_18th February._—We marched from Ballakhan twenty-eight miles, and camped
on the bank of the river Helmand, close under the citadel of Búst. The
night proved stormy, and a good deal of rain fell, rendering the ground
for several miles from camp very heavy and deep in mud. At two miles from
camp, we passed the ruins of Ballakhan, on a mound some little way off
to the right of the road; and a little farther on, the Júe Mahmand, also
to the right of the road. This tract, as far west as the Kárez-i-Sarkár,
is held by the Núrzais, whose camps of black tents and settlements of
reed huts dot the surface at short intervals. We found large herds of
their camels, oxen, goats, and sheep at graze on the scanty pastures the
surface afforded.
The country here is similar to that traversed yesterday. Deep irrigation
canals, now mostly dry, intersect it in all directions, and, crossing the
road at short intervals, present obstructions to the free passage of the
traveller. The soil is everywhere spongy and charged with salines, yet a
considerable extent is brought under cultivation. The natives cure the
land of these salts by first sowing with rice and then with clover, and
after this the soil is said to be fit for any crop.
For several miles our road led over a succession of salt-pits and ovens,
and lying about we found several samples of the alimentary salt prepared
here from the soil. It was in fine white granules, massed together in
the form of the earthen vessel in which the salt had been evaporated.
The process of collecting the salt is very rough and simple. A circular
pit or conical basin, seven or eight feet deep, and about twelve feet
in diameter, is excavated. Around its circumference is dug a succession
of smaller pits or circular basins, each about two feet wide by one and
a half feet deep. On one side of the large pit is a deep excavation, to
which the descent from the pit is by a sloping bank. In this excavation
is a domed oven, with a couple of fireplaces. At a little distance off
are the piles of earth scraped from the surface and ready for treatment.
And, lastly, circling round each pit is a small water-cut, led off from a
larger stream running along the line of the pits.
Such is the machinery. The process is simply this: A shovelful of earth
is taken from the heap and washed in the basins (a shovelful for each)
circling the pit. The liquor from these is, whilst yet turbid, run
into the great central pit, by breaking away a channel for it with the
fingers. This channel is then closed with a dab of mud, and fresh earth
washed, and the liquor run off as before; and so on till the pit is
nearly full of brine. This is allowed to stand till the liquor clears.
It is then ladled out into earthen jars, set on the fire, and boiled to
evaporation successively, till the jar is filled with a cake of granular
salt. The jars are then broken, and the mass of salt (which retains its
shape) is ready for conveyance to market.
Large quantities of this salt are used by the nomad population, and a
good deal is taken to Kandahar. The quantity turned out here annually
must be very great. The salt-pits extend over at least ten miles of
country we traversed, and we saw certainly several thousand pits.
These saline tracts are not so utterly waste as one would imagine. The
soil, though curable for purposes of cultivation, as above mentioned,
spontaneously supports a growth, which is more or less abundant, of
artemisia, saltworts of three or four kinds, camel-thorn, dwarf tamarisk,
and some thorny bushes called _karkanna_. These afford excellent pasture
for camels, and the oxen and sheep fattened on them are said to thrive
and improve in flesh better than on the hill pastures, which often
produce fatal bowel complaints.
As we went along, I made an unsuccessful detour after a flock of coolan
I had seen alight some way off to the right of our route, and came upon
some immense herds of camels, oxen, and sheep, all grazing together in
the vicinity of nomad camps scattered over the country. The sheep are all
of the fat-tailed variety, called _gad_ here and _dumba_ in India, and
appeared of large size and in excellent condition. They are shorn twice
a year, and the wool fetches the nomad one rupee per sheep. The milk,
cheese, and _cúrút_ is valued at another rupee for each sheep, and a
lamb at a third; so that the nomad’s annual profit from his flock may be
reckoned at three rupees per head of sheep he owns.
I passed close to several tents, and spoke to some of the men. They did
not seem very well disposed, and stared at me rather savagely. Colonel
Táj Muhammad, who accompanied me with three or four troopers, hurried me
back to our party, saying these men were not to be trusted; and as our
party was small, it was not safe to tarry long amongst them. His hint
was not lost, and we soon left the savages to their native wilds, and
speculations as to the booty that had escaped their clutches.
At a little short of half-way we halted a while at a mound near some
Núrzai tents, whilst the baggage went ahead. At a mile to the north
is the Nurullah Khushkába, so called on account of its aridity, the
undulating tract being void of water. At about twelve miles north by west
from the mound is the Girishk fort, and below it, on the Helmand, we saw
the Dubrár mound, and on the plain to the west the Mukhattar mound, an
isolated heap of ruins, marking the site of an ancient fort. The governor
of Girishk is Muhammad Alam Khán, son of the late Saggid Muhammad Khán
of Peshawar, and for several years a servant of the British Government
in the Panjab. A messenger met us here from the fort, to say that the
governor was absent in the Zamíndáwar district collecting the revenue, or
he would have come out to pay his respects to the General.
Whilst here, I took out my note-book to jot down a few memoranda of the
road we had traversed, and the Saggid, seeing the movement, jocularly
observed, “Now I know what you are going to write.” “What?” inquired I,
rather curiously. “People, savages—country, a desert waste; what else
can you say?” he very aptly replied. “But I will tell you something much
more amusing than anything you have got in your Kandahar book.” This last
allusion, I must confess, took me by surprise. I was about to ask where
he had seen the book, when he anticipated the query. “Yes, we know all
about it; and when the durbar at Kabul is dull, your book is produced,
and sets them all a-laughing.” “That’s satisfactory,” said I. “Ah!” he
replied, “but you have been very hard upon our faults.” “Come,” said I,
in self-defence, “I have not abused you as your writers habitually abuse
us.” “Well, no. The argument cuts both ways. Anyhow we are no better than
you have painted us.”
I asked how the book got to Kabul, and learned that it had been
taken there by Cázi Abdul Cádir, to whom I gave a copy when he was a
Government servant at Peshawar. The Cázi had learnt English at the
mission school in that frontier station, and, possessed of my book,
was now the interpreter of its pages at Kabul. I attempted to explain
that the book was not meant for Afghan readers, and the Saggid very
good-naturedly helped me out of the difficulty by saying that his people
were now accustomed to the hard words of foreigners by reading the
English newspapers and other books brought to the country from India.
He expressed astonishment at the freedom of criticism allowed to the
press, and could not understand how any Government could exist under such
uncontrolled discussion of its acts. “You people puzzle us entirely,”
said he. “No other Government would permit a public discussion of its
acts, but you seem to court it. It is a very bad system, and encourages
disaffection.” We endeavoured to explain that the freedom of the press
was characteristic of the British system of government, and that the
channel thus afforded for the unfettered expression of public opinion
was one of the greatest safeguards of the Government, and a powerful
instrument in the maintenance of public order. “It may be so for you; you
are the best judges of your own interests. It would not do for us. The
Government would not last a day under such a system here.” It was now
time for us to be on our way again, so the stories we were to have heard
were reserved for another occasion.
