Chapter XI (2)

After a brief halt here, our horsemen on an eminence some way ahead were seen to dismount. On this our leader pronounced the road clear, and we set forward again. This tract has from time immemorial been infested by Turkmans of the Goklán and Yamút tribes, whose seat is in the valley of the Atrak. A country better adapted to their mode of warfare could nowhere else be found. The hill ranges to the north afford them an unobserved approach to their hunting-grounds. Arrived on them, they conceal themselves amongst the inequalities of the surface, finding water in some ravine, and pasture for their horses in the aromatic herbs and rich grasses that cover the hollows. Their scouts from the eminence of some commanding ridge, or the top of some of the innumerable mameloned mounds and hummocks that form the most striking feature of the country, watch the roads, and on the approach of a caravan or small party of travellers, warn their comrades, who dispose themselves for the attack. If they find the caravan is marching on the alert and with precaution, they act on the principle that “Discretion is the better part of valour,” and remain in their concealment; otherwise they proceed along the hollows to some spot where the road strikes across a bit of open ground, and so soon as their prey is fairly out on it, they sweep down upon them, and generally, I am assured, carry them off without resistance, for resistance, the Persians have learned, means death.

In conversation with one of our escort, I asked him why the Government did not make a great effort, and for once and all put an end to this constant source of trouble and loss? “_Pul!_” (money), he said, with a Gallic shrug of the shoulders; “our Government won’t spend the money. This is an old institution. Nobody put a stop to it before, and who is to do it now? The present arrangements meet all requirements. A guard starts twice a month to escort coming and going caravans between Mazinán and Shahrúd, as we now escort your party, and that meets all wants.” “Have you ever been attacked on this duty?” I asked. “Very seldom, and only when the Turkmans take the field in great force. They mostly attack small parties travelling without a guard, or sweep off the peasantry at work in their fields, or surprise a village at day-dawn.” “But are no arrangements made to protect these people?” “What would you have?” he replied. “Travellers have no right to move without a guard in a dangerous country, and the villagers have the protection of their forts.” “But surely the country would be better off if there were no Turkmans to harry it,” I said. “Of course it would; but we don’t hope for such good fortune from our Government. You people might do it, or the Russians might do it; but we can’t. People say the Russians are going to rid us of the Turkmans—God grant they may! and if they clear these _pidr sokhta_ (burnt fathers) off the face of the earth, they will gain the good-will and esteem of all Persians.” “How,” I asked, “could the Russians rid you of the Turkmans?” “Russia is a great country, and very wealthy, and has a large army. What are the Turkmans to them? If they will only spend their money, they can do anything. People say they are going to conquer Khiva, and are making preparations for the campaign. So soon as they take Khiva, the Turkmans of Marv will also disappear.”

I further learned from my informant, that the Turkmans of the Atrak valley raid all the country from Shahrúd and Samnán to Sabzwár and Nishabor, where they meet their brethren of Marv, the Takka, Sarúc, and Sálor Turkmans, who raid all the country between Mashhad and Herat up to Sabzwár, thus cutting off from Persia all that portion of the country to the north and west of the great salt desert of Káshán and Yazd, so far as security of life, liberty, and property is concerned.

But to return to our route. Pul Abresham, or the stream it bridges, marks the boundary between the districts of Sabzwár and Shahrúd. There is another bridge of the same name about thirty miles higher up the stream, on the direct road from Shahrúd to Mashhad, by Jájarm and Júwen; but being more dangerous, it is less frequented than this route.

The Pul Abresham river also marks the extreme north-west limit of the Afghan kingdom founded by Sháh Ahmad, Durrani. It flows south-east, and joining the Káli Shor, or Nishabor, and Sabzwár, is ultimately lost in the salt desert between Yazd and Káshán. Beyond the Káli Abresham, we crossed some low slaty ridges where they terminate on the desert, and traversing a gravelly plain thinly dotted with tamarisk bushes, rose up to the ridge on which the Abbasabad Sarae stands, and camped on some mounds under its walls, our escort filling the _sarae_.

