FROM
THE INDUS TO THE TIGRIS

A NARRATIVE OF A JOURNEY THROUGH THE COUNTRIES
OF BALOCHISTAN, AFGHANISTAN, KHORASSAN
AND IRAN, IN 1872

TOGETHER WITH
A SYNOPTICAL GRAMMAR AND VOCABULARY OF
THE BRAHOE LANGUAGE

AND A RECORD OF
THE METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS AND ALTITUDES ON THE
MARCH FROM THE INDUS TO THE TIGRIS

BY
HENRY WALTER BELLEW, C.S.I.
SURGEON BENGAL STAFF CORPS
Author of a “Journal of a Mission to Afghanistan in 1867-58,” and
a “Grammar and Dictionary of the Pukkhto Language.”

LONDON
TRÜBNER & CO., 57 & 59 LUDGATE HILL
1874

[All rights of publication reserved]

PREFACE.

The steady progress of Russian conquest in Turkistan during the past half-century, and, during late years, the rapid advance of her frontiers in the direction of India, have raised the States of Central Asia to a position of importance in the eyes of European politicians higher than they ever before occupied.

The accounts published from time to time by venturesome travellers in those regions have informed us of the barbarism and bigotry of their peoples—of the anarchy and weakness of their Governments—and of the growing decay and approaching dissolution of the polity that holds them together by the bonds of a common religion and common interest. And now the military operations against Khiva at present in course of prosecution by Russia, whilst opening up that country to the influences of European civilisation, promise to unfold to that power a field of enterprise that must, I believe, culminate in her paramount ascendancy over all the region draining to the valley of the Oxus. This is a prospect full of the weightiest moment to ourselves in India, and one that furnishes matter for the gravest consideration of our statesmen. Much has been already written on this subject from different points of view, and much remains to be written; and doubtless the public journals will keep alive the discussion of the question. But let us be careful lest, while straining at the gnat of Yárkand, we swallow the camel of Herat.

Since the region intervening between the Asiatic possessions of Russia and England now claims the attention of the several Governments concerned, and is by the current of progressing events brought prominently before the notice of the politicians of Europe generally, any recent information regarding these countries cannot fail to prove of interest to the general reader. With this conviction, therefore, I venture to set before the public an account of the incidents and experiences of a journey made across this region during last year—from the Indus to the Tigris.

In explanation of all shortcomings as to matter and defects as to style, I have to remind the reader that the narrative has been written at odd hours, between the duties of an onerous charge in the principal frontier station of India, without leisure for generalisation, or opportunity for reference to authorities.

Further, I am constrained by the force of circumstances to commit my manuscript to the care of the publisher, without the advantage of correcting the proof-sheets in their passage through the press.

H. W. B.

Peshawar, 18th April 1873.

CONTENTS.

FROM THE INDUS TO THE TIGRIS.

INTRODUCTION.

Towards the close of 1871, Major-General F. R. Pollock (now Sir Richard Pollock, K.C.S.I.) was deputed by the Government of India on a political mission to Sistan, and I was selected to accompany him. I left Peshawar on the 12th December, and joined him at Lahore, where our arrangements for the journey were made. In Sistan we joined Sir Frederick Goldsmid’s mission, and proceeded together to the Persian capital. Thence I returned to India with the camp and establishment taken with us.

It is not the purpose of this work to enter into any detail of the objects of the mission, nor in any way to refer to the political events connected with it—preceding or succeeding; and I have been careful in the following pages to avoid allusion to or discussion of the politics of the countries we visited, inasmuch as they are now the subjects of consideration to the several Governments affected by them, and are, besides, questions foreign to the nature of this publication.

But as it is seldom than Europeans have an opportunity of visiting much of the country embraced within the limits of the journey of this mission, I have thought that a popular account of our experiences would not be unacceptable to the British public; particularly since the region covered by our travels, apart from its own special claims upon our interest, is, I believe, destined ere very long to attract the most serious attention of European politicians and statesmen.

And this because the civilisation of the West is advancing with such steady progress towards the East, that it must sooner or later penetrate to the countries that have hitherto successfully excluded its influence. On the Asiatic continent, at least, its advance is from opposite quarters, at different rates of speed, and of very different characters. The highly organised and intricate system of European civilisation introduced into India, and now being consolidated within the limits of the British Empire there, though not without its advantages, has hardly produced a shadow of effect on the bordering countries lying beyond the region of its control. It stops short at, and with as clear a line of definition as, the natural boundaries of the peninsula. Cross the mountain barrier limiting the plains of India, and you pass at once from civilisation to barbarism, from order to anarchy, from security to danger, from justice to oppression. So much from the side of India.

From the opposite quarter advances the growing civilisation of Russia—a civilisation which, notwithstanding its elements of European science and art, is still but little raised in its general character above that of the countries it is so rapidly overspreading, and yet, by consequence, less opposed to the tastes and the requirements of their newly-conquered peoples. The steamer, the telegraph, and the railway add consolidation to the new rule in the annexed countries. Order and security are established within the newly-conquered area by a sharp and decisive though despotic military rule; whilst commercial enterprise is encouraged with the countries lying beyond, and fostered by Government patronage. So much from the side of Russia.

The region lying between the Russian conquests in Central Asia and the British Empire in India is now the barrier that separates these two forms of civilisation. It cannot always remain so. It must sooner or later succumb to the one form or the other; and for this reason it is that the region claims from us a more than ordinary interest, and, I may say, sympathy too, by way of reparation for the wrong we inflicted in the Afghan war—a wrong the fruits of which are yet abundant, as anybody who has served on our north-west frontier can testify.

The narrative contained in the following pages will, it is hoped, convey a correct picture of the general nature of the country included between the Indus and the Tigris, illustrate the chief points in the character of its peoples, and exemplify the state of the society in which they live. With respect to the last, I may here say, in anticipation, that tyranny and insecurity, oppression and violence, reign everywhere all over the country. It was our lot, on entering this region, to meet a caravan that had been attacked and plundered by tribes in revolt against their chief. It was my lot, on leaving the region, to meet another caravan that had been attacked and plundered by tribes in rebellion against their sovereign. And it was yet again my lot, before clear of the region in which we had successfully run the gauntlet through Brahoe and Baloch, Turkman and Hamadán, to be brought to bay by Arab robbers, from whom we escaped I know not how.

As the narrative is confined to a description only of the country actually traversed, it may be useful here to set before the reader a general view of the whole region lying between the valleys of the Indus and the Tigris, by way of introduction to the subject-matter of this book; and this because the region itself is as interesting on account of its peculiar physical characteristics as it is attractive on account of its varied historical associations.

The land of the Medes and Persians, Magians and Zoroastrians, on the one side, and of the Scythians and Aryans, Buddhists and Brahmists, on the other—the kingdom of Cyrus and of Darius—the country of Alexander’s fame—the theatre of Arab conquest and Islamite growth—the scene of Tartar bloodshed and devastation, and the home ever since of anarchy and desolation—the hotbed of Mohammedan bigotry—the arena of Shia and Sunni hostility—and, towards the east, the bone of contention between Persian and Mughal—later still, the battlefield between Afghan and Persian—the prize of Nadír—the spoil of his successors—and now the possession of Kajar and Durrani, of Persian and Afghan, each jealous of other, and each claiming as frontier what the other possesses.

Such are some of the varied historical associations, past and present, of the region I shall now endeavour to describe in its physical character only—a region which, with the exception of its western portion, has long been a closed country to the European, and a jealously-guarded barrier against the civilisation of the age. The term of its isolation, however, is doomed; the time of its freedom draws nigh. For the force of Western civilisation is irresistible. Through it the enlightenment of the age must soon shed its lustre upon these benighted regions.

The Crimean war poured its light upon Turkey, and under its influence the “sick man of Europe” has become convalescent. His neighbour is now the “sick man of Asia.” He looks wistfully at the remedy of civilisation. Let us hope he may be persuaded to try it. But if Persia is the sick man of Asia, what shall we say of Afghanistan, shut up in his own barbarism, imbued to the core with fanatic bigotry, and steeped in the pride of nationality? Verily, he is very sick—sick unto death. And he knows it, yet he refuses, obstinately and suspiciously, the only remedy that can save his decaying constitution from dissolution. Is he to be left to his fate? or will the physician appear in good time and patch up his broken frame? These are questions for serious reflection, because the patient is our neighbour, and his fate cannot be a matter of indifference to us.

The region whose past history and present condition I have thus briefly alluded to is comprised within the fiftieth and seventieth degrees of east longitude, and the twenty-fifth and thirty-fifth degrees of north latitude. Its length is about twelve hundred miles, and its breadth about six hundred.

Its most characteristic features are its general elevation, and the fact that no river from its interior reaches the sea. It forms, in fact, a great elevated block, interposed between the basin of the Caspian and the low-lying valley of Turkistan on the north, and the Persian Gulf and Arabian Sea on the south, and is bounded east and west by the valleys of the Indus and the Tigris respectively.

The area thus limited geographically, in contradistinction to its political boundaries, presents some remarkable physical peculiarities, which may be considered characteristic of the whole region. Its mountain system, its river system, its deserts, and its plains, all offer special features for notice.

Its mountains, girding it on all sides, shut it off from surrounding countries. By their internal disposition they divide the region into two distinct parts, and form a natural boundary separating three distinct races—the Persian, the Afghan, and the Uzbak.

Its rivers, owing to this internal disposition of the mountains, are directed in three different directions. Those of Persia mostly converge to the south-east of its territory; those of Afghanistan converge to the south-west of its territory; and those to the north of the mountain chain that separates these two systems, flow northward to the swamps, tracts lying between the lower course of the Oxus and the Caspian.

Its deserts, too, by the same internal disposition of the mountains, are divided into three distinct sets—those of Persia and Afghanistan, lying one on either side of the mountain range separating these two countries, and that of Turkistan, lying to the north of the same range, in the angle formed by the mountains that converge from east and west to produce it.

Its plains present greater variety in extent and direction and elevation, but are all alike in general character—equally arid, equally void of trees, and equally covered with pasture plants. All are more or less the resort of nomads with their flocks and herds, and some are peopled by fixed communities settled in villages.

I will now describe each of these points in the physical geography of this region separately, but time and space only permit of my doing so very briefly and in general terms.

As before indicated, the region between the valleys of the Indus and the Tigris is an elevated country, propped up on all sides by great mountain ranges.

On the east, it is separated from the valley of the Indus by the Sulemán range, which continues southwards to the sea-coast in the Hala mountains that separate Balochistan from Sind. To the northward it connects, through the Sufed Koh of Kabul, with the Kohi Baba of Hindu Kush. This range contains within its ridges many fertile valleys and small plains, all of which drain eastwards to the Indus. To its west lies the high tableland of Ghazni, and Kandahar and Balochistan.

On the west, it is separated from the valley of the Tigris by the range of the Zagros mountains, which northwards, through the hills of Kurdistan, unite with the Armenian mountains. To the southward it extends by the mountains of Laristan and Khuzistan to those forming the southern boundary of this region. The declivity of the Zagros ranges toward the west. The mountains in this direction drop at once to the plains below, and, viewed from them, look like a huge buttress wall propping up the tableland of Persia.[1]

On the south, it is supported against the coast of the Arabian Sea by the Mushti range of Balochistan, on the one hand, and upon the littoral of the Persian Gulf by the chain of mountains connecting the Balochistan range with that of Zagros, on the other. To the east these mountains support the interior tableland of Afghanistan, against the low rugged hills of the sea-coast, by the hills and valleys of Makrán; and to the west, by the hills of Laristan and Fars, they unite with the Zagros range, and support the elevated interior of Persia against the low-lying shore of the Persian Gulf. This range is pierced by many passes up to the interior, and encloses numerous fertile and well-watered valleys.

Towards the north, it is separated from the valley of the Oxus and low plains of Turkistan by the Hindu Kush range on the side of Afghanistan, and from the basin of the Caspian by the Alburz range on the side of Persia.

This northern boundary presents some special features. The two great ranges approaching from the east and west bend southwards to meet in the vicinity of Herat, whence they project across the whole country, dividing the region into the two kingdoms of Persia and Afghanistan, and separating each from the intermediate region to the north—the country of the Turkmans and the Hazara, with other cognate Uzbak tribes. Thus the Hindu Kush, west of Kabul, sends off two principal ranges separated by the Hari Rúd, or river of Herat. The southern of these ranges is called Syáh Koh, and breaks up into the mountains of Ghor, which, extending south of Herat, join the Khorassan mountains emanating from the Alburz range, and form the watershed between the hydrographic systems of Afghanistan and Turkistan. That is to say, all the streams to the north of the Syáh Koh range flow to the valley of the Oxus, or to the low swampy tracts of Marv and Tajand, between the lower course of that river and the Caspian, whilst all the streams to its south flow to the Sistan basin, the receptacle for all the drainage of Afghanistan west of Ghazni.

And so from the opposite direction. The Alburz range west of Mashhad sends off a succession of lofty offshoots, snow-topped in midsummer, that traverse the northern highlands of Khorassan in a direction from north-west to south-east, and enclose between them a number of elevated plateaux, such as those of Nishabor, Sabzwár, Turshíz, and Tabbas, that all drain westwards into Persia. The principal of these offshoots is the Binaloh range of mountains. It separates the plain of Mashhad from that of Nishabor, and towards the south-east connects with the high mountains of Záwah and Bákharz, north of Herat. This range forms a watershed between the drainage converging on to the great salt desert of Persia on the one side, and that flowing to the swamps of Tajand and Marv on the other.

Between Záwah and Tabbas the chain of mountains is interrupted by a narrow arm of the salt desert called Kavír, which at Yúnasi projects eastward on to the plain of Kháf and Ghorian. But it is continued onwards by spurs from Bákharz which connect with the mountains of Ghazn on the one side, and with those of Ghor on the other, a little south of Herat. Here the Ghazn valley drains into Afghanistan, and onwards south the two ranges proceed in parallel lines, a strip of desert waste intervening, till they mingle in the Sarhadd mountains, through which they connect with the great southern mountain border of this region—the border previously described as extending from the Sulemán range across Balochistan and the southern provinces of Persia to the Zagros range on the west.

Of these two parallel ranges, that formed by the projections from the Ghor mountains extends in detached ridges running mostly north and south. They enclose amongst them the valleys of Sabzwár or Isapzár, and Anartarrah, and drain to the Sistan basin by the Harutrúd or Adraskand, as it is also called. The range passes to the west of the Sistan basin, of which it forms the boundary in that direction, under the name of Koh Bandán, and ultimately joins the Sarhadd mountains.

The other range, joined by the spurs from Bákharz, is an extensive and elevated mountain tract, enclosing numerous plateaux and valleys, that all drain to the Khusp river, which flows on to the salt desert. The general direction of the range is from north to south, with spurs projecting east and west. It connects through the hills of Nih and Bandán with the Sarhadd mountains.

The mountain barrier thus formed by the emanations from Alburz is the natural geographical boundary between Persia and Afghanistan, north and south across the length of their conterminous frontiers. It forms a wide mountain region called Irani Khorassan, or Persian Khorassan, and abounds in populous and fertile valleys, full of fruit-gardens and running streams. Its climate is variable, and its winters severe; but on the whole it is a very salubrious region, and is everywhere easily traversed by practicable passes among the hills.

Its inhabitants are a very mixed community. In the southern districts they are mostly Ilyats, from different stocks, with some Persians settled in the principal towns, and all under the rule of local chiefs of Arab descent. In the central districts,—Tún, Tabbas, and northern parts of Ghazn,—there are many Baloch and Tartar families mixed up with the general population. To the north of these, in Záwah and Bákharz, the people are mostly Karai Tartars and Hazárah Uzbaks; and in the northern districts, Nishabor, Sabzwár, Burdjnurd, Khabúshán, &c., they are entirely Kurds.

From the above description it will be seen that the Hindu Kush and Alburz ranges combine to form the Khorassan mountains that separate Persia from Afghanistan; that Herat, and the country north of their point of junction, is geographically separated from both, and connected by its hydrographic system with the valley of the Oxus; that in the vicinity of Herat the continuity of the Khorassan hills is interrupted, south of Bákharz, by an arm of the salt desert of Persia; and also that, with Herat as a centre, the three divergent mountain ranges—viz., those of Alburz, Ghor, and Ghazn—separate three distinct peoples—the Persians, the Afghans, and the Turkmans, with Uzbaks and other cognate tribes.

I draw attention to this last point, because the natural configuration of the country explains the facility with which, from time immemorial, the predatory tribes of the lower Oxus valley have been enabled to harass the Persian frontier unchecked with their annual marauding inroads and slave-hunting expeditions, and because also history has marked out this locality as the point of ingress towards the east for all northern invaders; for Herat towards the north, and with it Mashhad, is open to both Khiva and Bukhára.

The mountain barriers that I have mentioned as geographically bounding the region lying between the Indus and the Tigris, have by their interior disposition determined its hydrographic system in a remarkable manner, on either side of the great Khorassan range separating Afghanistan from Persia.

The Sulemán range, as already mentioned, is a wide mountain tract, enclosing within its hills many valleys and hills which all drain eastwards to the Indus. Its declivity is towards the east, whilst to the west it slopes gently on to the elevated plateaux of Afghanistan.

To the north, this range connects with the Sufed Koh east of Ghazni, and at this point commences that great watershed that separates the drainage of the Indus from that of the Helmand. It runs in a southerly direction, inclining to west as far as the Bolán and the tableland of Calát, whence it strikes westward towards the Mushti range, separating the great desert of Balochistan from Makrán.

To the north of this watershed, Sufed Koh connects through the highlands of Ghazni with the Kohi Baba of Hindu Kush. From this range starts the Syáh Koh of Hazárah, which stretches west to Herat, and forms the watershed between the valley of the Oxus on the north, and the Sistan basin on the south. From Herat it extends southward by Sabzwár and Bandán to Sarhadd, where it joins the western spurs of the Mushti range, and thus completes the circle of the hydrographic system of Afghanistan.

With the exception of the drainage of the Ghazni river, which collects in the Abistada marsh, and the drainage of the Calát tablelands, which flow to the desert north of the Mushti range, all the rivers within the area indicated flow towards the Sistan basin, at the south-western extremity of the Kandahar plain, though they do not all reach it. All the rivers and rivulets from the eastward and southward flow to the stream of the Helmand, whilst those of Sabzwár and Ghor flow in separate streams, all to meet in the Sistan basin. So it is in the Afghanistan half of the region; and a similar system, though on a much less extensive scale, is found to hold in the Persian half. Thus all the streams between the Alwand range of Hamadán on the west, and the Alburz on the north-east, converge to the south-east corner of the Persian tableland, where they expand themselves on the surface of the great salt desert north of Kirmán. At least, such is the case if any reliance is to be placed on the statements of my Persian informants, whose testimony I am willing to believe from my own observations as to the general course of the streams and the lie of the land; for I have not seen this shown on any map. The river Khusp of Birjand, the Yúnasi river, the Kál Shor of Nishabor and Sabzwár, the Kál Abresham and others on to Tehran, all flow direct on to the salt desert, and the streams crossed on the road from Tehran to Hamadán all flowed in the same direction.

The great salt desert of Persia, called the Daryáe Kabír, or “the vast sea,” extends all along the western side of the Khorassan hills, from Nishabor in the north to Kirmán in the south, and sinks to its lowest level in the latter direction, opposite to the Sistan basin, on the other side of the intervening mountain range. So that the water systems of the two countries converge towards each other, and at some remote period probably formed lakes or swamps on either side of the mountain range dividing them, where it joins the great southern border of the region.

