Some time after my arrival at Teniet-el-Haad my husband and I, together
with our first lieutenant and his wife, were invited to a “diffa” given
in our honour by a Caid named Si Benrajah.
[Illustration: THE FRINGE OF THE DESERT.
_From a Photograph._]
He most politely sent his wagonette to fetch us and was at the door
of his house to receive us. He was a tall, good-looking man, and
his costume was exquisite. His _serronal_, or wide trousers, were
of pale-grey satin cloth, the large pockets on each side richly
embroidered in silk braid of the same shade. Silver lace covered his
short bolero, which opened over a shirt which was a mass of green and
red silk, gold and silver embroidery. Over that again he wore a lovely
white silk “haik,” which, covering his head-dress and kept in place
by the “camel cords,” fell round his shoulders, and was then caught
up in front from the knee to the gold waistbelt by a cerise coloured
silk handkerchief. Over his shoulders hung his burnous, the outer one
of fine grey cloth to match the costume, handsomely embroidered at the
corners and round the hood, the under one of fine white flannel.
He led us majestically into his “drawing-room”--which, alas! bore
unmistakable traces of the Caid’s various journeys to Paris. There was
nothing Arab but the lovely carpets and the smell.
A rickety Louis XV. _canapé_, with chairs to match, stood stiffly
against the walls; their coverings of chintz badly wanted washing.
An oval table, a walnutwood wardrobe, a washing-stand without the
accessories, and two big mirrors, whose frames had once been gilded,
completed the furniture. We here partook of refreshments in the
unromantic shape of absinthe and lemonade, accompanied by Huntley
and Palmer’s biscuits and wafers. I was much disappointed, for I had
hoped to see something more Arab and to eat and drink according to
the customs of the land. I supposed this was “progress” in Benrajah’s
idea; at any rate, he looked most satisfied with himself and his
surroundings. He introduced another Caid to us--the Caid of Biskra, I
think, who was passing through--a fine, handsome man, whose photograph
is here reproduced.
[Illustration: THE CAID OF BISKRA.
[_From a Photograph._]]
We breakfasted in a large tent, as Benrajah said it was still too warm
in the house. Remembering the close, “camelly” sort of smell, I quite
agreed with him.
As we entered the tent Mme. G----, the lieutenant’s wife, whispered to
me, “Now, mind you don’t refuse a single dish the Caid offers you. If
you do you will mortally offend him, especially as it is the first time
you break bread under his roof, and the ‘diffa’ is in your honour.”
“All right,” I answered, cheerily.
“Bon! bon! bon!” she cried. “Don’t forget, you _must_ eat everything he
offers you.” She skipped off roaring with laughter, which, at the time,
I thought very silly of her.
I was again very disappointed by the civilized, European way in which
we ate. Instead of squatting cross-legged on the ground, eating
with brotherly love out of the same dish with a wooden spoon or our
fingers, we sat round a well-laid table, with knives and forks, and
dinner-napkins embroidered with the Caid’s initials. Everyone and
everything is getting so horribly civilized nowadays, I reflected,
sadly.
The repast began with a red-hot liquid in which vermicelli floated.
It burnt my unaccustomed mouth and I did not fall in love with it,
but as I had never tasted anything like it before I did not even want
to refuse when the Caid offered me a second helping. After the soup
came some boiled chicken, on which the red liquid had been poured. He
helped me largely--twice. The third course was mutton, with prunes; the
fourth mutton, with red liquid; the fifth a French _ragoût_, with an
Arab taste; the sixth was chicken without the red liquid; the seventh
an Irish stew gone wrong; the eighth--well, perhaps my readers are
beginning to feel as tired as I did after having partaken twice of all
these dishes. Indeed, I was beginning to feel very serious, and longed
ardently for the end of this Gargantuan repast.
After about the twelfth course an Arab in waiting cleared a space on
the table before the Caid. My hopes were raised to the heights, but,
alas! only to fall to the lowest depths in a very short space of time.
Suddenly something knocked my hat on one side, and everyone yelled
at me. Dazed, I looked round and rubbed my nose into a sheep’s leg.
Starting back, I met the convulsed and, as I imagined, reproachful
eye of an enormous sheep lying in a contorted attitude on a big brass
platter. Si Benrajah turned to me with a gracious smile. “I am much
honoured, madam,” he said, in perfect French, “in being the first to
offer you a ‘meshui’ on your arrival in Algeria.”
