We passed Gundamuk, where in May, 1879, the “Treaty of Peace” was signed by the reigning Amîr Yakoub and by Sir Louis Cavagnari. Four months later, in September, Cavagnari, while British Resident in Kabul, was assassinated with the connivance of the same Amîr. I heard the whole plot of the assassination when I was in Kabul.
The story was this. Cavagnari had been holding Durbars, giving judgment in cases of dispute brought to him by the natives, and had been distributing money freely, till the Sirdars, coming to Amîr Yakoub, said, “No longer is the Amîr King of Afghanistan, Cavagnari is King.” Yakoub therefore took counsel with his Sirdars as to the best course to adopt. They said, “To-morrow the Herati regiments come for their pay—send them to Cavagnari.” It was crafty advice—they knew the hot fiery nature of the Heratis. The following day, when the troops appeared, unarmed, as is the custom on these occasions, Amîr Yakoub sent word, “Go to Cavagnari—he is your King.” Off rushed the soldiers tumultuously, knowing the Englishman had been lavish with money. The Sikh sentry at the Residency Gate, seeing a great crowd rushing to the Bala Hissar, challenged them. The excited shouts of the crowd being no answer, he fired. At once their peaceable though noisy excitement changed to anger, and they retaliated with a shower of stones. The Residency guard were called out, some of the Afghans rushed back for their rifles, and soon all were furiously fighting, though no one but Yakoub and his Sirdars knew why. Messages were sent to Amîr Yakoub, and the answer he returned was, “If God will, I am making preparations.” The end was the massacre of the British Envoy and all with him.
Commencement of Ascent to Kabul.
About ten miles beyond Gundamuk was Surkh pul, or “The Red Bridge.” This is an ancient brick bridge built over the river Surkâb, which runs into the Kabul river near Jelalabad. The bridge is built high up at a wild looking gorge between precipitous red mountains, and the river comes roaring out into the valley. The water of the river is reddish, or dark-brown, from the colour of the mud in suspension; however, the Afghans said it was good water, and while we sat in the shade of a fakir’s hut there, the servants boiled some of the water and gave us tea. Then we crossed the bridge and rode on again. From here, almost to the Kabul valley, the road is through a very wild and desolate mountainous region; you gradually rise higher and higher, to nearly 8,000 feet, but just before you reach Kabul, descend some 2,000 feet, the valley of Kabul being 6,000 feet above the sea. It is, of course, a very great deal colder in this region than in Jelalabad; in fact, while the harvest is being reaped in Jelalabad, the corn at Gundamuk, only twenty-five miles further on, is but an inch or two above the ground. It would, perhaps, be more accurate to say that the ascent commences at Nimla. We rode some miles between two ranges of hills—the long narrow valley being cut across by spurs from the mountains; then climbed a very long steep ascent, with precipitous walls of rock on either side, and descended a narrow winding gorge which appeared to have been once the bed of a river. On either side of this gorge there was brushwood growing, some stunted holly trees, and what looked like twisted boxwood trees. Then we climbed the mountain, on the top of which is the Jigdilik serai. This is 6,200 feet high, and the scenery from the serai is the abomination of desolation—range after range of barren mountains. It felt bitterly cold up there, after the heat we had been through.
They found us a room over the gateway of the serai, lit a blazing wood fire, and we stayed there till the next day. In the first Afghan war in 1837, during the winter retreat of the British army, of the 5,000 soldiers and 11,000 camp followers who left Kabul, only 300 reached Jigdilik, and of these only one, Dr. Brydon, reached Jelalabad, the others were shot down by the Afghans, or died of cold and exposure.
The village of Jigdilik is not on the hill where the serai is situated, but in the valley at the foot. Here three gorges meet. One was the road by which the ill-fated army came in their retreat from Kabul through the Khurd Kabul Pass. We took another road to the north-west. We climbed up and down over steep mountains and through narrow defiles hemmed in by bare rocks. In the valleys it was rare to see anything but stones, rocks, and pebbles. There was one valley at Katasung where there was a little stream with grass growing by it. This valley, a short time ago, was very dangerous to travel through on account of the highway robberies and murders of a tribe living near. It is safer now, for the Amîr has killed some of them, imprisoned others, and dispersed the rest. We camped at Sei Baba, a narrow valley of pebbles, with a small stream trickling through it. An enterprising peasant, finding water there, had picked all the pebbles off a narrow strip of ground, piled them in a ring round his field, led the water by a trench to it, and had planted some corn. He, however, was nowhere to be seen, nor was there any house or hut there.
Irrigation Terraces.
We occasionally came across these patches among the mountains wherever there was a trickle of water to be obtained. Sometimes they were more extensive than this one, and, if made on the slope of the mountain, the ground was carefully dug and built up into terraces, so that irrigation was possible. In the middle of the Sei Baba valley was a tomb with a low wall all round it, and a solitary tree was growing by. On the tomb were placed two or three pairs of horns of the wild goat. This is done as a mark of great respect. Every passer by, too, throws a stone on a heap by the grave, and strokes his beard while he mutters a prayer. The heap of stones, or “tsalai,” is supposed to be piled only over the graves of holy men or martyrs; but they are heaped over any grave that happens to be apart from others, and by the wayside. The peasants, not knowing, assume it is the grave of a holy man. The custom is said by some to originate by imitation from an act of Mahomed, in which the form but not the spirit of the ceremony, has been retained; for Mahomed, fleeing for refuge to Mecca from Medina, threw stones at the city and cursed it. By others, these heaps of stones are supposed to be representative of the Buddhist funeral pillars, the custom having remained extant since the days when Buddhism was the dominant religion of the people inhabiting this country. The latter seems the more likely explanation.
By the side of some of these tombs a small shrine, “ziyârat,” is built. If the tomb is that of a known holy man, the passer by, in addition to adding a stone and saying his prayer, calls upon the name of the saint, and tears a small piece of rag off his garment which he hangs on the nearest bush or tree. The shred is to remind the holy man that the wearer has prayed him to intercede on his behalf with the prophet Mahomed. On the grave, too, is generally planted a pole with an open hand, cut out of zinc or tin, fixed on the top. If the deceased has fallen in battle a red rag is fixed on the pole as well. What the open hand pointing to the sky represents I never heard.
When we arrived at Sei Baba we found that a party of peasants on the tramp had halted there—one of their number died just as we arrived. Seeing that we had a cavalcade of horsemen and much baggage, and there being no village nearer than seven or eight miles, they came to us to beg a little calico for a winding sheet. It struck me that ten yards, the amount they asked for, was rather much for that purpose. Possibly they thought the living men required it quite as much as the dead man.