The succeeding days were days of massacre and horror. The fierce
hill-tribes swarmed around the troops, attacking them in front, flank,
and rear, pouring in their fire from every point of vantage, slaying
them in hundreds, in thousands, as they moved hopelessly on. The
despairing men fought bravely. Many of the foe suffered for their
temerity. But they were like prairie-wolves around the dying bison; the
retreating force lay helpless in their hands; two new foes took the
place of every one that fell.
Each day's horrors surpassed those of the last. The camp-followers died
in hundreds from cold and starvation, their frost-bitten feet refusing
to support them. Crawling in among the rugged rocks that bordered the
road, they lay there helplessly awaiting death. The soldiers fell in
hundreds. It grew worse as they entered the contracted mountain-pass
through which their road led. Here the ferocious foe swarmed among the
rocks, and poured death from the heights upon the helpless fugitives. It
was impossible to dislodge them. Natural breastworks commanded every
foot of that terrible road. The hardy Afghan mountaineers climbed with
the agility of goats over the hill-sides, occupying hundreds of points
which the soldiers could not reach.
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