Our next stage was twenty-two miles to Myándasht—route westerly, over a broken country thrown into little mameloned mounds, with hills on our right. At six miles we came to the Dahna Alhác, an easy defile winding between bare rugged hills of coarse brown trap. On our way through it, we met a caravan of pilgrims on their way to Mashhad, escorted by a military guard similar to our own. It was a curious spectacle, from the variety of costume and nationality and conveyance, all jumbled together in jostling confusion. We passed each other with mutual stares of wonderment, and I did not appreciate the novelty of the scene till it was gone from my sight. There were great shaggy camels bearing huge panniers, in which were cooped three or four veiled bundles of female beauty, rolling from side to side like a ship in a heavy swell. There were others mounted by wiry Arabs in their thin rope-turbans, or by thick-set Tátárs in their shaggy sheepskin caps, swaying to and fro with an energy that led one to suppose that the speed of the camel depended on the activity of their movements. There were pannier-mules bearing veiled ladies and their negress slaves, accompanied by their Persian lords, gay in dress and proud, on their handsome little steeds. There were quiet calculating merchants, with flowing beards and flowing robes, borne along by humble ponies as absorbed in thought as their riders; and there were sleekly attired priests, serene in their conscious dignity, comfortably flowing with the tide on their well-groomed and neatly caparisoned mules. There were others too, a mixed crowd of footmen and women, all dusty and hot, struggling on to keep pace with their mounted wayfarers. How many will lag behind and fall to the Turkman’s share? There are amongst these whole families emigrating in search of food and work: father and mother each bear an infant on their backs, and two or three of tender years trot by their side. There are tattered beggars, reduced by sheer want; and there are other beggars, the impudent, idle, and dissolute scoundrels who impose on the community by an ostentatious assumption of the religious character, through no other claim than that of their bold importunity, backed by noisy appeals to true believers in the name of God and Ali. Their trade pays, and they flourish in their rags and dissoluteness.

With this caravan came a courier with despatches from Tehran for Sir F. Goldsmid. He was a mission servant, and had been sent off from our camp at Birjand with letters for Mr Alison, the British Minister at the court of Persia, and was now returning with the tidings of his death on the 29th April. After a brief pause, during which “Ismáil,” for such was his name, greeted his old comrades all round with a kiss each on the mouth, we proceeded, and clearing the defile, halted for breakfast, and to read our letters and papers, at the dilapidated _sarae_ of Alhác.

Beyond this our route led over a broken hummocky country, in crossing which we were overtaken by a thunderstorm and rain, and gently sloped to the Myándasht Sarae, situated, as its name implies, in the midst of a desert plain girt by hills. The soil is a firm gravel, and not a tree is to be seen, though the surface is covered with the asafœtida and rhubarb, the latter in flower.

_17th May._—Myándasht to Myánmay, twenty-four miles—route westerly, over a very broken country, similar to that traversed yesterday, and intersected by numerous ravines draining to the northward. At about twelve, we crossed a deep gully called Dahna-e-Zaydár, and pointed out as one of the favourite routes by which Turkmans come from the Jájarm valley. At six miles farther on, crossing a wide stony ravine, we halted for breakfast under the shade of some _sinjit_ (_oleagnus_) trees on its bank, close to the fort of Zaydár. This is apparently a recent erection, and is held by a small garrison of _sarbáz_ who watch the Myánmay valley. On the summit of a high rock projecting from the neighbouring hills is a look-out tower, held by a small picquet. Beyond this we skirted the hill range on our left, and arrived in our camp at Myánmay just in time to escape the fury of a thunderstorm with hail and rain, and the cold raw blasts of a north-west wind.

Myánmay is a considerable village at the head of a long valley, which towards the east is continuous with that of Júwen. To the northward the valley is separated from Jájarm by a range of bare hills, through which are several passes. The hill skirt is dotted with flourishing-looking villages, whilst the valley itself is a wide uncultivated pasture tract.

There is a very fine _sarae_ here, and some splendid mulberry-trees around give it a charming appearance. The _sinjit_ trees are now in full flower here, and quite overload the air with their strong perfume. On the top of a high hill overlooking the village from the south, there are, it is said, the ruins of an ancient town, and some reservoirs excavated from the rock. We could see no traces of them, however, and as the information was volunteered by a Persian of our escort, it may be only a myth.

