I noticed that the richer and more educated Afghans did not seem so ready to avail themselves of European medical aid as the poorer people, and it struck me there were two reasons for this. First, that the hakims took the trouble to explain to the richer people, from whom they expected to receive fees, that Europeans use deadly poisons in their medicines, which are just as likely to kill as to cure. A certain amount of weight attaches to this by the often unfortunate results of medical treatment by the Hindustani hospital assistants. The other reason seems to be due, not to the hakims, but to the influence of the priests. The more religious of the Afghans apparently look upon a European as one who, by the help of the Powers of Evil, has in this world the gifts of knowledge, skill, and wealth, but who in the next life must inevitably be consigned to eternal torment. Doubtless with his deadly poisons he can cure diseases if he wish, but it is not wise, and, indeed, is scarcely lawful, for a sick man to make use of him.

They feel it will offend God less if, before they traffic with the evil one by employing a Feringhi doctor, they use all lawful and right means to become well, such as trying the efficacy of prayer, or the wearing of amulets and charms: should these fail, by placing themselves under the care of their hereditary physicians, the hakims, who attended their fathers and their fathers’ fathers. They can always call in the Feringhi as a last resource.

The peasants and the hillmen, the soldiers and the poorer townsfolk—in fact, all those who are but occasionally under the influence of the priests, and from whom the hakims can expect a small, if any fee—these are ready enough to trust themselves, when sick, to European medical skill. They take advantage of that which seems to them good, as an animal might, without entering upon the deeper question whether it is religiously right or wrong—in fact, they even look upon a doctor as one to be classed with Dewanas or madmen, and prophets, who are all more or less sacred.

It must be a powerful reason, such as the fear of being poisoned or damned, that prevents the richer Afghans from employing European medical aid, for they have to pay the hakims, whereas at the hospital no fees or presents were received, and it is not the nature of an Afghan to pay for a thing if he can get it for nothing.

CHAPTER IX.
The March to Turkestan.

About a month after our arrival in Kabul an incident occurred which, though gruesome in its details, I cannot refrain from relating on account of the light which it throws upon the nature of the Afghan.

One of the soldiers had made a favourite of a boy in the town. Some time afterwards the boy was seen to associate with another man in the cantonment. At once the jealousy of the soldier was aroused. He taxed the boy with it, and in a moment of jealous anger he drove his knife into him, killing him instantly.

Forthwith the mother of the lad appealed to Prince Habibullah for justice and revenge. She claimed the life of the murderer. The Prince heard the case in detail, and, according to the Afghan law (an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth), granted the woman’s request. The soldier was hurried off to the execution ground, close to the hospital where I was. His hands were fastened behind him, and he was tied in a sitting posture in a chair. A knife was handed to the woman: she seized the man’s beard, wrenched his head back, and with a cry of “Allah, akbar,” cut his throat. Then, flinging down the knife, she plunged her hands in the spirting stream, and lapped the blood into her mouth.

On Friday, the Mahomedan Sabbath, there being no work in the workshops, Mr. Pyne and I went for a ride along the beautiful lanes fringed with poplars, which lie between the fields around Kabul.

We saw in a large field among the young green corn some seven or eight horsemen sitting silently on their horses. Presently I recognized the slender form of Prince Nasrullah. We rode up to salute His Highness, and he informed us he was hawking for partridges. The bird used was, I believe, a species of falcon, though I am not sufficiently skilled an ornithologist to say what species. The bird is carried, hooded, on the wrist, and is unhooded and cast off when the prey is sighted. For large game the bigger female falcon is used.

The group of riders made quite a picture as they sat: the gold embroidery of their military uniforms sparkling in the sun; the black of the astrakhan hat, the long waving mane and tail of the horses, all sharply distinct against the background of soft spring green and distant shadowy mountains.

As a nation the Afghans are fond of sport. Game of many kinds is plentiful in the country. A short time ago, the sport of all sports—for the excitement of great possible gain came in—was the picking off of unwary travellers and annexing their belongings. Here was not only sport but the indulgence of a passion so dear to the Afghan, that of gambling.

A sportsman on the hills saw trudging along the road a traveller with a burden on his shoulders. From the distance he examined him with care.

“To my eye this traveller has rupees and much gold in his pack. Without doubt he is a rascal Hindu usurer, who, journeying to Kabul, is about to plunder the Faithful. Soul of my father! Shall this be?” And the bullet sped on its way. Springing from rock to rock, with agility born of a mountain life, the sportsman was soon on the road. Quickly he opened the pack and—out rolled a melon.

