KIRIND TO KARMANSHAH
Pillage and famine--A land of mud--The Chikar Zabar Pass--Wandering
dervishes--Poor hotel accommodation--A "Hunger Battalion"--A city of
the past.
From Kirind to Kermanshah, our next stage, is about sixty miles. For
the most part it is dreary, barren country, with a few isolated
villages astride the line of march. The whole land had been skinned
bare of supplies by Turk and Russian, and it was now in the throes of
famine.
There was a good deal of similarity in the methods of these
successive invaders. They commandeered unscrupulously and without
payment, and what they could not consume or carry off they destroyed.
There was no seed wheat, and consequently no crops had been sown.
Many tillers of the soil had fled for their lives; those who had
remained were dying of hunger in this war-ravaged region. The arable
land which is noted for its fertility was forlorn and neglected; no
plough had touched its soil since the passing of the war storm, and
its abandoned furrows were temporarily tenanted by wandering crows
struggling to gain a precarious livelihood. It was desolation and
ruin everywhere.
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This was the country into which we, too, now, in our turn adventured.
Armed robbers roamed from hill to plain and back again, holding up
and looting passing caravans, preying upon the miserable inhabitants
in the remote villages, and relieving them of anything in the nature
of food and live-stock that the greedy maw of Turk and Russian had
inadvertently overlooked.
Little wonder that the terrified wayside inhabitants fled pell-mell
at the approach of our column! It took some persuasion to assure
them that they would not be "bled" afresh, nor put to the sword. Not
unnaturally, they had reason to dread the exactions of a third
invader, and both effort and time were needed to convince them that
our intentions were not hostile, but friendly. When confidence was
at last restored, the glad tidings of our exemplary behaviour sped
ahead of us from village to village, carried by that mysterious
agency which in the East lends wings to any news of import, and in
speed rivals wireless telegraphy.
So it was that on our further progress ragged and cringing peasants,
all semblance of manhood driven out of them by hunger and oppression,
would crawl forth into the light of day from some dark hovel to beg,
firstly for their lives, and secondly for a morsel of bread. We
granted the one without question, but were not always able to comply
with the second demand.
From Kirind our progress was slow. The first day, {94} Sunday, April
14th, we barely covered ten miles, arriving at Khorosabad late in the
afternoon, where we bivouacked under the lee of the hills. The road
beyond was a kind of hog's back strewn with limestone boulders which
proved too difficult for the laden Ford cars. To add to our troubles
the weather broke in the evening, and it rained steadily throughout
the night, so that our camping-ground became a swamp. The Hussars'
horses suffered from exposure, while the men themselves were wet
through and inclined to be grumpy. In the morning, as the weather
showed signs of mending, the march was resumed; but the Ford convoy
had to be left behind in charge of an escort to wait until the road
became passable.
The infantry units marched through twelve miles of mud to Harunabad,
the next stage on the journey. It tried the men's endurance to the
utmost. The road was simply an unmetalled track across the plain;
there was no foothold in the saturated soil, and at each step a pound
or two of clay adhered to one's boots, necessitating frequent halts
to scrape them clean. The Persian muleteers were more fortunate.
They marched barefoot, and their movements were not handicapped by
the encumbering dead weight of adhesive earth.
[Illustration: PERSIAN TRANSPORT.]
Harunabad does not differ essentially from any other village in
South-Western Persia. Dirt and decay have laid their twin grip upon
its crooked streets, its tottering mud walls, and ruinous
habitations. {95} The inhabitants were as hungry as any other of
their class in Persia, and they crowded round the bivouac cookhouses
snatching eagerly at any morsel of food that was thrown to them.
General Byron, Captain Eve, Lieutenant Akhbar, and I lighted on a
couple of rooms in a disused caravanserai, and the local governor,
who seemed to bother less about backsheesh than the average of his
fellows, procured us some mutton and firewood. Two of his servitors
who had brought the supplies were demanding an exorbitant price--the
middleman's profit. The Governor, happening to arrive on the scene
while the haggling was proceeding, beat the grasping pair soundly in
our presence, and promised them a dose of the bastinado on the
morrow. Thoroughly abashed by their drubbing, and terrified by the
prospect of a fresh one next day, they fell upon their knees, begging
for mercy and forgiveness. The General successfully pleaded on their
behalf, and they showed their gratitude by kissing his hands, before
taking themselves out of range of the still wrathful eye of the
Governor.
