CHAPTER XXVIII.
“The Divine Figure from the North”—Sherpur during May—Turkish Fugitives from Russian Territory—Cabul in Prosperity—The People enriched at the Expense of the British Government—The Coining of Cabuli Rupees—The Effect upon the People—Street Sketches—Life in the Bazaars—The Hindu and Kizilbash Quarters—Rapacity of the Traders—The Abundance of Fruit—Ice-cream Stalls—An Instance of Fanaticism—History of the Kizilbashes—Their Turki Descent—Elphinstone’s Estimate of their Character—Their Strength in Cabul estimated at 6,000 Fighting Men—Their Treatment by the Amirs.
16th May, 1880.
There is such a holy calm in Sherpur that we begin to question whether all the excitement of the last six months has not been a nightmare. No bustle or excitement, no sudden alarms, no gathering of armed men to pour out upon Asmai, Siah Sung, or Charasia; our cavalry rest quietly in their lines without any expectation of “boot-and-saddle” sounding; and every sentry in the cantonment whiles away his time, not in wondering whether the enemy are near, but in sweet speculation as to when orders will be issued for the march to India. The majority of us believe that, as regards severe fighting, we have satisfied the Afghans, although a last flash in the pan may occur before the final settlement; and there being no amusement in calculating the chances of the next action, we fall back upon discussion of possible arrangements with the various claimants to the Amirship. Abdur Rahman’s name is in every man’s mouth, and the news of his departure from Kunduz for Cabul is awaited with almost as much anxiety as the result of the Derby. The Sirdar is our “divine figure from the north,” at least just now. But we have to live as comfortably as we can in the meantime; and though our life in cantonments is necessarily a colourless one, it has more points than a hot-house existence in India. First, in the order of comparison, we have an almost perfect climate; next, we have some little amusements; and lastly, by reason of our separation from civilization, we have a less artificial and less blameful life than is possible in the irritating and bilious furnace “down below.” It does not say much for civilization that this should be so; but we have fewer temptations, and, consequently, fewer faults to atone for. The “grass-widowers” of Cabul, I undertake to say with most serious earnestness, are on a far higher level of moral purity than that easy-living, freely-flirting, and most charming section of Indian society which migrates yearly to the hills when punkahs are in full swing. We talk less scandal; we are less covetous of other persons’ property, animate or inanimate; we do not turn night into day to the music of the trois temps or “Pinafore;” and we do our duty quietly, albeit with a little wholesome grumbling. But as news drifts up from the Khyber line, and we learn how the poor fellows between Gundamak and Lundi Kotal are grilling in their single-fly tents with manifold troubles on every hand, we grow placidly thankful that we are in Cabul, with good thick walls about us, and a foot of mud between us and the sun. Not everyone could be in hill stations if all the troops were back in India; and we are less discontented now at our lot—a wifeless, loverless one though it be—than we were three months ago. Cabul “grass-widowers” will no doubt be in great demand when once more they are transplanted into Simla, Mussoorie, or Naini Tal society, for a war beaten-warrior is far more esteemed than a carpet knight. Fair ears will tingle with pleasure when whispered explanations are given of the days spent in unwonted innocence in Afghanistan—
“Days when we laughed for joy of summer heat,
Nor laughed less loud when snow made white the ground.”
We have pined for “loot, love, and liberty:” the first we may never get; but every day brings us nearer to the others, and we well know what our reward will be. Will it not be counted in our favour that no band will play “The girl I left behind me” when once more our faces are turned eastwards? It surely should be, or our grass-widowhood will have been precious time uselessly squandered. But, frivolity apart, we take our change at Time’s counter with composure, and are not too anxious concerning our immediate fate. There are the current duties of a large camp to be gone through daily: they can never be shirked, but must always be done systematically and thoroughly. Regiments have their guards to mount day and night, spring drill and parades to attend, recruits to be shaped into good soldiers, embryo signallers to be trained, transport to be kept in good order. Colonel Low has worked a wonderful change in our transport, and we shall soon be able to “march anywhere and do anything.” General Roberts is away with a division of 5,000 men visiting Logar, Wardak and Maidan; his troops are in excellent health and are enjoying the trip amazingly.
