CHAPTER X.

_2d April._—Marched from Birjand to Ghíbk or Ghínk, eighteen miles. The

weather, which during our stay at Birjand had been delightfully mild

and balmy, now changed and became bleak and stormy. During the night, a

strong east wind blew in eddying gusts that threatened the stability of

our tents. In the forenoon it changed to the west, and towards sunset

veered round to the north, and closed the evening with a storm and heavy

rain.

We had been promised a relay of camels at this place, and up to the

last were deceived by false assurances of their being ready at the time

appointed for our departure. But as they were not produced at the time

agreed, and we had seen enough to shake our faith in the ready promises

of their immediate arrival, it was decided that we should leave our large

tents and heavy baggage here, to be brought on after us so soon as the

promised camels should be provided, and proceed ourselves with the small

tents and mule carriage, according to the original intention.

At noon, therefore, we set out in light marching order, and after passing

clear of the town, crossed a wide ravine that courses through it towards

the west, and entered on a wide plateau that gently slopes up towards the

east, in which direction it is continuous with the Sarbesha valley. Our

route across this was in a north-easterly direction by a beaten track

skirting the base of a high ridge of mountains that close the plateau

towards the west. At about eight miles we rose over some low mounds

of fissile slate covered with red marl that project on to the plateau,

and beyond them, crossing the deep boulder-strewn ravine of Ishkambár,

followed the highroad between the villages of Bújdí on the right and

Ishkambár on the left, and passing a roadside _ábambár_, at a couple of

miles farther on reached the hamlet of Mahiabad, near the entrance of

a deep gorge in the hills, and halted awhile to let the baggage get on

ahead.

The rise from Birjand to this, though gradual, is considerable—850 feet

as indicated by the aneroid—and from its elevation we got a good view

of the Bagrán range of hills to the south, and the great tableland that

forms the prospect on its north, in which direction it is bounded by

the Múminabad range of hills, that separate it from the Sunnikhána and

Alghór districts. This extensive tableland descends considerably towards

the west, and is divided unequally into the valley of Múd and plateau of

Sarbesha by a low ridge of rocks that run from east to west. The drainage

of the whole surface is conveyed by the Fakhrábád ravine through the town

of Birjand down to the Khusp river, which is lost in the great desert

of the west. We crossed this ravine on leaving camp, and saw that it

received the Múd and Ishkambár ravines as tributaries.

The general aspect of this tableland, bounded on all sides by hills,

is singularly wild, and at this season its climate is bleak and

inhospitable. A cold north wind swept down from the hills in numbing

blasts, and howled over the wide waste dismally. Beyond the three little

castellated hamlets in our vicinity, not a vestige of habitation or

cultivation was anywhere to be seen. Yet in summer, we were assured,

the now deserted pastures are covered with nomad tents, and swarm with

teeming flocks of goats and sheep and camels.

Mahiabad, like Bújdí and Ishkambár, is a collection of eighteen or twenty

miserable huts, protected by a small castle. Like them, too, it is almost

depopulated by the effects of the famine, which still presses sorely,

notwithstanding the imports of grain from Sistan. In Mahiabad, only four

families are left out of its original population of fifteen families.

The rest have either died of starvation, or emigrated in search of food.

The remnant who still cling to the village are miserably poor, and carry

starvation depicted on their features. Their lot now is undoubtedly a

cruelly hard one, and in the best of times, could not have been a very

favourable one, for the soil is sterile, and composed for the most part

of the débris of trap and granite rocks, that strew the surface with

sharp angular stones; whilst the water supply, which is from a pool fed

by a _kárez_, is so bitter and saline that it is barely drinkable. We

tried some tea prepared with it, and that was all, for it was impossible

to drink it even thus disguised.

On the plain opposite Mahiabad, and a little distance from Bújdí, is a

singular conical hill called _márkoh_, or “serpent hill.” It looks like a

volcanic crater, and stands out alone by itself. We could not learn that

the name had any reference to the existence or not of snakes upon it.

Beyond Mahiabad our path entered the hills, and followed the windings of

a wildly picturesque defile, the general direction of which is northerly.

On our way up the gorge, which widens and narrows alternately, we

passed the castellated hamlets of Pisukh and Piranj, each occupying an

eminence overlooking the road, and at about the fifth mile reached the

watershed, at a narrow pass called Gudar Saman Shahí. Its elevation is

about 7020 feet above the sea, and 2140 feet above Birjand. The ascent is

considerable all the way, and the road very rough, with sharp angular

blocks of trap strewing the surface. Here and there the hard rugged

rocks approach and narrow the path, so as to render it difficult for the

passage of laden cattle. In the pass we overtook our baggage, which had

left camp at Birjand at ten A.M., and it did not all arrive in our camp

at Ghíbk till past nine P.M., the cattle being much exhausted by the

march.

Beyond the watershed, the road slopes gently to a little dell full of

vineyards, orchards, and fruit gardens; and farther on, crossing a deep

boulder-strewn ravine, passes over a flat ridge of slaty rock down to

the glen of Ghíbk, in which we camped at a few hundred yards below

the village, a strip of terraced corn-fields intervening. This is the

roughest and most difficult pass we have seen in all our journey so far;

and it was the more trying both to man and beast by the inclemency of

the weather. A cold north wind blew down the pass in chilling gusts, and

at six o’clock, just as we had alighted on our camping-ground, a heavy

storm of rain broke over us and drenched everything, so that it was with

difficulty we got a fire lighted to warm ourselves till the arrival of

our baggage, which did not all come up till three hours later, owing to

the men having lost the path in the dark.

We halted here the next day to rest our cattle, and were so fortunate as

to have fine weather, with a delightfully clear and fresh atmosphere,

which enabled us thoroughly to enjoy and appreciate the climate and

scenery of this really charming little eyrie in the hills, of which our

first experience was so unfavourable. Our camp is pitched at the bottom

of a narrow dell half a mile due west of Ghíbk, which is a romantic

little village picturesquely perched on the summit and slopes of a mound

at its top. From the midst of the huts, rising tier above tier, stands

out their protecting castle, now in a sad state of decay, as indeed is

the whole village. Around it are crowded together vineyards and fruit

gardens on the terraced slopes of the hills, whilst the dell itself is

laid out in a succession of terraced corn-fields, freely watered by

sprightly little streams.

The situation is a charming one in this wild region of barren hills

and rugged rocks, and in summer must be as agreeable and salubrious a

residence as in winter it is bleak and inhospitable. The elevation of our

camp at the bottom of the dell is estimated at 6650 feet above the sea,

and that of the village itself about a couple of hundred feet higher. In

winter, snow falls here very heavily, and the people are shut up in their

houses for fully two months. The main range of mountains rises several

hundred feet above the elevation of Ghíbk, and runs from north-west to

south-east, throwing out spurs on either side, that enclose a succession

of glens or narrow valleys draining east and west. The Ghíbk valley is

one of these, and is continuous towards the west, through the gully of

the ravine we crossed on approaching it, with the glens of Arwí and

Zarwí, the drainage of which ultimately reaches the Khusp river, to be

lost on the sandy desert of Yazd. The main range has different names to

distinguish its several portions; thus at Ghíbk it is called Alghór or

Arghol, to the north of this it is called Sághí, and to the south Saman

Shahí. The Alghór range gives its name to one of the principal divisions

or _bulúk_ of the Gháyn district.

The Alghór _bulúk_ is said to contain upwards of three hundred villages

and hamlets and farmsteads (_mazrá_), scattered about in nooks and

dells amongst the hills. Arwí and Zarwí are amongst the largest of

the villages. We visited these during our halt here. They are very

picturesquely situated in adjoining dells only two or three miles

off, and each contains about two hundred houses. They have a neat and

prosperous look, and are surrounded by vineyards and orchards and small

patches of corn cultivation. Ghíbk is a smaller village, and contains

about seventy or eighty houses. Alghór is the chief town of the _bulúk_,

and is said to contain three hundred houses. It is the residence of

the agent of the governor of the district, Mír ’Alam Khán. All these

villages have suffered more or less severely during the famine, and some

have become entirely depopulated. The population of Ghíbk was formerly

nearly four hundred souls. It now only contains about two hundred and

fifty. During last year fifty-three persons, we were told, had died of

starvation, and the village has further lost thirty families who have

emigrated to Sistan.

From Ghíbk we marched eighteen miles, and camped at Sihdih. Our route

was generally north by west, up the course of a drainage gully, winding

amongst hills, and passing from dell to dell up to a watershed formed

by a spur from the Sághí range on our right. It runs east and west, and

is about 6750 feet above the sea. The hills are of disintegrated trap

overlaid by a soft friable slate, the surface of which has crumbled into

a marly soil. Vegetation, though there are no trees nor large bushes,

except in the gardens, is more abundant than the wild and rugged look

of the hills would lead one to expect. We noticed camel-thorn, ephedra,

asafœtida, rhubarb, wormwood, tulip, crocus, bluebell, and other similar

plants and grasses, along the line of march.

