I have called this article “Cabul in Prosperity,” and I think the title is justifiable. We have worked our will in the Bala Hissar, and have made it a citadel worthy of the name: but in the city proper we have neither made nor meddled, and the narrow streets, if cleaner, still retain their distinctive features. Buying and selling, money-changing and broking, flourish with an energy that makes no count of changing fortunes or shifting careers. Sirdar Wali Mahomed’s governorship can only last so long as British bayonets are at his back; but in the sunshine of our favour he sets the example of amassing wealth, and all his followers tread in his footsteps. Sirdar Hashim Khan is on the eve of departure for Candahar, where Shere Ali Khan has offered him asylum. His departure troubles the minds of the citizens but little, as the stream of Indian silver will not be diverted by his absence. While not understanding our simplicity in dealing, and while looking upon us as madmen in the matter of finance—for are we not taunted with “changing our Rani’s head” by ordering Indian rupees to be melted down and turned into Cabuli coin?—the Cabulis, with their keen rapacity, seize every opportunity of enriching themselves. Take the conversion of Indian rupees into local coin; through our benevolent mode of action we have never been able to say that our coin shall have a fixed value, and a “ring” of scoundrels in Cabul have so rigged the market that in the bazaars at the present time the two rupees are constantly of equal value. So some clever financier at once jumps to the conclusion that we may as well pay in Cabuli rupees as in Indian. Now the quantity of silver in 100 Indian rupees permits of 127 Cabulis being made therewith, and so we pour our brand new coins into the mint (wherein there is no European supervision of any kind), and for every 100 sent in Sirdar Wali Mahomed returns us 120! Only a few days ago three lakhs of the treasure with General Hills’ force was sent to Cabul to be converted into local rupees. Is the reason for this that the Logar villagers refuse our rupees? If so, it would surely be the mildest form of coercion to force them to take payment in whatever silver coin we chose. The profits on the coining (say five per cent.) go presumably into Wali Mahomed’s pocket, as Government is too strait-laced to make profit itself; and yet that Sirdar had the cool effrontery to refuse to coin Cabuli rupees, when a lakh was wanted for the Logar force, until he first received Indian rupees from Sherpur. He was not punished for his insolence; but as we have still to levy the fine inflicted upon the city for the murder of our Envoy, he may yet be mulcted, say, in a lakh. Some of us are curious to know when and how the said fine will be levied; but, perhaps, we may be looked upon as inquisitive.[[43]] One thing is clear: we shall never get our money back in the shape of Indian rupees, and our only consolation is that if Afghanistan continues to absorb a few hundred thousand pounds worth of silver monthly, the rate of exchange between India and England must improve.
Having explained the irritating causes of the present prosperity of Cabul, I may now with a clear conscience describe a little more in detail the appearance of the city itself. In the First Book of Kings we are told many valuable anecdotes of King Solomon, not the least interesting of which is the account of the payment made to Hiram, King of Tyre, who furnished “cedar trees, and fir trees, and gold” to assist the King of Israel in the adornment and fortification of Jerusalem. This payment consisted of the gift of twenty cities in the land of Galilee, cities so worthless that, when Hiram saw them, he said:—“What cities are these which thou hast given me, my brother?” And the narrative further states that “he called them the land of Cabul unto this day.” The word “Cabul” our annotators explain as signifying “displeasing or dirty;” and, strangely enough, the latter epithet is extremely applicable to the modern capital of Afghanistan. The side-streets and purlieus, even the walls of many of the houses, are filthy in the extreme, though our strict sanitary system has made the bazaars almost as clean as those of an Indian city. Cabul is not so “displeasing” to the eye when viewed from the neighbouring heights, for the orchards of Deh-i-Afghan and scattered clumps of trees in Chandaul make the place look quite picturesque. But once in the heart of the city, beyond the busy stream of life which pours along the bazaars and renews itself every hour in some mysterious way, there is nothing but dulness and gloom in the dead mud walls of the houses, with their frowning doorways or dark noisome passages leading to unknown dens behind. In the bazaars all is life and hustle. Entering the city by a side-road from Sherpur, one sees the bed of the Cabul river lying waterless on the left, save for a few stagnant pools, where the dhobies are at work, or a vendor of atchcha salad is washing a donkey-load of