Suddenly there is the loud report of several guns; the bullets whistle

through the midst of the party, and in a moment all is confusion

and uproar. The camels start up and try to escape; the women seize

their children or the camel-ropes; while the men snatch their guns,

which had been just now put down, and hastily take aim at some dozen

men running down the mountain-side in the direction of the camels,

with their long knives ready for action. But the first volley had

not been without effect: Manak Khan is lying on the ground, blood

flowing fast from a wound in his left leg just above the knee, and

anxiously is he watching what is now a hand-to-hand conflict close by

him. The Wazirs have rushed among the camels and have cut their cords,

and are attempting to drive them off; while the other merchants,

having discharged their matchlocks, attack them with their swords,

and camels and men are mingled in one shouting, slashing mêlée.

Fortunately for the Lohanis, two of the leading Wazirs fall quickly

with fatal sword wounds, and the remainder, seeing that the Lohanis

have not been caught napping, and that the tide is turning against

them, make off as quickly as they appeared, and the merchants have

far too much to do in quieting their frightened camels to think of

a pursuit. A hasty council is held. It is found that one man has

his arm broken by a sword cut, and Manak Khan has his leg broken,

the ball having passed through the bone and opened the knee-joint,

while most of the remainder can show smaller cuts.

The women now come to the rescue. A veil is torn up and the wounds

bound, some being stitched by the women pulling hairs out of

their own heads, and using their ordinary sewing-needles on their

husbands' skin. An immediate march is resolved upon, but then comes

the difficulty about Manak Khan. Moving him causes him great pain

and the blood to gush forth afresh, while to leave him is out of the

question, for his throat would be cut long before morning. Whatever may

be the faults of an Afghan, he is not one to forsake a friend in the

hour of need, and so it proves here. A piece of cloth is half burnt,

and the blackened shreds, soaked with oil, rubbed over the wound,

and the leg then bound to a musket with the ample folds of a shawl,

and, lastly, our hero is tied on a rough bed, and mounted high on

the back of a camel.

Great were the lamentations when Manak Khan reached his village

home; and instead of his strong step and hearty greeting consoling

his wife for her long winter of separation, she came forth only to

see the pain-marked face and helpless form carried in on a bed,

and to hear the account of the night attack in the dread Tochi

Pass. "Bismillah! let the will of God be done," consoles the village

Mullah, while some practical friend starts off for the nearest hakim,

or doctor. The latter shortly arrives; and the wife retires into the

cottage, while the greybeards assemble in the courtyard to offer their

bits of experience and advice, and vow vengeance over the Quran on

the luckless Wazirs who committed the deed.

After no little ceremony and interchange of ideas, the doctor decides

on a combination of two remedies, for the case is a serious one:

the leg is greatly swollen from the groin to the calf, and unhealthy

matter is issuing from both the apertures of entry and exit of the

bullet, while the shattered bones grate on each other, and cause

the man to bite convulsively the rolled-up end of his turban, on the

slightest movement.

For the first remedy a fat sheep is bought and slain and immediately

skinned, the reeking skin being applied at once to the bare leg,

with the bloody side next the skin, from groin to heel, and the whole

bound up and placed in the hollow formed by burning out the central

core from the half of a three-foot length of tree-trunk.

For the second remedy a message is sent to a certain religious devotee,

who has an asylum in the neighbourhood and a great reputation for

charms which will cure all manner of diseases (when it is the will

of God that they shall be cured). Next day he arrives, clad in simple

goatskin, with the hair outside, and a cap of similar material. Many

long prayers are gone through with the help of the Mullah, and at last

a small piece of printed paper torn from an Arabic tract is produced,

and carefully sewn up in a small piece of leather, and tied in the

name of God round the man's ankle.

Then comes the last ceremony, and one not to be overlooked on any

account--that of providing a feast at the sick man's expense for all

parties concerned. His little store of rupees is fetched out, and

returns lighter by a third to the folds of the old turban in which

it was carefully hoarded, while the charm-maker is seen leading away

a fine milch goat.

Day follows day, and night follows night, but still Manak Khan lies

tossing feverish on a bed of pain, and still is the patient Sadura

watching by his bedside, and daily bringing in fresh milk and butter

and sugar, and making tempting pancakes, only to be left half tasted

by the fever-stricken frame of her loved one. At last the tenth day

comes, on which the sheepskin is to be removed, and the hakim comes,

and the Mullah comes, and the greybeards come, and prayers are read,

and money is given; but, to the disappointment of all, the limb

is found no better, swollen as before, and bathed in evil-smelling

matter, which makes his friends, all but his faithful wife, bind a

fold or two of their turbans over their noses and mouths.

So week follows week. One herb is tried after another; the last of

his rupees disappears among the hakims, for, peradventure, think they,

the doctor did not heal it at once because his fee was not high enough,

so a larger fee is given, and a hint that if only he will say for what

price he will speedily heal it, they will go all lengths to pay him;

for it must be unwillingness, not incapability, that prevents his

doing so.

So two months passed away, but still the limb was swollen and sore,

still was he unable to rise from his bed of pain.

Then they determined to send a messenger to the neighbouring town

of Ghuzni, and call in a doctor of great repute from there. True,

his charge was high--one of the three camels must be sold to defray

it--but what hope was there for them with the breadwinner hopelessly

crippled? So the messenger went and the doctor came, and his remedy

was tried. Two bunches of wool were thoroughly soaked in oil and then

set fire to, and fastened on the skin near the knee; the pain was

great, but Manak Khan stood it bravely, tightly biting his turban-end

and grasping his friend's arm in a spasmodic grip. When the burnt

flesh separated after a few days the ulcers left were dressed with

some leaves from a plant growing on the shrine of a noted saint,

and renewed every two or three days. Still there was no improvement,

though charms and amulets were bought at high prices from many a saint,

and the Ghuzni doctor came again and took away his second camel.

Manak Khan and Sadura were beginning to lose all hope, when one day

a traveller was passing through their village on the road to Kabul,

and as he was sitting with the villagers, telling them the latest

news from India, one of them asked him about a scar on his left arm.

"Ah," he said, "when I was in Dera Ismaïl Khan I had a terrible

abscess; but there was an English doctor there, and he lanced it, and

got it quite well in a couple of weeks; and," he went on, "numbers of

people have been going to him, and I have seen some wonderful cures."

"Really!" say they; "and had you to pay him a great deal?"

"No; that is the strange part: he will not take any money from

anyone, but sees all the people that go to him, be they ever so poor,

for nothing."

"That cannot be; he must have a reason behind it all."

"No, not unless it be this--that you know he is a Feringi, and, like

all other Feringis, an unbeliever; but, more than that, he seems

to want all the people to believe on Hazrat 'Esa" (Lord Jesus) "as

being the Son of God" (here the Mullah and several of the men spit

on the ground and say, "Tauba, tauba"), "and to this end he has got

an assistant who preaches to all the people who go to him, and tells

them about Hazrat 'Esa, and how he was a hakim and cured people."

"Well, this is strange, but I wonder if he could cure Manak Khan."

And so all particulars are asked, and the advice of all the greybeards,

while Manak Khan catches at the idea as a dying man at a straw. Sadura,

however, is not so easily convinced. She did not relish the idea of

her husband being separated from her once more, and moreover, said

she, where the doctor of Ghuzni had failed, how was it likely that

another doctor, and he a blasphemer of their Prophet, would succeed?

So the idea was waived for a time, and things went on as before,

while their last camel was sold to pay their increasing debts, and

gloom settled on the little circle. But as the September days were

lengthening and still no hope appeared, they settled that they would

try the Feringi's medicine. But then came the difficulty as to ways

and means; their last camel had been sold, and Manak had no friends

who would take him down to the plains free of expense.

At last a bright idea struck them: their little daughter, Gul Bibi,

was now seven years old, and many a man would be willing to lend eighty

or ninety rupees on condition of her being kept for his wife. And so

it was settled: the bargain was struck, and with the proceeds a man

was engaged to take him on camel-back down to the Derajat plains. The

village carpenter made a kind of litter, which could be fastened

on the back of a camel, and as his wife must stop for the children,

his old mother volunteered to take the journey with him and tend him

through it.

It was a sad farewell this time, and long did Sadura stand at the

outskirts of the village watching the camel and its precious burden,

with the old mother and sturdy camel-driver trudging by the side,

gradually disappear round a corner of the defile.

On the seventh day they emerged from the Gomal Pass on to the Plain

of Tank, and here they stayed a little to recuperate with the kind

Dr. John Williams, of the Christian hospital there; then going on

till the trees and mudhouses of Dera Ismaïl Khan came in sight. Here

a fresh disappointment awaited them: the Feringi doctor had left Dera,

and gone to carry on his work in Bannu, one hundred miles farther. But

what cannot be cured must be endured, and so the camel's head is turned

towards Bannu, and the weary march resumed once more. Five days later,

as the evening was drawing on--it was now late in November--Bannu was

reached, and the new Feringi doctor inquired for; and a few minutes

later the camel, with its strange burden, came through the gates of

the mission compound, and the long tedium of the three hundred miles'

journey was brought to a close.

Such was the story with which Manak Khan came to me, and which

he gradually unfolded to me some two months later, as confidence

had increased, and I used to sit by his bedside hearing tales of

his mountain home. Great was the sorrow with which I had to tell

him that his case was incurable, that his leg had become thoroughly

disorganized, and amputation was necessary; but, like most of his race,

his aversion to the loss of a limb made him prefer the long months of

a bed of sickness and the tedious and repeated operations performed

in an endeavour to save the limb in a usable condition. In this way

he and his mother remained with us till the middle of April, when,

as the heat of the plain began to be felt, they were compelled to

return to their mountain home, with little or no improvement.

Yet with one great difference, which lightened up the sadness of his

departure: he had learnt to believe on Christ Jesus as his own Saviour,

and to look up to Him as the One who carries us safely through sickness

and trial, and is preparing a home for us at last; and very earnestly

did he assure me that during the long days of patient suffering in

our little mission hospital he had learnt to lift his heart in prayer

to Him who hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows, and look

up to Him as his Saviour.

"And," said he, "if God spares my life, I will tell my people of Him,

and come back with my family to be received into the Christian Church."

So he left us, and our prayers followed him on his long and painful

journey home; and may it not be that he is a light shining in a dark

place, and witnessing in that little Afghan village of how he went for

bodily healing, but God saw fit to pour light into his soul instead,

and make the very tedium of a protracted illness in the Bannu Mission

Hospital the guiding light to heaven?

