CHAPTER V.
We halted four days at Kandahar to recruit our cattle, and replace the broken-down ones by new purchases. Our entertainment all this time was most hospitable, and was really more than we could conveniently endure. The apartments were luxuriously furnished with Persian carpets, Herat felts, and Kashmir embroideries. Several coloured glass globes were suspended from the ceiling, and every niche that was not already occupied by an American clock—and there were some ten or twelve such—was ornamented with a glass lamp. The clocks were all of the same pattern, and brightly gilded all over, and, together with the globes and lamps, appeared to form part of an investment ventured in this yet barbarous region by some enterprising merchant with a partiality for “Yankee notions.”
We had hardly been left alone in our palatial quarters when a succession of huge trays of all sorts of sweetmeats began to arrive. Each was borne in by two servants, one supporting each end, and deposited one after the other on the floor. The array was quite alarming, for I knew they would go to our servants for disposal, and was certain they would exceed the bounds of prudence and moderation; a surmise in which I was not far wrong, for nearly all of them had to undergo a physicking before we set out on our onward journey. One of the trays in particular attracted our attention, on account of the variety of zoological forms its surface was crowded with.We dubbed it “Noah’s Ark,” and kept it till our departure, partly from a suspicion that the different species of animals might not all be good for the food of man, and partly as an amusing specimen of the artistic skill of the confectioners of Kandahar. Much cannot be said for their proficiency in the art of moulding. Their figures generally left a good deal for the imagination to supplement before their identity could be satisfactorily brought home to the mind; but some, with even the most liberal allowance of fancy, were altogether beyond recognition. One figure in particular afforded us much amusement from its puzzling resemblance to several totally distinct animals, and various were the speculations hazarded as to its real prototype. Looked at on one side, it was pronounced to be a hare, but this was negatived by the length of its tail. Then it was suggested that it was meant to represent a wolf; but this was objected to on account of the square form of the head and face. “Perhaps it’s a tiger,” observed one of our attendants. “Perhaps it is,” said Ghulám Ahmad, the General’s Munshí, “or any other animal you like to call it. The material is the same, and just as good under either name.” This was a well-directed hint to the servants, some of whom he observed were inclined to differ in opinion as to the respective qualities of the different mathematical figures and animal forms which were about to be divided amongst them. “Yes,” chimed in his assistant, “whether disc or diamond, sun or star, the sugar of all is alike, and the pistacio paste equally thick; whether elephant, ox, or horse, the candy is alike transparent in all, whilst the difference in size is nothing to what it is between the real animals.”
After these encouraging signs of a peaceable division of the spoils, we were glad to see the trays removed, fortheir size and number incommoded our movements. On their removal, an excellentzújafát, or cooked dinner, was served up Afghan fashion, and with the profusion of Afghan hospitality. The principal dish, as a matter of course, was thepuláo—a whole sheep stuffed with a rich and savoury store of pistacio and almond kernels, with raisins, dried apricots, and preserved plums, &c., and concealed under a tumulus of rice mixed with pomegranate seeds, caraways, cardamums, and other aids to digestion, and reeking with appetising perfumes. Around it were placed, in crowded confusion, a most substantial array of comestibles, the variety and excellence of which were rather puzzling to inquiring foreigners with only limited powers of digestion. There was theyakhni, themattanjan, and thecorma, thekabáb, thecuímá, and thecúrút, with thephirín, andfalúda, and thenuclby way of dessert, together with sherbets of sorts, sweet preserves and sour preserves, and bread in the forms of thenán,paráta,bákir-khání, andtuakí. Our host, the Saggid, with an invitingbismillah(“In the name of God,” used as an invitation to commence any act), stretched forth his hand against thepuláo, and we followed suit, but without making the smallest impression on the savoury heap before us. With this as a secure foundation, we dipped from dish to dish to make acquaintance with their contents. Each had particular merits of its own, but as only an Afghan palate can distinguish them, of course they were not appreciated by us. The Saggid, who had seen a good deal of the English in India, and was familiar with our mode of living, was careful to point out the dishes most resembling our own; but alas! for the prejudice of human nature, I could trace no points of similarity, and would have preferred a good mutton-chop and some mealy potatoes to all the richchefd’œuvresof the Afghan culinary science that loaded the table. As a nation the Afghans are gross feeders. They eat largely and consume astonishing quantities of fatty matter. The merit of any particular dish with them depends more upon the quantity and quality of the melted butter or fat in which it swims than on the tenderness or flavour of the flesh, and the more rancid the fatty matter is, the more highly is it esteemed. This is particularly the case amongst the peasantry and the nomads, amongst whom it is an ordinary occurrence to dispose of the tail of adumbasheep between three or four mouths at a single meal. The tail of this variety of sheep is a mass of pure fat, and weighs from six to eighteen pounds. The hardy out-door life they lead requires that they should have a certain amount of carbonaceous pabulum in their food; and as by their religion they are debarred from the use of fermented liquors, the deficiency is very probably supplied by the abundant use of fat and butter. At all events, they lay great stress on a liberal supply ofroghan, or grease, in all their food, and to its plentiful use, I believe, is to be attributed their physical superiority, combined, of course, with the influences of climate, which, taken alone, are not sufficient to account for their large limbs and robust frames.
At length our part of the performance came to a close, and the row of attendants marching in, carried off the feast to the side-apartments, where, in the character of hosts, they entertained our domestics. The Saggid now took leave of us to go to his home in the city, and we put out most of the lamps and candles, that filled the room with a painful glare, and increased its already close temperature.
The Afghans have no idea of domestic comfort or refinement according to the European standard, nor havethey any taste in the arrangement of their houses. The rooms prepared for us, though full of costly and really fine specimens of native manufacture, were yet singularly deficient in comfort and tasteful decoration. The Saggid, and his coadjutor here, General Safdar Ali, had accompanied the Amir Sher Ali Khán on his visit to India in the spring of 1869, for the conference at Amballa, and they now attempted to light up our quarters here after the fashion they had seen in our houses in India. Lamps and candles without stint were lighted, and set wherever there was room to stand them, without reference to the amount of light required, or the proper places for exhibiting it. Consequently, the room, which was entirely unventilated, except through the doorways opening into side-chambers, speedily became insupportably hot and stifling, so much so, that we were obliged before we could go to sleep to open all the doors and let a draught of the cold frosty night air through the house.