[Illustration: A TYPICAL ARAB HUT.
[_From a Photograph._]]
A “meshui,” I learnt, is a royal dish, and is only offered to those
the Arabs delight (or are compelled) to honour. It is simply a whole
sheep roasted over wood embers, and served uncut on a brass or silver
platter. It should not be cut with a knife, but torn off with the
fingers and eaten. If you wish to be particularly polite to a friend
who is present, you wrench off a piece of flesh and present it with
your greasy fingers, and he receives it much flattered, returning
the compliment with _his_ greasy fingers. This style of eating was
certainly not over-civilized, so I ought to have been better pleased
than I was. As a matter of fact I felt very bad, and hoped against hope
that the Caid would forget me.
“You are not yet accustomed to our habits,” he said, kindly. “Take a
knife and fork and cut off the meat.”
So I cut off a few small bits in a dilatory way, secretly wondering if
I could not surreptitiously throw them to some lean, hungry dogs who
were peering into the tent door.
“What silly little bits!” cried Benrajah, laughingly. Then, after well
licking his brown, henna-stained fingers, he tore off a huge piece and
offered it to me! A cold perspiration broke out on my forehead, and I
almost longed for death.
“Eat! eat!” he cried, gaily; and, choking down my despair, I ate.
How could I dare to do otherwise after Mme. G----’s warning? Are not
the laws of hospitality sacred and to be observed throughout the world?
But it was terrible tribute to pay to foreign customs, and I felt a
lesser desire for originality.
“It is good?” inquired the Caid.
“Delicious! delicious!” I answered, with a ghastly green smile.
“Ah! Here is a _comme il faut Roumia_!” he cried, enchanted--and
promptly tore me off a beautiful brown piece of meat, weighing, I
should think, about three pounds! My cup of anguish was full, and I
prayed--yes, actually prayed--to be delivered from that three pounds of
meat.
And I was.
Crash! The table-cloth was half dragged off, and, amid a rain of knives
and forks, plates and glasses, my little girl rolled on to the ground.
I did not lose my presence of mind, but, seizing my pounds of meat,
all unseen in the commotion I threw them to the lean dogs, who made
very short work of them. Then my motherly feelings came to the fore,
and I went to the rescue of my child. It was soon apparent what had
happened--the poor mite had been given too much wine by the thoughtless
Mme. G----, and was very seedy for some days afterwards.
It would be reasonable to suppose that the “meshui” was the last of the
courses, but it disappeared only to give place to the Arab national
dish, the “couscous.” At sight of the snowy pile of rolled semolina,
surmounted by more mutton, a feeling of revolt took possession of me.
I felt I could dare Lucifer himself; and so I refused the couscous,
although in a cowardly way, by pretending that fresh air was necessary
for my poor little Renée. Perhaps it was, but if it had not been I
should have said the same.
I do not think I ever quite forgave Mme. G---- her two practical jokes,
for practical jokes they were. When I described my sufferings at having
to eat all the Caid gave me, she laughed herself ill and said, “What
a ‘blue’ you are!” Which is the French military way of calling you a
greenhorn.
[Illustration: “I LOOKED ROUND JUST IN TIME TO SEE AN ARAB LOWERING HIS
GUN.”]
One of my husband’s great amusements in this out-of-the-way garrison
was to construct a hiding-place, in front of which he fixed the
carcass of some dead animal, and there, gun in hand, to await the wild
beasts such as hyenas, jackals, lynxes, and golden foxes, who scented
from afar the goodly supper awaiting them. On these occasions they
generally found too much pepper, and often suffered from a mortal
indigestion. I sometimes accompanied my husband on such expeditions,
and greatly enjoyed crouching silently in some hidden corner, listening
to the wailing of an approaching hyena, or the querulous squabbling
and howling of the shrieking jackals. And then, when the dry sticks
cracked and the dead leaves rustled quite close to me under their
stealthy pads, my heart would leap into my mouth for fear they should
mistake _me_ for their supper. One night whilst thus listening to some
approaching creature my husband, crouching about twenty yards from me,
suddenly rose up and called out in Arabic, “Who goes there?” I looked
round just in time to see an Arab huntsman lowering his gun, which was
pointed full at _me_. He thought I was a hyena!
During the winter, when the snow lay thick on the ground, I preferred
staying at home to keep up a huge fire and fabricate hot drinks in
readiness for the frozen huntsman’s return; it seemed to me more a
wife’s duty!