Every now and again we got news of Manak Khan. He had taken with him

some books in the Pashtu language, a New Testament and some others,

and these used to be read by a Mullah in his village and some other

friends of his who could read. His leg, however, never got well,

and was the cause of his death some three years later. When on his

death-bed, he directed his wife to go to Bannu with her children and

place herself under my protection, and one autumn morning she arrived,

with three children. Before she had been with us many days, however,

others of her tribe came and warned her that if she stopped with us

she would lose her religion, sell herself to the Evil One, and be

lost for ever, and they accompanied these admonitions with threats, so

that ultimately she left us, and we have not seen her since. But who

knows? Sometimes after the lapse of years these people return to us,

and the thread of circumstance is picked up again where it had been

cut, as though there had never been any breach of continuity at all! Or

it may be the seed goes on growing in some distant Afghan village

unknown to us, but known to and tenderly cared for by Him who will not

let even a sparrow fall to the ground without His will, and who has

counted among His own many a one now resting in a Muhammadan graveyard

against that day when the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed.

CHAPTER XXI

FRONTIER CAMPAIGNING

The Pathan warrior--A Christian native officer--A secret

mission--A victim of treachery--A soldier convert--Influence

of a Christian officer--Crude ideas and strange motives of

Pathan soldiers--Camaraderie in frontier regiments--Example

of sympathy between students of different religions in mission

school--A famous Sikh regiment--Sikh soldiers and religion--Fort

Lockhart--Saraghari--The last man--A rifle thief--Caught

red-handed.

Some of the finest fighting material of the Indian Army comes from

the Pathan tribes, both on the British side of the border and across

it in Tirah and Waziristan, and very pleasant fellows some of these

Pathan warriors are. Often when wandering about the frontier have I

received the hospitality of some outpost or stayed with the native

officer in some blockhouse, and listened to them recounting tales

of active service or of their mountain homes. Many of these native

officers are old students of the frontier mission schools, and these

extend a doubly hearty welcome. Some are serious religious inquirers,

and, from having travelled and mixed with all kinds of men, are able

to examine the claims of Christianity with less prejudice than the

priestly class.

A notable instance is that of Delawar Khan, who was a Subadar of

the famed Corps of Guides. He was at one time a notorious robber

on the Peshawur frontier, and a price had been set on his head. The

Rev. R. Clark relates of this man [2] that once a Government officer

met him in a frontier village beyond the border, and offered him

service in the Guide Corps if he would lead an honest life, or

the gallows the first time he was caught within our territory if

he refused. The excitement of his adventurous career had a great

charm for him, and the teaching of the priests had persuaded him

that he was doing God's service in his lawless course. He, therefore,

scornfully refused the Englishman's offer, saying he would continue his

lawless life, in spite of whatever the Sahibs could do. After a time,

however, he thought better of it, and as a price was set on his head,

he determined to apply for it in person, thinking he might as well

have it himself as anyone else, and so, taking his own head on his

shoulders, he went and claimed the reward. The officer, knowing the

kind of man he was, again offered him service, which he then accepted,

and enlisted as a soldier in the Guide Corps, in which, by his bravery

and fidelity, he rapidly rose to be a native officer. Ultimately

he became convinced of the truth of the Christian doctrine which he

had heard the missionaries preach in the Peshawur bazaar, and, with

his characteristic bravery, did not hesitate publicly to acknowledge

himself a Christian and receive Christian baptism. Through his example

and under his protection some other soldiers in the same corps also

became Christians.

His death is thus related by the Rev. R. Clark in his account of

his life: "A few months ago he was sent by Government on a secret

mission into Central Asia. He was a Christian, and Government trusted

him. He passed safely through Kabul on his way to Badakhshan. As he

was travelling in disguise, a man who had heard him preach in the

Peshawur bazaar betrayed him to the judge, who condemned him to be

blown away from a cannon as an apostate. During the trial a copy of

one of Dr. Pfander's works dropped from his bosom. The judge took it

and tore it in two. The King of the country, however, heard of it,

and asked to see the book, and, having read a part of it, pronounced

it to be a good book, and set Delawar Khan at liberty. Soon after,

however, he died in the snow on the mountains, a victim to the

treachery of the King of Chitral."

A native officer in the native levies of the Kurram Valley was

converted through reading a Pashtu Testament which an officer gave him,

and when I visited him in his home in Shlozan, in the Kurram Valley,

I found that he was in the habit of reading the book to some of his

neighbours who came together to listen; and although up to that time

he had never met a missionary, he had made much progress in Christian

experience and knowledge of the Bible.

I had a pupil in the mission school who enlisted in one of the frontier

regiments. He was the son of a Mullah of the Khattak tribe. After he

had been in the regiment about a year he wrote me a letter saying

that he desired Christian baptism, and was looking forward to the

day when he would be standing by my side preaching the Gospel to

his fellow-countrymen. This was through the influence of a Christian

officer in his regiment. Not that the officer tried to convert his

men--far from it--but the beautiful transparency of his character

and the sincerity of his religion drew his men irresistibly to him,

and several desired to become Christians. A Pathan becomes very much

attached to an officer whom he admires, and will bear any hardship

or danger for him, and therefore it is not surprising that some have

become desirous of adopting his religion. For a long time there was

a sect on the frontier called the Nikal Sains, who formed a kind

of schismatic Christian sect owing to their devotion to Nicholson,

of Delhi fame, which amounted in their case almost to a worship of him.

On one occasion a Pathan soldier in a frontier regiment came to me,

urgently begging me "to make him a Christian." He was so ignorant

of what Christianity meant that I could only offer to give him

instruction, but he was so much on outpost duty that this was

very difficult. He knew that in order to become a Mussulman it was

sufficient to repeat the Kalimah in a mosque, and he thought that there

must be some corresponding Christian formula, and that by repeating

it in our church he might become a Christian. He thought, further,

to prove his sincerity to me by saying he was ready to wear a topi

(hat) instead of a turban. His desire apparently rose merely from an

admiration of his Christian regimental officers.

In the Tochi Militia there was a Wazir Subadar, a fine fellow, who

had seen much active service, and would soon be retiring. One day he

was murdered, possibly by a Sepoy whom he had been obliged to punish.

Shortly afterwards his son came to me, earnestly begging me to admit

him to the Christian Church. Apparently it was to escape from the duty

that devolved on him as a Muhammadan of revenging his father's death

by another murder. He was not a coward by any means, but knew he would

be killing an innocent person, for the real murderer was beyond his

reach, and he recoiled from committing such a crime, and he knew that

our teaching was against revenge, and therefore desired to become a

Christian. As he was a soldier, I would not act without a reference

to his commanding officer, and as he was excited and suffering from

much mental tension, I thought it better to wait. Ultimately he did

shoot a man, who may have been his father's murderer or not, and I

believe was sentenced to penal servitude for life in consequence.

There is something peculiarly attractive, I think, about the

frontier regiments. They have very hard service, constant outpost

duty, few nights in bed, with ever the danger of the Pathan rifle

thief and ambuscades. And yet officers and men are always cheerful,

hospitable, and full of the spirit of camaraderie. Even the Sikhs and

Pathans seem to lay aside their hereditary feuds, and fight and work

heartily together, shoulder to shoulder. Some of the most striking

tributes to the influence of the Christian rule of England are seen

in this fellowship between different races and religions. In the

little frontier wars one sees Pathan soldiers side by side with the

stalwart Sikhs, or, it may be, the little Gurkhas with the tall Panjabi

Muhammadans. Much the same is seen in the playing-fields of our mission

schools, where Christians, Muhammadans, Hindus, and Sikhs are as

loyal to one another as if they had never had a religious difference.

A scene I shall always remember was the funeral of a young Sikh

student, who was a brilliant member of the school football eleven, and

was carried off one summer recently by sudden illness. His Muhammadan,

Christian, and Hindu fellow-students vied with each other in showing

honour to his memory, and accompanied the body to the burning-ground

on the banks of the Kurram River. For the Muhammadans at least this

would have at one time been considered as most inconsonant with

their religion.

The fine, tall Sikh soldiery of the frontier regiments are some of the

nicest men one could have to deal with; the native officers are such

perfect gentlemen, and so gentle and docile when conversing about their

Sikh religion or the Christian Scriptures, that it is difficult to

realize what lions they are in the fight, and how they are the heroes

of so many a frontier epic. A Sikh soldier is always ready to talk on

religious matters, and delights in singing the beautiful theistic hymns

of Kabir and Nanak and others of his countrymen; and they will sit

round untiringly, listening with unflagging interest for hours, while

I talk or read to them from the Christian Scriptures. In the frontier

war of 1897 no Sikh regiment covered itself with greater glory than the

36th, which was quartered at Fort Lockhart when the Afridi rising first

broke out. I was in camp on the Samana Range, outside Fort Lockhart,

that August just before the outbreak, and these fine soldiers used

to sit round me on the rocks outside the fort while we talked of the

teachings of our Lord Jesus Christ, and of those of Guru Nanak, which

present so many points of resemblance to them. A few weeks later,

and many of those very men had died fighting bravely on the rugged

mountains and defiles of Tirah, on which we were then looking down.

One incident will bear repetition, as possibly some of the very men

to whom I was then speaking were the heroes of it. A few hundred yards

from Fort Lockhart is a small fort called Saraghari, which commands one

of the eminences of the Samana Range. This was occupied by a handful

of these Sikhs under a native officer. Looking down westward from the

Samana Range are the terraced valleys and a labyrinth of the rugged

mountain ranges of the Afridis; and so suddenly did these tribes

respond to the tocsin of war when Seyyid Akbar and his associate

Mullahs sounded it all through Tirah that the various forts on the

Samana were surrounded by the lashkars before it was possible to

reinforce or withdraw the little garrison of Saraghari. The garrisons

of Forts Lockhart and Gulistan had, in fact, their hands full with the

tribesmen who had entrenched themselves in sangars all around, from

which they kept up such a fire that no one could show himself. The

Afridis saw that the post of Saraghari was the most easily won; the

fort itself was smaller and less strongly built, and contained only

a small garrison of their hereditary enemies, the Sikhs.

There was a signaller in the little garrison, and he signalled over

their dire straits to Fort Lockhart, but from there the answer was

returned to them that it was impossible to send reinforcements--they

must fight to the end. For them to retreat was impossible, for the few

hundred yards between the two forts was swept by the Pathan bullets,

while their riflemen swarmed in the sangars and behind the rocks

all along. Not a man could have lived to reach a distance of twenty

yards from the fort. The Sikhs knew that the Pathans would give them

no quarter, so they prepared to sell their lives dearly. The Afridis

worked nearer and nearer, and many of the brave defenders fell. The

signaller signalled to Fort Lockhart, "Five of us have fallen"--ten,

twelve, and finally there was only the signaller left. The Pathans

swarmed over the walls with their exulting "Allahu Akbar!" and the

throat of the last wounded Sikh was cut; so the noble garrison fell

at their posts to a man. The fort has never been rebuilt, but there

is a monument at the place to record this gallant bit of frontier

warfare, and another monument to them was erected in the centre of

their holy city, Amritsar, not far from the Golden Temple, their

chief place of worship. Here I made the acquaintance of the gallant

officers of this regiment, who were in a few weeks to bear the brunt

of the severest of the fighting and hardships of that campaign. I read

service on the last Sunday before hostilities commenced, and among the

officers who attended was their brave commander, Colonel Haughton,

whose commanding presence and bravery made him an easy target later

on for the tribesman's bullet, but not before he had covered himself

and his regiment with glory.

