ON THE ROAD TO KAIRWAN.
The story of a failure — Friendly warnings — Uxorious Afrigan —
A change of diet — I start for Susa — An African thunderstorm —
Susa — Troublous times — A busy scene — A miniature railway
— The English Vice-Consul — Preparations for camping-out — A
new servant — Disappointed — A “Parisian Hotel” in the Gulf
of Hammamet — A risky expedition — A faithful follower.
_Susa, Tuesday, November 1st._—The story of a failure is not
the most pleasant reading in the world; and alas! the history of
my attempt to get to Kairwan is the history of a failure. I found
myself within less than forty miles of the famous Sacred City, “the
Mecca of the West,”—I was _nearly_ there; and I was beaten back
by the force of circumstances over which I had no control. Still
the account of my journey towards Kairwan is one which contains
sufficient elements of interest to be worth repeating here. For
some days I had been hanging on at Tunis, waiting for the moment
when news should come that the French had reached Kairwan. Until
they had done so, it would, of course, have been sheer madness to
attempt a journey to the place. On Friday, October 28th, however,
the news that the French columns had reached Kairwan and that the
tricolour had been hoisted on the tower of the great Mosque reached
Tunis, and I immediately prepared to start. It was amusing to listen
to the dismal prophecies uttered on all sides regarding the certain
fate of those who ventured to tread in the footsteps of the French
army. My friend Mohamed in the bazaar shook his head dolefully when
he heard I was going, and declared that even he would not be safe in
Kairwan. The fanatics of that holy city were so intensely excited
against all who had bowed the knee to the infidel, that they were
prepared to fall upon any of the Arabs of Tunis, and to slay them
for having permitted their venerable city, “the Burnous of the
Prophet,” to be defiled by a foreign occupation.
I suggested to Mohamed that inasmuch as the Kairwan people now lay
under the same condemnation, they might perhaps look more leniently
upon the offences of himself and his brethren. But he shook his
head in a doleful fashion, and pressing my hand warmly, commended
me to the protection of Allah, as one who was about to go through
a den of wild beasts. My next difficulty was with Afrigan. He had
served me so faithfully and diligently hitherto, that I felt loth
to part from him. “Will you go to Kairwan with me?” I demanded
of him as we sat and smoked our cigarettes under the delicious
sky of an African night, in front of a little café of which I had
become a frequenter. “Well, you see, sir,” said he, with Scotch
indirectness, “I have a wife.” “But what of that? I may have one
also, and yet I am going.” “Ah, sir, you _may_ have a wife,”
said Afrigan, in a tone which implied the profoundest incredulity
upon the point; “but she’s a long way off, so it doesn’t
matter. You see, sir, my wife is in Tunis.” “And you won’t go,
then?” “Well, sir, I am afraid she would not let me.” After
this, argument of course was useless. I confined myself to inviting
him to accompany me at least as far as Susa, whither I was to proceed
by sea. Now, even at Susa, life is by no means safe. Indeed, constant
reports had reached Tunis during my sojourn there of the shooting
of Europeans in the streets of the town; and it was notorious that
Arab raiders had cleared the country up to the very walls of the
city. Afrigan, however, was quite ready to go with me to Susa; and
forthwith I despatched him to pack a small portmanteau, whilst I
made a few farewell calls upon French and English friends.
The next day there was a great disappointment. It was the day on
which I ought to have started, and I had taken passages for myself
and my servant. Suddenly news was brought to me that the steamer
could not start for another day. It was a bitter termination to my
hopes of getting to Kairwan, and it required all my philosophy to get
over it. On that particular day, I may here mention, I and my two
friends, B——— and P———, found ourselves so sick of the vile hotel fare,
that we induced Montellacci, the Italian pastry-cook of the European
quarter, to prepare us a meal of tinned soups and meats. It was a
welcome change from the _menu_ of the Grand Hotel, for we at least knew
what it was that we were eating; and though perhaps Montellacci was a
little puzzled by our preferring preserved hare soup and minced collops
to the dainties of the table d’hôte, he did his best to satisfy us. We
felt quite at home as we ate. How strange, too, is the power of
association! As we were lunching in the confectioner’s shop there fell
upon our ears the sound of music. Music, it should be understood, is
almost the only form of recreation in which the people of Tunis are able
to indulge. There is, however, no theatre—it was burnt down some weeks
ago—and no concert-room; so that the musicians are compelled to wander
from café to café, trusting to the liberality of the frequenters of
those places for their reward. On this occasion it was a couple of
Neapolitans, with violin and flute, who favoured us with the strains
of a gay Neapolitan fisher’s song. Suddenly they passed from this
to one more familiar to me; and hackneyed and vulgar though the
melody was, it touched me in a curious way to hear the well-known
“Grandfather’s Clock” performed there, in the narrow street
where the Arabs were walking to and fro, and the innumerable dogs
were playing their part as scavengers.
