OPINIONS, CIVIL AND MILITARY.--A LOOK TOWARDS THE SAHARA.--WILD
GEESE.--OUR SPAHIS, AND THE CARE THEY TAKE OF US.--A NORMANDY
APPLE-ORCHARD IN AFRICA.--NEW YEAR’S DAY.
Some authorities declare Saïda to be an oasis in the Little Desert, some
declare it to be an oasis in the Great Desert, others declare it to be
in no desert at all. For my part, I wholly side with those who are of
opinion that Saïda stands on the skirts of the Sahara, the Dry Country
abounding in Dates, as the old maps have it; but I will leave the matter
an open question to the curious, merely describing Saïda as I found it.
We had a comfortable room in the house of our coachman--for as nobody
ever goes to Saïda there are no inns--whose wife was Spanish, and as
ugly and dull as he was handsome and bright. As he seemed devoted to
her, however, it didn’t much matter. They carried on almost as many
trades as there are weeks in the year, and were evidently making money.
They catered for the officers, they kept the diligence, they owned land,
they had geese and cattle, they managed the post--it would be hard to
say what they did not do. And they wore good clothes, lived on really
dainty food, and were of importance in the place, which must have been
some consolation under exile.
Our first thought was to inquire for horses and side-saddles, our second
to forward our letters to the Commandant. The first request proved
fruitless. There being no ladies at Saïda, how should there be ladies’
saddles? But M. le Commandant very kindly came to us at once, and told
us what to see and how to see it in this oasis, as he delighted to call
Saïda. He was a merry, middle-aged gentleman from Normandy, who had seen
a good deal of the Desert, and bore the responsibilities of his
post--which were heavy--with great ease.
“The life here seems dull,” he said, “but after long marches in the
Desert and hard fighting, I assure you I am very contented to remain
here. There isn’t a lady in the place, _c’est vraiment triste ça_, but
there is an infinity of distractions in the way of work and pleasure.
You see I represent both civil and military authority, having 40,000
Arabs under my jurisdiction, and this involves all sorts of intricacies,
out of which I make my way as well as I can. I have to act as military
commander, mayor, and prêfet, all in one; and these Arabs are difficult
people to manage, I assure you.”
“They are miserably poor, are they not?” we asked.
“_Pauvres diables!_ You may well say that, Madame. They are starving;
that’s just the truth of it; and what with those who steal and murder
because they are hungry, and those who steal and murder because they
like it, the road from hence to Fig-gig--our last post in the Desert--is
unsafe enough. Without a military escort it is impossible.”
“We were told at Oran,” I said, “that there were some grand waterfalls
we could see in the neighbourhood of Saïda. Is the excursion
practicable?”
M. le Commandant opened his eyes, and shrugged his shoulders
expressively.
“Madame, no one knows in Oran what is going on at Saïda. It is not
practicable. I tell you the simple truth when I say that. It is not
practicable. I will tell you what you can see here. You propose to
remain two days? _Eh, bien!_ to-morrow I will send an escort of Spahis
with you as far as the marabout of Sidi-ben-Baila, from whence you can
look over the plateaux which commence the Desert; you will see then what
sort of country it is; and if you went on as far as Géryville, our next
post, and Fig-gig our last, you would see no more. The next day you
would like to sketch, probably? _Bien_, I send my servant and a Spahi
with you to the ravine, and you will find fine things to draw; and when
my work is done, I will ride round and show you what else is to be seen
in our little Saïda;” and, after telling us a great deal more that was
interesting, the good-natured Commandant left us.
We carried out these plans, and all turned out satisfactorily. There was
only one sort of vehicle to be had, a sort of wheel-barrow on four
wheels, belonging to a butcher, which we gladly accepted for the drive
to the marabout. Our driver, the owner of the cart, proved a most
entertaining person. He was a Parisian by birth, an African by right of
long residence, and as rich in mother-wit as an American.
“You don’t mean to say that you think of leaving Saïda without going to
see the waterfalls?” he asked; “why, that is the only thing that is
really beautiful in the place.”