The water system of the country, to the north of this dividing range, belongs to the hydrographic system of Turkistan, and is beyond the limits of the region I am describing. Its rivers all flow towards the lowest part of the desert tract lying between the lower course of the Oxus and the Caspian, and there end in the swamps of Tajand and Marv. The principal of these streams are the Murgháb, the Hari Rúd, and the river of Mashhad. With the exception of the Helmand and Farráh Rúd in Afghanistan, none of these streams always reach their destination. They only do so in periods of excessive flood; usually their waters are dissipated by evaporation, absorption by the porous soil, and by diversions for purposes of irrigation, long before they can reach their terminal receptacles.

The deserts of this region between the Indus and Tigris are in a measure connected with its water system. They present vast tracts of elevated sandy wastes, perfectly void of water and vegetation except on their skirts. Each division of the region has a desert of its own. That of Persia has been before mentioned as stretching north and south across the eastern portion of that country. The desert of Afghanistan extends east and west across the western half of its southern border, from the highlands of Calát to the mountains of Sarhadd, south of Sistan. It is called the Regi Sistan or Regi Balochistan—the sands of Sistan or Balochistan—and extends from the Mushti range of mountains on the south up to the plain of Kandahar on the north, where it ends in a high coast of desert cliffs. This elevated border is called chol, or “dry land,” and forms a belt ten or fifteen miles wide, on which is found a rich winter pasture for the cattle of the nomads who here make their winter quarters.

There is also a desert tract to the north between the Caspian and Oxus; but it differs from the deserts of Persia and Afghanistan in an important particular. Its surface is a firm gravel, broken into undulations, and covered with a more or less rich pasture of aromatic herbs, and water is found in some of the hollows on its surface.

The plains of this region are all elevated plateaux of greater or less extent, and more frequently the latter. They are all covered with excellent pastures of rich aromatic herbs and hardy plants, and are the natural home of the asafœtida and wormwood, and, in the more elevated tracts, of the rhubarb. Most of them are watered by brisk little hill-streams, or by those artificial subterranean conduits called kárez, and are more or less populous; villages, fruit-gardens, and cultivation following the course of the streams, and nomad camps covering the pastures during the summer months.

In Balochistan, these plateaux rise in steps one above the other between the hills up to the tableland of Calát. North of this they fall in steps to the Kandahar plain, which itself sinks towards the south-west to the Sistan basin. In Persia they rise in a similar gradation from the shores of the Persian Gulf and basin of the Tigris up to the tablelands of the interior, where they sink again gradually to the lowest part of the salt desert in the south-east portion of the country.

Such, in general terms, are the main features of the region between the Indus and the Tigris. Its climate, as may be imagined, is as varied as the surface of the country. It partakes of the temperate character of an Alpine climate in the northern mountain tracts, whilst in the lower desert tracts it equals in heat the torrid plains of India during the summer months. But in winter it is everywhere cold; in the mountain regions rigorously so, whilst on the wide plains and deserts it is equally severe by reason of the strong north winds that sweep the country for months.

On the whole, the climate, with its many variations, may be considered salubrious and favourable to life. Its inhabitants certainly are physically amongst the finest of the human race, notwithstanding the inferior fare and barbarous mode of life that are the lot of a large proportion of them, in Afghanistan particularly. In this country the signs of departed prosperity and plenty are everywhere met with. From Ghazni westward, all along the valleys of the Tarnak and the Helmand, down to the basin of Sistan, the whole country is covered with the ruins of former cities, obliterated canals, and deserted cultivation—all assigned to the devastation of the Tartars under Changhiz and Tymúr in the thirteenth and fifteenth centuries.

The country has never recovered the havoc created by these curses of the human race. Since the destruction of the Arab rule overthrown by them, the country has known no stable government, and has been a stranger to peace, order, and prosperity alike. But it has within itself all the material elements of prosperity. What it wants are a firm government and a just rule. With these once more established over it, there is no reason why the country should not again recover its former state of prosperity and plenty. Its mountains contain a store of unexplored treasure, and its plains an only half-developed wealth.

Of its inhabitants I need add little here, as to describe them fully would fill a volume. Suffice it to say, that those of Persia and Afghanistan alike contain representatives of various Tartar races thrown into this region by the successive waves of invasion from the north, as well as representatives of earlier known peoples pushed on into it from the south-west, mixed up with the ancient inhabitants of the land. Thus in Persia, with the ancient inhabitants, who are mostly settled in the large towns and cities, are found various tribes of Mughals, Turks, and Kurds, together with Arabs, Armenians, and Jews. A fourth of the population, which may be estimated at six millions, consists of wandering tribes, generically known as ilyát, a term which signifies “the tribes,” and corresponds with the úlús of the Afghans. In the ilyát are comprised all sorts of tribes, Arab and Ajam, that is to say, of Arab origin and of Persian or foreign origin, or, in other words, tribes who have come into the country at different times from the west and from the north.

In Afghanistan, with its province of Balochistan, both included in the country of Khorassan, are the original Tajiks of Persian origin, the Afghans or Pukhtúns (the dominant race), and the Hazárah of Tartar invasions, together with Kazzilbash Mughals, and Uzbaks and Turks of various tribes, Hindkis and Kashmiris, and others of Indian origin, all in the northern tracts. In the southern are Brahoe and Baloch, of different origin and diverse speech; the Dihwár or Tajik, of Persian race and tongue, and a mixture of different tribes, such as Jats of Sind, Hindus of Shikárpúr, and a few mongrel tribes of nobody knows where.

In our passage through the Brahoe country I collected the material for a concise grammar and vocabulary of that language. It will be found in the Appendix. I had hoped to have been able to add similar grammars and vocabularies of the Baloch and Sistan dialects; but the adverse circumstances of our sojourn in these countries prevented my acquiring a sufficient knowledge of their languages, and I find that the data collected are much too scanty to permit of my making the attempt, though, from what I did gather, I believe both are closely allied to the Persian.

CHAPTER I.

We left Multán by the morning train on the 26th December 1871, and after a ride of near an hour, alighted at Sher Sháh Ghát on the river bank. Here we took leave of our kind host, Colonel Stuart Graham, Commissioner of the Division, and embarked on board the river steamer Outram. By noon we had loosed our moorings, and the Outram, wedged in between two unwieldy flats lashed to her one on either side, was fairly started down-stream of the river Chenáb.

We had hardly proceeded two hours when we were brought to a stand-still by “something” wrong with the engine. Whatever this mysterious “something” may have been, it necessitated our mooring alongside the river bank for the rest of the day. A stout plank thrown across from one of the flats served to communicate with the shore, which is here a dead level of loose sand, evidently a recent deposit by floods. The banks here are very low, so too is the stream between them at this season, as we soon discovered, to the no small trial of our patience. They—the banks—are of loose sand, flush with the general surface of the plain as far as the eye can reach on either side. They are perpetually sucking up moisture from the stream washing them, and then, becoming overweighted, subside into the river, to be restored again in the succeeding year’s floods.

By seven o’clock next morning we had cast off from our moorings, and were drifting down mid-stream, fairly started for a good day’s run. But we had hardly proceeded half-an-hour when a smart bump announced our stoppage by a sandbank. A little delay presently revealed the unpleasant fact that the Outram with her flats was jammed in a shallow channel with only two and a half feet of water. Anchors were thrown out, first on one side, then on the other; the engine was backed astern, and then turned ahead. The Outram was hauled first this way and then that; she was worked now backwards and again driven forwards; and so on in alternation for upwards of seven hours. Finally, about three o’clock, our unwieldy tria juncta in uno was wriggled out of the strait into free water four feet deep.

But we were not yet clear of our difficulties. A few hundred yards farther on we were again stranded on a sandbank; and not being able to get off it at sunset, anchored for the night in mid-stream, having during the day increased our distance from Multán by four miles more than it was on the previous evening. We did not get fairly off this bank till noon of the following day. And so we went on, with like obstructions daily, entailing more or less delay, till we reached Bakrí at sunset of the 30th. Here next morning we transhipped to the river steamer De Grey, the cargo being transferred during the night, and making a good start, arrived at Cháchá, a little below the junction of the Chenáb with the Indus, on the morning of the second day of the new year. Here our only fellow-traveller, the Rev. T. V. French, of the Church Missionary Society, left us for Baháwalpúr.

The De Grey fared only a little better than the Outram. We experienced many delays from shoal water and narrow channels, and at sunset of the second day ran on to a sandbank. The shock of the concussion caused one of the flats to break away from its attachments and crush against the stern of the steamer. The whole night was employed in securing the flat and working the steamer off the bank. By eight o’clock next morning we got off into free water, and making a good day’s run, at sunset moored for the night at Rodhar, a little hamlet of reed huts close on the river bank, and about forty-eight miles above Sakkar.

During the day, we saw immense numbers of water-fowl of all sorts. Ducks in great variety, coolan, wild geese, herons, cranes, and paddy-birds were the most prominent in point of size and numbers. Porpoises hunted up and down the stream, alligators on the sandbanks lazily basked in the sunshine, and wild pigs cautiously issued from the thick coverts on either side for a wallow in the shallows and puddles bordering the river’s stream.

In one of these shallows, formed by an overflow of the river, we witnessed a curious sight—an interesting fact for the naturalist. A large fish floundering about in the shallow water had attracted the attention of a buzzard flying overhead. The bird made one or two stoops at the fish, when a jackal, looking on from the edge of the jangal, came forward to contest its possession. He boldly went some twenty paces into the water, and after a sharp struggle seized the fish and brought it to land. Here he laid it on the sand to take breath and look around, and the buzzard, seizing the opportunity, again made a stoop at the fish, but was driven off by the jackal, who made a jump into the air at him. This was repeated two or three times, after which the jackal, taking up his prize, with head aloft proudly trotted back to his covert. The fish appeared to be at least twenty inches long.

We left Rodhar early next morning, and proceeded without obstruction. We passed a number of small hamlets close on the river bank on either side. They were composed of reed cabins supported on slender poles eight or ten feet high. Each cabin was a neat pent-roofed box, about ten feet long by six wide, and as many high at the sides. They belonged to Sindhí Jats, who live by fishing, cutting wood for fuel, and by tending cattle.

The country here is wooded close to the water’s edge by a thick jangal of Euphrates poplar, tamarisk, and mimosa, and here and there are great belts of tall reeds, eighteen to twenty feet high. The approach to Sakkar is very fine and unique of its kind. It presents a charming contrast to the dead level of the scenery on either side the river above it as far as Multán. The island fortress of Bakkar in mid-stream, with the many-storied houses and lofty palm groves of Rorhí, on one side, and the high rocks and sunburnt town of Sakkar on the other, are the characteristic features of this peculiar spot. We steamed through the channel between Rorhí and Bakkar, and then, making for the opposite shore, moored under the town of Sakkar at about one o’clock. It thus took us nearly eleven whole days to perform the journey by river from Multán to Sakkar. In the hot season, when the river is in full flood, the same journey is usually accomplished in one third of the time.

Cattle for our baggage and camp equipage having been collected here by previous arrangement, we left our servants to follow with them, and at half-past three set out for Shikárpúr in a buggy kindly placed at our service by Captain Hampton, Superintendent of the Panjab Steam Flotilla. At Mangráni, the half-way stage, we mounted camels sent out for us, and in four hours from Sakkar, arrived at Shikárpúr. The road is excellent throughout, and laid most of the way with long reed grass to keep down the dust. The country is flat, crossed by many irrigation canals, and covered with jangal patches of tamarisk and mimosa. In the last five miles from Lakkí to Shikárpúr, cultivation is general, and large trees become more abundant.

In the morning our obliging host, Colonel Dunsterville, Collector of Shikárpúr, took us for a drive to see the place. In the public gardens called Shákí Bágh is a small menagerie and the Merewether pavilion. The latter, built after the design of those useless decorated structures one sees at English watering-places and pleasure gardens, is a striking object, absurdly at variance with all its surroundings. But it is characteristic of our prejudices and tastes in matters architectural. We unaccountably neglect the encouragement of the oriental architecture, with its elegant designs, elaborate detail, and durable material, for the nondescript compositions, incongruous mixture of colours, and inferior material of the public buildings and monuments we have spread all over the country. We seem to forget that what is suitable to the climate, conformable to the scenery, and acceptable to the tastes of the people of Europe, may be the reverse in each instance when introduced into this country without modification or adaptation to its circumstances. The town of Shikárpúr is clean for an oriental city, and wears an air of quiet and prosperity. The environs are well stocked with large trees, such as the ním (melia azadirachta), sirras (acaciaelata), sissú (Dalbergia sissoo), palm, &c., and the roads are everywhere covered with a layer of reeds to keep down the dust. The people are clad in bright-coloured garments, and appear a very thriving commercial community. The bazaar is covered with a pent-roof, and has a cool look, which alone must be a boon in this hot climate. There is a very useful charitable dispensary here, and a jail for five hundred prisoners. I observed that the convicts were clad in fur jackets (postín), a luxury very few of them ever possessed in their free state.

We left Shikárpúr at two o’clock, and drove to Sultán di Gót, where we found camels awaiting our arrival. The one intended for my riding took fright at the buggy, tore away from his nose-ring, and, luckily for me, escaped into the jangal. This I say advisedly; for had the frisky creature been recaptured, I could not have declined to ride him, and the consequences might have been anything but agreeable. I was unaccustomed to this mode of travelling, and knew little about the handling of a camel. Had he bolted with me on his back, there is no knowing where he would have stopped, and the jolting—well! it is lucky I escaped the chance of its consequences.

After a short delay, a pony having been procured from the village, we set off, and at half-way passing the staging bungalow of Humáyún, arrived at Jacobabad at seven o’clock. The road is excellent, and is bordered by an avenue of large trees nearly the whole way, and is crossed by several irrigation canals. Jacobabad is the headquarters of the Sindh Irregular Force, and is a flourishing frontier station, luxuriant in the vigour of youth. It was laid out, planted, and watered, not a score of years ago, by the talented officer whose name it commemorates, on a bare and desert tract, near the little hamlet of Khangarh, on the very verge of the desert. It affords a striking example of what the energy and judgment of a determined will can effect.

Our servants with the camp equipage did not arrive at Jacobabad till daylight of the next day. We halted here a day to complete the final arrangements for our journey across the border, and to decide on the route we were to take.

The affairs of Balochistan had for some time been in an unsettled state, owing to differences that had arisen between the ruling chief and some of his most powerful feudal barons. Matters had grown worse, and, at the time of our arrival here, several of the tribal chiefs were in open rebellion, and had taken the field against the Khán of Calát, over whose troops, it appears, they had gained the advantage in more than one encounter. Owing to these disturbances, the direct and ordinary route through Balochistan by the Bolán Pass was closed. There were two alternative routes, namely, that by Tal Chhotiyálí, to the north of the Bolán, and that by the Míloh Pass to its south. The first is described as an easy road, and has the advantage of leading direct into the Peshín valley; moreover, it is a route hitherto untraversed by Europeans. But these advantages and desiderata were annulled and counterbalanced, as far as we were concerned, by the perilous nature of the route in the vicinity of Mount Chapper, occupied by the lawless and savage tribe of Kákarr, notorious robbers, who are restrained by the fear of neither God nor devil, and much less of man. The Míloh Pass route, although nearly a hundred and ninety miles longer than that by the Bolán, was consequently, thanks to the sound judgment of Sir William Merewether (for which we subsequently found good reason to be grateful), decided on as the road for us to proceed by.

Our camp having gone ahead at daylight, under escort of two native commissioned officers and forty troopers of the Sindh Irregular Horse, we set out from the hospitable mansion of Sir William Merewether, Commissioner of Sindh, at nine o’clock in the morning of the 8th January 1872, and clearing the station, presently entered on a vast desert plain. At about three miles we crossed the line of the British frontier, and at two miles more reached Mumal, the first habitation in the territory of the Khán of Calát or Kelat. It is a collection of eighteen or twenty mean hovels, the occupants of which were the personification of poverty and wretchedness. Here we bade adieu to Captain R. G. Sandeman, Deputy Commissioner of Dera Gházi, who, with a party of Mazári horsemen, accompanied us thus far, and mounting our camels, set out at a swinging trot across the desert towards Barshori, thirty miles distant, turning our backs upon civilisation, and hurrying into the regions of discord and barbarism. We were accompanied by Pír Ján, son of Muhammad Khán, the Khán of Calát’s agent at Jacobabad, and eight of his horsemen.

The desert is a wide smooth surface of hard dry clay, as level as a billiard-table, and bare as a board. Not a single pebble, nor even a blade of grass, was anywhere to be seen. The caravan track lying before us was the only distinguishable feature on the dull surface of bare clay. After travelling thus for about two and a half hours, we sighted two lofty mounds set together in the midst of the desert, with shrubby bushes fringing pools of water at their bases, all remarkably clear and distinct. “That,” said Pír Ján, “is the Lúmpáni áb, or ‘the lustre of the minstrel’s water,’ so named from the tradition of a travelling Lúm, or ‘minstrel,’ who, seeing such abundant signs of water, emptied the cruse under whose weight he was toiling, and perished in the desert from thirst.” As we approached nearer, the illusion disappeared, and the semblance dissolved to the reality—two heaps of clay on the sides of a dry well-shaft, a few scattered saltworts, and a patch of soda efflorescence. This was the most perfect sihráb (magic water) or mirage I had ever seen. We rested here awhile, to allow the baggage to get on to our camp ground; but after half-an-hour, finding the midday sun too hot, we remounted our camels and resumed our track across the desert, and overtook the baggage a little way short of Barshori, where we arrived at sunset.

Here we found a large káfila scattered over a considerable surface of land about the village. As we passed by towards some clear ground on the further side of the village, we were surrounded by a noisy crowd of Afghans, who, with the utmost volubility and excitement, poured out a confused jumble of complaints and laments, and begged an immediate inquiry and redress for their grievances. Everybody speaking at once, the confusion of sounds prevented our understanding what was said; so we dismounted from our camels, and General Pollock directing the crowd to disperse, retained a few as spokesmen for the rest. We presently learned that the káfila had been attacked in the Bolán above Dádar by Mulla Muhammad, Ráisání, chief of Sahárawán, who, with others, is in open revolt against the authority of the Khán of Calát, and that they had fought their way through, with the loss of six men killed, fourteen wounded, and a hundred and fifty camels with their loads captured by the enemy. Whilst listening to these accounts, eight wounded men were brought forward. I examined and did what I could for them at the time. They were all severely wounded, six by gunshot and two by sword-cut. I was turning away, when a blustering fellow, loudly cursing the barbarity of the robbers, set an old woman in my path, and removing her veil, exclaimed, “Look here! they have not even spared our women; they have cut off this poor woman’s nose with a sword.” The miserable creature’s face was shockingly eaten away by disease. I raised my eyes from it to the speakers’, and was about to speak, when I was forestalled by the bystanders, who merrily said, “Take her away; that dodge won’t do, he knows all about it.” The effrontery of the whole proceeding was Afghan throughout.

The káfila, we were told, consisted of twelve hundred camels and eighteen hundred followers from Kandahar. The merchandise comprised a varied stock, such as wool, dried fruits, raisins, choghas, barrak, pashmína, specie, and jewels. The value of the whole was estimated at nine laks of rupees, of which about two laks had been plundered in the Bolán. Directing our informants to make their representations to the authorities of Jacobabad, we passed on to our own camp.