Next morning we rode out with the Saggid and General Safdar Ali to visit the gold-mine at the foot of the hills to the north of the city. The mine is situated in a small creek running up north-east into an angle formed by a spur projecting on to the Kandahar plain from the Baba Walí range. The hills are of a very hard and compact blue limestone, but the surface of the creek and the adjoining plain is a coarse gravel, containing fragments of greenstone, hornblende, quartz, and mica-schist. Coursing down the centre of the creek is a tortuous little water-course, now dry, and with only a few wreaths of snow lying under the shade of its rough conglomerate banks.
The mine is situated half-way up the creek, and on its southern side, close to the ridge of blue limestone. It is a wide excavation straight down into the soil, and in asoft easily-worked rock, quite different from any in the vicinity. The piles of excavated rock heaped up round the mouth of the pit presented a remarkable variety of colours, amongst which black, blackish-green, bluish-green, reddish-orange and fawn colour were the most prominent. I examined several of these stones, and found them to consist of particles of greensand, hornblende, felspar, quartz, and mica, bound together in a gritty ferruginous clay. The formation appears to be one of decomposed sienite, and is sufficiently compact to require blasting in the excavation.
We descended into the great irregular pit by a steep path in its side, and saw the miners at work. The process is very rough, and simply this: A vein of quartz, from three or four inches to only half an inch or less thick, is exposed in the rock, either by the use of the pickaxe or by the aid of gunpowder. The workmen then examine the vein with the naked eye, and if any particles of gold are detected, they are removed, with the surrounding portion of matrix, by means of a chisel and hammer. The gold-dust thus removed is collected by each workman separately in small baskets, and taken to the city, where it is treated for the separation of the precious metal, as will be described presently.
An immense number of quartz veins traverse the rock in all directions, and in several of them we saw the compressed flakes of goldin situ. In two or three instances the metal was in thick lumpy masses, nearly the size of an almond. The pit is about one hundred and twenty feet long, by thirty or forty wide, and about eighty feet deep in the centre. Its sides are sloping and irregular, owing to the tracing up of veins for a short distance in different directions. There must be an immense amount of waste in this rough process, and nodoubt the heaps of excavated rock lying about the mouth of the pit would yield to the experienced miner a very profitable return.
The mine was discovered in 1860 in the following manner. A shepherd boy, tending his flock at graze on the creek, picked up a bit of quartz studded with granules of gold. He took it home to his father, who carried it to a Hindu to see if he could get anything for it. The Hindu, true to the instincts of his race, in whom the love of gold is an innate quality, at once recognised the value of the discovery, and gradually, after his own fashion, got out of the lad’s father the exact spot on which the specimen was discovered. His next step was to apprise the Governor, and the site was at once explored. At a few feet below the superficial gravel, the ferruginous formation of disintegrated quartz and sienite above described was exposed, and in the veins on its surface gold was discovered. The site was at once claimed as crown property, and work was forthwith commenced by Government.
The mine has now been worked nearly twelve years, but with several intermissions. For the first two or three years it is said to have yielded very abundantly. It is now farmed by a contractor, at an annual rental of five thousand rupees, or five hundred pounds. The yearly cost of working it is set down at another five hundred pounds, but this is palpably a gross exaggeration. The profits, it is pretended, hardly cover rent and working charges, though the reverse is pretty generally believed to be the fact, notwithstanding the contractor’s solemn protestations to the contrary, and his bold appeals to God, his prophet, and all the saints as witnesses to the truth of his assertions. There is little doubt that the mine, worked as it is now even, is a really profitable speculation; but in a country such as this, where life and property are proverbiallyinsecure, it would be most unsafe to admit the truth, for to do so would assuredly provoke the cupidity of the ruler, whose despotic will brooks no hindrance in the accomplishment of his desire, be it just or unjust. Hence it is that all classes below the nobility, and not a few even among that favoured class, as a precautionary safeguard, assume an appearance of poverty, and by common consent profane their most sacred characters for the support of a falsehood which is apparent to all.
Under the difficulties of such a position it is impossible for the stranger to arrive at an approximation to the truth. But that the mine does pay under the disadvantageous conditions mentioned, is best evidenced by the fact of its continued operation. We had no opportunities during our short stay here of ascertaining the extent of the auriferous formation, disclosed by the excavation of the mine. But as the surface gravel of the plain north of the city is of the same character as that on the creek in which the mine is situated, it may be reasonable to suppose that the gold-yielding stratum extends for some distance under the alluvium of the plain. If this be so, Kandahar is destined to prove a valuable acquisition to its future possessors. Under European exploration and skilled working, it would assuredly produce an hundred-fold of what it has hitherto done. For in the creek itself only one pit has been dug at the actual spot on which the metal was first discovered. All the rest of the surface is yet untouched, and under the existing government of the country it is destined to remain so.