We said that we had been dissuaded from the excursion on account of the
unsafety of the roads; and, thereupon, the incredulity of the butcher’s
face was a sight to see.
“_Mon Dieu, Madame_, you mustn’t listen to what the military authorities
say--they always make mountains of mole-hills. I would undertake to
carry you safe to Fig-gig in this trap without as much as a pistol in my
belt. _Voilà!_”
“But you don’t attempt to convince us that the roads are safe, do you?”
“Madame, they are safe for you or for me; but I wouldn’t say as much for
myself if I were an officer. This is how it is, the Arabs hate the
military, and do them an ill turn when they can; but the Arabs, _ma
foi_, are not the bad set of people one would have you believe. Why, I
have travelled to Géryville and back, and to Fig-gig and back alone
before now alone, with money in my purse too, and the Arabs treated me
as if I had been a brother, made me a dish of cous-cous-sou, gave me a
bed under their tents, saddled my horse for me at parting, and bade me
God speed. Having been so kindly treated by the Arabs, can you wonder at
my speaking so of them? For my part I don’t see a pin to choose between
a good Christian and a good Mahomedan, a bad Christian and a bad
Mahomedan: _voilà ce que nous pensons_.”
We let our butcher have his way, for his talk was too racy and fresh to
be spared in a world where one has to endure so much commonplace. I
should fill a chapter if I were to repeat half the stirring stories and
original opinions he gave us; but as this little book is intended as a
stimulant to others longing “for the palms and temples of the South,” I
hope it may lead some to Saïda and the butcher’s acquaintance.
All this time we were driving through what seemed to be a stony desert,
flooded with an indescribably yellow, mellow, monotonous light, above
all, a pale blue sky. By-and-by, we came to a rocky height where we
halted to take in every feature and aspect of a wondrous scene. Below
lay a billowy waste of plain upon plain; those nearest to us broken by
Arab tents, or the shining dome of a marabout; those farthest off more
solitary, vaster, grander, than the surface of an ocean without a sail.
Where the plains ended and the sky began was a straight, continuous
line; and we looked at this line, so suggestive of distance, and
mystery, and unknown existence, till we longed to accept the butcher’s
offer, and, _coûte que coûte_, set off for Fig-gig, and the “Dry Country
abounding in Dates!”
What fascinated us more than anything was the wonderful briskness,
purity, and sweetness of the air. It seemed as if we never could have
breathed real air before, and the experience was too delicious to
describe. Softer and sweeter than the breath blown off Cornish moors
when the heather is out, fresher and more invigorating than the
sea-breezes one gets at Lowestoft pier on a bright September day; a
whiff of this air of the Desert amply repays any hardships undertaken to
obtain it. We felt as if we could never come away, as if we could never
drink deeply enough of such precious, reviving, rejuvenating wine. The
Commandant’s high spirits and comely looks, the butcher’s vivacity, the
general look of briskness, physical and mental, among the people of
Saïda, was accounted for. The sweet air of the Desert did it all. I
think if I went to live at Saïda the great-grandchildren of those who
read what I write about it now, might, if they journeyed thither, find
me alive and hearty.
About half a mile from our point of view stood the little marabout which
was to be our boundary mark, and, around it, we could see wreaths of
white smoke curling from the dark brown tents, and horses and cattle
feeding. Near to us were one or two wild-looking Bedouins keeping their
sheep, which were marvellously transformed in the yellow light, their
fleeces looking like bosses of bright, orange colour. Whilst resting
thus, a serried line of wild geese slowly flew towards us, keeping a
line like the German letter [Illustration: script L] till out of sight.
“Now we shall have rain,” said our driver. “One wants no weather-glasses
at Saïda, I assure you.”
What inventions of man does one want indeed at such a place as Saïda?
