CHAPTER III.
Súráb is a populous valley, very fertile, and freely watered by many little streams from the mountains. Its elevation is about 5910 feet at Khán Calá, and consequently its winter is a rigorous season. It now wears a most dreary aspect, but in summer it is said to be bright with corn-fields and gardens in full force. At that season, too, the Azákhel and Khulkná Khad plateaux are covered with the busy camps of the Mingal Brahoe, who are now dispersed amongst the lower hills of Nal and Wadd.
The migratory life led by these people is one more of necessity than of choice it seems; for their hills are so bare, that they produce no timber fit for building purposes, nor forage sufficient for the support of the flocks, whilst much of the soil of the plateaux is so gravelly and impregnated with salines as to be unfit either for cultivation or for building the domed huts so common in Kandahar and many parts of Persia; and, besides, though last mentioned, not the least difficulty is the general scarcity of water everywhere. Since we left the Míloh rivulet at Narr, we have not seen a single stream one could not easily step across dryshod.
Towards midnight the wind subsided, the clouds dispersed, the stars shone out, and a hard frost set in. Fortunately we were all warmly housed in the village, and did not suffer from it; and this is as much as I can say for it on that score. In other respects, our domicile was none of the most agreeable, for though tired andsleepy by the day’s exertion and suffering, it was impossible to get either rest or sleep. The fire, lighted in the centre of our little hut, filled its single unventilated chamber with blinding clouds of suffocating smoke. We no sooner escaped these troubles by lying close on the ground, when our attempts to sleep were at once dissipated by another form of torment, to wit, the fierce attacks of multitudes of the most vicious fleas and other vermin of that sort. They literally swarmed all over the place, and allowed us no rest throughout the night. I could only exist by repeatedly going out and breathing a little fresh air, which at daylight I found to be 23° Fah. It must have been colder during the night, though it did not feel so, probably owing to the subsidence of the wind.
21st January.—Whilst the baggage was being loaded, I examined some faggots of the fuel that had been collected here from the adjacent hills for the use of our camp, and recognised the following plants, with their native names following each, namely:—Juniper (hápurs), ephedra (náróm, thehómof the Afghans), wild almond (harshín), wild olive (khat, thekhoanof the Afghans), wild peach (kotor), and salvadora oleoides? (piplí). The last is said to be poisonous to camels, though not to goats and sheep. On the Anjíra plateau I obtained specimens of the following plants, viz.:—Caper spurge (ritáchk), peganum (kisánkúr), artemisia sp. (khardarno), caroxylon (righit), camel-thorn (shenálo), withiana congulans (panír band), and a species of lycopodion (kásákun).
We set out from Súráb at 10.45A.M., and proceeded due north over an undulating plateau with hills on either hand. The soil was spongy with efflorescent salines, and the surface was covered with a thick growth of aromatic wormwood. A strong and keen north wind blew againstus the whole day. On starting, I went off the road a little to get a couple of blue pigeons I had seen alight on a ploughed field. The cold was so intense, by reason of the wind, that my fingers, although encased in thick woollen gloves, were at once numbed, and I could only carry my gun by shifting it constantly from hand to hand. Presently the pain became very acute, and lasted for more than half-an-hour, whilst I rubbed the hands together to restore the circulation. The poor pigeons must have had a hard time of it battling against the relentless blasts of Boreas; and the fate that transferred them from the bare clods of a wintry wind-scoured field to the warm recesses of a well-seasoned “blaze-pan” (a very excellent kind of travelling stewpan) was, after all, not so cruel a one as it might have been had some hungry hawk forestalled me.
After marching an hour, we passed Hajíka hamlet under the hills to the right; and still continuing over a wide pasture tract, at 1.20P.M.arrived at Gandaghen Sarae, and camped under the lee of its walls for protection from the wind, our escort finding shelter in its interior. There is a large pool of water here, fed by a sluggish spring oozing from under a ledge of conglomerate rock, only slightly raised above the general level of the country. We found it frozen over. Our escort, after watering their horses here, galloped them about for a quarter of an hour or more, to prevent spasms from the combined effects of wind and water, and not from the fear, as I supposed, of any ill effects from the water itself, which was very brackish.
Gandaghen is thirteen miles from Súráb, and there is neither water, nor tree, nor habitation, nor cultivation on the road between them. Hajíka was the only village we saw, and it lay some miles off the road. The weather wasclear and sunny, with a blue sky, but the air was biting cold, and the north wind quite withering. At 9P.M.the thermometer fell to 16° Fah., and at daylight stood at 10° Fah. At this place two more of our mule-drivers deserted with the warm clothing we had provided for them; they were both Pathans of Kandahar.
Our next stage was fifteen miles to Rodinjo. The morning was bright and sunny, but bitterly cold, with a keen north wind. Our tent awnings were frozen stiff as boards, and could not be struck till near 10A.M., for fear of the cloth snapping. The morning sun, however, thawed them sufficiently for packing, and by 10.35A.M.we were fairly started on the march. We followed a well-trodden path over the pasture land of Mall, and at about half-way came to the camping-ground of Damb, where is a small pool of brackish water at the foot of a detached mound.