The night was cold, with a tinge of frost in the air. We sat round
the fire after supper drying our sodden garments and removing the
encrustations of Persian mud which had settled thickly upon them.
Sleep came to us easily after the fatigues of the day, and it was
with a feeling of deep personal resentment that we heard the Hussars'
trumpeter sound the reveille.
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Most transport mules are longsuffering animals, but they rebel
occasionally. The Persian variety was inclined to be peevish, when
it came to early rising and taking afresh upon its sturdy back the
burden of the day. Those of our supply convoy, when prodded into
activity before sunrise, rarely failed to make their displeasure felt
by a vigorous protest lodged at random in some part of a charvadar's
anatomy. On the morning of our departure from Harunabad the mules
showed themselves especially intractable. It could hardly have been
because of any deep-rooted affection for the locality itself.
However, at the cost of much profanity and shouting on the part of
the muleteers, during which grave aspersions were cast upon the
character of the mules' ancestors, the rebellious beasts were cowed
into submissiveness and our column was soon floundering anew in the
mud of the Persian wilderness.
A wind from the north blew across our path and sent the menacing
rain-clouds scurrying to the right-about. The sun, too, unveiled its
face, as if half-ashamed of its tardiness, and speedily dispelled the
curtain of white mist which arose from the sodden earth. The air was
keen and invigorating, but tempered by the warm breath of spring.
Men and horses and transport mules responded to the gladsome call of
Nature in her most beneficent mood. British soldier and Persian
charvadar each sang the wild songs of his native land, telling
invariably of {97} some fair, beauteous maiden whom the sentimental
songster had left behind somewhere in England or Iran. To the ears
of one riding on in advance, as I happened to be that day, this flow
of song blending with the deep note of the jingling mule-bells made
sweetest music.
Four hours' march brought the head of the column to the top of the
Chihar Zabar Pass. The road went sheer down the reverse slope,
cutting across an immense plain carpeted with the deepest emerald
green. Here wild flowers grew in abundance--crocuses, daffodils,
daisies, violets, and a species of indigenous primrose, a woof of
rich, glorious colouring in the warp of green. This "Promised Land,"
the work of Nature's own brush, stretched away from my very feet till
it mingled with the grey-blue of the distant horizon. What a
pleasing contrast to the dreary, desolate lowlands we had so lately
traversed! It was a most welcome prospect to eyes tired of looking
upon dull, monotonous landscapes. To me it was the fairest sight I
had yet seen in the land of Iran.
While I was revelling in the beauty of the scene, there appeared on
the summit of the Pass, coming from this valley of enchantment, three
men whose dress and appearance excited my curiosity. They were
sturdily built, and dressed in black, skirted coats, fastened at the
waist by a girdle from which was suspended a sword and satchel.
Their beards were no longer than that permitted by the precepts of
{98} the Koran. They were without head-covering of any kind, and
their long hair fell free and untrammelled on their shoulders. The
trio wore shoes of Moroccan leather with pointed, turned-up toes and
silver buckles. Each carried a small silver-headed axe at the
"slope," as a cavalry trooper does a sabre.
As they approached, my first feeling was one of alarm, and my hand
instinctively sought my revolver holster. Seeing this, the foremost
raised his hand in friendly salutation, and greeted me with, "Peace
be upon thee, O stranger!" They proved to be wandering dervishes who
begged their way from end to end of Persia, and to judge by their
raiment and their general well-to-do appearance, it must be a
profitable occupation.
These dervishes, amongst the Persians of all classes, have a great
reputation for sanctity. The rich help them liberally, and even the
very poor will not turn a deaf ear to their request for aid. One of
them chattered away like a magpie, recounting adventures which were
not always of the kind one is prone to associate with the austerity
of a Religious Order. They had come on foot from Meshed in Eastern
Persia to Teheran, Hamadan, and Kermanshah, and were now bound for
Kerbela and the Shi'ite holy places in the vicinity of Bagdad. The
burdens of life sat lightly on their shoulders, and the destroying
hand of care had left no traces upon their merry, laughing faces.
They were a cheery trio, {99} forgetful of yesterday, unmindful of
to-morrow, and living only for to-day.