On leaving the mine we passed through the Baba Walí ridge to the shrine of the same name, dedicated to the patron saint of Kandahar, for a view of the Argandáb valley, the most populous and fertile district of the whole province. From its source in the hills north-westof Ghazni, to its junction with the Tarnak at Doúb, it has thirty-one villages on the right bank, and thirty-four on the left. They are mostly occupied by Popalzai and Alikozai Durranis. Though now seen in the depth of winter, the valley has a remarkably prosperous and fertile look. We returned through the Baba Walí range by a recently-made carriage-road blasted through the rock, in the track of an old pass a little to the west of the one we entered by. On return to our quarters, we found the miners ready with their implements and a small stock of quartz to show us the process by which they extracted the gold. The process appeared very simple and efficacious. The bits of quartz, ascertained by the eyesight to contain particles of gold, are first coarsely pounded between stones, and then reduced to powder in an ordinary hand-mill. The powder is next placed on a reed winnowing tray, and shaken so as to separate the particles of gold and finer dust from the grit. From the latter the larger bits of gold are picked out and thrown into a crucible, and melted with the aid of a few grains ofborax flua. When melted it is poured into an iron trough, previously greased, or rather smeared, with oil, and at once cools into an ingot of bright gold. The fine dust left on the winnow is thrown into an earthen jar furnished with a wide mouth. The jar is then half filled with water and shaken about a little while. The whole is then stirred with the hand and the turbid water poured off. This process is repeated four or five times, till the water ceases to become turbid. A small quantity of quicksilver is next added to the residue of sand, some fresh water is poured on, and the whole stirred with the hand. The water and particles of sand suspended in it are then poured off, and the quicksilver amalgam left at the bottom of the vessel is removed to a strong piece ofcloth, and twisted tightly till the quicksilver is expressed as much as it thus can be. The mass of gold alloy is then put into a crucible with a few grains of borax, and melted over a charcoal fire. The molten mass is finally poured into the iron trough mentioned, and at once solidifies into a small bar of bright gold. Such was the process gone through in our presence. Even in this there was a good deal of waste, owing to the rejection of the coarser grit. With proper crushing machinery there is no doubt the yield would be considerably increased.
This afternoon we received a postviâKhozdár and Calát, with dates from Jacobabad up to the 18th January. The courier described the route as almost closed by snow in Shál and Peshín, where, it seems, more snow has fallen since our passage over the Khojak. Whilst reading our papers, General Safdar Ali was announced. He brought anazar, or present, on the part of the Amir for General Pollock, as the representative of the British Government. It consisted of fifteen silk bags ranged on a tray, and each bag contained one thousand Kandahari rupees, the value of which is about a shilling each.
A north-west wind has prevailed nearly all day, and the air is keen and frosty. During the night boisterous gusts of wind disturbed our slumbers and threatened to overturn some of the tall trees in our garden. In the forenoon we visited the ruins of Shahri Kuhna or Husen Shahr, the “old city,” or “city of Husen.” The latter name it derives from the last of its sovereigns, Mír Husen, Ghilzai, the second son of the celebrated Mír Wais, and brother of Mír Mahmúd, the invader of Persia, and the destroyer of the Saffair dynasty by the wanton massacre in cold blood of nearly one hundred members of the royal family.
The city was taken and destroyed byNadír Sháh in 1738, after a long siege, during which the Afghan defenders displayed such conspicuous bravery that Nadír largely recruited his army from amongst them, and advanced on his victorious career towards India.
On our way to the ruins we visited the shrine of Sultán Wais, and examined the great porphyry bowl supposed to be the begging-pot of Fo or Budh. It is a circular bowl four feet wide, and two feet deep in the centre (inside measurement), and the sides are four inches thick. When struck with the knuckle, the stone, which is a hard compact black porphyry, gives out a clear metallic ring. The interior still bears very distinct marks of the chisel, and on one side under the rim bears a Persian inscription in two lines of very indistinct letters, amongst which the wordsShahryár(or Prince)Jaláluddínare recognisable, as also the wordtáríbhor “date.” The exterior is covered with Arabic letters in four lines, below which is an ornamental border, from which grooves converge to a central point at the bottom of the bowl. Many of the words in the inscription were recognised as Persian, but we had not time to decipher it General Pollock had an accurate transcript of the whole prepared by a scribe in the city, and forwarded it, I believe, to Sir John Kaye.
The keeper of the shrine could tell us nothing about the history of this curious relic, except that it, and a smaller one with handles on each side, which was carried away by the British in 1840, had been brought here by Hazrat Ali, but from where nobody knows. Possibly it may have come from Peshín, which in documents is still written Foshanj and Foshín.
The bowl now rests against the trunk of an old mulberry-tree in a corner of the enclosure of the tomb of Sultán Wais. The trunk of the tree is studded all overwith hundreds of iron nails and wooden pegs, like the trees described on the march to Hykalzai. About the enclosure were lying a number of great balls, chiselled out of solid blocks of limestone. The largest were about fourteen inches in diameter, and the smaller ones five or six inches only. They were, our attendants informed us, some of the balls used in ancient sieges of the adjoining city in the time of the Arabs. They were propelled by a machine calledmanjanícin Arabic—a sort of ballista or catapult.
From the ruins of the old city we went on to those of Nadírabad, now surrounded by marshes caused by the overflow of irrigation canals, and returned to our quarters by the southern side of the present city, or Ahmad Shahí. The fortifications have been recently repaired and fresh plastered, and have been strengthened by the construction of a series of redoubts, calledKása burj.
12th February.—We visited the city this afternoon with the Saggid and General Safdar Ali. We entered at the Herat gate, and at the Chársú turned to the left up the Shahí bazaar, and crossing the parade-ground, where we received a salute of fifteen guns, passed into theArgor “citadel,” which was our prison-house for thirteen months when I was here in 1857-58 with Lumsden’s mission. I say prison-house, because we could never move outside it but once a day for exercise, and then accompanied by a strong guard, as is described in my “Journal of a Mission to Afghanistan in 1857-58.” From the citadel we went to see the tomb of Ahmad Sháh, Durrani, the founder of the city, and thence passing out at the Topkhana gate, returned to our quarters in the garden of the late Sardár Rahmdil Khán.
The main bazaars had evidently been put in order for our visit. The streets had been swept, and the shopsstocked with a very varied assortment of merchandise and domestic wares, which were now displayed to the best advantage. The sides of the main thoroughfare were lined with a picturesque crowd of citizens and foreigners, brought here by their trade callings. The demeanour of the crowd was quiet and orderly, and their looks were expressive of good-will; which is more than could be said of any similar crowd in the bazaars of Peshawar, as was very justly remarked at the time by General Pollock. As we passed along, I now and again caught a finger pointing at me with “Haghah dai” (“That’s him”); and in the Chársú, where we had to pick our way through a closely packed crowd, I was greeted with more than one nod of recognition, and the familiar “Jorhasted?” (“Are you well?”) “Khúsh ámadíd” (“You are welcome”), &c.