We have visitors occasionally, other than officers who have taken a short leave from a station down the line to pay a visit to Cabul. A few days ago three Turkish soldiers applied at the Bala Hissar for food and assistance on their journey to India. They were sent to Major Hastings, Political Officer, and told a story full of adventure. They were an old man, his son, and a wild-looking Turk of the Bashi-Bazouk order. The youngest of the party was very intelligent, and a handsome specimen of the Turkish peasantry, while his father was still unbroken in strength in spite of his misfortunes. The “Bashi-Bazouk,” as we imagined him to be, though he denied the impeachment, was the embodiment of rude strength: he still wore the long blue coat he had donned when called upon to fight the Russians, and across the breast were a dozen little pockets, each large enough to hold a cartridge, and showing signs of great wear. A Turcoman fur cap, with the tanned skin outside and a fringe of fur showing all round, covered his long, matted hair, and added to the wildness of his appearance. All the men were travel-stained, and looked forlorn enough; but their satisfaction at being among the “Inglis” was without bounds, and they were as cheerful and contented as if the 10,000 miles between Cabul and Istamboul were only a league. Their story was that they were natives of the village of Soghral, ten days’ march from Kars, and that when the Russian war broke out they joined Haji Ali’s regiment, their captain being Haji Shuman. The latter was killed in action, and the Russians took the whole of the Soghral villagers prisoners. Men, women, and children were marched for eleven days until the railway was reached in the district of the Caucasus, when the whole party were transferred to the rail. After four days’ travelling they gained Moscow, whence their families were sent to St. Petersburg, while the men were sent eastwards to Dobiska. Here they were kept prisoners for two years, being lightly ironed, but having no work to do. They received about two and a half annas in Russian money daily, with which they bought food, and upon which they managed to live. At the end of two years their irons were removed, and they were told to settle down about Dobiska and cultivate the land. At the earliest opportunity a number of them absconded, of whom these three men kept together. For fifteen days they travelled secretly, doing long distances at night, until they reached Kazakia, on the outer border of Bokhara. Here they were safe, as their fellow-Mussulmans willingly gave them food; but they did not dare to go before the Amir of Bokhara, as they believed he was on friendly terms with the Russians. They stayed during the winter at Guzar, as they were told the Passes towards Cabul were closed; but in the spring they left Bokhara and made for Mazar-i-Sharif. Here they found Ishak Khan as Governor: the place was quiet enough, and but few troops were holding it. Thence they marched to Bamian, their poverty no doubt saving them from molestation, and at last they reached Cabul. Their desire was to be sent to Bombay, whence their Consul could forward them to Constantinople. Major Hastings gave them Rs. 50 to get a new outfit in the city, and make themselves clean and comfortable. On Monday they were presented to Sir Donald Stewart, and were afterwards fêted and photographed: the native officers of the Guides giving them a great dinner, while Mr. Burke immortalized them with his camera. The poor wretches were immensely pleased, and will no doubt carry back to Turkey good impressions of our kindness to them in distant Cabul.