They were full of a pleasant inquisitiveness, and withal as simple as
children. "Were there dervishes across the big water in Faringistan
(Europe), and had the man-birds (aviators) come to Bagdad?" they
asked. I told them they would see plenty of "man-birds" and
"wonder-houses" (cinemas) down yonder in Bagdad, but that an
itinerant Persian dervish would be a _rara avis_ amongst our
benighted folk, not one, so far as I knew, having yet shed the light
of his countenance upon our slow-going old Western world. With a
small cash contribution oh my part towards the expenses of their
journey, and on theirs the formal invocation of the blessing of Allah
upon my head, the dervishes and I exchanged cordial adieux, and
parted company on the summit of the Chihar Zabar.
Our next halting-place was at Mahidast, a walled town which stands in
the midst of an immense plain seventy miles long by ten broad. It is
one of the most fertile tracts in Persia, and grows great crops of
wheat and barley for the market of Kermanshah. As for Mahidast
itself, it consists of a few dirty streets, unpaved and
evil-smelling, and a hundred houses, the greater number of which are
in ruins. Its inhabitants are chiefly Kalhur-Kurds, semi-nomads, who
migrate in winter with their flocks to the neighbourhood of Khaniquin
and Mandali. Mahidast is a great resort of pilgrims on the way {100}
to and from Kerbela, and in the main street stands a vast
caravanserai built by that industrious architect-ruler, Shah Abbas.
I rode inside the great doorway of Shah Abbas' hostelry hoping to
find quarters here, but my nose was in revolt at once. A stagnant
pool covered with green slime, where myriads of mosquitoes and flies
were undergoing a course of field training, occupied the centre of
the courtyard, and this was flanked by festering heaps of garbage
amongst which lean, hungry-looking dogs were fossicking for an
evening meal.
Turning in disgust from the loathsome spot, I encountered a farrash
(messenger) come from the Naib-ul-Hukumeh, or Deputy Governor, The
latter had heard of our arrival, and sent to conduct us to quarters
near his own dwelling. Our abode proved to be a smaller
caravanserai, its living-rooms adjoining the stables and looking out
on a manure heap. The Deputy Governor himself turned up presently,
and in the usual flowery Persian speech bade General Byron welcome,
and assured him that supplies of forage and fuel would be forthcoming.
He hinted that, as the prowling Kurds of the district were keen
horse-fanciers, and not always able to discriminate between the
niceties of _meum_ and _tuum_, it would be advisable to mount a
stable guard. For this purpose he sent us eight truculent-looking
rascals, fairly bristling with weapons, who watched over our horses
while we sought to snatch a few hours' repose.
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Sleep we found to be out of the question. Our sleeping-bags, the
latest of their kind from London, had no chance against the
incursions of the nimble Mahidast flea, or his bigger parasitical
brethren, whom pilgrim caravans had brought from the remote corners
of Persia. Emerging angry and unrefreshed from an unequal combat, we
quitted Mahidast at an early hour. The major portion of the
inhabitants were present to see us off, and incidentally to demand a
pishkash for services--chiefly imaginary--rendered us during our
sojourn. Akhbar paid off the fuel and forage vendors, and ransomed
our horses from the stable guard for a substantial sum in krans. He
next gave a considered decision in respect to the claim of the Deputy
Governor and his numerous retinue. The former modestly demanded an
amount which would have provided him with a comfortable life annuity,
pointing out that, as our throats were unsevered and our purses
untouched, we could afford to be generous, and reward his protecting
zeal. I did not wait for the end of the negotiations, but I heard
afterwards that Akhbar, whose temper had been sorely tried, consigned
the Deputy Governor to _jahannam_, and effected a compromise with his
insistent retainers for the equivalent of ten shillings.
It is an eighteen-mile march to Kermanshah from Mahidast. The road
was harder, and it was easier travelling for the horses and transport
animals. There was a good deal of traffic too. We passed numerous
caravans, the first being one of tobacco {102} and general
merchandise bound for Bagdad. To this a number of pilgrims had
attached themselves for safety, and had hired an armed convoy to
protect them against plundering Kurds and, in a minor sense, the
exactions of the Persian road guards. These latter were supposed to
police the route, and had posts along the road. By way of recompense
they were allowed to levy baj (toll) upon travellers. But their
rapacity was boundless. They were said to stand in with the
freebooters of the district, and woe betide the simple traveller or
merchant who, journeying without armed retainers, fell into their
hands! Him they fleeced unmercifully, and if the victim were
inclined to protest against this bare-faced spoliation, he might
always be sure of receiving a sound beating in addition.
