My visit yesterday was made with Dr. Owen a little before noon; a sharp walk from cantonments, past the ruins of the forts of Mahomed Sharif and Mahomed Khan and over the Cabul river, bringing us in a quarter of an hour to the western skirts of the city, not far from the Bala Hissar. Through a narrow, winding lane, so filthy and muddy that a Cologne slum could not compare with it, and then into the Char Chowk Bazaar, just where it tapers off towards the Peshawur Gate: along this for a few yards, and over a doorway on the right, a wooden board catches the eye, with the words “Charitable Dispensary,” painted upon it, with the Persian translation below. As we passed through the doorway into an open courtyard, where thirty or forty wretched poshteen-clad men were squatting under a rude verandah, a Ghoorka guard of four men stood to attention on the sunny side of the yard. The squatting figures rose up and made their salaam abjectly, as poverty ever does; they were the poorest of the poor—Hazara coolies, Mahomedan beggars, lepers, the blind, the halt, the maimed—all whom wretchedness and disease have cast out as a hideous fringe upon healthful life. Apart from the general crowd were solitary men, whose appearance showed them to belong to the shopkeeping class—an influential section in the busy life of Cabul. Two or three women, veiled from head to foot, resembling nothing so much as Sisters of Charity, followed us in, and, with faces carefully covered by their yashmaks, passed quickly into a closed room, the door of which opening for an instant showed other white-robed figures grouped together. There are three rooms on the right of the courtyard—a small one, in which stores are kept and an attendant lives; a second, which serves as dispensary, surgery and consulting-room; and a third, the zenana, the room in which the women wait in quiet seclusion. Around the inner yard, which is reached by an open passage, are the wards proper of the hospital, wherein surgical cases, or those involving nursing and supervision, are treated. The rooms are warm and comfortable, and the terraced roof is well adapted for convalescent patients, who can “sun” themselves in comfort, that process which does so much to restore strength after a weary illness. A room on the roof is being fitted up for operations, as it is light and airy, and the operator will not be liable to be disturbed by the curious crowd which often collects now in the outer courtyard. Among the in-patients the most noticeable was a man suffering from severe bullet wound in the leg. He had been shot by us during the investment of Sherpur, and now, to his surprise, found himself being treated kindly, and cured of a wound that, if untended, would have caused his death. He seemed very grateful for the attention paid to him: to be given comfortable quarters, food, and a skilful surgeon by the Sircar against whom he had fought, was so unexpected, that his mind had not quite grasped the whole idea. No doubt, in time, he will see that it was done with no more evil intent than to prove that we bear no malice, and are only anxious to conciliate the people. Other wounded men have also been treated, and notice has been sent round to all the villages about that any one suffering from hurts received in the fighting will be admitted freely into the hospital, and, when cured, will he allowed to depart without molestation. Our “Reign of Terror” must surely be of the mildest when our benevolence plays so chief a part in our policy.
After seeing the wards in which the patients were lying covered with blankets, and with their feet thrust towards the middle of the room, where was placed a wooden frame guarding a pan of live charcoal, the heat of which is retained by thick, wadded quilts placed over the frame, we returned to the dispensary where the “out patients” are dealt with. Place aux dames: the women were first treated, two native doctors (one a Cabuli educated in the Punjab) taking their tickets and dispensing medicine, while Dr. Owen rapidly examined them. There were many eye-cases, ophthalmia being most frequent, and the eagerness with which the women pressed forward showed their faith in their newly-found friend. They were nearly all old, wrinkled, and hideous; but their veils were as carefully drawn until they were face to face with the surgeon, as if they had been still youthful and attractive. Two or three children were also brought. One bright-eyed little fellow, with a fractured arm, which had been set a few days before, crying out with pain until it was found that the sling in which the limb was carried had been carelessly tied by his helpless mother, who had not understood the instructions given to her. In a few minutes all was set right again, and the brave little man bore the pain without a murmur. When the worst cases had been seen, Dr. Owen went out to visit one or two patients in the city, leaving the native doctors to deal with such trifling ailments as were sought to be relieved. Medicines are given gratuitously; and though patients with diseases of years’ standing expect to be cured in a few days, everything done to relieve their suffering is gratefully accepted, and belief in the hakeem’s skill is a cardinal article of faith among all of them, as only one death has occurred since the hospital was opened. Dr. Owen is now freely admitted even to houses where Afghan exclusiveness is most severe, and thus imperceptibly an influence is being gained over the minds of the people which cannot fail to do great good. The jealousy of Mahomedans where their women are concerned is quite disarmed when they see how entirely devoted the English surgeon is to his profession, and how little it affects him whether his patients are street beggars, in the lowest depths of misery, or ladies of the zenana, surrounded with every comfort.