I struck off the road in company with ourmihmandár(conductor and entertainer), Mulla Dost Muhammad, in hopes of getting a hare, of which animals he assured us there were untold numbers in the wormwood scrub covering the plain. We had ridden some distance without seeing a single living creature, or any signs of one except the shell of a tortoise (here calledsarkúk), and the shrivelled skin of a hedgehog orjájak, as it is here called. My companion was telling me that the egg of the tortoise was used by the Brahoe, whipped up with water and smeared over the postules, as a remedy to prevent pitting from small-pox; and I was just making a mental note to the effect that an ordinary hen’s egg might be used with equal advantage under similar circumstances, when a hare dashed out across our path. I was holding my gun, a double-barrelled breech-loader by Dougall, resting against the shoulder at the moment, but it was instantly down atthe “present,” and fired, but no puss was to be seen. “You have missed,” said the Mulla; “her hour of death (ajal) has not arrived.” “I am not sure of that,” I said; “I heard a squeak, and am going to see;” so saying, I dismounted, and giving him my pony to hold, moved forward to examine the bushes, the while adjusting a fresh cartridge. I had hardly advanced forty or fifty paces, when I instinctively “ducked” to a sudden, sharp, rushing sound,wsheeooh, close over my head, and caught sight of a great bird alight at a bush some forty or so yards ahead. To step aside and fire straight upon him was the work of an instant, and then running up, I found a great black eagle sprawling over the hare, whose stomach was already torn open. Both were secured to my saddle-straps, and the pony, taking fright at these unaccustomed bodies dangling against his flanks, set off at full speed across the plain towards the rest of the party, whom we overtook at Damb. The hare formed a welcome addition to ourblaze, and the black eagle (siyáh waccáb) forms the largest specimen amongst the bird-skins I collected on this journey. The stretch of the wings from tip to tip measured very nearly eight feet.
Beyond Damb we halted half-an-hour at a pebbly ravine skirting a low ridge, to let the baggage get on, and then proceeding over an undulating country similar to that already traversed, arrived at Rodinjo at 2.20P.M., and camped under the lee of thesaraeoutside the village for shelter from the wind. This is a neat little village of about 180 houses. Many little hill-streams run over the surface, which is widely cultivated. There are some very fine white poplar and willow trees here, and two or three small apricot orchards. The elevation of Rodinjo is 6650 feet above the sea.
23d January.—The cold during the night was severe.At daylight the mercury stood at 14° Fah., and between seven and eightA.M.rose to 22° Fah. Our servants were so numbed and stupefied by it that we could not get them to move till they had had some hours sunning. We got away at 11.10A.M., and proceeded northwards over an undulating plain bounded on the east and west by low hills. The width of the plain is about six miles, and its surface presents nothing but an unvaried scrub of wormwood growing on a soft, spongy, and gravelly soil. Neither village, nor tree, nor camp, nor, except a few very widely separated little patches, cultivation is to be seen, nor is any water to be found on it.
After marching an hour we came to a ridge of magnesian limestone, at the foot of which a small well is sunk in the rock. Beyond this we entered a narrow gully, winding between high banks of gravel and shingle, and rose up to a gap from which the valley of Calát, and the Mírí or palace, dominating the town at the end of a subsiding ridge of rock, lay before us. The scene was wild and dreary, and all nature seemed withered by the chill of winter.
From the gap we went down a long declivity between low ridges, and passing under the walls of the Mírí, and round the fortifications of the town, crossed the largest rivulet we have seen in the country, and alighted at a house prepared, or, I should properly say, emptied, for our reception, in a garden a mile to the north of the town, our arrival being announced by a salute of eleven guns from the citadel—distance, thirteen miles. A little way down the slope from the gap above mentioned, we were met by anisticbál, or ceremonial reception party, headed by Mír Karam Khán, a handsome youth of some eighteen years, with glossy black curly ringlets hanging over his shoulders. He is a nephew of the Khán’s(sister’s son), and though so young, already looks worn out and enervated by too early and too free an abuse of the pleasures prized by Eastern potentates. He was gaily dressed, and mounted on a powerful and spirited horse, richly caparisoned with silver-mounted trappings. But the whole effect of thisgrande tenuewas marred by his timid seat and awkward clutches every now and again, as the horse pranced, at the high pommel of the saddle, which rose up in front as if it had been purposely put there for the rider to hold on by.
He was attended by Mír Saggid Muhammad, Iltáfzai, a cousin of the Khán’s, and was followed by a party of twenty-five or thirty horsemen—the most ragged and motley troop I ever saw. There was the Persian and the Pathan, the Brahoe and the Baloch, the Sindhí and the Sídí, each clad in his own national costume and armour, but the poorest of its kind, and all mounted on very inferior, weedy, and unkept ponies. They gradually dropped off from us as we passed under the town.
Two hours after our arrival, we donned our uniforms and went to call on the Khán at the Mírí. The cold was withering, and a keen north wind cut us to the very bones. The ground was frozen hard, and snow-wreaths lay under the shade of the walls. Our path led across a brisk rivulet, flowing in a wide pebbly channel—the same we had crossed a while ago; and then past some walled fields to the town itself, which we entered by a gate leading into the main bazaar—a poor and decayed collection of shops ranged on each side of a filthy street. From this we went up a steep and slippery ascent, very narrow, and flanked by high walls. Dismounting at the top, we groped our way through a dark winding passage, strewed with all sorts of filth and litter, and redolent of the nastiest smells, and suddenly arrived at the door of theKhán’s reception room, where we found him standing to receive us.
