Ever since the outbreak of November Shah Soojah had
led a dog's life. He had reigned in Cabul, but he had not ruled. The
Sirdars dunned him for money, and jeered at his protestations of poverty.
It is not so much a matter of surprise that he should have been murdered
as that, feeble, rich, and loathed, he should have been let live so long.
It does not seem worth while to discuss the vexed question whether or not
he was faithful to his British allies. He was certainly entitled to argue
that he owed us nothing, since what we did in regard to him was nakedly
for our own purposes. Shah Soojah's second son Futteh Jung had himself
proclaimed his father's successor. The vicissitudes of his short reign
need not be narrated. While Pollock was gathering his brigades at
Gundamuk in the beginning of the following September, a forlorn Afghan,
in dirty and tattered rags, rode into his camp. This scarecrow was Futteh
Jung, who, unable to endure longer his sham kingship and the ominous
tyranny of Akbar Khan, had fled from Cabul in disguise to beg a refuge in
the British camp.
Pollock's march from Ali Musjid to Jellalabad was slow, but almost
unmolested. He found, in his own words, 'the fortress strong, the
garrison healthy; and except for wine and beer, better off than we are.'
One principal object of his commission had been accomplished; he had
relieved the garrison of Jellalabad, and was in a position to ensure its
safe withdrawal.
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