From this we marched fourteen miles, and camped in tamarisk jangal on the river bank near a clay bridge called Daki Dela. After clearing the corn-fields round the fort, our route was northerly along the river course, by a beaten track on the verge of a wide, level, bare pebbly plain, that extends many miles to the westward, without any sign of habitation or cultivation.
On the opposite side of the river, the alluvium up to the desert cliffs appears entirely deserted, and for some miles is covered with the ruins of an extensive city called Mír. At our camp the river flows in two streams, divided by a long island strip of tamarisk jangal. Both streams were forded by our horsemen to collect the kerta (a species of cyperus) grass as fodder for our cattle. It grows here in abundance, and is the principal fodder of the cattle in this country.
During the afternoon, Shamsuddín Khán, the son of Sardár Ahmad Khán of Lásh, arrived in camp. He is a fine young man, and, as one result of his visit to India in 1869 (he was in attendance on the Amir Sher Ali Khán when he went to Amballah for his conference with Lord Mayo), has adopted the European style of dress. The Saggid, alluding to documents, &c., for the business on hand, asked him if he had come fully prepared. “Oh, yes,” said the young chief eagerly, his eyes brightening at the query; “we are all ready.” “How do you mean?” inquired the Saggid, doubtful from his manner as to whether he had been properly understood. “We have sharp swords, and keep our powder dry,” was the unexpected reply. The several different tribes occupying this country have been so long at enmity against each other, that they never think of moving across their respective borders unless provided to meet all contingencies, and consequently, in the present state of excitement amongst them, his question elicited the most natural reply.
Whilst our visitors were with us, the Saggid’s servant reported the arrival of a messenger from Kamál Khán at Bandar. The Saggid went out to see him, and presently returned with the packet of letters we had despatched for India by courier from Calá Ján Beg, and the following story:—Our courier had been attacked and plundered by robbers beyond Rúdbár. They took his horse and arms from him, but did him no personal injury. He walked back with the packet committed to his charge tied round his waist under the clothes, and on arrival at Bandar, was so foot-sore and fatigued that he could not come on. Under these circumstances he revealed himself to Kamál Khán, and made the packet over to him for transmission to us. Such was the story, and we considered ourselves fortunate in the restoration of the packet; for at Chárburjak we were informed that Sir F. Goldsmid had left letters to await General Pollock’s arrival, but that the Persian official there had sent them to the Persian Governor at Nasírabad. That the letters had been left we subsequently satisfied ourselves, but as to what became of them we could never learn.
From Daki Dela we marched twelve miles, and camped on the river bank at a place called Ghabri Hájí, from the tomb of some pilgrim in the vicinity. Our route was nearly due north, across a continuation of the plain traversed yesterday. At about half-way we came abreast of the ruins of Calá Fath or Calá Pat, on the opposite side of the river, and a little farther on we crossed the track of a very ancient canal, called Yakháb. It starts from the river below the ruins, and strikes across the plain in a westerly direction. The ruins of Calá Fath are very extensive, and present some very large buildings, besides the lofty citadel which occupies the summit of an artificial mound in their midst. The ruins extend over several miles of country, and are backed by the cliffs of the Khásh desert. They are mostly of clay and raw brick, but red bricks of a large size are also said to be found amongst them. The city was the capital of the last of the Kayáni kings, and is said to have been finally sacked and dismantled by Nadír Sháh about a century and a half ago. The citadel has been recently repaired, and is now garrisoned by a party of Persian troops, but there is no cultivation, nor other habitation in the vicinity. It is merely held as a military outpost, and its occupation as such only dates from the last month.
A little beyond this, emerging from a belt of tamarisk bordering the river, a party of fifty or sixty horsemen, all gaily dressed, and bristling with armour of sorts, came across the plain towards us. The Saggid forestalled our inquiry by the intimation that they were some Afghan chiefs who were come to welcome us. With this satisfactory assurance we proceeded, and presently, arrived at a few paces from each other, all by common consent dismounted simultaneously. Then followed a very confused and promiscuous greeting, with an amount of cordiality and friendship quite unlooked for, considering we were perfect strangers. Our friends seemed to act on the principle of “shaking a hand wherever they saw one,” and, doubtless, under opposite conditions, would be equally ready as the proverbial Irishman to “hit a head wherever they saw one.” At all events, from their martial array, they were quite prepared to act on a contingency rendering such a measure necessary.
We were no sooner dismounted than we were enveloped in a crowd of Afghans and Balochi, welcoming anybody and everybody in their own rough and homely fashion. One seized my hand with a “Jor hastí?” (“Are you well?” or, “How d’ye do?”), but before I could reply it was grabbed by another with a similar interrogative; from him it was snatched by a third, who was quickly deprived of its possession, and cut short in his “Kúsh ámadíd” (“You are welcome,” or, “Glad to see you”) by a burly fellow elbowing his way through the crowd with great bustle and roughness. He merely gave a tug and a toss, with “Saggid kúm dai?” (“Which is the Saggid?”), and passed on; and I hurried after him, glad to escape from my surroundings—a true case of “save me from my friends.”
The Saggid presently restored order, and introduced us to Sardár Ahmad Khán, Isháczai Afghan, the lord of Lásh; and Sardár Ibráhím Khán, Sanjarání Baloch, the lord of Chakansúr or Chaknásúr; and Mardán Khán, Núrzai Afghan of Farráh, formerly Yár Muhammad’s agent in Sistan. The usual compliments were then quickly exchanged, and mounting, we proceeded on our way together. Presently we struck the river bank, and following its course opposite a long island strip for a mile or two, camped on the verge of the hard gravelly desert plain, close to a belt of tamarisk jangal.
In the afternoon Sardár Ibráhím Khán called on the General, and took his leave of us, as he crosses the river to be amongst his own people at night. He is a thorough barbarian, slovenly in dress, loud in voice, and rough in manner. He has coarse repulsive features, and a very unhealthy sallow complexion, the results of a long life of dissipation and debauchery. His coming out to meet us is, we are told, a great compliment, for he is very proud of his independence, and has never done as much honour to any Afghan king or other potentate. He is very popular amongst his people on account of his liberality and courage, but is said to be subject to fits of insanity, brought on by the excessive abuse of charras, or the resin of Indian hemp, an intoxicating drug which is a very fruitful source of madness in India.