We halted four days at Kandahar to recruit our cattle, and replace the
broken-down ones by new purchases. Our entertainment all this time
was most hospitable, and was really more than we could conveniently
endure. The apartments were luxuriously furnished with Persian carpets,
Herat felts, and Kashmir embroideries. Several coloured glass globes
were suspended from the ceiling, and every niche that was not already
occupied by an American clock—and there were some ten or twelve such—was
ornamented with a glass lamp. The clocks were all of the same pattern,
and brightly gilded all over, and, together with the globes and lamps,
appeared to form part of an investment ventured in this yet barbarous
region by some enterprising merchant with a partiality for “Yankee
notions.”
We had hardly been left alone in our palatial quarters when a succession
of huge trays of all sorts of sweetmeats began to arrive. Each was borne
in by two servants, one supporting each end, and deposited one after
the other on the floor. The array was quite alarming, for I knew they
would go to our servants for disposal, and was certain they would exceed
the bounds of prudence and moderation; a surmise in which I was not far
wrong, for nearly all of them had to undergo a physicking before we set
out on our onward journey. One of the trays in particular attracted our
attention, on account of the variety of zoological forms its surface was
crowded with. We dubbed it “Noah’s Ark,” and kept it till our departure,
partly from a suspicion that the different species of animals might not
all be good for the food of man, and partly as an amusing specimen of
the artistic skill of the confectioners of Kandahar. Much cannot be said
for their proficiency in the art of moulding. Their figures generally
left a good deal for the imagination to supplement before their identity
could be satisfactorily brought home to the mind; but some, with even
the most liberal allowance of fancy, were altogether beyond recognition.
One figure in particular afforded us much amusement from its puzzling
resemblance to several totally distinct animals, and various were the
speculations hazarded as to its real prototype. Looked at on one side, it
was pronounced to be a hare, but this was negatived by the length of its
tail. Then it was suggested that it was meant to represent a wolf; but
this was objected to on account of the square form of the head and face.
“Perhaps it’s a tiger,” observed one of our attendants. “Perhaps it is,”
said Ghulám Ahmad, the General’s Munshí, “or any other animal you like to
call it. The material is the same, and just as good under either name.”
This was a well-directed hint to the servants, some of whom he observed
were inclined to differ in opinion as to the respective qualities of
the different mathematical figures and animal forms which were about to
be divided amongst them. “Yes,” chimed in his assistant, “whether disc
or diamond, sun or star, the sugar of all is alike, and the pistacio
paste equally thick; whether elephant, ox, or horse, the candy is alike
transparent in all, whilst the difference in size is nothing to what it
is between the real animals.”
After these encouraging signs of a peaceable division of the spoils,
we were glad to see the trays removed, for their size and number
incommoded our movements. On their removal, an excellent _zújafát_, or
cooked dinner, was served up Afghan fashion, and with the profusion of
Afghan hospitality. The principal dish, as a matter of course, was the
_puláo_—a whole sheep stuffed with a rich and savoury store of pistacio
and almond kernels, with raisins, dried apricots, and preserved plums,
&c., and concealed under a tumulus of rice mixed with pomegranate
seeds, caraways, cardamums, and other aids to digestion, and reeking
with appetising perfumes. Around it were placed, in crowded confusion,
a most substantial array of comestibles, the variety and excellence of
which were rather puzzling to inquiring foreigners with only limited
powers of digestion. There was the _yakhni_, the _mattanjan_, and the
_corma_, the _kabáb_, the _cuímá_, and the _cúrút_, with the _phirín_,
and _falúda_, and the _nucl_ by way of dessert, together with sherbets of
sorts, sweet preserves and sour preserves, and bread in the forms of the
_nán_, _paráta_, _bákir-khání_, and _tuakí_. Our host, the Saggid, with
an inviting _bismillah_ (“In the name of God,” used as an invitation to
commence any act), stretched forth his hand against the _puláo_, and we
followed suit, but without making the smallest impression on the savoury
heap before us. With this as a secure foundation, we dipped from dish
to dish to make acquaintance with their contents. Each had particular
merits of its own, but as only an Afghan palate can distinguish them, of
course they were not appreciated by us. The Saggid, who had seen a good
deal of the English in India, and was familiar with our mode of living,
was careful to point out the dishes most resembling our own; but alas!
for the prejudice of human nature, I could trace no points of similarity,
and would have preferred a good mutton-chop and some mealy potatoes to
all the rich _chef d’œuvres_ of the Afghan culinary science that loaded
the table. As a nation the Afghans are gross feeders. They eat largely
and consume astonishing quantities of fatty matter. The merit of any
particular dish with them depends more upon the quantity and quality
of the melted butter or fat in which it swims than on the tenderness
or flavour of the flesh, and the more rancid the fatty matter is, the
more highly is it esteemed. This is particularly the case amongst the
peasantry and the nomads, amongst whom it is an ordinary occurrence to
dispose of the tail of a _dumba_ sheep between three or four mouths at
a single meal. The tail of this variety of sheep is a mass of pure fat,
and weighs from six to eighteen pounds. The hardy out-door life they lead
requires that they should have a certain amount of carbonaceous pabulum
in their food; and as by their religion they are debarred from the use
of fermented liquors, the deficiency is very probably supplied by the
abundant use of fat and butter. At all events, they lay great stress on
a liberal supply of _roghan_, or grease, in all their food, and to its
plentiful use, I believe, is to be attributed their physical superiority,
combined, of course, with the influences of climate, which, taken alone,
are not sufficient to account for their large limbs and robust frames.
At length our part of the performance came to a close, and the row of
attendants marching in, carried off the feast to the side-apartments,
where, in the character of hosts, they entertained our domestics. The
Saggid now took leave of us to go to his home in the city, and we put out
most of the lamps and candles, that filled the room with a painful glare,
and increased its already close temperature.
The Afghans have no idea of domestic comfort or refinement according to
the European standard, nor have they any taste in the arrangement of
their houses. The rooms prepared for us, though full of costly and really
fine specimens of native manufacture, were yet singularly deficient in
comfort and tasteful decoration. The Saggid, and his coadjutor here,
General Safdar Ali, had accompanied the Amir Sher Ali Khán on his visit
to India in the spring of 1869, for the conference at Amballa, and they
now attempted to light up our quarters here after the fashion they
had seen in our houses in India. Lamps and candles without stint were
lighted, and set wherever there was room to stand them, without reference
to the amount of light required, or the proper places for exhibiting it.
