Vuillard His Life And Work

AMANULLAH

EX<KING 01' AFGHANISTAN

AMANULLAH

BY

KOLANO WILD

LAT1S SPECIAL CORItESl^NDlSNT FOR
THIS “ DAILY MAIL ” IN AFGHANISTAN

Kabul t own’s a blasted place:

Blow tho bugle, draw the sword.”

Ford o’ Kabul, Fiver

Publishers

$inccI8l2

HURST & BLACKETT, LTD.
LONDON

Printed in Great Britain at

Tht M&yjlom Pmt , Ptymtk William Brendan k Son, Ltd.
* 93 *

rfin m|T

A vi Di n ji j

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

TAG II

A BTHTIT IN THE AFGHAN HILLS—AMANULLAII, “ PEACE
OF GOD ’’--PRIESTS AS MENTORS—AN AFGHAN
WEDDING—THE GREAT WAR — “ IF I WERE
KING. . .18

CHAPTER II

A RULER’S DEATH, AND A YOUNG MAN’S IMPULSE—LIFE
WITH THE AFGHAN ARMY—SPORT IN THE WILD
HILLS—KABUL, COCKPIT OF THE EAST . . 30

CHAPTER III

AMANULLAII LOOKS SOUTH—A SOLDIER TRIES AN
AFGHAN TRICK—THE SECOND AFGHAN WAR-
BATTLE IN THE PLAINS—THE FIRST AFGHAN KING 47

CHAPTER IV

PRIEST AND PEASANT—FOREIGNERS IN THE “FOR¬
BIDDEN LAND”—IN THE HEART OF “BLASTED
KABUL ’’—THE BIRTH OF A NATION ? . . 02

CHAPTER V

AN ENGLISH HOME IN THE WILDS—THE EAST GOES
WESTERN—NEW IDEALS AND NEW AMBITIONS—

THE RESTIVE MULLAHS.77

7

CONTENTS

CHAPTER VI

I'Awr

T11E EUROPEAN TIUP 3’AKKWKLL TO A KINO A Qri-,K\
UNVEILS—LONDON KEJOIC'KS A DKKI ANC'K OP
TRADITION no

CHAPTER VII

A LONDON WELCOME—A KINDLY ,HIGGLER All WULLATI
SEES ENGLAND—AN OMEN FROM K A111: t. KIN AMT,
AND HONOURS ....

CHAPTER VIII

I GO TO KABUL—A LONG HOAD JN A HOT SUN “ HAHIIEIi
TO JOURNALISTS -STRANGE IIEIIAVIOUR OK A
CHAUFFEUR—A FORSAKEN VILLAGE .

CHAPTER IX

IN A KABUL HOTEL—THE TRAGEDY OF SIGNOR I-IK.RRI
~“ THE GREAT HOUR SECRETS OF TIIE COURT •

A RIDE IN THE ROYAL MOTOR CAR .

CHAPTER X

THE NIGHTMARE PARLIAMENT—FROCK-COATS IN THE

WILDS A FAMOUS HAT—MODERNISATION IIV ORDER J 57

CHAPTER XI

THE KING SPEAKS-—A THREAT—-A MILITARY AFFAIR -
THE FIRST AFGHAN DRAMA-—I AM TURNED OUT ,

8

171

CONTENTS

CHAPTER XII

PAGE

DOWN TO TDK KHYBER TASS—TIIE TIDE BREAKS—

AM AN U LLAII TAKES ACTION—REVOLT IN THE
PLAINS—HUMILIATION . . . . .187

CHAPTER XIII

THE RISE OF A BANDIT—“ ROBIN HOOD OF THE HILLS ”

—THE LEGATION BESIEGED—PLANES TO THE
RESCUE—AN EPIC OF THE AIR .... 204

CHAPTER XIV

IIELL BREAKS LOOSE.THE SPEECH THAT SAVED A

SLAUGHTER—FLIGHT OF A KfNG—THE THREE-DAY
RULER—A MYSTERY TRAIN THROUGH INDIA . 210

CHAPTER XV

A BANDIT AS AMIR—RULE BY PERSECUTION—TWO
AFGHANS IN AN HOTEL—THE LAST BRITON LEAVES
KABUL.. . 235

CHAPTER XVI

A SAD PARTING -GOOD-BYE TO THE EAST—A CHALLENGE
TO THE AMIR—AT THE GATES OF KABUL—DEATH
OF THE BANDIT.250

0

CONTENTS

CHAPTER XVII

PAG*

NADIR SIIAIl’S RECORD—TWO YEARS Of I’ROORKSN--
RELIGION AND EMANCIPATION—RULE J»Y POP¬
ULARITY .264

CHAPTER. XVIII

A IIEART-BROKEN EXILE—AMANULLAII LOOKS HACK—
TO-DAY IN KABUL—THE SILENT WATCHER OF THE
HILLS 277

10

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

AmanULLAII ARRIVES IN Europe . . . Frontispiece

FACING PAGE

The Author and a Parsi Trader in Peshawar . 16

Amanullaii was an energetic Tennis “ Fan ” . 16

Amanullaii’s Winter Palace, Jallalabad . . 82

Bala Hissar, the old Fort outside Kabul . 82

Sir Francis Humpiirys.56

On H.M.S. “ Victory ".80

On H.M.S, “ Tioer ”.80

At the Birmingham Small Arms Factory . . 112

At the Royal Air Force Pageant at Hendon . 112

Westernised by Order. Afghan M.P.’s in
“ Morning Coats ” behind Barbed Wire . 128

The Results of a Western Tour. Amplifiers at
Amanullah’s First Parliament . . .160

Officers of Amanullaii’s Bodyguard . . .192

Westernised. The Police set an Example, A
Group in Kabul, 1929 . 192

Bacha Saciiao, the Bandit King of Kabul, with
his Staff.208

Baciia Sachao as a Prisoner just before his Death 208

Bacha Sachao, the Bandit King, making a Speech 224

Henchmen of a Bandit King. Bacha Sachao’s

Followers.224

n

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

STAGING PAOB

Amanullaii on his last Trip to Europe, with his

Brother Inayatullah, the Three-day King. 210

The Comrades of the Bandit King stoned to

Death at Kabul ...... 250

TUriTTA SACHAO AND HIS RELATIVES HANGED IN KABUL 256

King Nadir Shah drives to his Coronation . . 268

King Nadir Shah’s Coronation Address, October

17, 1930 . 208

Afghan Girl Guides, Coronation Day, 1930 . . 272

The Bodyguard marches past, Coronation Day,

1930 . 272

The King to-day, with his Prime Minister and
Brother, Mahomed Hasiiim Khan, and ms
Foreign Minister, Faiz Mahomed Khan . 280

The last five photographs arc reproduced by
kind permission of the Afghan Legation*

13

AM AND LL AH

CHAPTER I

A I1IR.TII IN THE AFGHAN 1IIT,LS—AMANULLAIT, “PEACE OF
GOO ”—PRIESTS AS MENTORS—AN AFGHAN WEDDING—
THE GREAT WAR—“ IF I WERE KING . .

T HE rattle of rifles echoes through the ravines.
It is an irregular volley that is fired. There is
first a crack that shatters the peace of the even¬
ing. No sooner has it died down than there is answer.
From over the hill, mingled with its last reverberation,
there comes another. Then again, till it is difficult to
divide echo from explosion. And as the last rays of the
dying sun catch the snow on the grave and fearful top of
the Hindu Kush, the whole pleasant valley of Paghman
seems to be a sounding-board for the sharp staccato of
rifle-fire.

But it is not war. It is peace. Here is jubilation,
expressed in the traditional manner. The rifles are fired
carelessly, the triggers drawn before the rough butts have
reached the shoulder. There is a laugh on the face of the
men who fire, and there is laughter when the stones

18

AMANULLAII

rattle down the sheer face of the rock, dislodged by a
mountain goat as it starts in terror from the sound.

The shots are telling news. Over the hills a man starts
to his feet, at first with a curse, and grabs his riile, lean¬
ing against the face of the hill. Then his face softens,
and he smiles, and the barrel goes up in the air, and yet
another report echoes out to tell the news yet further.

For a son is born in Afghanistan.

Yet even the expenditure of one shot is no mean tax
on the fighting resources of any of these men. The old
hills would retain their evening peace if this had been a
daughter. The news would not be told. The bullets
would find a lodging perhaps in man or beast at some
later date. The carbine, bought after so great a scrimp¬
ing and saving, from the native factory at Kohat, would
be the younger by one bullet in its two-hundred-bullet
life. Perhaps to-morrow, or the next day, the news
would come by word of a neighbour, that, more’s the
pity, a daughter had been born.

Allah is great, and here is a son.

But there is more in the fact than this. For a Royal
son is born, and his name may one day precede the title
of Amir. Not the first born, it is true, nor the second.
But then, strange things have happened before in this
strange country, and only Allah knows what will happen.
For he is the son of Amir Habibullah Khan, and grand¬
son of Amir Abdur Rahman, great and stern men who
rided at Kabul. Here, then, is another bullet for the
rifle, and another rending of tfife peace of that valley, now
hidden in the night so quickly fallen. A son in Kabul
City for the Amir 1

The old bearded man of the hills, tending his flocks of
goats on the side of the hill the next morning, hailed his
neighbour, bearded and long and lean like himself, over

TnO TrnliA** '

14

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

He cupped his hands and called with the long low note
that carries and swells as it travels. The voice fell as he
called.

“ Oo-o-o,” came the voice across the green valley.
“ Greetings, and do you know what they will call the
son ? ”

The reply was pitched in the same low musical voice.

“ They say he is called ‘ Peace of God.’ His name is
Amanullah.”

It is the winter of 1890. The snow lies thick on the
ranges of hills. Up above, the early sun already catches
the peaks of the Hindu Kush. The hills seem to merge
in the clouds. New territories are there, new continents
and ethereal lands of many colours. Who can tell, in
this brilliant light of blazing sun on deep snow, whether
they be crag or cloud ?

Amanullah. The soft consonants were borne by the
breezes many times that day across the valleys of the
wild land. From mouth to mouth the syllables passed,
the name travelling into every hamlet and every
scattered group of tumble-down huts clinging to the
hard, cruel earth.

“ Peace of God.” The word was common currency
over the samovars in the cafes. It was spoken by gaunt
men crouching on their heels on the little parapets,
warming their hands on the tin cups containing sweet
tea. Their eyes are keen and their cheekbones prominent.
Their legs are long and their proud beards seem ready to
menace a stranger.

“ Peace of God,” they say again—and hitch their
rifles up on their slings, stride off along the goat
track.

How the great hills must have laughed when they

15

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ c ^ ^

AMANULLAII

heard that name and understood its moaning in the
country of bloody history.

Just outside Kabul, in the pretentious house which
saw the arrival of the youngest Prince, there were many
rites and ceremonies to be performed. For a, month past,
his mother had been in strict privacy. The midwives
had been carefully watching her health, .Relatives had
been in the house for some hours before; his august
arrival, and the compound of the house was filled with
the tom-tom beaters who would announce the event to
the multitude waiting for news. Musicians arc there too,
ready to expend all their energy in proclamation of the
event. And when the news is shouted from the portal,
no evil spirits may live near the child through the
hubbub which reigns in that happy household.

“ May your days be happy and prosperous 1 ”

“ God is Great!”

So went the salutations in the crowded household,
between servants, the pampered midwives, practising
their art dictated by all the folk-lore of a superstitious
nation, relatives, and friends. The poor, outside? the
gate, find their laps overflowing with precious grain,
money is scattered on the roads, while every man and
every woman reads the omens according to his own
knowledge of the art, and pronounces accordingly*

. JJj® , chatter of the women, each offering their own
infallible remedies to ensure the strength of the child,
rown the clatter of the horses’ hooves, as couriers arc
despatched to far-away relatives to acquaint them
personally with the news; though it is probable that the
wnfi/u ^ f ready told them they wish to know, it
Si custom beCn a graVC breach of eti qucttc to forget

16

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

And in the small, well-heated, and dimly-lit room, the
young Amanullah lies in a silk cloth, the words of
the Koran on the portion covering the breast, breathing
the scent of religious offerings burning in the corners.

The child has no religion. Every care has been taken
that the private lives of the attendants are impeccable.
It has even been assured that the wet-nurse is married to
a fighting man of unimpeachable bravery in the field.
But very soon after the birth, there comes the holy
figure of the Imam, sonorous of voice and impressive of
demeanour, with his traditional prayer extolling the
greatness of God in the child’s hearing. From that
moment Amanullah, “ Peace of God,” is a Moslem.

In early youth there are further ceremonies. The
barber comes with his tools of office, not this time for his
ordinary duties, but charged with the sacred mission of
making the child clean in the sight of God by shaving his
head. Embroidered handkerchiefs, scented water, and
a new razor are used, and the young Amanullah, we may
imagine, protests violently at the ceremony, even though
foH^hc first time he is dressed in all the finery of an
Afghan child’s gaudy coat and waistcoat.

The relatives are reminding each other yet again of the
precautions to be observed during early life. Never must
he be taken out at night, they whisper. Especially must
be keep indoors on Thursday nights. The eyes of the
stars are dangerous, and even the nurse must not eat
cereals on a starry night. They must beware of the sun¬
shine, not because of the fear of sunstroke on a head
already hardened to the fiercest rays, but because the
vultures may drop their eggs on his head—a sign of
terrible ill-omen.

The chief fear, of the lightning flashes, does not apply
to this child, for the witches say that they strike only the
first-born.

B 17

AMANULLAH

“ And remember,” say the old women as they leave,
“ remember to keep his face veiled. There is no need to
tell yon of the evil eyes of beggars and thieves. . . .”

So the excitement dies down, revived for a short time
when the boy loses his baby teeth. They are thrown
into a mousehole, so that the new teeth may resemble
those of the mice. Charms hang round his neck by now,
and the tiger claw forms the centre of a string of beads.
And eventually he shows his stature, and gives promise
of the fighting man he is destined to be.

The hills are his playground. Round Kabul, the city
fringed with the mountains that have made it invulner¬
able to all the hosts which have passed that way to India,
the young Prince ranges the goat-paths and wanders far
and wide in his search for adventure. A fine horseman
at an early age, a youth outstripping his brothers in his
achievements in the field, but quite willing to lag behind
them in the bookish world, he soon grows familiar to the
hillmen who tend their flocks on the heights overlooking
the city.

He is known in the city too, and though always at¬
tended by retainers, it is said that he causes them many
fears by his anxiety to elude their vigilance and embark
on his own into the labyrinths of the bazaar. From the
tall counters of the money-changers, whither he would
climb, he throws down money joyfully to the swarming
beggars in the narrow street. He would ape the street
gamin, stealing the sweetmeats from the cookshops, and
when the shopkeepers see the brilliantly-clad little figure
disappear in the crowds, they wag their heads together
and say: “ There goes a true Afghan, who can laugh a
little. . .

He is already armed at the age, of ten. The rifle
specially made for him fires half-charges, and with
immense pride and arrogance he scours the hills after

18

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

game, imagining himself already the complete hunter of
the wild hills.

And then, as an end to the wild free life of his boyhood,
come the sedate mullahs with their books and papers
under their arms, scripts and pens and texts, for the
curbing of a young Afghan’s impetuosity and the educa¬
tion of a roving, adventurous mind.

They teach him history. They tell him of the feats in
war of the Afghan hillmen, irregular troops from the out¬
skirts of a savage land. They tell him of the hordes of
Persians who battered and crashed at the gates of Kabul.
Of Mahmud, his ancestor, magnificent in his armour,
marching at the head of 20,000 untrained men, to slash
through the might of Persia, double their number. Of
the dire revenge that followed, and the cold-blooded
massacre of the two thousand guards and the whole of
the Persian Royal Family.

They tell, being bloodthirsty and loyal religious
gentlemen, of the rout of the Turks, and the blood that
flowed after that mighty feat of arms. They tell of Shah
Alam, giving himself the title of “ King of the World.”
An Afghan, he, of the blood.

The youth’s eyes, we can imagine, wander often
through the windows to the hills round Kabul, from
which so many hundreds of thousands of arrogant eyes
had looked down upon their prey. He muses upon Bala
Hissar, which still retained for me, when I saw it, a
glamour and a heritage of blood. The ruins of the great
fort look down upon Kabul still.

Perhaps the old mullahs tell of the Pass of Jagdalalc,
of terrible memory, where 4500 British and Indian
soldiers perished in the greatest ambush known in
Eastern history. And on his next journey to the old
Winter Palace in Jallalabad, the young Prince rides
through that valley of death with many a thought for the

19

AMANULLAH

strange white people across the border, who hold the rich
prize of India. Not many years later he was to clash
swords with the famed armies of that race.

True, there are Englishmen in Kabul, tenacious and
courageous in a land which had always cost them lives
and money. But the missions to the capital are not
greatly in evidence, and the relations between Afghan
and Englishman always Tinder a strain. Besides,
here perhaps the mullahs put in a word of their
own.

“ Afghanistan for the Afghans! ” is their theme.
“ This is the forbidden land ! ”

Perhaps that age-old battle-cry of the holy men has
its effect at that age on his youthful mind, but, if so, it
was easy to expel, as history showed, Released from the
supervision of the mullahs, too, he grows restive of their
influence over all the land. He “ secs straight,” does the
youth with the strong, agile body and the black, fearless
eyes. He sees the evil of a priest-ridden peasantry. He
sees the corruption of the Church, as another King has
done since his day—and suffered the same fate. And by
the time he is little more than a youth, he grows actively
resentful of the wholesale regard for the priests, and
tends to link his life more and more closely with the life
of the soldiers.

Marriage intervenes. He is older than is the custom
for bridegrooms in his country, and we can imagine that
he grows impatient with the ritual which must attend his
wedding when he might be out with his troops, jousting
with them m every sporting event, leading them in the
games and the tests of military prowess.

He must change uniform for more ceremonial clothes.
He must busy himself with all the considerations of caste
and heredity and he must pursue his betrothed, a certain
bflahazadar Khanum, with all the elaborate details whieh

20

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

the old gossips of social Kabul delight in. There is the
pretence of this being a casual friendship, the true motive
being sanctimoniously concealed. There are the whisp¬
ered rumours and the business conversations. Lastly,
when the old gossips had long ago arranged every detail
to their satisfaction, there is the visit of close relatives to
the mother of the favoured girl.

Long speeches follow, ending with the plea : “ My son
is well favoured and strong. Yet he will be gentle in
spirit and meek in the delight of marriage with your
daughter. He would be as dust on which your daughter
may tread. . .

And the object of these compliments is the happy-go-
lucky youth with the arm of a giant and the constitution
of a horse, even at that moment fretting at the delays
that keep him from the leadership of his cavalry. Sueh
an allegation of meekness in any other circumstance
would hastily end in retribution.

Even after thus coming out into the open, nothing
further is done for months. Amanullah has not yet seen
his bride. Save now and then he may have caught a
glimpse of ankles beneath the all-enveloping folds of her
white purdah. He may have guessed at pale blue
Afghan eyes through the lace network before her face.
He may have heard the tinkle of her laugh. No sort of
courtship, this, for a man who is already called by his
troops by the affectionate nickname of “ Amanullah the
Impetuous.”

The breaking of sugar-loaf follows. Relatives, always
ready for partaking in any intimate domestic festival,
with its music, sweetmeats, and gaiety, are already
clustering round the parents’ doors. There is a regular
ceremony to mark the betrothal. There is a procedure
for every stage of the preparations for the wedding
itself. The mullahs are at the house again, invoking the

21

c<£?it<5?i<*^vc^ Ce^y t^y t^?j

AMANULLAH

aid of the gods, searing away the evil spirits, urging the
need of prayer and good living on all and sundry.

Presents fly round the family. All are laid down by
custom, all are given in the name of Allah. And eventu¬
ally the invitations are sent out, ending with a poem of
the most flowery language, every poet vying with his
neighbour in the composition of fulsome wishes and
adjectives.

And as he prepares himself for the ceremony in his
finest clothes, we can picture the tempestuous Aman-
ullah, nerves taut, reading impatiently such phrases as :
“ The birds, with their sweet songs, have brought joy to
the leafless trees, which flutter like a bird without
feathers, as the wind passes through their branches laden
with the fragrance of wild flowers. The sun has poured
gold in the water of the rivers at sunset, and the moon
has shed liquid silver on the crystal ponds. . . .”

But in the year 1910 the ceremony is performed, in a
pavilion specially erected for the occasion, and the stolid
figure of the third son of the Amir, destined to play
a part in Eastern history seldom equalled in its drama,
its pathos, and its occasional broad humour, sits on the
stool of honour with his bride and signs the papers,
attested by every relative who wishes to partake of the
honour.

The pipers play them in and out of their wedding
house. The drums beat incessantly from cock-crow to
sundown. The maids of honour hurry with gifts and
clothes to and from the frightened, imprisoned bride,
during this time receiving a so-called beauty treat¬
ment. The wedding feasts are over. The Imam
of the Mosque has paid his ceremonial visit. The
turbulence and the shouting dies down. The beggars
waiting outside the gates are flung their quota of alms.
Sherbet is drunk by every guest, and with the sound of a

22

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

thousand good wishes in their ears, the exhausted bride¬
groom and his bride leave the celebrations.

Ai-nfl/nullah goes back to his troops, and flings himself
yet more vigorously into the uphill task of creating an
efficient and disciplined army. He is now taking long
trips into the outermost regions of his land. He is bolder
and even more outspoken. The fame of his feats of arms
and horsemanship spread to every village in Afghanistan.
He is superb, foolhardy, contemptuous of danger.

Two years after the wedding his wife dies giving birth
to Shahzadajan Hidayatullah Khan, and the rifles of the
hillmen speak that night over the valleys in celebration
of new life, unaware that there has that day died a woman
who might have saved Afghanistan from a further period
of rapine, torture, and wholesale slaughter.

It can be surmised that in due time Amanullah re¬
covers from the shock of his first wife’s death. The son
lives, and bids fair to become such an one as his father.
Amanullah is twenty-three, and becoming a power in the
land. He has won many of the rifle competitions. He
has scored continual successes on the race-course. He
has exhausted the finest fighting men of the land in long
forays over the hills after game. His house is hung with
the most precious spoils of the chase. Fabulous stories
are told of his horsemanship, of his strength in the
wrestling bouts, and of his skill with the revolver.

Even in the house of his father he commands respect.
His eldest brother, Inayatullah, is a jovial, pleasure-
loving soul, and has little liking for the competitive fields
of sports and assaults at arms. He is the bookish, elder
brother to the life, and is inclined to smile in a superior
way at the enthusiasm of his young brother. He

23

AMANULLAII

disapproves slightly of the undignified manner in which
Amfl.nunfl.h haunts the bazaars of old Kabul.

Amanullah’s appearance on the parade ground is
hailed with cheers. A popular reception awaits him
wherever he goes.

“ There,” say the old men, “ there goes your true
Afghan.”

And in truth, there is need in these days for a “ true
Afghan.”

Rumours of war fill the air. Certain rich and scheming
strangers have come to Kabul. Presents arc loaded on
the old Amir. The British are back on one of their
frequent representations, and have laid siege to the
affections of the ruling house. A new interest is being
taken in the Army, its numbers, and its efficiency, and
young Amanullah takes especial pride in showing off the
capabilities of his men.

Most of the strangers arc Russians. They have
come preceded by an invasion of goods at cheap
prices. Old Kabul bazaar is changing already. There
are foreign agents to be seen closeted together with
the old Afghan shopkeepers, and as a result of these
confabulations, there are to be seen sparkling and
ridiculously cheap foreign clothes and ornaments in
the shops, while the shopkeeper himself has difficulty
in hiding the fact that he has recently acquired con¬
siderable wealth.

New buildings have gone up in Kabul City, near the
ten bridges. They are on Western lines, and one day
there is heard the click of a new machine, that taps all
day and well into the night. It is at first a mystery.
Then, to the surprise of the populace, a young clerky
individual can be seen in the biggest store, writing with
an automatic machine.

Strange times, these, and strange portents abound in

24

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

Kabul. But the young soldier, scorning everything but
his beloved Army, throws himself again into military
affairs.

The Turks are in Kabul too. Fine soldierly men,
wearing very prominently the star and the crescent,
very religious always, to impress the religious Afghan.
They seem particularly interested in the Army, and if
the truth be told, Amanullah is secretly flattered by their
attention, and consumes eagerly the crumbs of praise
which are often thrown to him from these impres¬
sive, upright men from a martial race of the same
religion.

They do not seem to co-operate very well with the
Russians. Their legations, unofficial as yet, are at the
opposite ends of the city. There have already been
brushes between the diplomats, but it is difficult for a
mere soldier to find out the true intentions of that wily
old fox, the Amir Habibullah.

Not even to his son does he entrust the secrets of his
heart. Russia or England, Turkey or Germany ? He
will not say where his heart lies, and from his demeanour
it is impossible to tell whether he has been impressed by
the religious companionship of the Turks, the cold
efficiency and financial promises of the Teutons, the
dignity of the British, or the softly wheedling tactics of
the Russians.

Even a soldier, however, has his own ideas. There was
at that time bred in the heart of Amanullah a burning
flame of nationalism which was not to be found in the
heart of any other Afghan. He saw the flatterers of other
lands, and he heard the soft arguments of many nation¬
alities. He learnt how beneficial it would be for Afghani¬
stan to link her fortunes with the Germans and the Turks.
He heard how imperative it was that treaties should be
made prejudicial to the British, and how it was essential

25

AMANULLAH

for preference to be given to the neighbours on the
north, the Russians.

The result was to kindle in his heart a determination
that Afghanistan should forge for herself a future inde¬
pendent of the favours of others. The soldier was
speaking. The Afghan, bred in the tradition of heroic
self-reliance, was forming his future to the exclusion of
the diplomat.

But he did not obtrude his views against the stern and
strong silence of his father. Habibullah went his own
way, scheming and plotting. He gave nothing away,
and he was as much a mystery to his courtiers as he was
to the delegates of all the Powers who had suddenly
seemed to realise how great a prize was the friendship of
this wild, strategical “ buffer ” state in the East.

“ Afghanistan for the Afghans ! ” The words of the
old mullahs came back to him with the emphasis of a
phrase learnt in childhood. He, at any rate, would not
pander to the conceits of others. There was all the more
reason, because of the international flattery at the Court,
to ensure the discipline of the Army. He dreamed of
guns, aeroplanes, convoys of motor transport wheeling
across the great parade grounds. He saw in his ambitious
imagination the armies of the Afghan nation, no longer
split into factions, but united as they had never been
united before.

He saw the hillmen massing on the plains, not in the
irregular, guerrilla bands of other days, but in a compact,
mobile force. He saw himself as head of a great fighting
nation, with the history of many campaigns in their
blood, but strengthened with the improvements of
modern warfare.

The world could teach Afghanistan. These men who
came from over “ the Black Water,” with their motor
cars and their modern machines, could be used without

26

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

trading on the ignorance of his countrymen. They could
supply rifles that would put to shame the Afghan-made
carbines of great expense and short lives. They could
introduce artillery which would make the Afghan Army
a power in international armaments.

Thus he dreamed, but there was little encouragement
for his ideals. He found sluggards at headquarters. He
found men in high places whose lives were concentrated
on the need of forcing the last penny from Government
contracts. He found bribery on a scale never before
known in history. He found apathy in his father.

“ The Afghans have always been like that,” said his
father. “ You can never rid us of corruption.”

The infamous saying was quoted in his face :

“ Afghan, Afghan, be imam, be imam ! ”

“ Fie, fie, faithless Afghan ! ”

He did not lose faith.

Then came war.

The rumours were right, then. The whole world was
at war. The British were in, the Turks were in, the
Germans and the Russians were in. News came over the
passes, strangely divergent news according to whether
it came from north or from south. Travellers came
down from the north with the tales of whole continents
under the grip of the war fever. Stories came up from
the south telling how India was depleted of armed men,
all gone over the Black Water.

Perhaps it was then that Amanullah, reviewing his
troops and finding them good, looked down toward the
south, and thought of the lush valleys and the wealthy
cities of India. Weak, luxury-loving people down there,
if the tales from the caravans were true. Once you got

27

AMANULLAH

past the northern region, and through the Khyber Pass,
there were undefended cities to be sacked, great grazing
plains to be occupied, cattle and crops such as were
never seen in his own dear but cruel land.

The promises of German agents were specious. The
Turks were their blood-brothers, and there could be no
harm in taking the side of their brothers in the Moslem
faith.

War, and his people were made for war !

But old Habibullah said nothing, and parleyed day
by day on equal terms with all the delegates from all
the Powers. He would turn his eloquent hands palm
upwards and flutter them from the wrist to depict his
state of mind. He would smile, and agree with everyone
who came to see him, and give nothing away. He would
bargain, just for the love of bargaining, and his inter¬
viewers would go away without an inkling of what he
wanted to do, what he meant to do, what he could do.

He was playing the old Afghan game, highly un¬
satisfactory to his son. He was sitting on the fence,
greatly pleased with the importance that Afghanistan
had suddenly gained in international affairs. He
curbed his son’s impetuosity.

But, secretly, the Amir had given his word to the
British.

“ Have confidence,” he had sent down as a verbal
message to India. “ Trust in the word of an Afghan.
You must not be surprised if I appear to be against
your interests. But, you know, I deal with ‘ kittle
cattle 5 ...”

He kept his word. The depleted defences of the
North-West Frontier were never harassed. Up in
Kabul he played with the schemers as the schemers
hoped to play with him. He knew his “ kittle cattle.”

But it cannot be imagined that the forced inactivity

28

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

pleased his son. Amanullah stamped in impatience
while he saw, below the Khyber Pass, a great treasure
going begging. A testing time at last! A chance for
his own generalship and the valour of his own men !

Even at that time there must have entered his mind
the thought: “ If I were Amir. . . .”

29

CHAPTER II

a ruler’s death, and a young man’s impulse—life with

THE AFGHAN ARMY—SPOUT IN THE WILD HILLS—
KABUL, COCKPIT OF THE EAST

D URING the World War, Amanullah learnt
much. He was at the age that can see world
events in their proper perspective. He was
twenty-four, possessed a clear, determined brain, and
was beginning to look at history from a slant peculiarly
his own.

Every phase of the War; every breach of faith and
every betrayal of national characteristic; every feat
of arms or triumph of patriotic fervour; all found a
niche in his brain for his future guidance.

Nothing swerved him from his path of violent national¬
ism. Even when his critics were at their busiest, it was
never suggested that he had sinned in any way save
against the laws of tact. He did all for his country.
He believed in himself and his countrymen. Amanullah’s
energy and ambition were entirely guided by good
intentions.

It was not an edifying spectacle that he saw over
half the world. The timid admiration for all things
modern, which had been growing in his breast, suffered
a slight setback when he saw how modern nations
conduct their squabbles. His military mind reeled at
the facts of a slaughter which put even the old massacres
of his country’s history to shame. He realised that he
would never attain a position equal in any respect to
that gained by the Powers across the sea, if universal

80

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

destruction were the paragon. But more and more as
the news of the War reached his ears, he was intent
upon showing to the world that Afghanistan could not
be regarded as the pathetic little “ buffer-state ”
towards which the Great Powers could show a benevolent
tolerance.

This period was the last of any length during which
Amanullah was to have the leisure for his further educa¬
tion. He made the best use of it. In particular he studied
the policy of his father. He knew already, to his disgust,
the vacillation and intrigue which distinguished Habi-
bullah’s foreign policy. He was already disappointed
in the stand which, on the surface, the old man was
taking towards the Powers whose representatives daily
sought his favours.

Amanullah was too young then to understand the
Eastern policy of sitting on the fence. An hereditary
quality in Eastern lands, somehow it seemed to have
been left out of his constitution. Impatience ruled him.
He was a man of action. He counted display and
braggadocio as a strong feature in the life of a nation.
He loved to read of the finery and chivalry of the old
Persian armies. Diplomacy, he thought scornfully,
played a small part in their lives. They were fighting
men.

Old history absorbed him. He read that the Afghans
may be the Lost Tribes of Israel. He read of Afghans,
who helped his father build the Temple at Jerusalem,
Legend had it that when misfortune befell the children
of Israel beside the Nile, Afghans trekked with his sons
to the hills of Ghoor, and thence far north to the shadow
of the Hindu Kush. He read yet another theory that
held Mahomed responsible for summoning the chief of
the refugees to hold the faith of Islam in Asia against
the growing forces of infidelity.

81

AMANULLAH

And, probing among the ruins of old Kabul, he
rediscovered the traces of ancient civilisation which
proved that Kabul figured in history fully two thousand
years before Julius Caesar brought his legions to Albion.
Ariana was the name of the wild, inhospitable country
in those days, and it is remarkable that among the
names of the provinces constituting the region so named,
there was one named Gandhara, changed only by an
initial letter to-day into the Province of Kandahar.

Alexander’s name figured largely. There are ruins
to-day, in the district which must have been the scene
of his triumphs, which bear his name. Herat is named
after him. Occupying that city, he advanced upon
Kabul from the north-west, Kandahar falling to him
and giving him the last link in a circle round the capital.

In the north, the point where Alexander forded his
legions across the Oxus is still remembered by his name.
This ford is regarded as of major strategical importance,
and when he had conquered thus far, wc can imagine
that the Kabulis had terror in their hearts at the
approach of one whose fighting fame was stretching
across the world.

The guide, showing Amanullah the famous ford,
would point to certain marks in the rocks, as he does
to this day, averring that these are the footprints of
Alexander, and represent the key position to the whole
of the East.

Kabul fell, after a night when Alexander gazed down
from the hills, from a point where to-day the motor
cars of foreign visitors sweep through a defile along a
modern if dangerous road. Then he struck, and yet
one more bloody chapter was written in Kabul’s history.

But India, the goal of his ambitions, was not to be
Greek, for Alexander died, and his successors, forgetting
the importance of the Kabul valleys as their base,

82

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

bartered what little the hordes had conquered lor the
price of five hundred elephants.

We can picture the young Amanullah poring over
these records of his nation’s history. He has perhaps
been out on a hunting trip, and has made his way back
to camp only when dusk has fallen and the majority
of his men have pleaded their physical exhaustion. lie
has tired them out, racing over the plains on his horses,
and scrambling over the rocks after ibex. He is at the
camp-fire, reading in old Persian by the glimmering
light of the flames, while the chill mist comes down
on the hills with that suddenness which distinguishes
the hilly regions of the East.

His men lie unconscious in sleep. Still he goes on
reading. And after a time lifts his eyes from the page
and dreams of his future.

What did he aspire to ? There was an even chance
of his being Amir. He was not the eldest son, but the
rules of direct accession do not always apply in Eastern
countries. . . .

He had even chances with his brother, whom ho
held in the contempt common in the soldier for the
diplomat. He had even chances with the next strong
man who might be convenient and able to jump into
the breach.

Hid he wish to be Amir ? Probably not, if kingship
meant the age-long wrangling, the intrigue, and the
chicanery of present-day life. He could not, he felt,
maintain the pace at Court. He would hanker for
his parade grounds, for his personal touch with the
Army, and for the wild hills from which his men were
recruited.

In many moments of reverie he thought of the back¬
ward condition of his people. Even the tenets of the
religion which were taken for granted in his country,

c 88

AMANULLAH

came up for review in his vigorous brain. The women,
for instance. Few dared to brave the wrath of Allah
and the temporal disapproval of the mullahs by thinking
freely about the purdah system. Few questioned the
right of men to imprison women all their lives in the
enveloping cloak of custom. But Amanullah did.

He thought of their starved lives in the upper rooms.
Their starved minds, fed by an occasional glance through
the lattice into a courtyard. He thought of the debase¬
ment of their bodies in the name of religion. He
pictured their agonies under the rules that went for
medicine at the most critical time of their lives.

These thoughts were secret. Amanullah was from
that moment a rebel. Trained by the mullahs, he yet
dared to question their right to dictate the physical
and material welfare of the nation. He must have been
startled by his own thoughts, when in the sober light
of day he passed in review the strange revolutionary
theories which had occupied him by the camp-fire.

He even found reason to despise caste. He revolted
against the laws which made men separate one from
another in holy distaste. He was applying common
sense to the Koran. He could have been shot for it.

But none guessed his thoughts. None wondered what
was taking place in the mind of the young soldier who
had already gained fame in every province in the
country. None knew his burning ambition. He was
not looked on as even a possible future Amir. The
prophets took their searching eyes no further than
Court circles, and gossip, seeing the old Habibullah
still strong and vigorous and cruel, guessed that
when the time did come, then his place would be
taken by some similar cunning schemer close to the
throne.

Nasrullah, brother of Habibullah, and just such

84

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

another artful old fox, held the strongest of the betting.
He laughed at all the Amir’s cruel jokes, approved all
his actions, and showed himself as cunning at the old
game of diplomacy and time-wasting palaver.

But that time was a long way off still. Habibullah
had not relented a scrap, during the last ten years or
so, in his playful habits. Only the other day, rumour
said, he had played a pithy joke while engaged in his
equivalent of a game of chess. He was interrupted
during a move. A messenger came in to announce that
four hundred mutinous soldiers had been brought in
from Herat. The guards awaited instructions.

“ Oh—poke their eyes out,” said Habibullah, without
taking his gaze from the board before him.

This story is vouched for by an Englishman who
was with him at the time. The sentence was carried
out that same day.

When Amanullah came to hear of this and similar
incidents, he wondered at such methods. Ho had been
brought up in a hard school, and he hud heard the
maxim and favourite saying of his father.

“ I rule an iron people,” Habibullah would say, “ and
I must rule with an iron hand.”

But Amanullah was unconvinced. Something must
be wrong. He looked abroad, and though he saw pillage
and slaughter on a scale unknown in history befure, he
saw that there were lessons to be learnt from the West
which might with time be applied to the East,

Chief of the evils that he saw at Court was the
universal system of corruption. There was little decep¬
tion about it. It was a recognised and apparently
ineradicable taint. It had gone on for so long tliat it
had grown into custom. Every man had his price, and
the wise ruler was he who raised the market and gained
as great a sum as possible for his favours.

85

AMANULLAII

Every official position was farmed out. Every
department had its parasites. Every tax on the people
was paid chiefly to the heads who had bought their
titles and meant to recoup themselves as rapidly as
possible. Very few could stand out against the system.
It had eaten into the heart of the nation, and was as
established as the need for eating and drinking. The
soldiers in his Army paid annual sums to their corporals
for protection from imposition. Generally speaking,
corporals paid levies to their sergeants to keep their
rank. Sergeants paid their senior officers, and officers
had bought their titles and were forced to find interest
on the investment.

So it went on in every braneh of government. Nobody
was immune. And against this birthright of the Afghan,
only Amanullah protested. Only Amanullah thought
that there was wickedness in the custom. Only Aman-
ullah dared to say that perhaps there were other
methods.

But he kept silent. Even Amanullah would not be
safe against the anger of Habibullah.

The War dragged on. Almost its only repercussions
in that far-off land were the redoubled efforts of the
emissaries at Court to enlist the support of Habibullah
and embroil Afghanistan in the War. Never before
had the country played so important a part in
world politics. Never before had such promises been
made.

If the word had been given, Habibullah would have
found his capital one of the greatest military bases in
the East. He would have been harried and flattered
and eased out of power. Once he had fallen to the
flattery of Russia, Afghanistan would have been lost
for ever—to the might of the Northern Power. Once
he had retracted from his policy of general placation

86

CdS?5 Cs£?5 t£5?3 t£5?S C*5?a Cd? 5 ! C^

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

and see-saw equivocation, HabibuIIah would have been
the last Afghan Amir of Kabul.

As the British in India came to realise that they could
place more and more trust in his secret promise of strict
neutrality, troops were drafted even from the northern
stations of the Khybcr Pass to fill up the ranks in
Flanders. India was not undefended, but its defences
were manned by an irreducible skeleton force incapable
of resisting long attacks.

It was one of the greatest risks taken in the Great
War, and its justification depended on the verbal
agreement of a “ faithless Afghan.”

Early in the years of the Great War Amanullah
married again. His bride was Souriya, of Syrian
attraction, educated and beautiful. The marriage
could not be expected to cause the stir that the first
marriage had meant for friends and relatives, and if the
truth be told the name of Amanullah was fading into
the background during these days, in favour of more
diplomatic and closer friends of the Court.

Little attention, therefore, was paid to the new
maiden of his choice. Yet she was worth the study.
She had brains—hitherto disregarded among the swains
of Afghanistan as a qualification for the capture of
their hearts. She had beauty. And she was willing to
follow Amanullah through all the tribulations and
troubles into which his boldness was bound to lead him.

Her name is curious. It has connections with Pleiades.
Souriya lived up to the name. She used her beauty
and tact to effect when later she was called upon to
test the revolutionary ideals of her husband.

It is a pity that the Kabulis of that day did not take
very much interest in the bride. She was in strict
purdah, of course, and religiously followed every precept
that the mullahs laid down for her. Nothing could have

87

AMANULLAH

been alleged against her private life. Yet later she was
to be cited in Kabul as the arch-transgressor against
the laws of the Prophet, and as a woman who had
offended against the Koran by exposing her undoubted
beauties to the gaze of the common populace of Rome,
Paris, London, and Moscow.

“ The mystery of the East envelops her,” wrote one
enthusiastic London journalist who saw her in European
clothes. “ She has all the wisdom of the East in her
eyes, all the dignity of the East in her carriage, and yet
she has inculcated the West into her speech and her
manners.”

Such was the woman whom Amanullah picked to be
his second wife. It was an unusual selection, but once
again he proved his common sense and his judgment.
Souriya was one of the most, loyal heroines of this age.
She followed the dictates of her husband even when
her life was threatened, and exposed herself to the
insults of the mob both on religious and moral grounds.

Soon after the wedding she bore him a son, a daughter
in 1919, a son, Rahmatulla Khan, in 1928, and two
more daughters, now aged ten and seven.

Amanullah had found a companion with whom he
could share his secret. He did not treat his wife with
the distant brutality common among his countrymen.
He actually made friends with her! Such a thing was
unknown. It was revolutionary. If he had known, old
Habibullah would have said that this policy was sapping
at the root of manhood. But he never knew.

The friendship did nothing but spur him on to further
dreams of emancipation for women. He had read of
the women-of the West, They were not chattels, but
companions. Even now, white women were in Kabul,
unveiled and free, taking part in the social life of the
city. Afghans who had been to Paris for their military

88

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

education told him of the way white women were
accustomed to walk abroad by day, and even to work
in the service of their country. The news convinced
him that he was on the right lines if his country was
ever to take its place among the foremost nations of the
world.

His teaching fell on fruitful ground. Souriya en¬
couraged him. Both knew that they could not divulge
their strange secret to the world. The mullahs would
have talked of sacrilege !

But the days wore on, and as he developed his thesis
Amanullah dreamed yet more often of the time when
he could spread the doctrine of female emancipation.
He knew he was running a risk. He knew that he was
kicking against the whole religious teaching of the
Moslem world. He did not flinch.

Habibullah still divided his time between the Palace
at Kabul and the Winter Palace at Jallalabad. The
courtiers followed him everywhere, still more pressing
with their inducements to side with the northern
enemy against the British. Then the Russians feU out
and their place was taken by the German envoys,
scared of too close an approach to India, but anxious
to sow the seed of dissension against the nation that
they termed the “ freebooters of the Moslem faith.”

Amanullah’s education continued. He himself became
affected with the anti-British epidemic. He learnt the
laws of his country. He learnt how the Government of
Afghanistan was prohibited from maintaining direct
dealings with any other country. He learnt of the
annual sum paid to his father’s Government for the
maintenance of peace. He considered this as a reward
—and a paltry reward at that—granted to a small boy
under a promise to behave himself.

Yet ten years before his birth there had been a day

89

AMANULLAII

when Afghans had swept the plains clear of British
save for the dead and the dying. At Maiwind in the
year 1880, the Afghan hordes had come down like wolves
upon the armed force of Great Britain. There had been
no withstanding their ferocity, their bravery, and their
generalship. He searched out old warriors, who,
flattered and gratified, enlarged the talc of Afghan
heroism until it sounded as if the stern battle, when the
British had been outmanoeuvred, was a tussle between
forces quite disproportionate in valour.

The seed was sown. Henceforth, if Amanullah ever
gained the power he wanted in Afghanistan, the frontier
of India was not safe from the attacks of a trained
Afghan army. At their head would be Amanullah.

It is small wonder that history went to his head. He
could make no comparisons. He did not know that his
old matchlocks were out of date. He did not know
that modem fortresses were proof against the sword
and the burning brand. He had never seen a modern
first-class fighting force on the move. He did not know
that personal bravery now counted for little in the
science of warfare, even in his own hills. Amanullah
had a swollen head—but it was mainly through his own
ignorance.

Life was pleasant. For once in history, the Bast
was in turmoil while Afghanistan was peaceful. There
were minor revolts, it is true, and disturbance in the
Army. But these were to be expected, and meant
nothing. A few hundred soldiers shot at dawxx every
year. A few examples made of mutineers and robbers.
Their terrible tortures, their death agonies and maimings,
were all in the decree of existence in the land of an iron
people.

One outburst emanated from the lips of Amanullah.
It was when one of the richest jests of his father was

40

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

being noised abroad in Jallalabad. With his usual
insouciance, Habibullah had sent to their deaths a
hundred or so of his erring people. Once more came
the half-satirical saying from his heart: “I rule an
iron people. They need an iron rule.”

Amanullah was not content. He flung out a rejoinder,
which, however, never reached the ears of his father,
or the history of Afghanistan might have been changed.

“ We are a wild people,” was the reply. “ But we
can be tamed ! ”

His career, looked at in its most favourable light,
appears more justifiable if that saying, hushed up by
his friends, is kept in mind.

There must have been many times when relations
were strained between the Amir and his warrior son.
Amanullah left the Court boiling with anger more than
once. Some injustice done to a soldier ; some flagrant
act of cruelty to a poor man of the people; some
breach of the code of honour which ruled him, even
though it was the rough honour of the wild; he had
cause enough for being dissatisfied with the present
regime.

Nothing was done when he denounced, in the face of
his father, the graft which permeated the whole of the
State. Nothing was done when he produced instance
after instance of chicanery which must already have
come to the notice of high ministers in the Amir’s
service. He fumed, and held his peace.

Perhaps Souriya curbed his growing impatience.
She was more of the diplomat. She, half Syrian, knew
the Afghan mind better than did her Afghan husband.
Tactfully she calmed him, knowing perhaps with the
wisdom which sent the London journalist into semi¬
hysterics, that later he would have his chance to reform
the world and its evils.

4>l

AMANULLAII

It was a period of strain for Amanullah. He was
approaching the thirties, and so far only held a rank
in the Afghan Army commensurate with his rank as
a prince. He knew more than any other officer about
the rank and file. He knew the country better than
most. He knew that he had the personality to lead,
and to lead as far as death. He had brain, and he was
a sea-green incorruptible. He was not smug, but he
was arrogant. Justice was in his heart, and ambition
was in his head. Spurred by his wife, driven again by
his own mind, yet he could get no further. Afghanistan
seemed to him a dead country, rotting in corruption,
afraid to take a chance one way or the other.

He resented the sway of diplomacy over military
prowess. He cavilled at the sale of jobs which meant
the control of his good fighting men. This was not the
way Afghan armies went to conquer. This was never
the way of valour and victory.

Habibullah said nothing. Metaphorically, he never
lifted his eyes from the chessboard when his son flamed
and spouted before him. “ Doubtless the young man
wants something,” he would say. “ Perhaps he is
dissatisfied. Give him a province.”

Meanwhile, the old Amir played the same game with
the foreign envoys, playing off one against the other,
rousing jealousies, pretending to grant his favours first
to one and then the other, and never budging an inch
from his unassailable position of assumed perplexity
and doubt as to the future of Afghan policy in the War.

He was destined to see the end of the struggle without
allowing his son to unsheath the steel of his Army. The
nations battled themselves into exhaustion, and news
came across the water that there was an end to war.
The extravagances of the flattering diplomats eased off
a little. To many of them, Habibullah had seemed a

42

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

lisappointing and timorous despot. They had made
no headway with him. But he knew in his own heart
that down in India the British were congratulating
themselves on having such a faithful fellow-conspirator.

Amanullah was sad and dispirited. The object of an
army was to make war. His men had disciplined
themselves into something like efficiency to no purpose.
The greatest chance of his life had passed. It seemed
a mockery to maintain an armed force for the sole use
of the ,parade ground and the State functions. He sulked
at Court, and almost openly expressed his disapproval
of his father’s neutrality.

He had not long to wait.

