From the Indus to the Tigris

by H. W. Bellew

We stopped a few minutes at Kiroghar to procure guides, for the snow had obliterated all traces of the road. None of the villagers, however, seemed at all inclined to help us in the difficulty. The Náib, Abdul Latíf, took this want of attention on their part as a personal affront, and very quickly lost control over his temper. His rotund figure visibly swelled with wrath as he peremptorily summoned the head man to his presence. Three or four horsemen at once scampered off to one of the huts, and presently Malik Jalál (the head man), accompanied by half-a-dozen men, were seen to emerge, and leisurely measure their steps across the snow to where the Náib stood.

This quiet indifference was more than the Náib could stand. He bounced about in his saddle in a tempest of anger, and, flashing his bright eyes from side to side, poured out a torrent of anathemas, and vowed a sharp vengeance nothing short of annihilation of the dog-begotten breed of Bánzai. At this moment I happened to inquire from one of the escort standing near me whether some fine márkhor, or wild goat horns, that adorned an adjoining hut, were the produce of the mountain above us, but before he could reply, the infuriate Náib’s mandate went forth to bring them to us; and in less time than it has taken to relate the occurrence, half-a-dozen of the largest horns were torn from their attachments, and laid on the snow before us. We hardly had time to examine them before the head man and his following came up, looking as unconcerned and independent as their circumstances entitled them to be. There was no thought on either side of the customary exchange of salutations, nor was the salám alaikum, and its reply, wa alaikum salám, uttered. Instead thereof, the Náib turned on the Malik with a volley of abuse, and demanded why he was not on the road to meet him. “Where,” said he, “is the chilam? (pipe of friendship). Is this the sort of hospitality you show to your governor?” The unfortunate Malik was not allowed time to plead any excuses, but was summarily dismissed, and two of his men pushed to the front to point out the road. “Dishonoured wretch! dog!” said the Náib, “go and prepare for my return. I shall be your guest to-night.” So saying, he ordered a couple of troopers to stay behind and see that an entertainment suited to himself and retinue was ready against their return, and our party proceeded forward.

In exchange for a couple of rupees, the owner of the horns willingly carried a couple of the largest pairs to our camp at Cushlác, and I subsequently sent them to Peshawar from Kandahar, for the purpose of comparing them with those of the Himalayan animal. I have since done so, but without discovering any appreciable difference.

From Kiroghar we proceeded westward along the stony skirt of Tokátú for a couple of miles, and then winding round the mountain by a considerable rise to the northward, at about another mile came to a clump of trees at the spring-head of a strong stream issuing from the side of the hill and flowing down to the plain behind us.

We halted here awhile to await the arrival of the Afghan Commissioner, whom we saw in the distance advancing towards us with a troop of cavalry from the Murghí Pass in our front. Meanwhile the Náib Abdul Latíf took the opportunity to express his regret that he had not been able to entertain us more hospitably owing to the rapidity of our movements and the unfavouring condition of the elements. He assured us of his admiration of the British Government; that he considered all Englishmen his friends; and that he was proud to remember his association with Colonel Stacey and Captain Beam so long ago as 1839-40—names that are still remembered with gratitude and good-will in many a household in Shál and Mastung.

Whilst waiting here, I emptied my gun at a couple of red-legged rooks flying overhead. One of them with outstretched wings came down in a very graceful and slow pirouette, and fell dead at my feet; the other glided down very quickly in an oblique line, and fell against the rocks a hundred yards or so off. I was speculating on the nature of the causes that produced such different modes of descent, when my attention was diverted to our Afghan friends.

The cavalry were drawn up in a double line on one side of the road about five hundred yards off, whilst the Afghan Commissioner, Saggid Núr Muhammad Sháh—whom I shall henceforth always speak of as “the Saggid”—accompanied by three horsemen, rode down to where we stood. At fifty yards he dismounted, and we stepped forward to meet him. As we raised our hats, he doffed his turban with both hands and made a low bow, and then replacing the costly Kashmir shawl, he embraced us successively Afghan fashion with sincere cordiality, repeating the while the usual string of salutations and complimentary inquiries. This ceremony over, we mounted, and proceeded up the slope, the Náib Abdul Latíf accompanying us with only three or four attendant horsemen.

As we came up to the cavalry, they saluted, and then followed in rear of our procession. They are a very fine set of men, with bold independent bearing, but with thoroughly friendly looks. They were excellently mounted, and the general superiority of their equipment quite took us by surprise. They wore blue hussar-jackets, top-boots, and scarlet busbies, and altogether looked a very serviceable set of men.

Before we reached the top of the Murghí Pass, about two and a half miles from the spring, we were caught in a snowstorm, which completely obscured the hills around, whilst the flakes, adhering to our beards and clothing, presently gave our whole party a grotesquely uncouth and hoary look. From the pass we descended through a narrow defile into the Peshín valley or district, near a couple of fine springs issuing from the rocks on our right. They are led over the plain in deep cuts for purposes of irrigation.

I was here so numbed by the cold, that I was glad of an excuse to dismount and warm myself by a trudge over the snow; so I followed down the course of one of the water-cuts in the direction of a couple of wild ducks I had marked down upon it. I had not proceeded far, gun in hand, when they rose from a pool on the other side of the stream. They both fell to a right and left shot, at only a few paces from each other. I was considering how I might get them, when a trooper, who had followed me, urged his horse forward to a gap in the bank a little way off. The horse very naturally refused to slide down the gap into the water, and I told the rider to desist from urging him, remarking that the water was evidently deep, and he would certainly get wet. But the Afghan’s spirit was roused by the sport, and he knew he was observed by his comrades. “My horse can swim, and that shot is worth a wetting,” he said, as he struck his heels into the horse’s flanks, and forced him into the stream. The plunge was so sudden, that the horse nearly lost his footing, but the trooper, cleverly recovering him, brought him out on the further bank through water half-way up the saddle-flaps, picked up the birds, and recrossed without misadventure. His spirited conduct excited our admiration, but amongst his comrades the shot was the theme of applause. The one was to them a matter of everyday occurrence, the other they had rarely if ever before witnessed. With us it was just the reverse. The one was an act seldom necessitated, the other only an ordinary occurrence. And thus it is that acts are valued out of all proportion to their real merits by the mere force of habitude, both by governments and individuals, whether civilised or uncivilised.