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19. GHOOLAUM HYDUR KHAUN.
ONE of the most important events next to the taking of Ghuznee in July, 1839, and one, after its surrender, the most to be wished for, was the capture of its Governor, the Prince Ghoolaum Hydur Khaun, the fourth son of the Ameer Dost Mahommed of Caubul. A magnificently-dressed man, it was reported, was seen on horseback making his way to the south side of the fort on hearing from that quarter the firing of our false attack, who, on becoming aware of our entrance through the Caubul gate of the city, dashed up (receiving in his flight a bullet in the “Cummerbund”) to the Balla Hissaur. From this period he was lost sight of. On inquiring afterwards among the prisoners, of whom there were sixteen hundred taken, all with one accord asserted that his Highness had escaped. The story was implicitly believed at head-quarters, and nothing more was thought of the circumstance. Brigadier Roberts, however, who was put in command of Ghuznee immediately after its capture, felt doubtful of the truth of the prisoners’ assertions, and as he was naturally anxious to secure so valuable a prize as the Governor, set about making the strictest inquiries. He was soon afterwards gratified by the appearance of his Brigade-Major, Captain Taylor, who directed his attention to a beautiful horse, richly clothed in embroidered housings, and bearing holsters and handsome pistols, which he said he had been requested to pass out of the fortress. This increased the Brigadier’s suspicions that his bird was not flown, and he not only refused the petition, but forthwith directed his Major of Brigade to take a company of the 16th Grenadiers and surround the house whence the horse had been brought. He then questioned several Afghauns about the matter, and their replies still further convinced him Hydur was within the walls. Major Macgregor, who happened to be present, volunteered to accompany the party. His services were readily accepted, as he was an accomplished Persian scholar. The building was searched, and the Prince discovered. He was surrounded by a strong party of faithful adherents, who had sworn to die sword in hand sooner than surrender, as they were convinced that the Shauh Shujau would show them no mercy. Macgregor had the greatest difficulty in persuading them to yield, and though he assured them by the most solemn oath on the Koraun (“Kusm Koraun”) that their lives should be spared, they would not believe him. Some of the party indeed exclaimed, “We know you do not believe in the Koraun, so what is the value of your oath?” “Swear by your prophets, the Saviour Jesus Christ, and we will put faith in you.” This was consented to, and the gallant party immediately surrendered. The unhappy Ghoolaum Hydur fell into a sad state of despondency, and could not be persuaded that he was indeed safe. The Brigadier, on this complete success of his exertions, galloped off to the Commander-in Chief’s tent with the joyful intelligence. His Excellency, however, continued incredulous, as he had received the most positive information from the Envoy that the young Governor had long since escaped. On his gallant captor remarking how unlikely it was that any of his vassals, however brave, would volunteer to stand in so dangerous a position as his shoes, the Commander-in-Chief’s disbelief vanished after, and thanking the Brigadier in the handsomest manner, rode straight with the news to the Envoy’s camp. Ghoolaum Hydur was received by the Shauh with the assurance “that although he and his family had been rebels, yet he was willing to forgive and forget all.” Brigadier Roberts returned to his command, and never heard further on the subject, nor did he ever receive any public or private acknowledgment (further than the shaking of hands) of his services.
Ghoolaum Hydur is now in his 32nd year, and Prime Minister of Caubul, in which appointment he succeeded his brother Akbar. This elevation to the “Wuzzeerut,” which gives him the prospect of becoming Dost Mahommed’s successor, has naturally excited the indignation of his two elder brothers (who are thus set aside) against both ruler and minister. This Sirdar is reported to be talented and ambitious, and is, with his brothers, a constant source of anxiety and concern to their father, for, instead of upholding his authority, and setting the people an example of peace and contentment, they unite in producing discord and rebellion. The Ameer is now so distrustful and suspicious of his “Wuzzeer,” that he has deputed his brother the Nuwaub to watch over and thwart him in his irregularities. He is a large, well-looking, and very stout young man, and bears, as well was the rest of his brothers, the strongest possible resemblance to the Ameer. I regret I had not time to take his likeness when he was in camp at Peshawur with his father, in 1841. However, I am enabled to present his Highness to my friends by the kindness and courtesy of the Dowager Lady Keane, to whom I am indebted for this excellent portrait. The original picture, which was taken by the desire of his late Lordship, her Ladyship not only permitted me to copy and publish in these pages, but most liberally offered me the use of other valuable paintings, had I required them; an honour for which I beg to express my grateful thanks.