Another short incident of my life in Teniet-el-Haad may not be
uninteresting. My husband had gone to the manœuvres with his Spahis,
and our _bordj_ was only guarded by about thirty “Tirailleurs
Algerians.” Then, one day, a terrific storm burst over the land. The
air was so thick with fine sand that I could not distinguish the trees
before my windows, and the sun hung in the sky like a lurid orange
ball, seemingly about to drop. The heat was stifling; one gasped for
breath, and, although every door and window was hermetically closed,
the rooms were full of sand.
Presently a terrible clamour arose from the village--shouts, cries,
screams, gun-shots. Then from the _bordj_ courtyard I heard sharp
orders given, the clanking of weapons, and finally the sound of a body
of infantry running. The wind howled and shrieked, the sand-storm grew
denser and denser, and still the clamour continued in the village.
I sat in the drawing-room with my little ones around me, wondering
if it were a serious revolt, and what would happen to us if it were.
For the district of Teniet-el-Haad was a large one, containing thirty
thousand Arabs, and we were far from any important garrison, while our
protectors, all Arab, consisted of thirty “tirailleurs,” and ten Spahis
belonging to the “Commune Mixte.” Pensively I placed my revolver close
to my hand, and waited anxiously.
After a few hours the sirocco cleared somewhat, the noise ceased, and
the tirailleurs returned. The whole affair, they told me, had been got
up by the mountain Arabs against the Jews, who had been “doing” them.
So the Arabs had taken the law into their own hands and administered
justice by repaying themselves a hundred-fold and making off with their
booty up the mountains, well hidden by the sand-storm. In the scuffle
a boy and two men were killed, all Jews--so it did not matter, so the
folks said.
My husband was second captain at Teniet-el-Haad, having given up his
rank as first captain in the Hussars in order to facilitate his return
to a regiment. He was therefore the oldest in grade in the 1st Spahis,
and the earliest vacancy as first captain fell to him. We had been at
Teniet about ten months when he received orders to take command of the
Laghouat squadron. It was the beginning of February; snow lay thick and
deep on the ground up in this high altitude, and the great question
arose how we were to get to Laghouat. Should we take the short cut by
carriage across the mountains to Boghar, where the regimental brake
would meet us and take us on, or go down to Affreville by the rickety
diligence, train to Medeah, and continue by carriage?
Going by train was a difficulty and an extra expense on account of our
dogs. We had four--three fox-terriers and a shooting dog. I do not
know what he called himself, but he had a double-barrelled nose and an
over-frank and exuberant nature. He and Charleston, the old fox, could
not bear each other. It was quite impossible to put them together in
the dog-box, and to pack them separately would have cost as much as
four times as many children. So, in consideration of their feelings
and our purse, we decided--oh, irony!--to take the short cut if the
snow and slush would allow of a carriage travelling along the narrow
mountain tracks.
We consulted the different French and native authorities, and finally
decided, if the snow and slush would allow, to take the short cut over
the mountains. We started off one fine morning at five, in a small
brake lent by a Caid, who also promised to send us four strong mules
to an inn some twenty miles off. The first twenty miles were soon
done, and at half-past seven we were enjoying some good hot coffee,
whilst our Spahi was unharnessing his team and making inquiries as to
the whereabouts of the new relay and coachman. Ten minutes after he
appeared, with a very concerned face. “Mon capitaine, Sidi Belgacun has
sent two mules no bigger than donkeys, and the boy who drives them is a
mere baby!”
This sounded cheerful, and with one accord we went out to inspect.
The Spahi’s account was unfortunately but slightly exaggerated, and
we stood staring at our tiny steeds with dismay. We had still fifty
kilometres before us, and the roads for at least twenty-five were
nothing but cross-country paths. Should we turn back, or try to find
other horses and go on? I voted emphatically for going on. Aided by the
Spahi, my husband finally unearthed a man and two horses, and at eight
o’clock we set off once more.
Everything again went well for ten kilometres; then our misfortunes
really began. When going up a hill the ground grew soft and the wheels
of the brake sank in.
“The snow is melting farther on,” remarked the coachman, laconically;
“the underground springs are overflowing.”
On we went laboriously, our Jehu yelling at the struggling horses,
whilst the carriage wobbled to and fro in a most alarming fashion.
“Don’t you think it would do us good to walk a bit?” I suggested. “It
would make things easier for the horses.”
