Chapter XII (2)

In the afternoon I had a quantity of bread prepared and distributed to the poor villagers. The frantic struggles for its possession, the fighting and biting and screaming that followed, decided me not to attempt such a mode of relief again. I had had thirty or forty men and women and children seated in a row preparatory to the distribution. But the bread was no sooner brought forward than they all rushed on Shukrullah Beg and the two muleteers bearing the bread, and nearly tore the clothes off their backs. They dropped their loads, and extricating themselves as best they could, left the crowd to fight it out amongst themselves. And they certainly set to work with the ferocity of wild beasts, and the bread, of which there was a sackful, was torn from hand to hand, and fought over till much of it was destroyed.

_15th June._—Míla Gird to Hamadán, thirty-six miles, and halt a day. We set out shortly before midnight by a westerly route along the plain to the foot of the hills, and then turned south-west to Hamadán, at the foot of the snow-topped Alwand mountain. At about seven miles we reached a range of low hills, and beyond them passed over a long stretch of pasture downs, a dreary solitude, without a sign of life for miles. At another seven miles we passed the roadside hamlet of Durguz, and three miles farther on a decayed village, which we were told had been depopulated by the famine. As it stood close to the road, I turned aside to visit it, and witnessed a scene that baffles description, and, from what we heard, is but too common in this part of the country.

The village (its name I omitted to note at the time, and have since forgotten) contained about a hundred and fifty houses, but only five of them were now tenanted. The rest were all deserted, and many of them were falling to ruin. In one of the now still and voiceless streets I passed a middle-aged man, apparently in the last stage of starvation. He was propped in a sitting posture against a wall, with his lank withered arms crossed in front to support his shrivelled legs from weighing upon his misshaped feet and swollen ankles. His sickly-looking face, with puffed cheeks, drawn lips, and sunken eyes, rested on his knees, and as we rode past he had not the energy to move or beg a morsel of bread. I threw him a _kran_, but, without a motion towards it, he merely gasped out, “_Nán, bidih nán!_” (“Bread, give me bread!”) A little way on a horrible stink declared the existence of a putrid corpse in the tenantless houses around; and outside the village, on the edge of a small patch of ripening corn, we found the remnant of the population, already at this early hour (it was only four o’clock) staying the pangs of their hunger by literally grazing the green grass. They were three or four hag-like women, and as many half-grown lads; and as they plucked the ears of bearded corn, they chewed and swallowed them beard and all.

At four miles farther on we crested an upland, and then sloped down to the delightful valley of Hamadán. Its green sward, yellowing crops, and gardens dark in the luxuriance of their foliage, presented a picture of happiness and prosperity strangely reversed by the cruel reality. On a hill slope overlooking this crest of upland we observed a couple of small military tents. In front of them were seated three or four _sarbáz_ of the guard, stationed here to protect the road from depredation by the hungry peasantry around. Lower down the slope we passed a party of Hamadánis, driving their oxen and asses in the direction whence we had come. They were almost all armed, indicating the insecure state of the country here, for they are the first armed people (other than military) we have met in all our journey from the eastern frontier.

Our road across the valley led past Surkhabad over a river crossed by a masonry bridge of five arches, and then by Shivím to the city, where we found accommodation in the post-house. We arrived at 7.47 A.M., and at this hour the thermometer rose to 71° Fah. At daybreak on the march it was so low as 48° Fah. Hamadán is an extensive city, delightfully situated at the foot of the Alwand. In the nooks and hollows extending along the base of the mountain, and some way up its bare rocky slopes, are situated a number of picturesque little hamlets, buried from view in their surrounding vineyards and orchards; and in the valley stretching away to the west is a continuous succession of corn-fields, fruit gardens, and villages, amidst which flows a considerable stream fed by numerous little rills coming down from the hills. Altogether the scenery is very charming, and the snowy heights of the mountain above add a feature as pleasing to view as it is refreshing to the senses. The ground, too, is classic. Here stood the ancient Ecbatana, whose mouldy soil yields a variety of ancient relics, Median, Grecian, and early Arab signets, seals, and rings, with coins, beads, and sculptures. Here too are shown the tombs of Esther and Mordecai, and of Avicenna, the Arabian philosopher and physician.