We were seated on our cots, watching the erection of our tents, when our attention was diverted to four men cautiously approaching us from the direction of the káfila. Their leader was a venerable greybeard, and by his side walked a delicate youth. As they neared us I observed, “Surely, I know those people;” when the elder, hastily glancing around to satisfy himself that he was unobserved by the káfila people, hurried forward, fell at my feet, then quickly rising, took my hands in his own, kissed them, and pressed them to his forehead, uttering all the while a rapid succession of prayers and congratulations on his good fortune in meeting me.

“Saggid Mahmúd of Sariáb, what has brought you here from Ghazni?” inquired I, after the customary interchange of salutations, so cordially initiated by himself. “Hush!” said he, in a low voice, turning to my ear. “We are going on a pilgrimage to Karbalá by Bombay, Basrah, and Baghdad, but are obliged to call it Makha for fear of the bigoted heretics composing our káfila. Yes,” continued he, in a louder tone, “we are going the haj to Makha. You see, poor Cásim is no better, though he has carried out all your directions, and finished all the bottles of that excellent medicine you were so gracious as to give him. It was really a most potent medicine, and acted quite like a charm. Cásim was nearly cured by it, and was fast recovering the use of his arm, when our messenger returned from Peshawar with your gracious epistle promising to send that magic chain for him, if I sent him back for it a month later. I did send him, but he never returned, and poor Cásim rapidly losing ground, soon became as bad as ever he was before he took your medicine. God’s will be done. We are all His servants. You did your best for us, and God prosper you.”

I must here digress a little to inform the reader of the circumstances of my former acquaintance with our pilgrim friend. Just two years ago, in the commencement of 1870, Saggid Mahmúd, bearing a recommendatory letter from the Amir of Kabul, came to me at Peshawar for professional advice regarding his son. I found the lad was afflicted with tubercular leprosy and a paralysed arm, and learned on inquiry that his sister and some cousins also were afflicted with leprosy. Like most natives of these parts my patients believed, or professed to believe, that I had only to feel the pulse, administer some physic, and prescribe a regimen, to ensure a speedy recovery. And great was their disappointment on my telling the old man that, as far as I was concerned, his son’s disease was incurable. They had travelled upwards of three hundred miles for a cure, and it was hard they should return without some sort of attempt towards the attainment of so desirable an issue. So I took the case in hand, and treated the lad for some months with little or no benefit. At length, the hot weather approaching, they returned to their home at Ghazni, with a large supply of medicine. In the following year Saggid Mahmúd wrote to me for a fresh supply of medicine and the galvanic battery I had employed on his son at Peshawar. The medicine I sent him by his messenger, and promised to get him a galvanic chain if he would send for it a month or so later. His messenger never came, and the chain remained with me.

On my leaving Peshawar for the journey before us, I packed the galvanic chain (it was one of Pulvermacher’s) in one of my boxes, on the chance of an opportunity offering to forward it to Ghazni. I now informed our visitors of this, and opening the box, produced the case containing the chain, and handed it over to Saggid Mahmúd, congratulating him on the good fortune that had enabled me to present it personally. He was completely taken aback at finding I had really got the chain for his son, and taking it in both hands, exclaimed, “This is wonderful! Who would have believed it? You are all true and just people, and deserve to be great. It is for such sincerity that God prospers you.” With many expressions of gratitude and prayers for our safe progress, our visitors took their leave. Six months later we met this old man again at Shahrúd, as will be hereafter related.

Barshori is an open village of about eighty houses on the edge of a dry water-course. Its inhabitants are Mánjhú Jats, and appear to be comfortably off. There is a good deal of corn cultivation around, judging from the wide extent of corn-stalks. Water, however, is limited in quantity, and very inferior in quality. It is derived from a number of small shafts, upwards of a hundred, sunk in the bed of the drainage channel above mentioned, and is very turbid and brackish. The road to the Bolán Pass viâ Bágh and Dádar goes off northwards from this, and that to the Míloh Pass by Gandáva goes off to the west.

We left Barshori at nine o’clock next morning and proceeded westward over a wide level plain intersected by a number of dry superficial water-courses. The general surface is a bare, hard clay similar to the desert traversed yesterday, but here and there we found traces of cultivation, and at distant intervals came upon scattered patches of thin jangal. At about half-way we passed Kikri, a collection of twenty or thirty huts of Mánjhú Jats some little way to the right of the road; and at five miles farther on passed through Bashkú, a flourishing village of about two hundred houses, surrounded by jujube, mimosa, and tamarisk trees. It stands on the edge of a deep and wide water-course, in the dry bed of which we noticed a long series of wells. At a mile and a half further on we came to Sinjarani, and camped; the distance from Barshori, thirteen miles. Sinjarani is an open village, similar in size and situation to Bashkú. Both are inhabited by Sinjarani Jats, and in both we found the house-tops and courts piled with stacks of júár (Sorgham vulgare), the tall leafy stalks of which furnish an excellent fodder for cattle. The water here is very turbid, but not brackish. The wells, of which there are about two hundred in the water-course, are mere narrow shafts sunk in the clay soil. Water is tapped at about ten cubits, and oozes up in a thick muddy state in small quantities of a few gallons only to each well.

We started from Sinjarani at seven A.M. on the 10th January, and at eight miles came to the village of Odhána, one hundred houses. At about a mile to the south of it is the Kubíha hamlet, of fifty houses. Both were attacked and plundered less than a month ago by the Brahoes, at the instigation of Mulea Muhammad, Ráisání, and Allah Dina, Kurd, who, with Núruddín, Mingal of Wadd, are in revolt against the Khán of Calát. They are now deserted except by two or three miserable old men, who came forward to tell us their pitiful tale. We dismounted at Odhána and went over its empty and desolate homesteads. The work of plunder had been most effectively done. The houses were empty, heaps of ruin, and nothing but bare walls remained standing. The doors and roof timbers had been carried away, and the corn-bins emptied. Some of these last were left standing in the courts. They resemble those seen in the Peshawar valley, and consist of tall wicker frames plastered within and without with a coating of clay and straw. The top is closed with a movable cover of the same material, and they are raised above the ground on short pedestals. They are impervious to rain and the ravages of rats, and are well adapted to the storing of grain. At the lower edge of the bin is an aperture fitted with a plug of rags. Through this the daily quantum of grain is withdrawn, as it is required for the mill. We found all empty. The whole village had been completely sacked, many of the people had been carried off, and the rest dispersed after being stripped of everything. The Brahoes did not even spare the women their mantles, nor the men their trousers, nor did they allow a single head of cattle to escape them.

At about three miles further on we came to another village of the same name. It too had been plundered, and was now deserted. Beyond this our path crossed a bare desert surface on which were the traces of a flood of waters. The plain itself cut the horizon, and resembled a great sea glimmering in the vapours of the mirage. As we were crossing this desolate tract our attention was drawn to a crowd of gigantic figures moving against the southern horizon. Our companion Pír Ján stopped his camel and begged us to rein up. He looked very grave, said the appearance was suspicious, marauding Brahoes were known to be about, and that was just the direction in which the rebel Mingals might be looked for. He parleyed a while with his horsemen, then scrutinised the figures, then he parleyed again, and again scrutinised them, and so on for eight or ten minutes, himself and his men all the while capping their muskets, slinging their swords, and tightly securing their turbans in readiness for attack. Meanwhile the figures kept changing their positions and forms in the vapoury glare of the mirage. They were in turn pronounced to be horsemen, then camels at graze, then footmen, and finally cattle at graze. In this uncertainty Pír Ján directed one of his horsemen to gallop forward and solve the mystery. He did not, however, seem to see the advisability of the proposal, and whilst professing ready acquiescence, merely pranced his horse about within close reach of our party. By this time the figures emerged from the mirage, and we counted eight horsemen and two camels, making straight towards us. Pír Ján now sent forward three of his horsemen at a gallop towards them, and they in turn sent a like number to confront them. Our three then reined up, and so did the others, at about five hundred yards apart. Then a single cavalier from each side advanced, they approached together, stood a few moments, and then both galloped off to the party who had so alarmed us, and who were at a stand-still like ourselves. Presently the other two of our horsemen galloped off to them. “It’s all well,” exclaimed Pír Ján, with a relieved expression of countenance; “they are not enemies.” A little later our horsemen rejoined us, with the intimation that the authors of our diversion were not Mingals, only Magassis, a friendly tribe of Baloch, on their way to Bágh. So we went on, and the Magassis crossed our track some hundred yards behind us.

Beyond this desert tract the country is traversed by several irrigation canals, and presents signs of very considerable cultivation right up to Gandáva. At this season the whole country is dry, but during the summer rains it is inundated by the Nárí river, which rises in the hills about Dadur, and spreads its floods broadcast all over the desert tract extending from Gandáva to Jacobabad. Most of this water is allowed to run waste, and from want of care much is lost by evaporation. Under a settled government there is little doubt that most of this desert tract could be brought under cultivation, for the soil appears very good, and the facilities for irrigation during the summer months are at hand. But both are sadly neglected all over the Kachi pat, the designation by which the great desert tracts of Kach are known.

Gandáva, the capital of Kach, is a decayed-looking town, and its fortifications are fast crumbling into ruin. It is the winter residence of the Khán of Calát, whose mansion is situated in the citadel, which overlooks the town from the north. The town has an extremely sunburnt and desolate appearance. The summer months here are described as excessively hot, and unbearable to all but natives of the country. During this season a poisonous hot wind, called juloh, prevails over the plain of Kach, and destroys travellers exposed to its blast. It proves fatal in a few hours, by drying up all the moisture of the body, and the skin of those killed by it appears scorched and fissured, and putrefaction at once takes place.

We rested here during the heat of the day in the Khán’s garden on the south of the town, to allow our baggage to pass on. The garden is a neglected wilderness of all sorts of trees crowded together, but to us proved a grateful retreat for the shade it afforded. In its centre are a couple of fine pipal trees (Ficus religiosa), and around them we recognised the mango, jujube, sweet lime, vine, date-palm, apricot, cordia myxa, banhinia variegata, sizygium jambolanum, and acacia siris.

Proceeding from Gandáva, we left Fatupúr, conspicuous by its lofty domed tombs, to the left, and passing through a thick jangal of capparis, salvadora, and acacia, amongst which were scattered small patches of bright green mustard, came to the Garrú ravine, a wide drainage channel with a sandy bed, covered with a thick belt of tamarisk trees. Beyond this, at eight miles from Gandáva and thirty from Sinjarani, we came to Kotra, and camped at sunset.

This is a collection of four villages close to each other, the residence of the members of the Iltáfzai family, whose head is the ruling Khán of Calát. They are surrounded by stately trees and productive gardens, watered by a brisk stream from a spring at Pír Chhatta. Some of the houses here appear very neat and comfortable residences. Altogether the place wears an air of prosperity, and is out-and-out the most picturesque and flourishing place we have seen since we left Jacobabad. Kotra is the entrepôt of the trade between Balochistan (Calát and Makrán) and Shikárpúr.

We arrived at Kotra just as the sun had set, and our baggage was yet far behind. After selecting a site for our camp, and waiting some time for its arrival, misgivings crept over us as to our evening meal, for it was already eight o’clock, and no signs of our baggage being near at hand were visible, and unpleasant suspicions of having to go supperless to bed forced themselves on our mind. All length I hinted to our companion Pír Ján—who, by the way, proved a very inefficient and indolent cicerone—that, in the event of our servants not coming up in time, he might be able to get us something to eat from the village before it became too late. He took the hint, and, after some delay, in the interim of which our camp arrived, at nearly nine o’clock, his messenger returned from the village with a bowl of mutton, stewed in its own broth, and some bannocks, which he said had been sent from Mír Khyr Muhammad’s house, with that Iltáfzai chiefs compliments, and excuses for not being able to see us this evening, a pleasure which he hoped to enjoy in the morning. We forthwith set to work with our fingers on the mutton, and ladled up the broth with successive spoons formed of shreds of bannock, which went the same way as their contents, until the fast “setting” grease of the cooling mess suddenly persuaded us that we had sufficiently taken off the keen edge of our appetites, and we gladly turned from the coarse bowl and soiled rag on which it stood. Though grateful for the entertainment, I must say I was disappointed in this experience of Baloch hospitality. Any Afghan peasant would have done the honours not only with better grace and substance, but spontaneously.

Whilst our tents were being pitched in the dim light of approaching night, a couple of rampant yábús, or baggage ponies, not satisfied with a march of thirty miles, broke away from the rest, and made an unwarrantable assault on our two Baloch mares—beautiful gazelle-eyed, gentle creatures—as they quietly stood, with saddles and bridles unremoved, waiting their turn to be picketed. There was immediately a grand row; the mares kicking and squealing desperately, and the yábús rearing and roaring as the horses of this country only can. A dozen men rushed to the rescue from all directions, with shouts, threats, and imprecations. In two minutes all four bolted out of camp, and tore wildly out of sight into the jangal.

We got some men from the village to go in search of them during the night, and our departure was delayed till noon of the next day, pending their recapture. The animals were brought back none the worse for their mad career over such rough country as that between Kotra and the adjacent hills, but their gear was a good deal damaged, and one saddle was lost. From Kotra we marched to Pír Chhatta, nine miles. The path winds through a jangal of wild caper, mimosa, and salvadora to the Míloh ravine, on the bank of which we found a collection of twelve or fourteen booths of the Kambarání and Syáni Brahoe, who are occupied as camel-drivers between Calát and Shikárpúr. Their dwellings were mere sheds of tamarisk branches covering a loose framework supported on slender poles, and altogether appeared a very inefficient and temporary sort of shelter. I noticed that the women, though equally exposed to the weather, were much fairer and comelier than the men. Their dress was as rough and simple as their dwellings. A long loose shift of coarse cotton, with loose sleeves, was the only dress of some of the women; one or two of them wore besides a small sheet or mantle thrown loosely over the head and shoulders. The men wore capacious cotton trousers, gathered in at the ankle, and over these a short shirt with wide sleeves; round the head were wound a few folds of a twisted turban. Grazing about their settlement were a number of pretty little goats, the smallest I ever saw, hardly twenty inches high.

After following the dry pebbly bed of the ravine for a little way in a southerly direction, we turned out of it to the right at a conspicuous dome over the grave of Mír Iltaf, the uncle of the present Mír of Kotra. By it flows a brisk stream, which, on its way to Kotra, turns three or four water-mills, the sites of which are marked by clumps of date-palm, jujube, and pipal trees. From this point we turned towards the hill range, along which we had been travelling in a parallel course from Gandáva. They wear a wild, dreary, and inhospitable look, and the country at their skirt is rugged, and mostly bare of vegetation. At about four miles from the tomb, crossing two or three ridges of conglomerate rock, and the little stream winding between and round them en route, we came to the palm grove of Pír Chhatta, and camped on an open turfy spot amongst the trees, and near the spring-head of the stream above mentioned. The soil here is a powdery clay, white with efflorescent salines, and even the turf is stiff with white encrustations of soda salts. At the spring-head is a hermit’s cell, and close by, suspended on the boughs of a tree, is a peal of about thirty small bells, which the faqír rattles every now and then to wake up the mountain echoes.

The spring on issuing from the rock forms a small pool. We found it absolutely crammed with fish from six to ten inches long. They looked, I thought, like spotted trout, except that the scales were like those of the salmon. These fish are held sacred, and most dire consequences are said to overtake the sacrilegist who should so far forget himself as to violate the sanctity of the pool of Pír Chhatta by feasting on its protected fish. We threw a few handfuls of grain into the pool to propitiate the saint, or his mean representative in the unwashed and unclad person of the hermit, who seemed no ways pleased at our unceremonious intrusion on his special domain. The surface of the pool was instantly a solid mass of fish, struggling for the grain, which disappeared in a marvellously short space of time. Whilst we thus amused ourselves, the hermit, probably fearful of our annexing a few of the fish for dinner, recounted some wonderful instances he knew of the agonised deaths produced by so rash an act. But he was eclipsed by an attendant orderly, who gravely assured us that a comrade of his—a trooper of the Sindh Irregular Horse—had on one occasion, when passing this way, taken one of these fish, cut it up, cooked, and eaten it. “And what happened?” angrily asked the hermit. “By the power of God,” he answered, “the wicked wretch was seized immediately after with the most excruciating pains in his internals. He rolled on the ground in agony, and repeated tabas and astaghfirullahs (repentances and God forgive me’s) without number, calling on all the saints and prophets to intercede for him.” “And then he died!” chimed in the hermit, with a triumphant air. “No,” said the other; “God is great, and, such is His mercy, he got up and went amongst the bushes, groaning and moaning with agony. Presently he returned quite another being, perfectly well and happy, with the fish alive in his hand, and upbraiding him for his want of faith and veneration, and directing its restoration to its own element.” “God’s ways are inscrutable,” said the hermit; adding, with ineffable pride, “our pure prophet heard his prayers, our blessed saint of this sacred spot interceded for him; God, the Almighty, accepted his repentance.” Our narrator admitted on interrogation that he was not an eye-witness of what he had just related, but he knew several men who were. After this example—and it is one by no means uncommon amongst Muhammadans in these countries—of audacity and credulity, we strolled back to our tents speculating upon the mental organisation of a people who could, without an attempt at question, accept such absurdities. The blind credulity of the Muhammadan in all that concerns his prophet and saints, their sayings and their doings, their precepts and examples, affords an interesting field for inquiry to the psychologist. Such investigation would, I believe, establish it as a fact that the obstinate yet passive resistance of Muhammedans to the free advance of Western civilisation amongst them is owing almost entirely to the spirit of bigotry created by their religion and cherished by their literature, for the one is a mere reflection of the other.

There is no habitation at Pír Chhatta, nor are any supplies procurable here. Our cicerone, Pír Ján, with his usual want of forethought, had himself made no arrangements for our supplies here, nor had he told us of the necessity of making any such arrangements, nor, when he found how matters stood, did he seem inclined in any way to stir himself to remedy them. So the General summoned him to his presence, and took him sharply to task for his carelessness. This had the effect of rousing him from the dull lethargy into which the perpetual repetition of his beads had thrown him, and he at last stirred himself to see what could be done to feed our cattle and camp-followers. There was not alternative but to send back some of our cattle with one of his men to purchase grain, fodder, &c., at Kotra. The evening was well advanced before they returned. The night air here was chill and damp, and a west wind setting in at sunset, reduced the mercury to 59° Fah., which was thirty degrees less than it stood at during the afternoon in the shade, and forty degrees less than the temperature of the air at two P.M.

CHAPTER II.

We marched from Pír Chhatta at half-past seven next morning. After crossing a few marly banks, snow-white with saline encrustation, we entered a long narrow defile, bounded on the right by high hills of bare rugged rock, and on the left by a low shelf of conglomerate; a few stunted bushes of salvadora, jujube, and mimosa were scattered here and there amongst the rocks, and the surface, everywhere rough and stony, was one mass of marine fossils. At four miles we emerged from this defile into the Míloh Pass, which opens on to the plains a little to the south of where we camped at Pír Chhatta. Where we entered it, the hills diverge, and enclose a wide boulder-strewn basin, through which winds the Míloh rivulet in three or four shallow streams, that reunite at the outlet of the pass.

The Míloh Pass, by us called the “Mooleah Pass,” is so named, I was told by our attendants, on account of the blue colour of the hills. They may look so at a distance, but are anything but blue on close inspection. At all events, the natives call them so, and hence the name; their pronunciation of the Hindustani nilá, “blue,” being míloh.

