The slave boys at the Palace are placed under the care of one official whose duty it is to look after their comfort and train them in their several duties. They are really Court Pages, and their work is shared by the sons of nobles and gentlemen. A slave boy, if he has beauty, ability, and fidelity—a rare combination, perhaps—can rise to the highest positions under the Government.

One whom I knew, holding a very high position in the Afghan army, was sold by the Amîr when he was in exile in Russia. The man ran away from his master, and found his way back to the Amîr; again he was sold and again escaped. He returned to Afghanistan with the Amîr and was raised to high estate. He was a kindly man, but, in spite of his dog-like fidelity to the Amîr, was not of strong character. I do not know of what nationality he was: I was told that he was not an Afghan, but came from the north-east. His son was distinctly of the Tartar type, though he himself had more the regular features of the Persian. I saw in the newspapers a short time ago that he was dead.

Two others I knew, slaves, holding high positions in the Amîr’s service, who were with him in Russian Turkestan. His Highness will forgive much in these men, and punish but lightly shortcomings on their part.

As regards the treatment of the slaves in Kabul, it is simply a question of property: a man has the power to sell, kill, or do as he pleases with his slave; but, speaking generally, the slaves are well-treated, especially among the upper classes. Sometimes it is impossible to tell from their appearance which is a man’s slave-boy and which is his son.

In Mazar, two boys used often to come and see me: they were dressed very much alike, in gold embroidered tunics, and each had a little revolver. I heard one of them was a slave, but for a long time I thought the slave was the son. He was an amusing little fellow, quick at repartee; but he lacked the dignity of the other—the almost mournful quality of which made me think he was the slave.

The price of slaves varies according to their quality: ordinarily it is thirty rupees the span: by span I mean the distance from the outer side of one hand to the outer side of the other when, with the fingers closed, the thumbs are extended to their utmost, the tips touching. This is roughly about a foot, so that a baby that length would cost thirty rupees. However, in Kabul, a short time ago, a Hazara baby was bought for half-a-crown; the purchaser got the mother for fifteen shillings, and a little boy of six for five shillings. This woman, with her children, were the family of a Hazara of wealth and position. Unfortunately the tribe rebelled; the men were mostly killed, and the women and children became a glut in the market. Some time after the purchase I was asked to examine the small boy of six medically. He had been ill about ten days, and a Hakim had been called to attend him. The case had been diagnosed as typhoid fever—and the opinion given that the child was improving. I found the child had meningitis, or inflammation of the membranes of the brain. He died the same night: a sheer loss of five shillings to the owner.

I saw the mother during my visit, she was a good-looking woman for a Hazara. She did not make much disturbance at the death of the child, at any rate while I was in the house. She seemed more stunned than anything else.

Recently in Kabul it was a very common sight to see a gang of Hazara women, with their unveiled faces and their dingy blue dresses, ragged and dirty, conducted through the town by a small guard of soldiers with bayonets fixed. As the war progressed they became so plentiful that His Highness would often reward a faithful servant or officer by presenting him with one or more as an addition to his Harem.

I had been in Turkestan some three months when I was sent for one morning to see a young man, the brother of one of the few remaining powerful Afghan chiefs. Most of the others have been “expunged.” As a rule I did not visit the sick at their homes unless I received an order from His Highness to do so, or unless some one I knew personally sent for me to visit him. This young man, however, was a friend of the Armenian’s. His brother’s territory lay not very far from the British frontier, and he himself was a hostage with the Amîr for the good behaviour of his brother, the Chief. I found he had malarial fever very severely. When I returned home my neighbour opposite, the Mirza Abdur Rashid, sent for me to see him. He also was down with the fever. I prescribed for them both.

The next morning I felt rather ill myself, but started about eight to see the Chief’s brother again. The sun seemed frightfully scorching that morning, it was August, and presently the headache I had grew so intense that each step was agony.

I gave in at last, and turned my horse home again. I went into the inner room and sat on the charpoy. The Armenian shut all the doors and windows to keep out the heat, and propped me against the wall with pillows. Then the backache began. Oh, my bones! I was one great ache. The Armenian had seen the treatment I put others under, and he weighed out the medicines and brought them to me. I was too stupid with fever and aches to care what I took.