lettuce preparatory to the day’s business. Over a bridge, on one side of which are a score of shoemakers’ stalls—there seems to be one shoemaker to every twenty inhabitants in Cabul—and then into the narrow Shore Bazaar, I find more shoemakers and leather-sellers, whose stalls are oddly mixed up with those of fruiterers, bakers, retailers of ices, and workers in iron and copper. Men on horseback, swaggering sowars of Wali Mahomed or other sirdars; Hazara coolies with heavy loads on their broad backs; idle Cabulis; peasants from the district with blue turbans; stalwart mountaineers who look upon the street as their own; a sprinkling of red-coated British soldiers, and sepoys and sowars in all stages of negligent undress (but with rifles or swords always ready)—all these elements are mingled in noisy but good-tempered confusion; while at every ten yards one’s horse has to be pulled on his haunches, because some young Cabul chief is playing at hide-and-seek under his legs. Suddenly a string of camels, with loads of firewood or heavy merchandise, has to be passed—rather a ticklish business occasionally, as the dead weight of the beasts and their loads cleave a way for itself, regardless of obstacles. A few white-clad women glide unobtrusively along, their yashmaks hiding whatever charms they may possess; blind beggars and shrill voiced fakirs obtrude their wants upon the stranger; bhistees clank their metal drinking vessels, or pour out a cool draught from the ever-ready mussuk; salad vendors pilot their sedate donkeys, laden with crisp green food, through the crowd; boys, with their trays of chupaties, cry out the goodness of their rotee; a marriage procession, with tom-toms beating and lusty lungs pouring forth jubilant songs, comes gaily along, a closely covered structure, somewhat in the shape of a beehive, containing the bride, whose weight is not felt by the shoulders of her bearers,—this is the living mosaic which paves the bazaars. There is a vividness in all the types of life, which is very striking, from the matted-haired fakir, who does not hesitate to seize a passer-by in his repulsive grip, so resolute is his demand for alms, to the careless youngster who leans over his donkey, idly chewing a young onion, which answers to the straw of Western street-life. An unveiled woman, wretchedly clad, dirty, and with the features of a Seven Dials’ hag, takes a handful of the youngster’s salad from his donkey’s back; he strikes her on the back with his stick, whereupon she turns round, flings the pilferred stalks in his face, and abuses him in choicest Cabuli. This unexpected “knocking of his leek about his pate” so cows the boy that he moves off hastily, leaving the harridan in possession of the field.
I have by this time wandered into the Char Chowk, or principal bazaar of the city, and here the crowd is denser, the stalls more pretentious, the trade brisker. The bazaar is in four lengths, each roofed over and solidly built of masonry, and the stalls are nearly all rented by jewellers and dealers in silks and cottons. On either hand, above the stalls, richly coloured silks, gaudy chintzes, carpets, and caps of brilliant hues are hung out, making a brave show; while the traders, seated cross-legged below, are surrounded by their stock, upon which they seem to keep a careless eye. I have before spoken of their keenness in trade, and I can only add that, since the early days of our occupation they have grown keener and more rapacious, until to buy goods direct from them is to court being cheated in every way. Still, this does not prevent officers and men from purchasing Bokhara silks and various knick-knacks, for all of which absurdly high prices are given. A good Pathan Sepoy is the best companion to have when buying any articles at the stalls, and he will bully the shopkeeper and finally induce him to take about one-fourth of the price first asked. As the day wears on trade slackens a little, and here and there a shopkeeper pores over a Persian book, while his son keeps watch upon the stock-in-trade. In that silk merchant’s stall, though it be in the heart of the bazaar, are three grey-bearded men listening with supreme pleasure to the excited reader, whom, in my own mind, I believe to be reading the songs of Hafiz; in the next stall a burly Mussulman lies sleeping on a pile of Manchester cottons; while near at hand is a pious old villain taking advantage of a lull to submit his hoary head to the hands of a barber. A shrill cry as of a child in pain draws one further on; it is nothing serious: another pious old gentleman is watching his son’s scalp being treated in the same way by another barber. The boy, some three or four years old, has never felt the razor’s edge before, and shrieks at every stroke, while his father threatens him with a huge stick: the operation is at last over, and the child, still quietly sobbing, passes his hands carefully over his head as if doubtful of it still remaining upon his shoulders. Once convinced that his