LEAVE WAN.--THE ARMENIAN PATRIARCH.--THE ISLAND OF AKHTAMAR.--AN
ARMENIAN CHURCH.--HISTORY OF THE CONVENT.--PASS INTO MUKUS.--THE
DISTRICT OF MUKUS.--OF SHATTAK.--OF NOURDOOZ.--A NESTORIAN
VILLAGE.--ENCAMPMENTS.--MOUNT ARARAT.--MAR
SHAMOUN.--JULAMERIK.--VALLEY OF DIZ.--PASS INTO JELU.--NESTORIAN
DISTRICT OF JELU.--AN ANCIENT CHURCH.--THE BISHOP.--DISTRICT OF
BAZ.--OF TKHOMA.--RETURN TO MOSUL.
Sickness had overcome both Dr. Sandwith and Mr. Cooper. A return to the
burning plains of Assyria might have proved fatal, and I advised them to
seek, without further delay, the cooler climate of Europe. Mr. Walpole,
too, who had been long suffering from fever, now determined upon quitting
my party and taking the direct road to Erzeroom.
In the afternoon of the 12th August I left the gates of the convent of
Yedi Klissia with Mr. Hormuzd Rassam. Once more I was alone with my
faithful friend, and we trod together the winding pathway which led down
the mountain side. We had both been suffering from fever, but we still had
strength to meet its attacks, and to bear cheerfully, now unhindered, the
difficulties and anxieties of our wandering life.
We made a short journey of three and a half hours to the pleasant village
of Artamit or Adremit, and encamped beneath its fruit trees in a garden
near the lake. Our path on the following day led through a hilly district,
sometimes edging a deep bay, then again winding over a rocky promontory.
We crossed by a bridge the large stream which we had seen at Mahmoudiyah,
and which here discharges itself into the lake.
On the shores of the lake we found many encampments of gipsies; the men to
be distinguished by their swarthy countenances, the women and children by
their taste for begging.
We passed through Vastan; in the eleventh century the residence of the
royal Armenian family of Ardzrouni, but now a mere village. The convent
boat was on the beach, three miles above the usual landing-place. Four
sturdy monks were about to row it back to the island. As they offered to
take me with them, I left the caravan to journey onwards to our night's
encamping place, and with Mr. Rassam and the Bairakdar, we were soon
gliding over the calm surface of the lake. Not a breeze rippled the blue
expanse. The burning rays of the sun were still full upon us, and the
panting boatmen were nearly two hours before they reached the convent.
In the absence of the Patriarch we were received by an intelligent and
courteous monk named Kirikor. His hair, as well as his beard, had never
known the scissors, and fell in long luxuriant curls over his shoulders.
It was of jetty black, for he was still a young man, although he had
already passed twenty years of a monastic life. He led us through an
arched doorway into the spacious courtyard of the convent, and thence into
an upper room furnished with comfortable divans for the reception of
guests. Tea was brought to us after the Persian fashion, and afterwards a
more substantial breakfast, in which the dried fish of the lake formed the
principal dish. Kirikor had visited Jerusalem and Constantinople, had read
many of the works issued by the Venetian press, and was a man of superior
acquirements for an Armenian monk of the orthodox faith.
The church, which is within the convent walls, is built of the sandstone
of a rich deep red color that has been quarried for the turbehs of Akhlat.
Like other religious edifices of the same period and of the same nation,
it is in the form of a cross, with a small hexagonal tower, ending in a
conical roof, rising above the centre. The interior is simple. A few rude
pictures of saints and miracles adorn the walls, and a gilded throne for
the Patriarch stands near the altar. The exterior, however, is elaborately
ornamented with friezes and broad bands of sculptured figures and scroll
work, the upper part being almost covered with bas-reliefs, giving to the
whole building a very striking and original appearance. I know of no
similar specimen of Armenian architecture, and I regret that time would
not allow me to make detailed drawings of the edifice.
In a grave-yard outside the church are several most elaborately carved
tombstones belonging to the early Armenian patriarchs. That of Zachariah,
who died in the fourteenth century, and who was for one year patriarch at
Echmiadsin and for nine years at Akhtamar, is especially worthy of notice
for the richness and elegance of its ornaments.