Our route continued south-west along the course of the river, the
opposite bank of which was lined by a black cordon of closely-packed
nomad camps. At six miles we came to Júe Sarkár, a little way off to the
right of the road. It is a modern country-house, standing in the midst
of its own gardens enclosed by high mud walls, and watered by a _kárez_
stream. The late Sardár Kuhudil Khán built this house as a country
residence in 1846, after he had annexed the Garmsel to Kandahar. It is
now occupied by his grandson, Gul Muhammad Khán, son of Muhammad Sadíc
Khán, the torturer of M. Ferrier, as is so graphically described by that
traveller in his account of his adventures in this country.
A little farther on are some hamlets scattered amongst the ruins of
Lashkari Bazár, which originally formed a suburb of the ancient city of
Búst, now lying some six miles ahead. From this point onwards, in fact,
our path lay through a succession of ruins, with here and there patches
of cultivation between the clusters of decayed mansions and towers, right
up to the fort and citadel of Búst.
At a few miles from our camp on the river bank we passed a roadside
shrine, and stopped at the cabin of a _faqír_ in charge of it for a
drink of water. It was perfect brine, from a small well hard by, yet
the mendicant assured us it was the only water he used, and his sickly
look and attenuated figure did not belie the assertion. His life of
penance secures him the reverence of the nomads of the neighbourhood, and
elicited marked respect from our escort.
We halted a day at Búst to rest our cattle and prepare them for the next
march, which was to be a long one across the desert. The delay afforded
us the opportunity to explore the rivers around. From the top of the
citadel, which commands an extensive view, we found that they covered an
area of many square miles on the left bank of the Helmand, and extended
over the plain for seven or eight miles to the east and north. The
citadel and fort form a compact mass of ruins altogether separate from
the rest of the Búst city.
The fort is a long parallelogram lying due north and south on the
river’s bank. The walls are very thick, and strengthened at short
intervals by semilunar bastions or buttresses. On the inner face they
bear the traces of chambers, and the top all round appears to have
supported houses. At each angle is a very substantial circular bastion,
except at the south-west angle, which is occupied by the citadel. This is
a lofty structure on a foundation of solid red brick masonry, that rises
straight out of the river bed, and is washed by its stream in the season
of full flood. The highest point of the citadel is about two hundred
feet above the bed of the river, and is run up into a square tower, used
apparently as a look-out station.
From its top we got a very extensive view of the country, but could not
see Girishk, though the fort of Nádálí on the plain opposite to it was
distinctly visible. A more dreary outlook than this station affords could
be found in few countries. Beyond the strip of villages and cultivation
on its farther bank, and the collection of hamlets and walled gardens in
the angle of junction between the Helmand and Argandáb, nothing is to be
seen but a vast undulating desert tract, limited towards the south by a
bold coast of high sand-cliffs.
The southern portion of the fort, in which the citadel stands, is
separated from the rest by a deep ditch some forty feet wide, and running
east and west. The eastern half of this division is fortified against
the rest of the fort, and contains the remains of several large public
edifices. The most noteworthy is a fine arch built of red bricks set in
ornamental patterns. The arch is of broad lancet shape, about sixty feet
high in the centre, and fifty-four feet across from basement to basement
on the level of the ground. The arch extends due north and south, and
from the ornamental designs and Arabic characters on the façades
fronting the east, it was most probably the portal of the principal
mosque.
The western half of this division is occupied by a lofty artificial
mound, on the summit of which stands the citadel. Through the whole depth
of this mound is sunk a very remarkable well, closed above by a large
cupola. The well is built very substantially of red brick and mortar,
and is descended to the very bottom by a spiral staircase, which, in the
upper part of the shaft, opens successively into three tiers of circular
chambers, that look into the shaft through a succession of arches in its
circumference. In each tier are four chambers circling the well, and
communicating with each other by arched passages; and at the back of each
chamber, away from the well shaft, is an arched recess.
The depth of the well is about 130 feet, and its diameter 18 feet. We
found the bottom dry, and covered with a thick layer of débris, sticks,
and rubbish. Some labourers were set to work to clear this away; but
as at a depth of four feet there was still only débris, the work was
discontinued, and we mounted up to the open air again. The well was
evidently fed from the river by some subterranean channel, and its waters
rose and fell with that of its stream, as was indicated by the different
appearance of the bricks in the lowest part of its shaft.
The chambers opening on the well were no doubt used as a cool retreat in
the hot weather; and that the well was used for the supply of the citadel
is evidenced by the rope-marks worn into the bricks on the lower edge of
the openings.
The rest of the fort interior extends away to the northward. Its area is
covered with bricks and pottery, but shows no traces of buildings. It is
of the same width as the citadel divisions, but six or seven times more
in length. The citadel rises out of the river bed; but the west face of
the whole fort is separated from the river, which here makes a bend to
the west, by an intervening strip of land. The whole fortification is
surrounded by a wide ditch and covered way. There is a gateway in the
east face, just beyond the interior ditch, separating the citadel from
the rest of the fort, and there is another gate opposite to it, fronting
the river. The citadel was entered by a small gate in the centre of
its southern face. Each gateway is protected by outflanking bastions.
Altogether, the place appears to have been a very strong and important
frontier fortress, and commanded the approach from Sistan by Garmsel
towards Kandahar.
The General got a party of workmen together, and made some small
excavations in different parts of the citadel; but our stay was too short
to admit of any extensive exploration of this kind. Several bits of glass
and china of superior manufacture were turned up, and two or three “fire
altar” Sassanian coins were also found. The china was of two different
kinds: one, the common material with the familiar blue designs; the other
a coarse-grained material, coated with a glazed crust of mother-of-pearl
appearance, and pale lilac hue. Some fragments of glass goblets and
bowls were found, and attracted our attention as being far superior to
any manufacture of the kind now to be found in this or the adjacent
countries, or India itself. One in particular I observed formed part of a
large bowl: the glass was fine, clear, and thin, and ribbed with bands of
a rich chocolate-brown colour.
Búst or Bost is the site of a very ancient city. Malcolm, in his “History
of Persia,” says it is identical with the ancient _Abeste_; and he
states that in A.D. 977, when Sebuktaghín was at Ghazni, it was in the
possession of one Tegha, who being expelled, applied to Sebuktaghín for
aid, and was by him reinstated, on condition of paying tribute. Tegha
failed to do so, and was consequently suddenly attacked by Sebuktaghín,
the perfidious Tegha effecting his escape. This Sebuktaghín was a
_ghulám_, or body-soldier of the refractory Bukhára noble Abustakín, who
settled and founded Ghazni. At this period the Indian prince Jaipál was
King of Kabul, and Kulif, the Sámání, was Prince of Sistan.
