THE RETURN JOURNEY.
At dawn on Saturday, November 23, Kaid Maclean and I had left the
Sultan’s camp some way behind, and were hurrying as fast as our
sturdy mules allowed in the direction of home. A long march lay
before us, over some 300 miles of desert and mountain, and winter had
now set in. I had purchased a pony and native saddle at Tafilet; but
riding was by no means a pleasure, for I was yet weak and ill. The
cold was intense, and we longed for sunrise, even though we knew
that in a few hours we should probably be complaining of the heat.
We did not follow the same road as I had pursued in coming, but
struck more directly to the north from the Sultan’s camp at Dar
el baida, passing through the low range of barren hills near that
spot. Then a few miles of desert, and the main stream of the Wad
Ziz, here known as the Wad Tizimi, from the oasis it has just left
at this spot. The sun rose, and in the bright morning our spirits
increased. The scene was pretty enough; for although we were in
sandy stony desert, only a mile or so away to our right lay the
palm-groves of Tizimi, and here and there the yellow walls of a
_ksar_ were visible.
Our party was a large one; for quite a number of soldiers accompanied
Kaid Maclean, some of whom were mounted, while others rode the
pack-mules on the top of the baggage, and it was evident from their
chatter and laughter that one and all were overjoyed at escaping
from the dust and dreariness of the _mahalla_, to say nothing of the
fact of the scarcity of food there. Kaid Maclean was the bearer of
special letters to the various Governors and Sheikhs on the road,
and we looked forward, if not to luxury, at least to being able to
obtain food enough.
From Tizimi we skirted the southern end of the small oasis of Mulai
Brahim, and caught a glimpse of the white-domed tomb of the saint
amongst the palm-trees. Then desert again until we struck my old
road near Fezna, having crossed the Wad Gheris shortly before. The
river here presents a very different appearance to what it does near
Tafilet, for there are none of the steep cliffs of clay or wide
channels at this portion of its course, as it hurries along over
stones and boulders in a shallow bed through the desert valley. A few
reeds and scraggy oleanders line its banks. The stream was strong,
and we had to get the mules across with care, lest they should be
carried off their legs by the current and soak our luggage.
Then on again, until, leaving Tiluin behind, the weary plain of
Maghrah opened out before us. We pushed on fast, for the afternoon
was well on, and at dark arrived at Ul Turug, weary with our twelve
hours’ ride.
We pitched the tent outside the _ksar_, and sent a soldier with the
Sultan’s firman to interview the young Kaid, who had recently
been appointed. He met with no happy reception, and came back
hurriedly and in considerable fear with the message that they had
no provisions to give us, and that a “Christian’s” portion
was powder and shot, and not food. However, later on the young
Kaid came in person, and was tolerably polite, though the aspect
of his retinue was by no means friendly, and we were glad of the
protection afforded us by an old hag of a Shereefa, very dirty and
in rags, who declared that a divine mission had been ordained her
to guard our persons. She seemed much venerated in the place, and
was altogether a good old soul, though quite mad; and so friendly
were her attentions that she raised a sheep from somewhere and
brought it to the Kaid—much to the joy of our hungry men.
As soon as the natives had retired she announced that we were by no
means safe, and also that it was her intention to sleep in our camp,
as her presence would protect us from danger. This she did, under the
flap of the tent; and very glad we were of the old lady’s presence,
for the reports the men brought us were by no means reassuring. Our
guard, sufficient to protect us on the road and well armed, would
have been of no use in a general attack of the natives, and we were
grateful indeed to the old lady whose insanity had taken so useful
a direction.