The convent and church are built on a small rocky island about five miles
from the shore. On an adjacent islet are the ruined walls of a castle
partly covered by the rising waters of the lake. Intercourse with the main
land is carried on by the one crank boat which, whenever the weather
permits, goes backwards and forwards daily for such provisions as are
required by the inmates of the monastery. Khan Mahmoud took the place by
collecting together the vessels belonging to Wan for the transport of his
troops.
Late in the afternoon, accompanied by the monk Kirikor, I was rowed to the
farm and garden belonging to the convent, near the village of Ashayansk. A
few monks live on the farm, and tend the property of the convent,
supplying the Patriarch with the produce of the dairy and orchards. They
received us very hospitably. Kirikor rode with me on the following morning
as far as the large Armenian village of Narek, in which there is a church
dedicated to St. George, much frequented in pilgrimage by the Christians
of Wan and the surrounding country. It is a strong solid building, of the
same red sandstone as the tombs of Akhlat.
We had now left the lake of Wan, and our track led up a deep ravine, which
gradually became more narrow as we drew nigh to the high mountains that
separated us from the unexplored districts of Mukus and Bohtan. We passed
a large Armenian village named Pagwantz, near which, on the summit of a
precipitous rock, stands the ruined castle of Khan Mahmoud, the rebel
chief. He was the eldest of seven brothers, all of whom governed under him
different districts on the borders of the lake, and sorely oppressed the
Christian inhabitants. Five were captured and are in banishment.
Ere long we entered a rocky barren tract, patched here and there with
fragrant Alpine flowers. After climbing up a steep declivity of loose
stones like the moraine of a Swiss glacier, and dragging our horses with
much difficulty after us, we found ourselves amidst eternal snow, over
which we toiled for nearly two hours, until we reached the crest of the
mountain, and looked down into the deep valley of Mukus. This is
considered one of the highest passes in Kurdistan, and one of the most
difficult for beasts of burden. The descent was even more rapid and
precipitous than the ascent, and we could scarcely prevent our weary
horses from rolling down into the ravine with the stones which we put into
motion at every step. At the foot of the pass is a small Armenian church
called Khorous Klissia, or "the church of the cock," because a black cock
is said to warn the traveller when the snowdrifts hide the mountain
tracks.
A ride of eight hours brought us to the large scattered village of Mukus,
the principal place of the district of the same name. We were met, as we
drew near, by the Mudir or governor, an active bustling Turk, who had
already chosen, with the usual taste of an Eastern, the prettiest spot, a
lawn on the banks of the river, for our tents, and had collected
provisions for ourselves and our horses. The good Pasha of Wan had sent to
the different chiefs on our way, and had ordered preparation to be
everywhere made for our reception. The Tigris is here a deep stream, and
is crossed by a stone bridge.
The district of Mukus, anciently Mogkh, and one of the provinces of the
Armenian kingdom, had only lately been brought under the authority of the
Sultan. Of its sixty villages forty are inhabited by Christian Armenians.
The revenues amounted the year of my visit to little more than 100,000
piastres (about 910_l._), of which the village of Mukus contributed
42,000. The garrison consisted of only forty regular soldiers and forty
Albanians, so completely had the seizure of their chiefs discouraged the
wild Kurdish tribes who dwell in the mountains, and were formerly in open
rebellion against the Porte. This nomade race forms the principal part of
the Mussulman population, and is the most fierce and independent in
Kurdistan.
The Mudir showed the greatest anxiety for our welfare during the night,
continually visiting our tents to see that the Albanians he had placed as
guards over our property did not sleep, as the village swarmed with Bohtan
thieves.
The principal Armenians of Mukus with their priests spent a morning with
me. They knew of no ruins or inscriptions in the district, and I found
them even more ignorant than their fellow-countrymen of the districts
around Wan, whose stupidity has passed into a Turkish proverb.