Erskine, in his “Life of the Emperor Babur,” mentions that Búst was
besieged, A.D. 1542, by the Emperor Humáyún, on his advance against
Kandahar, with a Persian army, and the fort surrendered to him. Previous
to this, in A.D. 1498, the same author states, the fort of Búst was
captured by Sultán Husen Mirzá, Báikara, when he set out from Herat, his
capital, against his rebel son, Khusran, at Kandahar. He was obliged,
however, to retire from Kandahar, and to give up this fort; but he found
in it supplies sufficient to provision his whole army, and enable them to
retrace their steps comfortably.
Búst was finally dismantled and destroyed in A.D. 1738 by Nadír Sháh,
when he advanced against Kandahar on his way to India. In all these
sieges, the fort alone, it appears, was occupied as a strategetical
position; the city and suburbs had remained a mass of ruins, in much the
same state as they are now, since the desolating invasion of Changhiz in
A.D. 1222.
In the present century, Kuhudil Khán, having annexed Garmsel to his
principality of Kandahar in 1845, had some intention of restoring the
fort of Búst, and had commenced the repair of its walls. But the jealousy
of Persia, and other troubles nearer home, put a stop to the work; and he
died in 1855, before he could carry out his original design. The site is
well placed to command the approach through Garmsel, and is sufficiently
near to afford efficient support to Girishk, twenty miles higher up the
river on the opposite bank.
Our camp here was pitched right on the river bank, immediately to the
south of the citadel. The channel is from 250 to 300 yards wide, between
straight banks about twenty feet high; but the stream at this season is
only about eighty or ninety yards wide, on a firm pebbly bed. It was
forded in several places opposite our camp by horsemen going across in
search of fodder. The water reached the saddle-flaps, and flowed in a
clear gentle stream. By the aneroid barometer I made the elevation of
this place 2490 feet above the sea.
Whilst here, a courier arrived with our post from India, with dates up
to the 1st February from Jacobabad. We now learned, for the first time,
and to our no small surprise, that our party had been attacked, and our
baggage plundered, by the rebel Brahoe on our way through the Míloh
Pass. How the false report originated it was not difficult to surmise,
considering the troubled state of the country at the time of our passage
through it, and the readiness of the Indian newspapers to chronicle
exciting news from the frontier states. A courier also arrived with
letters for the General from Sir F. Goldsmid, dated Sihkoha, 2d February.
His party had arrived there the previous day, after a trying march from
Bandar Abbas, crossing _en route_ a range of mountains on which the cold
was as great as that we experienced in Balochistan, the thermometer
sinking to 5° Fah. This courier, through ignorance of the route we had
taken, proceeded by Farráh and Girishk to Kandahar, whence he was put on
our right track, and hence the delay in his arrival.
_20th February._—Culá Búst to Hazárjuft, forty miles. We set out at 6.45
A.M., and passing some villages and walled gardens, proceeded in a
S.S.E. direction, along the left bank of the Helmand, which here divides
into several channels, separated by long island strips. At three miles we
came to the Argandáb, where it joins the Helmand, at a bend the latter
river makes to the westward, opposite an abrupt sandhill bluff.
The angle between the point of junction of these two rivers is dotted
with clusters of reed cabins, mud huts, and walled vineyards, belonging
to different tribes, such as the Núrzai, Achakzai, Bárakzai, Bárech,
Uzbak, and others.
The Argandáb, or Tarnak, as it is also called, flows close under the
cliffs of the sandy desert to the south, and joining the Helmand at
its sudden bend to the westward, appears to receive that river as an
affluent, whereas itself is really the confluent. Its channel here is
very wide and sandy, showing marks of a considerable back-water in the
flood season. As we saw it, the Argandáb here has a shallow gentle
stream, about forty yards wide, and only two feet deep in the centre. The
water flows over a sandy bottom, and, like the Tarnak at Kandahar, is
very turbid.
Beyond the river we rose on to the desert skirt through a gap in the
sandhills, and then winding round to the S.S.W., proceeded over a dreary
waste of sandhills and hollows. At a mile from the river the road divides
into two branches. That to the right follows the course of the Helmand,
and passes straight across ridge and gully, whilst that to the left
sweeps round over an undulating sandy waste called Ním-chol, or “half
desert,” and at twelve miles joins the first at Gudar Burhána, where is a
ford across the Helmand to the Záras district of Girishk.
Our baggage proceeded by the former route; we took the latter, and got
a good view of the desert skirt. I made a detour of a few miles to the
south in quest of some bustard I had marked in that direction, and was
surprised to find the surface covered with a by no means sparse jangal.
There was a great variety of plants and bushes fit for fuel, and a thin
grass was everywhere sprouting from the loose soil of red sand. A species
of tamarisk called _tághaz_, and a kind of willow called _bárak_, were
the most common shrubs. The latter is burnt for charcoal, which is used
in the manufacture of gunpowder. The small species of jujube and a
variety of salsolaceæ were also observed, but the great majority I did
not recognise at all.
I could now understand the reason of this tract being the winter resort
of the nomad tribes of Southern Afghanistan. It produces a more varied
and richer vegetation than the wide plains and bleak steppes of the
Kandahar basin, and the hollows between its undulations provide a shelter
from the keen wintry blasts that sweep the plain country with blighting
severity.
As far as the eye could reach, south, east, and west, was one vast
undulating surface of brushwood thinly scattered over a billowy sea of
reddish-yellow sand. I galloped some way ahead of my attendant troopers,
and found myself alone on this desolate scene, with the horizon as its
limit. Though the surface was scored with a multitude of long lines
of cattle-tracks trending to the river, not a tent was to be seen,
nor any living creature; even the bustard I was following vanished
from my view. I reined up a moment to view the scene, and suddenly the
oppression of its silence weighed upon me, and told me I was alone. A
reverie was stealing over me, when presently my horse, neighing with
impatience, broke the current of my thoughts, and turned my attention to
the direction he himself had faced to. Appearing over a sandhill in the
distant rear, I saw a horseman urging his horse towards me, and waving
his arm in the direction of the river. Not knowing what might be up, I
galloped off in the direction indicated, and we shortly after met on
the beaten track which had been followed by our party. An explanation
followed, and he chidingly informed me that we had got too far away from
the main body. “We ourselves,” he said, “never think of going alone into
these wastes. The wandering nomads are always lurking after the unwary
traveller on their domain, and view him only as a God-send to be stripped
and plundered, if not killed. God forbid that any evil should befall
you. Our heads are answer for your safety.” With this mild reproof, he
proposed we should hasten on, which we forthwith did, and overtook our
party in the wide hollow of Gudar Burhána. Beyond this we ascended a high
ridge of sand, and turning off the road to the right, mounted one of the
hummocks overlooking the Helmand, and alighted for breakfast at eighteen
miles from Búst, and nearly half-way to Hazárjuft. Meanwhile our baggage
with the infantry escort passed on ahead.