In the autumn of 1919, Habibullah was setting off
for his Winter Palace at Jallalabad. He rode through
Kabul surrounded by the finery and equipage of a real
Eastern ruler. His men-at-arms bore the flags and
pennants of the Royal House, and costly fabric decorated
the saddle-cloths of his finest horses. There were chairs
for the ladies, if they tired of riding, and there were
spare horses for even the most humble of his soldiers.

The officials of the Court rode with him, and behind
the little procession there came numerous pack-horses
carrying the books of State and the records of the
Amir’s Court. Little had changed since medieval
times. He looked round his capital and saw that it
was to his liking. It might have been a scene from the
Bible, as the dust rose from under the hoofs of the
cavalcade, passing into the canon cut like a deep knife
wound in the rocks surrounding Kabul.

Habibullah was looking at the capital of his country
for the last time,

Amanullah would not go to Jallalabad that year.
He professed pressure of work with his Army, and
expressed his intention of enduring the long winter up

48

AMANULLAII

in Kabul. Ills refusal to follow the Court just at that
time was later to cause some ugly rumours. His actions,
immediately after the event which caused upheaval in
the country, were closely scrutinised by his enemies.
But Amanullah’s reasons for remaining away from the
pleasant green valleys of Jallalabad, were that he was
sick of the pretences of life at Court.

He even preferred the bleak winter further north.
He had work to do, and he wished once more to follow
his roving life in the hills. He had not the slothful
temperament of the perfect, courtier, even in a circle
where he could command universal respect. His
companions were the soldiers, and his courageous nature
led his feet often into the hills, following up the tiny
goat-traclcs in the mountains where even the hardiest
of his lieutenants suffered from the biting cold and the
mountain mists falling from the chill heights of the
Pamirs.

But whatever his reasons, he was lucky to be in Kabul
when his father was assassinated in Laghman, near
Jallalabad. The blow was struck suddenly, when the
world was at peace. The Court was in a fluster. The
only calm man in either the winter or the summer
capitals was Amanullah,

Almost without excitement, he proclaimed himself
Amir. He had the confidence of power and the con¬
viction that he was doing right for Afghanistan. He
expected no opposition. It is an index to the universal
respect in which he was held, that he met little
obstruction.

Inayatullah, of course, was the rightful heir. Diffi¬
dently, he announced himself as the next ruler. But
there was yet another claimant. This was Nasrullah,
brother of Habibullah, and one of the chief schemers
at the old Court. The rights of succession, however,

44

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

rere not laid down, and though in the past the eldest
ons of the Amir were usually strong enough to press
heir claims to rule, at other times the man who was
ounted “ most suitable ” stepped into the position.

Inayatullah did not persist long in his claim. It
Leeded only slight persuasion from Nasrullah to frighten
urn into joining forces and supporting his uncle’s claim
igainst that of Amanullah. Perhaps he feared his
rounger brother too much to be in the position of ruler.
He knew that Amanullah would always be a thorn in
lis flesh, and a slightly contemptuous observer of him
is Amir. Far better, therefore, to help Nasrullah into
the position, and live thereafter in the sunshine of his
favours, without responsibility and without danger.

Amanullah’s answer to this was brief and to the
point. From Kabul he sent a sneering message down
to the self-elected Amir.

It was signed : “ Amanullah, Amir of Afghanistan.”

In pithy terms it reminded Nasrullah and Inayatullah
of the actual position. “ The new Amir, Amanullah,”
it suggested, “ has taken over control of the Army. He
has been received with every demonstration of affection
and popularity. He has seized the Treasury. He has
in his possession the gold vaults and the Palace. He
has uttered a Proclamation throughout the Northern
Territory, and he has noted with gratification that his
succession is according to the wishes of the people.”

There was no reply. Nasrullah knew that he spoke
with words of power. The Army was solid in Amanullah’s
support. He was feared as much as he was admired.
And rather than tempt Providence, Nasrullah allowed
his claim to drop.

The trick had been done. Without the letting of
blood, Amanullah had realised his ambition. It had
been sooner than he had expected, and it had been

4,5

<^»<*£^ ^> t*^<*£^ t*tf?J t^

AMANULLAH

easier. He had been helped by the circumstance of his
being in Kabul while every other possible claimant was
in the south. There were further inquiries into the
facts of the assassination, and it was ultimately unani¬
mously agreed that it was the work of a fanatic. Possibly
foreign agents had inspired the act. Probably there
were many ready to strike. At any rate, the Amir
was dead, and there could be little hope in pressing
curiosity too far. Investigation was a profitless
pastime, and life, even the life of a ruler, was cheap.

And it was at this time, while signing his name for
the first time before the title of Amir, that Amanullah
made up his mind that at last his Army would be
tested in the field.

Longingly, and with a fire leaping in his heart, he
looked down upon India. . . .

46

CHAPTER III

.MANULLAH LOOKS SOUTH—A SOLDIER TRIES AN AFGHAN
TRICK—THE SECOND AFGHAN WAR—BATTLE IN THE
PLAINS—THE FIRST AFGHAN KING

I T was then, when power had come suddenly and
unexpectedly under his strong hand, that the true
character of Amanullah showed itself.

Only his secret self knew the test before him. Only
lie would be the judge of his actions. Those fine words
and sentiments which had inspired him as a critical
onlooker could be translated into facts. He was now
in the position to set in motion the ideals which had
been born in his heart.

Yet he could conveniently forget them if he so wished,
and revel in power that seemed unassailable. They
need not trouble him any more than high ideals had
troubled his predecessors. He could readily dismiss
them as the outpourings of a jealous mind, and the
criticisms of a zealot who never thought to put them
into practice.

His sole confidante had been Souriya, a woman who
might forget those ideals fairly easily in the pleasures
of the Royal Palace. But very soon it was to be seen
that the enthusiasms of the young Amir were to be
translated into action which was to put Afghanistan
once more through the fires of warfare, bitter and costly.

Before that happened, many of the highest-placed
officers and officials of the old Court were to regret the
change from an old and comfortable regime. They
were summarily taken to task for their past practices

47

AMANULLAII

of corruption. They were invited to explain forthwith
their methods of conducting State business. Their
weak pleas, based on the traditions of their forerunners,
were dismissed with short consideration. They were
ousted without even the salvation of their dignity.
The new regime was to start afresh, and they were the
first casualties.

Amanullah was ruthless. He would not listen to any
of the specious excuses that came readily to the lips of
those who had offended his sense of rigid correctness.
In vain did they call history to their aid, and show
that never in the memories of men were Afghan Govern¬
ment departments conducted without the evil of mass
bribery and deceit.

The new broom swept clean. The sweepings were not
even permitted the luxury of complaint. There were
mutterings and rumours of dissatisfaction. They were
kept secret, however, a compliment to the respect in
which Amanullah’s strength and ruthlessness were
already held. And, in any case, the common people
could easily be persuaded to applaud the demise of
a despot, even though they had grown cynically
accustomed to one tyrant giving place only to another
more grasping and more dishonest.

Amanullah’s nominees, however, were of a new type.
It was evident, at any rate, that they had not purchased
their positions in the open market. They were young
men, recruited from the soldiery. They were expected
faithfully to follow the ideals of their leader, and it
cannot be doubted that some herculean efforts were
made in Kabul at the time to maintain a moral code
very different from that at any time in past history.

The posts of importance in education, the collection
of taxes, the police, foreign affairs, and domestic matters
were all handed out to the chosen of Amanullah. Though

48

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

ominally they were put in the charge of Ministers, at
o time in the history of Afghanistan had there been
lore direct and closer control from the Amir. Amanullah
:ft no doubt about it. He was to be more than Amir,
[e was to be ruler, keeping his finger on every depart-
xent, and swift in his criticism if it were called for.

The strain was terrific among a people accustomed
o the old Eastern game of graft. There were many
isappointments, and many gloomy shakings of the
lead among the old campaigners in the profitable
ields of civic corruption. The old rich contractors
iresented themselves before the new Ministers with
heir old promises and their accustomed offers. They
vould bring into use their wheedling voices and
;heir suggestive expressions in the old way of the
East. They had goods to sell to the Government.
They had contracts to be completed. Surely the
Minister knew that there could be a little profit for
ooth contracting parties, a little margin that both could
share ?

It was an affair between gentlemen of the old school,
of course. Nothing need appear on the books. Not a
whisper need spread that a Minister was performing his
task with considerable financial advantage to himself.
Otherwise, how could a conscientious servant of
Afghanistan live ? Surely he deserved something better
than honour, itself unquoted in the open market ? It
had always been so, and Afghanistan had prospered.
Why not now ?

So went the arguments, and those of his Ministers
who resisted these temptations were among the most
valuable of Amanullah’s henchmen. They were not in
the majority. However carefully he probed into the
private lives of his servants, there were always many
cases which evaded his search. There were whole

B 49

AMANULLAII

schools existing on the pay-roll which were in fact
products of the imagination. They received an annual
grant from the Government for their maintenance, and
the most fanciful figures were prepared showing the
daily attendance of the scholars, their names and ages,
their progress, and their baek-slidings. On paper, it
would appear that the rural population of Afghanistan
was being dragged out of the slough of ignorance.
In actual fact one or two influential oilicials of the
Education Ministry were drawing fat allowances from
the Government grants paid for the upkeep of these
non-existent scholars, so seriously pictured as studying
the three r’s in every village in the hills.

Amanullah could not be expected to find out every
detail of the mass bribery system that affected the
whole State like a canker growth. lie was resisting
nature. Every benevolent law made for the improve¬
ment of his people gave further chances for the corrupt.
On paper, they thrived. On paper, there was beginning
the greatest emancipation movement ever staged in the
East. On paper, there wei’e the figures and the details,
showing hundreds and thousands of little children
bending their heads over the Persian copy-books day
after day. In actual fact the country people were being
fleeced of high taxes for the support of cunning old
rascals in Kabul who revelled in the invention of new
details to enrich their pockets.

The new Amir was not always deceived. When he
put his finger on a definite case of corruption, punishment
was swift and severe. He instituted the death penalty
as the automatic punishment for an offence against the
State. Even that threat did not persuade the artful
deceivers into abandoning the lucrative practice.

One story shows the amazing lengths to which these
parasites would go to retain their positions of trust.

50

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

it namillah was touring, and in the intervals of hunting
nd trekking into the furthermost parts of his domain,
rould combine business with pleasure by paying
urprise visits to the local schools which existed so
>ravely on the official reports.

This inconvenient probing into the villages, and the
;esting of the written reports, had to call for the cleverest
jounter-move by those who were responsible for the
lation-wide graft. But there was money to spare if
be could be deceived a little longer. And there is a
supposedly true instance of how he was preceded on
one of his tours by a small cavalcade of young Afghan
scholars, who appeared in numerous villages as local
products, busy with their noses to the textbooks, while
a staff of schoolmasters were kept ready to take on the
task of appearing as local shepherds of the flock.

Often enough the class would only be arranged just
in time for the arrival of the Amir. The schoolmaster
would be flurried and nervous. The children would be
arranged in a new order, lest the keen-eyed and
enthusiastic Amir might recognise a “ local ” devotee
of learning whom he had noticed some hundreds of
miles away, engaged in a similar task.

But the ruse worked for a time. The tour was
concluded without Amanullah learning of the trick.
He had satisfied himself as to the genuineness of at
least some of the Education Ministry’s reports. And
the danger was over for the rich officials.

Such a story, whatever its foundation of truth, would
seem to match well the cynicism of the Afghan, his love
of intrigue, and his fondness for that richest of all jokes,
a successful trick on authority.

It was the same with the new Customs laws and the
contracts for the Army. According to Amanullah’s
estimates, the Customs duties should be bringing into

51

AMANULLAII

the Treasury an annual sum sufficient at any rate to
pay for the education scheme without severe recourse
to extra taxation. The goods of foreign nations were
already to be seen Hooding the bazaars of Kabul,
coming in on the crest of that wave of commercial
pioneering which followed the Great War. The bazaar
was becoming modernised. All the products of America,
France, and Italy could be bought from the native
dealers. The native handicraft men were complaining
that they were deprived of a livelihood by the mass-
production methods of foreigners. Goods were cheap,
even after paying for entry into the country, and dealers
were making huge profits by pandering to the vanity
of the new public.

Customs duties on these goods should have amounted
to a sum easily capable of financing a large proportion
of the education policy. The fact remained that they
did not. And Amanullah bent his head over the official
records with a new severity and determination.

The reports were immaculate. At every frontier
post, the local officials merely suggested that the great
proportion of imported goods were being introduced at
some other gate of Afghanistan. They had had a slack
time. Here were their records, and here was their
contribution to the general fund. They tallied exactly.
Amanullah was up against the cleverest system of
dishonesty in the world.

He must have known then the strength of the system
which he was endeavouring to kill. He must have
understood then the apathy of former Amirs to tilt
against the stubborn bulwarks created by generations
of skilled crooks. He must have wondered whether it
was all worth while, this reform campaign. But even
when he had been in the depths of despair, when he had
finally decided that there was no one he could trust in

32

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

he whole of his State, there would come afresh a new
Letermination to cleanse the structure of his Govem-
aent. His punishments became more severe. His
Listrust of all and sundry became more deeply rooted.
Ie prosecuted his inquiries yet deeper into every
:oupling and joint of the State machine, working, on
;he surface, so methodically. He knew now that its
;asy run depended on the oil of graft which had flowed
:or so many years.

But he was not concerned only with domestic affairs.
He retained his ambitions. His national pride and
arrogance had increased. And it was not long after he
had risen to the Amir’s throne that he began to show
himself arrogant and slightly offensive to the British who
ruled across the formidable barrier of the Khyber Pass.

The British were never in doubt as to the character
of the new Amir. They knew that trouble might be
expected, now that their good friend and ally, Habib-
ullah, was gone. Therefore, when there were sundry
suspicious movements among the foothills on the Indian
Frontier of Afghanistan, arrangements were made to
prepare for the worst in that delicate portion of the
world.

These suspicions were justified when there appeared
one morning, on the neutral side of the Afghan Frontier,
the resplendent figure of the Afghan War Minister,
Nadir Khan, later to be King. Such conduct was
without precedent. The British military authorities
in Peshawar were outraged. The sacred spirit of the
carefully drawn Frontier lines had been violated. And
Nadir Khan was asked for an explanation.

He was indignant. He was inclined to be abusive.
He, a Minister of Afghanistan, was equally aware with
the British as to the sacredness of the Frontier rights.

But could not a conscientious and high-minded

53

ion tss?) c^> t^s ^1t^tss^e^

AMANULLAII

Afghan gentleman concern himself privately with the
welfare of a relative in a village of the hills ? Was he
not to be allowed to inquire into the circumstances of
this relative’s education, his future, and his prosperity ?

Surely the honourable British military authorities
were inclined to be over-suspieious ? Surely they were
forgetting their courtesy to the envoy of a nation that
had befriended them by benevolent neutrality during
the War ? Fic on their suspicious natures I

He got away with it. He had spoken like a true
Afghan, always equipped with the most disarming, the
most naive, and the most transparent of excuses. He
went back over the Frontier, with a good idea in his
mind of the depleted forces and the exhausted defences
of the British war machine on the North-West Frontier.

Axnanullah heard his Commander-in-Chicf’s report
with impatience and a new determination. His eyes
shone as his envoy told him of the relaxed discipline
and the revulsion from war that permeated the British
in India. He heard of men sick and tired of the sound
of warfare ; of a feeling of security held by the highest
military advisers to the Government in India.

Then Amanullah made up his mind. His dream was
coming true. At last, the armies of Afghanistan,
trained and disciplined as they had never been before,
would test their steel against the might of England
with a better chance of success than ever in history.

He readily found an excuse. It was that his nation
was hampered by the condition laid on his Government
that foreign relations with other countries could only
be conducted through the British authorities in India.
Surely, he persuaded himself to think, his father had,
by his conduct in the late War, gained the right for
Afghanistan to be free to treat on more equal terms
with other nations ?

54

??) Cs^J I^J *<£71 ^s? 9 !

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

He stirred up a spirit of indignation among his
Ministers. He egged himself on to smart at the insult
which he considered he, as Amir, was continually
3ffered.

If the truth be told, there was some justification for
the reports of Great Britain’s military weakness in the
north of India. It was not so noticeable as to justify
Amanullah’s hope, but there were grains of truth behind
the assumption. Indian troops had just returned from
France, but the British drafts, which according to
programme should have set sail for India on the usual
annual programmes, were being delayed, largely through
the muddle of demobilisation at home and the difficulty
of hurrying back to normal after the great upheaval.
It was inevitable that the spirit of the times should
be one of relaxation, and revulsion against warfare.
The Army was resting on laurels gained through four
hectic years.

War on the Frontier was the very thing to be avoided.
It was fortunate, therefore, that the wish to avoid war
did not obscure the fact that war was probable. If
military advisers had not suddenly awoken to the fact
that Amanullah was determined and dangerous, there
would have been many more chapters of bloodshed
following on his accession to the Amir’s throne.

Events moved rapidly. Within a few weeks there
could be no blinking the fact that intentional insults,
and offences against the Frontier laws, were being
offered. Reports were frequent of armed bodies of
men moving just the other side of the Frontier. At
any moment the first blow might be struck. Amanullah,
at this crisis in his life, was calm and determined, happy
in the knowledge that at last he was to see his military
machine moving.

He had counted, with confidence, on the aid of the

55

AMANULLAII

hundreds of thousands of irregular troops, banded into
small forces, which inhabited the hills. They were
always ready for war. Their lives were taken up with
feuds and domestic squabbles which fitted them admir¬
ably for being considered as a reserve force. They
were never more pleased than when they could forget
their private disagreements to unite against a common
'foe., Their objects were the acquisition of loot, more
than national pride or arrogance, and their highest
motive in,taking up arms for their country was the
possibility of adding more laurels to thcii family
tradition.

They were fighting men born and bred. They knew
their hills, and could survive with the minimum of
provision for their comfort. They were tireless, fearless,
and elusive. They did not respond well to discipline,
but they were unsurpassed in last-moving warfare in
which personal bravery counted as much as military
efficiency.

Within a few days reports received in India justified
the gloomy forebodings of war on the Frontier. It was
the worst time of the year for white soldiers, lhe sun
beat down ferociously on the bleak hills, giving no cover.
At no time in the last hundred years had British
commanders been less enamoured of the prospect of a
campaign. Yet here were the facts.

A m ami llah moved a picked force of 2000 men down
to Dacca, a few miles from the barbed wire of the
Frontier leading to the Khyber Pass. There was soon
another force of 2000 men at Khost. Another 1500
were at Kandahar. And early in May British pickets
at Landi Khana were in a short and sharp affray with
an irregular band of Afghan hillmen who had sneaked
over the Border.

It was a bad time for Great Britain, The sharp-

50

SIR FRANCIS HUMPHRYS

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

shooters were wily and difficult to locate. When a
British force moved up to Dacca to engage with the
enemy and press the matter to a conclusion, they were
marched through a veritable inferno. It was risky to
move men anywhere at that time of year. The sufferings
endured during even an early morning march were
sufficient to make such a course a rash expedient. Yet
troops were soon at grips with the main force of the
opposing army, and on the 3rd of May there was a battle
at Dacca which showed that not yet could the personal
heroism and endurance of undisciplined troops from the
hills survive against the modern war machine.

Two hundred Afghan soldiers were killed in this first
battle, while the British lost only twenty-two men.
It was a bitter lesson for Amanullah. For some time
it was feared that the ambushes and enfilading of the
irregular troops would form the chief menace to the
life of the column, but with excellent strategy their
efforts were discounted, and to Amanullah there came
the first blow to vanity.

He was not finished yet, nor was a single battle proof
against the ingenuity of Afghan tactics. For the British
found themselves menaced by a plot, really Afghan in
its secrecy and intent, within their very gates. This
was no less than a conspiracy engineered by the
Government official in Peshawar. When later his
actions were investigated, it was found that only by a
miracle was Peshawar saved from disaster.

He was found to be the instigator of a wide plot which
had flourished unknown for some time. His project
was no less than a secret attack on the military station
by bands of tribesmen introduced into the native city
by stealth. While the regular troops were away at
Dacca, an attack could be launched at their base which
would effectively strangle their source of supply. The

57

AMANULLAH

whole military station was to be pounced upon, the
arsenal blown up, headquarters burned to the ground,
and all communication destroyed, both with the punitive
force and the second lines of defence down country.

The official, quietly receiving his pay as a fairly
senior officer of the British service, had completed his
plans in every detail. Peshawar was as good as lost,
and with it the lives of several hundred British men
and women. But fortunately a stroke of luck uncovered
the plot before it had reached fruition. Once more
Peshawar had been saved from the tribesmen, and,
with its discovery, the last trick of Amanullah had been
played.

The second Afghan War was over. The British force
did not seek further engagements in that inhospitable
land where so many soldiers had laid down their lives.
Licking his wounds, Amanullah withdrew his troops to
their bases. Dacca had been disappointing to him,
and though he was fully satisfied with the conduct of
his men, he had realised for the first time the might of
a fully trained and superbly equipped white force. It
was his first inkling of the value of strategics. lie had
counted on a victory without compromise as soon as a
British force left its defences on their own side of the
border.

He would never have attempted to force the formid¬
able defences of the Khyber. But he had congratulated
himself beforehand on the defeat of the troops who had
marched across those parched plains to meet his army
in their comfortable quarters at Dacca. The blow to
his ambition was severe and the lesson one that would
last a long time.

Still, carefully preserving the remnant of his pride,
he marched back to Kabul with his old demands ready
on his lips and pressed them stronger than ever before

58

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

No troops marched to Kabul to teach him his lesson.
Departing from precedent, probably wisely, the British
in India decided against that almost inevitable step.
As if it were in default of action to the contrary, Aman-
ullah was granted his wish to conduct foreign relations
via London. It must have surprised him that the
concession should have been granted so readily. In
truth, it meant little to a nation whose chief concern
at the moment was centred in Versailles.

Amanullah made the most of it. Marching into
Kabul, he announced Independence !

“ Afghanistan is free ! ” he boasted. “ The great
armies of my country have gained their rights as a
nation. No longer are we the subject-nation of Great
Britain, whose armies we met in battle on the plains
of Dacca. Henceforth Afghanistan is an independent
nation, ranking with the most powerful in the world ! ”

Such words were hardly considered as of importance
while the Western nations were settling the future of
the world in a palace on the outskirts of Paris. . . .

The stir caused by the end of the War, however, was
adequately celebrated in Kabul. Gradually the affair
at Dacca was magnified into a great and glorious defeat
of the British Army. Nothing was too good for the
soldiers; no praise was too high for the brave and
ambitious young Amir who had led his troops to victory
and gained full honour for his country.

The Palace was the scene of festivities night after
night. The poor of Kabul city found themselves the
sudden recipients of food and money. History had been
written. Everything that had been said about the young
Amir, then, had been truth !

Nobody mentioned the two hundred dead left on the
plains. Nobody inquired into the facts and figures of
the battle. It was a famous victory, and it would be

59

AMANULLAH

treason to doubt it, since if it had been defeat, then
already the hated British troops would be occupying
Kabul.

Afghanistan for the Afghans ! The dream of the
young Amir was coming true.

The populace even conspired to forget the taxes which
were mounting ever higher on every head, the dues which
were required to pay for the education schemes, the im¬
provement plans, the rebuilding of Kabul, and the road
programme. That must be a necessary part of the
change from bondage to freedom. So be it. The people
were content with their young and fearless leader.

It has been said with some truth that the absolute
necessity for a leader in Afghanistan is popularity. It
was indeed proved later that money is not essential.
Support can be bought more cheaply with respect and
fear than with money. And certainly at this period
Amanullah took pains to secure himself the friendship
and admiration of his people.

His bravery could not fail to impress every Afghan.
He was even foolhardy, but with a purpose. One inci¬
dent shows the real courage of the man, and the wisdom
that dictated his acts of bravado.

The rumour reached his ears that there were men in
Kabul city anxious to assassinate him. The news was
indeed public property. Not a few of the elders won¬
dered what would be the reply 1 of the impulsive young
Amir. They had not long to wait.

As soon as he heard the rumour, he sent to the garage
for his open touring car.

“ Drive through the old city 1 ” he commanded.

He himself sat in the back, lounging with a smile of
defiance on his face, inviting the bullet of the coward.

There was good common sense behind the action, for
he knew that the tale of that drive would flash round

60

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

the samovar shops and ripple delightedly into every
corner of the bazaar. He was a hero with a brain.

But as his pressure on the exchequer grew more
severe: as he forced his Ministers to proceed with yet
more ambitious plans : as costs grew and swelled, and
the deficit in the nation’s treasury became more and
more serious, the far-sighted among his advisers quaked
at the omens of the future.

61

CHAPTER IV

PRIEST AND PEASANT—FOREIGNERS IN THE “ FORBIDDEN
LAND IN THE HEART OF “ BLASTED KABUL ’’—THE
BIRTH OF A NATION ?

T 3EN there began a long and dire struggle with
the mullahs.

Amanullah’s early experience of them as his
mentors will be remembered. Up to now, it has only
been hinted that in his introspective moments he had
found much to blame in the power invested in this
“ring of the Church.” As time went on, and the
mullahs found themselves more and more subjugated
to his rule, it was evident that the basic differences
would be sufficient to cause a real tussle between
Church and State.

The mullahs had traditions behind them. They were
backed by the inherent superstition and religion of the
Afghan. They were supported by the pride of the
Afghan in his Biblical history. And they had always
been able to call upon the great mass of the people in
the event of opposition, by appealing to the strong
religious sentiments which animated their childlike
and simple minds.

They had taken care to cement the hold they had
gained on the minds of the people. By every device of
mystery and spiritual bluff, they emphasised that the
mullah was triumphant over his poor, sinning flock.
They recruited in their aid the folk-lore and fairy tales
that still lived in the age-old hills. They used their
persuasive powers cleverly, and there could be found

C(^ C(^ tsS?* ti£^> C^ ^5?i <<2^ «^> <*£^1

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

few Afghans, even in wicked Kabul City, to flout the
great power which they wielded. That power was now
challenged every day by the rising of a man who was
sacrilegious enough to be modern.

The mullahs had hold of the Afghan from his first
breath. They were inevitable attendants at his birth,
and their ministrations were held to be invaluable for
the safety and care of both child and mother. Through
early life, they exercised the same supervision over the
child, and took care that its mind should be well
grounded in the essential tenets of the Mahomedan
faith, one of the chief clauses of which was of course
a spirit of true reverence for the priests.

They even insisted on taking a close part in the
conduct of their flock’s affairs. With a business acumen
that could not have been gained solely in the service of
the Church, they often proved themselves excellent
prophets and advisers on purely secular affairs, and it
may be taken as a certainty that such advice was not
given altogether for the glory of the Lord, but to some
extent for their personal financial betterment.

During the preliminaries to his marriage, the mullahs
were among the closest confidants of the prospective
bridegroom, and since marriage is always akin to business
affairs, there were few times when the local mullah
would fail to arrange for love to follow the wisest course
for the pocket. And naturally enough, at death the
services of the mullahs were once again in demand.

Thus it will be seen that the priests entered into the
lives of the simple warrior-farmers through every stage
of their progress on earth. Such close patronage and
overlordship was bound to result in magnifying their
own importance. The position at that time was that
the mullahs held a grip on the people more powerful
than the.Government, aloof and always feared, and were

63

AMANULLAH

quite ready to exercise that power even in the shedding
of blood for the cause that they believed to be in
affinity with the commands of the Prophet.

Amanullah knew all that. He had never under¬
estimated this possible rival power as he had under¬
estimated the fighting qualities of the British. And
perhaps he knew already that eventually there would be
a struggle between the power that was ordained by
custom, and the new power that he wished to exercise
over his people.

He had already made concessions in his conscience to
the power of the Church. Never a highly religious man,
he seemed to accede to the wishes of the mullahs only
when he saw that course was the inevitable. He was
willing to use the religious fervour of his people to
support his own proposals, as he had done when he
had first considered the possibility of war with the
British.

Then he had stressed the religious duty of Afghans to
oppose the hated feringhe. The mullahs had been his
allies. The ruse had worked, and he had found under
his command hundreds and thousands of men who truly
believed that they were instructed by Mahomed to lay
waste the ranks of infamy in khaki uniforms and pith
topees.

An old belief of the Afridi tribesman was resurrected
for the occasion. This was no less than a theory that
the feringhe were unclean in the sight of Allah, and that
the depletion of their numbers even by one caused the
Prophet intense satisfaction. Hence, said the priests,
the World War, which had rid the world for Allah of
millions of infidels, while it was notable that the Creator
had exempted from the slaughter all those who had
embraced the Islamic faith. The statement may have
contained some licence, only permissible by reason of its

64

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

cause, but it worked its full effect. Allah wished that
there be less feringhe about. It was the duty of the
humble Afghan to do his bit. . . .

Even recently there have been cases of murder of
white men in Afghanistan purely from religious motives.
Fanatics still exist who have been biding their time for
a target of one of the hated foreigners, in order to com¬
mit themselves to Allah after his dispatch, with the full
confidence of heavenly approval and the assurance of
Paradise in the hereafter.

The mullahs, with or without their tongues in their
cheeks, were the cause.

Untouched by civilisation in one of the last “ for¬
bidden ” countries in the world, the peasants gained
their knowledge only through the mouths of the local
priests. Travellers’ tales were notoriously exaggerated,
and all travellers were liars. It had therefore become
the custom for the mullah of the district to become the
purveyor of news for a large circle of people, and it may
be taken for granted that the news did not suffer in
picturesqueness by passing through his head.

He “ coloured ” news as cleverly as any newspaper
editor.

But it was over the subject of women and their free¬
dom that the mullahs were chiefly agitated during the
first years of Amanullah’s rule. The mullahs rightly
believed that their power to a great extent depended
on their suzerainty over the female side of the house¬
hold. With a wife to preserve from the temptations of
this world and the ferocity of highly-sexed neighbours,
no man would willingly agree to a relaxation of the
strict rules guarding his household. The dreaded pros¬
pect of a loosening of the bonds which held Afghan
women, thought the mullahs, would mean a lessening
of their own powers. They urged resistance to the new

e 65

AMANULLAH

V

cult which was said to be spreading through India and
the whole of the East. Even the Turks, fellow-Islamites,
were said to be affected by the peril. Afghans, if they
valued the sanctity of their homes and the chastity of
their wives, would have no truck with this new and
Satanic doctrine.

For already the word had been whispered. Already
it was murmured in the bazaars of Kabul that strange
proposals had been made in Court circles. The rumours
were to the effect that women would henceforth con¬
tribute to the progress of the country in other directions
than the bearing of innumerable children. Freedom was
a word much heard these days. But when the two words
“ freedom ” and “ women ” were mentioned in conjunc¬
tion, thought the mullahs, then the danger signs were
showing.

Turkish girls were already to be seen in Kabul. The
wicked Kabulis had grown accustomed to the spectacle
of infidel women without head coverings, but the sight
of Mahomedan women in the short skirts and diminutive
hats of the West caused them many qualms. There
were occasional disturbances in the city. There were
ugly rumours that by the force of example, an attempt
was to be made to seduce the Afghan from the austerity
of the 'purdah laws.

The rules of the purdah, of course, are well known to
be indefensible on any but religious grounds. To those
who have never come in direct contact with them they
are incredible. Yet the basis of every one of them is
the same, and it will be recalled that there can be seen
in many museums the “body locks” which English
gentlemen compelled their womenfolk to wear while
they sallied forth to the Holy Wars,

Even more urgently are strict laws required in the
East, but it can be said that the efforts to prevent com-

66

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

plications begin earlier in the Eastern mind than they
did in the consciences of the old Crusaders. For whereas
the ladies of the Crusaders were prohibited by lock and
chain from departing from chastity, the Eastern women
are never given the opportunity of arousing even the
slightest dangerous feeling in the breasts of possible
admirers. And even to-day the Afghan women, on
attaining the age of enticement to dangerous manhood,
are enveloped in the all-concealed folds of the purdah
far more strictly than are the women of India.

Their lives are spent behind the walls of their apart¬
ments. Their infrequent visits out of doors are confined
by the walls of the garden, where they may take their
evening exercise. When, rarely, they venture further
afield, their purdahs are adjusted even more rigorously
to evade a chance glimpse by a bold stranger. Perhaps
the men of Afghanistan knew what they were about
when in the dim days of history these precautions were
invented. Hence imprisonment for the higher-class
ladies of Afghanistan for all time, it seems.

Their health suffers, and their minds suffer. Their
babies are born under the most dangerous conditions,
for there is no relaxing of the purdah law on any con¬
sideration. They are still children in mind when they
die. All chance of work in the service of mankind, all
chance of entertainment, of recreation, is prohibited.
The purdah is the strongest influence in the land, and
through history has proved itself the one stubborn abuse
which seems to resist altogether the many courageous
attempts to check it.

Amanullah was planning to make the strongest assault
on the system that has ever been known.

During those long periods of self-examination by the
camp fires of his native hills, the thought had grown in
his mind that the secret of success for the future would

67

AMANULLAH

be the tearing down of the purdah coverings. The key¬
stone of the future structure, new Afghanistan, would
be the emancipation of women. That thought burned
and persisted in his brain.

He reckoned that half the possible abilities of
Afghanistan as a nation were being wasted by the con¬
tinuance of the abuse. He pictured the modern country
of working women, as in his land of ideals, Turkey. He
had read of the great services of women in the field of
medicine and education. Some day, he dreamed, he
would see Afghanistan helped on the way to progress by
its women.

The elementary schools were part of his scheme. Edu¬
cation would be the groundwork for a female revolution,
egged on by the encouragement of the ruler. He would
lead the East by beginning with the women. And from
that moment he realised that in the future his first
enemy would be the village mullah.

Gradually, as news trickled through the ranks of the
Church, it was hinted that the organisation which had
fed on the fat of the land for countless generations was
in danger. The fear was never put into words. The
Afghan can paint a clever picture, and convey his
meaning by a roundabout method, without expressing
his thoughts too plainly. But the impression grew
throughout Afghanistan that there was secreted in the
mind of the ruler some dangerous thought which meant
peril for the priests. They set to work without more
ado to nullify the progress already being made in the
whole land.

They had plenty of excuses on which to work. First
and foremost, there were the taxes. Since the tussle
with the British, increased pressure had been brought
to bear on the landowners. Their taxes were steadily
mounting. Rumours of the poverty of the Treasury

68

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

were going about. The Army was the apple of the
Amir’s eye, and it was regularly paid. The old men of
the villages remembered that in the past the Army went
without pay if the Treasury found itself embarrassed,
and now that they had a soldier in charge it was the
villager who suffered first. The tax-gatherers were more
pressing than ever they had been in the past. Hardly
a month went by but they came with news of a new
valuation. There were new taxes on houses, and new
demands made on weddings and funerals and village
ceremonies. There seemed to be more taxation officers
than tax-payers. Gradually the peasant began to know
the other side of “ reform.”

There was a new education tax, and an added tax
for building. There was a tax to pay for the war, and
a tax merely labelled “ development.” Matters had
never been so ill for the peasant, who did not care, in any
case, how its children were educated, and had a hearty
contempt for the new plans for the rebuilding of Kabul.

At the same time the peasant knew that trickery and
roguery flourished as never before. It was said that
fortunes were being made by every official hanging on
to the skirt-tail of the Court. Every new project for
the good of the State, said rumour, made a few men
rich overnight.

The peasant paid, and when he could not, suffered
the annexation of his land in the cruel winter.

The mullahs found their task easy. Without reveal¬
ing their hand, they gently swayed the peasants over
to their way of thinking. They brought many an alle¬
gory into their impassioned speeches to the village
crowds. They were clever enough never to say a thing
outright if it could be sketched with a story or a parable.
Their power was increasing, even while Amanullah
sought to discredit them in Kabul.

69

AMANULLAH

Amanullah’s chief trouble was undoubtedly the Treas¬
ury. He found himself baulked on every side just when
he wished to forge ahead with his most grandiloquent
schemes. There was little use in attempting to choke
the purdah system while he could not pay for his new
alternatives to women’s forced leisure. He could not
conduct with severity his campaign against corruption
while he was unable to pay his officers sufficiently to
keep them from the temptation. Life was a vicious
circle. For the moment he could not see a solution.

The Army, persuaded into the belief that they had
conquered in the field against Great Britain, flattered
by a dozen speeches made by their commander, had
become restive and inclined to hanker for more laurels
to fall easily upon their heads. Discipline was bad, now
that they were no longer kept up to pitch by the inspir¬
ing example of Amanullah. The soldiers held the natural
belief that they were often being robbed of their earnings
by the higher officers. They, too, were not ignored by
the mullahs.

Kabul itself was affected by the get-rich-quick mania
which swept the world. Things were changing even here,
and the old men chatting in the samovar shops would say
that never in their lives had they seen matters at such
a pass. There was an uncertain feeling in the air, and
even the evident prosperity of certain shopkeepers and
the certain prosperity of the officers in the Government
posts, did not serve to quieten the fears of the old gossips.

Kabul was indeed changed. Nowadays it was not
unusual to see half a dozen foreign faces in the bazaar
in a walk of half the length of the dark, covered-in main
thoroughfare. They were Turks mostly, and a few
Russians. They were bent on business, but nobody in
that mysterious city could be certain that they were
not Government spies.

70

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

Everyone was secretive. Nobody dare show that he
was too prosperous. Methods of money extortion for
the Government were growing more violent, and it was
already remarkable how rich men disappeared, or how
their houses and their shops would be ransacked in a
night without a trace of the identity of the looters.
Kabul, volcano of the East, was being stirred up for
some new eruption.

The money-brokers, always willing to exchange the
gossip of the city as they changed rupees, roubles,
dollars, or English silver over their long counters, were
strangely careful these days. They trusted nobody.
They looked down, inscrutable, from behind their high
counters, six feet above the milling crowds. Before
them were their little piles of gleaming money, ready
for the stranger who might have travelled from the four
points of the compass to the great grain market of the
East.

And of a truth, this bazaar might well be the great
mart of gossip as well as the centre of cosmopolitan
Eastern finance and trade. Here were sallow Mon¬
golian faces, with long melancholy moustaches; here
were slant eyes from China, and proud pale blue eyes
from Southern Afghanistan; here were wide, cheerful
faces from Japan; heavy features and great limbs from
Russia; men of the steppes and men of the plains;
Indian traders with the faces of Moses ; cunning little
rats of babus, despised and fearful, but reputed to be
very rich. A strange boiling-pot of the nations of the
East, harbouring the outcasts and the robbers of half a
dozen Eastern nationalities. Every man carried arms,
from the long rifle across the Afridi’s broad shoulders
to the knife hidden in the sleeve of the Chink.

As great a divergence was there too, in the garb of
diese families of the East. The Kabuli himself wore

71

t«£^i c<^i t«£?Yt*^ tes?^tc^v *<£?**<£?t Ce^jCes^a

AMANULLAH

loose flowing clothes and a great loose turban with one
end falling on to his shoulder. The coolie class wore
little hats, and the Turks, those few who came with the
gait of conquerors into the commercial centre, wore
prominently the crescent on a field of red fez.

One end of the Pathan’s turban stuck up like a cock¬
ade, and the other hung down his shoulder, ready to be
taken in his teeth if he saw an officer of police, ready
to screen his eyes in a dust-storm. The Mongolian
beggar wore a round dark brown hat, and his rags
trailed in the mud of that desolate street of strange
men.

All around were the noisy dramas of Eastern buying
and selling. In the actual thoroughfare, donkeys and
mules and skeletoned ponies struggled and bumped their
way through. “ Kabadar ! Kabadar ! ” yelled the men
who tended them. “ Make way, make way ! ” And
with a continued shouting for room, obeyed by none,
the merchandise of all the East would pass.

Here was the base of the camel caravans. They would
start in the spring from Kabul, as soon as the snows
had melted on the lowlands. Slowly they would make
their way down to the Khyber Pass, the leading camel
ambling down a route remembered from the year before.

The route would not follow the road. That was for
modern transport, and encircled the hills with many a
detour to save a rocky defile or a sharp ascent. But
the route the camels took was two thousand years old,
and crept down the middle of the valleys, defined by
an age-old track that had been marked as plainly when
Alexander used it for his beasts and his men-at-arms.

As far as the Khyber, the caravan would be accom¬
panied by outriders, sturdy scouts who kept watch and
ward for possible attacks by brigands. Their long rifles
would be always ready. Their keen eyes, or their sense

72

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

of impending danger would warn the defenders of the
precious skins and furs that they must prepare for
sudden attack.

Then through the Khyber. The camels would amble
through the gap in the barbed wire, and straight as a
die through the valleys, while the new motor road curled
on the flanks of the hills. British soldiers would be
drilling a few hundred yards from their dignified path.
The skirl of the pipes from a Highland band would cause
them to flick a contemptuous eyelid.

Then to Peshawar, where the caravan attendants
would spend a night in high festival in the city which
is the “ Paris of the East.”

So down two thousand miles to Calcutta, down the
Grand Trunk Hoad of Kipling memory. At last, the
great markets of Calcutta, reached in midwinter. Strange
tales these caravans could tell. They conduct to this
day their business on the same principle as was the
custom in Biblical times. Their owners never took
money to Calcutta. They never paid for the valuable
Western-made goods they brought up to Kabul the
following year. All their transactions were on credit.

Sometimes finances were poor, and the merchants of
Calcutta, fat, grasping Hindus, would not give them
full prices for their precious skins and furs, trapped in
the mountains on the Russian border. They could not
pay for the loads they wished to take to Kabul. Never¬
theless, they received their goods. For under the
strangest agreement in the world, these traders would
give their solemn undertaking to bring the price of the
goods the next year. If they died, their sons or relatives
would fulfil the duty. And it is said that even the
suspicious and grasping bannia of Calcutta has never
had cause to regret his trust in a Kabul caravan trader.

The camels rested the winter in the great serais of

73

AMANULLAII

Kabul, while the traders haggled and bartered their
goods away, and drank the profits in the wineshops,
changing the gossip of the tracks reaching down to the
Southern sea. That gossip and that relaxation had to
last them a year, and they had much to tell.

“ Kabadar ! Kabadar ! ” ran the chorus behind this
great cauldron of chatter.

Laughter and song from the cafes, the sounds of
revelry and occasional fights from the brothels. The
clink of coins from the money-changers’ counters. The
tap of iron on leather, in the great market of the cobblers,
where there were stacked pyramids and hillocks of
chapplas, brightly bound in green and scarlet. From
the next market there came the sonorous note of the
coppersmiths’ hammer, beating out the metal in the
same-shaped vases as women carried in Kabul when
England was a savage land.

The streets were lined with the beggars and the dis¬
eased. All imaginable contortions of the human body
could be seen with the stunted, rotting, decaying arms
outstretched for mercy. To look down the street was to
see a row of them, like rotten pegs sticking out of a wall.
Their shanks tucked up under them, their bodies clothed
in crawling rags, they sang the old song of the ages in
the East: “ Bakshish, Bakshish, Hazar, Hazar ..

There were trunks of men, on tiny trolleys made from
wooden boards and wooden wheels. They were dragged
to their begging-post in the dawn, and dragged away
to sleep at night. There were yellow children, blind
and scaly with disease, moaning their demand for bread,
for alms. There were indescribable monstrosities that
drew the breath of life. Bulbous men with tremendous
heads, pink leprous women with white hair, staring eyes,
and gangrene black limbs. “ Alms ! Alms ! Bakshish,
Hazar. Bakshish! ”

74

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

But the chorus of the beggars in Kabul City was
drowned by the merry laughter of the shopkeepers, the
clang of the craftsmen’s hammers, the cry of the mule¬
teers, and the caravan traders.

That is Kabul, to-day and yesterday, from the days of
Moses to the days when it saw revolt once more raising
its head like a serpent in the very bazaar which houses
such horrors.

Amanullah went there often.

He retraced his childhood’s footsteps into the inner
labyrinths of the city which held such mysteries, such
wealth, and such poverty. The horrors did not strike
him as out of the ordinary. He accepted them inevitably
as every Eastern man or woman accepts the worst
inflictions of disease.

He did not notice them.

He knew the wealth of the city as well as its poverty.
He knew that if danger were to come, it would come from
this strange and hidden cradle of vice and intrigue. He
came swaggering through the city, and he came in
disguise. He flaunted his bravery in the haunt of men
who, he knew, might not scruple to remove an Amir, and
he slunk through the streets after information, in the
guise of many of the creatures who made their way to
the capital on business or on pleasure bent.

Amanullah never over-estimated the power of the
throne to rule the people. He knew his people better
than any of his predecessors. He was a man among men,
and a warrior proved among the hardest of his mm .
The time was to come when this knowledge of the evil,
twisted city was to be invaluable to him.

Events, however, moved slowly. For at least five
years after the unhappy embroilment of his troops with

75

AMANULLAII

the British forces, and the proclamation of Independence,
he marked time. Ideas were still simmering in his brain,
but always he found himself curbed by the shortage of
funds. Small improvements and reforms were already
in hand. The Palace had been enlarged. Plans were
ready for roads and the construction of two new cities.

The British soon came back, this time in a magnificent
new Legation under the wise charge of Sir Francis
Humphrys, formerly Intelligence Officer in the Khyber
Pass, and a man and soldier of calm and courageous
efficiency.

Amanullah’s sons grew up to emulate their father.
One went to Paris to be educated in military affairs.
Souriya remained his faithful confidante and devoted and
loyal companion. Eventually he remembered his brother
Inayatullah, and released him from gaol where he had
languished for the crime of being older than Amanullah.

The trips into the mountains were becoming less
frequent. Affairs of State kept him chained to his
papers. He noticed with some alarm that he was
growing fat. . . .

But he still kept his skill with the rifle, and on horse¬
back. He shot sovereigns tossed up in the air. He
excelled at day-pigeon shooting. He dreamed of the
plans in his head that he did not intend to be still¬
born.

Then he declared himself King. Even his title must
be Western. . . . The mullahs noted the cliange with
significant glances at each other.

76

CHAPTER V

AN ENGLISH HOME IN THE WILDS—THE EAST GOES WESTERN
—NEW IDEALS AND NEW AMBITIONS—THE RESTIVE
MULLAHS

T HOUGH the change seems a slight one, some
importance can be attached to Amanullah’s
sudden adaptation of his new title. It showed
that his mind was ever being trained outside his country.
The title of Amir was good enough for Afghanistan,
where it indicated the supreme power, mightier than
many a king, indeed. But it was not good enough for
foreigners, thought Amanullah.

Further, he was attracted by the idea of being the
first King in Afghan history. He would go down in the
annals of the country. The change would indicate more
sharply the division between the old and the new. It
was pure vanity, but it was vanity with a reason.

To the mullahs, however, it meant changes more
ominous than exercised the mind of the ruler. “ Am ir ”
had been to some extent a religious title. “ King ” was
secular. Thus, they thought, Amanullah was robbing
the old Court of a large portion of its religious atmosphere
at one stroke. Such things had never been. The
mullahs grew more gloomy and more afraid.

They were right in some degree. Amanullah was
thinking of the foreigners. Never very religious, as has
been shown, he now devoted almost his whole attention
to commercial possibilities and secular details. The
voice of the Imam from the Kabul mosque, sonorous and
compelling as a bell, was not heard in the confines of the

77

AMANULLAH

Palace. At evening, it dicw the faithful still, but the
King would be playing tennis. . . .

And it was at about this time that a curious change
took place which could be noted by every foreign tourist
who had travelled up through India and taken a look
at one of the wonders of the Eastern world—the Khyber
Pass.

For many years the Khyber had been included in the
itineraries of the tourist bureaux of New York, Paris, and
London. Round-the-world travellers, at so much the
trip in floating hotels, were invited to break their journey
in Calcutta, travel up to the North of India, take one
swift look at Afghanistan without leaving their cars, and
rush back for the evening train for Bombay.

The little adventure was well arranged, and caused -
brave flutterings of the heart among the hardy travellers
who had accomplished it. For they had seen armed men
striding down the hill roads. They had seen a “ for¬
bidden ” country. They had glimpsed barbed-wire and
sentries lolling on their rifles, protecting the gateway of
their land. They were well pleased, and in all the draw¬
ing-rooms of the cultured and the travelled, in the
Middle West of America, in the Midlands of England, and
in Surbiton as often as in Minnesota, there were to be
seen snapshots of high-school Sadies and suburban
Sybils, wonderfully topee-ed and sun-spectacled, stand¬
ing against a formidable notice-board at the end of the
Khyber Pass, their background being carefully explained
as “ the unknown.”

That notice-board read romantically and uncom¬
promisingly. It said, in bold black letters on a white
background:

“it is absolutely forbidden to cross this

FRONTIER INTO AFGHANISTAN.”