In our conversation with the young Governor, when we hinted to him
the results that would ensue if he refused to take notice of the
Sultan’s commands that Kaid Maclean should rest in peace and
security, we discovered the reason of his altogether neglecting
the terms of the firman, or _daira_ as it is called in Morocco. He,
it appears, had paid a visit to the _mahalla_, and been presented
by the Sultan with a suit of clothes, the customary gift of the
country—and the _kaftan_, or coloured garment of cloth, had been
missing. For this oversight in his Majesty’s gift he had almost
turned rebel, and although Mulai el Hassen himself only a few nights
later was to camp at this very spot, he absolutely disregarded his
written orders. The fact of the _kaftan_ is worth narrating, as it
gives an insight into the turbulent character of these wild Berber
people. Yet in carriage and manner, though by no means friendly,
they were gentlemen all over. We struck camp about 3 A.M., and the
sun rose upon us after we had crossed the bleak hills, and were
proceeding west towards Ferkla. Once more I admired the palm-groves
of Milaab and the picturesque situation of the village of Igli,
dominating the mouth of the valley where the Wad Todghrá enters
Jibel Saghru from the plain.
On issuing from the hills our road varied to that I had already
taken, and we passed to the south of the conical hills I mentioned in
describing my journey, near the settlement of Islef, a picturesque
little place of a few _ksor_, with some gardens and running water
in the vicinity. The natives all turned out to see and talk with
us, and the presence of the soldiers, and the fact that we were
ready to purchase a few of their red, black, and white _kanderas_,
or shawls—part of the costume of the women of Aït Atta—kept
them in a state of tolerable politeness, though their curiosity
was unlimited, Kaid Maclean’s mackintosh cloak receiving enormous
attentions, being stroked and pinched and examined and ejaculated
on by the whole crowd.
At Ferkla we were well received, the Governor, who expected the
Sultan in a few days, knowing better than to disregard his lord and
master’s orders, for the oasis was already in bad odour at Court on
account of the murder of a couple of soldiers who had been sent there
as Imperial messengers only some few months before. More than this,
it was at Ferkla that the tent and property of the Sultan’s uncle,
Mulai Othman, had been found. This old Shereef, who had been sent
to settle some intertribal warfare, and collect taxes due, a year
or two before, from some of the Berber tribes nearer Fez, had been
treacherously murdered, and his guard annihilated by the tribe of
Aït Shokhman, whose chief, Ali ben Yahia, a sort of king amongst
the Berbers, had been equally treacherously captured by the Sultan
a month earlier and sent a prisoner to Marakesh. The very day that
I had left that city he had arrived in chains. It was no doubt for
these reasons that the Governor of Ferkla received us with a show
of welcome, and supplied us with ample provisions from the store
awaiting the arrival of the Sultan and his army. We camped on a level
piece of ground near one of the canals that, running from the Wad
Todghrá, supplied a portion of the large oasis with water. This
canal near here more resembled a swamp, and when, before dawn,
we were obliged to ford it, was covered so thickly with ice that
my donkeys took several steps before the coating broke under their
weight. Yet it was running water, and well sheltered by palm-trees.
From Ferkla we crossed the weary plain of Seddat; but on reaching
the Wad Todghrá near the south of the oasis of that name, forded it
there, about a couple of miles north of Imin Erkilim, and continued
up its right (west) bank, camping for the night near the large
village of Taurirt. The latter part of the ride along the river’s
banks was a charming one, and presented as picturesque scenes as
could be imagined anywhere. Amongst the groves of palms ran the
river, and its fall being steep, it had in many spots been banked
up by the natives, in order to raise its waters to the level of
their irrigating canals. In these places it formed large deep pools,
out of which it tumbled in no mean waterfalls to the level of the
stream below; and the entire route was enlivened with its splashing
and the groaning of the millwheels it turned as it passed on its way.
We reached our destination before sunset, having passed almost
immediately before a market-place, with the same beehive-like domed
stalls as I had seen at the great market of Mulai Ali Shereef at
Tafilet. We found the Kaid of Demnat, under whose jurisdiction
this portion of the Sahara nominally is, encamped quite close to
us, and we had no difficulty in obtaining provisions. Although
there are nominal Kaids and Governors over all this portion of
trans-Atlas Morocco, it must by no means be thought that they hold
any jurisdiction, nor would the above-mentioned Kaid have even been
able to visit Todghrá had not the Sultan been approaching. Even
in his little town of Demnat, on the other side of the Atlas, his
position was never secure, and on the death of the late Sultan last
June (1894) his house was razed and he himself murdered.
