_30th January._—Snow fell during the night, and this morning covers the
whole plain to the depth of about six inches. We set out from Shál Kot
at 9.10 A.M., under a salute from the fort as on arrival, and proceeded
across the plain northwards to the foot of Tokátú mountain, where we
came to the village of Kiroghar. This is a collection of some sixty
detached huts on the stony hill skirt, and is about seven miles from the
fort. It is occupied by the Bánzai section of the great Kákarr tribe.
They have small colonies all along the hill skirts on the northern and
eastern limits of the valley, and are said to number nearly five thousand
families. They have been settled in these tracts for the past five
generations, but were only properly reduced to the subjection of the
Khán of Calát last year, previous to which they used to cause infinite
loss and trouble by their plundering excursions on the Taghaghi Lak and
Nishpá Pass, between Shál and Mastung. No caravan in those days was safe
from their attacks. Last year the Náib led an expedition against them,
and secured some of their chief men as hostages, and they now confine
themselves to their own limits.
The Kákarr tribe, to which they belong, is one of the most numerous and
powerful of the Afghan clans. They occupy all the hill country between
this and the limits of Ghazni, where their border touches those of the
Waziris and Ghilzais. To the eastward, their territories extend up to
the base of Koh Kassi of the Sulemán range. To the westward, between
Toba Márúf and Tokátú, they share the hill slopes that drain to the
Kandahar plain and Peshín valley with the Achakzai and Spin Tarin tribes
respectively.
The strength of the Kákarr tribe is variously estimated, but they are
probably not less than fifty thousand families. They are mostly a
pastoral people, but some are settled in the valleys of the country as
cultivators of the soil, whilst those to the westward are engaged in
trade, and almost exclusively collect the asafœtida imported into India.
For this purpose their camps spread over the Kandahar plain up to the
confines of Herat.
We stopped a few minutes at Kiroghar to procure guides, for the snow
had obliterated all traces of the road. None of the villagers, however,
seemed at all inclined to help us in the difficulty. The Náib, Abdul
Latíf, took this want of attention on their part as a personal affront,
and very quickly lost control over his temper. His rotund figure
visibly swelled with wrath as he peremptorily summoned the head man
to his presence. Three or four horsemen at once scampered off to one
of the huts, and presently Malik Jalál (the head man), accompanied by
half-a-dozen men, were seen to emerge, and leisurely measure their steps
across the snow to where the Náib stood.
This quiet indifference was more than the Náib could stand. He bounced
about in his saddle in a tempest of anger, and, flashing his bright
eyes from side to side, poured out a torrent of anathemas, and vowed a
sharp vengeance nothing short of annihilation of the dog-begotten breed
of Bánzai. At this moment I happened to inquire from one of the escort
standing near me whether some fine _márkhor_, or wild goat horns, that
adorned an adjoining hut, were the produce of the mountain above us, but
before he could reply, the infuriate Náib’s mandate went forth to bring
them to us; and in less time than it has taken to relate the occurrence,
half-a-dozen of the largest horns were torn from their attachments, and
laid on the snow before us. We hardly had time to examine them before
the head man and his following came up, looking as unconcerned and
independent as their circumstances entitled them to be. There was no
thought on either side of the customary exchange of salutations, nor
was the _salám alaikum_, and its reply, _wa alaikum salám_, uttered.
Instead thereof, the Náib turned on the Malik with a volley of abuse, and
demanded why he was not on the road to meet him. “Where,” said he, “is
the _chilam_? (pipe of friendship). Is this the sort of hospitality you
show to your governor?” The unfortunate Malik was not allowed time to
plead any excuses, but was summarily dismissed, and two of his men pushed
to the front to point out the road. “Dishonoured wretch! dog!” said the
Náib, “go and prepare for my return. I shall be your guest to-night.”
So saying, he ordered a couple of troopers to stay behind and see that
an entertainment suited to himself and retinue was ready against their
return, and our party proceeded forward.
In exchange for a couple of rupees, the owner of the horns willingly
carried a couple of the largest pairs to our camp at Cushlác, and I
subsequently sent them to Peshawar from Kandahar, for the purpose of
comparing them with those of the Himalayan animal. I have since done so,
but without discovering any appreciable difference.
From Kiroghar we proceeded westward along the stony skirt of Tokátú for a
couple of miles, and then winding round the mountain by a considerable
rise to the northward, at about another mile came to a clump of trees at
the spring-head of a strong stream issuing from the side of the hill and
flowing down to the plain behind us.
We halted here awhile to await the arrival of the Afghan Commissioner,
whom we saw in the distance advancing towards us with a troop of cavalry
from the Murghí Pass in our front. Meanwhile the Náib Abdul Latíf took
the opportunity to express his regret that he had not been able to
entertain us more hospitably owing to the rapidity of our movements
and the unfavouring condition of the elements. He assured us of his
admiration of the British Government; that he considered all Englishmen
his friends; and that he was proud to remember his association with
Colonel Stacey and Captain Beam so long ago as 1839-40—names that are
still remembered with gratitude and good-will in many a household in Shál
and Mastung.
Whilst waiting here, I emptied my gun at a couple of red-legged rooks
flying overhead. One of them with outstretched wings came down in a
very graceful and slow pirouette, and fell dead at my feet; the other
glided down very quickly in an oblique line, and fell against the rocks
a hundred yards or so off. I was speculating on the nature of the causes
that produced such different modes of descent, when my attention was
diverted to our Afghan friends.
The cavalry were drawn up in a double line on one side of the road
about five hundred yards off, whilst the Afghan Commissioner, Saggid
Núr Muhammad Sháh—whom I shall henceforth always speak of as “the
Saggid”—accompanied by three horsemen, rode down to where we stood. At
fifty yards he dismounted, and we stepped forward to meet him. As we
raised our hats, he doffed his turban with both hands and made a low bow,
and then replacing the costly Kashmir shawl, he embraced us successively
Afghan fashion with sincere cordiality, repeating the while the usual
string of salutations and complimentary inquiries. This ceremony over, we
mounted, and proceeded up the slope, the Náib Abdul Latíf accompanying us
with only three or four attendant horsemen.
