At the Court of the Amîr: A NarrativeGray, John Alfred
History
At the Court of the Amîr: A Narrative
Gray, John Alfred
'Abd al-Rahman Khan, Amir of Afghanistan, -1901; Afghanistan -- History
I was on the watch that evening and the next morning to see if I should
have any return of fever myself. As there was none, I had my horse
saddled, and started, after breakfast, on a visit to the Hospital,
where I had not been able to put in an appearance for several weeks.
I enjoyed being out on horseback again. I was riding a young horse that
the Amîr had given me. He seemed to enjoy being out also, for presently
he began to toss his head and snort and plunge.
The Armenian said, sagaciously,
“Sir, he very fool horse.”
The plunging was not sufficiently satisfying, and he commenced rearing
and kicking. Unfortunately the fever, in addition to making my legs
shaky, had taken a large slice off the normal amount of pluck that one
ordinarily possesses, so that in proportion as his jubilation increased
mine diminished.
The road was very lumpy and frozen hard, and it seemed to me that the
“fool horse,” in his lunatic caperings, must inevitably slip down and
break my leg. There was an evil time to come. We had got through the
Bazaar without any serious mishap when, just outside, we happened to
come alongside of another man on horseback. This was what my “fool
horse” desired; the very thing he was waiting for--he always was a
regular bulldog for worrying with his teeth, and was a ruffian at
striking: up he reared and simply pounced on the other horse. He caught
him by the neck and shook him, and drove him up against a wall. Both
reared upright, and then commenced the screams and the strikings of
two incensed stallions. The other man was even less happy than I, for
my brute was getting the best of it. I wondered which of us would be
killed, and began to think it would be the other man.
The Armenian shouted,
“Sir, please you hit him with spur.”
I hadn’t a spur to “hit” with, for, knowing the horse would be “fresh,”
I had not put any on. I tore at his mouth with the curb, and hit him
over the head with my fist. It seemed to astonish him, for he let go
the other horse, and settled on his four feet again. It was all the
other man wanted: he was out of sight round the corner before you could
say “Parallelopipedon.”
We got outside the town and had a large open space to cross. Some
horses in the distance were neighing, and, of course, mine answered
them shrilly and fiercely, and he tried to be off at a furious gallop
to get another little boxing match. This I was able to put a stop to,
fortunately, for the ground was much broken up and very slippery.
Having nothing better to do, therefore, he reared and kicked again. We
reached the Hospital at last, and, with shaking knees and a thankful
heart, I dismounted.
[Sidenote: The Hospital in the Winter.]
There were a great many sick soldiers at the Hospital, some sixty or
seventy. I was not yet strong enough to attend to them all, and I chose
out about a dozen who were very ill.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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