We shook hands all round, with the usual complimentary phrases, and at once entering the room, were conducted to a row of chairs placed at its upper end. Khudádád Khán, the chief of Calát, and Major-General Pollock occupied the two central seats, and Major Harrison and myself those on either side. On the floor in front of us were spread two dirty old Persian carpets, separated by a space in which was placed a great dish of live charcoal. At the edge of the carpets, to the right and left, sat a number of court officials, and at the further end fronting us stood the Khán’s bodyguard, a dozen of the most unshorn, ragged, and ruffianly set of cut-throats it would be possible to collect anywhere. No two were clad or armed alike, and each looked a greater scoundrel than his neighbour. Where the Khán collected such a unique set of villains I cannot understand. I never saw anything to equal their barbarous attire and rascally looks anywhere.
One more personage remains to complete the picture of the Khán’s court as we found it on this memorable occasion, for I never think of that cold ride without a shiver running through my limbs. Crouched up against the wall to the left of our row of chairs was a portly individual with a jovial fat face and a sleek beard, which would have been white had he but treated it to a little soap and water. He shuffled about under the bundle of clothes—neither clean nor new—that mostly concealed his figure, as from time to time he joined in the conversation as one in authority and in the Khán’s confidence. This was Wazír Walí Muhammad, aged seventy years, the most sensible man in Calát, the Khán’s truest friend, and a stanch ally of the British Government, of whichhis experience runs through the past and present generation. He was a friend to Masson when he visited this place in 1831, and he was present when the town was taken, eight years later, by the force under General Willshire, the chief, Mihráb Khán, being killed in the defence, with four hundred of his men.
The present chief, Khudádád Khán, is about thirty-eight years of age. He has a vacant and at times silly look, and his conversation is trifling. He does not convey the impression of being a man of any weight or ability, and is said to spend most of his time amongst his women. During our visit his two sons were introduced. They were pretty children and richly dressed. The eldest, Mír Mahmúd, was aged seven years, and the other, Mír Shahnawáz, was aged three years.
Such is the composition of the court of Calát. The reception room in which we were assembled is a very mean and neglected chamber. The roof is low and the walls—they had been whitewashed, but apparently very long ago—were cracked in a dangerous manner, and altogether the place wore a very poor and untidy look. The north and west sides of the chamber were occupied by a succession of latticed windows, from which there is a fine prospect of the whole valley and its villages and gardens. This is the one redeeming point in the whole palace, which is only a jumble of huts piled together one above the other to a great height above the rest of the town, of which it forms the most prominent object as seen from a distance.
It is not usual for the Khán to winter here, owing to the severity of the climate. His winter residence is in the milder climate of Gandáva where he has a palace. This year he is kept here by the rebellion of his barons.
We took our leave, and returned to our quarters by theroute we came, and very glad to get under shelter again, for our close-fitting uniforms were ill calculated to protect us from such cold, which is here greater than we have anywhere experienced. During the night the thermometer must have sunk to zero outside, for next morning it stood at 8° Fah. in a court full of servants and cattle, and warmed by several little fires. By my aneroid barometer I estimated the elevation of Calát at about 6750 feet above the sea. Hard frost prevailed all the time we were here.
We halted here the next day, and at fourP.M.the Khán, attended by his son, Mír Mahmúd, and nephew, Mír Kuram Khán, came to return our visit. He was richly dressed, and rode a fine Baloch horse caparisoned with gold trappings; but he is altogether wanting in deportment, and impressed me even more unfavourably than he did yesterday.
He is the head of the Kambarání family, who claim Arab descent, and profess to come originally from Aleppo. This family has held the government for several generations, and is now reckoned as the royal tribe amongst the Brahoe, though they themselves are neither Brahoe nor Baloch. The Kambarání take wives from both tribes, but they give their daughters to neither, though all are Sunni Muhammadans. In the days of their prosperity, the Kambarání chiefs ruled over the whole of Balochistan as independent despots, owning only nominal allegiance to the Afghan monarchy established by Sháh Ahmad, Durrani. At that time, as now, Balochistan comprised six principal divisions, viz., Kach, Gandáva, Jhálawán, Calát, Sahárawán, Makrán, and Las Bela. Only the four first of these divisions now acknowledge the authority of the Calát chief. Las Bela is independent under aquasitributary chief; whilstMakrán is divided between Persia and a number of petty local chiefs, whose tenures possess no stability owing to their intestine feuds and rivalries. The endurance of the rule of the present chief of Calát, too, does not appear very secure, owing to the prolonged rebellion of some of his principal barons.
The Khán’s visit was not a very long one, nor very entertaining. He repeated the same queries with which he assailed us yesterday. “How old are you?” “Are you married?” “How many children have you?” and so forth. “How many teeth have you?” only was wanting to bring the list of impertinences to a climax. My gun was produced for his inspection, and the General’s gyroscope was set in motion for the amusement of his son. He handled the gun awkwardly, and examined it perfunctorily, without a trace of interest, as if the attempt to understand its mechanism were quite a hopeless task. The wonderful performances of the gyroscope drew forth some exclamations of astonishment, and when, by an erratic dash, it startled an old gentleman sitting on the floor into a sudden somersault in his haste to escape its attack, it produced a decided impression, not quite free from suspicions as to its being some infernal machine, the real purposes of which we kept secret. “Or else,” said one of the attendants to his neighbour, as the Khán took his departure, “why should they carry such a thing about with them? Did you feel its weight and force as it spun?”
