and scrub, stretching away to where, on the far horizon, some low hills cut the brazen sky-line. On the beach the so-called town of Sonmiani–a collection of dilapidated mud huts, over which two or three tattered red and yellow banners flutter in the breeze, and beneath which a small and shallow harbour emits a powerful odour of mud, sewage, and rotten fish. Every hut is surmounted by a “badgir,” or wind-catcher–a queer-looking contrivance, in shape exactly like a prompter’s box, used in the summer heats to cool the interior of the dark, stifling huts. A mob of ragged, wild-looking Baluchis, with long, matted locks and gaudy rags, completes this dreary picture.
Shouts of “Kamoo!” from the crowd brought a tall, good-looking native, clad in white, out of an adjacent hut, who, I was relieved to find, was the interpreter destined to accompany us to Kelat. The camels and escort were, he said, ready for a start on the morrow, if necessary. In the mean time there was a bare but clean Government bungalow at our disposal, and in this we were soon settled. But notwithstanding the comparative comfort of our quarters compared with the filthy native houses around, I determined to get away as soon as possible. The mosquitoes were bad enough, but the flies were far worse. Ceiling, walls, and floor were black with them. One not only ate them with one’s food, but they inflicted a nasty, poisonous bite. As for the smells, they were beyond description; but the fact that a dead camel was slowly decomposing in the immediate vicinity of our dwelling may have had something to do with this.
With all these drawbacks, I was glad to find the population, although dirty, decidedly friendly–rather too much so, indeed; for the little whitewashed room was crowded to overflowing the greater part of the day with relays of visitors, who apparently looked upon us as a kind of show got up for their entertainment. Towards sunset a tall, swarthy fellow, about fifty years old, with sharp, restless eyes and a huge hook nose, made his appearance at the doorway; and this was the signal for a general stampede, for my visitor was no other than the head-man of Sonmiani–Chengiz Khan.
Chengiz was attired in a very dirty white garment, loose and flowing to the heels, and a pair of gold-embroidered slippers. A small conical cap of green silk was perched rakishly on the top of his head, from which fell, below the shoulders, a tumbled mass of thick, coarse, black hair. The head-man was unarmed, but his followers, five in number, fairly bristled with daggers and pistols. Like all natives, Chengiz was at first shy and reserved. It was only when I had prevailed upon him to take a cigar that my visitor became more at his ease. Having lit his cheroot, he took a long pull and passed it on to one of his followers, who repeated the performance. When it had gone the round twice it was thrown away; and Chengiz, turning to Kamoo, gravely asked if I wished for anything before he retired for the night.
“You should reach Kelat in twenty-five days,” was the answer to my question, “provided the camels keep well and you have no difficulty with the people at Gwarjak; they are not used to Europeans, and may give you some trouble.”
One of the men here whispered to his chief.
“Malak is the name of the head-man at Gwarjak,” went on Chengiz–“a treacherous, dangerous fellow. Do not have much to do with Malak; he detests Europeans.”
Malak was, judging from my experiences that night, not the only Baluchi possessed of this failing. Chengiz having left, I retired to rest, to be suddenly aroused at midnight by a piercing yell, and to find a tall, half-naked fellow, with wild eyes and a face plastered with yellow mud, standing over me, brandishing a heavy club. Though a revolver was at hand, it was useless; for I saw at a glance that I had to deal with a madman. After a severe tussle, Gerome and I managed to throw out the unwelcome visitor and bar the door, though we saw him for an hour or more prowling backwards and forwards in the moonlight in front of the bungalow, muttering to himself, waving his arms about, and breaking every now and then into peals of loud laughter. The incident now seems trifling enough, though it left a powerful impression upon my mind that night, on the eve of setting out through an unknown country, where the life of a European more or less is of little moment to the wild tribes of the interior. The madman was a dervish, the head-man said, and perfectly harmless as a rule, but liable to fits of rage at sight of a European and unbeliever. I was, therefore, not sorry to hear next morning that this ardent follower of the Prophet had been securely locked up, and would not be released till the morrow, when we were well on the road to Beila.
There are, I imagine, few countries practically so little known to Europeans as the one we were about to traverse. I had, up to the time of my visit, often wondered that, with India so near, Baluchistan should have been so long allowed to remain the _terra incognita_ it is. My surprise ceased on arrival at Kelat. It is impossible to conceive a more monotonous or uninteresting journey, from a traveller’s point of view, than that from the sea to Quetta–a distance (by my route) of nearly five hundred miles, during which I passed (with the exception of Kelat and Beila) but half a dozen villages worthy of the name, and met, outside the villages in question, a dozen human beings at the most. This is, perhaps, scarcely to be wondered at. The entire population of the country does not exceed 450,000, while its area is estimated at something like 140,000 square miles, of which 60,000 are under Persian rule, and the remaining 80,000 (nominally) under the suzerainty of the Khan of Kelat.
The inhabitants of Baluchistan may be roughly divided into two classes: the Brahuis [A] in the north, and the Baluchis in the south. The former ascribe their origin to the earliest Mohammedan invaders of Persia, and boast of their Arab descent; the latter are supposed by some to have been originally a nation of Tartar mountaineers who settled at a very early period in the southern parts of Asia, where they led a nomad existence for many centuries, governed by their own chiefs and laws, till at length they became incorporated and attained their present footing at Kelat and throughout Northern Baluchistan. Both races differ essentially in language and customs, and are subdivided into an infinitesimal number of smaller tribes under the command or rule of petty chiefs or khans. Although somewhat similar in appearance, the Brahuis are said to be morally and physically superior to their southern neighbours. The Baluch, as I shall now call each, is not a prepossessing type of humanity on first acquaintance, with his swarthy sullen features, dark piercing eyes, and long matted locks. Most I met in the interior looked, a little distance off, like perambulating masses of dirty rags; but all, even the filthiest and most ragged, carried a bright, sharp tulwar. Though rough and uncouth, however, I found the natives, as a rule, hospitable and kindly. It was only in the far interior that any unpleasantness was experienced. This was, perhaps, only natural, seeing that seventy miles of the journey lay through a region as yet unexplored by Europeans, the inhabitants of which were naturally resentful of what they imagined to be intrusion and interference.
Owing to the nomadic nature of the Baluchis, the barrenness of their country, and consequent absence of manufactures and commerce, permanent settlements are very rare.
[Illustration: SONMIANI]
With the exception of Quetta, Kelat, Beila, and Kej, there are no towns in Baluchistan worthy of the name. Even those I have mentioned are, with the exception of Quetta (now a British settlement), mere collections of tumble-down mud huts, invariably guarded by a ramshackle fort and wall of the same material. The dwellings of the nomads consist of a number of long slender poles bent and inverted towards each other, over which are stretched slips of coarse fabrics of camel’s hair. It was only in the immediate neighbourhood of Gwarjak that the native huts were constructed of dried palm-leaves, the fertile soil of that district rendering this feasible.
Attended by Chengiz Khan in a gorgeous costume of blue and yellow silk, and followed by a rabble of two or three hundred men and boys, I visited the bazaar next morning. Chengiz had preceded his visit with the present of a fine goat, and evidently meant to be friendly, informing me, before we had gone many yards, that the Queen of England had just invested the Djam of Beila (a neighbouring chief) with the Star of India, and did I think that that honour was very likely to accrue to him?
The trade of Sonmiani is, as may be imagined, insignificant. Most of the low dark stalls were kept for the sale of grain, rice, salt, and tobacco, by Hindus; but I was told that a brisk trade is done in fish and sharks’ fins; and dried fruits, madder, and saffron, sent down from the northern districts, are exported in small quantities to India and Persia. In the vicinity are some ancient pearl-fisheries of considerable value, which were once worked with great profit. These have been allowed to lie for many years undisturbed, owing to lack of vigour and enterprise on the part of those in power in the state. Here is a chance for European speculators.
By a well in the centre of the village stood some young girls and children. The former were decidedly good looking, and one, but for the hideous gold nose-ring, [B] would have been almost beautiful. Here, as elsewhere in Baluchistan, the women present much more the Egyptian type of face than the Indian–light bronze complexions, straight regular features, and large, dark, expressive eyes. None of these made the slightest attempt at concealment. As we passed, one of them even nodded and smiled at Chengiz, making good use of her eyes, and disclosing a row of small, pearly teeth. Their dress, a loose divided skirt of thin red stuff, and short jacket, with tight-fitting sleeves, open at the breast, showed off their slight graceful figures and small, well-shaped hands and feet to perfection. Chengiz, pointing to the group, smiled and addressed me in a facetious tone. “He wants to know if you think them pretty,” said my interpreter; but I thought it best to maintain a dignified silence. The chief of Sonmiani was, for a Mohammedan, singularly lax.
A kind of rough pottery is made at Sonmiani, and this is the only industry. Some of the water-jars were neatly and gracefully fashioned, of a delicate grey-green colour; others red, with rude yellow devices painted on them. The clay is porous, and keeps the water deliciously cool.
By four o’clock next morning all was ready for a start. The caravan consisted of eighteen camels, four Baluchis, Kamoo, and Gerome, with an escort of ten soldiers of the Djam of Beila, smart-looking, well-built fellows in red tunics, white baggy trousers, and dark-blue turbans. Each man, armed with a Snider rifle and twenty rounds of ammunition, was mounted on a rough, wiry-looking pony. As we were starting, Chengiz Khan rode up on a splendid camel, and announced his intention of accompanying us the first stage, one of eighteen miles, to Shekh-Raj.
Here the honest fellow bade us good-bye. “The sahib will not forget me when he gets to India,” he said, on leaving, thereby implying that he wished to be well reported to the Indian Government. “But take care of Malak; he is a bad man–a very bad man.”
A rough and tedious journey of two days over deep sandy desert, varied by an occasional salt marsh, brought us to Beila, the seat of government of the Djam, or chief of the province of Las Beila, eighty miles due north of Sonmiani. With a feeling of relief I sighted the dirty, dilapidated city, with its mud huts and tawdry pink and green banners surmounting the palace and fort. The Baluch camel is not the easiest animal in existence, and I had, for the first few hours of the march, experienced all the miseries of _mal de mer_ brought on by a blazing sun and the rolling, unsteady gait of my ship of the desert. Though awkward in his paces, the Baluch camel is swift. They are small and better looking than most; nor do their coats present so much the appearance of a “doormat with the mange,” as those of the animals of other countries. We had as yet passed but two villages–three or four low shapeless huts, almost hidden in rock and scrub by the side of the caravan-track, which, as far as Beila, is pretty clearly defined. There had been nothing else to break the dull, dead monotony of sand and swamp, not a sign of human life, and but one well (at Outhal) of rather brackish water.
On the second day one of the escort had pointed out a dry rocky bed as the river Purali, which is one of the largest in Baluchistan, but, like all the others, quite dry the greater portion of the year. There are no permanent rivers in this country. To this fact is perhaps due the slight knowledge obtained up to the present time of the interior, where arid sandy deserts, dangerous alike to native or European travellers, are the rule, and cover those large open spaces marked upon maps as “unexplored.” Notwithstanding the great width of the bed of the Purali river in many places, it has no regular outlet into the sea. Its waters, when in flood from rainfall, lose themselves in the level plains in a chain of lagoons or swamps. Some of these are several miles in length, but decrease considerably in the dry season, when the water becomes salt. The Habb river, which divides Las from the British province of Sind, is another case in point. It possesses permanent banks, is fed from the Pabb chain of mountains, and after heavy rains in these hills a large body of water is formed, which rushes down to the sea with great force and velocity. But at other times water is only to be found in a few small pools in its rocky bed. It is, in short, a mountain torrent on a large scale. So also with the greater number of streams in the western districts, though a few of these have more the semblance of rivers than can be found elsewhere in Baluchistan. Of lakes there are none throughout the entire area of the country.