As we came up to the cavalry, they saluted, and then followed in rear of
our procession. They are a very fine set of men, with bold independent
bearing, but with thoroughly friendly looks. They were excellently
mounted, and the general superiority of their equipment quite took us by
surprise. They wore blue hussar-jackets, top-boots, and scarlet busbies,
and altogether looked a very serviceable set of men.
Before we reached the top of the Murghí Pass, about two and a half
miles from the spring, we were caught in a snowstorm, which completely
obscured the hills around, whilst the flakes, adhering to our beards and
clothing, presently gave our whole party a grotesquely uncouth and hoary
look. From the pass we descended through a narrow defile into the Peshín
valley or district, near a couple of fine springs issuing from the rocks
on our right. They are led over the plain in deep cuts for purposes of
irrigation.
I was here so numbed by the cold, that I was glad of an excuse to
dismount and warm myself by a trudge over the snow; so I followed down
the course of one of the water-cuts in the direction of a couple of wild
ducks I had marked down upon it. I had not proceeded far, gun in hand,
when they rose from a pool on the other side of the stream. They both
fell to a right and left shot, at only a few paces from each other. I
was considering how I might get them, when a trooper, who had followed
me, urged his horse forward to a gap in the bank a little way off. The
horse very naturally refused to slide down the gap into the water, and I
told the rider to desist from urging him, remarking that the water was
evidently deep, and he would certainly get wet. But the Afghan’s spirit
was roused by the sport, and he knew he was observed by his comrades.
“My horse can swim, and that shot is worth a wetting,” he said, as he
struck his heels into the horse’s flanks, and forced him into the stream.
The plunge was so sudden, that the horse nearly lost his footing, but
the trooper, cleverly recovering him, brought him out on the further
bank through water half-way up the saddle-flaps, picked up the birds,
and recrossed without misadventure. His spirited conduct excited our
admiration, but amongst his comrades the shot was the theme of applause.
The one was to them a matter of everyday occurrence, the other they
had rarely if ever before witnessed. With us it was just the reverse.
The one was an act seldom necessitated, the other only an ordinary
occurrence. And thus it is that acts are valued out of all proportion to
their real merits by the mere force of habitude, both by governments and
individuals, whether civilised or uncivilised.
At about fourteen miles from Shál we crossed the Cushlác Lora, a small
stream flowing on a pebbly bottom between high banks of shingle and clay.
It marks the boundary between the territories of the Amir of Kabul and
the Khán of Calát.
At this place Náib Abdul Latíf took leave of us, and returned to sup with
his Kiroghar subjects. I can fancy that in him they found anything but
an easily pleased guest. His temper had been ruffled by the morning’s
mishap, and it was not improved by the inclement weather he had been
exposed to in our company, for his beard was frozen into thick tangles,
and a row of pendant icicles fringed the edge of his turban, whilst his
crestfallen features betokened discontent, and an eagerness in his eyes
spoke of a desire to wreak his vengeance on somebody or other. I fear his
Bánzai hosts must have had a trying time of it on this memorable evening.
Beyond the Lora rivulet we came to a company of regular Afghan infantry
drawn up on the roadside. They are a remarkably fine set of fellows,
and were evidently picked men, meant to make an impression on us. They
saluted as we passed on our way to the Saggid’s camp, a little beyond the
Shahjahán village.
Here we alighted at a tent prepared for us by the Saggid, and were
hospitably regaled with tea and refreshments, our host joining us in the
repast. The tent was richly furnished with thick Persian carpets and
Herat felts, and was comfortably warmed by a large dish of live coal set
on a movable platform in the centre. The shelter and comfort provided
for us were most grateful to our numbed sensations and frozen limbs.
We had marched the last five miles in a temperature of 22° Fah., with
driving snow beating against us nearly the whole way, and, but for our
friend’s forethought, must have endured a hard time of it till our own
tents arrived and could be pitched. It was three P.M. before we reached
the Afghan camp, and our baggage did not come up till three hours later,
having marched a distance of sixteen miles over snow.
_31st January._—Halt at Cushlác, weather-bound. The thermometer sunk to
10° Fah. during the night, but this morning the sun shone out in a clear
sky, and brought about a rapid thaw. In the afternoon, however, clouds
again overcast the sky, and at three P.M. snow commenced to fall, and
continued all night, with a keen driving north wind. The fire inside our
tent melted the snow on its roof, and as it trickled from the sides it
formed great icicles upwards of three feet in length, and as thick as a
man’s arm above.
Our Afghan escort is sheltered in neat rows of comfortable little tents
floored with thick felts, on which the men sleep. The horses, too,
are completely encased in great rolls of thick felt clothing, which
effectually protects them from the wind and weather.
_1st February._—At seven A.M. the thermometer stood at 11° Fah. in the
open air. The sky was clear, and a hard frost prevailed. We set out from
Cushlác at 8.35 A.M., and marched eighteen miles to Hykalzai on the plain
of Peshín, the ground covered with snow for most of the way. At two miles
we crossed the Surmaghzi Tangí or pass, a low ridge of red marly mounds,
which, but for the hard frost, would have proved very miry and slippery.
Beyond the pass we descended to the Peshín valley, which here presents a
great open plain of undulating surface, here and there, where free from
snow, showing a red clay soil, much furrowed by the action of water. At
a mile beyond Hydarzai we halted half-an-hour near the village of Yár
Muhammad, at a _kárez_ of the same name, and had a fire lighted to warm
ourselves whilst the baggage passed on. Whilst so engaged, Yár Muhammad
himself, the founder of the village and _kárez_ (water conduit) bearing
his name, with half-a-dozen villagers, came up, and with genuine Afghan
freedom seated themselves amongst us. He was a rough old man, with
blear-eyes and snuff-stained nose. Without taking any notice of us, he
bluntly inquired of the Saggid who and what we were. On being told our
errand, “That’s all right,” he replied; “our book tells us that the
Christians are to be our friends in the hour of adversity; but it’s well
for them that they are travelling this way under your protection.” The
Saggid laughed, and said, “Such are Afghans! they put me to shame;” and
his secretary, to prevent any further disclosures of sentiment on the
part of our visitor, jocosely observed, “You talk too fast, old man: your
speech is understood,” tossing his head in my direction. The old man gave
me a full stare, and inquired where I had learned Pushto. A minute later
he put up his face towards me, asked me to look at his eyes, and give him
some medicine to restore their failing sight.