So much for Persian road guards and their methods! The British
sought to remedy these abuses by subsidizing local chiefs to protect
a section of road, but the chiefs took the cash and stuck to it,
while the guards still dipped deeply into the pockets or into the
bales of merchandise of those who came their way. It was considered
a lucrative post, that of road guard, and much sought after by
gentlemen who hated the attendant risks of ordinary highway robbery,
and preferred the easier and surer means of growing rich by levying
toll in a quasi-official capacity.
Presently we met a corpse-caravan bound for Kerbela with its
lugubrious freight. A contingent of road guards had gathered round
like so many {103} human vultures, and there was much haggling
between themselves and angry relatives of the defunct as to what a
dead Persian ought or ought not to pay to pass free and unhindered
over this section of the long and thorny road that led to the holy of
holies of the Shi'ite Moslem.
On the banks of a stream by the roadside was a "hunger battalion"
resting. Its members, men and boys, were in a state of semi-nudity;
their few garments hung in tattered rags about their wasted bodies,
and all looked to be in the last stage of physical exhaustion from
starvation. For some the end had clearly come. They were incapable
of further effort, and lay waiting for a merciful death to cut short
their sufferings. Others there were who still clung despairingly to
the enfeebled thread of life. They crouched on the ground, gnawing
frantically at a handful of roots or coarse herbs with which they
sought to assuage the terrible pangs of unsatisfied hunger. A little
apart from the main body was a small group crooning a mournful dirge:
it was the funeral requiem of a man whom famine had killed. The body
was being prepared for burial and, before committal to earth, was
being washed in the stream which supplied a near-by village with
drinking water.
We divided some food amongst the sorely stricken survivors of the
hunger battalion. It was all we could give. They were thankful, and
one man said that he and five companions had originally started {104}
from Hamadan, where the people were dying by hundreds daily, in the
hope of crossing the frontier to Khaniquin or Kizil Robat, at either
of which places they might get work and food in the British Labour
Corps. Of the six who had set out on this quest he was the sole
survivor.
Kermanshah is a very old Persian city, and was known to writers and
travellers from the earliest Christian times. It once was a
flourishing industrial and commercial centre, but much of its
prosperity and glory have been dimmed by a succession of political
and economic vicissitudes. The town itself has a certain military
importance. It is close to the Turkish frontier, and is equidistant
from Bagdad, Ispahan, Teheran, and Tabriz. During the War Turks and
Russians occupied it in turn, and the Turks had a consul and a
consular guard here until their army was chased out of the province.
Outside the town itself the nomadic and semi-nomadic population
consists chiefly of Kurds, and Kurdi is the language of the people as
distinct from the merchants. Cereals are extensively grown, but,
owing to the lack of communications, the cost of transporting grain
to Bagdad or Teheran was triple its local market value, and it was a
profitless enterprise. The grain rotted in Kermanshah while people
died of hunger in adjoining provinces.
The chief trade route in Western Persia passes through Kermanshah,
and it is also an important market for transport mules, which are
bred in the {105} district. In pre-war days as many as 200,000
pilgrims passed through Kermanshah each year on their way to and from
Kerbela and the other Shi'ite shrines in the Vilayet of Bagdad. The
bazaars were well stocked with British and foreign goods, and the
local traders were reputed to be wealthy. But the War and the coming
of the Turks were fatal to Kermanshah and its commerce; the shops
were closed, and the wealthier merchants hid their cash and valuables
and sought asylum elsewhere.
Kermanshah suffered much during the Civil War of 1911-12. In July of
1911 it was occupied in the name of the ex-Shah, Muhammad Ali, by a
force of irregulars under Salar-ud-Dauleh, the ex-Shah's brother. In
the following February the Government troops reoccupied Kermanshah,
and the troops of the dethroned Shah were driven out. But a
fortnight later Salar-ud-Dauleh, aided by a large force of Kurds, was
back again; the town was plundered, and the Governor appointed by the
Constitutionalists had his legs cut off and was burnt alive. For the
next few months the redoubtable Salar and his military opponent,
Farman Farma, hunted each other in turn up and down Western Persia
until the Shah's rebellion was finally subdued.