It has chanced that since December last I have visited the city of Cabul but twice: once when the snow was still lying on the ground, and our engineers were busy raising new fortifications on the Sherderwaza Heights. On this occasion I merely passed from the Bala Hissar along the skirts of the lowest quarters of the city, as the Heights had to be scaled; so that, in wandering through the bazaars a few days ago, the impression uppermost in my mind was the state of Cabul immediately after Mahomed Jan’s flight. Then the city was gloomy and terror-stricken: it had gone hand and heart with the ghazi-log during the triumphant days of the siege of Sherpur, and it dreaded the retribution which hung over it. The alien Kizilbashes and Hindus were joyful enough at the re-establishment of order: but their wrecked shops and pillaged houses were sad relics of the fanatical storm which had passed over Cabul. No man of the Mussulman population could foretell what the punishment of the city would be, and the half-deserted bazaars and the still by-streets were eloquent of the fear which cowed the unruly populace. But instead of bloody reprisals and harsh repression, it seemed good in the eyes of our leaders that gentleness and free forgiveness should be the means used to win over the city; and now Cabul is more prosperous and peaceful than it has been for many generations. The rumours of new wars and insidious intrigues of Abdur Rahman’s approach from the north, and the gathering of the tribes at Ghazni, pass over the heads of the people like a fitful wind over a lake, stirring the placid surface, but leaving no lasting impression. There have been, since the beginning of the year, long, long days in which the traders and holders of contracts from the British saw their coffers filling with the rupees which are now looked upon in India as having “mysteriously disappeared” from the Punjab treasuries; longer weeks wherein everyone, from Sirdar Wali Mahomed to the commonest Hazara coolie, found how good a paymaster the Sircar is when his necessity is urgent; and still longer months during which lakhs of Indian rupees were melted down in the city mint to be reissued in the form of Cabul rupees and spread broadcast over the land. Cabul has prospered, and waxed proud: its merchants have never been so rich; the common people have never seen such a steady flow of money through the bazaars. Even the Hindus, who know something of our wealth, are astonished; they cannot appreciate the self-denial and honesty of purpose which guide us in our transactions with a conquered race. “Your money is without limit,” a Hindu banker said to me; “but why do you give it all to this faithless people (be-iman log)? They are your enemies, they hate and revile you; why not take what you want?” Any other nation making war would probably requisition the country and forcibly seize supplies; but with the philanthropy which guides our actions, we pay ten times the normal value of the things needed for our army, and plume ourselves proudly as men walking upright before the Lord. To enrich dishonest men; to give to our enemies that which they most need—sterling money; to encourage chicanery and wanton deceit—this is a poor rôle to play when we come to Cabul as an avenging army; but, perhaps there are “exigencies” which plead for all this weakness, and will in the future give a rose-coloured tinge to our balance-sheets. Can Cabul fail to be prosperous under such conditions? can its citizens not afford to wear an insolent air of triumph, and treat such customers as appear among them with an easy assumption of independence, sorely aggravating to officer and soldier alike?
I have called this article “Cabul in Prosperity,” and I think the title is justifiable. We have worked our will in the Bala Hissar, and have made it a citadel worthy of the name: but in the city proper we have neither made nor meddled, and the narrow streets, if cleaner, still retain their distinctive features. Buying and selling, money-changing and broking, flourish with an energy that makes no count of changing fortunes or shifting careers. Sirdar Wali Mahomed’s governorship can only last so long as British bayonets are at his back; but in the sunshine of our favour he sets the example of amassing wealth, and all his followers tread in his footsteps. Sirdar Hashim Khan is on the eve of departure for Candahar, where Shere Ali Khan has offered him asylum. His departure troubles the minds of the citizens but little, as the stream of Indian silver will not be diverted by his absence. While not understanding our simplicity in dealing, and while looking upon us as madmen in the matter of finance—for are we not taunted with “changing our Rani’s head” by ordering Indian rupees to be melted down and turned into Cabuli coin?—the Cabulis, with their keen rapacity, seize every opportunity of enriching themselves. Take the conversion of Indian rupees into local coin; through our benevolent mode of action we have never been able to say that our coin shall have a fixed value, and a “ring” of scoundrels in Cabul have so rigged the market that in the bazaars at the present time the two rupees are constantly of equal value. So some clever financier at once jumps to the conclusion that we may as well pay in Cabuli rupees as in Indian. Now the quantity of silver in 100 Indian rupees permits of 127 Cabulis being made therewith, and so we pour our brand new coins into the mint (wherein there is no European supervision of any kind), and for every 100 sent in Sirdar Wali Mahomed returns us 120! Only a few days ago three lakhs of the treasure with General Hills’ force was sent to Cabul to be converted into local rupees. Is the reason for this that the Logar villagers refuse our rupees? If so, it would surely be the mildest form of coercion to force them to take payment in whatever silver coin we chose. The profits on the coining (say five per cent.) go presumably into Wali Mahomed’s pocket, as Government is too strait-laced to make profit itself; and yet that Sirdar had the cool effrontery to refuse to coin Cabuli rupees, when a lakh was wanted for the Logar force, until he first received Indian rupees from Sherpur. He was not punished for his insolence; but as we have still to levy the fine inflicted upon the city for the murder of our Envoy, he may yet be mulcted, say, in a lakh. Some of us are curious to know when and how the said fine will be levied; but, perhaps, we may be looked upon as inquisitive.[[43]] One thing is clear: we shall never get our money back in the shape of Indian rupees, and our only consolation is that if Afghanistan continues to absorb a few hundred thousand pounds worth of silver monthly, the rate of exchange between India and England must improve.