“It would be safer,” said my husband, who was looking anxious.
So out we got--and two minutes later the whole concern toppled over,
our boxes, portmanteaux, and packets flying all over the place. The
horses were plunging and kicking; the coachman, an Italian, and the
Arab boy were yelling and swearing in their respective languages,
whilst my husband _exclaimed_ in French (he doesn’t swear, but I am
sure he would have liked to on this occasion). The scene was so
unutterably comic that I could not help myself; I laughed until the
tears rolled down my cheeks. I draw a curtain over the face my better
half turned on me--scowling was not in it--and although I assured him I
was really quite as upset as the carriage he has not recovered from my
frivolity to this day.
The men picked up the carriage and the baggage and put all in order
and we thought we should get on again, but, alas! the wheels refused
to move an inch; the more we tried the deeper they sank. After two
hours of vain endeavour, Peppino, the coachman, suggested sending Ali
to have a look round the country to see if he could find a village and
get men with spades to come and dig us out. The boy set off, returning
later with five stalwart men, who comparatively soon dug us out and
accompanied us for a few kilometres on our way, pushing and yelling
when necessary. Then they left us, saying the road was good right up to
Boghar. It was now past two o’clock, and our lunch loomed very dimly in
the far distance, having been ordered for twelve o’clock at Boghar.
About three o’clock we saw snow on the side of the road, which again
grew slushy and soft. My husband and Peppino were obliged to run
behind, pushing at the wheels at the difficult places, whilst the Arab
boy cheered on his mules and Peppino’s horses.
The snow got deeper and deeper. Presently we passed a carriage
abandoned on the side of the road, farther on a dead horse, and again a
form, which looked terribly human, covered by a white pall.
After a while we came to a wider part. On the right was a sloping
mountain-side half covered with snow, half with golden narcissus,
and showing a dry watercourse, dotted about with huge stones. On the
left was a smooth field of snow, across which wheel marks could be
distinguished. “We must cross here,” said Peppino, “as someone has
before us; the snow is doubtless hard, and by whipping up the horses I
will get you over. The road is impossible.”
My husband was not of the same opinion. He considered the watercourse
a better road than a snow-field, and the presence of stones made him
surmise that the bottom was hard.
The matter was hotly discussed, but finally my husband gave in, seeing
that Peppino knew the road and he did not.
Away we galloped--bump, bump, bump. Then, without warning, there came
a tremendous crack, and, lo and behold! there we were, sitting in our
carriage, whilst the horses and Peppino continued with the wheels! It
was, of course, a terrible dilemma, but again I had to laugh; it was
really too funny.
My husband and Peppino carried me and the children and perched each of
us on a stone, where I stood on one leg and cawed like a crow. “One
should always take misfortunes gaily,” I said. That was the last straw;
my better half had to laugh, but the smile was rather sickly. Then we
held a council of war.
Peppino, good man, saved the situation. “I will go back with the horses
and fetch the carriage we saw abandoned at the side of the road,” he
said. “I know the owner, and will take the responsibility for borrowing
it on my own shoulders.”
So off he went, whilst we cawed to one another from stone to stone and
ate snow, there being nothing else to do. Before long Peppino returned
triumphantly with the borrowed carriage, the luggage was transferred,
and we started off again, leaving our first equipage standing
disconsolately in the snow.
All went well until eight o’clock, although my husband and Peppino had
constantly to push at the wheels. They both looked ten years older than
at the start, so lined and weary were their faces. At about eight we
came to a narrow track, a real road winding round the mountain above a
fathomless precipice. On each side the snow lay in drifts of five and
six feet deep, and the centre track showed no sign of previous passage.
We had not gone fifty yards along this road when the horses stopped and
the wheels disappeared in a drift. Yelling, pushing, and pulling had no
effect whatever. The horses were then harnessed to the splash-board,
but their strenuous efforts only resulted in tearing it from the body
of the carriage.
All this time I was sitting in the snow trying to keep the little
one warm, and hopefully encouraging the two elder ones, Charlie and
Renée. From the mountain top came the discordant howling and barking of
jackals; from the blackness below arose the sad wailing of a hyena. I
very nearly became tearful.
Peppino again offered his services, and proposed riding off to fetch
help at a sheikh’s some ten miles away.
“Get into the carriage, wrap yourselves up warmly with everything
available, and wait,” he said. “In five or six hours I will bring
assistance.”