His arms sunk to his sides, his head drooped, and he stood the picture of despair. For his sins he was thus punished. “Tobah! tobah! alas and alas!” he groaned; “my cartridge, my good cartridge is gone, wasted, for ever lost; and I, what have I? a melon! Wai! wai!” and he wept.

But, nowadays, since the great king, Amîr Abdurrahman, has occupied the throne, this form of sport is less popular than it was. Possibly it may be due to the fact that consequences far from pleasing to the sportsmen and their friends are apt to follow indulgence in this pastime. Imprisonment has occurred; the being compelled to work in chains on the roads or in the workshops; ignominious death even, as by hanging, or by being thrust into an iron cage and left thirsting on the high peak of a mountain. So, therefore, as I said, it is becoming less popular.

There are, however, many other forms of sport. Wild-fowl shooting in the marshes around Kabul is a favourite pastime.

Sometimes the sportsmen go in a body on horseback, ride into the marsh where it is shallow, disturb the duck and fire into the flight. Sometimes they go singly, conceal themselves and use a decoy. In the plains they stalk the deer or use a body of beaters to drive the game to certain points. In Turkestan, tiger, wild pig—which they shoot—and bear are to be obtained. Duck shooting in the autumn and winter, and hawking in the spring are, perhaps, the sports in which the Royal Family most frequently indulge.

Not very long after our arrival in Kabul it was rumoured that the Amîr needed my services in Turkestan, and a month and a-half afterwards the official order arrived. I was to accompany Jan Mahomed Khan, the Treasury Officer, who was about to convey a supply of bullion to Turkestan for the use of His Highness. Accordingly, as soon as I received the order, I engaged some servants: a Peshawuri—the “assassin,” whom I have already referred to—as valet, and a Hindustani cook, whom I found in Kabul. I was fortunate in being able to obtain a cook, as hitherto Mr. Pyne and I had shared one between us. The man I engaged had been cook in the family of Sir Louis Cavagnari. The other servants were Afghans. After some extra cooking pots, dried fruit, salt, and various other things, which the cook said he must get from the bazaar, were obtained, and the baggage was packed, Mr. Pyne accompanied me to the house of Jan Mahomed Khan. We were received in a large room, which was crowded with people standing. We seated ourselves at the end and drank tea with Jan Mahomed. Then a bottle of champagne was opened, complimentary speeches made, and, finally, about midday we started. We stopped at the Palace, dismounted, and went in to take leave of His Highness, the Prince. When we remounted we were met outside the Palace by Perwana Khan, the Deputy Commander-in-Chief, and Naib Mir Sultan, the Governor of Kabul, each with their attendants, so that with our own crowd of servants, and a guard of sixty soldiers, we made a large cavalcade. A crowd of people on foot accompanied us part of the way, running by the side and in front of the horses. The sun shone brightly; the dresses of the officials—crimson, and purple, and green—were brilliant with gold embroidery. The glitter of the gold and silver ornaments on belt, scabbard, and bridle, the blue and gold turbans of the attendants, the black sheepskin busbies of the soldiers, horses caracoling, and the look of bustle and excitement, made an artistic and interesting picture.

We rode by the bank of the Kabul river westward, past the workshops and through the gorge between the Sher Durwaza and Asmai mountains out into the Charhardeh valley.

The first day’s journey was short, for we went only a few miles across the valley to a place called Chiltan, where on a hill Jan Mahomed has a “country residence.” The house was pretty, and well built, in the style of a bungalow with a verandah; around it were flower gardens with a small fountain. Down the hill and around the foot of it were vines and fruit trees, and the view from the house was over the cornfields and vineyards of the beautiful Charhardeh valley, circled with mountains.

The Governor of Kabul did not accompany us to the house, but the rest of us sat down to dinner together, in the Mahomedan fashion, that is, on the ground. Pyne and I were accommodated with cushions. As we were not able to double our legs up in the Eastern fashion we “reclined.” It was my first “native” dinner, and I enjoyed it immensely, for the ride and excitement had made us hungry. With the fruit, champagne was brought, and afterwards sweets and tea. Then when we lit our cigars nautch girls and musicians were introduced.