I have described one phase of our rule in Cabul, and it will be seen from it whether our policy, however defective it may be in its indistinct outlines and indefinite aims, deserves the title of “Russian.” When wounded ghazis are in our “charitable hospital,” our vengeance must surely be of the most harmless kind. We have troubled waters enough in Afghanistan, but we have also our pool of Siloam.
I give here two articles written a few weeks later, descriptive of our life in Sherpur, and also of native life in Cabul:—
“How we Live in Sherpur.”
We are a self-contained colony here, and a self-possessed one, too, for the matter of that, but we are by no means self-satisfied. Every man among us believes that if his advice had only been asked, the Afghan difficulty would have been settled months ago, and we should now be enjoying the delights of furlough in England, or revelling in the fascinating gaieties of the cold season in the plains. A Briton without his grumble would be unworthy of his country, and so we growl and swear against the Powers that be, and ask why, in the name of all that’s wicked, the wire-pullers in India and England do not make up their minds to settle the matter. We are so conscious of our own unrecognized powers as politicians and diplomats, that we laugh to scorn the idea that affairs cannot be put on a footing that would satisfy even the staunchest believers in a scientific frontier. The army in the old days was merely a machine which, once set in motion by the hand of a minister, ground out its life for years and years, without anything more than an occasional groan when its wheels were not properly lubricated. But, now, things are changed: every soldier is not only a fighting machine, but a thinking machine, digesting rumours and theories with marvellous voracity, and reproducing patched and piebald opinions of his own, which will intrude themselves into prominence. There can be in our ranks no “mute, inglorious” Wellingtons—or Wolseleys (for, in the eyes of many purblind people, the terms are synonymous); an officer can now through many channels criticize and smash up the strategy of a campaign, and calmly sit upon the heads of his seniors while his comrades applaud most heartily. Even the private soldier in the ranks knows full well that if he only pulls the long bow sufficiently in a letter home, some sympathizing party journal will accept his view of the situation, and upon it draw with no uncertain hand the outlines of a new policy. If the flood of criticism which is now surging about Sherpur could only be collected in one stream, and be poured upon the devoted heads of the clever politicians who hold our destinies in their hands, these gentlemen would never stand high and dry again; they would be overwhelmed once and for all. A shower bath braces the system; a waterspout drowns all upon whom it falls; and if there were not a feeling that our blundering along here, without a guiding light to show General and soldier what to do, were now coming to an end, such a phenomenon as a waterspout might arise in Sherpur. But I have before sketched this phase of an existence here: if I said “life,” my own might be endangered by the indignant army of Philistines, who only “exist;” and it is useless to revive the cry of “Loot, Love, and Liberty,” for not one of these blessings is forthcoming.
