It rained somewhat when we got among the mountains, and Jan Mahomed, who had on a purple velvet tunic, put up an umbrella to protect himself. I found he had brought his little son, four years old with him. The youngster was seated in a little chair, which was securely fastened on the back of a steady horse, an attendant holding a leading rein. I was not on very good terms myself with my horse. He was a very showy creature, and had been given me by the Prince, but he had evidently not been ridden lately, and was very fresh. A march is a fatiguing function at the best of times, and my horse was not up to the quick shuffling walk which is so restful. He would do anything else—buck, kick, gallop, or trot. Finally Jan Mahomed ordered one of the soldiers, an iron Afghan, to change with me, and I was at peace again.
Sometimes we stopped at a village and put up in the different houses; other times the tents were pitched near a stream. When we got among the Paghman offshoot of the Hindu Kush mountains we had pelting rain and sleet for hours; a violent storm of thunder and lightning; then had to ford a wide roaring stream with a stony irregular bed, and, finally, to camp outside a Hazara fortified village in the sloppy melting snow.
Courtesy of Jan Mahomed.
The village (Kharzar) was too filthy inside for us to enter, and too cramped in space to accommodate us, if we had entered. I went to look—for my tent had not arrived. For food the villagers were too ill provided themselves to be able to sell us anything, and hungry, wet, and tired, it seemed likely we should have a cheerless night. When Jan Mahomed’s tent was ready he kindly invited me to enter it. I took off my soaked ulster, sloshed and slipped into the dusk of the tent, sat on a stool, and shivered miserably. Nothing else seeming to be forthcoming, a pipe was the only resource, and with shaking hand I tried to light it. Match after match fizzed in the damp and went out. The pipe chattered in my teeth, and, woe is me, I felt that the cold and the wet and the hungry emptiness would last for ever. But it did not. Jan Mahomed Khan noticed presently that I seemed uncomfortable. He rose from the camp stool on which he was sitting enveloped in the voluminous folds of a huge sheepskin postîn, came across the tent, slipped the postîn from his shoulders and threw it around me. I tried to refuse; but he insisted. He said nothing, for he could not speak English nor I Persian, then he smiled, bowed and sat down again. I felt very grateful, and at the same time rather ashamed at having robbed him, but presently a soldier brought him a cloak in which he wrapped himself.
Meanwhile, the attendants, having succeeded in obtaining some straw, scattered it thickly inside the tent and spread carpets over it. Then they endeavoured to light a fire in a large iron pot outside, and when there was a feeble glimmer of a flame they brought it in. We gathered round it joyfully, but soon a dense fog of smoke from the damp wood filled the tent. Though I still shivered under the postîn, I had managed to light my pipe, and I sat puffing away with the smarting tears trickling down, finally the smoke fog became so dense that I was compelled to sit with my eyes shut. Neither Jan Mahomed nor any of the Afghans seemed to mind it in the least. Jan Mahomed himself is not an Afghan. He is a Samarcandi whom the Amîr purchased as a boy. He was the Amîr’s faithful attendant when in exile in Russian Turkestan; and when His Highness came to the throne Jan Mahomed was put into a position of trust, finally becoming treasury officer, or “Chancellor of the Exchequer.”
The tent, by-and-bye, became warmer, and I took off my solar helmet which I had worn during the rain storms. The Afghans, however, attach great importance to keeping the head warm, and they all insisted upon my putting on that or some other head covering at once; otherwise, they said, I should take fever. The fire began to blaze up brightly and the smoke to disappear, when an iron vessel was brought, containing a few pints of milk with water added to eke out the quantity. They put it over the fire and, when it boiled, a handful of tea was thrown in. There was enough for all in the tent to have a teacupful; I, the guest, and Jan Mahomed, received two each. By-and-bye, an iron camp bedstead was prepared for my host, and he retired; one of the attendants kneading and massaging the limbs till he slept. My bedding not having turned up I threw a buffalo rug over my feet, and lay down on the carpet enveloped in the folds of the sheepskin. It was not a comfortable bed, but I was tired and slept more or less, waking up occasionally with aching bones.
The morning was bright: the rising sun in the clear sky lit up the white snow all around, and a keen wind was blowing. My interpreter, the Armenian, appeared. He said he had had fever in the night, and had found shelter in one of the huts inside the Hazara fort. He brought me a small piece of dry bread which the cook had found among the baggage when my tent arrived. Some hot tea was made, and I munched my crust with great satisfaction. They told me we should have a cold march that day, by Hajiguk, and the Armenian said:—
“Sir, you not wear the long coat; he is wet, and fever come for you.”
“I must wear something,” I said.