78

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

Visitors to dinner, seeing the snapshots and concealing
yawns over the endless descriptions common to travellers,
uttered the usual polite noises of surprise and mild
horror at the world wanderers’ exposing themselves to so
great a danger.

Amanullah changed even that.

Very soon the board was removed, and another, larger
and more noticeable, took its place. It read, in less
direct and less menacing language :

“ TRAVELLERS TO AFGHANISTAN ARE ADVISED THAT

ON NO ACCOUNT MUST THEY CROSS THIS BARRIER

UNLESS THEIR VISAS ARE IN ORDER.”

The anti-climax was complete. Afghanistan was open
to the world. The veil of mystery was torn away. The
glamour was gone. No doubt very soon the travel
agencies would be advertising a glimpse of the sacred
tombs of the Amirs for the benefit of world travellers,
and a few well-arranged hold-ups on the rocky road from
British India into the heart of Afghanistan.

There came a Proclamation from the King stating in
bald terms that permission to cross the Frontier could be
gained merely by the securing of a visa. Travellers were
encouraged, in theory at any rate, and the new pro¬
grammes for the rebuilding of the main roads received
due prominence.

“ The Gates of Afghanistan are open,” said the officials
in the various capitals of the world. “ The King has
secured peace in his land, and is inviting foreigners to
see for themselves the progress that has already been
made in the amenities of his State.”

The mullahs realised that their exclusive and privi¬
leged reign over the destinies of their people was doomed.
Already they began subterranean campaigns of protest.

79

AMANULLAH

Subtly and secretly, they fed the silent resentment of the
country people against the policy which was making hay
of past history and traditions. There was a sullen feeling
in the ranks of the Army. There was a nation-wide
presentiment that these moves actually undermined the
power and position of the nation. Amanullah had made
his first false step.

He either turned a blind eye to the portents of trouble
or he deliberately belit tled t hem. He was already sur¬
rounded by a court of flatterers, equal in their in¬
sincerity and guile to any group which had clustered like
vultures round the Palace of his forefathers. Spurred
by their cynical enthusiasms, he decided on a bold
policy.

It is remembered that, he had already reduced the
Treasury to a parlous state. He had not yet set his house
in order even to the extent of ridding the State services
of the evil of bribery. Chaos was everywhere, save in
those small departments which he ruled personally and
with dynamic energy. Yet even in face of these dangers
he set his face boldly towards an even more rapid policy
of modernisation and so-called “ reform.”

Very soon Kabul streets were fdled with more and
more foreigners. Turks overlorded it in the Army. They
held the senior posts, and graduated automatically into
positions of trust and responsibility. They were un¬
popular, but they leavened the indiscipline of the Army,
now denied the inspired leadership of the King, with
their smartness, their born military genius, and their
parade-ground tactics of conducting themselves.

They bullied their men into a submission which was
foreign to them. They were neither, admired nor liked,
but generally feared. There were minor rebellions, but
the ferocity with which they were put down, and Aman-

80

Photo bu “ .Dally Mail.”

ON il.M.K. VICTORY

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ON H.M.S. TWER

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EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

ullah’s approval, were sufficient to discourage even the
bravest of the leaders.

The submission of an Afghan to a foreigner, even
though the latter be a co-religionist, was unnatural, and
many a Turkish officer concealed a trembling heart under
the swagger and bravado with which he surrounded him¬
self in civil and military life in Kabul. He was a glitter¬
ing figure in State processions. He made the most of the
dashing uniform supplied by direct order of the King.
He, a Turk, was the pride of the Afghan Army.

These new uniforms, which were devised in the brain
of Amanullah himself, were strange combinations of
musical comedy chorus apparel and utility. Somewhere,
Amanullah must have seen and admired the pictures of
an ancient army which went to war clad in all the
panoply of the stage costumiers. Nothing would satisfy
him but elaborate tunics with an abundance of gold
braid. The epaulettes were heavy and of silver braid.
The breeches of his Royal Bodyguard were creamy
white. For caps, he went back a few years for the
inspiration of the shako, and decorated it with a heavy
tassel which pulled it to one side at the most dashing of
angles. Boots were of the Central Asian type, since
revived in every self-respecting Drury Lane drama of
impossible kingdoms and romantic armies of the lighter
stage. They were high-heeled and shiny, and reached
well up the thigh, to be rounded off with a natty design
in chased leather work and a further tassel for State
occasions.

Long curved swords clanked through the new Kabul
gardens in these days, and trailed along the roads in
wonderful semblance of military splendour and complete
uselessness. Gloves were white, and the sun was put to
shame by the patent leather, gold braid, pipe-clayed

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AMANULLAH

breeches, and startling epaulettes of an army that might
well have been commanded by Mr. Harry Welchman on
the battlefields of the Gaiety Theatre. They could not
fail to impress the doubters, but their wearers were
nevertheless often hungry and despondent.

The uniforms, naturally enough, were from Turkish
sources, and were painfully unfitted for the work which
Afghan soldiers might be expected to perform. But they
surrounded the King in an aura of majesty, and he
congratulated himself on the fact that the Court of the
first King of Afghanistan surpassed in splendour any
previous entourage of a mere Amir. And to compensate
for the extravagance the tax-gatherers were bidden
press their victims with an even greater relentlessness.
The peasant eventually had to pay for his own im¬
provement.

Similarly, the Exchequer found it hard to satisfy the
contractors who were concentrating all their energies on
State schemes. Many of the road-builders held bills on
the State worth thousands of Afghan rupees. They
worked feverishly, completing roads which would last for
at least six months, in their efforts to pile up a mountain
of debt which would give them an invaluable hold on the
Government. On every month’s work, they made a
fortune on skimped labour and short materials. Never
before had there been such a reward for enterprise. And
with a pathetic trust in the security of the Government,
the contractors regarded with satisfaction the unpaid
accounts mounting up to their credit.

Amanullah did not care. Those who urged him to put
the brake on wild extravagance, were warned that their
temerity did not justify their manhood. This was not
the spirit which would rebuild a nation. It was necessary
to risk much to gain the respect of the world. And the

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EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

work went on, hastened by Amanullah himself, the
burden of debt increasing day by day by the beginning
of huge new projects.

Certainly there was one example in Kabul which may
have urged the King still further in his extravagances.
This was the building of the new British Legation, under
the direction of Sir Francis Humphrys. It was a
magnificent building, and if the intention was to impress
the Afghan Court with a semblance of permanency and
confidence, then the great white house and its elaborate
gardens served its purpose.

It was surrounded by a wall of imposing dimensions,
but of little purpose as a possible fortification. It was
approached by great iron gates reaching to the top of the
walls, and at each side a small guard-house stood for the
convenience of the small Indian cavalry garrison.

It was white, spacious, and terraced in white stone,
leading down to gardens of English pattern. It had
balconies and wide verandahs. Inside, it was gaining
the appearance of a real English country house trans¬
ported into the wilds.

An English butler was already installed. He would
admit with the customary imperturbability, heritage
of the English butler, all the strange figures then leading
Afghanistan, conduct their shuffling feet into the library,
and insist as far as was possible on the retention of
those formalities which were practised by his father
and his grandfather in the handling of guests.

The dining-room was oak, and round its imposing
table, in the light of candles, the strangest mixture of
races and individuals would meet on those frequent
occasions when Sir Francis held receptions and intimate
little dinner-parties.

Amanullah would be a frequent visitor. He had

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AMANULLAH

made a friend from the first meeting with Sir Francis
Humphry’s, and already there was beginning to grow an
affection and a respect between the two men that were
destined to survive some troublous history. Indeed,
many of the patchwork chapters of excitement and
surprise were to be affected by the hours of conversation
enjoyed by these two men, the one urbanely Western, the
other dynamically Eastern, in the rooms of that rambling
white house overlooking the plains of Kabul.

Lady Humphrys had supervised the interior decora¬
tion, and had imbued the rooms with an atmosphere of
England.

There were bright chintzes and comfortable, brilliant
cushions. There were feminine touches everywhere, and
flowers from the great terraces in every corner. Not the
least of the pioneering triumphs of women in the East
have been their skill in transporting a little bit of
England into their drawing-rooms. In this pleasant
house there was the spirit of England. It was an oasis.

Amanullah must have been impressed. The Legation’s
sense of permanence was intended as a compliment to
him, and it did nothing but increase his confidence. The
arrival of Lady Humphrys, and the wife of another
English official, deepened that trust. He could point to
the British Legation as an indication of the hopes enter¬
tained in other countries for his progress and ultimate
victory.

He pressed on ever faster with his schemes, even under
the shadow of bankruptcy.

Though diplomatic circles were horrified at the
slightest discussion of the encouragement given to
Amanullah by the British representative in Kabul, it is
an undoubted fact that the King gained fresh confidence
after every visit to his friend Sir Francis. Relations

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EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

between the two men often broke away from the narrow
limits usual between ruler and foreign envoy. They were
men who could respect each other, and who had many
interests in common.

Chief of these were their mutual love of sport and their
equal skill with rod and gun. More than once they
joined forces, though in these days Sir Francis was the
most frequent explorer of the outlying hills and valleys
of the country. When he returned from these trips, he
would regale Amanullah with a description of his success,
and perhaps into his sporting conversations there would
often enter some piece of information regarding the
attitude of the simple people of the wilds toward their
new King.

Above all, the friendship relied on the deep knowledge,
possessed by Sir Francis, of the Eastern mentality. In
particular, he knew the hardy Northerner, and his
experiences in the Khyber Pass, where he had held an
important and diplomatic position, were now of con¬
siderable value to him.

Always, the talk would turn on the future, and the
Kang would lose the strained look of anxiety that
furrowed his brow these days. He would be uplifted by
the hopes and ambitions which he had carved out for his
country. The old fighting spirit was back. He was the
warrior bringing his valour and his determination into
the paths of peace. Sir Francis never expressed his
doubts, and, invariably non-committal, never gave voice
to the fears that were held by every other knowledge¬
able person in the country, and which must have been
shared by himself.

All the news of the Court was brought to the British
Legation by the King himself. He would ask advice
from Sir Francis, and become the bold young man again

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AMANULLAH

while he outlined his plans for the outwitting of his
enemies. It was a hard task for Sir Francis to keep
silent if he wished to voice his fears, but his strict policy
of non-interference with the domestic politics of this
strange land was never shaken.

Other visitors to the big white house were the diplo¬
mats from other legations. The Russians came, though
there were already signs of strain between the repre¬
sentatives of the two countries. They would stare in
envy at the imposing building, convey to their host their
congratulations at his confidence in the future, and retire
wondering at the strange policy of Great Britain.

The Germans would come, and would share the
astonishment of their neighbours in the Legation district
nearer the summer resort of Paghman. They also would
wonder how it came about that a nation willing to pay
so much money for the institution of a diplomatic
mission in Kabul, should yet let slide the opportunities
for trade as Great Britain had done.

For Kabul was packed with German and Russian
engineers. There were already the pilots who formed the
nucleus of an all-Russian Air Force. They had uniforms
of a style all their own. They were pale blue giants,
gaitered and even occasionally spurred, and they also
were piling up the mountains of debt that the Govern¬
ment already owed to its servants.

There were Italian wireless engineers on the pay-roll,
ready for a wireless station. There were engineers for
road-making, come to teach the Afghan contractor the
latest methods of the West. There were German mining
engineers, idling their time away in Kabul, waiting for
orders that never came.

Amanullah was convinced that his country was rich
in precious metals. He was, indeed, correct in this

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EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

belief, for tests had proved that there existed mines of
gold, platinum, and other metals which, if developed,
could have reaped a rich harvest for the State. The
reports of those German engineers who did actually
inspect the seams of coal, almost inaccessible, in the
hills of the Hindu Kush, show that there is an abundance.
Whether their richness will ever justify their working,
is, of course, another matter.

At the moment, at any rate, there could be for
Amanullah no likelihood of replenishing the Treasury
by the wealth of the hills. The project languished and
collapsed, leaving many highly paid officers in Kabul,
finishing their contracts for the Afghan Government
and being paid now and then.

Already there were to be seen pretty young Russian
girls parading the avenues in the evening cool. They
were the employees of the various legations, the clerks
and the minor heads of departments in the great
block of offices maintained by the Russians, and junior
ranks of the secretariat in the Afghan Government
itself.

They were rouged and powdered. They wore short
skirts and high-heeled shoes. Women being women,
they had contrived to introduce the latest fashions into
the desert, and beguiled themselves into believing that
Kabul was very little different from Moscow or
Leningrad.

A cafe had sprung up for the use of the foreign popula¬
tion. There was already an hotel. And Amanullah,
thorough, even if misguided, had sent down a score of
Afghan servants to the Taj Mahal Hotel, Bombay, for
education in European cooking and serving at European
tables.

Already the desert had been swept bare of rocks to

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AMANULLAH

make Paghman, the summer capital. It was an ideal
situation. The road led fourteen miles out of Kabul to
the foothills. It climbed gently towards the fir-tree
zone, and ended in a little plateau which offered every
natural advantage for the lay-out of a perfect replica
of an Italian garden. There were fountains, shady
walks, formal flower-beds, and a rigid wire fence
surrounding the whole enclosure. The State cafe took
pride of place at the top of the gardens. It was a strange
architectural mongrel, bastard French and Italian,
with here and there the mosaic of old Persia in its tiled
floor. It had a balcony commanding a view of the
garden. It was the rendezvous of the representatives
of all the strange countries engaged in the building of
the new city.

In the centre of the garden, Amanullah had built a
bandstand! Shades of municipal gardens and seaside
promenades I It was gaudy according to the custom,
ugly according to precedent, and was destined to be the
centre of attraction exactly similar to its models in the
West.

In the garden also were hard iron seats for the elegant
to take their repose. They were used exclusively by
the Europeans. The Afghans, those few of them who
entered the gardens, preferred to lounge on the grass.
But Amanullah, seeing these evidences of formality,
gentility, and acute discomfort, congratulated himself
that he had introduced into his country all the amenities
which flourished in civilised countries, and which he had
never seen. Paghman gardens might have been situated
in any of the pleasure resorts of England, Italy, or
France.

In the cool of the afternoon, the nursemaids would
wheel their charges along the tidy gravel paths, chatter

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EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

with their friends, and discuss the children. The
engineers would come for relaxation after the strain of
doing nothing all day. The European officers would
stroll there and conduct hasty but violent overtures of
affection with the synthetically beautiful nursemaids.
It was a strange, unnatural place.

In one corner there had already sprouted the first
few feet of the walls of a “ super-cinema.” It was to
be the only one in Afghanistan, but its dimensions, its
incredible ugliness, and its shining roof would surely
entitle it to the title of “ super.” It reared an ugly
trunk as the symbol of the ugliness of the West. Aman-
ullah was very proud of the idea.

The roads were lined with young poplar trees, which
would later screen travellers from the rays of the sun.
Paghman was a haven for those who had grown up in
the artificial parks of the West.

Even more ambitious, however, were the plans for
the construction of a capital to replace Kabul. This
was to be called Darulaman, after the King, and was
to form a centre for the various Government depart¬
ments which already threatened to overflow their
accommodation.

Great circular blocks of offices were to be built.
Central courtyards would give entrance to ranges of
departments. Clerks would be housed in luxury and
modernity. Superior officers of the State would work
in conditions suitable to the fame of the capital of a
new nation. There would be communal lodging-houses
for the employees of the State. There would be imposing
gardens and wide, sweeping drives. Darulaman would
be the wonder of the East, its conception brought about
by the combined brains of every nation in the world
except Great Britain.

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AMANULLAH

Even now a railway was under construction which
would make history in the country. It was the
first, and a neat little station was already built in
Kabul. It would run on a single line to Darulaman,
taking the visitors and the foreign business men to the
capital.

A new palace was to be built. It would connect
closely with the city of clerks, and would form a detail
in the huge scheme of reconstruction and enlargement.
Kabul, the new city with the name of Amanullah
figuring for ever in its plaques and on its foxmdation
stones, would rise anew a safe distance away from the
history-soaked remnants of the old.

Amanullah even contemplated a clearance scheme in
the old commercial centre of Kabul City. Such a rabbit-
warren could not be allowed to exist within hail of the
wonder city. He contemplated a sudden swoop on the
old place, driving out the merchants and forcing them
to inhabit new and thoroughly modern dwellings and
shops near Darulaman.

These many plans simmered in his brain. The
contractors were only too ready to start work, or at
least to dump the goods in their appointed places for
the builders. Then they began the more delicate but
amenable pastime of petitioning for their pay.

There were already thousands of men working at
Darulaman. They had succeeded, under the command
of foreign architects, in at least giving an indication of
the size of the future city. Amanullah went there
often, to supervise the work and watch his plans put
into concrete and brick. He was still the impetuous,
the impatient, and the energetic young man.

But the city of Darulaman was destined never to
rise very high on its foundations under Amanullah’s

90

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

lirection. The old city is still there. The commercial
bazaar basks still in the noonday sun, packed with
disease, intrigue, cheerful noise, and the clatter and
dang of Eastern commerce.

The railway never ran a train along its single line to
the glory of Amanullah. Amanullah never had the
supreme thrill of watching a railway train steam out
of Kabul for the wonder city.

The cinema in Paghman showed a film or two in
its time, and was duly hailed with wonderment and
delight by the astonished natives. The bandstand
was quite rightly the pivotal point round which
circulated the talent, wit, and administrative intellect
of Afghanistan, while massed bands ground out a real
national anthem newly composed, from within its
hideous pillars.

The caf6 in its time served out hundreds and thousands
of brilliantly coloured ices, and thousands of cups
containing green tea; and the poplar trees grew to
shade the sanded road leading up to the Paghman
Palace. The poplars are there still, shading a road that
led to nowhere but a desert of lost hopes and desolate
expectations.

But Darulaman ! If there is a sea of lost ships, there
must be a country of lost cities. The old dead-and-gone
cities of Annam will be there ; the desolate ruins that
were the glory of Peru; Biblical cities, giving a trace
of their cool magnificence; Pompeii.

With them, pale shadows of the past, will be Aman-
ullah’s dream city of Darulaman, which grew a few
feet in the air and then withered. If hopes are translated
into brick and mortar, then it overtops the others. In
the dream city, clerks run about their business all day
long. There is no corruption, but boundless funds, and

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AMANULLAH

an unending source of revenue from goods pouring over
the borders. The whole ruled by a dark, thick-set man
with eyes looking ever ahead—Amanullah.

His city, Darulaman, shows its skeleton above the
desert and scrub of the Kabul Plain, but it is no longer
Amanullah who directs its growth.

92

CHAPTER VI

THE EUROPEAN TRIP—FAREWELL TO A KING—A QUEEN
UNVEILS—LONDON REJOICES—A DEFIANCE OF TRADITION

1 ST the summer of 1927, a strange rumour fled
round the wineshops of Kabul. It was to the
effect that King Amanullah was going to Europe.
The full sensation of that whisper is difficult to realise
without a knowledge of the past traditions of the Afghan.
It is true that certain well-born young men of the
highest families of Kabul and Kandahar had been sent
during the past few years to the military colleges of
France and Germany. Nadir Khan himself, the
Commander-in-Chief of the Afghan Army, had learned
his military lore in France. Others had been to the
universities and the colleges of science. There were
several promising young Afghan students in Moscow and
Queen Souriya’s brother was at Exeter College, Oxford.

These, however, were different. They were travelling
for their own advantage, and no doubt could bring back
their knowledge for the benefit of their country, though,
to be truthful, the older Kabulis thought they proved
a devil of a nuisance with their new-fangled ideas.

The rumour grew. The great whispering gallery of
Kabul was never silent. As it travelled, the whisper
prospered, both in picturesqueness and certainty. The
streets were agog with it. It was the sole topic in the
samovar shops. It hurried out of Kabul on the lips of
travellers, and penetrated in all its incredible and
fearful truth into the remote villages of the hills. The
King was going away to Europe.

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AMANULLAH

Hard on the heels of the rumour came its official
confirmation. In a declaration, Amanullah stated his
reasons and his hopes in making the journey.

He was slightly apologetic, as well as challenging.
He made it clear that he did not intend to brook opposi¬
tion, but he thought it wiser to represent himself as a
humble pawn of fate rather than as a ruler breaking
away from precedent for the love of it.

For he knew what would be said by the mullahs.
He was right.

They looked more and more gloomy as the news was
confirmed.

No Amir had left his country before, save for sudden
rushes across the Frontier at the head of his troops.
No Amir had east curious eyes further than the bound¬
aries of his State. No ruler had sought to see the other
world across the Black Water, being, in point of fact,
rather contemptuous of the soft and easy living which,
it was reported, was the custom among the feringhe.

Rumour, moreover, attributed some strange reasons
for the impending tour. It was, frankly, for the
assimilation of European ideas. It was for the collection
of those very habits and customs which Afghans had
ever prided themselves on resisting. It was for the plain
purpose of bringing back European ways to Afghanistan.
No wonder they pondered sadly as the news rippled over
Afghanistan like the waves from a stone thrown in a
pond.

The news was substantiated from abroad. In regular
succession there came invitations from the Powers of
the West. Italy, France, Germany, Russia, Egypt,
and Switzerland sent their official programmes, as well
as Great Britain. Day after day the wireless stations
of the world were busy with the name of Amanullah.
Nation was vying with nation to do him honour.

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EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

Even then the mullahs were not pleased. They
attributed the lowest motives to this universal wish to
honour their King. They cared not a jot for the free
advertisement which their country was receiving. They
snapped their fingers in contempt at the compliments
which crackled through the ether. Afghanistan for the
Afghans ! They pinned their faith to that old slogan
and nothing could budge them.

Amanullah said that too. His motives were no doubt
sincerely patriotic. He really believed that he could
materially benefit his people by a visit to Europe.
Apart from the commercial prosperity which he believed
would accrue, he valued highly the respect of other
nations. He revelled in every official protestation of
respect. He believed in every flattery. In some vague
way he believed he could educate his people to the same
appreciation.

The date was now fixed. The formalities during his
journey in India were arranged. He himself could not
help feeling a real thrill at the thought of the adventure
before him.

It is difficult for Western people to realise the shock
that such an ordinary journey as the first part of this
would mean to a man such as Amanullah. The wonder
of a railway train was new to him. The wonder of the
sea, the mystery of the ships that plied their way through
the waves—all were new.

He had never seen the sea. He had never seen a
railway train. He had never seen a ship. Never before
had he set foot outside his own country, nor seen other
men and the manner in which they conduct their lives.

But before he went, he issued yet another declara¬
tion, this time more apologetic in tone than the last.
Qui s’excuse s'" accuse. But he had never heard that
saying.

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AMANULLAH

The new apologia was in the form of an “ Ithad-i-
Mishan,” or Royal statement. In flowery language it
set forth the lofty ideals that had inspired the tour.
It said: “ By the greatness of God, by the nation’s
enterprise, and by the efforts of thy servant, Afghanistan
in the shadow of freedom has bidden adieu for ever to
its stationary position. It has joined the social and
living nations of the world. This life, so important for
freedom, can only be maintained if we participate in the
social advancement. In the last eight years of freedom,
laws have been passed and introduced to the country.
I want to acquaint myself with the present mode of
living in Europe, as certain ways of that Continent are
being adopted here, so that after study we shall introduce
them if thought necessary. It is a fact that many other
rulers have done so. This made me resolve to do so.
You should therefore rule most carefully while I am
absent. Nobody should be oppressed. Farewell.”

The above, a literal translation as far as is possible,
gives clearly enough Amanullah’s state of mind at the
time. It reveals the slight fear of leaving his land to
his lieutenants. It shows his avowed intention of
bringing back with him some object-lessons from Europe.
It promises yet more shocks for the mullahs. It boasts
of the reforms which were already in operation in the
country. And it has the right apologetic note that was
an inevitable feature of his mind at that moment.

There was a farewell durbar at Jallalabad, at which
the usual fulsome speeches were made by those who
were currying favour. The Court was in a flurry of
preparation till the last moment. But eventually, on
December 10, 1927, a large red Rolls-Royce drew out
of the fort at Spin Baidak, name of grim memories to
British troops. A thousand bearded and armed hillmen
cheered, breaking the ranks of the police to crowd

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EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

round the car. Rifles were fired into the early morning
mist, and the car passed slowly down the decorated and
beflagged route. The car stopped, and Amanullah
stepped from it. Casting round in the crowd, he selected
a malik, a soldier, and a peasant, and kissed them.
“ That is my farewell to my leaders, my soldiers, and
my people,” he said. The people went wild with
enthusiasm as he drove on, and ran the three miles
beside his car to Chaman.

When he stepped from the car, thirty-one guns
boomed their salute, and a British military band struck
up the Afghan National Anthem. For the first time in
history, an Afghan ruler had ventured from his own
territory.

The enthusiasm of the Afghan crowds was so great
that they broke over the Frontier. Laughing and excited
as children, they escaped the British Indian guards, and
continued their way to the meeting, just over the border,
between Amanullah and the officials of Quetta.

The King was followed by the Queen, wearing black,
and veiled. Her party was followed by the coolies and
the Army transport carts carrying the hundred and fifty
pieces of luggage which comprised their goods for the torn.

Aeroplanes circled overhead and looped and dipped
in salute. The little railway platform at Chaman,
furthest outpost of the system in Baluchistan, was
packed with the glitter and array of the Army and the
civil services, in levee uniform. Red carpets led the
way to two specially built carriages which had cost
£15,000 to construct. The guns boomed out once more,
a telegram from the King of England was handed to
Amanullah, and for the first time in his life he stepped
into a railway carriage, white and gold on the outside,
with the Royal crest of Afghanistan on its flank, flying
the Union Jack and the green flag of his Court.

Q 97

AMANULLAH

The carriages were lined with Burma teak and the
fittings were silver. The ceilings were white, and the
curtains were old gold. The bathrooms were white
tiled, and the bedrooms were old gold and blue. At the
last minute, after requesting that there be separate
bedrooms for himself and his Queen, Amanullah had
changed his mind and aslccd for double accommodation.

That change was made by men working day and night
in the railway workshops in Lahore before the wonder
train went up the tortuous track to the Frontier. Army
aeroplanes accompanied the white train till dusk fell.
Amanullah looked out of the window, and gazed
excitedly at the country towards which his eyes had
often turned in envy. The train pulled gently through
the night and stopped at Karachi the next morning.

Once more the old formula of gun-salutes, presenta¬
tions, red carpets, and bouquets for the Queen. Aman¬
ullah spoke in Persian in reply to numerous addresses
of welcome, and Souriya attended a purdah party. She
wore a Paris frock, abandoned the veil that hid the
lower part of her face, and for the first time gave rise
to the fables of her beauty, later told all over the
Western world.

But she had skill and daring in thus displaying her
beauty. She was a woman of character, thus to appear
in the East, dressed in a Paris frock of cream and blue,
and a picture hat. She was implementing the courage
of her husband. And the ladies of Karachi, meeting
her for the first time, told enthusiastic stories of her
beauty and wit.

She urged her Indian hosts to educate their children.
She pointed to the first efforts in the field of education
being made in her own country. She charmed every
listener. Then they went to Bombay.

On the little ship taking them, Amanullah played

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EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

deck games with his usual enthusiasm and energy, shot
birds from the bridge, and displayed a child’s wonder
in the sea. He tried to shoot fish, and laughed at his
failure. He was a small boy again, seeing something
new. Never, save when he adopted the other childish
pose of petulance and obstinacy, did he lose that sense
of delighted novelty until he returned once more to his
country.

Two days later they sighted the Gateway to the
East, at Bombay, and sighted too the massed welcome
drawn up to meet them.

The Queen was still veiled, though she had taken off
the purdah clothes on her way in the steamer. She did
the round of parties there too, speaking at the purdah
receptions, repeating once more the parrot talk of
education that she had learnt from Amarm llab.

There were banquets, tours of Bombay, and State
visits. There was a slight breath of trouble, when the
Viceroy of India was unable to meet Am amillah, as he
was ill in bed, but generally speaking the delicate
occasions passed off well. Compliments were thick as
autumn leaves. Amanullah spoke of “ his dear neigh¬
bour India,” and was horrified to hear that the Pathans,
who had gathered to meet him and do him honour,
were among the most troublesome co mmunit ies in
Bombay.

Just like the good young prince in the fairy tales, he
adjured them to behave themselves and submit to the
wise rule of the British-Indian police. The Pathans
might have laughed, but did not. Instead, they hung
flowers round the neck of the descendant of great and
powerful Amirs.

The London Times, in a leading article, bestowed the
usual compliments, ending with the sage remark:

“ There can be no fear that on his return to his country

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AMANULLAII

King Amanullah will risk a complete break with
tradition.”

Thus it seemed that the whole world was combining
to swell the head that was already bursting.

And on the 17th of December the Gateway of India
was again ablaze with colour. The S.S. Bajputana
churned her way West with the feted King on board.

The optimism of The Times was no doubt based on
reason and sound common sense. It could not reason¬
ably be expected that Amanullah would be infected
with the germ of the West so seriously as to lose his
sense of proportion. Yet that was exactly what was
happening. Every blare of bugles in his honour went
to his head. Every red carpet was a delight to his eye.
Every compliment was absorbed greedily. The pheno¬
menon has happened before, and will happen again.
The British Government, when it finally decides to
honour its visitors, sends them into paroxysms of
self-congratulation. It is dangerous in the West. It
is playing with dynamite when the guest is of the East.

Amanullah had replied to the compliments with true
Eastern reciprocity and tact. He had urged the
Mahomedans to live peaceably with Hindus. He had
returned bouquet for bouquet in his perfect Persian
accent. He had been the slightly impulsive but charming
guest, and had endeared himself to all as a real man
and a strong one.

The circumstances of his visit to India, the pomp and
formality which accompanied his journey down to the
liner at Bombay, were carefully noted in his own
country. There were ears anxious for every detail of
that tour of triumph. The significance of the rivalry
in Europe, to do him honour and to impress him, was
not lost in Kabul. With the satisfaction generally felt,
however, there was a slight feeling of contempt that such

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EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

trivialities were having their effect upon the ruler. Old
complaints are not easily forgotten in Afghanistan.
The true Afghan is distrustful, and cannot be put off
with mere compliments. And for ever and for ever,
they would abide by their old contention that the
British were usurpers in India, aliens in the East, and,
more important than all, that they were white infidels.

Tradition dies hard. The mullahs, already cogitating
on the possible advantage they could take of the King’s
European visit, were determined that the tradition of
distrust of the British should never be forgotten.

But all was gaiety on the good ship Rajputana as she
ploughed through the Indian Ocean and approached
Aden. Amanullah was energetic and anxious to please.
He distributed largess to the crew. He took part in
every social activity on the wide deck. He was amiable
to every Englishman, and trained himself assiduously
for the ordeal before him.

Queen Souriya divested herself of every trace of
purdah, with the consent and encouragement of Aman¬
ullah. She was now the complete Westernised Asiatic.
She bloomed under the treatment, and was herself the
centre of interest in the Royal party.

One of the critical visits of the trip was the arrival
at Suez.

King Fuad was out to meet them. In deference to
his wishes, it is believed, Souriya once more wore the
veil, though she was loath to part with the Western
clothes that she already wore with complete lack of
self-consciousness. At Port Said, however, she received
Egyptian officials, wearing the veil, and the news
travelled round the world and back to Kabul.

The guns boomed a welcome from the banks of the,
Canal. King Fuad and Amanullah conversed in Turkish.
An elaborate programme had been arranged in Cairo

101

AMANULLAH

and Alexandria over Christmas and the New Year.
And it was at some time during their first meetings, by
some gesture or action, that King Fuad or one of his
underlings bitterly offended his sensitive guest. Aman-
ullah was annoyed.

For public consumption, it was stated that the King
was somewhat vague in his arrangements. Certainly
lie was difficult to entertain. He was unwilling to arrange
for his participation in any programme many hours
ahead, and even when he did, it could not be certain
that he would adhere to his plans.

That was the story issued to account for the shortening
of the programme arranged for him, and for his tardiness
on many public occasions. As one writer described,
hinting at the truth : “ The visit has been a success in
spite of the difficulty of arranging for a guest who has
always done what he likes and when he likes. It is only
with difficulty that he can be persuaded to make up
his mind. He is always late, and invariably wants to
alter his orders at the last moment.”

We have seen enough of Amanullah’s character,
however, to know that he seldom changed his mind.
Having decided on a course of action, he stuck to
it right or wrong. These delays, those minor diffi¬
culties, were not inevitable. And the climax came when
King Fuad waited, and the whole Egyptian military
review waited, half an hour for the presence of the chief
guest. Obviously, though without giving any definite
cause for a breach, Amanullah had shown that he was
not flattered by the hospitality of the Egyptians.

The extensive programme for a tour of Egypt was
cancelled. In its place Amanullah consented to visit
Luxor, and met Lord Lloyd—a man whom he must
have respected and liked, for there was a lot in common
between the two strong men, neither of whom could

102

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

brook interference. From his villa in Giza, Amanullah
gave plentifully to the poor, inspected the students’
quarters, and expressed the hope that one day Afghan
students would join their fellow-Muslims in these
surroundings.

But in spite of the outward signs of amicability, the
Egyptian visit was not a success.

On the 5th of January he sailed to Naples, and it can
be said that of all the nations he visited, the people of
Italy were most to his liking. He revelled in their sun¬
lit southern land. He saw much in common with his
own people, with their quick humour, their impulsive
temperament, and their olive skins.

He was treated well, there were no old grievances
over which to be diplomatic or sensitive, and they also
gave him a welcome to Europe which touched his
responsive heart and flattered his vanity as a ruler.

At the Ciampino Aerodrome, near Rome, he saw the
evolutions of hundreds of ’planes. At the Scala in
Milan he saw the art of the stage for the first time.
He went over the Lancia works in Milan, and he en¬
trusted to the Fiat works orders for a hundred motor
lorries and small cars which were to be despatched to
his capital immediately.

He gave £1000 to the poor of Rome, a photograph
of himself and his Queen to the Pope, and sent with the
gift a pair of lapis lazuli candlesticks which cost him a
small fortune. All these things were noted in Kabul.

When he left for Nice a fortnight later, he was wearing
the Order of Annunciata, conferred by the King, and
the Order of the Golden Spur. He was getting into his
stride.

While in .Italy, too, Sir Francis Humphrys had visited
him to arrange for the last details of his stay in London.
It may be taken as certain that the incidents in Cairo

103

AMANULLAH

did not evade the attention of the British Minister in
Kabul. It was there, between two friends, that Sir
Francis made Amanullah promise that he would behave
himself in London.

“ You will not be late in England,” said Sir Francis.

“ I will not be late.”

He was not. But he did not grieve unduly for the
reflection on King Fuad and the might of martial
Egypt.

The golden Riviera did not hold him for long. He
was preparing for the assault on Paris, Berlin, and
London. And on the 25th of January he drove to the
Quai d’Orsay between the pennants of the cavalry,
was welcomed by the President, M. Doumergue, and
watched from his window while the cheering crowds
swarmed round his temporary home. Surely his life’s
dream had come true at that moment. . . .

He flung another £1000 to the poor of Paris. The
English journalists were concocting adjectives to do
justice to Queen Souriya’s beauty, now unveiled, and
the almost hysterical Parisians pondered on the strange
fact that her name was nearly identical with their word
for a smile. . . . Paris provided a really French
welcome.

Even the scares inseparable from a Royal visit were
not forgotten. It was said that the King had cut himself
shaving, and true enough he appeared with his face
bandaged. The terrors of the West. But he still
smiled, amused the crowds by his unconventionality,
and entered into the gay life of the streets with the zest
of a boy.

From Paris, while the Press was being ecstatic about
the forthcoming Royal procession in London, he went
to Berlin, where he became an Honorary Doctor of the
Technical College. “ My students must come here too,”

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EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

he said. Indeed, the students of Kabul and Kandahar
seemed likely to become international travellers. He
visited Krupps, and ordered a new troop-carrying lorry.
As an afterthought, he commanded it to be fitted with
a body suitable for transporting school-children!

There was one hitch. The Socialists objected to the
expenditure of money on his entertainment. Speeches
were made asking what benefit could come from the
so-lavish use of public funds. But Amanullah never
heard that end of it. The usual £1000 was handed to
the poor of Berlin.

British official wireless to the East expanded itself,
during these days, on the care taken in London for the
plans for the coming visit. The telegraphs crackled
with news of the decoration of the suite reserved for
the Royal pair at Buckingham Palace, and again at
Claridge’s Hotel. The order of the procession, headed
by King George and King Amanullah, followed by
Queen Mary and Queen Souriya, was faithfully given to
the great reading public of the East.

Destroyers turned off their patrol course in mid¬
ocean and threshed their way to the Channel. The
Fleet went home for inspection. Airplanes received
their orders for the great day. London was garlanded,
and maps made of the route to be taken by a young
man, now thirty-eight, and his beautiful queen ten years
younger than he.

The public was even told of a half-million pound
credit arranged for Amanullah between his country
and the Continent and England. It was, rumour said,
for his use when ordering French, German, and Italian
goods. The rumour was promptly denied, but it was,
as a fact, the first suggestion that such a course would
be necessary at his present rate of progress. England
waited on tiptoe for the first glimpse of a romantic

105

AMANULLAH

Eastern monarch, ruler of a wild people, descendant,
so it was said, of a line of savage rulers in a forbidden
land. The public lapped it up.

Let us, however, look at Amanullali calmly at this
epoch in his career. He is still a young man, looking
younger than he actually is. This is due to his dynamic
energy, his intelligent and fearless eyes, and his nervous
impulsiveness. He might at first sight be considered
stout, but this is largely due to his build. lie is nervous
because of the homage suddenly offered to him. I-Ie is
self-conscious because he is untutored in the ways of
the West, and is afraid of making a gaffe.

He is ruler of a backward land which is hardly solvent.
Without his guidance, his country would soon slide
back into ignorance and sloth.

He is not yet certain in his heart that he was not rash
to leave his capital at this critical time. Having, how¬
ever, scraped together a considerable sum of money, he
has ventured. The result has been better than any of
his wildest hopes.

lie knows the value of the promises given to him by
his lieutenants. He may at any moment be left without
a throne. He is in an ideal position for the usurper and
the traitor. Sometimes the thought comes to him,
even among this present splendour and triumph. But
he thrusts it from his mind. There can be no turning
back.

He goes now to be feted in the midst of the country
which he fought nine years ago. He goes to meet the
English, those whom he always called “ usurpers in the
East.” Fine men they are, but nevertheless usurpers.
No Amir before him has dared to do this thing. For
an Amir to leave his country was synonymous with his
leaving his throne. AmanuUah, Peace of God, has
dared.

106

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

Blow then, bugles of welcome! History is being
made, and a man of the hills, a true Afghan, has come
into the territory of his dreams. The destroyers are
wheeling into line for his honour. The aeroplanes,
fighters and bombers and scouts, are circling in mass
formation for his delight. The red carpets are down,
and the rifles come to the “ present ” with a slap, for
a King of the East. Kings, queens, and princes are
summoned to meet him. Cash is running short, but here
is another thousand for the poor of the West. Blow,
bugles of welcome !

So he crosses the Channel, the destroyer pitching and
burying her nose in English waters. The cruisers are
in line ahead, there in his honour. The ’planes keep up
their ceaseless zooming accompaniment to this great
day. Amanullah quells the tumult of pride in his
breast, and when he goes down the gangway, meets the
Prince of Wales, treads the red carpet to the special
train, and acknowledges the frenzied cheers of the
English crowd this 13th afternoon of March, 1928, the
newspaper men say that he is “ every inch a King.”

He is not. He is a slightly swelled-headed but
thoroughly healthy Eastern boy at a huge picnic.

107

CHAPTER VII

A LONDON WELCOME—A KINGLY JUGGLER—AMANULLAII
SEES ENGLAND—AN OMEN FROM KABUL—FINANCE AND
HONOURS

B UT Amanullah, if he were not every inch a King,
was a romantic enough figure. His grey-green
cloak hung bravely from his broad shoulders.
His shako well suited the dashing carelessness of his
uniform. He observed the Afghan prejudice against
personal jewellery, which, on the Indian Princes, he
had despised, but his breast sparkled with medals and
decorations.

His legs were cased in pale blue, and his tunic was
scarlet. A sword trailed the ground. His hands were
gloved in white.

Souriya, in a Paris frock and hat, never flinched in
the glare of the flashlights. She need not have been
troubled about her appearance. The heavy jewelled
ear-rings, a present from Amanullah the day before,
swung gently to her shoulders to the envy of the
feminine crowds which awaited her arrival in London.

On the platform were the King and Queen, Mr.
Baldwin the Premier, and the Cabinet. The Duke and
the Duchess of York, Prince George, and the Duke of
Connaught were others come to do him honour. Troops
and police held back the crowds.

There was a slight contretemps when the commanding
officers did not recognise the Afghan National Anthem,
and failed to bring their troops to the salute, but such
details were forgotten in the tide of spontaneous cheering

108

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

that swept over the first Royal carriage, containing King
George and King Amanullah, as it drove out of the
station and along a route lined with troops. It was
maintained when there followed the second landau with
the two Queens. London, as it invariably does, waxed
hysterical over Royalty, thrilling to the depths of its
democratic heart. Two Kings and two Queens to look
at! Englishmen and Afghans talking together! It was
a great day for rubber-necks, and apparently everyone
had forgotten how only nine years before British soldiers
had sweated in combat with the soldiers of this alert
little Afghan.

The Belgian Suite at Buckingham Palace had been
decorated in Rose du Barri for the occasion. As the
British official wireless had promised, the furniture had
been added to by little touches which might serve to
still the pangs of home-sickness in the visitors. There
were Eastern rugs and brasses. There were inlaid tables
and carvings for the delight of the guests.

At the State reception and banquet that night, Queen
Souriya wore a low-cut Paris gown and the famous ear¬
rings. Amanullah wore a new levee uniform. The
Queen of England wore Persian blue, and on her breast
gleamed the Koh-i-noor. The Bang sat down in the
uniform of an Admiral of the Fleet, and among his
decorations was the Star of Afghanistan.

Princes and diplomats and councillors formed the
guests at the banquet. There were speeches, in which
the King referred to his constant watch on the progress
of King Amanullah in educating his country, and trusted
that he would be granted many years of life to continue
his work. Amanullah replied with the usual compli¬
ments in Persian.

There were visits to the Cenotaph and to Westminster
Abbey. Queen Mary accompanied the visitors to Drury

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AMANULLAII

Lane, where, appropriately, the Desert Song was being
performed. Other visits were made to theatres. Fearful
and wonderful were the stories with which the public
was regaled even while the visitors were being enter¬
tained at Buckingham Palace. What they lacked in
truth, they certainly made up in picturesqueness. On
the one hand it was reported that the English King and
Queen were entertaining barbarians. On the other hand
it was whispered that the Afghan visitors were acquit¬
ting themselves with far better decorum and decency
than had many other celebrities.

The truth was, however, that Amanullah and his
Queen were quick to conform to formal English man¬
ners. From the first they had the greatest liking for
elegant furniture and expensive fittings. It had been
arranged for them to stay at Buckingham Palace for
two days.

The robustness of the King’s humour; the uncon¬
ventionality of his manners; his entire lack of self-
conseiousncss after the first breaking of the diplomatic
ice; and the quiet dignity of his Queen ; all these were
perhaps unexpected in such surroundings, but they pro¬
vided a slight relief and a welcome contrast to the stilted
manners of former Royal parties on State visits.

On the subject of Queen Souriya’s dignity, indeed,
some good stories were told. It was even said that she
had abashed Sir Austen Chamberlain, always admitted
to be one of the old school of frozen and coldly super¬
cilious statesmen, who gave foreign cartoonists their
traditional ideas of British diplomats. The occasion
requires an effort of the imagination, but it is by no
means impossible to conjecture that Queen Souriya, in
an excess of zeal for her Royal rank, and anxious to
provide the contrast to the over-jo vial manners of her
King, had patronised the most severe of our elder

110

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

statesmen. The story, at any rate, went round political
circles in London, and redounded to the credit of the
beautiful Queen from far away.

The most trying period for the excited Amanullah was
over with his departure from Buckingham Palace to
Claridge’s Hotel, where, in their honour, and at the
command of the British Foreign Office, the Royal Suite
on the first floor had been redecorated.

The ready imagination of Londoners, aided by
various picturesque newspaper stories, had a field-day.
Many and varied were the tales told of the happenings
in the dining-rooms and the private rooms of Claridge’s
Hotel. In any case, Amanullah was behaving himself
in an exemplary manner. He was not the universal
jester that he was portrayed by his chroniclers, though
his sense of humour certainly rode uppermost during
these formal and exciting days.

Formality did not come easily to him. He had not
been accustomed to an excess of polite occasions and the
starched etiquette of diplomatic life. Much was expected
of him, and he lived up to his promise to behave himself
in the best Western manner, as befitted his new glory
of Western clothes, in which he took an inordinate
delight.

But he tired of the magnificent bedroom which had
been allocated to him in the hotel, and took a fancy to a
small single bedroom overlooking a courtyard. The
Royal Suite was not for a man of the hills. He preferred
solitude, for during these days he had much to think over,
and much to treasure for future reference when he
returned to his country.

He was a favourite among the staff. He treated them
in the friendliest fashion, and provided a strong contrast
to the sometimes dull example set by former occupants
of those rooms on previous Royal visits.

Ill

AMANULLAH

On one occasion there was a rare dinner party of ten
people in the Royal dining-room. They were all magi¬
cians. Amanullah showed them his repertoire. The
magicians, who thought him no mean producer of
rabbits out of hats, playing-cards out of waistcoats, and
a fair juggler of balls, reciprocated with various of their
simpler devices, many of which were later exhibited for
the entertainment of wild tribes in a forlorn comer of
the East. And going back to the fairy books, there is
surely a faint resemblance to the cheerful kings of olden
days, who summoned before them the Court magicians
to tickle the Royal fancy after a heavy meal.

It could be wished, however, that the then Lord
Mayor of Liverpool had appreciated fairy stories more.
If he had, he might have enjoyed more fully the pro¬
duction of an ace of spades from behind his car in the
middle of a civic reception; he might have returned
the compliment with a neat hand-spring in the middle
of the ceremonial red carpet, and thus have established
the amity between Afghanistan and the Mersey City.
But the joke failed. When Amanullah transferred his
tricks from the dining-room of Claridge’s Hotel to the
civic reception in the North of England, he reckoned
without the unassailable dignity of the Lord Mayor’s
chain of office.

Amanullah, however, was by no means disheartened.
He did not know that a king must curb his sense of
humour.

The world might be a better place if kings played
parlour tricks on State occasions.

One. of Amanullah’s personal successes, however, was
with the Duchess of York. At a public dinner party, it
was noticed that consternation and alarm showed on
his face when faced with a harmless glass of lemonade
poured from a long jug. The King smelt it, quizzed it,

112

Pholdly " Daily Mail."

AT THE BIRMINGHAM SMALL ARMS FACTORY -

> si^ v

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

glared suspiciously into its innocent depths. He thought
it was demon alcohol. The Duchess saw his plight,
assured herself of its purity as the unfermented juice of
the lemon, and made reassuring signs to the Bang. The
honour of the Prophet was saved. And saved too was
the King’s sense of humour at that dinner party.

Amanullah’s most personal gift to the King was care¬
fully chosen and carefully brought from his own country.
It took the form of a couple of Afghan wolfhounds, the
long thin dogs of the hills, heavily “ trousered ” as if in
cowboy’s chaps against the cold of the Afghan hills.
They are curious animals, and have only lately enjoyed
a vogue in England. Sensitive, swift, and nervous, they
combine the speed of a greyhound with the mute pathos
of a spaniel. For a time at least they held an honoured
place in the Bang’s kennels, and it may be that part of
the present London fashion for these dogs arises from
that gift from Amanullah to his host.

Another embarrassment to those who were playing
the temporary host was the generosity and skill of the
various London firms who wished to sell goods to the
visiting ruler. Every day hundreds of pounds’ worth
of goods were delivered at Claridge’s on approval for
the examination of the King. The majority had not
been ordered by Amanullah. They were sent on the
off-chance that they would take his fancy, and the stories
of his lavish expenditure and royal “ tips ” to servants
no doubt served to foster hope in the breasts of enter¬
prising tradesmen. Many of these goods eventually
found their way back to Afghanistan, for Amanullah
and his Queen commented favourably on the enterprise
of London tradesmen in persuading visiting Royalty.
It is naturally expected that visiting Royalty wish to
buy, and Amanullah and his Queen were no disappoint¬
ment to the big London luxury stores.