Consequently, the room, which was entirely unventilated, except through
the doorways opening into side-chambers, speedily became insupportably
hot and stifling, so much so, that we were obliged before we could go to
sleep to open all the doors and let a draught of the cold frosty night
air through the house.
Next morning we rode out with the Saggid and General Safdar Ali to visit
the gold-mine at the foot of the hills to the north of the city. The mine
is situated in a small creek running up north-east into an angle formed
by a spur projecting on to the Kandahar plain from the Baba Walí range.
The hills are of a very hard and compact blue limestone, but the surface
of the creek and the adjoining plain is a coarse gravel, containing
fragments of greenstone, hornblende, quartz, and mica-schist. Coursing
down the centre of the creek is a tortuous little water-course, now dry,
and with only a few wreaths of snow lying under the shade of its rough
conglomerate banks.
The mine is situated half-way up the creek, and on its southern side,
close to the ridge of blue limestone. It is a wide excavation straight
down into the soil, and in a soft easily-worked rock, quite different
from any in the vicinity. The piles of excavated rock heaped up round the
mouth of the pit presented a remarkable variety of colours, amongst which
black, blackish-green, bluish-green, reddish-orange and fawn colour were
the most prominent. I examined several of these stones, and found them
to consist of particles of greensand, hornblende, felspar, quartz, and
mica, bound together in a gritty ferruginous clay. The formation appears
to be one of decomposed sienite, and is sufficiently compact to require
blasting in the excavation.
We descended into the great irregular pit by a steep path in its side,
and saw the miners at work. The process is very rough, and simply this:
A vein of quartz, from three or four inches to only half an inch or less
thick, is exposed in the rock, either by the use of the pickaxe or by
the aid of gunpowder. The workmen then examine the vein with the naked
eye, and if any particles of gold are detected, they are removed, with
the surrounding portion of matrix, by means of a chisel and hammer. The
gold-dust thus removed is collected by each workman separately in small
baskets, and taken to the city, where it is treated for the separation of
the precious metal, as will be described presently.
An immense number of quartz veins traverse the rock in all directions,
and in several of them we saw the compressed flakes of gold _in situ_. In
two or three instances the metal was in thick lumpy masses, nearly the
size of an almond. The pit is about one hundred and twenty feet long,
by thirty or forty wide, and about eighty feet deep in the centre. Its
sides are sloping and irregular, owing to the tracing up of veins for a
short distance in different directions. There must be an immense amount
of waste in this rough process, and no doubt the heaps of excavated rock
lying about the mouth of the pit would yield to the experienced miner a
very profitable return.
The mine was discovered in 1860 in the following manner. A shepherd
boy, tending his flock at graze on the creek, picked up a bit of quartz
studded with granules of gold. He took it home to his father, who carried
it to a Hindu to see if he could get anything for it. The Hindu, true to
the instincts of his race, in whom the love of gold is an innate quality,
at once recognised the value of the discovery, and gradually, after his
own fashion, got out of the lad’s father the exact spot on which the
specimen was discovered. His next step was to apprise the Governor,
and the site was at once explored. At a few feet below the superficial
gravel, the ferruginous formation of disintegrated quartz and sienite
above described was exposed, and in the veins on its surface gold was
discovered. The site was at once claimed as crown property, and work was
forthwith commenced by Government.
The mine has now been worked nearly twelve years, but with several
intermissions. For the first two or three years it is said to have
yielded very abundantly. It is now farmed by a contractor, at an annual
rental of five thousand rupees, or five hundred pounds. The yearly cost
of working it is set down at another five hundred pounds, but this is
palpably a gross exaggeration. The profits, it is pretended, hardly cover
rent and working charges, though the reverse is pretty generally believed
to be the fact, notwithstanding the contractor’s solemn protestations
to the contrary, and his bold appeals to God, his prophet, and all the
saints as witnesses to the truth of his assertions. There is little
doubt that the mine, worked as it is now even, is a really profitable
speculation; but in a country such as this, where life and property are
proverbially insecure, it would be most unsafe to admit the truth,
for to do so would assuredly provoke the cupidity of the ruler, whose
despotic will brooks no hindrance in the accomplishment of his desire, be
it just or unjust. Hence it is that all classes below the nobility, and
not a few even among that favoured class, as a precautionary safeguard,
assume an appearance of poverty, and by common consent profane their most
sacred characters for the support of a falsehood which is apparent to all.
Under the difficulties of such a position it is impossible for the
stranger to arrive at an approximation to the truth. But that the
mine does pay under the disadvantageous conditions mentioned, is best
evidenced by the fact of its continued operation. We had no opportunities
during our short stay here of ascertaining the extent of the auriferous
formation, disclosed by the excavation of the mine. But as the surface
gravel of the plain north of the city is of the same character as that
on the creek in which the mine is situated, it may be reasonable to
suppose that the gold-yielding stratum extends for some distance under
the alluvium of the plain. If this be so, Kandahar is destined to prove a
valuable acquisition to its future possessors. Under European exploration
and skilled working, it would assuredly produce an hundred-fold of what
it has hitherto done. For in the creek itself only one pit has been dug
at the actual spot on which the metal was first discovered. All the rest
of the surface is yet untouched, and under the existing government of the
country it is destined to remain so.
On leaving the mine we passed through the Baba Walí ridge to the shrine
of the same name, dedicated to the patron saint of Kandahar, for a view
of the Argandáb valley, the most populous and fertile district of the
whole province. From its source in the hills north-west of Ghazni, to
its junction with the Tarnak at Doúb, it has thirty-one villages on the
right bank, and thirty-four on the left. They are mostly occupied by
Popalzai and Alikozai Durranis. Though now seen in the depth of winter,
the valley has a remarkably prosperous and fertile look. We returned
through the Baba Walí range by a recently-made carriage-road blasted
through the rock, in the track of an old pass a little to the west of the
one we entered by. On return to our quarters, we found the miners ready
with their implements and a small stock of quartz to show us the process
by which they extracted the gold. The process appeared very simple and
efficacious. The bits of quartz, ascertained by the eyesight to contain
particles of gold, are first coarsely pounded between stones, and then
reduced to powder in an ordinary hand-mill. The powder is next placed
on a reed winnowing tray, and shaken so as to separate the particles of
gold and finer dust from the grit. From the latter the larger bits of
gold are picked out and thrown into a crucible, and melted with the aid
of a few grains of _borax flua_. When melted it is poured into an iron
trough, previously greased, or rather smeared, with oil, and at once
cools into an ingot of bright gold. The fine dust left on the winnow is
thrown into an earthen jar furnished with a wide mouth. The jar is then
half filled with water and shaken about a little while. The whole is
then stirred with the hand and the turbid water poured off. This process
is repeated four or five times, till the water ceases to become turbid.