I found the streets of the town narrow and tortuous. The Zarrabiha
Street and that leading from the Darvaseh Sarab to the Chal Hassan
Khan are about the only two possible for carriages. In the Feizabad
quarter, which is remote from the bazaars, are the {106} houses of
the wealthy classes, with their immense courtyards, high walls, and
beautifully kept gardens. By contrast, the houses of the poor look
despicably mean, being simply a collection of mud hovels into which
the light of day penetrates with difficulty.
The rain overtook us afresh at Kermanshah, and we had to stay there
for three days weatherbound. The Hussars and the remainder of the
column bivouacked on a hill near the British Consulate. It was far
from agreeable. The tents were already soaking wet after the
downpour at Khorosabad, and had had no time to dry.
General Byron went to stay with the Kennions. Colonel Kennion was
Political Officer and Consul, and his wife, a very charming and
energetic lady, who held in her hands most of the threads of the
political happenings in Persia, worked hard all day in the office
ciphering and deciphering despatches. In the evening she entertained
her husband's guests and graced a hospitable table.
The foreign colony of Kermanshah was not a large one. Besides the
Kennions, there were the Russian Consul and his wife, a French
Consul, Mr. and Mrs. Stead of the American Presbyterian Mission, and
Mr. Hale, local manager of the Imperial Bank of Persia. Hale has
travelled widely in Persia, and knew its elusive and nimble-witted
people better than most Englishmen. He was an excellent raconteur,
and I spent pleasant evenings in his company {107} laughing over
stories of adventure which irresistibly called to mind that great
exponent of Persian drollery, "Hadji Baba."
Leaving our horses behind to be brought on by the marching column,
General Byron and six officers, including myself, moved by motor
convoy from Kermanshah on April 22nd. With luck we hoped to reach
Hamadan in two days.
It is twenty-two miles to Bisitun Bridge and the crossing of the
Gamasiab, a tributary of the Kara river. The brick bridge over the
stream had been destroyed by the retreating Russians. It had not yet
been repaired, and we were to be faced with the difficult problem of
getting the Ford cars across to the eastern bank of the Gamasiab.
The recent rains had done their worst for the road track which led
over the great plain of Kermanshah, and the soil had been converted
into a kind of pulpy clay which the passage of recent caravans had
churned into puddle. The laden cars bravely struggled through it,
sinking occasionally to the axles in the treacherous mire. Finally,
we crawled out of this bog and struck a patch of hard road which led
to the village of Bisitun, where we halted to allow the other bogged
cars to join up. Beyond the straggling village of thirty houses or
so the great rock of Bisitun rises perpendicularly from the level
plain.
Bisitun is famous for the inscriptions and tablets of Darius found
here. It lies on the highway from Ecbatana to Babylon, and was thus
chosen by various {108} monarchs as a fitting place for the record of
their exploits.
It is to British pluck, tenacity, and will-power that the world owes
its definite and detailed knowledge of the Darius inscriptions. That
"King of Kings," as he proudly styles himself, saw to it that the
written account of his greatness should be at a height corresponding
with his fame, and had it placed 300 feet above the ground on the
wall of a dizzily perpendicular cliff. To climb this rock near
enough to read what Persian workmen chiselled there five hundred
years before the Christian era is the dangerous and difficult
undertaking accomplished by Rawlinson.
The bas-relief tablets and inscriptions on Bisitun's famous cliff
wall have all but one object--to glorify Darius Hystaspes ("The great
King, the King of Kings, King of Persia, King of the Provinces"), and
to give the lie to any of his enemies or rivals who dared to proclaim
themselves monarchs also. ("This Gaumata the Magian lied: thus did
he speak: 'I am Bardiya; son of Cyrus, I am King!'")
Grandiloquently the names of the countries over which Darius ruled
are set forth. They number twenty-three. A Persian Alexander the
Great was this "King of Kings."
[Illustration: DARIUS INSCRIPTIONS AT BISITUN.]
The bas-relief vividly portrays his conquest of the lesser chieftains
from whom he wrested their kingdoms. His foot is on the prostrate
form of the most formidable of these, Gaumata, while the others are
shown tied together by their necks, a sorry company {109} of defeated
royalties. Darius is depicted as physically towering above the men
of his day, a giant in every way. Over him hovers the Godhead,
Auramazdn, or Ormuzd, who, holding a circlet of victory in one hand,
with the other points out the mighty monarch as the wearer-designate.
