THE MARCH TO TURKESTAN.
Jealousy and its results. Sport among the Afghans. The Prince
hawking. The “Sportsmen” among the mountains. Wild-fowl shooting.
Order to join the Amîr in Turkestan. Preparations. The start.
Camp at Chiltan. The Banquet. The Nautch dance. Salaams by the
Villagers. Among the Hindu Kush mountains. The camp in the Hazara
country. The dismal night. Courtesy of Jan Mahomed. The hungry
morning. Mountain paths. Iron spring. The underground river and
the Amîr’s offer. The Red mountain and the Deserted City. Camp in
the Valley of Bamian. The English prisoners of 1837. The Petrified
Dragon. The Colossal Idols: their construction and probable origin.
The Cave-dwellers. The Pass of the “Tooth breaker.” Ghuzniguk.
Story of Ishak’s Rebellion. Fording the River. Tash Kurghán: the
Shave and the Hospital. “The Valley of Death.” The Plains of
Turkestan and the heat thereof. The Mirage. Arrival at Mazar. The
House. Story of the death of Amîr Shere Ali.
[Sidenote: Jealousy: Revenge.]
About a month after our arrival in Kabul an incident occurred which,
though gruesome in its details, I cannot refrain from relating on
account of the light which it throws upon the nature of the Afghan.
One of the soldiers had made a favourite of a boy in the town. Some
time afterwards the boy was seen to associate with another man in the
cantonment. At once the jealousy of the soldier was aroused. He taxed
the boy with it, and in a moment of jealous anger he drove his knife
into him, killing him instantly.
Forthwith the mother of the lad appealed to Prince Habibullah for
justice and revenge. She claimed the life of the murderer. The Prince
heard the case in detail, and, according to the Afghan law (an eye
for an eye and a tooth for a tooth), granted the woman’s request. The
soldier was hurried off to the execution ground, close to the hospital
where I was. His hands were fastened behind him, and he was tied in a
sitting posture in a chair. A knife was handed to the woman: she seized
the man’s beard, wrenched his head back, and with a cry of “Allah,
akbar,” cut his throat. Then, flinging down the knife, she plunged her
hands in the spirting stream, and lapped the blood into her mouth.
On Friday, the Mahomedan Sabbath, there being no work in the workshops,
Mr. Pyne and I went for a ride along the beautiful lanes fringed with
poplars, which lie between the fields around Kabul.
We saw in a large field among the young green corn some seven or eight
horsemen sitting silently on their horses. Presently I recognized the
slender form of Prince Nasrullah. We rode up to salute His Highness,
and he informed us he was hawking for partridges. The bird used was, I
believe, a species of falcon, though I am not sufficiently skilled an
ornithologist to say what species. The bird is carried, hooded, on the
wrist, and is unhooded and cast off when the prey is sighted. For large
game the bigger female falcon is used.
The group of riders made quite a picture as they sat: the gold
embroidery of their military uniforms sparkling in the sun; the black
of the astrakhan hat, the long waving mane and tail of the horses,
all sharply distinct against the background of soft spring green and
distant shadowy mountains.
[Sidenote: Mountain “Sportsmen.”]
As a nation the Afghans are fond of sport. Game of many kinds
is plentiful in the country. A short time ago, the sport of all
sports--for the excitement of great possible gain came in--was the
picking off of unwary travellers and annexing their belongings. Here
was not only sport but the indulgence of a passion so dear to the
Afghan, that of gambling.
A sportsman on the hills saw trudging along the road a traveller with a
burden on his shoulders. From the distance he examined him with care.
“To my eye this traveller has rupees and much gold in his pack. Without
doubt he is a rascal Hindu usurer, who, journeying to Kabul, is about
to plunder the Faithful. Soul of my father! Shall this be?” And the
bullet sped on its way. Springing from rock to rock, with agility born
of a mountain life, the sportsman was soon on the road. Quickly he
opened the pack and--out rolled a melon.
His arms sunk to his sides, his head drooped, and he stood the picture
of despair. For his sins he was thus punished. “Tobah! tobah! alas and
alas!” he groaned; “my cartridge, my good cartridge is gone, wasted,
for ever lost; and I, what have I? a melon! Wai! wai!” and he wept.
But, nowadays, since the great king, Amîr Abdurrahman, has occupied the
throne, this form of sport is less popular than it was. Possibly it may
be due to the fact that consequences far from pleasing to the sportsmen
and their friends are apt to follow indulgence in this pastime.
Imprisonment has occurred; the being compelled to work in chains on the
roads or in the workshops; ignominious death even, as by hanging, or
by being thrust into an iron cage and left thirsting on the high peak
of a mountain. So, therefore, as I said, it is becoming less popular.
There are, however, many other forms of sport. Wild-fowl shooting in
the marshes around Kabul is a favourite pastime.
Sometimes the sportsmen go in a body on horseback, ride into the
marsh where it is shallow, disturb the duck and fire into the flight.