We left Mukus early in the afternoon, accompanied by the Mudir. The path
following the course of the river, leads to Sert Jezireh and the Assyrian
plains. Next day we crossed a high mountain ridge covered in some places
with snow, separating the district of Mukus from that of Shattak. Its
northern and western slopes are the summer pastures of the Miran Kurds,
whose flocks were still feeding on the green lawns and in the flowery
glens. On the opposite side of the pass we found an encampment of Hartushi
Kurds, under one Omar Agha, a noble old chieftain, who welcomed us with
unbounded hospitality, and set before me every luxury that he possessed.
Shattak, the Mudir of which village had prepared for our reception, is a
small town, rather than a village. It is chiefly inhabited by Armenians,
an industrious and hardy race, cultivating the sides of the mountains, on
which are built their villages, and weaving in considerable quantities the
gay-colored woollen stuffs so much esteemed by the Kurds. In nearly every
house was a loom, and the rattle of the shuttle came from almost every
door. The mountains produce galls, wool (some of which has the same silky
texture as that of Angora), the small under-wool of the goat called
_teftik_ (a valuable article of export), and minerals. In the bazar at
Shattak I saw a few English prints, and other European wares brought for
sale from Wan.
The priests and principal Armenians of the place came to me soon after my
arrival, and I learnt from them that efforts had already been made to
improve the condition of the Christian community, now that the oppressive
rule of the Kurdish hereditary chiefs had been succeeded by the more
tolerant government of the Sultan. A school had been opened, chiefly by
the help of Sheran, the active and liberal Armenian banker of Wan.
The town itself is called by the Armenians Tauk, by the Kurds Shokh, and
when spoken of together with the numerous villages that surround it,
Shattak. It stands near the junction of two considerable streams, forming
one of the head-waters of the eastern Tigris, and uniting with the
Bohtan-Su. The largest comes from the district of Albagh. These streams,
as well as that of Mukus, abound in trout of the most delicious flavor.
The entire district contains fifty villages and numerous _mezras_ or
hamlets. The revenues are about the same as those of Mukus.
We left Shokh on the 17th August by a bridge crossing the principal
stream. The Mudir rode with us up a steep mountain, rising on the very
outskirts of the town. After a long and difficult ascent we came to a
broad green platform called Tagu, the pastures of the people of Shattak,
and now covered with their tents and flocks. This high ground overlooked
the deep valleys, through which wound the two streams, and on whose sides
were many smiling gardens and villages.
Crossing a high mountain pass, on which snow still lingered, we descended
into a deep valley like that of Shattak, chiefly cultivated by Armenians.
We crossed a small stream, and ascended on the opposite side to Ashkaun,
whose inhabitants were outside the village, near a clear spring, washing
and shearing their sheep. We had now entered Nourdooz, a district under a
Mudir appointed by the Pasha of Wan, and living at a large village called
Pir-bedelan.
Our ride on the following day was over upland pastures of great richness,
and through narrow valleys watered by numerous streams. Here and there
were villages inhabited by Kurds and Armenians. We were now approaching
the Nestorian districts. The first man of the tribe we met was an aged
buffalo-keeper, who, in answer to a question in Kurdish, spoke to me in
the Chaldee dialect of the mountains. Hormuzd and my servants rejoiced at
the prospect of leaving the Armenian settlements, whose inhabitants, they
declared, were for stupidity worse than Kurds, and for rapacity worse than
Jews. Chilghiri was the first Nestorian village on our way. The men, with
their handsome wives and healthful children, came out to meet us. We did
not stop there, but continued our journey to Merwanen, which we found
deserted by its inhabitants for the Zomas, or summer pastures. Although
poor and needy, the people of Merwanen were not less hospitable than other
Nestorians I had met with. They brought us as the sun went down smoking
messes of millet boiled in sour milk and mixed with mountain herbs.
The next day we came to a large encampment of Hartushi Kurds, near the
outlet of a green valley, watered by many streams, forming the most
easterly sources of the Tigris.[170] Abd-ur-Rahman, the chief, was absent
from his tents collecting the annual salian or revenue of the tribe. In
his absence we were very hospitably treated, and were witnesses of the
activity and industry of the Kurdish community.