From this place we proceeded over an undulating tract furrowed by
water-cuts, and crossed from north-east to south-west by a succession of
red clay banks, and beyond them reached the level plain. Here we crossed
a branch of the Surkháb rivulet, and passing the ruins of two extensive
villages, destroyed in 1841 by the army under General Nott, camped midway
between Hykalzai and Khudáedádzai or Khwáezai at 3.10 P.M.
The whole plain is a sheet of snow, from beneath which here and there
crop out red banks of miry clay. The general surface is dotted all over
with numerous clusters of black tents, four or five in each, of the
nomad Tarins. On the plain to the north-east is seen the castellated
mound of Sea Calá or Red Fort, now in ruins. Beyond it are the large
villages of Old and New Bazár, and by them flows the Surkháb or Red
River, a tributary of the Peshín Lora. To the northward the valley is
bounded by the Khwájah Amrán range, which runs north-east towards the
Sufed Koh, which it joins to the eastward of Ghazni. Its several spurs
to the southward have different names, which are, from west to east, as
pointed out to us, Khojah, Arnbí, Toba, and Surkháb. To the north of the
Toba spur is the Sehna Dág or flat of the Sehn section of Kákarrs. It is
described as an elevated tableland covered with rich pastures. Over it is
a road to the Zhob valley of the Battezai Kákarrs. In the Surkháb hills
rises the river of that name, and between it and Tokátú is a low range of
hills, over which is the direct road from this to Dera Gházi Khán by Tal
Chhotiyálí. All these hills, as well as the plain, are now covered with
snow, but in summer they are covered with rich pasture, and swarm with
the flocks and camps of the nomad Afghans of the Tarin and Kákarr tribes.
The Tarin tribe comprises four great divisions, viz., the Abdáls or
Durranis, the Tor Tarins, the Spin Tarins, and the Zard Tarins or
Zarrins. The first occupy Kandahar and the valleys to its north-west.
The second are settled in Peshín, of which they hold four-fifths, and in
the Arghasán district south of the river Tarnak. The Spin Tarins occupy
the Surkháb hills and the valleys at their eastern and western bases.
And the Zarrins are settled in the valley of Zhob and in part of the
Arghasán district. All except the Abdáls are mostly nomads, who retire
with their flocks to the hills in summer, and move down to the plains
for the winter. From their camps which we saw on the plain—and they were
remarkably distinct on its white surface, the tents being all black—their
numbers are nothing like what they are estimated.
Throughout this march the air was extremely cold. Icicles repeatedly
formed on our beards and mustaches, and hung in long pendants from the
necks of our camels. Our hands and feet were painfully benumbed for want
of efficient protection. Several of our Afghan escort, I observed, wore
thick felt casings inside their capacious top-boots.
On the march, before reaching Hydarzai, we passed a couple of _khinjak_
trees over a roadside shrine, at the foot of a low mound. Their trunks
were studded with innumerable iron nails and wooden pegs driven into the
bark—the tokens by which pilgrim-visitors ratify their vows to the saint.
From Hykalzai we marched next day fifteen miles to Aranbí Kárez. Our
route was north-westerly across the plain, at this time everywhere
covered with snow. The surface is marked here and there by the traces
of cultivation, but for the most part is occupied by a thin scrub of
wormwood, saltworts, and camel-thorn. At about half-way we crossed the
Lora rivulet, which flowed in a slow stream twenty feet wide and two
feet deep. Its bottom is soft and sandy, and abounds in quicksands. The
channel of the river is much wider than its actual bed, and is formed by
high shelving banks of clay. Over these are several narrow paths down
to the river. We found them very slippery, and many of our escort and
baggage animals fell in the descent, but without any material injury.
This Lora, or the Peshín Lora as it is called, drains the north-western
portion of the plain, and receives as a tributary the Surkháb, which
drains its eastern tracts. The united streams then flow over the plain
south-westward towards Shorawak, being joined _en route_ by the Cushlác
Lora and the Shál Lora. From Shorawak the river flows northwestward
towards the Helmand, but is lost in the sands of the desert before it
reaches that river. None of the Loras are much utilised for purposes of
irrigation in their own valleys, but on reaching Shorawak their united
stream is almost exhausted by the quantities drawn off from it for the
fields. Shál and Peshín are irrigated by _kárez_ streams and springs from
the mountains, but the former are much more fertile than the latter. In
Peshín one misses the gardens and trees so plentiful in Shál, and finds
instead a wide pasture tract more or less uncultivated, and, in place
of villages, dotted with nomad camps. Most of the irrigated land in
Peshín is in the hands of the Saggids, who have for many generations been
settled in this valley. They pay one-third the produce of their lands in
kind to Government as revenue. The nomad Tarins, who hold the unirrigated
tracts, pay only one-fifth to Government. The soil of Peshín is a red
stiff clay, highly charged with salts of sorts. In the tract between
Aranbí Kárez and Sra Calá quantities of alimentary salt are obtained from
the soil, and sold in the Kandahar market at one and a half to two rupees
per _man_ of eighty pounds. The salt is dissolved in great pits filled
with water. The clear solution is then filled into earthen pots and
boiled down to a granular mass, which takes the form of the pot.
Peshín, owing to its inferior soil, is not a fertile valley, but corn is
grown in quantity sufficient to meet the wants of its people. The seed
is first cast over the surface and then ploughed over. In Shorawak the
seed is sown by means of a kind of drill. It consists of a stiff leather
funnel fixed to the tail of the plough, and furnished with a series of
holes at the bottom. From this the grain drops into the furrow as it is
cut by the plough.
The kangaroo-rat or jerboa, here called _khanrai_, abounds in Peshín,
and is trapped for the sake of its fur. The _dalkafak_, a species of
tree-marten with a short tail, is also found here and in the hills around.
After crossing the Lora, the Saggid left us to pay a visit to his
father’s family at Pitao, a collection of five villages at the foot
of the hills a few miles to the right of our road. His own sister was
amongst them, and as he had not seen them for more than five years, he
could not pass the home of his youth without going to see its inmates.