Just then the British Agent’s Secretary, Amin Ullah, was announced. He was an interesting man, but I was compelled to greet him with lugubrious groans. He brought me five home letters, which my aching eyeballs would not allow me to read.

I used to send my letters through the Agent’s post in those days. He had a separate compartment in the Amîr’s post-bag which, by arrangement between the Government and His Highness, was locked and sealed. Once or twice the letters did not reach their destination, and it was said that some of the wild hillmen had pounced on the postman and carried off his bag. They might do the same to anyone carrying a bag, but it was never found out who were the robbers. Afterwards, I did not send my letters through the Agent’s post, but sent them direct to the Amîr’s post-office. His Highness allowed me to send and receive three letters monthly, free of postage. This was not so small a matter as it seems, seeing that in Turkestan the postage of each letter came to rather more than its weight in silver. All I had to do, therefore, was to stick on an Indian stamp. I found my letters arrived about as safely through the Amîr’s post as through the Agent’s, at any rate for some years. Afterwards, when we came to Kabul, I found there an Interpreter, a Hindustani, who was in favour with the Prince. He tried hard to get on as Interpreter for me; thinking, probably, that baksheesh from the patients could be worked; as I would not have him, he proceeded to intrigue against me. I did not take much notice of the man, knowing that he could not do much harm. However, he succeeded in getting hold of some of my home letters, which was sufficiently annoying, and once he placed me and the other Englishmen in Kabul in a position of no little danger: how this occurred I will relate presently.

I got well of the fever in about a fortnight, and then I heard that both the Chief’s brother and the Mirza Abdur Rashid were still ill. I had thought that, of course, the medicine I had prescribed had been given them every day. No, everything was at a standstill, both with them and at the Hospital, just as I had left it a fortnight before; this is so truly Oriental.

I, of course, visited them, and they rapidly got well under quinine.

At this time His Highness requested me to visit one of the page boys, the son of a former Commander-in-Chief at Herat, who was sick. He was a smart lad of about fifteen; in appearance very like an English boy. His house was just opposite a low tower where the chief bugler took his stand morning and evening to sound the royal salute. As I visited the boy when my day’s work was done, I was generally in his house when the evening salute was sounded. The bugler was a stout red-bearded man with blue eyes: he looked just like an Irishman. But however much these men may look like English and Irish, closer acquaintance shows how strongly contrasted the Oriental is with the Occidental. The boy recovered in due time, but there is a story about him, an incident that occurred a year or two later, while I was in the country, which may be interesting.

The boy was not a bad sort of boy—he looked English—and we were very good friends, so that I quite enjoyed my visits to his house—but he was an Afghan. One day the Sirdar Gholam Hussain, the dignified man who has charge of His Highness’s food, directed the boy to perform some slight task, I forget what, and the boy bluntly refused. The Sirdar spoke sharply to him, but the boy apparently resented being spoken to, for he at once drew his revolver and shot at the Sirdar; he missed, and whipping out his sword he rushed on him. The Sirdar warded off the blow and threw the boy down. He was brought before the Amîr. In consequence of his former behaviour—he had been rather a favourite with the Amîr—and on account of the services his father, who was dead, had rendered the Amîr—his punishment was remitted to the extent of a severe caning, and he was discharged from the Court for a time and sent back to Herat.

Some months later he was recalled. This was not the end of his adventures, for soon after his return he objected to the smallness of the pay he received as page. The Amîr increased it somewhat. The lad, apparently presuming upon the Amîr’s remarkable forbearance, again expressed discontent. His Highness is not a man to be played with. He was exceedingly angry, and the punishment was proportionately severe. The boy was degraded and sent to jail in Kabul. This is a horrible place, and they who enter it are often never seen again. However, when we returned to Kabul, I met a gang of prisoners in chains returning to jail after the day’s work in the arm foundry: the boy was among them; but he covered his face as I rode by. He was in prison about two years. I met him one day after he was released. He looked very haggard and old, not at all like the boy I had known in Turkestan. I pulled up to speak to him, but he seemed even then to wish to escape observation, so that I merely said, “Jour-asti? Are you well?” and rode on again.