In the evening, after our visit yesterday, the Khán sent us azújafát, or cooked dinner of several native dishes. This evening he sent us tea, sheep, fowls, eggs, butter, flour, &c., for our servants; and the Wazír Walí Muhammad, who enjoys the reputation of being a clever gastronomic, sent us a rich and varied assortment of dishes,which fully supported the credit of his specialty. They differed little from themenuwhich it is the delight of Afghans to set before their guests.
Calát is the capital of Balochistan, and the summer residence of the chief. It is a fortified little town, situated on the plain at the extremity of a low ridge of hills called Sháh Mírán, and contains about 8000 inhabitants—a mixture of Baloch, Brahoe, Jat, and Dihwár, with a few Hindu families. The town is indescribably filthy, and wears a thoroughly decayed look. It is the largest town in the country, and the valley in which it stands is the most populous. There are several villages and fruit-gardens crowded together on the upper part of the valley near the town. They produce excellent apricots, plums, peaches, and other fruits, which are dried and exported. The mulberry andsanjit(oleagnus) are common here. The graceful foliage of the latter adorns the water-courses, of which there are a great number in all directions, from hill-streams and the subterranean conduits calledkárez.
Great care and attention is paid to the culture of these gardens. They are entirely in the hands of the Dihwár, a Persian-speaking people, who here correspond to the Tajik of Afghanistan, and, like them, are Sunni Muhammadans. In fact, there is not a Shia in the country, and the sect is abominated with truly religious hatred. Lucerne (ushpusht) is largely grown here as a fodder crop, and yields five or six or even eight crops a year, under careful irrigation and manuring. I saw some men digging up the roots of the plant as food for their cattle. They are long and fibrous, and are considered very nourishing food for cows and goats, &c. Beetroot too is grown here, and tobacco in small quantity.
In the gardens here we found numbers of thrushes,starlings, and magpies. We also saw the red-billed crow and the golden eagle. The magpie (here calledshakúk, and at Kabul,kalghúchak) is of the same colour and character as the English bird, but smaller in size. The villagers here were friendly, and free from the arrogance of the Afghan. They appeared a peaceable, industrious and thriving community.
25th January.—We left Calát, under a salute of eleven guns, at 11.10A.M., and marched twenty-six miles to the village of Mundi Hájí in the Mungachar valley. Our route was due north down the slope of the Calát valley. At about the third mile we cleared the villages and gardens, and going on over corn-fields and across irrigation streams, at the sixth mile came to the Baba Walíziyárat, a sacred shrine on the further side of a deep pebbly ravine.
Here we parted from our kind friend Major Harrison, Political Agent at the Court of Calát (“the fortress,” in Arabic), and stood a few minutes to view the landscape we had left behind us at the southern extremity of the valley. Calát, with its lofty citadel and towering palace, stood forth the most dominant feature in the scene. Below it were crowded together a number of villages, gardens, and corn-fields, that told of peace and plenty, despite their present forlorn look under the withering blasts of an almost arctic winter; whilst the background was closed by a great snow-clad mountain, on the other side of which is Nichára. Such was Calát as we saw it, but such, fortunately, is not always its appearance. The forests of naked twigs and branches that now testify to the severity of the season will a few weeks hence put forth their buds, and in summer will be bowed down with the weight of their foliage and fruit. The snowy barrier above will disappear, and disclose dark belts of the arbor vitæ and pistacia, whilst the bare plainbelow will put on its coat of green, and roll with fields of yellow corn. As described, the summer must indeed be a delightful season here; and if it is mild in proportion to the severity of the winter, I can understand the ecstasies with which the natives expatiate on its delights. Taking a last look at Calát, and a parting adieu from our friend, we turned and faced the dreary waste of hill and dale that stretched away before us to the northward.
Our road skirted a low ridge of hills on our left, and led by a well-beaten path over the pasture ground of Bandúkhí. At the ninth mile we passed a cross-road leading to the village of Girání on the other side of the ridge to our left, and beyond it gently descended to the pastures of Marján, from which we rose on to an undulating upland tract, leaving the valley to our right, and came to the Laghání Kotal. This is a rough pass over a ridge of slate and sandstone hills, and conducts down a long and stony hill-skirt to the plain of Mungachar, which is an alluvial valley, intersected by numerouskárezconduits, dotted here and there with villages, and covered with great patches of snow-white saline encrustations. From the top of the pass we got a good view of the Chihltan mountain away to the north, and of the Kárcháp range away to the south-west, both deeply covered with snow; whilst nearer at hand, to our right front and right, were the lesser hills of Koh Márán and Keláb, just whitened at their summits.
On descending to the valley, we had to make a long detour to the right, in order to avoid a wide extent of mire, produced by flooding the fields from thekárezstreams, and only reached Mundi Hájí at the foot of Bidiring hill at fiveP.M.This is a little hamlet of six or seven detached houses; and as the evening air was very cold, and our baggage not even in sight across the plain(it did not all come up till tenP.M.), we took shelter in the principal house, which was very willingly vacated by its tenants for our use.