He was not long about his business, for he rejoined us before we reached
camp; and to our expressions of surprise at his haste, and hopes that he
had not curtailed his visit on our behalf, he replied, “No; I only went
to see my sister, and to come away at once. My uncles, aunts, nephews,
nieces, and cousins there on my father’s side alone exceed two hundred in
number; and, to tell you the truth, I am afraid to go amongst them, for
they always want some token whereby to keep me in their memories.”
Snow and sleet showered upon us nearly throughout this march, and the
hills around were completely obscured by heavy clouds. On the line of
march we passed a number of nomad camps of the Kákarr and Tor Tarin
tribes, and some hundreds of their black tents dotted the surface, in
clusters of four or five together, on either hand of our route. We
dismounted at one of these tents or _kizhdí_ to examine the interior,
and were surprised to find how comfortable, roomy, clean, and warm it
was, notwithstanding that camels, men, goats, sheep, and poultry were
sheltered under one roof with their human owners, and sacks of grain and
other provisions. The tent we examined was about thirty feet long by
fifteen wide. The centre was supported by slim poles seven feet high,
and the sides by others four feet high, and across them were passed
light ribs of wood. Over this framework was stretched a single sheet of
tough and waterproof black haircloth, woven in lengths a couple of yards
wide, and sewn together. The interior was divided into two portions by
a row of sacks of corn. The one was excavated to a depth of two feet for
the camels and oxen, &c.; the other was smooth, and clean swept. In its
centre was a circular pit for fire, for the smoke of which there was no
outlet except at the openings at either end of the tent. Around the sides
were spread coarse woollen druggets and piles of the household property,
and at the end opposite were set a couple of cots. The family we found
to consist of three women, two men, and two boys. The women were much
fairer than the men, and, with their general look of hardiness, were well
featured, displaying much more character in their faces than the men.
They were all large-limbed and robust people, and certainly lead the
healthiest and happiest of lives.
Snow ceased to fall in the afternoon, and towards sunset the sky cleared,
and we got a good view of the country around. Near our camp are the
villages of Utmankhel, Torkhel, and Majai, all belonging to the Tor
Tarins. Along the foot of the hills extending to the north-eastward are
Pitao (a collection of five hamlets close together), Semzai and Alizai,
all held by Saggids. They lie at the foot of Toba mountain. To their
eastward are seen old and new Bazár and Sraculá on the plain.
_3d February._—We left Aranbí Kárez at 8.15 A.M., in a heavy fall of
snow, and proceeding north-west for about three miles, then diverged
towards the hills on our right to avoid the heavy ground on the plain. We
followed the stony hill skirt of Aranbí, a spur from the Toba mountain,
for a short distance to the westward, and then passing round some low
mounds ending on the plain, turned to the north. Here the clouds broke
and the sun shone out, and we presently got an extensive view of the
whole plain, on which towards the south are scattered many villages,
remarkable for the absence of trees about them. To the west, in the
Dihsúri glen, we got a full view of the populous village of Abdullah
Khán, surrounded by fruit gardens. This is the chief town of the Achakzai
tribe, and during the Afghan war was held by Lieutenant Bosanquet with a
detachment of troops.
Proceeding, we crossed two wide water-courses coming down from the Melán
and Máchika glens on our right, and entered the Khojak _darra_ or glen,
which winds up to the foot of the Khojak Pass. It is narrow, and flanked
on each side by low ridges of fissile slate. Its upper part is occupied
by a forest of _khinjak_ trees, and in its lower it receives, on the
right and left respectively, the drainage from the Sanzali and Shamsikhán
glens, in which we spied a number of _kizhdí_ camps of the Achakzai.
The snow at Aranbí was only five or six inches deep. In this glen it
was in some parts over three feet in depth, and where we camped, at the
very foot of the ascent, in a gully called Churza (little gully), it was
twenty inches deep. The last part of the march was most laborious, owing
to the cattle sinking in the deep snow, and it was besides very trying on
account of the painful glare from the snow under a bright sun. None of
us had our spectacles at hand, and the only way I could at all bear the
exposure was by hanging my handkerchief, quadruply folded, in front of my
eyes. The intense reflection from the snow was exquisitely painful, even
with the eyes closely blinked, and produced a copious flow of tears, and
left a headache for the rest of the day. We arrived at Churza at 12.35
P.M., but the baggage did not all come up till late in the afternoon,
though the distance was only twelve miles. A party of Achakzai cleared
away the snow from a small piece of ground twenty feet square, to enable
us to pitch a tent, but our escort and camp-followers passed the night on
the snow, which here lay between twenty inches and two feet deep. The
space was very narrow, and all were much crowded together. Our Afghan
escort, I observed, spread their thick felts on the snow, and went to
sleep rolled up in their fur cloaks.
The hill above Churza is called Puras, and it is crossed by three paths,
all very steep, and difficult at the best of times, but particularly
so now. To the west, at a short distance, is a very narrow gully, down
which flows a tiny little stream. This is the usual pass, but it was now
blocked with drifted snow. A party of Achakzai were consequently sent
off to clear a way through it for us, and next day we crossed the Khojak
by it. The pass had been improved by the British army in 1839, but its
difficulties are still many and great.
_4th February._—Crossed the Khojak range to Chaman Choki—distance, six
miles. At 7 A.M., our baggage with the infantry escort commenced moving
out of camp up the hillside. In three hours and a half the last of it had
left camp, and half-an-hour later we ourselves followed with the cavalry
escort. The ascent was by a steep and narrow gully between close-set and
almost vertical banks of slaty rock, which only admitted of our horses
proceeding in single file. There was not so much snow as I expected, and
what there was had been trodden down by the baggage. In half-an-hour
we reached the summit of the ridge, and were at once enveloped in a
dense mist of snowflakes, slowly settling on the ground, and completely
obscuring the prospect. We stood here a few minutes to allow the baggage
cattle to get out of the way, and then led our horses down the other side
by a steep and slippery path trodden in the snow. In fifteen minutes we
arrived at the foot of the steep, where commences a forest of _khinjak_
trees, as on the other side. This place is called Cháokáh, and from it
the descent is by a gentle slope down a long glen drained by a shallow
gully. As we descend, the snow lessens, and at the lower end of the
glen disappears altogether, disclosing the ground, which is here of a
bluish-brown colour, and made up of loose splinters of slate. Beyond the
glen we passed between a succession of hummocks, and arrived at Chaman
Choki, which, as the name implies, is a turfy hollow watered by a good
spring.