Beyond this basin—every pebble and every rock in which is full of madrepores, ammonites, belemnites, oysters, and other marine fossils—we entered a very narrow and winding gorge between perpendicular walls of bare rock, two or three hundred feet high. Flowing down its pebbly passage is a strong and brisk stream, which is crossed nine times in the transit. From this circumstance the passage is called Nah-langa Tangí, or “the strait with nine crossings.” The water we found very cold, and about sixteen inches deep. On either side, up to a height of nearly six feet, the rocks are streaked with the water-lines of the hot-weather floods. These floods are described as coming down very suddenly after rains upon the hills in the interior: their violence and velocity are irresistible; and the raging torrent carries with it huge boulders, uprooted trees, and cattle caught in its flood.

So sudden are these floods, and often when there are no signs of rain at hand, that natives never camp in the bed of the stream, but always on the shelving banks that are found in different parts of the pass. The Nah-langa Tangí is about three and a half miles long, and conducts into a great basin in the hills. The scenery here is the wildest that can be imagined. The surface is strewed with huge rocks, and traversed by shelving banks of conglomerate and shingle; here and there are thick belts of tamarisk trees, amidst which the Míloh rivulet winds its tortuous course; around rise rugged hills of bare rock, the strata of which are snapped and twisted and contorted in a most violent and irregular manner. At the outlet of the gorge the strata are perpendicular; beyond it, they present every kind of contortion; and in some spots were noticed to form three parts of a circle. In some of the hills, the strata were horizontal, and dipped to the westward at an angle of about forty degrees; in others, but in a hill due west of our camp at Kúhov, the inclination was toward the eastward.

From this basin our path led along some shelving banks of shingle to a small flat called Kúhov. We camped here on some stubble-fields of Indian-corn and sesame, having marched twelve miles. There is no village here, but there are several small strips of corn-fields on the ledges bordering the bed of the rivulet. In a secluded nook amongst the hills close to our camp we found a temporary settlement of Zangíjo Brahoe, dependants of the Mír of Kotra. There were about twenty-four booths, ranged in two parallel rows. They were formed of palm-leaf mats, spread upon a light framework supported on sticks, and had a very flimsy appearance, and certainly provided the minimum amount of shelter. They are here called kirrí, and the only merit they possess is their portability. Their occupants were extremely poor and dirty, but they appeared healthy and happy, and are certainly hardy. During the cold weather they move about amongst the lower valleys and glens with their cattle and flocks, and in the spring move up for the summer months to the higher tablelands about Calát.

On the line of march we passed a káfila of eighty camels, laden with dates from Panjgúr to Kotra, under charge of a party of Bizanjo Brahoe, most of whom were armed with sword and matchlock. The camels were of a small breed, but very handsome and clean-limbed; some of them were nearly of a white colour. We found no supplies were procurable at Kúhov, not even forage for our cattle. Our conductor, Pír Ján, however, had been roused to a proper sense of his duties by the reprimand he got yesterday, and our requirements were consequently anticipated and provided for beforehand.

Our next stage was sixteen miles to Hatáchi. The path, leading at first south and then south-west, winds along the pebbly bed of the pass, and crosses its stream several times en route. The rise is very gradual, and the hills approach and diverge alternately, forming a succession of basins connected together by narrow straits. About half-way we came to a long strip of sprouting corn in the midst of a great belt of tamarisk jangal, which occupies the greater, portion of the pass. This patch of cultivation is called Páni Wánt, “the division of the waters;” and scattered about amidst the fields are a few huts of the Músiyáni Brahoe, dependants of the chief of Zehrí.

Beyond Páni Wánt we passed through a narrow gap between lofty walls of perpendicular rock, in laminated horizontal strata, much fissured and weather-worn, and entered the wide basin of Jáh—that is to say, wide compared with the rest of the pass. Here too there is a good deal of corn cultivation, and along the foot of the hills in sheltered nooks were some small encampments of the Chanál Brahoe.

Amongst the fields are observed solitary little mud huts of neat, and, for these parts, substantial build. They belong to the Hindu grain-dealers of Kotra, who come up here each harvest to select the grain in liquidation of advances made to the cultivators during the cold season. Formerly this land was laid out in rice crops, but this has been put a stop to by the Kotra Mírs, as it interfered with the irrigation of their lands on the plain.

We passed a káfila here of fifty camels laden with dates from Panjgúr to Kotra, under charge of Bizanjo Brahoe. With this káfila, as with the one passed yesterday, were three or four fine young negro lads. The Brahoe were all armed, and clad in thick camlet coats; they wore the national cap, and altogether looked a very independent and hardy set of fellows. Beyond Jáh we passed through a tamarisk jangal, and rose on to a wide shelving bank that stretched up to the foot of the hills on our right. Here we camped at Hatáchi, the largest habitation we have seen since leaving Kotra. It consists of some twenty-five or thirty mud huts scattered over the surface. The inhabitants are very poor and ill-favoured, and the men especially very dark and ugly. Some of the young women I saw were comely; and I was surprised to see several with undoubted African blood in their veins, to judge from their cast of countenance and frizzly hair.

Our camp was pitched on some small flats covered with the stubble of júár crops, and hard by was a collection of six or seven kirrí or booths belonging to the Khánzai Brahoe. They have adopted this proud title because the Khán of Calát is married to a daughter of their tribal chief. The benefits of the alliance do not seem to extend beyond the empty honour of the title, for a poorer and more miserable set of people we have not yet seen in his territories. The villagers, too, who brought our supplies into camp were in no better plight. Several hideous old women, who carried loads of wood and straw for our camp, were only half clad, and apparently less fed. Poor creatures! theirs is truly a hard lot; they are the mean drudges of the community, are despised by the men, and evilly entreated by the younger and more fortunate members of their own sex. Whilst these wretched people were toiling under their loads, a number of young men, who, judging from outward appearance and circumstances, were little if at all exalted above them in social status, seated themselves about the skirts of our camp and idly viewed the spectacle.

The situation of Hatáchi, in the midst of these rugged and barren hills, may be described as a pretty spot. As we saw it, the place is almost deserted; but in the spring months it is alive with the camps of the migratory Brahoe, moving with their families and flocks up to the higher plateaux of the Calát tableland. There is a shrine or ziárat here, dedicated to the memory of Bahá-ulhacc, the saint of Multán. It is only noteworthy on account of the conspicuous clump of palm and other trees in the dark shades of which it is concealed.

Our next stage was sixteen miles to Narr. For about seven miles the road winds through a wide belt of tamarisk jangal, to the south of which, in a bend of the hills, is the Farzán-ná Bent, or “the cultivation of Farzán.” A few scattered huts of the Hindu grain-dealers of Kotra were seen here and there, but there is no permanent habitation here.

Beyond this we passed through a narrow gorge into the Pír Lákha basin, which we entered near the domed tomb of that name. It was built about a century ago, in the time of the first Nasír Khán, Baloch, and is already in a state of decay. Around it are a number of humble graves, the depository of the remains of departed Brahoe of this part of the country. They are tended by some faqírs, whose families are housed in very neat and comfortable quarters hard by—to wit, two commodious huts, surrounded by corn-fields, and shaded by some lofty date-palm and jujube trees.

Pír Lákha is about half-way between Hatáchi and Narr, and is approached through a narrow passage between perpendicular walls of rock, that rise in sheer precipices to a height of 150 to 200 feet. I was turning my head first to the right and then to the left, noting that the strata on the one side were horizontal, and on the other vertical, when one of the escort, riding behind me, and from whom, during the march, I had been making inquiries as to the people and country we were passing through, unexpectedly exclaimed, “And there’s the dragon!” “Where?” said I, eagerly, not at the moment quite sure but that some frightful monster was peering at us over a ledge of rock. “There,” said he, pointing to the blank wall of rock on our left, which formed the southern boundary of the passage; “don’t you see it running up the rock?” “No,” I answered, staring full force in the direction indicated; “I see no dragon. What is it like? Is it moving or stationary?” Here my friend, as I could see by the laugh in his eyes, was moved with inward mirth at the not unnatural misunderstanding on my part in taking his words in their literal acceptation. He controlled the expression of his merriment, however, and, with a serious countenance, explained, “I don’t mean alive dragon, sir; God preserve us from him!” Somewhat disappointed, “Then you should have been more precise,” I irresistibly interposed. “But, sir,” said he, in justification, “it is called the ‘dragon of Pír Lákha,’ although it’s only his trail; and there it is, clear as noonday, on the face of the rock.”

And so the dragon resolved itself into the reptile’s trail only, and the trail in turn proved to be merely a vein of white quartz running obliquely across the face of the rock. An inquiry into the history of the dragon naturally followed this denouement; and here is my Brahoe informant’s account, much in his own style of narration:—

In olden times, a great red dragon used to haunt this defile. He was the terror of the wicked as well as of the just, for he devoured them alike, such as came in his way, without distinction; and when he could not seize men, he laid in wait and entrapped their sheep, and goats, and cattle. Owing to his insatiable appetite, and his continued depredations, the country was depopulated; and so widespread was the terror of this monster, that wayfarers ceased to travel by this road. At length the holy man whose shrine lies yonder undertook to rid the country of this bloodthirsty tyrant’s oppression. Pír Lákha planted his takya or cell on the spot now occupied by his mausoleum; and so great was the sanctity of his character, and so powerful the protecting influence of God Almighty, that the dragon voluntarily came to pay homage to the saint, and, in place of offering violence, besought his favour with the utmost submission and tender of service.

The Pír made the dragon repeat the kalama or Prophet’s creed, and converted him to the true faith, to Islám; and giving him his liberty, commanded him not to oppress God’s creatures, and that the Almighty in His mercy would provide for him. And so it was the dragon disappeared, and the country became free, and the saint’s memory perpetuated in the shrine that bears his name. Pír Lákha is the most popular saint of the Brahoe in this part of the country, and his sanctuary is held in the highest reverence by all the tribes around, who constantly resort to it to offer up their prayers and supplications, and to beseech the saint’s blessing, particularly since the catastrophe connected with the dragon’s trail, which, we have just seen, gave such confirming proof of his merits and supernatural powers. It was in this wise: In the early days, when people began to forget the debt of their gratitude to the saint for the great boon conferred by him on them, were careless in the performance of their vows, and neglected to support the servitors of his shrine, they were aroused to a proper sense of their obligations by the reappearance of the dreaded dragon in his former haunts, and with his accustomed violence. The first to feel the weight of his oppression was the tumandár, or “chief of a camp,” of migratory Brahoe who used to winter in the vicinity.

It was in this manner: His favourite wife, who was young, handsome, and well connected, was blessed with no offspring. This was a sore trial to her, and for several years she offered up her petitions at the saint’s shrine as the camp passed it on their way to and return from the summer grazing grounds. At length, making a special pilgrimage to the shrine, she prayed earnestly for the saint’s intercession that it might please God to give her a son, and vowed to give the priest in charge a cow on her prayer being granted. The saint through the priest informed her that her prayer was heard, and, please God, the desire of her heart should be gratified. She went away happy in mind, and in due time was rejoiced by the birth of a son. But, her desire gratified, she forgot her vow, and even failed to offer up her prayers and thank-offerings at the shrine on passing it to the summer pastures, and the like carelessness did she show on the return therefrom in autumn. Next spring, as the camp marched through the gorge on its accustomed journey, the dragon, watching his opportunity, dashed into the midst, seized the boy from its mother’s arms, and disappeared with it over the hills, leaving that white track of its body as a memorial on the rock.

Such in substance was the Brahoe’s story. It explains, at all events, the comfortable circumstances of the faqírs attached to the service of the mausoleum of Pír Lákha. In such a country, the lot of these people—the priesthood—is really enviable. They are respected and trusted by all classes, they enjoy free grants of land for their support, and receive besides tithes and other offerings; they are not affected by tribal feuds, nor are they obliged to interfere in the politics of the people; and altogether they are the most comfortable and well-to-do of the community. Yet they possess no special merits: generally they are but little better educated than the mass of the common people, and are indebted for their good fortune more to hereditary right than anything else.

Beyond Pír Lákha the defile turns sharp to the north, and then bends round to the west and south, where it expands into the little basin of Hassúa. Here we found some small patches of corn cultivation, and a few huts of the Jám Zehrí Brahoe. Here too we met a káfila of sixty camels laden with wool and madder from Calát to Shikárpúr, under charge of Zehrí Brahoe, amongst whom were a couple of African slaves. We also met a small party of Samalári Brahoe driving a few asses and bullocks to Kotra for a supply of grain for their families somewhere in the hills close by. They appeared very poor people, like the rest of the Brahoe we have seen on our journey. What little corn this country produces is bought up at harvest-time by Hindu merchants, and taken down to Kotra, where it is again retailed by them to the peasantry. By this arrangement the tribes are pretty much in the hands of the Hindus, and they in turn of the chiefs.

Beyond Hassúa we passed through a small gap and entered the basin or valley of Narr, and turning off to the left away from the Míloh stream, camped on some open ground at the foot of the hills to the south. There is no village here, though there is a good deal of cultivation in scattered patches. Here and there, too, in the nooks of the hills, we found some small camps of Jám Zehrí Brahoe. They seemed very poor people, possessed of few goats and fewer cattle. Water, fuel, and camel forage are abundant here, but forage for man and horse are unprocurable.

In this march we found no fossils, as in the lower part of the pass; but the hills, though wider apart, are just as bare and inhospitable. The succession of basins or valleys enclosed by them, however, are more thickly wooded with tamarisk.

At Narr, the Míloh Pass may be said to end in a wide basin, from which narrow valleys lead off to the north and to the west. They bring down the drainage from the hills between Khozdár and Calát The main valley runs northward to Zehrí and Nichára, and down it flows the main stream of the Míloh rivulet.

As we entered the Narr basin from Pír Lákha, a solitary tree standing in the midst of a small patch of young corn on the right of the road was pointed out to us as the scene of the assassination of Sherdil Khán in May 1864. He had usurped the government from the present chief, Khudádád Khán of Calát, and was enabled to hold out against him for some time owing to the defection of Sher Khán, the commandant of Khudádád’s regiment of mercenaries, who with his men joined the pretender. After a while Sher Khán, with the proverbial fickleness of these people, became dissatisfied with his new master, and sought to get restored to the favour of the chief he had deserted. As the best means to this end, as well as by way of repairing the injury he had done the rightful chief, he caused the rebel to be shot by one of his men as they were marching to oppose some of the troops sent against them. Sherdil, on being hit, lost control over his horse, and the startled animal, dashing off across country, threw his rider at the tree mentioned, where he presently died in the arms of a fellow-rebel, Sardár Táj Muhammad Khán. Sher Khán with his mercenaries then returned to his allegiance, and joined Khudádád Khán in his retreat at Kach.

Our next stage was thirteen miles to Gorú. We crossed the Narr basin in a southerly direction over a rough pebbly surface, and at about four miles left it by a narrow winding gorge that opens on to a rough and wild tract between the hills. In the gorge are a few pools of water in the bed of a pebbly channel that conveys the drainage of these hills to the Míloh rivulet; it comes down from the southward along the foot of the hills bounding the valley in that direction; our route diverged from it and followed the skirt of the hills bounding it to the north. At about half-way on this march we passed a gaur-band, or “Gabardam,” built across the outlet of a small gully in the side of the hills to our right. It is a very solid and substantial wall of dressed stones, rising from one to two feet above the surface of the ground, and conspicuous from its dark colour contrasting with the lighter hues of the rocks around. Our companions could tell us nothing of its history more than that, like many similar structures in different parts of the country, it belonged to the period when the country was inhabited by pagans. The hills here are very precipitous and wild; their slopes are dotted all over with little black specs, said to be bushes of the juniper, here called hápurs; the lower ridges are covered with a coarse grass that grows in tufts, and is called húwe; it is said to be a very nourishing fodder for cattle.

Our camp at Gorú was pitched on a slaty ridge close to three or four small wells sunk in the gravelly soil. The water is reached at about twelve feet from the surface, and is very good. During the day immense flocks of goats and sheep came to be watered here; they appeared to me to be of a very diminutive breed. They were tended only by a few boys, from which circumstance we concluded there must be some Brahoe camps in the vicinity, though we saw no habitation or sign of cultivation in the whole march from Narr, excepting only a few booths of the wandering Lúrí. These people are a kind of gipsy, and are found in all parts of the country in scattered parties of a few families each. They are a distinct race from the Brahoe and Baloch, and are occupied as musicians, potters, rope makers, mat weavers, pedlars, &c. They own no land, never cultivate the soil, and are looked on as outcasts.

The night air of Gorú proved sharp and chill, and towards daylight a hard frost set in. From this we marched eighteen miles to Khozdár, the route mostly westward. At a short distance from our camping-ground we came upon the cultivation of Gorú, and farther on passed the hamlet of the same name, at the foot of the hills to the left of the road. The huts are now empty, their tenants being camped in the nooks of the surrounding hills with their cattle and flocks, for the facility of pasture and water, neither the one nor the other being at this season procurable at Gorú. There is a very extensive cemetery here, whence the place derives its name (gor = grave). The graves are neatly raised tombs built of loose stones, the resting-places of defunct Zehrí Brahoe, who occupy all the hill country round about. At four miles on from Gorú, the road passes over some rough ground, and drops on to the Khozdár valley, the most open piece of country we have seen since leaving the plain of Kach. It bears a very dreary and wintry aspect, and along its northern borders shows no signs of habitation or cultivation or water. In the opposite direction, however, are seen a collection of villages called Zedi, with their gardens and fields, along the course of the little streams draining the southern part of the valley.

At two or three miles from Khozdár, we were met by Major Harrison, Political Agent at the Court of Calát. He came out with a party of forty troopers of the Sindh Horse, and conducted us to his camp, pitched close to the fort of Khozdár, where he gave us a most hospitable welcome; whilst the General’s arrival was announced and re-echoed amongst the surrounding hills by a salute of eleven guns fired from a couple of old cannon drawn up outside the fort. The canonneers, of whom there were nearly twenty engaged in the operation, were a wild and dirty-looking set of fellows, with long matted hair, and every sort of dress and undress except uniform.

The little fort is a new structure of mud, only recently completed. It holds a garrison of sixty Brahoe militia, and half a company of regular infantry, and is armed with the two guns above mentioned. It is well situated for the purpose it is meant to serve, viz., to protect the caravan routes centring in this valley through Nal from Kej and Panjgúr on the west, through Wadd from Bela and Sonmiáni on the south, through the Míloh Pass from Kotra, Gandáva, and Shikárpúr on the east, and through Bághwána from Súráb and Calát on the north.

On the plain near the fort are the ruins of two contiguous villages, between which winds a small stream on its way to some corn-fields beyond them. The place has a very dreary look, and the climate at this season is decidedly bleak. The southern portion of the valley is well cultivated and peopled, and during the summer, so we are told, is one sheet of corn-fields. This valley, in fact, with those of Nal, Bághwána, Súráb, and Calát, are the principal corn-growing districts in this country. The elevation of Khozdár is about 3850 feet above the sea, and about 3700 feet above Gandáva on the plain of Kach. The later figure represents the rise in the land between the two places, a distance of ninety-three miles by our route through the Míloh Pass, and gives an ascent of nearly forty feet in the mile.

The Míloh Pass is easy for cattle, is well watered, and has an abundant supply of fuel in the tamarisk jangal throughout its course. Forage for cattle is scarce in winter, but there is a sufficiency of this in summer for caravans and the cattle and flocks of the Brahoe, who find ample space for camping on the shelving banks of the stream, in the succession of basins occupying the course of the pass. Beyond the pass, at Narr, the tamarisk jangal and water supply both cease.