I can speak of the wild barbaric music from seithar, rubarb, and drum; of the passionate Oriental love song pealing forth in unison from strong male voices; of the unveiled girl dancers undulating to the music; of the glances cast by the dark eyes, the waving of arms, the clinking of bangles, and the tinkling of bells on their ankles, as the dancers stepped daintily on the carpet.

I can also speak of the indescribable ear-splitting din, without either time or tune, which was torn from the tortured instruments and hurled at us as “music;” of the harsh voices roaring till they were hoarse something which we did not understand; of the attempts of the singers to produce a trill by shaking the head; of the utter absence of modulation or feeling in their singing; of the dancing women shuffling about, clapping their hands and throwing themselves into uncouth and to us unmeaning postures; and I thought, “Oh, for an hour of Augustus Druriolanus to open the eyes of these Easterns.”

We turned in at midnight, Pyne and I sharing a room, and he broke my only egg cup with his heel. We started next morning at eight, said good-bye to Pyne, who returned to Kabul to superintend the workshops, and then rode on. On the way villagers came out and lined the road to salaam Jan Mahomed and offer him presents. As they stood in a row they held out their hands, palm upwards, muttered a prayer, and stroked their beards—that is, those who had beards: the young men and boys who had not, pretended to do so. At some places they slung a string across the road with a Koran fixed in the middle of it, and as we passed under it we held out our hands, palm upwards, muttered a prayer, and stroked our beards. At other places they killed a bullock or a calf by cutting its throat. I do not know the significance of the operation.

It rained somewhat when we got among the mountains, and Jan Mahomed, who had on a purple velvet tunic, put up an umbrella to protect himself. I found he had brought his little son, four years old with him. The youngster was seated in a little chair, which was securely fastened on the back of a steady horse, an attendant holding a leading rein. I was not on very good terms myself with my horse. He was a very showy creature, and had been given me by the Prince, but he had evidently not been ridden lately, and was very fresh. A march is a fatiguing function at the best of times, and my horse was not up to the quick shuffling walk which is so restful. He would do anything else—buck, kick, gallop, or trot. Finally Jan Mahomed ordered one of the soldiers, an iron Afghan, to change with me, and I was at peace again.

Sometimes we stopped at a village and put up in the different houses; other times the tents were pitched near a stream. When we got among the Paghman offshoot of the Hindu Kush mountains we had pelting rain and sleet for hours; a violent storm of thunder and lightning; then had to ford a wide roaring stream with a stony irregular bed, and, finally, to camp outside a Hazara fortified village in the sloppy melting snow.

The village (Kharzar) was too filthy inside for us to enter, and too cramped in space to accommodate us, if we had entered. I went to look—for my tent had not arrived. For food the villagers were too ill provided themselves to be able to sell us anything, and hungry, wet, and tired, it seemed likely we should have a cheerless night. When Jan Mahomed’s tent was ready he kindly invited me to enter it. I took off my soaked ulster, sloshed and slipped into the dusk of the tent, sat on a stool, and shivered miserably. Nothing else seeming to be forthcoming, a pipe was the only resource, and with shaking hand I tried to light it. Match after match fizzed in the damp and went out. The pipe chattered in my teeth, and, woe is me, I felt that the cold and the wet and the hungry emptiness would last for ever. But it did not. Jan Mahomed Khan noticed presently that I seemed uncomfortable. He rose from the camp stool on which he was sitting enveloped in the voluminous folds of a huge sheepskin postîn, came across the tent, slipped the postîn from his shoulders and threw it around me. I tried to refuse; but he insisted. He said nothing, for he could not speak English nor I Persian, then he smiled, bowed and sat down again. I felt very grateful, and at the same time rather ashamed at having robbed him, but presently a soldier brought him a cloak in which he wrapped himself.

Meanwhile, the attendants, having succeeded in obtaining some straw, scattered it thickly inside the tent and spread carpets over it. Then they endeavoured to light a fire in a large iron pot outside, and when there was a feeble glimmer of a flame they brought it in. We gathered round it joyfully, but soon a dense fog of smoke from the damp wood filled the tent. Though I still shivered under the postîn, I had managed to light my pipe, and I sat puffing away with the smarting tears trickling down, finally the smoke fog became so dense that I was compelled to sit with my eyes shut. Neither Jan Mahomed nor any of the Afghans seemed to mind it in the least. Jan Mahomed himself is not an Afghan. He is a Samarcandi whom the Amîr purchased as a boy. He was the Amîr’s faithful attendant when in exile in Russian Turkestan; and when His Highness came to the throne Jan Mahomed was put into a position of trust, finally becoming treasury officer, or “Chancellor of the Exchequer.”