_18th May._—Myánmay to Shahrúd, forty-one miles. We set out at 2.45 A.M., before it was light, our camels with the heavy baggage having preceded us by four hours. Our route was west by north, over a plain country for twelve miles parallel to a hill range on our left, and then diverging to the right, led across a very uneven country overrun by gravelly ridges and intersected by ravines, the slopes of which are richly covered with pasture herbs; and another twelve miles brought us to a roadside _ábambár_, where we halted for breakfast, and to let the camels with the heavy baggage, here overtaken by us, get ahead.

Along the foot of the hills, parallel with the first part of our route, is a succession of picturesque little villages and orchards, that extend for six _farsakhs_ up to Armyán, half-way on the route from Myánmay to Shahrúd. They are on the line of road followed by single travellers or small parties, for the sake of protection afforded by the villages.

From the _ábambár_ our course led due west across an open and gently sloping plain, towards Shahrúd, visible in the distance, at the foot of a bare rocky hill, that separates it from Bostám, at the base of the great snow-crowned Kháwar mountain, and at the entrance to the pass of the same name leading to Astrabad. Both towns are delightfully situated, and their luxuriant gardens present a most pleasing view to the eye in this waste of desert and hill.

At a few miles short of Shahrúd we alighted at a small canal, fringed with _sinjit_ trees, and rested under their shade till our jaded cattle had gone on with our camp. Our whole party was much done up by the length of the march and the heat of the midday sun. But strange to say, our escort of matchlockmen, of all our following, showed the least symptoms of fatigue. As I mentioned before, they were accompanied by a number of asses carrying their clothing and stores of food, &c. The patient little brutes moved along with their owners, who, turn about, strode across their backs, and thus, riding and walking alternately, escaped the exhaustion of a long march and the fatigue of the unvaried ride. The Persian infantry soldier, or _sarbáz_, as he is called, is noted for his hardihood and endurance of long marches, but the humble _ulágh_ contributes no small share to his reputation in these respects. He is cheaply got, easily managed, and costs little or nothing to feed, being generally left to pick up what he can off the ground. The ass of the _sarbáz_, who yet knows neither a commissariat nor transport corps, is a useful institution—in fact, he is indispensable, for, under the existing conditions, the infantry soldier could not march without him. They would certainly not prove so efficient and ready as they are without him. We no sooner arrived at Shahrúd than our escort of _sarbáz_ were ordered off to accompany the governor of Bostám on an expedition against a party of Turkmans, who, it was said, had come through Jájarm on the chance of cutting us off on our way across the desert. They were to proceed with all speed to take up a position in some pass of the hills, by which alone the Turkmans could leave the valley, and away they went merrily, with no impedimenta of tents, baggage, and luxuries.

We halted five days at Shahrúd, where we came into communication with the civilised world through the line of telegraph connecting Astrabad with the Persian capital. The town is a flourishing place, surrounded by vineyards and fruit gardens, now in full foliage, and must be a delightful residence. Our camp is pitched on an open bit of ground between some walled gardens in the midst of the town, and close to a _sarae_ occupied by some Russian and Armenian merchants. We meet them as we issue for our evening ramble, and pass with a polite doffing of hats. They have been settled here for the last twelve or fourteen years, but have not got their families with them. From one of them we got a supply of very indifferent wine, prepared on the spot, and picked up some copies of Russian primers with pictorial alphabets and illustrated anecdotes.

This place is the entrepôt of the trade between Tehran and the countries to the north and west, and has several commodious _saraes_. It is also an important strategic position, situated as it is at the entrance to the pass leading to the Caspian, and is the place where the Persian armies concentrated preparatory to their campaigns in Khorassan. The plain to the south of the town is well watered from numerous hill streams, and is dotted with several flourishing villages, the chief of which are Badasht, Bázij, Ardyán, Mughán Jáfarabad, Husenabad, Ghoryán, &c. The Shahrúd district, of which this town is the capital, extends between the hills from Abbasabad on the east to Dih Mullah on the west, and contains some fifty or sixty villages. The governor, Jahánsoz Mirzá, resides at Bostám, but has an agent here.