Place any one of quick mental capacity anywhere out of the world, that
is to say, out of the conventional, comfortable world of shops,
railways, and penny newspapers, and how readily does he shift for
himself. Such a man as this butcher of Saïda had as many interests in
life as any of us in these days of social, literary, and political
excitement; he was always solving some knotty point in Algerian
political economy, or speculating how this or that natural feature of
the country could be turned to account. He knew the geography, geology,
and mineralogy of every rood; he could tell what birds lived in the air,
what beasts haunted the wastes, what plants grew in the oases, and how
the Arabs lived in the Desert. It was curious to find how much more he
respected the Bedouin than the Spahis, and how lightly he esteemed the
moral influence of the French upon the people they had conquered. “Where
are our Spahis?” I asked, for we had never seen our escort all the way.
He smiled and pointed to a cluster of Arab douars at some distance.
“You can’t see a little red speck among those tents, I dare say, Madame;
but my eyes are used to looking a good way off, and I can. It is one of
your precious Spahis, and he’s just thinking as much of you as his wives
out there whom he has gone to see. I know ’em, those Spahis; they like
nothing better than to be sent _as escort_ with travellers, for that
means that they can pay a visit to their women, who begin to cook
cous-cous-sou as soon as ever they see a red cloak in the distance. When
your Spahis have eaten up everything that comes in their way and seen
enough of their good ladies, they’ll come home.”
And true enough, just as we were approaching Saïda, our escort came
galloping up, two as wild and fine-looking men as you could see, their
scarlet cloaks flung over their shoulders, their dark handsome faces
wrapped in white linen trimmed with camel’s hair, their brown muscular
arms bare to the elbow, their legs thrust in mocassins of crimson
leather richly embroidered. They rode pretty little barbs, and sat upon
their high-backed saddles with quite a royal air. Nothing in the world
could be more picturesque or brilliant.
Saïda, that is to say, the Saïda of yesterday,--for the present
settlement is entirely French,--was heroically defended by Abd-el-Kader,
and, as we drove home, we saw the ruined walls of the old town and the
deserted camp of the French soldiery. Throughout the entire province of
Oran, indeed, you are reminded of Abd-el-Kader, whose career has a wild,
sad, Saracenic pomp about it not at all in harmony with our present
civilization.
The French garrison of Saïda consists now of 800 men; and they have
sixteen pieces of cannon only. We saw no more of our driver after that
day. The superb air and savage plenty of such places as Saïda seem to
make people magnanimous, for he went off to Géryville next day, never
concerning himself about being paid for his services; and we were
constantly receiving little presents from some one or other during our
stay, ostriches’ eggs, beautifully polished stones, wild boars’ horns,
&c., &c.
Saïda is a land of Goshen in the matter of game, and there is plenty of
sport too. Jackals, hyenas, wild boars, abound in these rocky
wildernesses; there are also panthers and gazelles, though they are
found rarer. If it were not for the hunt and the chase, what would
become of the officers under exile?
Next day, M. le Commandant showed us his pretty garden, planted with
apple-trees by way of recalling his native Normandy, and promising to be
very beautiful by-and-by, when the rich tropical flowers should be out.
Then he went with us to a very savage and splendid gorge called _La
Source_. Here, issuing from a tiny aperture in the rock, a stream of
clear, rapid water had cleft its way through the rich red heart of the
mountain, and tossed and tumbled amid oleanders and tamarisks as far as
the eye could reach. The rock, piled in lofty masses on either side,
made natural ramparts to the little town of Saïda which lay a mile off,
forming the haunts of wild beasts and birds and Arab thieves.
“I have placed sentinels here for several nights of late,” said M. le
Commandant, “for the Arabs are like the jackals and steal down at night
to scavenge where they can. My Spahis will come here as soon as it is
dusk, and this precaution I must take till the thief or thieves are
caught.”
“And what will be done to them?”
“_C’est très simple_,” replied M. le Commandant coolly. “Whoever comes
down that pass at night gets a bullet through his head, that’s all.” On
our looking a little shocked he added, smiling, “_Que voulez-vous? Il
faut vous dire les choses comme elles sont._”
It seemed that the harvests had been very bad of late and that the Arabs
were driven to all sorts of desperation by hunger. Was there work for
those who chose to do it, we asked of the Commandant?