The Chief’s brother, when he became quite well, came very often to see me. He was a handsome fellow, and I made a sketch or two of him in my note-book. He had a great desire to learn drawing, but he was never any good at it. I taught him how to write his name in English, and he learnt a few words also.

One Sunday morning, September 15th, 1889, I was surprised to hear a considerable uproar: there was the report of rifles, the playing of military bands, and there seemed to be an air of bustle and excitement with everyone. Presently a man came rushing breathlessly into my house to tell me the news. It was not an advance of the Russians, nor even an outbreak of the Hazaras: no, the Sultana, the favourite wife of the Amîr, had given birth to a son. Had it been a daughter the matter would probably have been hushed up.

“Why this hurry?” I said to the Armenian.

“This man, Dîn Mahomed, a little he is my friend; I know a child come into house of Amîr Sahib, but I know not when: better this, at once we go to Harem Serai and send in Salaam, and Her Highness made glad upon you.”

“Ah, I see,” said I, “and the little, your friend, Dîn Mahomed, he would like baksheesh?”

“Please you kind,” said the Armenian with an engaging smile.

“How much?” I asked.

“Sir, your wish. One twenty rupees,” he said, carelessly.

“Isn’t it rather dear at the price?” I said.

“Oh, sir! no. Other gentlemen, and rich man Supersala and Officer, give twenty or forty gold tilla and three or four horses.”

“To a servant! For just bringing news!”

“The servant, he is not keep it. He bring to his master, Amîr Sahib, and Highness make glad upon that. Some he give to servant, and some he give to other servant. And Officer and Supersala make glad that Highness not send it back.”

“Well, oughtn’t I to give more than twenty rupees?”

“No, sir. In my o-pinion twenty rupees enough. You, mussáfir and stranger, and not know custom of Afghanistan.”

The bearer of news is rewarded with presents or with blows, according to the quality of the tidings.

Mounted men were racing off full speed to Kabul and the other big towns; those who got in first received the baksheesh.

We rode off to the Harem Serai to offer my congratulations. I found a large crowd in the garden outside the Serai. There was an elephant with gay trappings, which attracted a great deal of attention. Two brass bands, with crowds round them, were hard at work, their style reminding one of a parish school band. Pipers were marching up and down, gaily playing Scotch tunes on their bagpipes. Native instruments were giving vent to moans, shrieks, and thuds.

When we got into the garden I found I attracted rather more attention than I either expected or desired. However, seeing the Commander-in-Chief and some other officers sitting on a bank under the shade of a tree, I went up and shook hands with them, and with the assistance of the Armenian we had some conversation: not about the weather, that is a subject which is never discussed in Afghanistan. Presently I saw my small friend Mahomed Omer, son of Perwana Khan, who was one of the Pages in the Harem, and I sent in my congratulations by him. By and bye two of the Amîr’s younger sons, the Princes Hafiz Ullah and Amin Ullah, about ten and six years old—who had visited the Sultana that morning—came from the Harem. They conveyed the Sultana’s thanks for congratulations. Her Highness seemed very pleased that I had called, for she sent me a present of five hundred rupees by the hand of the little Princes. It struck me at the time that possibly she viewed the visit rather as a national than a personal compliment.

The birth of the youngster may, perhaps, in the future complicate the matter of succession. Before his birth the heir presumptive was the Amîr’s eldest son, Prince Habibullah. The mother of the eldest Prince, however, is not of the royal tribe, whereas the Sultana is royal on both her father’s and her mother’s side. Her father was a Priest and a Seyid, or descendant of the Prophet, and therefore hereditarily a beggar: but he was also a Suddozai Durani, and he asked for and received the daughter of Amîr Dost Mahomed in marriage.

Now, therefore, that there is a son who is royal on both sides, Prince Habibullah’s claim is less decided than it was.

On the day after the Prince’s birthday the Festival was continued. Bands were playing all day, and in the evening a display of rockets—native made—was given.