At Outhal we were met by one Hussein Khan, a wild-looking fellow mounted on a good-looking chestnut horse, its saddle and headstalls ornamented with bright-coloured leathers and gold and silver ornaments. Hussein was from Beila, with a message from the Djam to say that I was welcome in his dominions. Tents were then pitched, and I invited Hussein to partake of refreshment, which was refused. He accepted a cigarette, however, but seemed undecided whether to smoke or eat it, till presented with a light. Having asked if I would like to be saluted with guns on arrival, an offer I politely declined, my visitor then left to prepare for our reception on the morrow.
[Illustration: OUR CAMP AT OUTHAL]
Daybreak saw us well _en route_ and by 10 a.m. we were in sight of Beila. About a mile or so out of the city, a mounted sowar in scarlet and gold uniform, and armed with two huge horse-pistols and a long cavalry sabre, galloped up to the caravan. “It is a messenger from the palace,” said Kamoo, “to say that his Highness the Djam has been suddenly called away to Kej, [C] but that his son, Prince Kumal Khan, is riding out in state to meet the sahib, and conduct him to his father’s city.”
The prince shortly afterwards appeared, mounted on a huge camel, the tail and hind quarters of which were ornamented with intricate patterns stamped on the hide by some peculiar process. A guard of honour of thirty soldiers accompanied, while a rabble of two or three hundred foot people surrounded the party, for the sight of a white face is rare in Beila. It was a strange scene: the picturesque city, brilliant barbaric costume of the young chief and his followers, and crowd of wild, half-naked Baluchis were fitly set off by surroundings of desert landscape and dazzling sunshine. A Gerome or Vereschagin would have revelled in the sight.
Shaking hands with Kumal (no easy matter on camels), he placed me on his right hand, and, heading the procession, we rode into Beila, where a large tent had been erected for my accommodation. Having placed a guard at my disposal, the prince then left, announcing his intention of receiving me in state that afternoon at the palace.
Beila, which is protected by a fort and high mud wall, is situated on the right bank of the river Purali, which, at the time of my visit, was no more than a dry rocky bed. The town contains about 4000 inhabitants, and, from a distance, presents a curious appearance, each house being fitted, as at Sonmiani, with a large “badgir,” or wind-catcher. Like most Eastern cities, Beila does not improve on closer acquaintance. The people are dirty and indolent. There is little or no trade, and the dark, narrow streets, ankle-deep in mud and filth, are crowded with beggars and pariah dogs, while the dull drab colour of the mud houses is depressing in the extreme. The fort and palace alone are built of brick, and, being whitewashed, relieve to a certain extent the melancholy aspect of the place. I was escorted to the latter the afternoon of my arrival by a guard of honour, preceded by the Djam’s band–half a dozen cracked English cavalry trumpets!
Djam Ali Khan, the present ruler of the state of Las Beila, is about fifty years of age, and is a firm ally of England. The Djam is a vassal of the Khan of Kelat, but, like most independent Baluch chiefs, only nominally so. So far as I could glean, the court of Kelat has no influence whatsoever beyond a radius of twenty miles or so from that city. The provinces of Sarawan, Jhalawan, Kach-Gandava, Mekran, [D] and Las Beila, which constitute the vast tract of country known as Kalati Baluchistan, are all governed by independent chiefs, nominally viceroys of the Khan of Kelat. Practically, however, the latter has little or no supremacy over them, nor indeed over any part of Baluchistan, Kelat and its suburbs excepted.
Prince Kumal Khan received me in his father’s durbar-chamber, a cheerless, whitewashed apartment, bare of furniture save for a somewhat rickety “throne” of painted wood, and a huge white linen punkah, overlooking a dreary landscape of barren desert and mud roofs. The prince, a tall, slim young man, about twenty-five years of age, has weak but not unpleasing features. He was dressed in a close-fitting tunic of dark-blue cloth, heavily trimmed with gold braid, baggy white linen trousers, and a pair of European side-spring boots, very dirty and down at heel. A light-blue turban completed his attire.
The interview was not interesting. Notwithstanding all my efforts and the services of the interpreter, Kumal was evidently shy and ill at ease, and resolutely refused to enter into conversation. One thing, however, roused him. Hearing that I was accompanied by a Russian, Kumal eagerly demanded that he should be sent for. Gerome presently made his appearance, and was stared at, much to his discomfiture and annoyance, as if he had been a wild beast. A pair of white-linen drawers, no socks, carpet slippers, and a thin jersey, were my faithful follower’s idea of a costume suitable to the Indian climate–surmounted by the somewhat inappropriate head-dress of a huge astrakhan cap, which for no earthly consideration could he be persuaded to exchange for a turban. “So that is a Russian!” said the prince, curiously surveying him from head to foot. “I thought they were all big men!” But patience has limits, and, with a muttered “Dourak,” [E] poor Gerome turned and left the princely presence in anything but a respectful manner.
Coffee and nargileh discussed, my host moved an adjournment to the roof of the palace, where, he said, I should obtain a better view of his father’s city. This ceremony concluded, the trumpets sounded, a gentle hint that the audience was at an end, and I took leave, and returned to camp outside the walls of the town.
The Wazir, or Prime Minister, of the Djam paid me a visit in the evening _sans ceremonie_–a jolly-looking, fresh-complexioned old fellow, dressed in a suit of karki, cut European fashion, and with nothing Oriental about him save a huge white linen turban. The Wazir spoke English fairly well, and, waxing confidential over a cigar and whisky-and-water (like my Sonmiani friend, the Wazir was no strict Mussulman), entertained me with an account of the doings of the Court in Beila and the _aventures galantes_ of Kumal, who, from all accounts, was a veritable Don Juan. “Will the Russians ever take India?” asked the old fellow of Gerome, as he left the tent. “You can tell them they shall never get it so long as _we_ can prevent them;” but the next moment the poor Wazir, to Gerome’s delight, had measured his length on the ground. Either the night was very dark, or the whisky very strong; a tent-rope had avenged the taunt levelled at my companion’s countrymen.
Early next morning came a message from Prince Kumal, inviting me to visit the caves of Shahr-Rogan, an excavated village of great antiquity, about ten miles from Beila. I gladly accepted. The camels were tired; the men of the caravan unwilling to proceed for another day, and time hung heavily on one’s hands, with nothing to vary the monotony but an occasional shot at a wood-pigeon (which swarm about Beila), or a game of _ecarte_ (for nuts) with Gerome.
The caves were well worth a visit. I could gain no information at Beila, Quetta, or even Karachi, as to the origin of this curious cave-city, though there can be no doubt that it is of great antiquity. Carless the traveller’s account is perhaps the most authentic.
“About nine miles to the northward of Beila a range of low hills sweeps in a semicircle from one side of the valley to the other, and forms its head. The Purali river issues from a deep ravine on the western side, and rushes down (in the wet season) about two hundred yards broad. It is bounded on one side by steep cliffs, forty or fifty feet high, on the summit of which is an ancient burial-ground. Following the stream, we gained the narrow ravine through which it flows, and, turning into one of the lateral branches, entered Shahr-Rogan.”
Here, on the day in question, Prince Kumal called a halt. A couple of small tents were pitched, and a meal, consisting of an excellent curry, stewed pigeons, beer, and claret, served. Leaving the Prince to amuse himself and delight his followers with his skill in rifle-shooting at a mark chalked out on the rocks, I continued my explorations. The result is, perhaps, better explained to the reader in the words of an older and more experienced observer. Carless says–“The scene was singular. On either side of a wild broken ravine the rocks rise perpendicularly to the height of four or five hundred feet, and are excavated, as far as there is footing to ascend, up to the summit. The excavations are most numerous along the lower part of the hills, and form distinct houses, most of which are uninjured by-time. They consist, in general, of a room fifteen feet square, forming a kind of open verandah, with an interior chamber of the same dimensions, to which admittance is gained by a narrow doorway. There are niches for lamps in many, and a place built up and covered in, apparently to hold grain. Most of the houses or caves at the summits of the cliffs are now inaccessible, from the narrow precipitous paths by which they were approached having worn away. The cliffs are excavated on both sides of the valley for a distance little short of a mile. There cannot be less than fifteen hundred of these strange habitations.”
The caves of Shahr-Rogan are not the only sights of interest near Beila. Time, unfortunately, would not admit of my visiting the mud-volcanoes of Las, situated near the Harra Mountains, about sixty miles from Shahr-Rogan. The hills upon which these are found are from three to four hundred feet high, and are conical in form, with flattened and discoloured tops and precipitous sides. At their bases are numerous fissures and cavities reaching far into their interior. Captain Hart, who visited these geysers some years ago, describes them as basins of liquid mud, about a hundred paces in diameter, in a continual state of eruption. These geysers, or “chandra-kupr,” as they are called by the Baluchis, are also found on parts of the Mekran coast. Colonel Ross, H.M.’s Resident at Bushire, is of opinion that these coast craters have communication with the sea, as the state of the tides has considerable influence on the movements of the mud. This theory is, perhaps, strengthened by the fact that by the coast natives the volcanoes are called “Darya-Chan,” or “Eyes of the Sea.”
On the way back from Shahr-Rogan to Beila a herd of antelope was seen. I may here mention that, with one exception, this was the only occasion upon which I came across big game of any kind throughout the journey, although, from all accounts, there is no lack of wild animals in Baluchistan. Bear and hyena are found in the southern districts, and the leopard, wolf, ibex, and tiger-cat exist in other parts of the country. The wild dog is also found in the northern and more mountainous regions. The latter hunt in packs of twenty and thirty, and will seize a bullock and kill him in a few minutes. On the other hand, vermin and venomous animals are not so common as in India. Dangerous snakes are rare, though we were much annoyed by scorpions and centipedes in the villages of the north, and a loathsome bug, the “mangar,” which infests the houses of Kelat.
Riding homewards, we stopped about a mile out of Beila to inspect the Djam’s garden, a large rambling piece of ground about fifty acres in extent, enclosed by high walls of solid masonry. Never was I more surprised than upon entering the lofty iron gates guarded by a sowar in neat white uniform. It seemed incredible that such fertility and abundance could exist in this dry, arid land. The cool fragrant gardens, with their shady grass walks, forest trees, and palms, springing up, as it were, out of the scorched, stony desert, reminded one of a bunch of sweet-smelling flowers in a fever ward, and the scent of rose, jasmine, and narcissus was apparent quite half a mile away. In the centre of the garden is a tamarind tree of enormous girth. It takes twelve men with joined hands to surround it. Half an hour was spent in this pleasant oasis, which was constructed by the late Djam, after infinite trouble and expense, by means of irrigation from the Purali river. There are also two deep wells of clear water in the grounds, which are never quite dry even in the hottest seasons.
Proceeding homewards, we had scarcely reached camp when a terrific thunderstorm burst over our heads. The thunderclaps were in some instances nearly a minute in duration, and the lightning unpleasantly close and vivid.
The weather clearing, I visited the bazaar in the evening, under the guidance of my old friend, the Wazir. Trade is, as I have said, practically _nil_ in Beila, and the manufactures, which are trifling, are confined to oil, cotton, a rough kind of cloth, and coarse carpets; indeed, throughout the country, commerce is almost at a standstill.