The whole is in a marvellous state of preservation, thanks to the
conscientious work of the craftsmen who laboured at it so many
thousand years ago. After first smoothing the surface of the rock,
they filled in every tiny crevice or crack with lead. Then they
chiselled deeply, and with astonishing accuracy, each character,
finally coating the whole with a silicious varnish, a protection
against climatic ravages which has stood the test imposed upon it
while countless generations of mankind have come and gone.
When we reached the Gamasiab, we found the stream in flood, and a
six-knot current swirling through the brick arches of the damaged
bridge. There was a great gap in the central span, the latter
running to a point almost like a Gothic arch. Gangs of workmen were
busy repairing it, under Lieutenant Goupil, R.E.
Captain Goldberg, of the Armoured Car Section, had preceded us to
Bisitun. Goldberg, who had ripped roads through East African jungle
to get within shooting distance of the Hun, claimed that in his
service lexicon there was no such word as fail, and that wherever a
transport mule could pass in Persia {110} he would take his lighter
cars. At Bisitun he was as good as his word. The animals of the
transport were ferried across on crudely constructed rafts to which
were attached inflated goatskins to give additional buoyancy. They
were of the type of the Mussik raft of the Tigris, and the scheme
worked successfully. But it was a tricky business when it came to
ferrying motor-cars over. Our own Fords were emptied of their
contents, and a single car was lashed on a raft which was then
man-hauled across a hundred yards of stream to the other bank.
Sometimes one of the guide-ropes gave way, and the raft and its
burden, caught by the swift current, would go gyrating down stream
until it was lassooed by pursuing coolies on a second raft. At other
times the wheel-lashings would part in transit, and the raft would
"nose dip" at a dangerous angle. Then the Persian labour coolies,
with wild shouts and cries, would jump into the water and restore the
equilibrium of the water-logged raft by clinging to its stern. All
our cars were in this manner safely carried over without serious
mishap, and the stores and baggage were brought on coolies' backs
across the wrecked bridge itself. On the eastern bank the Fords were
reloaded and the party got under way once more.
We spent the night at Kangavar, a big village at the eastern end of
the Bisitun gap, and at the junction of the Hamadan Qum and
Daulatabad roads, fifty-five miles from Kermanshah. Kangavar reposes
at the foot of a lofty, snow-capped mountain, and is {111} built on a
series of natural and artificial mounds which rise corkscrew fashion
from the plain. Here are the ruins of a large temple or palace whose
history is lost in antiquity. That profound scholar and
archæologist, Rawlinson, thinks that Kangavar is the Chavon of
Diodorus, where, according to the Sicilian historian, Semiramis built
a palace and laid out a paradise. There also existed at Kangavar a
celebrated temple of Anaitis, whose lascivious cult was once
widespread in this ancient land.
We were hospitably entertained by the representative of the Deputy
Governor, who is noted for his pro-British sympathies. The Sheikh,
our host, furnished us with quarters within his own residence, a
wonderful walled enclosure big enough to hold a battalion, and laid
out with beautiful gardens and fountains. In the trees the laqlaqs
(storks) nested, and down by the cool splashing fountains a peacock
in all the beauty of fully displayed plumage strutted proudly.
We were seven officers to supper, but our host, in accordance with
the lavishness required by Persian hospitality, prepared enough food
for four times our number. His multitude of retainers looked on
while we ate, and what remained of the feast passed to them by right
of custom.
It was with considerable misgivings that we heard that the shorter
road to Hamadan over the great Asadabad Pass, nearly eight thousand
feet high, was closed by snow. We accordingly took the longer {112}
and lower road by way of Parisva and Tasbandi which skirts the Alvand
mountain range. The cars bogged incessantly in the low, flat
country, but going over the Parisva Pass, where the gradients are
steep and great boulders strew the route, our progress was also very
slow. The cars had to be manhandled, being towed and pushed by
peasants collected from the neighbouring fields. There were several
"lame ducks" in the convoy, and before evening a number had broken
down altogether and had to be temporarily abandoned by the roadside
in charge of an armed guard.
[Illustration: CARAVANSERAI, BISITUN.]
Night had already fallen when the leading cars crawled into Hamadan,
having taken fourteen hours to cover a journey of about ninety-five
miles. Weary and travel-stained, we reported at British
Headquarters, and to our joy found that everyone was well, and that
the Dunsterville Garrison, overawing the turbulent section of the
population, was still in possession of this isolated post in the
heart of Persia.
{113}