The mountain rising above us was the boundary between the pashalics of Wan
and Hakkiari and the watershed of the Tigris and Zab. On the opposite side
the streams uniting their waters flowed towards the latter river. The
first district we entered was that of Lewen, inhabited chiefly by
Nestorians. The whole population with their flocks had deserted their
villages for the Zomas. We ascended to the encampment of the people of
Billi, a wretched assemblage of dirty hovels, half tent and half cabin,
built of stones and black canvas. Behind it towered, amidst eternal snows,
a bold and majestic peak, called Karnessa-ou-Daoleh.[171] Round the base
of this mountain, over loose stones and sharp rocks, and through ravines
deep in snow, we dragged our weary horses next day. The Kurdish shepherds
that wander there, a wild and hardy race, have no tents, but, during the
summer months, live in the open fields with their flocks, without any
covering whatever.
After a wearisome and indeed dangerous ride, we found ourselves on a snowy
platform variegated with Alpine plants. The tiny streams which trickled
through the ice were edged with forget-me-nots of the tenderest blue, and
with many well-remembered European flowers. I climbed up a solitary rock
to take bearings of the principal peaks around us. A sight as magnificent
as unexpected awaited me. Far to the north, and high above the dark
mountain ranges which spread like a troubled sea beneath my feet, rose one
solitary cone of unspotted white sparkling in the rays of the sun. Its
form could not be mistaken; it was Mount Ararat. My Nestorian guide knew
no more of this stately mountain, to him a kind of mythic land far beyond
the reach of human travel, than that it was within the territories of the
Muscovites, and that the Christians called it Bashut-tama-hamda. From this
point alone was it visible, and we saw it no more during our journey.[172]
We descended rapidly by a difficult track, passing here and there
encampments of Kurds and the tents and flocks of the people of Julamerik.
To the green pastures succeeded the region of cultivated fields, and we
seemed to approach more settled habitations. Following a precipitous
pathway, and mounted on a tall and sturdy mule, we spied an aged man with
long robes, black turban, and a white beard which fell almost to his
girdle. We at once recognised the features of Mar Shamoun, the Patriarch
of the Nestorians, or, as he proudly terms himself, "of the Chaldaeans of
the East." He had not known of our coming, and he shed tears of joy as he
embraced us. Kochhannes, his residence, was not far distant, and he turned
back with us to the village. Since I had seen him misfortune and grief,
more than age, had worn deep furrows in his brow, and had turned his hair
and beard to silvery grey.
The garments of the Patriarch were worn and ragged. Even the miserable
allowance of 300 piastres (about 2_1._ 10_s._), which the Porte had
promised to pay him monthly on his return to the mountains, was long in
arrears, and he was supported entirely by the contributions of his
faithful but poverty-stricken flock. Kochhannes was, moreover, still a
heap of ruins. At the time of the massacre Mar Shamoun sacredly saved
himself by a precipitous flight before the ferocious Kurds of Beder Khan
Bey entered the village and slew those who still lingered in it, and were
from age or infirmities unable to escape.
Mar Shamoun, at the time of my visit, had no less cause to bewail the
misfortunes of his people than his personal sufferings. The latter were
perhaps partly to be attributed to his own want of prudence and foresight.
Old influences, which I could not but deeply deplore, and to which I do
not in Christian charity wish further to allude[173], had been at work,
and I found him even more bitter in his speech against the American
missionaries than against his Turkish or Kurdish oppressors. He had been
taught, and it is to be regretted that his teachers were of the Church of
England, that those who were endeavoring to civilise and instruct his
flock were seceders from the orthodox community of Christians, heretical
in doctrine, rejecting all the sacraments and ordinances of the true
faith, and intent upon reducing the Nestorians to their own hopeless
condition of infidelity. His fears were worked on by the assurance that,
ere long, through their means and teaching, his spiritual as well as his
temporal authority would be entirely destroyed. I found him bent upon
deeds of violence and intolerant persecution, which might have endangered,
for the second time, the safety of this people as well as his own. I
strove, and I trust not without success, to set before the old man his
true interest in regard to educating his clergy and people, circulating
the Scriptures, reforming abuses, &c.