The tent, by-and-bye, became warmer, and I took off my solar helmet which I had worn during the rain storms. The Afghans, however, attach great importance to keeping the head warm, and they all insisted upon my putting on that or some other head covering at once; otherwise, they said, I should take fever. The fire began to blaze up brightly and the smoke to disappear, when an iron vessel was brought, containing a few pints of milk with water added to eke out the quantity. They put it over the fire and, when it boiled, a handful of tea was thrown in. There was enough for all in the tent to have a teacupful; I, the guest, and Jan Mahomed, received two each. By-and-bye, an iron camp bedstead was prepared for my host, and he retired; one of the attendants kneading and massaging the limbs till he slept. My bedding not having turned up I threw a buffalo rug over my feet, and lay down on the carpet enveloped in the folds of the sheepskin. It was not a comfortable bed, but I was tired and slept more or less, waking up occasionally with aching bones.

The morning was bright: the rising sun in the clear sky lit up the white snow all around, and a keen wind was blowing. My interpreter, the Armenian, appeared. He said he had had fever in the night, and had found shelter in one of the huts inside the Hazara fort. He brought me a small piece of dry bread which the cook had found among the baggage when my tent arrived. Some hot tea was made, and I munched my crust with great satisfaction. They told me we should have a cold march that day, by Hajiguk, and the Armenian said:—

“Sir, you not wear the long coat; he is wet, and fever come for you.”

“I must wear something,” I said.

“Another you have,” said he, and off he went. He presently returned with my dressing-gown. I objected; but, no, there was nothing extraordinary in it; in fact, it was very like an Afghan robe. I wore it, therefore, though it did not seem a very suitable riding coat.

It was a cold march as we crunched along through the snow, in spite of the fact that the sun was shining brightly. We were at an altitude of over sixteen thousand feet, and had to make long detours, for the road was in places blocked or rendered unsafe by the snow. In some of the detours where there was no path, we scrambled up and down terrifying slopes. My saddle, a hunting one, could not be kept in place, and we had to extemporize a breast-plate with string. In one ravine where we halted, trying to find a way out, there was a sudden crack and a splash. We had stopped over a stream crusted with ice and covered with snow, and the horse of one of the soldiers went through. The stream, however, was shallow, and only the man’s feet were wetted. There was a laugh as he urged his horse out.

We descended from the region of snow into valleys where the air quivered with heat, and one’s face was nearly blistered. In one, where we stopped for lunch, I put a clinical thermometer for a moment against my coat sleeve. The mercury shot up to the top at once. I was glad when we moved on again. We passed a spring bubbling up near the road, whose waters were impregnated with iron, the ground all round being stained brown. Jan Mahomed said the water contained copper and was poisonous.

I remember one narrow but wild rocky ravine, with a river foaming and roaring down it. The road ran along a few yards above the water. There was a natural bridge of rock, over which the road ran, and just beyond, a waterfall of some depth, where, at the bottom of the fall, the water rushed under an arch of rock and was lost to sight. It reappeared, I was told, in a valley about two miles off, and they said His Highness the Amîr one day, when travelling by, offered a prize of a hundred rupees to the man who would plunge in and explore the underground river. A duck had been put in and had reappeared alive in the valley. A soldier undertook the adventure at once, and was preparing for his perilous journey when the Amîr forbad it. His Highness said, “If he is drowned I lose a man of courage, and if he succeed what gain is there? Give him the rupees.”

We were now about ninety miles from Kabul. For the first forty miles we travelled due west, after that north-west, till we entered the ravine I spoke of, which led nearly due north. As we rode on, the ravine descended and opened into a large and very fertile valley. The mountain at the west of the gorge was red in colour, quite different from those we had been travelling among. Looking up with some interest at it, I distinguished battlemented walls and towers leading up the mountain, and, at the top, clusters of ruined houses and walls. There was no sign of life. The city was deserted. They told me the place was called Zohàk-i-Marhan, and was built a thousand years ago (“hazar sol”) by the Emperor Alexander (“Sekunder”).

I did not, however, in the style of architecture see anything that could lead one to suppose the buildings were of Greek origin. It is interesting to note that there is in Afghanistan a tribe called Zohàk, which is a division of the Ushturyani (the Stauri of Pliny), who formerly occupied the district west of Bamian. Zohàk is stated by Dr. Bellew to be the same as Zàk and Sàk, and stands for the ancient inhabitants of Sistàn and Makràn, Assyrian subjects of Nimrod, king of Babylon.