One small boy managed to get hold of some explosive affair—a bomb I heard—and was playing about with it when it exploded. As he was not killed they brought him to me. The child was not pleasant to look upon, for the injury was chiefly in his face. I gave him a few whiffs of chloroform and cleared away the blood; but it took some little time to fit in the pieces and sew up the rents. I had a good deal of trouble, I remember, with the corner of his mouth and with the brow and left eyelid, so much was gone. It was a sort of puzzle to fit things together. The left eyeball had to be removed entirely, it was destroyed. However, he made an excellent recovery, with remarkably little disfigurement, except for the loss of the eye and part of the eyebrow.

I seemed to be in for operations just then; and one I had to do whether I wanted to or not.

It was on a young Moolah or Priest: he had a goitre—or enlarged thyroid.

I think I have mentioned that a priest is disqualified for the priesthood if he has any bodily blemish, and this enlargement in the throat distressed the Moolah greatly, for he was jeered at on account of it. Several times he had asked me to “cut away” the tumour, but there were reasons why I refused to employ surgical treatment. He was improving, though slowly, under medical treatment; the swelling was distinctly smaller. Removal of a goitre by the knife is not an operation to be generally recommended; firstly, because of the proximity of the gland to the great arteries of the throat and its very free blood supply; and, secondly, because, if the gland is removed successfully there are serious consequences that invariably follow, namely, the slow development of a most curious disease called Myxœdema, in which the sufferer has the appearance of being dropsical, though he is not so, and in which the speech and intellect are curiously affected.

I could not explain all this to the Moolah through the Armenian, and I contented myself by saying “Né me-kunum, mé-muri.” “I shall not do it, you would die.”

He bothered me time after time, and at last I said impatiently to the Armenian—

“Tell him to go and get an order from His Highness.”

I thought that would end the matter, never thinking that he would go. He went, and, moreover, got the order. I at once wrote to the Amîr and explained that the operation was not necessary, and that, if attempted, the man would probably die. I received His Highness’s answer very soon after. He said—

“Your letter, in which you say —— and so on —— has been received by me. The reasons therein set forth as to the danger of the cutting need not be an obstacle in the way of its performance. If the man recover it is good, and if he die, what does it matter! He himself is willing to undergo the risk.”

There was nothing for it, therefore, but to operate. I told the Moolah he was foolish, and the operation would probably cost him his life. He said—being interpreted—

“No, sir. I have no fear. You will not let me die.”

His complete confidence, however, did not inspire me with the same feeling. There was a wooden platform in my garden, and we pulled it under the colonnade, where it was shady, and the Moolah lay down. I had sent for one of the Hindustanis to give chloroform, but he did not come: it was the Sabbath, Friday. My neighbour, the Mirza Abdur Rashid, said he could give chloroform, he had seen it done. As I could not operate and attend to the chloroform as well, I was compelled to let the Mirza try. He put the man under successfully—he had seen it done—though he knew nothing of the dangers of giving too much. I made a longitudinal incision in the middle line of the throat and commenced dissecting down with a knife and a pair of forceps, the skin being stretched back by one of the soldiers, who were gathered in a group round. When I had got rather deep there was a sudden gush of blood, rapid and copious. I had divided the first of five arteries that had to be cut through before the tumour could be removed. I wanted to tie the artery, but there was no finding it at the bottom of a deep narrow cut that filled with blood the moment the sponge was lifted. At last I managed blindly to catch the artery with a pair of forceps and tie it: the bleeding ceased. After this, I dissected down and tied the arteries before I cut them. Then I removed the tumour in its capsule. It weighed ten and a-half ounces. I sent it to the Amîr, who congratulated me on the success of the operation. The Moolah we left on the platform under the colonnade, covering him with a sheepskin postîn, and gave orders to the soldiers of the guard to take turns in watching by his side, and to call me if the bleeding broke out or if he seemed worse. The Moolah, poor fellow, had high fever the next day, and the third day he died. A day or two afterwards I said to the Mirza how sorry I was he had died, but the Mirza laughed and said:—

“Dèk ne me-showi. Be not sorrowful, you said he would die, and he died. It was so written in the book of Fate.”

CHAPTER XIV.
The Rearing of the Infant Prince.