The cold of a night was intense, and our men suffered much. Even in
the excellent tent of Kaid Maclean, with every possible invention to
keep out sun and frost, we had the greatest difficulty in keeping
warm. The early mornings, too, were miserable, when, while the
camp was being struck and the mules laden, I would crouch over the
remnants of a small fire and try to warm myself. It was always
too cold to ride, and we used to give our horses to the men to
lead while we stepped out as fast as our legs would carry us over
the level plain. At sunrise matters mended, though even at noon
the heat was not severe, and on one if not two occasions we saw
ice in exposed positions unmelted at mid-day, though no doubt the
temperature then was above freezing. Yet the rays of the sun were
sufficient to warm our chilled bones, and the process of thawing
as he rose higher into the sky was indeed pleasant.
This was the longest march we made, for after going
continually—with but half an hour’s rest for lunch—for thirteen
and a half hours, we drew rein near the _zauia_ of Aït bu Haddu
at Dads. I at once sent Mohammed to the _zauia_ to announce my
return to the old Shereef, and collect the baggage and mules we
had left behind.
Here it was colder than ever. The fig-trees, which had all been
in leaf on my previous passing through, were now bare, and even
before we could get the tents up they were coated with white frost,
while every canal, no matter how fast it flowed, became ice.
I saw nothing of the old Shereef, for no doubt it would not have
suited his purpose to be seen visiting Europeans, especially when I
was one of them. Happily so dark was it when we arrived, and so cold,
that our camp attracted no attention, and as we left before dawn
my presence was never discovered, so that probably to-day at Dads
I am remembered as a pious Moslem. There were no signs of Mohammed
and my mules when we left the next morning, but we could not delay,
so leaving them to follow, we set off.
Soon after noon we camped at Imasin, making only a short stage,
as our animals and men required rest, and to allow of my mules
overtaking us, which they did before the camp was fully pitched. Very
glad I was to see my scanty baggage again, and my two good mules,
that we had passed off on the roads as the property of the old
Shereef; for my strength was still sufficiently shaky to render
riding, especially on a Moorish saddle, no pleasure, and I could now
look forward to a comfortable seat on a good strong mule. My poor
pony, too, was none of the best. I had found but scant choice at
Tafilet, and the poor thin little fellow was all I could procure. In
spite of every care and attention, he died a few weeks after my
arrival in Marakesh; as did one of our poor little donkeys, on the
very day we arrived at Saffi, whence he had started some four months
before. The end of the latter was most pathetic. He was ill, and I
hired a special man to lead him quietly to Saffi; but within a few
miles of the town, just at the spot where he could obtain his first
view of his native city, he was taken with violent hæmorrhage and
dropped dead. A good little beast he was, and we mourned his loss,
and had him buried with every decency. My other donkey I left in
good hands, for the missionaries in Marakesh took him from me,
and I knew no better home could be found for him than in their
care. It was with many regrets that I parted from him, though at
our last interview, so young and full of corn was he, he did his
best to put an end to my existence with his heels. I forgive him,
for he had accompanied us, sharing with us the lack of food and
the heat and the cold, for nearly 700 miles of weary mountain and
desert. The poor one who died at Saffi, having started from that
point, had almost completed 1000 miles when death overtook him.
We found Imasin a poor enough place, and had no little difficulty
in purchasing our provisions, though here we found a luxury in
quantities of walnuts, which our men as well as ourselves enjoyed. So
poor were the people that when Kaid Maclean gave them some of the
very walnuts they had sold us to eat, they were most grateful;
and the fact that we did not bargain over the price, but gave them
what they asked—it was small enough—gained us their friendship,
and good fellows these wild Berbers seemed to be. They came and
guarded our camp at night, and sat there in the cold, though even
they, who seemed scarcely to feel either that or heat, shivered.