The present city occupies the depression and slopes of a hollow at the foot of the mountain, and is said to contain nine thousand houses. Its situation affords facilities for drainage, but is objectionable on the score of ventilation. The climate, however, is described as very salubrious, although its winter is a rigorous season, as may be well understood from its elevation at 6162 feet above the sea. The surrounding country is pretty and productive, and in prosperous times the place must be a delightful residence, which it certainly is not now.

The population of the city was reckoned at fifty thousand before the famine, and is now estimated at half that number, but I don’t think there can be so many as fifteen thousand. The place was the centre of a considerable trade, especially with Russia by Resht on the Caspian, and had a numerous colony of Jews. It now appears to be utterly ruined. Hardly a decently-dressed man is to be seen, and nothing is to be got in its bazárs; even our cattle were with difficulty supplied with fodder and grain. The city swarms with famishing beggars, and our lodging in the post-house was besieged by crowds of them, whom it was impossible to satisfy. We were prevented moving outside the walls of the post-house through fear of them, for, as Shukrullah Beg warned us, they were in a dangerous mood, and if I ventured into the city on foot, I should certainly have the clothes torn off my back, and might possibly lose my life—neither very pleasant alternatives; so I curbed the promptings of curiosity at the dictates of discretion, and fed my would-be assailants with bread, the distribution going on through a hole in the gateway, by way of protection against assault.

A good deal of wine is made at this place. The white is something like hock, and the red like claret. The samples brought to us, however, were of very inferior quality and crude flavour, but were as good as one could expect at the rate of tenpence a quart, which was probably double the market price.

_17th June._—Hamadán to Asadabad, thirty-two miles. We set out at 3.30 A.M., and passed through the northern quarters of the city, where is a covered bazár in a state of dilapidation. Its shops are mostly empty and tenantless, the streets are choked with refuse and filth of sorts, and the air is loaded with abominable stinks. The dress, appearance, and condition of the people we met was in keeping with their surroundings. Beyond the city we passed through an old cemetery, crowded with handsome tombstones of the Arab period. Some were carved out of splendid slabs of white marble, and others were formed of massive blocks of granite and sandstone, all from the mountain overlooking. Farther on, clearing a number of vineyards and orchards, we came to the open country, and following the path skirting the foot of the mountain, passed several villages, and crossed many brisk little streams from the hill slopes, some of them by masonry bridges, till, at about fourteen miles, we came to a branching of the road. The branch to the left goes direct over a high ridge of Alwand, and was taken by our baggage as being the shortest route; the other winds over lesser heights of the same ridge farther to the westward.

We followed the latter, and passing the castellated village of Zaghár, entered amongst low hills. Here our route changed from W.N.W. to south-west, and crossing two lesser ridges, at about twenty-six miles from Hamadán brought us to the crest of a watershed, from which we looked down on the hill-locked valley of Asadabad. Here the aneroid figured 22·38, giving the elevation at about 7525 feet above the sea, and 1363 feet above Hamadán. The road is very good and easy. It was made two years ago for the Sháh’s journey to Karbalá. The soil is light and fertile, and corn crops cover the hill slopes. The rock is a soft friable slate, traversed by great veins of quartz.

The descent is by an easy gradient in view of the high snowy range of Nahwand away to the south. At the foot of the descent we came to a wide boulder-strewn ravine, over the surface of which were scattered great gabions and fascines, the relics of a disruptured dam built across the ravine to retain its floods for purposes of irrigation. Some few weeks ago a violent flood from the hills above burst through this dam, and inundated the town of Asadabad, destroying several of its houses, and causing much loss of life and property.