118

H

AMANULLAH

As time went on, he came to believe that all the
season’s pageantry had been arranged for his benefit,
though he had been at first incredulous when faced
with even such a minor honour as the illumination of
Selfridge’s Stores in Oxford Street. He was being taken
for an evening drive, with Sir Francis Humphrys as his
guide. The open car passed along the busy streets, and
the huge frontage of the famous store suddenly blazed
with welcoming lights as they turned into the thorough¬
fare.

“ That is in your honour,” said Sir Francis. “ Those
words read : * Long live King Amanullah and Queen
Souriya! ’ ”

“ I do not believe it,” replied Amanullah simply.

But secretly he rejoiced. No mere Amir of Afghanis¬
tan had seen as much as a single electric bulb glow in
his honour.

Naturally, after the idea had been planted in his brain,
he saw every national sporting and social event as a
tribute to his visit. Everything was based on his pres¬
ence. London revolved round him. The mistake was
very human and very understandable.

When he was taken to the Boat Race, he protested
long and vehemently at the beginning of the race. The
long slim boats were ready for the starting gun. The
crews were taut and anxious. Amanullah prepared to
get out of the launch.

“ I think,” he said, “ that I shall choose the pale blue
steersman.”

He honestly believed that he was to be shown the
sights of London from the frail shell of a racing eight,
and credited the waiting thousands of Londoners merely
with the desire to see him pass up the river in peculiar,
but no doubt customary, state. Having been into the
interior of submarines, can it be wondered at that he

114

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

was past surprise, and determined to lift his eyebrows at
no more irregularities of this curious Western race ?

Day by day the long cars drew up outside Claridge’s
to take Amanullah and his Queen to some new wonder
of London. They went to the Zoo, and they visited the
great railway works at Swindon. Lady Humphrys took
Souriya shopping, and the two of them chose mountains
of carpets and acres of curtains for the embellishment
of far-away palaces in Jallalabad and Paghman and
Kabul. There were stacks of furniture, silks and bro¬
cades, the finest merchandise of Regent Street and Bond
Street, dispatched to the East as a result of these visits.
For who could know that soon after their arrival, those
very tables and chairs and silks and brocades would
serve to feed flames rising high in the Eastern sky,
crackling as they were put on the fires that lit the end
of a regime, while round the burning there ran and
rejoiced the fanatics of one of the wildest and most
savage races in the world ? . . .

Amanullah went down to a review of the Fleet. The
sum of £6000 was paid for ammunition on that single
day alone. He lunched in the wardroom of the Nelson.
Before his eyes the Fleet manoeuvred and plunged to
mock war. This, then, was the might of England !

He shrugged his shoulders. “ They are no good to
me,” he said. “ Neither on my behalf, nor against
me, they are no good. I have no concern with the
sea. . .

The £6000 seemed somewhat expensive if that was
the only impression to remain in the mind of Amanullah.

He dived below the sea in a submarine. He saw tanks
at Lulworth.

“ They are very fine,” he said. “ But they could not
be used in my country.”

Only when he saw the might of the Third Arm was

115

AMANULLAH

he impressed. He went to a flying display, and watched,
awed, while the fighters swooped and swerved in mimic
battle. He went up in a bomber, and watched the bombs
slanting down to the targets. He saw the destruction
of a village from the air.

Only after that experience did he go away silent. He
was thinking of the new terror of the air.

“ War,” he said later, “ is a terrible and unromantic
thing in your country.”

Perhaps that was precisely the impression that was
intended to be made on his sensitive and simple brain.
He was awed. His pride was hurt when he considered
how puny and how pathetic would be his mountain
levies against the terror from the air. Warfare was no
longer the pitting of valour against valour. There were
to be no longer the heroic clashes of men against men.
War was science, and the men of his country were no
scientists. It was a bitter moment.

Not till he went down to the huge Small Arms Factory
in Birmingham did he once more revel in the romance
and adventure of warfare. Then he seized a rifle in
the shooting-range, lay down on the mats, and pro¬
ceeded methodically to plant bulls on the target.
The workpeople were immensely pleased, and if the
truth be known he was immensely pleased with himself.
This was the warfare he understood—the matching of
one straight shot with another, the steady arm and the
clear vision. He decided to forget the sickening thud
of bombs dropped on shattered villages from the air,
and the cohorts of drumming planes that darkened the
sky. He handled the Lewis guns, and at every demon¬
stration of British engineering skill, he pictured to
himself his beloved troops marching across the plains
of Afghanistan with these weapons worthy of their
bravery.

116

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

He went to the Rolls-Royce works at Derby, and was
so pleased by the interest of the workpeople that he
did conjuring tricks for their amusement. He was apt
and clever. He was beginning to find the humour that
lurks only a little way beneath the dignity of every
Englishman. He showed humour and skill at his new
parlour tricks. He was finding his feet among English
crowds, so strange at first. Only once was he late for
an appointment. The careful guidance of Sir Francis
Humphrys saved him from many a pitfall. And it was
his old boyishness and good spirits that unfortunately
kept him ten minutes late for a meeting with the Duke
of York.

So the weeks passed pleasantly enough until the 16 th
of March, when a scare story brightened the front pages
of the newspapers. It was to the effect that trouble had
broken out in Kabul. The rumour was promptly and
indignantly denied. It is doubtful whether Amanullah
gave the rumour much thought. He was by now ob¬
sessed by one idea only, and that was to see as much
of the English as he could. He was enjoying himself
thoroughly. He had, he felt certain, made a great im¬
pression on the English. Troubles in his own country
could wait. If there were unappreciative Afghans who
did not realise the benefit of their King’s visits to the
theatres and cathedrals of England, then they must
conceal their unpatriotic sentiments.

He must have realised that the day of reckoning
would come. Finances already indicated its imminence.
The troops were in arrears with their pay. Much of the
ready money collected for the trip was due to be repaid.
Credit was good, but the huge orders booked with Euro¬
pean firms would prove a severe drain on future receipts.
Very little had been paid for. The importunate were
told that it was slightly impertinent to ask for a

117

AMANULLAH

settlement, and were usually content to wait. But
some day, the trip would have to be paid for.

Stories of his expenditure would have reached Kabul.
A thousand pounds given to the poor of each capital
would seem a great deal of money to be thrown away
on the feringhe, especially when it had been wrested from
a starving nation. Amanullah had his moments of
anxiety, but they were soon forgotten in the thrill and
enjoyment of some new occasion at which he was chief
guest. It was a case of now or never. Let the future
look after itself.

But Tarzi Khan, the Afghan Foreign Minister, had
not come to England, and had thought it wiser to pro¬
ceed straight back to Kabul from Paris. The rumours
of unrest seemed to be backed up by truthful incidents.
It was repeatedly said that the Royal visit would be
cut short, and that Amanullah would hasten back to
his country without visiting Russia. His answer was
to deny these statements out of hand, as a gesture of
bravado. He went to the Grand National, where he
watched with close interest the methods of the tipsters
and the tricksters on the course. There was a visit to
Oxford, where Queen Souriya met her brother, then at
Exeter. Amanullah told the Oxford authorities who
honoured him with the D.C.L. that there had been
universities in Afghanistan a thousand years ago.

In Liverpool an ex-soldier presented him with an
autograph book, and requested his signature. Seeing
the man’s poverty, Amanullah wrote his name in Roman
script and dug his hand in his pocket. The little present
was a £100 note. A king must be kingly in thought
and deed, he must have decided. That story, too, went
back to Kabul.

The Queen meanwhile was acquitting herself well in
the difficult territory of society. She bought toys from

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EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

London shops for her son in Paris, and was an honoured
visitor to the great shops, where her taste was ever
superintended by Lady Humphrys. The newspapers
still sought new adjectives for her beauty, and a certain
coiffeur who arranged her hair for the State receptions,
stated to an enthralled public that the Queen possessed
the most beautiful head of hair in London.

Other visits were made to a Boy Scouts Rally, and
to various private houses. The tour was nearly over.
And on the 5th of April King Amanullah, his Queen,
and his suite, set sail for Paris once more, hurried to
Brussels, Warsaw, Riga, Moscow, Angora, and Teheran.
The rumours of trouble in Kabul must have assumed
more ominous strength as he approached his own
country.

It was some time before the officials, the guides, and
the Ministers of State in London began to suspect that
they had been backing the wrong horse. They had done
it magnificently, energetically, and painstakingly. Apart
from the minor consideration of the sum of money spent
on the entertainment of Amanullah and his suite, which
could not have been below £100,000, the British Govern¬
ment had competed with other European nations in a
display of force that had an almost negligible effect.

That impression, conveyed to the confused brain of
a man who was already charged with a kaleidoscope
of memories, was nullified by the fact that Aman¬
ullah was in a few short months to be a puppet ruler.
England had put her shirt on an outsider. The some¬
what undignified manner in which the official broad¬
casting corporation took part in the great campaign of
ballyhoo did nothing to raise our prestige. There were
knowledgeable cynics in the East who, before the very

119

AMANULLAH

beginning of the grand gesture to Amanullah, condemned
it whole-heartedly as bad policy. There could be little
benefit, even if Amanullah was to be the lifelong ruler
of his country. There could be a great deal of harm.

The trouble was that Amanullah took every demon¬
stration of might and wealth purely as a compliment
to himself rather than as a gesture of power. Though
he was excellently advised, his pride and credulity
rendered all these efforts useless if they were intended
to induce in him a greater respect for the Government
of India, with whom, after all, there rested the greatest
responsibility for the safe and comfortable relations
between the two countries. His arrogance was in¬
creased. He was the type of man who instinctively
rebels against the greater authority. He was sensitive
and not a little apt to take offence at purely friendly
gestures. His blind courage made him the natural rebel.
It was a trait in the character of the man, and no
amount of wise counsel would have persuaded him to
bow to the inevitable. Was it to be wondered at, there¬
fore, that when he left England’s shores, to be honoured
and feted in exactly the same manner by other European
countries, he left with a vague sense of grievance, the
envy of the inferiority complex, and the resolution that
he would show that he could not be patronised ?

Great Britain is probably the wisest among the Euro¬
pean nations in her treatment of Orientals. Long ex¬
perience in the East, and the ability to call on some of
the knowledgeable brains in the East, has given her a
position and a poise when dealing with powerful Orien¬
tals that might well be imitated by other nations. Except
for the regrettable new policy of toadying to temporary
pundits, which has been evident during the last few
years, the history of England’s treatment of these sen¬
sitive, deep-thinking, and long-remembering people has

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EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

been excellent. No nation is more adept at calling a
bluff. No Government is more tactful in the treatment
of foreign religious practices or prejudices.

But in the case of Amanullah there was surely shown
a lack of foresight, an exaggeration of minor details, and
an inability to see the major dangers, that seriously
threatens that reputation held so dearly by the Foreign
Office and the Kang’s advisers.

As it happened, the effect was nullified by history.
All Europe was in the same boat in regard to the treat¬
ment of Amanullah, though Great Britain, as the
responsible Power, most directly. But if during the
next few months history had not elected to nullify the
issue, the London visit of King Amanullah might have
been the direct cause of further and more prolonged
trouble in the East.

121

CHAPTER VIII

I GO TO KABUL—A LONG HOAD IN A HOT SUN—“ BARRED TO
JOURNALISTS ”—STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF A CHAUFFEUR
■ —A FORSAKEN VILLAGE

E VERY word of Amanullah’s in Europe; every
visit he made to a statesman, a king, or a poli¬
tician; every formal trip he undertook to fac¬
tories of arms, of aeroplanes, of tanks and ships of war;
and every speech made to him in flattery by the elect
of the Western world; all were faithfully reported back
to his Mends and his enemies in the East.

The Afghan Ministers in India hastily and unequivo¬
cally denied rumour that sought to suggest that there
was trouble brewing in Kabul. Every minor politician
interested in the new policy of Afghanistan sought to
outdo his neighbour in inspired prophecies of the future.
The mass of propaganda, of which a large proportion
was actually accredited, formed the greatest ballyhoo
campaign that has ever been conducted for the further¬
ance or fall of a nation.

There was, however, so far no serious hint of trouble
in Kabul. The rumour seemed to have been false.
Kabul was quiet, and the legations in the East reported
progress and prosperity over all the land.

I decided to see for myself.

It seemed, however, that to obtain a visa for visiting
Afghanistan was not a mere matter of applying for it.
In spite of the encouragement said to be given to tourists,
it proved to be a different matter when a newspaper
reporter wished to make the trip. Even the British

122

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

authorities at first combined with the Afghan Legation
in discouraging me from the project. “ Though Afghan
gates be open,” they indicated, “ and visitors are
welcome, that does not mean that the invitation includes
an interfering and probably critical journalist. . .

The Afghan Minister in India, indeed, put his thoughts
into words. In a letter refusing my application, he
intimated that though every facility was given for
information, the Afghan Government could not agree to
a journalist obtaining a visa, even though, on the advice
of a friend in Simla, I had stated that I was going for
“ sight-seeing only.”

That letter was his undoing. In print, it would look
strange. The threat of printing it in an Indian paper was
enough to have the visa duly stamped within a few days.
But the struggle had taken six weeks altogether.

It was the same at Peshawar. Having booked a seat
on the weekly mail lorry which roars up the Khyber and
over the Frontier, I was informed at the Customs Post
that my passport lacked one important visa still. At
Landi Kotal, headquarters of the Intelligence Staff of
the Khyber Pass, they regretted that a new order had
been made. It was to the effect that no Englishmen
could be allowed to cross into Afghanistan. There was,
it seemed, trouble in the air.

The order had been made at the last minute expressly
to stop my entry into Afghanistan. It was a decision
made in Simla, and telegraphed to Peshawar while I was
on the way. Its insistence seemed to make it all the
more essential that I go to Kabul immediately.

I went the next morning. An unsuspecting official,
just back from leave, had not received the new order.
He had the necessary stamp, and my passport soon had
the new hieroglyphics which ensured safe passage over
the Frontier.

128

AMANULLAH

Passing Landi Kotal, I managed to keep away from
interfering British officials. The babu at the Frontier was
surprised but resigned.

“ You are taking great trouble to go to Kabul,” he
said.

He was right. I was.

So that black and white wooden barrier between the
barbed wire of the Frontier lifted, and we were through,
leaving behind a minor turmoil in official ranks because
someone had blundered. But it was no longer my
concern. When the red tape of officialdom becomes hope¬
lessly knotted, then the reporter sometimes laughs. . . .

It was burning hot that August morning. No rain had
come in the north, and though the clouds came some¬
times low enough to promise rain, for the most part the
sun shone with a terrific heat that struck back from the
bare road and the treeless countryside, and seemed to
pierce the eyes with its rays.

The American touring car bumped and swayed over a
roughly-made road. Sitting in the back, I was already
having difficulty in keeping my head from striking the
hood at every chain of potholes. But the driver was
impassive and calm. 66 This,” he said, “ is the good part
of the road. Later on, it is not so good.”

Before two hours had passed, I was already to gain an
insight into the strange conditions in this strange
country. The driver, an Indian, had begun his journey
in a comfortable dhoti and jacket, with a voluminous
puggaree on his head. Then he stopped the car, and
rummaged in the tool-box.

“ Dacca,” he said laconically, and began to transform
himself into the perfect imitation of an Eastern gentle¬
man “ gone. Western.”

He pulled on khaki trousers. He replaced his loose
sandals with cheap brown American shoes with bulging

124

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

toes. He stowed the puggaree in the tool-box and clapped
a new, upturned and incongruous felt hat on the top of
his head. Our little party was going Western with a
vengeance.

Dacca was the reason. We swept round the elbow of
the hills, and saw the village. It was not more than a
collection of mud-huts, but it represented the outpost of
officialdom. It was to be my first taste of the new
Afghan business methods. Scattering the pi-dogs that
yapped and barked their protest, we drew up before a
tall, rambling mud and thatch house that seemed to be
the centre of the village.

“ The Sahib will perhaps wait,” said the driver, and
took his papers into the house.

The Sahib did wait. The village madman came to do
a turn round the car, begging for alms and whining as he
offered his skeleton arm for money. The pi-dogs slunk
nearer. The village children, lank hair over the shoulders,
crowded round for a sight of the feringhe. The Sahib
still waited.

The driver came out. “ Ten rupees,” he said. Then
he went back. The Sahib waited again.

And eventually I went into the first Customs Post in
Afghanistan, was offered a chair, and watched while the
worldly goods of a stout and voluble Afghan merchant
were strewn over the room, while the half-dozen babus
did intricate sums on large papers in green ink, and while
eventually the chief Customs babu and the merchant
haggled over the duty owing to His Majesty’s Govern¬
ment, or, alternatively, to himself.

I waited half an hour and profited amazingly. Then
they turned to me. I realised that the ten rupees had
done its work. Seven and sixpence (for the Afghan rupee
is worth half the Indian rupee) was worth while, when it is
considered that without this initial payment the traveller

125

AMANULLAH

can wait all day before he has his baggage passed. And,
through the driver, I explained that I was bringing
nothing into the country which could be sold.

They must have proof of that. Efficiency was the
keynote (and I had only paid ten rupees). Their duty
to the Government was to be thorough (and I had only
paid ten rupees). Bring in, therefore, the traveller’s
goods.

Coolies, pouncing on the car, dragged out suitcase,
bedding roll, and typewriter. The babus, rummaging
through the bag, produced pyjamas (no doubt a dis¬
guise), shirts (indubitably to sell to the Kabulis), and
other domestic needs equally incriminating.

Then they inspected the typewriter.

Was it mine ? It was.

Was it new ? It was not.

Was it for sale ? Over my dead and quivering body.

Was it old, then ? It was patriarchal.

Was I, then, going to write about Afghanistan ?
Compliments only, particularly about the Dacca Customs
Post. . . .

Then another ten rupees appeared from the driver’s
pocket. The suitcase, the bedding roll, and the type¬
writer disappeared swiftly back into the car. I was free,
and honour was satisfied. Wonderful Afghanistan 1

There was, it is true, a little trouble about the number
plates before we got away. The driver had been on this
route for a year or more, and on every journey had had.
trouble with the number plates. They were, apparently,
out of date. The car was not paying tax to the Govern¬
ment at the full rate. What to do, said the Customs
babu, as obviously the car could not proceed on its
journey, and I must stay in Dacca, perhaps for days,
perhaps for ever. . . . What to do ?

The driver’s face suddenly lit up with inspiration.

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EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

It had lit up with inspiration at the same moment at
the same place twice a week for six weeks. He was
suddenly relieved of the burden of care with which this
difficulty had saddled him.

“ Perhaps five rupees . . . ? ” he hinted.

No. His Afghan Majesty’s servants could not be
bribed.

“ But ten rupees . . . ? ”

Honour was satisfied, and we went our way.

Just out of the village, the road ended. That, at any
rate, was how it looked to me. The tiny wall of loose
stones at the side of the rough track, however, seemed to
continue, and along here the driver proceeded steadily,
often slowing down to walking pace and bumping over
the deep holes in the surface, unrepaired since last year’s
rains had swept over the deep holes.

We were following the dry bed of a stream, and more
than once crossed it on a frail bridge of sticks and stones
and the boughs of trees. Ahead, there loomed the hills,
and on either side we were frowned on by the first
sentinels of the great range of snow-covered mountains.
The old car stumbled on, every joint and coupling creak¬
ing and complaining.

“ We have done well,” said the driver. “ It is best to
hasten things through the Dacca Customs. But it costs
money. We shall reach Jallalabad for the night, and it
will be cooler.”

A hundred miles the first long day ! That was speed
for you I Since the new roads were made, this being
one, things had indeed changed in Afghanistan for the
tourists!

We were now seldom in top gear, and the car was a
blazing and quivering body of hot metal, burning to the
touch. I clung to the struts supporting the hood, care¬
fully keeping my hands off any piece of metal that was

127

AMANULLAH

in the sunshine. Even with those precautions, my
head often struck the top of the hood, at ten miles an
hour.

“ This is the beginning of the bad piece of the road to
Kabul,” said the driver. He had dispensed by now with
the trappings of the West, assumed for the benefit of
the highly Westernised Customs gentlemen. He had
slipped off his trousers, and donned his dhoti for cool¬
ness. The amazing little hat had gone back into the
tool-box. His head was protected and comfortable in
his puggaree.

Another inspiration caused the light to shine in his
impassive face.

“ Perhaps the Sahib wishes to sit in the front,” he said.
“ It is less bumpy, and if the Sahib allows, I will take
passengers in the back to weigh the car down.”

He had discovered the great secret of comfortable
motor travel in the East, though whether the coach-
builders would approve is another matter.

So we picked up passengers. We found them in the
next village, resting on their journey. They were real
men of the hills, two of them marching to Kabul with a
small boy. They had bundles slung on their backs, and
a little brightly coloured tin box. After a short con¬
versation, no doubt financially beneficial to the driver,
they disposed themselves in the back of the car, lounged
back in utter comfort and happiness, and served their
purpose admirably as ballast.

The change was for the better. As we turned towards
the first of the gradients outside the village, the car
seemed to be ploughing its way through the network of
holes with greater equilibrium and less discomfort, at
least for the weary, shaken, and sweating front-seat
passenger.

At two o’clock, we stopped at a tiny hamlet on the

128

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

road for rest. The rocks now shimmered in the heat.
The very leather of the seats was hot. The brilliant
light glanced upward and penetrated, it seemed, the
brain. The bare hills were screened by no trees. Even
the hardy scrub was withered and drooping. It seemed
the land that God forgot.

At the side of the road was the samovar shop. A rude,
tumbledown verandah, and a window from which there
hung a matting cover. There was at first no sign of
activity, but at the sound of the car a man came out of
the back room and stood upon his doorstep. The driver
climbed stiffly out of the driving-seat, and the “ ballast ”
tumbled out of the back, their bundles dropping into the
road.

Their cheerfulness did not forsake them at sight of the
sparse comfort of the cafe. They entered gaily and
demanded hot bowls of tea and thick slabs of bread.
Conversation with the owner was brisk and loud, and I
could see by the frequent pointings that I was honoured
by being their chief topic.

I pulled out the water-skin and the packet of food that
the genial Mr. Gai, Parsi grocer of Peshawar and general
man of knowledge of all things Afghan, had made up for
me. It was stale and tasteless, and the water was hot.
But the fare seemed better than the refreshment in
the cafe.

On the other side of the road there was a round, slime-
covered pond. The local cow stood in the water up to the
knees. The sores op her back were open, and her tail was
nearly twisted from the body by the persuasive tactics of
the cowherds. By and by there came an Afghan boy,
leading on a rope a limping pi-dog, without the spirit of
a bark in its throat. Slowly and thoughtfully the boy
began throwing stones at the wretch, lazily and methodi¬
cally, while he still held on to the rope. Now and again

i 129

AMANULLAH

his attention would drift from his strange pastime to the
car, and its feringhe passenger. The only sound was the
occasional yelp of the pi-dog as the boy’s aim proved
true.

More yellow dogs appeared. They were the sturdy,
savage type of the Afghan village, with bristling throats
and eyes with the glint of rabies ever in the pupils. After
the first interest in the car, they turned to more profitable
work, and began tearing and biting at the gruesome
entrails of a horse which lay just outside the mud cafe.
A fight developed, and the cafe owner, cursing and
savage in his action, hurled a huge stone at the nearest,
crippling its hind leg. The dogs slunk away, dragging
with them the long streamers of innards from the
decomposing horse. The driver and the “ballast
passengers ” laughed and joked, and I ate half the
chicken, washed down with the hot water.

The village had an atmosphere of terrible depression.
We had driven into the Dark Ages of mankind. Nothing
had changed there, save for the solitary sentinels of the
telegraph posts, since time began. Man still dug a
meagre living from the harsh and unmerciful soil. He
housed himself with the mud of his backyard. He clothed
himself in the skins of the animals he shot, and some¬
times paid for a garment made by the village weaver on
his old-fashioned loom.

He lived in a state of filth and disease little removed
from the lower animals. He was bom with cruelty in
his heart, and died with blind ignorance in his brain.
Perhaps a ray of humour came to stir his dormant soul
now and then, but apart from that, no thought of beauty,
no sentiment, no inspiring ambition, and no satisfaction
entered into his heart. Mind was always stationary,
though body moved about its business.

The misery of that village terrified me. It seemed the

180

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

end of the world. It seemed as if it would be mercy if
the great hills moved one day, ground their sides
together, and exterminated the sole visible haunt of man,
pulverising the scene of his degradation, cruelty, and
ignorance. Its history should be shown to those who
decry, so decoratively and logically, the advances of
civilisation. The so-called evils of modernity had never
penetrated, and might never penetrate, to this God¬
forsaken corner of a harsh and cruel land.

But the driver and the “ ballast ” seemed pleased
enough, and after giving the engine water, they tumbled
in and the back-breaking journey began once more. We
were climbing at last, and the road improved a little as it
wound round the shoulders of the hills, leaving below us
that hamlet in which I seemed to have reviewed all the
evil of the East.

We saw mule trains, far below us in the valleys,
making their slow way along the old tracks that lead by
the side of the trickling streams. We saw one or two
road-menders, sitting under improvised shelters from the
sun. They had erected sticks and thrown over them
their coats. Under this they hammered at the stones,
breaking off their work to watch us go by, and cursing us
as the dust flew up behind and blinded them. Near each
man was leaning his rifle.

The long line of telegraph poles led straight up the side
of the hills. It was the link with the Western world, and
over its wires had come many messages to the British
Government which decided history in Af ghanistan. It
was, I heard, an object of considerable hostility from the
Afghans of these parts, who considered it presumption
for a wire to be laid across the country merely that the
hated foreigners could talk to each other.

Then we came to a blockhouse, high up on the side of
the road, where there was a company of Af g ha n troops,

131

AMANULLAH

guarding the road that was said to be, for the first time
in history, safe for every traveller. The soldiers could be
seen on the verandah, dead in sleep.

We stopped again in a big serai, redolent of camel
dung, where the driver bought melons and advised me to
try one. It was tasteless but cooling, and a vast im¬
provement on the hot water now running short. It was
only afterwards that I heard that fruit in Afghanistan is
very liable to be infected with cholera. Other reports,
however, deny this, averring that there is less likelihood
of the disease than in the fruit of India. Then, in
the late afternoon, we climbed higher on the road to
Jallalabad.

The passengers were now singing. The chant had
begun with a low crooning from the big bearded fellow.
Now his friend had taken it up, and later the small boy.
It developed in volume, until the same monotonous song,
low and toneless, seeming to have unexpected endings
and cadences, was being roared over the peaceful valley.
I did not understand the words, for this was Pushtu, but
I was assured later that there is hardly an Afghan song
that does not refer either to obstetrics, love, or war. A
fine choice there is, therefore, and certainly the trio
seemed to enjoy it.

We dropped again from the hills in the dusk, and the
road took us through cornfields. It seemed to be a
particularly self-willed road by now, for it did not run
straight for more than fifty yards at a time, and every
bend was concealed by the long stalks of the crops. We
were running through the fields, the road being diverted,
I suppose, for the convenience of the farmers. But soon
after dusk the driver announced that we were in the
outskirts of Jallalabad.

The ba 2 aar was strangely crowded. There were flaring
lights and the stalls were glamorous in the glare of

182

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

naphtha flames. The main street was half covered with a
patchwork quilt of sacking and wicker. It must have
kept out the sun at midday, but at night the fumes made
the little street noxious. Fruit was everywhere. There
were piles of rich green and yellow and red apples, and
melons and sweet grapes. We stopped, to deliver a note
to a stall-keeper from the driver’s master, and I indicated
a big bunch of grapes and held out a handful of coins.
The dealer took the smallest, and poured back into my
hand a shower of square and bent and misshapen coins.
The grapes, I found out, cost little more than a penny a
bunch, and were the staple food of beggars. We were in
an upside-down land.

The city was a complete contrast to the village in the
hills. The dealers and the shoppers were cheerful and
gay in their dress, and seemed ever ready with a laugh
and a greeting. The townspeople were taking what
seemed to be their evening leisure and sauntered from
stall to stall, where there were displayed all the finery
and the products that they could wish to buy. A rich,
thriving city, it seemed, and I was almost sorry when we
drove through it towards the new Government Rest
House.

Except for the Customs at Dacca, this was the first
manifestation I had had of the new regime under Aman-
ullah. Counting on the inrush of visitors who would
wish to journey to Kabul, he had wisely placed their
accommodation under the wing of the Government, and
though the scheme could never have been a paying
proposition, his efforts for the comfort of those who were
seeing his country must have been well appreciated.
They certainly were by one traveller, that August night,
when the prospect of rest seemed delicious, and the wide
verandah of the bungalow gave a simple but ample
welcome.

183

AMANULLAH

There were already some visitors for the night, Afghan
officers who were journeying the other way. They were
walking in the pleasant compound, and made haste to
call the servants when I got out of the car. They were
haughty but amiable, and I found that their seeming
superiority to me was a strange form of self-conscious¬
ness. For they were in the full regalia of their uniforms,
and the tight boots, resplendent jackets, and shakos
might well have caused some embarrassment.

The subject of dinner came up. My driver, who had
by now appointed himself the leader of this party, made
the arrangements. With something like triumph, he
announced that dinner would be ready in half an hour.
There would be the inevitable chicken (I saw the cook’s
boy ch a si ng furiously about the courtyard after another
victim) and fruit. Would that suit ? It would suit very
well.

The half hour was, of course, a figure of speech. At
the end of that time one of the serving boys came out
into the garden, and placed a table and a hurricane-lamp
in the centre of the lawn. It was immediately surrounded
by a thick flying mass of winged insects.

In another quarter of an hour he produced a few
spoons, forks, and a solitary knife. Then a chair. Lastly,
an empty salt-cellar. I took another illegal swig of neat
whisky from a flask (illegal because I had faithfully
promised the Customs in Dacca that I had brought no
spirits with me to “ dry ” Afghanistan) and waited for
what the night might bring.

At the end of an hour and a quarter the chicken pillau
arrived. The flies had a great time.

The night was very quiet. Only now and then there
would begin a fierce yapping and barking, and some¬
times the long human cry of a jackal, scavenging on the
outskirts of the city. The mosquitoes made a continual

184

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

buzz all night, but as I lay on the hard bed in the com¬
pound, smoking, the night seemed cool, and I nearly fell
asleep with the cigarette still burning in my fingers. And
the first light of dawn came up to arouse me before the
early morning chorus of birds. It was fresh and windy,
and for the first time I saw the tawdriness and the half-
Westem architecture of Amanullah’s first attempt at
Westernisation—the rest-house. But it had given me a
good and a comfortable night, and except for the aching
of stiff limbs I had forgotten the agony of that motor
journey over the hills. The Afghan officers had already
gone.

We were not long in following them. The “ ballast ”
party were already sitting in the car, anxious to be off
to Kabul. The driver was examining the tired wreck
of his vehicle, and was bedecked in his “ Western
clothes.”

“ Why do you wear it ? ” I asked him, looking at that
absurd hat perched on the top of his head.

“ It does not please me,” he said with a smile, “ but it
seems to please the officials. One has to be careful to
please the officials in Afghanistan these days. . . .”

Off we went, after paying a small bill for lodging, and
signing my name and occupation in the record book.
“ Journalist on sight-seeing tour,” I wrote, remembering
the injunctions of my friend in Simla.

Up and up we climbed away from the fair city of
JaJlalabad, but before we left its confines we stopped a
moment outside the walls of the Winter Palace of Aman-
ullah. It was a strange mixture of pretentiousness and
simplicity. Its colours were vivid and staring in the
bright morning light. It had spacious gardens that
promised coolness and relief from the dry yellow plains
and rocks, and was well irrigated. I was not to know,
then, that in the fair city of Jallalabad, and round the

185

<«5?VC^<^'t^VC^^l CtfJJ’J

AMANULLAH

walls of the Palace itself, there would soon rage the mob
that began the end of this strange chapter of Eastern
history.

Up and up we went, looking over the precipices and
skirting the outer ridges of the road as we went. The
road was well engineered, but still the surface was
appalling, and the back-seat passengers had their songs
choked in their throats if they ever contemplated another
burst of high spirits. There were more fords and
bridges, and more than once the driver had to force his
way over obstructions, where the road-menders were
clearing away landslips and huge boulders that had
fallen down the cliff-side.

It grew cooler every minute, until, at the top of the
plateau we had been mounting, a keen wind blew across
the road, delightful and invigorating. We stopped the
car for water, at one of the springs at the side of the road,
indicated by a notice board that Amanullah had been at
pains to erect for motorists.

Towards noon we stopped again, this time at the
command of a huge, signalling figure in the centre of the
road. We saw him from some way off, on the down slope
of a long gradient. He seemed strangely clad from a
distance. And as we got nearer, I saw that he was a
European, very tanned and swarthy, with the unmis¬
takable features of an Italian.

He was dressed in mechanic’s clothes, with the addition
of Afghan top-boots. His hands were oily and his face
was begrimed and sweating. When he had halted us, he
climbed on to the running-board and bade us drive down
the hill. Then we saw his trouble. A huge military
transport van, with the mark of an Italian firm on its
bonnet, but the Afghan Army marks on its flank, was at
the side of the road, its bonnet open and the legs of
another mechanic, similarly clad, appearing from the

186

<*£?>>

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

depths of the engine. The Italian hopped off and waved
us good-bye. So Amanullah was having his teething
troubles already with mechanics. The first of his
precious Western imports had broken down.

Through the day we drove, stopping once for melons
and another dig at the now mangled chicken. We were
still averaging ten miles an horn:. Nightfall, said the
driver, should get us to Kabul.

“ Insh’Allah 1 ” said the passengers. For the first
time I heard the word which epitomises the Afghan
fatalism and psychology. For “ Insh’Allah ” means
“ If Allah is willing,” or “ perhaps.” It is the first word
in the vocabulary of the true Afghan.

It can cover the aching or the joyful heart. If used
after a disappointment, it resigns the mind to the fatality
of this life. Allah did not wish it. Therefore it could
not happen.

If used after sudden good news, it differs by a shade
in its interpretation. “ God is good,” it implies. “ There¬
fore this came to pass.”

It is an excuse, a reason, an apology, a shifting of the
blame, an oath, an avowal of sincerity, and a protest of
unbelief. It is a reproach to wickedness and an urge
to piety. Fortunate the language that has such a
word! For with it much of Afghan history can be
understood.

But to-day, the doubt in the other passengers’ minds
was groundless. Their “ Insh’Allah,” however, was
equally applicable. For as the last light went out of
the sky, and the clouds were hung with the scarlet
banners suitable to the sun’s departure, the driver
touched my arm and said quietly: “ Ahead is

Kabul.”

There was a whoop of joy from the ballast passengers.
The little boy stood up on the seat the better to

187

AMANULLAH

look. They began a discussion that lasted us well into
the city.

But their most revealing and eloquent expression
consisted of one word.

It was the bearded man who spoke when he saw
Kabul City down below. “ Insh’Allah . . he said.

138

CHAPTER IX

IN A KABUL HOTEL—THE TRAGEDY OF SIGNOR PIERRI—
“ THE GREAT HOUR SECRETS OF THE COURT—A RIDE
IN THE ROYAL MOTOR CAR

B UT before we had actually entered Kabul, we were
to undergo one more experience with new and
tangled Afghan red tape. In preparation, the car
stopped once more, after spirited conversation between
the driver and the ballast, for which the latter seemed
duly grateful.

We had rim from the top of the hill through a canon
whose sides reared themselves straight and bare for a
hundred feet. The road curled perilously and swung
round hairpin bends to the bridge over Kabul River,
here a rushing torrent as it was forced through the
bottle-neck. The driver pulled into a clearing, and
there began a performance which would have caused a
flutter in the heart of a Customs agent in any country.

The driver once more changed puggaree and dhoti for
comic hat and trousers. His discarded garments he
stuffed carefully into the tool-box, together with sundry
mysterious parcels which I guessed were to run the
gauntlet of the Customs inspection.

But far more ambitious and elaborate were the
preparations made in the back of the car for the benefit
of the officials. The road seemed crowded indeed with
struggling figures, wrapping themselves up in new
clothes, binding puggarees , replacing old shoes for new.

The large bearded man who so often and so reverently
entrusted his soul to the keeping of Allah was now

189

C^l <e^J c^> C^ ts£5^ t«£^J te£?>

AMANULLAH

taking other steps. He had already four waistcoats, of
brilliant hue, enclosing his mighty chest. He had
changed his shoes for sparkling new creations of worked
leather, their toes pointing to heaven. The old ones he
stuffed into his sleeves. Then he hung around his
swarthy neck a very feminine row of beads, intended
to grace more swanlike shoulders, and undoubtedly not
meant to gleam through the tresses of a thick black
beard. Lastly, he hid a further packet in the folds of
his new puggaree, while the old one he folded round his
waist.

The small boy carried on his person equally dutiable
goods. He had been wearing an old and greasy skull
cap, smaller than a woman’s b6ret, on the back of his
head. This he threw away, and proceeded to decorate
his head with a selection of coloured and shiny caps of
the same shape, which, I knew, had been bought in
Peshawar City. The caps made a little dome on his
head. They were easily noticeable even to the unprac¬
tised eye. But to conceal them he wrapped a new
puggaree round his head, and surveyed himself anew.

He had on new clothes over his travelling garments.
His trousers, white and voluminous, stuck out in virgin
stiffness. He was wearing four waistcoats, of brilliant
texture, and as he moved he sweated profusely in the
damp and clammy atmosphere.

So with the third passenger. Evidently I was an
unwitting accomplice to a band of amateur smugglers.
Then we got into the car, which seemed suddenly to
have grown much smaller, and rattled down the hill to
the Customs post.

The smugglers need not have taken such trouble to
conceal their new goods. As it happened, negotiations
were concluded with the smart Afghan Customs officer
on the other side of the bridge with more celerity

140

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

than was the case at Dacca. But naturally enough,
this being near the capital, the price was higher. Twenty
rupees it cost me, and we chugged through to the long
straight road that led to the old gates of the city.

The road was chock-a-block with farm carts returning
to Kabul for the night. They were loaded up with
grain and other goods, and the poor bullocks strained
and stumbled under the weight and the rain of blows
that fell on their heads. The dusk was filled with the
ghastly thud of stout staves on the bowed heads of the
beasts as the carts rumbled on great wooden wheels into
the city, carving a rut in the soft road as they went.
They swayed unsteadily, the course of the labouring
teams diverted by the methodical tail-twisting that
urged them on.

44 Ai! ” called the drivers, sitting on the poles and
reviling their beasts with the lurid wit of the East. 46 Ai !
Ai! ” The thuds provided a fiendish chorus into Kabul.

It was nearly dark when we ran through the old gate
in the battlements, and old Bala Hissar, the ruined
fortress, was only a dim shape. The lights were up in
the city, and the bazaar was swarming with people. We
kept out of the inner city, however, and encircled the
town on a new, rutty road that was wide and provided
with pavement stones. Our first stop, after depositing
the jubilant and grateful ballast passengers near the
city, was the British Legation.

I stopped the car outside the gate and presented my¬
self to the guardroom. The tall cavalry trooper with
the ink-black beard saluted, and let me in. From there
I was escorted to an office of the Legation. A young
secretary to the Legation, in civilian clothes, came out
of his room.

44 Hello,” he greeted me. 44 You’re not supposed to
be here, you know. The wires have been buzzing with

141

CeS^YC*S?>C^C^ttfS?!trfibit^JteST’St^

AMANULLAH

news of you. What do you mean by it, and will you
have tea or whisky and soda ? ”

It was a great welcome, and over the cool drink he told
me how red tape in the Khyber Pass had been farther
entangled because I had got through owing to an official
mistake.

There would be no accommodation for me at the
Legation. As I was a journalist and therefore not very
popular, the British Legation could not offer me any
facilities or amenities. I must do the best I could with¬
out their help. There was an hotel in Kabul, it was
said. . . .

We drove to the hotel, newly built and quite large.
The proprietor was even then sitting in the dusty gar¬
den, consuming a drink of amazing and rich colour.
After a little time I joined him, and learnt that there
would be prepared a room on the first floor.

The driver left, and my bags were taken upstairs by
an old serving man. The room, when I inspected it,
was dusty and smelt of stale air. It contained a bed
and a washing-stand, and when I threw open the win¬
dow to let in the night air, another cloud of dust blew
into the room. The bed was rusty and the blankets
obviously second-hand. There was a bell, with the air
of all bells which do not work, and when I had yelled
for assistance, new bedclothes eventually arrived and,
after another long wait, cold water.

Food, it was said by the proprietor, who spoke a little
Hindustani, would be served in an hour.

Washed and rid of much of the dust of the journey,
though it had crept through every covering and into
every particle of clothing in my bag, I went downstairs.
The gloomy hall was deserted, but in the dining-room
there was a little company of men in European clothes.
Their laughter echoed over the hotel. Their chatter was

142

BALA HISSAR, THE OLD FORT OUTSIDE KABUL
Scene of medieval and modern battles.

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

brisk and sustained. They were Italians, in the service
of the Afghan Government, waiting for the work that
never came and idling their time away in an alien land
that they hated.

There was an ex-colonel in the Italian cavalry, who
seemed the chief spokesman of the group. Speaking in
French, he invited me to join the party. They were
curious, and interested in my journey. They took exis¬
tence as a joke. “ We have a great time,” they said.
“ Look how we are enjoying ourselves, in this lovely
hotel, with such lovely women all around us, such cheap
drinks, such charming natives, and such congenial
company. . . .”

And they looked ruefully at the empty tables before
them, at the bare and dirty walls of the depressing room,
and surveyed their own loneliness—and thirst.

I was to make a friend among them whom I shall
always remember. He was sitting silent, on a hard
chair, his eyes mournful and plaintive. He introduced
himself to me, lifting a wide, black hat that seemed out
of place in that ugly room.

“ I am Signor Pierri,” he said. “ I speak English. I
am a wireless engineer in the service of the Afghan
Government, but there is no wireless.”

Thus having delightfully played the host, he raised
his hat again, bowed, and continued to regard the floor
with a sombre expression.

All these men were pathetic outcasts from their native
boulevards, existing in a city to which they would never
grow acclimatised. They sadly lacked every amenity
to which they had become accustomed. They had no
work and no recreation. The Italian cavalry colonel
fumed and swore in his exasperation. His grey beard
wagged as he chattered. Not all of them were even so
placid as he.

143

AMANULLAH

Amanullah had been back some bttle time. Yes,
great things were expected of Afghanistan, now that
the King had been to Europe. It was even hoped that
they would one day get their pay. .. .

There were one or two Germans in the little party
that sat down to dinner that night. There was a Chinese
merchant, and two big Russians in the uniform of the
Afghan Air Force. They, at any rate, had something
to do. There were two German women, wives of Afghan
officers who were away in the country. They were
blonde, stout, and typical townspeople, gathered, one
would say at a glance, from the suburbs of some big city
by a keen young Afghan who had been taking his military
training in Germany. This hotel, this damp room,
was the realisation of the colourful dreams of the
East which they had believed. This hotel was the end
of the journey. They longed once more for the lights
of civilisation.

We picked the least unappetising food and ate it.
One must eat.

The place was thick in dust and dirt. It was
Afghanistan’s best hotel.

The next morning I went with Signor Pierri to the
old city. We dived once more into the labyrinthian
streets, but afterwards wandered round the great hostels
where lived the young Russian clerks and secretaries.
We saw the railway station, still in the hands of the
workmen. We looked at Kabul River, carrying the
putrefaction of one of the dirtiest cities in the world
under its bridges.

“ There is little to do here,” said Pierri. “ There is
no life, no gaiety, just nothing to do. I wish I were
back in Rome. .. .”

His clothes, in that evil city of the East, had not been
affected by his few months’ stay. He dressed with the

✓144

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

same care he had taken when preparing for a stroll to
his favourite cafe in his native town. He was always
formally dressed, scrupulously polite, tire a quatre
ipingles . Signor Pierri, I feared, was not the type of
an Empire builder. . . .

Amanullah had come back. It was impossible to,
ignore the effect in Kabul. The bazaar was seething
with rumour packed on rumour. There were lively dis¬
cussions in the shops, in the streets, in the serais , and
the samovar shops. Officials had risen with a new spirit
of energy and attention to their affairs. Even the police
had girded their loins and swaggered through Kabul
with more resounding cuffs for the loiterers, more frantic
arguments with the drivers of mule teams, more sum¬
mary convictions and fines for the transgressors of the
law.

Amanullah was back. Tales were being told of his
dash across the mountain roads from the Northern
Frontier; of his outpacing of the cars containing his
suite ; of his anxiety to be back at the helm of Govern¬
ment ; of the way the hillmen had first heard a roar
through the mountains, then seen a cloud of dust, and
then seen a flash of silver, as Amanullah, at the wheel
of a long sleek Rolls Royce, had shot over the rough
mountain roads, bumped over the rough bridges crossing
the streams, eventually swung into Kabul, dusty and
fatigued.

Kabul was electrified with a new spirit. There was
a new tension about the Palace. What next, what next ?
For in the midst of a chaotic time, when the finances
seemed to stagger under the load, these vast changes
still continued and the men of Kabul were not content
with a mere marking time. What next in Afghanistan ?

In the midst of the scurry at the Palace, I still found
an amiable and leisurely individual who sought my

145

k

AMANULLAH

presence. He was a minor giant in the administration.
He was a little god in his realm. For he was Ram
Prasad, magnificent in white breeches and shako, His
Majesty’s specially imported head chauffeur and chief
of the garage, hired from British India.

Ram Prasad was a philosopher and a wit, and, bene-
fitting by the freedom of speech in a neutral country,
he addressed me familiarly and affectionately as “ my
dear man,” later shortening it into an embarrassing
“ my dear.” . . .

I took his photograph standing in front of the fine of
glittering cars over which he had command. He repaid
my flattering and interest by playing taxi-man to me,
taking out the cars for my use whenever I needed them,
and causing endless trouble to the British Legation
once, when I arrived there magnificently in the back
of the black Rolls Royce which had been a gift from
King George of England to King Amanullah of Afghan¬
istan.

For when the King went to the Legation, these days,
he went there unobtrusively and quietly. . . .

With Ram Prasad at the wheel of the sporting Rolls
which had been Amanullah’s wonder chariot over the
northern hills, I toured the outlying roads of the city,
and once drove the sleek car full out along the wide
rough road. Amanullah never knew how his car was
being used by a mere English journalist, and the secret
died with Ram Prasad a month later.

Ram Prasad told me many secrets of the Court. He
knew a lot. As it turned out, he knew too much. He
died violently, but still garbed, I hope, in those wonderful
white breeches and high polished boots.

The best view of the new order in Kabul, however,
was in the outskirts of the old city, or just outside the
humble hotel where I was staying. There was the

146

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

boundary line between two worlds. There met the
incoming traders from the hills and the modernised
shopkeepers and merchants of old Kabul. That was
an arena where two ages met and st ared in wonder.

Down the long road from the north, there would
come a daily procession of caravan traders. They would
sit astride their lean-shanked ponies, with their rifles
aslant over their broad shoulders. Their saddles were
heaped rugs and pads of leather. There was coloured
work in their harness, and heavy iron stirrups, with
protective skins to keep the cold of winter from their
shanks. Their puggarees were voluminous and generous.
Their waistcoats gaudy and loose, trousers of white
hanging down in wide folds to their green and red and
yellow sandals.

They would rein in their ponies and stare at the new
Kabul. At the policeman at the crossroads, in a smart
new cap of modern design, jacket, puttees, and—wonder
of all—boots. They would spare a glance for the burly
Russian Air Force mechanics, perpetually sitting in the
garden of the hotel. They would look at electric lights,
paved streets, and wide avenues and new shops, showing
advertisements of new Western products, with the eyes
of the unbelieving.

Was this the new Kabul of which they had heard ?
The travellers were not lying for once, then !

Then they would kick their ponies into a trot, call to
their laden mules, and stare fiercely ahead as they made
their way to the old city.

Even then, they were not past their wonderment and
their troubles. For the point-duty policeman would
shout and revile them. He would stand in their way
and call them dolts, louts, ignorant animals. Did they
not know that in modern Kabul traffic must keep to the
left of the road ? They did not know. They had never

147

AMANULLAH

heard such ridiculous talk 1 Nevertheless, they kept to
the left.

The Afghan was already being chafed by the chains
of civilisation.

But after a day or so I went up the road in the King’s
car to Paghman, and moved into the other hotel run
by the Government.

It was just as bad. Its rooms had that same stale
air of their last occupants. Its staircase, ornate, but
with the paint chipping, was as dirty and as dreary.
The food and the service were as poor. The Afghan
boys as insolent and slow and stupid. Hotel-keeping
had not been a success. That much was evident already.