In all our route from Pír Chhatta to Khozdár we observed a series of roadside memorials, emblematic of the national customs of the Brahoe. They are of two kinds, commemorative of very opposite events, and are met with in a very distant ratio of frequency in consequence. The one is called cháp, and commemorates the weddings amongst the migratory Brahoe. The other is called cheda, and serves as a memorial of those who die without issue amongst the clans.

The cháp is a perfect circle, described on the ground by a series of stones set together flat in its surface; the centre is marked by a single stone of from one to two feet in length, set upright on end. The diameters of these circles range from ten to thirty feet, and hundreds of them cover every flat piece of ground on the line of road followed by the Brahoe in their annual migrations from the high to the low lands. Some of the cháps we observed were of a different structure from the figure just described. Instead of a single upright stone in the centre, and a circumference marked by stones laid flat, the whole surface of the figure was closely set with stones laid flat on the ground, forming a circular pavement, from the centre of which projected the single stone set upright. From the circumference of the circle projected a long arm in a straight line running to the north in those we saw. This projection is about thirty feet long, and terminates in a large stone set upright as in the centre; its width is about two feet, and it is formed, like the circle, of stones set close together and flat on the surface of the ground.

Sketch Plan of the Cháp Circles.

A. The highroad across a plain.

B. Cháp circles of different kinds, as described in the text.

C. A mosjid or mosque, marked off on the ground by stones just as are the cháp circles.

These figures, we were told, are made on the actual sites on which have been danced the reels accompanying the festivities that form an important element in the ceremonies attending a Brahoe wedding. The centre stone marks the place of the musician, and the circumference that of the circle of dancers, who pirouette individually and revolve collectively in measured steps, keeping time with the music, to which the while they clap their hands. This clapping of hands is here called cháp, and hence the name of the figures. Sometimes the sword-dance is substituted for the other, and only differs from it in brandishing naked swords in place of clapping hands. The dance resembles the ataur of the Afghans. The sketch on [p. 55] shows the form of the cháp.

Sketch Plan of the Cheda.

A. Highroad round a hill ridge.

B. Cheda pillars on plain and on rock.

C. Cháp circles.

The cheda is a pillar (called tsalai in Pushto) of from eight to twelve or more feet high, with a diameter of from three to four or more feet. It is neatly built of loose stones closely set in a cylindrical form. The top is convex or dome-shaped, and from its centre projects a single upright stone. The basement is a small square platform of stones, slightly raised above the surface of the ground. These structures are generally raised on some projecting rock overlooking the road, or on some slight eminence on the plain. At one or two spots we saw four or five close together, but generally they are only met at distant intervals, and singly. In general appearance they resemble miniature topes of the kind seen in some parts of Yúsufzai and the Peshawar valley. They are erected to the memory of clansmen who have died without issue; and it is the custom for the surviving relatives to celebrate the anniversary of such mournful events by donatives to the family priest and a feast to the clan. Where practicable, the customary offerings and ceremonies are performed round the monument itself; and for this purpose their observance is generally deferred to the time when the camps in their annual migrations halt in their vicinity. The sketch on [p. 56] shows the form of the cheda.

In all our route from Kotra, we saw very few of the people of the country. Including Hatáchi and Gorú with the few camps we passed, the population we found in this tract of country did not exceed two hundred families, if indeed it reached that number. Our companions, however, assured us that the hills were swarming with them, that every nook had its camp, and every valley its patch of cultivation. It may be so, but we saw no signs of any such populousness. In fact, the nature of the country does not admit of any large number being able to support themselves upon it, for the hills yield but the scantiest pasture, whilst the valleys offer a very small surface capable of cultivation. This conclusion is supported by the appearance and circumstances of the people and cattle we did see. They may be described in two words—poor and hungry.

The Brahoe are an interesting people, of whose history little is known. They are true nomads, and wander about the country in their respective limits, with their families and flocks, changing from the high lands to the low according to the seasons and pastures. In this respect they resemble some of the Afghan tribes. Some of them, however, are fixed in villages as cultivators of the soil. They are divided into an infinity of clans, or khel, such as Mingal, Bizanjo, Zangíjo, Kambarání, Zehrí, Ráisání, Kurdgálí, Rikkí, Samulárí, Hárúní, Nichárí, Rodání, Gurganání, and many others. Their camps are called tuman, and the head man of each tumandár.

They differ from the Afghan, Baloch, and Jat of Sindh, by whom they are surrounded, in general physique and physiognomy as well as in language. Their manners and customs, too, are said to differ in many respects from those of the people around them, though, in the matters of robbery and murder, a family resemblance pervades them all.

The Brahoe is of middle height, or below it, and of swarthy complexion; the face is broad, with high cheek-bones, and adorned with beard and mustaches of neither long nor thick growth; the head is covered with a shock of long matted hair, generally jet black; the eyes are black and keen. The body is compactly framed and clean-limbed. Altogether, the race is active, hardy, and enduring. The Brahoe language differs entirely from that of the Afghan, the Baloch, and the Jat, though it contains many Persian and Indian words. The numerals are the same as the Persian, except the first three, which are asit, irat, musit, respectively; but the pronouns are entirely different, and bear no resemblance to those of the other languages; the forms of conjugation and declension, too, are distinct and peculiar. On the march I collected a vocabulary of about eight hundred words, and a few sentences, to show the structure of the language. These, with a skeleton grammar prepared at the same time, will be found in the Appendix. The Brahoes are altogether illiterate. I could hear of no book written in their language, nor could I get a single specimen of their writing.

An amusing incident occurred whilst collecting words for the vocabulary, and it may serve as a suggestive illustration of the state of society amongst the Brahoes. I asked my Brahoe camel-driver, through the medium of Persian, of which he understood a little, what was his word for arsenic. He appeared somewhat disconcerted, and made no reply, and I inquired whether he had understood my question or not. “Yes,” said he, with a serious look, “I know what you mean. I have heard of it, but have never seen it. It is only known to our chiefs and great men.” “And what,” I asked, “do they say about it?” “People say,” he replied, with grave innocence, “that it is a magic medicine, and that great men keep it as a protection against their enemies.” He had no idea of the manner in which it was used, but he knew from popular report that it was a mysterious medicine which preserved great men from the machinations of their enemies.

We halted a day at Khozdár with our kind hosts, Major Harrison and Dr Bowman, in order to rest our cattle, and on the 18th January marched sixteen miles to Kamál Khán, one of the principal villages in the plain or valley of Bághwána. Major Harrison accompanied us with an escort of Sindh Horse, Dr Bowman remaining with the camp at Khozdár.

Our route was northward, up the pebbly bed of a wide and shallow drainage channel, towards a gap in the hills. The road winds for some miles between low ridges and hills of bare rock by a gradual ascent, and at half-way brought us to the Chikú Koh kauda, or “gap,” a low watershed marking the boundary between the Khozdár and Bághwána valleys. We here found the path somewhat obstructed by the remains of a stone breastwork, built four years ago by the rebel chief Núruddín, Mingal, when he took the field against the Khán of Calát, to contest the possession of the village of Kamál Khán. The breastwork and barricades had been only partially destroyed, and their débris had been left to encumber the road, just as they did at the time the defences were demolished—a characteristic instance of oriental apathy and negligence.

From this point we passed down a gentle slope on to the plain of Bághwána, and crossed a wide extent of cultivated land to the village of Kamál Khán, where we camped near a small stream of clear fresh water, which comes from a spring in the hills two miles off.

Kamál Khán is a good-sized village, or rather, it consists of two villages close together, which contain in all some four hundred houses. Across the plain, at the foot of the hills to the north, are seen some other villages surrounded by leafless trees. The surface is generally cultivated, and divided into little fields, the sides of which are banked up with earth, so as to retain rain-water.

The elevation of this valley is about 4530 feet, as indicated by the aneroid barometer. In summer, when the gardens are in full foliage and the crops are ripening, it must be a pretty place in this waste of hills, and is said to possess an agreeable climate, notwithstanding the bare heat-radiating rocks that encompass it about. At this season, however, it wears a dull, dreary, and bleak look—its winter aspect—and has a raw, cold climate, of which we were made sensible by the prevailing state of the weather, for the sky was overcast with clouds, and a cutting north-east wind penetrated to our very bones. The plain itself appears a bare flat, without either villages or trees, and towards the east presents a great patch snow-white with saline efflorescence.

During the afternoon we received a visit from the chief men of the place. Amongst them were Sardár Mír Muhammad, Mingal of Wadd, a stanch friend and supporter of the Khán of Calát in these times of sedition and revolt by which he is beset. He was accompanied by Abdul Aziz Khán, Náib of Qwetta, and two intelligent-looking young lads, sons respectively of the Sardár of the Sansunni and the Mammassání, or Muhammad Hassani. They were all very plainly clad, and remarkably simple in their manners. About them was none of that ceremony and etiquette, in the observance of which independent orientals are so punctilious; indeed, their bearing was more like that of subjects than of independent chiefs. The two former were old men, with nothing noteworthy about them; but the two lads were remarkably bright-eyed and intelligent youths of eighteen or nineteen years, and so alike, they might have been brothers. Their features were very striking, and different from any we had yet seen; they may be described as a combination of the very widely separated Jewish and negro physiognomy, and reminded me of the Ethiopian figures one sees represented in the Egyptian sculptures.

After our visitors had retired, I heard a voice outside the tent inquiring where the Farangi Hakím, or “European doctor,” was to be found. The man spoke with a harsh and impetuous voice, and I, curious to see him and know his errand, stepped out and announced myself to a wild-looking Brahoe with the scar of a sword straight across the nose and one half of the face. “But,” he replied, making a rapid survey of me, “you are not the man I want. Where is the doctor of Khozdár? Is not he here?” “No, he is not here,” I answered; “we left him at Khozdár.” “Well,” he rejoined, turning brusquely to depart, “I want nothing from you. It was him I came to see.” “Perhaps,” I said, motioning him to stop, “I can do for you what you require of the Khozdár doctor.” “No,” he replied, stepping away with as much haste as he had come; “I only came to thank him for his kindness to me, and for curing this wound across my face;” and before I could ask another question, the impatient Brahoe was off on his own business.

I now learned from Major Harrison that he was a trooper in the service of the Khán of Calát, and was engaged against the rebels in the battle fought some few months ago near Gorú in the Khad Mastung valley. In the charge against the enemy he received a sword-cut across the face, by which the nose and upper lip were severed, and fell down in front of the mouth, hanging only by a thin shred of the cheek. Recovering from the shock, the trooper at once sheathed his sword, and securing the divided parts as they were with the end of his turban passed across the face and fastened in the folds above, rode straight off the field on the road to Khozdár. After a ride of upwards of seventy miles he arrived at Dr Bowman’s camp, and was at once received under that gentleman’s skilful care. The satisfactory result, and the accident of our journey this way, produced this pleasing instance of Brahoe gratitude and trust in the skill of European doctors. The man, on hearing of the march of our camp from Khozdár, had come in from a distant village to thank his benefactor, and not finding him, hurried away to reach his home before nightfall.

It is a too commonly expressed opinion amongst us in this country that the natives have no sense of gratitude for benefits conferred or for favours received. But this, I am persuaded, is a wrong conclusion; and its injustice is proved by the above-described incident, which is only one of many similar instances that have come to my personal knowledge, and a further reference to which here would be irrelevant to the purpose of this book.

19th January.—From Bághwána we marched twenty-six miles to Lákoryán. Leaving Kamál Khán, we followed a small stream over a succession of fields of young corn, just sprouting above the surface, and then, passing some walled pomegranate gardens fringed with willow-trees, entered amongst low hills set close together on either side of an intervening drainage gully. At about three miles we came to the spring-head of the little stream we had followed from camp. The spring issues at the foot of some bare rocky bluffs, and forms a small pool round which grow some eight or ten date-palms, conspicuous as being the only trees in the vicinity.

From this point we turned to the right, and proceeding due north over some very rough ground, dropped into a narrow ravine between high banks of bare rock; and following it some distance, emerged upon the wide plateau or tableland of Loghai, the village of the same name standing away to the west. In the hills to the south-west, near the village of Ferozabad, are the Khappar lead-mines. They are said to give employment to about two hundred men.

There are no trees visible on the Lohgai plateau, nor is there any jangal, but the surface is thinly sprinkled with a very stunted growth of the camel-thorn (Rhazzia stricta, Withiana congulans), two or three kinds of salsola, and a coarse grass growing in tufts. Here and there, too, are some patches of cultivation.

From this we passed through some low rocky ridges on to a similar but more extensive tableland, divided by low ridges of rock into the plateau of Mughali, Tútah, and Záwah. We started from Kamál Khán at 7.50 A.M., and arrived at the entrance to the Záwah defile at 10.10 A.M., thus, reckoning the pace of our horses at four miles an hour, making the distance about nine and a half miles.

We halted here for breakfast, on the edge of a little stream of brackish water, whilst the baggage went on ahead. Close by is a ridge of bare rock without a particle of vegetation on it, and along its base are the traces of a very ancient village. The foundation walls are very massive, and built substantially of dressed stone; the surface everywhere around is covered with bits of red pottery.

At 1.10 P.M. we mounted our camels, and left Záwah by a narrow winding defile, down which flows the thready rivulet on which we had halted. After proceeding up the defile some distance, we passed over some very rocky ground by a rough track, and rose suddenly to the crest of a ridge of hills running north and south. Descending a little from this, we reach the tableland of Jiwán. This is an open plateau, and, unlike the others, is thickly covered with pasture herbs and bushes, amongst which are interspersed small isolated patches of ploughed land. We saw no villages, however, nor any signs of a camp in the vicinity, though our native escort assured us that there were hundreds of tumans hidden away in the nooks and hollows of the mountains, to which the Brahoe retire at this season, with their flocks, for shelter from the cold winds that blow over the open country.

Traversing this plateau, we crossed a deep ravine, opposite a cavern excavated in its high bank of shingle, and known as Duzdán ná Khond, or “the robber’s retreat.” Here my camel showed signs of fatigue, and became so shaky on his legs, that I became apprehensive of some misfortune, and, to avoid the chance of breaking my neck against the rocks, relieved him of my weight, and mounted my horse, which was being led along close behind us. The severity of the weather and the want of his accustomed forage, combined with the roughness of the roads and our land marches, had told unfavourable upon the poor brute, and it was as much as he could do to keep up with our party till we reached Kandahar. Here the milder climate and several days’ rest brought him round to his former self, and he afterwards carried me down to Baghdad, where he passed into the possession of the camel’s best friend—an Arab.

Beyond the ravine we crossed a ridge of rocky hills by a very rough and narrow path, and emerged upon the Lákoryán tableland, an enclosed plateau that rises considerably up to the hills on the north and west. We passed a good deal of cultivation on our route across it, and at 4.30 P.M. camped—or rather, waited for our camp, for the baggage did not come up till 7.30 P.M., by which time it was quite dark—near a spring at the foot of the hills to the north-west. There is no village nor other sign of habitation here, except a small enclosure containing a few roofless huts, a few hundred yards from the spring at which we have taken up our position for the night. We passed a large gaur-band on the plateau, and at the foot of the hills towards the north-east saw a great collection of them. It was too late for us to go and explore them; but, from what we could see, they appeared to mark the site of some ancient city. The dark lines of their massive walls are very conspicuous against the lighter colours of the hillside.

Whilst waiting the arrival of our tents, we collected some dry bushes of the camel-thorn and some kinds of salsola, and made a fire to warm ourselves, and point out our whereabouts to the baggagers, who were yet some way behind, for to the repeated shouts and calls of our party there came no response.

There are no supplies procurable here, and the water is very limited in quantity, and, though not brackish, of decidedly inferior quality. By previous arrangement some fuel and fodder had been collected here for our party, but the supply fell very far short of our requirements. The fodder was distributed in small quantities amongst the troopers of our escort, and the fuel—the few faggots there were—was mostly appropriated by our cook. Along the raised banks of some fields near the enclosure above mentioned were six or seven circular vaulted pits excavated in the ground. They are used as storehouses for grain or straw or chaff, and are entered through a small hole at the top. This aperture is only slightly raised above the level of the ground, and is covered by a lid plastered over with mud cement until required to be removed. These grain-pits were examined in the hopes that they might enable us to increase the rations served out to our cattle; but, to our disappointment, they were all found empty, like the country itself.

During the night a steady soaking rain set in; and as it continued in the morning, there was some question as to whether we should be able to proceed on our march. But the point was soon settled when we found the impossibility of procuring any provisions here either for man or beast. So we struck our tents, and at 8.40 A.M. set out on our march of twenty miles to Khán Calá of Súráb, and a most trying and disagreeable march it proved. As we left camp, heavy mists hung over the country, and obscured everything from view beyond a couple of hundred yards or so, whilst a thin drenching rain, that presently changed to sleet and then to snow, descended very perseveringly upon us. Fortunately for us, the soil here is a coarse gravel, with only a small admixture of earth, and our cattle consequently got over it without hindrance.

After riding half-an-hour in a north-westerly direction, we turned northwards into a narrow gap in the hills, and beyond it came to the Anjíra plateau, and at 10.10 A.M. halted at a sarae near its north end, for shelter from the rain and for breakfast. In the gap we passed amongst a number of very fine and extensive gaur-band. They are the largest we have seen, and, from their position and appearance, were probably built as defensive works. Two or three of these massive breastworks were on the plain a little in advance of the ridge of hills separating Lákoryán from Anjíra, but most of them were built across gaps between the prominent peaks of the ridge. On the Anjíra side of the ridge, on some level ground to the right of the road, we found a large collection of very substantial walls, of from two to eight feet high. They appeared like the remains of an ancient town. Owing to the inclement weather we did not stop to examine them.

Near the sarae is a little stream, which carries the drainage of this plateau down to the Míloh rivulet, which it joins somewhere near Narr; and on a turfy bank a few hundred yards off is a solitary hut, with an adjoining walled enclosure. In the latter stands a masonry pillar, about ten feet high, and of recent construction. The monument, our companions informed us, is built on the spot where the corpse of the late Nasír Khán, brother of the present chief of Calát, was washed previous to conveyance for burial in the family sepulchre, he having died here on his way to the capital.

Whilst here, the rain ceased, and the sky cleared for a while, and we got a view of the country around, and a more dreary and inhospitable-looking prospect it would be difficult to find out of Balochistan. To the north, above the lower ridges bounding the plateau in that direction, was seen the snow-topped Harboí mountain, and it was the only feature that relieved the general ruggedness of the bare hills around. The plateau itself, like that of Lákoryán, is covered with saline efflorescence, and supports only a thin growth of pasture herbs. Away to the north-east we spied a few leafless trees around a small hamlet, and by it observed a flock of sheep, tended by a couple of shepherds. Nearer at hand the plain was covered by a wide extent of cemetery, thickly crowded with graves, whilst solitary tombs were here and there scattered over the general surface, and only attracted attention by the shreds of rag floating in the breeze from the poles supported in the pile of loose stones that covered them.

At noon we mounted our horses and proceeded on our way, the clouds again lowering and threatening more rain, by which, indeed, we were very soon overtaken in the form of a storm from the north-west. We had crossed a succession of ridges and gullies, the rocks of which were green, blue, and red-coloured sandstone, amongst masses of lighter hue full of fossil ammonites, oysters, and other marine shells, and emerged on a wide plateau called Khulkná Khad, where we were exposed to the full force of a numbing north wind and blinding drifts of snow.