I will here record two little episodes, which are of common enough

occurrence on the frontier, but illustrate the dangers that the

sentries run when on duty among such cunning and stealthy rifle

thieves as the Pathans; and show also that, wily though he is, the

Pathan is not infrequently caught by an equally wily native police

or levy officer.

A regiment had marched into Bannu, and, there being no quarters

available, were encamped on the parade ground. The night being dark and

rainy, sentries had been doubled, and were much on the alert. Suddenly

two of them were stabbed from behind by Pathans who had crept into

the lines unnoticed, and watched their opportunity for running their

long Afghan knives into the chest of the unsuspecting soldiers. The

thieves got off with both rifles, and, though a hue and cry was raised,

no trace of them was found.

Once I was spending a night in a levy post on the frontier, when the

native officer in the command of the post got information through a

spy that an Afridi was about to cross the frontier, having in his

possession a number of cartridges that had been stolen from the

lines of a British regiment in Peshawur. A train was just about to

arrive from Kohat, and the officer went down to meet it. All the

passengers seemed quite innocent; some traders returning from market,

a few soldiers going on leave, and some camp followers, appeared to

be all who had arrived. There was, however, a Mullah with a Quran,

which he was carrying rather ostentatiously, and a wallet, which was

less obvious, under the folds of his shawl. Here was his man. He went

up to him. The Mullah was indignant at the supposition--he had merely

been into Kohat to buy a few household trinkets. He was marched off

to the levy post all the same, and, on turning out the contents of

his wallet, eighty-one Lee-Metford cartridges were disclosed. That

night the Mullah spent in the cells reciting passages in the Quran

with a long and monotonous intonation which kept me awake a long time

with its weirdness. I suppose, however, it may have been meant to

procure some indulgence for his offences, or to serve as a proof of

his sanctity; but it certainly did not soften the heart of his captor,

the native officer, himself a Muhammadan and a Pathan; nor, I trow,

did it mitigate his subsequent punishment.

I was once travelling in the garb of a Mullah from Kohat to Peshawur. I

had walked through the Kohat Pass, and reached a village called

Mitanni, about sixteen miles from Peshawur. I was tired, and finding

here a tumtum about to start for Peshawur, I obtained a seat therein

for one rupee. Two other Peshawuris were fellow-passengers, but were

not present when I paid the driver my fare. On the road the driver

stopped at a village, and his place was taken by another man. The first

driver omitted to tell him that I had already paid my fare, so when

we got near Peshawur he demanded it. I told him I had already paid

the other driver, but he would not believe it. Unluckily the other

passengers were unable to corroborate my statement; an altercation

ensued in the bazaar at Peshawur, and he wanted to keep my bedding

in lieu of the fare. As a crowd was collecting, it was decided to

settle the case by driving me to the police-station. The driver began

volubly to tell the police inspector how "this Bannu Mullah has got

into the tumtum at Mitanni, and now refuses to pay his fare." The

inspector asked me a question or two, and took in the situation,

and then told the driver to take me to my destination, and the case

would be seen into, if necessary, when the other driver arrived. Before

alighting I told the driver who I was, and that I was sorry he seemed

to put so little faith in the word of a Mullah. "Ah, Sahib," said he,

"this is an evil age, and even if the Mullah swears on the Quran,

we can only believe what we see."

When travelling in native garb one often sees the reverse of the

picture, and is able to see common events in new lights. Officers of

the Government while on tour are often quite unconsciously a great

tax on the village where their camp is pitched. Their servants take

provisions from the people at merely nominal prices, or even without

payment at all. Many officers, knowing how villainously some native

underlings will extort when they get the opportunity, often insist on

all payments being made before them according to a fixed scale. Even

then the men find other ways of living in clover at the expense of the

villagers. This was brought home to me one night when I was stopping at

a village called Moach. The police officer of the district was in camp

there, but I arrived late, and went to the house of a native, where

an old patient of mine visited me, and, finding me hungry and tired,

went off to get me some milk. He sent it me by the hand of a young boy,

who had to pass by the camp of the police officer, where his cook was

preparing his dinner. By his side was a saucepan containing several

pints of milk which had been ordered for the great man's supper, each

house bringing its share according to a roster kept for the purpose

at the police-station. The cook saw the boy coming with the milk,

and said to him:

"Come along; pour it in here."

"But I have not brought this for the Police Sahib. I have brought

it for---"

"Nonsense! Who else here wants milk? All the milk has been ordered

for the Sahib. Pour it in, or I will send you to the lock-up."

I got no milk for my supper, and I do not suppose the officer had

more than would go into a custard-pudding and a cup of cocoa; but

his myrmidons--they knew how to look after themselves, and enjoyed

a good time.

CHAPTER XXII

CHIKKI, THE FREEBOOTER

The mountains of Tirah--Work as a miller's labourer--Joins

fortune with a thief--A night raid--The value of a disguise--The

thief caught--The cattle "lifter"--Murder by proxy--The

price of blood--Tribal factions--Becomes chieftain of the

tribe--The zenith of power--Characteristics--Precautionary

measures--Journey to Chinarak--A remarkable fort--A

curious congregation--Punctiliousness in prayers--Changed

attitude--Refrains from hostilities--Meets his death.

Between the Khaibar Pass on the north and the Kurram Valley on the

south lies a tangled mass of mountains and valleys called Tirah. Here

almost inaccessible escarpments, on which the wary goatherd leads

his surefooted flock, alternate with delightful little green glens,

where rivulets of clear water dance down to the rice-fields, and

hamlets nestle among the walnut and plane trees. In one of these

villages was a poor country lad called Muhammad Sarwar. His father

was too poor to own flocks, and, having no land of his own, Sarwar

took work with a miller. It was one of those picturesque little mills

which you see in the valleys of the Afridis, where a mountain-stream

comes dashing down the side of a hill, and is then trained aside to

where the simple building of stones and mud covers in the mill-stones,

while two or three mulberry-trees round give such delightful shade

that the mill becomes a rendezvous for the idle men and gossips of

the village to wile away the hot summer noons.

But Sarwar was of a restless disposition, and the pittance of flour

which, together with a kid and a new turban on the feast-days, was all

he got for his labours, did not satisfy his ambition. Then there was

his friend Abdul Asghar, who, though as poor as himself to start with,

now had four kanals of land of his own and a flock of some forty sheep

and goats browsing on the mountain-side. It would not do to inquire

too closely how Abdul Asghar came by this wealth, but he used to be

out a good deal of nights, and he was one of those who was "wanted"

at the Border Military Police-station at Thal for his part in several

recent cases of highway robbery with violence.

This kind of life was more to the taste of Sarwar than the drudgery of

mill-grinding, and before long he and Asghar had joined hands. Once,

indeed, they were fairly caught, though they escaped the penalty of

their misdeeds. They were on the prowl one dark night, when they saw a

shrouded figure creeping along by a farm wall. They had scarcely hid

behind a bush when the unknown man turned and came directly towards

them. Thinking they had been observed, Asghar called out: "Who are

you? Stand, or I fire." The figure halted, and said in a low tone:

"It is well; I am your own." The man then came up and suggested

that they should spend that night together and share their luck. He

told them, too, that there was a fine fat dumba in the farmyard hard

by that they might begin upon. Asghar slipped over the wall, while

Sarwar and the stranger kept guard, and soon returned with the sheep

across his shoulders, its head wrapped up in his chadar to stop its

cries. They took it off into the jungle, and as the stranger said he

wished to be home early that night, they decided to stay and divide

it there and then.

The stranger surprised them by saying that he would be content with

merely the head as his share, so the "Allahu akbar" was pronounced,

the throat cut, and the head given to the stranger, who went off

with their parting greeting, "May it be well before you," which he

returned by saying, "In the safety of God."

Next morning they were astonished by the sudden appearance of a posse

of the Border Military Police, who, before they were able to escape

or offer resistance, handcuffed them and led them off, vouchsafing

no more explanation than that the Chhota Sahib had ordered it. They

were much mystified, and could not think which of their enemies had

got up a case against them; but they could learn nothing from the

police, who either could or would tell nothing more. When, finally,

they were taken before the Sahib, and he started away with, "So, you

have been after your old game again, and stole a sheep last night from

the farm of Nuruddin" (the light of religion), it was with difficulty

they could conceal their astonishment and compose themselves quickly

enough to reply that they were honest men, had never stolen anything

all their lives, and could bring witnesses to prove that last night

they never stirred from the chauk of Fath Muhammad of Dilrogha village.

The Sahib had a twinkle in his eye as he led them on with further

questions to forswear themselves still more hopelessly, and then

finally turned to a Sepoy by his side and simply said, "Bring it

in." The Sepoy saluted, went out, and in a moment returned bringing

something wrapped up in a chadar, which he placed on the table before

him. The Sahib unrolled it, and exposed to their astonished gaze the

very sheep's head they had given to the stranger the night before. He

had been none other than the Sahib himself! They could no longer hide

their confusion, and could say nothing more than "La haula wala kowata

ilia bi 'llah" (There is no majesty or power but in God; He only is

great). They were treated to a very pointed lecture, and told that

none of their movements could remain concealed from the eyes of the

Sarkar, and that next time they were caught they would be lodged in

the hawalat (gaol).

Though Sarwar and his friend gained hereby a wholesome dread of the

ubiquity of their ruler, yet the lesson did not restrain them from

carrying on their depredations. Not long after Asghar was killed in a

cattle-lifting raid on a neighbouring tribe. The villagers were aroused

by the barking of the village dogs, started a chigah in pursuit,

and, though Sarwar escaped, a stray shot hit Asghar in the chest

and put an end to his career. Sarwar made such progress in the art,

and carried his depredations so far afield, that he became known on

all the hills round by the sobriquet of "Chikki," or the "Lifter."

One day a chance circumstance gave a fresh turn to his career. Mullah

Darweza, of Saman village, had a bitter grudge against a malik of the

village because he had enticed away one of his talibs, a beautiful

boy of thirteen, and now, instead of the boy spending his days over

the Quran and Sheikh Sadi, the Persian poet, he was walking about the

village with his eyebrows blackened with antimony and a gold-braided

turban on his head, and danced in the malik's chauk while the village

dum played a rebab. Mullah Darweza would dearly have liked the luxury

of stabbing the malik himself some dark night, but his profession

had to be considered, and what would become of his reputation for

sanctity if the story got about, let alone the danger of retaliation,

which would mean that he would be a prisoner in his house after dark,

and would not be able to go to the mosque to say the night prayers,

even if he had not to leave the village altogether?

