Chapter XIII: The Birth of Prince Mahomed Omer

Hazara slaves, Kaffir slaves, and others. The slave boys at the
Palace. Court Pages. High positions occupied by slaves. Treatment
of slaves in Kabul. The slave boy and the Son. Price of slaves.
Wife and children of Hazara Chief in slavery. Hazara slaves a
glut in the market. Illness of the Hostage of an Afghan Chief.
Abdur Rashid down with fever. Own illness and the aches thereof.
The British Agent’s postal arrangements. Occasional fate of the
letters. Postage in Afghanistan. Power of annoying possessed by
Interpreters. The Chief Bugler. The Page boy and the Sirdar.
Outrageous conduct: the punishment. The Page boy and the Amîr: the
result. The uproar on September 15th: the cause. The bearer of good
tidings. Congratulations to the Sultana. The crowd outside the
Harem Serai. The Sultana’s reply. Matter of succession complicated.
Display of fireworks: the accident. Surgical operations. The Priest
with a blemish: his request. The Amîr’s reply. The operation. The
Mirza’s comments.

I was speaking of the slaves of Kabul when the subject of the peoples inhabiting the country presented itself. Just now the majority of slaves in Afghanistan are Hazaras, probably because they have lately been fighting against the Amîr.

There are also children and women taken prisoners from other rebellious tribes, and Kaffir slaves kidnapped as children from Kaffristan. A batch of the former were brought to Mazar while I was there. His Highness took about a dozen. They were good-looking boys of the Persian type, and I was told they came from the direction of Maimana, to the north-west of Afghanistan towards Panjdeh. No one understood their language. It was not ordinary Pushtu, nor Turki, nor Persian. They, however, picked up Persian very quickly.

[Sidenote: Slaves in High Positions.]

The slave boys at the Palace are placed under the care of one official whose duty it is to look after their comfort and train them in their several duties. They are really Court Pages, and their work is shared by the sons of nobles and gentlemen. A slave boy, if he has beauty, ability, and fidelity--a rare combination, perhaps--can rise to the highest positions under the Government.

One whom I knew, holding a very high position in the Afghan army, was sold by the Amîr when he was in exile in Russia. The man ran away from his master, and found his way back to the Amîr; again he was sold and again escaped. He returned to Afghanistan with the Amîr and was raised to high estate. He was a kindly man, but, in spite of his dog-like fidelity to the Amîr, was not of strong character. I do not know of what nationality he was: I was told that he was not an Afghan, but came from the north-east. His son was distinctly of the Tartar type, though he himself had more the regular features of the Persian. I saw in the newspapers a short time ago that he was dead.

Two others I knew, slaves, holding high positions in the Amîr’s service, who were with him in Russian Turkestan. His Highness will forgive much in these men, and punish but lightly shortcomings on their part.

As regards the treatment of the slaves in Kabul, it is simply a question of property: a man has the power to sell, kill, or do as he pleases with his slave; but, speaking generally, the slaves are well-treated, especially among the upper classes. Sometimes it is impossible to tell from their appearance which is a man’s slave-boy and which is his son.

In Mazar, two boys used often to come and see me: they were dressed very much alike, in gold embroidered tunics, and each had a little revolver. I heard one of them was a slave, but for a long time I thought the slave was the son. He was an amusing little fellow, quick at repartee; but he lacked the dignity of the other--the almost mournful quality of which made me think he was the slave.

[Sidenote: Hazara Slaves a Glut in the Market.]

The price of slaves varies according to their quality: ordinarily it is thirty rupees the span: by span I mean the distance from the outer side of one hand to the outer side of the other when, with the fingers closed, the thumbs are extended to their utmost, the tips touching. This is roughly about a foot, so that a baby that length would cost thirty rupees. However, in Kabul, a short time ago, a Hazara baby was bought for half-a-crown; the purchaser got the mother for fifteen shillings, and a little boy of six for five shillings. This woman, with her children, were the family of a Hazara of wealth and position. Unfortunately the tribe rebelled; the men were mostly killed, and the women and children became a glut in the market. Some time after the purchase I was asked to examine the small boy of six medically. He had been ill about ten days, and a Hakim had been called to attend him. The case had been diagnosed as typhoid fever--and the opinion given that the child was improving. I found the child had meningitis, or inflammation of the membranes of the brain. He died the same night: a sheer loss of five shillings to the owner.

I saw the mother during my visit, she was a good-looking woman for a Hazara. She did not make much disturbance at the death of the child, at any rate while I was in the house. She seemed more stunned than anything else.