It was here I said farewell to the Dadsi who had been my _zitat_
from Dads to Tafilet. No words that I could write would do him
justice. Honest, faithful, adventurous, and sympathetic, he had
been the cheerer of our spirits when we were weary with marching,
the diplomat who had guarded me from discovery as we passed along,
and had helped to nurse me when I was sick. Good, trusty soul,
may you meet with all the blessings you deserve!
From Imasin to Askura was again a shorter march than usual, but there
was no choice of where we were to stay, for beyond Askura lie some
fifteen miles of weary desert—the Sebaa Shaabat—before reaching
the next inhabited district, Ghresat. We camped near some large
tamarisk-trees, a few hundred yards from the palatial residence of
a Sheikh, who sent men to guard the camp at night.
Passing Ghresat at mid-day the following day, we reached Agurzga
before dark, and pitched below one of the great _ksor_ that crown
the eminences of rock high above the river. Here, too, much poverty
exists; but the people were good, kindly souls, with apparently
no thoughts of murder or robbery, and intent only on selling us
almonds and walnuts, and examining our weapons, a few shots from
a revolver fired in quick succession causing almost a panic.
Great was their amusement in recognising in me the poor ragged
Shereef who had passed through a month or so before, and heartily we
laughed together over the deception. I was of course still in Arab
dress, and they had not failed to remember my face. They showed no
signs of annoyance or anger, nothing in fact but intense amusement,
and a certain amount of admiration for my venturesomeness. Only
one or two spoke Arabic, the rest nothing but Shelha. One old man,
the wit of the party, could not get over the fact of my returning
in a new character, and remarked, “I have always heard Tafilet
was a terrible place. How bad it must be when it changes Shereefs
into Christians!” and then added, fearful that his joke might
offend, “After all, the Christians are the best; they buy
our walnuts and our almonds and pay for them, and Shereefs want
everything for nothing.” There is no doubt we created a good
impression in Agurzga, the few cups of tea the men drank with us
being a luxury some of them had never tasted before; and when I
absolutely sought out the poor people who, when they had believed
me to be a Shereef, had brought me supper, and paid them for it,
their surprise and joy knew no bounds. Their last words were, when
we left the next morning—spoken in broken Arabic—“_Arja;
Allah ijibna er Rumin._” (“Come back some other time—God
bring us Romans”—_i.e._, Europeans.)
From Agurzga we followed the old road, obtaining the glorious
view of the Atlas peaks, which I have already described, as we
crossed the mountains above Tiurassín. But we did not stop there,
pushing on over the ford of the Wad Marghen, to the great _kasba_
of the Kaid of Glawa at Teluet. It had long
[Illustration: _The Kaid of Glawa’s Residence._]
been my desire to see this celebrated stronghold of the Atlas, which
evokes such expressions of astonishment from the natives who pass
it; but even my ideas—formed on local descriptions—underrated
what I saw, for not only is the building of enormous extent, but
is constructed of large blocks of well-squared stone, which give
the place at once an appearance of great strength, and render it
unlike any other _kasba_ or palace I have seen in Morocco. The
castle consists of a group of centre buildings of great height,
and not unlike the Tower of London in form, while around it cluster
a number of castles and dwellings of every shape and size, but
all big, the whole being surrounded by high walls, guarded with
towers. Unfortunately I obtained no measurements of the building or
its great courtyard within, for though we camped outside I ventured
to enter its precincts, for its courts are common to all who care
to do so.
Evening was fast approaching, and already the sun was hidden
behind the mountains that shut in the valley on the west, and a
bitter cold wind blew over the little plain of Teluet. Nothing
more dreary or majestic could be conceived than the great castle,
frowning with its towers and buttresses, seen against a background
of torn mountain-peaks and snow.