A small quantity of quicksilver is next added to the residue of sand,
some fresh water is poured on, and the whole stirred with the hand. The
water and particles of sand suspended in it are then poured off, and
the quicksilver amalgam left at the bottom of the vessel is removed to
a strong piece of cloth, and twisted tightly till the quicksilver is
expressed as much as it thus can be. The mass of gold alloy is then put
into a crucible with a few grains of borax, and melted over a charcoal
fire. The molten mass is finally poured into the iron trough mentioned,
and at once solidifies into a small bar of bright gold. Such was the
process gone through in our presence. Even in this there was a good
deal of waste, owing to the rejection of the coarser grit. With proper
crushing machinery there is no doubt the yield would be considerably
increased.
This afternoon we received a post _viâ_ Khozdár and Calát, with dates
from Jacobabad up to the 18th January. The courier described the route
as almost closed by snow in Shál and Peshín, where, it seems, more snow
has fallen since our passage over the Khojak. Whilst reading our papers,
General Safdar Ali was announced. He brought a _nazar_, or present, on
the part of the Amir for General Pollock, as the representative of the
British Government. It consisted of fifteen silk bags ranged on a tray,
and each bag contained one thousand Kandahari rupees, the value of which
is about a shilling each.
A north-west wind has prevailed nearly all day, and the air is keen and
frosty. During the night boisterous gusts of wind disturbed our slumbers
and threatened to overturn some of the tall trees in our garden. In the
forenoon we visited the ruins of Shahri Kuhna or Husen Shahr, the “old
city,” or “city of Husen.” The latter name it derives from the last of
its sovereigns, Mír Husen, Ghilzai, the second son of the celebrated Mír
Wais, and brother of Mír Mahmúd, the invader of Persia, and the destroyer
of the Saffair dynasty by the wanton massacre in cold blood of nearly one
hundred members of the royal family.
The city was taken and destroyed by Nadír Sháh in 1738, after a long
siege, during which the Afghan defenders displayed such conspicuous
bravery that Nadír largely recruited his army from amongst them, and
advanced on his victorious career towards India.
On our way to the ruins we visited the shrine of Sultán Wais, and
examined the great porphyry bowl supposed to be the begging-pot of Fo
or Budh. It is a circular bowl four feet wide, and two feet deep in
the centre (inside measurement), and the sides are four inches thick.
When struck with the knuckle, the stone, which is a hard compact black
porphyry, gives out a clear metallic ring. The interior still bears
very distinct marks of the chisel, and on one side under the rim bears
a Persian inscription in two lines of very indistinct letters, amongst
which the words _Shahryár_ (or Prince) _Jaláluddín_ are recognisable, as
also the word _táríbh_ or “date.” The exterior is covered with Arabic
letters in four lines, below which is an ornamental border, from which
grooves converge to a central point at the bottom of the bowl. Many of
the words in the inscription were recognised as Persian, but we had not
time to decipher it General Pollock had an accurate transcript of the
whole prepared by a scribe in the city, and forwarded it, I believe, to
Sir John Kaye.
The keeper of the shrine could tell us nothing about the history of this
curious relic, except that it, and a smaller one with handles on each
side, which was carried away by the British in 1840, had been brought
here by Hazrat Ali, but from where nobody knows. Possibly it may have
come from Peshín, which in documents is still written Foshanj and Foshín.
The bowl now rests against the trunk of an old mulberry-tree in a corner
of the enclosure of the tomb of Sultán Wais. The trunk of the tree is
studded all over with hundreds of iron nails and wooden pegs, like the
trees described on the march to Hykalzai. About the enclosure were lying
a number of great balls, chiselled out of solid blocks of limestone. The
largest were about fourteen inches in diameter, and the smaller ones five
or six inches only. They were, our attendants informed us, some of the
balls used in ancient sieges of the adjoining city in the time of the
Arabs. They were propelled by a machine called _manjaníc_ in Arabic—a
sort of ballista or catapult.
From the ruins of the old city we went on to those of Nadírabad, now
surrounded by marshes caused by the overflow of irrigation canals, and
returned to our quarters by the southern side of the present city, or
Ahmad Shahí. The fortifications have been recently repaired and fresh
plastered, and have been strengthened by the construction of a series of
redoubts, called _Kása burj_.
_12th February._—We visited the city this afternoon with the Saggid and
General Safdar Ali. We entered at the Herat gate, and at the Chársú
turned to the left up the Shahí bazaar, and crossing the parade-ground,
where we received a salute of fifteen guns, passed into the _Arg_ or
“citadel,” which was our prison-house for thirteen months when I was here
in 1857-58 with Lumsden’s mission. I say prison-house, because we could
never move outside it but once a day for exercise, and then accompanied
by a strong guard, as is described in my “Journal of a Mission to
Afghanistan in 1857-58.” From the citadel we went to see the tomb of
Ahmad Sháh, Durrani, the founder of the city, and thence passing out at
the Topkhana gate, returned to our quarters in the garden of the late
Sardár Rahmdil Khán.
The main bazaars had evidently been put in order for our visit. The
streets had been swept, and the shops stocked with a very varied
assortment of merchandise and domestic wares, which were now displayed to
the best advantage. The sides of the main thoroughfare were lined with a
picturesque crowd of citizens and foreigners, brought here by their trade
callings. The demeanour of the crowd was quiet and orderly, and their
looks were expressive of good-will; which is more than could be said of
any similar crowd in the bazaars of Peshawar, as was very justly remarked
at the time by General Pollock. As we passed along, I now and again
caught a finger pointing at me with “_Haghah dai_” (“That’s him”); and in
the Chársú, where we had to pick our way through a closely packed crowd,
I was greeted with more than one nod of recognition, and the familiar
“_Jorhasted?_” (“Are you well?”) “_Khúsh ámadíd_” (“You are welcome”), &c.