Recently in Kabul it was a very common sight to see a gang of Hazara women, with their unveiled faces and their dingy blue dresses, ragged and dirty, conducted through the town by a small guard of soldiers with bayonets fixed. As the war progressed they became so plentiful that His Highness would often reward a faithful servant or officer by presenting him with one or more as an addition to his Harem.

I had been in Turkestan some three months when I was sent for one morning to see a young man, the brother of one of the few remaining powerful Afghan chiefs. Most of the others have been “expunged.” As a rule I did not visit the sick at their homes unless I received an order from His Highness to do so, or unless some one I knew personally sent for me to visit him. This young man, however, was a friend of the Armenian’s. His brother’s territory lay not very far from the British frontier, and he himself was a hostage with the Amîr for the good behaviour of his brother, the Chief. I found he had malarial fever very severely. When I returned home my neighbour opposite, the Mirza Abdur Rashid, sent for me to see him. He also was down with the fever. I prescribed for them both.

The next morning I felt rather ill myself, but started about eight to see the Chief’s brother again. The sun seemed frightfully scorching that morning, it was August, and presently the headache I had grew so intense that each step was agony.

I gave in at last, and turned my horse home again. I went into the inner room and sat on the charpoy. The Armenian shut all the doors and windows to keep out the heat, and propped me against the wall with pillows. Then the backache began. Oh, my bones! I was one great ache. The Armenian had seen the treatment I put others under, and he weighed out the medicines and brought them to me. I was too stupid with fever and aches to care what I took.

Just then the British Agent’s Secretary, Amin Ullah, was announced. He was an interesting man, but I was compelled to greet him with lugubrious groans. He brought me five home letters, which my aching eyeballs would not allow me to read.

[Sidenote: Postal Arrangements for the British Agent.]

I used to send my letters through the Agent’s post in those days. He had a separate compartment in the Amîr’s post-bag which, by arrangement between the Government and His Highness, was locked and sealed. Once or twice the letters did not reach their destination, and it was said that some of the wild hillmen had pounced on the postman and carried off his bag. They might do the same to anyone carrying a bag, but it was never found out who were the robbers. Afterwards, I did not send my letters through the Agent’s post, but sent them direct to the Amîr’s post-office. His Highness allowed me to send and receive three letters monthly, free of postage. This was not so small a matter as it seems, seeing that in Turkestan the postage of each letter came to rather more than its weight in silver. All I had to do, therefore, was to stick on an Indian stamp. I found my letters arrived about as safely through the Amîr’s post as through the Agent’s, at any rate for some years. Afterwards, when we came to Kabul, I found there an Interpreter, a Hindustani, who was in favour with the Prince. He tried hard to get on as Interpreter for me; thinking, probably, that baksheesh from the patients could be worked; as I would not have him, he proceeded to intrigue against me. I did not take much notice of the man, knowing that he could not do much harm. However, he succeeded in getting hold of some of my home letters, which was sufficiently annoying, and once he placed me and the other Englishmen in Kabul in a position of no little danger: how this occurred I will relate presently.

I got well of the fever in about a fortnight, and then I heard that both the Chief’s brother and the Mirza Abdur Rashid were still ill. I had thought that, of course, the medicine I had prescribed had been given them every day. No, everything was at a standstill, both with them and at the Hospital, just as I had left it a fortnight before; this is so truly Oriental.

I, of course, visited them, and they rapidly got well under quinine.

At this time His Highness requested me to visit one of the page boys, the son of a former Commander-in-Chief at Herat, who was sick. He was a smart lad of about fifteen; in appearance very like an English boy. His house was just opposite a low tower where the chief bugler took his stand morning and evening to sound the royal salute. As I visited the boy when my day’s work was done, I was generally in his house when the evening salute was sounded. The bugler was a stout red-bearded man with blue eyes: he looked just like an Irishman. But however much these men may look like English and Irish, closer acquaintance shows how strongly contrasted the Oriental is with the Occidental. The boy recovered in due time, but there is a story about him, an incident that occurred a year or two later, while I was in the country, which may be interesting.

[Sidenote: The Page Boy and the Sirdar.]

The boy was not a bad sort of boy--he looked English--and we were very good friends, so that I quite enjoyed my visits to his house--but he was an Afghan. One day the Sirdar Gholam Hussain, the dignified man who has charge of His Highness’s food, directed the boy to perform some slight task, I forget what, and the boy bluntly refused. The Sirdar spoke sharply to him, but the boy apparently resented being spoken to, for he at once drew his revolver and shot at the Sirdar; he missed, and whipping out his sword he rushed on him. The Sirdar warded off the blow and threw the boy down. He was brought before the Amîr. In consequence of his former behaviour--he had been rather a favourite with the Amîr--and on account of the services his father, who was dead, had rendered the Amîr--his punishment was remitted to the extent of a severe caning, and he was discharged from the Court for a time and sent back to Herat.