The place, however, was heavenly. The air was cooler,
until midday, when the sun grew to a heat that made
me long for the shelter of even those dreary rooms.
There would be a chill breeze at sundown, and in the
dawn the dew would be fresh on the grass at the side of
the steep road. I went long walks, up the sides of the
surrounding hills, and right on the summit of the largest
peak, came across an old mullah sitting beneath his
wind-blown and tattered white flags, flying from twisted
branches of trees.

He was gazing quite motionless on the new valley of
Paghman. From his vantage-point, he could see the
pennants waving from the Royal Palace, and the flags
draping the trees in the gardens. He could see the pink
cinema, and the gold and red of the cafd. He could see
cars moving up the road to that favoured valley, fol¬
lowed by their little skirts of dust. Now and again, in
the evening, he could hear the band playing the same
old tune down in the gardens.

I wondered what he thought of it all. He did not
move when I approached, and only when I stood in
front of him did he turn his eyes to me. He did not

148

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

understand when I took his photograph. Strange, this :
I had thought that all the world by now knew the
significance of the black telescopic box, and the smile
on the face of the photographer.

But “ Look pleasant, please ! ” meant nothing to the
old mullah.

He did not speak when I said a word to him in Hin¬
dustani. I did not expect him to understand, but he
did not even trouble to turn round when I said
“ Salaam 1 ” as I left. He was looking at the strange
phenomenon of the new Afghanistan.

Another interesting visit was to the Russian Lega¬
tion. It was a modest, open, double-storeyed house off
the road leading to the Palace, flying the flag of the
sickle and hammer. There was a small annexe. The
garden was unkempt.

I sent up a card, asking to see Stark, the Russian
Minister at Kabul. The reply was a long time coming,
but I knew the answer before I sent the card. The reply
was brought by a dark young man with a pleasant
smile. He spoke in French, and professed himself a
journalist.

He was, it turned out, a representative of the Pmvda.
He knew a little English. Would I like to hear it ?
I did, and it consisted of a strange sailor’s jargon that
he had picked up, he told me, when he was sailing from
South America to Cardiff on a Welsh boat, after being
thrown out of South America and preparatory to being
thrown out of London with “ Arcos.” We found a sub¬
ject in common, for the newspaper for which I was
working had been instrumental in evicting that organ¬
isation.

It was impossible to imagine, he said, that I should
see the Minister. Perhaps, however, since I was there,

I would help him in a little matter ? I would, since

149

c^?ac^ i&i c*s?a tstf^i t^i tdS’a vs^ v^> c^a

AMANULLAH

he was a pleasant young man. And he unfolded his
troubles.

In the annexe, it appeared, there was a particularly
well-favoured young Russian girl with a gramophone.
I did not know whether the course of love depended on
the gramophone, but there had been a difficulty about
a new American record which the girl had received. It
was, said the young man, quite unintelligible to them,
though they had played it over and over again, slowly
and painstakingly, and had burrowed in many English
dictionaries to find the meaning of the song. Would I
help ?

Through the garden we went to the annexe, and the
young man called out hopefully to an open window on
the first floor. He had his reward.

There peeped out a mop of black hair, a pair of huge
eyes, and a smiling red mouth. Long discussion fol¬
lowed, and the head disappeared.

Then the peace of the sunny afternoon was broken
by the harsh twang of America. The strange words,
smart and sophisticated, came ripping out to us in the
garden. It was a mixture of the Bowery and the Bronx.
It was almost unintelligible to English ears—at least
ears that for some years had not been accustomed to
the new universal language. But, as best I could, I
told the Russian youth the meaning of the strange tune,
sung by two nasal comedians, and the gist of their song
was translated before me into Russian, to cause the
black eyes above us to dance with merriment, the lips
to part with laughter, and the black hair to shake with
glee.

And that was all the information I got from the
Russian Legation. The journalist thanked me, I
thanked him, we thanked the girl, and we shook hands
on it. I hope, at any rate, that love in the pleasant

150

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

valley of Paghman progressed all the more smoothly
because I had told them of the meaning of the song of
two comedians. They had not long, these two, in which
to pursue their sunlit courtship. My journalist was to
be thrown out of yet another territory.

Regularly at six in the evening, I would meet Signor
Pierri, who had come with me to Paghman. He would
just have bathed after his midday sleep. He would
come down the steps, treading daintily, the black eyes
morose as ever, and his clothes still a civilised wonder
in wild Asia. Solemnly he would take off his hat for
me, cast a surprised eye over my shorts and khaki
shirt (for I had no other clothes) and fall into step
beside me.

It was three days before the annual celebration of
Independence Day, August 1928. Great things were
expected when that day dawned. The King was to
speak, and it was thought that he would have some¬
thing further to say of the programme for his kingdom.
He would detail the events of the past few months, and
tell the delegates to his annual jirga , or meeting, of the
honours that had been heaped upon him in all the cities
of the West.

Already, workmen were in the gardens sprucing up
the lawns and the flower beds for the great day. The
bandstand was having a new lick of paint. Ornamental
signs were being hung on the triumphal arch which led
to the road to the Palace. The flowers were bright in
the sunshine, all the Government officials were on tenter¬
hooks, and all Kabul City, relic of the comfortable past,
was filled with a slight nervous tension.

Walking with Pierri this afternoon, however, we are
more concerned with the immediate chances of amuse¬
ment than with the far-reaching possibilities of Inde¬
pendence Day.

151

AMANULLAH

“ This,” says Pierri, with terrific irony, “ this is the
great hour in the Paghman day. There is a little life
in the gardens this afternoon. We will do the best we
can, in the circumstances, to amuse ourselves.”

With the little Italian, this means finding out where
there are gathered the prettiest and most inviting-
looking nursemaids and female employees of the Govern¬
ment. Having found them chattering in a little circle
near the bandstand, we sit on the grass and gaze at
them. Signor Pierri, undeterred by their obvious signs
of displeasure, and by their eventual removal to the
other side of the gardens, finds another group, and
concentrates on curves and contours once more. He is
irrepressible.

The fountains play, and the sunlight makes patterns
in the falling water. Strange children, black and brown
and yellow and pale, play in the dust. The chatter of
the nurses is shrill. Only is there silence when we are
near those groups of shrouded figures, walking mysteri¬
ously along, their faces and figures enveloped by the
purdah robes.

There is a little crowd standing by the hard tennis
court—a recent innovation. We go there, Pierri
dragging his eyes unwillingly from a young Turkish
girl, with a Parisian figure and knee-high skirts, who
had just come into the garden.

“ But she is lovely,” protests Pierri. “ She is divine.
I think I could make love to her very easily. For never
have I seen, even in Rome, a figure of such grace and
beauty. . . .”

Thus he commits treason against the women of his
own land, and knows it not, for Pierri’s sex-hungry
brain is unable any more to make sane comparisons in
alien and unkind Afghanistan.

The fairy in question shows her obvious distaste with

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EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

Pierri, and he follows me unhappily to the side of the
tennis court.

No wonder there is a crowd. For on the court is
Amanullah. With him is his brother, fat Inayatullah,
with two youths of the Palace. The crowd watches,
very awed, as they play the strange imported game.

Amanullah is no good, but is terribly energetic. He
has not troubled to change his clothes for the game, but
has only taken off coat and waistcoat and collar. The
Royal garments, indeed, lie on the side of the court.
That is like Amanullah. He suddenly felt like playing
tennis. Very well then. He played.

Poor as he is, he is physically far better fitted for any
activity than is Inayatullah. The elder brother, we
suspect, is there only because the King commands.
He looks very unhappy, and is sweating profusely
through his shirt and trousers. He holds the racquet
clumsily, and every effort he makes to chase the elusive
ball is greeted by a gust of laughter from the other side
of the net. Amanullah taunts him, cries with glee, and
lets the crowd know that he is highly amused at the
antics of his elder brother.

A queer scene, this. The Court makes merry before
the public. The King plays a childish new game and
taunts his brother for his fatness. Habibullah was
never like this. The old Amirs of Afghanistan, dignified
and majestic, never let their humanity shine through
the majesty of the throne. Yet here is the King, three
days before the annual jirga, playing a game in the
public gardens. Strange times, and strange events in
the forbidden land.

So we think, as we move on to the caf£, and take a
table overlooking the gardens, on the terrace. It is
already fairly well populated. There are half the
members of the European population. The Italian

153

AMANULLAH

colonel has come up from Kabul for the day, and joins
our table. We order tea.

Over in the corner is Ali Ahmed Jhan, the strong man
of Kabul. He is Governor, reputed to be of terrific
authority in the "whole country, a genial rascal of the
old school who has survived the many changes in his
capital. He is at the right hand of the King still. He
bows to us, and smiles illumine his broad bewhiskered
face. He is popular in Kabul still.

A German blonde comes in with her half-white
children. She is wife of an Afghan Minister. A Japanese
girl, very modem in her clothes, with a Turkish officer.
Two Russians from the hotel. Two German engineers.
More Italians. The cafe is filling up.

The daylight is going, swiftly and beautifully, as
there is another stir on the steps leading to the caf6,
and Amanullah comes to a reserved table.

He is flushed with his game, but Inayatullah is purple.
Amanullah has jacket and waistcoat over his arm, and
is still laughing at the antics of his opponent. Just
now, he looks less than his thirty-nine years—an
adventurous boy when he is at a crisis of a lifetime.

The long low note of the Imam calling from the
mosque, comes stealing up to the caffi. It blends so
perfectly with the peace of the evening and the growing
dusk. There can be seen a movement of men towards
their evening prayer. But the sound is swallowed up
in the chatter of the caffi where the Court takes tea.

The parasites and the flatterers are round the King
now. They are talking of the celebrations for Indepen¬
dence Day. I am taken up to the King, and we mutter
compliments in French. He is not interested in my
presence. He takes it as natural that there should be
Englishmen in Kabul. Yet I know that I am the only
one unconnected with the Legation. Dusk is nearly

154

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

down over the hills, and the lights are twinkling over
the ornamental arch.

But the peak where sits my mullah is still aflame.
He will be sitting in the last rays of the sunlight, his
head on the ground in prayer to Allah. Perhaps he is
full of strange fears, born of what he has seen in the
valley below. It will be growing cold on the mountain-
top, even while the gold of the setting sun dims. Then
the light on the peak is gone, and it is night.

The King goes down from the cate. The band packs
up and leaves the kiosk. Pierri and I walk down in the
dark.

Afghanistan’s little hour of Western vanity is over.

155

CHAPTER X

THE NIGHTMARE PARLIAMENT—FROCK-COATS IN THE WILDS
—A FAMOUS HAT—MODERNISATION BY ORDER

E VEN the dawn, that morning, seemed charged
with the omens of what was to come. Certainly
there were enough reminders for the ear that
this was a day of days. I woke to the shivering blast of
trumpets. Not the orderly, prescribed tunes of British
bugles, laid down by tradition; these notes, that
seemed to come from right under my bedroom window,
were wild, excitable, hysterical. In every key and
every cadence the rival bands of the Afghan Army
were heralding, to whomsoever might hear, the Day of
the Celebration of Independence.

The valley of Paghman was swirling in mist. The
hills were invisible. Even the violent pink and red of
the new cinema could not be seen through the mist.
Yet the sun was already strong, and its heat could be
felt. But the old heights of the Hindu Kush were
loath to part with the coverings of night, and up there
beyond the last tree and the last green thing, they must
be mysterious, cold, and damp for the hillmen who
scorned to venture down below into the pleasant valley.

There were sounds of awakening life in the hotel as
well. Next door, the Russian family was employed in
the sickening business of getting up. One after the
other, it seemed, collected his or her liquid resources
before the early morning process of expectoration. One by
one they indicated, audibly and shamelessly, that this was
morning and the time for satisfying and lengthy yawns.

156

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

There were rattles and high words from the Chinese
diplomat with the mysterious wife on the other side.
There were bumps and heavings down the passage—
from the huge-booted Russian, I guessed. And, faithful
to his time-table, there came a knock on the door from
the insolent, semi-educated Afghan serving boy, bringing
this morning two boiled eggs, a saucer full of salt, a
gargantuan pot of milk, sugar—and, though I was
beginning to hope wildly that he had remembered
everything—no tea. The omission was repaired, how¬
ever, within three-quarters of an hour—a record for the
boy and the hotel. Truly this was a big day in history.

The clamour outside redoubled. The spectators had
begun to assemble, and each had endeavoured somehow
to add to the noise. There were even more bugles
collected from somewhere. The grape-sellers had
doubled their stocks for the day. The great piles of
fruit on the stalls had grown even bigger. New little
stalls had been erected, and were causing private little
wars in every comer of the square. The policemen
were more dignified, more bullying, more impressive,
and more ineffectual than ever. They were standing
in little groups in the centre of the square, smoking and
chatting, ceasing only now and then from their high
political discussions to land out lustily and haphazardly
with their staves at the assembled crowds. The effect
was good, for they seemed to get even more enjoyment
from their cigarettes after one of these affrays.

I locked up my trunks and went downstairs. The
Russian in the boots, who seemed to spend his life
half-way down the staircase, was at his post. As the
days passed, he seemed to be becoming less and less
contented as I gave him his morning cigarette. But
this morning he smiled.

“ Cigarette! ” he said, and I contend to this day

157

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AMANULLAH

that the new arrangement of his unshaved lips, the
showing of yet more blackened teeth, and the sudden
air of desperation, betokened that here was a smile.
Truly the greatest of days, for he never contorted
himself in this manner again.

There were two dozen beggar boys on the doorsteps,
instead of the usual dozen. There were two policemen
on the front steps. There were a couple of hundred
odds and ends parked in the compound. The manager
was even more frantic than ever I had seen him even
in his apoplectic life. All the serving boys were this
morning on the verandah, having given up their work
for the day (or for a week if the festivities lasted as
long). All the guests, with the exception of myself,
were in the salon, waiting for breakfast. All the cooks
were at the fruit stalls, and all the house-boys were
chivvying beggars away from the kitchens. Everything
seemed set, in the hub of Afghanistan, for gala.

It was now possible to see the cause of the morning
salute to progress and national advance. The promiscu¬
ous blowing of bugles, delightful as it is in the young,
was now conducted by infants in the guise of soldiers,
enjoying their first official apparel. They were happy
and care-free. They had risen early, like children before
a fancy-dress party, and donned their proud raiment
hours before it was necessary. They were thrilled with
the same excitement as pervades the nursery before the
“ Great Day.” And it is one of the more sage of nursery
dicta that the anticipation is in many cases more
delightful than the event. So it was to-day.

In some cases they could not even resist the temptation
to play with the insignia of their offices as privates in
the Afghan Army. These were slightly more dangerous
to the surrounding community than were the bugles to
my peace of mind. Their bayonets were rusty and of

158

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

varied patterns. Their rifles were dirty and came from
France, Russia, Italy, the country factories of the
Khyber, and Persia. Their puttees were rolled on the
principle of speed rather than accuracy. In many cases
there were illustrations of how dishonest contractors
can save for their old age, even in face of the new
nationalism, the new patriotism, and the new ideals for
Afghanistan imported from eleven capitals of the West.

But they could all blow bugles. Buglers, lorry
drivers, artillery men, Air Force cadets, and cavalry
men, astride the lean-shanked ponies of the hills, blew
bugles. They blew no tune, no note, no call to arms.
They blew because this was holiday, and this was
excitement. The children’s party was in its heyday of
anticipation. Never in Kabul had there been a day
which, according to report, was going to mean so much
to every man of them.

I think they believed in it all. I believe every man
there put trust in his own Allah to transform in a day
the ranks of the primitive into the cohorts of civilisation.
A haphazard history, mainly concerned with the shedding
of blood, was to be guided at one stroke into the paths
of peace. Allah was great, and so was the name of
Amanullah ! Blow, then, your bugles !

Beside me, suddenly, was Signor Pierri.

He wore his best suit. His trousers, sombre black
of the boulevards, were creased with an edge not found
outside the cities of elegant men. His shoes glinted
with a polish never bestowed by the hands and energy
of an Afghan serving boy. Frail shoes, ready for the
evening stroll down the cool tree-lined roads to the
favourite cafe. His gloved hands rested languidly on a
silver-knobbed cane. His tie foamed from the whitest
of linen collars, and swept into the curve of his waist.

“ I think,” said Signor Pierri, talking slowly and

159

AMANULLAH

choosing his words meticulously, “ that this is going to
be ... to be .. . enfin, un jour de gala . . . / ”

Wonderful Italy, I thought. The poor, lonely drift
of civilisation landed in the country of the rifle, without
a job, without a penny, without, most urgent of all, a
cafe with a lady or two to romance about. He walked
away, up the street, picking his way and dreaming that
this was Rome. He never wore a topee, but a wide
black hat, with a clip inside to hold the folds together.
He was an orchid in the desert.

An officer clattered up the road. They are strange,
these Afghans. All the fine uniforms you can think of.
Boots that might have come from the Drury Lane
Ruritanian chorus. Gauntlets as of old, and glittering
epaulettes. Spurs like a film actor’s, sword clanking.
And all this fine cutlery and men’s fancy-wear perched
astride a lame old skin with spavin and a limp. Bridles
that did not fit, and leathers and ‘ ons that had never
known polish. They go clattering up the road, w h
terrific dignity and aplomb, on ponies that would shame
the East End coster.

“ And why not ? ” they would reply if you had asked
them. “ The horse goes, does it not ? And costs little
to feed ? Much less, at any rate, than the Army pays
for its upkeep. . .

The crowd is dense now and very redolent. There is
the smell of humanity mounting right up to the doors
of the hotel, mingling there with those strange smells
that cling always to that dreary hall. There is the smell
of the East, which is said to be glamour, but which is
just stale humanity. There is the smell of bodies that
have been many days in the sun and the dust. There
is the smell of disease.

But the workmen have finished decorating the
triumphal such leading up the avenue to the Palace.

160

Photo by “ Daily Mail.'

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

They have hung garlands round the statue of the Afghan
lion which strangles so realistically the lion of Britain.
“ To the great Afghan victory,” says the legend under¬
neath, and there are many here who picture a stand-up
fight with the might of Afghanistan conquering the
armies of England in open battle.

(The victory was the famous ambush of the Khyber.
But it was not complete, for one man out of thousands
struggled through the vale of death to tell the tale.)

Here come more police, marching to the gardens.
Their duties are many to-day, and only last night I
was nearly arrested for failing to be sufficiently European.
For I could not read Pushtu, and the notice at the gate
was in Pushtu. “ Every visitor to the gardens,” it
meant, “ must wear a hat.”

I did not wear a hat. I walked in the Eastern style.
It was nearly dark, and a topee becomes wearisome.
At dusk I discarded my topee before going to the cafd
in the gardens.

And the way of Westernisation is hard. Amanullah
had remarked that in Rome, Paris, Berlin, Venice, and
London, men wore hats when outdoors. Very well,
then, so would the citizens of the new Afghanistan.
And here was I, who should know how to behave,
bareheaded in the elaborate gardens of the new
city of Paghman, Amanullah’s Western gift to the
East.

That cost two rupees (Afghan ratio).

The crowds were surging up the road now. More
troops, their lungs exhausted now, tramped silently up
the road. Bugling was over.. The children’s party had
begun.

I found Pierri in the gardens, gazing sadly at a
German nursemaid in charge of strange German-Afghan
children. The Berlin blonde, wife of the Afghan

161

it

AMANULLAH

Minister, was there too. She lounged on an iron seat,
her blue eyes vacant, seeing perhaps the happy life of
the city from which she had been transplanted for
ever.

Pierri and I sat down on the grass.

“ I think,” said Pierri, “ this is going to be gay.”

It was. The band started suddenly. At least half
of the instrumentalists in the toy bandstand knew the
notes. They played valiantly, striving to drown the
sudden snorts of their companions. There were some
blowings where there should have been suckings.
There were some shrieks from those tortured brasses
where there should have been plaintiveness and sobbings.

Then we got into trouble again.

The policeman was inclined to be pitying. Here
were we, two apparent feringhe, who did not know that
it is not civilised to sit on the grass. Here were we, two
representatives of the West, setting a bad example to
the East. The policeman was sure that in Western
cities, from all he had been told, men in hats did not
sit on the grass when there were seats. Why then should
we seek to subvert the orders of the King who had been
Westernised ?

That much I read from his angry words, and his
violent gesticulations towards those unbending, un¬
compromising iron seats. And, rather sheepishly, we
got up and sat bolt upright in those seats. Modernity
had won. For when a man has to leave the comfort
of fresh green grass, the smell of earth, to sit on an iron
park bench, then you may take it that there is an end
for ever to the amenities of the untrampled virgin
wastes of the world. We were supposed to be in one
now.

But Signor Pierri had been in “ the forbidden land ”
longer than I. His fine delicate features registered only

162

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

faint surprise as he pulled up his elegant trousers and
sat sedately on the park bench in the very shadow of
the Hindu Kush.

And from that dignified position we watched, slightly
bewildered, as the policemen went their rounds, rousing
up the men and women from the grass, prodding them
with their staves, and indicating to them with many
an appeal to Allah, that they should bend their mighty
forms to the harsh outlines of a park bench. For this
was the new Afghanistan.

They did so, hesitantly. To many of them, this was
the first time that they had encountered the strange,
uncomfortable bending of the body in two places in
order to sit. Some of them tried to draw their feet up
and perch on the seats—an attempt that received the
scorn once more of the all-knowing policemen. They
rapped them on the knees as a lesson in social etiquette.
They forced their feet down to the gravel. They
pressed their bodies back sternly against the iron staves.

“ Insh’Allah,” they said, and did their best to be
modem according to orders.

But it was hard work. For what were their heels,
naked save for the strap of their sandals, if not for
sitting on ? For what were their knees, but to support
their arm-pits, leaving their hands and arms free to
bargain with ? Only thus could a man get face to face,
to see his business adversary close to. Only thus could
the frill effect of an Eastern gesture have its due reward.
Only thus could a man watch his friend’s hands to see
that there were no suspicious movements towards his
sash where dwelt the knife.

But they sat upright, before the menacing staves of
new mentors. Somewhere in a garden, somewhere in
Hyde Park or Unter den Linden or St. Mark’s Square,
Amanullah the Brave had seen men and women sitting

163

AMANULLAH

upright, with their hats on. That was the West. Very
well then, they should do it in the new Westernised
city of Kabul and in the new garden of Paghman.

The slopes, so comfortable to the long spare frames
of the hillmen, were soon bare. The park seats were
filled. There seemed to be a Sunday-morning-in-
Kensington-Gardens atmosphere. The German-Afghan
children played round their prams. The nurses did
what nurses do in all gardens in the world. The police
paraded. (One of them sat down subconsciously on the
grass until he remembered.) And the hills laughed.
How the hills laughed !

The band played. There was a crescendo of sound.
After a sharp tussle the beginners lost the fight through
shortness of breath, and the lilt of a terribly familiar
tune began to be discerned. Everything was ready for
the party. All the excitement had evaporated as it
does at all children’s parties.

And into the garden came six men.

(When, a week later, this story appeared under my
name on the breakfast tables of half England, and was
copied by every newspaper in the world, I was called
a liar in every polite phrase invented by the diplomatic
services in six countries. It was impossible, and it was
incredible. It could not happen, it would not happen,
and it did not happen, they said.)

Nevertheless, the six men walked into the garden.
They came slowly, and, it seemed, painfully. They
held hands. They clutched at each other’s shoulders
as if for support. But they came, and along the paths
too, for the police saw to that.

Here is what I saw.

They were big-boned, loose-limbed men of the Afghan
hills. There was no mistaking their pale blue eyes,
striking to the foreigner, in that dark skin. But they

164

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

were singular, in that they wore no beards, and the hair
at the back of their neck was clipped short.

They wore black homburg hats. They wore black
coats. They wore black trousers of the same thick
stuff. They wore—this last is the incredible climax—
they wore black boots.

As they advanced, it was seen that they had shirts
of white showing above their black waistcoats. Some
rough hand had noosed their necks with a strand of
black, and tied it in the semblance of a knot. Their
hands stuck out from beneath the stove-pipe sleeves
of their jackets. The heavy boots clumped on the
gravel as they made their ungainly way towards us.

There were more behind. They came in a solid mass.
The gates were black with men shambling towards us,
the black homburg hats bobbing, the arms working
mechanically. It was nightmare in the sunshine.

The German blonde was sitting up erect in her park
seat. She had the wild look of disbelief in her eyes.
The band had stopped playing. The hillmen stood up
from their seats. Only the police seemed unmoved.

Behind the dreadful army came a different, glittering
band that gave away the secret. There came AmarmTIflh,
stepping out of his Rolls, a great German police dog
on a leash in his hand. On his head glittered one of the
hats of Mr. Scott, Piccadilly. The strong, sturdy form
was clothed in a morning coat, grey trousers, yellow
gloves, soft collar of white, and a grey tie.

Then we understood. The manufacture of history is
seldom recognised at its true value at the hour of the
event. But here, if we can trace the mind of a simple
man back to its starting-point, was the course of the
idea that Ama n uHah the Brave had carried in his mind
from eleven countries and capitals.

A yet more elegant figure accompanied him. Was

165

AMANULLAH

this irony? Was this the grimmest joke in Eastern
history ? Whatever the thoughts behind the mask of
his face. Sir Francis Humphrys, British Minister in
Kabul, wore his Ascot clothes. . . .

Beneath the very brow of the Pamirs there gleamed
a grey top-hat. It was a top-hat of great price and
careful selection. It was a top-hat chosen one sunny
morning in Piccadilly, when all the world was choosing
Ascot clothes and Ascot hats. It was fitted with the
same unctuousness and solicitude as accompanies the
fitting of ordinary hats. It was eased a little on a heater,
the way ordinary hats are eased. And then it was
delivered in the familiar van with the prize-winning
cobs, driven by the silk-hatted coachman. That hat
made history on its last eventful display in the “ for¬
bidden country.” It was never worn again.

Sir Francis wore a grey morning coat and grey
trousers. His stock shamed the brutality of the sur¬
rounding hills by its gentility. His patent-leather boots
trod the ends of the earth that day as if they were pacing
the lawns of the Royal enclosure.

Afghanis tan was to be modernised. New ideals, new
ambitions, new culture would inspire Amanullah’s
beloved land. He had already decided that there should
be a Parliament, and that, nominally at any rate, the
chosen delegates of his people should have something
to say in the ruling of their unworthy selves.

The Parliament should have dignity and prestige.
It would command the respect of the populace. It
would be expensive, but it would be a proud boast in
the countries of civilisation to read of the “ Afghan
Parliament.”

So Amanullah looked at the Parliaments of Europe.
He saw staid and soberly dressed men passing silently
into great houses of talk. From these houses there

166

EX-E3NG OF AFGHANISTAN

emanated edicts and orders, which, miraculously, were
eventually translated into law.

Yet they seemed to have a dignity impossible to
imagine among his own countrymen. They seemed to
rule unconsciously. And then the brain of the child in
him stumbled across a half-truth that strikes all children
and many animals. The secret was in the clothes.

He had found it. You cannot rule by law and order,
by precept and principle, if you dTess in the style of the
jungle and the hills. You can attain dignity by the
pulling on of a pair of trousers. You can tie up your
impressiveness every morning as you lace up your boots.

They had it at Westminster, they had it in Rome.
In Moscow they wore the garments of peace and orderli¬
ness, even in a land of war. Who could imagine, at
Versailles, the men of mighty Parliaments debating in
the clothing of the jungle ?

The answer was easy. Afghanistan was to be civilised.
By Allah it should begin right! Its first Parliament
should be clothed in the manner of the great Parliaments
of the West.

And that thought had beaten into the brain of
Amanullah as he risked his neck at the wheel of his car
all the way back through his wild, primitive land.

“ Send me aE the tailors in Kabul! ” he commanded,
the day after he arrived. “ Send the bootmakers too,
and the seEers of skins and the merchants of the cloth
market! Send the barbers and the barbers’ assistants.
Send me the pohce l ”

So on the day of the first Afghan Parliament, the
delegates came over the hiUs into Kabul City.

The Amir is back 1 ” they greeted each other.

“ The Amir is back, and the traveUers say that he has
been over the Black Water to see the feringhe in his
own land.”

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AMANULLAH

“ That is so. The Amir is back. And the merchants
in the city say that he has brought some strange theories,
some strange proposals, and some strange machines,
inventions of the white devils, to make life for us a
little more difficult.”

“ Ah well. Perhaps these are tales of the bazaar.
The merchants are liars always. We shall know, and
Allah will protect us.”

So the hillman came to Kabul. Allah, if he heard the
pleas for protection, did not withstand the police and
the soldiery.

“ Are you a delegate ? Then come into the Palace! ”

He was inside a huge barrack-room. He was taken
and stripped. He was held while the barbers sheared
his long locks.

“ But this is against the Koran! ” he protested.
“ Wherein it is written that a true Believer must be
bearded, like Mahomed ! ”

“ Maybe,” said the police, “ but it is the order of the
Amir.”

His clothes were flung into a comer. “ Put
your skinny shanks through these! ” said the ribald
policeman.

“ And here,” said another policeman, “ put this on
your fat head 1 ”

“ But this,” protested the delegate, “ this is sacrilege !
The Koran says also that the Believer must be turbaned!
Besides, where shall a man rest his head when he is
weary ? There are no folds in this vile head-dress for
a man to wrap over his mouth on a dusty day. There
is no cover for the face if he meet an enemy! There
is not even a yard of it with which to strangle a foe
without a cry t ”

But the policeman clapped onto his head the homburg
hat, and laughed at his religion in the new Afghanistan.

168

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

44 Keep that for the mullahs !” he taunted, and sent
the delegate reeling from a blow on the back—to be
caught by the next policeman serving out thick black
boots in place of the loose, cool, and sloppy 66 chapplas ”
of the Afghan.

So was modernised the Afghan M.P. in the first
modem Parliament. It was so easy. The police
mincing-machine turned him out the other end with the
veritable look of the West—from a distance. It was
a pity that the last score or so had to take whatever
clothes were left, without regard to size. There were
some boots left over which would only go on with a
certain degree of force. There were some hats that
perched precariously on the top of shaven heads. There
were some that threatened to extinguish the features
of an M.P. even when he was on the point of catching
the Speaker’s eye.

But—Insh’Allah, there it was. Allah might be dis¬
pleased at the defiance of the Koran, but the Amir’s
displeasure was a danger even closer. And, in any case,
they were only hillmen, uneducated and too stupid for
the new civic life of Kabul.

Besides, there were some contented little groups in
Kabul Bazaar that night. They were composed of the
tailors, the barbers, the bootmakers, the cloth merchants,
and the police. For of what use was modernisation if
the fruits did not go to some of those who had saved a
little on a Government contract, bribed a little advantage
here and there, and skimped an inch or two on every
coat, every hat, every pair of parliamentary trousers,
and every pair of heavy, clumping, “ Westernised ”
boots ?

That nightmare procession in the fair garden of
Paghman was destined to cost a king his throne. The
snip of those scissors round the chins of the faithful

169

AMANULLAH

was the first clash of steel in a war which sent a strong
man scuttling like a rabbit down to safety; that sent
airplanes zooming over the impregnable hills every day
for a month, carrying back refugees from a land gone
religiously crazy; the snip of those scissors echoed
round the hills ; it brought back crucifixion in Kabul,
and the shooting of the live bodies of men from the
mouths of cannon; it caused men to be boiled in oil
once more; it caused the men of the hills to sharpen
their knives and creep down upon the rich granaries;
a palace shot up to the sky in flames; the silks and
satins of Regent Street and the frocks and fancies of
the Rue de la Paix fed the flames; it set the wireless
crackling over all the world with the decisions of the
consulates ; it began the greatest “ as you were ”
order in the East.

Signor Pierri and I watched from our park benches.

“ I was aware, you will remember,” said Signor
Pierri, readjusting his tie, “ that this was to be a
gala. ...”

170

CHAPTER XI

THE KING SPEAKS—A THREAT—A MILITARY AFFAIR—THE
FIRST AFGHAN DRAMA—I AM TURNED OUT

T IE bandsmen, wonderfully caparisoned to-day,
had exhausted themselves many times in playing
the National Anthem. There was a pause, as
they wiped beaded brows with the pipe-clayed cuffs

of their jackets. Amanullah moved slowly up the
gardens, accompanied by his Queen, now only half

veiled, but beautiful and natural in her glittering,
enfolding garments. Behind Amanullah came the little

procession of foreign delegates.

Every member of the British Legation wore a top-hat.
Sober and respectable, the representatives of British
Sundays and diplomatic occasions moved after the
Royal party with due dignity. They wore morning
coats and spats. Victorian England was flourishing in
the outposts of civilisation.

Stark, the Russian delegate, ignored such compli¬
ments, even in the presence of Royalty. More probably
he had never worn a top-hat. He and his wife moved
self-consciously in the mixed gathering. Following
them came the representatives of France, Italy, Japan,
China, Germany, and Belgium. But never another silk
hat. . . .

The sowars of the Indian Cavalry clattered up the
road after providing the Guard of Honour to Aman¬
ullah. The members of his own bodyguard, even more
like a musical comedy chorus to-day, arranged them¬
selves round the King. They flung their cloaks elegantly

171

AMANULLAH

over their shoulders, displayed their silver epaulettes,
and clanked their swords along the gravel paths of the
gardens. Their glorious career had reached its plimny
Pierri and I were still speechless.

The meeting of the first Parliament had been arranged
in a corner of the gardens. It was a natural arena,
provided with chairs and long wooden seats, and was
gaily beflagged.

There were microphones already in position, in charge
of an Indian electrician who had brought them from
Delhi. Towards this arena the black-suited delegates
were shepherded by the police.

Pierri and I went along with them. They were still
self-conscious and half-afraid. The boots were begin¬
ning to pinch. The black knots round their throats were
already untidy and tended to escape from their waist¬
coats. They felt, above all, ridiculous and naked with¬
out their beards.

They were ushered into their places. Before them,
keeping them from the arena, were double strands of
barbed wire. No risks could be taken with the first
delegates of His Majesty’s first modern Parliament.
Once in the arena, they might slide back to their
old habits. They might even sit on the green grass.
Such conduct would rob the first Parliament of its
dignity.

They were led to the long rows of benches and induced
to sit on them. They did so, and when I approached
in front of the barbed wire and took their photographs,
they were too sheepish to object. The police, at the
side of the black phalanx of modernised M.P.’s, saw to
it that they did not break their ranks or wreck the
dignity of the meeting.

On another side were the principal delegates. The
grey topper of Sir Francis Humphrys stood out in the

172

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

sunshine. The black silk hats of his juniors surrounded
him with Western dignity. They sat in a little wedge,
without a smile on their faces, in front of the uniform
purdahs that marked the place of the women of Aman-
ullah’s Court.

Other delegates and their wives made up another
small portion of the audience. And the crowd, swelled
that day by thousands from Kabul and the shops of
the suburbs, milled and struggled on the outskirts of
the arena for another glance at that truly astonishing
company of delegates. I struggled through to the circle
and pretended to be an expert photographer.

Then, without further ceremony, there began the
business of the first “ modern 55 Afghan Parliament
ever held in the country. It was also destined to be
the last.

Amanullah strode to the centre of the arena. Asking
advice from the engineer in charge of the loud speakers,
he shifted his feet till he was in the exact position. The
band started yet another burst of the National Anthem,
but were silenced after the first few bars. And Aman¬
ullah spoke.

His voice was hard and strong. It carried to the
limits of that crowd of five hundred or so people
gathered in and round the arena. It carried over their
heads into the gardens, and there may have been a dull
echo of it for my mullah, to whom my thoughts would
always turn as the sole real person I knew in the new
Afghanistan. He was probably sitting on his peak above
the valley, silent and deep in thought.

Amanullah’s voice was charged with vigour and en¬
thusiasm. It was a thrilling voice, the voice of a con¬
queror and a brave man. It thrilled every man who
heard it. It caused little ripples of excitement to pass
over that strange company.

173

AMANULLAH

I had it translated afterwards. He told of his trip
to the West. He told them of his triumphs and his
honours.

“ Your King,” he said, “ has been the recipient of
every honour that the Western nations can bestow on
him. He has seen the military might of Italy, France,
England, and Russia. He has dined with kings and
rulers, and every nation has vied with the other in doing
him honour. He has taken their homage as a tribute
to the new Afghanistan stirring in the East.

“ On every hand good wishes and compliments have
been offered for the future of the new regime. The
world is watching us, and it behoves you, as members
of a great and martial and progressive race, to justify
the hopes that are entertained for your future. We
meet this day to celebrate the glorious victory which
gained for my country its Independence and its liberty.

“ In celebration, I have summoned the first free
Afghan Parliament. It is formed of your own repre¬
sentatives, who will direct your own path towards
victory and greater liberty. You see before you the
representatives of every State in my country. They are
gathered here to voice the wishes of the people, and to
lead you rapidly out of the mists of ignorance which
have clouded my beloved land for so many centuries....”

The black-coated delegates listened shyly. They
understood only a part of what their ruler was saying,
for they were still petrified by their importance, and in
any case, between them they were accustomed to a score
of dialects. They had travelled many miles for this.
They had been casually selected from their native vil¬
lages, some because they had business to do in Kabul,
some because they were natural leaders, some because
they were the only ones to be spared from the work of
their hills and valleys. They shifted uneasily now under

174

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

the glare of five hundred people. Nobody smiled. No¬
body saw the rich, fantastic humour of this gathering
under the brilliant sky. The eager voice went on.

“ In the last few years, 5 ’ boomed the loud speakers,
44 you have seen your glorious country gradually lifting
itself from the pit of ignorance. You have seen im¬
provements in every department of State. You have
seen new buildings grow out of the Afghan plain, and
new roads wind their way over the hills for the trans¬
port of the strangers who will come to your country for
its further improvement. Trade has increased, and your
Customs departments are reaping the benefit. The Army
is becoming modern and progressively efficient. Your
children are being educated, and your freedom is being
established. You are to benefit from your association
with the West. You are to take your place among
the great nations of the world, on equality with all
men. . . .”

Amanullah, excited now and on fire with his own
enthusiasm, swept the gathering with his eyes. He saw
the attentiveness of the foreign delegates. He saw the
quiet interest of his friend the British Minister. He saw
the women of the purdah , glancing at him through the
network of their cloaks, listening to the words that hinted
at their freedom in the years to come. Amanullah did
not yet dare to express his wishes on that point. It was
too early yet to tell of the decision he had made to defy
the oldest belief in their religion—that one day he would
rid their women of the curse of the purdah system.

But they sensed it. Already the news had come,
appropriately enlarged, that the Queen had appeared
in Europe with her face naked to the gaze of the com¬
mon people. Already it had come to their ears that
she had driven in the public streets with her face un¬
veiled. Her photograph had been taken, even. All the

175

AMANULLAH

world had gazed at her features. She had rid herself of
the purdah clothes, shown the hidden beauty of her eyes
unashamedly to the public, and travelled among a foreign
people with her beauty uncovered.

The story was not altogether believed. Indeed, it was
incredible. Such things could not be, even under the
ruling of Amanullah. The travellers were lying again.
And there was surely enough cause for worry in Afghan¬
istan these days without this new threat to religion and
national precedent.

The hint in his speech, however, did not go entirely
unnoticed. Sir Francis Humphrys noted it. Stark, the
Russian, noted it. The more intimate of his ministerial
friends noted it. Perhaps for the first time a stir of
apprehension passed over the first Parliament.

But Amanullah passed on. With fine inspiring voice
and words, he tried to lift the delegates out of their
unhappy ignorance. His words were calculated to in¬
spire. They succeeded in creating an atmosphere of
wonder—and not a little fear. He finished the speech,
and the meeting sat silent save for the polite and re¬
strained applause of the foreign delegates. The band,
tactful this time, crashed out with the bars of the
National Anthem.

So far as I know, there were no more speeches in that
first and last Parliament. The populace was too stunned
still for speech-making. No man, clapped into trousers
and a hat for the first time in his life, would feel in the
mood for oratory. No man, wrenched from his village
in the hills, shaved against the orders of the Koran, his
feet laced into tight boots, would feel at his ease for
eloquence. “ Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking’
and to boots ...” he might begin, with truth. But
humour was not then in the heart of the Afghan Member
of Parliament. His soul was sick and filled with a great

176

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

fear. The sombre ranks sat stolid behind the barbed
wire.

Amanullah and the principal delegates moved away.
Pierri and I followed. The delegates were left to them¬
selves. We saw them later on in twos and threes, walk¬
ing disconsolately about the gardens, the butt of every
Kabuli and hillman. Their clothes grew more untidy
as the day progressed. Many of them unlaced their
boots, and would have taken them off if it had not been
for the vigilance of the police. Their ties became more
string-like and confused. Their hats perched at every
strange angle on their shaved heads. There was to be
no more politics that day.

Lighter entertainment was next offered. It was
rumoured that there was to be a military display after
lunch, on the new parade ground. The ears were
drawing up already, and the delegates were hurrying
off to be there for the most favoured places. Pierri and
I made our way to the hotel and drank lemonade, trying
to assure ourselves that what we had seen had actually
happened.

Ram Prasad was no good to me to-day. Even he
could not find me a seat in the smallest of the Bang’s
Rolls. Pierri and I hired a motor bus, and rattled down
the road toward the new parade ground for the after¬
noon’s entertainment.

Yes, this was a great day. The shopkeepers would
have voted for an Independence Day every week. The
stalls were besieged by the crowds, buying armfuls of
fruit. The dust rose high, and the beggars, all of them
come from Kabul City for the day, lined the road and
whined their supplications to the passers-by.

A grand chorus of motor horns added to the hubbub.
Every old lorry in Kabul had come to Paghman, bring¬
ing its packed loads of cheerful and excited citizens.

177

M

AMANULLAH

Most of them were kept outside the gardens. They did
not possess the qualifications of European clothes for
entry within the gates.

The police were having high holiday. A dozen argu¬
ments, accompanied by the persuasion of their staves
for emphasis, were talcing place in the confines of the
square. The troops elbowed their way through. Even
the perpetual moroseness of Pierri was lifted from his
shoulders for the moment.

Our bus clattered its way down the hill. We were
covered in dust, and many times escaped by a miracle
from the murder of an inoffensive group of citizens.
Eventually we arrived at the parade ground. The band
was once more playing the National Anthem.

Seated on a special platform, Amanullah and the
privileged group of foreign delegates were watching the
first of the military events. This was a contest of
marksmanship, and the King watched through his field
glasses with a close interest as the results were put up
on an indication board.

They were good, these crack shots from the Army.
Even the Turkish officers who competed could not beat
them. They were using Italian rifles, and after the un¬
certainty of the home-made products they were scoring
consistently and well. Amanullah was delighted. I
could hear him explaining to Sir Francis and to
Stark, his neighbours, as the results came up on the
board.

His other diversion was his cine-camera, which he had
brought back as one of the prizes of his European visit.
He stood up in his place and swung it often round the
assembled company. The King was pleased, to be the
film-man from his throne. He was the boy again,
revelhng in the sports that had always been his
favourites.

178

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

He was delighted when I went in front of the plat¬
form and took photographs of him. He urged Sir
Francis and Stark-to look at the camera. He indicated
that I should photograph the ladies, Souriya among
them. He was chattering like a small boy.

There were foot-races and bayonet-fighting contests.
The flower of the Afghan Army was showing off. There
was a display of arms drill under the command of a
Turkish officer, and we could see how well the troops
had responded, after much pain and tribulation, in the
simpler movements of mass drill. Amanullah was ex¬
plaining his military toy to his friends. It was probably
the happiest day of his life.

I found the Russian journalist there too. Talking to
him, I wondered whether he had sensed the interest
that the whole world would take in this day; whether
he had understood the significance of the King’s speech;
whether he had recognised the drama of that first Parlia¬
ment, and the story behind Amanullah’s precipitate and
absurd order insisting on European clothes.

He had not. Talking about it, I realised that he
would send nothing from Kabul to the world about the
events that day. He had the use of the wireless to
Moscow, and, if he chose, London news editors would
have the whole story that night. News like that would
flash round the world in a day. He had me beaten by
forty-eight hours if he wished.

I had no chance of using wireless. There was no
opportunity even of using the telegraph line to India,
for this was Legation property, and I was not in favour
in British official eyes. There was no public telephone
line leading out of the country. It seemed that the
only way out for the news was to take it myself by that
road which needed two days and nights before com¬
munication with England could be reached.

TTQ

AMANULLAH

But the Russian was following his Government’s
policy. For some reason, it was not thought advisable
that Amanullah’s crazy reforms should be heard by
unsympathetic ears or read by eyes which might see
the humour of the fantastic situation. I had the news
to myself, when four days later that story went to
London from a telegraph office no less than seven
hundred miles further south.

I left the Russian still more convinced that there was
little of interest in the day for European consumption.
He did not know that I was already drafting in my
head the first story that would reach England of Aman¬
ullah’s determined step towards disaster. I had already
decided to predict his downfall and ignominious failure.
For uppermost in my mind was the thought of that
lonely mullah on the peak overlooking the valley of
fantasy.

Pierri and I made our way back to Paghman and the
hotel.

“ What next ? ” he asked. “ What further diversion
can the new Government offer for our entertainment ? ”

It was then that I learnt the thrilling news that, in
addition to novel constitutions and military displays,
there would be lit in Afghanistan that night the flame
of the drama. The capital was to have its first Euro¬
pean play.

Into the hotel there came a small and weary company
of mummers. They filed disconsolately from a dusty
motor lorry that had stopped at the porch. There were
four men and three women. They wore the unhappy
look of artistes on tour, and did they but know it, they
had surely arrived at the rock bottom of the actor’s
descent into oblivion.

But they were to make history. They were to be
responsible for the first theatrical performance ever given

180

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

in the country. The grease paint was coming to the
wilds.

Here was another of Amanullah’s picturesque schemes.
Somewhere—it may have been at Drury Lane, or at
the Scala, Milan—the thought struck him that the drama
was the final revelation of modernisation and civilisa¬
tion. Afghanistan must have the theatre! And with
characteristic directness, he had commanded the pres¬
ence of a touring company then playing in Peshawar.

His officials had made all the arrangements. It is
true that the players had been promised transport in
private cars, and had made the uncomfortable journey
in a lorry. It is true that they eventually received only
half the salary promised. But that was not the fault
of Amanullah. On the Day of Independence, the per¬
formance was gone through on the stage of the new
cinema, and Amanullah and the principal guests sat in
the front row and thrilled suitably.

The little company was pathetic and despondent. It
consisted of the owner, a German Jew, and his wife, a
South African Dutch. Their son and daughter, one
bom in Paris and the other in South America, were in
the cast. There was a husband of the daughter, himself
a New Yorker, and an additional property man who
was distinctly Italian. A true Cockney girl, with the
cheekiness and adaptability of her kind, completed
the cast. Appropriately, it seemed, the international
atmosphere of the new Afghanistan was being main¬
tained.

But the eyes of the Cockney girl were dimmed with
tears of self-pity when she arrived at the Paghman hotel.
Even the progressive friendliness of Pierri, and his humble
present of a bunch of grapes, did not brighten her woe¬
begone features. She feared for her life; she feared for
her safety. The comedienne of the show was miserable.

181

c^c*2?vt-s^v i&i c^c^ i^> c^ ^

AMANULLAH

The owner of the little company described to me the
trials and tribulations of their journey. They had, of
course, been victims of the grasping officials who had
been appointed to see to their safe passage. Hence the
lorry instead of the private cars, and the various diffi¬
culties at every Customs post and passport examination.
The curtain seemed to be doomed to rise on tragedy.

It did.

An hour before the advertised start, the property
trunks arrived. The gallant little company fought their
way through a gay and struggling crowd to the front
door of the theatre, and were conducted to the dressing-
rooms. The crowd followed them, and surged round
the windows and the doors.

The rumour had gone round Paghman. It was said
that the immoral theatre of the West was coming to
town. Women would posture and pose in view of the
public. They would wear comic clothes, sing before the
people, unveiled and unashamed, and enact in the
Western way the dramas that could be seen in the
brothels and lower cafes of Kabul. The crowd, quick¬
ened by excitement, struggled with the police and burst
through their ranks to over-fill the cinema long before
the curtain was due to rise.

The dressing-room windows were open to the public
gaze. The artistes protested to the police to remove the
gaping soldiery. The girls were ready to change. They
held their comedy clothes in one hand and waved away
the jeering troops with the other. Nobody stirred.

Then came the police. The police moved away the
soldiers with blows of their staves. Then the girls
tried to wave away the police, who had secured for
themselves the best positions. Paghman had gone
crazy.

