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Updated: June 22, 2025
The valley was full of shouting, howling creatures, and every soul was shrieking, 'Not a God nor a Devil, but only a man! The Bashkai troops stuck to Billy Fish all they were worth, but their matchlocks wasn't half as good as the Kabul breech-loaders, and four of them dropped.
Already the strange airs of her unknown world were breathing about me, and as yet I knew not the things that belonged unto my peace. We glided along the straight military road from Peshawar to Nowshera, the gold-bright sun dazzling in its whiteness a strange drive through the flat, burned country, with the ominous Kabul River flowing through it.
One never loses at that game if one plays it straight, and I am sure that at the last it was joy he felt and not fear. He has not lost. Did you notice in the church a niche before every soldier's seat to hold his loaded gun? And the tablets on the walls; "Killed at Kabul River, aged 22." "Killed on outpost duty." "Murdered by an Afghan fanatic." This will be one memory more. Why be sorry."
The character of these tracts is similar to that of north-western Kabul, but somewhat less rugged and mountainous. Hills and downs alternate with rocky ranges and fairly fertile vales. There is a scantiness of water, but still a certain number of moderate-sized rivers, tolerably well supplied with affluents.
Here is a charming picture he has given of another garden he laid out in the Istalif district of Kabul: "On the outside of the garden are large and beautiful spreading plane-trees, under the shade of which there are agreeable spots, finely sheltered. A perennial stream, large enough to turn a mill, runs through the garden, and on its banks are planted plane and other trees.
"There starts a caravan from Peshawar to Kabul in twenty days, Huzrut," said the Eusufzai trader. "My camels go therewith. Do thou also go and bring us good luck." "I will go even now!" shouted the priest. "I will depart upon my winged camels, and be at Peshawar in a day! Ho! Hazar Mir Khan," he yelled to his servant, "drive out the camels, but let me first mount my own."
Early in the year 1880, the British Government prepared to make a dignified withdrawal from Afghanistan. That volcanic region was by no means tranquil, although the chief rebel, Yakoub Khan, had been driven out of Kabul by General Roberts, and had retired to the distant country of the Her-i-rud.
That at any rate was secure until she returned and she might never return! The thought made her smile. "Forward, slaves!" she cried cheerfully, and Kâbul, the city she loved so well, was left behind without one regret. And she was right.
Thus Foster-father's heart sank within him, when in the distance, down the rocky ravine through which the Kâbul River dashes, and along which the caravan road took its high-perched way, he saw the battlemented wall of the city, cresting the low hills on which the town was built.
Herát was the capital of an independent empire, at this time the greatest in Central Asia; and Kandahár, Bajáur, Swát, and Pesháwar, were ruled by chiefs who had no connection with Kábul. The tribes of the plains and outlying valleys alone acknowledged the authority of the King of that country.
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