We descended into the valley and camped not far from the red mountain, near the village of Topchi.

It was the month of May, the sun shone brightly, and the fields around were green. Jan Mahomed had brought the musicians—but not the dancing girls—with him. We luxuriated after the bitter winds and sleet of the mountains, and the heat and weariness of the stony valleys. When lunch was over Jan Mahomed sent me some sweets and a bottle of champagne. I found that my servants, though Mahomedans, felt they were justified after their fatigues in finishing the bottle. The musicians sat playing in Jan Mahomed’s tent, and as I lay in mine reading a novel, the quaint music, softened by the distance, was more pleasing than I had supposed possible. For years afterwards the twang of the rubarb, the irregular thud of the drums, and the monotonous sound of the singing, brought back vividly to me that day in the Bamian valley, when I was a new comer in the country.

The Bamian valley extends from Topchi nearly ten miles in a westerly direction, and is about eight thousand feet above the sea. It is interesting to know that Lady Sale, Lady MacNaughten, and six other English ladies, who were taken prisoners in the first Afghan war in 1837, were conducted over the road we traversed to this very valley. Lady Sale, relating their adventures, says that though they suffered hardship, privation, and much anxiety concerning their future fate, they were treated with kindness and consideration by the villagers on the way. The order was that they were to be conducted to Khulum, a hundred and twenty miles further on among the mountains toward Turkestan, there to be delivered over to the Governor. This would have meant to them a hopeless captivity. Happily, Sir Robert Sale, after the defeat of the Afghans by Pollock, hurried on, and was able to rescue the party in Bamian. Lady MacNaughten, less happy than Lady Sale, had seen her husband, diplomatist and Oriental scholar, murdered before her eyes in Kabul.

While we were in this valley Jan Mahomed went some miles out of the road to show me a petrified dragon, or as my interpreter put it, “a stone cow.” Akbar Mahomed had slain this dragon in single combat, and Allah had changed it into stone. “Why cow?” I asked the Armenian, some time afterwards. “It is a snake or a dragon.”

“I not know English word snake and dragon; I must say some animal, and ‘cow’ came into head, therefore I say cow.” The dragon I found to be a curious shaped rocky hill formed in the course of ages by the deposit of carbonate of lime from a spring that was still bubbling there.

This valley was full of surprises, for the next day we came up with three colossal figures, cut in relief on the face of the mountains (the Hindu Kush range) on the north side of the valley. These figures, they said, were statues carved by order of Jelaluddin Shah, of himself, his wife and son (Jelaluddin lived about the year 1230). Away on the other side of the valley we could dimly see on the heights the ruins of a deserted city—“the city of Jelaluddin.” We were too far off to see anything characteristic in the ruins, but it is possible that the city belongs to the same era as that of Zohàk-i-Marhan, a few miles further down the valley. The figures, it is probable, are of Buddhist origin, and date back to the time which preceded the Mahomedan conquest of Afghanistan, when Buddhism was the dominant religion of the country. The largest of the three figures, which has the local name of “Sa-mama,” is 173 feet in height. The smaller, “Sul-sol,” 120 feet, and the smallest not more than 80 feet. They resemble in style other figures of Buddha. The drapery, moulded and fastened on with pegs, shows no sign of classical influence, arranged, as it is, in stiff conventional folds. These are in places broken away, showing the peg holes. To give an idea of their relative size, I saw a man on horseback ride up to one figure—he and his horse together were not so high as the toe. The figures are hollow, and there are steps leading up to chambers inside the body and head. These are used by the Amîr as storehouses for grain. On the wall of the chamber, in the head of the largest figure, are the indistinct marks of a fresco painting, of which Mr. Collins, the geologist, managed, some years afterwards, to get an imperfect photograph. It is, however, impossible to make out the subject, and I heard no story as to when or by whom it was painted. In the face of the mountain, by the side of the figures, are chambers or caves hollowed out of the rock. Some of these are beautifully cut, with domed roofs—to use the words of Mr. Collins, who examined them—in “hard conglomerate rock, and are coated with a layer of lustrous bitumen.” Doubtless, they were used as temples and dwelling-places for the Buddhist priests. Many of the other caves are in “soft sandstone and conglomerate.” These could be easily cut, the hard conglomerate forming a natural roof for rooms dug in the softer sandstone beneath. Presumably they are of later origin than those cut in the harder material. Narrow, almost impossible staircases lead up to the caves, and there dwell the poorer Hazara agriculturists of the Bamian valley. There are cave-dwellers in many parts of Afghanistan, and it is men of this kind, who combine the professions of agriculturist and warrior, who would be likely to cause more trouble to an invader of Afghanistan than would the regular army of the Amîr. During the last Afghan war the English were at first much puzzled by the rapidity with which thousands of armed men would appear, and, if occasion required, the equal rapidity with which they would vanish. All that could be found was here and there a peaceful peasant hard at work in the fields with his mattock—the rifle was left at home.