A night’s reflection brought me to the conclusion that I would
go to Susa even now, and take my chance when there of getting on to
Kairwan. Accordingly, on the next afternoon, having provided myself
with a letter of introduction to the English Vice-Consul at Susa,
Mr. Gallia, I set off with Afrigan for Goletta. By five o’clock I
was on board a magnificent vessel of the Compagnie Transatlantique,
the _Ville de Naples_. This is a sister ship to the _Charles Quint_,
and, like the latter, was built upon the Clyde. It is, however,
somewhat larger than the _Charles Quint_, and, if anything, is even
more gorgeously appointed. As I was being rowed off to the place where
the _Ville de Naples_ lay at anchor, I passed close to the English
gunboat _Falcon_, Captain Selby. The sailors were just being piped
to tea, and it was right pleasant to see so many “jolly Jacks”
of my own country and to hear once more the strains of an English
bugle. Nor was it less pleasant to find oneself again on board a clean
and well-appointed French boat, on which one could exchange the filth
and bad food of Tunis for something like civilized cookery. There
was some delay in making a start, and it was not until long after
we had dined that the anchor was weighed. But I shall never forget
that interval of waiting. All round us were the merchant-vessels
and men-of-war gathered together in the safe anchorage of the gulf;
whilst in the distance were the low ranges of hills, and the white and
spectral towers of Tunis and Goletta. A change had taken place in the
weather immediately after sunset. For the first time since my arrival
it became, not cold, but cool. And now the most terrific storm of
lightning I had ever witnessed suddenly burst around us. This African
lightning is at once magnificent and terrible to behold. It played
all over the surface of sea and land, in wonderful, tremulous flashes
of the most intense violet. There was literally no interval between
these flashes; and I saw further inland under their penetrating
glare than I could have done in the sunshine. Even after the anchor
had been raised and we had got well on our way in the Mediterranean,
the lightning seemed to be following us, lighting up the crests of
the waves, and throwing the rugged coast-line out in splendid relief.
The next morning, going on deck I found the ship running into the
deep gulf at the bottom of which lies Susa. The Zaghouan hills were
almost as distinctly visible here as they had been at Tunis, though
it was at the other side of them that I now looked. Presently on the
port quarter we sighted Monastir, an important centre of the trade in
olive oil; and then Susa was opened up to us right ahead. It would be
difficult to imagine a pleasanter-looking town than Susa—when seen
at a distance. Built in a parallelogram, with high white walls running
completely round it, and a huge kasbah or citadel dominating it in
the background, it presents a most pleasing aspect from the sea. The
country is much more fertile here than it is in the neighbourhood
of Tunis; a rich belt of olive forest running along the seacoast,
and many handsome Moorish villas and farm-houses nestling between the
trees and the shore of the bay. Looking beyond the town inland, I saw
ranges of sandhills of curious shape. Beyond these sandhills stretches
a marshy desert reaching far into the interior. Riding at anchor in
the harbour were two French ships of war, an Italian gunboat, and my
old friend the _Charles Quint_! After breakfasting on board—a most
“happy thought,” as I subsequently discovered—I landed under the
walls of the town. These walls, it ought to be explained, run right
along the beach as well as on the other sides of the city, so that
the latter is completely closed in. How necessary such defence is,
may be gathered from the fact that within the past six weeks every
villa or farm-house outside the walls, including even those which
are only a few hundred yards from the gates, has been pillaged by
the insurgent Arabs. So near have these gentlemen ventured to the
town that—as I subsequently found by unpleasant experience—it
is dangerous even to walk or ride fifty yards beyond the walls.
Susa being the starting-point of one of the columns which has marched
upon Kairwan, and being also the base of supply for the whole French
army in that part of the country, is at this moment the scene of
immense activity. No one landing here can fail to perceive that he is
in a country in which an active campaign is being carried on. On the
beach enormous quantities of _matériel_ of all kinds are gathered,
and the big flat-bottomed boats are ever bringing fresh supplies
from the ships in the harbour. Arab labourers and French soldiers,
mingled together in a picturesque crowd, are all talking wildly,
rushing hither and thither, and generally doing the best they can to
obstruct one another. It is amusing to contrast the shrill tones of
the French with that extraordinary guttural sound which represents
spoken Arabic, and which has for all the world so strong a similarity
to the “gobble-gobble” of an infuriated turkey. The Arabs in Susa,
or rather, here on the beach in the midst of the French transport
department, seemed to have been roused from their ordinary apathy. I
even saw some of them running, and one or two of them were evidently
excited. Threading my way through the great mounds of grain and
coffee bags, I came upon the starting-point of the little Decauville
railway, which is being laid down to serve the army at Kairwan. The
last time I saw one of these miniature locomotives was in the Steam
Plough Works at Leeds. The railway to Kairwan starts from the beach,
or rather from the yard of Messrs. Perry, Bury, and Co., an English
firm engaged in the esparto grass trade, for whom Mr. Gallia, our
Vice-Consul, acts as agent. It is as yet only completed to a point
about twelve miles from Susa, and has to be constantly watched by
patrols, in order to prevent its being destroyed by the Arabs.