Sometimes they go singly, conceal themselves and use a decoy. In the
plains they stalk the deer or use a body of beaters to drive the game
to certain points. In Turkestan, tiger, wild pig--which they shoot--and
bear are to be obtained. Duck shooting in the autumn and winter, and
hawking in the spring are, perhaps, the sports in which the Royal
Family most frequently indulge.
[Sidenote: The Start for Turkestan.]
Not very long after our arrival in Kabul it was rumoured that the Amîr
needed my services in Turkestan, and a month and a-half afterwards
the official order arrived. I was to accompany Jan Mahomed Khan,
the Treasury Officer, who was about to convey a supply of bullion
to Turkestan for the use of His Highness. Accordingly, as soon as
I received the order, I engaged some servants: a Peshawuri--the
“assassin,” whom I have already referred to--as valet, and a Hindustani
cook, whom I found in Kabul. I was fortunate in being able to obtain
a cook, as hitherto Mr. Pyne and I had shared one between us. The man
I engaged had been cook in the family of Sir Louis Cavagnari. The
other servants were Afghans. After some extra cooking pots, dried
fruit, salt, and various other things, which the cook said he must
get from the bazaar, were obtained, and the baggage was packed, Mr.
Pyne accompanied me to the house of Jan Mahomed Khan. We were received
in a large room, which was crowded with people standing. We seated
ourselves at the end and drank tea with Jan Mahomed. Then a bottle of
champagne was opened, complimentary speeches made, and, finally, about
midday we started. We stopped at the Palace, dismounted, and went in to
take leave of His Highness, the Prince. When we remounted we were met
outside the Palace by Perwana Khan, the Deputy Commander-in-Chief, and
Naib Mir Sultan, the Governor of Kabul, each with their attendants, so
that with our own crowd of servants, and a guard of sixty soldiers, we
made a large cavalcade. A crowd of people on foot accompanied us part
of the way, running by the side and in front of the horses. The sun
shone brightly; the dresses of the officials--crimson, and purple, and
green--were brilliant with gold embroidery. The glitter of the gold
and silver ornaments on belt, scabbard, and bridle, the blue and gold
turbans of the attendants, the black sheepskin busbies of the soldiers,
horses caracoling, and the look of bustle and excitement, made an
artistic and interesting picture.
We rode by the bank of the Kabul river westward, past the workshops and
through the gorge between the Sher Durwaza and Asmai mountains out into
the Charhardeh valley.
The first day’s journey was short, for we went only a few miles across
the valley to a place called Chiltan, where on a hill Jan Mahomed has
a “country residence.” The house was pretty, and well built, in the
style of a bungalow with a verandah; around it were flower gardens with
a small fountain. Down the hill and around the foot of it were vines
and fruit trees, and the view from the house was over the cornfields
and vineyards of the beautiful Charhardeh valley, circled with
mountains.
The Governor of Kabul did not accompany us to the house, but the rest
of us sat down to dinner together, in the Mahomedan fashion, that is,
on the ground. Pyne and I were accommodated with cushions. As we were
not able to double our legs up in the Eastern fashion we “reclined.”
It was my first “native” dinner, and I enjoyed it immensely, for the
ride and excitement had made us hungry. With the fruit, champagne was
brought, and afterwards sweets and tea. Then when we lit our cigars
nautch girls and musicians were introduced.
[Sidenote: The Nautch Dancer.]
I can speak of the wild barbaric music from seithar, rubarb, and drum;
of the passionate Oriental love song pealing forth in unison from
strong male voices; of the unveiled girl dancers undulating to the
music; of the glances cast by the dark eyes, the waving of arms, the
clinking of bangles, and the tinkling of bells on their ankles, as the
dancers stepped daintily on the carpet.
I can also speak of the indescribable ear-splitting din, without
either time or tune, which was torn from the tortured instruments and
hurled at us as “music;” of the harsh voices roaring till they were
hoarse something which we did not understand; of the attempts of the
singers to produce a trill by shaking the head; of the utter absence of
modulation or feeling in their singing; of the dancing women shuffling
about, clapping their hands and throwing themselves into uncouth and
to us unmeaning postures; and I thought, “Oh, for an hour of Augustus
Druriolanus to open the eyes of these Easterns.”
We turned in at midnight, Pyne and I sharing a room, and he broke my
only egg cup with his heel. We started next morning at eight, said
good-bye to Pyne, who returned to Kabul to superintend the workshops,
and then rode on. On the way villagers came out and lined the road to
salaam Jan Mahomed and offer him presents. As they stood in a row they
held out their hands, palm upwards, muttered a prayer, and stroked
their beards--that is, those who had beards: the young men and boys who
had not, pretended to do so. At some places they slung a string across
the road with a Koran fixed in the middle of it, and as we passed under
it we held out our hands, palm upwards, muttered a prayer, and stroked
our beards. At other places they killed a bullock or a calf by cutting
its throat. I do not know the significance of the operation.