On our way across the valley we passed the ruins of a village called Dádar. It was the largest of the ten or twelve villages that are scattered over the Mungachar plain, and was plundered and destroyed by the rebel Sherdil Khán some eight years ago, when he ousted the present Khán of Calát, as has already been mentioned.
Whilst we were waiting the arrival of our baggage, our host, Ummed Khán, Ráisání, walked in and unconcernedly seated himself on the carpet he had obligingly spread for us. He was a petty farmer, of simple unsophisticated manners, and quite charmed us with his good nature, sensible conversation, and freedom from prejudice. He was explaining to us the protective virtues of a bag of dust that attracted my attention as it hung against one of the two props supporting the roof, when the arrival of our cook with the kitchen establishment was announced, and he disappeared to provide fuel and water. Having done this, he returned and favoured us with his company, whilst we disposed of our evening meal; and we now heard the history of the bag above mentioned. It was briefly this:—Saggid Maurúsí, the patron saint of this place, and whose shrine stands on a rocky mound hard by, was a very holy man. During his life he dispensed charms with a liberal hand for the protection of the faithful against all manner of evils; and since his death, so great was the sanctity of his character, the virtues of his charms have been communicated to the ashes of his tomb. All who seek the intercession of the saint carry away a little of the dust from his shrine, and keep it in their houses, to avert the evil eye, and protect the inmates and their cattle, &c., from sicknessor other calamity. The dust is calledkhurdaand is an undoubted efficacious charm.
Our host having paused in his conversation, I offered him a cup of tea, which, to my surprise—accustomed as I had been to the narrow prejudices of Indian caste—he readily accepted, as also some cold fowl. Another cup of tea and another fowl was offered for the lady of the house, whose bright eyes were curiously peering at us from the doorway of an opposite chamber. The husband took them away, and presently a merry laugh of gratification assured us of the appreciation of the attention. Early next morning, whilst doing a rough toilet outside, my glass propped against a wall, I caught the reflection of our landlady straining her eyes from the opposite side of the court to see what I was looking into as my comb and brushes performed their usual offices. Turning round, I gratified her curiosity with a peep at her own comely features in the glass. Her delight and unrestrained simplicity were most amusing. She held the mirror in both hands before her, viewed herself in it, posed her head first on this side then on the other, smiled, frowned, stared, trimmed her mouth, smoothed her hair, and stroked her nose in succession. She turned the mirror round and examined its back a moment, and then again devoted herself to its reflecting surface, and, taking up her baby, placed its cheek against her own, and viewed both together, and smiled with innocent satisfaction. It was an amusing spectacle, and in every particular, excepting the baby, was the exact repetition of what I have seen a monkey do with a looking-glass. The young woman was so evidently pleased with the mirror, that I gave it to her, and she ran off inside the house, no doubt to look at it afresh.
We left Mundi Hájí at 8.10A.M., and marched twenty-sixmiles, and camped at the Kárez Amánullah. The morning air was sharp, and, by the thermometer, showed nine degrees of frost. Our path led over a narrow stony upland, covered with artemisia scrub, and bounded on either side by the hill ranges of Bidiring and Buzi, both of which were tipped with snow. In two hours we reached the crest of the upland, and by a gentle slope in another hour reached a roadside shrine on the border of the Khad Mastung, or Lower Mastung valley.
We halted here awhile to allow the baggage to get on ahead, and meanwhile examined the horns, of which a great number adorned the shrine. They were mostly those of the ibex and uriár (or wild sheep), here calledhetandkharrrespectively, and in Persiabuzandbakhta. None of the horns were very large or unusually fine, but I took a couple of each kind as specimens.
Before us, to the northward, lay a great waste, on which, at about five miles off, stood the village of Gorú, with wide patches of white soda efflorescence scattered here and there over the plain. Far away to the north, the prospect is closed by the snowy mass of the Chihltan mountain, which separates Mastung from Shál.
After a halt of an hour and a half we proceeded, and passing the Sháwání cultivation and Gorú cemetery, at 3.30P.M.arrived at our camping-ground. The valley dips gently to the northward, and presents a very dreary aspect. The soil is powdery, and surcharged with salines, which here and there form great sheets of snow-white encrustation. The cultivation is very scanty, and allkhushkába, that is, dependent on the skies for irrigation. The fields are little square patches, banked up on all sides to catch and retain what rain showers upon them. Not a tree is visible on the plain; the Sháwání Brahoe huts are scattered over its surface in clusters of four orfive together, but are mostly situated along the base of the Chuttok hills bounding the valley to the westward.
At Amánullah we pitched our camp in the hollows of some sandy undulations of the surface, by way of shelter from the north wind, which swept over the plain in gusts of chilling force. Hard by, lower down the course of thekárez, are the ten or twelve huts composing the village. They looked poor hovels, and were quite in keeping with the dreary and wintry aspect of the country.
We set out hence at 8.30 next morning, and marched nine miles to Mastung, where we arrived in two hours, and alighted at quarters prepared for us in the fort. The first part of our route was over the Amánullah cultivation, and across a deepkárezcut, on to an undulating waste, beyond which we came to the corn-fields and walled gardens of Mastung.
