An amusing incident occurred whilst collecting words for the vocabulary, and it may serve as a suggestive illustration of the state of society amongst the Brahoes. I asked my Brahoe camel-driver, through the medium of Persian, of which he understood a little, what was his word for arsenic. He appeared somewhat disconcerted, and made no reply, and I inquired whether he had understood my question or not. “Yes,” said he, with a serious look, “I know what you mean. I have heard of it, but have never seen it. It is only known to our chiefs and great men.” “And what,” I asked, “do they say about it?” “People say,” he replied, with grave innocence, “that it is a magic medicine, and that great men keep it as a protection against their enemies.” He had no idea of the manner in which it was used, but he knew from popular report that it was a mysterious medicine which preserved great men from the machinations of their enemies.
We halted a day at Khozdár with our kind hosts, Major Harrison and Dr Bowman, in order to rest our cattle, and on the 18th January marched sixteen miles to Kamál Khán, one of the principal villages in the plain or valley of Bághwána. Major Harrison accompanied us with an escort of Sindh Horse, Dr Bowman remaining with the camp at Khozdár.
Our route was northward, up the pebbly bed of a wide and shallow drainage channel, towards a gap in the hills. The road winds for some miles between low ridges and hills of bare rock by a gradual ascent, and at half-way brought us to the Chikú Koh kauda, or “gap,” a low watershed marking the boundary between the Khozdár and Bághwána valleys. We here found the path somewhat obstructed by the remains of a stone breastwork, built four years ago by the rebel chief Núruddín, Mingal, when he took the field against the Khán of Calát, to contest the possession of the village of Kamál Khán. The breastwork and barricades had been only partially destroyed, and their débris had been left to encumber the road, just as they did at the time the defences were demolished—a characteristic instance of oriental apathy and negligence.
From this point we passed down a gentle slope on to the plain of Bághwána, and crossed a wide extent of cultivated land to the village of Kamál Khán, where we camped near a small stream of clear fresh water, which comes from a spring in the hills two miles off.
Kamál Khán is a good-sized village, or rather, it consists of two villages close together, which contain in all some four hundred houses. Across the plain, at the foot of the hills to the north, are seen some other villages surrounded by leafless trees. The surface is generally cultivated, and divided into little fields, the sides of which are banked up with earth, so as to retain rain-water.
The elevation of this valley is about 4530 feet, as indicated by the aneroid barometer. In summer, when the gardens are in full foliage and the crops are ripening, it must be a pretty place in this waste of hills, and is said to possess an agreeable climate, notwithstanding the bare heat-radiating rocks that encompass it about. At this season, however, it wears a dull, dreary, and bleak look—its winter aspect—and has a raw, cold climate, of which we were made sensible by the prevailing state of the weather, for the sky was overcast with clouds, and a cutting north-east wind penetrated to our very bones. The plain itself appears a bare flat, without either villages or trees, and towards the east presents a great patch snow-white with saline efflorescence.
During the afternoon we received a visit from the chief men of the place. Amongst them were Sardár Mír Muhammad, Mingal of Wadd, a stanch friend and supporter of the Khán of Calát in these times of sedition and revolt by which he is beset. He was accompanied by Abdul Aziz Khán, Náib of Qwetta, and two intelligent-looking young lads, sons respectively of the Sardár of the Sansunni and the Mammassání, or Muhammad Hassani. They were all very plainly clad, and remarkably simple in their manners. About them was none of that ceremony and etiquette, in the observance of which independent orientals are so punctilious; indeed, their bearing was more like that of subjects than of independent chiefs. The two former were old men, with nothing noteworthy about them; but the two lads were remarkably bright-eyed and intelligent youths of eighteen or nineteen years, and so alike, they might have been brothers. Their features were very striking, and different from any we had yet seen; they may be described as a combination of the very widely separated Jewish and negro physiognomy, and reminded me of the Ethiopian figures one sees represented in the Egyptian sculptures.
After our visitors had retired, I heard a voice outside the tent inquiring where the Farangi Hakím, or “European doctor,” was to be found. The man spoke with a harsh and impetuous voice, and I, curious to see him and know his errand, stepped out and announced myself to a wild-looking Brahoe with the scar of a sword straight across the nose and one half of the face. “But,” he replied, making a rapid survey of me, “you are not the man I want. Where is the doctor of Khozdár? Is not he here?” “No, he is not here,” I answered; “we left him at Khozdár.” “Well,” he rejoined, turning brusquely to depart, “I want nothing from you. It was him I came to see.” “Perhaps,” I said, motioning him to stop, “I can do for you what you require of the Khozdár doctor.” “No,” he replied, stepping away with as much haste as he had come; “I only came to thank him for his kindness to me, and for curing this wound across my face;” and before I could ask another question, the impatient Brahoe was off on his own business.
I now learned from Major Harrison that he was a trooper in the service of the Khán of Calát, and was engaged against the rebels in the battle fought some few months ago near Gorú in the Khad Mastung valley. In the charge against the enemy he received a sword-cut across the face, by which the nose and upper lip were severed, and fell down in front of the mouth, hanging only by a thin shred of the cheek. Recovering from the shock, the trooper at once sheathed his sword, and securing the divided parts as they were with the end of his turban passed across the face and fastened in the folds above, rode straight off the field on the road to Khozdár. After a ride of upwards of seventy miles he arrived at Dr Bowman’s camp, and was at once received under that gentleman’s skilful care. The satisfactory result, and the accident of our journey this way, produced this pleasing instance of Brahoe gratitude and trust in the skill of European doctors. The man, on hearing of the march of our camp from Khozdár, had come in from a distant village to thank his benefactor, and not finding him, hurried away to reach his home before nightfall.
It is a too commonly expressed opinion amongst us in this country that the natives have no sense of gratitude for benefits conferred or for favours received. But this, I am persuaded, is a wrong conclusion; and its injustice is proved by the above-described incident, which is only one of many similar instances that have come to my personal knowledge, and a further reference to which here would be irrelevant to the purpose of this book.