This is scarcely surprising when the semi-savage state of the people, and consequent risks to life and property, are taken into account. The export trade of the interior is, though trifling at present, capable, under firm and wise rule, of great improvement. Madder, almonds, and dried fruit from Kelat and Mastung, seed and grain from Khozdar, small quantities of assa-foetida from Nushki, and sulphur from Kach-Gandava, comprise all the exports. From Mekran and Las Beila are exported “rogan,” or clarified butter used for cooking purposes, hides, tobacco (of a very coarse kind), salt fish, oil-seeds, and dates. The imports chiefly consist of rice, pepper, sugar, spices, indigo, wood, and piece goods, chiefly landed at the ports of Gwadar or Sonmiani. But little is as yet known of the mineral products of this district. Iron ore is said to exist in the mountains north of Beila, while to the south copper is reported as being found in large quantities; but nothing has as yet been done to open up the mineral resources of the district. Although silver and even gold have been found in small quantities, and other minerals are known to exist, the only mines at present in Baluchistan are those near Khozdar, in the province of Jhalawan, where lead and antimony are worked, but in a very primitive manner.
Notwithstanding the trade stagnation, there seems to be a good deal of cultivation in and around Beila. Water is obtained from deep wells; and vegetables, rice, and tobacco are largely grown. Most of the stalls in the bazaar were devoted to the sale of rice, wheat, and tobacco, cheap cutlery, and Manchester goods; and I noticed, with some surprise, cheap photographs of Mrs. Langtry, Ellen Terry, Miss Nelly Farren, Sylvia Grey, and other leading lights of society and art, spread out for sale among the many-bladed knives, nickel forks and spoons, and German timepieces. Although the narrow alleys reeked with poisonous smells and filth and abomination of all kinds, Beila is not unhealthy–so at least the Wazir informed me. I doubted the truth of this assertion, however, for the features of every second person I met were scarred more or less with small-pox.
My caravan, on leaving Beila, was considerably increased. It now consisted of twenty-two camels (six of which were laden with water), five Baluchis, my original escort, and six of the Djam’s cavalry. I could well have dispensed with the latter, but the kindly little Wazir would not hear of my going without them. An addition also to our party was a queer creature, half Portuguese, half Malay, picked up by Gerome in the Beila bazaar, and destined to fulfil the duties of cook. How he had drifted to Beila I never ascertained, and thought it prudent not to inquire too much into his antecedents. No one knew anything about him, and as he talked a language peculiar to himself, no one was ever likely to; but he was an undeniably good _chef_, and that was the chief consideration. Gaetan, this strange being informed us, was his name–speedily transformed by Gerome into the more euphonious and romantic name of Gaetano!
I took leave of the Prince and my old friend the Wazir with some misgivings, for the new camel-drivers were Beila men, and frankly owned that their knowledge of the country lying between Gwarjak and Noundra (where we were to leave the caravan-track) was derived chiefly from hearsay.
There are two caravan-roads through Beila. One, formerly much used, is that over which we had travelled from the coast, and which, on leaving Beila, leads due north to Quetta _via_ Wadd and Sohrab. An ordinary caravan by this route occupies at least forty days in transit. Traffic is now, therefore, usually carried on by means of the safer trade-routes through British Sindh, whereby the saving of time is considerable, and chances of robbery much lessened. The second road (which has branches leading to the coast towns of Gwadar, Pasui, and Ormara) proceeds due west to Kej, capital of the Mekran province, near the Persian border. The latter track we were to follow as far as Noundra, ninety miles distant. I should add that the so-called roads of Baluchistan are nothing more than narrow, beaten paths, as often as not entirely obliterated by swamp or brushwood. Beyond Noundra, where we left the main track to strike northwards for Gwarjak, there was absolutely nothing to guide us but occasional landmarks by day and the stars at night.
Barring the intense monotony, the journey was not altogether unenjoyable. To reach Noundra it took us five days. This may appear slow work, but quicker progress is next to impossible in a country where, even on the regular caravan-road, the guides are constantly losing the track, and two or three hours are often wasted in regaining it. The first two or three days of the journey lay through swampy ground, through which the camels made their way with difficulty, for a cat on the ice in walnut-shells is less awkward than a camel in mud. Broad deep swamps alternating with tracts of sandy desert, with nothing to relieve the monotonous landscape but occasional clumps of “feesh,” a stunted palm about three feet in height, and rough cairns of rock erected by travellers to mark the pathway where it had become obliterated, sufficiently describes the scenery passed through for the first three days after leaving Beila. Large stones accurately laid out in circles of eighteen or twenty feet in diameter were also met with at intervals of every two miles or so by the side of the track, and this very often in districts where nothing was visible but a boundless waste of loose, drifting sand. Our Baluchis could not or would not explain the _raison d’etre_ of them, though the stones must, in many instances, have been brought great distances and for a definite purpose. I could not, however, get any explanation regarding them at either Kelat or Quetta.
With the exception of the Lakh Pass leading over a chain of hills about eighteen miles due west of Beila, the road to Noundra was as flat as a billiard-table. The crossing of the Lakh, however, was not accomplished without much difficulty and some danger; for the narrow pathway, leading over rocky, almost perpendicular, cliffs, three to four hundred feet high, had, in places, almost entirely crumbled away. The summits of these cliffs present a curious appearance–fifty to sixty needle-like spires, hardly a couple of feet thick at the top, which look as if the hand of man and not of nature had placed them in the symmetrical order in which they stand, white and clear-cut against the deep-blue sky, slender and fragile as sugar ornaments, and looking as though a puff of wind would send them toppling over. The ascent was terribly hard work for the camels, and, as the track is totally unprotected by guard-rail of any kind, anything but comfortable for their riders. Towards the summit we met a couple of these beasts laden with tobacco from Kej, in charge of a wild-looking fellow in rags, as black as a coal, who eyed us suspiciously, and answered in sulky monosyllables when asked where he hailed from. His merchandise, consisting of four small bags, seemed hardly worth the carrying, but Kej tobacco fetches high prices in Beila. At this point the pathway had latterly been widened by order of the Djam. Formerly, if two camels travelling in opposite directions met, their respective owners drew lots. The animal belonging to the loser was then sacrificed and pushed over the precipice to clear the way for the other.
In the wet season a foaming torrent dashes through the Valley of Lakh, but this was, at the time of my visit, a dry bed of rock and shingle. Indeed, although we were fairly fortunate as regard wells, and I was never compelled to put the caravan on short allowance, I did not pass a single stream of running water the whole way from Sonmiani to Dhaira, twenty miles south of Gwarjak, though we must in that distance have crossed at least fifteen dry river-beds, varying from twenty to eighty yards in width.
Travelling in the daytime soon became impossible, on account of the heat, as we proceeded further inland. A start was therefore generally made before it was light, and by 11 a.m. the day’s work was over, tents pitched, camels turned loose, and a halt made till three or four the next morning. Though the sun at midday was, with the total absence of shade, dangerously powerful, and converted the interior of our canvas tents into the semblance of an oven, there was little to complain of as regards weather. The nights were deliciously cool, and the pleasantest part of, the twenty-four hours was perhaps that from 8 till 10 a.m., when, dinner over and camp-fires lit, the Baluchis enlivened the caravan with song and dance. Baluch music is, though wild and mournful, pleasing. Some of the escort had fine voices, and sang to the accompaniment of a low, soft pipe, their favourite instrument. Gerome was in great request on these occasions, and, under the influence of some fiery raki, of which he seemed to have an unlimited stock, would have trolled out “Matoushka Volga” and weird Cossack ditties till the stars were paling, if not suppressed. As it was, one got little enough rest, what with the heat and flies at midday, and, at the halt about 8 a.m., the shouting, hammering of tent-pegs, and braying of camels that went on till the sun was high in the heavens.
There is a so-called town or village, Jhow (situated about twenty miles east of Noundra), in a sparsely cultivated plain of the same name. Barley and wheat are grown by means of irrigation from the Jhow river, which in the wet season is of considerable size. I had expected to find, at Jhow, some semblance of a town or village, as the Wazir of Beila had told me that the place contained a population of four or five hundred, and it is plainly marked on all Government maps. But I had yet to learn that a Baluch “town,” or even village, of forty or fifty inhabitants often extends over a tract of country many miles in extent. The “town” of Jhow, for instance, is spread over a plain thirty-five miles long by fourteen broad, in little clusters of from two to six houses. A few tiny patches of green peeping out of the yellow sand and brushwood, a wreath of grey smoke rising lazily here and there at long intervals over the plain, a few camels and goats browsing in the dry, withered herbage by the caravan-track, showed that there were inhabitants; but we saw no dwellings, and only one native, a woman, who, at sight of Gerome, who gallantly rode forward to address her, turned and fled as if she had seen the evil one. Noundra, which was reached on the 30th of March, was a mere repetition of Jhow. Neither houses nor natives were visible, though we passed occasional patches of cultivated ground. About five miles west of this we left the beaten track and struck out due north for Gwarjak, which, according to my calculation, lay about seventy miles distant.
[Footnote A: The traveller Masson says that the word _Brahui_ is a corruption of _Ba-roh-i_, meaning literally, “of the waste.”]
[Footnote B: These rings are sometimes so heavy that they are attached to a band at the top of the head to lessen the weight on the nostril.]
[Footnote C: A town in Western Baluchistan.]
[Footnote D: The word “Mekran” is said to be derived from “Mahi-Kharan,” or “Fish-eaters,” which food the inhabitants of this maritime province subsisted on in Alexander’s time, and do still.]
[Footnote E: Russian, “Fool.”]
CHAPTER X.
BALUCHISTAN–GWARJAK.
Most European travellers through this desolate land have testified to the fact that the most commendable trait in the Baluch is his practice of hospitality, or “zang,” as it is called. As among the Arabs, a guest is held sacred, save by some of the wilder tribes on the Afghan frontier, who, though they respect a stranger actually under their roof, will rob and murder him without scruple as soon as he has departed. The natives of Kanero and Dhaira (the two villages lying between Noundra and Gwarjak) were, though civil, evidently not best pleased at our appearance, but the sight of a well-armed escort prevented any open demonstration of ill feeling.
The first day’s work after Noundra was rough, so much so that the camels could scarcely struggle through the deep sand, or surmount the steep, pathless ridges of slippery rock that barred our progress every two or three miles. Though the greater part of the journey lay through deep, drifting sand, the soil in places was hard and stony, and here the babul tree and feesh palm grew freely, also a pretty star-shaped yellow flower, called by Baluchis the “jour.” This plant is poisonous to camels, but, strangely enough, harmless to sheep, goats, and other animals.
For a desert-journey, we had little to complain of as regards actual discomfort. There were no mosquitoes or sandflies, and the heat, though severe, was never excessive save for a couple of hours or so at midday, when enforced imprisonment in a thin canvas tent became rather trying. There was absolutely no shade–not a tree of any kind visible from the day we left Beila till our arrival at Dhaira about midday on the 31st of March. Scarcity of water was our greatest difficulty. At Noundra it had been salt and brackish; at Kanero we searched in vain for a well. Had we known that a couple of days’ march distant lay a land “with milk and honey blest,” this would have inconvenienced us but little. The fact, however, that only three barrels of the precious liquid remained caused me some anxiety, especially as the first well upon which we could rely was at Gwarjak, nearly sixty miles distant.
The sight of Dhaira, on the morning of the 31st, relieved us of all further anxiety. This fertile plain, about fifteen miles long by ten broad, is bounded on the north-west by a chain of limestone mountains, the name of which I was unable to ascertain. Here for the second time since Beila we found a village and traces of inhabitants, the former encircled for a considerable distance by fields of maize and barley, enclosed by neat banks and hedges–a grateful contrast to the desolate waste behind us. It was the most perfect oasis imaginable. Shady forest trees and shrubs surrounded us on every side, a clear stream of running water fringed with ferns and wild flowers rippled through our camp, while the poor half-starved horses of the escort revelled in the long, rich grass. Hard by a cluster of three or four leaf huts, half hidden in a grove of date palms, lay (part of) the little village of Dhaira, deserted at this busy hour of the day save by women and children. The latter fled upon our arrival, and did not reappear until the evening, when the return of the men reassured them sufficiently to approach our tents and look upon the strange and unwelcome features of the Farangi without fear.