What an awful spot to live in! for the Kaid’s house and the
surrounding villages are snowed up in winter, and in summer the
heat in the little valley, encircled as it is on all sides by high
mountains, is said to be intense.
The Kaid himself was absent, but we were entertained by his
_khalifa_, or deputy, who came to the tents with a little retinue
of men and drank tea with us. Hardy fellows they seemed, these
Berber mountaineers, with their tall thin figures and handsome
weather-beaten features, and good-natured enough too, one and all
ready to laugh when we abused their climate and their mountains. They
seemed to feel the cold but little, if at all, and scarcely wore
an atom more of clothing than in summer-time, and even then it is
scanty enough.
The _kasba_ is said to contain some marvellously good Moorish work,
one chamber of the Kaid’s, we were told, being particularly
beautifully decorated, but owing to his absence we saw none of this.
The night was a stormy one, the wind howled and roared down the
valley, and though we were a little sheltered by the _kasba_ walls,
it found its way in bitter gusts into the tent. At sunset it was
freezing hard, and this low temperature, with almost a hurricane as
well, at an altitude of only a few feet under 7000 above the level
of the sea, was no joke. But we kept our spirits up. Only a slight
descent to make, and a stiff climb of 2000 feet, and we would reach
the summit of the pass, to descend to civilisation and warmth.
By daylight we were well on our way, and the sun had not risen very
high in the sky when Kaid Maclean and I had clambered to the top
of the mountains. Contrary to all expectation, it was quite warm,
for the wind had died away, and the bright sun and our exercise had
thawed our bones. Far below us we could see our caravan toiling up,
the men shouting to the mules to urge them on the difficult path.
I lay down near the same rock as I had rested under on my journey two
months before; and as I looked upon the desolate scene of range after
range of barren mountain, that had stretched out before me unknown
and unexplored, and over and through which I had now threaded my way,
and returned safely, I confess I felt some elation at my success,
but no regret at leaving these inhospitable regions. Yet I feasted
my eyes on the grand surroundings, for it was my last look of the
wild country that lies south of the Atlas.
Our mules caught us up, and in a minute—merely half-a-dozen
steps—we began to descend, and the view was hid. Far more cheering,
however, was that before us; for, although rugged and barren and
snow-scattered in our more immediate neighbourhood, beyond lay the
richly wooded valley of Zarkten, and far away in the distance—a
peep between the mountains—the open plains beyond.
We hurried on, stopping nowhere, and reached Zarkten at sunset,
after a long and weary march. So intense was the cold that in one
sheltered spot a waterfall had frozen, and hung from the edge of the
cliff above in a wonderful fantastic collection of immense icicles.
At Zarkten we found the temperature higher, though it froze during
the night, and it was bitter enough when we rose by candle-light
and set off upon our way. There was much less water in the Wad
Ghadat than when we had ascended the valley, and we were able
to make our way for some considerable distance along its course,
thereby saving frequent tedious ascents and descents. We lunched at
the ruined bridge of Tugana, and instead of turning to the left,
continued to follow the course of the river. Signs of a warmer
climate were everywhere visible. Vines, pomegranates, and olives
peeped up from over hedges of aloes and prickly-pear and canes,
while the laurustinus, arbutus, lentiscus, and several kinds of firs
were welcome indeed after the bare peaks of rock. The river flowed
quickly on its course, here in rippling eddies, there in deep green
pools, and nothing could be imagined more charming than our road. The
warmth revived us; our men sang and laughed as they strode along,
and every one was in the best of spirits. Nearing Sid Rehal, our
destination, we turned to the right from the valley, and pursued
a shorter road. With what pleasure it was that from the hill-tops
we looked down upon the little white Moorish town, with its mosque
and tomb, its gardens, and the white house of the Governor of the
district, can be imagined, for it meant so much—safety, warmth,
and food, all three of which had been absent over the entire road. We
finished up with a gallop, for I had mounted my pony to make a more
respectable entrance, and a few minutes later we were drinking tea
in our camp, which had preceded us while we lunched. How warm it
was, and how plentiful were chickens and eggs, and green tea and
sugar, and everything the heart of man could desire in Morocco,
to say nothing of the fat sheep the Kaid sent us!