The Mullah was leading prayers in the mosque that day when his eye

fell on Chikki among the worshippers, and as they were leaving the

mosque he whispered to him to come to his house that night after the

night prayers had been said. What passed there is known only to those

two, but Chikki bore away a bag of rupees, and a few nights later,

as the malik had gone down to a stream to perform his ablutions

before evening prayers, a shot rung out from no one knows where,

and the malik, without a cry, fell forward into the stream, and when

the villagers arrived and picked him up they found he had been shot

through the heart, and no one ever knew who had done it. This windfall

whetted Chikki's appetite, and he soon found this occupation even

more lucrative than that of cattle lifting.

As his fame increased, secret commissions came to him from many

quarters--from men who had life enemies, but who feared to risk their

own lives in ridding themselves of them. With success, however, came

danger. Chikki was a marked man, and had to take unusually strict

precautions for the preservation of his own life; his repeating rifle

was never out of his hand, and no one ever saw him off his guard. He

built himself a strong tower, and at night-time retired into this by

means of a rope ladder to the upper window (it had no lower windows),

then, drawing up the ladder after him, he secured the window. Then

came the opportunity of his life. There were two factions in the

tribe, the Gur and the Samil, and these had been on bad terms for a

long time, but hostilities had so far been confined to a few murders

and thefts. Then one day a prominent malik of the Gur faction was

shot while on a visit to a Samil village. This could not be atoned

for without war, and within twenty-four hours the tocsin of war was

beating in every Gur village all over the hills. The Samil replied by

burning a Gur village, and soon the whole mountain-side was in arms on

one side or the other; desultory warfare was carried on for some time,

and much blood had been shed on both sides, but the Samil party lacked

a leader. Then they bethought them of Chikki, and sent a deputation,

asking him to take their lead. He consented on condition of their

recognizing him as paramount chief of the Zaimukhts in the event of

success attending his arms. They agreed, and he, collecting together

some other soldiers of fortune who had thrown in their lot with him,

took the field against the Gur faction. The latter were defeated

in several engagements, and finally both sides tired of the fray,

and they were all the more ready to come to terms as the harvest was

ripe and would spoil if not rapidly gathered in.

Both sides agreed to call a jirgah, which met, drew up conditions

of peace acceptable to both sides, and smoked the pipe of peace. The

agreement was ratified by a big feast, in which twenty fat dumbas were

slain and cooked, with immeasurable quantities of ghi, and a dance,

in which the men of the two sides, which had so recently been moving

heaven and earth to shoot each other, danced together as though they

had never been anything but the greatest of friends all their lives.

Chikki was now at the zenith of his power. Eight thousand riflemen, all

armed with weapons of precision and all good shots, obeyed his call,

and he was able to build a strong fort at Chinarak, in the Zaimukht

Mountains, which he garrisoned with his bodyguard of outlaws, while

acres of rich land all round brought him supplies of grain and other

produce, which enabled him to offer to all who came that open-handed,

unstinting hospitality which is the surest path to popularity in

Afghanistan. Yet withal he maintained his simple mode of life and

plain hillman's costume; and once when he came down into Sadda, a

town in British territory, to meet the great Political Officer there,

he formed a marked contrast to the gay clothes and coloured shawls

and gold-banded turbans of the Sahib's satellites. He wore simply

shirt and trousers of plain homespun, and a black turban, ornamented

only by a fringe with a few beads on, and had on his feet a pair of

palm-leaf sandals, such as could be bought in any bazaar for the sum

of one anna. But his rifle was the best there, and the well-filled

cartridge-belt and the six-chambered revolver buckled on excited the

envy of many a man round him, while the firm tread and the thick-set

frame and the determined features displayed the commanding and reckless

character of the man. Yet in society that he cared for he would unbend

and display a boisterous good-humour, though of a kind which would make

a jest of acts of cruelty involving human suffering and even death.

As may be supposed, Chikki had many enemies who were seeking his life,

and he would not allow anyone not known to him to approach him at

night or even in the day, and rarely had his fingers off his revolver

or the trigger of his rifle. Once he was being shaved by his barber

when the foolish man said to him: "Muhammad Anim" (one of Chikki's

sworn enemies) "offered me five hundred rupees the other day if,

while I was shaving you, I should slip the razor and cut your throat;

but Ma'uzbillah! I seek refuge in God; I am your sacrifice, and refused

the son of a pig." Chikki said nothing then, but when the shaving was

over he whipped out his revolver, and said to the luckless barber:

"You refused this time, but next time the temptation may be too great

for you, so I had better be first in." The tongue of that barber wagged

no more, and Chikki got a new and probably more discreet practitioner.

It fell on a day that there was illness in Chikki's household, and

someone brought him word that the Bannu doctor was in camp not far

off at Thal; so it came about that while I was seeing patients by

my tent that afternoon four of Chikki's stalwarts, armed cap-à-pie,

appeared with a polite and urgent request that I would accompany them

back to his stronghold, Chinarak, and use my medical skill on the sick

ones. As soon as the day's work was over we started off. There was a

thunderstorm on the mountains above us, and a mountain-torrent had

to be crossed which would not be fordable in flood, so we urged on

to a point whence a view could be got of the river-bed. On reaching

it we saw the turbid waters of the flood sweeping down about a mile

higher up the valley from the place where we had to cross, while we

had considerably over a mile of rough ground to traverse before we

could reach the ford. All pressed forward, the footmen running at

the horses' stirrups, and we just managed to get through the rising

stream before the flood reached us, thus saving what would have been

some hours of waiting for the flood to subside.

Chinarak is a mud fort, with towers and an intricate maze of yards,

houses, and passages within; but its strength lies more in its

inaccessibility, for the narrow gorge, with high, overhanging cliffs,

by which we approached might easily be defended by a few marksmen. On

the north side, however, the approach to it is easier. After the

sick had been seen, Chikki informed me that, as he had heard that I

was a preacher of the Injil, he wished to hear me, so that he might

judge of the comparative merits of Christianity and Muhammadanism;

and to that purpose he had called his Mullah, and we two should sit

on either side and speak in turn, while he judged. His men collected

round us, truly a motley crew, nearly all of them men who had fled

across the border from British justice for some murder or other

crime, and had found congenial employment in his bodyguard. I had

just been visiting some of their houses professionally, and found

representatives of all the tribes down the frontier, and even a few

Hindustanis. There they were, with a devil-may-care look in their

truculent faces, which made you feel that they would take half a

dozen lives, to rob a cottage, with as little compunction as if

they were cutting sugar-cane. Perhaps Chikki thought I was eyeing

my congregation suspiciously, for he turned to me with a twinkle,

and said: "Do not alarm yourself about all these fellows round. They

may be all rascals, no doubt; but I have my Martini-Henry here, and if

anyone molests you, I will send a bullet through him." No doubt with

a good aim, too, for he was reputed the best marksman in the tribe,

a fact which I may illustrate by an anecdote.

Like most Afghans, he was very punctilious in the performance of the

prescribed Muhammadan prayers, and beyond the regular five times

used to indulge in those prayers of supererogation which Muhammad

appointed for the devout, or for those who had sins which might

be expiated by their performance. Chikki, too, appeared to believe

that he kept a credit and debit account of this kind, and that some

particularly unwarranted murder would be suitably balanced by the

repetition of a number of extra prayers. He had a little book of

Arabic prayers called the "Ganj-el-Arus" hung round his neck, and,

when at leisure from his more warlike pursuits, would employ himself

in the repletion of his credit account therefrom. He handed the book

to me, and showed me with some little pride a prayer in it which he

said he had composed himself, and which he said was always heard. It

was in his own vernacular Pashtu, for he did not know Arabic; and the

prayer was that, whenever he raised his rifle to his shoulder to shoot,

the bullet might not miss its mark.

Before I came away I left some Pashtu Testaments and other literature

with Chikki, and I have reason to believe that he studied them with

interest. He, at least, gave up some of his predatory and warlike

habits, and devoted himself to more peaceful avocations. When the

frontier war of 1897 broke out, not long after, and the tribes all

round him were flocking round the standards of jehad, and the tocsin

of war resounded from the valleys of Swat in the north to the Suliman

Mountains of Waziristan in the south, he resisted all the allurements

of the Mullahs to take part in the campaign against the Kafirs, the

English, and restrained the men of his own tribe from any participation

in the warfare. It can be seen by a reference to the map that this

abstention of the Zaimukht tribe, which numbers about eight thousand

fighting men, made a considerable difference to the troops acting

in the Miranzai and Kurram Valleys, in the angle between which their

territory is situate.

He pressed me to begin medical mission work in his own territory,

and promised me support, both material and influential, if I would do

so. It was a tempting field, and, no doubt, it would have exerted a

widespread influence for peace on the neighbourhood; but there were

insurmountable difficulties of another nature, and the project had

to be abandoned.

A few years ago I heard with regret that my old friend Chikki had

been ambuscaded by a section of the Khujjal Khel Wazirs, with whom

he had an old-standing quarrel. He and the men with him fell riddled

with bullets, and the victors exultingly cut out his heart and bore

it off in triumph, boasting that it weighed ten seers (twenty pounds).

CHAPTER XXIII

ROUGH DIAMONDS

A novel inquirer--Attends the bazaar preaching--Attacked

by his countrymen--In the police-station--Before the

English magistrate--Declares he is a Christian--Arrival

of his mother--Tied up in his village--Escape--Takes

refuge in the hills--A murder case--Circumstantial

evidence--Condemned--A last struggle for liberty--Qazi Abdul

Karim--His origin--Eccentricities--Enthusiasm--Crosses the

frontier--Captured--Confesses his faith--Torture--Martyrdom.

I will recount shortly in this chapter the stories of two Afghan

converts, to show what strange cases we have to deal with, and how

difficult it is to discover the motives at work, even if we ever do

discover them.

Seronai was one of the Marwat clan of Pathans, which inhabits the

southern part of the Bannu district.

One afternoon in the year 1899 I had been conducting the open-air

preaching in the Bannu bazaar, and was returning home, when I noticed

that I was being followed by a stalwart Afghan, over six feet high

and broad in proportion. I had noticed him among the crowd at the

preaching, as he was quite the biggest man there.

"What is it I can do for you?" I said to him.

"I am going to join your religion," was the reply.

