Chapter XI: Life in Turkestan

General Nassir Khan. The Story of the Shield. The Belgian’s
Request. Escape of Allah Nûr: his Capture. The Amîr’s Decision.
The Turkestan Commander-in-Chief. Operation on Allah Nûr. The
Armenian’s Comments. Illness of Hadji Jan Mahomed. The Haughty
Colonel: further comments by the Armenian. Sundry Acquaintances.
Excursion to Takh-ta-Pûl. Fortune-telling among the Afghans. The
Policeman-cook and the Lunch. Balkh. The Mosque at Mazar-i-Sherif
and its Miracles. Called to His Highness. The Cool-air Pavilion:
evil results of the same. Illness of the British Agent: the
Armenian’s advice: the Answer from the Amîr. Brigadier Hadji-Gul
Khan. Afghan Endurance of Suffering. The Country Cousin among the
Court Pages. Euclid and Cards.

A few days after this I was sent for to see General Nassir Khan, who was sick. He was a bent old man, but had been, I heard, a tiger to fight. He was with the Amîr during His Highness’s exile in Asiatic Russia. They said that he entered the Russian service, and rose to the rank of Colonel. He did not, however, forget his master, for he sent the greater part of his pay to the Amîr, retaining only enough for bare necessaries. Concerning this old man, I heard a little story, which throws a side-light on the Amîr, and may therefore be interesting.

[Sidenote: The Story of the Shield.]

There had been brought to His Highness, as a present, a very beautiful shield inlaid with gold. This was when he had come to the throne, and was Amîr.

Everyone in the Durbar Hall feasted his eyes upon this beautiful thing, and the courtiers edged anxiously nearer the royal chair, in the hope that “Amîr Sahib” might perhaps, as he sometimes did, bestow a present upon a “faithful and deserving slave.” The Amîr slowly cast his eyes round the ring, and each heart beat high, as the Amîr’s eyes rested a moment on this man or that. Suddenly, the Amîr called out,

“Nassir, Pesh biár,” “come forward.”

Out of a far corner came Nassir. The Amîr turned to the anxious circle, and said,

“Look upon this man. He was with me in Samarcànd.” The hearts of the courtiers sank; Nassir, then, was to be the recipient of the shield.

“He was with me in Samarcànd, and for a little thing he turned and cursed me. These were his words”--and the Amîr repeated the curse. “Is this so?” he said to Nassir. The old man hung his head in shame.

“He cursed me; he half drew his sword on me, his master. What is this man worthy of?”

There was a dead silence: the shield was forgotten, for behold Nassir’s day had come. It had; but not in the sense anticipated.

“Give him the shield,” said the Amîr. “He was with me in Samarcànd.”

I should finish the story by saying Nassir treasured the shield as the apple of his eye, and shewed it me with honest pride--but no, he sold it next day for what it would fetch. Afghanistan!

When I went to see him he was suffering from lumbago. He was a courtly old man, and he gave me black tea to drink, in a Russian tea-glass.

I saw him at the Court, some time afterwards, and he came up to speak to me. He had a stoop in his shoulders, and the tailor had not cut his tunic properly, so that he had unbuttoned the top two or three buttons to release his throat. It was a gorgeous tunic, richly embroidered with gold; his sword-belt and scabbard were loaded with plates of solid gold, and he had an old-fashioned bowler hat, too large for him, on the back of his head. I was sorry. It took so from the dignity of his appearance; at least in my eyes: not so in the eyes of the Afghans, to them it was quite _en règle_.

Shortly after my visit to the general, I developed, from being constantly among the sick, a “Hospital throat,” and had to stop at home for a day or two. His Highness sent me a very kind message of condolence; and while I was at home there was brought to me, from the Post Office, a post card written in French and addressed to the “Postmaster-General, Afghanistan.” The Amîr wished to know what was written. I found the card came from the Postmaster of some small Belgian town. It was a proposal on his part to the Postmaster-General of Afghanistan to exchange “stamps.” He was, he explained, a “stamp collector.” With the help of the Armenian I sent a Persian translation to His Highness. The Amîr directed me to write and enquire what was the colour of the stamps the collector required: on receipt of his answer they would be forwarded to him. I imagine His Highness considered that the collection was more for artistic effect than on account of the intrinsic value of the stamps. The Belgian received his stamps in due time.