The citadel, which is now occupied by Sardár Mír Afzal Khán, Governor of Farráh, and his family, is in a very decayed and neglected state, and the court of the public audience hall is disgracefully filthy. The court and quarters formerly occupied by the mission of 1857 are now tenanted by General Safdar Ali, the Amir’s military governor of the city.
From the citadel we passed through the artillery lines, a wretched collection of half-ruined and tumbledown hovels, choked with dung-heaps, horse litter, and filth of every description, and turned off to the Ahmad Shahí mausoleum. The approach to it is over an uneven bit of ground, which is one mass of ordure, the stench from which was perfectly dreadful. It quite sickened us, and kept us spitting till we got out into the open country again. The tomb, like everything else here, appears neglected and fast going to decay. The stone platform on which it stands is broken at the edges, and the stepsleading up to it, though only three or four, are suffered to crumble under the feet of visitors without an attempt at repair. The dome has a very dilapidated look from the falling off here and there of the coloured tiles that cover it, whilst those that are still left make the disfigurement the more prominent by their bright glaze. Where uncovered, the mortar is honeycombed by the nests of a colony of blue pigeons, which have here found a safe asylum even from their natural enemies of the hawk species. The interior is occupied by a central tomb, under which repose, in the odour of sanctity—though those surrounding it are anything but sanctified—the ashes of the first and greatest of the Durrani kings. Near it are some smaller tombs, the graves of various members of the king’s family. The cupola is very tastefully decorated by a fine Arabesque gilding, in which run all round the sides—the dome being supported on an octagonal building—a series of quotations from the Curán. These, in the light admitted through the fine reticulations of the lattice windows, appeared remarkable fresh and bright, though untouched since their first production a century ago. We doffed our hats as we entered the sacred precincts, as our attendants took off their shoes at the threshold, excepting only the Saggid and General Safdar Ali and Colonel Táj Muhammad, who were much too tightly strapped in their odd compounds of Asiatic and European military uniforms to attempt any such disarrangement of their evidently unaccustomed habiliments. Themujawwir, or keeper of the shrine—for amongst this saint-loving people the tenant of so grand a tomb could hardly escape being converted into so holy a character—was quite pleased at this mark of respect on our part, and made himself very agreeable by his welcome and readiness to afford information. “I know,” said he, with a hasty and timid glanceat the shodden feet of our companions, “that this is the manner in which Europeans testify their reverence for holy places. The officers who visited this tomb when the British army was here observed the same custom, and always uncovered the head on entering beneath this roof. It is quite correct. Every nation has its own customs; you uncover the head, and we uncover the feet. In either case, respect for the departed great is the object, and by either observance it is manifested. It is all right.” The old man told us he was seventy-two years old, and had not been beyond the precincts of the tomb for the last thirty years. It was his world. He had not been as far as the bazaars in all this time, nor had he seen the cantonments built by the British outside the city. This sounds incredible, but I don’t think it improbable, for I know of three or four instances amongst the Yusufzais of the Peshawar valley, in which old men have assured me that in their whole lives they had never moved beyond the limits of their own villages, not even so far as to visit the next village, hardly three miles distant. How the oldmujawwirmanaged to exist so long—for one can hardly say live with propriety—in this vile stinking corner of this filthy city, is not to be understood except on the explanation of habit becoming second nature. Both the confinement and the atmosphere had however left their mark upon him, and had blanched his gaunt sickly visage as white as the beard that graced his tall lank figure.
From the mausoleum we passed through a quarter of the city which had evidently not been prepared for our visit. The narrow lanes were filthy in the extreme, the shops were very poorly stocked, and altogether the place looked oppressed, as indeed it is, by the unpaid, ill-clad, and hungry soldiery we found lounging about its alleys.We were glad to pass out of the Topkhana gate, and once more breathe the fresh air of the open country.
From what we saw on this occasion, and from what we heard during our short stay here, there is no doubt that the condition of Kandahar, as regards population and prosperity, is even worse than it was when I was residing here fourteen years ago. The oppression of its successive governors, the frequent military operations in this direction, and the location of a strong body of troops in the city during the last ten or twelve years, has almost completely ruined the place, and has reduced the citizens to a state of poverty bordering on despair.
The discontent of the people is universal, and many a secret prayer is offered up for the speedy return of the British, and many a sigh expresses the regret that they ever left the country. Our just rule and humanity, our care of the friendless sick, our charitable treatment of the poor, and the wealth we scattered amongst the people, are now remembered with gratitude, and eager is the hope of our return. This is not an exaggerated picture, and speaks well for the philanthropic character of the short-lived British rule in this province, when we consider that our occupation of the country was but a military aggression. But even if they had never had a practical experience of British rule, the desire of the Kandaharis for the return of our authority and extension of the British government to their province, is explained by the glowing accounts they receive from their returning merchants of the prosperity, happiness, and liberty that reign in India, whilst they render them more impatient of the tyranny under which they are forced to groan.
Hundreds of families, it is said, have left the city during the last ten years, to seek their fortune under more favourable rulers. The city is said to contain fivethousand houses, but fully a third part of it is either deserted or in ruins, and the population does not exceed eighteen thousand, if it even reaches that number. Indeed it is astonishing how the city holds out so long under the anomalous circumstances of its government and the ill-restrained license of an unpaid soldiery.
I was told by a non-commissioned officer of the Corps of Guides, who was now spending his furlough here amongst his relations, and whom I formerly knew when I was with that regiment, that the condition of the people was deplorable. Hearing of our approach, he came out to meet us at Mund Hissár, and attended daily at our quarters during our stay here. From him I learned that numbers of the citizens were anxious to see the General, and represent their grievances to him; and that hundreds, remembering the charitable dispensary I had opened here during my former visit, were daily endeavouring to gain admittance to our quarters for medicine and advice regarding their several ailments and afflictions, but that both classes were prohibited by the sentries posted round us with strict orders to prevent the people from holding any communication with us, lest we should hear their complaints, and what they had to say against our hosts.
