[Author joins Karavan from Bokhara; Slavery]
After a wearisome delay, we at last received intelligence of the arrival of the Herat karavan. I hurried to Kerki, and thought that I might proceed on my journey, when our departure was again postponed owing to a dispute about the tax imposed upon emancipated slaves. Mollah Zeman had in his karavan about forty of these, partly from Herat, partly from Persia, who journeyed homeward under his protection, which the poor men were obliged to purchase at a high rate, for otherwise they incurred the risk of being caught up and sold a second time. Although Zeman was well known to all the officers on the frontiers, he nevertheless had quarrels with them every time he passed, not so much on account of the tax itself, which is here fixed, but of the number of the slaves liable to it, which he always endeavoured to diminish and the authorities to increase. Every traveller not well known is presumed to be a slave, and is seized as such; and as every one seeks to enforce his own view of liability or exemption, there is no end to the shouting, quarrelling, and tumult. Finally, however, everything is left to the decision of the Kervanbashi, who, from his karavan of from 50 to 100 travellers, names such as emancipated slaves whose type, language, and other indications are unmistakable. Generally speaking, suspicion principally attaches to vagabonds and other travellers who journey with no apparent object in view; and as these for the most part assume the title of Hadjis, it is the policy of the Zeman to get together in Bokhara as many genuine Hadjis as possible, in whose ranks he then places his ex-slaves the false Hadjis.
They took a whole day to get through the bales of goods, the men, horses, camels, and asses. At last, they started, escorted by a custom-house officer, who kept strict watch to prevent any other travellers joining the karavan by circuitous routes. When we had got beyond the inhabited district--which is, in fact, the frontier of Bokhara--he turned back, and we proceeded on our way into the desert. We were in two days to reach the Khanat of Andkhuy.
[Zeid]
Whilst my heavily-laden ass was trotting on in the still night, the joyful thought for the first time occurred to me that I had turned my back upon the Khanat of Bokhara, and that I was actually on my way to that West which I loved so well. My travelling experience, thought I, may not be great, but I carry back with me what is worth more than anything--my life. I could not contain myself for joy when I thought that perhaps I might be so fortunate as to reach Persia, that Mecca of my warmest wishes. Our karavan, consisting of 400 camels, a few horses, and 190 asses, formed a long chain; and after sturdily marching the whole night, we reached, early in the morning, the station Zeid, which consists of a few wells of bad water at six miles' distance from Kerki. There were in the karavan, as I remarked at the first station, many others besides myself who were longing to reach the southernmost frontiers of Central Asia. These were the emancipated slaves, with whom Hadjis were intermixed, and I had an opportunity of witnessing the most heart-rending incidents. Near me was an old man--a father--bowed down by years. He had ransomed, at Bokhara, his son, a man in his thirtieth year, in order to restore a protector to his family left behind--that is to say, to his daughter-in-law a husband, to his children a father. The price was fifty ducats, and its payment had reduced the [{236}] poor old man to beggary. 'But,' said he to me, 'rather the beggar's staff than my son in chains.' His home was Khaf in Persia.
From the same city, not far from us, was another man, still of active strength, but his hair had turned grey with sorrow, for he had been despoiled by the Turkomans, some eight years ago, of life, sister, and six children. The unfortunate man had to wander from place to place a whole year in Khiva and Bokhara, to discover the spot in which those near members of his family were languishing in captivity. After long search, he found that his wife, sister, and two youngest children had succumbed under the severity of their servitude, and that, of the four children that survived, he could only ransom half. The remaining two having besides grown up, the sum demanded for them was beyond his means. Farther on sat a young man from Herat, who had ransomed his mother. Only two years ago, this woman, now in her fiftieth year, was, with her husband and eldest son, surprised by an Alaman. After seeing those near relatives both fall, in self-defence, under the lances and swords of the Turkomans, she experienced herself unceasing sufferings until sold for sixteen ducats in Bokhara. The owner, discovering a son in him who sought to ransom her, exacted a double amount, thus turning filial piety to cruelly usurious account. Nor must I omit to mention another unhappy case--that of an inhabitant of Tebbes. He was captured eight years ago, and after the lapse of two years he was ransomed by his father. They were both returning home, and were three leagues from their native city, when they were suddenly attacked by the Turkomans, taken prisoners, led back to Bokhara, and again sold as slaves. Now, they were a second time freed, and were being conveyed to their homes.
But why any longer distress the reader with these cruelties? Unfortunately, the above are only a few sketches of that lamentable plague by which, for centuries, those districts, but more especially the north-eastern part of Persia, have been depopulated.