The Nestorian community had greater wrongs to complain of than their
Patriarch. The Turkish government, so far from fulfilling the pledges
given to the British embassy, had sent officers to the mountains who had
grievously ill-treated and oppressed the Christian inhabitants; and they
had suffered all kinds of outrage and oppression which the rapacious Turks
could inflict. There was no tribunal to which they could apply for
redress. A deputation sent to the Pasha had been ill-treated, and some of
its members were still in prison. There was no one in authority to plead
for them. They had even suffered less under the sway of their old
oppressors, for, as a priest touchingly remarked to me, "The Kurds took
away our lives, but the Turks take away wherewith we have to live."
We remained a day with the Patriarch, and then took the road to Julamerik,
three caravan hours distant from Kochhannes. This town has been more than
once visited and described by English travellers.
Near Julamerik we met many poor Nestorians flying, with their wives and
children, they knew not whither, from the oppression of the Turkish
governors.
The direct road by Tiyari to Mosul is carried along the river Zab, through
ravines scarcely practicable to beasts of burden. It issues into the lower
valleys near the village of Lizan. On the banks of the Zab, I found the
remains of an ancient road, cut in many places in the solid rock. It
probably led from the Assyrian plains into the upper provinces of Armenia.
There are no inscriptions or ruins to show the period of its construction;
but, from the greatness of the work, I am inclined to attribute it to the
Assyrians.
We picked our way over the slippery pavement as long as we could find some
footing for ourselves and our beasts, but in many places, where it had
been entirely destroyed, we were compelled to drag our horses by main
force over the steep rocks and loose detritus, which sloped to the very
edge of the river. Before reaching the first Nestorian village in the
valley of Diz, we had to ford an impetuous torrent boiling and foaming
over smooth rocks, and reaching above our saddle-girths. One of the
baggage mules lost its footing. The eddying waters hurried it along and
soon hurled it into the midst of the Zab. The animal having, at length,
relieved itself from its burden, swam to the bank. Unfortunately it bore
my own trunks; my notes and inscriptions, the fruits of my labors at Wan,
together with the little property I possessed, were carried far away by
the stream. After the men from the village had long searched in vain, the
lost load was found about midnight, stopped by a rock some miles down the
river.
We passed the night in the miserable village of Rabban Audishio. On the
opposite side of the valley, but high in the mountains, was the village of
Seramus. The pathway to it being precipitous, and inaccessible even to
mules, we turned to Madis, the residence of the Melek, or chief, of the
district of Diz. The villages of Diz, like those of the Nestorian valleys
in general, stand in the midst of orchards and cultivated terraces. They
were laid waste, and the houses burnt, during the first massacre. Diz was
the first Christian district attacked by Beder Khan Bey. The inhabitants
made a long and determined resistance, but were at length overpowered by
numbers.
We continued our journey through a deep and narrow valley hemmed in by
high mountains and by perpendicular cliffs. The Melek met us on the road
near the village of Cherichereh, or Klissa. The old man had the too
common tale to tell us, of oppression and wrong on the part of the Turks.
Melek Beniamen implored me to help him in his difficulties; but I could do
no more than offer words of sympathy and consolation. Leaving the Melek to
pursue his tax-gathering, we rode through a magnificent valley, now
narrowing into a wild gorge walled with precipitous cliffs, then opening
into an amphitheatre of rocks encircling a village imbedded in trees. The
valley at length was abruptly closed by the towering peaks and precipices
of the Jelu mountain. At its foot is the village of Khouresin, where we
encamped for the night. The inhabitants were, for the most part, like the
other people of Diz, in the Zomas, or summer pastures.
Not far from the Zomas of Diz were the tents of the villagers of Jelu.
They also had encamped on the very verge of eternal snow, but within the
boundaries of Diz, as there were no pastures on the other side of the pass
in their own district. They were better clothed, and showed more signs of
comfort, if not of wealth, than their unfortunate neighbours. Many of the
men spoke a little Arabic, and even Turkish, learnt during their yearly
visits as basket-makers to the low country.