Beyond the watershed the road slopes gently along the course of a long

drainage gully, which winds through a gradually widening country with

hills on either side, and at about twelve miles enters the Sihdih valley,

an open plateau extending east and west for thirty miles or so. In the

first few miles from the watershed we passed in succession the villages

of Nokhán, Cháhikan, and Pistakhan on the left, and Sághí and Husenabad

on the right. The country between the hills is much broken by low mounds,

all more or less ploughed up and sown with corn. The extent of this

cultivation indicates the existence of a much larger population than we

see in our passage through the country. The fact is, they are concealed

from view in the secluded nooks and glens of the hills around, each

of which has its own farmsteads and hamlets, with their vineyards and

fruit gardens. The fruits produced here are the plum, apricot, jujube,

apple, peach, quince, almond, mulberry, &c. The chief crops are wheat

and barley, and the common vegetables are the carrot, turnip, onion,

cabbage, beet, &c. In summer the hill pastures are resorted to by nomads

with their flocks of goats and sheep and herds of camels. Snow still lies

on the higher ranges, and patches are found in the sheltered hollows

lower down. The hills abound in game, such as the _márkhor_ and _ibix_

(both species of wild goat), and the wild sheep. The leopard, hyæna, and

wolf are also found on them, but not the bear. The country generally is

devoid of trees, but supports an abundant growth of pasture plants and

bushes suitable for fuel. We here found the surface covered with the

wormwood, and a dwarf yellow rose with a dark purple centre. It is called

_khalora_, and affords a good pasture for cattle. I observed it all over

the country as far west as Kirmánshah, and generally in company with the

wild liquorice.

Sihdih, as the name implies, is a collection of three villages on the

plain to which they give their name. Only one of them is now inhabited,

the other two being in ruins. Very superior carpets are manufactured

here, and they seem to fetch also very superior prices, to judge from

those asked of us for some specimens we had selected. The fact is,

the natural propensity of the merchants to overcharge the stranger,

particularly the Britisher, who is always supposed to travel about with

untold wealth, had been stimulated by the very liberal ideas of our

Persian servants as to their own rights of perquisite or _mudákhil_,

as it is termed; and prices were at once doubled or trebled, to the

detriment of all parties, for we refrained from purchasing as freely as

we would with fair dealing, the merchants lost an opportunity of ready

profit, and our servants, the cause of the whole mischief, received but

diminished returns, as the fruit of their greed and chicanery.

Our Afghan companions, who well knew the market price of these carpets,

and had come prepared to lay in a stock of them for transport to

Kandahar, were so disgusted at the _be-ímáni_, or want of conscience, on

the part of the Persians, that they altogether refused to treat with them

on the terms, and contented themselves by leaving an agent to purchase

what they required after our departure, when prices would return to their

normal rates. The evils of _dastúrí_ in India are bad enough so far as

they affect the foreigner, but here, under the name _mudákhil_, they are

ten times worse. The _dastúrí_ or customary perquisite taken by servants

on all purchases made by their master through or with their cognisance,

is usually limited to an anna in the rupee, or six and a quarter per

cent., but the _mudákhil_, which may be rendered, “all that comes within

grasp,” has no recognised limit, and ranges high or low, according to the

conscience of the exactor and the weakness of his victim. With us, as our

subsequent experience proved, it ranged from ten to three hundred per

cent., and was an imposition from which, under the circumstances of the

case, we could not escape.

The Sihdih _júlagah_ or plain is a fertile valley running east and west,

and presents a number of castellated villages along the hill skirts on

either side. Its soil is light and gravelly, and in the vicinity of the

villages the surface is covered with long strips of corn cultivation. The

general slope of the land is to the west, in which direction it drains

by a wide ravine that ultimately joins the Khusp river. The water of

the _kárez_ on which our camp was pitched proved too brackish to drink,

and we were obliged to send to another _kárez_ beyond the village for a

fresh supply. The weather here was very changeable. North-westerly gusts

of wind raised clouds of dust, and drove it in eddying drifts across

the plain, till a thunderstorm with a smart fall of rain cleared the

atmosphere, and allowed the sun to shine out a while before setting for

the day.

We heard different accounts here of recent raids by the Turkmans, but the

accounts were so conflicting that we could make nothing of them, more

than that these slave-hunting freebooters were really on the road and

somewhere in the vicinity. The people have such a terror of them that

they cannot speak of them without evincing fear, and running off into

extravagances as to their ferocity and irresistible prowess.

From Sihdih we marched ten miles to Rúm, and camped on the sloping bank

of a brisk little hill stream draining westward, at a short distance from

the village. Our route was mostly northward across the plain, but for

the last two miles, on entering the hills, was north-eastward. Rúm is

a miserable little village of seventy or eighty huts, clustered around

a crumbling castle on the very brink of a hill torrent of no depth or

width. It now only contains thirty families of wretchedly poor people,

who have so far struggled through the great pressure of the famine. Last

year, we were told, forty of the people died of starvation, and between

twenty-five and thirty families emigrated in search of food. The remnant

were so reduced and broken-hearted that they were unable to bury their

dead decently, and merely deposited the bodies in shallow pits covered

over with loose soil. I observed some broken skulls and human bones in

the little stream washing the walls of the village, and noticed that

the whole air of the locality was tainted with putrid odours from the

insufficiently covered graves. From Rúm we marched twenty-two miles to

Gháyn, and halted there two days. Our route for the first few miles was

north-easterly up the course of the Rúm rivulet, and then northerly over

a hilly tract, gradually rising up to a watershed at seven miles. The

ridge runs east and west, and is about 6550 feet above the sea, and 964

feet above Sihdih. The rock is of friable brown slate, here and there

crumbled into clay. The ascent up to the pass is very gradual, over a

hillocky hollow between high hills. The surface is everywhere ploughed

and sown with corn, and abounds in a variety of weeds, crocus, tulip,

anemone, and other plants. We saw no villages, but the cultivation

indicates their existence in the secluded nooks and dells around. The

morning air was delightfully fresh, a hoar-frost whitened the ground,

and our march was enlivened by the clear song of the nightingale and the

familiar notes of the cuckoo.

The view from the watershed is very picturesque, and looks down in the

distance upon the valley of Gháyn, which stretches east and west beyond a

long vista of irregular hills of bare rock, flanked on either side by a

high range streaked with snow at the summit.

The descent from the watershed is by a narrow stony path on the steep

slope of the hill, down to a winding ravine at its foot. We followed this

for some distance, passing three little hamlets with their orchards,

saffron gardens, and mulberry plantations in successive little glens, and

at about five miles from the watershed came to Kharwaj, a flourishing

village of eighty or ninety houses, on the terminal slopes of a spur that

causes the gully draining this hollow to make a considerable sweep. The

people of this village are Saggids, and appear very comfortably off. They

are well clad, and present no signs of suffering from the famine. Both

the men and women have remarkably fair complexions and ruddy cheeks, and

what surprised me more was the decidedly Tátár cast of their features.

From this we went on down a narrow glen, that, widening gradually, at

last expands on to the valley of Gháyn by a long and gentle slope,

half-way on which is a roadside _ábambár_ fed by a _kárez_ stream. Before

us lay a crowded mass of fruit gardens and mulberry plantations, all in

full foliage, and above them rose aloft the high-domed mosque of Gháyn.

We passed amongst these walled gardens, and skirting the fortifications

of the town, camped on a small rivulet a little way to its west. As we

cleared the gardens we came upon a crowd of the townspeople, collected

on the roadside to see us pass. They were remarkably well dressed, and

conducted themselves with commendable propriety and decorum. Most of

them bowed civilly as we rode past, and many raised the hand to the head

in military style, whilst a venerable old priest with a flowing beard

as white as the turban under the weight of whose capacious folds he was

buried, standing apart on a slight eminence with half a dozen acolytes

clad in white, offered up a prayer to avert any evil that this first

visit of Europeans to their town might entail. The plaintive trembling

voice of the old man, echoed by the shrill tones of his young disciples,

struck me as peculiarly impressive, but they were unheeded by the crowd,

who were much too deeply absorbed in the novel spectacle presented by

our party to their eyes for the first time. We were assured that we

were the first Europeans who are known to have visited this town, and

the statement is supported by the fact that all our maps of the country

were wrong as to its proper location, Gháyn being placed to the south of

Birjand, whereas the reverse is the case.

Gháyn has a very decayed look, and quite disappoints the expectations

raised by the first sight of its gardens and lofty mosque. The town

covers a considerable extent of ground enclosed within fortified walls,

now everywhere in a state of decay. The area within the walls is capable

of containing from eight to ten thousand houses, it is said, though

at this time only about fifteen hundred are occupied, corn-fields and

gardens occupying the intervals between the ruins of its former mansions.

A prominent object of attraction in the town is its lofty domed mosque,

which in outward appearance is in keeping with the general look of

decay pervading the locality. Its walls, which are supported in their

perpendicular by buttress arches built against them laterally, are

dangerously cracked from top to bottom, either from original defect

of architecture or from the effects of earthquakes. The population is

estimated at about eight thousand, amongst whom are many Saggid families,

and others of Arab origin. The mass of the people, however, appear to be

of Tátár origin, as indicated by the very marked traces of that typical

race in their features.

Silk and saffron are produced here in considerable quantity, and a

variety of fruits. The asafœtida grows wild in great abundance all over

the plain, and rhubarb on the surrounding hills. The asafœtida is of two

kinds—one called _kamá-i-gawí_, which is grazed by cattle and used as a

potherb, and the other _kamá-i-angúza_, which yields the gum-resin of

commerce. The silk is mostly sent to Kirmán in the raw state, but a good

deal is consumed at home in the manufacture of some inferior fabrics for

the local markets. The carpets known by the name of this town are not

made here, but in the villages of the southern divisions of the district.