I took him home, found that he was a farmer in a small way, possessed a

few acres of land in a very criminal village right at the base of the

frontier hills, could not read or write, and knew very little indeed

of the Muhammadan religion beyond the prayers. Yet when I asked him,

"Why do you wish to join our religion?" the only answer I could obtain

was, "Because it is my wish."

"But you do not know anything about either religion."

"You can teach me; I will learn."

So importunate a pupil it was impossible to refuse. He was willing

enough to learn, but proved very slow of comprehension. It is our

rule not to let inquirers idle away their time, but to give them

work, whereby they may at least prove that they do not intend to

become burdens on the mission. Seronai was willing enough to work,

and had the appetite of an ox; but, unless watched, his strength

was far in excess of his discrimination. Given a field to dig up,

and he dug up the flower-beds round, too. Given a tree to cut down,

and he brought it down quick enough, crashing through a verandah, till

finally we found that if we kept him at all it was most economical

not to let him do anything.

About his zeal there was no doubt. Not only did he attend all the

Christian services, but insisted on accompanying us to the bazaar

preaching, and letting all and sundry know that he intended to--in

fact, had already--become a Christian. This naturally roused the ire

of the people in the bazaar, and when one day there were some of his

fellow-countrymen in the audience, I could see that they meant ill,

though, from Seronai's great size and strength, they would no doubt

be careful in their tactics. The next day, the bazaar preaching

being over, Seronai returned towards the mission, while I stopped

behind a few moments conversing with a questioner in the crowd. I had

gone a little way up the street when I saw an excited mob and heard

much shouting, and out of the crowd burst Seronai, tearing himself

away from his captors with clothes torn, turban off, and his long

locks dishevelled about his face. He ran towards me, calling out,

"Save me from these men!"

It did not seem likely when he had been unable to save

himself. However, I did my best to enable him to escape, but we were at

once surrounded by the crowd, and though no violence was intentionally

done to me, Seronai was torn away and mercilessly beaten. Before long,

however, the police appeared and dispersed the crowd, and marched

off Seronai to the lock-up. As that seemed the safest place for the

time being, I told him to keep up his spirits, and that the next day

arrangements would be made for him.

The next day he was brought before the civil officer of the district,

who also called for the chief man of the section of the tribe which

had been creating the disturbance the day before. Seronai was then

asked whether he wished to be a Muhammadan or Christian.

"I wish to become a Christian and to remain with the Padre Sahib,"

he said decidedly.

"Very well, you shall," said the officer, and told the chief to

explain to his people that they must not resort to further violence.

The next week an old lady in a great state of excitement appeared

in the mission compound. With her was a lad of about fourteen

summers. They were Seronai's mother and younger brother. She had been

told that her son had become a Hindu. As to what a Christian was,

she had no idea. She had never heard of such a thing. All she knew was

that her son had disgraced her, and when Seronai came she wept on him,

and called him reproachful names, and caressed him, all in turns and

all together. Seronai was very quiet, and he was genuinely sorry for

the old lady's trouble, and came to me and said: "I must go back to my

village with my mother to comfort her, and then I will return to you."

It was about a week later. We were sitting in church at evening

service, when in came Seronai, looking very hot and dishevelled. He

said that the people in his village had seized him, and tied him down

to a bed, and set a guard over him night and day. It was impossible

to escape till one day a raiding party of Wazirs came down suddenly

on the village grazing grounds and carried off about twenty camels. A

chigah was sounded, and all the able-bodied men of the village started

off in pursuit. His mother came and untied him, and he had escaped to

us, doing the forty-five miles that lay between his village and the

mission without a stop. Seronai's condition pointed to the truth of

his story, which was, indeed, a very credible one. We heard afterwards

that the camel raid had taken place in the way he related.

Seronai went on now learning about the Christian religion, but making

very little visible progress. He was zealous, and did not for a moment

try to avoid persecution by hiding his light--in fact, he seemed to

delight in courting it. Some suggested that he was becoming a Christian

in order to spite some relation. This does occasionally happen; but

there were no grounds for supposing it to be the case here. Others

suggested that he had made a bet that he would become one, but this

would hardly account for his carrying the rôle so far at such great

personal suffering. In short, though his spiritual aspirations were

not, as far as we could see, sufficient to account for it, we were

quite at a loss to find any other satisfactory explanation.

About a month later he disappeared once again, and then I did not

hear of him for two years. At the end of that time, I was seated

one day in school teaching one of the classes, when I got a message

from the head of the gaol saying there was a prisoner who professed

to be a Christian, and desired to see me. On responding to the call,

imagine my surprise to find Seronai. He said that on leaving us he had

intended to work his land, but, owing to the enmity of the people,

had been obliged to seek refuge in the mountains, where a certain

malik had befriended him and given him shelter. He had remained there

till a few weeks back, when he wished to pay a visit to his mother and

his village. On arrival there, he found that a tragedy had just been

enacted. He had a sister there married to a farmer in the village;

this lady had accepted the advances of another swain from the next

village, and had prepared to elope with him. They had, however, been

frustrated in their intentions, for the corpses of the two had been

found--the woman shot through the head, her lover through the heart.

Suspicion would most naturally fall on the husband, but the arrival

of Seronai at this moment suggested an alternative: the people of

the village would be glad to get an apostate, such as they considered

him to be, into trouble; circumstantial evidence was not difficult to

arrange, and witnesses in support might be had for the asking. Besides,

by making a scapegoat of Seronai, the rest of the village would

escape the harrying of the police myrmidons, who might otherwise

settle on their village like a swarm of locusts, for no one knew how

long. Thus it came about that Seronai was in gaol on the charge of

double murder. It was not much that I could do for him beyond giving

him the consolations of religion; circumstantial evidence was very

black against him, and it was not a matter of surprise when the judge

found him guilty and awarded him the extreme penalty of hanging.

Two days yet remained to the carrying out of the sentence, when there

was a great uproar in the gaol. Seronai and another prisoner, also

under sentence of death, had broken loose from cells, but, unable to

scale the outer wall of the prison, had clambered on to the roof of

one of the buildings, from which they bade defiance to all who ventured

near. They tore up the cornice, and if anyone came near he ran the risk

of having his head smashed with a well-directed brick. This siege went

on for two and a half hours; the two defenders were so alert that if

a ladder was put up at one side while a feint was made at the other,

they ran from side to side, aiming bricks at anyone within reach. This

could not be allowed to go on, so the superintendent of police made the

guard fall in with loaded rifles, and then took out his watch, and,

addressing the two men, told them that if they did not surrender in

four minutes the guard would fire. There was breathless suspense among

the spectators, who by this time numbered several hundreds, as the

minutes passed and the men were still defiant. Half a minute remained

when the two men surrendered to the guard, and were marched back to

the cells. Two days later the extreme penalty of the law was enforced.

Qazi Abdul Karim was altogether a different type of man to Seronai;

he came of a good Afghan family and was a very learned man, being,

as his name denotes, a Qazi, or one entitled to adjudicate Muhammadan

law. He was well versed in the Quran, the Hadis, and Muhammadan

theology and literature, and held a position of honour in the towns

of Quetta and Kandahar. He was a man of property, too, so that no

one could taunt him with having become a Christian for the sake

of bread. He was converted many years ago at Quetta, where he was

baptized by the medical missionary, Dr. Sutton; he passed through

many dangers and privations, but I go on at once to speak of my first

acquaintance with him at Bannu. He had worked for a time at most of

the frontier mission stations, but did not seem able to settle down

anywhere. The Missionary Society requires those who desire to become

its recognized agents to pass certain examinations, and examinations

were not in his line, and he would not present himself for one; thus

he never became a recognized agent of the Society. He had a repugnance

to doing work in the hospital wards, so it was difficult to know how

he was to gain his support. His habits, too, were rather expensive,

as he had been accustomed to entertain freely in his Muhammadan days,

and could not realize that he must not ask all and any into meals when

he had not the wherewithal to pay for them. He had given up almost

everything to become a Christian, and he could not understand why

the Society would not support him to work on his own lines, without

the trammels of rules and regulations.

He was very sensitive in his nature, and ready to think that he was

being slighted or not wanted, so he seldom stopped long in any one

station. He did not get on well, as a rule, with the other native

Christians, and often imagined that schemes were being laid for

poisoning his food. This led to bickerings, which the missionary

often had trouble in allaying. Thus, notwithstanding his great gifts,

Abdul Karim was not a persona grata in any of the missions, and the

missionary was often glad when he realized that he had outstayed

his welcome and passed on to another station. Yet, though certainly

not popular with the native Christians, they all admired him for

the troubles he had undergone for the sake of Christ, and for his

pluck in confessing his faith before all audiences, and regardless of

consequences. The last time he visited Bannu he had been undergoing

great hardships in a voluntary tramp through the country, literally

"despised and rejected of men," because of his uncompromising advocacy

of Christianity. He was worn quite thin, and looked so haggard that

I did not at first recognize him, and his clothes were reduced to

a few rags. We fed him up and got him some new clothes; but even

then he could not rid himself of the idea that some people were

trying to poison him. This gave rise to the report that he was mad,

and certainly his eccentricity in this respect was sufficient to give

colour to the report. I feel sure, however--and I knew him well--that

his devotion to Christ was very real, and amounted to a real passion

to suffer for His sake.

In the summer of 1907 he was taken with an intense desire to enter

Afghanistan, and preach the Gospel there. He crossed over the

frontier at Chaman, and was seized by some Afghan soldiers. These

finally brought him before the Governor of Kandahar. He was offered

rewards and honours if he would recant and accept Muhammadanism, and,

when he refused, he was cast into prison loaded with eighty pounds

of chains. He was examined by H. M. the Amir and the Amir's brother,

Nasirullah, but remained firm in his confession of Christianity.

Finally, he was marched off to Kabul under very painful conditions. As

far as could be gathered from the reports that filtered down to

India, he had to walk loaded with chains and with a bit and bridle

in his mouth from Kandahar to Kabul, while any Muhammadan who met

him on the way was to smite him on the cheek and pull a hair from

his beard. After reaching Kabul, it was reported that he died in

prison there; but another report, which purported to be that of an

eyewitness, and seemed worthy of credence, related that he had been

set at liberty in Kabul, and had set out alone for India.

On the way the people in a village where he was resting found out who

he was--probably one of them had heard him preaching in India--and

they carried him off to their mosque to force him to repeat the

Muhammadan Kalimah, "There is no God but God, and Muhammad is the

Prophet of God." This is the accepted formula of accepting Islam,

and if a convert can be persuaded to say this publicly, it is regarded

as his recantation.

Abdul Karim refused. A sword was then produced, and his right arm cut

off, and he was again ordered to repeat it, but again refused. The left

arm was then severed in the same way, and, on his refusing the third

time, his throat was cut. There is no doubt that, whatever the details

of his martyrdom may be, Abdul Karim witnessed faithfully up to the

last for his Saviour Christ, and died because he would not deny Him.