The furniture of one of these rock dwellings is simple enough. The most prominent feature is the great ornamented earthen jar, in which grain and provisions are stored: a strip of carpet occupies the place of honour in the centre of the floor: a few copper cooking utensils, a “chillim,” an Afghan “samovar” for tea, and a rough “charpoy,” complete the establishment.

In the Bamian valley, fertile, full of interest and with a delightful climate, we travelled deliberately, taking two days to traverse the ten miles or so. As we rode, my Armenian told me many stories. I do not know what they were about; I didn’t then. One only I understood. He said that once on a march, utterly wearied, he went to sleep on horseback. “It is thrown out,” said he, meaning himself; and pointing to his forehead, with a mild smile, he said, “He is broke, and blood is come.” I laughed, and asked what happened next. “I got him upstairs horse, but I not go to sleep again.”

Then we turned north, and the next day was wearisome: not so much from the length of the march, it was only thirty miles, as from the incessant climbing. We had a mountain to cross, to which all that we had hitherto seen was a mere joke. The Afghans call the mountain the “Tooth-breaker” (Dandan shikan). I don’t mind trifling adventures, such as riding along the tops of walls, or foot-wide bridges, but when it comes to riding an iron-shod horse along smooth rock, slanting to a precipice of unknown depth—well, it is past a joke. We had to do it, and then descend a horrible “zig-zag.” I don’t call it a path, because the predominant features were boulders, smooth tilted slabs, and rolling pebbles. You lean back in the saddle, leaving your horse to make his own arrangements. He picks his way warily, lower and lower, and you thank Heaven you have got so far, when, just as you reach the end of one “zig,” and your horse’s nose is over the edge, there is a crunching slip of his hind feet: you catch in your breath and—think. But he does not make a plunge over the edge, he pivots round on his four feet, and goes down the “zag.” This is repeated frequently, and at last, after many years, you arrive with your nerves in a shattered condition at the bottom. The next time I came over this road, a year or two later, there were accidents; but that I will speak of later.

We travelled on, day after day, through valleys and over mountains—sometimes putting up at villages, sometimes camping in our tents. Rain and hail alternated with scorching heat. To blacken you properly, you want a dry scorching heat, alternating with icy winds and hail. Some of the soldiers looked exactly as if they had been smoked: the eyelids and creases of the face being white—the rest black.

We often had music when we camped, and one evening I played chess with Jan Mahomed. He beat me. We were then at Ghuzni guk, the valley where the armies of the Amîr and of his cousin Sirdar Ishak Khan met and fought. The story I heard was this: His Highness the Amîr and Ishak had always been friends, and when the Amîr ascended the throne, Ishak was made Governor of the Turkestan provinces. All went well for some years. Suddenly, news arrived in Turkestan that His Highness had had an attack of gout, and had succumbed.[3] Ishak called his officers around him, and discussed what steps to take. The chiefs urged him to seize the throne. He, however, was a nervous man, not a warrior by nature, and he hesitated. The chiefs seeing this, broadly hinted that unless he seized the moment while he could, they would place another on the throne, and Ishak, much against his will, was constrained to do as they wished. He sent his women-folk and children across the Oxus into Russian Turkestan, and marched with his troops and chiefs for Kabul. They had not advanced many days’ journey when news was brought that the Amîr was very much alive, and that his army was marching under Gholam Hyder, the less, to meet them. Ishak knew now that he must meet his Great Cousin, and in fear and distrust he posted relays of horses, so that, if the worst came, he could escape across the frontier. They met in this valley a few miles beyond Kamard. It is said that Ishak’s army at the outset had the best of it—the men knew they were fighting for their lives—but Ishak, neither Mahomedan nor Christian, did not wait to see the end of the day. He made use of his horses, and rapidly escaping across the frontier into Russia, he left his unfortunate followers to bear the brunt of the Amîr’s terrible vengeance. It appears that the rumour of the Amîr’s death had some foundation: His Highness had been seized with a sudden attack of syncope, in which he fell insensible to the ground.