From here, by advice of the Wazir of Beila, a messenger was despatched to Malak, at Gwarjak, twenty miles distant, requesting permission to travel through his dominions. I resolved to proceed no further without the chief’s sanction, or to afford him in any way an excuse for making himself unpleasant. In the mean time, arms and accoutrements were looked to, and the escort cleaned and smartened up as well as circumstances would permit. The natives overcame their shyness next morning, and brought us goat’s milk and “rogan,” or clarified butter. The Baluchis seldom eat meat, their food principally consisting of cakes or bread made of grain, with buttermilk and rice. A favourite preparation known as “shalansh,” and called “krout” by the Afghans, is made by boiling buttermilk till the original quantity is reduced by half. The remainder is then strained through a thick felt bag, in the sun. When the draining ceases, the mass in the bag is formed into small lumps dried hard by the sun’s rays. When required for use these lumps are pounded and placed in warm water, where they are worked by the hands until dissolved. The thickened fluid is then boiled with rogan and eaten with bread.
Assafoetida, indigenous to the country, is largely used among all classes for flavouring dishes. So much is this noxious plant liked by Baluchis, that it goes by the name of “khush-khorak,” or pleasant food. At Kelat, in the palace of the Khan, I was offered it pickled, but it is usually eaten stewed in butter.
About midday, to my great surprise, Malak made his appearance in person, mounted on a good-looking chestnut stallion, its bridle and saddle adorned with gold and silver trappings. Four attendants followed on sorry-looking steeds. The chief, a tall, well-built fellow, about thirty years of age, with a sulky, sinister cast of countenance, was clad in a bright green satin jacket, white and gold turban, loose dark-blue trousers, and embroidered slippers. The loss of one eye gave him a still more unpleasant expression, a lock of coarse black hair being dragged over the face to conceal the disfigurement. The whole party were armed to the teeth, and carried guns, shields, and revolvers.
Our interview did not commence propitiously. Swinging himself off his horse, Malak returned my salutation with a sulky nod, and swaggered into the tent, signing to his suite to follow his example. Curtly refusing my offer of refreshment, he called for his pipe-bearer, and, lighting a kalyan, commenced puffing vigorously at some abominably smelling tobacco, which soon rendered the interior of the tent unbearable. It is, unfortunately, Baluch etiquette to allow a guest to open the conversation. Malak, well aware of this, maintained a stolid silence, and appeared hugely to enjoy the annoyance and impatience I tried in vain to conceal. It was not till nearly an hour had elapsed that this amiable visitor at last inquired, in a rude, surly tone, what I wanted. My interpreter’s services were then called in, but it was not without demur and a long consultation with his suite that Malak consented to accompany me to Gwarjak on the morrow. Matters were finally arranged, on the understanding that I did not remain more than one day at Gwarjak, but proceeded to Kelat without delay.
I strolled out with a gun in the evening, and managed to bag a brace of partridges, which swarmed in the maize and barley fields. Overcoming the fears of the women, I was permitted to approach and inspect, though not enter, one of their dwellings. The latter, constructed of dried palm leaves, were about fifteen feet long by eight feet broad, and were entirely devoid of rugs, carpets, or furniture of any kind, and indescribably filthy. The men, though shy and suspicious, would have been friendly, had it not been for Malak, who followed me like a shadow; but nothing would induce the women and children to approach either Gerome or myself. “What is this?” said one old fellow to Malak, stroking my face with his horny, grimy palm. “I never saw anything like it before.” Most of the men were clothed in dirty, discoloured rags. The women wore simply a cloth tied loosely over the loins, while male and female children fourteen or fifteen years old ran about stark naked.
A curious flower, the “kosisant,” grows luxuriantly about here. It is in shape something like a huge asparagus, and about two feet high, being covered from top to bottom with tiny white-and-yellow blossoms, with a sweet but sickly perfume. It consists but of one shoot or stalk, and bursts through the ground apparently with great force, displacing the soil for several inches.
We left for Gwarjak at 5.30 the following morning. Etiquette compelled Malak to offer me his horse, while he mounted my camel–an operation effected with very bad grace by my host. The Baluch saddle consists simply of two sharp pieces of wood bound together by leathern thongs, and the exchange was by no means a welcome one so far as I was concerned. Had it cut me in two, however, I would have borne it, if only to punish this boorish ruffian for his insolence of yesterday. Malak’s chief failing was evidently vanity, and he was very reluctant, even for an hour, to cede the place of honour to a European.
The road for the first ten miles or so lay along the dry bed of a river, which, I ascertained with difficulty from my one-eyed companion, is named the Mashki. Large holes, from eight to ten feet deep, had been dug for some distance by the Dhaira natives, forming natural cisterns or tanks. These were, even now, after a long spell of dry weather, more than half full, and the water, with which we filled barrels and flasks, clear, cold, and delicious.
The Shirengaz Pass, which crosses a chain of hills about five hundred feet high, separates the Dhaira Valley from the equally fertile district of Gwarjak. The ascent and descent are gradual and easy, and by ten o’clock we were in sight of Gwarjak, before midday had encamped within half a mile of the town, if a collection of straggling tumble-down huts can so be called. The news of our arrival had preceded us, and before tents were pitched the population had turned out _en masse_, and a mob of quite two hundred men, women, and children were squatted around our camp, watching, at a respectful distance, the proceedings of my men with considerable interest. Malak had meanwhile disappeared, ostensibly to warn the Wazir of our arrival.
Gwarjak is situated on the left bank of the Mashki river, and consists of some thirty huts, shapeless and dilapidated, built of dried palm leaves. About two hundred yards north of the village rises a steep almost perpendicular rock about a hundred feet high, on the summit of which is perched a small mud fort. The latter is crenelated, loopholed for musketry, and mounts six cannon of a very primitive kind. It was at once apparent that we were anything but welcome. The very sight of my armed escort seemed to annoy and exasperate the male population, while the women and children gathered together some distance off, flying in a body whenever one of our party approached them. I looked forward, with some impatience, to Malak’s return, for Kamoo’s request for the loan of a knife from one of the bystanders was met with an indignant refusal, accompanied by murmuring and unmistakable expressions of hostility. We were well armed certainly, but were only ten men against over a hundred.
Our camping-place was wild and picturesque, and, had it not been for the uncomfortable sensation of not quite knowing what would happen next, our stay at Gwarjak would have been pleasant enough. Even Gerome was depressed and anxious, and the Beila men and escort ill at ease. I was sorely tempted more than once to accede to Kamoo’s request, strike tents and move on to Gajjar, the next village, but was restrained by the thought that such a proceeding would not only be undignified, but a source of satisfaction to my _bete noire_, Malak.
[Illustration: MALAK]
After a prolonged absence of four or five hours, the latter returned, together with his Wazir and about a dozen followers. A more cut-throat looking set of ruffians I have seldom seen. All wore long black-cloth robes trimmed with scarlet, and white turbans, and carried a Snider rifle and belt stuffed with cartridges slung over the left shoulder. I now noticed with some anxiety that Malak’s quiet and undemonstrative manner had completely altered to one of swaggering insolence and bravado. “The chief wishes you to know he has twenty more like this,” said Kamoo, pointing to Malak’s villainous-looking suite. “Tell him I am very glad to hear it,” was my reply, politely meant, but which seemed to unduly exasperate the King of Gwarjak. Brushing past me, he burst into the tent, followed by his men, and seated himself on my only camp-stool. Then, producing a large American revolver, he cocked it with a loud click, placed it on the ground beside him, and called for his kalyan.
Patience has limits. With the reflection that few white men would have put up with the insults I had; that “Tommy Atkins” was, after all, only three hundred miles away; and that, in the event of my death, Malak would probably be shot, if not blown from a gun,–I ordered him (through the trembling Kamoo) to instantly leave the tent with all his followers. The fire-eating chieftain was (unlike most Baluchis) a poor creature, for to my intense relief he slunk out at once, with his tail between his legs. Having then re-appropriated the camp-stool, I ordered in the escort, fixed bayonets, loaded _my_ revolver with ostentation, and commanded my friend to re-enter alone, which he did, and, as Americans say, “quickly.”
Then ensued an uncomfortable silence, interrupted by the arrival of one of my men to say that the villagers had refused to sell provisions of any kind, although eggs, milk, and rice were to be had in plenty. “I am not the king of these people,” said Malak, passionately, on being remonstrated with. “Every man here is free to do as he pleases with his own.” As our stores were now running uncomfortably short, this “Boycotting” system was anything but pleasant. “Will _you_ sell us some eggs and milk?” I asked, as my unwilling guest rose to go. It was eating humble-pie with a vengeance, but hunger, like many other things, has no laws. “I am not a stall-keeper,” was the answer. A request to be permitted to ascend the hill and visit the fort was met by an emphatic refusal. I then, as a last resource, inquired, through Kamoo, if my hospitable host had any objection to my walking through the village. “If you like,” was the reply; “but I will not be responsible for your safety. This is not Kelat. The English are not our masters. We care nothing for them.”
Notwithstanding these mysterious warnings, however, I visited the village towards sunset, alone with Gerome, fearing lest the sight of my escort should arouse the ire and suspicions of the natives. There was little to see and nothing to interest. Gwarjak is built without any attempt at order or symmetry. Many of the houses had toppled over till their roofs touched the ground, and the whole place presented an appearance of poverty and decay strangely at variance with the smiling plains of grain, rice, and tobacco around it. Not a human being was visible, for our appearance was the signal for a general stampede indoors, but the dirty, narrow streets swarmed with huge, fierce dogs, who would have attacked us but for the heavy “nagaikas” [A] with which we were armed. We were evidently cordially hated by both men and beasts! On return to camp I gave orders for a start at four the next morning. There was no object to be gained by remaining, and the natives would have been only too glad of an excuse for open attack.
The remains of an ancient city, covering a very large area, are said to exist near Gwarjak, about a mile due south of it. I could, however, discover no trace of them, although we came from that direction, and must have traversed the supposed site.
After the fatigue and anxiety of the day, I was enjoying a cigar in the bright moonlight, when a messenger from the village arrived in camp. He had a narrow escape. Not answering the challenge of the sentry for the second time, the latter was about to fire, when I ran forward and threw up his rifle, which discharged in the air. A second later, and the man would have been shot, in which case I do not suppose we should ever have seen Quetta. The message was from Malak, inviting me to a “Zigri,” a kind of religious dance, taking place just outside the village. After some reflection, I decided to go. It might, of course, mean treachery, but the probability was that the chief, afraid of being reported to the Indian Government for his insolence and insubordination, wished to atone for his conduct before I left.
Under the messenger’s guidance, and attended by Gerome and a guard of five men with loaded rifles, I set out. Both the Russian and myself carried and prominently displayed a brace of revolvers. A walk of ten minutes brought us to a cleared space by the river. In the centre blazed a huge bonfire, round which, in a semicircle, were squatted some two or three hundred natives, watching the twistings and contortions of half a dozen grotesque creatures with painted faces, and long, streaming hair, who, as they turned slowly round and round, varied the performance with leaps and bounds, alternately groaning, wailing, and screaming at the top of their voices.