And yet from day to day we continue our being, and the days are not so long as at first sight might be supposed. We have one panacea for all the evils with which we believe ourselves beset: we make the best of everything. Given the fine, bright weather which delighted us only a few days ago, and Gymkhana meets, pony matches, polo and dog-hunting delight our hearts and strengthen our digestions. Given a snow-fall and a rapid thaw, when the ground underfoot is merely a quagmire: our rooms and mess-houses, snug and warm, seem to invite us to a quiet rubber or an earnest study of books and papers. And then there is our Club; it is an accomplished fact, and, what is more, is an “institution.” It was conceived in the calm which preceded the stirring events of December 11th to 24th, but its birth came not until a fortnight ago. It is not of the imposing kind that was first intended, but still it suffices for all our wants, and is made a rendezvous by all who care for some other society than the familiars of their own messes. From Bemaru village, where the Guides are encamped, and the choice spirits of the Transport Department hold high revel occasionally on that spot sacred to the memory of that foolish virgin who died be-maru (without husband)—from Bemaru to the quarters in the western wall is nearly two miles; and it was not to be wondered at that friends at either end of cantonments saw little of each other when there was no gathering-point. One might pay a visit and, after tramping through slush and snow, find one’s friend absent. To accept an invitation to dinner meant braving pitfalls and watercourses in the darkness, or helplessly wandering about in the darkness on the return journey, uncertain in what direction one’s home lay. But now the Club is a recognized centre, about which, in the evening, when work is over and dinner not yet on the table, many of us gather. The excuse is a “nip” before dinner; the reason our sociable instincts. A witty Frenchman has said:—“Wherever three or four Englishmen are congregated, voilà un club!” It is so: there is nothing to be ashamed of in our love of companionship. And our Club has the charm of novelty, both in situation and design. It is the first established under the shadow of the Hindu Kush, on historic ground; and its architecture is a mixture of the nomadic and Public Works styles. We pitched a large tent: we were nomads; we took down the canvas side-walls, and built in their place walls of mud and bricks, pierced with windows and doors, and with chimneys springing out above the canvas roof. The structure was complete. From nomads we became clubmen. Could civilization further go? And here we meet and exchange views upon things in general and Afghanistan in particular, subaltern and Colonel shouldering each other in true club style, the mixed crowd being flavoured generally with a Brigadier or two, while the darlings of the Staff air their gold-lace in a more congenial atmosphere than their stuffy quarters, which are office, dining, and sleeping rooms all in one. Certainly our Club is a success.
In the shape of indoor amusements, Christy minstrel bands are springing up, and one theatre has already had a short season—three nights. The 72nd Highlanders have rigged up in the ditch near their quarters a number of pals resting against the stout mud wall, and in this a first-class stage has been built with act-drop, scenery, footlights, and all complete. On the opening night the 5th Ghoorkas, old friends of the 72nd, felt that their patronage was indispensable; and when two little “Ghoorkis” struggled into the pit and tried to peep over the heads of the crowd, a dozen eager hands hoisted them shoulder-high, and amid great applause they were carried to the front and placed in the first row. Here they smiled their thanks as only Ghoorkas can smile—from ear to ear—and when the curtain rose, they watched the performance critically and with unbounded satisfaction.
The severe weather that has declared itself during the last few days has added new sources of amusement. A week ago the owners of skates were disgusted with the non-appearance of hard frost; now skating goes on nearly all day long, and the science of sliding is also being cultivated. Europeans and natives alike indulge in a “slide;” and to see half a dozen Guides contentedly coming croppers on the ice, and rising again with immense satisfaction, only to sit suddenly down the moment afterwards, would make Timour himself smile benignantly. Once on the slide, every man seems but a child of larger growth, and right gleefully the game is kept up until tired nature gives in, and various points of our bodies remind the most hardy that bruises are painful when excitement dies out. With the fall of snow on Monday came a battle-royal, which will always live in the annals of our occupation. To tell the story with due solemnity: at noon word was brought to the 72nd Highlanders that the enemy (the 67th Foot and 92nd Gordon Highlanders) had occupied the strong fort on the eastern end of the Bemaru Heights. Without delay the regiment fell in 500 strong, and, reinforced by the 9th Lancers and some artillerymen, marched with banners flying and drums beating to the attack. (The banners were those lately captured on the Takht-i-Shah Peak and the Asmai Heights; the drums were various cooking-pots.) On nearing the enemy’s position, the attacking force was joined by a detachment of the 5th Ghoorkas under their British officers; skirmishers were thrown out, and the bugle sounded the assault. The storming party were headed by the standard-bearers, the cry of “Ghazis to the front!” being answered by a rush of these reckless men up the hillside. They were met by such a terrific fire, the air being darkened by snowballs, that the assault seemed hopeless. But amid the din the cry of their leader, “Ghazis to the front!” rang out—