Amanullah arrived, and the show began, with the girls

182

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

acting in their travelling clothes. It was a pathetic little
variety show, interspersed by the howls of the mob
outside.

But Amanullah was pleased. He sat in the front row
with the leading Foreign Ministers, and his own Court
circle, and congratulated himself on his idea. Here, in
a real theatre, was the drama. His country was already
civilised. He could boast about the play, and about his
own ingenuity in importing a real Western cast. He
beamed on the dispirited efforts of the performers. He
clapped in the Western manner.

The little Cockney girl had at last played before a real
King. But nevertheless the tears streamed down her
face, for she had acted in her travelling clothes. Lesser
tragedies have reduced the stars of the theatre to loud
and lengthy tempests of weeping.

That, so far as I know, was the only performance of the
imported theatre in Afghanistan. The curtain came
down on an epoch. The crowds surged out slightly dis¬
appointed but nevertheless pleased at taking part in the
making of history.

Pierri and I had supper with the cast after the show,
and listened with awe while the stalwart female leader of
the company explained in a loud voice what she would do
to a certain Afghan Minister. She was terrific in her
wrath. She clenched fists and swore wonderful oaths in
German, French, English, and Hindustani. She explained
her wrath in Dutch to her husband and detailed it in
Cockney to her daughter. The words poured out un¬
interrupted. Pierri seemed entranced by the stream.

But her threats came to nothing. The German Jew
collected the property that night, and booked a lorry for
the next morning. Before Paghman had woken up, the
actors in the first and last drama to be witnessed in
Afghanistan, had left for ever.

183

AMANULLAH

May they never again play their parts on the brink of
a volcano.

That same night I saw Sir Francis Humphrys. He was
in the hotel, no doubt for the first time, and was sitting
in the lounge with two of his staff. He also seemed
slightly bemused. Through his brain there raced the
incidents of that day, and we exchanged sympathetic
remarks as we wondered whether all this could really
have happened.

We had seen comedy and a little tragedy. We had
seen the blind faith of a man in his own powers. We had
seen the stupefaction of his subjects. We had seen, most
clearly of all, the results of a vanity that broke down
every barrier.

We exchanged nothing but conventional words of
politeness about the day. I knew I was watched in
Kabul wherever I went. I knew that grave suspicion
centred on everyone who was inquisitive. I knew that it
was unsafe for me to write in Kabul. Not even to
Pierri had I revealed my thoughts on the last few days.
I was still the awed and somewhat bewildered observer.

Sir Francis knew that. Without giving any indication
of his feelings, he suggested that I was returning to India
very shortly. I agreed. He reminded me that I had no
connection with the British Legation. I agreed. In the
event of trouble, he hinted, the Legation could take no
responsibility, I knew that. It was evidently important,
apart from the news to be cabled to London, that I must
leave Kabul as soon as possible.

The hotel was a seething mass of humanity. The
Afghan boys were enjoying themselves terrifically.
Everyone was talking of the day’s events. Everyone was
joking and laughing. Everyone spoke of the future with
a little doubt and a careful look round to see that no ears
listened to their ribaldries.

184

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

Pierri and I watched the night sky fade, and tried
to picture the events in their logical order. It was
nightmare. It was pure fantasy. It was a queer
opium dream of incredible figures, black and white,
new and old. All under the fair sky and in the brilliant
sun.

It was dark now, and the lights had come up. There
were hundreds of fairy lights in the trees, and even the
cinema looked fair-like and beautiful, its shape hidden,
its garish colours hidden too. The trees held coloured
lamps, and the triumphal arch leading to the Palace was
illumined in electric splendour.

The people still walked the road and paraded the
square in front of the hotel. The chatter still ascended to
the heavens. The motor buses still kept up their chorus
as they tried to make their way through the mob. There
were a few fights in lively progress. The police were
bullying and arguing as usual. And suddenly there was
the scream of a well-known claxon horn, and up the road
there crept a long black car, its headlights shaming the
glow of the lamps.

On the front of the radiator was the illuminated
crown. I knew that at the wheel was Ram Prasad in his
magnificent white breeches, the tassel of his shako
waving in the night wind.

The Bang was going home. Independence Day was
over. Perhaps then, as he passed the Mosque, he
recalled his words of nearly two years ago, when he had
forecasted this day.

“ Afghanistan has bidden adieu for ever to its
stationary position ... we shall introduce to our
country such Continental customs as we may think
necessary. . . .”

Well, they had been necessary. Here was the end of
a day that had brought to his country a Parliament, the

185

AMANULLAH

first steps of the drama, a military gymkhana, the
clothes of the Continent. He could boast of this day.
He could sleep contented with his progress.

The car passed on. I recalled the idea that had
already framed itself in my head, and which was high
treason. Nobody else except, perhaps, Sir Francis
Humphrys, silent in the other corner of the hotel lounge,
had imagined it. Yet it persisted the more strongly as
I watched that strange assembly.

The idea was merely that this was the beginning of the
end. That vanity had gone too far. And going at last
to bed, I thought once more of that changeless old
mullah on the mountain-top, cold now and sleeping over
the valley of disturbance.

There had seemed an odd confidence in his face;
almost a look that said that he and his religion could wait
for the downfall of wickedness, vanity, modernity . . .
and civilisation.

“ Good night,” said Pierri, and took himself off to a
lonely and fretful bed, dreaming of Roman nights under
the same moon.

186

CHAPTER XII

DOWN TO THE KHYBER PASS—THE TIDE BREAKS—AMANULLAH
TAKES ACTION—REVOLT IN THE PLAINS—HUMILIATION

I F it was difficult to obtain permission to visit
Kabul, it was almost impossible to leave. There
were more formalities and red tape. My passport
was once more decorated with the hieroglyphics of
Eastern officials. Once more the official stamp of the
British Legation pounded down on the pink sheet,
neighbour to that one which said: “ Refused per¬
mission to cross the Frontier into Afghanistan.”

I was to find, also, that I did not yet know the niceties
of conduct with officials. For, foolishly, I applied
formally at the Afghan department the next morning
for the precious seal which should give me leave to pass
through the gates of Kabul and down the road to
India.

The big office was shut. . Only one aged guardian of
its secrets slept in the porch. The office, he said through
an interpreter, was closed until the end of celebrations.
No business could be done.

My guide, an Indian who was in close touch with the
officials, suggested a call on the private residence of an
official. We walked up the road to his imposing villa.
The official, said the servants, was still abed, and could
not be bothered with visitors.

A rupee put that right. The dignitary was sent for.
We waited an hour. Then the official came in, still
sleepy and unwilling to put pen to paper during this week
of leisure. I explained my business.

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AMANULLAH

No, said he, impatiently. No passports could be
signed or visa-ed during this week of celebration. It was
against the law.

In any case, he was having a much-needed holiday.
His official stamps were at the office, he could not
inspect my passport except at the office, and he was
not going to bother to open the office for my benefit.
I must come again in a week.

Almost desperate, I went away. My Indian adviser
listened with awe and solemnity. Then : “ Perhaps,”
he said, “ you did not persuade him properly. ...” I
went in again, giving another rupee to the servant.
The same official came in once more, still sleepy
and somewhat aggrieved. Perhaps, I said, the office
would accommodate itself if I gave a small sum of
money for the upkeep of its admirable work, expenses of
which must be heavy. . . . The note passed. My pass¬
port was signed, there and then, with a pencil. But it
was the first time I had bribed a senior official of any
nation.

There was a further difficulty about transport. The
driver who had brought me up had given his address,
and had expressed his willingness to take me back to
Peshawar any day I wished. We went to the serai where
he was known.

This time, they had never heard of the man. Though
I had seen him greeted there with the enthusiasm due to
an old friend, this time they could not recall him, nor his
car, nor his coming. Even five rupees did not help
memory. They were sorry. They were unacquainted
with the driver.

Nor could they suggest another driver. There were no
cars in Kabul willing to undertake the journey. I would
have to wait till after the great week of celebration.
What was a week ?

188

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

On the other hand, there was an opportunity of buying
a car for the trip. A good car, cheap. I could buy the
driver as well. The price was only a trifle of a thousand
rupees. Would not I do that ? I would not.

We combed Kabul semis for driver and car. We
begged and implored and offered fortunes for a car. Not
till after the week. I seemed stuck, with news ready in
my head for the telegraph wires, unable to send it off.

At the end of our search, we found a driver. He would
start the next morning at four o’clock. He would try to
reach Peshawar by the evening. He would call for me
at the Kabul Hotel, where I had moved again, before
dawn.

Packed, and with water-sack and food ready, I waited
at the porch as the dawn broke. Waited till the sun
came. Waited till the Italians came down to breakfast,
laughing, and repeating again that word of many
meanings:

“ So you are going to Peshawar to-night! Insh’-
Allah. . . ”

I went down to the serai where we had found the
driver. There was no sign of him, no sign of the car, no
knowledge of him, even from those who I knew to be his
friends. He had merely decided not to go to Peshawar
after all. That was the end of that.

Once more we made the tour of the serais . At last,
found another driver. He would call for me at dawn.
We would get to Peshawar in the day. This time, I
said: “Insh’Allah.”

But he was there. Wrapped up against the early cold,
sleepy and half-drugged with the bhang he had taken
overnight, he salaamed morosely in the half-light. He
had petrol and oil and water. He had a spare tyre.
Everything was ready.

We were off, before the sun had come to light the
189

AMANULLAH

valley and before the dawn voice of the Iman had cried
from the Mosque. Kabul was busy already, though,
with shivering, cloaked figures, moving hurriedly about
their business, driving cattle and horses out through the
great stone gates.

We were quick through the Customs barrier at the
bridge. They were too sleepy and bored to bother this
morning. We climbed up the hill in the full light of
dawn, and I turned back once to see the old city.

The morning mist lay heavy over the roof-tops.
Smoke rose lazily from a thousand open fires in the
serais. The day-long clatter and hum of the bazaar was
beginning. From the parade ground there came the
long note of a bugle, and already the rifle ranges were
cracking with the chatter of machine-guns. It was still
bitterly cold, as we turned the next loop in the climbing
road. I had seen the last of Kabul, so soon to be
enveloped, not with the smoke of dung fires, but with a
cloud of more pungent and menacing nature.

That driver could certainly handle a car. He pressed
the old vehicle valiantly on, rattled it over the worst bits
of the road, swung round hairpin bends, forced it crazily
down the slopes. A hundred times we edged the loose
stones off the road and down the precipice. We shaved
the inside comers on a hundred turns, skidded and slid,
swerved on a mad career to old tumble-down bridges, and
ran into warmth.

The Frontier gate at Landi Khana, mouth of the
Khyber Pass, shut at sundown. It was just possible,
however, to do the trip in a day providing that we had no
accidents, and no arguments with the Customs gentry.
With the employment of a little bakshish and not a little
tact, I reckoned that we could get to Peshawar that
night. Already, before we had run a couple of hours, I
was visualising the comfort of the hotel in Peshawar,

190

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

a cool bath and clean clothes, a long drink under the
punkahs in the Club.

We stopped once on the way for a cool green melon
and a drink, then on again, bumping over the tracks, on
towards the Khyber. In my mind was already formed
every word of the message I would send predicting the
fall of a King and the wreckage of an ideal. The more
I thought of it, the more I realised how inevitable it was.
Amanullah was doomed.

Jallalabad. We stopped for no more than a refill of
petrol and water. We ran through the Customs post,
distributing rupees to all and sundry. The Customs
gentry were that day in amiable mood. We were well
up to time, and the sun still high in the sky. I worked
out our speed roughly. We would just do it.

A few miles from Dacca, the engine gasped and
spluttered to silence. The feed to the autovac was
blocked, and with a full tank, it was nevertheless hope¬
less to try and find the trouble and remedy it. There
were only twenty miles to go, and an hour and a half to
do it in, on a road that improved now as we slipped down
the hill into the great Dacca Plain. Taking charge from
the dispirited driver, who now blamed Allah for his
troubles, I filled the autovac from the spare can of
petrol, and urged him to save petrol as well as he could,
while I would fill up from the can whenever necessary.
We ran five miles and filled up again.

After a little persuasion, the driver co-operated
admirably in our joint second-splitting efforts at re¬
filling the autovac. Eventually he got the hang of a
system by which we did not get in each other’s way
every quarter of an hour when the engine starved. We
would leap down, he would undo the top cap, and I
would pour the petrol. Then the can was empty, the
rear tank tap impossible to budge, and the precious

191

AMANULLAH

petrol impossible to reach with the old and rusted tools
in his tool-box. I seized the heaviest tyre-lifter and
bashed a hole in the tank, letting the petrol run out half
on to the road and half into the spare can. By this
method I managed to refill the can, and the rest of the
petrol ran off. Two gallons, however, should take us to
the first British station in the Khyber Pass.

On we went, and found that according to instructions
the Dacca officials had duly telephoned down to their
Frontier outpost, telling them to let us through without
inspection and delay. We waved to them, and the sentry
presented arms, letting us through. Just after that, we
ran out of petrol again, and did an extra rapid fill-up
from the spare. Ahead was the last Afghan sentry, out¬
side the Government Telegraph Office, and a hundred
yards beyond, the gate of the Frontier. And the sun
was still lingering behind the nearby hills.

The gate lifted and we were through. The Indian
sentry saluted, and we sighed in relief. That cool bath,
that long drink in the Peshawar Club, seemed very close.

The babu in charge of the British Frontier post came
out, looked at our passports, and retired into his office.
Another babu appeared. Then came the shattering blow,
the incredible anti-climax. We were to go back.

“ Sir,” said the babu, choosing his words and revelling
in his authority. “ Sir, it is too late. It is after six
o’clock.”

I showed him my watch. It marked five o’clock.

“ Sir,” said the babu. “ That is wrong. That is no
doubt Kabul time.”

We protested, raved, tried bribery, implored,
threatened.

Si$,” said the babu, “ you must go back.”

I demanded the right to go to the Khyber Control
Office in Landi Ithana, four miles up the road.

192

WESTERNISED. THE POLICE SET AN EXAMPLE. A GROUP IN KABUL, 1920

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

“ Nobody,” said the babu, “ can pass the Frontier
after six o’clock.”

I demanded the use of a telephone, to inform the
Intelligence Department at Landi Kotal. I walked
towards the entrance to the camp, where there must be
some higher official to whom to apply.

The babu , delighted now in his power, turned out the
Ghurka Guard. Nobody must go into the camp.

“ Here are my rules,” he said. “ You may read them.
They say that none can pass the Frontier after six
o’clock. It is dangerous to be in the Khyber after dusk.
If I let you go, you will not reach Peshawar before eight
o’clock. Then the Peshawar Gate will be closed for the
night. No travellers are allowed in the Pass after dusk.
It is too dangerous.”

“Is it not dangerous, then, on the border, half in
India and half in Afghanistan ? ”

“ Sir, it is more dangerous. But then, you will under¬
stand, we are not responsible. . . .”

A wonderful breed, the babu. He is born with the
makings of a diplomat. The letter of the law is made for
his guidance. He will stick to the letter of the law even
at the risk of his own life—and the safety of others.

The driver turned the car. The gates lifted again. We
were back in Afghanistan for the night, because it was
dangerous to be in the Khyber. Nobody, however, was
now responsible.

“ Where do we sleep ? ” I asked the driver.

“ It is possible,” he replied, “ that you will prefer the
Telegraph Office to returning to Dacca.” And thinking
of that odoriferous village and the entertaining madman,
I chose the Telegraph Office. It would at any rate save
us the trouble of refilling the autovac.

The little, dry, and neglected compound of the Tele¬
graph Office was hot and dusty. Four Persian clerks,

N 193

AMANULLAH

Government employees, rose from their charpoys as we
drove in. An old Indian salaamed. The driver spoke to
him, and announced that accommodation for me would
be found. Food? There would be food. Abed? There
would be a bed. Things were not so bad.

They brought a chair into the garden, and I sat there
in solitary state, while the Persian clerks chattered
lazily, and the old Indian busied about his preparations.
Then he came proudly to me and announced that
chicken pillau would appear very soon. Would I eat
outside, where it was getting cool ? I would.

The sun was now over the hills, and the dusk came
cool and glamorous. It was a strange situation in which
I found myself. Not more than a mile away, I could
hear bugle-calls. Then I heard the pipers playing.
They must be playing outside the Mess, where the officers
were having short drinks before dinner. As I waited
for dinner of chicken pillau and water, I could imagine
the ice clinking in their glasses, the gay and noisy
chatter, the jokes and the banter of a military Mess.

There, all was order and efficiency. Here, all was
hidden mystery, a world very old in guile and wicked¬
ness. There was civilisation and respectability. Here
was a dangerous little corner of the world unvisited by
the feringhe, a no man’s land still. All that lay between
us was that strand of barbed wire, and a babu with his
book of rules and a Ghurka guard.

Nothing is more strict than the Frontier rules of
the Khyber. Though, theoretically, I was in Afghan
territory, actually I was in the tribal region, surrounded
on all sides by the little villages of the hills still un¬
disturbed by any Englishman’s wanderings. Sitting
there, I remembered all the old tales of soldiers who had
been lost in the hills as dusk came on, and never seen
again. There had been one or two recent cases, still

194

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

mysterious, but for which the tribes had paid heavily
in fines and in punishment. It was still a wild land.
The laws of the British in the Khyber were still inflexible,
and still prohibited movement among the soldiers after
nightfall. The hills still held their fanatics, and the
rifle shots, continuing some family feud, still echoed
round the hills sometimes to interrupt the chatter in
the British Messes.

But the old Indian came with chicken and a huge
pile of rice, and I started dinner, alone and very thirsty.

The pillau was very dull, but quite edible. The old
man seemed anxious to talk. He told me that it was
very strange for a Sahib to stay the night at the
Telegraph Office. I agreed. He told me that it was in
fact quite indefensible for a Sahib to stay the night this
side of the Frontier. I agreed.

“ There are badmashes still in the villages,” he said.
I expressed astonishment.

“ The Sahib should have gone to Peshawar, or to
Landi Kotal,” he said. Whole-heartedly I agreed.
Then I heard the bugles calling “ Lights out ” in Landi
Kotal. The notes ripped the silence of the hills. It
was an eerie place, frowned on by the hills on either
side. The Persians yawned and went to sleep.

I saw to the driver, who was already curled up in the
driving seat of the car, fast asleep. Then the old man
came with a hurricane lamp and showed me the way
upstairs. He had fixed up a charpqy in the room, and
had evidently persuaded the Persian clerks to sleep in
the next room. They must have been very crowded,
but they had given me a room to myself. I spread out
my bedding and went to sleep, waking to the chatter
of the clerks just before the sun came up.

Then we pressed a few rupees on the old Indian,,
started the car, and the gate lifted again to admit us

195

AMANULLAH

into British India. The same babu who had refused
me, now let me through, signed my passport, and
smiled.

“ It is dangerous to he round here at night,” he said.
“ The Sahib must remember the difference between
Kabul time and British time. ...”

We climbed up the steep road to Landi Kotal and
drove straight to Peshawar Club for beer. The next
morning the Afghan Legations all over the world were
highly indignant to read that I had predicted the
downfall of Amanullah and the collapse of the whole
ambitious scheme to Westernise the East. My friend
of the Pravda, I learnt, had not sent a word from
Kabul. It had been well worth the trouble.

During the next few weeks I was busy reading the
stilted and slightly contemptuous denials issued by the
Afghan Legations, in India, London, and all over
Europe. In speeches and in communiques the Ministers
issued sarcastic and patronising statements ridiculing
the suggestion that Amanullah’s reforms meant trouble
in Afghanistan. They made interesting reading, and
received wide publicity. But I was prepared to wait
for a few months.

Actually, I had to wait less than two months. The
hint given me by Sir Francis Humphrys, that it would
be to everybody’s advantage that I should leave Kabul,
was well grounded.

But for seven weeks more, no news came out of
Afghanistan. The road to Kabul remained clear of
trouble. More visitors went to the capital. The British
Legation maintained its reputation for hospitality.
The visits of the King to talk with Sir Francis grew
more frequent and more secretive. The rash programme
was still being carried out, with funds shrinking to an
even more alarming margin. Men were starving, and

196

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

dacoits were committing deeds of amazing foolhardiness
and courage in order to steal grain and food. Ricks
were plundered within sight and sound of the Govern¬
ment troops. Discontent was growing, and the Army
was still further in arrears with their pay.

It. was not till half-way through October, however,
that the tide of discontent broke. Even then it was
but a small section of the oppressed community that
dared show their restiveness. Within a few miles of the
Telegraph Office where I had slept the night, the tension
broke. A few score men of the tribe of Shinwaris, most
conservative, backward, and brave of the tribal races,
broke into rebellion against the tax-collectors, routed
a small force of Government troops sent to coerce them,
and declared themselves openly against Amanullah.

The news did not get across the Border. Amanullah
had had minor troubles before, and could easily instruct
his agents abroad to depict this as a small rising due to
inter-communal disagreements and blood feuds. He
did not even take the trouble at first to quash the
rebellion. He despatched a small detachment of troops
to arrest the leaders, and dropped leaflets from aero¬
planes on the surrounding villages, warning the hillmen
of the penalties of disorder and resistance.

It is even doubtful whether Amanullah himself saw
the portent of this trouble. He did not, at any rate,
bother to prepare for a spread of the dissension. He
determined to crush the spirit of his people by a further
show of force. The drastic programme continued, the
taxes still came into the Treasury, wrung from starving
peasants.

The legations in London and in India continued to
issue boastful and optimistic communiques to the Press.
All was well, they said. Amazing progress had been
made. With care and tact, the Afghan nation was

197

AMANULLAH

being weaned from its past of dull ignorance into the
glorious future of emancipation and freedom. Corruption
was being blotted out. Amanullah himself had stated
that he was determined to rid his country of the cany-pf
at its heart. All was well.

Another announcement stated that the Government
cavalry force had been successful against rebel tribes
at Ghirzal, on the Kabul to Gadez road, in the Altimar
Pass. The rebellion, it was stated, had nothing to do
with the new reforms. The Afghan legations were
authorised to deny the rumours that objection to the
new laws had been responsible for the rising. All was
well.

As if in contradiction, however, another item of news
came out of Afghanistan. It was to the effect that
Amanullah had made a speech on the painful subject
of the costs of his tour in Europe. We have seen how
liberal he was with the State funds in his gifts to the
poor of the eleven capitals which he visited. We have
seen the costly entourage which accompanied him.

Yet in that speech, reported in all the newspapers of
the world, Amanullah mentioned that the whole cost
of the tour had not exceeded the sum of £15,000. . . .
It is to be hoped that his importunate questioners were
satisfied. It is to be hoped that the educational schemes
he had introduced to the country, the unpleasant but
doubtless beneficial improvements he had introduced,
and the new ideals that now permeated the Government,
were considered fully worth that sum.

But an even more fanciful argument was to hand.
If they wanted figures, they could have them. If they
wanted justification for the trip, here it was. And
Amanullah, warming to his work, told his astounded
hearers that to set against that expenditure, he had
received presents from various countries valued at the

198

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

surprising total of £4,500,000 ! The mind boggles at
his arithmetic. We have seen the Rolls-Royce presented
by King George, y We have seen the orders conferred
on his proud breast, to which, perhaps, he attached a
monetary value to appease his questioners. There was
then, and may be at this moment, a magnificent chestnut
stallion in a British Government cavalry depot near
Lahore, a present from the King of England. But even
after crediting him with these gifts, it is difficult to
arrive at the stupendous figure with which Amanullah
consoled his critics. Perhaps he added in the date line.

More important than the figures, however, is the fact
that he did take the trouble to explain these delicate
financial matters in public. This did not seem to be
the manner of Amanullah the Fearless, who hitherto
had brooked no criticism from any of his subjects.

This was already recognised, therefore, as a different
matter from the trouble he had had four years before,
when the men of Khost rose up against him, headed by
a queer legendary figure known as the “ Lame Mullah,”
and recruited the sympathy of the whole district against
new laws which were said to be contrary to the Koran.
On that occasion, after a hard though short struggle,
the rebels had been taught a severe lesson, executions
followed, and trials for heresy terrified the ringleaders.

But Amanullah was not altogether in a mood for
forgiveness and excuses. Even in face of this active
disagreement in the south, he pressed on with reforms.
A new staff college was opened at Khurd Zabitan for
cadets, controlled by Turkish officers, by now regarded
in much the same light as Victorian mothers regarded
French novelists. Sixty-five officers were sent to France,
Italy, Germany, and Russia for training, and twenty
came to England. Fifteen students went to Baku for
modem training in oil-fields. Among the importations

199

AMANULLAH

was a foreign financial adviser, who acted as a sort of
inquisitor into the expenses of the State Ministers, and
was highly unpopular in consequence. Persian script
was abolished by Royal decree, though the enterprising
firms had bought typewriters equipped with the com¬
plicated language for all their future bookwork. Latin
script was substituted for general use. And as one of
the final blows to tradition, there came, soon after the
fateful Parliament, an order enforcing the wearing of
European clothes in every public street in Kabul.

The Kabul tailors were not miracle workers. They
had done fairly well over the huge order for the making
of “ European clothes ” for the Members of the first
Afghan Parliament. They were completely vanquished,
however, by the flood of orders that deluged them when
the King’s decree was made known. And the conse¬
quence was that in order to comply with the command,
many mnancially depressed young men of Kabul had to
go to the local dealer for real European clothes and pay
extortionate sums for suits which had their prices doubled
by the stem Afghan Customs. It seemed a delicious
case of turning out Peter’s pockets to pay Paul.

And hardly was that order enforced, to the general
anger of every citizen who disliked making a fool of
himself, than new laws appeared governing his eating
habits. This seemed going a little too far, and it is
certain that the mullahs made full opportunity of the
religious objections to the new order.

It was still officially emphasised that the trouble in
the south was unconnected with these measures, and
that the people of Kabul were still enthusiastic about
the modernity craze that had overtaken them. At last,
however, the pretence could no longer be maintained.
Amanullah himself went to Jallalabad, there to conduct
the operations against the Shinwaris.

200

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

A side-issue was the rising of the ever-ready bands of
marauders and brigands. One such band, headed by a
notorious robber and murderer named Ayab Khan, took,
as their excuse for wholesale robbery, the nationalisa¬
tion decrees issued by the King. Out came all their old
battle-cries. They protested once more that, being
border tribesmen, they owed no more than formal alle¬
giance to Amanullah. Eventually they came out into
the open with public protests, and attacked and killed
a Government servant, later turning on the garrison at
Kahi and capturing the fort. Amanullah boiled with
anger, and sent down his aeroplanes, piloted by Rus¬
sians, who showed their skill and efficiency by dropping
well-aimed bombs on the homes and villages of the out¬
laws, inflicting terrific damage and spreading slaughter
in a thoroughly modern and Western manner.

The rebellion was well started, but it was not till well
into November that it was generally recognised outside
Afghanistan that this was a real movement against
Amanullah’s Westemisation-by-force.

Minor grievances of course entered into the dispute.
Each tribe in the south had its own private complaint.
One was shared between the Shias and Sunnis, two of
the most warlike and independent sects in the whole
country, who claimed aggressively the right to settle
their own little differences without the interference of
the State. Apparently some of Amanullah’s officials
had taken it upon themselves to involve the Govern¬
ment in purely private squabbles, pushing the long arm
of the law into the hills and checking family feuds, and
generally complicating the whole business between the
two tribes when they met in honourable combat. Such
conduct could not be tolerated by worthy Afghan fight¬
ing men, and the peacemaker suffered the usual fate of
his kind.

201

AMANULLAH

Amanullah was now well into civil war. Nor did the
course of justice run so smoothly, in spite of the havoc
caused by the aeroplanes, and the thrills that he ex¬
perienced when at last he saw his troops marching into
battle. For these same troops seemed to have very
regrettable habits. Many of them deserted. Many of
them sold their rifles and equipments to their enemies
in return for food and money, both sadly lacking in all
Government ranks.

It was terribly cold on night duty in the hills that
December. Snow lay four feet deep in the passes. It
was boring and not a little frightening for men who had
joined the Army in the first place for decorative pur¬
pose. And hence a strange feature of the new Afghan
Army. Even in the Khyber Pass, there could be heard,
regularly through the night, occasional rifle shots from
the camps of the Government Army. Though there
could be no possibility of finding a target, and though
it was known that the hillmen would wait to be attacked
in their own fastnesses, the night silence was punctuated
at regular intervals by these solitary shots. The reason
was a very human one. The Afghan sentries, numb
with cold at their posts, were firing occasional rounds
for the sole reason of warming the barrels of their rifles
and using them as radiators. Such unmilitary methods
must have caused the soldier-King acute discomfort and
shame.

The next setback was the capture of Pesh Bolak Fort
from the State troops, a feat that could only have been
performed by the virtual surrender of the garrison. The
daily depletion of the ranks could be noticed. The
pride of Amanullah’s soldierly heart was humbled by
desertions in mass. And to heap humiliation on his
head, there came news from Kabul that revolt had spread
even to the city that seemed so loyal.

202

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

At that moment Amanullah sat in his tent in the
valley near Jallalabad, and bowed his head in disappoint¬
ment. He must have seen the beginning of the end.
The pretence was over. He had lost a gamble which
was bound to finish in one way only. At that moment
he must have tasted a bitterness specially reserved for
the leaders of men who find their trust betrayed. His
still-youthful hopes were dashed to the ground. His
misery was only increased in proportion to the ideals he
had fostered.

And he had been an ambitious man.

203

CHAPTER XIII

THE RISE OF A BANDIT—” ROBIN HOOD OF THE HILLS

THE LEGATION BESIEGED—’PLANES TO THE RESCUE—
AN EPIC OF THE AIR

MANULLAH went back to Kabul with king-
ship collapsing about his cars. The first news
greet him was of a new and terrible person¬
ality in the opposing forces. On the lips of everyone in
Kabul was the name of Bacha Sachao, son of a water-
carrier.

So far as can be learned, it was the first time that his
name had been heard in Kabul. With it came fantastic
stories of his strength, his cruelty, and his daring. It
was said that he strode the hills with the steps of a
giant. He became a will-o’-the-wisp character, appear¬
ing suddenly in the remote villages, pillaging and burn¬
ing, rape and slaughter his maxims of victory. They
said that he was afflicted with an ugliness hardly human,
and that he was dressed with all the magnificence of an
old-time pirate. He revelled in his physical deformities,
and played the joker with Satanic zest.

Other names he had. He robbed, so they said, only
the rich, and with the proceeds of his villainy repaid
the poor. So they called him “ Robin Hood of the hills.”
His Rabelaisian wit, his ingenuity in devising new
schemes of inhuman punishment, and his braggadocio
earned him a terrified respect. And he was no figment
of imagination, but a living figure who now menaced
Kabul, and with it Amanullah’s kingdom.

Amanullah listened while he was told of the imminent

204

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

descent of his new enemy on the capital. Bacha Sachao,'
it was said, had toured the villages of the plains, gathered
round him the most j violent characters and the hardiest
fighters, and was even now on his swift way to lay Kabul
waste. The King’s answer was quick and to the point.
The Government printing presses that very day poured
out notices in the vernacular.

“ Its 500 Reward !

For capture, dead or alive, of Bacha Sachao, the
Brigand.

Sd. Amanullah.

The notice was posted up on every telegraph post on
the Kabul-Jallalabad Road, on every wall in Kabul
City, on a house in every village within a radius of
twenty miles north of the capital. Bacha Sachao replied
in characteristic style. One day the notice was torn
down, and another, roughly made, was substituted.

“ Rs 1000 Reward!

For capture, dead or alive, of Amanullah, the Infidel.

Sd. Bacha Sachao.”

A joke, this, which well suited the Afghan mentality.

And this Robin Hood of the hills, boasting and threat¬
ening, went his triumphant way, stirring up the villages
against the infidel who now sat on a tottering throne.

First news of the water-carrier’s son came in early
December, but his name had already been heard for
some months in the northern region where he held sway.
Already the rebellion had spread to the whole State.
Already the Government troops had suffered a decisive
defeat. And, at long last, the outside world had come
to realise that this was no mere local rising which could
be put down after a single campaign.

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AMANULLAH

Jallalabad was the first to suffer. Being near the
scene of the first rising, the local people had had oppor¬
tunities of seeing the slight resistance of the Govern¬
ment troops, and had long cast envious eyes on the
Royal Palace there and its stock of valuable goods, im¬
ported from the West and therefore surely responsible
for the present trouble.

On December 3 large bands of tribesmen, having first
destroyed the bridges, had appeared outside the gates
of the fair city. The two thousand troops stationed
there at first stood firm, and resisted every attempt at
negotiation. The men of the city were terrified. They
knew well enough that in the event of an attack, the
lawless hillmen who now menaced them would allow no
qualms to check a wholesale sack of the rich bazaar,
the despoiling of women, their delight in the murder of
able-bodied men. And on the walls of Jallalabad, late
that evening, there appeared the old men of the city,
holding Korans in their hands, in supplication to the
waiting tribesmen outside.

“ You are not fighting us,” cried the old men. “ You
are fighting Government troops. Go, then, to the mili¬
tary lines, and leave the city alone. We of Jallalabad
are with you, and will pray for you. We believe in your
protests against the Kafir who calls himself King. Leave
us, therefore, and leave our city. Your enemies are the
troops! ”

One by one the old men dropped from the wall, shot
by the casual rifle-fire of the besiegers. Then they
entered the city, and the smoke rose high above the
Afghan Plain that night, while in the red glow of burning
houses, there rose the shrieks of those who had dared
to argue in the face of an Afghan tribesman.

They made short work of the troops. Eight hundred
lay dead the next morning. The rest deserted. The

206

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

raiders collected their precious new rifles and openly
issued a challenge to the King whom they had called
Kafir, or Infidel.

Their next advance was on the Royal Palace, now
unguarded, and in the dawn they revelled in such a
glorious welter of destruction that even the Plain was
lit for miles around by the flames from that ornate,
well-stocked, and pleasant building. The red glow
showed the demented bands of tribesmen holding orgy
of destruction among the “ infidel’s ” Western imports.
Furniture from Regent Street, brocades from Bond
Street, carpets from the Rue de la Paix, costly presents
from the crowned heads and the Presidents of Europe,
were piled on the hungry flames.

Revenge was sweet and savage. The tribesmen yelled
their ecstasy, piled more and more on the flames, and
triumphed in the greatness of Allah who had given them
this reward for their patience. For two days the flames
did their work, and then the wrecked and pillaged city,
razed to the ground, became the feasting ground of the
vultures. The tribesmen departed, with a burnt and
blackened city as their challenge to Amanullah.

His reply was the suggestion of a jirga , and a truce.
It was, indeed, officially held, though it is doubtful
whether very many of the insurgents heard about it.
From the Arg, the great fort which is part of the Kabul
Palace grounds, he issued a new declaration cancelling
some of his latest edicts. But it was too late. The
effect was nil.

At one stroke he abolished the law decreeing European
clothing in Kabul. But this was in the manner of an
anti-climax, for there were few who remained faithful
to the law in these days. He further abolished his
objectionable decree prohibiting polygamy among the
officials of the State. He tried to patch up a truce with

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the mullahs, now led by the formidable Mullah of
Chaknaur. He was too late. The mullahs had suffered
long enough the gradual dwindling of their prestige,
and were determined to reinstate themselves in power
by more drastic methods. They even seemed to be
siding with the water-carrier’s son, a strange course, for
he was unclean in the sight of Allah, and of one of the
lowest and most servile castes in the country.

Bacha Sachao, however, interspersed his bloodthirsty
threats with holy oaths, and the name of Allah was
often on his lips. Everything he did, apparently, was
in the cause of Allah. The mullahs, doubtless with
tongues in their cheeks, lent him their support, seeing
in him a champion for the lost privileges of the priests.

The sole remaining arm of his services upon which
Amanullah could rely were the Russian pilots and their
aeroplanes. He sent them on extensive tours of the
country, armed with leaflets, which he had dropped in
every large village. In the leaflets he reminded his
people of the certain misery they would incur by their
opposition to the King. He informed them of his
recent concessions to popular demand, and assured
them, speaking presumably on behalf of Allah, that not
only in this world, but in the next, they would be
condemned to an existence of sorrow and misery. Once
again, the effect was nil, and the next time the pilots
soared away from Kabul, they carried bombs instead
of leaflets as their cargo.

All the roads were now impassable. Bridges were tom
up to prevent the movement of troops. Great logs had
been hauled across the roads. The telegraph lines were
cut. Kabul was isolated. Fears began to be entertained
for the safety of the British Legation.

There were, so far as was known, sixteen British
subjects, of whom four were women and three were

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

children. There were eight Indian women on the staff,
with five children. The Legation had no wireless
instrument, either to receive or transmit messages, for
owing to some prejudice, the Afghan authorities had
objected to the proposal for such an instrument to be
in the possession of the foreign representatives. The
telegraph line was broken. Messages by hand were
uncertain and dangerous. And for several weeks there
had been no news of any sort from the British Minister.
Even in November, early in the trouble, only two mails
had got through from Kabul.

There could be no possibility of sending help by road.
The religious fanaticism of the rebels had taken a
strange turn, and their venom was now directed against
every inanimate object in any way connected with the
King’s Westernisation programme. The ruins of twenty-
six Italian lorries, gutted by fire, stood on the Peshawar-
Kabul road. Travellers were held up and robbed.
There could be no sense in risking even disguised
messengers on the route.

The Legation itself was in a dangerous situation. It
was in fact directly in the line of fire between the few
loyal Government troops and the artillery of the rebels,
and although there had as yet been no pitched battle
in Kabul, there was every likelihood of one beginning
very soon.

On the 18th of December, therefore, a lone British
scout circled over Kabul City and swooped lower near
the Legation, neatly dropping a package in the com¬
pound. The pilot saw it hastily retrieved, and circled
again to await a reply. Figures ran out of the Legation
with white strips of paper and linen. These they placed
on the ground, making a message. “ All’s well,” it
read. “ Fly high. Don’t attempt to land.”

At the same time it was officially and very tardily

209

o

AMANULLAH

announced by Army Headquarters in India that there
had been a strange accident a few days before this
incident. A Government communique stated that a
British scouting machine, flying over Kabul, had got
into difficulties, and had made a forced landing near the
city. The pilots were safe, and it had been ascertained
that they had gained the shelter of the Legation. Only
after some inquiries was it learnt that they had in fact
landed on the Government flying ground, still in the
possession of Amanullah’s troops, and had retired safely
to the Legation, carrying certain instruments from their
machine.

The naive statement was thought likely to hide the
real truth, to the effect that by a simple ruse, and
probably with the consent of Amanullah, a wireless
transmitting instrument and at least one wireless expert
had been introduced into the Kabul Legation.

Meanwhile, things were going from bad to worse with
Amanullah. He had seen two forts, close to Kabul,
surrender to the rebels. Desertions were now common.
The very real fear existed from day to day that Bacha
Sachao would appear at the gates of Kabul and wipe it
free of any vestige of Royal family, modernisation,
foreigners, or indeed any traces of the much-boasted
new regime.

Russians, Germans, French, and Italians realised that
their lives were in perpetual danger. At the same time
they appreciated that, for some unknown reason, the
British Legation offered the greatest shelter from the
terror both within and without the gates of Kabul.
Many of them applied for, and were offered, accommoda¬
tion in that great white house on the outskirts of the
city, over which flew the Union Jack.

Although in considerable danger, two Englishmen
attached to the Legation made their way outside the

210

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

walls in the dusk, and conducted into safety several
European women who were afraid to move from their
houses. Food was scarce in the Legation, but every¬
thing had been long ago arranged in case of such a
catastrophe, and it was assured by secret messages
from the British Minister that the tinned food kept in
stock would last a considerable time.

The interior of the Legation took on the character of
an overcrowded but orderly fort. Women slept in the
basement, and their comfort and their morale was well
cared for by Lady Humphrys. Sandbags were prepared
in case of dire need, and the women were set to work
making bandages in the event of any of the guards
being hit when the real attack on the Royal Palace,
now hourly awaited, should begin.

It was hardly thought that the rebels would turn their
attention to the British Legation, and Sir Francis
Humphrys was in full confidence that he would be able

to keep British territory free from molestation. It was,

however, as well to be on the safe side, and the grisly
history of Englishmen in Kabul must have caused him
some anxious forebodings.

The Legation was particularly liable to the stray
shots from both sides. Sir Francis knew enough about
the mechanical efficiency of bo^ 1 Afghan tribesmen
and Government troops to be aware that very many
of the shells from the artillery, when brought into
use, would fall sadly astray* H was hmdty to be
expected that the British Legation, so unfortunately
placed between the two opposing sides, would escape
scot-free

Two days before Christmas a decisive decision was
made. Some days before that I had heard a rumour
in India that the women would be evacuated by aero¬
plane. It was, indeed, strongly felt in India that such

211

AMANULLAH

a step should be taken without delay. And at half-past
ten one morning, the Kabulis must have been amazed
to see a great Vickers bomber, its wings marked with the
circles of the British Air Force, circling over the city
once and alighting gently on the Afghan Government
landing-ground. Nobody yet knew what would be the
outcome of that courageous move.

It is presumed, however, that steps had been taken
to ensure that its arrival and its departure would he
safe from the attentions of either side. Amanullah’s
anxiety to prevent the embroilment of foreigners in the
civil war was well known. The safeguarding of the
ticklish operation from the hostility of the rebel troops,
however, was another matter. It can only be assumed
that Sir Francis Humphrys, like a wise neutral, had
managed to extract promises from both sides for the
safe conduct of the machine.

The aeroplane had come from Peshawar, and had
made the journey of 140 miles direct in an hour and a
half. It had traversed country of the wildest description.
Anywhere on the route, a mechanical failure would have
meant disaster. Quite apart from the hostile and
inflamed tribesmen and brigands who haunted the
country, there was, ever present, the risk of a forced
landing in that mountainous territory.

The temperature was several degrees below freezing-
point in Kabul. The pilots froze, even in their electrically
warmed suits. Every flight was a chance in the dark,
for the coming of more snow was expected any day,
and a snowstorm would mean certain disaster in the
bad visibility.

All these points were taken into consideration when,
for the first time, aeroplanes were used for the evacuation
of the besieged. History was being made, by young
casual adventurers who set off from Peshawar on an

212

i i t i 4 4 \^r 4 s^r t *o«- .

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

errand of mercy dramatic in its results and noteworthy
in its success.

That cold morning, the day before Christmas Eve,
twenty women and children were hurried from the pro¬
tecting walls of the British Legation. They were bundled
rapidly into the huge cabin of the ’plane. They brought
with them only pathetic little parcels of precious
possessions, and were wrapped up roughly with rugs,
leather coats, and scarves belonging to Air Force
officers. Among them w r as Lady Humphrys, who
waved a farewell to her husband, well dressed and
debonair as ever, as he saw to the rapid departure of the
little party. The ’plane set its nose again for the south,
and an hour and a half later landed on the Peshawar
flying-ground with its precious human cargo.

That was the first of a steady programme which
continued until the first week in February- Nearly
every day, ’planes set off from Peshawar. Often they
were prevented by bad visibility, but often they set
off in spite of the threat of snow and an early mist which
clouded the hills. By the 7th of February, when the
last trip was made to bring Sir Francis Humphrys, and
the last remaining members of the Legation, no less
than 308 men, women, and children had been trans¬
ported to safety. There were British, Indians, Germans,
Italians, and French. There was not a single casualty
or accident in the whole operation, save when a German
woman stepped into the sweep of the propellers while
waiting at Kabul, and was killed.

During the latter flights, also, Amanullah had gone,
and the safeguarding of the ’planes while they were on
the ground at Kabul was a more delicate matter, as
will be seen. The engines were never able to stop
while on the ground. To save time, the propellers were
whirring during the whole period that the passengers

213

AMANULLAH

were being bundled into the cabins. More troop-
carriers came from Cairo and Baghdad to help in the
work. There was never a hitch, though every expert
in the Air Force waited with bated breath while the
machines were on their journeys.

One of the refugees reached Lahore after her flight
from Kabul with only the clothes she stood up in. She
was Mrs. Isaacson, an American woman on her honey¬
moon. Her husband and she had essayed a trip round
the world, and had arrived in Kabul just before the
road was destroyed and the bridges burned. In spite
of offers to take him back to India and safety with his
wife, Mr. Isaacson refused to abandon his Ford car, and
after sticking out the siege of Kabul, drove over the
hills to Kandahar and eventually arrived in Quetta,
where I met him, very happy with two Afghan wolf¬
hounds which he had collected. That honeymoon had
already embraced a rebellion in China, and was further
enlivened by the downfall of a regime in Afghanistan.
A wonderful breed, the American motorists. . . .

Rescue of the women besieged in Kabul had been
effected not a day too early. On December 28, the
tense and fretful forces joined issue, and there raged in
the outskirts of the city a battle which was destined to
be protracted and savage. It lasted a full ten days and
nights, though fitful and indecisive, before either side
cracked under the strain.

Bacha Sachao was now in the thick of the fighting.
He sent jeering messages to the King’s forces, with
threats of the ingenious deaths that they would die.
He exposed himself foolhardily to the stray bullets that
whistled round the outskirts of the city. He was here,
there, and everywhere. None could resist his bravado
and his examples of bravery. There was come to Kabul
a real leader of men.

214

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

As an added encouragement to the rebels, they had
behind them now the full support of the mullahs. The
latter had conveniently forgotten the fact that Bacha
Sachao was the humble son of a water-carrier, and of
the lowest caste in the country. They ignored for the
time being the fact that association with him meant
the defiling of their bodies and their own high prestige.
They were always blessed, as has been seen before, with
sound common sense, and presumably they considered
that the will of Allah could best be served by linking
their forces with this rampaging outlaw of the hills.
Any method was good enough to get rid of Amanullah,
the infidel, even though the services of another religious
outcast were to be condoned. Allah, they judged, would
be tolerant in these little details.

They worked well and successfully in the ranks of the
rebel soldiery. They promised glory for the wounded
in battle, and eternal peace for the dead. They pro¬
phesied the end of warfare with the end of Amanullah,
though perhaps this argument was ill-chosen in view of
the splendid time being had by all. They drew atten¬
tion to the large Government granaries which would
soon be at their disposal, and unceasingly stressed the
religious motives of this movement to rid Allah of a
tyrant.

An even more satisfactory promise was that of revenge
on the foreign officers and officials on whom they laid
the blame for their present troubles. In particular, they
resolved to exterminate the hated Russians who now
piloted the Government aeroplanes. Amanullah, if he
thought to break their spirit with the daily shower of
bombs, fundamentally misjudged his own people. The
mere fact of employing Russians as incendiaries, to
slaughter them in such impersonal and unxomantic
maimer, hardened the spirit of revolt against him. The

512

AMANULLAH

Russians were to pay a terrible price for their participa¬
tion.

The attitude, traditional in the Afghan, of hostility
to the foreigner on principle, was now to be clearly
noticeable.

Though so far the rebels had respected the property
of foreigners, and had not attempted any attack on the
legations, the text of a new demand sent to Amanullah
showed their feelings. They did not promise anything.
Their declaration was in the nature of a statement of
their grievances. And prominent among these was the
presence of foreign legations in their capital. Un¬
doubtedly they regarded the diplomatic relations with
other countries as the chief causes of their troubles.
The declaration gave full satisfaction to the mullahs,
who saw that with a little diplomacy they could divert
these sentiments into a renewal of the old prestige they
had enjoyed.

But at the moment, motives and ideals were sub¬
jugated to action. The troops were having interesting
experiments with the guns. Only a few of them pro¬
fessed familiarity with the artillery, but they were always
willing to try. And day by day the guns boomed, and
the rebels pumped shot and shell in the vague direction
of the Palace, revelling in an orgy of destruction and
considering themselves fortunate if the shell-bursts were
observed to be near their mark.

More and more irregular troops were pouring into the
old city. Every outlaw, absent from Kabul many years
through fear of the new regime, now came down from
the fastnesses of the hills to make merry in a city of
chaos. The dregs of the mountain bands who had
ravaged villages and pillaged farms and outlying ham¬
lets, now surged into the alleyways of Kabul. The word
had spread rapidly. There would be no retribution for

216

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

the outcast in the exciting and pleasure-loving capital
any more.

The wine shops were full. The brothels were the scene
day and night of uproarious, fighting crowds. The shop¬
keepers kept a wary eye on the temper of the mob.
The money-changers hid their golden and copper heaps
away from the sight of men. There were no police.
They had reverted to civilian clothes and civilian occu¬
pations. Kabul was on the spree in its own bloodthirsty
way.