[Illustration: A “ZIGRI” IN GWARJAK]
A horn, a lute, and half a dozen tom-toms accompanied the dance. Some distance away, and surrounded by his grim-looking guard, sat Malak, who, though he did not rise to receive me, beckoned me to his side with more politeness than usual. It was a weird, strange sight. The repulsive, half-naked figures leaping round the fire, the silent, awestruck crowd of Baluchis, the wild barbaric music, and pillar of flame flashing on the dark, sullen face of Malak and his followers, was not a little impressive, especially as I was in a state of pleasing uncertainty as to the object of my host’s sudden change of manner, and whether this might not be a little dramatic introduction to an attack upon our party. This was, however, evidently not my sulky friend’s intention, for, as I rose to go, he actually stood up and took my hand. “At Gajjar,” he said, “you will be able to get all you want, but take my advice, and get away from here early to-morrow morning. They do not like you.”
Four hours after we were _en route_. The Zigri was still going on as we rode out of the village. Malak and his guard still sat motionless, the weird dancers and crowd of onlookers were still there, the huge bonfire blazing as brightly as ever, though the Eastern sky was lightening. As we passed within a hundred yards, I waved my hand, but the compliment was not returned. Some of the crowd looked up at the caravan; all must have seen it, but averted their faces till we had passed. I was not, on the whole, sorry to leave Gwarjak.
But one European, Colonel M—- of the Indian service, had visited Gwarjak for fifteen years prior to my visit. My road thither from Noundra has never been traversed save by natives, and it was, perhaps, more by good luck than good management that we came through successfully. The inhabitants of Gwarjak are a tribe known as the Nushirvanis, who claim to be of Persian descent. It was only at Quetta that I learnt that my friend Malak was only Viceroy of this inhospitable district. The head-quarters and residence of the Chief, one Nimrood Khan, is at Kharan (a hundred and fifty miles north-west of Gwarjak). Nimrood, who was fortunately absent, detests Europeans, and would probably have made matters even worse for us. Intermixed freely with the wild and lawless tribes of the Baluch-Afghan frontier (from which Kharan is but a few miles distant), it is scarcely to be wondered at that the Nushirvanis are inimical to Europeans, whom they are taught by their chiefs and Afghan neighbours to look upon as natural enemies.
Although we had not as yet formed a very favourable idea of Baluch hospitality, our reception at every village from here to the capital amply atoned for the rough and uncivil behaviour of the wild Nushirvanis. We were now once more on the beaten track, for though the country south of Gwarjak was, previous to our crossing it, unexplored, the journey from Kelat to Gajjar has frequently been made by Europeans during the past few years. Our reception by the natives of Gajjar (only twenty miles from Gwarjak) was a pleasant contrast to that given us at the latter place. Camp was no sooner pitched than presents of eggs, milk, rice, and tobacco were brought in, and I was cordially welcomed by the chief of the village.
Gajjar is a ramshackle, tumble-down place of about three hundred inhabitants. On a small hillock to the right of the village stands the fort, a square building of solid masonry, which, however, is now roofless, and has only three walls standing. The garrison (of six men) were lodged in a flimsy tent pitched in the centre of the ruins. Half the houses were constructed of dried mud; the remainder, as at Gwarjak, of palm leaves. The village stands in a grove of date palms, and the swarms of flies were consequently almost unendurable. We encamped close to the village well, to which, during the afternoon, many of the female population came to draw water. Two of them, bright, pleasant-featured girls of eighteen or twenty, were the best-looking specimens of the Baluch woman that I met with throughout the journey.
Towards sunset the corpse of a young man was borne past my tent and interred in a little cemetery hard by. The burial rites of the Baluchis are very similar to those of Persia. When a death occurs, mourners are sent for, and food is prepared at the deceased’s house for such friends as desire to be present at the reading of prayers for the dead, while “kairats,” or charitable distributions of food, are made for the benefit of the soul of the deceased. A wife, on the decease of her husband, neglects washing, and is supposed to sit lamenting by herself for not less than fifteen days. Long before this, however, her female friends come to her house and beg her to desist from weeping, bringing with them the powder of a plant called “larra.” With this the widow washes her head, and then resumes her former life and occupations. If, however, by thoughtlessness or malice, her friends defer their visit, she must mourn for a much longer period alone. A curious Baluch custom is that of digging a grave much deeper for a woman than a man. They argue that woman is by nature so restless she would not remain quiet, even in death, without a larger proportion of earth over her.
[Illustration: NOMAD BALUCH TENT]
In the matter of births and marriages the Baluchis, being of the Mohammedan religion, regulate their ceremonies mainly according to the Koran. Marriage is attended with great festivities. The first step is the “zang,” or betrothal, which is regarded as of a very sacred nature, the final rite being known as “nikkar.” On the wedding-day the bridegroom, gorgeously arrayed, and mounted on his best horse or camel, proceeds with his friends to a “ziarat,” or shrine, there to implore a blessing, after which the “winnis,” or marriage, is gone through by a moullah. On the birth of a child there is also much feasting. The fourth day after birth a name is given to the infant, and on the sixth an entertainment to friends. The following day the rite of circumcision (“kattam”) is performed, though not always, this being sometimes postponed for a year or more. On this occasion (as at a death) large distributions of food are made to the poor.
The country between Gajjar and Jebri, which was reached next day, is bare and sterile, notwithstanding that, at the latter place, water is seldom scarce, even in the dryest seasons. The plain, which consists of loose, drifting sand, with intervals of hard, stony ground, is called Kandari. The cold here in the months of January and February is intense. We passed some curious cave-dwellings in the side of the caravan-track, in which the natives take refuge from the icy blasts that sweep across here in winter. They are formed by digging holes eight to ten feet deep. These are rudely thatched over with palm leaves, bits of stick, and plaited straw, thus forming a warm and comfortable shelter.
The Chief of Jebri, one Chabas Khan, rode out to meet me, clad in a long gown of golden thread, which, flashing in the sun, was discernible a couple of miles off. Jebri contains about four hundred inhabitants, and is a neatly built village, protected by a large mud fort, and a garrison of twenty Baluchis armed with Snider rifles. Chabas, who was very proud of his village, informed me that his rule extended over a considerable extent of country, containing a population of over 20,000. Many of his subjects were natives of Seistan, Kharan, and Shotrawak, all Afghan border districts, and gave him at times no little trouble. The Jebri fort had been attacked only a year previous to my visit, but Chabas (who I afterwards heard at Kelat is a renowned fire-eater) gave the rebels such a warm reception that there has been no outbreak since. My genial old host had himself given a good deal of trouble to the Kelat Government in his younger days, and told me with evident pride that he had led many a chupao in the good old days. The savage and predatory character of the Baluchi was formerly well exemplified in these lawless incursions, when large tracts of country were pillaged and devastated and the most unheard-of cruelties practised. Chupaos are now a thing of the past. Pottinger, who traversed this country in the last century, and had more than one unpleasant _rencontre_ with these armed bands, thus describes one of these plundering expeditions–
“The depredators are usually mounted on camels, and furnished, according to the distance they have to go, with food, consisting of dates, goat’s milk, and cheese. They also carry water in a small skin-bag, if requisite, which is often the case if the expedition is prolonged. When all is prepared the band sets off and marches incessantly till within a few miles of where the chupao is to commence, and then halts in some unfrequented spot to rest their camels. On the approach of night they mount again, and, as soon as the inhabitants of a village have retired to rest, begin their attack by burning, destroying, and carrying off whatever comes in their way. They never think of resting for one moment during the chupao, but ride on over the territory on which it is made at the rate of eighty or ninety miles a day, until they have loaded their camels with as much pillage as they can possibly remove; and as they are very expert in the management of their animals, each man on an average will have charge of ten or twelve. If practicable, they make a circuit which enables them to return by a different route. This affords a double prospect of plunder and also misleads those who pursue the robbers–a step generally taken, though with little effect, when a sufficient body of men can be collected for that purpose.”
“In these desperate undertakings the predatory robbers are not always successful, and when any of them chance to fall into the hands of exasperated villagers, they are mutilated and put mercilessly to death. The fact,” concludes Pottinger, “of these plundering expeditions being an institution in Baluchistan must serve to show how slight is the power wielded by the paramount rulers, and what risks to the safety of both person and property must be run by those engaged in the business of trade in such a country.”
Chabas visited me towards evening, accompanied by his son, a clever-looking, bright-eyed lad about fifteen years old. Noticing that he wore a belt and buckle of the 66th Regiment, I inquired where he had procured it, and was told that it had been purchased from a Gwarjak man, who brought it down from Kharan shortly after the fatal disaster to the regiment at Maiwand. The kindly old chief now pressed my acceptance of a fine fat goat–a very acceptable gift, considering the impoverished condition of the camp larder. We then visited the fort and village, under his guidance.
Jebri and its neighbourhood are well cultivated. The system of agriculture practised in this part of Baluchistan is simple, but effective, the fields being divided off by ridges of earth and raised embankments to an accurate level. They are then further subdivided longitudinally by ridges thrown up about seven or eight paces apart. This is done for purposes of irrigation. The soil is then ploughed and manured, the former operation being generally carried on by means of bullocks. Tracts of land not irrigated by streams, but which are dependent on rain and the rivulets which come down from the hillsides after it, are called “kash-kawa,” and are found scattered about the valleys here and there near the tent-encampments of the nomad tribes, who plough a piece of land, sow it, and return to gather in the crop when it is matured. The implements of husbandry in general use are a light wooden plough of primitive construction, consisting of a vertical piece bent forward at the bottom and tipped with an iron point, and a long horizontal beam, which passes forward between the pair of bullocks that draw it, and is fastened to the yoke. A harrow, consisting of a wooden board about six feet long by two wide, is also used, being dragged over the ploughed land attached to the yoke by iron chains. If found not sufficiently heavy, the driver stands upon it. A spade or shovel, exactly like its English counterpart, and a reaping-hook, or sickle, having its cutting edge furnished with minute teeth, complete the list of a Baluchi’s agricultural tools.
Jebri Fort stands on a steep hillock about fifty feet in height. From here a good view was obtainable of the surrounding country. Immediately below were pretty gardens or enclosed spaces, sown in the centre with maize, wheat, and tobacco, and surrounded by plum and pomegranate trees and date palms. There is a considerable trade in the latter between here and Beila, which perhaps accounted for the myriads of flies which here, as at Gajjar, proved a source of great annoyance. In Chabas’s garden were roses and other flowers, some remarkably fine vines, and a number of mulberry trees. The grounds were well and neatly laid out with paths, grass plots, and artificial streams, upon which I complimented the old man; but he would talk of nothing but his fort, which was, indeed, the only structure worthy of the name met with between Quetta and the sea. In the evening his son brought me a delicious dish of preserved apricots and cream, for which I presented him with three rupees, one of which he instantly returned. It is considered, by Baluchis, extremely unlucky to give or accept an odd number of coins.
[Illustration: JEBRI]
At Jebri, for the first time, we suffered severely from cold at night, the thermometer dropping to 42 deg. Fahr. just before sunrise. The climate of Baluchistan presents extraordinary varieties, and is extremely trying to Europeans. Although at Kelat the natives suffer considerably more from cold in winter than summer heats, the hot season in the low-lying valleys and on the coast, which lasts from April till October, may be almost said to be the most severe in the world. At Kej, in Mekram, the thermometer sometimes registers 125 deg. Fahr. in the shade as early as April, while the heat in the same district during the “Khurma-Paz,” or “Date-ripening,” is so intense that the natives themselves dare not venture abroad in the daytime.
