LIFE IN TURKESTAN.
General Nassir Khan. The Story of the Shield. The Belgian’s
Request. Escape of Allah Nûr: his Capture. The Amîr’s Decision.
The Turkestan Commander-in-Chief. Operation on Allah Nûr. The
Armenian’s Comments. Illness of Hadji Jan Mahomed. The Haughty
Colonel: further comments by the Armenian. Sundry Acquaintances.
Excursion to Takh-ta-Pûl. Fortune-telling among the Afghans. The
Policeman-cook and the Lunch. Balkh. The Mosque at Mazar-i-Sherif
and its Miracles. Called to His Highness. The Cool-air Pavilion:
evil results of the same. Illness of the British Agent: the
Armenian’s advice: the Answer from the Amîr. Brigadier Hadji-Gul
Khan. Afghan Endurance of Suffering. The Country Cousin among the
Court Pages. Euclid and Cards.
A few days after this I was sent for to see General Nassir Khan, who
was sick. He was a bent old man, but had been, I heard, a tiger to
fight. He was with the Amîr during His Highness’s exile in Asiatic
Russia. They said that he entered the Russian service, and rose to the
rank of Colonel. He did not, however, forget his master, for he sent
the greater part of his pay to the Amîr, retaining only enough for bare
necessaries. Concerning this old man, I heard a little story, which
throws a side-light on the Amîr, and may therefore be interesting.
[Sidenote: The Story of the Shield.]
There had been brought to His Highness, as a present, a very beautiful
shield inlaid with gold. This was when he had come to the throne, and
was Amîr.
Everyone in the Durbar Hall feasted his eyes upon this beautiful thing,
and the courtiers edged anxiously nearer the royal chair, in the hope
that “Amîr Sahib” might perhaps, as he sometimes did, bestow a present
upon a “faithful and deserving slave.” The Amîr slowly cast his eyes
round the ring, and each heart beat high, as the Amîr’s eyes rested a
moment on this man or that. Suddenly, the Amîr called out,
“Nassir, Pesh biár,” “come forward.”
Out of a far corner came Nassir. The Amîr turned to the anxious circle,
and said,
“Look upon this man. He was with me in Samarcànd.” The hearts of the
courtiers sank; Nassir, then, was to be the recipient of the shield.
“He was with me in Samarcànd, and for a little thing he turned and
cursed me. These were his words”--and the Amîr repeated the curse. “Is
this so?” he said to Nassir. The old man hung his head in shame.
“He cursed me; he half drew his sword on me, his master. What is this
man worthy of?”
There was a dead silence: the shield was forgotten, for behold Nassir’s
day had come. It had; but not in the sense anticipated.
“Give him the shield,” said the Amîr. “He was with me in Samarcànd.”
I should finish the story by saying Nassir treasured the shield as the
apple of his eye, and shewed it me with honest pride--but no, he sold
it next day for what it would fetch. Afghanistan!
When I went to see him he was suffering from lumbago. He was a courtly
old man, and he gave me black tea to drink, in a Russian tea-glass.
I saw him at the Court, some time afterwards, and he came up to speak
to me. He had a stoop in his shoulders, and the tailor had not cut his
tunic properly, so that he had unbuttoned the top two or three buttons
to release his throat. It was a gorgeous tunic, richly embroidered with
gold; his sword-belt and scabbard were loaded with plates of solid
gold, and he had an old-fashioned bowler hat, too large for him, on
the back of his head. I was sorry. It took so from the dignity of his
appearance; at least in my eyes: not so in the eyes of the Afghans, to
them it was quite _en règle_.
Shortly after my visit to the general, I developed, from being
constantly among the sick, a “Hospital throat,” and had to stop at
home for a day or two. His Highness sent me a very kind message of
condolence; and while I was at home there was brought to me, from
the Post Office, a post card written in French and addressed to the
“Postmaster-General, Afghanistan.” The Amîr wished to know what was
written. I found the card came from the Postmaster of some small
Belgian town. It was a proposal on his part to the Postmaster-General
of Afghanistan to exchange “stamps.” He was, he explained, a “stamp
collector.” With the help of the Armenian I sent a Persian translation
to His Highness. The Amîr directed me to write and enquire what was the
colour of the stamps the collector required: on receipt of his answer
they would be forwarded to him. I imagine His Highness considered that
the collection was more for artistic effect than on account of the
intrinsic value of the stamps. The Belgian received his stamps in due
time.
Just at this time, too, I received a letter from the Editor of one
of the Indian papers asking me to contribute a series of articles on
Afghanistan. As, however, I was in the service of the Amîr I did not
feel justified in doing so, and was compelled to leave the letter
unanswered.