Just at this time, too, I received a letter from the Editor of one of the Indian papers asking me to contribute a series of articles on Afghanistan. As, however, I was in the service of the Amîr I did not feel justified in doing so, and was compelled to leave the letter unanswered.

[Sidenote: The Escape of Allah Nûr.]

Another incident also occurred. There was in the Hospital a soldier named Allah Nûr. He was suffering from disease of the elbow, which had advanced to such a degree that the joint was completely disorganized. The Hakims had promised to cure him by the application of ointments. I explained to him, however, that this was impossible, and that the only remedy was to remove the arm. Poor Allah Nûr had been ill a long time: he was much reduced by pain and constant discharge, and he begged me from day to day to postpone the operation. He explained his dread of the knife, of which he seemed ashamed, by calling attention to his pitiable state of weakness. When I was laid up with my throat he seized the opportunity one night to make his escape from the Hospital: he got on a donkey which some kind friend had provided, and managed to reach a place called Takh-ta-Pul, some three or four miles off, before he was captured.

The next morning he was brought back and taken before the Amîr. His Highness said:--

“A child or a fool is he who runs from his Physician.”

He sent for a probe and proceeded to examine the joint.

“Without doubt the limb must come off,” said he.

“Barâie Khuda!” said Allah Nûr.

“Be silent!” said the Amîr.

“For God’s sake, do not. My Lord----”

The Amîr reached out his Royal hand and boxed his ear. Allah Nûr was conducted back to the Hospital. That afternoon, my throat being better, I attended the military Durbar. His Highness discussed with me the case of Allah Nûr, advising amputation.

“It would appear wise, however,” said he, “considering the man’s condition of weakness, to postpone the operation for a few days, feeding him meanwhile on strong soups and administering ‘Portwein.’”

I need not say that I entirely concurred.

His Highness then spoke of other matters. He explained why he walked so little and was carried from place to place in his palanquin. It was on account of the pain he suffered from chronic sciatica. The horses reserved for his riding were chosen for their steadiness, and he had ordered them to be led about the streets after dark to cure them of any habit they might have of shying. In moving, even from one chair to another, he found the assistance of a walking-stick necessary. He spoke also very kindly to me concerning my professional work, and finally asked me to visit an old friend of his who was sick--the Hadji Jan Mahomed.

Things were going well with me evidently, for directly the Durbar was over the Commander-in-Chief in Turkestan came up to speak to me and we walked out of the Palace gardens hand-in-hand:--I hate walking hand-in-hand with a man. He was very chatty, and asked me to visit a Colonel of his who was ill. The name of the Turkestan Commander-in-Chief was Gholam Hydar, but he was a man of a much smaller frame than his namesake the Commander-in-Chief in Kabul. Also he bore a most startling resemblance to Dr. Lauder Brunton, F.R.S., the London Physician. No two brothers could be more alike. They were the same build. The very beard and moustache were trimmed in the same fashion. The only difference I could see was that Dr. Brunton is fair and the Suparsalar Gholam Hydar Khan was dark. I had, therefore, from the beginning a pre-disposition in favour of Gholam Hydar on account of his resemblance to my former teacher.

[Sidenote: The Operation on Allah Nûr.]

The next morning on arriving at the Hospital I found Allah Nûr only too ready to have his arm amputated. While he had been away from the Hospital the flies in that hot climate had found access to the sore, and there were maggots squirming about in the joint. It was very horrible. There was no postponing the operation now.

We had no operating table, and Allah Nûr was laid on a mound of earth in the shade of a tree in the garden. I arranged the instruments near and took off my turban lest it should obstruct my view at a critical moment. I put the man under chloroform, screwed up the tourniquet, and ordered the Armenian to hold the arm steady. There were two or three sweeping cuts, the grate of the saw, and the arm was off midway between shoulder and elbow.

The Afghans in the Hospital made an interested ring of spectators. One of the Hindustanis, however, nearly fainted, and the Armenian said:

“Sir, I very glad you quick, my head is go round and round, and my eye is like I drink a bottle of brandy and a bottle of rum mixed--all is blood!” I did not ask him to help in an operation again.

After dressing the stump and seeing that Allah Nûr had recovered properly from the chloroform and was comfortable, I rode off to see His Highness’s old friend, the Hadji Jan Mahomed.

I found that the Hadji lived in a typical Turkestan house in the outskirts of the town. There was the row of isolated dome-shaped rooms or houses side by side, and in front a large garden almost entirely covered with grape vines. These ran along ridges of earth about six feet apart, each being some three feet high and six feet wide.