The city is now governed by three sets of rulers, each independent of the other, but all answerable to the Amir. Thus General Safdar Ali is the military governor. His troops are six months in arrears of pay, and make up the deficiency by plundering the citizens. His nephew (sister’s son), Sultán Muhammad, is the civil governor. He has to pacify the townspeople under their troubles, and to screw from them the city dues or taxes. Then there is Núr Ali, the son of Sardár Sher Ali Khán, the late governor, who is himself just now at Kabul rendering anaccount of his recent charge. He is a luxurious youth, clad in rich velvets and cloth of gold, and on behalf of his father collects the revenues outside the city. The consequence of this triangular arrangement is that the people are effectually crushed and bewildered. They know not who are their rulers, and in vain seek redress from one to the other, only to find themselves fleeced by each in turn. As my informant pathetically remarked, “There is no pleasure in life here. The bazaar you saw to-day is not the everyday bazaar. There is no trade in the place. How should there be any? The people have no money. It has all been taken from them, and where it goes to nobody knows. There is no life (or spirits) left in the people. They are resigned to their fate, till God answers their prayers, and sends them a new set of rulers.”
Truly their condition is such as to call for pity. I observed, in our progress through the city, that the people had a sickly appearance compared with the generality of Afghans, and wore a subdued timid look, altogether at variance with the national character. They are, as we heard from more than one source, only waiting a change of masters. In their present temper, anybody would be welcomed by the Kandaharis, even a fresh set of their own rulers would afford them a temporary relief; but a foreigner, whether British, Persian, or Russian, they would hail with delight, and their city would fall to the invader without even much show of resistance, for the garrison could look for no support from the people they had so hardly oppressed.
The Government of Kandahar, besides the city and suburbs, includes about two hundred villages. Altogether they yield an annual revenue of about twenty-two laks of rupees to the Amir’s treasury. Of this total, about nine laks are derived from the city dues and taxes. Almostthe whole of this sum is expended on the civil and military establishments of the government, so that very little finds its way to the imperial treasury. The revenue is not all collected in cash; on the contrary, a considerable proportion is taken in kind, such as corn, cattle, sheep, and so forth; and the collection of much of this last is avoided, as far as government is concerned, by the issue of bonds, orbarát, on the peasantry and landholders, to the extent of their dues of revenue. These bonds are distributed amongst the civil and military officials in lieu of wages. They exact their full dues, and extort as much more as their official influence and the submission of the peasantry enable them to do. The system is one of the worst that can be imagined, leads to untold oppression, and is utterly destructive of the peace and prosperity of the country.
During the last two days a number of workmen have been employed in erecting palisades along the sides of the tank in front of our quarters, and along the cypress avenues on each side of it, preparatory to a grand illumination and display of fireworks, fixed for this evening, in honour of the General’s arrival here. At seven o’clock, darkness having set in, the performance of the evening commenced. Thousands of little lamps, which had been fixed with dabs of mud at short intervals along the cross poles of the palisading, were lighted, and produced a very pretty effect. Innumerable tapering flames reflected their long trembling shadows across the placid surface of the tank, and lighted the long rows of avenue on either side with a glare of brilliancy, highly intensified by the impenetrable gloom of the close-set sombre foliage above, and the darkness of the night-enshrouded vista of the garden beyond. We had not sufficiently feasted our eyes on this attractive scene, when its brilliancy was throwninto the shade by the noisy eruption of a whole series of “volcanoes,” the contents of which shot out in a rushing jet of yellow scintillating flakes, and finished up with a loud bang, that sometimes exploded, and always overturned the volcano. Flights of rockets, roman candles, wheels, &c., followed, whilst crackers thrown into the tank scud about its surface with an angry hissing, presently plunging into its depths, and anon rising with a suffocating gurgle jarring ungratefully on the ears, and finally expiring in the throes of a death-struggle. There were besides some elephants, horses, and other nondescript animals, that were fixed in the foremost places, as master-pieces of the pyrotechnist’s art, but the less said of them the better. They emitted jets of fire and volumes of smoke from the wrong places at the wrong moments, so that, when moved to combat against each other, their clumsy shells revealed, as they rocked from side to side in their efforts to fall, the bare limbs of the human machinery that struggled to support them in their proper positions against the shocks of the exploding combustibles embedded in their flanks and extremities. Altogether the display, though a grand effort, and perhaps a feat on the part of the pyrotechnists of Kandahar, was inferior to what one sees in India, and in any European capital would be hissed at as a downright failure. The purpose, however, was noways affected by the performance, and the honour was fully appreciated as a mark of good-will and respect for the Government it was our privilege to represent.
The next day was devoted to the final arrangements for our departure on the morrow. Fresh cattle had been purchased for our camp and baggage, some new servants had been entertained, and it was necessary now to see that all were properly equipped and provided for their journey. During the afternoon we had a long interviewwith some Hindu bankers of the city, from whom we took a small advance in exchange for notes of hand upon the Government treasury at Shikárpúr. They had correspondents at Herat, Kabul, Shikárpúr, and Amritsar, but not at Mashhad, Balkh, or Bukhára. They confirmed what we had heard from other sources regarding the oppressed state of the city, and the systematic plundering of the citizens that daily goes on, but said that their own community—the Hindu traders—were not interfered with. They assured us that the rich furniture of our apartments was mostly the confiscated property of Sardár Muhammad Sharíf Khán, the Amir’s rebel brother, who has just been deported to India as a state prisoner. With the timidity and suspicion common to their class here, they spoke in low tones and with uneasy furtive glances around; and presently, when the Saggid came in for his usual afternoon cup of tea, they were evidently discomposed, and quickly retired on the first symptoms of acquiescence in their departure. The Saggid brought us some fine nosegays of blue violets, the familiar scent of which quite perfumed the room. He found me busily penning notes, and jocularly remarked, “I know you people always write down everything you see and hear, and afterwards publish it to the world. Now pray, Doctor Sáhib, what have you been writing about me?” This was an unexpectedly home question; but following in his own merry mood, I evaded a direct reply by the remark that his observation was quite correct; that as a nation we were given to writing, and that with some of us the habit exceeded the bounds of moderation and utility, and was then called acacoethes scribendi. “Very likely, very likely,” interposed the Saggid; “no doubt you people write a great deal more than is of any earthly use, but the habit is not without its merits. Nowyou will have doubtless written down all about the country you have come through, and will know it better than its own inhabitants,” I here observed that, with the most careful and leisurely inquiries, we could hardly expect to attain to such perfection. “Nay, but you do,” said the Saggid; “you go riding along and come to a village. To the first man you meet in it you say, ‘What’s the name of this village?’ He tells you, and then you say, ‘What do you call that hill?’ and he gives you its name. Out comes your note-book, and down go the names, and by and by all the world knows that there is such a hill near such a village, a fact nobody else in the country is aware of except the inhabitants of the actual locality.”