It rained somewhat when we got among the mountains, and Jan Mahomed,
who had on a purple velvet tunic, put up an umbrella to protect
himself. I found he had brought his little son, four years old with
him. The youngster was seated in a little chair, which was securely
fastened on the back of a steady horse, an attendant holding a leading
rein. I was not on very good terms myself with my horse. He was a
very showy creature, and had been given me by the Prince, but he had
evidently not been ridden lately, and was very fresh. A march is a
fatiguing function at the best of times, and my horse was not up to
the quick shuffling walk which is so restful. He would do anything
else--buck, kick, gallop, or trot. Finally Jan Mahomed ordered one of
the soldiers, an iron Afghan, to change with me, and I was at peace
again.
Sometimes we stopped at a village and put up in the different houses;
other times the tents were pitched near a stream. When we got among the
Paghman offshoot of the Hindu Kush mountains we had pelting rain and
sleet for hours; a violent storm of thunder and lightning; then had to
ford a wide roaring stream with a stony irregular bed, and, finally, to
camp outside a Hazara fortified village in the sloppy melting snow.
[Sidenote: Courtesy of Jan Mahomed.]
The village (Kharzar) was too filthy inside for us to enter, and too
cramped in space to accommodate us, if we had entered. I went to
look--for my tent had not arrived. For food the villagers were too
ill provided themselves to be able to sell us anything, and hungry,
wet, and tired, it seemed likely we should have a cheerless night.
When Jan Mahomed’s tent was ready he kindly invited me to enter it. I
took off my soaked ulster, sloshed and slipped into the dusk of the
tent, sat on a stool, and shivered miserably. Nothing else seeming to
be forthcoming, a pipe was the only resource, and with shaking hand I
tried to light it. Match after match fizzed in the damp and went out.
The pipe chattered in my teeth, and, woe is me, I felt that the cold
and the wet and the hungry emptiness would last for ever. But it did
not. Jan Mahomed Khan noticed presently that I seemed uncomfortable.
He rose from the camp stool on which he was sitting enveloped in the
voluminous folds of a huge sheepskin postîn, came across the tent,
slipped the postîn from his shoulders and threw it around me. I tried
to refuse; but he insisted. He said nothing, for he could not speak
English nor I Persian, then he smiled, bowed and sat down again. I felt
very grateful, and at the same time rather ashamed at having robbed
him, but presently a soldier brought him a cloak in which he wrapped
himself.
Meanwhile, the attendants, having succeeded in obtaining some straw,
scattered it thickly inside the tent and spread carpets over it. Then
they endeavoured to light a fire in a large iron pot outside, and when
there was a feeble glimmer of a flame they brought it in. We gathered
round it joyfully, but soon a dense fog of smoke from the damp wood
filled the tent. Though I still shivered under the postîn, I had
managed to light my pipe, and I sat puffing away with the smarting
tears trickling down, finally the smoke fog became so dense that I was
compelled to sit with my eyes shut. Neither Jan Mahomed nor any of the
Afghans seemed to mind it in the least. Jan Mahomed himself is not an
Afghan. He is a Samarcandi whom the Amîr purchased as a boy. He was the
Amîr’s faithful attendant when in exile in Russian Turkestan; and when
His Highness came to the throne Jan Mahomed was put into a position
of trust, finally becoming treasury officer, or “Chancellor of the
Exchequer.”
The tent, by-and-bye, became warmer, and I took off my solar helmet
which I had worn during the rain storms. The Afghans, however, attach
great importance to keeping the head warm, and they all insisted upon
my putting on that or some other head covering at once; otherwise, they
said, I should take fever. The fire began to blaze up brightly and
the smoke to disappear, when an iron vessel was brought, containing
a few pints of milk with water added to eke out the quantity. They
put it over the fire and, when it boiled, a handful of tea was thrown
in. There was enough for all in the tent to have a teacupful; I,
the guest, and Jan Mahomed, received two each. By-and-bye, an iron
camp bedstead was prepared for my host, and he retired; one of the
attendants kneading and massaging the limbs till he slept. My bedding
not having turned up I threw a buffalo rug over my feet, and lay down
on the carpet enveloped in the folds of the sheepskin. It was not a
comfortable bed, but I was tired and slept more or less, waking up
occasionally with aching bones.
The morning was bright: the rising sun in the clear sky lit up the
white snow all around, and a keen wind was blowing. My interpreter,
the Armenian, appeared. He said he had had fever in the night, and had
found shelter in one of the huts inside the Hazara fort. He brought me
a small piece of dry bread which the cook had found among the baggage
when my tent arrived. Some hot tea was made, and I munched my crust
with great satisfaction. They told me we should have a cold march that
day, by Hajiguk, and the Armenian said:--
“Sir, you not wear the long coat; he is wet, and fever come for you.”
“I must wear something,” I said.
“Another you have,” said he, and off he went. He presently returned
with my dressing-gown. I objected; but, no, there was nothing
extraordinary in it; in fact, it was very like an Afghan robe. I wore
it, therefore, though it did not seem a very suitable riding coat.
[Sidenote: Mountain Climbing.]