There was nothing else to be done, so we made the best of a bad job,
packed ourselves up, and tried to sleep. The children, of course,
succeeded at once, as did my husband, worn out with the efforts of the
day, but I could not. My hunger was great, and I do not think I have
ever before or since imagined such cold. Talk of African heat; African
_cold_ has the first place in my memory.
[Illustration: “I KICKED VIGOROUSLY, SHOUTING ‘HENRI!’ AND ‘PEPPINO!’”]
The night was pitch-dark, and it was far from amusing to sit there
listening to the animals prowling round. A hyena or so came very near
to our mules, who shivered and snorted for a long time after.
Numbed with cold, I suppose I at last fell asleep. Suddenly I was
awakened by a great commotion. Then came yelling, the sound of
horses plunging, and I heard the children shrieking “Mother!” I rose
precipitately, a light flashed in my face, baby was seized from me, and
I myself was borne off like an infant by a man who appeared to be a
giant. He hurried away up the mountain-side without a word, which did
not at all seem to me the right behaviour of rescuers. Why thus seize
us and bear us off into the mountains?
We must have been attacked by brigands, and my husband knifed as he
slept! I kicked vigorously, shouting “Henri!” and “Peppino!” but
received no answer, and my heart sank. Then I called “Charlie!”
“Renée!” and to my great joy their voices answered quite close behind
me. I therefore left off kicking--which, indeed, had no effect on
my burly captor--and consoled myself with the thought that, though
apparently a widow, I was not left childless.
After five minutes or so my giant began to shout. Other voices
answered; then suddenly I was planted on my feet in the inky darkness,
but almost at once a dozen matches were struck and held to a huge heap
of dry brushwood. In two seconds we had a royal bonfire, which not only
warmed us but lit up the country all round.
Brigands or no brigands, I thought, these Arabs were very thoughtful
fellows.
I asked several times, “Where is my husband?” but they all raised their
hands and shoulders in vague denial of any knowledge of his existence.
I was beginning to be really alarmed when his welcome form loomed in
view astride a mule. I do not think we have ever quite understood how
he came to miss us in the confusion caused by the headlong arrival of
our rescuers. He had galloped after us along a road where we had not
been at all; but, not finding us, had come back, and had been guided by
the firelight.
After a good warming at the fire we started for the sheikh’s house,
ten miles off, the children being carried by Arabs on horseback, and I
astride a mule on a “barda.” On our arrival we found couscous and sour
milk awaiting us, and--what was far better--some good mattresses spread
on the ground in a big, white-washed room. At ten next morning we left,
the kindly sheikh having lent us his wagonette. Peppino had gone back
with some Arabs to dig out and bring along Carriage Number Two.
[Illustration: THE BARONESS DE BOERIO, WHO HERE DESCRIBES HER
ADVENTURES IN ALGERIA.
[_From a Photograph._]]
About half-way to Boghar we met the regimental brake coming spanking
along. The soldier driving told us that at eight o’clock an Arab had
come to him saying that he was to harness up at once and drive for
eight miles along the Teniet road, when he would find the Spahis’
captain, who was stranded with his family at Sheikh ben Shinan’s.
This experience of Arab telegraphy rather astonished us, for we were
still greenhorns in this respect. Since then nothing of the kind
surprises us; I have often learnt of distant happenings from the Arabs
long before our own civilized methods brought me the news. Arabs travel
a great deal by night, passing on the tidings from one to another--they
are terrible gossips--so that it is the case of the hare and the
tortoise. Their signalling is done by movements of the burnous by day
and fires by night. In each district certain heights are especially
used for this purpose. Whilst travelling by road on one occasion I
remember hearing a long hoot-like call, and on looking in the direction
of the sound I saw an Arab on a hill, evidently signalling with his
burnous, for he was making regular up-and-down and to-and-fro movements
with it. Half an hour after we saw another Arab with a huge flock
of sheep. In the evening, when we arrived at the place we meant to
camp at, we found ourselves expected by the sheikh, and a hospitable
couscous prepared. He bade us welcome, saying we were later than he had
thought. When we inquired how it was he expected us at all, he only
vouchsafed to say, with half-closed eyes, that he had known we were on
the road some hours before, and had supposed we would stop the night
there. Thereupon we remembered the white-robed Arab on the hill and the
shepherd far away, and began to understand.
(_To be concluded._)
[Illustration: “Shot-Gun Jim.”]