The Hadji was a venerable-looking old fellow of about seventy, with a long white beard. He was of the same tribe as His Highness--the Barakzai Durani.

After tea and fruit had been brought, and we had had some general conversation, the Hadji informed me that he had lately arrived from Bokhara, and was suffering from a disease of the leg that is prevalent in that district. On examination I found he was suffering from “Guinea worm,” a thread-like creature some two or three feet long, that burrows through the tissues of the body, generally infesting the feet and legs. The treatment adopted at the present day is the same as that pursued by the old Persian surgeons, who extracted the worm by gentle and continuous traction, winding the exposed end of the worm round a small stick of ivory, bone or wood. If the worm is broken, local and even severe constitutional mischief is apt to ensue, and this is what had happened to the Hadji. The attempt to extract the worm had been unsuccessful, it had been broken. He had been exceedingly ill, he said; and I found a large burrowing chronic abscess above the right knee. It was a troublesome case, and I visited him several times. At last, one day I had the good fortune to detect the broken end of the worm, and with the greatest gentleness and care managed to extract it. The leg then soon healed.

[Sidenote: The Haughty Colonel.]

After I had visited the Hadji, who, by the way, presented me with half a pound of Orange Pekoe, I went to see the young Colonel whom the Commander-in-Chief had asked me to visit. His house was not very far from the Palace gardens, and I found him seated on a charpoy under the trees in his garden: one or two friends and a Hakim sat with him. He was a small dark man with a haughty expression, but he looked very ill. He had had fever, but was now suffering from suppuration of the parotid, so that he had a great unbroken abscess in his cheek and neck.

I examined him carefully and decided that the abscess should be opened without delay. He did not, however, view the suggestion with any favour. He told me, very politely, that he should prefer applying certain ointments that had been advised by his friend the Hakim. I do not remember the name of the Hakim. He was one of the minor practitioners whom I really never took note of.

The Colonel also explained that should the ointment not have the desired effect, he would wish to try the efficacy of prayer. After this, what was there to be said? I bowed, refused the tea he politely offered, and begged permission to withdraw.

Coming away I said to the Armenian:--

“What infernal nonsense it is calling me to fellows like that.”

“Yes, sir,” said the Armenian, “he is fool man. And that Hakim! he is nothing. His _father_ cannot sit in your presence.” This was soothing, perhaps. As we were going home I met little Mahomed Omer, son of Perwana Khan, the Deputy Commander-in-Chief in Kabul. He was a bright little lad of about thirteen. His face was distinctly of the Tartar type. We grew very friendly, and he often came with his tutor or “Lala” to see me. I gave him my felt hat, and he walked about proudly with it over his ears.

[Sidenote: A Day at Takh-ta-Pul.]

Soon after this I went to Takh-ta-Pul, the place where my friend Allah Nûr had escaped to, in order to inspect the hospital there. The Commander-in-Chief sent a Captain--Seyd Hussain--a huge Afghan hillman, some six feet three inches high, to accompany me, so one morning he and I and the Armenian and some servants rode off together. Seyd Hussain was quite a friend of mine; he came very often to see me, and afterwards said such polite things, that the Commander-in-Chief used to call him my “son.” We took about an hour over our ride: it was so excessively hot. When we arrived at Takh-ta-Pul, I called upon the Commander-in-Chief, who was there for a few days, had tea with him, and was then conducted to a house prepared for me. I was shown into an upper chamber, carpeted and decorated, which overlooked the garden, a large square one with trees and flowers, and commanded a view of the town and the distant mountains.

My “son” came too, and five or six others, including the Armenian, to amuse me. They sang songs, told stories, and the captain read my future in the palm of my hand: I was surprised to find palmistry an Afghan accomplishment. He told me I should have two severe illnesses in the country, but should return to my native land in safety. We had grapes and tea, and, at about one o’clock, tiffin or lunch. There was roast mutton, I remember, exceedingly oily, which one of my servants, the groom, had cooked for me. This gentleman, whom I had picked up--or rather the Armenian had picked up for me--in Turkestan, was a Peshawuri. He had been a policeman in Burma, he said. He also said he could make a pudding; and he did, a watery rice pudding. Then a pillow was brought, and I lay on the floor and slept for an hour. After that we had more songs and stories, and at six, when the heat of the day had gone, I called again on the Commander-in-Chief and had more tea. He wished me to stay the night, but I remembered I had not inspected the Hospital yet, besides, for all I knew, the Amîr might want me. I decided therefore not to stop.