From our elevated position we got an extensive view of the great plain
to the northward. Nádálí and Calá Búst were indistinctly visible to
the north and north-east respectively, and away to the west was seen
the black isolated Landi hill called also Khanishín, the only hill to
be seen in the whole prospect. Immediately below us flowed the still
stream of the Helmand, and on its opposite bank lay the populous and
well-cultivated tract of Záras. It is included in the Girishk district,
and is freely irrigated from canals drawn of from the Helmand some
miles above the position of Búst. Its principal villages are Khalach,
Záras, Surkhdazd, Shahmalán, and Moín Calá; the last in the direction of
Hazárjuft.
The air was delightfully pure and mild, the sky without a cloud, and the
noonday sun agreeably warm. Our simple fare, cold fowl and the leavened
cakes of wheat bread called _nán_, washed down with fresh water, was
enjoyed with a relish and appetite that only such exercise and such
a climate combined could produce. An attendant with a stock of cold
provisions and a supply of water always accompanied us on the march,
and we generally halted half-way on the march for breakfast on some
convenient roadside spot. Our host, the Saggid, always joined us at the
repast, and generally produced some home-made sweetmeats as a _bonne
bouche_ at the close of the meal. We enjoyed these _al fresco_ breakfasts
thoroughly. The cleanliness and excellence of the Afghan cookery made
full amends for the want of variety in the fare. The simple food was, to
my mind, far preferable and more wholesome than the doubtful compounds
prepared by our Indian servants in imitation of the orthodox English
dishes that commonly load our tables in India. In the roasting of a
fowl the Afghan certainly excels. In their hands the toughest rooster
comes to the feast plump, tender, and juicy, and with a flavour not to
be surpassed. The secret lies in the slow process of roasting over live
embers, with a free use of melted butter as the fowl is turned from side
to side.
At one P.M., after a rest of an hour and forty minutes, we mounted
our camels and set out again on our route. For an hour and a half we
followed a beaten track across a billowy surface of loose red sand, and
then passing a ruined hostelry called Rabát, entered on a firm gravelly
tract, thickly strewed with smooth black pebbles, and perfectly bare
of vegetation. We crossed this by a gentle slope down to the Hazárjuft
plain, and at four P.M. camped close on the river bank a little beyond a
terminal bluff of the sand-cliffs bounding it to the south.
The Hazárjuft plain is a wide reach between the river and a great sweep
southwards of the desert cliffs, and, as its name implies, contains
land enough to employ a “thousand yoke” of oxen or ploughs. It is
coursed in all directions by irrigation canals drawn from the river, and
contains four or five fortified villages, around which are the reed-hut
settlements of various dependent tribes.
Hazárjuft is the _jágír_ or fief of Azád Khán, Nanshirwání Baloch, whose
family reside here in the principal village of the district. It is a
square fort, with towers at each angle and over the gateway. The Khán
himself resides at Kharán, of which place he is governor on the part of
the Kabul Amir. The other forts here are held by the Adozai and Umarzai
divisions of the Núrzai Afghans, who are the hereditary owners of the
soil.
In all this march there is no water after crossing the Argandáb. Our
infantry escort were much exhausted by the length of the journey, and
fairly broke down some miles short of its end. We passed several of them
lying on the roadside completely prostrated by thirst, and they were
unable to come on till we sent out water to them from Hazárjuft. They
had started with an ample supply for the whole march, but, with the
improvidence characteristic of Afghans, had wasted it before they got
half through the journey, and hence their sufferings.
The journey might be divided in two stages of eighteen and twenty-two
miles, making Gudar Barhana on the river bank the halting-place. In
the hot season this would be absolutely necessary, otherwise the long
exposure to the burning sands would be destructive alike to man and
beast. The elevation of Hazárjuft is 2360 feet above the sea.
The most remarkable features of the Hazárjuft plain are the wide extent
of its cultivation, and the vast number of ruins scattered over its
surface. Some of these are of ancient date, and others bear the traces
of fortifications raised upon artificial mounds, but the majority
are evidently merely the remains of the temporary settlements of the
migratory tribes, who shift about from place to place according to their
pleasure, or, as more frequently is the case, through force of feuds
amongst themselves, and disagreements with the lord of the manor.
In examining the arrangement, size, and disposition of these crumbling
walls, one sees that they differ only from the existing temporary
settlements around in the loss of their roofs and fronts. These are
formed of basketwork frames of tamarisk twigs, coated on the outside with
a plaster of clay and straw mixed together, and are easily transportable,
though the necessity for this is not apparent, as the material of which
they are made is found in any quantity all along the river course.
Our next stage was fourteen miles to Mian Pushta. The road follows a
S.S.W. course, and diverges somewhat from the river. It passes over a
level tract of rich alluvium, everywhere cultivated, and intersected in
every direction by irrigation canals, now mostly dry.
At three miles we passed the Amir Biland _ziárat_, ensconced in a
tamarisk grove. It is dedicated to the memory of a conquering Arab saint,
said to be a son or grandson of the Amir Hamza. Hard by is a village of
the same name, and further on are the two little forts of Warweshán.
On the plain around are scattered a number of hut settlements of the
Núrzais. They are named after the chiefs by whom they were founded, or
by whom they are now ruled. Two of these are named Muhammad Ghaus, and
others are Aslam Khán, Lájwar, Khán Muhammad, Fatu Muhammad, Sardár
Khán, Abbasabad, &c. Each settlement comprised from 120 to 250 huts.
Beyond all these is the Kushti village, and then Mian Pushta.
I struck off the road, and followed the windings of the river for some
miles. Its northern or right bank rises directly into high cliffs, that
mark the coast-line of the great Khásh desert. In all the extent from
Hazárjuft to the Khanishín hill, the alluvium is all on the left bank of
the river. The right bank in this course rises at once up to the desert.
On my way along the river, I crossed a succession of deep and narrow
water-cuts running in a south and south-easterly direction. Some of them
proved difficult to cross. The channel of the river is very wide, and
is fringed on each side by thick belts of tamarisk jangal. This extends
all along the river course into Sistan, and in some parts assumes the
proportions of a forest. The river itself flows in a clear stream, about
a hundred yards wide, close under the right bank. The bed is strewed with
great boulders, and water-fowl of every kind swarm in its pools. I found
an immense flock of pelicans, geese, and ducks all together in a space of
a couple of miles. I shot two or three pelicans with No. 2 shot, but they
carried away the charges without a sign of discomfort.