[Sidenote: The Escape of Allah Nûr.]
Another incident also occurred. There was in the Hospital a soldier
named Allah Nûr. He was suffering from disease of the elbow, which had
advanced to such a degree that the joint was completely disorganized.
The Hakims had promised to cure him by the application of ointments.
I explained to him, however, that this was impossible, and that the
only remedy was to remove the arm. Poor Allah Nûr had been ill a long
time: he was much reduced by pain and constant discharge, and he begged
me from day to day to postpone the operation. He explained his dread
of the knife, of which he seemed ashamed, by calling attention to his
pitiable state of weakness. When I was laid up with my throat he seized
the opportunity one night to make his escape from the Hospital: he got
on a donkey which some kind friend had provided, and managed to reach a
place called Takh-ta-Pul, some three or four miles off, before he was
captured.
The next morning he was brought back and taken before the Amîr. His
Highness said:--
“A child or a fool is he who runs from his Physician.”
He sent for a probe and proceeded to examine the joint.
“Without doubt the limb must come off,” said he.
“Barâie Khuda!” said Allah Nûr.
“Be silent!” said the Amîr.
“For God’s sake, do not. My Lord----”
The Amîr reached out his Royal hand and boxed his ear. Allah Nûr was
conducted back to the Hospital. That afternoon, my throat being better,
I attended the military Durbar. His Highness discussed with me the case
of Allah Nûr, advising amputation.
“It would appear wise, however,” said he, “considering the man’s
condition of weakness, to postpone the operation for a few days,
feeding him meanwhile on strong soups and administering ‘Portwein.’”
I need not say that I entirely concurred.
His Highness then spoke of other matters. He explained why he walked
so little and was carried from place to place in his palanquin. It was
on account of the pain he suffered from chronic sciatica. The horses
reserved for his riding were chosen for their steadiness, and he had
ordered them to be led about the streets after dark to cure them of
any habit they might have of shying. In moving, even from one chair to
another, he found the assistance of a walking-stick necessary. He spoke
also very kindly to me concerning my professional work, and finally
asked me to visit an old friend of his who was sick--the Hadji Jan
Mahomed.
Things were going well with me evidently, for directly the Durbar
was over the Commander-in-Chief in Turkestan came up to speak to
me and we walked out of the Palace gardens hand-in-hand:--I hate
walking hand-in-hand with a man. He was very chatty, and asked me
to visit a Colonel of his who was ill. The name of the Turkestan
Commander-in-Chief was Gholam Hydar, but he was a man of a much smaller
frame than his namesake the Commander-in-Chief in Kabul. Also he bore
a most startling resemblance to Dr. Lauder Brunton, F.R.S., the London
Physician. No two brothers could be more alike. They were the same
build. The very beard and moustache were trimmed in the same fashion.
The only difference I could see was that Dr. Brunton is fair and the
Suparsalar Gholam Hydar Khan was dark. I had, therefore, from the
beginning a pre-disposition in favour of Gholam Hydar on account of his
resemblance to my former teacher.
[Sidenote: The Operation on Allah Nûr.]
The next morning on arriving at the Hospital I found Allah Nûr only
too ready to have his arm amputated. While he had been away from the
Hospital the flies in that hot climate had found access to the sore,
and there were maggots squirming about in the joint. It was very
horrible. There was no postponing the operation now.
We had no operating table, and Allah Nûr was laid on a mound of earth
in the shade of a tree in the garden. I arranged the instruments near
and took off my turban lest it should obstruct my view at a critical
moment. I put the man under chloroform, screwed up the tourniquet, and
ordered the Armenian to hold the arm steady. There were two or three
sweeping cuts, the grate of the saw, and the arm was off midway between
shoulder and elbow.
The Afghans in the Hospital made an interested ring of spectators. One
of the Hindustanis, however, nearly fainted, and the Armenian said:
“Sir, I very glad you quick, my head is go round and round, and my eye
is like I drink a bottle of brandy and a bottle of rum mixed--all is
blood!” I did not ask him to help in an operation again.
After dressing the stump and seeing that Allah Nûr had recovered
properly from the chloroform and was comfortable, I rode off to see His
Highness’s old friend, the Hadji Jan Mahomed.
I found that the Hadji lived in a typical Turkestan house in the
outskirts of the town. There was the row of isolated dome-shaped rooms
or houses side by side, and in front a large garden almost entirely
covered with grape vines. These ran along ridges of earth about six
feet apart, each being some three feet high and six feet wide.