On arrival at the town, a few miles farther on, we found the streets had been furrowed by the rush of waters, the height of which was plainly marked on the walls by a water-line two feet above the level of the street. The town wears a wretched, desolate look, and a gloomy silence reigns over it. We put up at the post-house, which we found deserted and in a filthy state. We could procure no barley for our cattle here, a decided hardship after their long march; and our followers had to go on half rations, owing to the unwillingness of the people to sell their bread. Asadabad is said to contain five hundred houses, but only two hundred are occupied. I saw no beggars here, and the people appeared in much better plight than we had anywhere yet seen.

Our next stage was twenty-five miles to Kangawár. The night air in Asadabad was close, oppressive, and steamy, probably owing to the action of a hot sun during the day (a thermometer placed in its direct rays rose to 142° Fah.) on its soaked soil. For so soon as we got out on the plain beyond the town, the early morning air struck cold and damp.

We set out at 2.40 A.M., and proceeded over a level plain south by west, along the line of telegraph posts. The plain is girt on all sides by high hills, and presents a green sheet of corn-fields and meadows, over which are scattered many villages. We passed six or seven dessicated and putrefying corpses on the road, and overtook several small parties of destitutes, forty or fifty people in all, dragging their withered limbs slowly along. Men, women, and children were eating from whisps of unripe corn, plucked from the roadside fields, to stave off the bitter end that was fast creeping upon them. There is nobody to help them, and they themselves are past begging.

At about half-way we passed Mandarabad, a collection of twenty or thirty huts round fortified walls enclosing an ancient tumulus, and covered with storks’ nests. Here we found the corpse of a woman lying across the road, at the edge of a _kárez_ stream supplying the village with water.

Farther on we passed a little roadside hamlet, and beyond it, crossing a swampy rivulet by a masonry bridge, entered low hills. Passing over these, we entered the Kangawár valley, and turning westward along a hill skirt blooming with flowers and whole fields of wild hollyhock, and at 8.20 A.M. arrived at Kangawár post-house.

The valley is rich in crops, and covered with villages. Most of them are more or less depopulated, and the people have yet a month to wait before the growing corn will be ready for the sickle. Meanwhile, how many must perish! The town, which is said to contain five hundred houses, half of which are empty, is indescribably filthy, and swarms with beggars, many of whom are dying curled up on the dung-heaps obstructing the roads. Cold and starvation together must soon put an end to their sufferings, for the night air at this elevation of 5125 feet above the sea is chill and damp.

This town appears to occupy the site of some more ancient city. On an eminence in its midst, and at the foot of some low hills, we saw the ruins of some ancient temple of vast proportions and very solid build. Six round monolith pillars on a corniced basement still exist in position, and another lies prostrate before the pile. Each pillar, so far as I could see between the intervening houses, is of solid limestone, about twelve feet high and four feet diameter. Nobody could tell us anything about the history of this ruin.

_19th June._—Kangawár to Sahnah, twenty-three miles. Departure, 3.45 A.M.—route south-west, by a good though stony road, winding up and down between hills all the way, their slopes bare rock, but the skirts covered with a profusion of flowering plants, that perfume the air with their fragrance. Overtook several parties of travellers on their way to Kirmánshah. They had been waiting for several days for a caravan, and took advantage of my arrival to proceed with my party. They kept with us all the way, but held themselves aloof from our people at each stage.

At half-way we came to the Kotal Sahnah or “Pass of Sahnah.” Its top is called Gardan Búmsúrkh, or the “red-earthed ridge,” from the colour of the soil. Its elevation is 5800 feet above the sea. Here our course changed to due west, and the descent at four miles brought us to the spring and hamlet of Sarab, the first water met from Kangawár. At six miles farther, we reached Sahnah, and finding its post-house in ruins and its _sarae_ yet incomplete, were glad to pass on from the scenes of its misery to a garden on the outskirts, where we camped under the shade of some magnificent elm-trees. Around us are vineyards and corn crops, the latter ripe and being cut.