The citadel, which is now occupied by Sardár Mír Afzal Khán, Governor of
Farráh, and his family, is in a very decayed and neglected state, and the
court of the public audience hall is disgracefully filthy. The court and
quarters formerly occupied by the mission of 1857 are now tenanted by
General Safdar Ali, the Amir’s military governor of the city.
From the citadel we passed through the artillery lines, a wretched
collection of half-ruined and tumbledown hovels, choked with dung-heaps,
horse litter, and filth of every description, and turned off to the
Ahmad Shahí mausoleum. The approach to it is over an uneven bit of
ground, which is one mass of ordure, the stench from which was perfectly
dreadful. It quite sickened us, and kept us spitting till we got out
into the open country again. The tomb, like everything else here,
appears neglected and fast going to decay. The stone platform on which
it stands is broken at the edges, and the steps leading up to it,
though only three or four, are suffered to crumble under the feet of
visitors without an attempt at repair. The dome has a very dilapidated
look from the falling off here and there of the coloured tiles that
cover it, whilst those that are still left make the disfigurement the
more prominent by their bright glaze. Where uncovered, the mortar is
honeycombed by the nests of a colony of blue pigeons, which have here
found a safe asylum even from their natural enemies of the hawk species.
The interior is occupied by a central tomb, under which repose, in
the odour of sanctity—though those surrounding it are anything but
sanctified—the ashes of the first and greatest of the Durrani kings. Near
it are some smaller tombs, the graves of various members of the king’s
family. The cupola is very tastefully decorated by a fine Arabesque
gilding, in which run all round the sides—the dome being supported on an
octagonal building—a series of quotations from the Curán. These, in the
light admitted through the fine reticulations of the lattice windows,
appeared remarkable fresh and bright, though untouched since their first
production a century ago. We doffed our hats as we entered the sacred
precincts, as our attendants took off their shoes at the threshold,
excepting only the Saggid and General Safdar Ali and Colonel Táj
Muhammad, who were much too tightly strapped in their odd compounds of
Asiatic and European military uniforms to attempt any such disarrangement
of their evidently unaccustomed habiliments. The _mujawwir_, or keeper of
the shrine—for amongst this saint-loving people the tenant of so grand
a tomb could hardly escape being converted into so holy a character—was
quite pleased at this mark of respect on our part, and made himself
very agreeable by his welcome and readiness to afford information. “I
know,” said he, with a hasty and timid glance at the shodden feet of our
companions, “that this is the manner in which Europeans testify their
reverence for holy places. The officers who visited this tomb when the
British army was here observed the same custom, and always uncovered the
head on entering beneath this roof. It is quite correct. Every nation
has its own customs; you uncover the head, and we uncover the feet. In
either case, respect for the departed great is the object, and by either
observance it is manifested. It is all right.” The old man told us he
was seventy-two years old, and had not been beyond the precincts of the
tomb for the last thirty years. It was his world. He had not been as far
as the bazaars in all this time, nor had he seen the cantonments built
by the British outside the city. This sounds incredible, but I don’t
think it improbable, for I know of three or four instances amongst the
Yusufzais of the Peshawar valley, in which old men have assured me that
in their whole lives they had never moved beyond the limits of their own
villages, not even so far as to visit the next village, hardly three
miles distant. How the old _mujawwir_ managed to exist so long—for one
can hardly say live with propriety—in this vile stinking corner of
this filthy city, is not to be understood except on the explanation of
habit becoming second nature. Both the confinement and the atmosphere
had however left their mark upon him, and had blanched his gaunt sickly
visage as white as the beard that graced his tall lank figure.
From the mausoleum we passed through a quarter of the city which had
evidently not been prepared for our visit. The narrow lanes were filthy
in the extreme, the shops were very poorly stocked, and altogether the
place looked oppressed, as indeed it is, by the unpaid, ill-clad, and
hungry soldiery we found lounging about its alleys. We were glad to pass
out of the Topkhana gate, and once more breathe the fresh air of the open
country.
From what we saw on this occasion, and from what we heard during our
short stay here, there is no doubt that the condition of Kandahar, as
regards population and prosperity, is even worse than it was when I
was residing here fourteen years ago. The oppression of its successive
governors, the frequent military operations in this direction, and the
location of a strong body of troops in the city during the last ten or
twelve years, has almost completely ruined the place, and has reduced the
citizens to a state of poverty bordering on despair.
The discontent of the people is universal, and many a secret prayer
is offered up for the speedy return of the British, and many a sigh
expresses the regret that they ever left the country. Our just rule and
humanity, our care of the friendless sick, our charitable treatment
of the poor, and the wealth we scattered amongst the people, are now
remembered with gratitude, and eager is the hope of our return. This
is not an exaggerated picture, and speaks well for the philanthropic
character of the short-lived British rule in this province, when
we consider that our occupation of the country was but a military
aggression. But even if they had never had a practical experience
of British rule, the desire of the Kandaharis for the return of our
authority and extension of the British government to their province,
is explained by the glowing accounts they receive from their returning
merchants of the prosperity, happiness, and liberty that reign in India,
whilst they render them more impatient of the tyranny under which they
are forced to groan.
Hundreds of families, it is said, have left the city during the last ten
years, to seek their fortune under more favourable rulers. The city is
said to contain five thousand houses, but fully a third part of it is
either deserted or in ruins, and the population does not exceed eighteen
thousand, if it even reaches that number. Indeed it is astonishing how
the city holds out so long under the anomalous circumstances of its
government and the ill-restrained license of an unpaid soldiery.
I was told by a non-commissioned officer of the Corps of Guides, who was
now spending his furlough here amongst his relations, and whom I formerly
knew when I was with that regiment, that the condition of the people
was deplorable. Hearing of our approach, he came out to meet us at Mund
Hissár, and attended daily at our quarters during our stay here. From him
I learned that numbers of the citizens were anxious to see the General,
and represent their grievances to him; and that hundreds, remembering
the charitable dispensary I had opened here during my former visit, were
daily endeavouring to gain admittance to our quarters for medicine and
advice regarding their several ailments and afflictions, but that both
classes were prohibited by the sentries posted round us with strict
orders to prevent the people from holding any communication with us, lest
we should hear their complaints, and what they had to say against our
hosts.
