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#Victorianera

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I had occasion to (skim)read Lady Sale’s diary of her nine months as one of a group of hostages during the British-Afghan conflict in 1842-3.

It’s very Victorian: a relatively dry and emotionless accounting (she does admit to crying upon rescue).

“The weather was this, we had a minor earthquake, we marched to here, we ate that, we heard these reports of troop movements, Mrs Waller gave birth to a daughter, we got some mail.”

Wait, what?

THREE women gave birth during their time in captivity, including Lady Sale’s OWN DAUGHTER, all three recorded with a single line, not a mention of their pregnancies even using the common euphemisms of the day (all three were soldiers’ wives, by the timing already pregnant when captured; Lady Sale avers the women were treated well).

She also only ever refers to her daughter as Mrs Sturt but that could have been changed for publication, surely if she was writing a private diary she would have unbent enough to call her Alexandria.

The bit that raised my eyebrows the most: “When little Tootsey (Capt. Anderson's child) was carried off in the Khoord Cabul pass, she was taken direct to Cabul: and the Khan rode up and down the streets with her; offering her for sale for 4000 rupees. After some negotiation regarding the price, Conolly purchased the child.”

AFTER SOME NEGOTIATION REGARDING THE PRICE????

gutenberg.org/ebooks/50219

britishempire.co.uk/library/la

Project GutenbergA Journal of the Disasters in Affghanistan, 1841-2 by Florentia Wynch SaleFree kindle book and epub digitized and proofread by volunteers.

I don’t post lately because I’m busily working on the comics to finish the Chapter Two. So here’s a WIP of a panel from the 17th page, depicting Esther and Érié walking on a shoreline. In the background, a pier extends into the ocean, lined with buildings. The sky is cloudy, enhancing the nostalgic atmosphere of the scene.

Replied to SpicyBiCutiePie 🌶🇨🇦

Rudyard Kipling's IF (2 of 2):
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
⁠And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
⁠Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
⁠And—which is more—you'll be a Man, my son!