On our way through the town, we passed several beggars lying in the streets, and moaning pitifully. During the day we have seen at least sixty poor wretches, mostly women and half-grown youths, who cannot live another month, I should say, even if they were now provided with food, to such a state of bloodless dropsy are they reduced. All the afternoon, tattered famished wretches hovered around our camp. Amongst them, in strange contrast, appeared a gaily-dressed, active, and rather good-looking young wench, with bare legs and short petticoats not reaching to the knees. A loose open shift of gauze showed a tattooed bosom and full stomach, whilst her painted cheeks and saucy bearing advertised her calling.

Some villagers who brought our supplies into camp gave us harrowing details of the sufferings this village had passed through. “This vineyard is full of the skeletons,” said one of them, “of those who have died here eating the leaves and shoots of the vines.” “Come,” he added, “I will show you some of them.” And at less than thirty paces from where I was seated at my table, he showed me three human skeletons. I saw several others farther in amongst the vines, and took advantage of the opportunity to secure a skull. But none of them being fit to take away, I asked my guide to fetch me a clean and perfect one. He disappeared over the wall into the next vineyard, and in less than as many minutes returned bearing three skulls in his arms. I selected one, and the others he tossed back amongst the vines we had just left. He told me this village formerly had two hundred and twenty families, but that not one hundred of them now remained.

_20th June._—Sahnah to Besitun, eighteen miles. Night cold, clear, and moonlight—morning air delightful and fresh—midday sun hot. Departure, three A.M.—route west for two miles to foot of hills, and then south-west through a fertile valley along the course of the Lolofar river. The country is crossed by numerous irrigation streams, dotted with many villages, covered with corn crops, and fragrant with the perfume of multitudes of pretty flowers.

At the spring-head of Besitun I dismounted, and climbed over the rocks to look at the wonderful sculptures rescued from their obscurity and set before the world by Rawlinson, and then proceeded to the village, hardly five minutes off. The village is a miserable collection of forty or fifty huts close to a large _sarae_. As we passed the latter on our way to the post-house, a great wolfish shaggy dog stalked by, head erect, with the leg and foot of a woman held between his jaws. Some villagers staring at our party did not even take up a stone to hurl at the brute. We found the post-house so filthy, and after being swept, sprinkled with water, and carpeted, so unbearably foul-smelling, that we were obliged to quit it. A corpse lying at the door of the _sarae_ turned us away from that too, and we went off to the turfy bank of a little stream hard by, and there awaited the arrival of our tents and baggage. The midday sun shone with considerable force, and the plague of flies and musquitoes was most annoying. A number of diminutive goats panting in the sun’s rays sought shelter in our tents from their worry and stings.

In different parts of our journey we had fared on what bread the places respectively produced, and took it, good, bad, and indifferent, as it came. But here the stuff they brought us was simply uneatable, so black, gritty, and musty was it. Even our servants refused to eat it, and we did very well without, aided by the disgust the horrid sights we had witnessed of themselves produced. An intelligent-looking Persian of this place came up to me at sunset, when our tents were being struck, and to my surprise addressed me in very good Hindustani. I learned from him that he was a Wahabi, and had recently returned from Dacca, where he had resided two years in the service of a wealthy merchant of that place. He told me there were no people left in this place except ten or twelve families of shopkeepers, who kept a small stock of supplies for wayfarers at the _sarae_.

We slept out, _à la belle étoile_, under the majestic shadow of Besitun. The lights and shades on the face of the precipitous rock, reflected by the rays of a full moon, were very magnificent, and I long gazed at the glorious steep, watching the grotesque phantom forms produced by the flitting shadows stirred by the breeze; and at last, overcome by fatigue, fell asleep dreaming of the ancient peoples whose mark, living on the rock, hallows the place with a mysterious interest.