Turning away from the river, I came to a _ziárat_ dedicated to Sultán
Wais, or Pír Kisrí. It is held in great veneration here, and is shaded
by a clump of very fine and large _paddah_ trees (_Salix babylonica_),
growing on the sides of a deep irrigation canal that flows by it.
From Mian Pushta we marched eighteen miles to Sufár. Our route was S.S.W.
over a long stretch of corn-fields, interrupted now and again by patches
of camel-thorn, salsolaceæ, and other pasture plants. The alluvium here
narrows considerably in width, and the desert cliffs approach to within
a couple or three miles of the river. Shortly after starting, we came to
the Abbasabad settlement. It consists of about a hundred huts of “wattle
and dab,” belonging to Adozai Núrzais. Some of the huts were formed of
the wicker frames of tamarisk withes before mentioned, supported on
side-walls, and closed by another at the rear; but most were besides
thatched with a long reed that grows abundantly along the river’s course.
A little farther on we passed a _ziárat_ or shrine, shaded by a clump
of trees, close under the desert bluffs to our left. High up in the
perpendicular face of one of these cliffs we observed a row of three
tall arched openings. They appeared of regular formation, and no means
of approach were traceable on the cliff, nor could anybody tell us
anything about them. At about midway on the march we passed the turreted
and bastioned little fort of Lakhi. Around it are ranged a number
of thatched-hut settlements of the Adozai and Alizai Núrzais. Each
settlement, of which there were five or six, is protected by its own
outlying towers. Each settlement consists of from thirty to forty huts,
ranged on each side of a wide street, and in each the towers stand, one
at each end of this.
I struck off the road here, and followed the river course for some miles.
Its bed is nearly a mile and a half wide, and covered with tamarisk
jangal, camel-thorn, and reeds. I found some herds of black cattle and
a few camels at graze, and noticed, by the drift sticking to the trees,
that the hot-weather flood of the river must be at least twelve feet
above its present level, and fill the whole channel. Water-cuts and weirs
occur at frequent intervals, and water-mills are found on most of them;
but they are only worked in the cold season.
Gun in hand (for I had been shooting wild-fowl along the river), I
entered one of these wicker cabins, out of curiosity to see the interior,
and found three men coiled up in their felt cloaks or _khosai_, lazily
watching the working of the mill. Neither of them moved more than to turn
his eyes on me with a blank stare, and my _salám alaikum_ only drew on me
a harder gaze. “Have you no tongue?” said I, addressing the semblance of
humanity crouched nearest the entrance, as his uplifted eyes and dropped
jaw confronted me. A simple nod answered in the affirmative. “Then who
are you?” This loosened his tongue. “Pukhtún,” said he, boldly. “What
Pukhtún?”—“Núrzai.” “What Núrzai?”—“Adozai.” “What Adozai?”—“Sulemán
Khel.” “Where do you live?”—“There,” with a jerk of the head in the
direction of the river, utterly indifferent as to whether he were right
or wrong. “What’s that you are grinding?”—“Wheat.”
This was enough for me, and I paused to give him an innings, the while
looking from one to the other. Neither volunteered a word to my expectant
glances; so with a _Da Khudáe pa amán_ (to the protection of God), Afghan
fashion, I left them to their indolent ease and stolid indifference.
Proceeding some way, I faced about to see if either of them had been
moved by curiosity to come out and look after us. Not a bit of it; they
had not moved from their comfortable lairs.
This incident filled me with surprise, because these men could never
have seen a European before, considering we are the first who are known
to have visited this portion of Garmsel. I expressed my astonishment
to Colonel Táj Muhammad, who had accompanied me, observing that the
stupid unconcern of the millers had surprised me much more than my
sudden intrusion upon their retreat had incommoded them. He explained
their impassibility on the ground of their being mere country bumpkins.
“Besides,” said he, glancing at the _chogha_ or Afghan cloak I wore
(for though we were walking, the morning air was sufficiently cold to
render such an outside covering very acceptable), “from the way you
went at them about their tribes, they most likely took you for a Kabul
Sardár.” However flattering the allusion, it did not satisfy my mind;
and farther on in the march, after we rejoined the main party, we met
another instance of the boorish independence characteristic of the Afghan
peasantry.
As we passed their several settlements, the people generally crowded to
the roadside to view our party, and we usually gave them the _salám_,
without, however, eliciting any reply. On this occasion the crowd, lining
each side of a narrow roadway, were quite close to us; and as they took
no notice of our _salám_, the Saggid remonstrated with them for their
want of civility, and gave them a lecture on the sin of neglecting to
reply to such salutation. His harangue made little impression, and, for
the most part, fell upon deaf ears. One man did say _Starai ma sha_,
equivalent to our “I hope you are not tired,” and his neighbour stretched
out his fist with a significant cock of the thumb, and an inquiring nod
of the head, a gesture which amongst these untutored people is used to
signify robust health and fitness, but the rest did not even rise from
their squatting postures.
They were hardy-looking people, but have repulsive features, and are
very dark complexioned. Some of their young women we saw were fairer and
comely, but the old dames were perfect hags, wrinkled and ragged. Their
dress is of a coarse home-made cotton called _karbás_, and consists of
a loose shift and trousers, the latter generally dyed blue. The wealth
of these people consists in corn and cattle. The former is exported in
large quantity across the desert to Núshkí and Kharán for the Balochistan
markets.
Our camp at Sufár is close on the river bank. Throughout the march the
country is covered with ruins, which exceed the present habitations in
their number and extent.
From Sufár we marched fourteen miles to Banádir Jumá Khán, where we
camped on the river bank. During the first half of the march our route
was south-west away from the river, across a wide alluvial tract,
which extends eight or ten miles southward before it rises up to the
desert border, here forming a wide semi-circle of low undulations, very
different from the high cliffs on either side of it. During the latter
half of the march our route was west by south to the river bank.
At about five miles we came to the extensive ruins of Sultán Khwájah, in
the midst of which stands a lofty fortress larger than that of Búst. On
the opposite or right bank of the river, crowning the top of a prominent
cliff, is a solitary commanding tower of red brick, now apparently
deserted and in decay.
At five miles farther on we came to Banádir Tálú Khán, a poor collection
of some hundred and fifty wattle-and-dab huts, in the midst of ruins of
former habitations, and vineyards without vines. There are several of
these _banádir_ (plural of the Arabic _bandar_, a port or market-town) on
this part of the river, each distinguished by the name of its presiding
chief or that of its founder.