There are many secret disciples in Afghanistan who honour Christ

as we do, and make His teachings their daily guide, but are not yet

prepared to follow Him even to the death; and there is no doubt that,

at the present time, a public acknowledgment of Christianity would

mean death, and probably a cruel death. At the same time, I believe

that the Church in Afghanistan will not be established till there have

been many such martyrs, who will seal their faith with their blood.

When the news of the death of Abdul Karim reached Bannu, more than

one of our Afghan Christians offered to go over into Afghanistan and

take his place as herald of the Cross, and bear the consequences,

but I pointed out to them that the time was not yet.

CHAPTER XXIV

DEDUCTIONS

Number of converts not a reliable estimate of mission

work--Spurious converts versus Indigenous Christianity--Latitude

should be allowed to the Indian Church--We should introduce Christ

to India rather than Occidental Christianity--Christianizing sects

among Hindus and Muhammadans--Missionary work not restricted

to missionaries--Influence of the best of Hindu and Muhammadan

thought should be welcomed--The conversion of the nation requires

our attention more than that of the individual--Christian Friars

adapted to modern missions--A true representation of Christ to

India--Misconceptions that must be removed.

I have completed these sketches of mission work, and I wish to

summarize in this chapter some of the conclusions that I have been led

to draw from the experiences of the last sixteen years, and then in a

concluding chapter to point out what I think to be the most promising

lines of advance.

It has too long been the habit to gauge the results of mission work

by the number of converts or baptisms, but this is wrong both by

omission and by commission: by omission, because it takes no count of

what is the larger portion of mission work--the gradual permeation of

the country with the teachings and example of Christ; by commission,

because it encourages missionaries to baptize and register numbers,

chiefly of the lower classes, who have no right to it, because they

come from egregiously unworthy motives. Such converts not only are a

dead weight on the mission to which they are attached, but too often

utterly discredit Christianity in the eyes of the non-Christians

around them by their greed and unworthy conduct. It is well that we

should sometimes stop and think what it is that we are desirous of

doing, and then face the question: "Are we really accomplishing that,

or doing something altogether different?"

Are we desirous of planting in India a Christian Church on the lines

which we see developed in England or America? If so, I sincerely hope

that we shall never succeed. Are we desirous of binding on Eastern

converts the same burden of dogmas which has disrupted and still

distresses the Western Church? Again, I sincerely hope not. Are we

desirous of giving India the life and teaching of our Lord Jesus

Christ, and of living Him before the people? There we have a worthy

object--to compass which no sacrifice is too great--worthy of the

best and most devoted of our men and women, and claiming the spiritual

and material support of the whole Western Church.

Now, it is quite possible--in fact, we have seen it enacted before

our eyes--that, having given India Christ and the Bible, India's sons

and sages may not interpret everything as we have done, but may do

so in their own mystical and transcendental way. We may not always

be able to admit such by baptism into the fold of the Christian

Church--they may not themselves desire it--but are we to say that

our mission has not been accomplished? Accomplished it assuredly has

been, but perhaps not on the lines which we desired or imagined. If,

again, after studying the life and words of Christ, and comparing

them with the Christianity which they see practised in the West,

or in the Westerns who reside among them, they are not drawn to

Western Christianity while yet having a devotion to Christ; if they

do not feel they can consistently join any of our Western Churches;

and if they form a Church of India, are we then to be disappointed

and think we have failed of our mission? A thousand times, no! Let

us rather praise God that, instead of a number of hothouse plants

requiring careful watering and tending lest they sicken and wither,

we have a harvest of indigenous growth nurtured on the native soil of

India, and ripening to a fruitful maturity under its own sun, and fed

by the natural showers of heaven without the aid of the missionaries

of a foreign clime.

We see, therefore, that the gathering in of converts is not the first

or most important work of the missionary. His work is rather, first,

to live Christ before the people of the country; secondly, to give

them the teachings of Christ by giving them the Scriptures in their

own tongue, and preaching and explaining the same to them. We often

find in practice that when some Indian has been captivated by the

Gospel, he is hurried on to baptism, and thereby cut off prematurely

from his old stock and grafted on the new--prematurely because he is

often insufficiently grounded in the Christian faith to withstand the

torrent of persecution which is his lot the moment he is baptized, and

because the leavening influence which he would otherwise be exerting on

a wide circle of his relations and acquaintances is at once destroyed.

Christians at home encourage the missionary to think that nothing

has been accomplished till the inquirer is baptized, and that, once

baptized and recorded in the church register and the mission report,

the work, as far as that individual is concerned, is completed,

and the missionary may leave him and turn his attention to someone

else. Fatal mistake! Injurious to the convert because, left only half

grounded in the faith, he falls into worldly and covetous habits, or

may even apostatize outright; injurious to the unevangelized remainder

because, instead of being attracted for a time longer to the study of

Christianity by the influence of the inquirer, they are thrown into

a position of violent antagonism by the secession of the convert, and

are no longer willing to give the claims of Christ any hearing at all.

Herein lies the inestimable value of the much-maligned mission schools

and colleges. They do not produce a great crop of immediate baptisms,

and so are belittled by some as barren agencies; but nothing else is

more surely permeating the great mass of Muhammadan and Hindu thought

with Christian thoughts, Christian ideals, and Christian aspirations.

We see all around us in present-day India attempts to reclothe Islam

and Hinduism in Christian habiliments, or else ardent reformers,

hopeless of that Augean task, creating new little sects and offshoots,

in which Christian ideas are served up for Muhammadan and Hindu

consumers thinly disguised in a dressing of their own religions. These

sects sometimes affect a display of hostility to Christianity,

lest those whom they wish to draw should mistake them for being only

missionary ruses for catching them with guile; but, all the same, they

are steps, and I think inevitable steps, in the gradual permeation of

the country with the religion of Christ. India has been surfeited with

philosophies and dogmas and rites and ceremonies from the hoary Vedic

ages down, but she is hungering and thirsting for a living power to

draw her God-ward, and such a power is Christ. She cannot have too

much of Him, whether this life be set forth in the devoted service

of Christian men and women, in hospitals, and schools, and zenanas,

and plague camps, and leper asylums, or in the daily preaching and

teaching of Him in town and village, in the crowded bazaars, or in

the hermitages of the sadhus and faqirs.

This is not a work restricted to those who have been set apart

as missionaries, but one which claims every professed Christian

in the land. Every European Christian, be he in civil or military

service, in trade or profession, or merely a temporary visitant for

pleasure-seeking, can and should be doing this essentially Christian

missionary work if he is living honestly and purely up to the tenets

of his religion; and many of the best converts in the land have been

first drawn to Christ by watching the consistent private and public

Christian life of some such unobtrusive Englishman or Englishwoman, who

never was or tried to be a missionary in the usual sense of the term.

On the other hand, the Christianizing of the country has been made

all the more remote and difficult by those Englishmen who contemn

or discredit the religion they profess, or live lives openly and

flagrantly at variance with its ethics.

We do not gain anything from a missionary point of view, and we

dishonour God, when we speak of everything in Islam or Hinduism as

evil. The Mussulman has given a witness to the Unity of God and the

folly of idolatry which has been unsurpassed in the religious history

of the world, and he has qualities of devotion and self-abnegation

which the Christian Church may well desire to enlist in her service

rather than to ignore or decry. The Hindu has evolved philosophies

on the enigmas of life, and sin, and pain, and death, which have for

ages been the solace and guide of the myriad inhabitants of India,

and he has attained heights of self-abnegation and austerity in the

pursuit of his religious ideals which would have made the Christian

ascetics of the early centuries of our era envious. Religion has been

to them a pervading force which has coloured the most commonplace acts

of daily life. Here we have qualities which have prepared the soil

for the implanting of the Christian faith, and which, when imbued

and enlightened with the love of Christ, will reach a luxuriance

of Christian energy worthy of the religious East, in which so many

of the religions of the world have had their birth. India, indeed,

wants Christ, but the future Christianity of India will not be that

Occidental form which we have been accustomed to, but something that

will have incorporated all the best God-given qualities and capacities

and thoughts of the Muhammadans and Hindus.

It is a great pity that missionary energy is still largely

destructive rather than constructive. In the earlier days of mission

work it was popularly supposed that missionaries were to attack the

citadels of Islam and Hinduism, which were considered to be the great

obstacles to the acceptance of Christianity by the people of India,

and it was thought that, those once overthrown, we should find a

Christian country. Much more probably we should find an atheistic and

materialistic India, in which Mammon, Wealth, Industrial Success,

and Worldliness had become the new gods. The real and most deadly

enemies with which the missionary has to contend are infidelity and

mammon worship. We may well try to enlist the religious spirit of all

the Indian creeds in the struggle against these, the common enemies

of all faiths, or we may find, when too late, that we have destroyed

the fabric of faith, and set up nothing in its place. The old Islam,

the old Hinduism, are already doomed, not by the efforts of the

missionaries, but by the contact with the West, by the growth of

commerce, by the spread of education, by the thirst for wealth and

luxury which the West has implanted in the East. All the power of

Christianity is required to give India a new and living and robust

faith, which shall be able to withstand these disrupting forces.

Some of the Christian attacks on Eastern religions are painful to read,

because one cannot help seeing that the same weapons have been used

in the West, and often with success, against belief in the Christian

Scriptures, and the missionaries are only preparing tools which will

one day be used against themselves. They may for the moment win a

Pyrrhic victory against the forces of Islam and Hinduism, but they are

at the same time undermining the religious spirit, the ardent faith,

the unquestioning devotion, which have been the crown and glory of

India for ages. Let it rather be their endeavour to present a real,

living, pulsating Christianity, capable of enlisting all these divine

forces in its own service without weakening or destroying one of them,

and all that is best in Islam and Hinduism will be drawn into it. The

product will be nearer to the mind of Christ than much that passes by

the name of Christianity in the West, yet has lost the power of the

living Christ. Do not destroy, but give something worthy of acceptance,

and be careful of the type.

Converts will come right enough when we work on these lines, but they

will not so often be the man-made converts which have been drawn by

the outward attractions which missions sometimes offer. They will

more often be those who have been drawn of the Spirit, and become

converts in spite of us and our little faith. And they will inherit

the blessing of Isaac as assuredly as the first class partake of the

waywardness of Ishmael.

The East has long possessed and developed in a myriad different ways

the idea of sacrifice, while the more practical West has been tending

more and more towards a philanthropic Christianity which makes a life

of service its ideal. The best will be when we bring about a union

of the religious devotion of the East with the altruism of the West.