The Saggid was as much amused by this tellingargumentum ad hominemas we were, and added, “Now, by way of illustration, I will tell you what occurred to me many years ago, when, as a young man, I went to Bangalore with a batch of horses for sale. An English officer who spoke Persian asked me one day about my country, and when I told him the name of my village, he turned it up in his map, and said, ‘Yes, I see. There is a place near it called Ganda China.’ ‘No,’ said I, ‘there is no such place near it, nor even in the country.’ ‘There must be,’ maintained he. Well, considering I knew my own country best, I thought it useless arguing the point, so remained silent, allowing him to have his own way. When I returned home and recounted my adventures in the Deccan, amongst others I mentioned this circumstance, with no very flattering allusion to the English officer’s obstinacy. ‘You are wrong, Sháh Sáhib’ (the respectful title by which Saggids are addressed), said two or three voices. ‘Ganda China is the briny bog at the further end of the hollow behind our hill.’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘I never knewthat before.’ So the English officer, you see, knew what I did not of my native place.”
In the following conversation the Saggid, to his credit be it recorded, spoke most sensibly, and with a freedom from prejudice for which we were not prepared. He lamented the ignorance of his own people, and the jealousy they evinced of our learning anything about their country: “As if,” said he, “you could not send any number of Afghans into it, instructed to bring you whatever information you required regarding it.” He very truly observed that we knew more of the history and topography of his country than the most learned native in it could ever hope to do in their present state of benighted ignorance. As an instance, he mentioned a discussion at which he was present at the Amir’s court shortly before he set out from Kabul to meet us, in which not a single member present could tell the exact locality of Chinaran, of which they knew nothing more than that it was an important fort on the Persian frontier in the time of Sháh Ahmad, but in what part of the frontier nobody could tell.
14th February.—At noon we set out from Rahmdil Khán’s garden, under a salute of fifteen guns from the artillery, drawn up for the purpose outside the gate. Our route led over fields of young corn, burnt yellow by the recent hard frosts, and across a succession of irrigation streams to the village of Chihldukhtarán, beyond which we came to the Chihlzina. We alighted here, and ascended the rock for the sake of the view, which, the weather being fine and clear, was very distinct and extensive over the plain to the eastward and northwestward. In the former direction, the furthest point seen was the snow-topped peak of Súrghar, on the further side of which we were told lies the Abistada lake. To thenorth-west is the great snowy range of Sháh Macsúd, closing the prospect by a lofty ridge running from north-east to south-west. Beyond it lies the Derawat valley.
On descending we took leave of General Safdar Ali, who returned to Kandahar with a troop of regular cavalry, and proceeded in company with the Saggid and Colonel Táj Muhammad, escorted by a company of regular infantry, and a party of two hundred and fifty irregular horse, fine active fellows, very well mounted, and generally well armed. At a short distance we passed between the villages of Mír Bazár on the left and Gundigán on the right. This last is built on a couple of artificial mounds, and is noteworthy as being the only Shia village of Parsiwans in the whole province. Beyond these the road skirts a ridge of rocky hills to the left, and has the village of Murghán some way off to the right, where flows the river Argandáb. Further on we came to an extensive roadside graveyard, in which the tomb of the celebrated Mír Wais, Ghilzai, forms the most prominent object, as much from the height of its cupola above the more humble tombs around, as from the state of its decay and neglect. Passing these and the adjoining Kohkarán village, we camped a mile beyond on an open gravelly patch between the Kohkarán hill and the river bank, having marched seven miles from Kandahar.
On approaching Kohkarán, the lord of the manor, Sardár Núr Muhammad Khán, came out to meet us, and invited us to his fort for refreshment; but as it stood a little way out of our road, we politely declined, and he accompanied our party into camp, where his servants presently arrived with trays of food of sorts, and amongst the dishes a huge bowl of the nationalcúrút, which is, I believe, a close relation to thesour krautof the Germans. Sardár Núr Muhammad Khán is a son of the late Tymúr Culi Khán,own brother of the late Wazír Fath Khán, Bárakzai. He is reputed as being one of the wealthiest of the Afghan nobles, and has always adhered loyally to the cause of the present Amir during the long period of his trials and adversities. During the siege of Herat by the late Amir Dost Muhammad Khán, he was imprisoned and tortured by Shahnawáz Khán (who continued the defence after the death of his father, Sultán Ahmad Khán), on the suspicion of being a secret partisan of the Dost’s. He now told me that he was at the time in command of the Herat garrison, and that God alone preserved his life. On the fall of Herat in May 1863, Shahnawáz fled to the Persians, and became their pensioner at Tahrán. His brother, Sikandar Khán, fled to Turkistan, and took service with the Russians, by whom he was treated with distinction, and sent to St. Petersburg. Another brother, Abdullah Khán, fell into the Amir’s hands, and being a youth of some parts, was sent to reside at Kabul under surveillance.
Sardár Núr Muhammad Khán had accompanied the Amir Sher Ali in all his wanderings, and shared his misfortunes. He spoke in the gloomiest words of the future prospects of his country, and seemed glad to retire from the troubles of public life to the solitude and quiet of his country-seat. He had been here about twenty months, and seldom went beyond his own domain. He came out to meet us with Sardár Mír Afzul Khán’sisticbálfrom Kandahar, but except on such occasions he seldom even goes to the city.