hair only has gone by the board, he plucks up courage and smiles apologetically upon his father, who gravely strokes his beard in approval. The little incident is only one of many which draw attention, and one might easily elaborate such scenes; but then the charm of simplicity would be destroyed. From the Char Chowk Bazaar to Chandaul is but a few yards, and one passes on the way more fruit-stalls, in which tiers upon tiers of lettuce flank the luscious heaps of apricots, cherries, peaches, and apples which are now pouring into Cabul from Koh-Daman and Chardeh. So much has been written about the Cabul fruit-stalls that it is necessary to say the abundance of fruit has not at all been exaggerated; the stone fruits seem just as abundant as the delicious grapes which we indulged in so freely in the autumn. The vendors of ices are nearly always side by side with the fruit-sellers; the huge blocks of snow which adorn their stalls tempting all sun-dried souls to cool their palates with a little saucer of icy-cold cream flavoured with a sprinkling of mashed fruit. The trade is brisk in these ices, although the dust coats the open trays of cream until it turns a delicate brown. It is not pleasant for any of us to pause at the stall, as the fanaticism of these dealers is proverbial. There is a story afloat, that after an officer had eaten an “ice,” the dealer took the saucer and dashed it to the ground as having been defiled by a Kafir. These people do not love us, however well we treat them. Chandaul Bazaar is only a repetition of the Char-Chowk on a smaller scale, with more fruit shops and a few foul-smelling butcher’s stalls, but the traders are nearly all Hindus and Kizilbashes, who, I must in justice say, are just as rapacious as the Mahomedans. And so one wanders back into the main bazaar, where bhistees are sprinkling the roadway liberally with water, and the afternoon trade is reviving; past the kotwali, where a few sepoys of the 5th Punjabees are on duty; and thence out by the Peshawur Gate, near the Bala Hissar. We have seen Cabul in prosperity, its people insolent enough to check all desire to enter the walls again, and on the ride back to cantonments we are lost in a dream of what the future will be of the city which we have twice occupied, and which has always cost us so dear.
The question of retirement is a serious one to many people in Cabul and the district. The Hindu traders of the city will, it is believed, migrate almost to a man, but the Kizilbashes will trust to their traditional influence in Cabul to pull them through any difficulty in the future. These two trading classes have amassed large sums of money during our occupation; and the Hindu, weak and defenceless, knows too well that a needy Amir would “borrow” most of his gains in a very high-handed way. The Kizilbash is more independent; and as, at a pinch, the Shiahs can turn out 6,000 fighting men, all well-equipped, any Amir would hesitate to make the “red-heads” his enemies. Major Hastings has prepared a short account of these aliens, which is of some interest at the present time, but little having been previously known of this important section of the Cabul populace. Elphinstone, it is true, states that they are members of that colony of Turks which predominates in Persia, and traces its descent from Kijan. To them was given the place of honour in Nadir Shah’s conquering army, and when a military colony was formed in Cabul, their quarter was called “Chandaul,” which, by interpretation, is “vanguard.” Elphinstone’s opinion of them was thus expressed:—“The Kizilbashes in Afghanistan partake of the character of their countrymen in Persia. They are lively, ingenious, and even elegant and refined; but false, designing, and cruel; rapacious, but profuse, voluptuous, and fond of show; at once insolent and servile, destitute of all moderation in prosperity and of all pride in adversity; brave at one time and cowardly at another, but always fond of glory; full of prejudice, but affecting to be liberal and enlightened; admirable for a mere acquaintance (if one can bear with their vanity), but dangerous for a close connection.” They are, according to Major Hastings, still distinct in many respects from those around them; and being of the Shiah section of Mahomedans, there is great religious animosity between them and the Afghans, who are Sunis. They all speak Persian, but the Kizilbashes of Aoshahr, in the Chardeh Valley and some of the older men among the Jawansher of Chandaul, still talk Turki in the privacy of their own families. The portions of Cabul city occupied by the “red-heads”—so called because of their distinctive turbans of crimson cloth—are Chandaul, immediately at the foot of the Sherderwaza Hill and Moradkhani, looking towards Sherpur. In Chardeh their chief villages are Nanuchi and Taiba. The total number of families in and about Cabul is 3,220, but these can furnish only 6,000 fighting men—a small proportion compared with Afghan families, every male in which is