Gháyn is the name of a very ancient city, supposed to have been founded

by a son of the blacksmith Káwáh of Ispahán, the hero of the Peshdádí

kings, who slew the tyrant Záhák, and whose leather apron—afterwards

captured by the Arab Sád bin Wacáss—became the standard of Persia, under

the name of _darafshi Káwání_, or the “Káwání standard.” It was studded

with the most costly jewels by successive kings, to the last of the

Pahlavi race, from whom it was wrested by the Arab conqueror, and sent as

a trophy to the Khálif ’Umar.

The son of Káwáh was named Kárin. His city, the ruins of which are here

known as _Shahri Gabri_, or “the Gabr (Guebrc) city,” was built on the

slope and crest of a hill ridge overlooking the present town from the

south-east. The hill is called “Koh Imám Jáfar,” and is covered with the

remains of ancient buildings, and large reservoirs excavated in the solid

rock. The city, according to local tradition, was sacked and destroyed by

Halákú Khán, the son of Changhiz, and the present town afterwards rose

on the plain at the foot of the hill in its stead. In the days of its

prosperity this new city must have been a very flourishing and populous

centre of life. The environs for a considerable distance are covered

with extensive graveyards, in which are some handsome tombs of glazed

tiles and slabs of white marble, elaborately carved and inscribed. The

valley of Gháyn is a wide plain extending east and west between high

mountains, the summits of which are still covered with snow. A high

snow-streaked range closes the valley towards the west. It is called Koh

Báras, and trending in a north-westerly direction, connects the elevated

tablelands of Sarbesha and Alghór with those of Bijistan of the Tún and

Tabbas district. Its eastern slopes drain into the Gháyn valley, where

its several streams form a considerable rivulet (our camp is pitched on

its shore), which flows past the town to the eastward. To the northward,

the Gháyn valley is separated from the plains of Nímbulúk and Gúnábád by

a low range of bare hills over which there are several easy passes.

The elevation of Gháyn is about 4860 feet above the sea, or much on the

same level as that of Birjand, and a little higher than that of Bijistan,

from both of which it is separated by tablelands of considerably higher

elevation. The climate of Gháyn is described as temperate and salubrious

during spring and summer, but bleak and rigorous during autumn and

winter. During two or three months of winter the roads over the high land

between this and Birjand on the one hand, and Bijistan on the other,

are closed to all traffic by the depth of snow then covering the hills.

Gháyn, like Birjand, appears to have escaped the horrors of the famine,

for we saw no traces of its effects amongst the people, who appeared a

fine healthy and robust race, of mixed types of physiognomy, in which the

Tátár characters predominated. During our stay here, the weather, though

fine and sunny, was decidedly cold, and a keen north-west wind swept down

from the hills in stormy gusts. The temperature of the air ranged from

35° Fah. to 75° Fah., and rendered warm clothing not only agreeable but

necessary.

From this place, it had been arranged that we should proceed to Turbat

Hydari by the direct road through Nímbulúk and Gúnábád, but a very

fortunate accident determined us to follow a safer route, particularly as

in our unprotected state—the Persian authorities having failed to furnish

our party with any escort—we were unprepared to face any unnecessary risk.

On the day after our arrival here, the Afghan Commissioner, Saggid Núr

Muhammad Sháh, sought an interview with General Pollock, to consult

about our onward journey, as he had received alarming accounts of the

dangers on the road it was proposed we should follow. At the interview

the Saggid introduced an old acquaintance of his, one Hájí Mullah Abdul

Wahid, a merchant of Gizík in the Sunnikhána district. Hearing of our

arrival in this country, he had set out for Birjand to see the Saggid,

but finding our camp had left the place, followed and overtook us here.

The Hájí was an asthmatic old gentleman of nearly seventy years of age,

and had seen more prosperous times than fortune had now allotted to him.

By way of preface he mentioned that he had cashed bills for Colonel

Taylor’s mission at Herat in 1857, and claimed acquaintance with me on

the score of having met me at Kandahar with Major Lumsden’s mission. He

expressed great respect for the British, and assured us it was only his

good-will towards us, and interest in the welfare of his countryman the

Saggid, that had prompted him to dissuade us from pursuing the route

he had heard we proposed taking. “This route,” said he, “is beset with

dangers, and God alone can extricate you from them. You may escape them

in Nímbulúk and Gúnábád, but in the Reg Amráni beyond, you must fall

into the hands of the Turkmans. They are known to be on the road, and not

a week passes without their raiding one or other of the _júlagah_ between

this and Turbat.” He told us he knew them well, for he had himself been

carried off prisoner by them at the time of Yár Muhammad’s death, and was

ransomed a few months later, together with six or seven hundred other

Afghan subjects, by his son Syd Muhammad. He described the Turkmans as

being very well armed with rifles and double-barrelled guns, and as never

charging in parties less than fifty, and sometimes with as many as five

hundred. They respect no class, nor sex, nor age, except the Arabs, and

sell all they capture in the markets of Khiva, only killing the very

aged and infirm, and those who offer resistance. They have been in this

vicinity for the last three weeks, and have already carried off from one

hundred and sixty to one hundred and eighty of the peasantry of Gháyn.

Their favourite routes are by the Dashna-i-Gharcáb in Nímbulúk, and the

Reg Amráni to the north of Gúnábád.

He most strongly and repeatedly urged us, as we valued our own safety,

not to trust ourselves on the plains of Gúnábád, and advised us to follow

one of the more western routes, where we should have the protection of

the hills, amongst which the Turkmans fear to entangle themselves. The

good old Hájí’s arguments were so just, and so clearly and strongly

advanced, that, left as we were to our own resources, there was no

hesitation in changing our course, and adopting a safer route through

the hills bordering the dangerous tract on the west; and our friend was

satisfied that his journey from Gizík, which is sixty miles north-east

of Birjand, over an elevated plateau dotted with villages, was not

altogether fruitless, since it afforded him the happiness of diverting

us from a dangerous route, and the pleasure of experiencing British

generosity and gratitude, for the General did not allow his good service

to pass unrewarded. The old man took leave of us with genuine expressions

of good-will and friendship, and heartily commending us to the protection

of God, warned us to be unceasingly on our guard against the cunning and

treachery of the Persians. “Be very careful,” said he in a mysterious

whisper, “how you drink the tea and coffee they offer you. Many of our

people have died with agonising stomachaches after partaking of this

refreshment at their hands.”

_9th April._—Gháyn to Girimunj, twenty-two miles. Our route was

north-westerly, seven miles across the plain, which is covered with

asafœtida in profuse abundance, to the little castellated hamlets of

Shermurgh at the foot of the hills.

We halted here for breakfast near a _kárez_ stream of intensely brackish

water. Here a noisy dispute occurred between our baggagers and a party

of eight or ten armed men, who came after them from Gháyn in hot haste

and tempers to match, with a couple of Persian officials, whose dignity

it was pretended had been offended by our _mirakhor_, or “master of the

stables,” having hired some asses for our baggage without a reference

to them. They made a great disturbance immediately in front of where we

were seated, pulled each other about, lavished _pidr sokhtas_ and _cabr

káshídas_ on all sides, and would not be appeased though the _mirakhor_

uncovered his head to them, kissed the frothy lips of the irate Persian,

and offering his beard as sacrifice, entreated his forgiveness. Even our

_mihmandár_, Ali Beg, was as useless in this emergency as he had proved

all along the march; and the offended officials, as heedless of his

presence as of ours, defiantly threw off our loads, and triumphantly

marched off with the asses we had hired.

Had the Persian authorities made the arrangements they were in duty

bound to do for our proper escort and treatment, this insult could

not have occurred. We were even left to provide our own escort on a

road acknowledged to be unsafe for travellers, and received such scant

assistance that it was with difficulty fifty matchlockmen were collected

to escort our party on this march. On starting from Gháyn it was arranged

that we should take the route by Nogháb and Asadabad, skirting the hills

on the western border of the Nímbulúk plain; but after proceeding a short

distance, some scouts sent out to examine the passes returned, and from

their reports it was deemed advisable to turn off into the more westerly

route through the hills.

From Shermurgh our route continued north-westerly up the course of a

wide drainage gully, bounded on the left by the snow-streaked Báras

range, and on the right separated from the Nímbulúk plain by a low rocky

range bare of vegetation. At eight miles we reached a watershed called

Gudari Gód, and on the way up to it passed a bend in the hills to our

left, in which we saw the villages of Nogirift, Razdumbal, and Mahanj.

The elevation at the watershed is about 6075 feet above the sea. From

it the descent is gradual, by a path that winds amongst ridges skirting

the base of Báras and its continuation, Koh Behud, and crossing the Rúdi

Myán Pyáz, traverses a hill slope stretching down to the Nímbulúk plain

up to Girimunj. The Myán Pyáz rivulet is a brisk stream that drains Behud

to the Nímbulúk plain, and of considerable size. Girimunj contains about

two hundred houses clustered round a central fort, and is situated at

the entrance to a picturesque glen, in which are seen the villages of

Dihushk and Buznábád with their rich orchards and vineyards. The Nímbulúk

plain presents a wide valley, extending from north-west to south-east

some thirty-five miles by twelve wide. On its surface to the northward

are seen the villages of Siláyáni, Mahyám, and Khidri. It is separated

from Gúnábád by a long curving range of hills, through which are several

passes. The hill range is called Mysúr, and the passes, from south to

north, are named Dahna Gharcáb, Mugri, Rijing, Bálághor, and Dahna

Sulemán. The first and last are the routes commonly taken by the Turkmans.