The city is now governed by three sets of rulers, each independent of the
other, but all answerable to the Amir. Thus General Safdar Ali is the
military governor. His troops are six months in arrears of pay, and make
up the deficiency by plundering the citizens. His nephew (sister’s son),
Sultán Muhammad, is the civil governor. He has to pacify the townspeople
under their troubles, and to screw from them the city dues or taxes. Then
there is Núr Ali, the son of Sardár Sher Ali Khán, the late governor,
who is himself just now at Kabul rendering an account of his recent
charge. He is a luxurious youth, clad in rich velvets and cloth of gold,
and on behalf of his father collects the revenues outside the city.
The consequence of this triangular arrangement is that the people are
effectually crushed and bewildered. They know not who are their rulers,
and in vain seek redress from one to the other, only to find themselves
fleeced by each in turn. As my informant pathetically remarked, “There is
no pleasure in life here. The bazaar you saw to-day is not the everyday
bazaar. There is no trade in the place. How should there be any? The
people have no money. It has all been taken from them, and where it goes
to nobody knows. There is no life (or spirits) left in the people. They
are resigned to their fate, till God answers their prayers, and sends
them a new set of rulers.”
Truly their condition is such as to call for pity. I observed, in our
progress through the city, that the people had a sickly appearance
compared with the generality of Afghans, and wore a subdued timid look,
altogether at variance with the national character. They are, as we heard
from more than one source, only waiting a change of masters. In their
present temper, anybody would be welcomed by the Kandaharis, even a
fresh set of their own rulers would afford them a temporary relief; but
a foreigner, whether British, Persian, or Russian, they would hail with
delight, and their city would fall to the invader without even much show
of resistance, for the garrison could look for no support from the people
they had so hardly oppressed.
The Government of Kandahar, besides the city and suburbs, includes
about two hundred villages. Altogether they yield an annual revenue of
about twenty-two laks of rupees to the Amir’s treasury. Of this total,
about nine laks are derived from the city dues and taxes. Almost the
whole of this sum is expended on the civil and military establishments
of the government, so that very little finds its way to the imperial
treasury. The revenue is not all collected in cash; on the contrary, a
considerable proportion is taken in kind, such as corn, cattle, sheep,
and so forth; and the collection of much of this last is avoided, as far
as government is concerned, by the issue of bonds, or _barát_, on the
peasantry and landholders, to the extent of their dues of revenue. These
bonds are distributed amongst the civil and military officials in lieu
of wages. They exact their full dues, and extort as much more as their
official influence and the submission of the peasantry enable them to
do. The system is one of the worst that can be imagined, leads to untold
oppression, and is utterly destructive of the peace and prosperity of the
country.
During the last two days a number of workmen have been employed in
erecting palisades along the sides of the tank in front of our quarters,
and along the cypress avenues on each side of it, preparatory to a
grand illumination and display of fireworks, fixed for this evening, in
honour of the General’s arrival here. At seven o’clock, darkness having
set in, the performance of the evening commenced. Thousands of little
lamps, which had been fixed with dabs of mud at short intervals along
the cross poles of the palisading, were lighted, and produced a very
pretty effect. Innumerable tapering flames reflected their long trembling
shadows across the placid surface of the tank, and lighted the long rows
of avenue on either side with a glare of brilliancy, highly intensified
by the impenetrable gloom of the close-set sombre foliage above, and
the darkness of the night-enshrouded vista of the garden beyond. We had
not sufficiently feasted our eyes on this attractive scene, when its
brilliancy was thrown into the shade by the noisy eruption of a whole
series of “volcanoes,” the contents of which shot out in a rushing
jet of yellow scintillating flakes, and finished up with a loud bang,
that sometimes exploded, and always overturned the volcano. Flights of
rockets, roman candles, wheels, &c., followed, whilst crackers thrown
into the tank scud about its surface with an angry hissing, presently
plunging into its depths, and anon rising with a suffocating gurgle
jarring ungratefully on the ears, and finally expiring in the throes
of a death-struggle. There were besides some elephants, horses, and
other nondescript animals, that were fixed in the foremost places, as
master-pieces of the pyrotechnist’s art, but the less said of them the
better. They emitted jets of fire and volumes of smoke from the wrong
places at the wrong moments, so that, when moved to combat against each
other, their clumsy shells revealed, as they rocked from side to side
in their efforts to fall, the bare limbs of the human machinery that
struggled to support them in their proper positions against the shocks
of the exploding combustibles embedded in their flanks and extremities.
Altogether the display, though a grand effort, and perhaps a feat on the
part of the pyrotechnists of Kandahar, was inferior to what one sees in
India, and in any European capital would be hissed at as a downright
failure. The purpose, however, was noways affected by the performance,
and the honour was fully appreciated as a mark of good-will and respect
for the Government it was our privilege to represent.
The next day was devoted to the final arrangements for our departure on
the morrow. Fresh cattle had been purchased for our camp and baggage,
some new servants had been entertained, and it was necessary now to see
that all were properly equipped and provided for their journey. During
the afternoon we had a long interview with some Hindu bankers of the
city, from whom we took a small advance in exchange for notes of hand
upon the Government treasury at Shikárpúr. They had correspondents at
Herat, Kabul, Shikárpúr, and Amritsar, but not at Mashhad, Balkh, or
Bukhára. They confirmed what we had heard from other sources regarding
the oppressed state of the city, and the systematic plundering of the
citizens that daily goes on, but said that their own community—the Hindu
traders—were not interfered with. They assured us that the rich furniture
of our apartments was mostly the confiscated property of Sardár Muhammad
Sharíf Khán, the Amir’s rebel brother, who has just been deported to
India as a state prisoner. With the timidity and suspicion common to
their class here, they spoke in low tones and with uneasy furtive glances
around; and presently, when the Saggid came in for his usual afternoon
cup of tea, they were evidently discomposed, and quickly retired on the
first symptoms of acquiescence in their departure. The Saggid brought us
some fine nosegays of blue violets, the familiar scent of which quite
perfumed the room. He found me busily penning notes, and jocularly
remarked, “I know you people always write down everything you see and
hear, and afterwards publish it to the world. Now pray, Doctor Sáhib,
what have you been writing about me?” This was an unexpectedly home
question; but following in his own merry mood, I evaded a direct reply
by the remark that his observation was quite correct; that as a nation
we were given to writing, and that with some of us the habit exceeded
the bounds of moderation and utility, and was then called a _cacoethes
scribendi_. “Very likely, very likely,” interposed the Saggid; “no doubt
you people write a great deal more than is of any earthly use, but the
habit is not without its merits. Now you will have doubtless written
down all about the country you have come through, and will know it
better than its own inhabitants,” I here observed that, with the most
careful and leisurely inquiries, we could hardly expect to attain to such
perfection. “Nay, but you do,” said the Saggid; “you go riding along and
come to a village. To the first man you meet in it you say, ‘What’s the
name of this village?’ He tells you, and then you say, ‘What do you call
that hill?’ and he gives you its name. Out comes your note-book, and down
go the names, and by and by all the world knows that there is such a hill
near such a village, a fact nobody else in the country is aware of except
the inhabitants of the actual locality.”