As we approached Mastung, a flight of blue pigeons settled on a ploughed field off the road, and I turned off and shot three of them, all very plump, and with their crops full of grain. Out of curiosity I opened the crop of one, and counted its contents. They were as follows, namely:—320 grains of barley, 20 of wheat, 50 of millet, 5 of peas or pulse, and several other smaller grains I did not recognise. The flight consisted of upwards of a hundred pigeons, and during the march we had seen several such flights. From these data, some idea may be formed of the loss inflicted on the farmer by these birds. One of our escort, who witnessed the process of investigation above described, expressed great astonishment, and observed that the birds had met a “justly deserved fate for robbing the widows’ store.” The meaning of the allusion is, I presume, that the general out-turn of the harvest being diminished by the depredations of these birds, the widows’ store would suffer in proportion.
At two miles from Mastung we were met by a party of fifty horsemen, headed by Náib ’Abdurrahmán, the governor of the district. He was a fine handsome man, of quiet and unassuming demeanour, but was poorly clad and badly mounted. His cavalcade, too, was a sorry collection of both men and horses. As regards the brute part of the gathering, this is surprising, for the country here is highly cultivated, and produces abundance of forage. The Náib conducted us through a succession of walled gardens to the quarters prepared for us inside the fort, in front of the gate of which were drawn up twenty files of infantry, with a band of three tin pipes and two drums, to receive us with military honours. As we came up, the commanding officer, with a wide sweep of his sword, brought its edge to the tip of his nose, and holding it there perpendicularly, exactly between the eyes, shouted, in a stentorian voice, “Generaylee saloot!” a summons that started a man from each end of the line six paces to the front, and fixed the rest, with gaping mouths and muskets held at all slopes, full gaze upon us. We now came abreast of the commanding officer, who all of a sudden missed the music, the band being intently absorbed in the spectacle of our procession; but a quick turn, and some violent gesticulations in their direction, immediately startled the three youths with the tin pipes into the perpetration of three shrill squeaks, which were accompanied by a rattle on the drums by their two juvenile comrades behind.
The General acknowledged the honour with a graceful salute, and we passed through the fort gate into a succession of narrow winding passages leading from courtyard to courtyard, all strewn with several inches of stable refuse and disfigured by dung-heaps, till at length we came to one larger than the others, though not a whit less filthy,where a guard of four soldiers drawn up opposite a portal informed us we had reached our quarters, and a salute of eleven guns announced the fact to the townspeople.
The interior, happily, was not in keeping with the exterior. The two rooms of which the house consisted had been swept, and clean carpets had been laid down for our reception, and, as we entered, fires were lighted to warm them. Altogether we were agreeably surprised, and found our lodging, despite the surroundings, a very comfortable shelter from the wintry blasts outside.
The northern part of the Mastung valley is highly cultivated, and populous villages, fruit gardens, and corn-fields follow each other in close succession, and extend in one unbroken stretch for several miles along the foot of the Hamách and Khark hills, separating the valley from the Dashtí Bedaulat. The gardens produce the grape, apple, apricot, quince, almond, plum, cherry, pomegranate, oleagnus, and mulberry. The pear and peach do not grow here, though they do abundantly in the adjoining valley of Shál. The fields produce wheat, barley, maize, millet, pulse, lucerne, madder, tobacco, and the common vegetables, such as carrots, turnips, onions, cabbages, &c., but not cotton. The inhabitants are Brahoe and Dihwár, with some Baloch and Afghan families and Hindu traders.
In summer Mastung must be a delightful residence, both in respect of climate and scenery. The winter is cold and bleak, but mild in comparison with its rigorous severity at Calát. Its elevation is about 5600 feet above the sea, and it is partially sheltered from the north wind by the hills bounding it in that direction. Its climate is described as very salubrious, and certainly the healthy looks of its inhabitants support the truth of the assertion.
Its scenery is very fine in itself, but, compared with the dreary wastes and rugged wilds of the country to the southward, is quite charming, by reason of its profuse vegetation and crowded population. The precipitous heights of Chihltan towering above the valley to the north constitute the grand feature of the scenery, and at this season, shrouded as the mountain is in a thick mantle of snow, present a magnificent spectacle by reason of their massive grandeur and overpowering proximity. Chihltan is the highest and best-wooded mountain in this country, but it is very steep and rugged, the trees being scattered in small clumps on favouring ledges and in deep recesses. The arbor vitæ, pistacia kabulica, mountain ash, wild fig, and mulberry are the principal trees found on the mountain. It is said to abound in snakes and pythons, also wild goat and wild sheep. The wolf, leopard, and hyena are also found in it, but not the bear.
Towards sunset the sky became overcast with clouds, and thick mists obscured the mountains from our view.
28th January.—We set out from Mastung at 7.15A.M., whilst the signal gun in the citadel was slowly doling out a salute of eleven guns. The morning air was cold, dull, and misty, and presaged ill for the day. We no sooner cleared the gardens around the town, than we entered on a bare sandy tract of some miles in extent, in the midst of which, like an oasis in the desert, stands the little hamlet of Isá Khán. Away to the left were seen the villages and gardens of Fírí, and to the right those of Pringábád. Our route across the sandy waste was most trying. A blighting north wind swept down from the hills straight against us, and drove clouds of sand with blinding force before it. Our escort dwindled down to three or four horsemen who kept up with us, and they were so completely muffled up that it was impossible to getthem to hear a word we said, and utterly hopeless to draw them into conversation. Beyond this sandy waste we entered on a rough ravine-cut gulf in the hills, and crossing the Mobí rivulet a little below the Khushrúd hamlet—the last of the Mastung villages in this direction—rose out of its deep ravine on to a sloping hill skirt, white with wavy wreaths of fresh snow, now frozen hard by the cold wind. Ascending thus along the base of Chihltan, we arrived at the entrance to the Nishpá or Dishpa Pass in three hours and a quarter—distance, thirteen miles. Here we halted under the bank of a rocky water-course to allow the baggage to come up, and to breakfast off such cold commodities as our cook had provided for us.