Some months later he was recalled. This was not the end of his adventures, for soon after his return he objected to the smallness of the pay he received as page. The Amîr increased it somewhat. The lad, apparently presuming upon the Amîr’s remarkable forbearance, again expressed discontent. His Highness is not a man to be played with. He was exceedingly angry, and the punishment was proportionately severe. The boy was degraded and sent to jail in Kabul. This is a horrible place, and they who enter it are often never seen again. However, when we returned to Kabul, I met a gang of prisoners in chains returning to jail after the day’s work in the arm foundry: the boy was among them; but he covered his face as I rode by. He was in prison about two years. I met him one day after he was released. He looked very haggard and old, not at all like the boy I had known in Turkestan. I pulled up to speak to him, but he seemed even then to wish to escape observation, so that I merely said, “Jour-asti? Are you well?” and rode on again.

The Chief’s brother, when he became quite well, came very often to see me. He was a handsome fellow, and I made a sketch or two of him in my note-book. He had a great desire to learn drawing, but he was never any good at it. I taught him how to write his name in English, and he learnt a few words also.

One Sunday morning, September 15th, 1889, I was surprised to hear a considerable uproar: there was the report of rifles, the playing of military bands, and there seemed to be an air of bustle and excitement with everyone. Presently a man came rushing breathlessly into my house to tell me the news. It was not an advance of the Russians, nor even an outbreak of the Hazaras: no, the Sultana, the favourite wife of the Amîr, had given birth to a _son_. Had it been a daughter the matter would probably have been hushed up.

[Sidenote: The Bearer of Good Tidings.]

“Why this hurry?” I said to the Armenian.

“This man, Dîn Mahomed, a little he is my friend; I know a child come into house of Amîr Sahib, but I know not when: better this, at once we go to Harem Serai and send in Salaam, and Her Highness made glad upon you.”

“Ah, I see,” said I, “and the little, your friend, Dîn Mahomed, he would like baksheesh?”

“Please you kind,” said the Armenian with an engaging smile.

“How much?” I asked.

“Sir, your wish. One twenty rupees,” he said, carelessly.

“Isn’t it rather dear at the price?” I said.

“Oh, sir! no. Other gentlemen, and rich man Supersala and Officer, give twenty or forty gold _tilla_ and three or four horses.”

“To a servant! For just bringing news!”

“The servant, he is not keep it. He bring to his master, Amîr Sahib, and Highness make glad upon that. Some he give to servant, and some he give to other servant. And Officer and Supersala make glad that Highness not send it back.”

“Well, oughtn’t I to give more than twenty rupees?”

“No, sir. In my o-pinion twenty rupees enough. You, mussáfir and stranger, and not know custom of Afghanistan.”

The bearer of news is rewarded with presents or with blows, according to the quality of the tidings.

Mounted men were racing off full speed to Kabul and the other big towns; those who got in first received the baksheesh.

We rode off to the Harem Serai to offer my congratulations. I found a large crowd in the garden outside the Serai. There was an elephant with gay trappings, which attracted a great deal of attention. Two brass bands, with crowds round them, were hard at work, their style reminding one of a parish school band. Pipers were marching up and down, gaily playing _Scotch_ tunes on their bagpipes. Native instruments were giving vent to moans, shrieks, and thuds.

When we got into the garden I found I attracted rather more attention than I either expected or desired. However, seeing the Commander-in-Chief and some other officers sitting on a bank under the shade of a tree, I went up and shook hands with them, and with the assistance of the Armenian we had some conversation: not about the weather, that is a subject which is never discussed in Afghanistan. Presently I saw my small friend Mahomed Omer, son of Perwana Khan, who was one of the Pages in the Harem, and I sent in my congratulations by him. By and bye two of the Amîr’s younger sons, the Princes Hafiz Ullah and Amin Ullah, about ten and six years old--who had visited the Sultana that morning--came from the Harem. They conveyed the Sultana’s thanks for congratulations. Her Highness seemed very pleased that I had called, for she sent me a present of five hundred rupees by the hand of the little Princes. It struck me at the time that possibly she viewed the visit rather as a national than a personal compliment.

The birth of the youngster may, perhaps, in the future complicate the matter of succession. Before his birth the heir presumptive was the Amîr’s eldest son, Prince Habibullah. The mother of the eldest Prince, however, is not of the royal tribe, whereas the Sultana is royal on both her father’s and her mother’s side. Her father was a Priest and a Seyid, or descendant of the Prophet, and therefore hereditarily a beggar: but he was also a Suddozai Durani, and he asked for and received the daughter of Amîr Dost Mahomed in marriage.