Shortly after our arrival in camp, a party of matchlockmen arrived from

Dashtí Pyáz to warn Girimunj that Khidri had passed on word to them to be

on the alert, as two hundred and fifty Turkmans had this morning swept

across Gúnábád, and taken the road to Kakhak, which is our stage beyond

Khidri. The news created a considerable stir in the village, and the

people warned us to be on the alert during the night, and to continue our

route by the hills to Munawáj, and on no account to venture into the open

plain. At sunset Sir F. Goldsmid and General Pollock went round our camp,

and posted the matchlockmen whom we had hired from the village to protect

the approaches during the night, as it was thought we might possibly be

attacked by them. We ourselves looked to our arms, and at a late hour

retired to rest prepared for an alarm. Morning dawned, however, and no

Turkman was seen, and we were inclined to think they were a myth, but for

the lively fear and strict caution of the peasantry, which warned us of

the necessity of vigilance.

From Girimunj we marched fifteen miles to Dashtí Pyáz. Our route was

north-west along the Nímbulúk plain, skirting the Isfyán range of hills

(a continuation of Behud) on our left. Out of deference to the Turkmans,

we marched in a compact column with the baggage, a party of thirty

matchlockmen leading the advance, and a similar party following in the

rear.

At a few miles from camp, we came upon the fresh marks of horseshoes

across our path. They were followed a little way on to the plain, and

unhesitatingly pronounced to be the tracks of Turkmans who had come to

reconnoitre our position during the night.

Our Afghan companions, who had some practical knowledge of these people

about Herat, were satisfied on this point, and described to us their

mode of attack, and how it behoved us to defend ourselves; whilst Hájí

Abdullah, Shahrki, a venerable old chief of Sistan, who had joined Sir

F. Goldsmid’s party at Kirmán, and used often to entertain us with

selections from his stories of traditional lore, propounded in most

classical language and with the purest accent, in tones delightful to

the ear, and with a captivating manner, was no less convinced of the

necessity for caution, and forthwith turned his camel a little closer

to the hills, and manfully followed the course of his own selection

in solitary dignity, holding his rifle all ready charged with both

hands across his lap, and keeping his sharp eyes steadily fixed in the

direction of the plain.

We passed two roadside _ábambár_ and three or four little hamlets at

the foot of the hills, then crossed a hill torrent, and rising over an

upland, at the twelfth mile came to Khidri, a flourishing village of two

hundred houses, buried in fruit gardens and mulberry plantations. We

halted here for breakfast, whilst the baggage proceeded to Dashtí Pyáz,

four miles farther on, at the top of the upland rise.

We halted two days at Dashtí Pyáz, in hopes of the heavy baggage we had

left at Birjand here overtaking us. But as it did not arrive, and our

Persian _mihmandár_ told so many and such contradictory lies about it—his

last report, told us with the coolest effrontery only at Khidri, assured

us that we should find all awaiting us at this place, Dashtí Pyáz—we were

fain to proceed, leaving it to overtake us farther on.

Dashtí Pyáz is a flourishing village of three hundred houses outside a

dilapidated fort, which is also crowded with habitations, and all around

are extensive fruit gardens and vineyards. The town is situated at the

entrance to a wide glen, formed by a bend in the Isfyán and Koh Syáh

hills to the west. It contains several flourishing villages, of which

Munawáj and Buthkabad are the chief, and the ruins of an ancient city

called Jáhul Fars, the capital of Isfandyár.

_13th April._—Dashtí Pyáz to Kakhak, sixteen miles. We were to have

marched yesterday morning, but at the last moment the order was

countermanded, as the Persian _mihmandár_ refused to consent to our

moving unless Sir F. Goldsmid gave him a written and sealed paper

exonerating him from all responsibility in case of accident or injury on

the road. He stated that he had received intelligence from his scouts

that from two hundred to four hundred Turkman horse had been seen last

evening on the plain at two _farsakhs_ or _parasangs_ (about eight miles)

from the Bálághor Pass, and that they may to-day be expected to raid

Gúnábád to Kakhak or this valley of Nímbulúk to-day. The day passed,

however, without our seeing anything of them, and our only consolation in

the delay was in the unfavourable state of the weather, which set in damp

and chill with drenching showers, and the new information we gathered

regarding the so-called Turkmans, of whom we have heard so much and seen

so little.

These would-be Turkmans are in reality Tymúri horsemen, lately in the

service of Ataullah Khán, their tribal chief. This man was one of the

chiefs of the Tátár tribes settled about Herat since the invasion of

Tymúr Lang or Tamerlane, and named after that devastating conqueror.

In 1857, when the prince-governor of Khorassan, Sultán Murád Mirzá,

Hisámussaltanat, of Mashhad, attacked Herat, this chief, with his

following, joined the Persian standard. On the retreat of the Persian

army from Herat territory, Ataullah, by way of reward for his services,

and compensation for the compromise his conduct had brought about, was

transported, with four hundred families of his tribe, to the Kohi Surkh

district of Turshíz, and granted the villages of Kundar, Khalilábád,

Dihnan, Majdí, Sarmujdí, Bijingar, and Argi, in military fief for their

support.

During the famine last year, these men, becoming hard pressed for food,

threw off the restraint of their chief, and took to the more congenial

occupation of plundering the caravans from Herat to Tehran, and were soon

joined by other adventurers and robbers, who grow in this country like

mushrooms on mould. Their depredations led to such widespread complaint,

that the governor of Mashhad sent the Imami Jumá to inquire into the

conduct of the tribe, redress complaints, and restore the plundered

property. Ataullah, hearing of this, himself fled and joined the robbers,

but was conciliated, and persuaded to tender his submission at Mashhad.

The subsequent conduct of his people, however, who waylaid and murdered

a party of government officials on their way across Reg Amráni towards

Tabbas, has still further compromised their chief with the Government,

and Ataullah is now a close prisoner at Tehran, and it is supposed will

answer with his life for the conduct of his tribesmen. This history,

interesting in itself, is eminently characteristic of the state of

society and weak government on this frontier.

Our route from Dashtí Pyáz was W.N.W., ascending a long upland or _chol_

separated from the Gúnábád plain on the right by the Laki ridge of hills,

and from the Munawáj glen on the left by a broken chain of hillocks.

Passing a roadside _ábambár_ about half-way, we halted at the sixth mile

at a willow-fringed tank near the picturesque little castle of Sihúkri

for breakfast. Here we found some fine elm and walnut trees. The rise is

about 900 feet above Dashtí Pyáz, and affords an extensive view of the

Nímbulúk plain and country to the southward. Our baggage, with the escort

of hired matchlockmen, went on ahead, and we followed an hour and a half

later.

Onwards from this, our route was N.N.W., through a narrow winding gorge

bounded by low hills of slate and magnesian limestone, in which we found

some fossil bivalves and oysters. A gradual ascent of four miles brought

us to the Gudari Kakhak, a narrow watershed pass that marks the boundary

between the districts of Gháyn and Tabbas. Its elevation is about 6838

feet above the sea, and 1408 feet above Dashtí Pyáz. It is closed for

two months in winter by snow, and in wet weather is difficult for laden

cattle, owing to the loose marly soil becoming a deep slippery mud.

The descent is gradual, through a long drainage gully receiving branches

on either side down to a wide boulder-strewn ravine with high banks,

which opens on to the Gúnábád plain, near Kakhak. At three miles down

the gully we came to an _ábambár_, where a road branches off to the left

direct to Kakhak over the hills, but it is difficult for laden cattle. At

this spot, too, a branch gully comes down from the right. In it is said

to be a copper-mine, which has been abandoned for some years, owing to

the vein being lost. We noticed that the surface was strewed with stones

of a bright greenish blue colour, as if coated with acetate of copper.

The hill slopes on each side of the gully are cultivated in terraces,

and irrigated by streams led along their brows; and on our way down,

we passed several black tents of _ilyát_ families occupied in the

preparation of cheese and the peculiar round balls of that substance

known by the name of _cúrút_. At the lower part of the gully we turned to

the left out of it, beyond the castellated village of Mullahabad, and at

a mile farther on came to our camp, pitched on an open gravelly surface

near some gardens at a short distance from Kakhak. This is a flourishing

town of about four hundred houses, surrounded by fruit gardens and

corn-fields, and protected by a citadel. A prominent object of attraction

is the mausoleum erected to the memory of Sultán Muhammad, a brother of

Imám Razá, the saint of Mashhad. It stands on a commanding eminence, and

has a handsome dome of glazed tiles, the bright colours of which are set

off to the best advantage by the whitewashed portals of its groundwork.

Ferrier, in his “Caravan Journeys,” mentions this place as being the site

of one of the most bloody battles ever fought between the Afghans and

Persians. It occurred in 1751, when Sháh Ahmad’s (Durrani) Baloch allies,

under their own chief Nasír Khán, defeated the Persians and slew their

leader, ’Ali Murád Khán, governor of Tabbas, who came here to give them

battle. By this victory Tabbas was annexed to the Durrani kingdom.

A finer sight for a fair fight could not be found. The ground dips down

to the wide plain or _júlagah_ of Junabad in an uninterrupted slope,

and affords a splendid field for the use of cavalry, as is expressed

in the name, applied generally to the succession of valleys or plains

that characterise the physical geography of this country. _Júlagah_ is

evidently the diminutive form of _júlangah_, which means a plain suited

to military exercises, or any level ground for horsemanship.