It was a cold march as we crunched along through the snow, in spite of
the fact that the sun was shining brightly. We were at an altitude of
over sixteen thousand feet, and had to make long detours, for the road
was in places blocked or rendered unsafe by the snow. In some of the
detours where there was no path, we scrambled up and down terrifying
slopes. My saddle, a hunting one, could not be kept in place, and we
had to extemporize a breast-plate with string. In one ravine where
we halted, trying to find a way out, there was a sudden crack and a
splash. We had stopped over a stream crusted with ice and covered with
snow, and the horse of one of the soldiers went through. The stream,
however, was shallow, and only the man’s feet were wetted. There was a
laugh as he urged his horse out.
We descended from the region of snow into valleys where the air
quivered with heat, and one’s face was nearly blistered. In one, where
we stopped for lunch, I put a clinical thermometer for a moment against
my coat sleeve. The mercury shot up to the top at once. I was glad when
we moved on again. We passed a spring bubbling up near the road, whose
waters were impregnated with iron, the ground all round being stained
brown. Jan Mahomed said the water contained copper and was poisonous.
I remember one narrow but wild rocky ravine, with a river foaming and
roaring down it. The road ran along a few yards above the water. There
was a natural bridge of rock, over which the road ran, and just beyond,
a waterfall of some depth, where, at the bottom of the fall, the water
rushed under an arch of rock and was lost to sight. It reappeared, I
was told, in a valley about two miles off, and they said His Highness
the Amîr one day, when travelling by, offered a prize of a hundred
rupees to the man who would plunge in and explore the underground
river. A duck had been put in and had reappeared alive in the valley.
A soldier undertook the adventure at once, and was preparing for his
perilous journey when the Amîr forbad it. His Highness said, “If he is
drowned I lose a man of courage, and if he succeed what gain is there?
Give him the rupees.”
[Sidenote: Camp in the Bamian Valley.]
We were now about ninety miles from Kabul. For the first forty miles we
travelled due west, after that north-west, till we entered the ravine
I spoke of, which led nearly due north. As we rode on, the ravine
descended and opened into a large and very fertile valley. The mountain
at the west of the gorge was red in colour, quite different from those
we had been travelling among. Looking up with some interest at it, I
distinguished battlemented walls and towers leading up the mountain,
and, at the top, clusters of ruined houses and walls. There was no
sign of life. The city was deserted. They told me the place was called
Zohàk-i-Marhan, and was built a thousand years ago (“hazar sol”) by
the Emperor Alexander (“Sekunder”).
I did not, however, in the style of architecture see anything that
could lead one to suppose the buildings were of Greek origin. It
is interesting to note that there is in Afghanistan a tribe called
Zohàk, which is a division of the Ushturyani (the Stauri of Pliny),
who formerly occupied the district west of Bamian. Zohàk is stated by
Dr. Bellew to be the same as Zàk and Sàk, and stands for the ancient
inhabitants of Sistàn and Makràn, Assyrian subjects of Nimrod, king of
Babylon.
We descended into the valley and camped not far from the red mountain,
near the village of Topchi.
It was the month of May, the sun shone brightly, and the fields around
were green. Jan Mahomed had brought the musicians--but not the dancing
girls--with him. We luxuriated after the bitter winds and sleet of the
mountains, and the heat and weariness of the stony valleys. When lunch
was over Jan Mahomed sent me some sweets and a bottle of champagne. I
found that my servants, though Mahomedans, felt they were justified
after their fatigues in finishing the bottle. The musicians sat playing
in Jan Mahomed’s tent, and as I lay in mine reading a novel, the quaint
music, softened by the distance, was more pleasing than I had supposed
possible. For years afterwards the twang of the rubarb, the irregular
thud of the drums, and the monotonous sound of the singing, brought
back vividly to me that day in the Bamian valley, when I was a new
comer in the country.
The Bamian valley extends from Topchi nearly ten miles in a westerly
direction, and is about eight thousand feet above the sea. It is
interesting to know that Lady Sale, Lady MacNaughten, and six other
English ladies, who were taken prisoners in the first Afghan war in
1837, were conducted over the road we traversed to this very valley.
Lady Sale, relating their adventures, says that though they suffered
hardship, privation, and much anxiety concerning their future fate,
they were treated with kindness and consideration by the villagers
on the way. The order was that they were to be conducted to Khulum,
a hundred and twenty miles further on among the mountains toward
Turkestan, there to be delivered over to the Governor. This would have
meant to them a hopeless captivity. Happily, Sir Robert Sale, after the
defeat of the Afghans by Pollock, hurried on, and was able to rescue
the party in Bamian. Lady MacNaughten, less happy than Lady Sale, had
seen her husband, diplomatist and Oriental scholar, murdered before her
eyes in Kabul.
While we were in this valley Jan Mahomed went some miles out of the
road to show me a petrified dragon, or as my interpreter put it, “a
stone cow.” Akbar Mahomed had slain this dragon in single combat, and
Allah had changed it into stone. “Why _cow_?” I asked the Armenian,
some time afterwards. “It is a snake or a dragon.”