“In plenty, I assure you--in great plenty, Madame; but the Arabs don’t
like work, and will rather starve. Give a Kabyle a field to plough or a
house to build, and he’ll do it as well as a Frenchman, whilst an Arab
or Bedouin, you understand, is only good for fighting and plunder.”
“That is your opinion.”
“That is my experience, Madame.”
Thanks to the kindness of the Commandant, we came away from Saïda with a
pretty comprehensive idea of the perplexities and responsibilities of
his high post, and of the working of the military system of government
in Algeria.
Next day, the last day of the year, we returned to Mascara, and had, if
anything, a more trying journey than before; the wind was colder, the
sun was hotter, the clouds dustier, and every one prophesied rain.
We spent New Year’s day with some kind friends from Algiers, Monsieur
D----, an army surgeon, and his wife. What a sumptuous breakfast we had!
I do not mean sumptuous in the matter of dishes only, but in the matter
of conversation, which was as piquant and full of flavour as the fare.
Monsieur D---- and his wife were two of those happy mortals who are
gifted with perpetual youth, coupled with a habit of quick and just
observation. An hour’s talk with them was like reading a very witty and
very wise novel. Throughout the shifting scenes of their African life,
they had naturally fallen in with all sorts of characters and
conditions, and they gave us a lively picture of French society in Oran,
touching on the follies, errors, and good things of it, with kindly
satire.
“I will take you to see Madame la Générale,” said our hostess, “for I
don’t suppose in any of your travels you have been introduced to a
Moorish lady married to a French commanding officer. Now, our General’s
wife is one; and, though she does not speak French quite easily, you
will find her in dress and manner quite a Parisian. They have four
children, such little dark, handsome, wild things, and there is not one
of them so fond of sweets as mamma! Moorish ladies, you know, almost
live on sugar.”
Madame la Générale had a cold, however, and could see no one, so we had
to leave Mascara without personal intercourse with a Moorish lady turned
Parisian. It was certainly a disappointment.
It was quite a gay day at Mascara. New Year’s day is always gay in
France, and so warmly were we received by Monsieur and Madame D---- that
we did not feel as if we could be so far from home and in a spot so
remote as Mascara! French hospitality, at least as far as my experience
of it goes, is as genuine and gracious hospitality as any in the world;
and we were quite touched by the way in which people thought of us and
for us wherever we went.
To give one instance out of many:--On the eve of our departure from
Mascara, I was disturbed in my packing by a gentle rap at the door, and
on opening it saw Monsieur D---- followed by an Arab servant bearing a
small basket heavily laden.
“Ah, Mademoiselle!” he said, “I disturb you--but only for a little
moment, and then I will wish you ‘_bon voyage_’ for the last time, and
go. When you and Madame had left us to-day, we remembered that you
praised my wife’s preserved peaches and apricots, and we thought you
might like some to eat on the way.”
Then he helped his boy Hamed to unload the basket, which contained
several tin cases of fruit hermetically sealed. I thanked him, said it
was too bad of us to rob Madame when she had been at the trouble of
preserving the fruit herself, that we should take the cases to England,
that we should never forget the kind reception we had met at Mascara,
&c.
“And we shall not forget,” he said, with a hearty shake of the hand,
“what pretty things you have said about French ladies in your book of
Algerian travel! _Adieu, au revoir, Mademoiselle_; if not in Africa, in
Paris; if not in Paris, in England!” and then he went.
We were to rise very early next morning, but, though we went to bed at
eight o’clock, sleep was out of the question. New Year’s Day only
happens once a-year, and the good people of Mascara seemed determined to
make the best of it. I never heard anything like the noisiness of that
little town keeping holiday. Drums beat, bands played, trumpets sounded,
and mixed with the sounds of tipsy singing and laughter that continued
till long past midnight; and just as things were growing quiet and we
were getting drowsy, came a loud rat-tat-tat at our doors and the noise
of Arab porters crying out, “La Diligence! La Diligence!”
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