Kakhak seems to have suffered severely during the famine, but the

accounts we received as to the extent of loss were so contradictory that

it was impossible to get at the truth or an approximation to it. Numbers

of beggars, sickly, pale, and emaciated, wandered timidly about our camp,

craving in piteous tones a morsel of bread. Poor creatures! nobody cares

for them, even the small coins we give them are snatched away by the

stronger before our eyes. Truly if fellow-feeling makes wondrous kind,

fellow-suffering makes wondrous unkind.

_14th April._—Kakhak to Zihbud, sixteen miles; route nearly due west,

hugging the hill range on our left, with the great Gúnábád valley down

to the right. The centre of the valley is occupied by a succession of

considerable villages, with gardens, vineyards, and corn-fields, watered

by numerous _kárez_ streams. To the east it communicates through a gap

in the hills with the great desert of Kháf, which extends south-east to

Ghoryán and Herat. To the northward it is separated from Bijistan on the

one hand and Reg Amráni on the other by a low range of hilly ridges or

_tappah_, over which are some easy passes on the direct route through the

valley.

At Kakhak we parted from the _mihmandár_ appointed to accompany us on

the part of the governor of Gháyn, and were joined in the like capacity

by Muhammad Ali Beg, the _zábit_ or ruler of Gúnábád. He is a very

ferocious-looking man, with square bull-dog features, and a heavy

coarse mustache, that completely conceals the mouth, and curls over the

short-trimmed wiry whiskers, all dyed bright orange with _henna_. His

manner, however, is very quiet and friendly. He welcomed us to the Tabbas

district, and promised we should receive very different treatment from

that we had experienced at the hands of Mír Ali Khán of Gháyn. He had

heard of his conduct; considered he had acted host very indifferently;

reckoned he would be called to account for it by the Sháh; thought that

the prince-governor of Mashhad would profit by the opportunity to injure

him; and, for his own part, hoped he would come to condign grief.

Our new host proved an agreeable companion, and spoke very sensibly,

with a remarkable freedom from the bombast and gesticulation the modern

Persian so much delights to display. I learned from him that he was

connected with the Sháh by marriage with a sister of the Queen-mother,

and that he had been on this frontier for many years. In the time of

Kamrán of Herat, he accompanied Mír Asadullah of Gháyn in his retreat

to Sistan, and spent two years at Chilling and Sihkoha. More recently,

four years ago, he met Yácúb Khán at Mashhad, and subsequently his

father, the present Amir Sher Ali, at Herat. He made some pointed

inquiries regarding Sistan and the boundary question, but on finding

they were not acceptable, adroitly turned the conversation to the more

ephemeral, and perhaps to himself more congenial, topic of wines, their

varieties and qualities; and his familiarity with the names at least

of the common English wines and spirits not a little surprised me. He

expressed concern at finding that we were travelling without a store of

these creature comforts, and very good-naturedly procured us a small

supply of home-distilled arrack from Gúnábád. It proved very acceptable,

for our own supplies had been long since exhausted; and Mr Rozario, who

superintended our mess arrangements, cleverly converted it into very

palatable punch, of which a little was made to go a great way.

But to return from this digression to our march. We had set out with

the baggage in a closely-packed column, with matchlockmen in front and

rear, and ourselves with a dozen horsemen leading the advance, for the

dread of Turkmans was still upon us. We had proceeded thus about seven

miles, passing the castellated hamlets of Iddo and Isfyán in picturesque

little nooks of the hills on our left, when we turned a projecting spur

and suddenly came upon a wide ravine, beyond which were the gardens and

poppy-fields of Calát. Leaving the baggage to proceed ahead, we turned

off up the course of the ravine to a clump of trees at its spring-head

for breakfast. Our sudden appearance and martial array, for we were five

or six and twenty horsemen all more or less armed, struck the villagers

with a panic. Five or six of the boldest advanced into the mulberry

plantations and fired their matchlocks at us, but the rest, shouting

“_Alaman! alaman!_” “Raiders! raiders!” scrambled up the steep slopes

of the slate hill backing the town as fast as their limbs would carry

them. A bullet whistling by our _mihmandár_ with a disagreeably close

“_whish_,” sent him and his two attendants full gallop towards the

village, vowing all sorts of vengeance on the _pidri sokhtas_, who could

mistake their own governor and a party of respectable gentlemen for the

marauding Turkmans, on whom be the curse of ’Ali and Muhammad. Ourselves

meanwhile proceeded towards the clump of trees ahead. Here we came upon a

watermill. The people occupied in it, disturbed by the firing, rushed out

just in time to be confronted by us. If the devil himself with all his

host had faced them, they could not have evinced greater fear, nor more

activity to escape his clutches. There were four of them, all dusty and

powdered with flour, and they were up the hillside in a trice, going on

all fours, so steep was the slope, like monkeys. The sight was absurdly

ridiculous, and sent us into fits of laughter. Anon the fugitives stopped

to take breath, and turning their heads, looked down on us with fear and

amazement expressed on their faces. We beckoned them, called them, and

laughed at them. They only scrambled up higher, and again looked down

mistrustfully at us. Presently our _mihmandár_ rejoined us with two or

three of the villagers, who looked very crestfallen at this exposure of

weakness, and excused themselves as well they might on the grounds of

the frequent raids by the Turkmans they were subjected to. On seeing us

in friendly converse with their fellows, the startled millers slided

down from their retreat, and brought with them as a peace-offering some

rhubarb-stalks, the plants of which covered the hillside. A general

dispensation of kráns and half-kráns soon put us on the most amicable

terms, and restored a thorough confidence.

The scene was altogether too absurd and unexpected to suppress the

momentary merriment it produced, yet it furnishes a subject for

melancholy reflection, as illustrating the state of insecurity in which

these people live. Another fact of a yet more painful nature revealed by

this amusing incident was the frightful state of desolation and poverty

to which this village had been reduced by the combined effects of famine

and rapine. The alarm produced by our sudden appearance had brought out

the whole population on the hillside, and at a rough guess they did not

exceed eighty men and women, and not a single child was seen amongst

them. On resuming our march we passed through the village. It contains

about two hundred and fifty houses, but most of them are untenanted

and falling to decay. The people were miserably poor and dejected, and

looked very sickly. Yet the village is surrounded by gardens and mulberry

plantations, which, in their spring foliage, give the place an air of

comfort and prosperity by no means in accordance with its real condition.

Calát, indeed, like many another village our journey brought us to, in

interior condition quite belied its exterior appearance. I may here state

in anticipation, that in all our march from Gháyn to the Persian capital

we hardly anywhere saw infants or very young children. They had nearly

all died in the famine. We nowhere heard the sound of music nor song nor

mirth in all the journey up to Mashhad. We passed through village after

village, each almost concealed from view in the untrimmed foliage of its

gardens, only to see repetitions of misery, melancholy, and despair. The

suffering produced by this famine baffles description, and exceeds our

untutored conceptions. In this single province of Khorassan the loss of

population by this cause is estimated at 120,000 souls, and over the

whole kingdom cannot be less than a million and a half.

Beyond Calát our path followed the hill skirt in a north-west direction.

The surface is very stony, and covered with wild rhubarb and the yellow

rose in great profusion, to the exclusion of other vegetation. We passed

the villages of Sághí, Kochi, Zaharabad, and Shirazabad, and then

crossing a deep ravine in which flowed a brisk little stream draining

into the central rivulet of Gúnábád, passed over some undulating ground

to Zihbad, where we camped.

_15th April._—Zihbad to Bijistan, twenty-eight miles, and halt a day.

Our route was N.N.W., skirting the hill range on our left by a rough

stony path. We passed in succession the villages of Brezú, Kásum, and

Sinoh, each continuous with the other, through a wide stretch of fruit

gardens, mulberry plantations, poppy beds, and corn-fields watered

from a number of brisk little hill streams, and looking the picture of

a prosperity which our experience has taught us is very far from the

reality.

A little farther on, at about the eleventh mile, we came to Patinjo, and

halted for breakfast under the shade of a magnificent plane-tree in the

centre of the village. Proceeding hence, we continued along the hill

skirt, and at about four miles entered amongst the hills that close the

Gúnábád valley to the northward. We gained their shelter in a somewhat

hurried manner, owing to a false alarm of Turkmans on the plain flanking

our right. We had continued to hear all sorts of fanciful and exaggerated

reports of these gentry, founded undoubtedly on a basis of fact, and were

consequently kept alive to the chance of a possible encounter with them.

On the present occasion a cloud of dust suddenly appeared round a spur

projecting on the plain about two miles to our right. Our _mihmandár_

reined up a moment, looking intently at the suspicious object, and

shook his head. At this moment the cloud of dust wheeled round in our

direction. “Yá Ali!” he exclaimed. “They are Turkmans. Get on quick

into the hills;” and so saying, he unslung his rifle, and loaded as

he galloped. A few minutes brought us all to the hills, and ascending

some heights overlooking the plain, we levelled our glasses at the

cause of our commotion. After a good deal of spying and conjecturing,

we discovered, to our no small chagrin, that we were no better than our

friends of Calát, for our would-be Turkmans were no other than a flock of

goats and sheep, grazing along the hill skirts for protection against

surprise by those very marauders.

Our road through the hills was by a winding path, over ridges and through

defiles, everywhere rough and stony, and in some parts very wild and

rugged.