So far the asceticism and devotion of the Orient has been rendered

nugatory and disappointing by its uselessness--by, if we may use a

paradoxical expression, its very selfishness--for it was directed to

the emancipation of the individual soul rather than to the salvation

of the race. But when the sacrifice of the Orient and the service

of the Occident join hands and go forth in the name of Christ to

mitigate and remove the ills and sorrows of this sad, sad world,

then indeed will the spirit of Christ be fulfilled in His Church.

A recent writer, whose missionary enthusiasm had caught a spark from

the mystic fires of the East, writes: "The thing which is lacking (in

mission work) I believe to be the vision of the homeless, suffering,

serving Jesus--the Jesus who came to serve, and laid down His life for

the sheep." [3] He then goes on to enunciate the need for Christian

Friars, who may bring a knowledge of Christ to India in the only way

to which her people have ever been accustomed. From time immemorial

all the religions that have occupied the arena of the Indian stage,

and compelled the adherence and devotion of her people, have been

promulgated by peripatetic ascetics, who have shown by their devotion

to their ideals the intensity of their convictions, and have not

wearied of journeying from end to end of the land, through heat and

through cold, through privations and hunger and nakedness, that they

might make known to the people how they were to obtain salvation.

The Friars suggested by the above writer would therefore be such as

India is already familiar with, and would work on a prepared soil. He

writes: "The part of the Friars is to live Christ so literally before

the Church and the world, that both may become conscious of Him. The

Church is lacking in ideal and devotion; the Friars must, therefore,

lead lives of such heroism and devoted service in the face of every

danger that the Church may be fired by their example.... If such a

body of men were to act in this way, none would be so quick to cast

themselves at the Master's feet as the people of India, and the high

castes would lead the way."

But it must be clearly understood that these Friars are not to

replace or render unnecessary any section of the existing missionary

body. Every one of the various activities of the present mission work

is wanted, urgently wanted. They will, however, fire their energies,

enlarge their scope, and increase their usefulness. Two misconceptions

require to be removed from the Indian mind. One is, that missionary

activity is a political activity, a department of the Government

artfully disguised. The other is, that the English are, after all,

only lukewarm about their religion, and do not hesitate to disregard

it if it clashes with their comfort or interest. To combat these

ideas it is the lives of the missionaries that are of more importance

than the organization, and the more Christ is lived and exemplified,

the more spiritual and lasting will be the result.

CHAPTER XXV

A FORWARD POLICY

Frontier medical missions--Their value as outposts--Ancient

Christianity in Central Asia--Kafiristan: a lost opportunity of

the Christian Church--Forcible conversion to Islam--Fields for

missionary enterprise beyond the North-West Frontier--The first

missionaries should be medical men--An example of the power of

a medical mission to overcome opposition--The need for branch

dispensaries--Scheme of advance--Needs.

Down the North-West Frontier is the long line of mission outposts:

Srinagar, Mardan, Peshawur, Karak, and Thal, in the Kohat district;

Bannu, Tank, Dera Ismaïl Khan, Dera Ghazi Khan, Quetta. All of these

comprise medical mission work as part of their activities. Several

have educational work as well. Yet we regard them as something more

than outposts: they are bases. The strength of the British military

stations on that frontier is far in excess of the requirements of

their immediate surroundings, because under conceivable conditions they

have to act as the bases of an army acting beyond them, or they might

have to stem the advance of an invading force. In a precisely similar

way we must regard our frontier missions, not merely in relation to

their environments, but as the means whereby we shall be able to go

forward and evangelize the yet unoccupied lands to the west and the

north. They should be sufficiently well equipped in both personnel

and material, so that when need arises they might be able to supply

the men and means for occupying mission stations farther on.

The countries of Central Asia to the west and north of India are a

challenge and a reproach to the Christian Church--a reproach because

in the early centuries of the Christian era the zeal of the first

missionaries carried the Gospel right across Turkestan and Tibet

to China, and Christian Churches flourished from Asia Minor to

Mongolia. Dr. Stein, in his recent work, "Buried Cities of Khotan,"

tells us how in those days there were fair towns and running streams

and orchards, where now is only a sandy, waterless waste. The rains

ceased, the water channels dried up, the people had to leave their

towns and villages, and the sand was blown in and covered houses and

trees and everything deep in its drifting dunes, where they have been

unvisited and forgotten till the present traveller unearthed them. A

similar spiritual drought seems to have fallen on the Armenian and

Nestorian Churches of those parts, and, deadened and retrograde,

they were unable to withstand the great Muhammadan invasions of the

sixth and succeeding centuries, which swept like tornadoes right

across Asia into China.

In again proclaiming the Gospel in Turkestan the Christian Church will

only be reoccupying her lost territories, where at one time Christian

congregations gathered in their churches, but for centuries only the

Muhammadan call to prayer has been permitted to be heard.

It is a reproach, again, because on our North-West Frontier, only

separated from Chitral by a range of mountains, is the interesting land

known as Kafiristan. There is reason to believe that the inhabitants

of this land, known as the Kafirs, are the descendants of some of

the Greeks whom Alexander of Macedon brought over in his train three

hundred years before Christ. Two stories are current among the Kafirs

regarding their origin, but both point to their arrival about the third

century before Christ. One is that a number of Greeks, expelled from

the lowlands by the advance of surrounding and more powerful tribes,

took refuge in these mountain fastnesses; and the other is that they

are the descendants of wounded soldiers left by Alexander the Great

in the neighbouring region of Bajour. They still practised till a

few years ago pagan idolatrous rites, which had probably changed

little for two thousand years, and they resisted the inroads of the

Muhammadans, who were obliged to recoil before their inaccessible

mountain fastnesses. They welcomed some Christian missionaries

who visited their valleys at different times in the last century,

and there is every reason to believe that, had the Christian Church

accepted the task, the whole of that nation would have adopted the

Christian religion. But though these travellers urged on the Church

her opportunity and her responsibility, no step was taken.

Colonel Wingate, a retired frontier officer, writes: [4] "I had gone

for a stroll one day in the summer of 1895 with another officer for

a short distance outside the military camp. Though we were wearing

the uniform of officers, we were without arms, when suddenly we saw

a party of natives approaching. They were travelling at a rapid rate,

and as they drew near we observed that they were armed with bows and

arrows and spears, each carrying a coloured blanket in a roll over

the shoulder, their food of dried meat and rice tied on to their

girdles. The whole party were warriors, as indicated by the rows of

shells sewn on to the kilts worn round their waists. They proved to be

an influential deputation from Kafiristan to the headquarters camp to

obtain the assurance of the British nation that they would still enjoy

their protection. From time to time, commencing with the mission of

Major Biddulph, interviews between headmen of the Kafiri tribes and

officers of the British Government had taken place, resulting in the

belief that the independence of Kafiristan would be preserved. But

the unexpected and ominous answer came over the field telegraph wires:

'Tell them they are now the subjects of the Amir.' While waiting for

the answer I had some conversation with them. They were wonderfully

bright and generous-hearted, and fond of a joke. When I asked them

if they were ready to embrace the Christian religion, they replied:

'We do not want to change the religion of our fathers; but if we must

change, then we would far rather become Christians than Muhammadans,

because we should still be Kafirs,' alluding to the common application

of this word by Muhammadans to all unbelievers.... The unsparing

proselytism of Muhammadan conquest has done its worst. Hearths and

homes in their mountain fastnesses, which had been preserved inviolate

for one thousand years against the hated Mussulman foe, have been

ruthlessly invaded and spoiled. The bravest of their defenders have

been forcibly made into Muhammadans, and the fairest of their daughters

have been torn from the arms of their natural protectors and carried

off as new supplies for the harims of their conquerors." Another lost

opportunity to add to the account of the Christian Church!

But there are lands now in that historic region "where three empires

meet" which may yet be occupied by the messengers of "peace and

goodwill towards men." Is the Church going to rise to the present

opportunities or let them, too, slip by?

Swat, Chitral, Baltistan, Hunza, Astor, Chilas, are each of them

the home of a nation. Then the great historic cities of Bukhara,

Samarcand, Tashkend, Merv, Kokan, Kashgar, have some of them been in

their time the capitals of great kingdoms.

In some of these places there are already missionaries at work, most

of them belonging to Swedish and German societies; but how utterly

inadequate these few scattered workers are to the great problem

which they have to face! What is needed at the present are medical

missions. A medical man would be welcomed by the people in all these

places. The time for the preacher has yet to come. It would not be

wise, even were it possible, to send up clerical missionaries and

evangelists into these parts at present. But the doctor will find

his sphere everywhere, and will find his hands full of work as soon

as he arrives. He will be able to overcome suspicion and prejudice,

and his timely aid and sympathetic treatment will disarm opposition,

and his life will be a better setting forth of Christianity than

his words. There is a door everywhere that can be opened by love and

sympathy and practical service, and no one is more in a position to

have a key for every door than the doctor.

I have already said much to show how powerful an agency medical

work is for overcoming prejudice, but I will cite one instance

more, where the doctor was the son of a convert of the very place

where he was working, and had succeeded by his loving and skilful

attentions in overcoming the opposition and much of the prejudice of

the people. The first branch dispensary in connection with the Bannu

Medical Mission was opened at Shekh Mahmud in 1895. This is a large

village near the Tahsil town of Isa Khel, on the right bank of the

Indus River. About thirty-five years ago a landowner of this place was

converted to Christianity, and, together with his family, received into

the Christian Church. At first he passed through great vicissitudes:

his house was burnt over his head by his fellow-villagers, and he and

his family barely escaped with their lives. His enemies then tried

to expatriate him by erasing his name from the village registers, and

swearing in court that he was a stranger to the district. Eventually,

however, their perjury was found out, and the court restored him

his lands and had a new house built for him in the place of the one

that had been burnt down. This man passed to his rest trusting in

our Lord Jesus Christ, leaving three sons, who were all following

in their father's footsteps, and have been privileged to see many of

their former enemies brought to Christ themselves. The eldest son has

also died, but leaving two sons, of whom the elder has obtained the

Government qualification of doctor, and is destined to take charge

of the branch dispensary which we are about to open at Thal. The

second and third sons have received a medical training in the mission

hospital, and are both engaged in medical mission work--the second at

the Bannu Headquarters Hospital, and the youngest is in charge of a

branch dispensary built on the very land that his Muhammadan countrymen

tried to wrest from his father. On the last occasion of my visiting

this branch, just before leaving India for my visit to England in 1908,

this young doctor--Fazl Khan by name--had made a dinner for the poor

of the village, and nearly two hundred must have come to partake of

his hospitality. This custom of feeding the poor is often done in

India by those undertaking a long journey or some other enterprise,

so that the prayers of the poor may be a blessing on the work.