The view of the valley left behind us was completely obscured by dense clouds of sand driving across the plain, but immediately above us was a scene sufficient to rivet the attention with awe-inspiring sentiments. The beetling cliffs of Chihltan, here and there reft of their cumbrous loads of snow through sheer weight of its mass, rose above us in imposing magnitude, and, domineering over the lesser hills around, formed a picture such as is seldom equalled.
A little to the right of the Nishpá Pass is the Toghaghi hill, over the ridge of which is alakor pass that conducts direct to the Dashtí Bedaulat plain. It is very difficult for laden camels, and is mostly used by footmen only. The Nishpá Pass, between Chihltan and Zindan mountains, is four miles long up to its crest, to which it winds by a very steady ascent. Though now covered with snow, we could here and there trace the road made through the pass in 1839 by the engineers of the British army. The pass is an easy one.
We reached the crest of the pass in a driving storm ofhail and sleet, and by the aneroid estimated its elevation at about 6000 feet. The descent from the crest turns to the right down to the Dashtí Bedaulat, leaving a forest of pistacia trees in a glen away to the left. The forest is called Hazár Ganjí, from the number of trees—gwanin Brahoeki, andkhinjakin Pushto, being the colloquial names of the pistacia kabulica.
The Dashtí Bedaulat is a singular hill-girt plain, perfectly level, and perfectly bare. It is, as the name implies, an unproductive waste, and this from the entire absence of water. It lies at the top of the Bolán Pass, the road from which skirts its border opposite to our position. From the Dashtí our road turned northward again, and led down a rough and stony defile to Sariáb in the valley of Shál. To the left the land is covered with a forest ofgwantrees, and rises rapidly to the foot of the Chihltan range, and close on our right is the Koh Landi ridge, which separates us from the caravan road from Sariáb to Saribolán. In front of us is the plain of Shál. It lies at a considerably lower level, and wears a very bleak and wintry look, with its leafless gardens and bare fields, girt around by a mountain barrier topped with snow. At the edge of the Sariáb lands we were met by the Náib Abdul Latíf and a party of fifteen or sixteen horsemen—a most ragged and ruffianly set of rascals. We did not stop for the usual ceremony of compliments, as a shower of hail was, at the moment of our meeting, driving hard pellets with painful violence against our faces, but hurried on to the quarters prepared for us in a small fortified hamlet near the Lora rivulet. We arrived there at 2.45P.M., after a very trying march of twenty-nine miles, and found the huts so filthy and close that we had our tents pitched in the court of the fort as soon as the baggage came up.
In fine weather this march would have been very enjoyable, for the scenery, of its kind, is very wild and grand. But our experiences have left anything but agreeable recollections of this part of our journey. During the first part of the route we were nearly suffocated with clouds of sand; in the pass we were for the time blinded by driving snows, and beyond we had to face pelting hail; whilst all the way our limbs were numbed through by a searching north wind, whose chilling blasts require to be felt to be properly appreciated.
Next day we marched thirteen miles to Shál Kot, or the Fort of Shál. We could not cross the Lora direct on account of the bogs and swamps on each side its course, so had to go back over the last few miles of yesterday’s march, and make a detour round the southern end of the valley, till we reached the highroad from Shál to the Bolán.
Attended by a couple of horsemen, I followed the course of the stream for some distance, in the hopes of getting some wild duck. But the ground was so swampy and deep in mud, I could not get within shot. After much searching, my attendants found a spot where we forded the stream with some trouble, and on the other side I got a few snipe, and then rode off across the plain, and joined our own party a few miles from Shál.
Whilst shooting down the course of the Lora, I was much amused at the simplicity of my sole attendant, for his comrade had lagged far behind to wash himself and horse, both having become mud-begrimed by a fall in a bog. I was trying to light my pipe with the aid of a burning-glass I carried in my pocket, but finding the wind was too strong to allow of my succeeding in the attempt, I called the man up and bid him stand perfectly still. Then standing to the leeward, I caught a ray over the tip of his shoulder, and presently effected my purpose.Seeing this, the man turned and looked aside at his shoulder, and, to settle any doubts, rubbed it roughly with the opposite hand, whilst he stared a stare of wonderment at me. I assured him he was not on fire; that I had got mine from the sun and not from him, and that there was no cause for alarm; and, so saying, hurried after some wild-fowl I saw alight farther down the stream, leaving him my horse to hold. I heard him muttering to himself, and caught the words, “Toba! toba! chi balá ast?”—“Repentance! repentance! what devilry is it?”
On approaching Shál we made a detour to the right to avoid a wide extent of flooded fields, and passed an extensive graveyard, close to which, on an open flat of ground, was pointed out to us a walled enclosure, containing the graves of the Europeans who died here in 1839-40. The wall is very low, but in good repair, and the sacred spot appears to be respected by the natives. Not far from it are the remains of Captain Bean’s house, when he was Political Resident here. Though roofless, the shell is not very much damaged, and might be easily restored.