“I not know English word snake and dragon; I must say some animal, and
‘cow’ came into head, therefore I say _cow_.” The dragon I found to be
a curious shaped rocky hill formed in the course of ages by the deposit
of carbonate of lime from a spring that was still bubbling there.
[Illustration: COLOSSAL FIGURE, “SA-MAMA,” IN THE BAMIAN
VALLEY.
_From a photograph by Arthur Collins, F.G.S._]
[Sidenote: The Colossal Figures.]
This valley was full of surprises, for the next day we came up with
three colossal figures, cut in relief on the face of the mountains (the
Hindu Kush range) on the north side of the valley. These figures, they
said, were statues carved by order of Jelaluddin Shah, of himself,
his wife and son (Jelaluddin lived about the year 1230). Away on the
other side of the valley we could dimly see on the heights the ruins
of a deserted city--“the city of Jelaluddin.” We were too far off to
see anything characteristic in the ruins, but it is possible that
the city belongs to the same era as that of Zohàk-i-Marhan, a few
miles further down the valley. The figures, it is probable, are of
Buddhist origin, and date back to the time which preceded the Mahomedan
conquest of Afghanistan, when Buddhism was the dominant religion of
the country. The largest of the three figures, which has the local
name of “Sa-mama,” is 173 feet in height. The smaller, “Sul-sol,” 120
feet, and the smallest not more than 80 feet. They resemble in style
other figures of Buddha. The drapery, moulded and fastened on with
pegs, shows no sign of classical influence, arranged, as it is, in
stiff conventional folds. These are in places broken away, showing
the peg holes. To give an idea of their relative size, I saw a man on
horseback ride up to one figure--he and his horse together were not so
high as the toe. The figures are hollow, and there are steps leading
up to chambers inside the body and head. These are used by the Amîr
as storehouses for grain. On the wall of the chamber, in the head of
the largest figure, are the indistinct marks of a fresco painting, of
which Mr. Collins, the geologist, managed, some years afterwards, to
get an imperfect photograph. It is, however, impossible to make out the
subject, and I heard no story as to when or by whom it was painted. In
the face of the mountain, by the side of the figures, are chambers or
caves hollowed out of the rock. Some of these are beautifully cut, with
domed roofs--to use the words of Mr. Collins, who examined them--in
“hard conglomerate rock, and are coated with a layer of lustrous
bitumen.” Doubtless, they were used as temples and dwelling-places for
the Buddhist priests. Many of the other caves are in “soft sandstone
and conglomerate.” These could be easily cut, the hard conglomerate
forming a natural roof for rooms dug in the softer sandstone beneath.
Presumably they are of later origin than those cut in the harder
material. Narrow, almost impossible staircases lead up to the caves,
and there dwell the poorer Hazara agriculturists of the Bamian valley.
There are cave-dwellers in many parts of Afghanistan, and it is men of
this kind, who combine the professions of agriculturist and warrior,
who would be likely to cause more trouble to an invader of Afghanistan
than would the regular army of the Amîr. During the last Afghan war the
English were at first much puzzled by the rapidity with which thousands
of armed men would appear, and, if occasion required, the equal
rapidity with which they would vanish. All that could be found was here
and there a peaceful peasant hard at work in the fields with his
mattock--the rifle was left at home.
The furniture of one of these rock dwellings is simple enough. The
most prominent feature is the great ornamented earthen jar, in which
grain and provisions are stored: a strip of carpet occupies the place
of honour in the centre of the floor: a few copper cooking utensils, a
“chillim,” an Afghan “samovar” for tea, and a rough “charpoy,” complete
the establishment.
In the Bamian valley, fertile, full of interest and with a delightful
climate, we travelled deliberately, taking two days to traverse the
ten miles or so. As we rode, my Armenian told me many stories. I do
not know what they were about; I didn’t then. One only I understood.
He said that once on a march, utterly wearied, he went to sleep on
horseback. “It is thrown out,” said he, meaning himself; and pointing
to his forehead, with a mild smile, he said, “He is broke, and blood
is come.” I laughed, and asked what happened next. “I got him upstairs
horse, but I not go to sleep again.”
[Sidenote: The Pass of the “Tooth-breaker.”]
Then we turned north, and the next day was wearisome: not so much
from the length of the march, it was only thirty miles, as from the
incessant climbing. We had a mountain to cross, to which all that we
had hitherto seen was a mere joke. The Afghans call the mountain the
“Tooth-breaker” (Dandan shikan). I don’t mind trifling adventures,
such as riding along the tops of walls, or foot-wide bridges, but when
it comes to riding an iron-shod horse along smooth rock, slanting to
a precipice of unknown depth--well, it is past a joke. We had to do
it, and then descend a horrible “zig-zag.” I don’t call it a path,
because the predominant features were boulders, smooth tilted slabs,
and rolling pebbles. You lean back in the saddle, leaving your horse to
make his own arrangements. He picks his way warily, lower and lower,
and you thank Heaven you have got so far, when, just as you reach the
end of one “zig,” and your horse’s nose is over the edge, there is a
crunching slip of his hind feet: you catch in your breath and--think.