Notwithstanding this, even the south of Baluchistan has its cold season. Near Beila, in the month of January, the temperature frequently falls as low as 35 deg. Fahr. in the mornings, rising no higher than 65 deg. at any portion of the day. At Kelat, on the other hand, which stands 6800 feet above sea-level, the extreme maximum heat as yet recorded during the months of July and August is only 103 deg. Fahr., while the extreme minimum during the same months is as low as 48 deg. Fahr. In winter the cold is intense. Pottinger, the traveller, relates that on the 7th of February, 1810, when at Baghivana, five marches from Kelat, his water-skins were frozen into masses of ice, and seven days afterwards, at Kelat, he found the frost so intense that water froze instantly when thrown upon the ground. Bellew, a more recent traveller, in the month of January found the temperature even lower, as when at Rodinjo, thirteen miles south of Kelat, the thermometer at 7 a.m. stood at 14 deg. Fahr., while the next night, at Kelat, it fell to 8 deg. Fahr. The weather was at the time clear, sharp, and cold, the ground frozen hard all day, while snow-wreaths lay in the shelter of the walls. A detailed account of the eight days’ journey from Gajjar to Kelat would weary the reader. A description of one village will suffice for all, while the country between these two places is nothing but bare, stony desert, varied by occasional ranges of low rocky hills, and considerable tracts of cultivated land surrounding the villages of Gidar, Sohrab, and Rodingo, at each of which we were well received by the natives. With the exception of a strike among our camel-drivers, which fortunately lasted only a few hours, and a dust-storm encountered a few miles from Sohrab, nothing worthy of mention occurred to break the monotony of the voyage till, on the morning of the _9th of_ April, we sighted the flat-roofed houses, mud ramparts, and towering citadel of the capital of Baluchistan.
[Footnote A: Cossack whips.]
CHAPTER XI.
KELAT–QUETTA–BOMBAY.
We encamped in the suburbs of the city, about a couple of miles from the northern or Mastung Gate, and near the telegraph office, a small brick bungalow in charge of an English-speaking native. There is a single wire laid to Quetta, a distance, roughly speaking, of ninety miles. A terrific hurricane, accompanied by thunder, vivid lightning, and dense clouds of black dust, sprang up about sunset the day of our arrival. Both tents were instantly blown down, and in a few moments reduced to shapeless rags of torn canvas. So great was the force of the wind that it snapped the tent-poles short off, and, tearing them from the ropes, sent the tents flying over the plain as if they had been shreds of tissue paper. We managed, however, to find quarters in the telegraph office, and remained there till our departure, two days later, for Quetta. During the storm the thermometer sank to 50 deg. Fahr., although a few moments before it had marked 78 deg..
Kelat contains–with its suburbs, which are of considerable extent–about 15,000 inhabitants, and is picturesquely situated on the edge of a fertile plain thickly cultivated with wheat, barley, and tobacco. The city is built in terraces, on the sides and summit of a limestone cliff, about a hundred and fifty feet high. This is called the “Shah Mirdan,” and is surrounded at the base of the hill by high mud ramparts, with bastions at intervals, loopholed for musketry. The “Mir,” [A] or palace of the Khan, overhangs the town, and is made up of a confused mass of buildings, which, though imposing at a distance, I found on closer inspection to consist chiefly of mud, which in many places had crumbled away, leaving great gaping holes in the walls. The Mir mounts a few primitive, muzzle-loading cannon, and the citadel is garrisoned by a thousand men, chiefly Afghans, deserters from Cabul, Kandahar, and other parts of the Ameer’s dominions. They are a ragged, undisciplined lot. The Khan himself has a wholesome dread of his soldiery, who break out at times, and commit great depredations among the villages surrounding the capital, robbing and murdering the peasants with impunity, for few dare resist them. The remainder of the troops, three thousand in number, are quartered in barracks, or rather mud hovels, at some distance from the palace. Each man is supposed to receive three rupees a month and a lump sum of forty-eight rupees at the end of each year, but pay is uncertain and mutiny frequent. When not engaged on military duties the Khan’s Baluch soldiers are put to agricultural work on his estates, while the Afghans pass their time in pillaging and plundering their neighbours. As we entered Kelat we passed a regiment at drill on a sandy plain outside the walls. With the exception of a conical fur cap, there is no attempt at uniform. The men, fine strapping fellows, are armed with rusty flint-locks. Though there appeared to be no officers, European or otherwise, I was rather surprised to hear the word of command given in English, and to see this band of ragamuffins march off parade to the strains of “Home, sweet Home,” played by a very fair fife-and-drum band.
The morning following my arrival, I was startled by the apparition at my bedside of a swarthy, wild-looking Afghan sowar–a messenger from the Wazir, to say that his Highness the Khan wished to make my acquaintance, and would receive me, if convenient, at three o’clock that afternoon. It had not been my intention to solicit an interview, for, from all accounts, the Khan is anything but friendly towards Europeans, Englishmen in particular. To refuse, however, was out of the question. The morning was therefore devoted to cleaning up, and getting out a decent suit of wearing-apparel; while my Beila escort, who evidently had uncomfortable forebodings as to the appearance of the Beila uniform in the streets of Kelat, polished up arms and accoutrements till they shone like silver, and paid, I noticed, particular attention to the loading of their rifles and revolvers.
About midday the Wazir made his appearance to conduct me to the palace. He was a fat, paunchy old man, with beady black eyes and a shy, shifty expression, very unlike my cheery little friend at Beila. After the usual preliminary questions as to who I was, my age, business, etc., he anxiously inquired after the health of Mr. Gladstone, and somewhat astonished me by asking whether I was a Liberal or Conservative. “You have some Beila men with you, I see,” said the Khan’s adviser, who spoke English perfectly. “Don’t let his Highness see them.” I could not, after such a speech, allow my faithful escort to enter the city without warning. But it had little effect. “Let the dogs do what they like,” was the reply. “We shall not let the sahib go alone.”
Tea and cigarettes discussed, a start was made for the palace. The Wazir, on a wiry, good looking bay horse, and attended by half a dozen mounted Afghans, led the way, and I followed on a pony borrowed of the telegraph clerk. My costume was, if not becoming, at any rate original: high boots, flannel trousers, and shirt, an evening dress-coat, and astrakhan cap. Gerome’s wardrobe being even less presentable, I deemed it prudent to leave him behind. The Beila men brought up the rear of the procession some distance from the Afghans, who, to my anxiety, never ceased scoffing and jeering at them the whole way. Every moment I expected to hear the crack of a pistol-shot, followed by a general _melee_. Arrived at the Mastung Gate, we dismounted, and, leaving our horses in charge of the guard, slowly proceeded up the steep narrow streets to the citadel.
The entrance to Kelat is not imposing. There had been a good deal of rain, and the streets of the lower part of the town were perfect quagmires of mud nearly knee-deep. It was more like crawling into a dark passage than entering a city. Many of the thoroughfares are entirely covered over with wooden beams plastered with mud, which entirely exclude light, and give them more the appearance of subterranean passages than streets. The upper part of the town is the cleanest, for the simple reason that all filth and sewage runs down open gutters cut in the centre of the steep alleys, until it reaches the level of the plain. There is no provision made for its escape. It is allowed to collect in great pools, which in long-continued wet weather often flood the houses and drive their wretched inhabitants into the open, to live as best they may, further up the hill.
Kelat is, for this reason only, very unhealthy. Small-pox, typhoid, and typhus are never absent, though, curiously enough, cholera visitations are rare. The filthy habits of the inhabitants have, apparently, a good deal to do with the high death rate. I saw, while walking up the hill, a native fill a cup from an open drain and drink it off, although the smell was unbearable, the liquid of a dark-brown colour. A very common and–in the absence of medical treatment–fatal disease among the inhabitants of the suburbs (chiefly Afghans) is stone in the bladder, the water here, though pure and clear in the suburbs, containing a large quantity of lime.
The bazaar, through which we passed on our way to the Mir, does not seem a very busy one. Although not a public or religious holiday, many of the stalls were closed. Kelat was once the great channel for merchandise from Kandahar and Cabul to India, but the caravan trade is now insignificant. There is in the season a considerable traffic in dates, but that is all, for the roads to Persia and Afghanistan are very unsafe. Only a few weeks previous to my visit, a Kelat merchant, proceeding with a large caravan to Kerman, in Persia, was robbed and murdered in the frontier district west of Kharan. Few now attempt the journey, most of the goods being sent to Quetta, and thence by rail to various parts of India, by sea to Persia.
Art and industry are, as well as trade, practically at a standstill in the Khan’s city, though a handsome embroidery, peculiar to Kelat, is made by the women, and fetches high prices in India, while some of the natives are clever at brass work and ironmongery. Noticing a Russian samovar in one of the shops, I entered and inquired of the owner (through the Wazir) how it had reached Kelat. “From Russia,” was the reply, “_via_ Meshed, Herat, and Kandahar. There is a good caravan-road the whole way,” added the Baluchi, taking down a small brass shield from a peg in the wall. “This came from Bokhara, _via_ Cabul, only ten days, ago; but trade is not what it was.” “Would there be any difficulty in making that journey?” I asked. “For you–an Englishman–yes,” said the man, with a queer smile, and was continuing, when “The Khan will be growing impatient,” broke in the Wazir, taking my hand and leading me hurriedly into the street.
An Afghan guard of honour was drawn up at the entrance of the palace, wearing the nearest approach to a uniform I had yet seen–dark-green tunics, light-blue trousers, and white turbans, clean, well fitting, and evidently kept for state occasions. Each man carried a Berdan rifle and cavalry sabre. It struck me as a curious coincidence that the former rifle is in general use throughout the Russian army. Leaving my escort with strict injunctions to keep their tempers, and under no circumstances to allow themselves to be drawn into a quarrel, I followed the Wazir and his attendants into the Mir. The entrance is through an underground passage about forty yards long by seven wide, ill-smelling and in total darkness. Arrived at the end, we again emerged into daylight, and, ascending a flight of rickety wooden steps, found ourselves in the durbar-room–a spacious apartment, its walls decorated with green, gold, and crimson panels, alternating with large looking-glasses. Costly rugs and carpets from Persia and Bokhara strewed the grimy floor of the chamber, which is about sixty feet long, and commands a splendid view of the city and fertile plains beyond. Awaiting me upon the balcony was the Khan, surrounded by his suite and another guard of Afghans. A couple of dilapidated cane-bottomed chairs were then brought and set one on each side of the crimson velvet divan occupied by his Highness. Having made my bow, which was acknowledged by a curt nod, I was conducted to the seat on the right hand of the Khan by Azim Khan, his son, who seated himself upon his father’s left hand The Wazir, suite, soldiers, and attendants then squatted round us in a semicircle, and the interview commenced.
A long silence followed, broken only by the whish of the fly-brush as a white-clad Baluchi whisked it lazily to and fro over the Khan’s head. The balcony on which we were received is poised at a dizzy height over the beehive-looking dwellings and narrow, tortuous streets of the brown city, which to-day were bathed in sunshine. The Khan’s residence is well chosen. The pestilent stenches of his capital cannot ascend to this height, only the sweet scent of hay and clover-fields, and the distant murmur of a large population, while a glorious panorama of emerald-green plain stretches away to a rocky, picturesque range of hills on the horizon.
His Highness Mir Khudadad, Khan of Kelat, is about sixty years old. He would be tall were it not for a decided stoop, which, together with a toothless lower jaw, gives him the appearance of being considerably more than his age. His complexion is very dark, even for a Baluch, and he wears a rusty black beard and moustaches, presumably dyed, from the streaks of red and white that run through them, and long, coarse pepper-and-salt locks streaming far below his shoulders. His personal appearance gave me anything but a favourable impression. The Khan has a scowling expression, keen, piercing black eyes, and a sharp hooked nose that reminded one forcibly of Cruikshank’s picture of Fagin the Jew in “Oliver Twist.”