Now, therefore, that there is a son who is royal on both sides, Prince Habibullah’s claim is less decided than it was.

On the day after the Prince’s birthday the Festival was continued. Bands were playing all day, and in the evening a display of rockets--native made--was given.

[Sidenote: The Accident.]

One small boy managed to get hold of some explosive affair--a bomb I heard--and was playing about with it when it exploded. As he was not killed they brought him to me. The child was not pleasant to look upon, for the injury was chiefly in his face. I gave him a few whiffs of chloroform and cleared away the blood; but it took some little time to fit in the pieces and sew up the rents. I had a good deal of trouble, I remember, with the corner of his mouth and with the brow and left eyelid, so much was gone. It was a sort of puzzle to fit things together. The left eyeball had to be removed entirely, it was destroyed. However, he made an excellent recovery, with remarkably little disfigurement, except for the loss of the eye and part of the eyebrow.

I seemed to be in for operations just then; and one I had to do whether I wanted to or not.

It was on a young Moolah or Priest: he had a goitre--or enlarged thyroid.

I think I have mentioned that a priest is disqualified for the priesthood if he has any bodily blemish, and this enlargement in the throat distressed the Moolah greatly, for he was jeered at on account of it. Several times he had asked me to “cut away” the tumour, but there were reasons why I refused to employ _surgical_ treatment. He was improving, though slowly, under _medical_ treatment; the swelling was distinctly smaller. Removal of a goitre by the knife is not an operation to be generally recommended; firstly, because of the proximity of the gland to the great arteries of the throat and its very free blood supply; and, secondly, because, if the gland is removed successfully there are serious consequences that invariably follow, namely, the slow development of a most curious disease called Myxœdema, in which the sufferer has the appearance of being dropsical, though he is not so, and in which the speech and intellect are curiously affected.

I could not explain all this to the Moolah through the Armenian, and I contented myself by saying “Né me-kunum, mé-muri.” “I shall not do it, you would die.”

He bothered me time after time, and at last I said impatiently to the Armenian--

“Tell him to go and get an order from His Highness.”

I thought that would end the matter, never thinking that he would go. He went, and, moreover, got the order. I at once wrote to the Amîr and explained that the operation was not necessary, and that, if attempted, the man would probably die. I received His Highness’s answer very soon after. He said--

[Sidenote: The Amîr’s Reply.]

“Your letter, in which you say ---- and so on ---- has been received by me. The reasons therein set forth as to the danger of the cutting need not be an obstacle in the way of its performance. If the man recover it is good, and if he die, what does it matter! He himself is willing to undergo the risk.”

There was nothing for it, therefore, but to operate. I told the Moolah he was foolish, and the operation would probably cost him his life. He said--being interpreted--

“No, sir. I have no fear. You will not let me die.”

His complete confidence, however, did not inspire me with the same feeling. There was a wooden platform in my garden, and we pulled it under the colonnade, where it was shady, and the Moolah lay down. I had sent for one of the Hindustanis to give chloroform, but he did not come: it was the Sabbath, Friday. My neighbour, the Mirza Abdur Rashid, said _he_ could give chloroform, he had seen it done. As I could not operate and attend to the chloroform as well, I was compelled to let the Mirza try. He put the man under successfully--he had seen it done--though he knew nothing of the dangers of giving too much. I made a longitudinal incision in the middle line of the throat and commenced dissecting down with a knife and a pair of forceps, the skin being stretched back by one of the soldiers, who were gathered in a group round. When I had got rather deep there was a sudden gush of blood, rapid and copious. I had divided the first of five arteries that had to be cut through before the tumour could be removed. I wanted to tie the artery, but there was no finding it at the bottom of a deep narrow cut that filled with blood the moment the sponge was lifted. At last I managed blindly to catch the artery with a pair of forceps and tie it: the bleeding ceased. After this, I dissected down and tied the arteries before I cut them. Then I removed the tumour in its capsule. It weighed ten and a-half ounces. I sent it to the Amîr, who congratulated me on the success of the operation. The Moolah we left on the platform under the colonnade, covering him with a sheepskin postîn, and gave orders to the soldiers of the guard to take turns in watching by his side, and to call me if the bleeding broke out or if he seemed worse. The Moolah, poor fellow, had high fever the next day, and the third day he died. A day or two afterwards I said to the Mirza how sorry I was he had died, but the Mirza laughed and said:--

“Dèk ne me-showi. Be not sorrowful, you said he would die, and he died. It was so written in the book of Fate.”