From the Indus to the Tigris

by H. W. Bellew

We concluded our first march away from Tehran more successfully than I had hoped for in the face of the troubles lowering ahead at the first start. My guide, Shukrullah Beg, has been most energetic and willing, and promises to turn out a good conductor. He is a blunt, plain-spoken man, with sharp intelligent features, a freckled complexion, and bristly red beard, and has none of the polish and love of finery so characteristic of the Persian of Tehran, though he is equally impressed with the necessity for ceremony and show. To my amusement he started our procession this morning quite en règle, with a strict adherence to the form observed by great men on the march. My spare horse was lead as a yadak in front by the groom mounted on a mule, whilst he himself, having assumed the title, led the way as Mirakhor, the two riding camels, servants, and baggage following us in column close in rear, and gradually dropping behind as our pace exceeded theirs.

We arrived at our resting-place at the breakfast hour, and now I missed the cheerful society of those we had parted from, and my thoughts ran back over the long journey we had done together. The frosts and snows of Balochistan, the passage of the Khojak, and the cutting winds of Kandahar recurred to memory; and with them came recollections of the General’s enduring energy and indomitable pluck, that overcame all difficulties and inspired a confidence that deprived hardships of half their sting; his ever-cheerful spirits too, and kindly thought for all, that made distance wane, and fatigue lose its load. Recollections of the Afghan welcome and hospitality, and of the Saggid’s friendly intercourse and sociability, his amusing conversation, interesting tales, and theologic dogmatism. Recollections too of our Persian secretary, Mirzá Ahmad (a native of Peshawar), his cheerful bearing under trials, his modest demeanour, his honesty and readiness at all times for all things. I thought of Sistan, and ran over the journey thence to the Persian capital with those we joined there, and I missed the charming grace of Sir F. Goldsmid’s manner, his benevolent self-denial, and his instructive conversation. Our march through Khorassan was gone over again, with many an agreeable recollection of the benefits derived from Major Ewan Smith’s excellent arrangements for the road, and recollections, too, of many a tedious march enlivened by the vivacity of his humour and sprightly wit. The first of April in our camp at Birjand was not forgotten, nor the post we all rushed out of our tents to meet; and if the others have not forgiven Major Beresford Lovett, I have, out of respect for his talents. Many a race across country with Mr Bower to bring to bay and question some astonished shepherd or ploughman came to mind, and the sharp ring of his “Máli ínjá hastí? Dih chi ism dárad?” (“Do you belong to this place? What’s the name of the village?”) methought was heard afresh.

With such thoughts was I occupied when Shukrullah Beg made his appearance, and, with a serious face, announced that the mulemen demanded their discharge, as they had no money for the journey, and the head muleteer, who had received the advance, had not joined them. They were afraid they would never get their share of the hire, and did not wish to go on without being paid. This was rather embarrassing news. However, I sent for the men, explained to them that the head muleteer would probably soon overtake us, and that meanwhile I would pay for their food and that of the mules, and dismissed them to their work, and ordered the march at two in the morning. At the same time, for safety’s sake, I had the mules brought over and picketed in the court below our quarters, and at sunset had the loads packed and ranged out ready for lading.

10th June.—Rabát Karím to Khanabad, thirty-three miles. We set out at three A.M., following a westerly course over wide pasture downs, along the line of telegraph between Tehran and Baghdad, with a range of hills away to the right. At an hour and a half we came to a roadside sarae, where we alighted for the baggage to come up. The sarae dates from the time of Sháh Abbas the Great, and was very substantially built of trap rock and cellular lava. It is now in a state of ruin. In the interior we found portions of several human skeletons. To two of them were still adhering the clothes they wore during life, and they told the tale of the dead—poor peasants cut short on their way to the capital in search of food. To one of them the skull was attached uninjured. I took it off, and carried it away with me for the anthropological museum of a learned friend.

Beyond this we crossed the Rúdi Shor, a brackish stream that drains past Kúm on to the salt desert, where it joins the Káli Shor of Nishabor and Sabzwár, and went over an undulating pasture country, rising gently to the westward, and having the snowy mountains of Shamrán in view to the right. At about twenty miles we rose to the crest of the downs, and looked down on the smiling valley of Pashandia with its many villages and gardens, an agreeable change from the dreary wilds and pasture downs of the country we had traversed. The elevation here is 4380 feet above the sea, thus giving an ascent of 700 feet from Rabát Karím.