The weather proved very unfavourable all day. Snow, sleet, and hail
succeeded each other till late in the afternoon, when the sun struggled
out from the clouds for a brief interval, preparatory to setting for the
night. Between four and five o’clock a violent hailstorm swept over our
camp and whitened the ground.
Our baggage did not all come into camp till the afternoon was well
advanced, but the passage was effected without loss or injury, and the
snow was warm compared with the bleak and barren highlands of Calát and
Cushlác. Probably this was owing to the absence of the north wind. The
Saggid’s arrangements for crossing the Khojak were well made, and the
result most satisfactory. By sending the baggage ahead of our own party,
we avoided leaving any of it behind, and moreover deprived the Achakzai
of any opportunity for pilfering or plundering, at either of which
practices they are very ready when there is a chance of their effecting a
safe retreat with the booty.
By the aneroid barometer, I estimated the elevation at Churza, on the
southern foot of the Khojak Pass, to be 7000 feet; at the top of the
pass, 7410 feet; and at Cháokáh, on the northern foot of the pass, at
5600 feet. The aneroid indications at each respectively were 22·82,
22·47, and 24·00. At the top of the pass there was very little snow—in
fact, the slate was apparent in many places; on the slopes were seen
some _khinjak_ trees and a number of shrubby bushes, mostly of a prickly
nature. In spring the whole range is covered with excellent pasture, and
produces great quantities of rhubarb, which is here called _psháe_. Its
stalks are preserved in the dried state under the name of _íráe_, and
they are used as a relish, cooked up with meat, &c.
_5th February._—The day broke with a clear sky, and we got a splendid
view of the wide sweeping plains of Kandahar, and the mountain ranges
bounding it to the north and east.
We left Chaman at 8.30 A.M., and marched twenty-two miles to Gátaí. Our
route was north-westerly down a gentle slope on to the undulating sweep
of the plain, everywhere covered with rich pasture just commencing to
sprout above the surface. Here and there are scattered a few camps of the
Ashezai and Adozai sections of the Achakzai tribe, and at short intervals
are the shallow water-runs that drain the plain to the westward by the
Kadani river. We crossed this little stream at about half-way, and beyond
it came to the isolated Baldak rock or hill, which marks the boundary
here between the lands of the Núrzai and Achakzai.
We halted here a while to view the prospect behind us. The whole range of
the Khwájah Amrán, running north-east and south-west, was seen to great
advantage, and presented a very beautiful sight. The whole range formed
a vast ridge of snow, here and there thrown up into higher masses, and
all set upon a dark foundation of slate rocks, on which the snow-line, by
contrast of colour, was marked with singular distinctness and regularity.
The most prominent peak, about the centre of the range, is the Nárín
mountain, held by the Kákarrs. It is the source of the Kadani stream (we
have just crossed it), which, after a south-westerly course over the
plain, is turned to the northward by the sandhills of the desert, and,
under the name of Dorí, joins the Arghasán near Dih Hájí.
To the south-west of Nárín is the Toba mountain, and between the two are
the Sehna Dúgúna, or tablelands of the Sehn Kákarrs. The continuation
south-west from Toba, is the Khwájah Amrán, which ends at Shorawak,
where is the shrine whence the range takes its name. Over it are the
Khojak, Rogháni, and Ghwája passes. The two first are _kotals_ or “hill
passes,” and are very difficult; the last is a _darra_ or “defile,” and
is easily traversed by laden camels; it is the road usually taken by
caravans. To the west of Khwájah Amrán is the plain of Shorawak, held by
the Bárech tribe. It is continuous with the Kandahar plain, and both are
separated from the desert by a high coast-line of sand-cliffs. Though I
could gain no confirmation of my views from the natives, I am inclined
to think that the Peshín and Shál Loras, which are now lost in the sands
of Shorawak, were formerly directed in one stream northerly by the
desert cliffs, and ultimately joined the Kalani, or its continuation the
Dorí, because the Kandahar plain is so much lower than the country in
which these rivers rise. By the barometric indications I recorded on the
march, the elevation of Shál is estimated at 5675 feet, Cushlác at 5150,
and Hykalzai at 4800 feet. These three Loras unite before they reach
Shorawak, and if their common stream, as I suppose, took a northerly
course thence to Kandahar, it would descend several hundred feet, for the
elevation of Kandahar is estimated at 3190 feet only.
To the north-east of Nárín is the Márúf mountain, and north-east of this
again is the Sámai mountain, due south of Caláti Ghilzá. It is occupied
by the Hotab section of the Ghilzai tribe, whose clans extend from this
right up to Kabul and the Sufed Koh. The Arghasán river rises by two
branches in the Márúf and Sámai hills.
After a halt of three-quarters of an hour, we proceeded over a wide
plain, here and there cultivated, and traversed in all directions by
decayed and dry water-cuts, and at three P.M. arrived at the foot of a
great granite rock, where we camped, near some springs issuing at the
foot of an opposite granite hill. We ascended the hill near our camp for
a view of the country, but on reaching its summit were overtaken by a
thick mist and hailstorm, which completely obscured the distant view.
The general character of the plain, however, was clearly visible. It
presents a wide surface, stretching east and west, and traversed by
irregular broken ridges of bare rock, coursing from north-east to
south-west. At distant intervals on the plain are seen a few domed
villages, and two or three forts. But the most remarkable feature of the
scene is the entire absence of trees—not even a shrub is to be seen. Even
the nomad camps are few and far between. In the summer months the heat
here must be, as it is described, quite unbearable. The plain is then a
parched desert.
The springs near our camp are said to have made their appearance above
the surface only three years ago. Previous to that time this place was
entirely without water, and was not used as a camping-stage. The old
stage was at Dand Gulai, at the foot of a hill five or six miles away to
the south-west. But its waters having dried up, it is now deserted as a
camping-ground.