_21st June._—Besitun to Kirmánshah, twenty-eight miles. Marched at one A.M.—route westerly, at first through a narrow valley skirting Besitun hills, and then away across an open undulating country, covered with ripe corn crops and villages and Kurd camps. As we struck away from the hills, a splendid meteor shot across the sky horizontally, and burst only a few hundred yards from us, in a shower of most beautiful stars of purple, gold, and silver hue, just a “roman candle.”

At six o’clock, crossing the Cárású river by a masonry bridge of six arches, we alighted at a dilapidated _sarae_ for our baggage to come up. Here we were joined by Abdurrahím, a very fair and intelligent youth of eighteen years, a son of Agha Hasan, the British Wakiluddaula at Kirmánshah. He had been sent out, attended by a single horseman, to meet and escort us to the quarters prepared for us in the city. Up to this point I had ridden my dromedary, but here changed to my horse, as the more fitting mode of entering the city, though he was in such poor condition from his long and rapid marches, that he must have attracted as much attention from the punctilious as the camel would have excited comment. Kirmánshah has a clean, neat, and agreeable appearance as one approaches from the east, and is decidedly the most flourishing place we have yet seen in Persia. As we neared its walls, we passed a vast collection of new graves, filled during the last two years with the bodies of fifteen thousand people who have died here. Most of them, it is said, had come in from the surrounding country to find food in the capital of the province, but found instead a stone in place of bread.

In the city we alighted at some very dilapidated quarters adjoining the residence of the Wakiluddaula. The rooms were nicely carpeted with rich felts, and furnished with tables and chairs and cots. Soon after our arrival a couple of servants brought over tea and sweets for our refreshment; and the young lad returning from a visit to his father, said the Wakiluddaula begged his absence might be excused. He was laid up with a fit of ague, but he hoped on its passing off to call in the afternoon. I begged he would not take the trouble, and thanked him for his arrangements for our comfort, which were all very satisfactory.

Towards sunset Agha Hasan was announced. He walked across the court supported by two servants, and really looked very ill. With him came Mirzá Sadíc Khán, Hakím Bashi, a physician who had walked the London hospitals, and spoke English remarkably well. He told us we had now got over the worst part of our journey, and that all ahead would be easy travelling. His words were very strangely falsified, as the sequel will show.

We halted here a day, and I took the opportunity to return the visit of the Wakiluddaula, and inquire after his health. He came out to the court to receive me, and seemed much pleased at the attention. He told me that I should most likely have some difficulty in crossing the Turkish frontier, as reports had recently been received of disturbances on the road. He had applied to the governor here for a special passport for me, and would himself write to the commandant on the frontier, who was a personal friend—a service for which I afterwards had reason to be grateful.

The Wakil in conversation told me that the famine might now be considered as past. Prices had fallen greatly since the cutting of the crops, and would soon reach the usual rates. He said Persia was utterly ruined, and had lost nearly half her population, and he did not think the country could recover its prosperity for fifty years under favourable conditions. Society was disorganised; no two men in the country could trust each other, or combine for any good. Turkey, he said, though looked down on by Persia, was far ahead in civilisation. I took my leave much pleased with his attentions, and sent him a revolver as a present before starting on my forward journey, and he sent me a couple of small carpets in return.

Whilst here, we rode over to see the Tác o Bostám sculptures, and returned by the garden of Imáduddaula. The reservoir at the spring-head at Tác o Bostám is a charming spot, and the sculptures, so fully described and delineated by Sir H. Rawlinson, are well worth a visit. Kirmánshah is a very fertile province, and the city in better times was very populous and flourishing. We did not go over the bazárs, as it was considered unsafe to do so for fear of the beggars offering us insult or annoyance. I was disappointed at this, as I wished to see some Kurdistan carpets, which are here procurable of the best quality.