[Illustration: RUINED BRIDGE ON THE ROAD TO TAFILET.]
But one recollection that is not one of pleasure do I have—that
it was my last camp in the company of Kaid Maclean, for his way
lay north across the plains of Shauia, while mine diverged to the
west to Marakesh, and it was a sad moment when the next morning
I said good-bye—happily not for very long—to the man who had
so befriended me. With the cold we experienced I could never have
tramped the long road home from Tafilet alone and without shelter,
ill as I was; but fortune had favoured me, and in my hour of need I
had found unexpectedly the kindest and best of friends. I doubt if
he, any more than myself, will ever forget our meeting at Tafilet,
and our long journey back together.
Some nine hours’ travelling the following day brought me to
Marakesh, and that night I spent feasting and listening to music in
the house of my old friend Sid Abu Bekr el Ghanjaui; for he made my
safe return the excuse for a dinner-party, on such dimensions that
I was almost as likely to come to grief from excess of food as I
had been of dying of starvation. Seated in the pleasant warmth, on
great piles of cushions, with steaming dishes of every luxury that
the city can furnish or skilled cooks prepare, it was little wonder
that I enjoyed myself, or that we laughed heartily as I narrated
to my kind host and his genial guests my adventures on the road.
I remained some three weeks in Marakesh, for I was still weak from
my illness, and much needed the rest. A pleasant time it was, spent
in idleness, strolling in the bazaars, or picnicking in gardens.
Meanwhile the Sultan was approaching, leading his great army by the
same route as we had followed, and in cold still more intense. No pen
could describe what must have been the suffering of man and beast,
nor can any reliable account of the loss of life be obtained, except
that it was very large. Snow fell as they reached the Glawi Pass,
and men and mules and camels died in numbers, frozen to death,
while the Berbers stripped the bodies of clothes and rifles.
[Illustration: _Shops at Bab Khemis, Marakesh._]
I saw the Sultan’s entry into Marakesh—his last entry into
any Moorish city—and for days after half-starved men and beasts
crawled into the town, lame and sick, the remnants of the great
camp I had seen at Tafilet. I questioned many of those who came in,
and their tale of suffering and hunger brought tears to one’s own
eyes as well as theirs. Yet in justice be it said, the Sultan and
the Moorish Government did all in their power to alleviate their
sufferings by doling out supplies of food; but with a disorganised
commissariat, of which probably a third of the baggage-animals had
been frozen to death, fallen over precipices, or broken their legs
on the bad mountain roads, it was but little.
From Marakesh I returned to Saffi, where again I was most hospitably
entertained by Mr George Hunot, H.B.M. Vice-Consul, and a few days
later found a small steamer going direct to Gibraltar.
Three days later I was back in Tangier again, after an absence
of four months, to be laid up there for weeks in bed, my health
temporarily completely giving way after the strain I had put upon
it. But kind care and skilful nursing brought me round, and I no
sooner recovered than the spirit of travel came upon me again, and
I spent March and April in a most pleasant journey to my old haunts
of Wazan, Fez, and Meknas. A couple of months later the news arrived
at Tangier of the Sultan’s death, and I left hurriedly for Fez,
travelling day and night, and in that city, with the exception of
a week or two at Meknas, I stayed until August. Of the events that
took place during that period a short description must be given;
for although the account of my journey to Tafilet is now completed,
the death of Mulai el Hassen and the succeeding crisis owe their
origin to the Sultan’s expedition to that spot, for it was the
effects of his long and weary journey that caused his end.