There are no figures of the casualties on either side.
It is fair to assume that they did not reach any startling
number. Eye-witnesses have said, however, that the
streets were foul with the dead bodies, and it can be
assured that arrangements for the succour of the
wounded were not very elaborate. They died where
they had fallen.

Every public service was neglected. The water supply
was long since cut. The streets were left with their
debris unmoved. The ponies that drew the little native
carts through the bazaar often shied at a body lying in
the gutter.

The electric light soon failed. Nobody minded.
Kabul reverted to its customary state. Everyone was
very happy, very boastful, very bloodthirsty when
thought was given to the remnants of Amanullah’s
defenders, and remarkably bawdy in language and
deed.

The battle grew fiercer and more concentrated. The
Palace must be a shambles by now. Still the defenders
held on.

One or two loyal soldiers had been captured, and their
execution in the public highway provided the besiegers
with a welcome diversion. Some were crucified. Some
were shot. Some were beaten and tortured before being

217

CsS? 5 ) l&l l&k «*£*> (<^1 ttfS^J ts£?J c^ Ce£S=^ td£?J C^

AMANULLAH

left for dead in the streets. It was all very entertaining
for the Kabuli.

Meanwhile the aeroplanes came daily to the landing-
ground, collected their quota of German and French
and Italian and Russian refugees, and returned to
Peshawar.

New Year passed, and the fort still held its own.
Food was short, but Amanullah still resisted the con¬
centrated attacks on his domain. Not till the 6th of
January was there any indication of the patience of
Bacha Sachao being exhausted. And as dusk fell, he
decided on a last concentrated shelling of the King’s
Palace, a climax to the ten days and nights of steady
battering.

218

CHAPTER XIV

HELL BREAKS LOOSE—THE SPEECH THAT SAVED A SLAUGHTER
—FLIGHT OF A KING—THE THREE-DAY RULER—A
MYSTERY TRAIN THROUGH INDIA

T HAT night, January 6, 1929, hell broke loose
in Kabul. Old Bala Hissar in ruins looking
over the city, with a wealth of bloody memories
saturating the old stones, could surely never have known
a position of such delicacy. The scene was lit by the
flames from granaries and houses on the outskirts of
the city. Up in the hills, at Paghman, there was a glow
in the sky which promised ill for some of the modern
buildings and the fancy, elaborate new cinema.

In Kabul bazaar itself there was darkness. Every
shop was shuttered and barred. Men hurried through
the streets, watching their step and peering round the
corners before they advanced further. There, was a
noisy gathering in one of the compounds, and it is evi¬
dent that the old Afghan had broken his bonds of
abstinence for just that night.

But out near the Royal Palace, and in the roads
leading about the foreign legations, the noise reached
its crescendo.

No history book will ever tell the full details of how
Sir Francis Humphrys persuaded both sides in a bloody
domestic war to keep off British soil. No bald explana¬
tion will describe why only sixty shells were found in
the British Legation after that night of horror. The
secret is with the present High Commissioner for Iraq,
and perhaps he will admit that he does not really under-

219

AMANULLAH

stand why his advice to the two opposing armies, the
one royal and the other violently revolutionary, should
have spared the property and the lives of hated English¬
men and foreigners.

Amanullah hourly counted the number of men remain¬
ing faithful to him. They were growing less in the col¬
lapsing Palace. The women were in the basement, on
their knees in prayer, appealing to Allah to save them
from the mob that howled at the gates and directed
frequent rifle fire at every window and loophole.

Heavy shot rained into the Palace. The compound
was a churned-up shambles. The great rooms, filled
with the wreckage of furniture, silks, and brocades
bought during the London visit, were strewn with the
dead and dying. One room gaped open to the dark sky.
Every moment there came the crash of falling masonry.

But through the chaos there stalked Amanullah, a
smoking rifle in his hands. He was sweating and white¬
faced. His clothes were torn, and the chalk of the
crumbling walls was over him. He was unhurt by the
bullets, but it could be seen that he had had some
narrow escapes.

But his eyes flashed still, even in the hour when he
knew he was beaten. He had seen treachery in his own
house. He had shot down four men whom he had seen
leaving for the shelter of the crowd outside. He knew
he was finished.

Some few of his last faithful followers had already
been captured by the rebels. From the shattered win¬
dow he could see the brilliant lights of the execution
place, whither they were dragged after being shot. He
knew that, within a few hours at the most, his probable
fate would be there, in the hands of men whose blood-
lust was up.

There were many children in the basement with the

220

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

women. Fat Inayatullah was with him in the central
court, perhaps seeing at last that there must be some¬
thing in this training for warfare. . . . Relatives and
friends and courtiers were there, directing the occasional
fire of the soldiers from the upper storeys.

But bullets were precious. The Palace was never an
armoury, and he knew now that the mob from the hills
had broken their way into the arsenal and were using,
for the first time in their lives, new Italian and French
rifles, with which they were delighted, and thousands
of rounds per man. They had reached, too, the heavy
artiEery, so long the prize of AmanuUah’s heart.

There came again the boom of a gun, and the Palace
rocked with the shock as the compound was churned
up once more with high explosive. The sheUs were
coming over the British Legation, most of them sadly
missing their mark, but many of them being sufficiently
close to make AmanuUah realise that sooner or later a
lucky shot would crumple up the remains of his last
bolting hole.

From behind, came a reply from the last of his gaUant
band of artiUerymen who had remained loyal. The shell
screamed over the British Legation, and the crash of
its landing near the old parade ground caused him to
wonder whether by chance one might strike the arsenal
and end, once and for aU, the history of Kabul and aU
its inhabitants.

Only sixty sheUs were so wide of the mark as to faU
in the Legation. About half this number failed to
explode. But, often enough, the desperate King must
have given a thought to how Sir Francis was faring.

As a fact, conditions in the Legation were much better
than in the Royal Palace. One or two of the outlying
residences were razed to the ground. The structure was
pitted with buUet holes, and sheUs had torn off portions

221

AMANULLAH

of the walls. Inside, Sir Francis Humphrys ensured
that, except for the guards at their posts, no man should
expose himself to danger. The guards were instructed
not to fire at any cost, but to preserve the neutrality of
the Legation. The Union Jack still flew at the flag-pole,
and the outer gates were closed, with but a small guard
in the guardhouse to deal with any who might seek to
break in.

At any moment the temper of the mob might be
turned against the British. Fortunately, Sir Francis
was the best known and the most popular of all the
ambassadors in Kabul. He was known, not only in the
city, but in far-away villages where he had rested the
night on shooting expeditions.

An Afghan never forgets. They recalled his familiarity
with their language, his sympathy with their problems,
and, perhaps of primary importance, his love of shikar
and his prowess after game. He had allowed them to
finger his rifles, had shown many of the villagers the
latest thing in bullets, and had talked to them like
brothers on their kindred subject of sport in their
native hills.

Lady Humphrys had often accompanied him on these
trips. She had camped the night outside their villages,
had thanked them for their gifts of milk and food, and
had shown herself ready and willing to interest herself in
their fives.

Perhaps those shooting expeditions were responsible
to a great extent for the preservation of the British
Legation that night, and prevented the repetition of yet
another of those horrors which had cost Britain dear in
fives in Afghanistan’s bloody history.

But nevertheless everything was prepared in the
Legation. The basement was sandbagged. Every man
was given his task to perform.

222

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

Once at least. Sir Francis had to sally out from the
shelter of the Legation to deal with arrogant crowds
outside the walls. I recalled how, a month before, I had
asked him how he would deal with an armed mob round
the Legation walls. He had but a small guard of Indian
cavalry, mainly for State occasions, and there could be
no possibility of the Legation withstanding a long siege
against an armed force.

“ I have thought of that,” he told me. “ And I will
tell you what I would do. I would talk to them. . . .”

The thing sounds fantastic, even in the fantastic
history of Afghanistan. But when danger threatened.
Sir Francis stood on the wall, in full view of them, and—
talked.

Nobody will ever know what he said. These con¬
versations do not appear in diplomatic reports. In any
case, to judge by his knowledge of their language, and
to judge further by the Rabelaisian nature of all their
similes and epigrams, the speech that saved the British
Legation in Kabul was not couched in terms that would
be edifying to the British Foreign Office. . . .

Your Afghan is beautifully emphatic in his choice of
terms, but he is not always ladylike in his selection. His
illustrations of an argument, and much of his conversa¬
tion, are in the form of allegory, and are drawn from the
necessary but seldom mentioned activities of life.

So Sir Francis spoke, a white-clad figure on the high
walls, while below him there ranged two hundred of the
wildest characters in a wild country. They had tasted
blood. They had seen men dragged from their homes,
shot, and burned. They had seen the last agonies of men
on the cross. They had seen the splinters of men blown
from cannon—all in that night of fire and blood and
pillage.

Here was the Legation. Inside were representatives of

223

AMANULLAH

the Power that Afghans had always subconsciously
believed to be their oppressors- Had not this dog of an
Amanullah, whom now they were going to tread into the
dust, learned his modern foolishness and his heresies in
the very country of these white puppies ?

“ Come,” said their leaders, “ away with them 1 ”

But they listened to the man talking to them from the
Legation walls. He was unarmed. He had a cigarette
in one hand. He laughed at them. He reviled them,
cursed them, called them such names as are given only
to an enemy firmly in your grasp. Then he joked. He
seemed to enjoy his position. He made them laugh at
his own “ discomfiture,” as he put it. He told them
there was nothing for them in the Legation, and that in
any case they might not touch it if there were. This was
not Afghanistan, inside these walls. This was his house,
and the house of his Government!

“ Begone then, Afghans, I have nothing to do with
your troubles ! I will not interfere if you do not interfere
with me 1 Your leader, even, the Robin Hood of the
hills, has promised me security from you. Bacha
Sachao has told you begone about your business 1 I will
have no more of you . . . 1 ”

And while they still listened, he had jumped down
from the wall, and made his way into the Legation.

The mob looked at one another- “ Evidently we did
wrong,” they must have said to each other. “ He has
nothing to do with that Amanullah. And we have
known him as a great hunter. . . .”

The British Legation was saved that night, by a bit of
eloquence (and a nice bit of well-chosen vulgarity ?)

Kabul was once more the scene of riotous and merry
slaughter. Old feuds were ended, by the elimination of

224

BACfU SACHAO, THE BANDIT KING, MAKING
A SPEECH

HENCHMEN OF A BANDIT KING. BACHA SACHAO’S FOLLOWERS

'h r

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

one of the parties. Old family quarrels were continued
with the knife instead of through the law. A few houses
were sacked for loot. A few wealthy shopkeepers were
mourned ever afterwards by their relatives.

Ram Prasad, my old friend of the white breeches, was
found in the morning with his throat cut. He had, it was
said, extorted too great a tax from all who wished to
enter the service of the Kang in his Majesty’s garage.
He would no longer drive the big black Rolls that was a
present from the King of England. He would no longer
show me or anybody else what the little sporting Rolls
could do on Kabul’s best public highway.

Ram Prasad had overdone it, and he died in the same
artistic manner as many another minor potentate died
that night.

Dawn broke. The sun struggled through the mists of
the hills before it reached another mist lying over Kabul.
The black cloud drifted, not from the dew gathered by
the sunbeams, but from the carnage of the night. Kabul
was scarred and eaten away with fire.- Hardly a wall
stood whole outside the native city. Blackened ruins
showed their ugly sides, and in many a road there were
the loathsome remains of a public execution. The smell
hung heavily on the morning air. Burnt flesh could
be traced, and the sharp tang of gunpowder. But
the Palace still stood, wrecked but inviolate, . for
the mob never knew that inside its walls only a few
survived to fight on under the whip of Amanullah’s
tongue.

The attackers had drawn off, to reap the advantage of
their descent into Kabul from their lonely villages. The
townspeople took the easier course. There was food for
the asking. There was drink for those who wished to
celebrate their immunity from the bullets of “the
traitor King.” The merchants bribed them off from

p 225

AMANULLAH

further attacks on property by giving them the neces¬
sities of life.

And while they rested throughout that morning ;
while Bacha Sachao, the Robin Hood of the hills, drew
ever closer to the capital, issuing threats as he came;
while Sir Francis Humphrys assured the British Foreign
Office that all was well; there came over the hills from
the north a big monoplane with the identification marks
of Russia on its wing.

Amanullah the Brave was off.

Some time during the night he had suffered the last
indignity that can be heaped upon a ruler. He had seen
his dreams crumbling with his Palace. He had tasted
the bitterness of utter and final defeat. He had had to
recall with cynicism those fine words of hope for the
future which I had heard him mutter only a few months
past.

Sadly he announced his decision to his forlorn rela¬
tives. Sadly he bid them gather up their belongings, as
many as could fit into the cockpit of an aeroplane.
Where could he go for safety ?

And with a gesture that might have been one of
defiance, but proved to be one of pathos, he chose
Kandahar. There might still remain some of the faithful
who had followed the most eagerly his plans for the
future. Stubbornly he refused to believe that this was
more than a raid engineered by brigands of the hills for
his undoing. Never for a moment did he see the down¬
fall of a Kingdom. But the Royal Seal was used again.
With a pathetic trust in the unchangeability of king-
ship, he issued a new decree reversing his orders for the
modernisation of the East. He issued the greatest
retrograde order ever made under the Royal Seal of any
country.

“ Back to the primitive ! ” was the keynote.

226

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

“ As you were ! You are the East, and cannot ever
adopt the customs of the West! Throw away your
Western trappings, your boots, walking-sticks, over¬
coats, French hats, German suits, and British manners !
Return to the blanket if you need warmth, and to the
knife if you need defence against a foe ! The West is not
for you ! Afghanistan must go back, not forward .. .! ”

Such was the meaning of his last Order as a King.
Perhaps at the last his tongue was in his cheek. Kabul
was already back fifty years. Not a clerk in the city but
reverted to his old order of manners, clothing, headgear.
The mullahs were up again. The old religious formalities
returned, the old superstitions and beliefs returned, with
double their force, overnight.

Then the King dashed out of the ruined Palace,
hurried wife and children into the waiting machine, and
was shot up in the air, above the city which he had tried
to modernise and had reduced to smoking ruin.

One more order he made in those last minutes before
he left Kabul for ever. Again with a touch of irony, he
appointed the next King of Afghanistan. His eyes must
have roved round the little company of his friends, seek¬
ing a figure who might prove more acceptable to the
people. His eye lit upon his fat, contented-looking, elder
brother.

“ Inayatullah will be King,” he said.

And perhaps he chuckled at the joke, as he had always
chuckled at his brother’s troubles.

Those who followed closely events in Afghanistan will
always discuss the important point of what part Sir
Francis Humphrys played in the departure of Amanullah
from Kabul. Newspapers representing every view¬
point of the political side of the affair, all had their own

227

AMANULLAH

opinions. It was vigorously denied in diplomatic circles
that the British Minister took any part in domestic
politics in Afghanistan, but it may perhaps be reasoned
that for the swift settlement of affairs with as little
trouble as possible, Sir Francis did to some extent
facilitate the exit of Amanullah unimpeded and without
personal danger.

He was known to have some influence both on
Amanullah and on Bacha Sachao, the man who alone
could control the unruly mob in Kabul. Unless Sir
Francis exercised this influence, it is difficult to under¬
stand why the fanatical Afghan mob, rabid and danger¬
ous against those with even the slightest connection
with the King, did not answer the appeals of the mullahs
to wreak the last vengeance on Amanullah.

It was a “ mullahs’ revolution ” to a large extent.
Amanullah had been the greatest oppressor they had
experienced, possibly in all Afghan history. The
mullahs had stirred up the people not only in Kabul
but in the countryside. They played on the strong but
dormant religious feelings of the mob to such an extent
that on that night they were willing to go to the last
extremity to avenge their wrongs. Eye-witnesses state
that on their lips were religious cries, not complaints
against the burdens of taxation.

It is therefore highly possible that, purely with the
interests of the country at heart, Sir Francis “ interfered ”
to the extent of persuading Bacha Sachao to give Aman¬
ullah safe exit, perhaps without letting his unruly
supporters into the secret. At any rate, as will be shown
later, when Bacha Sachao eventually came to his
horrible death in Kabul, some of the allegations made
against him by his former followers were to the effect
that he had connived at the escape both of Amanullah
and Inayatullah,

228

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

Whatever the truth, the fact of aiding AmanuUah
out of the besieged Palace would reflect nothing but
credit on Sir Francis. His departure was all that was
needed to restore peace temporarily, and to relieve the
danger to the British Legation, situated in such a
critical position in the line of fire between two opposing
forces.

The transfer of power from the hated AmanuUah to
his brother, however, could not be expected to assuage
the stiU rising tempest of anger against the new regime.
Matters had gone too far for that. Inayatullah was
known as a weak man who would not be likely to be too
afflicted with the reforming mania of his brother. It
might well be expected that the country would return
to the original status of slovenliness and backwardness
that suited so well the mullahs. But once begun, there
was no stopping the bands of armed and desperate men
who swarmed into Kabul.

They had had a taste of power. A howl of rage rose
when it was reahsed that their prey had escaped. So
far as they knew, there would be no great change now
that the weak elder brother was in charge at the Palace.
But what with the feasting and the revelry, the
generosity of the frightened shopkeepers, and the
freedom with which the mob could loot and piUage the
rich granaries and storehouses, there was little ambition
to proceed further with the “ cleaning-up ” campaign.

High spirits there were in Kabul during the next four
days. There was no law, no order, save the old one of
might being right.

These were heroes fighting for their faith. So said
the mullahs, always in the rearguard, pressing their
point with many a teUing phrase likely to impress the
ignorant hillmen. Indeed, the religious grounds for
this barbarous campaign must have been utilised to the

229

AMANULLAH

full during the few days’ cessation from hostilities
following the departure of Amanullah.

Bacha Sachao, bold and bad, was away in the hills
after his first fly-by-night visit to Kabul. It was said
that he had seven-league-boots, this fabulous figure,
and could cover the mountains in half the time taken
by an ordinary man. He scoured the mountain villages
for recruits to his cause. He was ruthless, taking no
refusal of his demands, and promising huge rewards for
converts to his cause.

Then he came back to Kabul, at the head of a yet
more rascally and numerous band of hillmen. The
hours of Inayatullah were numbered. And it is probably
only through Bacha Sachao’s absence on a new recruiting
tour that the five-day King of Afghanistan stayed so
long on his precarious throne.

So far as is known, Inayatullah issued no orders.
There were no meetings of the ruling council of Kabul.
No sound or intimation of the wish to rule came from
the wrecked Palace. Inayatullah, fearing for his life,
crouched in the shelter of the ruined walls and waited
for his end.

His name was a jest on the lips of the people. Many
a joke was made about him. His unprepossessing
figure and his well-known laziness provided many a
background for the crude Afghan wit in those days of
carousal and licence.

“ Ho, the King 1 ” they would laugh. “ Inayatullah
the Fat 1 ” First he was pushed off the throne, when
Amanullah seized the Treasury, and then he was pushed
on the throne when Amanullah seized his freedom.
Ho, what a King we have in Kabul now ! ”

Bacha was here. His name travelled round the
crowded bazaar, and hurried the carousers out of the
drinking shops. The leader was come to Kabul, no

230

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

doubt to seize the throne ! For was he not right, this
leader of the hillmen, when he promised victory in a
few hours, riches for all, and a restoration of free religion
for the righteous Afghan ? And they lined the streets
and cheered when he rode by, the conqueror, on his
lean mountain pony, swaggering and swashbuckling,
revelling in the terrible physical ugliness that marked
him from his fellows.

What if he was the son of a water-carrier ? What if
he was unclean in the sight of God ? He was a fighter,
and he had expelled an impious King.

But he did not march to the Palace and demand the
body of the five-day King. He did not give to the
people the second-best vengeance that they could wreak
on the family of their hated ruler. There were no
Royal executions in the streets, and the more blood¬
thirsty, who had been licking their lips in anticipation
of seeing yet another crucifixion, were dismayed when
he turned aside and had conference with the leading
men in his small but efficient war council.

And during that day the second prospective victim
of the Afghan mob flitted from Kabul.

The great bombing ’plane, this time with the British
circles on its wings, landed near the British Legation.
There was little time to lose, for Bacha Sachao would
have difficulty in preventing his hordes from pouncing
on the body of their prey.

Seven men, seven women, and eight children stole
out of the Palace. They were hustled into the machine.
There were none to see them go. And the engines
roared as the ’plane lifted and set its nose to the south.

But if he let him escape, Bacha Sachao did not
intend to allow Inayatullah far out of his sight. He
was in a position to make terms after conceding to him
the right to flee from the throne.

231

AMANTJLLAH

“ He must stay in Afghanistan,” said Bacha. “ I
will not have him in India, where Allah knows what
mischief he would brew against the new order in
Kabul.”

British pilots, consulted in Peshawar, did not relish
the cross-country journey from Kabul direct to
Kandahar. It was winter, and the wild country between
the two cities offered no chance of a safe landing in the
event of accident. The distance was only four hundred
miles, but there could be no risks taken with a burden
that was diplomatically precious.

Thus it was that the frightened little party, still
suffering from the five-day tension during which they
had nominally been the ruling family in a shattered
Palace, were flown the two hundred miles to British
India, disembarked at Peshawar, and hurried into a
special train which was to make the long two thousand
miles’ circuit before the Afghan Frontier was reached
once more from the Baluchistan side.

There had been no preparations for the flight. The
arrangement to give them safe exit came as a complete
surprise to Inayatullah. He was not consulted. He
was not asked if he wished to leave. In all his life,
nobody had ever consulted Inayatullah, the fat Prince,
as to his intentions. Now he had been puppet-King,
and not even then had anybody consulted him. But
he went.

He was going to join his brother, to lean on the
stronger will, and play second fiddle to more schemes
intended to displace the usurper. He would make no
decisions. He would be received with disappointment
in Kandahar, where presumably Amanullah had been
hoping that the throne would be at least nominally
held while he judged the temper and strength of his
supporters in another and usually loyal region.

232

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

Amanullah himself had not been idle. Bombastic
and hopeful bulletins had been issued among the
tribesmen around Kandahar.

“ Help me to throw out this usurper! ” he had
appealed. “ Afghans cannot be governed by the son
of a water-carrier. This is a brigand that presumes to
the throne. He is unclean in the sight of Allah. Do
not forget that by Royal Decree I have already rescinded
all the orders to which you objected.”

But it was no good. Might was right again in
Afghanistan, as it has always been. Bacha Sachao was
ruling, with the rifle and the torturing brand, in Kabul,
and there would be few who would venture to resist the
savagery of his men. He still lived on his reputation
as the Robin Hood of the hills. He emphasised his
right, as a man of the hills, to rule. He laid stress on
his primitiveness, and bade his men forget the heretical
lessons of the Western world which had been brought
for them into Kabul.

The true nature of Inayatullah showed itself in
Peshawar. Waiting for arrangements to be made for
his special train, he sat gloomily in a room in the small
local hotel. He shunned sightseers, and covered his
face when he was forced to leave the shelter of the room.
At the last minute he expressed the wish to stay in
India. He had had enough kingship. He was tired of
intrigue. Being a King had nearly cost him his life.
He was happy in peace and comfort. Such things as
ruling and the “ divine right of kings ” were not for
a man of his build and temperament.

But the agreement must be kept. Safe passage had
been given him only on condition that he returned to
Afghanistan and joined his brother at Kandahar. The
British authorities meant to see that he was kept to
his word. The amazing contract, between Great

283

AMANULLAH

Britain and the son of a water-carrier of the Afghan
hills, was kept to the letter.

“ You have my word that he will be allowed to
escape,” Bacha Sachao had said.

“ You have our word that he will be returned to
Kandahar,” had replied the British Government.

Both were honoured.

So the train ran south through the night. This was
the favoured land through which a King was travel¬
ling. This was the land towards which every Afghan,
king and commoner, had at some time or another turned
his eyes. A rich land, prosperous and charitable. How
different from the grim hills !

At the infrequent stops, armed guards tumbled out
with fixed bayonets on the platforms and stood at atten¬
tion. Police had shut the stations. The greatest secrecy
surrounded the passage of that tragic train. Every
signal was set in its favour. Every official knew of its
passing, but it was seldom seen.

Six hundred miles to the south, it crept into Lahore
at four o’clock in the morning. The station was shut.
The lights were out. The guards clattered out to their
posts.

But down the end of the train, there could have been
seen a solitary figure opening a carriage door and softly
shutting it as the train moved off.

I lay low and slept the few remaining hours of dark¬
ness on the mystery train.

234

CHAPTER XV

A BANDIT AS AMIR—RULE BY PERSECUTION—TWO AFGHANS
IN AN HOTEL—THE LAST BRITON LEAVES KABUL

T IE train rolled on through the night, across
the bare and inhospitable desert into the dawn.
The grinding of the brakes woke me, and I
tumbled out on to a small wayside platform. The
guards were at their positions, bayonets fixed. The
servants of the British officers in charge of the train
wandered about the little station. Further along, a
stout, unhappy individual stood talking to an English
civilian. It was Inayatullah.

Nobody knew who I was. The English Chief of Police
came up and asked me. I told him, and watched the
expressions of amazement, then anger, chase across his
face.

“You can throw me out here if you like,” I said.
“ But it is such an out-of-the-way sort of place....”

“ How about some breakfast ? ” he invited. We went
down the train to the refreshment car.

Next to me at table was a young, slim, Afghan prince.
He spoke perfect English. We talked of the cold morn¬
ing, the coming hot weather, the food. We talked of
anything but this strange journey.

“ Were you at Oxford ? ” he asked. “ Do you know
the Cherwell ? When I was there, they stopped the
playing of gramophones on the Cherwell at night. I
thought it was very wise, for it is such a beautiful
stream....”

Inayatullah did not come to breakfast. He was, I

235

AMANULLAH

learnt, too despondent to eat. He was going to meet
the anger of his brother, always feared, and he was not
yet certain of the reception he would get from the loyal
people of Kandahar.

The police chief and the young Indian Civil Service
official came to talk.

“ You are not allowed on this train,” they said.

“ I thought not.”

“ There will be a lovely row,” they said.

“ I suspected it.”

“ We shall see at Quetta.”

So we ran on through the day and the evening. The
train toiled up the long hills towards the snow-capped
peaks of the mountains. We were in Baluchistan now.
The end of the strange journey was near. At every
stop, there was a little company of people off the plat¬
forms, informed of the arrival of Inayatullah by the
bazaar gossip that flits from village to village and along
the railway lines of the East, faster than the trains.

Then, in the dawn, we had pulled into Quetta station,
clean and cold and orderly, and two English officials
came into my carriage and blustered me out of it.

“ There will be a row about this,” they said.

“ So there ought to be,” I replied.

But in my pocket, ready typed in the train, there
rested a message describing the curious events which
led up to this curious journey.

I watched the train pull out of Quetta station towards
the little Frontier halt of Chaman, once beflagged and
decorated for Amanullah on his triumphant start to the
European trip, now bare and inhospitable.

The British officials conducted Inayatullah from the
train. Shepherded the women and children along the
platform. Hurried them into waiting motor cars. Some
of the women were waiting. Inayatullah wore the sad

236

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

face of resignation, the face of the man who had been
King in spite of himself.

The cars drove down the dusty uneven road and
stopped at the Frontier barrier. There was a happy
smile on the face of the young Afghan Prince who had
talked to me about the Cherwell. He dreamed of the
spires of Oxford. He was going back to the land of
uncertainty and chaos. The little party walked across
the Frontier, and to another group of cars awaiting
them.

The women were bundled in. One of the children was
crying. One of the party waved a hand. It was a fare¬
well to the old regime.

Then the cars started for Kandahar, without a cheer
and without a sign of excitement.

The promised row was a good one while it lasted. It
kept various Government departments busy on the tele¬
phone for a while, and entertained the anti-British news¬
papers hugely. One of them, an old enemy of mine,
suggested plaintively that the Government had favoured
a British journalist to the exclusion of his Indian
brethren. We denied that.

Then it suggested that I had travelled in the lavatory
of the train for two nights and a day. We denied
that.

It excelled itself by saying that I had swung for two
nights and a day in a net slung underneath one of the
carriages. We denied that.

Then Government, also slightly hysterical owing to
the allegations of favouritism, issued a communique. In
it was expressed the sorrow and shame of the Indian
Government that “ Mr. Wild had behaved in a manner
unbefitting that of a gentleman.”

237

AMANULLAH

This latter was one of the richest jokes against
officialdom told in the Clubs for months past.

News was already coming from Kabul. The water-
carrier’s son had not wasted his time. The empty
Palace and the Arg were soon occupied. The irregular
troops swooped down on it, chagrined at finding them¬
selves robbed of their prey. They ransacked the rooms,
tore the Western furniture and fittings to pieces, and
encamped themselves in the rooms that had been the
last refuge of Amanullah and his women.

First objective of their disappointed revenge were the
Russian pilots. There was no resistance. The Russians
had perhaps imagined that their foreign nationality
would protect them from danger. They were wrong.

Terrible tales were told of the revenge on them for
their efficiency and marksmanship with bombs from
their machines. Bacha Sachao, it was said, had boasted
that he would not touch a hair of their heads. No
Afghan should commit the crime of assaulting an alien
in all Afghanistan. The pilots were told this, standing
before a tribunal held in public. We can imagine their
proud, confident looks. We can imagine them in their
splendid uniforms, their long legs stuck into high,
decorative Afghan boots, standing before the new ruler
of Kabul.

Bacha Sachao must have enjoyed himself. He was
known as an expert creator of ingenious punishments.
He was in his element.

“ You will not be molested,” he said. “ We Afghans
cannot hurt a foreigner. Indeed, you shall go back to
your country. None shall detain you. Now go. .. .”

Stupefied, the little band of hired soldiers left the
council of war. They met sullen looks and an ominous

m

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

silence. “ Go on,” said the crowds. “ Go back to
Russia.”

A little party offered to accompany them and show
them the way. “ The road lies over there,” they said,
and pointed to the snow-capped mountains of the
north.

They began marching, still bewildered, to the north.

So the stories run. They say that the Russians
marched and marched, watched by a relay of hillmen
who were told of the orders from the new ruler in Kabul.
When one set of guides failed through exhaustion,
another party was ready. The villagers, obeying the
orders of the water-carrier’s son, gladly took on their
spell of accompanying the Russians. They marched on
and on.

They were never molested. They were never touched
nor beaten. But on the other hand, they were given no
rest, nor food, nor water. They marched till they
dropped to die in the snow, of cold and fatigue and
starvation.

So, at any rate, ran the gossip of the travellers in the
street of wagging tongues in Peshawar. The tale was
embellished and improved as it travelled. Every travel¬
ler had new details. Every rogue who slipped past the
guards at the Frontier, and came for a night or so to the
Paris of the East, had a new version of the words used
by Bacha Sachao when he perpetrated this subtle lark
on the men who had shed slaughter from the air at the
command of the infidel King.

A few days later, on the 17th of January, the water-
carrier’s son proclaimed himself Amir. He took as title
Habibullah Ghazi, Beloved of God and Defender of the
Faith. His brute face must have been contorted with
mirth at the sound of the last phrase.

For days after that, Kabul was a grisly city of the dead

289

C,^ ^

AMANULLAH

and the dying. No sooner were the crucifixes cleared
of their dread burdens, than other victims were borne
aloft. There were impalings, and the heads of the
wicked once again adorned the walls of the city. Mr.
Isaacson, telling me later of the scenes in Kabul in those
days just after the accession of Bacha Sachao, told me
that he grew accustomed to the smell of burning flesh,
and the sight of gory heads being carried down the
streets on bayonets. Even the medieval tortures were
revived for the satiation of that general lust for revenge.
Men were boiled in oil. Kabul had indeed gone back
to the Dark Ages.

The Afghan girl students were recalled from Turkey,
whither they had travelled for the education of their
minds. I had cause to remember them well, for I had
written the caption for a picture of them which was
distributed to the Press of India. It was a good picture.
It was intended as propaganda for Amanullah’s rdgime.
In it, the girls were shown standing at a railway station,
dressed in skirts and unveiled, with modern hats on
their pretty heads.

I wrote something to the effect that they were going
to Constantinople for their education, and while there
would doubtless learn the art of the lipstick and the
powder-puff.

The triviality was true, for Afghan girls, led by their
Queen, had already begun the practice of gilding the lily,
but that did not prevent my old newspaper enemy in¬
dulging in a violent attack on my morals, mentioning
me by name in a'leading article, as obviously I had meant
to imply that the girls were being sent to Constantinople
to learn prostitution!

We replied with the succinct remark that it seemed
a long journey to take to learn a lesson easy enough for
those inclined that way. . . .

240

AMANULLAH ON HIS LAST TRIP TO EUROPE, WITH HIS BROTHER INAYATULLAH, THE THREE-DAY KING

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

The girls came back, the foreign officers left Kabul,
the guns rusted and rotted in neglect, the motor cars
in the Royal garages developed premature old age.
Ram Prasad, my old friend, had been found one morning
with a neat slit in his throat. There were no more
European hats in Kabul. The band no longer played the
National Anthem, and the gardens of Paghman went
to seed. The first railway in Afghanistan never
carried a railway train. The dream city never throbbed
to the movement of traffic. The old traders came back
to their haunts in Kabul City. Kabul was finished with
the frivolities of life. In a little while there was not a
trace of the old regime. The as-you-were movement
had been completed.

The mullahs were well pleased. They were given to
understand that in return for their continued support
of the new Amir, they would be allowed to regain all
their old prestige. The old polygamy laws were re¬
instated, and the old game of graft came back, though
in this disorderly world there seemed less opportunity
for the astute officials to levy their petty fines on the
public.

Strangely enough, it seemed that the whole country,
save a group surrounding the immediate neighbourhood
of Kandahar, was loyal to Bacha Sachao. The tribes¬
men of the south no doubt felt that in future they would
be free to arrange their own affairs, and would incident¬
ally suffer no more from the interference of police and
State troops when they decided to make sudden attack
on rich caravan or wealthy Hindu traveller. They had
got what they wanted.

A small and compact Council of State was appointed,
and without bothering their heads with such trivial
details as sanitation or police, it was decided what
should be done with malingerers and consistent evil-

q 241

AMANULLAH

doers. The Council, in fact, formed schemes for the pro¬
tection of the Amir against the next pretender to the
throne, and otherwise considered that the best policy
was to leave the Afghans to work out their own salvation,
and to arrange their own justice. It was a wise move.

Bacha Sachao felt little apprehension of an attack
coming from Amanullah. It was true that he could still
command a large district near Kandahar. He still held
prestige among the more educated and wealthy members
of the community in that part of the country. But
Bacha Sachao judged rightly that they would not follow
him into war, and he on his side did not intend to
make any further inroads on the security of the former
King.

As a fact, Amanullah, pride recovering a little from
the blow, had tried desperately to enlist the support of
the loyal people of Kandahar, who liked him and
honoured his right to reign. He was, of course, up
against the mullahs even here, but by one spectacular
deed, really typical of him, he was able to overthrow
the prejudice of the people even in face of the mullahs’
disapproval.

“ Kafir ! ” the mullahs had called him, and the people
had believed their argument that a man who could so
fundamentally deny his religion by acts of transparent
ungodliness, must indeed be ill-favoured of Allah.

“ Kafir ! He is an infidel I ” cried the mullahs. “ Look
how he bid you forget the teachings of your religious
masters ! Consider how he gave good Afghan gold to the
foreigners ! Remember how his ungodly queen unveiled
her face and broke the rules of purdah before a foreign
people! ”

The people shouted their dismay at such behaviour.

Then came Amanullah, with a trump card up his
sleeve. He had been forewarned.

242

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

“ You call me Kafir ! ” he retorted. “ I will show you
that in fact I am favoured of Allah. Near Kandahar
there is the cave of the Khirqua-i-Sharif, or holy cloak.
It is written, as you know, that only a man close to
God can open that cave. I will dare to open it! ”

And he did. It is unknown whether the opening of
the cave was any particular feat of strength, or whether
legend had imbued it with a reverence and fear that
kept it free from curious hands. The fact of its actual
opening by Amanullah, however, is vouched for,
and there can be little doubt that the superstitious
Afghans who saw the feat actually imagined that
he would be struck dead, or mortally afflicted, at the
first touch.

“ I will dare to open it ! ” Amanullah had cried.

He silenced by that one move all the cries of infidel
that greeted him. But even the honour of following a
man so highly placed with Allah would not tempt the
Kandaharis from their peaceful occupations. They would
not trust him again.

There was yet another plot to place Asadullah Khan, a
relative, on the Amir’s throne, but here again lack of
support, and an increasing lack of money, checked the
scheme in its infancy. And day by day it seemed that
Bacha Sachao was growing in power. Very soon it would
be too late.

Equally futile were the efforts at a restoration of
Amanullah’s family taken by a cousin of his, one Ali
Ahm ed Jhan, once Governor of Kabul. I met him during
a short visit to Peshawar soon after the accession of
Bacha Sachao.

The little hotel at Peshawar does not lend itself to
separation for the benefit of two opposing personalities,
and yet by some miracle of tact it managed to house
such a couple without undue friction,. The two enemies

343

AMANULLAH

were Ali Ahmed Jhan and Nadir Khan, late Commander-
in-Chief of the Afghan Army, and now fresh from his
French military training, a sick man, but a fine soldier.

The behaviour of these two in the hotel almost
approached comedy. They lived in rooms at cither end
of the long verandah. They had meals in their own
rooms. Once each day a big touring car drew up out¬
side Nadir Khan’s room, and he would go into Peshawar
on some mysterious and lengthy business. Once every
day Ali Ahmed Jhan took a walk in the garden. But he
took care to do so while Nadir Khan was out.

The reason for their unfriendliness was simple. They
were, in a sense, rivals. For one had but recently left
Afghanistan with his bare life, and the other was pre¬
paring to enter the dangerous country once more—this
time, however, to conduct a stern campaign which
eventually led him right on to the throne, ousting the
water-carrier’s son for ever.

The story of Ali Ahmed Jhan is of very different calibre.
I talked to him one day in his room, after having pene¬
trated the strict guard which had been lent him by the
British authorities. And, inside his room, I was aston¬
ished to find him in very jovial mood over a half-
finished bottle of whiskey, which he drank neat and with
considerable gusto.

The strict religious law prohibiting the Afghan any
alcohol is usually observed, but it was the more sur¬
prising to find this ex-governor of the capital consuming
a good Scotch brand with every evidence of expertness.
He even asked me to have one—at nine o’clock in the
morning.

It was only after our brisk and amusing conversation,
however, that I learned that his epicurean taste had once
already nearly cost him his life.

When revolution was at its height, and bands of

244

C*£?J CtfS5*i «^1 Cs£?5 C*S?1 Cs£?J Ci5?) C-sS^a td£?J tiS?} c^

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

pillaging outlaws overran the south, Ali Ahmed Jhan
found himself at the head of a small force of loyal
Government troops near Jallalabad. His men were
convinced that their wisest course lay in remaining true
to their oaths of allegiance, but they had begun to detect
a growing strangeness in the behaviour of their leader.
Then the dreadful news spread through the ranks. Ali
Ahmed Jhan was usually intoxicated.

The leaders among the rank and file, greatly daring,
suggested a deputation to put before him their sense of
wrong and the insult they felt toward their religion.
Such things could not continue. And a small band of
stalwart men waited upon their leader one night in his
tent, fully prepared to avenge the wrong done to Allah
by the sacrifice of life if the accusation were proved to
be true.

“ We have come to search,” they said briefly.

“ Search away, then,” said Ali Ahmed Jhan, with the
drunkard’s bravado.

Under the mattress they found a little covey of bottles.
Breaking the necks off, they smelt. It was alcohol,
though of a strange smell.

Then the Afghan wit came into play. Ali Ahmed Jhan
explained to his questioners, ready to kill him where he
stood.

“ You do not understand,” he told them. “ You do
not realise the breadth of the proposals for your own
comfort and safety which have been made by His Majesty
the King. You are ignorant men. Therefore you do not
know, probably, the smell nor the appearance of the
wonderful feringhe lotion which cures the sore backs of
your camels. . . .”

And he showed the Afghan soldiery the labels on the
the bottles, solemnly translating the maker’s name and
address into instructions for the cure of camels.

245

AMANULLAH

The excuse saved his life, but it did not satisfy the
deputation, or the soldiers who heard the tale from them.
They offered Ali Ahmed Jhan an ultimatum. He could
stay and be killed, or fly. With a little more whiskey, he
might have defied them, but that night he fled over the
Border to Peshawar, where men had broader views
about the proper use for the best Scotch.

One night, a month after I saw him, he finished the
current bottle, and left once more for Afghanistan. But
he had hiccupped his last. He found himself in the centre
of a struggle that was no longer a drunkard’s dream,
discovered himself no longer to be the Strong Man of
Kabul, and died a violent death before he had made
many days’ journey towards Kabul. A jovial rascal. I
had enjoyed our little talk in the Peshawar hotel.

Nadir Khan, sober and soldierly, made no move for
many months. He paced his room in Peshawar until
well into the hot weather, waiting for the snow to clear
from the passes. He was an impressive man, and an
old campaigner. He it was who had crossed the Frontier
on that innocent journey to see a relative in 1919. The
result had been the Second Afghan War. He combined
then, and does still, the cunning of the Afghan with the
learning of the West. But in these days, working behind
the scenes in Peshawar bazaar, he was more Asiatic than
otherwise.

The winter was a hard one. The passes were frozen
well into the second month of the year, and all movement
in the land over the Border was suspended until less
danger was threatened by the elements.

In spite of the handicap, however, the aeroplanes
were still going daily to Kabul bringing back their
quota of refugees. The landing-ground at Peshawar
was daily a busy scene. Then came the news that the
last claimants to a place in a British machine had been

246

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

brought down. There would be one more journey. In
the last machine would be Sir Francis Humphrys.

On the 26th of February, a single bomber sped
towards the hills for the last time. It was on the ground
only a few moments. Sir Francis Humphrys, hearing
its approach, ran to the roof of the Legation and hauled
down the Union Jack. Folding it and tucking it under
one arm, he took a last look round the Legation, home
of his personal treasures as well as his happiest horns.
Then, by one of those queer impulses which affect men
at dramatic moments, he picked out of its shattered
glass case a stuffed woodcock, tucked the incongruous
bird under the other arm, and ran for the ’plane. He
landed at Peshawar, a wreck of his former self, nerve-
racked and ill, with the absurd bird still tightly clasped
to his body.

He was the last of 586 souls safely flown from a
besieged city with one single mishap, and that on the
ground. The Air Force had brought off a feat that
thrilled the world.

The great ’planes roared their way in echelon down
to Delhi. Whole towns turned out at the beat of their
engines in the sky. I saw them when, a day or two
later, their wireless instruments were receiving in the
air the congratulations of the King. Then they flew
to Delhi, each pilot and navigator to be personally
congratulated by the Viceroy of India.

I spoke to Sir Francis Humphrys the night he arrived
once more on British soil. He was a weary man, proud
but still sick at heart at the destruction of hopes as
well as homes, that he had seen. He had, I think,
really believed in the good intentions of the exile who
was now licking his wounds in Kandahar. He had
never crossed the border-line of diplomacy, but he had
done his best in an indirect way to slow up the progress

247

AMANULLAH

of that disastrous policy which Amanullah had brought
back from Europe.

When the deluge broke Sir Francis Humphrys
undoubtedly saved the Legation from a slaughter that
would have brought British troops once more into
action in Afghanistan, that would have repeated once
again the history of the British in Kabul, and might
well have changed the face of the East for future years.
Perhaps the stuffed woodcock was a symbol as much
as the Union Jack. For it was farce, it was humour,
and it was anti-climax. And, in the darkest hour, it
had been farce and humour which had saved the British
Legation. How else could we describe that noble,
vulgar, and effective speech made by Sir Francis from
the walls to the tense mob below ?

With the British evacuated, interest dropped in
Afghanistan. There was no news from Kandahar.
Kabul was quiet again. Nadir Khan pursued his
stately way and his mysterious business in Peshawar.
The winter broke, and the green earth was seen again,
the land freshened by the moisture of the snow. Very
soon it would be burning hot, and the fair land would
grow brown and dry. The spring lasted such a little time.
The brooks were running fast, and old Kabul River,
accustomed now to so many years of blood fouling its
depths, ran swift and strong to the plains. The flanks
of the hills were showing brown through their white
mantles. Soon, only on the peaks of the Hindu Kush,
far away, was there snow.

As the spring turned into summer, the little outpost
of Chaman stirred again with news. Amanullah was
coming down to India again. He was going, so they
said, to Bombay, perhaps to Europe.

He was coming not with the cloak of splendour, to
the beat of drums and the boom of the guns’ salute, but

248

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

furtively and without warning. No aeroplanes were to
wheel overhead, looping and dipping in salute. There
would be no red carpets, nor addresses of welcome or
farewell. Amanullah was leaving his country for the
last time.

He had given up the struggle.

249

CHAPTER XVI

A SAD PARTING—GOOD-BYE TO THE EAST—A CHALLENGE TO
THE AMIR—AT THE GATES OF KABUL—DEATH OF THE
BANDIT

AMANULLAH had made a wise decision. His

A-\ confidence in the fighting spirit of the Kanda-
haris had not been justified. They were
unwilling to follow him any more, and they certainly
would not risk a trial of strength with the formidable
Bacha Sachao.

He had undertaken several tours in the vicinity of
Kandahar, and had succeeded in recruiting several
thousand men to his side. His dynamic personality
was still powerful enough then. He could still inspire
a crowd with his own courageous example. The old
fire was there; but fear of the present ruler pre¬
dominated, and not even the appeal on religious grounds
to rid their beloved country of this unholy usurper in
Kabul could move the Kandaharis from their apathy.
He had no money to bribe them with. He could
promise peace and power and plenty to whomsoever
would support him, but he had promised that before....

There were other personal complications. He was
no doubt urged by his relatives to go while the going
was good. Bacha Sachao was not the type to leave
unmolested a rival in the country. It was quite possible
that he would eventually endeavour to rid Afghanistan
once and for all of the ex-King.

Then, when the sad little party was making its way
down to Bombay, in the baking heat of the early

250

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

summer, it was noticed that Souriya was undertaking
the terrible journey with an added burden. She was
going to have a child, conceived in the throes of revolu¬
tion and carried through the agonies of a hurried
evacuation.

The journey down through the brown plains of India
must have been a torment to her. The sun beat down
that spring relentlessly and continuously. For two
days and nights she gasped in pain. Then, safe in the
cool rooms of the hotel in Bombay, she delivered her
child.

Amanullah was even then impatient to be oft. He
paced the corridors of the hotel in impotent fury. He
was seared by regrets and impatience. His pride stung
him, and he wept silently at the contrast of his secret
departure, an exile, and his former triumphant visit to
Bombay.

Hardly had Souriya recovered sufficiently to leave
her bed, when the little party embarked on an Italian
boat and saw the East for the last time.

They had money, it is true. The Crown jewels,
personal heirlooms, and a sum of money which varied
with every report, had been smuggled out of the country.
At one time he appeared destitute. At other times,
he showed that he had considerable reserves. As the
liner ploughed her way towards his exile, he mapped
out his life anew, viewed ahead the quiet existence of
a private citizen, and cast in the wake of the throbbing
steamer the dreams of power and kingship.

Italy received him with tolerant and kindly hospitality.
He retired into obscurity, humbled and unambitious,
resurrected now and then as the central figure of
rumours that there would be a revival of his regime, but
leading a quiet life divorced from the former stress and
strain of Eastern politics.

251

* -O- * NO- * V->" 4

AMANULLAH

Before many days’ residence in Rome, however, he
had heard news from the East which must have caused
him intense personal and patriotic satisfaction. Nadir
Khan, recently Minister in Paris, had gone back. The
news shook the East. The heroism of the man, fresh
from a sick bed in Europe, thrilled every hearer.
Instinctively, those who read of his sudden journey over
the Frontier, prophesied that he was going to his
death.

Nadir Khan was consumed with a fire of unquenchable
patriotism that kept his frail body alive. He had been
convalescing in Nice from a serious illness when he
received the call to go back to his country. It was a
spontaneous urge that sent him hurrying to the East,
to the hotel where I saw him in Peshawar. When he
joined his train at Nice, he staggered as he walked.
He was sick unto death. Yet he held his line body
upright by magnificent will-power, and when he had
conducted his mysterious business in Peshawar, he
strode boldly across the Frontier, into the land savagely
ruled by the arch-enemy of his former master.

None knew of his coming. He had counted on few
supporters. He had no money, and it was only with
difficulty that he was allowed through the Khyber.
He was leading a forlorn hope. It was more than likely
that bands of marauding tribesmen would cut him to
pieces at sight if they recognised that here was a
prominent ally of the late King. Yet he went with
hope in his heart, and a great pride.