After passing the castellated village of Kámih we came to a very

difficult little gorge between bare rocks of trap, and farther on reached

a watershed called Gudari Rúdi, or “the pass of the tamarisk river.” It

runs north and south, and is about 5150 feet above the sea. The descent

is gradual, by a long drainage gully between gradually diverging hills.

At five miles from the watershed we turned to the left across a wide

gravelly waste to Bijistan, where we camped near a _sarae_ outside the

town. As we approached camp, along the eastern side of this waste, we had

the pleasure of seeing a long string of camels with our heavy baggage

from Birjand converging to the sarae spot on the western side.

Bijistan is one of the principal towns of the Tabbas district, and

contains about two thousand houses surrounded by gardens. It is a

charming spot in this wilderness of barren hills and desert wastes, and

lies at the base of an isolated ridge of hills, beyond which, to the

west, is seen, down in a hollow, portion of the great salt desert of

Yazd and Káshán. It is called _Kavír_, and its surface is of dazzling

whiteness from saline encrustations.

The people here have suffered dreadfully from the famine, and have lost

nearly all their cattle from the same cause. Our camp is surrounded by

crowds of beggars, famished, gaunt and wizened creatures, most sorry

objects to behold. Boys and girls, of from ten to twenty years of age,

wan, pinched, and wrinkled, whine around us in piteous tones all day

and all night, and vainly call on Ali for aid. “_Ahajo!_ (for _Agha

ján_) _gushna am, yak puli siyah bidih!_” (“Dear sir! I am hungry;

give me a supper!”) is the burden of each one’s prayer; whilst “_Yá

Alí-í-í-í!_” resounds on all sides from those too helpless to move from

the spots doomed to be their deathbeds. These prolonged plaintive cries

in the stillness of night were distressing to hear, and enough to move

the hardest hearts. To us these frequent evidences of such fearful and

widespread suffering were the more distressing from our utter inability

to afford any real relief. Poor creatures! there is no help for them.

Hundreds of those we have seen must die, for they are past recovery even

were relief at hand.

The district of Tabbas comprises the divisions or _bulúk_ of Gúnábád,

Kakhak, Bijistan, Tún, and Tabbas. The last contains the capital city of

that name. The whole district has suffered fearfully during the famine

by death, emigration, and raids. Some of the smaller hamlets have been

entirely depopulated, and many villages have been decimated. We heard of

one village in the Tún _bulúk_, in which not a man nor child was left,

and only five old women remained to till the ground, in hopes of some of

their people returning. It is not quite easy to understand the cause of

the famine in these parts, for the villages are mostly well watered and

their fields fertile.

_17th April._—Bijistan to Yúnasi, twenty-six miles. The weather during

our halt at Bijistan was close and oppressive, and on the eve of our

departure set in stormy, with violent gusts of wind from the south. At

daylight this morning a sharp thunderstorm with hail and rain burst over

our camp, and continued with violence for nearly three hours.

Our route was in a N.N.E. direction, down a long sloping steppe,

with interrupted hill ridges on either hand, down to the _kavír_ or

“salt-desert,” which here projects an arm eastward to join that of

Herat. At about the twelfth mile we passed the village of Sihfarsakh, at

the foot of a white marble hill to the right; and at three miles farther

on halted at a roadside _ábambár_ for breakfast. On the way to this we

passed a small camp of Baloch gypsies—a very poor, dirty, black, and

villanous-looking set. The vegetation here differs from what we have seen

in the highlands of Gháyn and Tabbas, and resembles that we observed on

the plains of Calá Koh. The characteristic plants are _ghích_, wormwood,

wild rue, caroxylon, and other saltworts, the wild liquorice, and a

variety of flowering herbs, such as gentian, prophet flower, malcomia,

and other crucifers, &c.

At four miles farther on, passing amongst some low hills, we left the

fortified village of Márandez a couple of miles to the left, and entered

on the wide waste of the _kavír_; and at another four miles reached the

village of Yúnasi, where we camped. The sun shone hotly here, and a

strong north wind blowing all day filled the atmosphere with clouds of

saline dust, very trying to the lungs and eyes. On approaching the town,

a number of its people, headed by an athlete wielding a pair of huge

wooden dumb-bells, came out to meet us, and merrily conducted us to our

camp. Yúnasi is a collection of about two hundred and fifty houses round

a central fort, and possesses a commodious _sarae_ built of baked bricks.

It stands on a small river flowing westward into the desert, and marking

the boundary between the districts of Tabbas and Turbat Hydari. There are

no gardens here, and a singular absence of trees gives the place a very

forlorn look, quite in keeping with the aspect of the desert around. The

place has been almost depopulated by the famine. Yúnasi is about 2860

feet above the sea.

Our next stage was Abdullahabad, twenty-five miles. After crossing

the river or Rúdi Kavír by a red brick bridge a little below the town

(there are said to be seven similar bridges across the river in different

parts of its course), we went across a wide lacustrine hollow, the soil

of which was light and powdery, and white with saline efflorescence,

and at half-way came to Miandih, “the midway village,” and halted at

its _ábambár_ for breakfast. The village consists of perhaps a hundred

domed huts, ranged outside a square fort fast falling to decay, and has

a vertical windmill similar to those used in Sistan, only made to work

with an east wind. The desert here runs from east to west between high

hill ranges, and is almost bare of vegetation beyond the wild rue and

liquorice, and a coarse grass growing in tufts, with here and there

strips of camel-thorn and salsolaceæ.

Along the line of march we passed several roadside graves, the last

resting-places of famine-struck travellers hastily buried by their

companions. Wild beasts had pulled out the bodies from three or four of

these shallow pits, and scattered their bones and clothes upon the road.

Thousands upon thousands have been so put away, or left to rot on the

roads where they lay. Their place knows them no more, and but too often

none are left to reck their loss.

From Miandih our route continued in an E.N.E. direction over a wide plain

covered with a scanty pasture, on which we found large herds of camels,

oxen, and asses at graze. They belong to Baloch nomads of the Mirzá Jahán

tribe, and are tended by small unarmed parties of their herdsmen. We

have all along noticed that the peasantry of Persian Khorassan, unlike

those of Afghanistan, are all unarmed. This is the more surprising as

a new feature on the scene here warns us that we have come into the

country which from time immemorial has been the hunting-ground of the

real Turkman. The whole plain is dotted all over with hundreds of round

towers as places of refuge from these marauders, and they serve also to

convey a very lively idea of the insecurity of the country. These towers

consist of a circular mud wall about twelve feet high, enclosing an

empty roofless space about eighteen feet in diameter, and are entered by

a small opening on one side, only large enough to admit of entrance on

all fours. On the appearance of the raiders the shepherds or husbandmen

desert their flocks and fields, and rush into these refuges till the

enemy has disappeared. The Turkman has a lively dread of firearms, and a

very wholesome respect for all armed travellers. He always gives these

towers a wide berth, and only attacks the unwary and unarmed. From all

we heard of them, they must be sorry cowards before a worthy foe, and

heartless tyrants over their helpless captives. Those who used formerly

to raid this country, and who do still occasionally as opportunity

offers, belong to the Sarúc and Sálor tribes, whose seat is in the

territories of Sarrakhs and Marv. With the Takka Turkmans of the latter

place, they habitually harry all this country up to the very gates of

Mashhad. In 1860, the Persian Government sent an expedition against the

strongholds of these miscreants. Though the Persian troops were driven

back with disastrous loss, they managed to inflict considerable damage

upon the enemy, and for several years their inroads upon this frontier

were put a stop to; but in the disorganisation and laxity of authority

produced by the famine they have again commenced their wonted forays,

and during the last three years have, it is said, carried off nearly

twenty thousand Persian subjects from Mashhad district alone, for the

slave markets of Khiva and Bukhára. During the pressure of the famine,

we are told, the citizens of Mashhad used to flock out to the plains on

purpose to be captured by the Turkman, preferring a crust of bread in

slavery to the tortures of a slow death under the heedless rule of their

own governors, who never stirred a finger to alleviate their sufferings

or relieve their necessities. This species of voluntary exile soon grew

to such alarming proportions that the Mashhad authorities were obliged to

post military guards to prevent the citizens from leaving the city.

At about ten miles from Miandih we came to the ruins of a very extensive

town, called Fyzabad, and beyond them passed the modern village of the

same name. It is a remarkable place, and consists of a compact little

town, sunk below the level of the ground, surrounded by a deep ditch, and

ramparts but little raised above the general level of the plain. Within

are many trees, the tops of which only are seen above the ramparts. Here

the road turns due north to Abdullahabad, four miles distant, leaving the

new fort of Husenabad standing boldly out on the plain away to the right.

At Fyzabad we were met by an _isticbál_ party of thirty or forty

horsemen, headed by Hájí Agha Beg and Muhammad Karím, expressly deputed

to meet us by the prince-governor of Mashhad and Husen Ali Khán, the

governor of the town. They received us in a very polite and friendly

manner, and conducted us to a garden house on the skirts of the town,

where, as we entered its gate, a couple of sheep were sacrificed on our

path, with such haste and clumsiness, that ourselves and followers

were sprinkled with the blood spurting from their severed throats.

The quarters prepared for us were tastefully furnished in the Persian

fashion, and on a carpeted platform, under the shade of some fine

mulberry trees, and on the edge of a sparkling little stream, we were

refreshed with iced sherbets and trays of sweetmeats, accompanied by the

inevitable _calyán_ and coffee.