There is considerably less cultivation in this part of the country, and a
large portion of the surface is a saline waste covered with camel-thorn
and saltworts. The irrigation canals too are met at more distant
intervals. The river bed here is fully a mile broad, and is occupied by
long island strips of tamarisk jangal, abounding in wild pig, hare, and
partridge.
From our camp, looking due south across the _banádir_ reach or bay of
alluvium, we got a distant view of Harboh hill in the sandy desert. It
has a good spring of water, and is on the caravan route from Núshkí to
Rúdbár. Straight to our front, or nearly due west, is the Khanishín hill
or Koh Landi, so named from the villages on either side of its isolated
mass.
So far we have had fine sunny weather since leaving Búst, and the air has
been delightfully mild and fresh. The crops are everywhere sprouting, and
give the country a green look. But the absence of trees (except the small
clumps round distant _ziárats_, and the jangal in the river bed), and
the vast number of ruins, tell of neglect and bygone prosperity, and are
the silent witnesses to centuries of anarchy and oppression, that have
converted a fertile garden into a comparatively desert waste.
_24th February._—Banádir Jumá Khán to Landi Isháczai, fourteen miles.
The country is much the same as that traversed before, but the desert
cliffs rapidly approach the river, and considerably narrow the width of
the alluvium on its left bank, and finally slope off to the high sandy
ridge that, projecting from Koh Khanishín, abuts upon the river in lofty
perpendicular cliffs, and turns its course to the north-west.
At a few miles from camp we passed over a long strip of perfectly level
ground, covered to redness with little bits of broken pottery, but
without a trace of walls or buildings. Beyond this, at about half-way
on the march, we passed the Baggat collection of huts, occupied by
Popalzais. I struck off the road here down to the river, and was
surprised to find it much wider and deeper than in any part of its upper
course as far as we had seen of it. The Helmand here appears quite
navigable, and flows in a broad stream, in which are several small
islands, covered with a dense jangal of tamarisk.
On the opposite or right bank, the desert cliffs, hitherto abutting
direct on the river in its course from Hazárjuft, now recede from it,
and leave a gradually expanding alluvium, on which are seen corn-fields,
villages, and huts, and extensive ruins. In a northerly direction, beyond
this alluvium, extending as far as the eye can reach east and west, is a
vast undulating desert waste. It is called Shand, or “the barren,” and
is continuous with the deserts of Khásh and Kaddah. The whole tract is
described as without water, and but scantily dotted with jangal patches.
It is drained by a great ravine (mostly dry except in the rainy season)
called Shandú, which empties into the Helmand opposite Khanishín. Vast
herds of wild asses, it is said, are always found on this waste, which in
the hot season is unbearable to any other animal.
Immense numbers of wild duck, geese, cranes, herons, and pelicans were
feeding on the river and in the pools along its course. I stalked close
up to a large flock of the last, and fired into the crowd. Several
hundreds rose heavily and flew off, but two were observed to flag behind,
and presently alight lower down the river. Borrowing the rifle of one
of my attendant troopers, I followed these, and shortly after found
them in a pool with necks craned on the alert. Covering the nearest
at about eighty yards, I pulled an uncommonly hard trigger, and, to my
disgust, saw the mud splash at least sixteen feet on one side of the
mark. The weapon was a double-grooved rifle, manufactured at Kabul on
the pattern of those formerly used by the Panjab Frontier Force, and had
an ill-adjusted sight. It is to be hoped, now that the Afghans are our
friends, that this was an exceptional specimen of their armoury.
Returning from the river, we joined the main party near a dismantled
castle called Sultán Khán. It had been neatly and strongly built, and was
destroyed, we were told, many years ago by the Bárechís in some intestine
feuds with their partners in the soil of Garmsel. It is a pitiful
fact that the ruins in this country, from their extent, and superior
construction, and frequency, constantly impress upon the traveller
the former existence here of a more numerous population, a greater
prosperity, and better-established security than is anywhere seen in the
country; whilst the wretched hovels that have succeeded them as strongly
represent the poverty, lawlessness, and insecurity that characterise the
normal condition of the country under the existing regime.
Near the castle is a _ziárat_, and round it an extensive graveyard, which
attracted attention on account of the blocks of white quartz, yellow
gypsum, and red sandstone covering the tombs—all entirely foreign to the
vicinity. They had been brought, we learned, from the Karboh hill. As
we rode along in front of the column, a startled hare dashed across our
path ahead. My gun was at “the shoulder” at the time (for I generally
carried it in hand for any game that might turn up on the route), but it
was instinctively brought to “the present,” and fired on the instant.
“_Ajal!_” sighed the Saggid, “who can resist fate?” “_Yarrah khkár
daghah dai_” (“Verily, this is sport”), exclaimed Colonel Táj Muhammad,
his eyes sparkling with delight. “_Bárak allah!_” (“God bless you!”)
cried a trooper as he urged forward to pick up the victim from the
road. Poor puss was quite dead as he held her aloft, and many were the
congratulations on the accident that averted an ill omen.
The Afghans are extremely superstitious, and blindly believe in all
sorts of signs and omens. Amongst others, a hare crossing the path
of a traveller is considered a prognostic of evil augury, and the
wayfarer always turns back to whence he came, to start afresh under more
auspicious conditions. On this occasion the sudden termination of the
career of poor puss short of crossing the road was hailed as a happy
event, and averted the misgivings of our scrupulous attendants as to what
the future held in store for us.
Our camp was pitched close to Landi, a compact little square fort with
a turret at each angle. Under the protection of its walls is a hut
settlement of about one hundred and fifty wattle-and-dab cabins, occupied
by Isháczai Afghans. The weather was dull and cloudy throughout the day,
and at sunset a storm of wind and rain from the north-west swept over our
camp.
From Landi Isháczai we marched twenty-two miles to the river bank, a
little beyond Calá Sabz, on its opposite shore, our course being nearly
due west. At the third mile we cleared the cultivation and entered on the
undulating tract sloping up to the sandy ridges extending between the Koh
Khanishín and the river. The young corn, we observed, was blighted yellow
in great patches by the frosts and snows of last month. Snow seldom falls
on this region, but this winter having been an unusually severe one, it
lay on the ground to the depth of a span for several days.
The land as it slopes up to Khanishín, which is fully twelve miles from
Landi, is very broken, and stands out near the hill in long lines of
vertical banks, that in the mirage assume the appearance of extensive
fortifications. The hill itself is perfectly bare, and presents a
succession of tall jagged peaks, that extend five or six miles from
north to south. Between it and the river the country is entirely desert,
sandhills and ravines succeeding each other for a stretch of twenty miles
from east to west. The surface is mostly covered with a coarse gravel
or grit of dark reddish-brown stones, but in some parts it is a loose
sand of bright orange-red colour, and in others is caked into rocks of
granular structure. Here and there are scattered thick jangal patches of
desert plants similar to those seen on the route from Búst to Hazárjuft
They afford excellent camel forage, and a good supply of fuel. At about
half-way we crossed a deep and wide hollow running down to the river on
our right; and passing over a second ridge of sandhills, at sixteen miles
crossed a very deep and narrow ravine of pure red sand, without a boulder
or stone of any kind to be seen in it. Beyond this we halted on some
heights overlooking the river for breakfast, the baggage meanwhile going
ahead.