a fighting unit. In Candahar and Herat there are a large number of families descended from Nadir Shah’s vanguard, and a few Kizilbashes are also located in Turkistan. The Jawansher section, occupying the greater part of Chandaul, is the most important clan in Cabul, and has at the present moment several of its members holding commands in the Turkistan army. Appointments under Government, such as those of secretaries, accountants, and similar grades, are always largely held by Kizilbashes; while in years gone by there were several Kizilbash regiments in the regular army. Hussein Ali Khan, of the Jawansher section, was once Commander-in-Chief of the Afghan army, and many others of the clan rose to important commands. The red-capped regiments were so powerful in Ahmed Shah’s reign that to prevent civil war in Cabul that monarch sent them to Turkistan, with orders to conquer Balkh. This they did with very little trouble, and Ahmed Shah was then possessed with a fear that they would become independent, and finally prove dangerous enemies. At the suggestion of Morad Khan, Populzai, he recalled them, and assigned to them permanently the portion of Cabul and Chardeh which they now occupy. Moradkhani was called after Ahmed Shah’s adviser. In Shah Suja’s and Shah Zuman’s reigns they were harshly treated, and with their usual independence they joined Haji Jumal and Paenda Khan, the father of the Dost Mahomed. When the Dost was in power, he singled his allies out for many distinctions, the fact of his mother being a Kizilbash lady having, no doubt, great weight with him. The clan refer to their treatment by the Amir Shere Ali Khan and his son, Yakub, in anything but grateful terms. Both Amirs, it would seem, were rather inclined to tyrannize over the Shiahs. Major Hastings gives some carefully-prepared genealogical tables, showing the status and place of residence of the chief families, and concludes his report by stating that, though the Kizilbashes still represent a certain amount of strength in Afghanistan, their power is by no means so great as in former years.
CHAPTER XXIX.
Deportation of the Mustaufi to India—His Sympathy with the Family of Shere Ali—Progress of Negotiations with Abdur Rahman—Arrival of the British Mission at Khanabad—Probable Popularity of the Sirdar’s Cause—Reception of the Mission—The Amirship formally offered to Abdur Rahman—Return of Ibrahim Khan to Sherpur—His Report—A Russian Agent in the Khanabad Camp—Treatment of our Envoys as Prisoners—Photograph of the Sirdar sent to Cabul—His Vacillation and Intrigues with the Tribes—Flight of Sirdars Hashim Khan and Abdulla Khan—Arrival of Afzul Khan—His favourable Estimate of Abdur Rahman—Hasan Khan’s Movements in Logar—Cavalry Action at Padkhao Shana on July 1st—General Palliser’s Success—Two Hundred Tribesmen Killed—Dispersion of Hasan Khan’s Force.
The following letters, written in May, June, and July, will explain the progress of our negotiations with Sirdar Abdur Rahman which eventually led to his assumption of the Amirship:—
26th May, 1880.
Yet another minister of Yakub Khan’s has been deported to India. The Mustaufi, Habibulla Khan, has broken down in his professions of faithfulness to the British, and on the morning of May 20th he left Cabul in a dhoolie, under an escort furnished by the 9th Lancers, which accompanied him as far as Butkhak. Here two companies of the 67th Foot were in readiness to escort him to Luttabund. They had been sent out on the previous afternoon, their sudden march giving rise to rumours of an impending attack upon our communications, a rumour strengthened by the 9th Lancers standing to their horses the whole afternoon, as if ready for a gallop out. What may have been the Mustaufi’s crime I can only conjecture: officially we are told that “he was summoned to Sherpur, and after a long investigation was found guilty of conspiring against the British, and was at once put under arrest.” Camp gossip runs that letters were intercepted, bearing his sign manual, inciting the chiefs to rise again, and that these were produced before Wali Mahomed and other sirdars, who swore to the genuineness of the signature. The old man when found out took the matter quite calmly, and when told that he would be sent at once to India rather welcomed the idea, saying he would go on a pilgrimage to Mecca and afterwards visit England. The Mustaufi seems to have recognized the simple fact that we are bent upon making Abdur Rahman Amir, and this he regards as a breach of faith, as nothing was said of our intention when he was striving so hard to bring the Ghazni malcontents to Sherpur. He knew that he could not hope for power under Abdur Rahman—his partisanship for Shere Ali’s family was too notorious—and hence in his extremity he resorted to fresh intrigues to delay or put altogether out of the question Abdur Rahman’s visit to the British camp. He has been detected, and as Abdur Rahman’s path must be cleared of every obstacle, Habibulla Khan has been summarily sent to India.