But he does not make a plunge over the edge, he pivots round on his
four feet, and goes down the “zag.” This is repeated frequently, and
at last, after many years, you arrive with your nerves in a shattered
condition at the bottom. The next time I came over this road, a year or
two later, there were accidents; but that I will speak of later.
We travelled on, day after day, through valleys and over
mountains--sometimes putting up at villages, sometimes camping in our
tents. Rain and hail alternated with scorching heat. To blacken you
properly, you want a dry scorching heat, alternating with icy winds and
hail. Some of the soldiers looked exactly as if they had been smoked:
the eyelids and creases of the face being white--the rest black.
[Sidenote: Story of Ishak’s Rebellion.]
We often had music when we camped, and one evening I played chess with
Jan Mahomed. He beat me. We were then at Ghuzni guk, the valley where
the armies of the Amîr and of his cousin Sirdar Ishak Khan met and
fought. The story I heard was this: His Highness the Amîr and Ishak
had always been friends, and when the Amîr ascended the throne, Ishak
was made Governor of the Turkestan provinces. All went well for some
years. Suddenly, news arrived in Turkestan that His Highness had had
an attack of gout, and had succumbed.[3] Ishak called his officers
around him, and discussed what steps to take. The chiefs urged him to
seize the throne. He, however, was a nervous man, not a warrior by
nature, and he hesitated. The chiefs seeing this, broadly hinted that
unless he seized the moment while he could, they would place another on
the throne, and Ishak, much against his will, was constrained to do as
they wished. He sent his women-folk and children across the Oxus into
Russian Turkestan, and marched with his troops and chiefs for Kabul.
They had not advanced many days’ journey when news was brought that
the Amîr was very much alive, and that his army was marching under
Gholam Hyder, the less, to meet them. Ishak knew now that he must meet
his Great Cousin, and in fear and distrust he posted relays of horses,
so that, if the worst came, he could escape across the frontier. They
met in this valley a few miles beyond Kamard. It is said that Ishak’s
army at the outset had the best of it--the men knew they were fighting
for their lives--but Ishak, neither Mahomedan nor Christian, did not
wait to see the end of the day. He made use of his horses, and rapidly
escaping across the frontier into Russia, he left his unfortunate
followers to bear the brunt of the Amîr’s terrible vengeance. It
appears that the rumour of the Amîr’s death had some foundation: His
Highness had been seized with a sudden attack of syncope, in which he
fell insensible to the ground.
[3] The news reached India. It was the first thing I saw in the papers
when I arrived there to enter the Amîr’s service, Sept. 1888.
One Sunday we had a very long march, thirteen hours, with two rests of
an hour each. Going one pace all the time is tedious, and one’s bones
ache abominably. We got into a ravine with a rapid stream roaring
along it, and part of the path was undermined and slipping. We had to
dismount and skip across on foot, the soldiers getting the horses over.
The ravine narrowed, curved to the right, and opened out into a
valley. The river roared round the corner, figure =S= shape, in some
places cutting away the path completely. Our horses had to plunge, and
stumble, and splash through that river three times in twenty yards,
before we could get out into the valley. It is at times like this that
the beautiful song “One More River to Cross” becomes full of meaning. A
mile or two more of hill and vale, and soon after dark we reached “Tash
Kurghán,” or “Khulum,” the place where Lady Sale and her companions in
captivity were to have been taken.
We put up at the citadel or fort, which is built on a rocky hill in the
middle of the town. We rested here all day Monday, and I enjoyed the
luxury of a hot bath. The Armenian waxed philosophical. He said, “It is
good to rest a little. Tired is go away, and hungry is go away.” Also
he suggested that a shave might commend itself to my judgment.
“But who is to shave me?” I said.
[Sidenote: The Wounded Soldiers in Tash Kurghán.]
“There is bolber in the town.” He called it barber afterwards. They
fetched the barber, and I wondered if it were dangerous for him to
shave me, for I had heard that Afghans were treacherous fanatics.
He did not destroy me. He merely rubbed some oil on my chin and
then scraped the skin off with a knife--a painful process. When the
operation was completed, I was conducted to the hospital. No, not on
account of my chin, but to examine the patients. The hospital was an
ordinary but rather large dwelling-house, and there were many wounded
soldiers lying there. It was exceedingly unclean and smelt badly. The
patients--I never before in my life saw such a condition of things. The
ghastly state to which battle wounds can come from neglect and improper
treatment, is too awful for words. I wanted to move the men from the
house, and to amputate at once some half-dozen arms and legs that were
_worse_ than useless to their owners. I could not, for I had neither
knives nor chloroform, and I had to leave the men--to leave them as I
found them--with their wistful eyes on me.
After that Jan Mahomed took me out to dine at a local magnate’s house.