The weather was all that could be desired. A clear sky, mild sun, and
pure fresh air proved the climate to be delightful at this season. A few
gentle puffs of a north-west breeze, however, now and again raised clouds
of sand, and showed us what it could do in that way at times.
The view from this elevated position is extensive, but it is dreary in
the extreme. The sandhills, backed by the bare, scorched, black mass of
Khanishín, are all that the southern prospect presents, whilst to the
north across the river lies the wide waste of the Khásh desert.
Below us winds the Helmand with its islets of tamarisk thickets, and
beyond it spreads the alluvium, which here shifts from the left to the
right bank, with its corn-fields, villages, and ruins. The chief village
is Khanishín to the eastward; the hut settlement of Núnábád lies to its
north, and Dewalán to its west. Further westward, near the ruins of a
large fort, is the Ghulámán hamlet, and then Calá Nan (Newcastle), beyond
which is the Calá Sabz ruin, so named from the green colour of the mound
on which it stands. The whole of this tract belongs to the Isháczai
Afghans, amongst whom are settled a few Baloch families of the Mammassání
or Muhammad Hassani tribe; and even now, in its best season, wears a
poverty-stricken, parched, and neglected look.
Proceeding on our way, we reached the river bank in an hour and a half,
and camped midway between Calá Sabz and Tághaz, both on its opposite
bank. This march resembled that from Búst to Hazárjuft. Not a sign of
habitation or water exists after clearing the Landi cultivation, nor did
we meet a single traveller, nor see any sign of life in all the route.
There is another road along the river bank to the midway hollow above
mentioned, but it is difficult on account of ravines and the broken
nature of the ground. A third route goes round by the south of Koh
Khanishín, but it is six or seven miles longer, and without water.
There is no habitation on our side of the river, nor cultivation, nor
even a ruin; and what could be the use of the Calá Sabz, or Green Fort,
on its commanding mound immediately on the river, it is difficult to
imagine. Our supplies were all brought from the villages on the opposite
shore, and our people forded the river stirrup-deep, or up to the girths,
in several places. The river here is about two hundred yards wide, and
its banks are low and overgrown with tamarisk jangal.
The evening set in cloudy, and at nine o’clock a heavy thunderstorm with
lightning and rain burst over our camp. It lasted an hour and a half, and
then swept southwards to the sandy desert.
Hence we marched twenty-three miles to Mel Gudar, and camped on the river
bank, near the ford of that name, just where the river makes a deep bend
to the south. Our route generally was S.S.W., now and again striking the
river at its successive turns or bends to the south.
For the first six or seven miles the ground was very deep in mud, owing
to the rain last night. In some parts our cattle sunk up to the knee in
it, and could with difficulty extricate themselves from the mire. The
road from the south of Koh Khanishín here joins the main route, and as
the land rises in that direction, it is dry and firm under foot.
At about half-way, we struck the river at one of its many bends,
directly opposite the fort of Malakhan, which occupies a high mound
overlooking its right bank. It is advantageously situated, and has a
lofty citadel. During the British occupation of the country, it was held
by a detachment from the Kandahar garrison. The citadel was destroyed and
the fortifications demolished in 1863 by the Amir Dost Muhammad, because
he found that every governor sent to this frontier post became rebellious
on the strength of the fort. The place is now quite deserted, and offers
another sad instance of the too truthful saying, that everybody who
comes here destroys something and goes his way.
A couple of miles or so beyond this, at another bend of the river, we
came to the hut settlement and cultivation of Deshú, belonging to the
Isháczais. It is the only habitation we have met with on this side the
river since leaving Landi. A little farther on we passed through some
widespread ruins of towers and houses, the ground between which was red
with bits of broken pottery. In some parts it was perfectly flat, and
gave out a hollow sound as our horses tramped over the surface, conveying
the idea that we were riding over concealed vaults. At two miles on from
this, we camped on the river bank, opposite a dense jangal of tamarisk
and willow trees.
Our next stage was thirty-six miles to Landi Bárechí, where we camped on
the high bank of the river close to the fort. Our route, at first S.S.W.,
led through a wild uninhabited jangal tract for the whole distance. The
road is a well-beaten track, and passes across a succession of deep bays
or reaches of spongy saline alluvium, and for the most part follows the
course of the river, the short bends of which now and again come close up
to the road.
The reaches are separated from each other by promontories of the desert,
which stretch forward up to the river bank. At about eight miles we
came to a solitary mound on the Abdullahabad reach or bay. It is called
_Sangar_, or “the breastwork,” and is said to be the first place seized
from the Núrzai by the celebrated Baloch freebooter, Abdullah Khán,
after whom the country is now named. This notorious robber was the chief
of a small party of Sanjarání Baloch nomads, who are said to have
come here from the Kharán and Núshkí districts in the troublous times
following Nadír Sháh’s devastating march through the Garmsel in 1738. He
pitched his tents here, and, with the aid of other Baloch mercenaries of
different tribes, succeeded in ousting the Núrzai possessors after many
encounters. During his lifetime he held all that portion of the left bank
of the river extending from Mel Gudar to Rúdbár, as the summer pasture
tract of his tribe, and annually, on the return from winter quarters in
the desert, contested its possession with the Núrzai. Many tales are
told of his prowess and lawlessness, but in a country where every man
is a born robber, and acknowledges no other right but that maintained
by might, his deeds of valour resolve themselves into petty successes
against, and gradual encroachments on, the lands of individual nomad
camps numerically weaker than his own, and distracted by intestine feuds
that prevented a combination to expel the intruder. The plundering habits
of these Baloch, and their constant hostilities with the neighbouring
Afghan nomads, led to the abandonment of the Garmsel route from Kandahar
to Sistan, and the country soon became a den of thieves, and the refuge
of outlaws of all the surrounding provinces, who attached themselves to
the Baloch chief as mercenaries and dependants.
From Sangar our path veered to the S.W., and, after a few miles, passed
round the projecting desert cliffs by a narrow path between them and the
river brink, and brought us into another bay or reach, called Khwájah
’Ali, from a mound and ruined tower in the midst of a sheet of broken
pottery that covers its surface to redness. Whilst riding over this, we
observed, as on a former occasion, that the ground gave a hollow sound
under our horses’ feet, as if it were vaulted. Excepting the tower
mentioned, not a wall nor vestige of any other building was discoverable
above the flat surface.