We made our way across this bleak plateau as best we could, and passed en route a weather-bound káfila of sixty camels, with wool from Núshkí for Karáchí. The camels with their pack-saddles on were let loose to graze on the wormwood, camel-thorn, and saltworts, which here covered the surface more thickly than we had anywhere seen; whilst the drivers, having piled the loads in the form of a circle, and spread felt cloths across from one load to the other, crouched for protection from the weather under the shelter thus afforded. A few of them stepped out to view us as we rode by, and fine manly-looking fellows they were—all Afghans.

Beyond this we crossed a low ridge of hills by a narrow and rough strait, at the entrance to which we noticed a number of perfect cháp circles, and four or five cheda pillars—one of which, to the right of our path, occupied a very conspicuous position on the ledge of a prominent rock—and then entered on the wide and undulating tableland of Azákhel and Súráb, on which are several villages and fruit-gardens, and more cultivation than we have anywhere seen in this country as yet; in fact, we here reached an inhabited region. Our path skirted the hills to the east, and led past a roadside shrine called Lulla Sulemán ná Kher. The head of the tomb is marked by four or five long poles, to which are fastened numberless shreds of cloth, stuck upright in a heap of loose stones, samples of the rocks of the surrounding mountains, and on the top of them lie a number of horns of the wild goat and wild sheep. I stopped to examine these, and amongst the stones found a fine fossil convoluted conch, which I told an attendant trooper I wanted, and he, without hesitation, took it up and brought it into camp, and I subsequently sent it to Peshawar with some horns and other specimens from Kandahar, as I shall have occasion to mention hereafter. I did not see any granite amongst the stones on this shrine, and hence conclude that there is none in the adjacent hills, for the pile is formed by contributions of devotees from all the surrounding country.

Away to the right from Sulemán ná Kher we saw the villages and gardens of Ghijdegán and Dhand, and farther on, passing the collection of hamlets known as Nighár, at 2.45 P.M. arrived at Khán Calá of Súráb, where we were very glad to find shelter in a dirty little hut vacated for us, and thaw our frozen limbs. The last six miles of our march were most trying from the intense cold and driving snow, and completely numbed us, so that we could not have held out against it much longer. The north wind is most piercing, and cuts to the very bones. It is called Shomál bád, or “north wind” par excellence, by the natives, and is dreaded as extremely dangerous, often proving fatal by numbing the powers of life. The villagers expressed astonishment at our travelling in such weather, and some of our Khozdár escort chimed in with, “It’s only the Sáhibs who ever think of doing such things; and when they go forward, we must follow them. Surely there is a special providence that presides over their protection.”

In truth, our native attendants suffered severely. The hands, feet, and faces of several of the troopers of our escort of Sindh Horse became swollen, puffy, and painful, but they held out manfully to the end. Not so our Khozdár attendants; they succumbed to the weather even before we had accomplished half the march, and this is the more remarkable, as they were travelling in their own country. They one by one wrapped up their faces in the capacious folds of their turbans so closely that there was barely room for them to use their eyes, and gathering their loose cloaks about them, sat their horses more like bundles of clothes than horsemen. Having thus resigned themselves to their fate, they gradually fell away from our party, and took shelter in the first villages we came to.

We ourselves were not without showing evidences of the effects of the wintry blast. The snow freezing upon our mustaches and beards had stiffened them, so that talking became a painful exertion; we therefore proceeded in silence, with our heads set down against the howling wind and driving snow, and presently dropped away from one another—the General here, Major Harrison there, and I elsewhere—each following his own pace to the village ahead of us. My feet were so numbed that on dismounting I did not feel the ground, and consequently nearly fell, and it was some minutes before I could freely use my limbs.

Our baggage did not come up till 7.30 P.M., and both men and cattle were much exhausted, but plenty of food and warm shelter soon revived them. Three or four of our baggagers went off with their mules to the nearest villages we came to, and did not rejoin our party till the next morning. With the exception of one muleteer, who deserted with the cloak and fur coat we provided for him, none of our party were much the worse for the exposure.

CHAPTER III.

Súráb is a populous valley, very fertile, and freely watered by many little streams from the mountains. Its elevation is about 5910 feet at Khán Calá, and consequently its winter is a rigorous season. It now wears a most dreary aspect, but in summer it is said to be bright with corn-fields and gardens in full force. At that season, too, the Azákhel and Khulkná Khad plateaux are covered with the busy camps of the Mingal Brahoe, who are now dispersed amongst the lower hills of Nal and Wadd.

The migratory life led by these people is one more of necessity than of choice it seems; for their hills are so bare, that they produce no timber fit for building purposes, nor forage sufficient for the support of the flocks, whilst much of the soil of the plateaux is so gravelly and impregnated with salines as to be unfit either for cultivation or for building the domed huts so common in Kandahar and many parts of Persia; and, besides, though last mentioned, not the least difficulty is the general scarcity of water everywhere. Since we left the Míloh rivulet at Narr, we have not seen a single stream one could not easily step across dryshod.

Towards midnight the wind subsided, the clouds dispersed, the stars shone out, and a hard frost set in. Fortunately we were all warmly housed in the village, and did not suffer from it; and this is as much as I can say for it on that score. In other respects, our domicile was none of the most agreeable, for though tired and sleepy by the day’s exertion and suffering, it was impossible to get either rest or sleep. The fire, lighted in the centre of our little hut, filled its single unventilated chamber with blinding clouds of suffocating smoke. We no sooner escaped these troubles by lying close on the ground, when our attempts to sleep were at once dissipated by another form of torment, to wit, the fierce attacks of multitudes of the most vicious fleas and other vermin of that sort. They literally swarmed all over the place, and allowed us no rest throughout the night. I could only exist by repeatedly going out and breathing a little fresh air, which at daylight I found to be 23° Fah. It must have been colder during the night, though it did not feel so, probably owing to the subsidence of the wind.

21st January.—Whilst the baggage was being loaded, I examined some faggots of the fuel that had been collected here from the adjacent hills for the use of our camp, and recognised the following plants, with their native names following each, namely:—Juniper (hápurs), ephedra (náróm, the hóm of the Afghans), wild almond (harshín), wild olive (khat, the khoan of the Afghans), wild peach (kotor), and salvadora oleoides? (piplí). The last is said to be poisonous to camels, though not to goats and sheep. On the Anjíra plateau I obtained specimens of the following plants, viz.:—Caper spurge (ritáchk), peganum (kisánkúr), artemisia sp. (khardarno), caroxylon (righit), camel-thorn (shenálo), withiana congulans (panír band), and a species of lycopodion (kásákun).

We set out from Súráb at 10.45 A.M., and proceeded due north over an undulating plateau with hills on either hand. The soil was spongy with efflorescent salines, and the surface was covered with a thick growth of aromatic wormwood. A strong and keen north wind blew against us the whole day. On starting, I went off the road a little to get a couple of blue pigeons I had seen alight on a ploughed field. The cold was so intense, by reason of the wind, that my fingers, although encased in thick woollen gloves, were at once numbed, and I could only carry my gun by shifting it constantly from hand to hand. Presently the pain became very acute, and lasted for more than half-an-hour, whilst I rubbed the hands together to restore the circulation. The poor pigeons must have had a hard time of it battling against the relentless blasts of Boreas; and the fate that transferred them from the bare clods of a wintry wind-scoured field to the warm recesses of a well-seasoned “blaze-pan” (a very excellent kind of travelling stewpan) was, after all, not so cruel a one as it might have been had some hungry hawk forestalled me.

After marching an hour, we passed Hajíka hamlet under the hills to the right; and still continuing over a wide pasture tract, at 1.20 P.M. arrived at Gandaghen Sarae, and camped under the lee of its walls for protection from the wind, our escort finding shelter in its interior. There is a large pool of water here, fed by a sluggish spring oozing from under a ledge of conglomerate rock, only slightly raised above the general level of the country. We found it frozen over. Our escort, after watering their horses here, galloped them about for a quarter of an hour or more, to prevent spasms from the combined effects of wind and water, and not from the fear, as I supposed, of any ill effects from the water itself, which was very brackish.

Gandaghen is thirteen miles from Súráb, and there is neither water, nor tree, nor habitation, nor cultivation on the road between them. Hajíka was the only village we saw, and it lay some miles off the road. The weather was clear and sunny, with a blue sky, but the air was biting cold, and the north wind quite withering. At 9 P.M. the thermometer fell to 16° Fah., and at daylight stood at 10° Fah. At this place two more of our mule-drivers deserted with the warm clothing we had provided for them; they were both Pathans of Kandahar.

Our next stage was fifteen miles to Rodinjo. The morning was bright and sunny, but bitterly cold, with a keen north wind. Our tent awnings were frozen stiff as boards, and could not be struck till near 10 A.M., for fear of the cloth snapping. The morning sun, however, thawed them sufficiently for packing, and by 10.35 A.M. we were fairly started on the march. We followed a well-trodden path over the pasture land of Mall, and at about half-way came to the camping-ground of Damb, where is a small pool of brackish water at the foot of a detached mound.

I struck off the road in company with our mihmandár (conductor and entertainer), Mulla Dost Muhammad, in hopes of getting a hare, of which animals he assured us there were untold numbers in the wormwood scrub covering the plain. We had ridden some distance without seeing a single living creature, or any signs of one except the shell of a tortoise (here called sarkúk), and the shrivelled skin of a hedgehog or jájak, as it is here called. My companion was telling me that the egg of the tortoise was used by the Brahoe, whipped up with water and smeared over the postules, as a remedy to prevent pitting from small-pox; and I was just making a mental note to the effect that an ordinary hen’s egg might be used with equal advantage under similar circumstances, when a hare dashed out across our path. I was holding my gun, a double-barrelled breech-loader by Dougall, resting against the shoulder at the moment, but it was instantly down at the “present,” and fired, but no puss was to be seen. “You have missed,” said the Mulla; “her hour of death (ajal) has not arrived.” “I am not sure of that,” I said; “I heard a squeak, and am going to see;” so saying, I dismounted, and giving him my pony to hold, moved forward to examine the bushes, the while adjusting a fresh cartridge. I had hardly advanced forty or fifty paces, when I instinctively “ducked” to a sudden, sharp, rushing sound, wsheeooh, close over my head, and caught sight of a great bird alight at a bush some forty or so yards ahead. To step aside and fire straight upon him was the work of an instant, and then running up, I found a great black eagle sprawling over the hare, whose stomach was already torn open. Both were secured to my saddle-straps, and the pony, taking fright at these unaccustomed bodies dangling against his flanks, set off at full speed across the plain towards the rest of the party, whom we overtook at Damb. The hare formed a welcome addition to our blaze, and the black eagle (siyáh waccáb) forms the largest specimen amongst the bird-skins I collected on this journey. The stretch of the wings from tip to tip measured very nearly eight feet.

Beyond Damb we halted half-an-hour at a pebbly ravine skirting a low ridge, to let the baggage get on, and then proceeding over an undulating country similar to that already traversed, arrived at Rodinjo at 2.20 P.M., and camped under the lee of the sarae outside the village for shelter from the wind. This is a neat little village of about 180 houses. Many little hill-streams run over the surface, which is widely cultivated. There are some very fine white poplar and willow trees here, and two or three small apricot orchards. The elevation of Rodinjo is 6650 feet above the sea.

23d January.—The cold during the night was severe. At daylight the mercury stood at 14° Fah., and between seven and eight A.M. rose to 22° Fah. Our servants were so numbed and stupefied by it that we could not get them to move till they had had some hours sunning. We got away at 11.10 A.M., and proceeded northwards over an undulating plain bounded on the east and west by low hills. The width of the plain is about six miles, and its surface presents nothing but an unvaried scrub of wormwood growing on a soft, spongy, and gravelly soil. Neither village, nor tree, nor camp, nor, except a few very widely separated little patches, cultivation is to be seen, nor is any water to be found on it.

After marching an hour we came to a ridge of magnesian limestone, at the foot of which a small well is sunk in the rock. Beyond this we entered a narrow gully, winding between high banks of gravel and shingle, and rose up to a gap from which the valley of Calát, and the Mírí or palace, dominating the town at the end of a subsiding ridge of rock, lay before us. The scene was wild and dreary, and all nature seemed withered by the chill of winter.

From the gap we went down a long declivity between low ridges, and passing under the walls of the Mírí, and round the fortifications of the town, crossed the largest rivulet we have seen in the country, and alighted at a house prepared, or, I should properly say, emptied, for our reception, in a garden a mile to the north of the town, our arrival being announced by a salute of eleven guns from the citadel—distance, thirteen miles. A little way down the slope from the gap above mentioned, we were met by an isticbál, or ceremonial reception party, headed by Mír Karam Khán, a handsome youth of some eighteen years, with glossy black curly ringlets hanging over his shoulders. He is a nephew of the Khán’s (sister’s son), and though so young, already looks worn out and enervated by too early and too free an abuse of the pleasures prized by Eastern potentates. He was gaily dressed, and mounted on a powerful and spirited horse, richly caparisoned with silver-mounted trappings. But the whole effect of this grande tenue was marred by his timid seat and awkward clutches every now and again, as the horse pranced, at the high pommel of the saddle, which rose up in front as if it had been purposely put there for the rider to hold on by.

He was attended by Mír Saggid Muhammad, Iltáfzai, a cousin of the Khán’s, and was followed by a party of twenty-five or thirty horsemen—the most ragged and motley troop I ever saw. There was the Persian and the Pathan, the Brahoe and the Baloch, the Sindhí and the Sídí, each clad in his own national costume and armour, but the poorest of its kind, and all mounted on very inferior, weedy, and unkept ponies. They gradually dropped off from us as we passed under the town.

Two hours after our arrival, we donned our uniforms and went to call on the Khán at the Mírí. The cold was withering, and a keen north wind cut us to the very bones. The ground was frozen hard, and snow-wreaths lay under the shade of the walls. Our path led across a brisk rivulet, flowing in a wide pebbly channel—the same we had crossed a while ago; and then past some walled fields to the town itself, which we entered by a gate leading into the main bazaar—a poor and decayed collection of shops ranged on each side of a filthy street. From this we went up a steep and slippery ascent, very narrow, and flanked by high walls. Dismounting at the top, we groped our way through a dark winding passage, strewed with all sorts of filth and litter, and redolent of the nastiest smells, and suddenly arrived at the door of the Khán’s reception room, where we found him standing to receive us.

We shook hands all round, with the usual complimentary phrases, and at once entering the room, were conducted to a row of chairs placed at its upper end. Khudádád Khán, the chief of Calát, and Major-General Pollock occupied the two central seats, and Major Harrison and myself those on either side. On the floor in front of us were spread two dirty old Persian carpets, separated by a space in which was placed a great dish of live charcoal. At the edge of the carpets, to the right and left, sat a number of court officials, and at the further end fronting us stood the Khán’s bodyguard, a dozen of the most unshorn, ragged, and ruffianly set of cut-throats it would be possible to collect anywhere. No two were clad or armed alike, and each looked a greater scoundrel than his neighbour. Where the Khán collected such a unique set of villains I cannot understand. I never saw anything to equal their barbarous attire and rascally looks anywhere.

One more personage remains to complete the picture of the Khán’s court as we found it on this memorable occasion, for I never think of that cold ride without a shiver running through my limbs. Crouched up against the wall to the left of our row of chairs was a portly individual with a jovial fat face and a sleek beard, which would have been white had he but treated it to a little soap and water. He shuffled about under the bundle of clothes—neither clean nor new—that mostly concealed his figure, as from time to time he joined in the conversation as one in authority and in the Khán’s confidence. This was Wazír Walí Muhammad, aged seventy years, the most sensible man in Calát, the Khán’s truest friend, and a stanch ally of the British Government, of which his experience runs through the past and present generation. He was a friend to Masson when he visited this place in 1831, and he was present when the town was taken, eight years later, by the force under General Willshire, the chief, Mihráb Khán, being killed in the defence, with four hundred of his men.

The present chief, Khudádád Khán, is about thirty-eight years of age. He has a vacant and at times silly look, and his conversation is trifling. He does not convey the impression of being a man of any weight or ability, and is said to spend most of his time amongst his women. During our visit his two sons were introduced. They were pretty children and richly dressed. The eldest, Mír Mahmúd, was aged seven years, and the other, Mír Shahnawáz, was aged three years.

Such is the composition of the court of Calát. The reception room in which we were assembled is a very mean and neglected chamber. The roof is low and the walls—they had been whitewashed, but apparently very long ago—were cracked in a dangerous manner, and altogether the place wore a very poor and untidy look. The north and west sides of the chamber were occupied by a succession of latticed windows, from which there is a fine prospect of the whole valley and its villages and gardens. This is the one redeeming point in the whole palace, which is only a jumble of huts piled together one above the other to a great height above the rest of the town, of which it forms the most prominent object as seen from a distance.

It is not usual for the Khán to winter here, owing to the severity of the climate. His winter residence is in the milder climate of Gandáva where he has a palace. This year he is kept here by the rebellion of his barons.

We took our leave, and returned to our quarters by the route we came, and very glad to get under shelter again, for our close-fitting uniforms were ill calculated to protect us from such cold, which is here greater than we have anywhere experienced. During the night the thermometer must have sunk to zero outside, for next morning it stood at 8° Fah. in a court full of servants and cattle, and warmed by several little fires. By my aneroid barometer I estimated the elevation of Calát at about 6750 feet above the sea. Hard frost prevailed all the time we were here.

We halted here the next day, and at four P.M. the Khán, attended by his son, Mír Mahmúd, and nephew, Mír Kuram Khán, came to return our visit. He was richly dressed, and rode a fine Baloch horse caparisoned with gold trappings; but he is altogether wanting in deportment, and impressed me even more unfavourably than he did yesterday.

He is the head of the Kambarání family, who claim Arab descent, and profess to come originally from Aleppo. This family has held the government for several generations, and is now reckoned as the royal tribe amongst the Brahoe, though they themselves are neither Brahoe nor Baloch. The Kambarání take wives from both tribes, but they give their daughters to neither, though all are Sunni Muhammadans. In the days of their prosperity, the Kambarání chiefs ruled over the whole of Balochistan as independent despots, owning only nominal allegiance to the Afghan monarchy established by Sháh Ahmad, Durrani. At that time, as now, Balochistan comprised six principal divisions, viz., Kach, Gandáva, Jhálawán, Calát, Sahárawán, Makrán, and Las Bela. Only the four first of these divisions now acknowledge the authority of the Calát chief. Las Bela is independent under a quasi tributary chief; whilst Makrán is divided between Persia and a number of petty local chiefs, whose tenures possess no stability owing to their intestine feuds and rivalries. The endurance of the rule of the present chief of Calát, too, does not appear very secure, owing to the prolonged rebellion of some of his principal barons.

The Khán’s visit was not a very long one, nor very entertaining. He repeated the same queries with which he assailed us yesterday. “How old are you?” “Are you married?” “How many children have you?” and so forth. “How many teeth have you?” only was wanting to bring the list of impertinences to a climax. My gun was produced for his inspection, and the General’s gyroscope was set in motion for the amusement of his son. He handled the gun awkwardly, and examined it perfunctorily, without a trace of interest, as if the attempt to understand its mechanism were quite a hopeless task. The wonderful performances of the gyroscope drew forth some exclamations of astonishment, and when, by an erratic dash, it startled an old gentleman sitting on the floor into a sudden somersault in his haste to escape its attack, it produced a decided impression, not quite free from suspicions as to its being some infernal machine, the real purposes of which we kept secret. “Or else,” said one of the attendants to his neighbour, as the Khán took his departure, “why should they carry such a thing about with them? Did you feel its weight and force as it spun?”