Passing through a deep vaulted gateway, more like a tunnel than
an ordinary entrance gate, and then through a second which was in
the occupation of French soldiers in soiled and ragged uniforms,
I found myself in the town itself. There was a labyrinth of narrow,
ill-paved streets, along which one had to pick one’s way with the
utmost care. A few Maltese coffee-houses, where vile adulterated
spirits were being sold to the sailors and soldiers, and here and
there a melancholy little shop, alone broke in upon the depressing
monotony of the blank white walls, which here, as in Tunis, line the
streets for the greater part of the way. After feasting one’s eyes
upon the fair exterior of the city, it was indeed a disillusionment to
enter it. With some little difficulty Afrigan and I found our way to
the English Vice-Consulate, where Mr. Gallia, the son of an Italian
father and of an English mother, was engaged in transacting business
in a vaulted apartment, which would have looked like nothing so much
as a stable or a cellar if it had not been for the beautiful tiles
with which floor and walls were lined. Here I was received with
kindness on the presentation of my letter of introduction. “Is
it possible to get to Kairwan?” I asked. “Certainly,” was the
answer, given with a businesslike promptitude to which I was quite
unaccustomed in the Regency. “A French convoy will leave here at
three o’clock this afternoon; you must get a pass and go with it,
and you will be there in three days.”
I was delighted to find how the dangers, of which I had heard
so much when in Tunis, seemed to have vanished as I approached
them, and instantly prepared to go. But there was still much to be
done before I could consider myself equipped for a journey which,
counting the return journey, would last at least a week, and during
the whole of which I should have to be entirely dependent upon my own
resources both for food and for shelter. A thick Arab burnous, and a
splendid fez, or _sheshia_, as it is called here, were procured for
me by Afrigan; the English hat I wore being wholly unsuited to the
climate. I may say here that no greater mistake than that of taking
a very light hat into such a country as Africa can be committed. The
head must have sufficient covering to protect it from the fierce
rays of the sun. It was curious indeed to observe that when the
heat was greatest in Tunis, the Arabs seemed to wear their thickest
clothes and biggest turbans. After attending to these necessaries of
dress, I engaged, on Gallia’s recommendation, a servant to replace
Afrigan. A glance at the man showed that I had made a change for the
worse. He was a Maltese, who spoke Arabic, Italian, and a little
English, and was described to me by the faithful Consul as “not
quite right in his head, and given to drink, but fairly honest.”
He was, however, the only man who seemed willing to risk his life in
a journey to Kairwan, so I was compelled to put up with him. Then a
mule and a donkey had to be hired, and some sixty francs’ worth of
tinned meats and bread bought, whilst knives, pannikins, a lantern,
and some candles completed my outfit.
It was no light matter to have to rush about the streets of Susa
making these purchases under the blazing mid-day sun. Afrigan, whose
heart was evidently heavy at parting from me, did his best, and
his dull successor was quite willing to suggest the most incredible
purchases of meat for the journey. I saw his eyes glisten as each
successive tin was added to the store I was collecting, and I thought
ruefully of the share which he would undoubtedly claim for himself
when the moment to divide these good things should arrive.
At last, panting and exhausted, I returned to the Vice-Consul’s to
report the completion of my equipment. Alas! the first words that
greeted me were an announcement that Mr. Gallia had been mistaken,
and that the convoy had started at one instead of three o’clock. I
suggested that I might easily overtake it, as it consisted of
some hundreds of laden camels. He laughed at the notion. Even the
half-hour’s start it had obtained was fatal to my chance of joining
it. To go without armed escort beyond the city walls was to court
attack. I did not credit this alarming statement at the moment;
but a few hours later, when by an unpleasant experience of my own
I had ascertained in a practical manner the presence of insurgent
Arabs within a few hundred yards of the city gates, in the belt of
olive wood outside the walls, I was compelled to give the Vice-Consul
credit for having spoken the literal truth.