He is a fine, blunt, and honest Afghan, with prepossessing looks and very hospitable manners. His time is mostly spent in improving his castle, to which he has just added an extensive range of stables for the hundred horses his stud consists of. He is said to possess some of the best Arab, Baloch, and Turkman horses in thecountry. He was mounted on a beautiful Arab himself, and by his side rode an attendant mounted on a great Turkman of wonderful strength and fleetness, as he proved to us by putting the animal to its full speed across the plain.
He told us that this winter was the severest season known to have occurred during the past twenty years, and, as an instance of its severity, assured us that the black partridges in his vineyards had all been killed by the cold, numbers having been found lying dead upon the snow.
From our camp we have a full view of the Argandáb valley, and the crowd of villages and gardens along the course of its river. Numerous canals are drawn off from its stream for purposes of irrigation, and for the water supply of Kandahar. To the northward the valley extends in a wide upland pasture tract to the foot of the ridge of hills separating it from the adjoining Khákrez valley. The hills have a very barren look, and are crossed by several passes practicable to footmen only.
From Kohkarán we marched eighteen miles, and camped on the roadside between Hanz Maddad Khán and Sang Hissár. At a short distance from camp we crossed a deep irrigation canal, and at once descended a steep clay bank into the bed of the Argandáb river. The channel here is very wide and boulder-strewed, and the river flows through its centre, and there are besides two little streams, one under each bank. The current is strong and stirrup-deep. We found hundreds of wild-fowl and coolan along the pools bordering the river; and I went off with Colonel Táj Muhammad and shot a few teal and purse-necks. The coolan were much too vigilant to allow us to get within range. During the hot-weather rains, this river swells into a raging torrent, andis quite impassable for three or four days together. The farther bank of the river is low, and lined by an irrigation canal similar to that on the other bank.
Beyond the river, the road passes through a wide extent of corn-fields and villages, known collectively as Sanzari, and bounding them to the southward is a ridge of hills called Takhti Sanzari, on which we could trace indistinctly the remains of ancient ruins.
We cleared the Sanzari lands at a roadsideziárat, over the door of which were fixed some iben and márkhor horns; and leaving the Ashogha canal and village to the left, entered on a vast treeless waste, that gently slopes up to the Khákrez range towards the north. We followed a well-trodden path over the gravelly plain in a south-west direction, and leaving the Sufed Rawán villages and cultivation along the river bank to our left, camped a little beyond the Hanz Maddad, and close to a ruined mound called Sang Hissár.
Thehanz, or reservoir, named after its builder, Maddad Khán, of whom nobody could tell us anything, is now, like everything else in this country, fast going to ruin. It has long been dry, and the projecting wings from the central dome, which were meant as a shelter for the wayfarer, are now choked with the débris of the crumbling walls and heaps of drift sand. At thehanzthe road branches—one track goes due west across the plain to Kishkinákhud and Girishk, and the other south-west to Garmsel by the route of Calá Búst.
Westward of this point the country assumes an aspect altogether different from that we have hitherto traversed. It presents a vast expanse of undulating desert plain, upon which abut the terminal offsets from the great mountain ranges to the northward and eastward. The weather being fine and the atmosphere singularly clear, we wereenabled to get a very extensive view of the general aspect and configuration of the country.
To the west were the terminal spurs of the Khákrez range, ending on the plain, and concealing from view the valley of that name, and on which we looked back as we advanced on our route. To the west and south respectively, the horizon was cut by an arid waste and sandy desert. Close at hand to the east, between the junction of the Argandáb with the Tarnak, is the termination of the Baba Walí range. To its north lies the valley of the Argandáb, running up north-east as far as the eye can reach in a continual succession of villages, gardens, and corn-fields, a picture of prosperity strikingly in contrast with the arid and bare aspect of the country to the south of the range. In this latter direction the parallel ranges of Arghasán, Barghana, and Kadani, coursing the wide plateau from north-east to south-west, all terminate in low ridges that abut upon the Dorí river opposite to the sand-cliffs of the great desert that separates Kandahar and Sistan from the mountain region of Makrán.
The angle of junction of the Argandáb and Tarnak is called Doaba. To the south of the Takhti Sanzari it is continuous with the Panjwaí district on the banks of the Tarnak. It is very populous, and is covered with villages and gardens, celebrated for the excellence of their pomegranates. From Panjwaí there is a direct route across the desert to Hazárjuft. The distance is said to be only eighty miles. The desert skirt from this point, along the course of the Dorí right down to the end of the Lora river on the plain of Shorawak and Núshkí, is said to afford excellent winter pasturage for camels and sheep. This skirt forms a tract some fifteen or twenty miles wide on the border of the actual sandy desert, and is at this season occupied by the camps of the nomadAchakzai, Núrzai, and Bárech Afghans. It produces lucerne, clover, carrot, and other wild herbs in profusion during the spring. Our next stage was twenty-two miles, to the river bank near the hamlet called, from its adjacent spring, Chashma. It is included in the lands of Kishkinákhud. Our route was by a well-beaten path on the gravelly plain at about two miles from the river, towards which it slightly inclined as we proceeded westward.
To the left of our course, along a narrow strip on the river bank, are the collection of villages and gardens known as Bágh Marez and Sháhmír. Amongst them, conspicuous for its neatness and strength, is the little fort of Khúshdil Khán, son of the late Sardár Mihrdil Khán, and elder brother of Sardár Sher Ali Khán, the recent governor of Kandahar. He has always held aloof from politics, and spends his life in the seclusion of his country retreat. On the farther side of the river the land rises at once into a high coast, formed by round bluffs that stretch away towards the desert in a tossed and billowy surface of loose sand.
To the right of our route lay the Kishkinákhud plain. It supports a very scattered and thin growth of pasture herbs, amongst which we noticed some stunted bushes of the camel-thorn and sensitive mimosa. As we advanced we came abreast of the Khákrez valley away to the north across the plain. It has a dreary and desert look, and appeared uninhabited. It has no perennial stream, but is drained by a central ravine which crosses the plain as a wide and shallow water-run, called Khákrez Shela. We crossed it dryshod a little way short of camp.