We halted here a day, and received a post from India with dates from

Peshawar up to the 20th March. The packet came by the route of Kurram and

Ghazni to Kandahar, and thence by Farráh, Herat, and Ghoryán to this. Our

Afghan friends have certainly earned our gratitude for the promptitude

and safety with which they have maintained our postal communication with

India. Our weekly budgets from that side have seldom failed to reach

us punctually, notwithstanding the rapidity of our movements, and the

difficulties and dangers of the road on this side of Kandahar, where no

post is established. In this respect, at all events, Afghanistan may

favourably compare with Persia, where there are no proper established

posts at all. Sir F. Goldsmid’s party had only received two posts since

we joined them in Sistan—namely, one at Banjár, and the other only

yesterday as we set out from Yúnasi. It came _viâ_ Mashhad, with dates

from Tehran to the 8th March, and London of 14th January.

Abdullahabad is a charming place, and, like most Persian villages, lost

in a maze of gardens and vineyards. Through its centre flows a clear

hill stream, and to its south stands a strong little castle, now in a

state of decay, like all the other fortifications we have seen in all

this frontier. It appears as if they had all been dismantled on purpose

to prevent the people from entertaining any thought of revolt, and to

deprive them of the temptation to rebellion that such handy strongholds

might give rise to.

During our stay here a party of a hundred horsemen, under ’Abdul Husen

Khán, grandson of the celebrated Karai chief Ishák Khán, arrived here

from Mashhad as escort for our party. With them came a messenger to

Sistan, bearing a jewelled sword and letters of commendation from the

Sháh for Mír ’Alam Khán, the governor of that newly acquired province.

_20th April._—Abdullahabad to Turbat Hydari, thirty-two miles, and halt

two days. We set out at four A.M., and pursued a generally north-east

course over a wide upland pasture tract towards the Asgand range of

hills, which stretch across the plain from north-west to south-east. A

lofty mass away to our left, and separated from the rest of the range

by an intervening chain of lesser hills covered with a furrowed surface

of white marl, is called Koh Fighan, or “the hill of lamentation,” and

is said to be the site of Rustam’s retreat for mourning after he had

unwittingly killed his son Sohráb.

At eight or ten miles out we passed the villages of Doghabad and

Salmidasht, on the left and right respectively, and farther on, passing

over the undulating plain of Maháwalát, alighted at a _kárez_ stream for

breakfast. As a steady rain had set in, we pitched a bell-tent for the

more comfortable discussion of this repast, for which our appetites were

well whetted by the morning ride of twelve miles. Our escort of Karai

horsemen meanwhile dismounted and scattered themselves over the hillocks

around. They are a remarkably fine body of men, and excellently mounted,

but are indifferently armed, and are wanting in the dash and elasticity

so characteristic of the Afghan trooper. On the march they diverted

themselves and us too with a display of their horsemanship and mock

fights. Their movements appeared to me slow, and the firing at full galop

harmless, particularly when, in retreat, the fugitive loads, and turning

round in the saddle, with a wide sweep over the horizon, discharges his

rifle in the direction of his pursuer. Against a European armed with

a revolver the Khorassan horseman would have a poor chance of escape.

They are wonderfully hardy, however, both man and horse, and accomplish

incredibly long marches, carrying their own and horses’ food and

clothing, with little inconvenience. Our new companions, Hájí Agha Beg

and the _peshkhidwat_ Muhammad Karím, entertained us, in truly Persian

hyperbole, with amusing accounts of the Turkmans, and never failed to

enlarge on the prowess of the Persian cavalry against them. The Hájí, as

a piece of the latest news from Mashhad, informed us of the capture of

eight hundred of these _pidr sokhta_ (burnt fathers), and the release of

upwards of a thousand captives they were carrying off, by a brilliant

display of military tactics on the part of a son of the Hisámussaltanat.

The Turkmans, he told us, had entered the Burdjnurd lands through the

Darband pass, and were allowed to proceed well ahead unmolested, when

the pass behind them, which it seems is the only route of ingress and

egress, was occupied by a party of the Mashhad troops. On the return of

the raiders with their plunder and captives, they were suddenly attacked

in front and rear, and killed and captured, for exchange, to the number

of eight hundred.

“The heads of the slain,” said he, “have been brought in for exhibition

at the gates of the city. You will see them on reaching Mashhad.” This

was welcome news to me, for I was anxious to obtain a few skulls of

this race for the collection of my learned friend, and distinguished

anthropologist, Dr Barnard Davis, and therefore availed myself of the

opportunity to engage the interest of our companion in procuring me a

few specimens. “Any number is at your service,” replied he with charming

readiness. “How many, and of which kind, do you require?” I naturally

inquired what the different kinds were, and presently learned that some

were merely stuck on a lance, and allowed to bleach intact in the sun,

and that others were prepared so as to preserve the features. In these

last, the bones of the skull were smashed by blows with a wooden mallet,

and the brain, soft parts, and fragments withdrawn through the neck.

The interior was then stuffed with straw, and the integument allowed

to dry over it. “Thanks!” I said; “I should like two of each kind, and

shall esteem it a great favour if you will procure them for me.” “_Ba

chasm-házir!_” (“By my eyes—present!” or “With all my heart!”) “They are

ready,” was his prompt reply. “They are yours. I will bring them to you

myself so soon as we reach the city.” This was very satisfactory, and I

congratulated myself on my prospective good fortune. But to anticipate

the sequel. I did not then know the Persian character so well as I do

now, and was consequently completely deceived by the Hájí’s specious

politeness. On arrival at Mashhad, we found the whole story was a myth,

only created for our amusement. There had been no brilliant exploit

against the Turkmans, nor was a single head, stuffed or bleached,

procurable. So much for Persian veracity.

At a couple of miles from Turbat Hydari we were met by the governor

of the district, Hájí Mirzá Mahmúd Khán. He was attended by twenty

cavaliers, and preceded by a couple of _yadak_, or led horses,

handsomely caparisoned. He is a remarkably handsome man, with very

polished manners, and was richly dressed. He received us with graceful

civility, and conducted our party to the residence prepared for us in a

garden adjoining his own quarters.

Our road passed through a long succession of gardens and orchards and

villages, and finally led through the main bazár of Turbat, which is full

of life, and well supplied. It consists of two main streets crossing

at right angles, and covered in by a succession of domes built of red

brick. Altogether it is the most flourishing place we have seen on this

frontier. Turbat Hydari is picturesquely situated on the bank of a deep

and wide ravine, in the midst of lofty hills, and is surrounded by a

cluster of villages, each embosomed in luxuriant orchards, mulberry

plantations and vineyards. Its elevation is about 4562 feet above the

sea, and it enjoys a delightfully salubrious climate. During our stay

the weather was unpropitious, and rain fell constantly, with only brief

intervals of sunshine, and the air was damp, chill, and raw. In winter,

snow lies deep for a month or six weeks.

The town derives its name from the mausoleum of a Bukhára saint buried

here, and is the capital of the district of the same name, which

comprises the divisions or _bulúk_ of Maháwalát, Turbat, Záwah, Kháf,

Azghan or Asgand, Báyak, and Rúkh. Previous to the famine this district

was one of the most populous, fertile, and prosperous places in Persia,

but it has suffered fearfully in the dearth of the last three years.

Owing to deaths and emigration its population has been reduced by twenty

thousand, and several villages are now deserted. It is reckoned it cannot

recover its losses for another generation. Formerly, the silk crop alone

in this district produced an annual profit of forty thousand _tumans_,

or about eighty thousand dollars, but the yield now is less than a tenth

of that amount. Formerly, too, from fifteen to twenty thousand pilgrims,

mostly from Bukhára, annually visited the shrine here, but the famine has

quite put a stop to this source of wealth.

Turbat is the headquarters of the Karai, a tribe of Tátár origin, whose

settlement here dates from the time of Tamerlane. They subsequently

became dispersed in the successive revolutions and conquests that for

centuries convulsed this region, and their lands were left more or

less waste and depopulated. Nadír resettled seven thousand families of

the tribe in Turbat. On his death, Sháh Ahmad annexed the country to

Afghanistan, and secured the good-will of their chief, Ishák Khán, by a

liberal policy of protection and favour. On the decline of the Durrani

dynasty, and the extension eastwards of the Cajar rule, this district,

and the adjoining principality of Mashhad, wrested from the unfortunate

Sháh Rokh Mirzá, were restored to Persia. The Karai, however, proved very

rebellious subjects, and took a leading part in the successive revolts

marking the earlier years of the Cajar authority on this border. In 1816,

Ishák, and his son Husen ’Ali, were executed at Mashhad by Muhammad

Walí Mirzá, the governor, and another son, Muhammad Khán, placed in the

government of the district.

He too evinced a very dubious loyalty during the subsequent operations

of Persia against Herat, and in the rebellion of the Salár, Hassan Khán,

some years later, joined his standard against the Sháh. In 1849, Sultán

Murád Mirzá, Hisámussaltanat, having recaptured Mashhad, executed the

Salár and his son, and sent a number of the Karai and Kurd chiefs who

had sided with him as prisoners to Tehran. Since that time the power of

the Karai has steadily decreased, and now, under a Persian ruler of the

district, they are reduced to a complete subjection.