Having explained the irritating causes of the present prosperity of Cabul, I may now with a clear conscience describe a little more in detail the appearance of the city itself. In the First Book of Kings we are told many valuable anecdotes of King Solomon, not the least interesting of which is the account of the payment made to Hiram, King of Tyre, who furnished “cedar trees, and fir trees, and gold” to assist the King of Israel in the adornment and fortification of Jerusalem. This payment consisted of the gift of twenty cities in the land of Galilee, cities so worthless that, when Hiram saw them, he said:—“What cities are these which thou hast given me, my brother?” And the narrative further states that “he called them the land of Cabul unto this day.” The word “Cabul” our annotators explain as signifying “displeasing or dirty;” and, strangely enough, the latter epithet is extremely applicable to the modern capital of Afghanistan. The side-streets and purlieus, even the walls of many of the houses, are filthy in the extreme, though our strict sanitary system has made the bazaars almost as clean as those of an Indian city. Cabul is not so “displeasing” to the eye when viewed from the neighbouring heights, for the orchards of Deh-i-Afghan and scattered clumps of trees in Chandaul make the place look quite picturesque. But once in the heart of the city, beyond the busy stream of life which pours along the bazaars and renews itself every hour in some mysterious way, there is nothing but dulness and gloom in the dead mud walls of the houses, with their frowning doorways or dark noisome passages leading to unknown dens behind. In the bazaars all is life and hustle. Entering the city by a side-road from Sherpur, one sees the bed of the Cabul river lying waterless on the left, save for a few stagnant pools, where the dhobies are at work, or a vendor of atchcha salad is washing a donkey-load of lettuce preparatory to the day’s business. Over a bridge, on one side of which are a score of shoemakers’ stalls—there seems to be one shoemaker to every twenty inhabitants in Cabul—and then into the narrow Shore Bazaar, I find more shoemakers and leather-sellers, whose stalls are oddly mixed up with those of fruiterers, bakers, retailers of ices, and workers in iron and copper. Men on horseback, swaggering sowars of Wali Mahomed or other sirdars; Hazara coolies with heavy loads on their broad backs; idle Cabulis; peasants from the district with blue turbans; stalwart mountaineers who look upon the street as their own; a sprinkling of red-coated British soldiers, and sepoys and sowars in all stages of negligent undress (but with rifles or swords always ready)—all these elements are mingled in noisy but good-tempered confusion; while at every ten yards one’s horse has to be pulled on his haunches, because some young Cabul chief is playing at hide-and-seek under his legs. Suddenly a string of camels, with loads of firewood or heavy merchandise, has to be passed—rather a ticklish business occasionally, as the dead weight of the beasts and their loads cleave a way for itself, regardless of obstacles. A few white-clad women glide unobtrusively along, their yashmaks hiding whatever charms they may possess; blind beggars and shrill voiced fakirs obtrude their wants upon the stranger; bhistees clank their metal drinking vessels, or pour out a cool draught from the ever-ready mussuk; salad vendors pilot their sedate donkeys, laden with crisp green food, through the crowd; boys, with their trays of chupaties, cry out the goodness of their rotee; a marriage procession, with tom-toms beating and lusty lungs pouring forth jubilant songs, comes gaily along, a closely covered structure, somewhat in the shape of a beehive, containing the bride, whose weight is not felt by the shoulders of her bearers,—this is the living mosaic which paves the bazaars. There is a vividness in all the types of life, which is very striking, from the matted-haired fakir, who does not hesitate to seize a passer-by in his repulsive grip, so resolute is his demand for alms, to the careless youngster who leans over his donkey, idly chewing a young onion, which answers to the straw of Western street-life. An unveiled woman, wretchedly clad, dirty, and with the features of a Seven Dials’ hag, takes a handful of the youngster’s salad from his donkey’s back; he strikes her on the back with his stick, whereupon she turns round, flings the pilferred stalks in his face, and abuses him in choicest Cabuli. This unexpected “knocking of his leek about his pate” so cows the boy that he moves off hastily, leaving the harridan in possession of the field.