There was yet another factor, of merely personal
importance to him, unconnected with the urge which
made him undertake this crazy journey in pursuit of
leadership once more. His wife and children were in
Kabul Gaol, in the company of some fifty other women
and children, captured during the victorious raid on the

252

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

Royal Palace, and all believed to be the relatives of the
King and Ministers at his Court.

Yet the miracle happened. As he passed into the
interior, in March 1929, he was greeted and welcomed
by companies of tribesmen. They hailed him affection¬
ately, came up and kissed his hand. Even the Shinwaris,
first to take up arms against the rule of Amanullah,
welcomed him. They knew him for a fighting man and a
true patriot. In the space of a week he had with him the
support of thousands of men in the south, ready to march
with him to Kabul, prepared to die for their leader.

His success put heart into him, revived his health as
no European doctor had been able to do, and determined
him to attempt the salvation of his country. In a few
more weeks he marched to Kabul, captured the hill of
Bala Hissar, and looked down once more on the capital
which held his relatives in prison and which formed the
headquarters of the shameful Amir.

Strangely enough, his words to his troops had been
of the same substance as those of Amanullah. “ Rid
yourselves of this infidel usurper ! ” he had cried to
them. “ Save your country from the shame of a heathen
ruler ! Take arms with me, and win back the fair name
of Afghanistan! ”

In the one case the appeal had miserably failed. Now,
with Nadir Khan as spokesman, the words turned the
oppressed and retrograde tribesmen into crusaders
fighting for their nation. For they could put their
trust in him.

The water-carrier’s son was worried. He had made
few plans for the defence of Kabul. He had not put
the Army to rights, and he had not been able to preserve
the loyalty of his troops. It was every man for himself
in Kabul in those days. Patriotism had gone. Bacha
Sachao ruled by terrorism, and it was unlikely that he

m

AMANULLAH

would be able to persuade an army to take the field
against the invader.

He tried trickery in its place.

Up to the heights of Bala Hissar, right up to the out¬
posts of Nadir Khan’s encampment, there came one day
a messenger from Bacha Sachao. He came as envoy and
peacemaker. He carried with him the assurance of his
master that all was well in Kabul; that the capital was
peaceful and happy ; that there was no need to endanger
the peace of the people with another battle. And, if
there were any doubt in the mind of Nadir Khan as to
the safety and comfort of the women and children, then
Bacha could reassure him on this point also. They were
cared for, and well looked after. See . . . here was a
declaration signed by their own hands.

Nadir Khan took the paper and read it. It certified
that his relatives were comfortable and happy. That
they had food in plenty, and every wish was gratified.
It was signed by a dozen hands.

The messenger, however, approached closer. He
whispered to the invader. Might he, he asked, speak in
private ?

They were alone. Talcing his voluminous puggaree
from his head, the man dipped his hand into the inner¬
most fold. Prom there, he produced a tiny, screwed-up
ball of dirty paper. Furtively, he gave it to Nadir Khan.
It was a private message from his wife, and described, in
terse, heartbroken words, the true state of the women
and children imprisoned in Kabul.

“ We are desperate,” it read in effect. “ Words cannot
describe the miseries to which we are subjected. And
when you attack, we will surely be murdered. We wish
to tell you, however, that we desire you to avenge us,
whatever be our fate. Wipe out the scourge of Afghan¬
istan ! We will be sacrificed, but one and all, we urge you

25 4

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

to proceed. The accompanying note was signed by us
under compulsion.”

Nadir Khan never hesitated, even when the attempt
at placation made by Bacha Sachao was followed by
a threat.

A further message reached him in his camp at Bala
Hissar. “ When you shell our fortifications,” said Bacha,
“ the first of your shells will fall on your women and
children.”

That very night Nadir Khan gave the command. The
captain of the artillery, which he had already captured
and placed into position, was his own brother. There
were but few guns, but from their commanding height
they hoped to be able to force a surrender within a few
hours, for the old fortress could not withstand for long
a concentrated fire.

The next day was fixed for the beginning of the
bombardment. At dawn, Nadir Khan’s field-glasses
swept the fortifications. There was fear in his heart,
but once more his conscience urged him that whatever
the cost, he must free his country of a tyrant.

In the front of the fortifications he saw movement.
Sending a scout forward to investigate, his worst fears
were confirmed. The figures, seen from the heights to be
chained to the walls of Kabul, were his own relatives.
The captain of the artillery knew that in front of him
were three of his sisters, his wife, and his mother.

The first shell went screaming on Kabul, and the
cannonade began, crumpling up the defences in a short
time.

There was little fighting. The victorious, invading
army swept in with few casualties after seven months’
fighting. Bacha Sachao was of the type which attracts
support while in the height of his power, but which can
find few to stand faithful in the hour of need.

255

AMANULLAH

And when the invaders marched down on Kabul,
firing as they went; when eventually they saw through
the smoke of battle the exhausted and drooping figures
chained to the walls, they found that not one of them
had been touched. Some of those women are now in
London. Some are still in the Court at Kabul. The
little slip of paper scrawled with the few words of fine
courage, offering their own lives for their country, is
carefully preserved in London.

Nadir Khan had finished his job. He had accomplished
what he set out to do, and was ready to retire.

“ You arc free,” he told the Kabulis. “ I have rid you
of this tyrant and usurper. You will manage your own
affairs the better without him. And I will go back.
Afghanistan has no longer need of me.”

But the people would have none of it. Even the
Kabulis, by now tired of the rule of fear which had come
to them with Bacha Sachao, pressed round the invader
with praise and gratitude.

“ Stay ! ” they cried. “ Stay with us and, since you
are a true Afghan, rule in Kabul in the way of former
Amirs. For we trust a soldier such as you are.”

After which, turning to more important and pleasant
affairs, they began to consider details of the means of
death for Bacha Sachao.

He had surrendered only after a desperate struggle.
To the last he had shown his old bravado and fearless¬
ness. He knew this was the end. Yet never for a
moment did he think of flying to the hills where he had
always been outlaw, and which had always given him
protection. Bacha Sachao stayed to satisfy the savage
vengeance of both the invaders and the Kabulis whom
he had victimised.

Reared in cruelty, little different from the beast, he
had ruled with a ferocity unparalleled in history. He had

256

THE COMRADES OP THE BANDIT KING STONED TO DEATH AT KABUL

BACHA SACHAO AND HIS RELATIVES HANGED IN KABUL

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

at first delighted the frenzied Kabulis by the ingenuity
of the punishments inflicted on all who had done them
wrong in the past. His black heart revelled in a display
of inhuman delight in suffering. At the time, nothing
could have better pleased his people.

When, however, it began to be realised that his greed
for the sight of human suffering could not be satisfied,
the Kabulis regretted their first admiration. His im¬
prisonment of the women and children connected with
the former Court was no doubt justified in their eyes, but
they began to learn that his was a veritable love of
cruelty not to be limited to those deserving punishment.

He had ruled ferociously, and ferociously did he die.
When they came to him, chained and beaten in the
prison of the Palace, he guessed his end. Nobody can
tell the order of his sufferings, and how long he lived, but
it is certain that before the mangled remnants of his body
were swept down by the swift Kabul River, he had been
beaten, crucified, stoned, shot, and hanged and quartered.

The picture of him on the crucifix, still living, was later
hawked round the Peshawar bazaar, and the inquisitive
were charged eight annas a look. He was still living
when, after being cut down from his exposure in the
public streets of Kabul, he was once more beaten and
eventually shot like a thief.

Kabul was remembering those months of tyranny,
when the sight of men hanging in the street was not un¬
common. Bacha Sachao, once the romantic Robin Hood
of the hills, died dishonoured and unmourned, though
the tales told in the Peshawar whispering-gallery men¬
tioned that he never flinched, never pleaded with his
torturers, and at the end had a bawdy joke and a taunt
on his writhing lips.

But Nadir Khan, praising Allah and rejoicing in the
blessing that he had been able to bring to Kabul, was

a 257

tip’ll

AMANULLAH

powerless to prevent the vengeance of the mob, and
set about creating order out of chaos.

At the age of forty-four, he was embarking on a task
that might well have daunted a greater adventurer. A
sick man, he had seen vanish all his ideals, all his
ambitions. Though he was one to counsel caution to his
King, loyalty had driven him to support every move
made by Amanullah. lie may have sensed danger; he
certainly knew the folly of forcing methods on the Afghan
mind ; yet, having voiced his protest, he had set himself,
to the best of his ability, to implement the policy of his
King. He forgave Amanullah all his faults, for Aman¬
ullah was a man after his own heart., a brave man and
strong.

Now he found himself in circumstances more favour¬
able than ever had come to Amanullah. If he liked, he
could pursue a policy of inaction, with perfect agreement
from most of his countrymen, and comparatively bene¬
ficial results. He could allow his country to lapse into
the bad old ways, that, even so, were not so bad as the
new. He could sit in Kabul supreme, fearing no invader,
relying on his reversals of Amanullah’s policy to keep
him in the popularity so casually won.

It says much for his character that he did not. He
soon let it be known that though the old regime was over,
nevertheless he would insist on a rigid though cautious
advance and a gradual elimination of the plague of
corruption. He did not act at once. There was enough
to do in the return to normality. There were evils
enough to be eradicated before reconstruction could be
begun. And for many months hardly a word came from
Afghanistan. On the surface, at any rate, there was
peace. There were a few rumours of warfare and up¬
risings. There were some expeditions from Kabul, led
by the warrior King, and some tribes who thought once

258

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

more to gain by general defiance of the Government,
learnt for the first time that they could no longer continue
their once-profitable occupation of loot and plunder on
neighbouring villages.

Most important of all, the priests regained their
position. It may be that Nadir Khan himself did not
approve of their old methods of wielding power over the
people. It may be that he saw the evils of the regime of
the Church. But the mullahs were too strong. With the
coming of revolution, they had crept back to their old
strongholds. They had been foremost in urging the
people on to violent protest against the reforms. They
had been able to point to the downfall of Amanullah as if
it had been their own personal triumph. The old fear
and superstition still persisted in the hearts of many of
their followers, and before the country-people knew
where they were, they found themselves once more under
the yoke of the mullahs. Nadir Khan was too wise a man
to protest at the beginning, and, once back in office, the
reverend gentlemen would have taken a deal of shifting.

The mullahs, then, came back. It is an old truism
that when you take an influence away from a childish
people, you must replace it. Looked on in that light,
Amanullah’s wholesale repression of the priests cannot
be defended. He gave the people nothing in place of
their traditional overlords. Nadir Khan could not yet
give them any reality of Government. He was there
more or less on sufferance. And so he allowed the
mullahs to regain their old pre-eminence in every vil¬
lage, in every department of national life. “ As you
were ! ” had been the order once more.

At first, indeed, this was a Government of marking
time. The Army, which must always come first in im¬
portance in the country, was half organised and con¬
sisted only of those who did not care to desert. It was

259

AMANULLAH

essential to deal with this problem first, and it was
imperative to settle the matter on the proper footing
before security of tenancy for the new Amir could be
guaranteed. There were still bandits and opportunists
in plenty who might imitate the example of Bacha
Sachao. For the time being, Nadir Khan had little
organised protection against another such invasion,
though he could rely on the loyalty, for what it was
worth, of the Kabulis.

For his own sake, he made no mention of the rebuild¬
ing of Kabul, the erection of Darulaman, the building
of roads, or indeed the modernisation of any traditional
practices. It was enough to promise a relaxation of the
grinding taxation. This was his first step, and though
for some time past not a penny had been paid to the
tax collectors, except by those simple souls who paid
out of fear for the officials, the proclamation announcing
this step to the countryside was well received.

Of course, it must be appreciated that in Afghanistan
there is no method of reaching the ears of even the
minority of the population with a message or a com¬
mand. It took more than a year for the people of the
countryside to appreciate the disastrous policy decided
on by Amanullah. Even then, all they knew about the
new regime was that the local tax collector, representing
Government, pressed his demands on them harder and
harder.

Nadir Khan had virtually no newspapers in which to
announce his ideals and his promises. He could send
no envoys to the scattered hamlets to announce by word
of mouth, to ten million people, the benefits that might
accrue to them through lawfulness and loyalty. He
did not even know their number, for the Afghans have
never been enumerated, though the figure of ten millions
is considered the nearest that can be guessed at,

260

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

If news were to be officially circulated, its inferences
and its details were at the mercy of possibly dishonest
local officials. News was, furthermore, subject to the
approval of the priests. We can indeed picture the
scene in the village square or main street, when the
carrier of news arrives with his message. He is weary
and footsore. He is the natural prey of the hospitable
gossips of the village. He must impart to them first
the portent of his news, request them to summon those
of the villagers who are willing to hear his voice, and he
must be content with the sparse crowd that collects
round him when he is ready to begin.

The drum, a rough skin stretched over a more or less
circular wooden rim, is beaten monotonously at sun¬
down. The curious get up from their doorways, anxious
for news from the great and wicked capital. Why, the
last messenger came in the depths of winter, when the
snow was thick in the passes, and it seemed as if the
winter nights would never end, never relent in their
severity. Now it is summer, and the sun blazes down,
fiercely and as remorselessly as the frost gripped them.
What news ? What news ?

It is the old cry. For all these months they had
existed on the tales of travellers, the picturesque fables
of those who had come into the village for trading. They
had heard again the old folk tales from the mouths of
the priests. They had listened to expansive liars and
romancing guests who thought to repay hospitality by
the glibness of their tongues.

The time comes for the need of authenticity, even
among people who have lived their lifetimes on legend
and rumour. If there is need for a parallel, you may
see it every day in the streets of London. “ Official,”
add the newspaper placards to a terse piece of news,
though for days past the same sheets have been averring

261

AMANULLAH

the same facts with only their own reputations to back
them up. . . .

So the Afghan hillmen and villagers swarm round the
drum-beats, waiting for the voice of the Government
news-teller. They are waiting for something “ official.”

Thus did Nadir Khan’s proclamations and promises
go out to his people. They were garbled, mangled,
altered to suit individual tastes and prejudices. They
were whispered in the wine-shops, and shouted in the
face of a winter wind from shepherd to mountain hunter.
They flickered across a white and glistening world. The
words, or something like them, penetrated into the dark
and squalid huts, crossed the passes, were heard in the
frail shelters holding man and beast from the bitterness
of that winter. But it was hit-or-miss. Nadir Khan
was working in the dark. He could never judge the
strength of his own personality in his own country.

But one fact took root. The mullahs were back. There
was no need further to question the policy of Nadir
Khan. Afghanistan had gone back to the old order. A
sigh of relief was offered from all the boundaries of
Afghanistan. This was better than enforced progress
and the mutilation of religious beliefs. From the
moment that Nadir Khan had impressed that point,
he had won the battle for his own country.

The peasant dropped back into content and peace.
All was for the best. According to his lights, he re¬
viewed with some satisfaction the events of the past
few years. Bacha Sachao, the despised despot, had
gone. Only after his terrible end was it revealed in
the villages that he was a Tajik, one of a tribe never
considered by the Afghans (“ Children of Israel ”) to be
of equal rank. That reason for his fall was only given
after his death, for he had always stoutly maintained
his right to be included in the higher ranks of the Afghan

262

c*s?i Cd5?> «d^l Cstf?} C^i K&l C^

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

peoples. Docile and cringing, the Tajiks play but a
small part in the history of their country, and only
occasionally rise to the level of their enemies, the Hazaras
and the Turkis, to be united against a common invader.

It seemed now that for the first time in a hundred
years of Durrani rulers, there might be peace among
the tribes. The nomad Afghans, comprising the greater
part of the population, travelled peacefully to pastures
they considered to be the best. Untroubled by the
former burden of taxation, they drove their cattle across
the now darkening plains, hitched their ploughs, mere
rough trivets of sticks with an iron tip, to the carrying-
yoke for easier transport, gave the 16 -inch sickle to sons
to carry, and set off confidently for the lower pastures.

He has no home, this wanderer. He lives in precisely
the same manner as his forefathers of two thousand
years ago. He understands not, nor wants, the per¬
manent boon of canals and costly irrigation schemes.
He is prepared to struggle with the unyielding earth
for as long as he has strength. He wants no modern
methods. He pits his strength against an old enemy.
And, if the season be too hard for him to bear, if the
rains fail him and the crops wither under his desperate
care; if the torrents from the mountains sweep away
his possessions in the spring-time, or the cruel neighbour
pounce on him when he is unprepared for unwelcome
visitors ; if these misfortunes crowd upon his undeserv¬
ing head, he is still content.

“ Insh’Allah,” he whispers, and takes cattle, farm
implements, bed, bedding, wives, children, and his own
prejudices to another and fairer valley. At any rate,
under the new rule of Nadir Khan, he could not blame
the Government. For the Government had left him
strictly alone.

268

CHAPTER XVII

NADIR SHAH’S RECORD—TWO YEARS OP PROGRESS—RELIGION
AND EMANCIPATION—RULE BY POPULAUITY

M EET an Afghan and you meet a fervid patriot.
Talk to an Afghan, and sooner or later he will
tell you about his native country; about the
wide sweep of the plains; about the towering, impres¬
sive hills; even about the cruelty of the summer sun
and the biting cold of winter. But he will remember
only the refreshment of a cool shaded patch under the
trees at the end of a journey through the dust, when
evening comes, or the welcome of a great wide hearth
after the bitterness of the bare hills in winter.

The expatriate Afghan is seldom at ease. He makes
a poor exile. As he talks to you, the big sensitive eyes
will gleam with the fervour of the man talking about
his own land, the long thin delicate hands will spread
themselves eloquently, and gesticulate freely. He will
be all fire one moment, all sadness the next. And,
sooner or later, he will talk about the new King,

Nadir Khan, now named Mahomed Nadir Shah in
salute to his kingly rank, is talked of by the exile Afghans
as the saviour of their country. He is the idol of the
^Eastern mind. He combines all the qualities of the
'strong and brave hunter with the diplomatic skill of
the Westerner. He speaks five languages. He is the
wise man of the East and the experienced man of the
West. Never, in the opinion of the Afghan, has there
been a man at the head of Afghanistan of a type to
compare with King Nadir Shah.

264

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

They point to two and a half years of patient, stolid
work. They detail the improvements already to be seen
in the country. And if ever there was a ruler who
started at scratch, it was the present King of Afghanis¬
tan. When, bursting into stricken and satiated Kabul
at the head of his troops in October of 1929, he even¬
tually dragged the bandit king to his shame and his
death, he searched the Treasury and the Palace rooms
to find bareness and desolation. It was probably the
first case in history of a national exchequer being un¬
lined with even a silver coin. Robbers had left not a
rupee. There was no bullion, no. gold ornaments, no
jewels, no State decorations, no deposit in valuable metal.

Literally, a man ruled in Kabul without the price of
a meal for himself. There was little or no army. In
any case, the soldiers could not be paid. There was no
credit, and there was no cadre of officials ready to pro¬
cure the means of carrying on. There was no system of
issuing appeals, commands, or proclamations to the
people. There were no police, and if there were some
rifles, there was no ammunition.

Men were starving. The granaries were empty, and
the grain fields had been neglected for a more richly
promising harvest. The cold winter threatened to last
for ever. Save for the undoubted fact that the Kabulis
had had enough fighting and bloodshed to tide them
over for many months, there was nothing to prevent a
state of confusion and misery transcending everything
that had passed before.

To appreciate the sum of Nadir Shah’s achievement,
it is necessary to compare this picture with the situa¬
tion to-day. There is a Parliament, democratically and
honestly conducted. There is a Senate, to be likened
to an Upper House, and elected members of the people
are permitted to speak for their own classes and pass

265

^ ^^^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^^ ^ ^ «c£?i

AMANULLAH

their appropriate laws. Taxes are collected, regularly
and systematically. There is a standing Army, well paid
and well fed and equipped. There arc new roads criss¬
crossing about the Southern Provinces. The drone of
passenger and military aeroplanes can be heard over¬
head. Another dream of Amanullah is being realised,
for work has started in the mines, and coal and other
minerals are being brought to the surface, to be trans¬
ported long miles to the frontiers.

Even the dream that was to take solid shape of stone
is being translated into fact. Darulaman, still bearing
the name in honour of its impractical creator, is rising
slowly out of the desert. Darulaman, destined to be
neglected and despised as the fantastic dream of an
over-ambitious man, is to be built.

It is not quite the city of giant buildings and impres¬
sive squares and distances visualised in the mind of
Amanullah. It has, at any rate, some relation with
the needs of the moment, and the capabilities of the
national exchequer. But it is called Darulaman,
perhaps in ironic memory of the man in whose brain it
grew as a wild idea of the Western world. The workmen
are back at Darulaman, city of the future, and slowly
the walls are rising.

Even the railway boasts its little train running between
the old capital of blood-soaked history, and the new
town. The train works, chugging between the two
stations with its daily load of artisans. It has justified
the hopes of its German planners, though they never
stayed to see the wonder of the Afghan at the first “ iron
horse ” in the country. Nadir Shah, the Westernised
Afghan, has done that.

The telephone system has been retrieved from the
wreckage and the ruin of revolution. The telegraphs
have raised their chain of posts anew along the routes

266

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

to the frontiers, and between the cities. The wireless
station crackles, to the eventual glory of Signor Pierri,
who never stayed in the wrack of internal warfare to see
his precocious child in harness, but left, with an evil
memory, for his beloved boulevards. He sees life in
Rome, while the radio crackles to his elegant memory in
the city that he hated above all others.

The gardens are tended once more, and the long vistas
of Italy engineered by the foreign gardeners for the
delight of Amanullah, now try to deny that they were
for a time submerged by rushing feet, their blooms
stifled by the smell of cordite, their elaborate order
dimmed for the eyesight by the fumes from a hundred
burning piles. In that fair valley nature heals and gives
the he to the realities of human greed and envy. The
gardens bloom as ever they did in the false heyday of
their youth, and every evening the paths between the
orderly beds of flowers are used by the people of Kabul,
taking the best time of the day for their leisure, laughing,
playing, chattering.

On the silver screens of half a dozen cinemas there flit
the most modern images of civilisation. To escape from
the talkies, it is only necessary to go to Afghanistan,
but the silent pictures are there, and the thrilled public
watches twice nightly a succession of carefully chosen
films with a high moral purpose, showing the Afghan
warrior about his peaceful and happy occupations, the
Afghan peasant cultivating his fields in the modern and
Government-approved fashion, and the Afghan scholar
assiduously bending his head to the mysteries of educa¬
tion.

All this in two years, starting from scratch. . . .

There must be something in this Nadir Shah, Western¬
ised Afghan.

As vital as the positive reforms are the negative virtues

267

AMANULLAII

of his rule. Hardly a Paris hat or a German pair of shoes
shows itself in Kabul city. The bazaar of the leather
workers is humming with activity once more. The shoes
of Kabul point up to heaven again, and are vastly more
comfortable than the polished pointed toes effected for
the imitation of a false European standard. Vastly
more comfortable, too, are the worked brown and green
sandals, for wear on the rough hill tracks, with a big toe
protruding from where the two simple flaps are joined,
and an ingeniously decorated red strap round the heel.

The puggarees perch jauntily or voluminously on the
heads of the Afghan nation once again. The long flap
hangs down the back, for its old use as face covering,
dust covering, or pillow for a weary head. Waistcoats
are gaudy and as loose as once they were tight and sombre
under the Western order, and down to the bare ankles
flow the swaggering folds of white trousers, billowing
magnificently at the knee, pulled in at the shin-bone.

“ Afghanistan for the Afghans ! ” The old cry, cloak
for so many varied motives and reforms in these crowded
years, seems to ring more genuinely while Kabul retains
its character of the unchanging East. We see now,
indeed, a vast change in the throng that moves through
the gates of the city. No Russians shoulder their way
through the bazaar in the uniform of the Air Force. No
polyglot band of engineers or architects sits in the cafds.
No secretariat of all the nations is housed in the great
blocks of hostels, once echoing to the languages of all
the world. Save for a few professors from Europe,
Afghans run their own country.

In the oldest country, the motor car cannot be avoided.
There are more motor cars in Afghanistan than ever
before. Amanullah’s Rolls-Royces went the way of
many treasures during those hectic days when the bon¬
fires burned so merrily, but there are six to take the place

268

KING NADIR SHAH’S CORONATION ADDRESS, OCTOBER 17, 1930

(pitas’)

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

of one in these days, and with the coming of the new
roads the imports of cars are ever increasing.

The British Legation is patched up again, and there
rules a Scotsman with a small staff for the representation
of Great Britain. The dark days have nearly been for¬
gotten, and English women are once more at the great
white building. It seems a long time since the last
’plane flew from Kabul with the last Englishman in
the cabin.

Outside the city, on the playing-fields, are to be heard
the voices of those who are playing football and hockey
and handball. Sport newest of all new things for the
Afghan, has come to the country. Government lends a
sympathetic ear to the directors of national sport. It
was even hoped that this year Afghan hockey players
would be at Los Angeles for the Olympic Games.

It is a free country once more. The old embargo is
lifted again, and the old vindictive cry, that followed the
anti-European protest, is heard no more. Passports
are given for visitors to Kabul, and the land that was
forbidden returns for the second time to freedom for the
feringhe.

Nothing is heard of another Royal trip to Europe.
Strangely enough, the fact of the King’s European train¬
ing arouses no resentment nor suspicion in the minds
of the people. He has seen, and he has benefited by
Europe. He gave up security and comfort to come back
on a forlorn hope. He knows the West and he returned
to the East. The philosophic Afghan reflects that there
is here less danger than in a ruler who thought to tackle
the West after he had sat on an Eastern throne.

Peace, and the gospel of content, has been suggested
to the Afghan nation, for the first time, with success.
No fire-eating idealist sits in Kabul and looks with envy
across the frontiers of his own Kingdom. A country

269

AMANULLAH

and the House of Lords. The nobility were not for¬
gotten, in a country where there is and always will be
a sharp dividing-line between those who can trace their
ancestry back to the old ruling houses, and those who
till the soil. The art of war still held pride of place in
the hero worship of the commoner. But here, under the
guidance of the new King, were noblemen of war
striving for peace, and names immortally written on the
scroll of warfare, now appearing on the lists of those
who had triumphed in the art of seeking peace.

One of the most recent proclamations made by Nadir
Shah epitomises the new spirit. It categorically details
the freedom of the subject, the liberty to vote, and the
democracy of the new system of government. The
“ Independence of the State ” is put down as of primary
importance in the new programme of government.
“ Individual freedom from interference ” is given
emphasis, thus recalling the bad old days when no man
knew what would be called his and what belonged to the
State, when no man knew whether he was tending flocks
or tilling land for himself or for a rapacious collector
of taxes.

It seems strange to read these days of a law forbidding
“ slavery or forced labour,” but these evils were included
among those banned by the new ruler. This is 1982,
but the peasant in the highest uplands needed to be
assured that he would no longer toil through the hot
noonday, nor shiver on the heights in mid-winter, to
add to another’s power and riches.

“ The safety of personal property is guaranteed.”
Here is a fine boast. The declaration does not say
whether the safety is to be assured from robber or from
State official, but this much perhaps is left to the small
imagination of the village crowd round the Government
envoy in the village, called by beat of drum, who perhaps

272

AFGHAN GIRL GUIDES, CORONATION BAY, 1930

THE BODYGUARB MARCHES PAST, CORONATION BAY, 1930

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

take away with them the confidence that was intended
to be transmitted by this good news. Such news must
have travelled swiftly, for nothing like it had been
heard before in the history of Afghanistan.

There follow considerable details concerning the
Majlis-i-Shora, or Council of State. A Council is elected,
and each member sits regularly in Kabul for the term
of three years. It is the claim of the present Government
that this is the first time in the history of the country that
such freedom has been given to the subjects to choose
their own representatives. Certainly, in past years,
little attention has been paid to the elections, and the
sense of bitterness against the Government has led to
a general cynicism over the deliberations of the poor
victims of the electoral system who were dragged to
Kabul, there to assent to various schemes, more or less
unintelligible, which were put before them for their
approval.

The very spirit and fire of the man who rules Kabul,
and'conquered by his bravery from the scratch mark,
reveals itself in some of the provisions for the government
of his wild people. The public and the Press are ad¬
mitted to the sessions of the Parliament, though as a
precaution, the six newspapers of Kabul are under a
certain surveillance by Government officials. The Bang
can himself pass an emergency measure, though it must
be approved by the next session of Parliament or
rejected by them.

The decisions of the Council of State must not clash
with the laws of Islam (hereby proving the ascendancy
of the village mullah to his old place of power) and
must be in conformity with the policy of the Government.
Nadir Shah, who took so many chances with his own
safety, is taking no risks with his crown.

Side by side with the Council of State, is the Council

273

s

AMANULLAH

of Nobles. Named the Majlis-i-Ayan, it has referred
to it all the decisions of the lower chamber, and its
decisions in reciprocity go to the State Council. There
is a method of referring to a half-and-half committee
any question which is a point of argument between the
two chambers, thus depicting in the statute book the
favourite game of the Afghan (and of many European
politicians as well) of shelving a matter until it is past
remembering and past praying for.

Still, however easy it be to criticise the laws which
govern the country to-day, it is a fact that these are the
first ever framed for the Afghan which have given him
anything approaching the right of free speech.

The bombast and the braggadocio of Amanullah are
forgotten. There have been no utterances from the
throne painting the roseate, and usually gory future of
Afghanistan. There have been few claims to universal
recognition as a first-class power, though behind the
fervent speeches of the younger element there is often
enough to be found a self-respecting and intelligent
trust in the future of their virile, sturdy race.

There could not be a better leader than the tall,
dark-bearded, and bespectacled King. He rules with a
knowledge of the Afghan mentality more profound,
because of his years, than that of Amanullah. He has
passed the days of impetuosity, but can still thrill the
eyes and ears of his people with the appearance of a true
Afghan and the deeds of an old-time hero.

Afghanistan will never have an alien king. It is
impossible. The Faith stands firm, and would resist
even if other circumstances, more material than the
service of the Prophet, directed that an intruder should
step in. Thus it is that in history the man who is
nearest to the Afghan heart has been able to lead where
others have failed.

274

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

Old Habibullah, the stone-wall Amir, ruled with the
rod of iron that the Afghan understands. Amanullah
allowed his restless mind to stray from the paths of
reality. Inayatullah was a weakling, and no weakling
will ever rule in Kabul. Bacha Sachao, self-named after
the glories of Habibullah, outdid the natural cruelty of
the Afghan in his excesses, while his reign was virtually
over when his shameful caste was discovered.

But in Nadir Shah there is the true Afghan blood,
the courage of the hillman, the wisdom of the diplomat,
and the blind faith of the true follower of Islam, all
combined. Such virtues are necessary in the land where
strange rulers have sat on the throne, and lived to see
their characters tested more severely than falls to the
lot of Western emperors.

The news has gone round the hill-tops and the ravines.
The shepherd’s voice rings out in all its resonance to
his neighbour. His voice is floating across the great
distances, and seems to gather strength as it soars
upward in the long wailing cry of the hillmen.

The news goes round. There is a King in Kabul who
is of the Faith, who holds to the laws of the Koran,
who is strong in the religion of the north. He is a
fighting man, and put to death the bandit of the hills,
that one that the fools called Robin Hood. He has
made just laws, so that all men are equal in his sight,
and bids them come to Kabul to make laws for their
own kind.

They have heard that before. . . . There was Aman¬
ullah, riding on the wind of his own ambition. This
same piece of news was transmitted round the ranges of
the hills, and discussed often enough in the samovar
shops. The peasant knew the end of that, how by the
rule of Amanullah his treasures grew to nothing, how
he and his family starved under the pressure of the

275

AMANULLAH

tax-gatherer, how the winters seemed the more cruel
when times were bad, and how for months following his
departure from Kabul the land was ravaged by outlaws
and outcasts.

But there is the stamp of truth in the new declaration,
and there are deeds to prove it, in the new and un¬
familiar leniency of the Government collectors, in the
ordinances of the inspectors, and the demands of the
officials who take toll upon the roads, leading to the
capital.

The hillman is taking heart again. He is believing
the evidence of his own ears. Nadir Shah, donor of the
first gift of free speech, free lives, and free representation
to his country, has won already the grudging approval
of his critical jury in the outposts.

276

CHAPTER XVIII

A HEART-BROKEN EXILE—AMANULLAH LOOKS BACK—TO-DAY
IN KABUL—THE SILENT WATCHER OP THE HILLS

T HE door opens. Into the sunlight there comes
a short, stocky, and lithe figure in sombre
black. The house he leaves is an unpretentious
villa in a suburb of Rome. The windows are shuttered,
and, in spite of its air of habitation, it seems a forlorn
place, ill-cared-for and gloomy, as if its occupants had
never loved it as a home.

But in the gait of the man walking along the wide
pavement there is a certain briskness and energy. He
has the stride of a man of purpose, a man of determina¬
tion. He walks along past the vegetable stalls and the
newspaper kiosks, and few people spare him a glance.
They are accustomed to him. His swarthy skin, indeed,
is not very different from their own. His clothes are
the clothes of the shopkeeper and the householder in
that same street. Only the strength and the power of
his shoulders, and the build of the strong man, hardly
concealed beneath his jacket, distinguish him.

There is nothin§i4g tell, surely, that this is the stride
of any but a commoner. There is nothing to indicate
the heritage of power, and the youth of omnipotence,
that was his. And by and by, as he proceeds on his
walk through the busy city, the stride becomes less
vigorous, the shoulders lose their energy, the steps
become less full of purpose as he realises that he is
walking nowhere, bent on no business at all, striding
to no affairs which need his leadership, hurrying for

277

AMANULLAH

no purpose. Amanullah, ex-King of Afghanistan, tastes
the bitterness of the ineffective as he idles away the
prime of his life in a strangely lazy land.

“ Peace of God ” he was called. The name survived
wars, tumult, revolt, country-wide bloodshed. The
irony strikes deep. Even more bitter a wound is that
inflicted by forced inactivity. Failure docs not come
easily to a man who had staked his future on success.
He had never dreamed of failure. He finds himself now
not only purposeless, but without fame. Of the kings
who wander round the globe to-day, their thrones
smashed by the anger of revolutionary mobs, there can
be none so deeply wounded and humiliated as this man
who walks along the sunny street, now halting in his steps.

For he was an ambitious man, and will never forget
the homage that was paid him in the Courts of the
Western world.

Amanullah need not fear poverty. After sundry
rumours that he was on the verge of destitution, that
he had left the East with little or no wealth, it was
virtually admitted that during his last flight from Kabul
he had been able to bring with him sufficient valuables
to ensure at least his comfort and that of his family for
a number of years.

The value of the diamonds, rubies, and emeralds
brought out of flaming Kabul may have totalled
£100,000. Reports differ, but it is certain that attempts
have already been made to dispose of some of the more
valuable of the gems to European dealers. On the
proceeds of those sales, Amanullah and Souriya are now
living in a modest way, trying their hand at occasional
farming, interesting themselves in various industries for
a time, and generally living fairly comfortably without
the need for undue anxiety.

It is said that Amanullah, with his perhaps natural

278

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EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

ignorance of the value of money, went one day to a
Swiss jeweller with the more precious saleable property
in his pockets. He asked a fantastic price for one stone.
The Swiss dealer, knowing his man, and knowing also
the value of the offer, shook his head in kindly but
decisive manner. Angry, Amanullah went away without
waiting for a return offer.

The dealer still smiled. He could afford to wait.

The next day Amanullah presented himself once more
with the same jewels. He mentioned his price. It was
less than half that of the day before. He was able to
live on the proceeds with quite a show of luxury for
some months.

There is no doubt that during the past two years other
stones have gone the same way. There are children to
maintain, and it may be expected that Souriya, the
Queen who kept all Europe staring, is not as adept as
the house-proud Italian women of the suburbs, in
providing the daily fare. Still, there are kings worse
off, and the most serious lack in that modest household
is not that of money.

Amanullah has nowhere to go and nothing to do. He
has few friends among the humble working people of
the district. He has few interests in common with the
neighbouring householders. He shares neither their
working hours nor their leisure.

There is little sport for a man of his tastes. There are
no long treks into the hills, no hunting excursions, no
opportunities for a man to show himself a man among
those carefully ordered suburbs of a great city.

Now and then there comes news from Afghanistan.
His face lights up with every detail of events in Kabul.
The Afghan State newspapers are eagerly read in at
least one house in Rome. Such items that do appear in
the Italian papers are devoured with interest and

279

AMANULLAH

searched anew for any possible hidden meanings.
Amanullah will never forget.

He attends picnics, given by friends in the summer¬
time. Now and then there are English hosts, and he
delights to exhibit the few words of the language he
picked up during his English tour. He is a boy once more,
anxious for any audience, for he has never quite shed
the pose of the eager and passionate youth. Then
comes again the black despair, the sense of frustration
which only the once-mighty can know.

Picnics, and he dreams still of an army on the march 1

The trivialities of the suburbs, and he once saw cities
beflagged in his honour!

He is cursed with imagination, to make his life the
harder. He tests out his theories anew, struggles with
his ambitions in private, and plans again the Afghan
nation as he visualised it. Always, at the end of his
vain reasonings, he comes to the same decision. He was
right, he was right!

He sees now the same reforms that he struggled to
effect, taking shape in his own capital. He sees the new
Royal bodyguard equipped even more splendidly, capped
now in bearskins after the English pattern, stiff at the
salute in honour of an older, less vigorous, and more
simple man. He sees his own dreams rising in stone
and cement on the Afghan plains. Slowly, but more
surely. Backed now by the support of a nation, aided
by the willing hands of well-governed and amenable
citizens.

Whereas he had tried force. He knew no other way.

He hears of a monument erected within sight of his
old Palace, a slender white pillar flanked by victorious
guns. The words on the simple but beautiful monument
tell of the gratitude of a nation toward a man who
rescued it from the effects of his own ambition.

280

THE KING TO-DAY, WITH HIS PRIME MINISTER AND BROTHER, MAHOMED KASHIM KHAN, AND HIS

FOREIGN MINISTER, FAIZ MAHONIED KHAN

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He reads of a contented peasantry and an amicable
Church. His old enemies, always regarded as the foes
of progress, are now pressing for faster and more regular
advance towards his own ideal of “ emancipation.”
He reads of the taxes flowing smoothly into the Treasury,
of an honest civil service, of a loyal army, and a gradually
growing educational system, which will raise the people
from the ignorance in which they have lived so long.

He knows the wireless masts in Kabul are crackling,
whereas he had dreamed of their chatter, had worked
desperately to ensure their future, and yet had never
been there to rejoice over this sure sign of modernisation.

The cinemas flick their messages to the people; the
telegraph poles are silent witnesses to progress and order;
the zoom of ’planes overhead tells of advance, success,
modernisation. In his brain they all grew. Yet he
never was able to drag the State from the financial mire
into which it had sunk. Another has translated his
inspirations into fact. Another rules in Kabul. Aman-
ullah, who never considered defeat, stares at failure.

Often enough he must think of those chill nights on
the hills, quiet eerie nights in the camp, when his dreams
ran away with his common sense. Days of sport, and
long hours of endeavour when he outpaced and exhausted
the finest men of the hills in his pursuit. Days of daring
and days of glorious adventure. Days of high hope.

Afghan mirage, seen once in the heat haze under the
noon sun; seen now in the smoke clouds, over a prosaic
Italian suburb. . . .

Would Amanullah ever go back?

Would he ever leave peace, security, suburbia, to
pursue once more the dream cities he saw in that vision ?
Amanullah, “ Peace of God,” is not the man to be

281

AMANULLAH

content with a comfortable backwater. He is driven
still by that very ambition which pressed him formerly
into danger. His dreams give him no rest. His mind
works still at the old problems, appraises anew the old
schemes. He would go back to Afghanistan if he were
given the glimmer of a hope that his people would suffer
him.

He has been to Turkey on holiday from exile. During
his regime of folly, the Turks held high authority in
Kabul. In the uniforms of Army commanders, of civil
overlords, and Government advisers, they were put in
enviable positions in the ruling classes. Their military
reputation went to Kabul before them, and for some
time many of the Afghan recruits received their first
education in military affairs from tarb'ushed and over¬
bearing Turkish officers with the Afghan crest on their
shoulder badges.

Sometimes they got into trouble. Even at the height
of his power, Amanullah was unable to prevent one of
his most favoured commanders from being tried by the
civil authorities for a parade-ground attack on a recruit.
The evidence was to the effect that the officer had in¬
sulted and cruelly treated the Afghan. The defence was
that by no strategy or explanation could the recruit be
persuaded to keep his feet together while standing at
attention 1 The highly efficient Turkish officers found
their military prowess and patience highly taxed when
it came to teaching discipline to young Afghanistan.

But Amanullah’s name stood high in Constantinople.
The Crescent knows no boundaries of country or colour,
and the warrior Afghans were well esteemed among the
military classes of Turkey.

At one time there must have been Turkish dreams of
a powerful and strategically situated ally to the north
of India, and it is natural that hopes rose higher when

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EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

Amanullah responded to their approval by engaging a
considerable cadre of Turkish officers for work on Kabul
parade grounds.

The reason for Amanullah’s visit to Constantinople,
therefore, can be understood. He must have travelled
there with an ear ready for the slightest hint that he
would be supported if he returned to his own country.
He must have ached for the mere whisper of the approval
that he desired. Such is his ambition, he must have
already visualised himself returning, perhaps even at
the head of Turkish troops.

But no word came. Even his flatterers were not
foolish enough to let their minds rest on such a project.
Often enough he has reminded himself that his country
is closed to him for always. But every time the hope
returns.

So we leave him, broken and dispirited, a prey to
ever-recurring torments that are more wounding than
the pangs of remorse. We leave him in the unromantic
surroundings of suburbia, in ignominy and modesty.
We leave him, however, still the man of action, still
young, still afire with energy and the vital but dangerous
flames of ambition.

Day after day his thoughts cross the water, leave the
pampered boundaries of Western civilisation, cross burn¬
ing plains and the high hills ; pass through the ordered
and awesome last barriers of the British Army in India;
come eventually to the shaded groves of Jallalabad, to
the wide sweep of the Pamirs, to crowded, rambling
Kabul City.

To the throne.. ..

To Nadir Shah, King in his stead, staid and states-
manly gentleman of culture with steel spectacles and an
orthodox and confidence-inspiring black beard.

His thoughts rove round the new kingdom. Ponder

283

AMANULLAH

on the new roads, the new cities, hear sounds that
he heard once in his dreams of the new Afghanis¬
tan. His thoughts centre on the new flag, black and
red and green, symbolic of sorrow, glory, and peace,
which waves over the old fortress of Kabul, showing
its arch and pulpit for all the world to divine its meaning.

He sees a great pastoral land in peace—in the strange
and unusual condition of uninterrupted work. He senses
the heart of the people loyal to a new king. He knows
now, that he was defeated, never to return.

In Amanullah, Nadir Shah has a critic inevitably
biassed but tragically experienced. Perhaps the criti¬
cism is not harsh, but approving and constructive. Per¬
haps the considered verdict of the brave failure on the
subject of the diplomatic success is kindly and well
disposed.

But if this be so, then a miracle has occurred in the
heart of Amanullah. He could not make the sacrifice
of surrendering his grievances. He could never find it
in his heart to be a watcher of any disposition but
bitterness and envy.

And Amanullah knows now that he will never go
back. Kings never return to Kabul. Most of them
who fail, would not even achieve security in a Roman
suburb.

The remaining years of the brave, foolhardy first
King of the Afghans must be spent in watching his
successor. ...

But Nadir Khan has another keen watcher.

More critical than the verdict of the Western world,
less tolerant than the jury of his countrymen, a man
and a class.

As the sun sinks behind the white fringe of the Pamirs,

284

EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

and the evening notes of the Muezzin’s voice floats up
in the still air to the hills, a man comes out of his rough
shanty and faces the sunset.

He listens intent, and bows his head to the ground.
Long minutes he spends on the ground, bowing till the
grey head touches the fringe of his mat. The palms of
the hand are laid flat on the ground, the knees are
drawn up to the chest.

Then he straightens himself, bows once with the head
only, and looks below him to the valley of Paghman.

The mullah, solitary and content with a satisfaction
unknown in the West, considers his time and his epoch.
He brings to the task a detached and independent view¬
point unattainable by the irreligious. He calls on the
wisdom of a hundred years, the learning of one holy
book, the traditions of a rigid caste. He is of another
age, unchangeable.

He watches progress under the reign of King Nadir
Shah. Down below where the valley unfolds before his
old eyes, he has seen progress before. It was startling
enough, it brought strange noises and strange sights.
He saw motor cars come. He saw buildings rise with
a clatter of many workmen aided by many ingenious
devices.

He was interested, but never materially.

He remembers the time when the evening voice from
the Mosque was hard to hear, up the hill. Only the faint
echo of it came to his waiting ears. The long wailing
note reached him through the screech of motor horns, the
clatter of crowds, the clash of massed bands and the
tramp of marching feet.

There were flags in the valley, and before him a great
gross pink building arose, whose meaning he did not
trouble to inquire. He had heard it was to house a
modern invention for the amusement of the people. He

285

tes?’* Csss^ tcss^i t«s^ tcs^a *<5?t tc£^

AMANULLAH

thrilled to the shame of it being taller than the Mosque,
true centre of Afghan life.

The drums ceased beating, the regular stamp of feet
was heard no more. There were no more flags in the
green valley, no more bands in the round bandstand
below his mountain retreat. Only, from Kabul, there
rose in the air, day and night increasingly, the smoke
of burning buildings, the acrid scent of powder, the
clash of warfare.

The mullah did not leave his retreat, but pondered
the more and devoted more than his customary atten¬
tion to prayer.

The crash of cannon reverberated through the hills.
The drone of ’planes, strange, ungodly apparitions at
which he shuddered, flllcd the air. He was afraid, not
for himself, for he was past fear and believed in the
goodness of Allah, but for his countrymen.

An infidel King had gone. That much he knew. That
much he prophesied, long ago, when he was told that
the mullahs held no more their power through the land.
That much he knew when it was noised abroad that this
Amanullah, this “ Peace of God,” was thirsting for war,
for novelty, for the infidel ways of the countries across
the Black Water.

News came regularly to him over the hills. He learnt
of the shameful departure of the Amir to the West. He
learnt of the abandonment of the purdah , the freedom
of women. Was the world crazy ? Was the Faith of
Islam a thing to mock ? That way lay disaster. He
was not at all surprised when the news came that the
irreligious King, who had ^mocked the Faith, whose
motor cars had screeched down the voice of the Imam,
and who had persecuted the mullahs, had fled.

The old eyes looked down without excitement, with¬
out trouble, but with a pain behind them, in the brain

286

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EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

that had since birth been trained to concentrate on the
Faith, forgetting all and renouncing all.

Insh’Allah. It was the will of Allah.

Or, alternatively, it must be left to Allah. He had
but the philosophies contained in that word.

There came fire and want and desperation below him
in the wicked city. There were refugees passing over
the hills, away from the smoking city where, rumour
said, all was pestilence and famine and evil.

There came days of waiting, and afar off the dust of
an approaching army. The city seemed to rise in the
air, atop a cloud of smoke and an explosion. Was it
the end of the world ? The mullah was prepared.

But it was peace. It was peace, after hangings, and
tortures, and months of harrying and want in Kabul
City. The green valley reeked with cruelty and terror.
He looked down with the eyes of sadness.

The months passed, and he learned that a new ruler
was come.- A man of the Faith, strong and sturdy in
Islam. A man of wisdom, as befitted the true Believer.
A man of some years, strong in warfare, old in diplomacy.

Great things were promised. Already it had been
established that he had greeted the mullahs. He had
publicly espoused the cause of Islam, and protested his
desire to lend it strength in Afghanistan. Hopes were
high.

Yet there came to the valley and to Kabul some of
the same Western innovations that had brought ruin in
their wake before. More buildings, higher than the
Mosque, rose in the Plain. Motor cars, never to be seen
without suspicion and doubt, sped along the new roads.
The ’planes cast their shadows over him and his tiny
dwelling in the hills. Could he and his Faith be safe
while such things be ?

The lonely mullah watches, unconvinced.

287

AMANULLAH

From a realm of his own, he sees dimly the events of
the material world, always in relation to his Faith.

As I saw him, that day above Paghman Valley, sitting
on his crag while below him there were being enacted
the nightmare ceremonies of a brave failure, he seemed
to typify the Afghan, intolerant beyond the scope of our
understanding, seeing through the evening mists only
an incident in an age-long history.

Insh’Allah. . ..

288