Beyond Khákrez is the Sháh Macsúd range of hills, now covered with snow. The hills are said to be well stocked with large trees, and amongst them the wild or bitter almond. We were assured that the Popalzais, who holdthis country, had of late years taken to grafting the wild trees as they grew on the hillsides with the sweet and cultivated almond, and with complete success.
At the foot of a dark spur branching off southward from the main range was pointed out the site of the ruins of Mywand. They are described as very extensive; and in the time of Mahmúd of Ghazni, the city was the seat of the government of his wazír, Mír Hassan. At the head of the valley, to its north, are the sulphur hot springs of Garmába, resorted to by the natives of the vicinity as a remedy for rheumatism and diseases of the skin.
During the latter part of the march we passed a couple of roadside hamlets occupied by Hotab Ghilzais, and watered bykárezstreams. There was very little cultivation about, and the villagers appeared a very poor and miserable set.
The weather is fine and clear, and the air delightfully fresh and mild. We are now fairly clear of the hills, and are entered upon the great basin of the Kandahar drainage.
17th February.—We set out from Chashma at eightA.M., and marched twenty-three miles to Baldakhán by a good gravelly path following the course of the river at about a mile from its right bank. At about the third mile we passed the hamlet of Mulla Azím, occupied by Mandínzai Isháczais, who areastánadárof the Saraban Afghans (that is to say, descendants of an Afghan saint of the Saraban division of the nation), and consequently hold their lands rent free, and enjoy other privileges and immunities accorded to members of the priest class. Beyond this we entered on the Bandi Tymúr, a long strip of villages and cultivation extending for twelve miles or so along the right bank of the river, which here flows over a wide pebbly channel interspersed with patches ofdwarf tamarisk jangal. The soil is everywhere gravelly and charged with salines, which here and there form extensive encrustations on the surface. Severalkárezstreams, brought from the undulating tract of Kháki Chanpán to the north, cross the road at intervals, and a succession of irrigation canals led off from the river intersect the country on either side. The tract derives its name from an ancientbandor weir thrown across the river in the time of Tymúr. We did not see any signs of this dam, nor could we learn that any traces of it were still in existence.
To the north of the Bandi Tymúr tract are first the Miskárez hamlets and cultivation, and beyond them are the Kháki Chanpán hamlets, concealed from view in the sheltered hollows of the undulating pasture tract of that name. Away to the north beyond it, between the Khákrez and Sháh Macsúd ranges, is seen the Ghorát valley, in which are the hot sulphur springs of Garmába already mentioned. To the north of Ghorát is seen the Dosang range of hills, that separate it from the Derawat valley, which drains by a perennial stream to the Helmand in Zamíndáwar. This is described as a very populous and fertile valley, continuous to the north-east with the country of the Hazerahs. To the north-west of it, a range of hills intervening, is the Washír valley, which drains to the river of Khásh.
To the south, on the left of our route, the sandy desert abuts upon the river in a high bank of water-worn stones, in the sheltered hollows between which is a close succession of nomad camps, that extend in a continuous line for nearly fifty miles, for we marched in sight of them to within a few miles of Calá Búst. The camps were on shelving banks close upon the river bed, and were seldommore than half-a-mile apart. Their unbroken black line upon the red ground of the sandy bluffs formed a very prominent object of attraction, and the extent of the cordon proved the numerical strength of the nomads to far exceed the limit of what we had supposed their numbers to be. I counted sixty-three camps in view at the same time. The number of tents in each ranged from twenty up to eighty, but the majority appeared to contain from forty to fifty tents. If we allow two hundred camps along the river from Chashma to Búst, and reckon only forty tents in each, it will give a total of eight thousand tents or families; and if we take each family to consist of five individuals, it will give us forty thousand as the total of the nomad population massed in this part of the country. The calculation is by no means exaggerated; on the contrary I believe it to be under the mark.
Similar encampments, we are assured, extend along the desert skirt, where it abuts on the channels of the Tarnak and Dorí rivers, right down to Shorawak, and are reckoned to contain a total of not less than forty thousand tents, or two hundred thousand souls. These nomads include a number of tribes from all the hill country between this and Kabul. They come down from the highlands with their cattle and flocks during September and October, pass the winter here, and return to their summer pastures during March and April. Their sheep and camels find abundant pasture at this season on the borders of the desert, and are scattered over its surface to a distance of twelve or fifteen miles from the river. There are here and there superficial pools of rain-water (callednáwar) on the pasture tracts, but generally the cattle are driven down to water at the river every third or fourthday. A couple of centuries ago nearly the entire Afghan nation were nomads, or, as they are here called,kizhdí nishín, from their mode of dwelling, and sometimessahára nishín, from the place of habitation.
At about the sixth mile of our march we passed another roadside hamlet of the Mandínzai Isháczais. Some of the villagers came out and took up a position on the road in front of us, with a Curán suspended across the path in a sheet stretched between two poles hastily stuck into the ground. We passed under the sacred volume, and received the blessing of its owners in return for a rupee given to them by the Saggid. Our grooms, with uplifted arms, made a bound, touched the book, and then their foreheads and hearts, the while invoking the prophet’s blessing.
At about half-way on this march we passed the ruins of an old town and the remains of a fort overlooking the river. Beyond this the country is bare and desolate. The soil is either a coarse gravel covered with a thin jangal of camel-thorn, or it is a spongy clay white with excess of salines. For many miles here the road passes through a long succession of salt-pits. Near Ballakhan we turned off to the left, and camped on a saline tract close to the river.
A high north-east wind blew all day, and, fortunately for us, drove clouds of salt dust against our backs, instead of in our faces. The sky became cloudy in the afternoon, and towards sunset gusty showers of rain fell. On the line of march we were overtaken by a courier from Jacobabad with our letters and newspapers, and dates up to the 26th January. We spent the evening in reading the news of the world we had left behind us.
Next to returning to one’s own, there is nothing so delightful as the receiving intelligence from them. Wealways hailed the arrival of our posts with unconcealed joy; and no sooner possessed ourselves of the contents of one, than we looked forward to the arrival of another, with an eagerness that only those placed in similar circumstances could possibly evince.