From Gátaí we marched fourteen miles in a north-westerly direction, and
camped at Mel Mándah, or the Mel ravine, near a _kárez_ on its bank. A
most trying north-wester blew against us with considerable force all
the way, and chilled us to the very bones. For the first ten miles our
route was across a great plain, bounded towards the west by the cliffs of
the desert, and on the east by the range of hills connecting the Nárín
and Márúf mountains. The rest of our route was over a succession of
undulating downs, backed in an irregular and broken line, from north-east
to south-west, by a series of bare rugged hills. Throughout the march we
saw no signs of habitation or cultivation; not a village nor a tent was
seen on the whole route, nor even a single tree, nor any sign of cattle;
nor did we see any water, except a brackish little pool about the tenth
mile, where the road rises from the plain on to the downs. About a mile
east of our camp is the Hardo hill, on which are said to be the remains
of ancient walls. Its ridge separates the Kadani plain from that of
Mulhid to its north, which extends north-east to the Arghasán river. The
Mel Mándah, at this time a dry stony ravine, drains Hardo hill westward
into the Dorí river.
Our next stage was eighteen miles to Mákú Kárez, near the village of that
name. Our route led north-westerly across the Mulhid plain. From it we
got a good view of the Hardo ridge, and saw the outline of walls on its
crest. There are said to be some extensive reservoirs here, excavated in
the solid rock. Our companions could tell us nothing of these ruins, more
than that they were once the habitations of the _káfir_ (infidel) who in
ancient times occupied this country. Probably they are Buddhist remains.
At about half-way we arrived at the top of the Barghanah Pass, in the
ridge of the same name, and halted a few minutes to view the country.
Away to the south, through gaps between the scattered ridges intersecting
the plain, were seen bits of the Khojak range in its snowy drapery.
To the eastward was seen the great snowy mass of Sámai, and to its
north-east appeared the Súrghar, or Redhill peak, whose offshoots are
continuous with those of the Sufed Koh. Both Súrghar and Sámai drain
westward into the Arghasán, which is formed by tributaries from these
and the Márúf hills. To the east, Súrghar drains direct to the Gomal
river and Sámai, by means of its tributary the Zhob stream. A great
snowy spur is seen to project south-east from Sámai. It is said by our
attendants to join the Zhob peak, and separate the Zhob and Bori valleys
as a watershed, all to the north of it draining into the Gomal by the
Zhob rivulet, and all to the south of it draining into the Nárí river by
the Záo and Síbí streams, and tributaries from the Toba mountain. The
Khwájah Amrán range and its continuation north-east in fact form a great
watershed between the drainage of the Indus and the Helmand.
To the northward the view was obstructed by the Barghanah hills, but to
the west and south-west were seen the red sand-cliffs of the desert,
through gaps in the intervening ridges, right down to the northern limits
of Shorawak. At the top of the pass the aneroid figured 25·38, thus
giving its elevation at about 4100 feet. From the pass the road leads
along the course of a great ravine, wide and stony, and here and there
retaining pools of water, round which grew the tamarisk, and a tall reed
called _durma_ at Peshawar and _darga_ here. After winding along the
ravine for a few miles, we rose out of it on to the Barghanah plain, and
camped on a good _kárez_ stream at the little village of Mákú—elevation,
3500 feet; air, sharp and frosty; no wind, fortunately. About five miles
to the west of our camp is the Tangí ridge of hills. On its further side
is the Fathullah camping-ground on the old road between Kandahar and
Peshín.
From Mákú we marched sixteen miles to Mund Hissár, a short distance from
the river Tarnak. Our route was northerly across an undulating plain
closed to the east-north-east by the Márúf mountain, which projects
forwards from the Sámai range to the Arghasán river. Márúf was the
favourite residence of Sháh Ahmad, Durrani, the founder of the Afghan
monarchy. He had a strong fort here, in which his family used to reside,
and in which he himself ended his eventful career. Sháh Ahmad for
many years suffered from a foul disease, which destroyed the nose and
palate by ulceration, and during the latter years of his life he used
to wear a silver plate to mask the hideous deformity. When he felt his
end approaching, he had himself conveyed in a small sedan covered with
scarlet cloth, and carried by two men only, from Kandahar to his family
seat at Márúf. He dismissed his courtiers at the gates of the city, and
would allow no one to accompany him except a few mounted attendants.
Thus quietly he retired from the scene of his labours and exploits,
and expired in the midst of his family in the summer of 1773, shortly
after his arrival at Márúf. His remains were carried back to the city he
founded, and now rest under the mausoleum which is its only ornament.
Sháh Ahmad was only fifty years old at the time of his death. He is said
to have been a wise and just ruler, and of very simple and unostentatious
habits. His repeated invasions of India enriched his country, whilst his
successful campaigns against the Uzbaks and in Khorassan established the
independence of his kingdom. He is always spoken of as the best of the
Afghan sovereigns, and his memory is free from the vices and crimes that
have so freely characterised the rule of his successors. His stronghold
at Márúf was destroyed in October 1839, by a detachment of the Bombay
army marching from Ghazni to Peshín, in revenge for the massacre there of
a body of four hundred camp-followers proceeding from Kandahar to India.
After marching six miles, we came to the river Arghasán. It is separated
from the valley of the Tarnak by a long ridge of hills that extends
away to the north-east, and where we crossed it flows in a wide shallow
bed, hardly sunk below the level of the plain. Its channel is about one
hundred and eighty yards wide, and the river is divided into two streams
by an intervening strip of low tamarisk jangal. The river was about a
foot deep, and not very swift. Its water was clear, and is said to be
very wholesome. In flood seasons the water flows broadcast over the
plain, which is then quickly covered with excellent pasture herbs.
The Yúsufzai and Mahmand tribes of the Peshawar valley and hills were,
according to their own accounts, originally settled as nomads on the
banks of the Arghasán and the highlands of Ghwara Margha, to the
north-east, sharing the former pastures with the Tarin tribe. But in a
season of drought they fought with the latter, and were driven off to the
eastward; and gradually working their way to Kabul, ultimately seized
their present possessions from the Indian occupants, about four centuries
ago.