At the beginning of October I received an autograph letter from His Highness, directing me to consult with the two chief Hakims, Abdul Wahid and Abdur Rashid, and advise as to the best manner in which to rear the infant Prince. This is a literal translation of His Highness’s letter:—

The Hakims arrived at half-past seven in the evening. I have spoken of the courtly old Abdul Wahid with his Roman face. He was Hakim to Amîr Shere Ali. Abdul Rashid was the very fat man with interminable words. He did the talking, because he was ignorant, and Abdul Wahid sat silent. They were both exceedingly polished as became Court physicians.

We compared the customs of Orientals and Occidentals in the rearing of infants. The Hakims were very surprised to hear that we did not bandage infants closely from shoulder to ankle, and so prevent them from moving a limb.

“How then can you ensure that the child’s limbs grow not crooked? What other method is there for keeping them straight?”

I said, “Cannot Allah who created each child finish His work and cause its limbs to grow straight without our help.”

“Beshak—undoubtedly, Allah is all-powerful and all-wise; but our fathers, and our fathers’ fathers, placed bandages on the children, and they were wise men. How do you account for the fact that in some children the legs are bent?”

I forthwith entered into an explanation of the causes of rickets. How that want of pure air, of sunlight, and free movement of the limbs, of suitable food, produced a disease of the bones in which the lime salts were absorbed, leaving only the soft bendable gristle, and so on—but it was not any use: they knew nothing about pathology, or anatomy either. So we left that and went on to other matters.

The Afghan baby—among the rich—is wrapped up as to the head and neck by a stifling head-dress, rather like that which an Arab wears to protect him from the sun, and I could not make them understand the advantage of dispensing with a head covering indoors.

The cradle is a massive wooden concern. It consists of a hammock or shallow box, suspended at either end from a longitudinal bar supported on uprights, so that it will swing from side to side. When the child is asleep every breath of air is excluded by thick curtains, which fall from the bar over the sides of the cradle—and this in a hot climate. What could I say? We differed in almost every detail; there was no common ground to start from.

The Sultana had expressed her desire that the European doctor should attend the Prince medically. I saw a cheerful future before me, for I found that the nurses would diverge, not in the slightest degree, from the customs of their ancestors. It is possible to move a mountain—granted time and a sufficient amount of blasting material—but no amount of blasting will move an Oriental woman out of the rut that ages of custom has made.

The Sultana did not nurse her child. A nurse therefore was sought for to rear the little Prince.

Before the Hakims left my house the fat one expressed his deep sense of gratitude that I had granted him my friendship, and he ended a polite speech by asking me to see a patient of his. I ought to have remembered the poet’s lines:—

I went to see the patient: he was one of the Chamberlains, Nasir Courbon Ali. He was exceedingly ill with malarial fever, and his skin was yellow, which was bad. I thought there was a chance of saving his life if vigorous remedies were used. I returned home and directed the compounder to prepare a mixture and deliver it himself. I visited the Nasir three times that day, but he did not seem to be improving. The next day he was worse. I had to go on to the Hospital, but when I returned home I said to the compounder,

“You sent the Nasir’s medicine this morning?”

The compounder had picked up a little English from the Armenian. He said,

“No, sir, I forget it.”

Forget it! I was exceedingly angry.

“A man’s life is in extreme danger, and you forget!”

Then he explained, or rather the Armenian did. When he had delivered the medicine he found the Hakim there: he left the medicine, noticing where it was placed; he returned once or twice during the day, but found the bottle just as it had been left. Not a dose was given that day or afterwards. Why, therefore, did the fat old fraud ask me to go and see his patient? I do not know. The Nasir died the next day.

Towards the end of September the cases of malarial fever among the soldiers and townspeople began to decrease in number, and I had more leisure. I commenced to study Persian, with the occasional assistance of Munshi Amin Ullah, secretary to the British Agent. The Armenian was not, at that time, sufficiently learned to attempt to teach me. He had very vague ideas as to moods and tenses: and pronouns and prepositions bothered him considerably. I tried to teach him English. He knew the letters, but words, whose sound and meaning he knew well, baffled him completely when written. I found this was chiefly due to the fact that when he spelt out a word he pronounced it exactly as it was spelt. “Enough” was a complete stumper, because there was no “f” in it. He considered it ought to have been “enuf,” and wished to argue the point with me; so that his English reading did not progress very rapidly. He spoke fluently in Hindustani and some of the other Indian languages, in Persian and Pushtu, and was picking up Turki while we were in Turkestan; English, too, he was becoming better acquainted with: all these he learnt by ear, but Hindustani and Persian he could both read and write.

