Journey to the East
The following is the text of an obituary that appeared in the
Irish Times on May 14 1932.
In many Irish houses hangs a copy of
Lady Butler's
picture, "The Remnants of an Army"--an exhausted man and
his staggering horse at the gates of a frontier fort. The picture tells
one of the most tragic tales in the history of British India. On January
6th, 1842, as the climax of a mishandled war in Afghanistan, the British
garrison of 4,500 soldiers and some 12,000 camp followers evacuated
Kabul. The winter was severe; the retreat through the Afghan defiles was
a massacre, and of the whole army only one man--Dr. William Brydon, an
Irish surgeon--reached the shelter of Jalalabad. That was a " battle
long ago "--Waterloo veterans may have perished in it; yet a life which
did not end till Wednesday has linked it with our own times. On that day
the widow of the Reverend Walter Scott-and last surviving daughter of Dr
William Brydon died in her seventy-eighth year. The lives of Dr. Brydon
and his daughter covered a spell of 120 years; for he was born in 1811.
Indian history was made quickly in the middle decades of the
nineteenth century and his escape from Kabul was not Dr. Brydon's last
adventure. He helped to recapture that city, and fought in the Burma War
of 1852, when Rangoon was taken. The Mutiny found him again in India,
where, with his wife and young family, including the late Mrs. Scott, he
went through the siege of Lucknow. Some years afterwards this
much-enduring soldier of science retired with the rank of
Surgeon-General ; and he died in Scotland fifty-nine years ago.
I found the following description of how Brydon managed to escape the clutches of the Afghans on the web some years ago (I don't know the author):
The history of the British Empire as it was taught to me at school was
very often a simple narrative of the daring deeds of great men. Many of
them were indeed great and their deeds seemingly superhuman. For every
hero, for every Pottinger or Nicolson or Colin Campbell, however, there
were a hundred fools and incompetents and a great part of the tragedy
that befell the Army of the Indus was that its commander, General Elphinstone
was decidedly one of the latter. On January 9th, Elphinstone felt it prudent
once more to trust Mohammed Akbar and give credence to his protestations
of friendship. Akbar again offered his protection, this time to British
women and children and any of their husbands that chose to go along. Nine
children, eight women and two men accepted. It was a fortuitous decision
they made for though they would be held captive for many months they
would live through the ordeal.
The attacks on the column, however, didn't cease and many more fell
to Afghan knives and musket balls the next day. Some went snowblind, others
succumbed to the cold and the Indian troops, far from their warm plains,
suffered terribly and perished by the score. By the evening of January
10th, though no accurate count could be made, estimates suggested of the
16,500 souls who had struck out for Jalalabad, only 750 soldiers and 4,000
civilians remained alive. As the incessant attacks continued Akbar sent
messages relaying his difficulty in controlling the local tribesmen and
whether this were true or not, no-one now believed him - except Elphinstone.
On January 12th, with a mere 200 effectives at his disposal and 2,000 camp
followers to protect, Elphistone rode into Akbar's camp to discuss yet
another offer of safe passage. It was again a false hope for in the
camp it became obvious that even if Akbar had in fact wished to protect
the British, he was certainly unable to do so. Though it does not excuse
his earlier treachery, perhaps his tales of uncontrollable tribesmen
were true. Elphinstone was held as another hostage by Akbar, though the general
did manage to smuggle a message back to the army instructing the senior
officer to move on without delay.
Relieved of the suffocating command of Elphinstone and his disgraceful
inability to grasp the nettle, the desperately weak British pulled a surprise
on their Afghan tormentors. A barrier of thornbushes had been built across
the narrow pass and not expecting the British to move further that day
it had been left unguarded. In the darkness the redcoats advanced to the
barrier and cursing under their breaths tried to tear it down with their
bare hands. Just as they made a breach, they were discovered and the night
was suddenly rent by musket flashes, screams, war cries and the glint
of flashing Afghan blades in the moonlight. The army was attacked from
above and in the rear and according to Dr. Brydon, an army surgeon, the
last vestiges of discipline were swept away and it became every man for
himself. Brydon was pulled from his horse and only an old copy of Blackwood's
Magazine, that he had stuffed in his cap and which cushioned an Afghan
knife thrust, saved his life. Alone and with no mount Brydon scrambled
through the thornbush barricade. He came across a terribly wounded Indian
subadhar of horse. The man was still clutching the bridle of his pony and
this he gave to Brydon with a muttered hope that God would send him safe
to Jalalabad. Then the man died and Brydon mounted the pony and rode off
never knowing the name of the man who had been the provider of his salvation.
Brydon's group had pushed on and only 15 miles from Jalalabad they halted
for a rest at the village of Futtebad. The seemingly friendly villagers
offered them food and the weary British accepted. It was another trap and
as the British rested scores of Afghan horsemen poured into the village.
Five only escaped from Futtebad and soon their pursuers had killed four
of them. Only Brydon was left and three more times he was attacked on the
last few miles to safety. God only knows how he survived. The second last
attack saw a jezail bullet come so close it broke off the blade of his
sword. In the last attack Brydon in desperation threw the hilt of his sword
in an Afghan face. Brydon was wounded, the pony was wounded but they struggled
on and after a while Brydon found himself completely alone, his pursuers
having melted away. It was then that a hawk-eyed lookout on the walls of
Jalalabad saw the lone rider struggling painfully across the plain in front
of the city and a cavalry patrol was sent out to bring Brydon in.
For days afterwards, a great bonfire was kept burning in front of Jalalabad's
Kabuli gate, and others on the the city's ramparts. Bugles sounded out there
plaintive cries in the hope that their calls might guide in any stragglers.
The Khoord-Cabool Pass
On January 8th, the third day, the weakened, cold , hungry army moved into
the Khoord-Cabool pass. Its four-mile length was to become a charnel house.
From the heights above the Afghan tribesmen poured down a withering fire
on the Army of the Indus that had no hope of retaliation. Again Akbar's
guarantees were shown to be false. Flight was the only option and everyone
moved as quickly as possible to escape the fire of the long-barrelled Afghan
jezails. The pass was narrow and there was a partly frozen stream wandering
along its bottom. The stream had to be forded some thirteen times before
the exit of the pass was reached. When the main body finally reached
the end of the pass and a temporary safety , the Afghan tribesmen
descended on the stragglers and slew them wickedly. Perhaps 3,000 men,
women and chidren were lost in that bloody defile. Some said they saw Akbar
himself riding through the killing zone shouting in Persian (which many
of the British knew) to spare the British and in Pushto (the language of
the tribesmen) urging them to kill everyone.
The Last Day
Only two groups had clawed their way out of the jaws of death. Brydon attached
himself to one of them. It consisted of fourteen mounted men and together
they raced for Jalalabad. The other group were on foot and was made
up of 45 soldiers and 20 officers, mostly of the 44th Foot. This group
were able to get as far as the village of Gandamak. It was only 30 miles
from Jalalabad: one day's march, only one day. They were surrounded by
Afghans, however, and with only forty rounds between them the British formed
square and prepared for the end. The Afghans asked the British to hand
over their weapons, promising to spare their lives. The British refused.
The Afghans then tried to disarm them and in the wild melee of hand to
hand fighting that followed all but four were slain.