The Saggid was as much amused by this telling _argumentum ad hominem_ as
we were, and added, “Now, by way of illustration, I will tell you what
occurred to me many years ago, when, as a young man, I went to Bangalore
with a batch of horses for sale. An English officer who spoke Persian
asked me one day about my country, and when I told him the name of my
village, he turned it up in his map, and said, ‘Yes, I see. There is a
place near it called Ganda China.’ ‘No,’ said I, ‘there is no such place
near it, nor even in the country.’ ‘There must be,’ maintained he. Well,
considering I knew my own country best, I thought it useless arguing
the point, so remained silent, allowing him to have his own way. When I
returned home and recounted my adventures in the Deccan, amongst others
I mentioned this circumstance, with no very flattering allusion to the
English officer’s obstinacy. ‘You are wrong, Sháh Sáhib’ (the respectful
title by which Saggids are addressed), said two or three voices. ‘Ganda
China is the briny bog at the further end of the hollow behind our hill.’
‘Well,’ said I, ‘I never knew that before.’ So the English officer, you
see, knew what I did not of my native place.”
In the following conversation the Saggid, to his credit be it recorded,
spoke most sensibly, and with a freedom from prejudice for which we
were not prepared. He lamented the ignorance of his own people, and the
jealousy they evinced of our learning anything about their country:
“As if,” said he, “you could not send any number of Afghans into it,
instructed to bring you whatever information you required regarding it.”
He very truly observed that we knew more of the history and topography of
his country than the most learned native in it could ever hope to do in
their present state of benighted ignorance. As an instance, he mentioned
a discussion at which he was present at the Amir’s court shortly before
he set out from Kabul to meet us, in which not a single member present
could tell the exact locality of Chinaran, of which they knew nothing
more than that it was an important fort on the Persian frontier in the
time of Sháh Ahmad, but in what part of the frontier nobody could tell.
_14th February._—At noon we set out from Rahmdil Khán’s garden, under
a salute of fifteen guns from the artillery, drawn up for the purpose
outside the gate. Our route led over fields of young corn, burnt yellow
by the recent hard frosts, and across a succession of irrigation streams
to the village of Chihldukhtarán, beyond which we came to the Chihlzina.
We alighted here, and ascended the rock for the sake of the view, which,
the weather being fine and clear, was very distinct and extensive over
the plain to the eastward and northwestward. In the former direction, the
furthest point seen was the snow-topped peak of Súrghar, on the further
side of which we were told lies the Abistada lake. To the north-west is
the great snowy range of Sháh Macsúd, closing the prospect by a lofty
ridge running from north-east to south-west. Beyond it lies the Derawat
valley.
On descending we took leave of General Safdar Ali, who returned to
Kandahar with a troop of regular cavalry, and proceeded in company with
the Saggid and Colonel Táj Muhammad, escorted by a company of regular
infantry, and a party of two hundred and fifty irregular horse, fine
active fellows, very well mounted, and generally well armed. At a short
distance we passed between the villages of Mír Bazár on the left and
Gundigán on the right. This last is built on a couple of artificial
mounds, and is noteworthy as being the only Shia village of Parsiwans
in the whole province. Beyond these the road skirts a ridge of rocky
hills to the left, and has the village of Murghán some way off to the
right, where flows the river Argandáb. Further on we came to an extensive
roadside graveyard, in which the tomb of the celebrated Mír Wais,
Ghilzai, forms the most prominent object, as much from the height of its
cupola above the more humble tombs around, as from the state of its decay
and neglect. Passing these and the adjoining Kohkarán village, we camped
a mile beyond on an open gravelly patch between the Kohkarán hill and the
river bank, having marched seven miles from Kandahar.
On approaching Kohkarán, the lord of the manor, Sardár Núr Muhammad Khán,
came out to meet us, and invited us to his fort for refreshment; but
as it stood a little way out of our road, we politely declined, and he
accompanied our party into camp, where his servants presently arrived
with trays of food of sorts, and amongst the dishes a huge bowl of the
national _cúrút_, which is, I believe, a close relation to the _sour
kraut_ of the Germans. Sardár Núr Muhammad Khán is a son of the late
Tymúr Culi Khán, own brother of the late Wazír Fath Khán, Bárakzai.
He is reputed as being one of the wealthiest of the Afghan nobles, and
has always adhered loyally to the cause of the present Amir during the
long period of his trials and adversities. During the siege of Herat
by the late Amir Dost Muhammad Khán, he was imprisoned and tortured by
Shahnawáz Khán (who continued the defence after the death of his father,
Sultán Ahmad Khán), on the suspicion of being a secret partisan of the
Dost’s. He now told me that he was at the time in command of the Herat
garrison, and that God alone preserved his life. On the fall of Herat in
May 1863, Shahnawáz fled to the Persians, and became their pensioner at
Tahrán. His brother, Sikandar Khán, fled to Turkistan, and took service
with the Russians, by whom he was treated with distinction, and sent to
St. Petersburg. Another brother, Abdullah Khán, fell into the Amir’s
hands, and being a youth of some parts, was sent to reside at Kabul under
surveillance.
Sardár Núr Muhammad Khán had accompanied the Amir Sher Ali in all his
wanderings, and shared his misfortunes. He spoke in the gloomiest words
of the future prospects of his country, and seemed glad to retire
from the troubles of public life to the solitude and quiet of his
country-seat. He had been here about twenty months, and seldom went
beyond his own domain. He came out to meet us with Sardár Mír Afzul
Khán’s _isticbál_ from Kandahar, but except on such occasions he seldom
even goes to the city.