Well, after all the guests had partaken, the Christian doctor offered

prayers for my safe journey to England, and for the medical mission

work at Bannu and at Sheikh Mahmud, and after each petition all present

raised the cry of "Allah," being their way of saying "Amen." Now,

these were the sons and relatives of the very men who had burnt the

house of the Christian doctor's father, and tried to oust him from his

lands. This is an example of what may be accomplished in a fanatical

frontier district through the agency of medical mission work carried

on by an Indian Christian.

I am constantly getting requests from maliks (chiefs) of these

trans-frontier tribes to visit them in their mountain homes, and

when I have accepted I have received a cordial welcome, and been well

treated, while I have had abundant opportunities of medical mission

work. There is great scope for the itinerant medical missionary among

them, but he requires a base to which he can send cases requiring

severe operations or ward treatment. Small branch dispensaries in

charge of Indian hospital assistants are of the greatest value, and

there are many suitable places for such along our Indian frontier. The

advantages of such dispensaries I believe to be as follows; (1) They

exert an extraordinary Christianizing, civilizing, and pacifying

influence on the tribes in their immediate vicinity. (2) They form

subsidiary bases for the medical missionary, not only enabling him

to work up that particular district, but relieving the pressure on

the headquarters hospital. The assistant-in-charge sifts the cases

that come to him, tells some that their disease is irremediable,

thereby saving them the expense and weariness of a long journey,

and recommending others to go up to headquarters for operations. (3)

They form training-schools for our Indian helpers, whereby they are

prepared for taking posts of even greater responsibility. This matter

of efficient training of our Indian helpers is, I believe, a matter

of paramount importance.

My hope is, then, in the near future to see a number of new centres

of medical mission work opened in these hitherto almost untouched

lands of Central Asia, and, associated with these centres, a number

of village dispensaries for the more remote tracks. The central

missions would have a staff of at least two European medical men,

and the branches would be in the charge of Indian assistants. There

is no reason, however, why an Indian of sufficient qualifications

and experience should not take the place of one of the European

staff when circumstances admit of it. The central hospital should

be well equipped in both out- and in-patient departments, and have

sanitary wards accommodating from thirty to eighty in-patients. The

branches should also be able to take in from six to ten in-patients,

as not only will the assistant in charge often get cases of urgency,

which require immediate indoor treatment, and cannot be forwarded

to the base hospital, but when the head medical missionary visits

these out-stations he will be glad to be able to accommodate a few

operation cases which may be waiting for him there.

This scheme would not clash with Government medical aid, because in

most of these regions there are very few, if any, Government hospitals

or dispensaries, and those places which already have sufficient

Government medical aid might well be passed over in favour of the

numberless places that have none.

Here is a grand field for young medical men who are anxious to

consecrate their abilities to the service of God and man. They are

not offered tempting salaries or honours, but they will have the

satisfaction of knowing that they are helping to lighten the burden of

mankind where that burden was weighing most heavily, and to bring the

light and love of Christ into some of the darkest abodes of cruelty

and superstition to be met with on the face of God's earth.

Those who help this work with the gifts in money or kind, without

which it would be impossible of execution can have the satisfaction of

knowing that they are not only relieving bodily suffering which would

otherwise be unrelieved, and carrying the Evangel to those who have

never heard of it, but they are drawing nations together in bonds of

service and sympathy, and diminishing the danger of racial conflict

and devastating war.

GLOSSARY OF WORDS NOT GENERALLY USED OUTSIDE INDIA

A.

Ahl-el-kitáb = the people of the Book: a term applied by Muhammadans to

Jews, and Christians whose Scriptures they accept as the Word of God.

B.

Banaprastha = the third stage of the life of a devout Hindu, when he

retires from trade or office, and lives in some forest or jungle.

Ber = a tree, very common in Afghanistán--Zisyphus jujuba and

Z. vulgaris. Its fruit is largely eaten by the people.

Bhagti = devotion, faith. The Hindus contrast salvation by bhagti

to that by karma, or works. Chaitanza and others were the apostles

of bhagti.

Bhásha = the script in which the Hindi language is usually written;

the language itself.

Brahmachári = the first stage of the life of a devout Hindu, when he

is a celibate student under some teacher or guru.

C.

Chádar = a cotton or woollen shawl, used as a wrap in the day and a

sheet by night.

Chapáti = flat cakes of unleavened bread, cooked over a tauwa, or

flat piece of iron.

Chárpár = "the four-legged," the plain native wooden bedstead.

Chauk = the room which the headman of a village sets apart for the

use of the public. Village business and gossip is carried on here,

and travellers accommodated.

Chigah = an alarm, sounded by beating a drum in a village, for the

arm-bearing population to come out in pursuit of raiders or robbers.

Chilam = the Afghán term for the Indian hookah, or hubble-bubble

pipe. The kind used in Afghanistán is simpler in construction, and

has a shorter tube.

D.

Dáktar = the native corruption of "doctor."

Dharmsála = a Hindu temple and rest-house for travellers, these two

institutions being almost invariably combined.

Dilaq = the patchwork cloak which is characteristic of the Muhammadan

faqir.

Dúm = the village barber and musician, these two offices being usually

combined; he also does most of the minor surgery of the village.

Dúmba = the fat-tailed Afghán sheep.

F.

Fatwá = a religious decree, promulgated by a court of Mullahs, or by

one Mullah of authority.

Feringi = the name universally accorded in Afghanistán to Europeans

(the Franks). In British India it has a prejudicial signification,

but not so in Afghanistán.

G.

Ghazá = a religious murder, when a Muhammadan fanatic kills a Christian

or Hindu for the sake of religion.

Gházi = the fanatic who commits ghazá.

Grihasta = the second stage in the life of a devout Hindu, when

he marries a wife, begets children, and carries on his profession

or trade.

Guru = a religious preceptor or guide among Hindus or Sikhs.

H.

Hákim = a ruler, an executive officer.

Hakím = a native doctor, who practises on Western or Hippocratic lines.

Halwa = a kind of sweet pudding, very popular with the Afgháns.

Hazrat 'Esa = the Muhammadan appellation for our Lord Jesus Christ.

Hujra = a guest-house, where travellers are accommodated in Afghán

villages. It differs from chauk in that it is more specialized for

the use of travellers, while the latter is more for the use of the

village folk.

I.

'Íd = a Muhammadan feast-day. There are two chief feasts--the

"'Id-el-fitr," or day following the fast-month of Ramazán, and the

"'Id-el-zoha" or "'Id-el-bakr," which is the Feast of Sacrifice,

in memory of Abraham's would-be sacrifice of his son.

Izzat = honour: a word constantly in an Afghán's thoughts and

conversation, but which even he is not always able to define.

J.

Jirgah = a council of the tribal elders. This may be appointed by

the tribesmen themselves to settle some dispute, or in British India

it may be appointed by the civil officer to help in deciding some

judicial case.

K.

Káfir = an infidel. Strictly, only one who does not believe in God

and the prophets, but loosely applied to all non-Muslims.

Kalámulláh = the Word of God. Comprises, according to Muhammadan

teaching, four books--the Law (Tauret), the Psalms (Zabúr), the Gospel

(Injil), and the Qurán.

Kalima = the Muhammadan creed: "There is no God but God, and Muhammad

is the prophet of God." The recitation of this is the recognized way

of declaring one's self a Muhammadan.

Kanal = a measure of land--one-eighth of an acre.

Karmá = works. According to Hindu philosophy, a man's reincarnation

depends on the character and amount of his karmá.

Karnal = the Afghán corruption of "colonel."

Khán = a lord, a chief; an honorific title in Afghanistán, or merely

part of a man's name.

L.

Lashkar = an army; often applied in Afghanistán to a small body of

men going out from a tribe for warlike purposes, but they may be

going for peaceful purposes--hence the English "lascar."

M.

Málik = in Afghanistán the headman of a village or tribe.

Má'uzbílláh = a Muhammadan exclamation on hearing bad news or a

calamity: "May God protect us!"

Muharram = a yearly Muhammadan feast held on the 10th of the month

of Muharram.

Mullah = a Muhammadan preacher.

Munshi = a clerk or preceptor.

P.

Pagari = the Eastern head-dress or turban.

Patwári = a village bailiff, who keeps the accounts of the village

lands.

Patwarkhána = the office of the bailiff.

Parda = the Eastern custom of secluding women from the public gaze.

Puláo = a popular dish in Afghanistán, consisting of meat cooked with

rice, with spices, nuts, raisins, and sweetenings.

Q.

Qurbán = lit., sacrifice; also used as an expression of devotion by

an inferior to a superior.

Qismet = fate, destiny; an ever-present idea in the Muhammadan mind.

R.

Rebáb = an Afghán stringed instrument, resembling a guitar.

S.

Sáhib = lit., gentleman; the term of respect usually applied to

Englishmen.

Samádh = the posture assumed by an ascetic for contemplation of the

Deity. There are a great variety of these, each possessing its own

peculiar merit.

Sangar = an entrenchment. In the mountain warfare of Afghanistán

these are made of short walls of stones on the hillside.

Sanyási = the fourth stage in the life of a devout Hindu, when he

retires from the world, and gives himself up entirely to religious

meditation.

Sardár = a chief, an Afghán nobleman.

Sarkár = the usual term for the British Government.

Sharm = shame. The Afghán idea underlying this word is a complex,

in which shame, public disgrace, modesty, delicacy, sense of honour,

all share in varying degree. He is always talking of it.

Sháster = a religious book of the Hindus.

Shesham = a common tree on the frontier that yields an excellent hard

wood for various articles of household use--Dalbergia sisso.

Sowár = a horseman.

Sura = a chapter of the Qurán.

T.

Tahsíl = the subdivision of an administrative district; the centre

for the collection of the revenue.

Tálib = a Muhammadan religious student; a pupil in a mosque.

Tap-jap = a recitation of religious formulæ by a Hindu.

Tauba = lit., repentance; an exclamation denoting abhorrence or

contrition.

U.

Ustád = a master or preceptor; a religious teacher (among Muhammadans).

W.

Wiláyati = belonging to Europe; especially applied to merchandise of

European origin.

Y.

Yogsadhan = a system of contemplation, combined with religious

exercises, whereby occult power is acquired.

Yunáni = pertaining to Greece. This is the word usually applied to

that system of native medicine which was derived from the Greeks; in

Europe it is spoken of in connection with the name of Hippocrates,

who formulated it. The other, or Hindu system, is the Vedic; those

who practise the former are called hakíms, the latter baids.

Z.

Zamindár = a farmer, a landowner.

Zyárat = a shrine; the grave of a holy man; a place of pilgrimage.

NOTES

[1] More probably from the Greek kofinos.--J. C.

[2] In a booklet published by the Church Missionary Society, entitled

"Delawar Khan."

[3] S. E. Stokes in The East and the West for April, 1908.

[4] "Across our Indian Frontier," by Colonel G. Wingate, C.I.E.