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.

[Illustration: 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_.

[Illustration: 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.

The Tarin tribe comprises four great divisions, viz., the Abdáls or
Durranis, the Tor Tarins, the Spin Tarins, and the Zard Tarins or
Zarrins. The first occupy Kandahar and the valleys to its north-west.
The second are settled in Peshín, of which they hold four-fifths, and in
the Arghasán district south of the river Tarnak. The Spin Tarins occupy
the Surkháb hills and the valleys at their eastern and western bases.
And the Zarrins are settled in the valley of Zhob and in part of the
Arghasán district. All except the Abdáls are mostly nomads, who retire
with their flocks to the hills in summer, and move down to the plains
for the winter. From their camps which we saw on the plain—and they were
remarkably distinct on its white surface, the tents being all black—their
numbers are nothing like what they are estimated.

Throughout this march the air was extremely cold. Icicles repeatedly
formed on our beards and mustaches, and hung in long pendants from the
necks of our camels. Our hands and feet were painfully benumbed for want
of efficient protection. Several of our Afghan escort, I observed, wore
thick felt casings inside their capacious top-boots.

On the march, before reaching Hydarzai, we passed a couple of _khinjak_

trees over a roadside shrine, at the foot of a low mound. Their trunks
were studded with innumerable iron nails and wooden pegs driven into the
bark—the tokens by which pilgrim-visitors ratify their vows to the saint.

From Hykalzai we marched next day fifteen miles to Aranbí Kárez. Our
route was north-westerly across the plain, at this time everywhere
covered with snow. The surface is marked here and there by the traces
of cultivation, but for the most part is occupied by a thin scrub of
wormwood, saltworts, and camel-thorn. At about half-way we crossed the
Lora rivulet, which flowed in a slow stream twenty feet wide and two
feet deep. Its bottom is soft and sandy, and abounds in quicksands. The
channel of the river is much wider than its actual bed, and is formed by
high shelving banks of clay. Over these are several narrow paths down
to the river. We found them very slippery, and many of our escort and
baggage animals fell in the descent, but without any material injury.

This Lora, or the Peshín Lora as it is called, drains the north-western

portion of the plain, and receives as a tributary the Surkháb, which
drains its eastern tracts. The united streams then flow over the plain
south-westward towards Shorawak, being joined _en route_ by the Cushlác
Lora and the Shál Lora. From Shorawak the river flows northwestward
towards the Helmand, but is lost in the sands of the desert before it
reaches that river. None of the Loras are much utilised for purposes of
irrigation in their own valleys, but on reaching Shorawak their united
stream is almost exhausted by the quantities drawn off from it for the
fields. Shál and Peshín are irrigated by _kárez_ streams and springs from
the mountains, but the former are much more fertile than the latter. In
Peshín one misses the gardens and trees so plentiful in Shál, and finds
instead a wide pasture tract more or less uncultivated, and, in place
of villages, dotted with nomad camps. Most of the irrigated land in
Peshín is in the hands of the Saggids, who have for many generations been
settled in this valley. They pay one-third the produce of their lands in
kind to Government as revenue. The nomad Tarins, who hold the unirrigated
tracts, pay only one-fifth to Government. The soil of Peshín is a red
stiff clay, highly charged with salts of sorts. In the tract between
Aranbí Kárez and Sra Calá quantities of alimentary salt are obtained from
the soil, and sold in the Kandahar market at one and a half to two rupees
per _man_ of eighty pounds. The salt is dissolved in great pits filled
with water. The clear solution is then filled into earthen pots and
boiled down to a granular mass, which takes the form of the pot.

Peshín, owing to its inferior soil, is not a fertile valley, but corn is
grown in quantity sufficient to meet the wants of its people. The seed
is first cast over the surface and then ploughed over. In Shorawak the
seed is sown by means of a kind of drill. It consists of a stiff leather
funnel fixed to the tail of the plough, and furnished with a series of
holes at the bottom. From this the grain drops into the furrow as it is
cut by the plough.

The kangaroo-rat or jerboa, here called _khanrai_, abounds in Peshín,

and is trapped for the sake of its fur. The _dalkafak_, a species of
tree-marten with a short tail, is also found here and in the hills around.

After crossing the Lora, the Saggid left us to pay a visit to his
father’s family at Pitao, a collection of five villages at the foot
of the hills a few miles to the right of our road. His own sister was
amongst them, and as he had not seen them for more than five years, he
could not pass the home of his youth without going to see its inmates.
He was not long about his business, for he rejoined us before we reached
camp; and to our expressions of surprise at his haste, and hopes that he
had not curtailed his visit on our behalf, he replied, “No; I only went
to see my sister, and to come away at once. My uncles, aunts, nephews,
nieces, and cousins there on my father’s side alone exceed two hundred in
number; and, to tell you the truth, I am afraid to go amongst them, for
they always want some token whereby to keep me in their memories.”