He is a fine, blunt, and honest Afghan, with prepossessing looks and very
hospitable manners. His time is mostly spent in improving his castle, to
which he has just added an extensive range of stables for the hundred
horses his stud consists of. He is said to possess some of the best
Arab, Baloch, and Turkman horses in the country. He was mounted on a
beautiful Arab himself, and by his side rode an attendant mounted on a
great Turkman of wonderful strength and fleetness, as he proved to us by
putting the animal to its full speed across the plain.
He told us that this winter was the severest season known to have
occurred during the past twenty years, and, as an instance of its
severity, assured us that the black partridges in his vineyards had all
been killed by the cold, numbers having been found lying dead upon the
snow.
From our camp we have a full view of the Argandáb valley, and the crowd
of villages and gardens along the course of its river. Numerous canals
are drawn off from its stream for purposes of irrigation, and for the
water supply of Kandahar. To the northward the valley extends in a wide
upland pasture tract to the foot of the ridge of hills separating it from
the adjoining Khákrez valley. The hills have a very barren look, and are
crossed by several passes practicable to footmen only.
From Kohkarán we marched eighteen miles, and camped on the roadside
between Hanz Maddad Khán and Sang Hissár. At a short distance from camp
we crossed a deep irrigation canal, and at once descended a steep clay
bank into the bed of the Argandáb river. The channel here is very wide
and boulder-strewed, and the river flows through its centre, and there
are besides two little streams, one under each bank. The current is
strong and stirrup-deep. We found hundreds of wild-fowl and coolan along
the pools bordering the river; and I went off with Colonel Táj Muhammad
and shot a few teal and purse-necks. The coolan were much too vigilant to
allow us to get within range. During the hot-weather rains, this river
swells into a raging torrent, and is quite impassable for three or four
days together. The farther bank of the river is low, and lined by an
irrigation canal similar to that on the other bank.
Beyond the river, the road passes through a wide extent of corn-fields
and villages, known collectively as Sanzari, and bounding them to the
southward is a ridge of hills called Takhti Sanzari, on which we could
trace indistinctly the remains of ancient ruins.
We cleared the Sanzari lands at a roadside _ziárat_, over the door of
which were fixed some iben and márkhor horns; and leaving the Ashogha
canal and village to the left, entered on a vast treeless waste, that
gently slopes up to the Khákrez range towards the north. We followed a
well-trodden path over the gravelly plain in a south-west direction, and
leaving the Sufed Rawán villages and cultivation along the river bank to
our left, camped a little beyond the Hanz Maddad, and close to a ruined
mound called Sang Hissár.
The _hanz_, or reservoir, named after its builder, Maddad Khán, of whom
nobody could tell us anything, is now, like everything else in this
country, fast going to ruin. It has long been dry, and the projecting
wings from the central dome, which were meant as a shelter for the
wayfarer, are now choked with the débris of the crumbling walls and heaps
of drift sand. At the _hanz_ the road branches—one track goes due west
across the plain to Kishkinákhud and Girishk, and the other south-west to
Garmsel by the route of Calá Búst.
Westward of this point the country assumes an aspect altogether different
from that we have hitherto traversed. It presents a vast expanse of
undulating desert plain, upon which abut the terminal offsets from the
great mountain ranges to the northward and eastward. The weather being
fine and the atmosphere singularly clear, we were enabled to get a very
extensive view of the general aspect and configuration of the country.
To the west were the terminal spurs of the Khákrez range, ending on
the plain, and concealing from view the valley of that name, and on
which we looked back as we advanced on our route. To the west and south
respectively, the horizon was cut by an arid waste and sandy desert.
Close at hand to the east, between the junction of the Argandáb with the
Tarnak, is the termination of the Baba Walí range. To its north lies
the valley of the Argandáb, running up north-east as far as the eye can
reach in a continual succession of villages, gardens, and corn-fields,
a picture of prosperity strikingly in contrast with the arid and bare
aspect of the country to the south of the range. In this latter direction
the parallel ranges of Arghasán, Barghana, and Kadani, coursing the wide
plateau from north-east to south-west, all terminate in low ridges that
abut upon the Dorí river opposite to the sand-cliffs of the great desert
that separates Kandahar and Sistan from the mountain region of Makrán.
The angle of junction of the Argandáb and Tarnak is called Doaba. To
the south of the Takhti Sanzari it is continuous with the Panjwaí
district on the banks of the Tarnak. It is very populous, and is covered
with villages and gardens, celebrated for the excellence of their
pomegranates. From Panjwaí there is a direct route across the desert
to Hazárjuft. The distance is said to be only eighty miles. The desert
skirt from this point, along the course of the Dorí right down to the
end of the Lora river on the plain of Shorawak and Núshkí, is said to
afford excellent winter pasturage for camels and sheep. This skirt
forms a tract some fifteen or twenty miles wide on the border of the
actual sandy desert, and is at this season occupied by the camps of
the nomad Achakzai, Núrzai, and Bárech Afghans. It produces lucerne,
clover, carrot, and other wild herbs in profusion during the spring.
Our next stage was twenty-two miles, to the river bank near the hamlet
called, from its adjacent spring, Chashma. It is included in the lands of
Kishkinákhud. Our route was by a well-beaten path on the gravelly plain
at about two miles from the river, towards which it slightly inclined as
we proceeded westward.
To the left of our course, along a narrow strip on the river bank, are
the collection of villages and gardens known as Bágh Marez and Sháhmír.
Amongst them, conspicuous for its neatness and strength, is the little
fort of Khúshdil Khán, son of the late Sardár Mihrdil Khán, and elder
brother of Sardár Sher Ali Khán, the recent governor of Kandahar. He has
always held aloof from politics, and spends his life in the seclusion of
his country retreat. On the farther side of the river the land rises at
once into a high coast, formed by round bluffs that stretch away towards
the desert in a tossed and billowy surface of loose sand.
To the right of our route lay the Kishkinákhud plain. It supports a very
scattered and thin growth of pasture herbs, amongst which we noticed some
stunted bushes of the camel-thorn and sensitive mimosa. As we advanced we
came abreast of the Khákrez valley away to the north across the plain.
It has a dreary and desert look, and appeared uninhabited. It has no
perennial stream, but is drained by a central ravine which crosses the
plain as a wide and shallow water-run, called Khákrez Shela. We crossed
it dryshod a little way short of camp.
Beyond Khákrez is the Sháh Macsúd range of hills, now covered with snow.