We were still separated from the valley of Jelu by a shoulder jutting from
the lofty Soppa-Durek mountain. Before reaching this rocky ridge, we had
to cross a broad tract of deep snow, over which we had much difficulty in
dragging our heavily laden mules. When on the crest of the pass we found
ourselves surrounded on all sides by rugged peaks, the highest being that
known as the Toura Jelu, of which we had scarcely lost sight from the day
we had left Mosul. It is probably the highest mountain in central
Kurdistan, and cannot be under, if it be not indeed above, 15,000 feet.
The pass we crossed before descending into the valley of Jelu is
considered the highest in the Nestorian country, and is probably more
than 11,000 feet above the level of the sea.
From the top of the pass we looked down into a deep abyss. The pathway was
fearfully dangerous, and over steep and slippery rocks. Down this terrible
descent we had to drag our jaded horses, leaving our track marked in
blood. I have had some experience in bad mountain roads, but I do not
remember to have seen any much worse than that leading into Jelu. After
numerous accidents and great labor we left a rocky gully, and found
ourselves on a slope ending, at a dizzy depth, in a torrent scarcely
visible from our path. The yielding soil offered even a more difficult
footing for our beasts than the polished rocks.
The wild mountain ravine was now changed for the smiling valley of Jelu.
Villages, embowered in trees, filled every nook and sheltered place. We
descended to Zerin or Zerayni, the principal settlement, and the residence
of the Melek. To our left were two other villages, Alzan and Meedee.
As my large caravan descended the hill-side, the inhabitants of Zerin took
us at once for Turks, whose appearance is the signal for a general panic.
The women hide in the innermost recesses to save themselves from insult;
the men slink into their houses, and offer a vain protest against the
seizure of their property. When, at last, we had satisfied the trembling
people of Zerin that we were not Mussulmans, they insisted upon our being
Americans, of whom they had, at that moment, for certain religious
reasons, almost as great a distrust. At length they made out that I was
the Balios[174] of Mosul, and the Melek arriving at this crisis, we were
received with due hospitality. Our baggage was carried to the roof of a
house, and provisions were brought to us without delay.
Although, during his expedition into Tiyari, Beder Khan Bey had seized the
flocks of the people of Jelu, and had compelled them, moreover, to pay
large contributions in money and in kind, he had not been able to enter
their deep and well-guarded valleys.
The Nestorians of Jelu have no trade to add to their wealth. Many of the
men, however, wander during the winter into Asia Minor, and even into
Syria and Palestine, following the trade of basket-making, in which they
are very expert; but their travels, and their intercourse with the rest of
the Christian world have not improved their morals, their habits, or their
faith.
The district of Jelu is under a bishop whose spiritual jurisdiction also
extends over Baz. He resides at Martha d'Umra (the village of the church)
separated by a bold rocky ridge from Zerin. It was Sunday as we descended
through orchards, by a precipitous pathway, to his dwelling. The bishop
was away. He had gone lower down the valley to celebrate divine service
for a distant congregation. The inhabitants of the village were gathered
round the church in their holiday attire, and received us kindly and
hospitably. From a belfry issued the silvery tones of a bell, which echoed
through the valley, and gave an inexpressible charm to the scene. It is
not often that such sounds break upon the traveller's ear in the far East,
to awaken a thousand pleasant thoughts, and to recall to memory many a
happy hour.
This church is said to be the oldest in the Nestorian mountains, and is a
plain, substantial, square building, with a very small entrance. To me it
was peculiarly interesting, as having been the only one that had escaped
the ravages of the Kurds, and as containing therefore its ancient
furniture and ornaments. Both the church and the dark vestibule were so
thickly hung with relics of the most singular and motley description, that
the ceiling was completely concealed by them. Notwithstanding the
undoubted antiquity of the church and its escape from plunder, I searched
in vain for ancient manuscripts.
