ring every coign of vantage, every roof and
wall, are crowds of Afghans, silent, subdued, and expectant. In the
centre, in an open space, stands a little group of British officers, one
of whom holds a paper from which he reads. Facing the ruined Residency
is a long grim row of gallows; below these, bound hand and foot and
closely guarded is a row of prisoners. A signal is given, and from
every gibbet swings what lately was a man. These are the ringleaders in
the insensate tragedy, who, brought to justice by the strong resistless
power of British bayonets, hang facing the scene of their infamy, for a
sign throughout the length and breadth of Asia of the righteous fate
that overtakes those who disgrace the law of nations.

CHAPTER IX

THE AFGHAN WAR, 1878-80

The Afghan War of 1878-80 lives chiefly in the memory of all as
connected with the rise to fame of one who has since earned a place in
English history with Marlborough and Wellington. And coupled with his
name remains indelibly engraved the great historic march from Kabul to
Kandahar.

Though they took no part in that celebrated march, being so reduced in
numbers by the stress of war after two years' arduous campaigning that
fresh regiments took their place, yet the Guides look back with the
greatest pride to having once served under Lord Roberts, and to having
earned the kindly praise of this great Captain. To this day grey-bearded
old warriors speak with quiet pride and affection of their fighting days
with "Roberts Sahib" at Kabul; and many an old eye kindles and bent back
straightens as they salute his picture in the mess. Some, too, will
remember the exact place and date on which he shook hands with them, and
congratulated them on some brave deed, as he pinned the star for valour
on their breasts.

It is given to few men to gain the affection and soldierly respect of
all, but Roberts possessed the two great merits in the eyes of the
simple Indian soldier. He was always kind and considerate, though firm
as a rock, and always brave: kind with the kindness which is never weary
of watching over the welfare of all, never forgetting a friend however
humble, and always remembering those little soldier courtesies which
count for so much; brave not only with the bravery that wins the
Victoria Cross, but which, stout of heart, looks clear and undaunted
through the dark storm of a winter like that of 1879 at Kabul; and still
burns bright when at seventy years