We started off for the Hospital, which was a little way out of the town. It was precisely like that of Mazar, except that there were only five or six patients in it. These were looked after by a Hakim. In the evening the Captain, the Armenian, and I rode back to Mazar, and I prepared my report for the Amîr. One thing I often regret: it is that I did not at this time act on the Armenian’s suggestion and ride to the ancient city Balkh, which was only some six or seven miles beyond Takh-ta-Pul. However, I had the feeling that I had taken a day off at Takh-ta-Pul, and must not waste any more time when there were so many sick waiting for treatment. Balkh, “the mother of cities,” is situated in a province capable of great cultivation, and was a flourishing city in the time of Alexander the Great. The population, however, was so nearly exterminated by Ghengis Khan, and again by Tamerlane and his successors, that it is doubtful whether it will ever again recover even a moiety of its former importance.

There is at Mazar-i-Sherif a great Mosque or Temple, from which the town takes its name. It is a huge ornate building with minarets, and a lofty cupola built of a shining blue stone. It is held in veneration by all Mussulmans, but more especially by the sect of Shiahs. The Mosque contains a tomb which is supposed to be that of Ali, son-in-law of Mahomed, though some European authorities consider that Ali was buried near Baghdad. Be that as it may, the Mosque possesses considerable revenues, the gifts of wealthy votaries and other pious people, which are used to feed the crowds of indigent pilgrims who, at certain times in the year, flock in great numbers to Mazar. Moreover, the remains of Ali, or whoever the gentleman may be, are capable of working miracles of no mean order. They restore sight to the blind, hearing to the deaf, and health to the sick. During one of the religious festivals which occurred while I was in Turkestan, there were no less than five men whose sight had been restored by their pilgrimage to the Mosque! I know this is true, for the Amîr told me so himself!

[Sidenote: The Amîr’s Cool-air Pavilion.]

One morning His Highness sent for me to examine his ear. He fancied he had some insect in it. This was in July, and the weather was very hot. I found His Highness seated in a small circular pavilion in the Palace garden. I had often wondered what this little building was. It was a cool-air chamber. There was a door and one window. This window was filled in with interlaced branches of an aromatic shrub; water from a gutter trickled over the lattice work, and a current of air was driven in by a paddlewheel fan, which a man outside worked with a handle. I was ushered into the semi-darkness of the room; I bowed, and a chair was placed midway between the door and the window in an awful draught. After the hot dry air of the outside this horrible little room felt like an ice well. I literally shivered, and there sat His Highness in the full draught, and, what is most unusual, without a head covering.

It was too dark in the Pavilion to see the condition of the ear, and His Highness at once consented to come out into the open. A chair was brought, and His Highness sat with bare head in the blazing sun. “Surely there is danger of sunstroke,” I thought.

I begged permission to put on my helmet, saying I was afraid of the sun. I thought His Highness might then cover his own head; no, he did not seem to mind the heat. I examined the ear with the speculum and found nothing in it. He had, however, a slight catarrh of the throat and of the Eustachian tube leading from the throat to the inner ear. I pointed out the danger of exposing the body while the skin is acting freely to a draught of cold damp air; and indicated the line of treatment I should adopt if I were to attend to the ear. His Highness coincided with my views, said that he had the medicines I spoke of, and should certainly try them. It struck me that all he wanted really was to know if there were anything in his ear: he had not asked me to prescribe for him.

I heard that His Highness spoke highly of me after I left. I think he was not yet prepared to place himself entirely in my hands, and I had not forced him into the uncomfortable position of having to refuse my treatment and, therefore, appear somewhat discourteous.

There is, in this part of Turkestan, a disease which bears a strong resemblance to the so-called Delhi boil--or, more correctly, Delhi ulcer. It was exceedingly prevalent while I was in Turkestan, and after trying various remedies ineffectually I hit upon one which had a marked beneficial effect. Formerly, the ulcers--which appear on the exposed parts of the body, the hands, feet, and face--were very intractable and rarely healed in less than a year. Under the popular native treatment they sometimes attained enormous proportions, and became covered with most exuberant granulations--great mounds of proud flesh: now they healed rapidly in a month, or less, according to the size, so that I gained a sort of reputation in this line. One day the British Agent, Colonel Attaullah Khan, sent his Secretary to ask me to visit him, as he was suffering from one of these sores upon his heel, and his own Hindustani medical attendant had been unsuccessful in giving him relief.