In front of the fort gate a military guard was drawn up to do honour to the General. It consisted of twenty-five men in a single row. As we came up, the officer in command gave the words in very plain English, “Rear rank take open order;” a signal at which three men stepped to the front, and gave the time to the rest in presenting arms, whilst the single gun in the citadel fired a salute. Entering the town, we were presently housed in quarters similar to those at Mastung.
Shál is a fortified town, and contains about twelve hundred houses collected round a central mound on which stands the citadel. The elevation of the citadel is muchabove the town, and it is the prominent object in the valley, but its walls are very poor, and more or less in a state of decay. By the natives it is called Shál Kot, and by the Afghans Kwatta, or “the little fort,” whence our Quetta. The valley of Shál is very similar to that of Mastung, and, like it, drains westward to Shorawak.
The garrison of Shál consists of one hundred infantry, almost all of whom are Afghans, with a few other mercenaries. There are besides fifty horsemen, and a dozen artillerymen for the one gun they have here. These troops are under the command of the Náib or governor, Abdul Latíf, who on emergency can collect a force of about five thousandíljárí, or militia, from the neighbouring hills, armed with matchlock, sword, and shield.
Shál is described as a delightful residence in summer, and is said to possess a temperate and salubrious climate, in which respect it resembles the valley of Mastung. The whole valley is covered with villages and corn-fields and gardens, through the midst of which flows the Lora rivulet; but the soil is almost everywhere impregnated—with nitre and soda-salts.
The scenery around is very fine, and affords a wide and varied field for the pencil of the artist, particularly at this season, when the rugged heights of the greater mountains are deeply covered with snow. Towards the east, the valley is closed by the lesser ranges of Siyah Pusht and Murdár. To the south are the Landi ridge and Chihltan mountain. From the latter projects the low range of Karassa which sweeps round the valley towards the Muchilagh range, forming its western boundary; and between them is a gap that leads into the Dulay valley and plain of Shorawak. To the north, the valley isoverlooked by the great Tokátú peak and Zarghún range. These last are occupied by the Domarr section of the Kákarr tribe. They are described as the most savage and hardy of all the Afghan mountaineers, and have proved quite irreclaimable by either the government of Kabul or that of Calát. They often give trouble on this border, and formerly used to plunder the country as far as the Nishpá Pass, in collusion with their brethren of the Bánzai section occupying the hills slopes of Shál. They harry the road into Peshín by Tal Chhotiyálí, so much so, that it is now deserted as a caravan route. This is the route that was proposed as one we might journey by, when it was found we could not proceed by the Bolán Pass; but, thanks to the decision of Sir William Merewether, we were directed into a safer route, and thus saved from falling into the clutches of these utter savages.
There is a road direct from Shál over the hills between Tokátú and Zarghún to the Tal Chhotiyálí route, but it is seldom used, owing to the risks from predatory Domarr, through whose territories it passes. These people have no large villages, but are scattered over the hills in caves and sheds with their flocks and sheep. During the winter, they descend to the lower valleys, where they pass the time in their black tents. They cultivate only sufficient ground for the supply of their wants, and for the most part live on the produce of their flocks, such as milk, butter, flesh, and the inspissated cheese known askroot. From the goats’ hair they manufacture ropes and the black tents calledkizhdí, and from the sheep’s wool they make the thick felt cloaks calledkosai, which, with a pair of loose cotton trousers, constitute the whole winter dress of most of the people. The Domarr are said to muster nearly four thousand families.
A curious custom is said to prevail amongst them. In the spring and summer evenings, the young men and maidens of adjoining camps assemble on the hillsides, and shouting “Pír murr nadai, jwandai dai” (“The old man is not dead, he lives”), romp about till—I suppose on the principle of natural selection—the opposite sexes pair off in the favouring darkness, and chase each other amongst the trees and rocks, till summoned home by the calls of their respective parents. It does not appear that the custom leads to the contraction of matrimonial alliances amongst the performers, though to its observance is attributed the hardiness and populousness of the tribe.
During the afternoon, a messenger arrived from Cushlác with letters from the Afghan Commissioner for General Pollock, intimating his arrival there with a military escort for our safe conduct to Kandahar. It is therefore arranged that we proceed in the morning, apparently much to the relief of our host, the Náib Abdul Latíf, who seemed apprehensive lest the Afghan troops should cross the border into the district under his charge on the plea of meeting us, and thus unsettle the minds of his subjects with the idea that they were to be annexed to the Kabul dominions, between which and the territories of the Khán of Calát the Cushlác Lora is the present boundary.
Originally both Shál and Mastung with Shorawak formed part of the kingdom erected by Sháh Ahmad, Durrani. They were subsequently made over to Nasír Khán, chief of Balochistan, in return for his allegiance and maintenance of a contingent of troops in the interest of the Afghan sovereign. These districts are still considered by the Afghans as portion of their country, though they remain under the rule of the Khán of Calát;and in 1864, when Sherdil Khán usurped the government from the present chief, Khudádád Khán, the Governor of Kandahar made an attempt to reannex them to his province, but in this he was thwarted by the action of the British authorities, and the restoration of Khudádád Khán to his rightful government.