Though I have endeavoured, in these brief and very random recollections of Afghanistaun, to describe from memory everything that impressed me at the time as singular or extraordinary in its people, whether it were encountered on the march or in the battle, in the palace, the prison, or the temple, the camp, chase, or tribunal, I find that I have not yet introduced my readers to the hospitable board of a Kuzzilbaush Chief (a great friend of my brother’s), a “fine old country gentleman,” “who lived on his estate” near Caubul, where I have spent some very pleasant hours. One visit, to which I wish particularly to allude, was on the occasion of a marriage in his family, when he was giving a succession of feasts and entertainments to celebrate the event. Having expressed a wish to be present at these festivities, I received one day a thousand Salāms, four bottles of rose-water, and a request from the gentleman himself (who was a person of consequence in his tribe, and by name Meerza Jaffir Khaun) that I would visit his castle the next night, and do him this honour in an Afghaun dress. In the course of the evening I rode out with ten of the chief’s horsemen to his fort near Seer Chushma (the fountain-head), four miles from Caubul. On arriving, I found his retainers awaiting me outside the gates; one of whom held my stirrup, a second my bridle, while the third placing a hand on my elbow, and another under my shoulder, I alighted. On entering I was overwhelmed with salutations, inquiries, and compliments. “Are your health and news good? Have you ridden comfortably? May you not be tired? You are welcome, very welcome.” After threading innumerable squares and alleys, and cracking my back in stooping to make my way through doors of the lowest possible dimensions, I was assisted up a break-neck, irregular staircase into a long chamber spread with Turkey carpets and Heraut felts, or Numdahs. At the end of the apartment was a deep recess, covered with a quilted satin mattress, in the centre of which reposed a gigantic pillow of white muslin, supporter by four large silken tasseled cushions, “each of different hue, And thick with damask flowers of silk inland; Embroidered delicately o’er with blue.” After the usual welcomes from the inferiors of the castle, I was handed up, to my consternation, into this pillowed spot. By the time I had seated myself cross-legged, the room was fast filling with Chiefs, who placed themselves in long single rows up either side of the reception chamber, each saluting me with the “Khoosh Ahmuds” (welcomes) as he arranged himself. The guests took their places as their rank permitted them: for instance, a row of thirty, on the arrival of a greater personage, were most summarily displaced by him, as he dropped himself down with admirable coolness between, or even upon, those who had been hugging themselves with the consolation that they at least were comfortably seated for the evening’s amusement. This addition in the higher ranks sends those below all shuffling down on their hands and heels in a fashion most ludicrous to behold; thus verifying the expression of the parable, “When thou art bidden to a wedding, sit not down in the highest room, lest a more honourable man than thou be bidden, and thou begin with shame to take the lowest room.” Thus matters stood, or rather sat, when Meerza Jaffir Khaun “Ahmud hust” (is come) was whispered round, and the host (a portly, handsome person), who, in passing, saluted his guests with much ease, and moved with grace and freedom, advanced up the centre of the room towards me. I rose to salute him, on which, stretching out his hands, he presented me with a musk melon, and taking both my hands in his own, pressed them to his lips and forehead. He then begged me to sit, but refused a place on my quilt: “Why should I? May your house flourish,” he said, as he seated himself, with hands folded on his breast, on a lower step. While he was expressing his hope that his customs would not offend me, and asking about my religion, if in London (their name for England) we were tolerant to Jews, dissenters, and unbelievers, and other quaint questions, important changes were taking place throughout the room. The tall candles, which till now had stood in rows down the centre of it, were