About this time I found leisure to take up painting again. Rather fancying myself in Afghan turban and robes, I painted my portrait from the reflection in a hand-glass. It happened to turn out a success, and created quite a little mild excitement. The Armenian was not the man to let my light shine under a bushel: he looked upon me as a sort of possession of his. Anything that I could do and others could not, reflected, he seemed to think, a great deal of credit upon him: so that he trumpeted the news abroad. I had a great many visitors, and every second one asked me to paint his portrait. The Armenian said:

“Sir, you not do. This man, who is?”

Which sentence, though it sounds odd, is simply a literal translation of the Persian, “Sahib, shuma ne kunēd. In mard, ki’st?”

However, I consented to paint my neighbour the Mirza Abdur Rashid, and he gave me some sittings. He had good features, and was dark-skinned for an Afghan, so that when attired in green velvet and gold he made rather a striking picture. The matter reached the ears of His Highness the Amîr, and he sent for the two portraits. They were taken to the Palace just as they were, though the Mirza’s turban was unfinished. When the pictures were brought back I heard that His Highness was pleased with them. My own portrait I rolled up and addressed to England, intending to have it posted home by one of the British Agent’s men, who was returning to India on leave. In the evening, just as I had addressed it, His Highness sent for it again.

I went to the military Durbar the next day, Tuesday: His Highness was very gracious. He spoke some time about the Moolah upon whom I had operated for goitre, and desired me to instruct the native dressers: then he spoke about the portraits, praising them highly, and finally told me that he would himself give me sittings for a portrait.

A day or two afterwards a carpenter arrived to take instructions for the making of a frame to stretch the canvas upon. The next day I caught a most severe cold. It was the end of October, the sky was clouded for the first time, and the weather seemed suddenly to have become autumnal.

Though the canvas was soon ready it was a long time before I began the Amîr’s portrait. The cold I had became better, but, after two or three days, instead of feeling well I felt much worse. I could not rouse myself to anything, and I had a constant backache. It struck me suddenly I might have fever. I had; rather severely. It was quite different in type from the first attack I had had. Unfortunately, a few days before, I had discharged my cook for some rascality or other, I do not remember what, and the only man who could cook in the European way for me was my syce, or groom. This was the man who had been in the Burmese Police, and who cooked dinner for me the day we went to Takh-ta-Pul. He could roast meat and make a rice pudding, but that was about the extent of his capabilities in the cooking line. With the fever on I did not seem to hanker after the grey, thin, greasy liquid he denominated “soup,” neither did I seem to desire the slippery, sloppy, watery dish he called “custard” pudding. As bread was not to be obtained, but only the leathery chupatti, which is not appetizing when you are ill, the fact began to force itself upon me that I should be obliged to undergo the Hakim’s treatment of fever—that of starvation.

However, in a day or two it reached His Highness’s ears that I was ill. He at once ordered the two chief Hakims and all the Hindustani Hospital assistants to wait upon me, and discuss what could be done for my relief. It was kind and gracious of the Amîr; but it appeared to me that if I submitted to the treatment of all or any of them, I should be likely to find myself in a great deal more danger of dying than there otherwise seemed any immediate probability of. But His Highness’s thoughtful kindness was not exhausted. Hearing that food suitable for a sick European was not to be easily obtained from the bazaars, he gave orders to his chief Hindustani cook, a man who had been imported from one of the hotels in India, to prepare anything that seemed agreeable to me. The cook came every day for orders. I had soups, bread, beeftea, jellies, puddings, and fruit, and, in addition, His Highness sent me some claret and a bottle of Chartreuse.

I learnt a good deal about malarial fevers from a patient’s point of view before I was well again, for I had three consecutive attacks of fever, each differing from the preceding one in its manifestations.