My cook accompanied me, bearing knife, fork, spoon, and plate. In the
absence of table and chair I had to kneel to use my knife and fork.
It was not a comfortable dinner. I could not understand what the
conversation was about; and there were those men at the hospital ever
before me.
Beyond Tash Kurghán we turned west, and the scenery completely changed.
For some miles there was undulating plain covered with coarse grass. As
we rode on we started a herd of antelope, and had a gallop after them:
the change of motion from the everlasting walk was a great rest to the
muscles.
In one place the road dipped down between some low clay hills, the
defile of Abadu. Until very recently this little grip had had the
credit of being exceedingly dangerous; in fact, it is even yet called
“the Valley of death:” this on account of the caravan thieves and
robbers who infested the neighbourhood.
It is less dangerous under the present Amîr, for I had occasion while
in Turkestan to send for two additional dispensers from Kabul, and
these two men rode the whole distance from Kabul to Mazar unattended.
They had for safety’s sake a revolver. It was, however, unloaded, and
they had no powder.
The plains became gradually flatter and more dusty, till, finally, it
was little more than a desert with the scantiest vegetation.
The heat was intense, and the glare from the white dust most wearying.
Away in the distance in front of us, I saw a lake with some trees round
it, and I longed for the time when we should arrive and get cool again
in the shade. “There is no lake there,” they said. Nonsense! I knew
there was. This was no “mirage.” I mean, you could see the thing. There
weren’t any towers or castles, or people walking upside down, simply
one or two trees near some water. But, alas! we dragged on and on in
the parching heat, and never got nearer the lake. We passed a camel,
dead, by the roadside, loading the hot air with foulness. The gorged
vultures only hopped lazily a little way off, and sat and stared at us.
We halted at last, dismounted, and sat in the sun while the “chillim”
bearer blew up his charcoal and passed round the pipe. I had a pull at
it. He kept a little silver mouthpiece for my especial benefit, which
he slipped on the end of the tube. I was glad of this, though I knew it
was simply done lest I had eaten pork or anything unclean. After all
had smoked, the pipe charcoal was used to light some sticks that the
pipe-bearer had brought with him; the kettle was boiled, and we had hot
tea--scalding hot: the hotter it was, the more it seemed to satisfy our
thirst.
[Sidenote: Arrival at Mazar.]
Then we mounted and rode on again. By-and-by, Jan Mahomed politely gave
me a handful of English sweets, those round discs like pennies, with a
fancy edge, and with words printed on, “For a good boy”: they tasted
of peppermint. I wished they had been gelatine lozenges. Some hours
afterwards we halted again. This time it was at a village on the plain.
There were small mud-huts, and quaint-looking domes of wickerwork with
bits of scrub tucked into the interstices. It was cool in the shade,
and the villagers, Turkomans, gave us lettuces to eat. It was delicious
to crunch up the cool crisp leaves. We drank more tea, then rode on
again amid the salaams of the Turkomans. At last we came in sight of
the trees, the cupola and minarets of the town of Mazár-i-Sherif. This
was no phantom scene. A great crowd of people on foot and on horseback
came to meet us. I noticed that many of them kissed the hand of Jan
Mahomed, those on horseback dismounting to do so.[4] I also noticed
that one man running by the side of Jan Mahomed had a rifle slung
backwards under his arm, and that the barrel kept persistently in a
line with my head. It annoyed me. I could not get out of the way of the
brute. I need not have been disturbed, the gun was not in the least
likely to have been loaded: powder was too expensive.
[4] I was very sorry to hear recently, that Jan Mahomed Khan is no
longer living: a machine gun exploded and he was killed.
We reached the town at five in the afternoon, rode through the gate
along the narrow bazaar to the Palace. We dismounted under some big
plane-trees growing by a tank in the outer garden of the Palace, and
the report of our arrival was taken to His Highness the Amîr. The pages
and other officials crowded round, busily brushed the white dust off
us, and brought us bowls of iced water. Thirst! I knew what it was now!
Ride for ten hours over a dusty plain, with the thermometer over 100°
in the shade, and anything you like in the sun, and see.
Word was brought that His Highness would receive us the next day. Jan
Mahomed then handed me over to the care of one of the court officials,
the “Ferash-Bashi,” or “Keeper of the Carpets.” This was a short stout
gentleman of few words, and with a sour expression.
He was dressed rather gorgeously in a cashmere tunic, gold-bedecked
belt, trousers, high boots and turban. When I got to know him better,
I thought he was not such a villain as he looked. This gentleman
conducted me, accompanied by the Armenian, to a house near the Palace.
We passed through a covered porch, guarded by a pair of heavy gates,
into a garden surrounded by high walls: went along the stone-paved
paths, up some steps into a suite of rooms on the north side of the
garden. The rooms were beautifully carpeted, and looked very bright
and handsome in the setting sun. The “Bashi” informed us that he had
orders to send dinner from the Amîr’s kitchen; then politely saying
“Binishinēd”--take a seat--he departed. Seeing there was no seat to
take, I took the floor, and waited hungrily till dinner should arrive.