_23d April._—Turbat Hydari to Asadabad, twenty-eight miles. Weather

showery all day, cold and cloudy. We left Turbat as we entered it,

through its bazár, and passing round its ditch and fortified walls,

followed a good road leading due north over an undulating gravelly plain

covered with rich pasture. At the eighth mile we passed a roadside

_ábambár_, and at two miles farther on reached the foot of the hills, and

ascending a narrow drainage gully, at a mile farther reached the crest

of a ridge of chlorite slate. Its elevation is 5920 feet above the sea,

and 1358 feet above Turbat Hydari, and affords a very fine view, which,

though much obscured by clouds, is sufficient to convey a correct idea

of the wild and picturesque combined in the scenery of these mountains.

Descending into a deep little hollow, bright in the verdure of its spring

vegetation, we passed the village of Kámih Páyín, and rose up to the

_sarae_ Kistkat, where we took refuge from the rain, and smoked ourselves

dry at blinding and suffocating fires, raised with the stable litter

strewing its interior.

On our way up to this we found several human skeletons strewed along

the road, and I dismounted to pick up a tolerably bleached skull in my

path. “Why burden yourself with that?” exclaimed he who had promised me

the Turkman heads; “the road ahead is white with them, and you can pick

up any number, much better and purer.” The one I held was certainly not

as clear of its contents as it might have been, so I threw it aside and

remounted; and calling up one of my own servants, directed him to pick

up two or three perfect skulls as he went along towards camp. As events

proved, I might have saved myself the trouble, for we did not see another

skull on all our road from this to Tehran. So much again for Persian

veracity.

Opposite the _sarae_ is a collection of thirty or forty mud cabins,

and overlooking it from the north-west is the snow-topped and

cloud-beshrouded Bedúr mountain, with its bare slopes and rugged heights.

We set out from the _sarae_ in a steady set rain, and ascending a narrow

gorge, in forty minutes reached the Gudari Bedár, on which are three

observation towers for watching the movements of the Turkmans on the

_júlagah_ Rúkh below to the northward. This pass is over a watershed

ridge of chlorite and trap rocks running east and west, and forming the

boundary between the _bulúk_ of Turbat and that of Rúkh. Its elevation

is 7135 feet above the sea, and 2573 feet above Turbat, and from it is

obtained a full view of the _júlagah_ Rúkh running east and west.

The descent, at first steep, leads through a turfy dell, in which we

found the wild rose, barberry, prickly astragalus, tulips, lilies, and

a multitude of other herbs, with here and there arms and legs of human

skeletons strewing the path, and at about four miles emerges on the

plain at the little castle of Shor Hissár. We crossed the _júlagah_ due

north, and passing a new red brick _rabát_ or post-house about half-way,

at eight miles reached Asadabad, and camped on a gravelly slope covered

with fresh sprouting rhubarb. The weather was cold, chill, and damp, and

a strong north-west wind, with the thermometer at 46° Fah. at two P.M.,

intensified its severity. Asadabad stands 5790 feet above the sea, and

1228 feet higher than Turbat. Its vegetation is very backward; the corn

has hardly sprouted above the ground, and the fruit trees have not yet

expanded their buds.

Quarters had been hastily prepared for us inside the fort, but we found

them so filthy, and the stinks so disgusting, that we preferred to face

the stormy elements in our tents. The entrance gate of this fortified

village is of very peculiar construction, and similar to some others we

have seen on this frontier. It consists of a circular opening closed by

a great millstone about a foot thick and six feet in diameter, which

rolls back into a side casement. Owing to the scarcity of timber, large

slabs of slate or millstone grit are commonly used as doors for houses

and gardens in this country. Asadabad was only built some ten years ago,

by Asadullah Mirzá, one of the princes of the blood royal. There are

eight or ten other fortified villages seen from it on the _júlagah_ or

_júlgah_. The wild sheep (_koch_ m. and _mesh_ f.) and wild goat (_takka_

m. and _buz_ f.) abound on these hills. Here, as at Turbat, specimens of

each, shot in the vicinity, were brought to our camp as dainties for our

table.

Our next stage was thirty-four miles to Sharífabad. Weather cold,

cloudy, and windy, with alternating showers, mists, and sunshine.

Route northerly, up a gentle slope to the foot of a hill range running

north-west to south-east, then, passing between low marly hillocks,

ascends a steep ridge of chlorite, to the Gudhari Rúkh. Elevation, 6962

feet above the sea, and 1172 feet above Asadabad, six miles distant. The

descent leads down a long winding defile, flanked by bare rugged hills of

chlorite and trap and granite, and then, at four miles, passing through

a narrow gorge between high perpendicular hills of green and red rocks,

emerged on to the valley of Rabáti Sufed. This gorge is only about forty

yards wide, and perhaps five or six hundred long, for our horses walked

through it in six minutes, along a clear little rivulet that flows in its

midst.

The crest of the hill on the right of this gorge is topped with the

ruins of an ancient fort called Calaedukhtar. It looks down upon a

domed chamber built of very solid masonry on the plain below, and

called Darocsh-khána. Tradition assigns the fort as the retreat of some

ancient king’s beautiful daughter, whilst a devoted suitor pined away in

unrequited love in the domed chamber. At the foot of the hills to the

left are two or three similarly domed chambers. They stand on separate

little mounds, and are called _átash kadah_, or “fire temple.” Farther

out on the level stands an old _sarae_, and on a ridge of hill at the

farther end of the valley, to the left, is the village of Rabáti Sufed.

It is the first we have seen with flat-roofed houses. This little valley

communicates westward with the Nishabor plain, and is constantly infested

by Tymúri and Turkman robbers.

Beyond this we crossed a low ridge, and passing down a long turfy slope,

halted for breakfast on a patch of fresh green sward, close under Káfir

Calá, a small castle on the summit of an isolated mound, which appears

to be of artificial construction. Though strongly situated, the village

has, it is said, been several times swept clear of its occupants by the

Turkmans. During the last year they have made repeated raids in this

direction, and have carried off most of the people belonging to Sebzar,

a small fortified village in a nook of the hills about two miles to the

S.S.E. Some years ago a large body of Turkmans, in collusion with the

Tymúri Hazárah of Turbat Shekh Jám, were returning by this way from a

foray to Nishabor, when they were overtaken by troops sent out from

Mashhad to intercept them. A large number of them fell into the hands of

the Persians, and received punishment, not according to their deserts,

but according to the necessities of the case. Thus the Tymúri, who are

accounted subjects of the Persian Government, were put to death with the

most horrible cruelties. Some were put out of their misery at once by

having their throats cut or their heads chopped off, some were cut to

pieces limb by limb, and others were ripped up and disembowelled, and

many were impaled or doomed to a lingering death of torture, pegged to

the ground by a stake driven through the belly. The real Turkmans, on

the other hand, were sent to Mashhad, and there retained as hostages for

exchange with Persian subjects carried off by their brethren in other

forays. As a rule, the Persians seldom kill their Turkman captives, for

fear of retaliation on their own captive fellow-countrymen.

The Káfir Calá hollow is closed to the westward by a ridge of red clay

hills, in which is a mine of very pure white rock salt. It is quarried

extensively for the Mashhad market. On the gravelly mounds skirting this

ridge we found the burrows of a large species of rat, called _múshi

Sultánya_. A couple were shot by one of our party, and measured about a

foot from the snout to the root of the tail, which is short and bushy.

The head resembles that of the beaver, and has long incisors. The colour

of the fur is a yellowish grey, inclining to brown. Their burrows are

very extensive, and render the ground unsafe for the movement of horses.

From this the road continues to slope towards the north, and passing over

an undulating tract of red marl, drops on to a wide valley or plain,

the _júlagah_ Bewajan, which is bounded on the north by a snow-topped

mountain of the same name—a terminal prolongation to the south-east

of the Nishabor mountain. The Bewajan plain is dotted with a number

of fort-villages, which are remarkable from the absence of gardens or

trees about them. The plain presents a gently undulating pasture-covered

surface, and extends for many miles east and west and forms a long,

narrow strip of tableland between the deserts on either side. To the

eastward it drops suddenly, by a very broken surface, on to the Sarjam

district, which presents a wide waste of red clay hummocks, of no use

whatever but to provide concealment and shelter to the Turkman. To the

south of Sarjam is seen a great snowy mountain, on which there is said

to be a glacier. It is continuous to the north-west with the Turbat

Hydari range of Asgand, and to the eastward separates Turbat Shekh Jám

from Bákharz. To the north-east Sarjam is continuous with the desert of

Sarakhs and Marv, and is the general rendezvous of the Takka, Sarúc,

and Sálor Turkmans. To the westward Bewajan drops on to the plain of

Nishabor on the one hand, and the _kavír_ of Yúnasi, through which it is

continuous with the waste of Pul Abresham, on the other. Bewajan is the

route by which the Marv Turkmans invade Nishabor and Sabzwár, and the

country up to Shahrúd, where they meet their brethren of the Yamút and

Goklán tribes.

We crossed the Bewajan plain in a N.N.E. direction, and passing the

fortified village of Sháh Tughi—which, what with Turkmans and famine,

had been reduced to only three miserable families, who longed to escape

the burthen of its desolation, the dread of Turkmans, and the thoughts

for their daily bread; but there was none to cheer them, nor to relieve

them, nor even to commiserate them—rose gently up to some low ridges of

slate, trap, and granite, towards a ruined tower that stands on the

edge of a muddy pool. At this point the caravan route from Tehran _viâ_

Nishabor joins that from Turbat to Sharífabad and Mashhad. We here turned

to the right, and descending into the secluded hollow in which stands

Sharífabad, camped near its _sarae_. This is a commodious and substantial

building, erected by Ishák Khán, Karai, when this town formed the

frontier of his territory in this direction.