We followed the valley to the village of Nara, where the bishop was
resting after his morning duties. A young man of lofty stature and
handsome countenance, dressed in the red-striped loose garments of the
Kurds, and only distinguished by a turban of black silk from those around
him, came out to meet us. A less episcopal figure could scarcely be
imagined; but, although he seemed some Kurdish hunter or warrior, he gave
us his benediction as he drew near.
It was difficult to determine whom the poor bishop feared most, the Turks
or the American missionaries; the first, he declared, threatened his
temporal, the others his spiritual, authority. I gave him the best advice
I was able on both subjects, and urged him not to reject the offer that
had been made to instruct his people, but identify himself with a progress
on which might be founded the only reasonable hope for the regeneration of
his creed and race. Unfortunately, as in the case of Mar Shamoun, strange
influences had been at work to prejudice the mind of the bishop.
We were now in the track I had followed during my former visit to the
mountains.[175] Crossing the precipitous pass to the west of Baz, which,
since my first visit, had been the scene of one of the bloodiest episodes
of the Nestorian massacre, we entered the long narrow ravine leading into
the valley of Tkhoma. We stopped at Gunduktha, where, four years before, I
had taken leave of the good priest Bodaka, who had been amongst the first
victims of the fury of the Kurdish invaders. The Kasha, who now ministered
to the spiritual wants of the people, the Rais of the village, and the
principal inhabitants, came to us as we stopped in the churchyard. But
they were no longer the gaily dressed and well-armed men who had welcomed
me on my first journey. Their garments were tattered and worn, and their
countenances haggard and wan. The church, too, was in ruins; around were
the charred remains of the burnt cottages, and the neglected orchards
overgrown with weeds. A body of Turkish troops had lately visited the
village, and had destroyed the little that had been restored since the
Kurdish invasion. The same taxes had been collected three times, and even
four times, over. The relations of those who had ran away to escape from
these exactions had been compelled to pay for the fugitives. The chief had
been thrown, with his arms tied behind his back, on a heap of burning
straw, and compelled to disclose where a little money that had been saved
by the villagers had been buried. The priest had been torn from the altar,
and beaten before his congregation. Men showed me the marks of torture on
their body, and of iron fetters round their limbs. For the sake of
wringing a few piastres from this poverty-stricken people, all these deeds
of violence had been committed by officers sent by the Porte to protect
the Christian subjects of the Sultan, whom they pretended to have released
from the misrule of the Kurdish chiefs.
The smiling villages described in the account of my previous journey were
now a heap of ruins. From four of them alone 770 persons had been slain.
Beder Khan Bey had driven off, according to the returns made by the
Meleks, 24,000 sheep, 300 mules, and 10,000 head of cattle; and the
confederate chiefs had each taken a proportionate share of the property of
the Christians. No flocks were left by which they might raise money
wherewith to pay the taxes now levied upon them, and even the beasts of
burden, which could have carried to the markets of more wealthy districts
the produce of their valley, had been taken away.[176]
We remained a night in Tkhoma to see the Meleks who came to us from Tkhoma
Gowaia. Leaving the valley, we crossed the high mountain inclosing Tkhoma
to the south, and passed through Pinianish into Chaal, a district
inhabited by Mussulmans, and which had consequently not suffered from the
ravages of the Kurdish chiefs. It presented, with its still flourishing
villages surrounded by gardens and vineyards, a vivid contrast to the
unfortunate Christian valley we had just left.
A rapid descent through a rocky gorge brought us to the Zab, over which
there were still the remains of a bridge, consisting of two poles fastened
together by osier bands placed across the stone piers. It almost required
the steady foot and practised head of a mountaineer to cross the roaring
stream by this perilous structure. The horses and mules were with much
trouble and delay driven into the river, and after buffeting with the
whirlpools and eddies reached, almost exhausted, the opposite bank.
We now entered the valley of Berwari, and, crossing the pass of Amadiyah,
took the road to Mosul, through a country I had already more than once
visited. Leaving the caravan and our jaded horses, I hastened onwards with
Hormuzd, and travelling through a night reached Mosul in the afternoon of
the 30th of August, after an absence of seven weeks.