I have by this time wandered into the Char Chowk, or principal bazaar of the city, and here the crowd is denser, the stalls more pretentious, the trade brisker. The bazaar is in four lengths, each roofed over and solidly built of masonry, and the stalls are nearly all rented by jewellers and dealers in silks and cottons. On either hand, above the stalls, richly coloured silks, gaudy chintzes, carpets, and caps of brilliant hues are hung out, making a brave show; while the traders, seated cross-legged below, are surrounded by their stock, upon which they seem to keep a careless eye. I have before spoken of their keenness in trade, and I can only add that, since the early days of our occupation they have grown keener and more rapacious, until to buy goods direct from them is to court being cheated in every way. Still, this does not prevent officers and men from purchasing Bokhara silks and various knick-knacks, for all of which absurdly high prices are given. A good Pathan Sepoy is the best companion to have when buying any articles at the stalls, and he will bully the shopkeeper and finally induce him to take about one-fourth of the price first asked. As the day wears on trade slackens a little, and here and there a shopkeeper pores over a Persian book, while his son keeps watch upon the stock-in-trade. In that silk merchant’s stall, though it be in the heart of the bazaar, are three grey-bearded men listening with supreme pleasure to the excited reader, whom, in my own mind, I believe to be reading the songs of Hafiz; in the next stall a burly Mussulman lies sleeping on a pile of Manchester cottons; while near at hand is a pious old villain taking advantage of a lull to submit his hoary head to the hands of a barber. A shrill cry as of a child in pain draws one further on; it is nothing serious: another pious old gentleman is watching his son’s scalp being treated in the same way by another barber. The boy, some three or four years old, has never felt the razor’s edge before, and shrieks at every stroke, while his father threatens him with a huge stick: the operation is at last over, and the child, still quietly sobbing, passes his hands carefully over his head as if doubtful of it still remaining upon his shoulders. Once convinced that his hair only has gone by the board, he plucks up courage and smiles apologetically upon his father, who gravely strokes his beard in approval. The little incident is only one of many which draw attention, and one might easily elaborate such scenes; but then the charm of simplicity would be destroyed. From the Char Chowk Bazaar to Chandaul is but a few yards, and one passes on the way more fruit-stalls, in which tiers upon tiers of lettuce flank the luscious heaps of apricots, cherries, peaches, and apples which are now pouring into Cabul from Koh-Daman and Chardeh. So much has been written about the Cabul fruit-stalls that it is necessary to say the abundance of fruit has not at all been exaggerated; the stone fruits seem just as abundant as the delicious grapes which we indulged in so freely in the autumn. The vendors of ices are nearly always side by side with the fruit-sellers; the huge blocks of snow which adorn their stalls tempting all sun-dried souls to cool their palates with a little saucer of icy-cold cream flavoured with a sprinkling of mashed fruit. The trade is brisk in these ices, although the dust coats the open trays of cream until it turns a delicate brown. It is not pleasant for any of us to pause at the stall, as the fanaticism of these dealers is proverbial. There is a story afloat, that after an officer had eaten an “ice,” the dealer took the saucer and dashed it to the ground as having been defiled by a Kafir. These people do not love us, however well we treat them. Chandaul Bazaar is only a repetition of the Char-Chowk on a smaller scale, with more fruit shops and a few foul-smelling butcher’s stalls, but the traders are nearly all Hindus and Kizilbashes, who, I must in justice say, are just as rapacious as the Mahomedans. And so one wanders back into the main bazaar, where bhistees are sprinkling the roadway liberally with water, and the afternoon trade is reviving; past the kotwali, where a few sepoys of the 5th Punjabees are on duty; and thence out by the Peshawur Gate, near the Bala Hissar. We have seen Cabul in prosperity, its people insolent enough to check all desire to enter the walls again, and on the ride back to cantonments we are lost in a dream of what the future will be of the city which we have twice occupied, and which has always cost us so dear.