When I had been ill rather more than a fortnight, His Highness wrote me a very kind letter enquiring after my health; this is a translation of it:

At different times salaams and messages of condolence were received from the Commander-in-Chief and other people. I was gratified to hear that the soldiers and townspeople were wishing for my speedy recovery, for, certainly, it is a privilege to feel you have been of use.

I became better, and went for an hour’s ride, which I enjoyed immensely, but the next day the second attack came on violently. During this attack, when I was becoming better, I had the honour of receiving a Royal visit from the Amîr—by deputy.

His Highness sent one of his chief secretaries, Mir Ahmad Shah, a tall and courteous man. I received him, of course, in my bedroom, as I was not able to get up. He brought me many kind messages. His Highness had signified his intention of visiting me personally, but explained that he was prevented by his lameness and the press of State business. He was greatly pleased with the work I had already done in his service, and was convinced that I had no other motive or desire than to serve him faithfully. I endeavoured to express my gratitude for the honour His Highness had done me, and for the many kindnesses he had showed me while I was in his country.

The next day the secretary of the British Agent arrived bearing the Sirdar’s congratulations to me, upon being the recipient of such signal marks of His Highness’s favour.

Some time before I was taken ill I had written to Dr. Weir, the health officer of Bombay, to whom I had been introduced when in India, for some vaccine lymph, and a day or two after my “Royal visit” I received a letter from him. He said that all our mutual acquaintances were well, but that he himself was suffering from a recurrence of the fever he had caught some years before in Turkestan! This was cheerful news, seeing that I had had the Turkestan fever five weeks already. I said to the Armenian,

“I suppose then this will stick to me for the rest of my days—even if I get better now, which seems doubtful”—for my liver was touched.

But the Armenian was equal to the occasion.

Oh, no: that fever my friend had was quite another kind: it was caught at such a place—I forget where he said—and was a very bad fever. Everybody knew that fever, it came on sometimes years after. But this fever it was no-thing.

“Sir, if you very ill, how you can smoke papyrus—cigarette?” and with other specious words did he beguile me. I got better after some days, and wrapping up carefully, for I concluded I must have got a chill the time before, went for a short ride. I was all right that day, and went out the next day for two hours, and came home feeling utterly fagged and aching in every bone. Back came the fever. The temperature chart, this time, was quite different from either of the other two.

The snow commenced, but we did not have very much, not more than we often have in England, but the winds sweeping across the plains were bitter. This attack lasted about a month. In the middle of it I heard that one of His Highness’s Page boys, rather a favourite one, named Samander, had met with an accident. While out riding his horse had become unmanageable, and the boy’s leg had been dashed against a tree.

The Hindustanis, who had been sent for, came to me to make their report. There seemed some doubt whether the leg was broken or not. They had, however, put on a splint, but when I asked what kind of splint, I found that it was one that was quite unsuitable if the leg were broken. There seemed nothing for it but to get up and dress and go off and see. Wrapping up well, and taking a stick, I hobbled off with the Armenian for the Palace. The snow was not very deep, not more than six or seven inches.

I found Samander living in a Turkoman khirgar, in the Palace gardens. The khirgar was a circular dome-shaped wigwam, about fourteen feet across by fourteen feet high, and was made of a number of light but strong wooden uprights, which bent inwards seven feet above the ground, their ends fitting into a wooden ring above. It was covered over with thick felt and then with canvas. A wooden door was fitted on one side—this is not used in the summer—and a carpet hung over the door.

Around the khirgar was a small trench to carry off melted snow or rain. Inside, the floor was carpeted, and my patient was lying on a mattress on the ground. The khirgar was very warm, for in the centre was a large brazier with glowing charcoal. Light was to be obtained only by opening the door or by lighting a lamp. In the summer, when the felt-covering is dispensed with, light is obtained by pushing back a flap of canvas.

On the boy’s thigh there was bandaged a wretched little splint, quite useless if the bone were broken. I soon had it off, and found that the bone was broken in the lower third. It took some little time to have a long splint made and to put it on. Several Page boys, who were living in other khirgars, came in, and also the official whose duty it is to look after the boys. When I was putting on the splint, I noticed the scar of a bullet in the upper part of the boy’s thigh. I enquired how he had got it, and then I heard the story of the attempt upon the life of the Amîr which had taken place the year before.