One Sunday we had a very long march, thirteen hours, with two rests of an hour each. Going one pace all the time is tedious, and one’s bones ache abominably. We got into a ravine with a rapid stream roaring along it, and part of the path was undermined and slipping. We had to dismount and skip across on foot, the soldiers getting the horses over.

The ravine narrowed, curved to the right, and opened out into a valley. The river roared round the corner, figure S shape, in some places cutting away the path completely. Our horses had to plunge, and stumble, and splash through that river three times in twenty yards, before we could get out into the valley. It is at times like this that the beautiful song “One More River to Cross” becomes full of meaning. A mile or two more of hill and vale, and soon after dark we reached “Tash Kurghán,” or “Khulum,” the place where Lady Sale and her companions in captivity were to have been taken.

We put up at the citadel or fort, which is built on a rocky hill in the middle of the town. We rested here all day Monday, and I enjoyed the luxury of a hot bath. The Armenian waxed philosophical. He said, “It is good to rest a little. Tired is go away, and hungry is go away.” Also he suggested that a shave might commend itself to my judgment.

“But who is to shave me?” I said.

“There is bolber in the town.” He called it barber afterwards. They fetched the barber, and I wondered if it were dangerous for him to shave me, for I had heard that Afghans were treacherous fanatics. He did not destroy me. He merely rubbed some oil on my chin and then scraped the skin off with a knife—a painful process. When the operation was completed, I was conducted to the hospital. No, not on account of my chin, but to examine the patients. The hospital was an ordinary but rather large dwelling-house, and there were many wounded soldiers lying there. It was exceedingly unclean and smelt badly. The patients—I never before in my life saw such a condition of things. The ghastly state to which battle wounds can come from neglect and improper treatment, is too awful for words. I wanted to move the men from the house, and to amputate at once some half-dozen arms and legs that were worse than useless to their owners. I could not, for I had neither knives nor chloroform, and I had to leave the men—to leave them as I found them—with their wistful eyes on me.

After that Jan Mahomed took me out to dine at a local magnate’s house. My cook accompanied me, bearing knife, fork, spoon, and plate. In the absence of table and chair I had to kneel to use my knife and fork. It was not a comfortable dinner. I could not understand what the conversation was about; and there were those men at the hospital ever before me.

Beyond Tash Kurghán we turned west, and the scenery completely changed. For some miles there was undulating plain covered with coarse grass. As we rode on we started a herd of antelope, and had a gallop after them: the change of motion from the everlasting walk was a great rest to the muscles.

In one place the road dipped down between some low clay hills, the defile of Abadu. Until very recently this little grip had had the credit of being exceedingly dangerous; in fact, it is even yet called “the Valley of death:” this on account of the caravan thieves and robbers who infested the neighbourhood.

It is less dangerous under the present Amîr, for I had occasion while in Turkestan to send for two additional dispensers from Kabul, and these two men rode the whole distance from Kabul to Mazar unattended. They had for safety’s sake a revolver. It was, however, unloaded, and they had no powder.

The plains became gradually flatter and more dusty, till, finally, it was little more than a desert with the scantiest vegetation.

The heat was intense, and the glare from the white dust most wearying. Away in the distance in front of us, I saw a lake with some trees round it, and I longed for the time when we should arrive and get cool again in the shade. “There is no lake there,” they said. Nonsense! I knew there was. This was no “mirage.” I mean, you could see the thing. There weren’t any towers or castles, or people walking upside down, simply one or two trees near some water. But, alas! we dragged on and on in the parching heat, and never got nearer the lake. We passed a camel, dead, by the roadside, loading the hot air with foulness. The gorged vultures only hopped lazily a little way off, and sat and stared at us. We halted at last, dismounted, and sat in the sun while the “chillim” bearer blew up his charcoal and passed round the pipe. I had a pull at it. He kept a little silver mouthpiece for my especial benefit, which he slipped on the end of the tube. I was glad of this, though I knew it was simply done lest I had eaten pork or anything unclean. After all had smoked, the pipe charcoal was used to light some sticks that the pipe-bearer had brought with him; the kettle was boiled, and we had hot tea—scalding hot: the hotter it was, the more it seemed to satisfy our thirst.