The Khan was dressed in a long, loose, white garment, with red silk embroidery of beautiful workmanship. A thin white Cashmere shawl was thrown carelessly over his shoulders, and he wore a conical violet silk cap, trimmed with gold lace, and a pair of pointed green morocco slippers, turned up at the toes, and ornamented with the same material. A massive gold necklace, or collar, thickly studded with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires, hung round his neck. The stones, some of them of great size, were set indiscriminately without any regard to pattern or design. Mir Khudadad wore no other jewels, with the exception of three small torquoise rings, all worn on the little finger of the left hand. He carried no arms, but held in his right hand a large and very dirty pocket-handkerchief of a bright yellow hue with large red spots, which somewhat detracted from his regal appearance. The Khan is a great snuff-taker, and during the audience continually refreshed himself from the contents of a small gold box carried by his son. Prince Azim, who was dressed in a green silk jacket and loose magenta-coloured trousers, is a pleasant-mannered lad of about twenty. He is of much lighter complexion than his father and has a strong Jewish cast of feature. A huge cabochon emerald of great value, suspended from the neck, was Azim’s sole ornament.
[Illustration: PALACE OF THE KHAN. KELAT.]
A conversation now commenced, carried on through the medium of the Wazir and my interpreter. The Khan has a fidgety, uneasy manner that must be intensely exasperating to his court. More than once during the audience, having asked a question with much apparent earnestness, he would suddenly break in, in the middle of a reply, and hum a tune, or start off on a totally different subject from the one under discussion. At other times he would repeat a question twice or thrice, and, his eyes fixed on vacancy, utterly ignore the answers of the Wazir, who evidently stood in great awe of his eccentric sovereign. Though the following colloquy may appear brief to the reader, it took nearly an hour to get through.
“Where do you come from, and what are you?” was the Khan’s first question.
“From Russia, your Highness.”
“From Russia!” returned the Khan, quickly. “But you are English, are you not?”
“Certainly I am.”
“How strong is Russia’s army?” continued the Khan, after an application to the gold snuff box, and a trumpet-blast on the yellow bandanna.
“Nominally about three millions.”
“And England?”
“About two hundred thousand, not counting the reserves.”
“Humph!” grunted the Khan. “Tell me, do the English imagine that Abdur Raman [B] is their friend?”
“I believe so.”
“Then tell them from me,” cried the Khan, excitedly, half rising from his seat, “tell Queen Victoria from me that it is not so. Tell her to beware of Abdur Raman. He is her enemy.”
“Is England afraid of Russia?” continued the Khan after a long pause.
“No; the English fear no one.”
“Will England reach Kandahar before Russia takes Herat?”
“I really cannot say,” was my answer to this somewhat puzzling question.
Mir Khudadad then turned away to converse with the Wazir in a low tone. About ten minutes elapsed, during which a long confabulation was held, in which many of the suite, including the Afghan soldiers, joined. Prince Azim meanwhile invited me to inspect his sword and pistols. The former, a splendid Damascus blade, and hilt encrusted with jewels, I especially admired. Had I known the use to which it had been put that morning, I should not, perhaps, have been so enthusiastic.
Again the Khan addressed me.
“Do you know Russia well?”
“Pretty well.”
“Is it true that the Russians do not allow Mohammedans to worship in Central Asia?”
“I believe that is untrue.”
“It is a lie?”
“Most certainly it is.”
“Your own countrymen told me so.” At this there was a roar of laughter, in which the Khan joined.
The durbar-room of Kelat reminded me of an English court of justice. When the Khan laughed his courtiers did, and _vice versa_. After an interval of more snuff-taking and whispering, the Khan drew forth and examined my watch. Taking this for a polite hint that the interview had lasted long enough, I rose to go, but was at once thrust back into my chair by Azim. “You are not to go,” said the Wazir. “The Khan is much interested by you.”
“Dhuleep Singh is in Russia, is he not?” then asked the Khan.
“Yes.”
“What does Russia pay him a year?”
“I do not know.”
“More than England did?”
“I do not know.”
“You English never do know anything,” muttered the Khan, impatiently; adding, “Do you know the Czar of Russia?”
“I have seen him.”
“Is he a good man?”
“I believe him to be so.”
“Then why do his people try to kill him?”
“Some of them are Socialists.”
“Socialists!” repeated the Khan, slowly. “What is that?”
I then explained with some difficulty the meaning of the word.
“Humph!” was the rejoinder. Then, with a whisk of the yellow bandanna: “I am glad I have none in Kelat!”
A mark of great favour was then shown me, the Khan presenting me with his photograph, with the request that I would show it to “Parliament” when I got home. I think he was under the impression that the latter is a human being. An incident that occurred but two years since is typical of the intelligence of the ruler of Kelat and his court. It was at Quetta, on the occasion of the presentation of Mir Khudadad to the Viceroy of India. Previous to a grand _dejeuner_ given in his honour, the Khan and his suite were shown into a dressing-room for the purpose of washing their hands. On entering to announce that luncheon was ready, the aide-de-camp found that the distinguished guests had already commenced operations, and were greedily devouring the cakes of Pears’ soap that had been placed there for a somewhat different purpose. That none of the party felt any after ill effects speaks well for the purity of the wares of the mammoth advertiser–or the Baluch digestion!
The Khan shook my hand cordially at parting, and again begged me not to forget his warnings anent the Ameer of Afghanistan, with whom he is apparently not on the best of terms. I found, with some relief, that my Beila men had made friends with the Afghans, and, surrounded by an admiring crowd, were hobnobbing over a hissing samovar. One of the Afghans handed me a glass of tea, which, not to offend him, I drank and found delicious. It had come from China _via_ Siberia, Samarcand, and Cabul. “Russki!” said the man with a grin, as I handed back the cup.
The Khan of Kelat very rarely leaves his palace, and is seldom seen abroad in the streets of Kelat except on Fridays, when he goes to the mosque on foot, attended by an escort armed to the teeth. He is said to live in constant dread of assassination, for his cruel, rapacious character has made him universally detested in and around the capital. His one thought in life is money and the increase of his income, which, with the yearly sum allowed him by the British Government, may be put down at considerably over L30,000 per annum. A thorough miser, the Khan does not, like most Eastern potentates, pass the hours of night surrounded by the beauties of the harem, but securely locked in with his money-bags in a small, comfortless room on the roof of his palace.
[Illustration: THE KHAN OF KELAT]
There is not the smallest doubt in my mind that Russian influence is, indirectly, being brought to bear on the Court of Kelat. But Mir Khudadad may be said to have no policy. As the French say, “Il change sa nationalite comme je change de chemise,” and is to be bought by the highest bidder.
Although the Khan’s subjects are heavily taxed, there is no protection whatsoever of life or property in or around Kelat. Theft is, according to the penal code, punished by fine and imprisonment, murder and adultery by death; but the law is subject to great modifications. In a word, the Khan is the law, and so long as a man can afford to pay or bribe him handsomely, he may commit the most heinous offences with impunity.
Two instances of the way in which justice is carried out happened just before I arrived at Kelat. In the one, a young Baluch woman was found by her husband, a soldier, under circumstances which admitted no doubt of her infidelity. Upon discovery, which took place at night, the infuriated husband rushed off to the guard-house for his weapon. During his absence the woman urged her lover, who was well armed, to meet and slay him in the darkness. Under pretence of so doing the gay Lothario left his paramour, but, fearful of consequences, made off to Quetta.
On his return home the husband used no violence, simply handing his wife over to the guard to be dealt with according to law. Brought before the Khan the next day, she was lucky enough to find that monarch in a good temper. Her beauty probably obtained the free pardon accorded her, and an order that her husband was also to condone her offence. The latter said not a word, took her quietly home in the evening, and cut her throat from ear to ear. The Khan, on hearing of the murder next day, made no remonstrance, nor was the offender punished. He was an Afghan.
The second case is even more disgraceful. One of the Khan’s own suite, a well-known libertine and drunkard, contracted an alliance with a young girl of eighteen. He had endeavoured in vain to marry her younger sister, almost a child, and so beautiful that she was known for many miles round the city as the “Pearl of Kelat.”
Six weeks after marriage this ruffian, in a fit of drunken frenzy caused by jealousy, almost decapitated his wife with a tulwar, and afterwards mutilated her body past recognition. The shrieks of the poor woman having summoned the neighbours, he was seized, bound, and led before the Khan, who at once sentenced him to death. The execution was fixed for sunrise the following day. At midnight, however, a messenger appeared at the gates of the Mir with a canvas bag containing two thousand rupees. “Tell him he is free,” said the ruler of Kelat. “And if he sends in another thousand, I will _order_ the younger sister to marry him.” The money was paid, and the poor child handed over to the tender mercies of the human devil who had so ruthlessly butchered her sister.
I have mentioned that Azim Khan showed me a sword of beautiful workmanship. It had, the very morning of my visit to the palace, cut down and hacked to pieces a waiting-maid, not sixteen years old, in the Khan’s harem. I myself saw the corpse of the poor girl the same evening, as it was being carried outside the walls for interment. [C]
This, then, is the state of things existing at Kelat, not a hundred miles from the British outposts; this the enlightened sovereign who has been made “Companion of the Star of India,” an order which, among his own people, he affects to look upon with the greatest contempt.
The few women I saw at Kelat were distinctly good looking, far more so than those further south. Most of them have an Italian type of face, olive complexion, and large dark eyes, with sweeping lashes. But very few wore the hideous nose-rings so common at Beila and Sonmiani. Morality is at a discount in the capital, and prostitution common.
The Wazir sent me a bag of dates the morning of my departure, with a short note, written in English, begging that I would send him in return the best gold watch and rifle “that could be bought for gold” in London. The note ended jocosely, “Exchange is no robbery!” The old man seemed well _au fait_ with Central Asian affairs. On my mentioning the day before that I had intended entering India _via_ Cabul, he at once said, “Ah! I supposed Alikhanoff stopped you. He is very shy of strangers.”
We left Kelat at 6 a.m. on the 12th of April. The camels and heavy baggage had been sent on four or five hours previously to Mangachar, the first station. Our caravan now consisted of only eight camels, which we found reduced to seven on arrival. Just before daylight a couple of panthers had appeared close to the caravan and caused a regular stampede, the beasts flying right and left. On order being restored, two were found to be missing, one laden with the only small remaining tent and some native luggage, the other with a couple of cases of whisky (nearly empty) and my camp-stool. The former was traced and brought in after a search of over two hours, but the latter is still, for aught I know, careering over the boundless desert, an unconscious advertiser of “Jameson and Co.” I afterwards heard that this plain is noted for panther and wolf, also an animal called the “peshkori,” somewhat larger than a cat, with a reddish-coloured hide. It moves about the country in packs, carrying off deer and sheep. Its method of descending precipices and steep hillsides is curious, each animal fixing its teeth in the tail of another, thus forming a kind of chain.
The plain of Mangachar is situated nearly 6000 feet above sea-level, and is well cultivated with wheat, lucerne, and tobacco. The village itself is neatly laid out, and contains about three hundred inhabitants. The different aspects of the country north and south of Kelat are striking. We had now done with deserts for good, for at night lights were seen twinkling all over the plain, while in the daytime large tracts of well-cultivated land continually met the eye.