The Hadji was a venerable-looking old fellow of about seventy, with
a long white beard. He was of the same tribe as His Highness--the
Barakzai Durani.
After tea and fruit had been brought, and we had had some general
conversation, the Hadji informed me that he had lately arrived from
Bokhara, and was suffering from a disease of the leg that is prevalent
in that district. On examination I found he was suffering from “Guinea
worm,” a thread-like creature some two or three feet long, that burrows
through the tissues of the body, generally infesting the feet and
legs. The treatment adopted at the present day is the same as that
pursued by the old Persian surgeons, who extracted the worm by gentle
and continuous traction, winding the exposed end of the worm round a
small stick of ivory, bone or wood. If the worm is broken, local and
even severe constitutional mischief is apt to ensue, and this is what
had happened to the Hadji. The attempt to extract the worm had been
unsuccessful, it had been broken. He had been exceedingly ill, he
said; and I found a large burrowing chronic abscess above the right
knee. It was a troublesome case, and I visited him several times. At
last, one day I had the good fortune to detect the broken end of the
worm, and with the greatest gentleness and care managed to extract it.
The leg then soon healed.
[Sidenote: The Haughty Colonel.]
After I had visited the Hadji, who, by the way, presented me with half
a pound of Orange Pekoe, I went to see the young Colonel whom the
Commander-in-Chief had asked me to visit. His house was not very far
from the Palace gardens, and I found him seated on a charpoy under
the trees in his garden: one or two friends and a Hakim sat with him.
He was a small dark man with a haughty expression, but he looked very
ill. He had had fever, but was now suffering from suppuration of the
parotid, so that he had a great unbroken abscess in his cheek and neck.
I examined him carefully and decided that the abscess should be
opened without delay. He did not, however, view the suggestion with
any favour. He told me, very politely, that he should prefer applying
certain ointments that had been advised by his friend the Hakim.
I do not remember the name of the Hakim. He was one of the minor
practitioners whom I really never took note of.
The Colonel also explained that should the ointment not have the
desired effect, he would wish to try the efficacy of prayer. After
this, what was there to be said? I bowed, refused the tea he politely
offered, and begged permission to withdraw.
Coming away I said to the Armenian:--
“What infernal nonsense it is calling me to fellows like that.”
“Yes, sir,” said the Armenian, “he is fool man. And that Hakim! he is
nothing. His _father_ cannot sit in your presence.” This was soothing,
perhaps. As we were going home I met little Mahomed Omer, son of
Perwana Khan, the Deputy Commander-in-Chief in Kabul. He was a bright
little lad of about thirteen. His face was distinctly of the Tartar
type. We grew very friendly, and he often came with his tutor or “Lala”
to see me. I gave him my felt hat, and he walked about proudly with it
over his ears.
[Sidenote: A Day at Takh-ta-Pul.]
Soon after this I went to Takh-ta-Pul, the place where my friend
Allah Nûr had escaped to, in order to inspect the hospital there. The
Commander-in-Chief sent a Captain--Seyd Hussain--a huge Afghan hillman,
some six feet three inches high, to accompany me, so one morning he
and I and the Armenian and some servants rode off together. Seyd
Hussain was quite a friend of mine; he came very often to see me, and
afterwards said such polite things, that the Commander-in-Chief used
to call him my “son.” We took about an hour over our ride: it was so
excessively hot. When we arrived at Takh-ta-Pul, I called upon the
Commander-in-Chief, who was there for a few days, had tea with him,
and was then conducted to a house prepared for me. I was shown into an
upper chamber, carpeted and decorated, which overlooked the garden, a
large square one with trees and flowers, and commanded a view of the
town and the distant mountains.
My “son” came too, and five or six others, including the Armenian,
to amuse me. They sang songs, told stories, and the captain read my
future in the palm of my hand: I was surprised to find palmistry an
Afghan accomplishment. He told me I should have two severe illnesses
in the country, but should return to my native land in safety. We had
grapes and tea, and, at about one o’clock, tiffin or lunch. There was
roast mutton, I remember, exceedingly oily, which one of my servants,
the groom, had cooked for me. This gentleman, whom I had picked
up--or rather the Armenian had picked up for me--in Turkestan, was a
Peshawuri. He had been a policeman in Burma, he said. He also said he
could make a pudding; and he did, a watery rice pudding. Then a pillow
was brought, and I lay on the floor and slept for an hour. After that
we had more songs and stories, and at six, when the heat of the day
had gone, I called again on the Commander-in-Chief and had more tea.