His Highness was reviewing the troops on the plains outside the town of Mazar. The pain of his Sciatica was troubling him so that he was not on horseback, but sat in an arm-chair, which was placed on a large square mound or platform some four or five feet high, artificially made. His Highness sat smoking a cigarette, the Commander-in-Chief, Page boys, and officials were grouped around his chair, and seated on the ground by his side was Captain Griesbach, C.I.E., the geologist.

An Herati regiment was passing, and suddenly one of the men stepped out of the line, threw up his rifle, and fired point-blank at the Amîr. Just at that moment His Highness leaned over to speak to Captain Griesbach, and the bullet whizzed under his arm, through the chair back, and caught Samander just below the hip.

The Amîr continued what he was saying without a pause, and still smoked the cigarette. The Commander-in-Chief sprang instantly from the mound and rushed on the man to cut him down.

Then the Amîr shouted “Stop!” But it was too late, the Commander-in-Chief’s sword flew to pieces on the man’s head, and the bystanders instantly dispatched him.

The Amîr, presumably, wished to go into the matter, for the Herati was a known shot, and to enquire the motive of his action with a view of determining if he were alone in the plot. But whatever may have been suspected I never heard that anything definite was found out. It was, however, an evil day for the officers of that regiment.

Samander receives a larger pay than any of the other Page boys, and is naturally somewhat of a favourite.

It was two hours before the splint was made and properly put on, and at the end of it I was quite done up. I found that the fact of my arrival had been reported to the Amîr, for His Highness most kindly ordered the palanquin of one of the Princes to be brought to the khirgar to convey me back to my house. I visited Samander once or twice after that to see that everything was all right, but my temperature began creeping up in a way that was not at all satisfactory, so that I had to give up going and simply trust to reports from the Hindustanis.

We had an earthquake a few days after this, at half-past five in the afternoon. The bed shook and the door and windows rattled, but it was quite a slight affair compared with the Kabul earthquakes. I called out to the Armenian, who was in the next room playing cards, to ask if he felt the shock. He came in to know if I wanted anything.

“Didn’t you feel the earthquake?” I said.

“The what, sir?”

“The earthquake! Why, man, the house shook.”

“Ah!” said he, “I did think a little the earth shivered, but I not notice.”

On Christmas day my fever departed. Some time before, I had written to Mr. Pyne to ask him to send me a cook, if he could find one, and on Christmas day a cook arrived bringing a box of newspapers, Graphics and Punches, and a case of briar pipes, which had reached Kabul from London.

The Graphics and Punches were a constant source of amusement to myself and my visitors, the older as well as the younger ones. I was astonished to find how little idea some of them had as to what a picture was intended to represent.

For instance, in one of the Christmas numbers—it was of the year before, but that didn’t matter—a pig was represented standing up on his hind legs to take a view of the world outside his stye. Little Mahomed Omer, son of Perwana Khan, could not make the picture out at all; finally he came to the conclusion that it represented a horse in his stable. The Armenian allowed him to remain with that idea.

The pig is unclean to the Mahomedans, and he would have been very disgusted if he had thought that we ate such a nasty creature.

A frequent visitor at this time was a young man named Shere Ali, who was, I was told, the second son of the ex-Mir of Bokhara. A friendship commenced at that time between us which, like that of the Mirza Abdur Rashid, lasted till I left the country.

Shere Ali was greatly interested in “Misterre Punch.” I had to go over the jokes and explain them to the Armenian—sometimes, in the more subtle ones, a matter of no little difficulty—and he translated them to Shere Ali in Persian. Shere Ali generally laughed, though I fancy from the little I had picked up of Persian, that the Armenian made his own point when he had missed mine. He was quite capable of both seeing and making a joke, as I found in after years when I brought him to London.

With the aid of the pictures I gave the Armenian vivid descriptions of London and the glories thereof. One day, somewhat to my surprise, he said:—

“Sir, let me see London. If I die then—don’t matter!”

The officer who had charge of the Page boys, came to see me; he was a short thick-set man, and sensible. He asked me many questions in surgery, and seemed willing to learn a few simple remedies in case of emergency. I was very glad to teach him.