had her spirit fled already to rejoin his? At first the bystanders thought so, but they were wrong.

On his knees by her side was a pretty boy some three or four years old, sobbing as if his little heart would break. He threw himself on his father's breast-he twined his fingers in his father's hair-he clasped his hands about his father's neck, as had been his wont-he kissed his father's rigid, parted lips. Alas! for the first time there was no answering caress.

'O mammie!' cried he, suddenly precipitating himself on the lap of his mother, father won't kiss me-won't speak!'

Even this roused not the mother. She did not stir, but gently laid the head of her husband on the earth, and raised her own face, which seemed not of this world. She unclasped her hands, and putting aside the fair flowing locks of her child, suffered her gaze for a moment to rivet on his features. Then, without a sigh, without a groan, without a struggle, without once opening her lips, she refolded her thin, clammy hands, and fell suddenly backward-quite dead. If hearts can be broken, hers

was.

Even in that fearful, busy, life-and-death moment, not one who looked on the group hurried away, but in the contemplation of it, all for awhile forgot their own cares, and the probability that very soon it might be their fate also. Many a manly heart melted, and many a rough hand hastily brushed away a tear.

'Ochone! and what's to become o' the poor bairn in

a time like this?' demanded a grim-looking Scotch veteran. 'Who will, or can care for him?'

'God Almighty will himself do that!' solemnly replied a soldier who was leaning on his musket by the side of the dead bodies; and I will myself see to the child.'

With this observation, Frederick Maitland gently took the poor child in his arms, and said kindly to him: 'I will be your father henceforward, my dear little fellow.' A murmur of admiration buzzed around, and many spoke their gratification of the young sergeant's conduct.

"There,' said he, kissing his trembling little protégé, 'you see I will kiss you and love you; so don't cry any more, for I shall be your father now.'

Children rarely mistrust words which bear the impulse of truth and heartfulness, and wonderfully soothed by the endearing tone, the child resigned himself to his new protector.

'Comrades!' exclaimed the sergeant, 'make a grave, however shallow, so that the Afghans may not mangle their remains. Lay them side by side.'

No further appeal was needed. Tools were procured, and in a few minutes a dozen sturdy arms had thrown up a trench, and the yet warm bodies of the unfortunate pair were decently interred, not without a few hasty but sincere tears being shed by those who performed the office.

Chinga Zung relieved Frederick of the child, and conveyed him to the spot outside the fort where the sergeant's wife was mounted on a camel. She had no child of her own, and received the little orphan with open arms. The Kuzzilbash repeated positive orders to his people not to stir from the spot till his return, and then he left them to seek Frederick. He found the latter with his company zealously striving to get it into good order, as it was understood they were immediately to march out. There was no time for further conversation, since in a few minutes the word of command was given, the foremost files fell into step, and the whole 44th were quickly in motion. Dismal and chilling indeed was the scene spread