I had not long to wait, and was delighted to see the servants bring a
portable chair and table, with the dinner. I don’t remember what the
different courses were, but the dinner was European--soup, joint, and
entrées--and ended with a very delicious ice-pudding and fruit.
This house, which His Highness was kind enough to put at my service,
is of interest. Here, His Highness himself lived, before he built the
Mazar Palace. Here, too, Sirdar Ishak, in the days when he was Governor
of Turkestan, kept the ladies of his harem; and here Amîr Shere Ali
lived--and died--in the very room I was dining in.
[Sidenote: Story of the Death of Amîr Shere Ali.]
Amîr Shere Ali had been friendly with the British: troubles arose, and
he turned to the Russians. The British occupied Quetta in 1876, and
in 1878 the Amîr received a mission from Russia. A British mission
being refused entry into the Kyber, war was proclaimed. I need not
trace the outline of the war; it is enough to say that Amîr Shere
Ali did not receive the help he expected from Russia, and he fled to
Mazár-i-Sherif. Here he was seized with his old enemy, gout--a disease
that is hereditary in this reigning family.[5]
[5] There is a saying in Kabul that only those of the family suffer
from gout who afterwards occupy the throne; and since Prince Nasrullah,
the second son, has had twinges of pain in one of his lower limbs, some
have looked upon him as a probable successor to the throne!
They say that he was being attended by a Russian physician, and that
the pain being very severe the physician introduced some medicine
beneath the skin; then escaping by night to the Oxus he crossed into
Russian territory. In the morning Amîr Shere Ali was found dead. For
some days his death was concealed, but finally the fact was betrayed by
a serving woman.
At once the soldiers of the regular army commenced looting. The Palace
was stripped; then the bazaars and the wealthier people suffered,
and soon there was a pandemonium of riot, robbery, and murder. This
having occurred once, the fear is lest it may occur again. Many of the
well-to-do natives of Afghanistan have that dread; and at the time when
the present Amîr was severely ill, in 1890, there was such trepidation
and anxiety in Kabul, that many of the well-to-do concealed their more
portable valuables by burying them in the earth, and sought for safer
retreats outside the town, to which they could hurry in time of need.
[Sidenote: The House.]
The house did not differ from those of the richer Kabulis. The
windowless twenty-feet-high walls, in addition to ensuring privacy,
enabled the occupant on closure of the massive doors to convert his
house into a place of defence. It was partly overlooked, however, by
one tower or observatory built on the top of a high house some little
distance off. It was here, I was informed, that Sirdar Ishak lived. He
could, therefore, catch a glimpse of the ladies of his harem when they
were walking on the roof.
The large square garden was filled with fruit-trees and flowers: roses,
wallflowers, sweet-williams; and in the centre was a movable wooden
platform. In nearly every garden in Afghanistan you find, in some
shady place, generally by the side of the stream that ripples through
the garden, a platform a foot or two high, either of wood or carefully
smoothed earth. Here the Afghan, in his loose native garb, loves to
spread his carpet and sit in the hot summer afternoons lulled by the
murmur of the water, lazily talk to his friends and drink unlimited
tea. I have done it myself.
On the north side were my rooms raised six steps above the garden.
Passing up the steps to the lobby one entered the outer room with
its seven arched windows overlooking the garden, its one huge carpet
covering the floor, and, passing through, reached the inner room,
parallel and of the same size. There were the white sparkling walls
ornamented with frieze and dado, the arched niches or takchahs, with
small mirrors between them, the fireplace with ornamental mouldings,
the draped ceiling and the smooth earth floor with beautiful rugs
that are usual in the homes of the wealthiest Afghans. The inner room
was lit from the outer by a triple arched window, filled with stained
glass, which reached nearly to the floor. It was in this room that
Shere Ali died. It is said that on the takchah over the fireplace there
was left in the hurry when Ishak fled, the sum of R80,000 in gold.
At any rate, while I was there, one of the Court officials was fined
heavily by the Amîr for appropriating the money.
The rooms appointed to the interpreter and servants adjoined mine, but
were uncarpeted and less elaborately ornamented. On the south side of
the garden the rooms were occupied by one of the chamberlains, Mirza
Abdur Rashid. The Mirza was an excellent fellow, and we were friends
during my whole stay in Afghanistan. He was a pure-blooded Afghan about
my own age, with handsome features, and a skin so dark as to be nearly
black. For an Afghan he was well educated, and it was his duty night
after night to read aloud to His Highness the records of the kingdom
and books translated into Persian, of travel, geography, history, and
general information.[6]
[6] I have heard recently that the Mirza, following the example of
other misguided Afghans, endeavoured to escape from the country into
India. Unfortunately for him he was one of the unsuccessful ones. He
was seized, brought before the Amîr, and--Fate is now unkind to him.
On the east of the garden were rooms for the Afghan bath, and on the
west a colonnade where I kept my horses and where the soldiers of the
guard congregated. Night and day a sentry was on duty in the porch by
the big gates.
[Illustration]