We did not visit Bostám, only four miles off, as the governor neither called on us nor made any advances towards the interchange of civilities. Our Afghan companion, however, Saggid Núr Muhammad Sháh, went over to pay his devotions at the shrine of the Imám Báezid, which he described as an unpretending pile of loose stones, raised by the contributions of passing pilgrims. The saint is held in great veneration, and the simplicity of his tomb is out of deference to his dying injunction that no mausoleum should be built over his grave. In an humble grave near the shrine rest the mortal remains of the late Amir Muhammad Azím Khán, the usurper of the throne of Kabul. After his final defeat at the hands of the reigning Amir, Sher Ali Khán, in the beginning of 1869, he fled to Sistan, and was on his way to the Persian capital, when he was cut short in his career by cholera at this place, about the 6th July. The Saggid, being an adherent of the opposite party, suffered severely at the hands of the usurper, who plundered his property at Kandahar to the extent, it is said, of fifty thousand rupees. He took this opportunity, however, to forgive him, and to offer up a prayer for his soul.

The day before our departure from this, a strange Afghan came to my tent, and, with looks of pleased recognition, said, “Saggid Mahmúd sends his salám, and begs you will give him some medicine to cure fever and dysentery. He is too ill to move, or he would himself have come to pay his respects.” A few words of explanation sufficed to inform me that my applicant was no other than our old friend of Ghazni, whom we so unexpectedly met at Barshori at the very outset of our journey. We went over to see him in his lodgings at the _sarae_, and found him in a truly wretched plight, so emaciated and weak was he from the combined effects of the hardships he had endured on his long journey, and the exhausting nature of his disease. He rose and received us at the door of his cell, with all the grace of that innate gentility well-bred orientals can so easily display, and ushering us in with a dignity enhanced by his handsome features and snow-white beard, motioned us to seats formed of hastily arranged rugs, with a composure and self-possession quite charming and wonderful under the circumstances. He ordered his servant to prepare some tea for our refreshment, and the while gave us an account of his travels. “Poor Cásim,” he said, the tears dimming his bright eyes, “_tamán shud_—he is finished. His remains,” he added with a consolatory sigh, “rest in the sacred soil of Karbalá. He was the son in whom my hopes centered, but God gives and God takes away—His will be done.” The details of his journey through Kúm were simply harrowing, and the scenes he witnessed appalling. Dead bodies strewed the roads and poisoned the air with their putrescence. The _saraes_ were filled with the dying, whose wails and sufferings produced a scene impossible to describe. The villages, empty and still as a house of mourning, were invaded by troops of dogs, who contested with the survivors the possession of the dead. Loud were his lamentations for Persia. “The country is gone,” he said. “There is neither religion, justice, nor mercy to be found in the land. We (he was a Shia) in Kabul look to Persia as the centre of all that is good in Islám, but Afghanistan, with all its faults, is a better country to live in.” Poor old gentleman! he quite brightened up at the idea of moving on homewards, though he had one foot in the grave already, and was fully a thousand miles away from his home, and talked composedly of retiring into private life, and devoting the rest of his days to the worship of God and meditation on His laws. On our departure, the General, with characteristic kindliness and forethought, presented our pilgrim friend with a Kashmir scarf. The old man’s gratitude was touching, and he blessed us all round. I wonder if the old man ever did reach his home, though the chances were greatly against his doing so? But it is astonishing what distances these pilgrims do travel, and what hardships they endure on the way. Let us hope that the old man did complete his circle. When we met him on this second occasion, he had in the course of six months travelled from Ghazni to Kandahar and Shikárpúr and Bombay, thence by sea to Baghdad, and thence to Karbalá, and back to Baghdad, and thence by Kirmánshah and Kúm to Tehran, and on to this place. He has yet before him the inhospitable route from this to Mashhad, and thence to Herat and Kandahar, before he can reach his home at Ghazni. I gave the old man a small supply of medicines, and some hints for observance on the road; and with all good wishes for his onward journey, and a small sum to assist him on the road, we parted.