Having come sixteen miles, we halted at this tower for breakfast; and
took the opportunity to satisfy ourselves that there was really nothing
to see here, except that the river bank on this side is high and
vertical, and its wide bed full of tamarisk and willow forests, on the
edge of which are the fresh prints of wild pig in the soft soil.
From this alluvial bay we passed into a similar one, by a very narrow
path between the river brink and the abrupt cliffs of a promontory of the
desert. It is called Dashtí Hadera, or “the plain of the graveyard,” and
is about two miles across. Here, too, though no traces of walls or mounds
were visible, the surface was coloured by the bits of red tile and glazed
pottery thickly strewed over the level ground. Beyond this we rose on to
the next promontory of the desert, and passed an extensive graveyard,
from which the plain below derives its name.
From this elevation, the flat surface of which is a coarse gravelly sand
bare of vegetation, we got a wide view of the desert, extending away to
the south, as far as the eye could reach, in an unbroken waste of sandy
undulations. We descended the farther side of this by a long sandy gully,
and entered on the Pulálak alluvium, a reach similar to those already
passed, but wider.
Here we passed the rains of the Pulálak huts, destroyed in the spring
of 1869 by the usurper Muhammad ’Azím Khán, when he took this route to
Persia, after his defeat at Ghazni in January of that year by pre-Amir
Sher ’Ali Khán. Pulálak is said to be an abbreviation of Pul ’Ali Khán
(the bridge or boundary of ’Ali Khán); but who ’Ali Khán was we could not
clearly learn.
The ex-Amir, Muhammad ’Azím Khán, halted here to recruit his band
of followers on the young growing crops and what supplies the place
afforded. But meanwhile Sharíf Khán, the Nahroe Baloch of Sistan, being
suspicious of ’Azím’s designs, suddenly marched from Burj Alam, surprised
’Azím, and put his followers to flight. He then received the fallen
Amir as a refugee, and assisted him as far as Mashhad on his way to the
Persian capital. The unfortunate Bárechí settlers, having been plundered
by each in turn, left the country to join their clansmen in Shorawak, and
their homesteads are now almost obliterated in a wilderness of jangal.
Beyond this, rounding some desert cliffs, we entered the alluvium of
Landi Bárechí, and camped on the high river bank close to the fort. There
is a good deal of cultivation here, and the level ground is dotted all
over with little sandheaps topped by clumps of tamarisk, or bushes of a
species of caroxylon and other salsolaceæ, which have been the cause of
their formation. We had not seen this appearance before, and the number
and size of these mounds attracted our attention. They are formed by
drift sand collecting about the roots of scattered bushes, and gradually,
as its quantity increases by fresh additions, raising them above the
general level of the plain. Some of these mounds are eight or ten feet
high, and of a blunt conical form. Landi is a small square fort, with a
turret at each angle, and around it are some two hundred wattle-and-dab
huts of the Bárechí Afghans. The river here flows in two or three streams
between long island strips of tamarisk jangal.
I shot a large blue-backed and black-headed seamew here. The gull fell
into the stream, and drifted to the opposite shore; but my servant, a
native of Kandahar, retrieved it, fording the river with the water up
to his neck. The stream was very still, and of clear blue colour. Here
also I got specimens of the black cormorant, a grebe, and a small diver
much resembling it, and another bird with similar features, but with a
serrated bill, hooked at the tip.
The weather was more or less cloudy all day. Towards sunset rain set in,
and continued in a steady soaking drizzle far into the night. The evening
temperature outside the tent was 54° Fah. By the aneroid, I calculated
the elevation of this place at 1950 feet above the sea.
At the last stage, one hundred and fifty of our cavalry escort were sent
back to Kandahar; and at this place we parted with our infantry escort
and their commandant, Colonel Táj Muhammad, Ghilzai, as we are soon to
enter Sistan territory, now in the possession of Persia.
I was sorry to lose the Colonel’s society, for he generally accompanied
me on my deviations from the beaten track, and proved himself a very
agreeable and intelligent companion. He obtained his promotion for
good service at the siege and capture of Herat in 1863 under the late
Amir Dost Muhammad Khán. He is one of the most intelligent and least
prejudiced Afghans of his class I have met with, and in our rambles
together gave me a fund of information regarding his people and the
portions of the country he had visited. Like all Afghans, he was a keen
sportsman, and with a common smooth-bore military musket, of the now
nearly extinct Brown Bess pattern, made some remarkably good “pot shots”
at eighty yards, considering his ammunition was home-made gunpowder, and
roughly-rolled pellets cut from pencils of lead.
He took leave of us with many sincere expressions of regret at our
separation, and committed us to “the protection of God” with all sorts
of good wishes for our welfare and prosperity. Towards those he treats
as his friends, the Afghan can make himself very agreeable, and in this
phase his character is of the most winning kind. His straightforward
friendliness, his independent bearing, and freedom from flattery and
obsequiousness, coupled with unbounded hospitality and unceasing
attention to the wants of his honoured guest, are sure to captivate
the stranger, and blind him to the fact that he has a dark side to his
character, and that a very trivial circumstance may serve to disclose it.
However, on this occasion, as the even tenor of our friendly relations
was happily unmarred by a single _contretemps_, it is not for me in this
place to enlarge on the proverbial fickleness of their character, nor to
disclose the wolf that lurks in the Afghan heart. It is enough to speak
of our friends as we find them; and in this light it is but fair to say,
nothing could have excelled the genuineness of the cordiality that marked
our conduct towards each other during our association on this march
through the province of Kandahar.
_28th February._—Landi Bárechí to Rúdbár, seventeen miles; route, W.S.W.
After clearing the Landi cultivation, our path led under some projecting
desert cliffs, on the most prominent of which are the ruins of a small
fort, which, from its elevation, must command a wide prospect of the
country on the east and west.
Beyond this, crossing the Rúdbár canal, we entered a wide gulf or reach
of level land. It is now a perfect wilderness; and in its centre, on a
low mound, are the ruins of Lát Calá, of the history of which nobody
could tell us anything. The surface around is strewed to redness with
bits of broken pottery, bricks, and glazed ware. Farther on, our path
still skirting the desert cliffs on our left, we passed the ruins of
Karbásak or Garshásap, and then veering towards the river on our right,
crossed a bare pebbly tract down to Rúdbár, where we camped.
The pebbles on this tract, which is formed by the sinking of the desert
in low undulations towards the river, are smooth, and close-set in the
clay soil. They are of a dark brown colour, and in the morning sunlight
shone with the lustre of frosted silver. Not a particle of vegetation was
seen in this tract, though beyond it, in the vicinity of Rúdbár, there is
a considerable extent of corn-fields, and a scattered growth of tamarisk
and other trees.