Beyond the river, on either bank of which is a good irrigation canal, we
wound round the end of the ridge of hills separating the valleys of the
Tarnak and Arghasán; and passing the Naodih collection of domed huts,
rose over some undulations and descended to the Tarnak valley; and going
across it in the face of driving sleet and a biting cold north-west wind,
camped close to the village of Mund Hissár. There is a large mound here
with traces of ancient walls upon it. The village takes it name from it.
The weather here was bitterly cold, owing to the blasts of the north-west
wind that swept the plain. At midday the ground was hard frozen, as were
all the lesser irrigation streams. This village is crown property, and is
the most prosperous-looking one we have seen since entering Afghanistan.
It is surrounded by a wide extent of cultivated and freely irrigated
land, but not a tree is to be seen anywhere about it. Its people are a
mixture of various races and tribes, who hold their lands on condition of
rendering one half the produce to government.
The whole country between this and Khojak, though entirely devoid of
timber, and even brushwood, in the spring and autumn months is covered
with a rich pasture, and supports vast flocks of goats and sheep. During
the summer and winter months the country is almost entirely deserted,
owing to the excessive heat of the one season, and rigorous cold of the
other, as well as the scarcity of pasture. I was told by a merchant
engaged in the trade, that the average export of wool from Kandahar to
Karáchí for the past ten years has been about five thousand candies
(_kaodí_) annually. Each candy sells at Karáchí for from one hundred
and fifty to two hundred rupees, thus giving a profit to the province
of from seventy-five thousand to one hundred thousand rupees a year, or
£7,500 to £10,000. The trade is capable of considerable extension, for
large quantities of wool are still retained for home consumption in the
manufacture of the felts called _namad_ and _khosai_. The former are used
as carpets and horse-clothing, and the latter is the ordinary winter
dress of the peasantry.
During the march from Peshín we had noticed a large flock of sheep being
daily driven along with our camp. We now learned that they formed part
of the liberal supplies provided by order of the Amir for our party,
which the Saggid informed us he reckoned would have numbered at least two
hundred people. But, as we did not exceed thirty in number all told, they
were going back to Kandahar.
_9th February._—Marched twelve miles from Mund Hissár to Kandahar. At
about a mile we crossed the river Tarnak, the edges of which were lined
with snow-wreaths. The river flows in a wide pebbly bed between two
gravelly banks. Its stream is strong and rapid, and mid-stream is about
three feet deep. The water is muddy just now, and is said to be always
more or less turbid, in which particular it differs from its tributaries
the Arghasán and Argandáb, both of which have clear streams.
Beyond the river we passed through a gap in a ridge of bare hills of
naked rock, and at once emerged on the plain of Kandahar by a short
descent from the hill skirt. The plain presented a wide hollow extending
for many miles from north-east to south-west. Its general aspect was
dreary in the extreme by comparison with the mass of villages, and
gardens, and corn-fields crowded together about the city at its western
extremity. Though yet in the poverty of its winter state, this part of
the plain bore a decidedly fertile and flourishing look. On the verge of
a desert plain to the north-east stood out the fortified parallelogram of
Ahmad Shahí, the city of Kandahar, and to its west in attractive contrast
rose the tall rows of dark cypresses, marking the sites of the pleasure
gardens of its former brother chiefs. South of these lay a crowded mass
of gardens, fields, and villages down to the banks of the Tarnak, whilst
to the north and west the whole was shut in by the rocky heights of Baba
Walí and Husen Shahr. Altogether it formed an oasis in the midst of a
desert.
At three miles from the city we were met by a numerous and gaily-dressed
company, who had come out for our _isticbál_, or ceremonial reception,
with a troop of regular cavalry and a company of infantry. First of all,
the cavalry formed a line on each side of our procession to keep off the
crowd, whilst the infantry marched in front. We proceeded a little way
in this order, when we came to a roadside mound on which were collected
the party who had come out to do honour to the General. Here the infantry
wheeled round and formed a street up the slope of the mound. General
Pollock and our party dismounted, and then the leader of the _isticbál_,
rising from the carpet on which he was seated, stepped forward to meet
us, attended by four or five other nobles of the province. The Saggid
introduced us to each in succession, and we shook hands all round with
Sardár Mír Afzal Khán, Núr Muhammad Khán, Núr Ali Khán, and two others.
Sardár Mír Afzal Khán is a fine specimen of an Afghan noble of the old
style. His bearing is courteous and dignified, with a tinge of hauteur.
He was very richly dressed, and mounted on a handsome Arab horse with
trappings of solid gold. At his side hung a scimitar with a gold embossed
handle, and gold ornaments on the scabbard. His head was close shaven
and covered with a splendid Kashmir shawl, the folds of which were not
so closely adjusted as they might have been, for the motion of his horse
more than once caused the headpiece to rock dangerously, as if about to
fall. Mír Afzal Khán is about sixty years of age, and wears a short beard
dyed red. He has sharp Jewish features, and a very prominent nose, and is
said to bear a strong resemblance to the late Amir Dost Muhammad Khán.
He is a son of the late Sardár Púrdil Khán, one of the many sons of the
celebrated Páyandah Khán (who was executed at Kandahar in 1806 by Sháh
Zamán), by a Durrani mother. Dost Muhammad was another son of Páyandah
Khán by a Juwansher Cazilbash mother. Páyandah Khán was a Bárakzai of
the Muhammadzai branch, and was the first who raised the Bárakzai tribe
to the distinction and influence they have since his death enjoyed. He
left a great many children, but twenty-two of his sons acquired notoriety
by the parts they enacted in the political revolutions that convulsed
the country on the death of Sháh Tymúr, the son and successor of Sháh
Ahmad, the founder of the independent Afghan nationality. Of these, Fath
Khán, whose mother was a Bárakzai, was for many years the most important
and powerful chief in the country, and thrice placed Tymúr’s son Mahmúd
on the throne at Kabul, against his brothers Zamán and Shuja. He was
inhumanly butchered in 1818 by Kamrán the son of Mahmúd, and then his
brothers all divided the country between them, and Dost Muhammad became
Amir of Kabul. He was succeeded in 1863 by his son Sher Ali Khán, the
present Amir. Sardár Mír Afzal Khán is consequently a cousin of the
present Amir, and he is also his son-in-law, his daughter being Sher
Ali’s favourite wife, and the mother of the heir-apparent, Abdullah Ján.