He wished me to stay the night, but I remembered I had not inspected
the Hospital yet, besides, for all I knew, the Amîr might want me. I
decided therefore not to stop.
We started off for the Hospital, which was a little way out of the
town. It was precisely like that of Mazar, except that there were only
five or six patients in it. These were looked after by a Hakim. In the
evening the Captain, the Armenian, and I rode back to Mazar, and I
prepared my report for the Amîr. One thing I often regret: it is that
I did not at this time act on the Armenian’s suggestion and ride to
the ancient city Balkh, which was only some six or seven miles beyond
Takh-ta-Pul. However, I had the feeling that I had taken a day off at
Takh-ta-Pul, and must not waste any more time when there were so many
sick waiting for treatment. Balkh, “the mother of cities,” is situated
in a province capable of great cultivation, and was a flourishing city
in the time of Alexander the Great. The population, however, was so
nearly exterminated by Ghengis Khan, and again by Tamerlane and his
successors, that it is doubtful whether it will ever again recover even
a moiety of its former importance.
There is at Mazar-i-Sherif a great Mosque or Temple, from which the
town takes its name. It is a huge ornate building with minarets, and a
lofty cupola built of a shining blue stone. It is held in veneration by
all Mussulmans, but more especially by the sect of Shiahs. The Mosque
contains a tomb which is supposed to be that of Ali, son-in-law of
Mahomed, though some European authorities consider that Ali was buried
near Baghdad. Be that as it may, the Mosque possesses considerable
revenues, the gifts of wealthy votaries and other pious people, which
are used to feed the crowds of indigent pilgrims who, at certain times
in the year, flock in great numbers to Mazar. Moreover, the remains of
Ali, or whoever the gentleman may be, are capable of working miracles
of no mean order. They restore sight to the blind, hearing to the deaf,
and health to the sick. During one of the religious festivals which
occurred while I was in Turkestan, there were no less than five men
whose sight had been restored by their pilgrimage to the Mosque! I know
this is true, for the Amîr told me so himself!
[Sidenote: The Amîr’s Cool-air Pavilion.]
One morning His Highness sent for me to examine his ear. He fancied he
had some insect in it. This was in July, and the weather was very hot.
I found His Highness seated in a small circular pavilion in the Palace
garden. I had often wondered what this little building was. It was a
cool-air chamber. There was a door and one window. This window was
filled in with interlaced branches of an aromatic shrub; water from a
gutter trickled over the lattice work, and a current of air was driven
in by a paddlewheel fan, which a man outside worked with a handle. I
was ushered into the semi-darkness of the room; I bowed, and a chair
was placed midway between the door and the window in an awful draught.
After the hot dry air of the outside this horrible little room felt
like an ice well. I literally shivered, and there sat His Highness in
the full draught, and, what is most unusual, without a head covering.
It was too dark in the Pavilion to see the condition of the ear, and
His Highness at once consented to come out into the open. A chair
was brought, and His Highness sat with bare head in the blazing sun.
“Surely there is danger of sunstroke,” I thought.
I begged permission to put on my helmet, saying I was afraid of the
sun. I thought His Highness might then cover his own head; no, he did
not seem to mind the heat. I examined the ear with the speculum and
found nothing in it. He had, however, a slight catarrh of the throat
and of the Eustachian tube leading from the throat to the inner ear.
I pointed out the danger of exposing the body while the skin is
acting freely to a draught of cold damp air; and indicated the line of
treatment I should adopt if I were to attend to the ear. His Highness
coincided with my views, said that he had the medicines I spoke of,
and should certainly try them. It struck me that all he wanted really
was to know if there were anything in his ear: he had not asked me to
prescribe for him.
I heard that His Highness spoke highly of me after I left. I think he
was not yet prepared to place himself entirely in my hands, and I had
not forced him into the uncomfortable position of having to refuse my
treatment and, therefore, appear somewhat discourteous.
There is, in this part of Turkestan, a disease which bears a strong
resemblance to the so-called Delhi boil--or, more correctly, Delhi
ulcer. It was exceedingly prevalent while I was in Turkestan, and after
trying various remedies ineffectually I hit upon one which had a marked
beneficial effect. Formerly, the ulcers--which appear on the exposed
parts of the body, the hands, feet, and face--were very intractable and
rarely healed in less than a year. Under the popular native treatment
they sometimes attained enormous proportions, and became covered with
most exuberant granulations--great mounds of proud flesh: now they
healed rapidly in a month, or less, according to the size, so that I
gained a sort of reputation in this line. One day the British Agent,
Colonel Attaullah Khan, sent his Secretary to ask me to visit him, as
he was suffering from one of these sores upon his heel, and his own
Hindustani medical attendant had been unsuccessful in giving him relief.