I said, certainly, I would come, and was pulling on my boots, when the Armenian said:--

“Sir, please you kind, a little you wait.”

“What for?” said I, with a boot half on.

“First, I write to Amîr Sahib and ask; then you go or you not go, as he says. You Amîr Sahib’s servant.”

“Well, but----” However, I thought there was no harm in his writing at any rate, and I waited. His Highness’s answer arrived.

[Sidenote: The Amîr’s Answer.]

He acknowledged the receipt of my letter of such a date, in which I asked--Had I the Royal permission to visit--and so on. He was deeply grieved on account of the illness of the Sirdar, for whom he had the greatest affection and respect, but there were weighty matters to consider. I, though an Englishman, was his servant. If, through an unforeseen calamity God should strike the Sirdar, while under my medical care, with an illness more severe than the present one, or, God forbid, even with death, then the honourable Government of England might consider in their wisdom that I, his servant, instigated by evil men, had worked harm upon the Sirdar.

The gist of it was, that whatever His Highness’s reason might be, he did not wish me to attend the Agent. I therefore sent my apologies. At the next Durbar His Highness appeared pleased that I had asked his permission before visiting the Agent, and he entered more fully, though on the same lines, into his reasons for refusing permission.

That afternoon a Brigadier named Hadji Gul Khan, with his Staff, called upon me at my house. They all came in, about a dozen of them, and the Brigadier, in a hearty sort of way, shook hands and asked how I was. I was surprised, as he was quite a stranger to me, though it is possible I was not so to him. He was a relative of the Amîr’s, a Barukzai Durani: he had called to ask if I would attend to one of his soldiers who had a disease of the leg. I said, “With pleasure, which is he?”

“This is the man.”

I examined him, and found he had a fatty tumour on the outer side of the right thigh. I said--

“It will be necessary to remove this swelling with the knife. It consists of a mass of fat.”

“Bisyar khôb,” said the Brigadier; “very good; remove it.”

“Kai?” said I. “When?”

“Hala,” said he. “Now.”

“Certainly; come into the other room,” for I did not want to spoil my beautiful carpets. I was short of chloroform, and I said to the Armenian,

“Tell the man I shall hurt him.” The man said,

“Khair ast, it is nothing. Tell the Doctor Sahib, if he cut me to pieces I shall not speak.”

“O, all right,” I said, “tell him to lie on the ground.” He lay down. I made a longitudinal incision over the tumour, and proceeded to dissect it out. It must have been very painful, but the man said nothing, neither did I; but the bystanders, when the mass of yellowish white fat appeared between the edges of the wound, exclaimed, “Wah! wah!” in excited admiration.

I bandaged the leg, and the soldier walked back to his barracks. He had to be in bed, however, for some time afterwards. We were very good friends after that--the soldier and I. I am sure I don’t know why, except that I admired his pluck, and had hurt him.

[Sidenote: The Country Cousin among the Court Pages.]

I called on the Hadji Jan Mahomed again, and found his young son there. Both the Hadji and his son kept to the pure Afghan costume, with the turban and picturesque flowing robes. The boy afterwards became a Court Page, but he looked very out of place among the Europeanized youngsters who swaggered about at the Palace. He looked out of date and countryfied in his robes, and he felt it. I noticed when I was at the Hadji’s what beautiful feet he and his son had: they were like the feet of a Greek statue. The toes had shape. They were not degenerated like ours, by descent through a boot-wearing ancestry.

One of the Pages lived next door to me; he was an ugly little beggar, but rather amusing, and the Armenian suggested one evening, to while away an hour, that we should go and see him. He was hard at work puzzling over Euclid. It seemed very odd to see the well-known diagrams in the midst of Persian writing. We played cards--a sort of three-handed whist--and other games. They taught them to me, but I have completely forgotten how they were played. The cards used were just the same as those we have, except that they were cheap ones, made in Germany, and were exceedingly dirty.

Another Page-boy lived opposite; next door to the Mirza Abdur Rashid. He was an exceedingly pretty boy, and was, in consequence, very gorgeously dressed in a scarlet and gold uniform and Kashmîr turban. Personal beauty is a fairly certain cause of rapid promotion at the Amîr’s Court. Some of the Court Pages are the sons of nobles, of officers, or of wealthy men. Others are slaves.