Up to this point we found no water except that of Rúdi Shor, and the whole country wears a very uninteresting and wild look. From the crest we dropped into the valley, and passing several villages, some in ruins, crossed a wide sandy ravine in which lay some great blocks of brown lava, and farther on arrived at Khanabad, where we alighted at the chapparkhana or post-house, glad of its shelter, for the sun shone out towards noon with much force. This is a poor little village, and has only fifteen families left of a population of sixty before the famine. It is in the Zarand bulúk, which contains sixty or seventy villages, with Sába as their capital town. The bulúk is the dower of one of the Sháh’s wives, named Anísuddaula. She deputes her brother, Muhammad Hasan Khán, to its government. His residence is at Sába, where are the ruins of an ancient fire-temple. Gabr relics are found all over the district. Such were the fruits of a chat with the keeper of the post-house, who, his horses having all died, and the appearance of travellers being few and far between, was only too glad of the opportunity to talk on any subject with any one, and answered our endless questions with willing readiness.

Hence we marched twenty-six miles to Khushkak—route W.S.W., and then west over a wide hill-girt plain, mostly uncultivated owing to want of water. At three miles we passed Asyábad, and then no other village up to our stage. A few were seen at the foot of the hills to the right, at long distances apart, and a number of kárez wells were traced across the plain by their line of little mounds of excavated earth. The soil is firm and gravelly, and the surface now presents a thick green carpet of herbs of sorts, all in full flower. I recognised the Syrian rue, two or three kinds of spurge, the wild poppy, larkspur, clove pink, ragged-robin, and a variety of cruciferous, composite, labiate, leguminous, and umbelliferous herbs. Myriads of caterpillars loaded their little branches, and the whole surface, along our route at least, was fluttering with innumerable butterflies with leopard-like spotted wings. Lizards of different sorts and sizes were common enough, and dodged our horses’ hoofs at every step, but not a bird was seen of any kind.

Across the plain the road rises over a long hill slope up to the post-house and hamlet of Khushkak at the entrance of a pass into the hills. We found the post-house deserted and falling to ruin, and therefore alighted at one of the empty huts of the village. Khushkak is the last village of the Zarand bulúk in this direction. It is a poor place, and only retains twenty of the fifty families that formed its population. The little hut we occupy, though it has just been swept and spread with carpets, has an almost insupportably disagreeable musty odour, raising unpleasant suspicions as to the condition of its former occupants. The floor was a little below the level of a brisk little stream that ran down the hill close outside its walls, and the moisture, percolating through the soil, filled the atmosphere of the room with a heavy sickly vapour. In the absence of our tents, which were yet far behind, it was the best shelter the place afforded, and I was content to correct its vapours with the addition of tobacco fumes.

12th June.—Khushkak to Novarán, thirty-six miles. Marched at 1.45 A.M.—route a little south of west by a winding path continually ascending and descending across a range of low rounded hills covered with the richest pasture, on which we found large herds of camels at graze, and in the sheltered hollows between spied the black tents of their ilyát owners.

At two miles we crossed a noisy hill torrent, and, turning to the left, went up its narrow glen, with long strips of orchards and hamlets on either slope, and at about another five miles reached the watershed. Its elevation is about 6938 feet above the sea, and 1528 feet above Khushkak. Here we turned to the right, and passing over rolling pasture downs, gradually descended to a long valley in which are many villages. At about twenty miles we passed the villages of Shamrin and Bivarán, picturesquely perched on the hill slopes amidst delightful vineyards. Farther on, we left the hills, and going along the valley, passed a number of villages to our left; and at eleven o’clock, after a fatiguing ride of nine hours, camped under the shade of some splendid walnut-trees close to the village of Novarán. Several of the villagers flocked out to see us, and, to my surprise, I found they did not understand Persian. They are Kurds, and speak a dialect of Turki, said to be different from the language spoken by the Turks.