In the evening, after our visit yesterday, the Khán sent us a zújafát, or cooked dinner of several native dishes. This evening he sent us tea, sheep, fowls, eggs, butter, flour, &c., for our servants; and the Wazír Walí Muhammad, who enjoys the reputation of being a clever gastronomic, sent us a rich and varied assortment of dishes, which fully supported the credit of his specialty. They differed little from the menu which it is the delight of Afghans to set before their guests.

Calát is the capital of Balochistan, and the summer residence of the chief. It is a fortified little town, situated on the plain at the extremity of a low ridge of hills called Sháh Mírán, and contains about 8000 inhabitants—a mixture of Baloch, Brahoe, Jat, and Dihwár, with a few Hindu families. The town is indescribably filthy, and wears a thoroughly decayed look. It is the largest town in the country, and the valley in which it stands is the most populous. There are several villages and fruit-gardens crowded together on the upper part of the valley near the town. They produce excellent apricots, plums, peaches, and other fruits, which are dried and exported. The mulberry and sanjit (oleagnus) are common here. The graceful foliage of the latter adorns the water-courses, of which there are a great number in all directions, from hill-streams and the subterranean conduits called kárez.

Great care and attention is paid to the culture of these gardens. They are entirely in the hands of the Dihwár, a Persian-speaking people, who here correspond to the Tajik of Afghanistan, and, like them, are Sunni Muhammadans. In fact, there is not a Shia in the country, and the sect is abominated with truly religious hatred. Lucerne (ushpusht) is largely grown here as a fodder crop, and yields five or six or even eight crops a year, under careful irrigation and manuring. I saw some men digging up the roots of the plant as food for their cattle. They are long and fibrous, and are considered very nourishing food for cows and goats, &c. Beetroot too is grown here, and tobacco in small quantity.

In the gardens here we found numbers of thrushes, starlings, and magpies. We also saw the red-billed crow and the golden eagle. The magpie (here called shakúk, and at Kabul, kalghúchak) is of the same colour and character as the English bird, but smaller in size. The villagers here were friendly, and free from the arrogance of the Afghan. They appeared a peaceable, industrious and thriving community.

25th January.—We left Calát, under a salute of eleven guns, at 11.10 A.M., and marched twenty-six miles to the village of Mundi Hájí in the Mungachar valley. Our route was due north down the slope of the Calát valley. At about the third mile we cleared the villages and gardens, and going on over corn-fields and across irrigation streams, at the sixth mile came to the Baba Walí ziyárat, a sacred shrine on the further side of a deep pebbly ravine.

Here we parted from our kind friend Major Harrison, Political Agent at the Court of Calát (“the fortress,” in Arabic), and stood a few minutes to view the landscape we had left behind us at the southern extremity of the valley. Calát, with its lofty citadel and towering palace, stood forth the most dominant feature in the scene. Below it were crowded together a number of villages, gardens, and corn-fields, that told of peace and plenty, despite their present forlorn look under the withering blasts of an almost arctic winter; whilst the background was closed by a great snow-clad mountain, on the other side of which is Nichára. Such was Calát as we saw it, but such, fortunately, is not always its appearance. The forests of naked twigs and branches that now testify to the severity of the season will a few weeks hence put forth their buds, and in summer will be bowed down with the weight of their foliage and fruit. The snowy barrier above will disappear, and disclose dark belts of the arbor vitæ and pistacia, whilst the bare plain below will put on its coat of green, and roll with fields of yellow corn. As described, the summer must indeed be a delightful season here; and if it is mild in proportion to the severity of the winter, I can understand the ecstasies with which the natives expatiate on its delights. Taking a last look at Calát, and a parting adieu from our friend, we turned and faced the dreary waste of hill and dale that stretched away before us to the northward.

Our road skirted a low ridge of hills on our left, and led by a well-beaten path over the pasture ground of Bandúkhí. At the ninth mile we passed a cross-road leading to the village of Girání on the other side of the ridge to our left, and beyond it gently descended to the pastures of Marján, from which we rose on to an undulating upland tract, leaving the valley to our right, and came to the Laghání Kotal. This is a rough pass over a ridge of slate and sandstone hills, and conducts down a long and stony hill-skirt to the plain of Mungachar, which is an alluvial valley, intersected by numerous kárez conduits, dotted here and there with villages, and covered with great patches of snow-white saline encrustations. From the top of the pass we got a good view of the Chihltan mountain away to the north, and of the Kárcháp range away to the south-west, both deeply covered with snow; whilst nearer at hand, to our right front and right, were the lesser hills of Koh Márán and Keláb, just whitened at their summits.

On descending to the valley, we had to make a long detour to the right, in order to avoid a wide extent of mire, produced by flooding the fields from the kárez streams, and only reached Mundi Hájí at the foot of Bidiring hill at five P.M. This is a little hamlet of six or seven detached houses; and as the evening air was very cold, and our baggage not even in sight across the plain (it did not all come up till ten P.M.), we took shelter in the principal house, which was very willingly vacated by its tenants for our use.

On our way across the valley we passed the ruins of a village called Dádar. It was the largest of the ten or twelve villages that are scattered over the Mungachar plain, and was plundered and destroyed by the rebel Sherdil Khán some eight years ago, when he ousted the present Khán of Calát, as has already been mentioned.

Whilst we were waiting the arrival of our baggage, our host, Ummed Khán, Ráisání, walked in and unconcernedly seated himself on the carpet he had obligingly spread for us. He was a petty farmer, of simple unsophisticated manners, and quite charmed us with his good nature, sensible conversation, and freedom from prejudice. He was explaining to us the protective virtues of a bag of dust that attracted my attention as it hung against one of the two props supporting the roof, when the arrival of our cook with the kitchen establishment was announced, and he disappeared to provide fuel and water. Having done this, he returned and favoured us with his company, whilst we disposed of our evening meal; and we now heard the history of the bag above mentioned. It was briefly this:—Saggid Maurúsí, the patron saint of this place, and whose shrine stands on a rocky mound hard by, was a very holy man. During his life he dispensed charms with a liberal hand for the protection of the faithful against all manner of evils; and since his death, so great was the sanctity of his character, the virtues of his charms have been communicated to the ashes of his tomb. All who seek the intercession of the saint carry away a little of the dust from his shrine, and keep it in their houses, to avert the evil eye, and protect the inmates and their cattle, &c., from sickness or other calamity. The dust is called khurda and is an undoubted efficacious charm.

Our host having paused in his conversation, I offered him a cup of tea, which, to my surprise—accustomed as I had been to the narrow prejudices of Indian caste—he readily accepted, as also some cold fowl. Another cup of tea and another fowl was offered for the lady of the house, whose bright eyes were curiously peering at us from the doorway of an opposite chamber. The husband took them away, and presently a merry laugh of gratification assured us of the appreciation of the attention. Early next morning, whilst doing a rough toilet outside, my glass propped against a wall, I caught the reflection of our landlady straining her eyes from the opposite side of the court to see what I was looking into as my comb and brushes performed their usual offices. Turning round, I gratified her curiosity with a peep at her own comely features in the glass. Her delight and unrestrained simplicity were most amusing. She held the mirror in both hands before her, viewed herself in it, posed her head first on this side then on the other, smiled, frowned, stared, trimmed her mouth, smoothed her hair, and stroked her nose in succession. She turned the mirror round and examined its back a moment, and then again devoted herself to its reflecting surface, and, taking up her baby, placed its cheek against her own, and viewed both together, and smiled with innocent satisfaction. It was an amusing spectacle, and in every particular, excepting the baby, was the exact repetition of what I have seen a monkey do with a looking-glass. The young woman was so evidently pleased with the mirror, that I gave it to her, and she ran off inside the house, no doubt to look at it afresh.

We left Mundi Hájí at 8.10 A.M., and marched twenty-six miles, and camped at the Kárez Amánullah. The morning air was sharp, and, by the thermometer, showed nine degrees of frost. Our path led over a narrow stony upland, covered with artemisia scrub, and bounded on either side by the hill ranges of Bidiring and Buzi, both of which were tipped with snow. In two hours we reached the crest of the upland, and by a gentle slope in another hour reached a roadside shrine on the border of the Khad Mastung, or Lower Mastung valley.

We halted here awhile to allow the baggage to get on ahead, and meanwhile examined the horns, of which a great number adorned the shrine. They were mostly those of the ibex and uriár (or wild sheep), here called het and kharr respectively, and in Persia buz and bakhta. None of the horns were very large or unusually fine, but I took a couple of each kind as specimens.

Before us, to the northward, lay a great waste, on which, at about five miles off, stood the village of Gorú, with wide patches of white soda efflorescence scattered here and there over the plain. Far away to the north, the prospect is closed by the snowy mass of the Chihltan mountain, which separates Mastung from Shál.

After a halt of an hour and a half we proceeded, and passing the Sháwání cultivation and Gorú cemetery, at 3.30 P.M. arrived at our camping-ground. The valley dips gently to the northward, and presents a very dreary aspect. The soil is powdery, and surcharged with salines, which here and there form great sheets of snow-white encrustation. The cultivation is very scanty, and all khushkába, that is, dependent on the skies for irrigation. The fields are little square patches, banked up on all sides to catch and retain what rain showers upon them. Not a tree is visible on the plain; the Sháwání Brahoe huts are scattered over its surface in clusters of four or five together, but are mostly situated along the base of the Chuttok hills bounding the valley to the westward.

At Amánullah we pitched our camp in the hollows of some sandy undulations of the surface, by way of shelter from the north wind, which swept over the plain in gusts of chilling force. Hard by, lower down the course of the kárez, are the ten or twelve huts composing the village. They looked poor hovels, and were quite in keeping with the dreary and wintry aspect of the country.

We set out hence at 8.30 next morning, and marched nine miles to Mastung, where we arrived in two hours, and alighted at quarters prepared for us in the fort. The first part of our route was over the Amánullah cultivation, and across a deep kárez cut, on to an undulating waste, beyond which we came to the corn-fields and walled gardens of Mastung.

As we approached Mastung, a flight of blue pigeons settled on a ploughed field off the road, and I turned off and shot three of them, all very plump, and with their crops full of grain. Out of curiosity I opened the crop of one, and counted its contents. They were as follows, namely:—320 grains of barley, 20 of wheat, 50 of millet, 5 of peas or pulse, and several other smaller grains I did not recognise. The flight consisted of upwards of a hundred pigeons, and during the march we had seen several such flights. From these data, some idea may be formed of the loss inflicted on the farmer by these birds. One of our escort, who witnessed the process of investigation above described, expressed great astonishment, and observed that the birds had met a “justly deserved fate for robbing the widows’ store.” The meaning of the allusion is, I presume, that the general out-turn of the harvest being diminished by the depredations of these birds, the widows’ store would suffer in proportion.

At two miles from Mastung we were met by a party of fifty horsemen, headed by Náib ’Abdurrahmán, the governor of the district. He was a fine handsome man, of quiet and unassuming demeanour, but was poorly clad and badly mounted. His cavalcade, too, was a sorry collection of both men and horses. As regards the brute part of the gathering, this is surprising, for the country here is highly cultivated, and produces abundance of forage. The Náib conducted us through a succession of walled gardens to the quarters prepared for us inside the fort, in front of the gate of which were drawn up twenty files of infantry, with a band of three tin pipes and two drums, to receive us with military honours. As we came up, the commanding officer, with a wide sweep of his sword, brought its edge to the tip of his nose, and holding it there perpendicularly, exactly between the eyes, shouted, in a stentorian voice, “Generaylee saloot!” a summons that started a man from each end of the line six paces to the front, and fixed the rest, with gaping mouths and muskets held at all slopes, full gaze upon us. We now came abreast of the commanding officer, who all of a sudden missed the music, the band being intently absorbed in the spectacle of our procession; but a quick turn, and some violent gesticulations in their direction, immediately startled the three youths with the tin pipes into the perpetration of three shrill squeaks, which were accompanied by a rattle on the drums by their two juvenile comrades behind.

The General acknowledged the honour with a graceful salute, and we passed through the fort gate into a succession of narrow winding passages leading from courtyard to courtyard, all strewn with several inches of stable refuse and disfigured by dung-heaps, till at length we came to one larger than the others, though not a whit less filthy, where a guard of four soldiers drawn up opposite a portal informed us we had reached our quarters, and a salute of eleven guns announced the fact to the townspeople.

The interior, happily, was not in keeping with the exterior. The two rooms of which the house consisted had been swept, and clean carpets had been laid down for our reception, and, as we entered, fires were lighted to warm them. Altogether we were agreeably surprised, and found our lodging, despite the surroundings, a very comfortable shelter from the wintry blasts outside.

The northern part of the Mastung valley is highly cultivated, and populous villages, fruit gardens, and corn-fields follow each other in close succession, and extend in one unbroken stretch for several miles along the foot of the Hamách and Khark hills, separating the valley from the Dashtí Bedaulat. The gardens produce the grape, apple, apricot, quince, almond, plum, cherry, pomegranate, oleagnus, and mulberry. The pear and peach do not grow here, though they do abundantly in the adjoining valley of Shál. The fields produce wheat, barley, maize, millet, pulse, lucerne, madder, tobacco, and the common vegetables, such as carrots, turnips, onions, cabbages, &c., but not cotton. The inhabitants are Brahoe and Dihwár, with some Baloch and Afghan families and Hindu traders.

In summer Mastung must be a delightful residence, both in respect of climate and scenery. The winter is cold and bleak, but mild in comparison with its rigorous severity at Calát. Its elevation is about 5600 feet above the sea, and it is partially sheltered from the north wind by the hills bounding it in that direction. Its climate is described as very salubrious, and certainly the healthy looks of its inhabitants support the truth of the assertion.

Its scenery is very fine in itself, but, compared with the dreary wastes and rugged wilds of the country to the southward, is quite charming, by reason of its profuse vegetation and crowded population. The precipitous heights of Chihltan towering above the valley to the north constitute the grand feature of the scenery, and at this season, shrouded as the mountain is in a thick mantle of snow, present a magnificent spectacle by reason of their massive grandeur and overpowering proximity. Chihltan is the highest and best-wooded mountain in this country, but it is very steep and rugged, the trees being scattered in small clumps on favouring ledges and in deep recesses. The arbor vitæ, pistacia kabulica, mountain ash, wild fig, and mulberry are the principal trees found on the mountain. It is said to abound in snakes and pythons, also wild goat and wild sheep. The wolf, leopard, and hyena are also found in it, but not the bear.

Towards sunset the sky became overcast with clouds, and thick mists obscured the mountains from our view.

28th January.—We set out from Mastung at 7.15 A.M., whilst the signal gun in the citadel was slowly doling out a salute of eleven guns. The morning air was cold, dull, and misty, and presaged ill for the day. We no sooner cleared the gardens around the town, than we entered on a bare sandy tract of some miles in extent, in the midst of which, like an oasis in the desert, stands the little hamlet of Isá Khán. Away to the left were seen the villages and gardens of Fírí, and to the right those of Pringábád. Our route across the sandy waste was most trying. A blighting north wind swept down from the hills straight against us, and drove clouds of sand with blinding force before it. Our escort dwindled down to three or four horsemen who kept up with us, and they were so completely muffled up that it was impossible to get them to hear a word we said, and utterly hopeless to draw them into conversation. Beyond this sandy waste we entered on a rough ravine-cut gulf in the hills, and crossing the Mobí rivulet a little below the Khushrúd hamlet—the last of the Mastung villages in this direction—rose out of its deep ravine on to a sloping hill skirt, white with wavy wreaths of fresh snow, now frozen hard by the cold wind. Ascending thus along the base of Chihltan, we arrived at the entrance to the Nishpá or Dishpa Pass in three hours and a quarter—distance, thirteen miles. Here we halted under the bank of a rocky water-course to allow the baggage to come up, and to breakfast off such cold commodities as our cook had provided for us.

The view of the valley left behind us was completely obscured by dense clouds of sand driving across the plain, but immediately above us was a scene sufficient to rivet the attention with awe-inspiring sentiments. The beetling cliffs of Chihltan, here and there reft of their cumbrous loads of snow through sheer weight of its mass, rose above us in imposing magnitude, and, domineering over the lesser hills around, formed a picture such as is seldom equalled.

A little to the right of the Nishpá Pass is the Toghaghi hill, over the ridge of which is a lak or pass that conducts direct to the Dashtí Bedaulat plain. It is very difficult for laden camels, and is mostly used by footmen only. The Nishpá Pass, between Chihltan and Zindan mountains, is four miles long up to its crest, to which it winds by a very steady ascent. Though now covered with snow, we could here and there trace the road made through the pass in 1839 by the engineers of the British army. The pass is an easy one.

We reached the crest of the pass in a driving storm of hail and sleet, and by the aneroid estimated its elevation at about 6000 feet. The descent from the crest turns to the right down to the Dashtí Bedaulat, leaving a forest of pistacia trees in a glen away to the left. The forest is called Hazár Ganjí, from the number of trees—gwan in Brahoeki, and khinjak in Pushto, being the colloquial names of the pistacia kabulica.

The Dashtí Bedaulat is a singular hill-girt plain, perfectly level, and perfectly bare. It is, as the name implies, an unproductive waste, and this from the entire absence of water. It lies at the top of the Bolán Pass, the road from which skirts its border opposite to our position. From the Dashtí our road turned northward again, and led down a rough and stony defile to Sariáb in the valley of Shál. To the left the land is covered with a forest of gwan trees, and rises rapidly to the foot of the Chihltan range, and close on our right is the Koh Landi ridge, which separates us from the caravan road from Sariáb to Saribolán. In front of us is the plain of Shál. It lies at a considerably lower level, and wears a very bleak and wintry look, with its leafless gardens and bare fields, girt around by a mountain barrier topped with snow. At the edge of the Sariáb lands we were met by the Náib Abdul Latíf and a party of fifteen or sixteen horsemen—a most ragged and ruffianly set of rascals. We did not stop for the usual ceremony of compliments, as a shower of hail was, at the moment of our meeting, driving hard pellets with painful violence against our faces, but hurried on to the quarters prepared for us in a small fortified hamlet near the Lora rivulet. We arrived there at 2.45 P.M., after a very trying march of twenty-nine miles, and found the huts so filthy and close that we had our tents pitched in the court of the fort as soon as the baggage came up.

In fine weather this march would have been very enjoyable, for the scenery, of its kind, is very wild and grand. But our experiences have left anything but agreeable recollections of this part of our journey. During the first part of the route we were nearly suffocated with clouds of sand; in the pass we were for the time blinded by driving snows, and beyond we had to face pelting hail; whilst all the way our limbs were numbed through by a searching north wind, whose chilling blasts require to be felt to be properly appreciated.

Next day we marched thirteen miles to Shál Kot, or the Fort of Shál. We could not cross the Lora direct on account of the bogs and swamps on each side its course, so had to go back over the last few miles of yesterday’s march, and make a detour round the southern end of the valley, till we reached the highroad from Shál to the Bolán.

Attended by a couple of horsemen, I followed the course of the stream for some distance, in the hopes of getting some wild duck. But the ground was so swampy and deep in mud, I could not get within shot. After much searching, my attendants found a spot where we forded the stream with some trouble, and on the other side I got a few snipe, and then rode off across the plain, and joined our own party a few miles from Shál.