I said, certainly, I would come, and was pulling on my boots, when the
Armenian said:--
“Sir, please you kind, a little you wait.”
“What for?” said I, with a boot half on.
“First, I write to Amîr Sahib and ask; then you go or you not go, as he
says. You Amîr Sahib’s servant.”
“Well, but----” However, I thought there was no harm in his writing at
any rate, and I waited. His Highness’s answer arrived.
[Sidenote: The Amîr’s Answer.]
He acknowledged the receipt of my letter of such a date, in which I
asked--Had I the Royal permission to visit--and so on. He was deeply
grieved on account of the illness of the Sirdar, for whom he had
the greatest affection and respect, but there were weighty matters
to consider. I, though an Englishman, was his servant. If, through
an unforeseen calamity God should strike the Sirdar, while under my
medical care, with an illness more severe than the present one, or,
God forbid, even with death, then the honourable Government of England
might consider in their wisdom that I, his servant, instigated by evil
men, had worked harm upon the Sirdar.
The gist of it was, that whatever His Highness’s reason might be, he
did not wish me to attend the Agent. I therefore sent my apologies.
At the next Durbar His Highness appeared pleased that I had asked his
permission before visiting the Agent, and he entered more fully, though
on the same lines, into his reasons for refusing permission.
That afternoon a Brigadier named Hadji Gul Khan, with his Staff, called
upon me at my house. They all came in, about a dozen of them, and the
Brigadier, in a hearty sort of way, shook hands and asked how I was. I
was surprised, as he was quite a stranger to me, though it is possible
I was not so to him. He was a relative of the Amîr’s, a Barukzai
Durani: he had called to ask if I would attend to one of his soldiers
who had a disease of the leg. I said, “With pleasure, which is he?”
“This is the man.”
I examined him, and found he had a fatty tumour on the outer side of
the right thigh. I said--
“It will be necessary to remove this swelling with the knife. It
consists of a mass of fat.”
“Bisyar khôb,” said the Brigadier; “very good; remove it.”
“Kai?” said I. “When?”
“Hala,” said he. “Now.”
“Certainly; come into the other room,” for I did not want to spoil
my beautiful carpets. I was short of chloroform, and I said to the
Armenian,
“Tell the man I shall hurt him.” The man said,
“Khair ast, it is nothing. Tell the Doctor Sahib, if he cut me to
pieces I shall not speak.”
“O, all right,” I said, “tell him to lie on the ground.” He lay down. I
made a longitudinal incision over the tumour, and proceeded to dissect
it out. It must have been very painful, but the man said nothing,
neither did I; but the bystanders, when the mass of yellowish white
fat appeared between the edges of the wound, exclaimed, “Wah! wah!” in
excited admiration.
I bandaged the leg, and the soldier walked back to his barracks. He
had to be in bed, however, for some time afterwards. We were very good
friends after that--the soldier and I. I am sure I don’t know why,
except that I admired his pluck, and had hurt him.
[Sidenote: The Country Cousin among the Court Pages.]
I called on the Hadji Jan Mahomed again, and found his young son there.
Both the Hadji and his son kept to the pure Afghan costume, with the
turban and picturesque flowing robes. The boy afterwards became a
Court Page, but he looked very out of place among the Europeanized
youngsters who swaggered about at the Palace. He looked out of date and
countryfied in his robes, and he felt it. I noticed when I was at the
Hadji’s what beautiful feet he and his son had: they were like the feet
of a Greek statue. The toes had shape. They were not degenerated like
ours, by descent through a boot-wearing ancestry.
One of the Pages lived next door to me; he was an ugly little beggar,
but rather amusing, and the Armenian suggested one evening, to
while away an hour, that we should go and see him. He was hard at
work puzzling over Euclid. It seemed very odd to see the well-known
diagrams in the midst of Persian writing. We played cards--a sort of
three-handed whist--and other games. They taught them to me, but I have
completely forgotten how they were played. The cards used were just
the same as those we have, except that they were cheap ones, made in
Germany, and were exceedingly dirty.
Another Page-boy lived opposite; next door to the Mirza Abdur Rashid.
He was an exceedingly pretty boy, and was, in consequence, very
gorgeously dressed in a scarlet and gold uniform and Kashmîr turban.
Personal beauty is a fairly certain cause of rapid promotion at the
Amîr’s Court. Some of the Court Pages are the sons of nobles, of
officers, or of wealthy men. Others are slaves.
[Illustration]