The question of retirement is a serious one to many people in Cabul and the district. The Hindu traders of the city will, it is believed, migrate almost to a man, but the Kizilbashes will trust to their traditional influence in Cabul to pull them through any difficulty in the future. These two trading classes have amassed large sums of money during our occupation; and the Hindu, weak and defenceless, knows too well that a needy Amir would “borrow” most of his gains in a very high-handed way. The Kizilbash is more independent; and as, at a pinch, the Shiahs can turn out 6,000 fighting men, all well-equipped, any Amir would hesitate to make the “red-heads” his enemies. Major Hastings has prepared a short account of these aliens, which is of some interest at the present time, but little having been previously known of this important section of the Cabul populace. Elphinstone, it is true, states that they are members of that colony of Turks which predominates in Persia, and traces its descent from Kijan. To them was given the place of honour in Nadir Shah’s conquering army, and when a military colony was formed in Cabul, their quarter was called “Chandaul,” which, by interpretation, is “vanguard.” Elphinstone’s opinion of them was thus expressed:—“The Kizilbashes in Afghanistan partake of the character of their countrymen in Persia. They are lively, ingenious, and even elegant and refined; but false, designing, and cruel; rapacious, but profuse, voluptuous, and fond of show; at once insolent and servile, destitute of all moderation in prosperity and of all pride in adversity; brave at one time and cowardly at another, but always fond of glory; full of prejudice, but affecting to be liberal and enlightened; admirable for a mere acquaintance (if one can bear with their vanity), but dangerous for a close connection.” They are, according to Major Hastings, still distinct in many respects from those around them; and being of the Shiah section of Mahomedans, there is great religious animosity between them and the Afghans, who are Sunis. They all speak Persian, but the Kizilbashes of Aoshahr, in the Chardeh Valley and some of the older men among the Jawansher of Chandaul, still talk Turki in the privacy of their own families. The portions of Cabul city occupied by the “red-heads”—so called because of their distinctive turbans of crimson cloth—are Chandaul, immediately at the foot of the Sherderwaza Hill and Moradkhani, looking towards Sherpur. In Chardeh their chief villages are Nanuchi and Taiba. The total number of families in and about Cabul is 3,220, but these can furnish only 6,000 fighting men—a small proportion compared with Afghan families, every male in which is a fighting unit. In Candahar and Herat there are a large number of families descended from Nadir Shah’s vanguard, and a few Kizilbashes are also located in Turkistan. The Jawansher section, occupying the greater part of Chandaul, is the most important clan in Cabul, and has at the present moment several of its members holding commands in the Turkistan army. Appointments under Government, such as those of secretaries, accountants, and similar grades, are always largely held by Kizilbashes; while in years gone by there were several Kizilbash regiments in the regular army. Hussein Ali Khan, of the Jawansher section, was once Commander-in-Chief of the Afghan army, and many others of the clan rose to important commands. The red-capped regiments were so powerful in Ahmed Shah’s reign that to prevent civil war in Cabul that monarch sent them to Turkistan, with orders to conquer Balkh. This they did with very little trouble, and Ahmed Shah was then possessed with a fear that they would become independent, and finally prove dangerous enemies. At the suggestion of Morad Khan, Populzai, he recalled them, and assigned to them permanently the portion of Cabul and Chardeh which they now occupy. Moradkhani was called after Ahmed Shah’s adviser. In Shah Suja’s and Shah Zuman’s reigns they were harshly treated, and with their usual independence they joined Haji Jumal and Paenda Khan, the father of the Dost Mahomed. When the Dost was in power, he singled his allies out for many distinctions, the fact of his mother being a Kizilbash lady having, no doubt, great weight with him. The clan refer to their treatment by the Amir Shere Ali Khan and his son, Yakub, in anything but grateful terms. Both Amirs, it would seem, were rather inclined to tyrannize over the Shiahs. Major Hastings gives some carefully-prepared genealogical tables, showing the status and place of residence of the chief families, and concludes his report by stating that, though the Kizilbashes still represent a certain amount of strength in Afghanistan, their power is by no means so great as in former years.