Then we mounted and rode on again. By-and-by, Jan Mahomed politely gave me a handful of English sweets, those round discs like pennies, with a fancy edge, and with words printed on, “For a good boy”: they tasted of peppermint. I wished they had been gelatine lozenges. Some hours afterwards we halted again. This time it was at a village on the plain. There were small mud-huts, and quaint-looking domes of wickerwork with bits of scrub tucked into the interstices. It was cool in the shade, and the villagers, Turkomans, gave us lettuces to eat. It was delicious to crunch up the cool crisp leaves. We drank more tea, then rode on again amid the salaams of the Turkomans. At last we came in sight of the trees, the cupola and minarets of the town of Mazár-i-Sherif. This was no phantom scene. A great crowd of people on foot and on horseback came to meet us. I noticed that many of them kissed the hand of Jan Mahomed, those on horseback dismounting to do so.[4] I also noticed that one man running by the side of Jan Mahomed had a rifle slung backwards under his arm, and that the barrel kept persistently in a line with my head. It annoyed me. I could not get out of the way of the brute. I need not have been disturbed, the gun was not in the least likely to have been loaded: powder was too expensive.

We reached the town at five in the afternoon, rode through the gate along the narrow bazaar to the Palace. We dismounted under some big plane-trees growing by a tank in the outer garden of the Palace, and the report of our arrival was taken to His Highness the Amîr. The pages and other officials crowded round, busily brushed the white dust off us, and brought us bowls of iced water. Thirst! I knew what it was now! Ride for ten hours over a dusty plain, with the thermometer over 100° in the shade, and anything you like in the sun, and see.

Word was brought that His Highness would receive us the next day. Jan Mahomed then handed me over to the care of one of the court officials, the “Ferash-Bashi,” or “Keeper of the Carpets.” This was a short stout gentleman of few words, and with a sour expression.

He was dressed rather gorgeously in a cashmere tunic, gold-bedecked belt, trousers, high boots and turban. When I got to know him better, I thought he was not such a villain as he looked. This gentleman conducted me, accompanied by the Armenian, to a house near the Palace. We passed through a covered porch, guarded by a pair of heavy gates, into a garden surrounded by high walls: went along the stone-paved paths, up some steps into a suite of rooms on the north side of the garden. The rooms were beautifully carpeted, and looked very bright and handsome in the setting sun. The “Bashi” informed us that he had orders to send dinner from the Amîr’s kitchen; then politely saying “Binishinēd”—take a seat—he departed. Seeing there was no seat to take, I took the floor, and waited hungrily till dinner should arrive. I had not long to wait, and was delighted to see the servants bring a portable chair and table, with the dinner. I don’t remember what the different courses were, but the dinner was European—soup, joint, and entrées—and ended with a very delicious ice-pudding and fruit.

This house, which His Highness was kind enough to put at my service, is of interest. Here, His Highness himself lived, before he built the Mazar Palace. Here, too, Sirdar Ishak, in the days when he was Governor of Turkestan, kept the ladies of his harem; and here Amîr Shere Ali lived—and died—in the very room I was dining in.

Amîr Shere Ali had been friendly with the British: troubles arose, and he turned to the Russians. The British occupied Quetta in 1876, and in 1878 the Amîr received a mission from Russia. A British mission being refused entry into the Kyber, war was proclaimed. I need not trace the outline of the war; it is enough to say that Amîr Shere Ali did not receive the help he expected from Russia, and he fled to Mazár-i-Sherif. Here he was seized with his old enemy, gout—a disease that is hereditary in this reigning family.[5]

They say that he was being attended by a Russian physician, and that the pain being very severe the physician introduced some medicine beneath the skin; then escaping by night to the Oxus he crossed into Russian territory. In the morning Amîr Shere Ali was found dead. For some days his death was concealed, but finally the fact was betrayed by a serving woman.

At once the soldiers of the regular army commenced looting. The Palace was stripped; then the bazaars and the wealthier people suffered, and soon there was a pandemonium of riot, robbery, and murder. This having occurred once, the fear is lest it may occur again. Many of the well-to-do natives of Afghanistan have that dread; and at the time when the present Amîr was severely ill, in 1890, there was such trepidation and anxiety in Kabul, that many of the well-to-do concealed their more portable valuables by burying them in the earth, and sought for safer retreats outside the town, to which they could hurry in time of need.