Whilst shooting down the course of the Lora, I was much amused at the simplicity of my sole attendant, for his comrade had lagged far behind to wash himself and horse, both having become mud-begrimed by a fall in a bog. I was trying to light my pipe with the aid of a burning-glass I carried in my pocket, but finding the wind was too strong to allow of my succeeding in the attempt, I called the man up and bid him stand perfectly still. Then standing to the leeward, I caught a ray over the tip of his shoulder, and presently effected my purpose. Seeing this, the man turned and looked aside at his shoulder, and, to settle any doubts, rubbed it roughly with the opposite hand, whilst he stared a stare of wonderment at me. I assured him he was not on fire; that I had got mine from the sun and not from him, and that there was no cause for alarm; and, so saying, hurried after some wild-fowl I saw alight farther down the stream, leaving him my horse to hold. I heard him muttering to himself, and caught the words, “Toba! toba! chi balá ast?”—“Repentance! repentance! what devilry is it?”

On approaching Shál we made a detour to the right to avoid a wide extent of flooded fields, and passed an extensive graveyard, close to which, on an open flat of ground, was pointed out to us a walled enclosure, containing the graves of the Europeans who died here in 1839-40. The wall is very low, but in good repair, and the sacred spot appears to be respected by the natives. Not far from it are the remains of Captain Bean’s house, when he was Political Resident here. Though roofless, the shell is not very much damaged, and might be easily restored.

In front of the fort gate a military guard was drawn up to do honour to the General. It consisted of twenty-five men in a single row. As we came up, the officer in command gave the words in very plain English, “Rear rank take open order;” a signal at which three men stepped to the front, and gave the time to the rest in presenting arms, whilst the single gun in the citadel fired a salute. Entering the town, we were presently housed in quarters similar to those at Mastung.

Shál is a fortified town, and contains about twelve hundred houses collected round a central mound on which stands the citadel. The elevation of the citadel is much above the town, and it is the prominent object in the valley, but its walls are very poor, and more or less in a state of decay. By the natives it is called Shál Kot, and by the Afghans Kwatta, or “the little fort,” whence our Quetta. The valley of Shál is very similar to that of Mastung, and, like it, drains westward to Shorawak.

The garrison of Shál consists of one hundred infantry, almost all of whom are Afghans, with a few other mercenaries. There are besides fifty horsemen, and a dozen artillerymen for the one gun they have here. These troops are under the command of the Náib or governor, Abdul Latíf, who on emergency can collect a force of about five thousand íljárí, or militia, from the neighbouring hills, armed with matchlock, sword, and shield.

Shál is described as a delightful residence in summer, and is said to possess a temperate and salubrious climate, in which respect it resembles the valley of Mastung. The whole valley is covered with villages and corn-fields and gardens, through the midst of which flows the Lora rivulet; but the soil is almost everywhere impregnated—with nitre and soda-salts.

The scenery around is very fine, and affords a wide and varied field for the pencil of the artist, particularly at this season, when the rugged heights of the greater mountains are deeply covered with snow. Towards the east, the valley is closed by the lesser ranges of Siyah Pusht and Murdár. To the south are the Landi ridge and Chihltan mountain. From the latter projects the low range of Karassa which sweeps round the valley towards the Muchilagh range, forming its western boundary; and between them is a gap that leads into the Dulay valley and plain of Shorawak. To the north, the valley is overlooked by the great Tokátú peak and Zarghún range. These last are occupied by the Domarr section of the Kákarr tribe. They are described as the most savage and hardy of all the Afghan mountaineers, and have proved quite irreclaimable by either the government of Kabul or that of Calát. They often give trouble on this border, and formerly used to plunder the country as far as the Nishpá Pass, in collusion with their brethren of the Bánzai section occupying the hills slopes of Shál. They harry the road into Peshín by Tal Chhotiyálí, so much so, that it is now deserted as a caravan route. This is the route that was proposed as one we might journey by, when it was found we could not proceed by the Bolán Pass; but, thanks to the decision of Sir William Merewether, we were directed into a safer route, and thus saved from falling into the clutches of these utter savages.

There is a road direct from Shál over the hills between Tokátú and Zarghún to the Tal Chhotiyálí route, but it is seldom used, owing to the risks from predatory Domarr, through whose territories it passes. These people have no large villages, but are scattered over the hills in caves and sheds with their flocks and sheep. During the winter, they descend to the lower valleys, where they pass the time in their black tents. They cultivate only sufficient ground for the supply of their wants, and for the most part live on the produce of their flocks, such as milk, butter, flesh, and the inspissated cheese known as kroot. From the goats’ hair they manufacture ropes and the black tents called kizhdí, and from the sheep’s wool they make the thick felt cloaks called kosai, which, with a pair of loose cotton trousers, constitute the whole winter dress of most of the people. The Domarr are said to muster nearly four thousand families.

A curious custom is said to prevail amongst them. In the spring and summer evenings, the young men and maidens of adjoining camps assemble on the hillsides, and shouting “Pír murr nadai, jwandai dai” (“The old man is not dead, he lives”), romp about till—I suppose on the principle of natural selection—the opposite sexes pair off in the favouring darkness, and chase each other amongst the trees and rocks, till summoned home by the calls of their respective parents. It does not appear that the custom leads to the contraction of matrimonial alliances amongst the performers, though to its observance is attributed the hardiness and populousness of the tribe.

During the afternoon, a messenger arrived from Cushlác with letters from the Afghan Commissioner for General Pollock, intimating his arrival there with a military escort for our safe conduct to Kandahar. It is therefore arranged that we proceed in the morning, apparently much to the relief of our host, the Náib Abdul Latíf, who seemed apprehensive lest the Afghan troops should cross the border into the district under his charge on the plea of meeting us, and thus unsettle the minds of his subjects with the idea that they were to be annexed to the Kabul dominions, between which and the territories of the Khán of Calát the Cushlác Lora is the present boundary.

Originally both Shál and Mastung with Shorawak formed part of the kingdom erected by Sháh Ahmad, Durrani. They were subsequently made over to Nasír Khán, chief of Balochistan, in return for his allegiance and maintenance of a contingent of troops in the interest of the Afghan sovereign. These districts are still considered by the Afghans as portion of their country, though they remain under the rule of the Khán of Calát; and in 1864, when Sherdil Khán usurped the government from the present chief, Khudádád Khán, the Governor of Kandahar made an attempt to reannex them to his province, but in this he was thwarted by the action of the British authorities, and the restoration of Khudádád Khán to his rightful government.

CHAPTER IV.

30th January.—Snow fell during the night, and this morning covers the whole plain to the depth of about six inches. We set out from Shál Kot at 9.10 A.M., under a salute from the fort as on arrival, and proceeded across the plain northwards to the foot of Tokátú mountain, where we came to the village of Kiroghar. This is a collection of some sixty detached huts on the stony hill skirt, and is about seven miles from the fort. It is occupied by the Bánzai section of the great Kákarr tribe. They have small colonies all along the hill skirts on the northern and eastern limits of the valley, and are said to number nearly five thousand families. They have been settled in these tracts for the past five generations, but were only properly reduced to the subjection of the Khán of Calát last year, previous to which they used to cause infinite loss and trouble by their plundering excursions on the Taghaghi Lak and Nishpá Pass, between Shál and Mastung. No caravan in those days was safe from their attacks. Last year the Náib led an expedition against them, and secured some of their chief men as hostages, and they now confine themselves to their own limits.

The Kákarr tribe, to which they belong, is one of the most numerous and powerful of the Afghan clans. They occupy all the hill country between this and the limits of Ghazni, where their border touches those of the Waziris and Ghilzais. To the eastward, their territories extend up to the base of Koh Kassi of the Sulemán range. To the westward, between Toba Márúf and Tokátú, they share the hill slopes that drain to the Kandahar plain and Peshín valley with the Achakzai and Spin Tarin tribes respectively.

The strength of the Kákarr tribe is variously estimated, but they are probably not less than fifty thousand families. They are mostly a pastoral people, but some are settled in the valleys of the country as cultivators of the soil, whilst those to the westward are engaged in trade, and almost exclusively collect the asafœtida imported into India. For this purpose their camps spread over the Kandahar plain up to the confines of Herat.

We stopped a few minutes at Kiroghar to procure guides, for the snow had obliterated all traces of the road. None of the villagers, however, seemed at all inclined to help us in the difficulty. The Náib, Abdul Latíf, took this want of attention on their part as a personal affront, and very quickly lost control over his temper. His rotund figure visibly swelled with wrath as he peremptorily summoned the head man to his presence. Three or four horsemen at once scampered off to one of the huts, and presently Malik Jalál (the head man), accompanied by half-a-dozen men, were seen to emerge, and leisurely measure their steps across the snow to where the Náib stood.

This quiet indifference was more than the Náib could stand. He bounced about in his saddle in a tempest of anger, and, flashing his bright eyes from side to side, poured out a torrent of anathemas, and vowed a sharp vengeance nothing short of annihilation of the dog-begotten breed of Bánzai. At this moment I happened to inquire from one of the escort standing near me whether some fine márkhor, or wild goat horns, that adorned an adjoining hut, were the produce of the mountain above us, but before he could reply, the infuriate Náib’s mandate went forth to bring them to us; and in less time than it has taken to relate the occurrence, half-a-dozen of the largest horns were torn from their attachments, and laid on the snow before us. We hardly had time to examine them before the head man and his following came up, looking as unconcerned and independent as their circumstances entitled them to be. There was no thought on either side of the customary exchange of salutations, nor was the salám alaikum, and its reply, wa alaikum salám, uttered. Instead thereof, the Náib turned on the Malik with a volley of abuse, and demanded why he was not on the road to meet him. “Where,” said he, “is the chilam? (pipe of friendship). Is this the sort of hospitality you show to your governor?” The unfortunate Malik was not allowed time to plead any excuses, but was summarily dismissed, and two of his men pushed to the front to point out the road. “Dishonoured wretch! dog!” said the Náib, “go and prepare for my return. I shall be your guest to-night.” So saying, he ordered a couple of troopers to stay behind and see that an entertainment suited to himself and retinue was ready against their return, and our party proceeded forward.

In exchange for a couple of rupees, the owner of the horns willingly carried a couple of the largest pairs to our camp at Cushlác, and I subsequently sent them to Peshawar from Kandahar, for the purpose of comparing them with those of the Himalayan animal. I have since done so, but without discovering any appreciable difference.

From Kiroghar we proceeded westward along the stony skirt of Tokátú for a couple of miles, and then winding round the mountain by a considerable rise to the northward, at about another mile came to a clump of trees at the spring-head of a strong stream issuing from the side of the hill and flowing down to the plain behind us.

We halted here awhile to await the arrival of the Afghan Commissioner, whom we saw in the distance advancing towards us with a troop of cavalry from the Murghí Pass in our front. Meanwhile the Náib Abdul Latíf took the opportunity to express his regret that he had not been able to entertain us more hospitably owing to the rapidity of our movements and the unfavouring condition of the elements. He assured us of his admiration of the British Government; that he considered all Englishmen his friends; and that he was proud to remember his association with Colonel Stacey and Captain Beam so long ago as 1839-40—names that are still remembered with gratitude and good-will in many a household in Shál and Mastung.

Whilst waiting here, I emptied my gun at a couple of red-legged rooks flying overhead. One of them with outstretched wings came down in a very graceful and slow pirouette, and fell dead at my feet; the other glided down very quickly in an oblique line, and fell against the rocks a hundred yards or so off. I was speculating on the nature of the causes that produced such different modes of descent, when my attention was diverted to our Afghan friends.

The cavalry were drawn up in a double line on one side of the road about five hundred yards off, whilst the Afghan Commissioner, Saggid Núr Muhammad Sháh—whom I shall henceforth always speak of as “the Saggid”—accompanied by three horsemen, rode down to where we stood. At fifty yards he dismounted, and we stepped forward to meet him. As we raised our hats, he doffed his turban with both hands and made a low bow, and then replacing the costly Kashmir shawl, he embraced us successively Afghan fashion with sincere cordiality, repeating the while the usual string of salutations and complimentary inquiries. This ceremony over, we mounted, and proceeded up the slope, the Náib Abdul Latíf accompanying us with only three or four attendant horsemen.

As we came up to the cavalry, they saluted, and then followed in rear of our procession. They are a very fine set of men, with bold independent bearing, but with thoroughly friendly looks. They were excellently mounted, and the general superiority of their equipment quite took us by surprise. They wore blue hussar-jackets, top-boots, and scarlet busbies, and altogether looked a very serviceable set of men.

Before we reached the top of the Murghí Pass, about two and a half miles from the spring, we were caught in a snowstorm, which completely obscured the hills around, whilst the flakes, adhering to our beards and clothing, presently gave our whole party a grotesquely uncouth and hoary look. From the pass we descended through a narrow defile into the Peshín valley or district, near a couple of fine springs issuing from the rocks on our right. They are led over the plain in deep cuts for purposes of irrigation.

I was here so numbed by the cold, that I was glad of an excuse to dismount and warm myself by a trudge over the snow; so I followed down the course of one of the water-cuts in the direction of a couple of wild ducks I had marked down upon it. I had not proceeded far, gun in hand, when they rose from a pool on the other side of the stream. They both fell to a right and left shot, at only a few paces from each other. I was considering how I might get them, when a trooper, who had followed me, urged his horse forward to a gap in the bank a little way off. The horse very naturally refused to slide down the gap into the water, and I told the rider to desist from urging him, remarking that the water was evidently deep, and he would certainly get wet. But the Afghan’s spirit was roused by the sport, and he knew he was observed by his comrades. “My horse can swim, and that shot is worth a wetting,” he said, as he struck his heels into the horse’s flanks, and forced him into the stream. The plunge was so sudden, that the horse nearly lost his footing, but the trooper, cleverly recovering him, brought him out on the further bank through water half-way up the saddle-flaps, picked up the birds, and recrossed without misadventure. His spirited conduct excited our admiration, but amongst his comrades the shot was the theme of applause. The one was to them a matter of everyday occurrence, the other they had rarely if ever before witnessed. With us it was just the reverse. The one was an act seldom necessitated, the other only an ordinary occurrence. And thus it is that acts are valued out of all proportion to their real merits by the mere force of habitude, both by governments and individuals, whether civilised or uncivilised.

At about fourteen miles from Shál we crossed the Cushlác Lora, a small stream flowing on a pebbly bottom between high banks of shingle and clay. It marks the boundary between the territories of the Amir of Kabul and the Khán of Calát.

At this place Náib Abdul Latíf took leave of us, and returned to sup with his Kiroghar subjects. I can fancy that in him they found anything but an easily pleased guest. His temper had been ruffled by the morning’s mishap, and it was not improved by the inclement weather he had been exposed to in our company, for his beard was frozen into thick tangles, and a row of pendant icicles fringed the edge of his turban, whilst his crestfallen features betokened discontent, and an eagerness in his eyes spoke of a desire to wreak his vengeance on somebody or other. I fear his Bánzai hosts must have had a trying time of it on this memorable evening.

Beyond the Lora rivulet we came to a company of regular Afghan infantry drawn up on the roadside. They are a remarkably fine set of fellows, and were evidently picked men, meant to make an impression on us. They saluted as we passed on our way to the Saggid’s camp, a little beyond the Shahjahán village.

Here we alighted at a tent prepared for us by the Saggid, and were hospitably regaled with tea and refreshments, our host joining us in the repast. The tent was richly furnished with thick Persian carpets and Herat felts, and was comfortably warmed by a large dish of live coal set on a movable platform in the centre. The shelter and comfort provided for us were most grateful to our numbed sensations and frozen limbs. We had marched the last five miles in a temperature of 22° Fah., with driving snow beating against us nearly the whole way, and, but for our friend’s forethought, must have endured a hard time of it till our own tents arrived and could be pitched. It was three P.M. before we reached the Afghan camp, and our baggage did not come up till three hours later, having marched a distance of sixteen miles over snow.

31st January.—Halt at Cushlác, weather-bound. The thermometer sunk to 10° Fah. during the night, but this morning the sun shone out in a clear sky, and brought about a rapid thaw. In the afternoon, however, clouds again overcast the sky, and at three P.M. snow commenced to fall, and continued all night, with a keen driving north wind. The fire inside our tent melted the snow on its roof, and as it trickled from the sides it formed great icicles upwards of three feet in length, and as thick as a man’s arm above.

Our Afghan escort is sheltered in neat rows of comfortable little tents floored with thick felts, on which the men sleep. The horses, too, are completely encased in great rolls of thick felt clothing, which effectually protects them from the wind and weather.

1st February.—At seven A.M. the thermometer stood at 11° Fah. in the open air. The sky was clear, and a hard frost prevailed. We set out from Cushlác at 8.35 A.M., and marched eighteen miles to Hykalzai on the plain of Peshín, the ground covered with snow for most of the way. At two miles we crossed the Surmaghzi Tangí or pass, a low ridge of red marly mounds, which, but for the hard frost, would have proved very miry and slippery.

Beyond the pass we descended to the Peshín valley, which here presents a great open plain of undulating surface, here and there, where free from snow, showing a red clay soil, much furrowed by the action of water. At a mile beyond Hydarzai we halted half-an-hour near the village of Yár Muhammad, at a kárez of the same name, and had a fire lighted to warm ourselves whilst the baggage passed on. Whilst so engaged, Yár Muhammad himself, the founder of the village and kárez (water conduit) bearing his name, with half-a-dozen villagers, came up, and with genuine Afghan freedom seated themselves amongst us. He was a rough old man, with blear-eyes and snuff-stained nose. Without taking any notice of us, he bluntly inquired of the Saggid who and what we were. On being told our errand, “That’s all right,” he replied; “our book tells us that the Christians are to be our friends in the hour of adversity; but it’s well for them that they are travelling this way under your protection.” The Saggid laughed, and said, “Such are Afghans! they put me to shame;” and his secretary, to prevent any further disclosures of sentiment on the part of our visitor, jocosely observed, “You talk too fast, old man: your speech is understood,” tossing his head in my direction. The old man gave me a full stare, and inquired where I had learned Pushto. A minute later he put up his face towards me, asked me to look at his eyes, and give him some medicine to restore their failing sight.

From this place we proceeded over an undulating tract furrowed by water-cuts, and crossed from north-east to south-west by a succession of red clay banks, and beyond them reached the level plain. Here we crossed a branch of the Surkháb rivulet, and passing the ruins of two extensive villages, destroyed in 1841 by the army under General Nott, camped midway between Hykalzai and Khudáedádzai or Khwáezai at 3.10 P.M.

The whole plain is a sheet of snow, from beneath which here and there crop out red banks of miry clay. The general surface is dotted all over with numerous clusters of black tents, four or five in each, of the nomad Tarins. On the plain to the north-east is seen the castellated mound of Sea Calá or Red Fort, now in ruins. Beyond it are the large villages of Old and New Bazár, and by them flows the Surkháb or Red River, a tributary of the Peshín Lora. To the northward the valley is bounded by the Khwájah Amrán range, which runs north-east towards the Sufed Koh, which it joins to the eastward of Ghazni. Its several spurs to the southward have different names, which are, from west to east, as pointed out to us, Khojah, Arnbí, Toba, and Surkháb. To the north of the Toba spur is the Sehna Dág or flat of the Sehn section of Kákarrs. It is described as an elevated tableland covered with rich pastures. Over it is a road to the Zhob valley of the Battezai Kákarrs. In the Surkháb hills rises the river of that name, and between it and Tokátú is a low range of hills, over which is the direct road from this to Dera Gházi Khán by Tal Chhotiyálí. All these hills, as well as the plain, are now covered with snow, but in summer they are covered with rich pasture, and swarm with the flocks and camps of the nomad Afghans of the Tarin and Kákarr tribes.