The hills are said to be well stocked with large trees, and amongst them
the wild or bitter almond. We were assured that the Popalzais, who hold
this country, had of late years taken to grafting the wild trees as they
grew on the hillsides with the sweet and cultivated almond, and with
complete success.
At the foot of a dark spur branching off southward from the main range
was pointed out the site of the ruins of Mywand. They are described as
very extensive; and in the time of Mahmúd of Ghazni, the city was the
seat of the government of his wazír, Mír Hassan. At the head of the
valley, to its north, are the sulphur hot springs of Garmába, resorted to
by the natives of the vicinity as a remedy for rheumatism and diseases of
the skin.
During the latter part of the march we passed a couple of roadside
hamlets occupied by Hotab Ghilzais, and watered by _kárez_ streams. There
was very little cultivation about, and the villagers appeared a very poor
and miserable set.
The weather is fine and clear, and the air delightfully fresh and mild.
We are now fairly clear of the hills, and are entered upon the great
basin of the Kandahar drainage.
_17th February._—We set out from Chashma at eight A.M., and marched
twenty-three miles to Baldakhán by a good gravelly path following the
course of the river at about a mile from its right bank. At about the
third mile we passed the hamlet of Mulla Azím, occupied by Mandínzai
Isháczais, who are _astánadár_ of the Saraban Afghans (that is to say,
descendants of an Afghan saint of the Saraban division of the nation),
and consequently hold their lands rent free, and enjoy other privileges
and immunities accorded to members of the priest class. Beyond this we
entered on the Bandi Tymúr, a long strip of villages and cultivation
extending for twelve miles or so along the right bank of the river,
which here flows over a wide pebbly channel interspersed with patches
of dwarf tamarisk jangal. The soil is everywhere gravelly and charged
with salines, which here and there form extensive encrustations on the
surface. Several _kárez_ streams, brought from the undulating tract of
Kháki Chanpán to the north, cross the road at intervals, and a succession
of irrigation canals led off from the river intersect the country on
either side. The tract derives its name from an ancient _band_ or weir
thrown across the river in the time of Tymúr. We did not see any signs
of this dam, nor could we learn that any traces of it were still in
existence.
To the north of the Bandi Tymúr tract are first the Miskárez hamlets and
cultivation, and beyond them are the Kháki Chanpán hamlets, concealed
from view in the sheltered hollows of the undulating pasture tract of
that name. Away to the north beyond it, between the Khákrez and Sháh
Macsúd ranges, is seen the Ghorát valley, in which are the hot sulphur
springs of Garmába already mentioned. To the north of Ghorát is seen
the Dosang range of hills, that separate it from the Derawat valley,
which drains by a perennial stream to the Helmand in Zamíndáwar. This
is described as a very populous and fertile valley, continuous to the
north-east with the country of the Hazerahs. To the north-west of it, a
range of hills intervening, is the Washír valley, which drains to the
river of Khásh.
To the south, on the left of our route, the sandy desert abuts upon the
river in a high bank of water-worn stones, in the sheltered hollows
between which is a close succession of nomad camps, that extend in a
continuous line for nearly fifty miles, for we marched in sight of them
to within a few miles of Calá Búst. The camps were on shelving banks
close upon the river bed, and were seldom more than half-a-mile apart.
Their unbroken black line upon the red ground of the sandy bluffs formed
a very prominent object of attraction, and the extent of the cordon
proved the numerical strength of the nomads to far exceed the limit of
what we had supposed their numbers to be. I counted sixty-three camps in
view at the same time. The number of tents in each ranged from twenty
up to eighty, but the majority appeared to contain from forty to fifty
tents. If we allow two hundred camps along the river from Chashma to
Búst, and reckon only forty tents in each, it will give a total of eight
thousand tents or families; and if we take each family to consist of five
individuals, it will give us forty thousand as the total of the nomad
population massed in this part of the country. The calculation is by no
means exaggerated; on the contrary I believe it to be under the mark.
Similar encampments, we are assured, extend along the desert skirt, where
it abuts on the channels of the Tarnak and Dorí rivers, right down to
Shorawak, and are reckoned to contain a total of not less than forty
thousand tents, or two hundred thousand souls. These nomads include
a number of tribes from all the hill country between this and Kabul.
They come down from the highlands with their cattle and flocks during
September and October, pass the winter here, and return to their summer
pastures during March and April. Their sheep and camels find abundant
pasture at this season on the borders of the desert, and are scattered
over its surface to a distance of twelve or fifteen miles from the river.
There are here and there superficial pools of rain-water (called _náwar_)
on the pasture tracts, but generally the cattle are driven down to water
at the river every third or fourth day. A couple of centuries ago nearly
the entire Afghan nation were nomads, or, as they are here called,
_kizhdí nishín_, from their mode of dwelling, and sometimes _sahára
nishín_, from the place of habitation.
At about the sixth mile of our march we passed another roadside hamlet
of the Mandínzai Isháczais. Some of the villagers came out and took up
a position on the road in front of us, with a Curán suspended across
the path in a sheet stretched between two poles hastily stuck into the
ground. We passed under the sacred volume, and received the blessing of
its owners in return for a rupee given to them by the Saggid. Our grooms,
with uplifted arms, made a bound, touched the book, and then their
foreheads and hearts, the while invoking the prophet’s blessing.
At about half-way on this march we passed the ruins of an old town and
the remains of a fort overlooking the river. Beyond this the country is
bare and desolate. The soil is either a coarse gravel covered with a
thin jangal of camel-thorn, or it is a spongy clay white with excess of
salines. For many miles here the road passes through a long succession
of salt-pits. Near Ballakhan we turned off to the left, and camped on a
saline tract close to the river.
A high north-east wind blew all day, and, fortunately for us, drove
clouds of salt dust against our backs, instead of in our faces. The sky
became cloudy in the afternoon, and towards sunset gusty showers of rain
fell. On the line of march we were overtaken by a courier from Jacobabad
with our letters and newspapers, and dates up to the 26th January. We
spent the evening in reading the news of the world we had left behind us.
Next to returning to one’s own, there is nothing so delightful as the
receiving intelligence from them. We always hailed the arrival of our
posts with unconcealed joy; and no sooner possessed ourselves of the
contents of one, than we looked forward to the arrival of another, with
an eagerness that only those placed in similar circumstances could
possibly evince.