moved into the niches in the wall. These candles, from four to five feet high, and in circumference the thickness of a man’s wrist, were tallow, and they smelt in proportion to their bulk. Two of them, out of compliment to me, were placed in the middle of the quilt on which I lay, and not only choked me with their rich perfume, but blinded me so effectually that the long chamber appeared “as black as a wolf’s mouth.” On recovering my sight, I observed, from the flash of ornaments and jewellery, and by the twang of lute and fiddle (not Orpheus’, “Whose golden touch could soften steel and stones, Make tigers tame, and huge leviathans Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands”), that dancing girls of the Punjaub, “Whose leader sang―and bounded to her song,” “With choral step and voice, the fairy throng,” together with a minstrel group, had prepared themselves for our edification. It was midnight ere the first song was ended. The “Auftaubar” (water-pot) and ewer then made their appearance (see plate No. 15), and each guest tucked up his sleeves and pushed back his turban, preparatory to the ablution of hands and beard before breaking bread. The apparatus was handed to me first, with the luxury of a napkin. After using, I handed it to the Khaun, who was in the act of drying his face on the folds of his magnificent turban. He bowed gracefully, touched his forehead with the towel, and raising himself on his heels, returned without using it, preferring his shawl for his face, and the long black ringlets of a boy “Peishkhidmut,” to dry his hands. I have often seen this perpetrated, particularly after dipping into greasy or sticky messes, when the attendant’s curls, if he sports them, or his robe or turban, come into use. An urn-shaped glass bottle of “Ghul-aub” (rose-water) was then dashed over me. Every guest received a share, and holding his hands out, drank it as it spouted from vessel, and bathed his beard and face in the remainder; “Allah! Ullah! ai Ullah!” (names of the Deity expressive of delight) proceeding from each as he washed in the grateful perfume. Peshawur “Loonghies” (shawls of silk and cotton) were now spread on the floor before the principal visitors. The inferior ones, who were seated near the door, with the musicians and dancers, dismantled themselves of head-dress and girdle, and used them for table, or rather floor-cloths. The feast came at length, borne in by long files of attendants, each carrying a painted tray of twelve to fourteen dishes of fine china and coloured delf. These were arranged in circles on the floor, with bowls, as centre bits, of “various sherbets Of raisin, orange and pomegranate juice, Squeez’d through the rind, which makes it best for use.” “The dinner made about a hundred dishes; Lamb and pistachio nuts―in short, all meats, Drest to a Sybarite’s most pampered wishes.” Kabaubs there were, of kid cooked in crisp vine-leaves, curries and vegetables, sweet and sour stews, mixed with rice, apricots, cloves, and almonds; jellies, curds and whey, and “Rawaush” (rhubarb), “pomegranates full Of melting sweetness, and the pears, And sunniest apples that Caubul In all its thousand gardens bears;―Prunes of Bokhara, and sweet nuts From the far groves of Samarcand, And Basra dates and apricots, Seed of the Sun, from Iraun’s land;”―with melons, peaches, and grapes of gold and purple from Coistaun, the far-famed plums and cherries of Ghuznee’s minareted valley, and walnuts and figs from the hot plains of Candahar. Flat round cakes of delicious bread, placed before each person, and eaten during the meal, served for plate and napkin. A prayer before and after the repast was muttered by the host, all stroking their beards and chins; then followed the “Bismillah,” or leave to set to “in God’s name,” which, on my repeating it, was taken up throughout the assembly. Then came the tug of war. The rows of solemn-looking chiefs, breaking up their lines, at each other’s invitation formed small social parties, and assembled cross-legged round their tempting trays. All was silence now, save the dental murmur of so many gluttons, and the footfalls of the busy menials, running to and fro with waterpots, and cups of sweetened snow, iced sherbets, and “the bright dews From vineyards of Istalif gushing.”