He has for many years past been governor of Furrah, and has been a stanch
supporter of the Amir’s cause during all his adversities, and was wounded
in the arm by gunshot at the battle fought at Kajbáz, near Caláti Ghizli,
by the Amir against his rebel brother, Sardár Muhammad Amin, on 6th June
1865.
The Saggid was present in the fight, and described it to us only
yesterday. It appears that both armies came into action suddenly, and
by surprise. The Amir’s eldest son, Muhammad Ali, was killed by a
cannon-shot, and his uncle, Muhammad Amin, pushing forward to take
advantage of the confusion thus produced, was hit in the head by a
rifle-bullet and killed at once. Mír Afzal Khán is now looked on as the
most influential chief in the country, and his coming out in person
to meet and do honour to the representative of the British Government
is considered a mark of sincere good-will on the part of the Amir’s
Government.
But to return from this digression to our procession to Kandahar. After a
hurried interchange of salutations we mounted our horses, and, in company
with a brilliant crowd of cavaliers, proceeded towards the city. The
cortége numbered about a hundred and fifty of the nobility and gentry
of the province, and gave us a good idea of the chivalry of Kandahar. A
better-mounted and more picturesque body of men I have never seen. The
variety of costume and colour, the easy independence of the men, their
courteous yet self-confident bearing, and the variety of their arms,
formed an interesting spectacle, of which no description I can give
will convey a proper idea. Some wore rich velvets or bright-coloured
broadcloths, cut to the national pattern; others wore the national dress
made of the finest kinds of home material, and a few there were who had
adopted a semi-European style of costume, an ill-judged mixture, which
did not show to advantage amongst the handsomer and more costly native
costumes. Next to the riders, the horses attracted our attention. They
were all uncommonly well mounted. The quality of the horse with most
seemed to be a greater object of solicitude than either that of their
dress or their arms. The favourite weapon was a dagger stuck sideways
in the folds of the waistband; but many wore a sword hung at the side,
and some carried an English rifle or a native matchlock slung over the
shoulder or across the back.
At first starting there was a slight confusion, owing to the eagerness
of all parties to occupy the foremost ranks; but our troop of regular
cavalry, forming a line on each side of our party, kept the crowd from
pressing too closely upon us, whilst the company of infantry, marching
ahead, kept the road clear.
Our path led across a succession of corn-fields and _kárez_ streams, and
passing between the villages of Dih Khojah and Hodera, took us round by
the Bardurrani gate to the north side of the city. We proceeded along
this, past the Hazrat-jí shrine and the city cemetery, and then turning
down the other side, turned off from the Topkhana gate, and crossing the
_pátáo_ canals, entered the road leading from the Herat gate westward to
the garden of Rahmdil Khán. When I was here in 1857-58, with Lumsden’s
mission to the court of the heir-apparent, the late Sardár Ghulám
Hydar Khán, this road was adorned by an avenue of tall poplar-trees. I
now missed them, and inquiring the cause of their disappearance, was
told that they had been, one by one, cut down, and used as fuel by the
townspeople during the troublous times following on the death of Dost
Muhammad.
As we proceeded we found the latter half of the road, this erst avenue,
was lined by a large body of troops, and behind them, in a field to the
left, was drawn up a half battery of artillery. The troops comprised
nearly the whole of the Kandahar garrison, and were paraded in the
following order:—First, a regiment of regular cavalry, of which a troop
was on duty with our party, next three regiments of regular infantry
(two of Kabulis and one of Kandaharis), and lastly, a small body of
Kandahar militia. The men were not as fine a body as I had expected to
see, judging from the company that had escorted us from Peshín. These men
belonged to one of the Kabul regiments, and had evidently been picked
for the duty, for the purpose of making an impression. Their colonel, Táj
Muhammad, Ghilzai, had come down with the Saggid to meet us at the Calát
border, and was evidently proud of his men, and somewhat enthusiastically
used to try and persuade us that all the Kabul army were just as fine, if
not superior fellows.
We now saw the rest of the regiment to which they belonged, for there was
no possibility of mistaking its identity, their uniform of its kind being
unique. Their uniform was a tight jacket and trousers, cut on the old
English pattern, but of a striped material called _ticken_, the same as
is used for making mattress-cases at home. The head-dress was the native
quilted conical cap or _topi_, with a boss of scarlet wool stuck on to
its point. The other Kabuli regiment wore red jackets, and the Kandahari
one a uniform of dingy yellow colour. The militia were the most sensibly
dressed of all, and, encased in their great sheepskin coats, looked the
only comfortable people on the parade.
As we came up to the troops, a startling object pranced his horse to
the front of the line, and gave the word for a general salute, but the
words were not yet out of his mouth, when our horses stood stock-still,
and, pricking their ears, commenced snorting with fear. Our own
persuasive measures, aided by the banging of the guns close beside us,
presently overcame their objections, and they shied and shuffled past
the object of their terror—whom we now discovered to be no other than
our road-companion, Colonel Táj Muhammad—in no very dignified manner.
The Colonel had left us, on approaching the city, to superintend the
arrangements for the parade, and he now completely took us by surprise
by the wonderful change in his dress. A Russian-pattern forage-cap,
with a broad gold band and straight peak, adorned his head, but the
body was covered by a capacious overcoat of chessboard pattern, in great
squares of brightest red, white, and blue. Having passed him, our steeds
recovered their equanimity, which was more than we had, and enabled the
General to acknowledge the honours of “dipped colours” and “God save the
Queen” with becoming grace and dignity.
At the end of the line we ran the gantlet of another apparition similar
to the first, and entered Rahmdil Khán’s garden, where his summer palace
had been prepared for our reception. Sardárs Mír Afzal Khán and Núr
Muhammad Khán conducted us to our quarters, and after partaking of some
tea and sweets that had been provided for our refreshment, took their
leave of us, and we saw no more of them here. The first thing we did on
being left alone was to stop the pendulums of no less than five American
clocks, which, whether they figured or not, most decidedly ticked, and
that too with a vigour and rapidity that gave rise to the surmise that
they were racing to make up for lost time, having been only just wound up
and set agoing for the occasion.