Between Mangachar and Mastung a hot wind arose, which made the eyes smart, and dried up the skin like a blast from a furnace. One’s hair felt as it does in the hottest room of a Turkish bath, with the unpleasant addition of being filled with fine gritty sand. “I hope this may not end in a juloh,” said Kamoo, anxiously. This, my interpreter proceeded to explain, is a hot poisonous wind peculiar to these districts, and perhaps the greatest danger run by travellers in Baluchistan. The warm breeze, as Kamoo called it, that we experienced was, though almost unbearable, not dangerous, while the dreaded juloh has slain its hundreds of victims. Cook, the traveller, who has given this subject much attention, has come to the conclusion that it is caused by the generation in the atmosphere of a highly concentrated form of ozone, by some intensely marked electrical condition. As evidence of its effect in destroying every green thing on its course, and in being frequently fatal to human life, he cites the following well-authenticated cases, which, not having encountered the death-dealing blast myself, I place before the reader:–
(1) In the year 1851, during one of the hot months, certain officers of the Sind Horse were sleeping at night on the roof of General Jacob’s house at Jacobabad. They were awakened by a sensation of suffocation and an exceedingly hot and oppressive feeling in the air, while at the same time a very powerful smell of sulphur was noticed. On the following morning a number of trees in the garden were found to be withered in a very remarkable manner. It looked as if a current of fire, about two yards in breadth, had passed through the garden in a perfectly straight line, singeing and destroying every green thing in its course. Entering on one side, and passing out at the other, its tract was as clearly defined as the course of a river.
(2) At the close of 1856 a party of five men were crossing the desert of Shikarpur, being on their way from Kandahar to that city, when the blast crossed their path, killing three of them instantly and seriously disabling the other two.
(3) A “moonshi” with two companions was travelling about seven miles south-east of Bagh, in Kachi (not far distant from Mangachar). About two o’clock the blast struck them. They were sensible of a scorching sensation in the air, accompanied by a peculiar sulphurous smell, but remembered nothing further, as all three were immediately struck to the ground. They were afterwards found and carried to Bagh, where, every attention being afforded them, they ultimately, after many days of sickness, recovered.
As regards the strength of the juloh, Pottinger writes that, so searching is its nature, it has been known to kill camels and other hardy animals, and its effects on the human frame are said by eye-witnesses to be the most agonizing and repulsive imaginable. Shortly after contact with the wind the muscles of the sufferer become rigid and contracted, the skin shrivels, a terrible sensation as if the skin were on fire pervades the whole frame, while, in the last stage, the skin cracks into deep gashes, producing haemorrhage, quickly followed by death. It is curious to note that the juloh is peculiar to the northern districts of Sarawan and Kach-Gandava, and does not exist in the southern provinces of Baluchistan.
The road from Mangachar to Mastung is good, though slightly undulating, and intersected by deep “nullahs.” The estimated area of the Mastung district is two hundred and eighty miles. It is aptly named “The Garden of Baluchistan,” for considerably more than two-thirds of its area are under cultivation. Water at Mastung is never-failing, and the pretty town, nestling in a valley of vineyards and fruit-gardens, fig and olive trees, reminded one more of some secluded town in the Pyrenees or south of France than a Baluch settlement. The soil hereabouts is light and sandy and particularly favourable to the cultivation of grapes, of which there are no less than five kinds. Apricots, peaches, plums, and pomegranates are also grown, and supply the markets of Quetta and Kelat. Madder and tobacco are also exported in large quantities from Mastung, which possesses a neatly built and busy bazaar.
The plain of Dasht-bi-Dowlat, or “The Unpropitious Plain,” lies between Mastung and Quetta. The name, however, only applies after the harvest has been gathered, for next to Mastung this is one of the most fertile spots in Baluchistan. Dasht-bi-Dowlat is mainly cultivated by wandering tribes. The inhabitants of Mastung were enthusiastic in their description of the plain in summer. Then, they told us, the surface is covered with verdure and flowers of all kinds, especially the “lala,” or tulip, which they averred cover it for miles with a carpet of crimson and gold, and load the air with sweet intoxicating perfume. The cultivation of this plain is mostly dependent on rain and heavy dews.
To the west of Dasht-bi-Dowlat is Chehel-Tan, a steep, rocky mountain, 13,000 feet high, in the ravines and valleys of which snow still lay deeply. Only two Europeans, Masson the traveller, and Sir Henry Green, have ever succeeded in reaching the summit, on which is a “Zariat,” or shrine. The ascent is difficult and dangerous, as, the mountain being said to be haunted, no native guides are procurable. The word “Chehel-Tan” signifies in Baluch “Forty Bodies,” and is derived from the following legend.
A frugal pair, many years married, were unblest with offspring. They therefore sought the advice of a holy man, who rebuked the wife, saying that he had not the power to grant her what Heaven had denied. The priest’s son, however (also a moullah), felt convinced he could satisfy her wishes, and cast forty pebbles into her lap, at the same time praying that she might bear children. In process of time she was delivered of forty babes–rather more than she wished or knew how to provide for. The poor husband, at his wits’ end, ascended to the summit of Chehel-Tan with thirty-nine, and left them there, trusting to the mercy of the Deity to provide for them, while the fortieth babe was brought up under the paternal roof.
One day, however, touched by remorse, the wife, unknown to her husband, explored the mountain with the object of collecting the bones of her children and burying them. To her surprise, they were all living and gambolling among the trees and rocks. Wild with joy, she ran back to her dwelling, brought out the fortieth babe, and, placing it on the summit of the mountain, left it there for a night to allure back its brothers, but, on returning in the morning, she found that the latter had carried it off, and it was never seen again. It is by the spirits of these forty babes that Chehel-Tan is said to be haunted.
At 8 a.m. on the 14th of April we sighted, afar off, an oasis on the dead green plain, of long barrack-like buildings, garden-girt bungalows, and white tents. We had reached our journey’s end. The church-bells were ringing as I rode into Quetta, for it was Sunday, and, unfortunately, a bright, fine morning. Had it been otherwise, I might have been spared the ordeal of riding, on a very dirty and attenuated camel, past a crowd of well-dressed women and frock-coated men on their way to church. As we passed a neat victoria, glistening with varnish, and drawn by a pair of good-looking, high-stepping ponies, containing a general in full uniform and a pretty, smartly dressed lady, I cast a glance behind me. Gerome, who brought up the rear of the caravan, had (for coolness) divested himself of boots and socks, and, sublimely unconscious, was refreshing himself from the contents of a large wicker flask. One cannot, unfortunately, urge on a camel or quicken his pace at these awkward moments, and I passed a very uncomfortable quarter of an hour before reaching the Dak bungalow. But a glance at a looking-glass reassured me. No one would ever have taken the brick-coloured, ragged-looking ruffians we had become for Europeans.
I accepted a kind and courteous invitation from Mr. L—-, of the Indo-European Telegraph, with pleasure, for the Dak bungalow was dirty and comfortless. Although my host and charming hostess would have made any place agreeable, Quetta is, from everything but a strategical point of view, dull and uninteresting. It is an English garrison town, and all is said. The usual nucleus of scandal, surrounded by dances, theatricals, polo, flirtation, drink, and–divorce. Are they not all alike from Gibraltar to Hong Kong?
Under the guidance of my host, however, a pleasant trip was made to the Khojak tunnel. When one considers the comparatively short time it has been in hand, it is almost incredible that, with so many difficulties (water, hard rock, etc.), this work should have progressed as it has. The tunnel, which runs due east and west, is, or will be, two miles and a half in length and three hundred and sixty-five feet in depth at the deepest part from the earth’s surface. From the eastern end only sixty-five miles over a firm and level plain separates it from Kandahar. Even when I was there, [D] a light line could have been laid to that city in six weeks without difficulty. The plant, rails, and sleepers were on the spot, having been carried over the hill, and a railway-carriage could then run from Calcutta to the eastern extremity of the tunnel without break of gauge. The tunnel, when completed, will be thirty-four feet broad, and twenty-five feet in height.
A curious incident happened at one of the railway-stations between Quetta and Karachi. At the buffet of the one in question, I found Gerome conversing volubly in Russian with a total stranger, a native. On inquiry I found he was a very old friend, a Russian subject and native of Samarcand. “He has just come through from Cabul,” said my companion. “He often does this journey”–ostensibly for purposes of trade.
The 20th of April saw us in Bombay. An Italian steamer, the _Venezia_, was leaving for the Black Sea direct, and in her I secured a passage for Gerome, who was not impressed with our Eastern possessions. The crowd of curious natives who persistently followed him everywhere may have had something to do with it, for a fur-clad Esquimaux in Piccadilly would not have created a greater sensation than my companion in high boots, black velvet breeches, and red caftan in the busy streets of the great Indian city. Only a Russian could have existed in that blazing sun with no other protection to the head than the astrachan bonnet, which he obstinately refused to discard. I saw him safely on board, and something very like a tear came into my trusty little friend’s eyes, as we shook hands and parted, to meet, perhaps, never again. For a better companion no man could wish. Plucky, honest as the day, and tender-hearted as a woman was Gerome Realini; and it was with a feeling of loneliness and sincere regret that I watched the grey smoke of the _Venezia_ sink below the blue waters, which were soon to bear me, also, back to England and European civilization.
Has the journey been worth it? Has the result repaid one for the cold, dirt, and privation of Persia, the torrid heat and long desert marches through Baluchistan? Perhaps not. There are some pleasant hours, however, to look back upon. Kashan, a vision of golden domes and dim, picturesque caravanserais; Ispahan, with its stately Madrassa and blue Zandarood, winding lazily through miles on miles of white and scarlet poppyland; Shiraz, a dream of fair women, poetry, and roses, in its setting of emerald plain, sweet-scented gardens, and cypress trees. These, at any rate, are bright oases in that somewhat dreary ride from Teheran to the sea. And then–nearing India–the quiet midday siesta after the hot dusty march; the _al fresco_ repast by the light of a glorious sunset, and the welcome rest and fragrant pipe in the cool night air of the silent, starlit desert.
[Footnote A: Parts of this palace are of great antiquity, as it owes its foundation to the Hindu kings who preceded the Mohammedan dynasty.]
[Footnote B: The Ameer of Afghanistan.]
[Footnote C: I am not at liberty to give the name of my authority for these facts. The reader may rely on their authenticity.]
[Footnote D: April, 1889. The boring of the tunnel is now accomplished.]
APPENDIX A.
LIST OF STATIONS AND DISTANCES FROM RESHT TO BUSHIRE, PERSIA.
English
Miles.
Resht —
Koudoum———– 20
Rustemabad——- 20
Menjil————— 12 Patchinar———– 8
Kharzan————- 16
Kazvin————— 24 Kavarek————- 16
Kishlak————- 16
Yengi-Imam——- 16
Hessarek———- 16
Shahabad———- 16
_Teheran_———- 16
Rabat Kerim——- 28
Pitche———– 24
Kushku Baira—— 16
Mahometabad—— 28
_Koom_————— 16 Pasingan————- 16
Sin-sin————— 28 _Kashan_———— 24
Khurood———— 28
Bideshk————– 24 Murchakhar——– 24
_Gez_—————– 24 _Ispahan_———— 12
Djulfa—————– 3
Carried forward—————— 491 Brought forward—————– 491
Marg—————— 12
Mayar—————– 24 Koomishah———- 20
Magsogh-Beg——- 16
Yezdi-Ghazt——— 24
Shoulgistan——— 24
Abadeh————— 20 Sourmah————- 16
Khina-Khoreh—— 28
Deybid————— 20 Mourghab———— 28
Kawamabad———- 24
Sivand————– 8
Poozeh————– 16
Zergoon———— 20
Shiraz————– 20
Chinar-Rada—– 8
Khaneh Zinian— 24
Dashti Arjin——- 12
Meyun Kotal—— 12
Kazeroon———- 20
Kamarij———— 24
Konar Takta—— 12
Dalaki————– 12
Borazjun——- 16
Sheif————– 28
———–
979
From Sheif to Bushire by sea 7
Total English miles 986
APPENDIX B.
ROUTE–SONMIANI TO QUETTA.