Of the miseries of the enforced sojourn at Susa which I had now
to face I shall not say much. I parted with Afrigan, who went on
board the _Ville de Naples_, which had been appointed to return to
Tunis the same evening. Mr. Gallia had informed me that Susa had
lately been blessed with a luxury, a “real Parisian hotel,” and
thither I went to take up my quarters until the convoy for Kairwan
should start, an event which we understood would take place on the
following day. A real Parisian hotel! It was situated in an old
Arab house, opposite the great mosque of Susa, an extraordinary
building, of which I shall have something more to say presently. I
subsequently found that this house was the property of Mr. Levy of
the Enfida, who had let it recently to an enterprising Frenchwoman
from Marseilles, who had come to Susa in the wake of the French
army. The filth left behind by the last Arab occupants of the place
apparently still remained undisturbed. A few articles of European
furniture, a long wooden table, and a dozen cane-bottomed chairs
had been put into one of the rooms, which by the process had been
converted into a _salle-à-manger_. I asked to see a bedroom, and
was led up a slippery outside staircase to a gallery from which
the various sleeping apartments were entered. The furniture of
that into which I was shown consisted of an old iron bedstead on
which a bag stuffed with shavings was placed, a small table, and a
three-legged stool. The tiled floor was thick with filth, and the
heavily barred windows refused to open. However, there was shelter
here from the sun, and though I had my suspicions as to the contents
of that bag of shavings, it was at least possible to rest one’s
weary legs upon it, whilst I covered all the native odours of the
apartment with the grateful fumes of tobacco. After a while, too,
I got a basin containing some water, so that I was fain to confess
that civilization had indeed achieved a triumph in Susa when this
“Grand Hôtel de France” was set up there.
I had invited the Vice-Consul to dine with me, and I scraped up an
acquaintance with the landlady in order to secure her interest on the
side of a good dinner. I knew the dinner would be the reverse of good;
I knew that in such a place it must be detestably, execrably bad,
but I was in hopes that there might be a little good wine in the
house. Well, there was wine—champagne at fifteen and Bordeaux at
ten francs a bottle. I hoped that my guest, if he could not eat the
food, would at least be able to drink. Then, having done my best in
preparation for dinner, I went for a walk—or rather a ride—to the
outskirts of the town. It was then that I discovered that the Arabs
were somewhat closer to the walls than I had anticipated. Nothing
but an ignominious flight sufficed to save me from a fate which
would have prevented any pages of this diary ever seeing the light
of day. My little adventure satisfied me upon one point, and that
was as to the thorough untrustworthiness of my new domestic. As soon
as he saw me approaching danger, he simply turned and fled without a
word of warning, leaving me to face the consequences for myself. And
very unpleasant those consequences might have been! However, I got
back safely into the town, and once more went to see Mr. Gallia. He
took me for a walk through the streets into the little bazaar—a
very bad copy of that of Tunis, though arranged upon the same plan,
with the slipper-makers in one street, the perfumers in another, the
vendors of linen in a third, &c. A curious crowd of Arabs followed
us, and watched all my proceedings with the liveliest interest.
Then we strolled down to the beach and to the office of the
harbour-master, where we sat drinking the hottest of coffee, and
looking out upon the beautiful bay, so tranquil and lovely in the
light of the setting sun. Suddenly the clouds overcast the sky,
and the dust began to rise in volumes so dense as to make it almost
impossible to breathe. Then, almost in an instant, the temperature
fell many degrees, the rain began to fall in heavy drops, and a
cold wind blew round us. We hastened back to the miserable shelter
of my hotel; stumbling along the streets where the patient camels
were sheltering themselves against the walls, and their drivers
with their robes wrapped about their faces were endeavouring to
screen themselves from the blinding dust. As we strode onward,
no very lively feelings animating my breast, I heard a well-known
voice behind me, and looked round. It was Afrigan! The faithful
fellow had ascertained that his steamer would not start that night,
and although I had now set him at liberty, he had returned from the
comfortable vessel to share the miseries of a sojourn in Susa with
me. With his aid my bedroom at the “Grand Hotel” was made at
least a little cleaner than when I took possession of it.
In due time the dinner-hour arrived, and with it my guest. The
dinner was even worse than I had anticipated; and I made haste to
draw Mr. Gallia’s attention to the wine, hoping thus to divert it
from the viands. Alas! he assured me that he had been a teetotaler
from his birth. “And have you then no vices?” I asked. “Ah,
yes; I have two very serious ones. I drink too much coffee, and that
you know is thought quite as bad here as drinking too much wine;
and I am always smoking cigars—when I can get them.” The latter
statement was reassuring. I had just secured, before leaving the
_Ville de Naples_, a packet of five-and-twenty Algerian cigars. I
hastily drew them from my pocket, and almost before the keenest pangs
of hunger had been satisfied, we pushed away our plates and began to
smoke. I am afraid to say how many of those cigars were left when,
after a most interesting talk respecting affairs in Tunis, my friend
left me shortly before midnight.