In the mean time, I had tasted of the “Doona,” or portion of the dish of which the great man of the house partakes, sent from his own fingers to whomsoever it delighteth him to honour at the banquet. I cannot say the compliment, with my European prejudices, of having your neighbour’s hand (large as it may be) crammed down your throat, pleased me particularly. Souse went the Khaun’s fingers into twenty different dishes, of salt and sweet, meat and fruit, preserves and pickles, which, after he had kneaded it into a compact forcemeat (it was so to me) ball-looking article, he precipitated out of his hand by a dexterous jerk of his thumb into my open, though (I confess) unwilling mouth. All of the aristocratic circle offered me their congratulations on the compliment, and followed the nasty example of the great man. I must not forget to mention that one of his close copyists was the prima donna of the dancing girls, a beautiful little creature, who had been invited by Meerza Jaffir to join our party, as he heard me mention, in the course of the pirouette, that I admired her melancholy expression. She had presented to me early in the evening a nosegay of Jessamine and roses, and I gave her in return an English silk handkerchief. On this she asked my name, and made it chime in at the end of her verses, while my present during the dance came into full play. At one time she wore it as a turban, then it was twisted round her waist, at another it was filliped and waved to and fro close under the prominent aquiline nose of a testy old chief, and withdrawn with great coquetry and expertness as he essayed in vain to size it, amid the roars of the whole company. During the whole of this pantomimic action she never ceased dancing and singing. I have not space allowed me to describe her as she deserves, so with a repeated compliment on her beauty and a remark on her dress I must discard her for the present. Under a costly skull cap fringed with golden tillas of Bokhaura, her hair was arranged in braids, gum curls, and plaits. From her ears dropped golden vine-leaves, while rings of the same metal, besides bangles of every colour, bound her wrists. Her gown was scarlet and silver, and her trousers of blue were gathered in at the ankle, which, besides setting off to the best advantage her fairy feet, allowed the strings of bells pendant from her ankles to tinkle gay and merrily. Her eye flashed black and brilliantly from the shade of its long and “Soorma” tinted lashes. Enough; I am digressing. I said she followed the example of her host. Had I been the daintiest fellow in the world, how could I have resisted her, as with a little hand “so beautiful its very shape would charm,” she selected from the dishes spread before us the most exquisite morsels, with which she filled me to bursting from her henna-dyed and tiny fingers?
“T’ our tale.”―The feast was over, the syren gone, The slaves and dancing girls had all retired,” when a grand display of fireworks concluded the entertainment, and I reached my sleeping room at four A.M. Heaps of pillows were arranged for my reception on the floor of the chamber, while trays of fruits and cooling drinks, decorated with exquisite flowers, were ready if I thirsted. The moment I woke, tea, a great luxury and very nasty, being impregnated with assafœtida, and drunk without milk, in a state of syrup, awaited me. A messenger also from the Khaun informed me that he was ready to escort me to Ali’s sacred fishponds, for which Seer Chushma is celebrated throughout the country. The pool, situated in lovely gardens, appeared empty, till large pieces of bread were thrown in, when instantly immense shoals of overgrown carp struggled up to the surface, and fought with each other for the food, until the water became the thickness of pea-soup, and so unpleasantly alive with them, that I was happy to leave these fat and slimy authorities for the Prophet’s visit to this spot to their own mud-larkings, the devotion of their attendant priestly protector, and numerous Afghaun admirers.
[Keywords]
gol-ab/ henna/ Ghazni/ Ghulam Haydar Khan/ Amir Dust Muhammad Khan/ Kabul/ Bala Hisar/ Shah Shuja‘/ Qur’an/ wazir/ nawwab/ Peshawar/ Mirza Ja‘far Khan/ Sar Chashma/ Herat/ namad/ aftaba/ Peshkhedmat/ kabab/ ravash/ Samarqand/ Iran/ Kohestan/ Bukhara |
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